Three miles away, when Nick and Jane were leaving the maypole on the green, Clement Albion had been engaged in that exercise so necessary to busy men. He had been assuring himself that his conscience was clear. He even muttered aloud: ‘I have done all I can. God knows.’
The trained bands he had mustered were as ready as they were ever likely to be. The beacons were prepared. For all the fearsome reputation of the council’s spy system, nobody knew exactly when or how the great Spanish invasion fleet was coming; but those like Gorges with any pretence to information assured him that it would, and soon. Had he, then, anything with which to reproach himself? If the council were to summon him tomorrow and demand whether he were a loyal servant of his queen, could he look Cecil in the eye and declare fearlessly that he was?
‘My conscience is clear.’ Nobody was listening. He tried it again. ‘Her Majesty has no cause for complaint against me. I have deceived her about nothing. Nothing.’
Well, almost nothing.
The position of woodward was a profitable one. In return for acting as guardian of the trees in Her Majesty’s forest he received a salary and valuable perquisites. The bark, for instance, from felled or fallen oaks was his; and he would arrange for cartloads to be taken across to Fordingbridge, to the tanning pits there, where the tanners would pay well for this useful ingredient in the preparation of leather. Then there were the leases to see to.
The coppice in front of him was a well-made thirty-acre inclosure, near a track that ran west from Lyndhurst. It had an earth bank and a stout fence in good repair. It was the woodward’s responsibility to let this coppice on the usual thirty-one-year lease and this he had done. To be precise, he had let it to himself. By the terms of the lease, he had the right to sell off the underwood, which was mostly thorn and hazel; but at the same time he was obliged to conserve the more valuable timber wood, keeping at least twelve untouched standards, as the young timber trees were called, to the acre. Albion’s coppices, therefore, should have contained not less than three hundred and sixty standards of timber and, when the lease had begun, so it had. But somehow a hundred and fifty of them had disappeared, leaving two hundred and ten. The profits from these timber sales had been a useful addition to his income.
It was the sort of thing Her Majesty’s woodward was supposed to notice and report, to ensure that the leaseholder was fined. But as he was the leaseholder too, this dereliction had miraculously escaped his notice.
More serious, perhaps, had been the sale of a much larger coppice, not long ago, for the benefit of the crown. He had arranged the sale efficiently enough and fowarded the money to Her Majesty’s treasury. A large quantity of underwood had been sold and was fully accounted for with a written record. What the record did not show, however, was that much of this underwood was actually timber, of far higher value. The difference between the real and the recorded sale had gone into Albion’s purse.
This error still might be found out by the regarders when they next made their inspection of the Forest, as they did every few years. But then, as he was also one of Her Majesty’s regarders, Albion thought it unlikely that the issue would be raised.
Yet again, the crown had been known to set up a commission of inquiry to investigate even the regarders as well, and the woodwards and the gentleman leaseholders of the Forest. But so serious a matter was this, that the last time such a thing had been done, the said regarders, woodwards and gentlemen had found it necessary to arrange that the members of the said commission should consist entirely of – themselves.
For a time, during the months after his conversation with Helena Gorges at Hurst Castle, Albion had lived in some discomfort. To be an undisturbed woodward was one thing; but if the council ever started to take steps against him; if neighbours should understand he was a marked man; if Cecil’s servants came down to the Forest seeking crimes with which to charge him, who knew what might come to the surface? Even if no treason was found, the prospect of disgrace and ruin grew uncomfortably large.
But winter and spring had passed, and now it was May. The cuckoo was sounding in the woods. In the manner of every good man who thinks it unlikely he will be found out, Albion’s conscience was clear. Although the sun was sinking in the west, the huge canopy of sky over the Forest was still azure, with thin ribs of high cloud gleaming pink and silver overhead, as Albion rode southwards. Having passed Brockenhurst and gone south another mile, he then turned east to cross the Forest’s modest central river by the quiet ford below which his house lay.
He was rather surprised, therefore, as he came in sight of the ford, to see two wagons, one richly curtained, the other groaning under a stupendous load of boxes and furniture of every kind, crossing the river just ahead of him. Across the ford, one either continued up to Beaulieu Heath or turned south along a track that led to Boldre. The Albion house, a timber gabled manor, lay in a wooded clearing about half a mile down the track that led to Boldre.
They turned south. He rode after them. But the second wagon took up so much of the path that he had to wait behind it; and so, a little while later, he saw with astonishment that the first was turning up the track that led to his house. It had already rumbled up to his door, and the servants were coming out and a groom was holding back the wagon’s curtains to allow its occupant to descend, before he could ride up to the door himself.
The figure descending was dressed all in black, except for the inside and trimming of her gown, which was crimson. Her face was powdered a thick, ghostly white.
‘Dear God!’ he cried, scarcely thinking. ‘Mother, why have you come?’
She gave him a brilliant smile in return, although her eyes were as keen as those of a bird after a worm. ‘I have news, Clement,’ she said. And a moment later, finding his ear close to her red mouth as he entered her unavoidable embrace, he heard her whisper as to a fellow conspirator: ‘A letter from your sister. The Spanish are coming. I have come here so that we may welcome them, my dearest son, together.’
May passed and most of June, and still the Spanish fleet – the Armada, they called it – did not come. The weather was unusual. One day there would be blue sky and summer sun over the Forest; but time and again, the dark, lowering clouds had returned, sweeping up from the south-west with gales of rain or hail; few could remember a summer like it in years. Late in June, news came that a storm had dispersed the preparing Spanish fleet to several ports. ‘Drake will be up and at them,’ people said. But although Sir Francis was urging the council to let him go, the Queen was hesitant. The trouble with England’s favourite pirate was that as soon as he attacked the enemy successfully, he’d go running off trying to capture prizes instead of attending to duty. For the great explorer and patriot still loved money, she well knew, more than anything.
As Jane Furzey came on to the long stretch of Mill Lawn she felt rather guilty. Had she really let two months pass before returning to Burley? What with the weather and so much going on, she told herself, she really hadn’t had time to return Puckle’s counterpane. With luck, she thought, he won’t be there. Then she could leave it and hurry away.
Today the weather was fine. Across the big Forest lawn the gorse was all green now, but the short turf was brightly spangled with daisies and white clover, yellow buttercup and hawkweed. Pressing close to the turf, tiny sprigs of self-heal added purple tints to the green; and on the banks of the little gravel streamlet that ran down the lawn, blue forget-me-not grew out of the weeds.
Jane reached the thatched cottage just before noon. Puckle was not at home, but his children were. There were three of them. The eldest was a girl of about ten; obviously going through a skinny stage, she was thin as a spindle, dark-haired, rather solemn and had clearly been left in charge of the other two. A younger girl, also dark, was playing on the patch of grass in front of the cottage door.
But it was the youngest child who really caught her attention. He was a chubby, cheerful little boy of three. He had evidently been playing with a toy horse his father must
have made for him; but the moment he saw Jane he toddled happily up to her, his round face wearing a big smile, his bright eyes full of trust and apparently sure that she would amuse him. He was wearing a nicely embroidered smock and not much else and, taking her hand he asked: ‘I’m Tom. Would you like to play?’
‘I’m sure I should,’ she said. But first she explained her errand to the older girl.
The child was naturally a little suspicious at first, but when she inspected the counterpane she nodded. ‘My father said a person would come with it,’ she remarked, ‘but that was a long time ago.’ It seemed that Puckle was not expected back for a while and so Jane talked with the girl. It was soon clear from her manner and the things she said that she had had to take on the role of mother to the family, and Jane began to feel rather sorry for her. She needs a mother herself, she thought.
As for Tom, the toddler was enchanting. He produced a ball and demanded that she kick it to him, which she did, to his great delight, for some time. He is such a pretty little boy, she considered, I wish he could be mine. Finally, however, if she was not to run the risk of meeting Puckle, she thought she had better go.
‘I had best put this back on your father’s bed,’ she said to the girl, picking up the counterpane. The child assured her there was no need, but she insisted and went alone up the stairs to the little room where Puckle’s oak bed stood.
There it was: dark, almost black, and gleaming. It was certainly curious, every bit as strange as she remembered it from her encounter before. The oaken faces, like gargoyles in a church, stared out at her as though she were a friend they were welcoming back. Hardly meaning to, she ran her hand over some of the carved figures – the squirrel, the snake. They were so perfect it was as if they were alive, about to move under her hand at any instant. She even felt a trace of fright and, as if to reassure herself, tightened her grip, squeezing the gnarled oak wood under her hand to prove to herself that that was all it was. For an instant she felt almost giddy.
Carefully she spread the counterpane, made sure that everything was tidy, then stood back to survey her handiwork. This was where Puckle had lain with his wife. ‘Keep any woman happy.’ The strange woman’s words came back to her. ‘Once you lie in his oak bed with John Puckle, you’ll not want any other bed.’ Jane’s eyes went round the room. There was a linen shirt of Puckle’s on the chest where the cat had been lying the first time she came in there. Glancing behind her to make sure she was not observed, she went over and picked it up. He had worn it, but not much, she thought. It smelled only a little of sweat, more of woodsmoke. A good smell. A little salty. She laid it carefully down again.
She looked once more at the bed. It was so strange: the bed seemed to look back at her, as though it and Puckle were one and the same. As in a way they were, she realized, given how much of himself he had put into the carving. Puckle turned into oak, she thought with a smile, and laughed to herself. If all this carving, this astonishing strength and richness were within the soul and body of the man too, no wonder his wife had had good things to say of him. But why to her? Perhaps she had said such things to everybody. But then again, perhaps not.
She turned and, with a last look at the gleaming four-poster, went down the stairs and out of the cottage door into the bright sunlight. Just before she reached it she heard the little boy cry out in pleasure and, blinking for a moment in the sudden light, she looked at the figure now scooping the toddler up in his arms.
Puckle was black – as black as one of the oaken faces on his bed. He turned, catching sight of her, looked straight at her, and she felt herself give an involuntary shudder. She understood, of course. He had been out at one of his charcoal fires and was covered with black dust. But he looked so like one of the strange, almost devilish faces on the bed that she couldn’t help herself.
‘Bring me water,’ he said to the girl, who reappeared in a moment with a wooden pail. He stooped, scooping the water quickly on to his face and head, then washed his arms. He stood up straight again, his face now clean, while from his head the water was dripping down, and laughed.
‘Do you recognize me now?’ he asked Jane, who nodded and laughed as well. ‘You have met Tom?’ he enquired.
‘I played ball with him.’ She smiled.
‘Will you stay a while?’ he asked, cheerfully.
‘No. No, I must go.’ She started to turn, and was astonished to discover that she wanted to stay. ‘I must go,’ she repeated, disconcerted with herself.
‘Ah.’ He came over to her now. His hand reached out and took her elbow. She was aware, suddenly, of the muscles on his thick, powerful forearm. ‘The children like you,’ he said quietly.
‘Oh. How do you know?’
‘I know.’ He smiled. ‘I am glad you came,’ he said gently.
She nodded. She hardly knew what to say. It was as if, as soon as he had touched her, they had shared something. She felt a flood of strength coming from him, while her own knees went weak. ‘I must go,’ she stammered.
His hand was still on her arm. She did not want him to take it away.
‘Come, sit.’ He indicated a bench near the door.
So she sat in the sun with him, and talked and played with the children until, after an hour, she left.
‘You must come again, for the children,’ he said. And she promised that, when she could, she would.
By July, Albion often rode out into the Forest simply to be alone. The last two months had not been easy.
Perhaps his wife had summed it up best. ‘I can’t see the Spanish invasion will make any difference to us, Clement,’ she had said at the end of May. ‘This house has already been occupied.’
His mother and her occupying forces appeared to be everywhere. There never seemed to be less than three of her servants crowding into the kitchen. Within two weeks her groom had seduced his wife’s young maid. At meals, at family prayers, morning, noon and night, his mother’s brooding presence seemed to fill the house.
Why was she there? Albion had no doubt. She was going to make sure he fulfilled his obligations when the Armada came.
For three weeks his wife had suffered. She understood very well that his mother had a large fortune to leave, and she was a good daughter-in-law; but she was a mother first and she wanted a quiet life for her family. He had not dared tell her about his mother’s insane offer of his services to the King of Spain and had begged his mother not to, for fear of frightening her. Meekly therefore, his wife had done her family duty. But finally even she could take no more. ‘This occupation has gone on too long,’ she told him. ‘My house is no longer my own. I don’t care if your mother has ten fortunes to leave. We can live without. They must all go.’
It was with no small fear that he went to his mother to explain the problem. Her reaction astonished him.
‘Of course, Clement. She is quite right. Your household is not large. My poor manservant has been sleeping in the barn. Leave everything to me.’
And the very next morning, to his astonishment, the whole cortège – the wagons piled high, the servants all on board – had been ready to depart. He and his family had stood and watched in wonder as the order was given to move off. There had been only one puzzling feature.
‘Shouldn’t you be in your carriage now, Mother?’ he asked. ‘It is about to move.’
‘I?’ His mother looked surprised. ‘I, Clement? I am not going.’ She raised her hand and waved as the two wagons began to rumble past them. ‘Do not worry, Clement.’ She gave him a brilliant smile. ‘I shall be quiet as a mouse.’
And from that day, with just a few chests of clothes and her prayer book, she had kept to herself in her chamber. ‘Like a good nun,’ as she put it. That is, when she was not sitting in the parlour, or instructing the children in their prayers, or giving the servants little commissions to do, or letting his wife know that the roast beef could have been cooked a little less. ‘You see,’ she would observe, every day at dinner, ‘how I live like a hermit in your house.
You must scarcely know I am here.’
If her continued presence was a nuisance for his wife, to Albion himself it grew daily more alarming. Her private conversations with him left no room for doubt: the Spanish were going to triumph. ‘I wrote to your sister long ago about the strength of the musters,’ she declared. ‘The Spanish troops will smash them easily. As for our ships, they are all rotten.’ The first statement was true, the second false. But she had entirely made up her mind about it.
The problem was, how could he deal with the suspicions that must attach to him from her presence in his house? He decided that the best defence was attack.
‘My mother is now completely out of her wits,’ he told one or two gentlemen who he knew would repeat the information, ‘and there’s an end of it.’ When a number of recusants were interned by the council in case they proved dangerous, he remarked wryly to Gorges: ‘I have interned my mother myself. I am now her gaoler.’ When Gorges reminded him that he personally had had charge of Mary Queen of Scots, Albion riposted: ‘My mother is the more dangerous.’ And when Helena asked if he actually kept her under lock and key, he replied morosely: ‘I wish I had a dungeon.’
Were they convinced? He hoped so. But two incidents soon told him better. The first occurred just after news came that Drake had been refused permission to attack the Spanish in their ports again. The orders that the queen had wanted to give had caused some wry amusement among her commanders. Albion had been down at Hurst Castle just afterwards.
‘Do you know, Clement,’ Helena had remarked, ‘the queen wanted the fleet to go back and forth like men on sentry duty?’ She laughed. ‘It seems that Her Majesty, although she sends her buccaneers across the seas, did not know that their ships cannot change directions just as they please, ignoring the wind. Now the fleet is going to …’ But she suddenly checked herself and added sheepishly: ‘To do something else. I do not know what.’ And Albion had turned and seen Gorges standing behind him, quickly removing a warning finger from his lips.