He could not see the hut at all.
I must, he thought, be in the wrong place.
Muttering a curse, he turned and rode back to the stream. Perhaps he had been wrong about the turn to the right; it could have been further on. He would start again from the stream, maybe follow it for a while and see if anything looked familiar.
He dismounted, leading Horace on a loose rein; the stream was narrow and overgrown and it was likely that he would be cut and scratched by low-growing branches if he tried to ride. He was turning a long left-hand curve in the stream’s course when he heard laughter.
Quickly he tied Horace’s reins to a stout tree branch. Then, moving quietly, he crept on until he could peer round the bend.
And saw, kneeling on the fresh grass in sunlight that fell on a clearing by the water, a woman and a baby.
She had not heard him. She was totally preoccupied with the child, who lay on a fur rug waving its little fists in delight and cooing up at the woman, responding joyfully to her warm voice. As he watched her, she began to sing a soft, sweet song. She had her back to Josse and he could see little other than that she was dressed in a thick cloak and stout boots.
They had not said that the missing woman had a child with her. Or had they? It was impossible to be certain. If, indeed, this woman really was Utta.
There was only one way to find out.
Stepping forward on to the grass, he said, ‘I believe you are Utta?’
She gave such a start of fear that he could clearly see it. Spinning round, she stared at him with eyes full of terror in a round, plump face that was white with fear.
Even as he took in the mark on her forehead — which seemed to be healing remarkably well — he was hurrying to reassure her. ‘Please, do not be afraid — I am a friend. Truly — I have found Arnulf and the others and I am here to help you.’
She was shaking her head, uncomprehending, still so terrified that she was shaking. She had also, he noticed, moved so as to hide the baby from him.
‘I am a friend,’ he repeated, thumping his chest with his fist as if to emphasise his good intentions and trying to give her an encouraging smile.
She did not respond to his smile. But she whispered, ‘Fren?’
‘Friend, aye,’ he agreed. Then, speaking very slowly, ‘I will take you and your baby to Arnulf and the others, Alexius, Guiscard and Benedetto. Aurelia is in Hawkenlye Abbey being looked after by the nuns, but I will fetch her when she is ready to travel. I will take you all to the coast so that you can get away out of England.’
He had no idea how much she understood. He remembered that she came from the Low Countries so, trying to recall a few words of Flemish, he made his little speech again.
This time a great beam of delight spread over her face. Responding with a long, involved sentence in her own language — of which he caught about one word in three — her nods and smiles indicated that she believed him. He was about to offer to take her off to Saxonbury there and then — he took a few steps towards her and held out his hand to help her to her feet — but she drew back.
She said slowly in her own tongue — she seemed to have picked up the fact that Josse spoke it only very uncertainly — ‘I must collect my belongings. I will meet you here later. Come back later.’
‘But I can wait for you here while you fetch your things!’
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘It is as I say or not at all.’
I’m trying to help you! he wanted to shout. Then he thought, but why should she give me instant trust? Better for her to have some time to think, to test whether I am as good as my word and leave her alone to prepare. Whether I return alone.
‘What is your name?’ she asked him.
He told her, and she repeated it softly. Then she nodded. ‘Come back later,’ she repeated. ‘Go away now.’
Under her determined blue-eyed stare, he decided that he had no option but to obey. With a brief bow, he retreated out of the clearing and went back to untether Horace.
He did not know how much time to give her. He rode slowly back along the stream, following it absently while he thought about the woman. After some time, he realised that the trees were beginning to thin out; another half mile or so and he would be in the open.
He rode on, drawing rein under one of the last of the great oaks. From here he could see out into the fields and hedgerows of the small community around Hawkenlye Abbey. There was nobody about, no sound but the distant barking of a dog.
He waited for a long time. Then, becoming chilled despite riding regular circles under the trees to keep both him and Horace from stiffening up, he made up his mind that he had given her long enough. He made his way back to the stream and had set out to follow it back to the clearing when she appeared, walking towards him with a small pack over her shoulder.
‘I am ready now,’ she said. ‘Please take me to the others.’
He said, amazed, ‘But where’s the baby?’
‘No baby.’ She spoke firmly, meeting his eyes with a determined look. He thought he could see the residue of tears on her cheeks and her eyelids were red and swollen.
‘But-’
‘No baby,’ she repeated. ‘Please, take me away.’
Stunned, he stared at her. Had he imagined it? Was it not Utta’s but some fairy child, which appeared to mortals then vanished back into its own world?
That, he knew, was fanciful. The child had been real enough, and for some reason Utta had left it behind.
He said, ‘Was it not your child?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Now, we go.’
But he could not leave it. ‘Will it be all right? It’s cold today, and-’
‘Baby will be very right,’ she said, switching to his own tongue as if to make quite sure he understood.
Was it then a child of the forest people? It seemed to him in that tense moment that this must be the explanation. Utta surely would not otherwise leave a baby all alone in the forest! No woman would, certainly not one who had been playing with the child with such delight. And if indeed Utta had met up with someone of the forest folk, it would explain how she had survived out there in the wildwood.
She had come right up to him and was holding out her hand. ‘I ride with you,’ she announced, ‘but careful, careful, hurt back.’
‘Aye, I know,’ he said. ‘You’d best sit behind me.’ Then, very gently, he took hold of her hand. Taking his foot out of the left stirrup, he indicated that she should put hers in, then, with her assistance, he lifted her up and sat her behind him on Horace’s broad back.
To his great surprise, she gave a quick laugh. ‘Big horse,’ she observed. ‘Very high up.’
‘Very high,’ he agreed. ‘Hold on to me, I won’t let you fall.’
‘I trust,’ she replied. ‘I know, I trust.’
Giving up on trying to get her to explain her remark, he kicked Horace into a gentle trot and set off for Saxonbury.
He was moved almost to tears by the emotion of Utta’s reunion with her people. Turning away from them as they demonstrated their very obvious love and concern for one another and their joy at being reunited, he found himself meeting the steady gaze of the Lord of the High Weald.
‘You have done well, Josse d’Acquin,’ he said. ‘How did you know where to look for her?’
‘It was sheer chance,’ he replied. ‘I came across her in the forest. She-’ No. Better not to mention the baby. ‘She seemed willing to trust me,’ he finished instead. ‘I still do not understand why.’
‘Perhaps she was growing desperate,’ the Lord suggested. ‘It must have been very hard, trying to keep herself warm, fed and sheltered out there. Possibly any friendly face would have persuaded her away.’
‘I think-’ He was going to tell the Lord of his conclusion that Utta must have been under the care of the forest people. But, again, he decided against it. ‘I think she has done well,’ he said. ‘The wound on her face is almost healed and, from the way she swung herself up on to my horse, I can’t think that the marks from the flogging can be paining her too much.’