The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [3]
‘Yes, John,’ she had said wryly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
They flew over plantations and brown heather heath for ten miles. The terrain was wilder and barer than she had expected; but as they came to Lyndhurst, at the Forest centre, the landscape changed. Groves of oak, green glades, open lawns cropped by stocky little New Forest ponies; pretty thatched cottages with brick or whitewashed walls. This was the New Forest she knew from picture postcards. They followed the line of the old road that led south through the middle of the Forest. The oak woods were thick below them. In a glade, she caught sight of some deer. They passed over a village in a huge clearing, its open green lawns dotted with ponies. Brockenhurst. A small river appeared now, flowing south, through a lush valley with steep sides. Here and there she saw pleasant houses with paddocks and orchards. Prosperous. On a high knoll on the valley’s wooded eastern side, she saw a squat little parish church, obviously ancient. Boldre church. She should visit that.
A minute later they were over the harbour town on Lymington and its crowded marina. To the right, on the edge of some marshes, a sign on a large boathouse proclaimed: SEAGULL’S BOATYARD.
The English Channel lay a few miles away to the west. Beneath them was the pleasant stretch of the Solent water with the green slopes of the Isle of Wight beyond. As they flew eastwards now she looked from the map to the coastline.
‘There,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘That must be it.’
The pilot glanced across at her. ‘What?’
‘Througham.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Nobody has. You will, though.’
‘Do you want to fly over Beaulieu?’
‘Of course.’ This would be the setting for the opening sequence. Far below them the lovely old abbey precincts lay tranquil in the sun. Behind, screened by trees, was the famous Motor Museum. They circled it once, then headed north again towards Lyndhurst.
They had just passed Lyndhurst and were flying northwest towards Sarum when Dottie asked the pilot to circle again. Peering down, it took her a few moments to locate her target; but there could be no mistaking it.
A single stone, set near the edge of a woodland glade. A couple of cars were parked in the little gravel car park nearby and she could see their occupants standing by the small monument.
‘The Rufus stone,’ she said.
‘Ah. I’ve heard of that,’ said the pilot.
Few of the hundreds of thousands who went to wander or camp in the New Forest each year failed to pay the curious site a visit. The stone marked the spot where, according to the nine-hundred-year-old tale, King William Rufus, the Norman king – called Rufus on account of his red hair – had been killed by an arrow in mysterious circumstances while hunting deer. After Stonehenge, it was probably the most famous standing stone in southern England.
‘Wasn’t there a tree there once?’ asked the pilot. ‘The arrow glanced off it and hit the king?’
‘That’s the story.’ Dottie saw another car make its way into the gravel car park. ‘Only it seems,’ she said, ‘that he wasn’t shot there at all.’
THE HUNT
1099
The deer started. She trembled for a moment, then listened.
A grey-black spring night still lay like a blanket over the sky. Along the edge of the wood, in the damp air, the peaty scent of the heath beyond mingled with the faint mustiness of last year’s fallen leaves. It was quiet, as if the whole island of Britain were waiting for something to happen in the silence before the dawn.
Then suddenly, a skylark started singing in the dark. Only he had seen the hint of paleness on the horizon.
The deer turned her head, not satisfied. Something was approaching.
Puckle made his way through the wood. There was no need to move silently. As his feet brushed the leaves or snapped a twig, he might have been mistaken for a badger, wild pig or some other denizen of the Forest.
Away on his left, the screech of a tawny owl careened through the dark tunnels and sweeping arches of the oaks.
Puckle: was it his father,