Beyond the Darkened Forest: A Seventeenth Century Historical Novel

By Peter R. Hawkins

An historical novel based around two main characters, Gumshu and Grundwell, who are
born into humble beginnings and then rise to become heads of highly successful business
empires in the coal and woollen industries.



Set in and around the Forest of Dean in the English county of Gloucestershire in the early
1600s, the story also gets a strong maritime flavour through the introduction of the two
as evolving ship owners whose vessels ply the southern coasts of England, Wales, Ireland,
and beyond.



The opening chapters recount the secretive and bizarre circumstances surrounding their
birth; the emergence of the two from childhood through to the time of their marriages to
Maisey and Sophie, together with a traumatic incident that triggers personal revelations,
with the most shocking of consequences.



The commercial progression and financial successes in the middle of the novel are interspaced with adventure, drama, passion, humour, love, and poignant intimate moments for the two men, their families, and the peripheral characters that emerge with the development
of the story.



The ensuing chapters narrate a near-catastrophic financial collapse of one of the businesses,
the Spinning Wheel, whilst the coal business of Hawk Mines goes from strength to strength under Gumshu and his eldest daughter's stewardship, supervised by the sensual but intuitive Maisey.



The slightly mythical closure of the book introduces younger characters that take the
story forward, whilst at the same time disclosing a highly emotional discovery to the two central characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jul 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477120873

Peter R. Hawkins

A retired director of a national British company, the author is married with three grown up children. Having lived in Wales for most of his life, outdoor pursuits have always figured prominently in life, with sailing and horses being at the top of the agenda when business and family allowed. Copious amounts of commercial correspondence coupled with short stories and articles in various magazines, all written in a slightly humorous, tongue in cheek style, have led to the emergence of his first novel, 'Beyond the Darkened Forest'.

Book preview

Beyond the

Darkened

Forest

A Seventeenth Century Historical Novel

Peter R. Hawkins

Copyright © 2012 by Peter R. Hawkins.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2012909714

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4771-2086-6

   Softcover   978-1-4771-2085-9

   eBook   978-1-4771-2087-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/19/2016

Xlibris

800-056-3182

www.Xlibrispublishing.co.uk

517842

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Adventure, passion, romance and tragedy, together with humour and commerce, are all at the heart of this novel, set against the stunning backdrop of rural Gloucestershire and the waters around the south-western coastlines of southern England.

It was an age of lawlessness both on land and sea, but also an age of fast changing attitudes towards gender, money, sex and power.

The emergence of wealthy merchant and industrial families, and the power they wielded, was starting to bring about a lasting change to the English way of life.

This is a story of two such families, and the complex relationships that emerge as the story unfolds.

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Chapter One

T he tall, cloaked figure walked the streets of the Irish port of Waterford for many hours during the night and early morning of a day in the spring of 1586. Usually a man of instant decision, he was not used to being faced with a dilemma. Flecks of dawn were beginning to show on the horizon as he stood beside one of the large cannon on the east-facing rampart of the city’s defences.

‘Do we stay, or do we go?’ he mused to himself for the hundredth time.

‘Sir?’ queried a garrison soldier who was just walking past him. The cloaked figure turned to face his inquisitor.

‘It’s all right, Sergeant. I was talking to myself.’

‘Yes Major, I quite understand. Good morning to you, sir!’ the sergeant said as he saluted, and then returned to walking his rounds.

Major Sir Richard Crighton looked up at the sky; half smiling to himself as he returned the salute saying, ‘Morning? Ah, so it is, Sergeant, so it is,’ a comment that the sergeant failed to hear as he was now remonstrating with a soldier he had found leaning against the rampart wall, apparently half asleep.

The encounter appeared to trigger a decision from the major, as he turned and walked down the rampart steps and made his way to the harbour, where he boarded a Dutch built fly-boat that lay alongside the dock. Walking towards the high stern of the vessel, he was greeted by the captain.

‘Good morning, sir, I trust you’re well this morning?’

‘Thank you Captain, extremely well,’ the major returned. ‘I’ve decided that my wife and I will join you for your trip to Chepstow after all, so could you get a cabin ready for us?

‘Yes of course, sir. We’ll catch the noon ebb tide, so if the wind stays set fair from the north-west we should have a good fast trip, as long as I get the Bristol Channel tides right!’

Captain Larkswell was a veteran of those waters, and of the tides that governed his journeying around the Irish Sea and south-western coast of England.

‘Our cargoes are stowed and secured, so I shall await your arrival. I hope your wife will be up to the trip, Sir Richard. It’s not long till she’s due to give birth is it?’

‘No, not long. It’s not the sea trip that is my worry Captain; it’s going overland to get her home to Gloucester which is my main concern. What cargo do you carry, by the way?’

‘Mostly woollen goods, with some French wines as well; and as a precaution, sir, we sail in company in an effort to deter attack by our privateer friends,’ the captain replied to his vessel’s owner’s son, whom he had known since he was a child.

‘Ah, the one thing I forgot to mention is that I suspect my wife’s maid will be travelling with us, so if you could ensure there is also a cabin ready for her as well, I would be grateful. We’ll see you well before noon,’ the major said brusquely, turning away and making his way down the gangway onto the docks and then into the city’s awakening streets.

‘Are you sure about this, Richard?’ his wife asked, as they sat in a large sumptuous room of her parents’ house, which was close to one of the largest churches in the area.

‘Yes, as long as you feel up to the journey, my love, that’s what really concerns me.’

‘Of course I’m up to it!’ she replied sharply in her soft Irish brogue, ‘I know you’d prefer our children were born in England so, as one of your father’s ships is here, we might as well take advantage of it. Have you cleared the time off you wanted with the colonel yet?’

‘Yes, on my way back from the docks. He didn’t seem to have a problem with it.’

‘He wouldn’t, when a peer of the realm’s son asks for leave, I suspect he saluted you,’ she responded with a laugh.

Richard looked at his tall Irish wife, with her tumbling hair and wonderful soft smile, a smile that could melt the hardest of hearts. She was heavily pregnant with two babies, and he hoped his English pride would not be the cause of a problem for her. What did that Irish midwife tell them?

‘You’ve got two in that stomach. Either that or you’ve been with a Waterford giant!’

‘Typical Irish humour,’ he reflected.

‘I’d better go and tell my parents what we have decided, although after our talk with them yesterday, I don’t think that they’ll be too surprised,’ his wife continued.

Both her parents had thought it a good idea that they go, although they both agreed the decision was a little late. But the one thing they had insisted on was that their daughter took her maid, Martha, with them.

‘She wants to go back to her native England anyway, and she tells me Gloucester is not far from her home in the Forest of Dean,’ her wealthy wool merchant father had said.

Much as he loved his daughter Granuaile, the troubled times of the city made him feel that it would be safer if she had her offspring in Gloucestershire. Also, Richard’s father had commented on a recent visit to the family in Waterford that there could be a problem with inheritance if the children were born in Ireland. Although he liked Richard’s father, he took that as a coded warning for the future of the unborn infants.

‘It appears that it would be better for everyone if our grandchildren were born in England on our son-in-law’s family estate,’ he’d said dismally, consoling his tearful wife after their daughter told them what had been decided.

It was a little before noon that saw the major and his wife waving a somewhat sad farewell from the high stern deck of the Magdolin, as she slipped her warps and manoeuvred into the centre of the river with only her top gallants set on her foremast for steerage, and with the assistance of three oar-powered pulling gigs belonging to the harbour.

Joining the two other vessels that were bound for the Bristol Channel, she caught the ebb tide and the north-westerly wind that would take them down the twisting River Suir, into the wide estuary, and then out into the Irish Sea.

After an uneventful sea crossing, with a fair wind and favourable tides, the Magdolin lay to her anchor in a small bay on the South Wales coast that was sheltered from the wind, and waited for the tide that would take her on up the Bristol Channel, the lower reaches of the River Severn, and then finally up a short section of the River Wye to Chepstow.

Oxwich Bay was a favourite waiting place for both inward and outward bound vessels that plied the Bristol Channel, especially when the wind had any north in its direction.

Lady Granuaile Crighton lay on her bunk, and asked her husband, ‘How much longer do I have to suffer this ship’s motion?’

‘For about another fourteen hours from what the captain has just told me,’ her husband responded. ‘There was a time when we were about ten hours out of Waterford, I thought we were going to see the birth of our first two children a little earlier than expected!’

‘You still might unless you get me off this rolling coffin pretty quickly,’ she replied, with a note of desperation in her voice. ‘And where’s Martha, I haven’t seen her for the last couple of hours?’

‘She’s still leaning over the starboard rail counting star fish!’

‘Why does this boat roll so much, or isn’t that a question for the military mind?’ Granuaile grumbled.

‘It’s because it has a relatively flat bottom so that it can navigate in the shallower waters around our shores and that means, whether on passage or at anchor, she rolls more.’

‘I’ve noticed!’ his wife cried, ‘and it also makes pregnant ladies think their babies are imminent, which in turn makes them irritable.’

‘I’ve noticed that too!’ the military man replied, going to look for the captain again.

True to the mariner’s word, fourteen hours later the Magdolin edged her way up the two miles of the River Wye leading to Chepstow Docks letting the flood tide carry her, and with only her mainmast spritsail set to give her steerage. She also had two of her own small gigs launched and attached to her bow, so that oar-power would help her manoeuvre on some of the river’s tighter turns.

‘This last bend before we come to the docks is the worst for a boat of our size,’ Captain Larkswell commented to Sir Richard, as he helmed his vessel up the river.

As they approached the bend, the captain swung his charge out into the middle of the river to take a wide swing, and his boatswain in one of the gigs noisily urged his crews to pull as they had never pulled before, and Magdolin swept effortlessly around.

Half an hour later, they were safely moored alongside the dock, with all passengers disembarked.

‘Have a safe journey home, Sir Richard, and my kindest regards to His Lordship,’ Captain Larkswell said as the couple mounted the carriage that was to take them to the Gloucestershire estate of Richard’s father.

‘I hope that the carriage gives you a smoother ride than the old Magdolin, My Lady,’ he continued, as he helped Martha mount the steps of the carriage, ‘May I also wish you safe deliverance for your little ones.’

‘Thank you for your kind words, Captain,’ Granuaile replied with a laugh, ‘but I suspect the highways of Gloucestershire will be a lot rougher than the waves of the Irish Sea.’

Neither the carriage driver nor his passengers were aware of the three horsemen that fell in behind them as they left the docks, and took the roman road towards Gloucester.

Four hours later, the highwaymen struck.

Granuaile and Martha were both asleep, and Richard was dozing when he became aware of shouting in front of the carriage, which stopped with a sudden jolt.

Two pistols were fired, the shots killing both the driver and groom. A third pistol was pushed under one of the cloth curtains of the carriage into Richard’s neck and discharged, killing him instantly, spraying the whole of the interior with his blood, with the force of the shot wedging his body into a corner.

Now wide awake, both women let out piercing screams. The protective coverings were ripped off each of the windows by two of the horsemen; the third being dismounted and holding the guide reins of the carriage team. The two peered inside and then jumped from their mounts, becoming too preoccupied with the female passengers to bother recharging their pistols. Letting go of their horses, they wrenched one of the doors open, first dragging a hysterical Martha from the carriage, followed by a now quiet and icy calm Granuaile.

Martha lay on the ground still screaming, with her mistress struggling up from where she lay and crawling over to her to put her arms round her. She turned and looked up at their attackers with a look of utter contempt on her face.

‘So you attack defenceless women do you?’ she hissed at them. The two men she addressed smirked at her, and then purposefully but slowly started to recharge their pistols.

‘Yes, and especially when they’re rich and good looking,’ the taller of the two replied, leering at her with a toothless grin, ‘I’ve never had a pregnant bitch before!’

‘You won’t have one now either, you’ll have to kill me first!’ she warned, releasing her maid, levering herself up and walking towards him, whilst at the same time drawing out a long narrow bladed knife with a beautifully decorated handle from beneath her cloak.

The move so panicked the man, he had to look down to complete the priming of his pistol, which he finished at the exact moment Granuaile reached him. She swung the knife upwards with all her strength, as she had been taught, its blade entering him at an angle immediately below his ribcage, finding and piercing his heart. Then with a sharp twist she pulled it out and in one swift movement, she dropped the knife and caught his pistol as he crumpled to the ground. Granuaile then span round, and with two hands brought the weapon to bear on the second attacker, at the precise moment he levelled his own at her.

Without a second’s hesitation she squeezed the trigger, the pistol ball hitting him in the forehead, killing him instantly. As his body dropped, Granuaile felt a hammer blow from the shot fired by the highwayman. It was accompanied by a searing intense pain below her left shoulder, the impact spinning her around and throwing her backwards before she slumped to the ground with a long moan.

The third of the thieves was still trying to hold onto the now rearing first pair of horses in the carriage team, who went high in the air with flailing front legs. As they crashed down, one of the horse’s metal shod hooves caught him across the face, splitting it open to the bone, and dislodging his left eye from its socket. He shrieked in agony and grabbed his face, letting go of the guide reins as he did so. The four horses surged forward, knocking him over and trampling him underfoot, dragging the carriage over him. Terrified, they turned and bolted, taking the now unattended carriage with them.

The man’s broken corpse lay on the ground, all life crushed and taken from him. The whole attack and its aftermath had taken less than three minutes. Barely conscious, Granuaile managed to drag herself along the ground to where the still screaming Martha was lying.

‘Martha! Martha!’ she croaked, ‘Stop it. Stop it for God’s sake. They’re dead!’With that, she clasped the wound where the thief’s pistol shot had penetrated her side and fainted.

Granuaile regained consciousness to a smell of dank wood smoke, and the sound of low voices. She tried in vain to turn her head, but couldn’t because of the bindings around her shoulder, neck and chest. She stared up slightly puzzled at the sight of sods of earth above her, sods of earth that appeared to be supported on a rough, tree branch frame.

She gradually became aware of a woman kneeling beside where she lay, bathing her forehead, and moistening her lips with crystal clear spring water.

Granuaile asked where she was in a barely audible whisper.

‘You’re in a charcoal burner’s hut in the Forest of Dean,’ the woman replied with a sympathetic smile, ‘and you appear to have been shot by the look of your wound.’

‘Highwaymen stopped our carriage, killed my husband, the driver and groom. One then attacked me. But where’s Martha?’ she murmured, before losing consciousness again.

The woman continued bathing her forehead, until she heard a man’s voice calling her softly from the door. She turned, smiled, and getting up as quietly as she could, went out into the sunlight.

‘How is she?’ the man asked.

‘Not very well. She’s lost a lot of blood, and the ball from the gun that was fired at her is lodged between two bones below her shoulder. She has just passed out again, but before she did she asked about someone called Martha. Tell me again how you found her.’

‘John and I were coming back along the roman road from Lydney after delivering that cart full of charcoal we loaded yesterday. We heard the sound of several gun shots somewhere in front of us, followed by a lot of screaming. It all went quiet for a few moments, then a carriage and four came past us going like the wind back towards Lydney.’

‘There was no driver, but it did look like there was someone inside. It passed us so quickly that we didn’t have a chance to stop it. We pulled up for a bit, waited till we thought it was safe to carry on, and then went slowly round the next bend. It was a terrible sight!’

The man appeared genuinely upset and stopped talking for a few moments, before going to stand beside the second woodsman to whom he had been talking outside the hut.

Continuing he said, ‘There were bodies scattered all over the place! When we jumped down from the cart, John counted five men and one woman. All the men were dead, but the woman was obviously alive as she was moaning and writhing around on the ground. There was blood everywhere. We didn’t want to stay around in case of more trouble, so we lifted her onto the back of the cart, and then quickly checked the men’s bodies.’

‘For valuables!’ the woman said quietly.

‘Yes, all right, we checked for valuables! We also collected four pistols, two off the ground, two from the bodies, and a long bladed knife covered in blood that lay nearby.’

‘I hope you didn’t forget the powder, balls and primers for the pistols!’ the woman added contemptuously, staring at the two wood colliers.

‘No, we didn’t actually! But honestly, there was only one woman,’ he whined.

He looked at his wife, who was undoubtedly going to have a lot more to say about the fact that they’d searched the bodies, so he decided to carry on with his story before she did.

‘There were three horses grazing nearby which we couldn’t catch, so we left as quickly as we could in case anyone came along and saw us, then we came straight back here.’

‘So there was definitely no other woman?’ she asked.

‘No, I’ve just said that. The only one was the pregnant one who we’ve got in the hut.’

‘I’m puzzled! There’s nothing to tell us who she is. She is obviously wealthy as can be seen by her fine clothes, however blood-soaked. She speaks with an Irish accent that I can barely understand, she’s very tall, and I’d say she was pregnant with two babies! But strangely, she wears no jewellery.’ She paused, adding, ‘Though at a guess, I think she did before she was shot because you can see where it’s been ripped off her dress top, her cloak clasp is missing, and some fingers bear marks as if rings have been pulled off them.’

‘That was not us!’ the man stated defensively, ‘and we found no jewellery on any of the dead when we searched them either!’

His wife gave him a scornful look.

‘Of course you didn’t want to stay around in case anyone came, but you had time to search the bodies!’ she repeated with considerable sarcasm.

Just as the woman was warming to her task of remonstrating with her husband, there was a wail from the hut, so she had to break off her tirade and run back to her patient, where she knelt and started bathing Granuaile’s forehead again, talking softly to her as she did so.

‘Thomas!’ the woman called out to her husband, who was idly talking to his friend.

‘Yes, Mary Jane?’ he answered as he came in through the hut door.

‘I’m going to need help. You and John get yourselves off to the village and bring Caenwen back with you. Tell her about the woman. Ask her to bring all the herbs that she uses to treat serious wounds, and tell her that I don’t think it’ll be long before our lady starts to give birth to possibly two babies. So could she bring anything that will be of help with that as well. If she wants money, then you give it to her!’ She gave him a long withering look after she spoke, adding, ‘If you find a priest, bring one of them too!’

Thomas sensed the urgency in his wife’s voice, so he and his fellow charcoal burner quickly put their horse into its cart harness, and set out for the little village in the Forest.

Granuaile regained consciousness once more, and looked pleadingly up at Mary Jane.

‘It doesn’t matter about me, but please try and save my babies. Will you promise me?’

‘There are two then?’

‘Yes, so the midwife told us,’ came the faint reply.

‘What’s your name?’ Mary Jane gently asked.

‘Granuaile.’

‘Granuaile, I’ll do everything I can for them, I promise you. But where are you from?’

There was no reply, as the prone figure had passed out once again.

Five long hours later she died, died with the effort of giving birth to two babies, died from her wounds inflicted by a highwayman.

They showed Granuaile both of her children minutes before her death. She smiled and touched each of them with her uninjured hand.

‘I pray your lives are good, my sons, and that you find true happiness and love. Call them Gearoid and Glendon please,’ she whispered in her soft Irish accent that neither Mary Jane nor Caenwen could properly understand, or barely hear.

With those final words on her lips, Granuaile slipped into the care of the Almighty.

The two women gently covered her with a blanket, and then immediately started tending to the newborn infants. Caenwen had brought two village women with her who had recently given birth, so that the new arrivals could at least be fed with a mother’s milk.

‘Now what do we do?’ Mary Jane questioned with a worried frown.

‘Well, the two women that I’ve brought with me both lost their babies in child birth, that’s why they have so much milk to give. Let nature take its course with both of them, and we’ll just wait and see what happens shall we?’ the lady of the Forest herbs replied, with a conspiratorial smile.

‘What names did she say?’ Mary Jane suddenly asked, slight panic in her voice.

‘Was it Grundwell and Gumshu?’ Caenwen answered with little conviction.

‘This one must be Grundwell, because all he’s done is grumble and drink well since I put him to my breast!’ the first Forest mother said.

‘And this one must be Gumshu, because all he’s done is chew my nipple with his gums!’ laughed the second Forest mother.

‘As I said, Mary Jane, let nature take its course,’ Caenwen murmured softly.

‘I have to thank you for all your help, Caenwen. I gave Granuaile my promise that I would look after her children, but I pray to God that I am able to keep my word.’

‘We’ll keep it, we’ll keep it! Caenwen assured her, ‘and looking at those two mothers, I think the problem is resolving itself. The legend and stories surrounding our Irish lady’s name certainly described her well. I’ve never seen such courage and determination to stay alive during a birth. Other than her name and that she was obviously from Ireland, you have absolutely no idea who she was, or what she was doing travelling along the roman road?’

‘I’ve none whatsoever. She must have been of good family though, with those fine clothes, and Thomas said the coach and team were of the best. He did say he thought that there was a crest on the carriage door, but it passed them at such a speed, he wasn’t sure,’ Mary Jane replied.

‘There was no jewellery on her clothes, or rings on her fingers, nothing that might give us a clue?’

‘None. Thomas says there wasn’t, and I do believe him. The only thing that could have been hers is the knife, and we can’t be sure about that. But it is a fine one with a long narrow blade and beautifully carved and decorated handle,’ Mary Jane answered, going into the hut and bringing it out so that the lady of the herbs could look at it.

‘This could well pay for the funeral,’ Caenwen commented, examining the knife. ‘I can sell it in Mitcheldean if you would like me to? Fran and I are going there in two days time, and I know several men who might be interested in buying such a thing.’

‘That’s a very good idea. I hope your daughter is well, and growing up fast I suspect?’

‘She’s fine, and will be taking over from me soon. She loves herbs and tending to the sick and injured. She’s already practicing on animals!’ Caenwen replied quietly.

John also returned to the hut with another horse and cart. The two charcoal burners had realised when they got to the village to pick Caenwen up that it would take two carts to bring everyone back from the burn site, as it was about a mile and a half outside the village.

The two men had been friends since childhood, sharing adventures, girl friends, and trouble. But now they were older, married, and worked together, they tried to avoid trouble as much as possible. Neither of them had expected to find so much of it on a simple delivery of their charcoal to Lydney.

‘John Tapper, how’s that lovely wife of yours?’ Caenwen asked, as the carts lurched their way back to the village.

‘Fine thanks, but I suspect we shall need your assistance very shortly,’ he responded with a wide grin.

‘That’s the trouble with you men,’ she snorted, ‘you forget ten minutes of passion and fun can give your wives nine months of discomfort, followed by several hours of acute pain!’

John’s cart was carrying the new-born infants, the two Forest mothers and Caenwen, with Thomas’s cart carrying Mary Jane with Granuaile’s body. It also had an extra passenger that they had picked up on the way; an Anglican friar, in a brown serge habit with a large copper cross hanging from his neck on a hand-woven leather thong. He was quietly saying prayers over Granuaile’s body as the procession wended its way back to the village.

The two carts parted company as they came to the outskirts; Thomas’s going to the church whilst John’s took the two babies to their respective wet nurse’s cottages where, with Caenwen’s help, they were settled into their temporary homes. John then returned to his own cottage to see his wife, Josephine, who although heavily pregnant, still managed to gave him a welcome that made his toes curl.

He told her what Caenwen had said about him getting ten minutes of fun. She looked at him with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, tossing her long, curly chestnut hair.

‘Really, was it that long, John Tapper?’

Trying unsuccessfully to ignore the inference behind her remark, he told her about meeting the friar, and how he had joined the group to look after Granuaile’s body, and escort it to the village church.

‘Yes, I met him earlier today; he was here in the village. I liked him straight away, and all the children did as well. But I thought he was going to another village towards Chepstow tonight?’ Josephine asked him, a little puzzled.

‘He was, but turned round so that he could be with her,’ her husband quietly answered.

‘But he didn’t know her!’

"God knew her, and I work for God," the friar had replied when Thomas had said the same thing to him, John told his wife.

Josephine looked at her husband and smiled.

‘Go down to the church and ask him to come here for something to eat, and also say we can offer him somewhere to sleep.’

‘Are you sure? You must be very close to having our baby.’

‘I am sure. If I give birth whilst he’s here, then he can help Caenwen, can’t he?’ she replied with a giggle.

As the three had their meal together, Josephine suddenly sank down onto a stool, clasping herself and complaining of intense stomach pain. Father Benedict ran to fetch Caenwen, leaving a terrified John gripping his wife’s hand and giving her repeated assurances that all would be well.

‘No more ten minutes of fun for you, John Tapper!’ she managed to say through clenched teeth, sweat pouring from her brow.

‘Have you ever helped in delivering a child before, Father?’ Caenwen asked, as she positioned Josephine on a straw filled mattress ready for the arrival of her firstborn.

‘No, but I have delivered many calves on my father’s farm in Somerset!’ he said as he held tightly onto Josephine’s hand, as John had just passed out and was lying prone on the floor of the cottage.

‘If you’re inferring I’m a cow about to drop a calf, Father, may my calf give you hell throughout its life!’ Josephine managed to gasp between instructions from Caenwen to push.

With one final effort and a lusty scream, a baby girl thrust her head into the world, a baby girl that within a minute nestled in her mother’s arms, with a recovered John bending over kissing and caressing both his wife and his daughter, saying, ‘How wonderful, how wonderful, my first child, and oh, so beautiful!’

‘Well, you only have to look at the mother,’ the friar said gently, ‘to behold the beauty of her child.’

‘Saying that does not absolve you from what you said about delivering calves, Father!’ Josephine returned with a tired smile, ‘and I’ve decided on a name. She’s going to be called Maisey.’

‘Oh dear, I’m sorry, John! I think I might just have a lot to answer for. Josephine and I were talking before we had our meal, and I told her my favourite girl’s name was Maisey, after a wonderful heifer on my father’s farm,’ the friar admitted guiltily.

‘I’ll forgive you Father, we’ve had so many arguments about names over the last few months, it’s a relief she’s picked one that we can both agree on,’ John replied with a smile.

Father Benedict leant forward and made the sign of the cross on the foreheads of Josephine, John and baby Maisey, asking the Lord for his blessing on the happy little family.

Caenwen and he walked out into the evening air, the friar to return to his vigil by Granuaile’s body that lay in the church, and Caenwen to set off to the other end of the village to assist in yet another delivery.

‘Full moons always increase the number of births we get,’ she told the rather bemused friar, ‘and I can’t give you a reason. Let’s hope this next one I’m about to attend is a girl too, and then we’ve had two of each tonight! But you needn’t suggest more farm animals’ names to the parents either! They’ve decided that it’s going to be Daniel if it’s a boy and Ursula if it’s a girl!’ and with a smile and a wave, she disappeared into the dusk.

The following evening, Granuaile was laid to rest in the small churchyard on the outskirts of the Forest village, following a simple service in the church taken by the Rector of Mitcheldean, who was then helped with the committal at the graveside by Friar Benedict.

The mourners were few, but those who did come were those who had been closest to her when she died, those who had given her the greatest hope for the future of her two sons.

They were also the ones who were sworn to absolute secrecy, lest their actions be discovered by others, and be punished for breaking the laws of man, whilst upholding the will of God.

No one ever came looking for either Granuaile, or her children.

But a family in Ireland stayed in mourning for their daughter for the rest of their lives, whilst a family in England mourned their son, and their heir, for generations to come.

Chapter Two

T he noise of the children’s laughter was beginning to annoy the Rector of Mitcheldean, who was paying one of his infrequent visits to the church in the Forest village of Cumdean.

Standing at the lectern, he had been trying to read a part of the scriptures of which he was particularly fond, but it would seem that the children of the Forest were intent on disturbing him. He strode out of the already open door and glared around to find the culprits.

Six children were in a heap on the grass, grappling with a large figure in a brown serge habit, all of them screaming, shouting and laughing.

‘Enough!’ yelled the ill humoured cleric, striding over to the squirming pile of bodies, grabbing one child by her long chestnut hair, and pulling her clear of the others.

‘I won’t have any more of this!’ he shouted as he raised his hand ready to give the restrained child a cuff to the head.

Two of the six-year-old boys in the heap saw what was about to happen, immediately scrambled up and ran at the rector, both of them cannoning into the side of his legs and knocking him off balance.

To try and save himself, the cleric let go of the girl’s hair, and put his hand out as he toppled over. The rector, although not very tall, was of a rotund build, and the weight of his body impacting upon one of his fat unexercised arms, resulted in him screaming in agony as it snapped like a twig.

Undeterred by his scream or the man’s office, the young girl sat on his chest, and with clenched fists, started pummelling him.

‘Don’t you pull my hair; don’t you pull my hair, because it hurts me!’ she yelled at him at the top of her voice, her small fists going thirteen to the dozen.

The two boys, meanwhile, sat on his legs to stop him kicking out, at the same time trying to bite through his hose to extract their own retribution for his actions.

Father Benedict struggled up from where he had been fighting with the children, and hurried over to prise Maisey off the rector, her arms still flailing the air as he did so. He put her on the ground with a sharp rebuke, and she stood where she was put, still glowering at her quarry. The two boys had succeeded in their efforts to inflict even more pain on the reverend gentleman who was clutching his arm, whilst shouting and trying to kick them off his legs.

The friar then turned and grabbed both Grundwell and Gumshu, putting one under each arm and depositing them down beside Maisey. With his back to the pain-ridden cleric, he gestured for them to disappear. The two boys obeyed instantly, but Maisey took a step forward as if to continue her attack. A huge arm shot out and caught her, and then the friar bent down and hissed in her ear, ‘Go, Maisey Tapper, go!’

Maisey departed the scene, not at a run, but at a walk, swinging her hips and stamping her feet with sheer indignation as she did so.

‘May my calf give you a lifetime of hell!’ her mother had said to him when she was born. ‘This is definitely a bad start, but I wonder if things might improve as the years go by?’ he muttered to himself, as he turned to deal with the ill-tempered clergyman who was still lying on the ground.

‘Rector Clarence, that was an awful fall you took,’ the friar said in his most sympathetic voice, ‘and you dressed in your best frock coat and britches as well.’

‘Fall? What do you mean fall? I was attacked by three of those horrible little village urchins!’ he screamed back at Benedict.

‘Excuse me, sir, they certainly did not attack you,’ came a disgruntled voice from one of the girls who was standing in the group who had been fighting with the friar. ‘We were all playing with Friar Benedict, when you walked past us and tripped over that fallen branch, which is over there,’ she said, pointing down at the offending bough.

‘That’s quite right, Sophie,’ Caenwen confirmed as she and her daughter Fran walked up to the group. ‘I was standing by the corner of my cottage and saw exactly what happened. Now let me have a look at that arm, and see what damage you’ve done to yourself.’

There was another scream of pain from the cleric, as she had given him no warning that she was going to take hold of him. He immediately tried to pull away from her, with the inevitable result.

‘Come now, Rector. That didn’t really hurt did it? If you would come with Fran and me to my cottage, we’ll set it to a splint.’ Without waiting for an answer, she and the friar lifted the protesting clergyman to his feet and led him away to attend to his arm.

An hour later the Reverend Clarence left the village driving his own small cart, as all the villagers were suddenly too busy to take him to the rectory in Mitcheldean,