The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [168]
She waited, then called. Nothing happened. There was no sound. She called again, several times. Still nothing. Had the cat finally taken refuge somewhere? She would have expected to hear Jack barking. She waited a little more and then, with a sigh, followed in the direction the two animals had gone.
She had walked perhaps fifty yards into the trees when she saw the cottage. It was a fairly typical white-walled, thatched Forest cottage, although better than many since a window under the roof on one side indicated that there was at least one room upstairs. In the clearing round it were a small yard and some outbuildings. There was no sign of the cat, or of Jack and she was wondering if they had veered off somewhere else when she heard the dog’s bark. It came, unmistakably, from inside the cottage.
She went to the door, found it ajar and knocked. No reply. She called out. Surely there must be someone about. Still nothing. She called to Jack and heard him bark again, somewhere within; but he did not come. She wondered if he might have got trapped in there, yet still hesitated. She did not want to go in without permission. At the same time, she did not like to think of her dog wreaking havoc in a stranger’s house.
She pushed open the door and entered.
It was a cottage like many others. The door gave into the main low-ceilinged room, which had a fire and hanging pots at one end. In one corner were a scrubbed table, some benches and a cot where, by the look of it, a small child slept. To the right, behind a door, which she did not like to open, was another room. Ahead, a narrow staircase, hardly more than a ladder, led up to the loft room above.
‘Jack?’ she called softly. ‘Jack?’ A small bark came in answer, from upstairs. ‘Jack,’ she called, ‘come down.’ Was somebody holding the dog up there? She looked round to see if anyone was watching her from outside. They did not seem to be. She stepped forward and started to go up the stairs.
There were two rooms up there: on the left, an open loft; on the right an oak door, which the wind, presumably, had blown shut. Slowly, she pushed it open.
The room was only a small one. The light came from a low window at knee height, on her left, just below the eaves. On her right, against the wall, was an old chest upon which, to her surprise, the cat was now lying, comfortably curled and watching her as if her presence were awaited. But strangest of all was the sight in front of her.
Taking up most of the wall was an oak four-poster bed. Across the top of the four posts was a simple cloth canopy whose edges just touched the sloping thatch of the bare roof above. It was not a huge bed. It had been built, perhaps, in that very room she guessed, to take two people, neither very large. The oak was dark, almost black, and gleamed.
And it was carved. She had never seen such carving. Animals, stags’ heads, grotesque human faces, oak leaves and acorns, fungi, squirrels and even snakes – all climbed up or looked out from the four dark, gleaming posts of that strange bed. And suddenly remembering where she had heard such a bed described, she murmured aloud: ‘This must be Puckle’s place.’
Yet almost stranger than the bed itself was the behaviour of Jack.
The bed was covered with a simple linen counterpane. He was sitting on it. His black paw marks were clearly visible where he had jumped up. Yet he sat there now, wagging his tail, showing no sign of wanting to come to her nor, apparently, of chasing the cat. He seemed to expect her to come and sit there beside him.
‘Oh, Jack! What have you done? Come off that bed at once,’ she cried. And she went to pull him off. But he resisted, crouching down, although still