The Lion of Justice - Plaidy Jean (книги без регистрации полные версии .txt) 📗

It was like the dream again. He lay on the grass...the grass of his beloved forest, that which had been called the New Forest because it had been made by his father. The grass was green. It should have been blood-red, some rebellious subjects had said. It was a beautiful forest; it had grown to its grandeur through the sufferings of people. Homes had been destroyed to make it; men had suffered torture and death for unlawfully trespassing in it. It had been the Conqueror’s Forest and now it was the Red King’s Forest.

The trees were taking on strange shapes. Was he in the forest or on his bed? Was this another dream such as that which had disturbed his night?

‘A surfeit of venison...’ He could hear Ranulf’s mocking voice.

His friend Robert seemed to be there dancing round his chamber, throwing the long serpent’s tail he had attached to his doublet around in a most amusing way. The elongated tips of his shoes danced like snakes.

He was very cold and there was a pain in his chest. There was something wet and warm on his chin.

‘Where am I?’ he wanted to shout; and it seemed to him that laughing voices answered, ‘In the forest, Rufus. The forest you and your father created from the blood of men.’

There was something heavy on his chest. What had happened? He could not remember. He thought he was in his bedchamber.

Yes, he had been riding with Tyrrell. They had those special fine arrows.

The deer was fleet. They had followed it. Clearly it had thought to escape them and had run into the ruins of a building which had been destroyed to make way for the forest. And then...he could not remember.

He was cold...very, very cold, and growing colder. He tried to call Ranulf…Wat Tyrrell.

No one came and the darkness was overtaking him.

Rufus, the King, no longer knew that he was cold and that there was an oppressive weight on his chest, that his own blood was choking him. He lay inert on the cold, damp earth.

* * * * *

Henry, riding with Henry Beaumont, was surrounded by a group of hunters.

In the distance the bracken moved.

‘A wild boar?’ cried Henry.

‘Nay, Prince,’ said Beaumont. ‘A fine plump deer, methinks.’

‘Then after him,’ replied Henry.

There was the deer poised for flight and Henry was about to shoot his arrow when the strings of his cross bow snapped suddenly.

‘A thousand curses,’ he muttered.

‘‘Twill need to be repaired.’ said Beaumont.

‘Alas, yes.’ answered Henry. ‘Ride on with the others and I’ll go to yon forester’s hut. The man will mend it for me. When he has done so I shall join the hunt. It should not take long.’

The afternoon was hot and his disappointment was keen. He wondered whether his friends had succeeded with the deer. He rode over to the forester’s hut and dismounting, tied his horse to a nearby tree.

He went into the hut where the forester’s wife was baking. She told him that her husband was in the woods close by.

‘Go and bring him to me at once.’ said Henry. ‘The string of my bow has broken.’

The woman, flustered by the obvious nobility of the Prince, hurried out and as she was some time away, Henry left the cottage in search of her.

As he stepped into the glade an old woman came towards him. At first he was not much taken aback by her appearance, yet he did wonder what such a one was doing in a spot which the strict forestry laws had made almost sacred.

He was about to ask her when she, seeing him, hurried forward and as she did so, fell to her knees.

‘Hail, King of England.’ she said.

He stared at her as she rose from her knees, and at that moment the forester arrived with his wife.

As Henry turned to look at him the old woman disappeared among the bracken and when he would have asked her for an explanation, she was no longer there.

‘My lord, your bow needs to be put to rights.’ said the man.

Silently Henry handed it to him. While the man worked on the bow he wandered round the glade looking for the old woman, her words still ringing in his ears.

Who was she? Why had she spoken thus? Had she mistaken him for Rufus? Surely not. He was not red-headed and red-faced and even those who had never seen Rufus knew him to be thus by his very nickname.

‘Hail, King of England.’

He had lost his desire for the chase. He wanted to ride back with all speed to Linwood. He would wait there until the hunters returned. And if Rufus came with them then he would think he had encountered a mad woman. And if he did not...

The prospect made him almost dizzy with excitement.

* * * * *

An old charcoal burner who had his cottage in the heart of the forest was returning to his home on the morning of the third of August, leading his thin little horse which was dragging a rough cart.

Suddenly he pulled up to a sharp halt. What was that lying there in the ruined walls of the old church which thirty years before had been demolished to make way for the forest? He paused. It was a man—his face blackened and distorted, his garments bloody, and protruding from his chest was the broken shaft of an arrow.

He could not believe it! But he knew that face. What should he do? As a forest dweller he lived in terror of breaking a rule of which he had not known the existence. Yet he could not leave a human being to be a victim to the carrion crows. The man’s ghost might haunt him if he did not do all in his power to give him decent burial.

He lifted the body and placed it in his cart.

When he reached his home he called to his wife and said: ‘I found a man dead in the forest. He has been killed by an arrow.’

She came out to look. ‘Why, Purkiss,’ she said, ‘he is one of a hunting party. An arrow meant for a deer has killed him. He must be of noble birth for only one of such would hunt in the King’s forest.’

‘What shall I do?’ asked Purkiss the charcoal burner.

‘Wait here,’ she said and went to fetch some of their neighbours. They came and looked at the body.

‘The King is hunting from Linwood,’ said one. ‘Mayhap you should take the body there. If it is a noble gentleman there could be some profit in it.’

Purkiss decided that if some of his friends would accompany him he would take the body to Linwood Lodge.

* * * * *

Henry was in no mood for the chase. He did not remember any other occasion when he had not been ready to hunt. His thoughts were in a turmoil. The weird old woman had set his pulses racing with a wilder excitement than any other woman ever had before.

Impatiently he waited for the hunters to return to the lodge. How slowly the time passed. He wished that he had not come back yet; his mood was better suited to the wildness of the forest.

The first of the party to return was William Breteuil, a great hunter who was in charge of the treasury. His father had been Fitz-Osbern, one of the Conqueror’s greatest friends and most trusted ministers. Henry had never greatly cared for him because he had taken little notice of him. He was a great friend of Robert, and Henry often fancied that he would have supported his elder brother against Rufus. On this occasion however, he was glad to see him.

They sat down at table together and gradually other members of the party began to return.

Darkness came and the King was still absent. Walter Tyrrell came in, but he said little to Henry.

A strange tension hung over the company. It could well have been that they had decided not to return to the lodge that night.

Henry sought an opportunity of telling Henry Beaumont of his strange experience in the glade because Beaumont was one of the few whom he could trust. Rufus had never liked Beaumont and there was an unspoken agreement between Henry and this man that if Rufus died they would work together.

‘Who was this woman?’

‘I know not. I could not discover.’