The Forest

  Brother Adam knew Beaulieu Abbey so well that sometimes he thought he could have walked around it blindfold.

  Of all its pleasant places none, he thought, was more delightful than the series of arched recesses, known as the carrels, that lay along the north side of the great cloister, opposite the frater where the choir monks ate their meals. They were perfectly sheltered from the breeze; facing southwards, they caught and trapped the sun. Sitting, book in hand, on a bench in one of the carrels, gazing across the quiet green square of the cloister, smelling the sweet aroma of cut grass laced with the sharper scent of daisies – this, it seemed to Adam, was as close to heaven as anything knowable by man on earth.

  His favourite carrel lay near the middle. Down the stone steps from the doorway to the church: that was five steps down. Turn right. Twelve paces. If it was a sunny afternoon you felt the warmth through the open arches by the seventh step. Turn right after the twelfth pace and you were there.

  There had been few opportunities in the last weeks to enjoy this pleasure. His work in the granges had changed all that. But he had managed to do so one warm May afternoon and he was sitting quietly with his hood up – the monk’s sign that he does not want to be disturbed – rather idly reading a life of St Wilfrid, when his reverie was interrupted by a novice hurrying round the cloister and calling softly: ‘Brother Adam! Come quickly. Salvation is here. And everyone’s going to see.’

  Naturally, therefore, Adam arose at once. ‘Salvation’, as the ignorant novice had rather sweetly called it, was Salvata, the abbey’s ship, a squat, square-rigged vessel in frequent use. After leaving the Beaulieu estuary her first port of call was nearby; at the head of the great inlet from the Solent water, which ran up the eastern side of the Forest, a flourishing little port had grown up in the last few centuries, known as Southampton. By its quay the Beaulieu monks had their own house to store the wool clip that was to be exported. Later, the returning Salvata would pick up all kinds of goods at Southampton, including the French wine the abbot’s guests enjoyed. From Southampton she might proceed along the coast to the county of Kent and thence across the English Channel. Or she might continue round, into the Thames estuary, to London or more likely up England’s eastern coast as far as the port of Yarmouth, where she would collect a large cargo of salted herrings for the abbey. Salvata’s return to the jetty below the abbey was always a source of excitement.

  Sure enough, by the time Brother Adam arrived, most of the community at the abbey – over fifty monks and about forty lay brothers – had gathered to watch, and the prior, who loved this kind of thing, was calling out unnecessary orders: ‘Steady. Watch that mooring rope.’

  Adam observed the scene with affection. There were times, it had to be admitted, when even the most devout of the monks became almost like children.

  The cargo was salted herrings. As soon as the gangplank was in place, they all seemed to want to roll out one of the barrels.

  ‘Two to each cask,’ the prior called out. ‘Roll them up to the store.’

  Twenty barrels were already on their way up. The monks were joking to each other; there was a festive atmosphere about the place, and Brother Adam was just about to return to the peace of his cloister when he noticed the ship’s master go over to the prior and say something. He saw the man point downstream and John of Grockleton start violently.

  Then the shouting began.

  If there was one thing in the world that would put Grockleton in a rage it was an attack on the abbey’s earthly rights. He had invested his life in protecting them. Among these many rights were those over the fishing on the Beaulieu river. ‘Villainy!’ he shouted. ‘Sacrilege.’ The monks rolling their barrels stopped and turned. ‘Brother Mark,’ the prior called, ‘Brother Benedict …’ He started pointing at one brother after another. ‘Fetch the skiff. Come with me.’

  One did not need inspiration to guess what had happened. A party of men had been seen fishing – openly casting nets from a boat – further down the river. Worse, one of them was a merchant from Southampton, where the burgesses had stoutly maintained that they, too, had fishing rights, older than the abbey’s, on the river. This was just the kind of battle, Grockleton believed, that God had intended him to fight.

  It is not every day that God calls those who have forsworn all worldly delights to the excitement of the chase. In, it seemed, the twinkling of an eye, a skiff containing three monks was skimming downstream while two parties, each of a dozen monks and lay brothers, were hurrying down the river banks. Leading the one down the western bank, his staff in his hand, his bent back causing him to lean forward like an attacking goose, was Grockleton. Brother Adam attached himself, unasked, to his party.

  They kept up a remarkable pace. Using his staff as though it were an extra leg, the prior punted himself forward so fast that some of the monks had to lift their habits and almost run as they bustled along at his heels. Two of the lay brothers were allowed to run ahead to scout. For over a mile the path led through oak woods before emerging on to a big marshy bend of the river; and no sooner had they appeared than they heard a cry from the skiff on their left and at the same moment saw their quarry ahead of them, just below the bend.

  The Southampton men had a big, clinker-built boat with a single mast and eight oars. As there was no sign of a sail, they presumably intended to row themselves round the coast back to Southampton. Their nets were still out in the river but, with infernal cheek, three of them had built a little fire on the river bank and were in the act of cooking themselves a meal. From the quality of his dress, Adam guessed that one of these was a merchant of some position. This was confirmed when the prior hissed: ‘Henry Totton.’ The man even owned the warehouses next to their own woolhouse near the quay.

  ‘Trespassers!’ Grockleton’s voice honked across the marsh. ‘Villains. Desist at once.’

  Totton looked up, surprised. It seemed to Adam that he muttered something, then shrugged. His two companions seemed uncertain what to do. But there could certainly be no doubt about the attitude of the people in the boat.

  There were five of them. One, in the bow, was a curious-looking fellow. Though at least two hundred yards off, there was no mistaking him because, apart from his black hair, which was pulled back and tied behind his neck, his straggly beard could not conceal the fact that, once it had descended past his mouth, his face had decided to cut down straight into his neck, dispensing almost completely with the boring necessity of a chin. There was a certain cheerfulness in his face, which suggested he was pleased with this arrangement. And it was this fellow who now, turning slowly, with no particular malice but more as a general salutation, looked straight at the prior and, raising his arm, lifted a solitary finger.

  To Grockleton, it might have been an arrow from a bow. ‘Impious dog!’ he screamed. ‘Seize them,’ he shouted, pointing at the men on the bank. ‘Beat them,’ he cried, waving his staff.

  For just an instant his followers hesitated. Some looked round for sticks to use as weapons. Others clenched their fists in preparation before dashing upon the men by the campfire.

  It was only an instant, but Brother Adam used it. ‘Stop!’ he shouted, in a voice of authority. He knew he was cutting across the prior, but he had to. Moving swiftly to Grockleton’s side, he murmured quickly: ‘Prior, if we use violence, I think the men in the boat might attack us.’ He pointed, as if he were drawing something to his attention that Grockleton had not seen before. ‘Even with right on our side,’ he added with deference, ‘after the trouble at the grange …’

  The sense was clear. The reputation of the abbey would hardly be enhanced if the prior started a brawl.

  ‘If we have their names,’ Adam added, ‘we can bring them to justice.’ He paused and held his breath.

  Grockleton’s reaction was curious. He gave a little start, as if he had been awoken from a dream. He stared at Adam for a moment, apparently uncomprehending. The brethren were all watching him. ‘Brother Adam,’ he suddenly said loudl
y, ‘take their names and identify them. If any show resistance we shall overpower them.’

  ‘Yes, Prior.’ Adam bowed his head and went forward promptly. After a few steps he turned and requested respectfully: ‘May I take two brothers with me, Prior?’

  Grockleton nodded. Adam indicated two of the monks, then hurried about his task.

  He had done all he could to save the prior’s face. He hoped it had worked. So he was dismayed when, as soon as they were out of Grockleton’s hearing, one of his companions muttered: ‘You really showed the prior up then, Brother Adam.’

  For he knew that Grockleton would never forgive him now.

  A week later, in a secluded part of the western forest, two men rested quietly by their little campfire and waited.

  A few yards away, adding to the shadowy mystery of the scene, stood a huge, turf-covered mound and, from holes here and there in its sides, wisps of smoke were issuing. Puckle and Luke were making charcoal.

  The charcoal burner’s craft is very ancient and requires much skill. During the winter Puckle would cut the huge quantity of sticks and logs – the billets as they are called. All the main forest woods – oak and ash, beech, birch and holly – were good for charcoal. Then, late in the spring, he would construct his first fire.

  The charcoal burner’s fire is unlike any other. It is huge. Slowly and carefully, Puckle would begin by laying out logs in a great circle, about fifteen feet in diameter. By the time he finally completed it, the mountain of wood stood over eight feet high. Then, climbing up a curved ladder on to his mighty construction, Puckle would coat the entire pile with a skin of soil and turf, so that when it was done it resembled a mysterious grassy kiln. He lit it from the top. ‘Charcoal fire burns downwards,’ he explained. ‘Now we just wait.’

  ‘How long?’ Luke had asked.

  ‘Three, four days.’

  The charcoal cone is a wonderful machine. Its object is to convert the moist and resinous wood within to a material which is, as near as possible, pure carbon. To do this it is necessary to char the wood without allowing it to burn away and oxidize to useless ash, and this is achieved by restricting the oxygen within the cone to a minimum, hence the turf sides. The process is also slowed and controlled by burning the material downwards, which is more gradual. The resulting charcoal is light, easy to transport and, once heated in a brazier to a point when it ignites, will burn slowly, without a flame and giving off a heat far more intense than does the wood from which it is derived.

  By the end of a day, the first time they had done this, Luke noticed that the smoke from the holes was steamy and that the upper sides of the cone were moist.

  ‘That’s called sweating,’ Puckle said. ‘Water’s coming out of the wood.’

  On the third day, towards the completion of the process, Luke noticed that tarry waste was coming out through the run-offs at the base. At the end of that day Puckle announced: ‘It’s done. All we have to do now is wait for it to cool.’

  ‘How long’s that?’

  ‘Couple of days.’

  They would fill their little cart many times with the charcoal from that cone.

  Luke was happy as a charcoal burner. These men lived out in the Forest mostly; seldom seen, hardly noticed. It was a perfect role for him, especially as the area around Burley where Puckle operated was far from the abbey, and the forest officials in that bailiwick did not know him. The work was undemanding. While the fire was burning he could wander off to roam the woods or watch Mary whenever he liked.

  Puckle was quite content to shelter him. The woodman had always been a law unto himself. His family was extended, what with his own children, his dead brother’s and various other family progeny whose origins no one ever bothered to enquire about. So when a forester had once asked him who his assistant was, and he had casually replied ‘one of my nephews’, the man had just nodded and thought no more about it.

  He could remain out in the Forest with Puckle, Luke reckoned, at least for some months. Only Puckle’s family knew about him. They didn’t talk.

  ‘Fewer people that know the better,’ Puckle had said. ‘You’ll be safe that way.’

  Even so, Luke could not suppress a small shudder of alarm that May afternoon when Puckle, suddenly glancing up, remarked: ‘Hello. Look who’s coming.’ And then added quietly: ‘Do as I told you, now.’

  Brother Adam rode his pony slowly. He was feeling rather listless. He thought he knew why. He even muttered the word to himself: ‘Acedia.’ Every monk knew the state. Acedia – the Latin word had no real equivalent in the English tongue. A falling away, into boredom, depression, listlessness; one’s feelings seemed to have died; a sense of nothingness; a numbness, as when a tolling bell is heard but never answered. It came to him some afternoons, like a drowsiness, or at certain times of year – midwinter, when nothing was happening, or late summer, after the harvest was done. One had to fight it, of course. It was only the devil, trying to sap one’s spirit and weaken the faith. Hard work was the best way.

  He had certainly been doing that. He had been over in the Avon valley in the last few days. Great cartloads of hay would wend across the Forest from there when the meadows were mown. Lodging at Ringwood, he had gone up and down the river inspecting every meadow. He had practically inspected the peasants’ scythes. Three lay brothers would be despatched to oversee operations and he would be supervising them himself. Not even Grockleton could suggest that he had been neglecting his duty.

  For once, he had to confess, he had been glad to be away from the abbey. The days after the incident on the river had been strained. It was the duty of every monk to put all evil thoughts and intentions away from him and to be charitable to all his brothers, and, like him or not, Grockleton had probably tried in all sincerity to do this. But Adam’s presence just then could not fail to be irritating to him, and so Adam was glad to go.

  But now he had to return, and he didn’t want to. By the time he reached Burley he was already depressed; hardly aware that he was doing so, he had let his pony take a wrong track and he was cutting across the woods to the proper path, a little guiltily, when he saw the charcoal burners at their work.

  A year ago he would probably have ridden by without more than a quick salutation, but now it seemed natural to pause and speak with them. And if it was also an excuse to delay his return a little, he did so all the same.

  The woodman was standing beside the small campfire; the second fellow had moved away a little, to the other side of the smoking charcoal cone. Brother Adam thought he had seen Puckle before, delivering stakes for the abbey’s vines the previous year. The younger man had also looked vaguely familiar, but as all these Forest folk were related that wasn’t surprising. Looking down at Puckle, he asked in a friendly tone if the charcoal fire was nearly done.

  ‘Another day,’ Puckle replied.

  Adam asked a few more obvious questions – where Puckle came from, who the charcoal would be sold to. An easy topic of conversation with any of the forest folk, better even than the weather, was the movement of the deer.

  ‘I thought I might see the red deer over by Stag Brake,’ he remarked.

  ‘No, they’ll be nearer Hinchelsea now, most likely.’

  Adam nodded. Then his eyes went over to the charcoal cone behind which the other fellow was lurking. ‘You’ve only the one helper?’ he asked.

  ‘Just one today,’ Puckle replied. Then, quite casually, he called out: ‘Peter. Come here, boy.’ And Brother Adam looked curiously as the young man came towards him.

  He seemed shy as he shuffled forward. His head was bowed, his eyes were cast down. His jaw appeared to be hanging slackly. A rather pathetic specimen, really, the monk thought. But not wishing to be unkind he enquired: ‘So, Peter, have you ever been to Beaulieu?’

  The young man seemed to start but then mumbled something incoherent.

  ‘He’s my nephew,’ Puckle remarked. ‘Doesn’t talk much.’

  Brother Adam stared at the shaggy head befo
re him. ‘We use your charcoal to heat the church,’ he said encouragingly, but couldn’t think of anything else to add.

  ‘That’s all right, boy,’ Puckle said quietly, waving the young man away. ‘Actually,’ he confided to the monk, as his nephew withdrew, ‘he’s a bit simple in the head.’

  As if to give living proof of this fact, as he reached the great smoking cone, the fellow paused, half turned, pointed at the charcoal cone and in a voice of perfect imbecility uttered a single word: ‘Fire.’ Then he sat down.

  Adam should have moved on, but for some reason he didn’t. Instead, he remained a while with the charcoal burner and his nephew, sharing the quiet of the scene. What a strange sight it was, that huge turf cone. Who knew what mighty heat, what ardent fire was contained, quite hidden, in that great green mound? Then there was its smoke, issuing silently from the crevices in its sides, as though from Tartarus, or the infernal region itself, deep below. An amusing thought suddenly struck him. What if Puckle, here, deep in the New Forest, was really guarding the entrance to hell? The thought caused him to observe the charcoal burner once again.

  He had not noticed before what a curious figure Puckle really was. Perhaps it was the shadowy setting, or the reddish gleam from the embers of the campfire, but suddenly his gnarled form looked as if he were a gnome, his weathered, oaken face seemed to take on a mysterious glow. Was it devilish? He chided himself for his foolishness. Puckle was just a harmless peasant. And yet there was something about him that was unknowable. There was a heat, deep, hidden, strong – a heat he himself did not seem to possess. At last, with a nod, he gave his pony a light kick and moved off.

  ‘Dear God,’ Luke laughed, as soon as he was out of sight. ‘I thought he was never going.’

  He should not have taken the way he did. After passing the little church at Brockenhurst, Brother Adam had followed a track that led southwards through the woods and brought him to the quiet ford in the river. The place was as deserted as when Adela and Tyrrell had used it. On the other side of the ford however, at the top of the long path that led up from it through the woods, the broad shelf of land had been cleared into several large fields, which the monks supervized.