I nodded, picturing the triangle of roads in my mind’s eye, and foresaw no problem in discovering my way. The cook, however, was not so certain.
‘The first league should present few difficulties. It’s well worn and will lead you directly to a hermitage in the middle of the woods. But half a mile or so beyond that, be careful. The main path thereabouts is not so easily discernible from several others which thread the denser woodland and you might get lost. It’s happened to strangers on more than one occasion. Natives such as myself, who know the countryside well from childhood, never miss their way and nor should anyone else if they have been warned and keep their wits about them.’ She tapped me on the arm. ‘You seem a clever lad. Watch out for the signs and keep bearing nor’-westwards.’
I thanked her, humped my pack on to my shoulders and started out briskly. Although I glanced back several times, there was no sign of Jennet. I smiled reminiscently. We should probably never meet again, but just for a little while last night we had given each other pleasure and a gentle affection.
I was lost. Somehow, at some point, I had taken the wrong turning, and on reflection I thought I knew where that had been.
I had passed the hermitage, set within its neat patch of vegetable garden, a while ago, and proceeded along the track with confidence. After all, had the cook not called me a ‘clever lad’? And had I not, in my heart of hearts, agreed with her? (And does it not say in Ecclesiasticus that pride is hateful before God and man?) It had been simple enough at first to recognize the lesser paths which began to lace the forest floor with their shady, criss-crossed lines, vanishing deep into a subaqueous gloom. But at last I arrived at a place where two tracks diverged with a stealth so subtle that it should have brought me to a halt while I considered which one to follow. Had I done so, I realized now, I should unhesitatingly have taken the narrower, left-hand path, whose distant prospect curved in a westerly direction and whose surface was beaten flatter than the one I chose. Moreover, memory told me that the overhanging branches had been cut back by the sticks and crops and billhooks of former travellers anxious to ease their way through the crowding trees.
Instead, without even pausing to think – indeed, being deep in happy recollections of Jennet – I had selected the rougher but broader track which, after some quarter-mile, gradually dwindled to little more than a trail of trodden-down grasses between encroaching brakes of elder and thrusting saplings. The trees arched and towered above my head, while sodden leaves, denied any hint of sun, squelched beneath my feet in a treacherous, slippery morass. Furthermore, I was moving inexorably, if almost imperceptibly, in an easterly direction, away from the junction with the Winchester road.
I cursed myself roundly for my foolishness and the uncaring arrogance which had led to my present predicament. Although predicament was perhaps too strong a word, for I had no serious doubt of being able to cut my way through the tangle of undergrowth to my left and rejoin the proper path whenever I chose. I decided, however, to follow the grassy trail for a little while longer, in the hope of finding another such animal track, which would save me the cost of torn hose and a snagged jerkin. Also, my bulky pack could prove a severe handicap in virgin territory, where untamed bramble thickets were as plentiful as the crop of pale blossoms that they at present carried.
Suddenly the trees drew back a little and I found myself in what had once been a small clearing, but was now knee-deep in grass and flowers. And in the middle was an abandoned shrine, the niche where once its saint had stood hollow-eyed and empty. The cracked grey stones thrust above a smother of ivy like bones from broken skin and a tangle of loosestrife, succory and tansy pushed its way through holes and crevices in the crumbling mortar. I moved closer, trampling the long grass underfoot, slid the pack from my back and examined the shrine more carefully. There was no indication as to which saint it had been dedicated to, but I did have some idea as to why it had been so thoroughly forgotten. A swift reconnaissance of the surrounding area showed me humps and bumps in the turf, together with outcroppings of stone which suggested that there might once have been dwellings around the clearing. I suspected that this could have been the site of a small hamlet; probably over a hundred years ago, before the Great Plague devastated Europe in the middle of the preceding century, wiping out whole communities.
Those of you who have read my previous chronicles will know that, although not blessed – or cursed – with the second sight, I have inherited from my mother a sixth sense which sometimes manifests itself in dreams, and at others in a kind of foreboding. It was the latter which suddenly seized me in its grip, causing me to stand stock still, every hair rising on the nape of my neck in fear, droplets of sweat trickling down my spine. I had a strong sense of evil, but whether of some past deed or one yet to come I was unable to tell. The silence was deathly; not a bird sang nor an insect hummed, whereas, seconds before, the woods had been full of such noises. The surrounding trees seemed to move closer, until I felt crushed and stifled by their menacing presence …
The moment passed. I shook myself like a dog which has at last reached dry land after treading water. The trees withdrew. There was a sudden flurry of movement as a bird winged its way through the branches to its nest, calling reassurance to its little ones. Grasshoppers and crickets once again resumed their chattering chorus. I stooped to pick up my pack, noticing as I did so a small bunch of flowers – bluebell, campion, trailing stems of ground ivy – placed at the base of the shrine. They had been torn up from amongst the grasses, some of which had been pulled up with them, and, although not dead, were wilted and faded. I stared at them with interest, wondering who had bothered to make his or her way to this isolated spot in order to honour a saint no longer represented. And why? What was the purpose of the offering?
But the flowers could provide me with no solution and I turned my attention to finding a way out of the clearing. It was then I saw that a narrow track, about the width of a man, had already been flattened through the undergrowth to my left; a rough path hacked between the trees and bushes and yellowing grasses. Using my own cudgel I was able to force my way along it and, ten minutes later, emerged on to the path which I had been travelling before I so stupidly got lost.
The sun was riding directly overhead by the time I once again joined the main Winchester road from Southampton. The dinner hour was long past, but thanks to my stupidity I had not eaten, so I set off towards the city, hoping to find somewhere to satisfy my hunger. A roadside ale-house, maybe, or a friendly cottage, whose goodwife would be willing to sell me victuals. I had not gone far, however, when I heard the creak of wheels behind me and, glancing over my shoulder, saw an empty cart approaching, pulled by a heavy chestnut horse and driven by a square-set country fellow dressed in a smock of grey homespun and thick, woollen hose. Stout boots of rough brown leather encased the lower part of his legs. The cart drew to a halt beside me.
‘Want a ride, chapman?’ the man asked laconically.
‘I’d be grateful,’ I answered. ‘But I’d be still more grateful if you’d tell me where I can find food and drink round here. I’ve had no dinner.’
The man screwed up his face and tugged at the liripipe of his hood. ‘Missed your tucker, have you?’ He regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Don’t look the sort who’d forget to eat. And it’s midday now. Two hours past dinnertime.’
‘I made a shortcut through the woods and, like a fool, took the wrong turning. You know how it is when you try to be too clever.’