Ahead, over the lip of this cleared land under the open sky, lay Beaulieu Heath and the track that led eastwards towards the abbey. That was the path he should have taken. But instead he turned south. He told himself it made no difference, but that wasn’t true.
He kept to the edge of the woods. After a time he came to a track on the right. Down there, he knew, set alone on a dark knoll looking over the river valley, was the old parish church of Boldre. He did not go there, though. He continued southwards. Soon he came to a small cow station, a vaccary as they were called, with pasture for thirty cows and a bull, and a few cottages: Pilley. He hardly noticed it.
Why had the woman come into his mind – the peasant woman who had stood in front of him in the barn? There was no reason he could think of. He was bored. It was nothing. He went on, nearly another mile. Then he came to the hamlet. Oakley it was named.
He could go across the heath just as well from there.
The villages of the New Forest were the same as ever. They seldom had a centre. They straggled, sometimes by a stream, or along the edge of open heathland. No manorial lord had coerced them into a tidy shape. The same thatched cottages, homesteads with small wooden barns, smallholdings all, rather than farms, declared that these were the communities of equals that had nestled in the Forest since ancient times.
The track through Oakley ran east–west and had the usual forest surface of peaty mud and gravel. Instead of turning east, Adam turned west and walked his pony along. There were several cottages, but after less than a quarter of a mile these ended and the track then started to descend, between deep banks, into the river valley. He noticed that the last place, which lay on the northern side of the track, was a homestead with several outbuildings including a small barn. Behind it lay a paddock, some open ground dotted with gorse and beyond that woodland.
He wondered if this was where the woman lived. If she appeared, he supposed he would stop and ask politely after her husband. There could be no harm in that. He took his time turning his pony, to see if anyone came out, but nobody did. He paused, surveying the other cottages, then went slowly back. At the point where he had started he saw a peasant and asked him who lived at the homestead he had passed.
‘Tom Furzey, Brother,’ the fellow replied.
He was aware of a little leaping sensation in his stomach. He nodded calmly at the peasant and glanced back. So that was where she lived. He suddenly wanted to turn. But with what excuse? He exchanged a word or two more with the peasant, remarked casually that he had never looked at this village but then, fearing he might look foolish, went on.
At its eastern end, the hamlet gave on to a green with a pond at the side. The last homestead here, somewhat larger than the others and with a field beside it, belonged, he knew, to Pride. There were some stunted oak, small ash and willows dotted along the edges of the pond, which was covered with white water crowfoot.
The track went past Pride’s, then out on to the heath.
He rode slowly across. It was marshy in places. Had he crossed further to the north it would have been drier.
He was sorry he had not seen the woman.
When he was halfway across, he saw the dull light catching the pale mud walls of a sheepcote out on the heath. Beyond, lay the fields of Beufre grange.
Soon he would be back at the abbey.
Acedia.
Tom Furzey was so pleased with himself that when he was alone he would sit there silently hugging himself with joy. He was honestly astonished that he’d been able to think of it all. The plan was so subtle, so full of irony, it had such perfect symmetry; Tom might not know such words as these, but he would have understood them, every one.
The thing had come out of the blue sky. John Pride’s wife had a brother who had gone to Ringwood and now he was getting married there; a good marriage, to a butcher’s daughter with money. The whole Pride family were going. Better yet, Tom’s sister had informed him: ‘They’ll be staying late at Ringwood. Won’t come back till next day at dawn.’
‘All of them?’ he’d asked.
‘Except young John.’ This was Pride’s eldest son, a boy of twelve. ‘He’s got to look after the animals. And the pony.’ She had given him a little look when she said that.
‘Set me thinking, that did,’ he had said to her proudly, later, when he told her his plan.
She was the only one who knew, because he needed her help. She had been impressed by it, too. ‘I reckon you’ve thought of everything, Tom,’ she said.
Sure enough, on the day, the Prides departed early to Ringwood in their cart. The morning was warm and sunny. Tom went about his business as usual. In the middle of the day he mended the door of the chicken house. It wasn’t until late afternoon that he told Mary: ‘We’re going to get my pony back today.’
He had been looking forward to her reaction and it was just as he had foreseen.
‘You can’t, Tom. It’ll never work.’
‘It’ll work.’
‘But John. He’ll …’
‘Nothing he can do.’
‘But he’ll be angry, Tom …’
‘Really? Seem to remember I was, too.’ He paused while she digested this. The best was yet to come. ‘There’s one other thing,’ he added placidly. ‘You’re the one that’s going to take it.’
‘No!’ She was horrified. ‘He’s my brother, Tom.’
‘It’s part of the plan. Vital, you might say.’ He took his time now, before delivering the final blow. ‘There’s something else you’ve got to do.’ And then he told her the rest of the plan.
She didn’t look at him, after he was done, as he had guessed she wouldn’t. She just looked down at the ground. She could refuse, of course. But if she did her life would hardly be worth living. It was no good pleading, pointing out how humiliating it would be for her. He didn’t care. He wanted it to be so. It was his revenge against them all. She wondered, when it was all over, where this would leave her. He’ll be cock of the walk, she thought. But he doesn’t really love me. And with this proof of his feelings she bowed her head. She would do it, to keep the family peace. But she would despise him. That would be her defence.
‘It’ll work,’ she heard him say quietly.
As the sun began to set, young John Pride felt quite pleased with himself. Of course, he’d fed the chickens and the pigs, cleaned out the cowshed and done every other job about the place a thousand times before. But he’d never been left in charge for a whole day and he’d been understandably nervous. Now all he had to do was bring the pony in from the field.
He’d been careful of the pony, exactly as his father had told him. Never let it out of his sight all day. Just to be really sure, he was going to sleep in the shed that night.
The scream that cut the evening air came from close by. Tom Furzey’s sister only lived across the green. She and John Pride didn’t speak much since the pony business, but their children saw one another most days. You couldn’t do much about that. And the scream came from Harry, a boy his own age.
‘Help!’
He ran out of the yard and across the green, skirting the edge of the pond. The sight that met his eyes was shocking. Harry’s mother was lying face down on the ground. She seemed to have slipped by the gate and maybe banged her head against the post. She was lying very still. Harry was trying to lift her, without success. Just as he got there her husband and Tom Furzey came out of their cottage. Tom must have been visiting. The rest of her children came as well.
Tom was all action, knelt down beside his sister, felt her neck for a pulse, turned her over, glanced up. ‘She’s not dead. Hit her head, I reckon. You boys’ – he gave young John a quick nod – ‘take her legs, then.’ He and her husband each lifted under her arms, and they carried her into the cottage. ‘You better go out now,’ Tom told the children. He was gently patting his sister’s cheek as they left.
John hung about there for a few minutes. Another neighbour came by. He didn’t notice anyone over by the Pride farmst
ead, though.
After only a few moments Tom came out and gave them all a smile. ‘She’s coming round. Nothing to worry about.’ Then he went back in.
A few moments later John thought he’d better go back to his home. He walked round the pond and into the small yard. He glanced into the paddock and didn’t immediately see the pony. He frowned, looked again. Then, rushing round, with an awful, sinking sense of panic, young John Pride saw that the field was empty. The pony had gone.
But how? The gate was shut. The field was bordered by an earth wall and fence: surely it could not have jumped that. He ran to check the shed. It was empty. He dashed round on to the green and started running round it. Halfway, he saw Harry, who called to ask him what was up. ‘Pony’s gone,’ he cried.
‘Hasn’t been here,’ the boy replied. ‘I’ll come with you.’ And he ran with John back to the Pride farmstead. ‘Let’s try the heath,’ he shouted. So together they ran out on to Beaulieu Heath.
The sun was sinking now. A reddish glaze was covering the heather and the gorse cast dark shadows. Here and there, sure enough, were the dark forms of ponies by the brakes. Young Pride looked out desperately.
Then his companion nudged him and pointed. ‘Look there.’ It was the pony. He was sure of it. The little creature was standing by a gorse brake over half a mile away. The two boys started running towards it. But, as though it had seen them, the pony suddenly seemed to dart away, and vanished behind a dip in the ground.
Harry stopped. ‘We’ll never get him this way,’ he gasped. ‘We’d better ride after him. You can ride my pony. I’ll take my father’s. Come on.’
They hurried back. Young Pride was so anxious that he wouldn’t even wait to saddle up. So a short while later the two boys set off, with the red glow of the sunset behind them.
‘I reckon they’ll be out all night,’ Tom chuckled.
He had planned it all exactly and it had worked.
Some time after dark, Mary had led the pony through the woods behind their farmstead and he had helped her bring it into the little barn. There, with the door closed, they had inspected it by lamplight. It was even prettier than he had remembered. He could see, although she said nothing, that Mary was thinking the same thing. It was well into the night when they finally left, bolting the door behind them.
When Tom woke it was already past dawn and the sun could be seen above the horizon. He leaped up. ‘Feed the pony,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll send word when you’re to come.’ And without pausing, he hurried out of the cottage and along the track towards John Pride’s. He didn’t want to miss Pride’s face when he returned.
All was well. Pride was not yet back.
But his son was. Poor young John was sitting on the edge of the green with Harry beside him. He looked pale and miserable. They’d been out all night, said Harry, who’d followed his uncle’s instructions and never left the boy’s side. Now John would have to tell his father he’d let the pony escape.
Tom even felt a little sorry for the boy. But this was his day and all Prides must suffer.
He had rehearsed everything. People were starting to gather: his sister, tactfully wearing a bandage over her head, some of the other hamlet folk, a gaggle of children, all waiting to see the Prides’ return. Tom knew exactly what he was going to say.
‘That pony get out, then, John? I dunno how he did that.’ Hadn’t he been with young Pride just when it happened? Hadn’t his sister’s son pointed it out on the heath? ‘Out on the Forest, is he?’ That’s what he was going to say next. ‘You’d better go look for him, John. I reckon you’re good at finding ponies, John.’
But the best bit of all was going to come next. As soon as Pride appeared, young Harry was to run and fetch Mary. And now Mary would come up the track and call out: ‘Oh, Tom, guess what. I just found that pony of ours wandering on the heath.’
‘Better put it in the barn, Mary,’ he’d reply.
‘I have, Tom,’ she’d say.
And what was John Pride going to do when his sister said that? What was he going to do about that, then?
‘Oh, sorry about that, John,’ he’d cry. ‘I reckon he just wanted to come home.’
It was going to be the best moment of his entire life.
Minutes passed. People chatted quietly. The sun was a watery yellow, just over the trees. The dew was still thick on the ground.
‘Here they come,’ a child called. And Tom made an imperceptible nod to young Harry, who slipped away.
Mary had stood for a while in the little barn after she had gone in to feed the pony. At first she had been so surprised that she had just stared. Then she had frowned. Finally, after glancing up at the loft where she had spent so many happy hours that winter, she nodded.
That must be it. She couldn’t see any other explanation. She even whispered, ‘Are you there?’ But this was met only by silence. Then she sighed. ‘I suppose’, she murmured, ‘that’s your idea of a joke.’ She hardly knew whether to laugh or cry.
She walked outside after that, and went over to the fence and looked across the open ground to the trees. She half expected a signal, but there was none. Forgetting even the pony for a few moments, she stood gazing out, as if in a dream.
This was his way of letting her know he was there, watching over her. She felt a warm rush of happiness. Then she shook her head. ‘But what have you done now, Luke?’ she muttered.
Then young Harry appeared.
It had all gone to plan. Tom was almost chortling to himself with pleasure and excitement. The words had all been said, John Pride was looking at his son like thunder; the boy was close to tears. The whole hamlet was enjoying the joke as the Prides got out of their cart looking uncomfortable.
‘Better check none of your other animals is missing,’ he called out. ‘Maybe they all walked off! Eh?’ He had only just thought of that one. He was so pleased with it, and the laughs it produced, that he went even further. ‘Something about your place they don’t like, then, is it, John? Something they don’t like?’
Oh, they were laughing now. He glanced at the track. Mary should be arriving any moment. The final surprise. The triumph. She’d better hurry up, though. While everyone was there.
One of Pride’s younger children had run round to the cowshed, just to see for herself. She returned now, looking puzzled. She was tugging at Pride’s jerkin, saying something. He saw Pride frown and then walk round to the cowshed himself. Oh, this was rich! Now Pride was returning, looking straight at him. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about, Tom Furzey,’ he called out. ‘That pony’s in the cowshed.’
Silence. Tom stared. Pride shrugged, contemptuous now, after his shock. Still Tom stared. It was impossible.
He couldn’t help himself. He ran forward. He ran straight past Pride, through the yard to the cowshed. He looked in. The pony was tethered there. One look was enough. You couldn’t mistake it. For just an instant the thought flashed through his mind to take it, seize the rope and lead it out with him. But it would never work. In any case, the pony itself was hardly the point now. He turned and came back.
‘Whoah, Tom. Something wrong there, Tom?’ The joke was on him now. The little crowd was having its fun.
‘Run back home and lock himself in, did he, Tom?’ ‘Where did you think he was, Tom?’ ‘We know you was worried about him.’ ‘Don’t you worry, Tom. That pony’s safe now.’
John Pride was looking at him, too; but not exactly laughing. He was still puzzled. You could see that.
Tom walked past him. He walked past the crowd. He didn’t even look at his own sister. He went along the edge of the pond and down the lane.
How? It was impossible. Had somebody tipped Pride off? No. There wasn’t time. Pride hadn’t known. You could see that. Had his son guessed what had happened and stolen the pony back? Couldn’t have. Young Harry was with him all night. Who even knew? His sister and her family. Had one of them been talking? He doubted it. Anyway, he didn’t think anyone in the hamlet was going t
o do John Pride’s work for him.
Mary. The only link left. Could she have gone out in the night while he slept? Or got someone else to do it? He couldn’t believe it. But then, he thought, he couldn’t believe the way she’d behaved over the pony in the first place.
He didn’t know. He supposed he’d never know. One thing was sure: if he’d been made to look a fool before, he looked twice as big a fool now. It doesn’t matter where I walk, he thought, the ground is always going to be shifting under my feet.
She was standing in the yard alone when he got back. Just looking at him. Not saying anything. But you could see she knew there’d be trouble. Well, if that was what she wanted she could have it.
As he reached her, therefore, he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t going to, either. But suddenly swinging, with an open hand, he struck her across the face as hard as he liked and she crashed to the ground.
He didn’t care.
Harvest time. Long summer days. Lines of men in smocks, with long scythes, working their way slowly, rhythmically across golden fields. Lay brothers in white habits and black aprons, following behind with scythes and sickles. The air thick with dust; fieldmice and other tiny creatures patter and scuttle to the droning hedgerows; flies in summer swarms, everywhere.
The sky was cloudless, deep blue; the heavy heat of the sun was oppressive. But already showing itself in one quarter of the sky, a huge full moon was gently rising.
Brother Adam sat calmly on his horse. He had been to Beufre; now he was at St Leonards. He was going across the heath after that, to the fields above the little ford. He was being vigilant.
The abbot had come back the week before, then gone again, to London. Before going he had given Adam particular directions. ‘Be especially careful at harvest time, Adam. That’s when we have the most hired hands. Take care they don’t drink or get into trouble.’