The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [89]
He had certainly been doing that. He had been over in the Avon valley in the last few days. Great cartloads of hay would wend across the Forest from there when the meadows were mown. Lodging at Ringwood, he had gone up and down the river inspecting every meadow. He had practically inspected the peasants’ scythes. Three lay brothers would be despatched to oversee operations and he would be supervising them himself. Not even Grockleton could suggest that he had been neglecting his duty.
For once, he had to confess, he had been glad to be away from the abbey. The days after the incident on the river had been strained. It was the duty of every monk to put all evil thoughts and intentions away from him and to be charitable to all his brothers, and, like him or not, Grockleton had probably tried in all sincerity to do this. But Adam’s presence just then could not fail to be irritating to him, and so Adam was glad to go.
But now he had to return, and he didn’t want to. By the time he reached Burley he was already depressed; hardly aware that he was doing so, he had let his pony take a wrong track and he was cutting across the woods to the proper path, a little guiltily, when he saw the charcoal burners at their work.
A year ago he would probably have ridden by without more than a quick salutation, but now it seemed natural to pause and speak with them. And if it was also an excuse to delay his return a little, he did so all the same.
The woodman was standing beside the small campfire; the second fellow had moved away a little, to the other side of the smoking charcoal cone. Brother Adam thought he had seen Puckle before, delivering stakes for the abbey’s vines the previous year. The younger man had also looked vaguely familiar, but as all these Forest folk were related that wasn’t surprising. Looking down at Puckle, he asked in a friendly tone if the charcoal fire was nearly done.
‘Another day,’ Puckle replied.
Adam asked a few more obvious questions – where Puckle came from, who the charcoal would be sold to. An easy topic of conversation with any of the forest folk, better even than the weather, was the movement of the deer.
‘I thought I might see the red deer over by Stag Brake,’ he remarked.
‘No, they’ll be nearer Hinchelsea now, most likely.’
Adam nodded. Then his eyes went over to the charcoal cone behind which the other fellow was lurking. ‘You’ve only the one helper?’ he asked.
‘Just one today,’ Puckle replied. Then, quite casually, he called out: ‘Peter. Come here, boy.’ And Brother Adam looked curiously as the young man came towards him.
He seemed shy as he shuffled forward. His head was bowed, his eyes were cast down. His jaw appeared to be hanging slackly. A rather pathetic specimen, really, the monk thought. But not wishing to be unkind he enquired: ‘So, Peter, have you ever been to Beaulieu?’
The young man seemed to start but then mumbled something incoherent.
‘He’s my nephew,’ Puckle remarked. ‘Doesn’t talk much.’
Brother Adam stared at the shaggy head before him. ‘We use your charcoal to heat the church,’ he said encouragingly, but couldn’t think of anything else to add.
‘That’s all right, boy,’ Puckle said quietly, waving the young man away. ‘Actually,’ he confided to the monk, as his nephew withdrew, ‘he’s a bit simple in the head.’
As if to give living proof of this fact, as he reached the great smoking cone, the fellow paused, half turned, pointed at the charcoal cone and in a voice of perfect imbecility uttered a single word: ‘Fire.’ Then he sat down.
Adam should have moved on, but for some reason he didn’t. Instead, he remained a while with the charcoal burner and his nephew, sharing the quiet of the scene. What a strange sight it was, that huge turf cone. Who knew what mighty heat, what ardent fire was contained, quite hidden, in that great green