The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [94]
‘Whoah, Tom. Something wrong there, Tom?’ The joke was on him now. The little crowd was having its fun.
‘Run back home and lock himself in, did he, Tom?’ ‘Where did you think he was, Tom?’ ‘We know you was worried about him.’ ‘Don’t you worry, Tom. That pony’s safe now.’
John Pride was looking at him, too; but not exactly laughing. He was still puzzled. You could see that.
Tom walked past him. He walked past the crowd. He didn’t even look at his own sister. He went along the edge of the pond and down the lane.
How? It was impossible. Had somebody tipped Pride off? No. There wasn’t time. Pride hadn’t known. You could see that. Had his son guessed what had happened and stolen the pony back? Couldn’t have. Young Harry was with him all night. Who even knew? His sister and her family. Had one of them been talking? He doubted it. Anyway, he didn’t think anyone in the hamlet was going to do John Pride’s work for him.
Mary. The only link left. Could she have gone out in the night while he slept? Or got someone else to do it? He couldn’t believe it. But then, he thought, he couldn’t believe the way she’d behaved over the pony in the first place.
He didn’t know. He supposed he’d never know. One thing was sure: if he’d been made to look a fool before, he looked twice as big a fool now. It doesn’t matter where I walk, he thought, the ground is always going to be shifting under my feet.
She was standing in the yard alone when he got back. Just looking at him. Not saying anything. But you could see she knew there’d be trouble. Well, if that was what she wanted she could have it.
As he reached her, therefore, he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t going to, either. But suddenly swinging, with an open hand, he struck her across the face as hard as he liked and she crashed to the ground.
He didn’t care.
Harvest time. Long summer days. Lines of men in smocks, with long scythes, working their way slowly, rhythmically across golden fields. Lay brothers in white habits and black aprons, following behind with scythes and sickles. The air thick with dust; fieldmice and other tiny creatures patter and scuttle to the droning hedgerows; flies in summer swarms, everywhere.
The sky was cloudless, deep blue; the heavy heat of the sun was oppressive. But already showing itself in one quarter of the sky, a huge full moon was gently rising.
Brother Adam sat calmly on his horse. He had been to Beufre; now he was at St Leonards. He was going across the heath after that, to the fields above the little ford. He was being vigilant.
The abbot had come back the week before, then gone again, to London. Before going he had given Adam particular directions. ‘Be especially careful at harvest time, Adam. That’s when we have the most hired hands. Take care they don’t drink or get into trouble.’
A cart was coming up the track, pulled by a great affer, as the Beaulieu men called a carthorse. In it were loaves of bread from the abbey bakery, made from the coarser ‘family’ flour for the workers, and barrels of beer.
‘They’re to have only Wilkin le Naket,’ Adam had firmly instructed. This was the weakest of the several abbey beers. It would quench their thirst, but no one would get drunk or sleepy. He glanced up at the sun. When the cart arrived, he would declare a rest period. He looked across the other way in the direction of the heath. The wheat in the next field had been harvested the day before.
And there he saw the woman, Mary, dressed in a simple kirtle, tied at the waist, coming towards him across the stubble.
Mary took her time. Tom was not expecting her. That was the point. She was carrying a little basket of wild strawberries she had picked for him.
What does a woman do when she is forced to live with a man? When there is no escape; when there are children to share?