Few places lie closer to the heart of England's heritage than the New Forest. Now Edward Rutherfurd, is a chronicler who can weave its mystery and legends into a compelling narrative worthy of its role in our history. From the cruel forest laws of the Normans and their passion for hunting, to the founding of Beaulieu Abbey by capricious King John; from the very real dangers of the Spanish Armada to the elegance of Georgian Lymington; from the herds of wild deer and horses which have roamed free since time immemorial to the mighty oaks which provided timber for Nelson's naval ships, Rutherfurd has captured the essence of this ancient domain.
With such novels as
Sarum and
Russka, Edward Rutherfurd has laid claim to James Michener's longtime turf: the immensely researched, meticulously detailed epic of
place, in which the characters tend to play second fiddle to the setting.
The Forest is the most ambitious example yet of Rutherfurd's art. This time the location is that bosky patch of English real estate known as the New Forest. Other writers have tackled the area before. But
The Forest is surely the definitive chronicle, with all the local stories, legends, and apocrypha woven into an irresistible narrative--think of Thomas Hardy's power and drama filtered through a very modern sensibility.
Opening with the assassination of King William II in 1099, the book covers nearly a millennium's worth of history. Rutherfurd creates generation after generation of adroitly realized characters, the best of whom defy our generic expectations: the canny Brother Adam, for example, is that rarest of literary creatures, a virtuous man who doesn't end up being simply bland and anodyne. Rutherfurd may be at his best when dealing with big-canvas events like the bloody Monmouth Rebellion of 1685. But he's no slouch at detailing more microcosmic conflicts, like this head-butting contest between two buck deer:
Her buck had hit firmer ground and his feet suddenly got a purchase on the grass. His hindquarters shivering, he dug in. She saw the shoulders rise and his neck bear down. And now the interloper was slipping on the wet leaves. Slowly, cautiously, their antlers locked, the two straining bucks began to turn. Now they were both on grass. Suddenly the interloper disengaged. He gave his head a twist. The jagged spike was aiming at the buck's eye.
Bestial behavior? Perhaps. Yet the level of human folly and brutality scattered throughout
The Forest makes the foregoing passage resemble an outtake from
Bambi--and gives this sylvan saga a very memorable edge.
--Barry Forshaw
