The Enchanter's Forest Read online

  He had been given only vague directions to the new shrine but he was reasonably confident of finding it. He rode along slowly now, the path following a slight rise in the heathland to the south, watching the densely growing trees and undergrowth to his right and looking out for a break that would give access to the interior. As it turned out, he could not have missed the spot even without such careful attention: a steady stream of people was tramping along the track, making for the shrine, and all he had to do was follow the herd.

  The trees on the edge of the forest had been thinned to allow clear access. About a dozen large trees had been hacked down, their raw, wide trunks testimony to the size and age of the amputated trees. Across the space that they had left was a path, clearly marked by stones set at regular intervals along each side.

  Into Josse’s head flew the thought: the forest people will not like this.

  He pictured Joanna, who lived away on the other side of the forest but who nevertheless, he knew without a doubt, would be well aware of this violation. Then he thought of the strange, otherworldly woman known only as the Domina, and a shudder of fear went through him. The Domina had power and the Great Forest was her land. What would she do in response to this abomination?

  For abomination was what it was. Dismounting and leading the cob – there were many people on the path, young and old, and Josse did not want to push through on horseback and make them leap out of the way – he saw with horrified eyes just what Florian of Southfrith had done.

  He had desecrated a venerable and beautiful area of ancient forest for what Josse firmly believed was entirely his own gain. If it was true that he had come across something of genuinely grave importance, if they really were Merlin’s bones lying there in the tomb, then surely there was a better way of sharing the discovery. Florian ought to have first reported his find to Hawkenlye, Josse thought angrily, possibly also involving the secular authorities, and someone should have brought the forest people in on the discussions. That way, arrangements could have been made for the people to visit the tomb in a controlled manner and there would have been no need for this violence against the forest. As it was, one selfish man thinking only of his own pocket had forged ahead with such ruthless speed that it had left the rest of them breathless.

  Horrified, furious, he walked on.

  The felled trees at the forest edge were only the start of it. At the place where the path terminated, some twenty or thirty paces within the woodland, many more trees had been roughly cut down and a great swath of undergrowth had been swept away, the leaf mould of hundreds – thousands – of years untidy with heaps of sawdust, bits of broken branch, leaves and twigs. Despite the fact that a considerable sum of money must have been spent on the place, everywhere there was a depressingly rough, uncaring look, markedly in contrast with the mature and dignified nature of the native forest.

  A raw-looking fence had been erected, split chestnut rails nailed to uneven uprights. It had all the hallmarks of something done in haste and not very well. Where the path met the fence there was a stout gate, now standing open. The heavy chain hanging from it suggested that it could be firmly locked when necessary; nobody, it seemed, was going to visit Merlin’s Tomb unless Florian of Southfrith said they could.

  A thick-set man in a leather jerkin stood by the gate. As each visitor approached, he was demanding something . . .

  Just as I expected, Josse thought.

  Florian had gone one step further than merely to make money from the refreshments and accommodation he was offering. He actually had the nerve to demand an admission fee.

  Josse reached into his pouch and prepared some coins. When he was face to face with the mean-looking man on the gate, he offered a couple of clipped silver half-pennies, hoping that one of them would suffice. Both were quietly taken from his open palm. The man gave him a quick grin that was no more than a stretching of his lips and curtly nodded him through.

  Within the enclosure another man came to take the cob; he, too, was heavily built and he bore the facial scars and flattened nose that suggested a life of fighting. Reckoning that it was no doubt the large amounts of money being made that necessitated so many guards – for that was surely what they were; there were three more of them loitering just inside the fence – Josse handed over the horse’s reins.

  He edged along the path behind an old woman supporting an even older man. Turning, she gave him the time of day. Her expression was tense, her sunken blue eyes bright with excitement.

  ‘What’s up with you, then?’ she asked.

  ‘My back.’ Josse adopted a crouch and put a hand to the small of his back.

  ‘Ah-ha!’ She grimaced understandingly, as if she knew all about bad backs. ‘My old man here’ – she gave the man beside her a nudge in his skinny ribs – ‘he’s all but blind.’ The old man turned to peer at Josse through cloudy eyes and gave him a nod. ‘But that’ll soon change!’ the woman added happily.

  Josse felt a stab of pity for her hopeless optimism. ‘You expect a miracle?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said confidently. ‘It’s Merlin, isn’t it? He’s magic, he is, and he’s one of us.’ Lowering her voice, she added in a whisper, ‘He and his magic were here long before the other lot came. They may have their fine abbeys and their holy springs but they can’t stamp out the old ways, now, can they? And now here’s our Merlin returned to us and back in his rightful place!’ She smiled her satisfaction. ‘Now we’ll see some wonders!’

  Not entirely sure what she meant by the other lot – it sounded disturbingly as if she was referring to the Christian church and perhaps Hawkenlye in particular – Josse murmured a meaningless acknowledgement. Just then the line moved on several paces and he said, ‘I wish you luck!’

  ‘You too!’ the old woman called.

  He shuffled slowly on, one hand on his back, face screwed up in pretend pain, letting a gap develop between himself and the elderly couple. He wanted to take his time in studying the whole area. The path led on to a second, higher, fence, also gated; this second fence was solidly built with hazel hurdles and underbrush and Josse could see neither over nor through it. By the open gate stood a man.

  He was younger and far less heavily built than the toughs on the outer fence. He was also much better dressed, in a tunic of bright scarlet velvet trimmed with heavy gold braid. His boots were of soft leather, fitted him like a second skin and looked brand-new. His hair – bright chestnut and gleaming with cleanliness – was neatly cut and his light grey eyes shone with health. He was clean-shaven and extremely handsome. He was, undoubtedly, Florian of Southfrith.

  Josse approached him and gave him a low bow, as befitted an impoverished man with backache greeting a young and wealthy lord.

  A long, pale hand was extended, resting on Josse’s shoulder in a brief touch. ‘Rise up,’ intoned an educated voice, in the tone of a priest bestowing a blessing, ‘for your suffering will soon be at an end.’ Josse straightened, looking the young man in the face. Florian appeared taken aback at such a bold stare; hastily Josse lowered his eyes.

  ‘Thank’ee, Master,’ he muttered.

  ‘When I tell you to do so, you may walk on to the sacred spot,’ the soft voice went on. ‘Make your appeal, leave whatever offering you have brought, and then make your way past. You will be shown where to go.’

  ‘Thank’ee,’ Josse said again. He very much wanted to have another look at young Florian, but he had learned by his earlier mistake. The poor, the humble and the afflicted did not habitually meet the eyes of their lord.

  There was a short wait, and then Florian tapped Josse on the arm and said, ‘You may go on now.’

  Josse walked forward along the path.

  It turned abruptly left, and then right; whatever lay at its far end was designed to be out of sight until a visitor reached it.

  Stepping out into the open, Josse was faced with a stunning sight.

  The ground had been cleared and stamped down and the forest floor here was now bare earth.
The trees and the undergrowth had been cut back for some four or five paces in each direction, so that the sun shone down into the glade. There was a trio of thorn trees standing on the perimeter; pieces of coloured rag and ribbon had been tied to the lower branches. The ground sloped gently, higher to the far side of the clearing, falling away to the near, southern side. Right in the middle of the open space was a long, deep scar.

  Josse went closer.

  Now he could see over the lip of the steep-sided hollow into its dark interior. The pit had been walled with stones and its base appeared to be one vast slab. Stretched out on the slab, arms by its sides and fingers gently curved over the wide palms, was the huge and intact skeleton of a man who must in life have been a veritable giant.

  Whatever else might be a lie or a false claim, these bones looked real enough and, despite himself, Josse was awestruck. His eyes ran over the huge bones – large dome of the skull, with the brow ridges elegantly curved; long, heavy arms, deep ribs; wide pelvis, femurs and lower leg bones stretching endlessly. He glanced down at his own legs then back at the skeleton, calculating that the giant’s legs must have been at least an arm’s length longer than his own. Which would have meant that had Josse and the giant stood side by side, the giant would have towered over him by perhaps almost as much as a quarter of Josse’s own height.

  He did not know what to make of it. Expecting a very obvious fraud – a pile of bones scavenged from some old, forgotten burial ground, perhaps, or even the cast-offs from a slaughter house – here he was faced with a real human skeleton, moreover an unusually large one. It was . . . disturbing.

  Josse realised as he stood there in silent, entranced contemplation that something was happening: there was a definite sense of power emanating from the skeleton and he could feel the hairs on his arms tickle his skin as they rose in response to his atavistic dread. It’s not Merlin! he shouted silently, fighting his sudden alarm. It can’t be; Merlin is nothing but a legend. Am I to be like some ignorant peasant, deluded by a clever man’s trickery? For trickery it is, he told himself, struggling to keep a clear head and a rational outlook. Whatever power these huge bones may possess, Florian of Southfrith is claiming it to be something it isn’t and in my view, Josse thought grimly, that amounts to deception.

  But argue with himself as he might, still Josse’s body defied his brain as the fear and the awe flooded him.

  He tore his enchanted eyes from the bones and caught sight of the faint gleam of some dull, dark metal on the far side of the tomb. Moving around the head end of the pit so as to have a closer look, he saw that it was a plaque, probably made of lead. It was roughly in the shape of an equal-armed cross, pitted and broken at the edges as if it had, in truth, spent six hundred years in the ground. The inscription was in Latin and read Here lies Merlin, magician to King Arthur. Look upon his power and fear him.

  Trying desperately to shake himself free of the spell, Josse took a pace – two, three paces – away from the tomb. And abruptly the dread left him.

  He stumbled on, following the path as it curved away, concealing the tomb once more. His breath came more easily now and he felt the sweat of fear drying on his back. By the time he reached the huddle of tables, benches and low, rudely fashioned huts where the pilgrims took their refreshments, he was breathing normally again.

  Almost.

  Chapter 3

  As he rode thoughtfully back to Hawkenlye Abbey, Josse tried to distract his thoughts from his reaction to the strange power of the bones by attempting to calculate just how much money Florian of Southfrith must be making out of his convincing and seductive new venture. There was the admission fee; he recalled the not inconsiderable sum of two silver half-pennies that had been extracted from him, although it was possible that those pleading extreme poverty might get in for less. How many visitors could there be in a day? Twenty? No, more, surely, for they had been arriving steadily throughout the time span of Josse’s approach, arrival and departure. Forty, then, and that estimate was surely on the low side. Even if every one gave just half a penny, that was twenty pennies. It would take a working man three weeks to make that much.

  Then there was the food and drink that was on offer after the pilgrims had visited the tomb. Hot and thirsty after the journey, surely it would have taken either a strong will or an empty purse to resist the mugs of beer and the plates of bread, dried meat and cheese invitingly spread out. Josse had succumbed to temptation; he had been surprised to find the small beer pretty good, although the bread was hard and the meat had what looked like a maggot hole in it. His meal – served up by another of the strong-looking guards – had cost him another half-penny.

  Assuming the same forty visitors, of whom perhaps thirty took refreshments, then that was another fifteen pennies. Some people clearly made use of the overnight accommodation; Josse had observed that one of the huts contained a pile of straw palliasses and a heap of blankets. Goodness only knew what the charge was for spending the night in Florian’s hut. And then there would probably be another half a penny for food and drink in the morning; people were reluctant to start a long walk with nothing in their bellies. Perhaps a penny for accommodation and breakfast? If only one family spent the night, that was at least another shilling a week.

  Was there anything else? Josse thought it over. Oh, yes – the offerings. There had been a depression in the ground between the tomb and the refreshment tables, at the bottom of which a little spring welled up out of the earth. The stony bed of the spring had, by the time Josse passed by, been already covered with coins and with what had looked like pieces of jewellery and other small metal items such as pins and pocket knives. Doubtless people felt that Merlin would be more likely to answer their prayers if they gave him something and Florian was obviously encouraging them in this belief; Josse himself had been invited to leave his offering, although in fact he had not done so.

  There was no way that he could accurately judge just what Florian was making each day. What was absolutely certain, however, was that it was a very great deal.

  Keeping that fact at the forefront of his mind and pushing firmly aside the memory of how Merlin’s Tomb had affected him, Josse kicked the cob into a surprisingly sprightly canter and headed for the Abbey and the Abbess.

  Helewise looked up from her work to see Josse standing in the open doorway. With a smile of welcome, she indicated the stool that she kept for visitors and invited him to sit down and tell her all about it.

  She heard him out in silence, nodding occasionally. When he had finished, she said slowly, ‘Sir Josse, it is far, far worse than I feared, for the crowds whom you describe who queue up so patiently and so optimistically to view the tomb are clearly not to be deterred by reasoned argument. Even if we made a direct appeal – and, believe me, I have been contemplating such a move – I do not think that anyone is at present in a mood to leave the thrilling excitement and promise of the new for the unchanging reliability of Hawkenlye.’

  He seemed to be on the point of speaking but appeared to change his mind; probably, she thought grimly, because, although he would like to protest, he knows I speak the truth. She thought for a while, did some mental calculations and then said, ‘If I reckon aright, this Florian of Southfrith must be making roughly twenty shillings a day.’ As the enormity of that sum struck her – why, a chaplain only earned twice that in a year! – she realised she must have made a mistake. ‘But that cannot be right,’ she added.

  But Josse was nodding glumly. ‘No mistake, my lady. That’s what I worked out too. And, believe me, I was cautious in my estimates and so the likelihood is that he’s coining in a great deal more.’

  ‘He is surely unlikely to go on making so much,’ she said doubtfully. ‘As the proverb has it, a wonder lasts nine days, and then the puppy’s eyes are open.’

  ‘Hm.’

  She had expected a more emphatic endorsement of her remark; had he not sat outside this very room only this morning and claimed firmly that the whole Merlin’s Tomb b
usiness was nothing but a hoax? ‘Sir Josse?’ she said enquiringly. ‘Do you not agree that people will soon tire of this new attraction and see it for the money-making scheme that it is?’

  He met her eyes. ‘I am not so sure, my lady,’ he admitted.

  ‘Oh? How so?’

  He cast his eyes around the room as if seeking inspiration. Then: ‘I expected to feel nothing or, if anything, disgust and contempt for a clever piece of dupery. Yet when I stood by the tomb looking down at those enormous bones—’ He broke off, shrugged and then said, ‘They give off a force. I felt as if I were in the presence of a great power that I did not understand.’

  ‘Josse! Oh, then there is something in all this and it is not just a fraud!’ She put her hand to her mouth, horrified by his admission. If he of all people had been so affected, then what of the more credulous? Oh, dear Lord, they would go from Merlin’s Tomb straight home to their towns, villages, hamlets and hovels, tell their family, friends and neighbours how wonderful it had been and in no time all those whom they told would be setting out too. The present steady stream of people would become a river, a torrent, a full-moon tide, and nobody would ever come near Hawkenlye again . . .

  With some effort, she made herself stop.

  But Josse, dear Josse, must have seen the terrible vision that she saw. ‘My lady, do not despair,’ he said softly.

  She managed a small smile. ‘I see very little reason not to.’

  He had stood up and was pacing to and fro across her small room. His restless presence, as always, made it seem even smaller. ‘Florian of Southfrith must be made to stop,’ he announced.

  ‘But why?’ she demanded. ‘If there is a power in these bones, and if it is benign’ – she suddenly appreciated that this was quite a big if – ‘then what right have we to come between the people and a source of succour? Times continue to be hard, Sir Josse. It is but two years since everyone in the land had to give far more than they could afford in order to buy back our King. Yet what have they in exchange for their enforced generosity? King Richard stayed in England less than two months and then set off campaigning again and we have seen neither hide nor hair of him since. Purchasing the King’s freedom has cost the people dear and it will, I fear, take them a very long time to regain any sort of security. Some will never achieve it and will live in wretched poverty and miserable uncertainty until they die.’ She heard her voice rise with passion and took a moment to regain her composure. Then she said quietly, ‘If they find comfort and help in this Merlin’s Tomb, then should we try to stop it?’