The Woman in the Woods

WHILE THIS STORY CONTAINS ELEMENTS OF EROTICISM AND OF HORROR THERE IS ON THIS OCCASION NO INTENTION TO BE EXPLICIT - SO IF THAT IS WHAT YOU ARE SEEKING PLEASE TURN AWAY NOW. OTHERWISE I HOPE YOU ENJOY.

"Aelfhild Dese held [one hide of land] of King Edward.... It lies in the forest and has never paid geld, so the shire says." From the Domesday Book entry for Bucklebury.

The woman tossed in tormented sleep, the writhing of sweat damp limbs freeing the weight of blanket, piling it, pushing it in swelling waves about her gently kick-kick-kicking feet. Her body tensed, and with a moan she subsided into consciousness.

She sat up with a gasp, the dream more real than waking night: the hot, foul, breath, the great gaping mouth, the teeth and the obscenely lolling tongue.

Uncoiling sweat-cooled limbs she negotiated the bare boards, and then the latch, stepping out unclothed into the night. An engorged moon monochromed the glade: the bean poles; the neat plots planted out with vegetables and herbs; the coiled bee skeps; the blossoming plums and cherries; the woodpile; and at its edge, the intricate postures of the pollards, smudging to black.

And there, at the threshold of perception, a raw howl of pain. The woman shivered, her body resonant to the subsiding strains.

Far off came the belling of hounds, and men cursing as they struggled to hack a way through the underwood. She felt the panic hammering up through her blood: the moment imminent when the slobbering hounds and weaponed men would burst from the darkness between the trees.

Voices were being raised, bad tempered, quarrelsome; she heard her own name, Aelfhild, and another word, witch. The argument dragged, becoming desultory, fading and flaring up again - then decision was reached; straining, Aelfhild listened as the men and dogs beat a path back through the forest towards Bucklebury.

It was late morning when Aelfhild found him. Having struggled to the woodpile with an awkward armful of windfalls, she let the branches tumble as her hands flew to her mouth. There, beside the logs, he lay naked. Torpid, amid a bush of wire hair, nestled the penis with its one moist eye.

Rooted, she watched as the sprawling figure flickered towards life, limbs shifting under him as he struggled to rise. She grabbed a log, and straddling him, stood poised to bring it crashing down. He peered up at her, and his amber-flecked eyes meeting hers, he reached out his hand. She raised the log. And then the man fainted clean away.

Hauling him by the pits of his arms, Aelfhild dragged him back to the cottage, and with a final effort bundled him onto the flock mattress. She wiped her hands on her dress, then holding them up to her face, recoiled from the scent of his sweat upon her fingers.

Pulling up a stool she sat over him. Mind and muscle had been pushed beyond their limits, but she saw no signs of physical harm. "I had forgotten," she thought, "that a man has so much hair upon his body." Hesitantly she ran a finger across the pelt of his chest, and was startled as he stirred under her touch. She gathered up the blanket and settled it across him, before returning to the day's chores.

The man slept the whole of that day and on into the night. When the time came for her to sleep herself, Aelfhild threw her cloak upon the floor and made that her bed. Lying across the room from him, she found herself listening to the rhythm of his breathing: short pants, interspersed with sudden, twitchy snorts. At times his mouth would snap open and shut, his face distorted into a snarl; and then he would moan, whining and needy, clawing at the empty air.

Aelfhild rose and prepared an infusion of feverfew. Kneeling beside him, she saw that the blanket had bunched around his loins, baring the matted chest, which glistened with perspiration. She lifted the hem, drawing it over his nakedness, and found his eyes looking into hers.

"Who are you?" he asked.

She smoothed the blanket, "I found you. You've been ill. You need rest now."

He winced and faced the wall. "There can be no rest for a wolfshead."

An outlaw then; the Normans had made many such.

Raising his head and turning it towards her, she held the bowl of the healing liquid to his lips and bade him drink. When he had emptied it, she settled him upon the bed. "Sleep now," she said.

She sat by him a while longer, but when he showed no further signs of unrest, she shook out her cloak on the floor beside him, and lay down to sleep.

The man's hand touched lightly on her neck and settled there. "You are kind," he murmured. After the hand had lifted Aelfhild could still feel his touch warm upon her skin.

She woke to the dull thud of wood being chopped, the bed empty beside her. As on the previous day, she found him by the woodpile, but no more an invalid. Aelfhild watched, as in his hand the axe rose and fell in an easy rhythm, the muscles in his arms and back bunching powerfully beneath the skin. Across his free shoulder he was wearing the blanket like a cloak, a length of twine fastening it about his waist.

Stepping softly, Aelfhild came closer, just out of the swing of the axe. As she reached out to touch his shoulder, he turned and smiled at her, "Good morning to you."

She took a step back; "You should be in bed," she said, her voice harsh with surprise.

He lowered the axe, and leant loose-limbed upon the haft. "No, I am better now," he grinned, "thanks to my leechwoman.

Disconcerted, Aelfhild forced herself to return his gaze. "I did nothing," she said, "but I am glad you are well." Turning, she walked stiffly back to the house, his eyes burning upon her back.

Breakfast passed in a leaden silence, broken only by the scraping of spoons and the noises the man made as he ate. Each time Aelfhild looked up she found his gaze upon her.

"This place," he said at length, pushing the wooden bowl away, "You're alone here?"

She nodded. "I should have lied", she thought, "I could have said that my man was returning."

The man swigged his ale, and sitting back, took in his surroundings, the blackened iron pot balanced above the raised clay hearth; the bunches of herbs drying in the rafters; the shelves laden with jars and pestles; the iron-bound chest for napery; the rolled palliasse upon which he had slept; the trestle table at which they sat, breaking their fast. Interlacing his fingers, he stretched out his arms, the palms facing towards her, and then raising them above his head, swung them wide, opening up his chest as he brought his hands down to rest on his broad thighs. There was a stump in the yard, he said, that should be dug out, and the picket round the croft needed mending; the thatch of the roof, that would not last another winter. It was the least he could do. His name he said was Ulf.

From the window she watched him surreptitiously as he worked, taking a mattock to the rotten stump. He still wore the blanket; it was a nuisance to him. He was tugging continuously to stop it sliding from his shoulder; on each downstroke of the mattock it would fall to one side, baring his arse and balls. Aelfhild went to the oak chest, and took out a length of weave. She had intended it for a dress; instead she set to making Ulf a pair of britches.

As the days passed Ulf found other jobs to do. Aelfhild wondered when he would leave, then wondered if he would stay. She became accustomed to the strong, unwashed scent of him, to the hirsute limbs sprawled by the hearth; to his bounding energy, and sudden, twitchy alertness. At the sound of villagers from Bucklebury picking their way through the woods to come and see the wisewoman, he would slope off into the trees, returning guiltily when they had gone.

Last year's leaf litter crackling under bare soles, Aelfhild swung the leather pail along a celandine and stitchwort fringed path, sun dappled beneath unfolding leaves of pry and hazel. Upon reaching the Pang, she slipped off her linen shift, filled the bucket from the narrow stream, and emptied it over her head, soaking her long hair. The cold water ran off in rivulets, goosepimpling her back and breasts. Taking up a clump of dried moss she began scrubbing herself, the matted pits, the thatch between her legs, the crack of her arse.

An ouzel overhead ceased singing, made more wary by stealth than by Aelfhild's plashing. She listened, but did not look up, continuing to lave herself purposefully. Ulf's hard palm squeezed her tit, his breath warm at her ear as his rough tongue ran down her neck. She did not resist. Elbows and knees sliding under her in the dark silt by the streamside, his strong grip held her, pulling the raised buttocks back against his spearing thrusts. Panting heedlessly, her body tensed, then quivered, her tongue lolling as he spent into her. Sprawled face down in the mud, she remained locked in his embrace, his manhood still inside her, claiming her as his.

Ulf shared the narrow mattress on the floor below the window. He would rise early, doing the rounds of his snares, while she raked the hearth and kneaded barley flour into loaves for the griddle. At first Aelfhild had protested at the risk he ran, flouting the Bastard's new forest laws, but he had only laughed. He was without the law, any man's to strike down like a dog.

Aelfhild tended the croft, training peas and beans up coppice wands, and planting out onions, leeks and cabbages. Then there was the herb garden. Like any goodwife she cultivated potherbs such as parsley, thyme and fennel, but there were other herbs with which Ulf was less familiar. "What's this?" he asked, bending over a bush starred with yellow flowers.

"Knee holly, for passing stones. Or if that fails there is always goldenrod," she replied, indicating a tall, downy plant, not yet in bloom.

"And what's this then? It looks like cow parsley!"

"That's sanicle, you gowk, for the blood."

"You are growing weeds woman! How about this one?" he sniffed the violet flower spike, and recoiled.

"Christians call it monkshood, for the shape of the flowers. And this is mugwort..."

She was the cunning woman, whom the villagers came to for cures, for them or for their livestock, or else for charms against witchcraft, or to ensure that a blockish swain noticed a maid who intended to be his sweetheart. Also when some trinket or other valued item went missing, they would consult her, and often, by listening, and asking the right questions, she could suggest somewhere they had not looked, or tell who might have it. Sometimes, lowering their voices and looking over their shoulders, they ventured other more dangerous requests. She always shook her head, but it did not stop them asking, nor believing that she performed such magic on behalf others.

He had been with her a second fortnight when she woke in the dark hours to find a hollow on the mattress beside her. She lay sleepless until morning, fretting on his return.

The sun was high, when fetching water, she found him, crouching unclothed over the stream. "You've cut yourself," she exclaimed, seeing blood eddying in the water. "Let me look."

"Leave be woman," he replied, straightening. "I'm only bloodied from hunting." Before Aelfhild could say more, he grabbed her, clasping her to his naked body, stuffing her protesting mouth with his tongue. She felt his cock stiffening against her thigh, as he groped to hitch up her shift. His hands clutched at the bared rump, the broad palms sliding down to cradle her thighs. Hoisted off her feet, the breath was knocked from her as she was thrown against a tree, banging her head. Thrashing her limbs wildly as he prodded for ingress, Aelfhild's open palm caught him full upon the cheek. With a curse he let her drop, aiming a blow which she fended off with her arms, then turned and strode off into the woods, leaving her sprawled by the bole of the tree, her skirt still bunched about her waist.

Back at the croft Aelfhild found the father of an injured child, wringing his hands. The man held land in Frilsham, on the other side of Hawkridge Woods. His sister, who had married a wood-turner in Bucklebury, had often spoken of the leech cunning of the lady of the wood. Would she come?

The boy was in a pitiful condition, his forearms clawed to bloody shreds and face half bitten away. He would not live, but she did the little she could to make him comfortable, dressing the wounds with poultices of plantain and comfrey. As far as she could glean from the yeoman and his hysterical wife, the unfortunate lad had been sleeping on a bench beneath the window when some animal had tried to drag him off. Raised by his screams, the boy's father and older brothers had driven the beast away with brands from the smouldering fire. "That bloody wolf it was," declared the eldest boy.

"Nonsense," replied Aelfhild, holding the child's head up to administer a draft. "There are no wolves in this shire. And no wolf would come where people are. It will be the spoilt mastiff of some French lord, that's not had its claws snipped. He'll have slipped the leash, and without sense to hunt for himself is after taking easier prey."

"Mayhap belongs to that Hugolin, him as has been felling all the timber; building one of them castles he is, over at Hamstead." The yeoman spat on the floor. "Has been laying claim to that bit of land in Bucklebury as belonged to the thegn Edward, him as fell with the King at Senlac."

"Aye," added his son, "them Frenchies worse than wolves."

Having done all she could for the boy, Aelfhild called at Frilsham's little church, dedicated to St. Frideswide. Frideswide had spurned the advances of her suitor, Prince Aelfgar of Mercia; when he tried to force himself upon her, he had been struck blind. In exchange for guarantees of her continued chastity, Frideswide had miraculously restored his sight. For this reason prayers offered up to her were held to be particularly efficacious in aiding healing. It was while fleeing the embraces of the importunate prince that Frideswide had hidden here, among the ruins of a pagan temple, used as a pig-sty. A Christian church had since been built upon the site, but the circular churchyard attested that it had indeed once been a shrine to the old gods. Aelfhild prayed for guidance.

She returned to the croft to find the skin of a hind stretched out on a frame, the carcass left to hang. Ulf greeted her warmly. "Tonight we eat like Normans."

"The King will have your eyes," she replied.

Ulf had set aside the heart and liver, and Aelfhild chopped these along with some onions and some garlic, and added peas to the stock. The tenderloins would keep; she told Ulf he could eat like the King tomorrow, it was pottage tonight. He growled at her, and looked longingly at the hanging meat.

Aelfhild went into the garden to pick herbs for the pot, some dill and a little fennel. The moon had already risen, a pale disc against the deepening blue. Ulf had been in her home a month; she had never asked him to stay. He had finished the fence round the croft, marking out the land; his scent he had left upon her body. The bruise upon her head throbbed, and her limbs ached from the long walk to Frilsham. She thought of Ulf, bloody and naked by the stream, his stiff cock mounting her thigh, and of the yeoman's youngest son, his face ripped away. She picked some more leaves and went inside.

Aelfhild laid the bowl of pottage before him on the trestle table. Ulf scoffed greedily. "This is good," he declared, mouth full. "Are you not eating woman?"

"In a moment. Eat up, there is plenty."

Ulf looked up at her, those big amber flecked eyes gazing at her intently, and her heart missed a beat. He put a hand to his face. "My lips... my hands... my skin is tingling." His face had gone very pale. "Why is it so cold in here?" Eyes swimming, unable to focus, he attempted to stand, and toppled off his stool onto the floor. She watched, as struggling to rise, he vomited his meal.

Aelfhild dropped a stem of purple flowers into the pool of regurgitated stew. Ulf screwed his eyes to see. "Monkshood?" he whispered, lips barely moving.

"The old name is wolfsbane."

"Bitch," he mouthed lunging at her, and collapsed dead at her feet.

******

Bathed in the albescent light of the full moon shafting through an open shutter, Aelfhild stroked her eight months swollen belly. "Hush now little one," she murmured, as she felt a kick. He was restless tonight, this scrap of life sustained by her blood, growing within her, pawing at her womb.

END.