The Forest: A Novel - Softcover

Rutherfurd, Edward

 
9780345479365: The Forest: A Novel
Softcover
ISBN 10: 034547936X ISBN 13: 9780345479365
Verlag: Random House Publishing Group, 2005

Inhaltsangabe

NATIONAL BESTSELLER • “Rutherford brings England’s New Forest to life” (The Seattle Times) in this companion to the critically acclaimed Sarum

From the time of the Norman Conquest to the present day, the New Forest, along England’s southern coast, has remained an almost mythical place. It is here that Saxon and Norman kings rode forth with their hunting parties, and where William the Conqueror’s son Rufus was mysteriously killed. The mighty oaks of the forest were used to build the ships for Admiral Nelson’s navy, and the fishermen who lived in Christchurch and Lymington helped Sir Francis Drake fight off the Spanish Armada.

The New Forest is the perfect backdrop for the families who people this epic story. The feuds, wars, loyalties, and passions of many hundreds of years reach their climax in a crime that shatters the decorous society of Bath in the days of Jane Austen, whose family lived on the edge of the Forest.

Edward Rutherfurd is a master storyteller whose sense of place and character—both fictional and historical—is at its most vibrant in The Forest.

“As entertaining as Sarum and Rutherford’s other sweeping novel of British history, London.”—The Boston Globe

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Edward Rutherfurd was born in Salisbury, England, and educated at Cambridge University. His first novel, Sarum, was an instant international bestseller. His subsequent novels–Russka and London–were also highly acclaimed bestsellers here and abroad.

Von der hinteren Coverseite

“AS ENTERTAINING AS SARUM AND RUTHERFURD’S OTHER SWEEPING NOVEL OF BRITISH HISTORY, LONDON.”
–The Boston Globe

“Engaging . . . A sprawling tome that combines fact with fiction and covers 900 years in the history of New Forest, a 100,000-acre woodland in southern England . . . Rutherfurd sketches the histories of six fictional families, ranging from aristocrats to peasants, who have lived in the forest for generations. . . . But the real success is in how Rutherfurd paints his picture of the wooded enclave with images of treachery and violence, as well as magic and beauty.”
–The New York Post

“THE FOREST IS MICHENER TOLD WITH AN ENGLISH ACCENT.”
–St. Louis Post-Dispatch

“TALES OF LOVE AND HONOR, DECEIT AND VIOLENCE, INHERITANCE AND LOSS.”
–San Jose Mercury News



From the Paperback edition.

Aus dem Klappentext

AS ENTERTAINING AS SARUM AND RUTHERFURD S OTHER SWEEPING NOVEL OF BRITISH HISTORY, LONDON.
The Boston Globe

Engaging . . . A sprawling tome that combines fact with fiction and covers 900 years in the history of New Forest, a 100,000-acre woodland in southern England . . . Rutherfurd sketches the histories of six fictional families, ranging from aristocrats to peasants, who have lived in the forest for generations. . . . But the real success is in how Rutherfurd paints his picture of the wooded enclave with images of treachery and violence, as well as magic and beauty.
The New York Post

THE FOREST IS MICHENER TOLD WITH AN ENGLISH ACCENT.
St. Louis Post-Dispatch

TALES OF LOVE AND HONOR, DECEIT AND VIOLENCE, INHERITANCE AND LOSS.
San Jose Mercury News



From the Paperback edition.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

The Rufus Stone

April 2000

High over Sarum the small plane flew. Below, the graceful cathedral with its soaring spire rested on the sweeping green lawns like a huge model. Beyond the cathedral precincts, the medieval city of Salisbury lay peacefully in the sun. Earlier that morning there had been an April shower, but now the sky was clear, a pale washed blue. A perfect day, thought Dottie Pride, to fly a reconnaissance mission. Not for the first time, she was grateful for the fact she worked in television.

Say what you like about her boss -- and there were those who said John Grockleton was a brute -- he was good about things like chartering planes. "He just wants to get on the right side of you," one of the cameramen had remarked. She couldn't help that. The main thing was that she was in the Cessna now, and it was a beautiful morning.

From Sarum, the beautiful Avon valley continued due south through lush green meadows for over twenty miles until it reached the sheltered waters of Christchurch harbour. On its western side lay the rolling ridges of Dorset; to the east, the huge county of Hampshire with its ancient capital of Winchester and great port of Southampton. Dottie glanced at the map. There were only two small market towns on the Avon between here and the sea. Fordingbridge, eight miles south, and Ringwood, another five beyond that. A few miles below Ringwood, she noted, there was a place called Tyrrell's Ford.

They had not even reached Fordingbridge before the plane banked and turned towards the south-east. They passed a low ridge, crested with oak trees.

And there it was below them; huge, magnificent, mysterious.

The New Forest.

It had been Grockleton's idea to do a feature on the Forest. There had been controversy in the area recently: angry public meetings; local people starting fires. Television cameras had already been down there a few months before.

But it was another news item that had sparked off Grockleton's interest. An historical surprise. A piece of ancient pageantry.

"We'll cover this at least," he had decided. "But there may be something larger here: a full feature, in depth. Have a look at it, Dottie. Take a few days. It's a beautiful place."

He really was trying to get on the right side of her, Dottie mused.

Perhaps there was something else in it for her boss, though. It had come out the day before.

"Do you have any connections with the Forest?" he had asked her.

"Not that I know of, John," she replied. "Why, do you?"

"Funnily enough, I do. My family was pretty big down there in the last century. There's a whole wood named after us, I believe." He gave her a smile. "You might like to work that in, perhaps. If it fits, of course."

"Yes, John," she had said wryly. "I"ll see what I can do."

They flew over plantations and brown heather heath for ten miles. The terrain was wilder and barer than she had expected; but as they came to Lyndhurst, at the Forest centre, the landscape changed. Groves of oak, green glades, open lawns cropped by stocky little New Forest ponies; pretty thatched cottages with brick or whitewashed walls. This was the New Forest she knew from picture postcards. They followed the line of the old road that led south through the middle of the Forest. The oak woods were thick below them. In a glade, she caught sight of some deer. They passed over a village in a huge clearing, its open green lawns dotted with ponies. Brockenhurst. A small river appeared now, flowing south, through a lush valley with steep sides. Here and there she saw pleasant houses with paddocks and orchards. Prosperous. On a high knoll on the valley's wooded eastern side, she saw a squat little parish church, obviously ancient. Boldre church. She should visit that.

A minute later they were over the harbour town on Lymington and its crowded marina. To the right, on the edge of some marshes, a sign on a large boathouse proclaimed: seagull's boatyard.

The English Channel lay a few miles away to the west. Beneath them was the pleasant stretch of the Solent water with the green slopes of the Isle of Wight beyond. As they flew eastwards now she looked from the map to the coastline.

"There," she said with satisfaction. "That must be it."

The pilot glanced across at her. "What?"

"Througham."

"Never heard of it."

"Nobody has. You will, though."

"Do you want to fly over Beaulieu?"

"Of course." This would be the setting for the opening sequence. Far below them the lovely old abbey precincts lay tranquil in the sun. Behind, screened by trees, was the famous Motor Museum. They circled it once, then headed north again towards Lyndhurst.

They had just passed Lyndhurst and were flying north-west towards Sarum when Dottie asked the pilot to circle again. Peering down, it took her a few moments to locate her target; but there could be no mistaking it.

A single stone, set near the edge of a woodland glade. A couple of cars were parked in the little gravel car park nearby and she could see their occupants standing by the small monument.

"The Rufus stone," she said.

"Ah. I've heard of that," said the pilot.

"Few of the hundreds of thousands who went to wander or camp in the New Forest each year failed to pay the curious site a visit. The stone marked the spot where, according to the nine-hundred-year-old tale, King William Rufus, the Norman king -- called Rufus on account of his red hair -- had been killed by an arrow in mysterious circumstances while hunting deer. After Stonehenge, it was probably the most famous standing stone in southern England.

"Wasn't there a tree there once?" asked the pilot. "The arrow glanced off it and hit the king?"

"That's the story." Dottie saw another car make its way into the gravel car park. "Only it seems," she said, "that he wasn't shot there at all."

The Hunt

1099

The deer started. She trembled for a moment, then listened.

A grey-black spring night still lay like a blanket over the sky. Along the edge of the wood, in the damp air, the peaty scent of the heath beyond mingled with the faint mustiness of last year's fallen leaves. It was quiet, as if the whole island of Britain were waiting for something to happen in the silence before the dawn.

Then suddenly, a skylark started singing in the dark. Only he had seen the hint of paleness on the horizon.

The deer turned her head, not satisfied. Something was approaching.

Puckle made his way through the wood. There was no need to move silently. As his feet brushed the leaves or snapped a twig, he might have been mistaken for a badger, wild pig or some other denizen of the Forest.

Away on his left, the screech of a tawny owl careened through the dark tunnels and sweeping arches of the oaks.

Puckle: was it his father, or his grandfather, or someone further back who had been known by the name of Puckle? Puck: it was one of those strange old names that grew, mysteriously, out of the English landscape. Puck Hill: there were several along the southern shores. Perhaps the name came from that. Or perhaps it was a diminutive: little Puck. Nobody knew. But having got one name, the family had never seemed to bother with any more. Old Puckle, young Puckle, the other Puckle: there was always a certain vagueness about which was which. When he and his family had been kicked out of their hamlet by the servants of the new Norman king, they had wandered across the Forest and finally set up a ramshackle camp by one of the streams that ran down to the...

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Verlag
Random House Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2005
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
034547936X
ISBN 13 
9780345479365
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
785
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
gpsr@libri.de
gpsr@libri.de

Europaallee 1
Bad Hersfeld
36244
Deutschland

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