Wild Wood (12 page)

“Who says such things? The men who come here?” I was dressed again. A man who, only moments since, had thought himself the equal of gods and angels. That is what a woman does with what lies between her legs.

She sniffed. “Not the women. They do not talk to us. But I know what I know.”

“This is foolish. The Lady Flore—”

Rosa spat on the dirt floor. This time she made the sign and did not try to hide it.

I continued calmly, “The Lady Flore is”—I was not sure what word was best—“is not a witch.”

“No?” Rosa stood on her toes and grasped my shoulders, forcing me to look down into her face. “Ah. I see. You too have been bewitched.” She dropped her hands and stood away from me. “I say she is a whore
and
a witch. And I should know.”

“Which?”

She stared at me. “Do not think me stupid because of what I do, Bayard.” Her face, in the half-light, was less old than ancient.

I tried to kiss her, but Rosa turned her face away. Perhaps she did not want to see me leave.

“Put it back.”

I looked over my shoulder as I pulled the saddle off Helios. “What?”

“Boy!”

Dikon, the stableboy, ran as Maugris called out, “Help Lord Bayard.”

“I can do it myself.” I heaved the saddle to its place again. Helios was sweating from the ride, and he was not pleased when Dikon tried to drag his head from the manger to put the bridle on again.

“I shall need armor.” It was not a question. The look on my brother’s face was grim, and he was suited in a steel hauberk.

“You will if we ride after them.”

“After who?”

Maugris did not reply, but as we left the stables, he called out to the boy, “Keep the horse ready.”

Enoch, the castle farrier, was working at the entrance to the stables shoeing a line of horses. The air was acrid—scorched hooves and hot iron.

I raised a hand in greeting. He had been kind to us as boys when we hid in the stables to avoid our father.

Smiling, Enoch waved back but Maugris ignored the man and hurried on. The farrier’s expression soured as he crouched to pick up the next hoof.

“That was not well done.”

Maugris ignored me as he ducked through a low door that led into the chain of cellars where the tenants’ rent of grain, fruit, and roots was stored.

We heard voices. Godefroi. And the lighter tones of a woman.

Without speaking, Maugris pushed on a door.

Head bowed, Margaretta knelt in front of Godefroi. He was staring at her. “You must have known.”

“No, lord.” The girl did not look up. Her voice shook.

Godefroi wheeled. “Reeve!”

Swinson stood in the far shadows of the cellar, behind his daughter. Flambeaux picked out lines of sweat on his face. None of the three had seen us.

“You are right to be afraid, Swinson. No servant of mine can be allowed to lie.”

“My daughter is an honest woman, lord.”

Margaretta’s eyes were tragic. “Father, let me.”

Godefroi held up a hand. “He shall speak for himself.” And pointed. “Kneel.”

Swinson’s body was rigid as he knelt, but he spoke with dignity. “Me and mine have always obeyed you, lord. And your family. We are loyal. In your father’s day—”

Godefroi slapped the man across the face. An explosive blow. “This is not my father’s day.”

Watching, I could not remain impassive. Ignoring Maugris, I pushed the door wide and strode through.

Godefroi flicked a glance from me to the reeve. “Answer what I asked. You knew he did this, both of you. Confess it.”

Edmund Swinson raised his head. Blood joined sweat on the side of his face. He seemed sincerely puzzled. “But he is a monk, lord. Your own father sponsored him to the monastery. It cannot have been my son.” The man was pleading.

Godefroi pulled the reeve to his feet and dragged him to where a body, dressed in Hundredfield livery, lay on the floor. “Excellent work for a man of God.” The face was covered but both hands had been cut off.

Swinson turned his head away.

“Look!” Godefroi ripped the covering away. The eyes had been gouged out. “Nothing to say? Your son the traitor was seen, reeve, and his men. He took the eyes with his own knife.” Godefroi
kicked Swinson in the back. The reeve fell beside the corpse, his head knocking on stone.

“Father!” Margaretta tried to reach Swinson, but Maugris stopped her, held her as she struggled.

Godefroi shouted, “If Alois thinks to send us a message, one shall be returned.” He wheeled, glaring at me. “You! Take this girl to my wife; she will not speak of this to anyone if she loves her father.”

“No!” Margaretta tried to claw Maugris’s face as he dragged her forward.

Pushing her at me, he said, “For your sake and hers, obey him, Bayard. This cannot be ignored.”

A girl when she will not be held, even so slight and young, is never easy to manage. In the end I picked Margaretta up and slung her across my shoulder.

“Maugris!” Godefroi had his sword at the reeve’s throat as the man tried to stand.

“Go.” Maugris pushed me through the door and closed it in my face.

The wood muffled my brother’s voice, but it did not disguise the screams of Edmund Swinson.

10

I
’VE BEEN
thinking.”

Staring out the window at the sprawl of London, Jesse is in the patients’ day room. She jumps when Rory strolls up behind her.

“Sorry. May I?” He points at one of the chairs, smiles nicely.

“You won’t like it.”

“Uncomfortable?”

Jesse nods with feeling.

Rory drags an austere 1950s armchair to where she’s sitting. “That’s the National Health Service for you: no pampering. At least it’s free.”

“A free prolapsed chair. Don’t tell. Everyone will want one.” Jesse’s staring at the springs; they bulge out as he sits. She makes an effort. “So, thinking. Excellent. What about?”

“Rehab. Yours. The where and when.”

Jesse takes a deep breath. “Dr. Brandon, please don’t think I’m not grateful for the extra time you give me, but I need to move on. I was going to tell you a bit later today.” The early-morning bustle outside the Smithfield Market is suddenly fascinating.

He murmurs, “Rory. Please.” He shifts in his seat. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Depends what it is.” Said pleasantly, but Jesse’s wary.

“What’s more urgent than getting better?”

“I’ll take it easy. Doctor’s orders.” Not much of a joke.

Rory sits back. He’s happy to wait.

“You must be busy. Don’t let me hold you up.” Jesse tries not to squirm.
Take the hint. Go!

He glances at his watch. “You’re not. Plenty of time.

She looks away. The noise she makes might be a sniff. “Look, I found out only recently that I’m adopted. I’m in England to find my birth parents. If I can.” Jesse feels her eyes filling. She blinks rapidly, tries not to sniff the tears away.

A pause. Rory leans forward. He’s offering his handkerchief. When she takes it, he says gently, “Do you have somewhere to start?”

Jesse blows her nose. “I know I was born in Jedburgh. That’s where I want to go. As soon as I can.” Should she give him back the handkerchief?

“Keep it.”

Jesse nods. She feels like a pane of cracked glass.

“I’ve got a suggestion—something for you to consider. Especially since you were born in Jedburgh.” Rory hesitates. “What if I told you . . .” A pause. He starts again. “Do you remember the girl in the café?”

“Café?” Jesse’s puzzled.

“Alicia. The waitress. At St. Bartholomew the Great.”

Jesse frowns. She says uncertainly, “That day’s all a bit of a bus-smash in my head, but she was kind when she didn’t have to be. She found you too, didn’t she? And the rest”—Jesse waves her hand, a vague sweep—“is history.”

Rory says abruptly, “She and I know each other. Quite well, actually; I got her the job in the café. And the odd thing is . . .”

The pause stretches. That gets Jesse’s attention. “What’s odd?”

“The castle.” He mimes sketching.

“My castle?”

He nods. “It’s always been owned by Alicia’s family. They built it.”

Jesse’s almost too startled to speak. “A
waitress
owns a castle?”

“She does now. Her parents died not long back. The thing is, I think you should see it. See Hundredfield, I mean. That’s what it’s called.”

“Why?”

“Because it might help unlock things for you. The sketches didn’t draw themselves.”

Jesse won’t meet his eyes.

“And I’m off there tomorrow. I spend time at Hundredfield every summer.” He takes a breath. “You could come with me, Jesse. I could continue what we’ve started. Rehab, I mean. No charge.” Rory shifts position. With his back to the light, it’s hard to see his expression.

Jesse opens her mouth, closes it again.

Rory speaks before she can. “The offer’s real. Hundredfield is an extraordinary place, by the way, and it’s only rarely open to the public. Alicia’s ancestors built up the estate over hundreds of years until it became one of the greatest landholdings between Carlisle and Berwick, and that includes Alnwick. That’s the seat of the Percys, of course.”

Jesse murmurs, “Oh, of course.” She has no idea what he’s talking about.

“It was begun by conquest and—”

“Conquest? As in William the . . .”

He nods. “Fulk, the founder of Alicia’s family, was a Norman warlord, basically. The English-Scottish border changed many, many times over hundreds of years—and always in a welter of blood—but that was profitable for some people. Including the lords of Hundredfield. That’s where it got the name—from all the land they took.”

“But if she’s so grand, why does she work in a café in London?”

“Everyone needs a job from time to time. Even Alicia.”

“But that makes no sense. If I had a castle I’d—”

Rory interrupts, “Find it hard to pay for, actually. History can be a burden.”

“And what’s it got to do with rehab?”

“Coming-clean time.” Rory shifts uncomfortably. “I told you I knew the castle in the sketch, that I’d been there.” Rory pauses. “Actually, I lived on the estate in a tied cottage. With my mum.”

Jesse just stares at him.

“I didn’t know how to tell you, not after I’d seen the sketches.”

She says feelingly, “This is . . . I don’t know
what
this is.”

“No.” Rory mulls. “But what it
could
be is interesting.” He leans farther forward, his eyes locked to hers. “Jesse, I think it’s important for you, and for me, that you see Hundredfield. I wouldn’t suggest this otherwise.”

“Oh. Right. Important for you. How long did you live there?”

“I was born on the estate.”

Jesse’s mouth drops open. After a false start she says, “You do know this is a ridiculous conversation.”

He says urgently, “You need time to recover, you need proper cognitive therapy and ongoing assessment. And your body has to heal. I can help you with all those things if you’ll let me. And you can help me also. Yes, the coincidences are odd, but your case is . . .” He shakes his head. “I’d say it’s unique, so far as current science understands the results of head trauma.”

“Rehabilitation at Hundredfield, in return for cooperating in your research?” He nods. An uncomfortable pause. “Is that usual? I mean . . .”

“No. Not usual. But if you agree, I’ll inform my supervisors in the specialist program of my intentions, and offer an overview of what I would like to achieve with your help. They will approve or not, as the case may be. They may also wish to interview you
before making their decision. If you agree.” His voice is neutral, his expression polite and nothing more.

Jesse considers what he’s said. “Where’s Hundredfield again?”

“About an hour from Jedburgh.” Now he permits himself a smile. And stands. “Thank you for considering what I’m suggesting, Jesse.”

She shoots back, “Who says I am?”

“I need to do the morning rounds, but I’ll be back after that. Meantime, why don’t I get one of the ward ladies to bring you a cup of coffee?”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Tea, then. And something to eat. Doctor’s orders. Real ones.” At the door, Rory turns back. “Think about what I’ve said?” He doesn’t wait for an answer.

Jesse watches him go. Is the man arrogant, or just sure of himself?