The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [221]
The party arrived at the big inclosure. The seedlings stretched away in lines like an army. The party dutifully looked and expressed their admiration. But the king, Pride noticed, although genial, was also surveying the scene with a sharp eye and, taking two companions, he cantered away round the perimeter to inspect the fence.
Having returned satisfied, he gave the order: ‘Now for that Rufus tree.’
So back they went again. The four Forest men bringing up the rear of the cheerful cavalcade said little now. Jim was looking glum, Puckle bored. But Purkiss still seemed quite happy and, when Stephen Pride remarked that he was sorry to have brought him on a fool’s errand, the Brockenhurst man just shook his head and smiled. ‘It’s not every day I get the chance to ride with the king, Stephen,’ he said calmly. ‘Besides, a man may learn much and profit from such an occasion.’
‘I can’t see much profit myself,’ Pride answered, ‘but I’m glad if you can.’
If the Rufus tree had been old at the time of the Armada, eighty years later its long life was clearly nearing its end. The ancient oak was decrepit. Most of its branches had died back. A great rent in the side showed where a large limb had broken off. Ivy grew on the trunk. Only a little crown of leaves grew from its topmost branch. As a mark of respect it had been enclosed behind a stake fence.
The two acorns which had tumbled down and taken root after the Armada storms stood not far off, noble oak trees now. One was shorter and broader because it had been pollarded; the other, untouched, grew high.
They all surveyed the hoary old hulk with reverence. Several of the party dismounted.
‘This is where Tyrrell shot my ancestor William Rufus, Nellie,’ the king announced. He glanced at Sir Robert Howard. ‘That’s almost six hundred years ago. Can this tree really be so old?’
‘Undoubtedly, Sir,’ said the Master Keeper, who hadn’t the faintest idea.
‘What exactly is the story?’ young Monmouth asked.
‘Yes.’ King Charles looked sternly at Howard. ‘Let’s have it exactly, Master Keeper.’
And the aristocrat, a little red, had just started to bluster some vague and garbled version of the tale he’d obviously forgotten, when to everyone’s surprise there was a movement from the back, and a tall figure stepped forward and made a low bow. It was Purkiss.
Stephen Pride watched in astonishment as his friend calmly made his way to the front. Now Purkiss, in a respectful voice and with a serious countenance enquired: ‘May I, Your Majesty, recount the true story of this tree?’
‘You certainly may, fellow,’ King Charles said affably, while Nellie pulled a face at Howard.
And so Purkiss began. First he explained about the oak tree’s magical Christmas greening and, when Charles looked doubtful, the gentlemen keepers assured him this was perfectly correct. The king leaned forward in his saddle after that, paying close attention to Purkiss’s every word.
Purkiss was good. Pride listened with admiration. With the quiet reverence of a verger conducting the faithful round a cathedral, he gave the story of Rufus’s death with every detail recorded or invented in the chronicles. He described the evil visions of the Norman king seen the night before; what he had said to Walter Tyrrell in the morning; the monk’s warning. Everything. Then, solemnly, he pointed to the tree. ‘When Tyrrell loosed the fatal arrow, Sire, it grazed the tree and then struck the king. It left a mark, they say, which once could be seen up there.’ He pointed to a place some way up the trunk. ‘It was only a young tree then, Your Majesty, so the mark was carried higher with the years.’
He explained how Tyrrell fled across the Forest to the River Avon at Tyrrell’s Ford and how the king’s body was carried on a forester’s cart to Winchester. He concluded with a low bow.
‘Well done, good fellow!’ cried the monarch. ‘Wasn’t that well done?’ he asked the courtiers,