The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [282]
The solution for the Buckler’s Hard workers had consisted of a new settlement. Down the western boundary of the Beaulieu estate, along the edge of the open heath, a straggle of cottages had sprung up. Technically they had no right to be there, for each plot was actually an encroachment upon the king’s forest, but although there had been some talk of their removal, nothing had been done. As the settlement lay along the estate’s boundary, it was known as Beaulieu Rails, although sometimes called East Boldre. It was only two miles or so from the shipyard, so the workers had no further to walk than if they’d lived at Beaulieu village.
But they were off the parish.
Puckle had lived at Beaulieu Rails for many years, but would still go over to the western side of the Forest once in a while, where most of his relations lived, so when he set out across the heath that Sunday morning his neighbours assumed he was going there. They might have been surprised, therefore, when, across the heath, he instead made his way northwards through the woods, past Lyndhurst and even Minstead. It was mid-morning when he came along the edge of the trees to the meeting place, which he had selected both for its distance from his home and because, from there, it would be easy to retire into the deeper seclusion of the woods nearby. As he drew close, he noted with satisfaction that the place was deserted.
The Rufus tree was gone. Its hollowed old hulk had finally rotted down into a stump which had disintegrated half a century earlier. In its place, however, a stone had been erected to commemorate the historic site. For although its miraculous winter greening was still remembered by some, it was the tree’s false reputation, as the site of King William Rufus’s death, that was now enshrined in stone. Nor was this all: even Purkiss and his cart had now become a matter of historical record.
At the stone, Puckle stopped and looked around. A short distance away stood the old tree’s two sons. One had been pollarded, the other had not. Puckle’s expert eye took in both at once. The pollard oak would not make good ship’s timber, for the pollarding process made for weaker joints; but the other, he noticed, had been marked for felling any time. And it was from behind this tree that a figure now emerged, to whom he nodded.
Grockleton was on time.
He walked over and joined the Customs man under the oak, where they stood together. Puckle glanced around again.
‘We are alone,’ said Grockleton. ‘I’ve been watching.’
‘That’s all right, then.’
Grockleton waited a moment, to see if the Forest man was going to open the conversation; but as it seemed not, he began: ‘You think you can help me?’
‘Maybe.’
‘How?’
‘I might tell you things.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘I has my reasons.’
The scene Grockleton had witnessed was still vivid in his mind. What this fellow had done to annoy the landlord of the Angel Inn he had not discovered, but it had clearly been more than a question of brawling or drunkenness. Indeed, Puckle had appeared to be quite cool and sober at the time. But whatever it was that had caused Isaac Seagull to drag him to the entrance of the Angel and, quite literally, kick him into the High Street in front of him, Grockleton would never forget the look this fellow had given Seagull as he picked himself up. It wasn’t drunken anger: it was pure, undying hatred. Customs officer although he was, Grockleton had never received a look like that. He hoped he never did.
Shortly afterwards he had ridden after the Forest man as he went home and, passing him on a deserted stretch of the lane, remarked quietly that he would pay well if there was