The New Forest - before it was New.

Judith Arnopp

Home of The Forest Dwellers

photographs property of  JudithArnopp and CherryWathall

As a child I spent many holidays in the New Forest. In those days we were permitted to camp where we chose; there were no camp sites, no shower blocks, very few other tents and certainly no caravans. I drew on those days when I wrote my novel The Forest Dwellers in 2009.

It was autumn, the forest canopy a blaze of gold with a milky mist curling about the heath. The new day smelt fresh; a hint of thyme and the tang of coming winter tickling our noses. A fox ran across our path and disappeared into the wood and, farther off, we heard the bark of rutting deer, the cry of a curlew.

I recalled playing beneath the wide green canopy of beech, wading in the amber coloured streams and breathing in the stiff Solent breeze. Even though I now live far away in Wales, the soft wildness of the New Forest stayed with me and the scent and sounds of the wood echo through the centuries to provide a back drop for Ælf and Alys, and Leo.

There is something about the forest in the late afternoon. The aromas are richer, the sounds more musical, the shadows deeper and the broken light more dazzling. I am not a man given to fancy but, as we rode through that silent glade, it was as if the wood were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Recently, I had the opportunity to revisit Hampshire and rediscover that lost perfect place of my childhood. It took some looking but, a short walk away from the caravans and campers, I found it. It was concealed in the quieter, lonelier spots and as I ventured deeper into the forest I swear I could hear the song of Ælf's bowstring and the gentle laughter of the people who lived and died there so long ago.

I visited Boldre church. Not the structure where Alys and Ælf worship in my story but a newer 12^th century building. The woodland around it has been cleared now but the peace remains and the birdsong is just as loud. I half-closed my eyes and imagined it as it might once have been.

A light drizzle began to fall soon after we left the camp and by the time the wooden shingles of the church roof came into sight, we were all mired to the knees. Boldre church was an ancient structure built by the first Christians ever to venture as far as Ytene. The wooden walls were full of rot and the flagstone aisle had subsided so far into the boggy soil that it drove the congregation toward the altar whether they wanted to reach it or not.

It was colder than death. I looked around at the pinched noses of my fellows and acknowledged to myself that at least hell would be warmer. Beside me, Alys clutched a warming stone beneath her cloak. Its heat must have dwindled by now but she refused to give up on the tiny remnant of comfort that lingered. Sensing me looking at her, she smiled cheerfully, a glimmer of snot at her nostril. At her side, Leo shifted from foot to foot, bored and frustrated; he wanted to leave as badly as me. I guessed he was wishing he had not been swayed by Alys’ wiles and had stayed at camp with the other men, and it wasn’t long before I felt that way too.

By the time the droning priest had reached the end of his sermon, people were stamping their feet and clapping their arms to warm their blood. But, at last, the service was at an end and we tumbled from the church door to find gentle snow had begun to fall.

 We trudged home through the darkening wood. The snow provided a muffler that made Alys’ song about a lonely seaman ring out clear across the wood. I tried to join in but my voice creaked and jarred beside her crystal notes, so I stopped and just listened instead.

The scent of snow was heavy in the air, although not much penetrated the canopy of the wood. The wind had risen and above us, the naked branches clashed together, sounding like two giant fellows fighting with staves. We wrapped our cloaks tight about our bodies, put our heads down and trod a fresh route home. None of us ever used the same way twice if we could help it, for that would lead to tracks and we needed to remain invisible.

The Forest Dwellers tells the story of the ordinary people and how they suffered when William the Conqueror and his successor, William Rufus, enforested the land for their own use. The Domesday Book tells us that in 1065, before the invasion, the villages cleared for the main part of the forest consisted of an estimated five hundred families, possibly two thousand men, women and children. This estimate does not allow for slaves, personal retainers or men working under villeins, it only represents the landowners or occupiers. Not a huge number when compared with the devastation caused elsewhere by the conquering Normans but enough, I think, to generate a considerable local resentment. Yet the atrocities that went on there are largely unremarked. F. Baring sums up the situation in his essay The Making of the New Forest:

“Apparently the evictions were not, in the opinion of the analysts, so large, compared with the devastation caused by the Conquest in other parts, as to call for mention in summing William’s reign and character; but there was more than enough for men to say that his son’s death in the forest was a judgment from a heaven …”

In other words, the local population resented the Norman rule enough to see the death of the Norman king’s sons in the forest as divine justice.

The tree whipped away from us, whistled through the air and smashed into the rider, sending him crashing from his mount. A great squawking of birds flew into the air and then everything settled again and the forest was quiet. The riderless horse galloped off into the trees.

The Norman, his fine cloak spoiled, lay broken on the woodland floor. Alys and I leaned over him. He was young, his face and chest lacerated, but he was breathing faintly, a trickle of blood at his mouth. I cursed that he was not dead.

As I delved further into the period, I became absorbed into the age-old mystery of “who killed William Rufus.” Much ink has been wasted on speculation, but it is undeniable that the truth died with the king in August 1100.

For many years, it was believed that Walter Tyrell was responsible, and that belief has become legend. Historians have reconstructed the hunting scene, investigated the main protagonists and pieced together a patchwork of evidence so faded with age as to be indecipherable.

All was still, the golden canopy quiet, the rusty waters of the river rushing over its pebbled bed. Some distance away, a stand of undergrowth seemed to tremble in the stillness. I sensed that a creature hid there but what it was, I did not know. And neither did Flān.

Today, most historians agree that the king’s brother, shortly to become King Henry I, and the man to benefit most from the king’s death, was the probable person behind the deed and I tend to agree. It is more than probable that whoever shot the arrow was just a paid assassin. That is not to say I believe it was Tyrell, for not only did he not benefit personally from the killing, but the denial that he upheld until his death was supported by Abbot Suger, who reported in his Life of Louis VI that he “had often heard Tirel, at a time when he had nothing to hope or fear, affirm on the solemnest oath that on the fateful day he neither went into that part of the wood where the king was nor even caught sight of him in the wood.” 

The Anglo Saxon chronicle states that “The King was shot by one of his men.” Geoffrey Gaimer stated, “We do not know who shot the king.” And Gerald of Wales wrote, “The King was shot by Ranulf of Aquis.”

 Clearly, it was as much a mystery at the time as it is now, possibly a mystery encouraged by the new monarch, and it will unfortunately have to remain so. However, to quote L. M. Montgomery, a mystery does provide splendid ‘scope for the imagination’.

The trigger for my story was the obvious fact that it could have been anyone; the list of grievances against Rufus was long and there were many of people in the forest that day who may have borne a grudge. We will never know the real truth of who shot the fatal arrow, but I can speculate along with the rest and have immense fun in the process. The characters, both fictional and historical merge and play out their tale against a beautiful backdrop. A sharp contrast to the attrocities that take place within it.

There is a word in the Welsh language, ‘Hireath’ which describes an intense longing for home, or the feeling that home provides. It is a sharp ache for an unattainable time or people who have gone or have changed. Each character longs for what was destroyed by the invading Normans; they know they can never reach it, or experience it again but they persist in hoping.

We forded the river and I saw again the rusty rambling stream, smelled the brackish bog where emerald grass sent up tender, springtime shoots. Further along the river, stunted oaks and aspen leaned over the bank, their twisted roots dabbling in the water. I was taken back to happier days and I’d not have been surprised had Ælf suddenly appeared with a brace of hare slung over her shoulder and a basket of fish in her hand.

 I stress again that The Forest Dwellers is a work of fiction, based on a great deal of research in an attempt to paint the lost world of the pre-conquest foresters. you can read it on Kindle, paperback or free on Kindle Unlimited. To purchase please click on the link: mybook.to/theforestdwellers

Twelve years after the Norman invasion a girl is molested in the forest by three Norman soldiers. Leo the huntsman stops the attack the only way he can ... violently. His actions trigger a chain of events that will end only with the death of a king.

The Forest Dwellers is a tale of oppression, sexual manipulation and vengeance.

 Available in paperback and kindle.

mybook.to/theforestdwellers

Unstuck

All that complaining I did last time must have shifted something in my mind because, since then, I have made a great deal of progress on The Forest Dwellers. I am at last done with Alys, who has been a real trial to me, it was so difficult to understand her and make her do the things I needed her to do. Obviously a girl with her own mind. I have moved on to the next narrator, Thurrold, the squire of Sir Walter Tyrell. I was going to let Leo have his say next but Thurrold wouldnt have it and interrupted, so I went along with him.

Thurrold is a bit of a ladies man, has put most of the hearth wenches on their backs at some point during his time at the castle. Then, he meets Alys and Aelf. At first he is captivated with Alys' etheral beauty but, when she tells him she is the concubine of Henry Morante and he learns the secret of AElf's real gender, he switches allegiance to AElf. It is not long before his interest becomes more than sexual. Lots of intrigue, plotting and misunderstandings follow as the story builds up to a visit to the castle by King William Rufus.
A short excerpt, remember that Aelf is a girl living as a boy.

I groaned inwardly, The Song of Roland, a favoured poem of the Normans, was interminably long. Beside me, Ælf rested her chin on her hands and prepared to listen, it was new to her. The torchlight gleamed in her eyes and her cheeks were rosy from the surfeit of food. Opposite I saw a hearth wench smile at her invitingly and Ælf sent her one in return, thinking she had found a friend. The girl leaned over, her bosom spilling from her bodice and placed a foaming cup of ale before her. Ælf took it, nodded her thanks and dipped her face to it. I watched with narrowed eyes as the wench worked her way slowly along the row of seats, every so often casting her eye back to smile.
I nudged Ælf sharply in the ribs.
‘What are you doing?’ I hissed. She slammed down her ale.
‘What?’ Her mouth was half open in surprise; I saw the moistness of her inner lip and longed to suck it. I put my mouth close to her ear.
‘That wench will have you wedged tight between her knees if you smile at her again. Are you really such an innocent?’
The colour drained and I saw her flash a glance up the table to where the girl dimpled at her still. Ælf looked sharply down at her ale cup.
‘For the love of God,’ she growled, ‘is the whole world corrupt. It seems I cannot move for suitors.’
A sigh escaped me. Sometimes she annoyed more than charmed me. I’d like to spank her. I dwelled for a while on that happy thought before pulling myself back to offer an answer.
‘The fault is with you, Ælf. You would make a fine looking woman if only you’d allow it but, as a fellow, you are far prettier than a man has the right to be.’
I saw her flush, her chin on her chest. I shifted in my seat as she took up her cup again.
‘Ælf, you know tis more than lust with me, don’t you? You know you have my heart?’
She choked on her ale, her eyes watering. I thumped her on the back until she held up a hand begging me stop. After a moment, she looked up at me, tears on her cheek from the coughing, I thought.
‘Tis said, among the stable boys, that half the women in the castle have had their share of your love. Now it is my turn don’t expect me to fall at your feet.’
Oh, that stung. I had not looked at another woman in months. I put back my shoulders, offended in the extreme.
‘That is unjust, Ælf, and you know it. You have had my heart since the moment …’
‘…since the moment Alys refused you,’ she finished for me, ‘then your allegiance changed like the wind.’
She got up and stepped over the bench.
‘I’m to the privy,’ she tossed over her shoulder as she stalked across the hall in the direction of the outer door.

I waited for her, just inside the keep, where I knew she must pass by. I heard her gentle footstep and, as she moved into the light of the cresset, grabbed her wrist and pulled her into a niche. She gasped, wrestling until she realised it was me.
‘What are you doing?’
She was annoyed, exasperated at my irritating ways but I was beyond caring, barely knew what I was doing or considering what the result would be.
Gripping her shoulders I dragged her to me and clamped my mouth over hers. She struggled for a bit and then relaxed and let me continue but her lips did not move.
At last I stopped and hugged her to me, my mouth next to her ear.
‘I love you, Ælf. I want us to be wed. Please listen and believe what I say.’
Then I looked at her, hoping to see love-light shining from her eyes, longing for my kiss to have been a revelation, a release from blindness.
A squire returning from the privy looked at us oddly; we must have made a pretty sight, squire and stableboy in a clinch within the shadows. I blinked at the bleak horror in her face and let her go. She ran from me.
‘Ælf’ I called but she ignored me and pattered away into the dark.