Wild Wood (17 page)

T
HE CHAPEL
lay within the base of the keep. Without light it was dark as a cave, but morning and evening candles were lit, and oil lamps, as the household gathered for prayers. But even though the earth floor had been laid over with tiles as our family prospered, the place still seeped cold, even in summer. In winter, breath lay on the air like incense.

Generation by generation we, the Dieudonné, had adorned the chapel rather than the keep. Some said it was to atone for what Fulk had done; others said it was pride, for as we grew rich, the place became one of the wonders of the north.

In Fulk’s son’s time a rood screen had been made, the wood cut from our own oaks and gilded by Flemish craftsmen. Below this lay an altar faced with Purbeck marble, brought by sea at great expense. Other objects too had been given by our family to inspire the devotion of all who worshipped here. One of these was the great rood itself that hung on the screen. The body of the Savior was larger than that of a man and made from a single sheet of beaten silver with the crown of thorns cast from bronze and gilded. Garnets were set into that glimmering flesh as tokens of
the blood from the holy wounds, and the eyes of the Christ were ivory and topaz.

And there was this.

The cross upon which the Savior hung was carved from timber brought back from the First Crusade to the Holy Land; it was said to be olive wood from the Garden of Gethsemane, the very place in which the Lord had been betrayed. Of all the glories in the chapel, this, truly, was thought to be the greatest.

But the people of Hundredfield thought differently, for in a covered niche beside the altar stood the Madonna of the River. This statue was shown only at the feast of the Annunciation and at Easter, and women prayed to Her with special devotion especially at the birth of a child, or its death. She stood on a plinth enameled in green—said to represent the reedy waters of our river—and each tenth year on Palm Sunday, She was clothed in new robes of white silk with a cloak of blue velvet cut and stitched by the women of our village.

Our Madonna had silver hands and a silver face with eyes similar to Her Son’s; perhaps the craftsman who had made the Christ made these things also for His mother.

When, at each festival, the doors of Her shrine were opened and the hangings drawn back, it could be seen She gazed up at our Lord, Her Son, with particular devotion. For all the other days of the year, She was hidden. Not even the family was permitted to see Her face.

The chapel of the keep was served by a priest who, by tradition, came from the Benedictine priory some hours’ ride from Hundredfield. This was a daughter house of the great abbey at Durham and had been endowed by the founder of our family as a chantry to pray for the souls of the Dieudonné for all time. Fulk’s deeds in life must have required much praying, since this chantry was one of the most wealthy in the north.

Yet in all the time since the Frenchman had grasped Hundredfield as his and built this place, the chapel had never seen a day of this kind.

Matthias the Benedictine—our chaplain—stood now on the highest of the altar steps. Fleshless and hollow-faced, his mildness made him seem a kind man. But he was not. This priest was armored by passionless certainty, and it was the muscle of his spirit if not his body. Robed in black and a devout believer in his own humility, he thought himself a match for the will of any man. In this he was deluded.

“Lord Godefroi, I have prayed on your request, but the Lord’s answer cannot be mistaken. The lady may not lie beside your mother, for this is a consecrated place and she was a Christian woman.” Matthias bowed his head in what might have been profound sorrow and sketched a cross over the place our mother lay.

Maugris and I exchanged a glance. We had always disliked the man.

Godefroi stood in the chancel, leaning on his sword. He was dressed as if for war, and his face, though pale still, was hard. “It is not a request, Priest. Pray again. Keep praying until the answer changes.”

Matthais raised his hands open-palmed, as if to bless the trestles waiting for Flore’s bier. But that was not his intention. “It is not for you, Lord Godefroi, or for me, to bargain with God. His will is clear. He speaks, and I, His frail servant, must listen and tremble. And obey. So must all his subjects. For this is the house of the Lord, a place of peace”—the chaplain stared pointedly at Godefroi’s naked sword—“and what you ask may not be done.”

Rank sweat wove through the air. At least one of us was terrified.

“What I ask may not be done.” Godefroi repeated the words as if speaking a response.

The priest thought he had won. “Ah, Lord Godefroi, let us ask for His blessing together and for His guidance too, at this sad time. In His grace He will provide us with an answer. He always does. Have faith.” Matthias knelt, turning his back to the man who provided him with bread and salt and shelter. That was a mistake.

In the half-light, Godefroi seemed not to move, yet instantly he stood behind the priest; candle flame buttered the blade in his fingers.

“Brother!” I forced my body between them as Maugris grasped Godefroi’s wrist, bending the sword away from the priest’s throat.

“Think, Godefroi!” Maugris was panting.

The chaplain managed to stand. He did not flinch. “Yes, think, Lord Godefroi. To spill blood in this holy place, the blood of a servant of God, is to be damned. Even kings are punished for such blasphemy.” From the monstrance at the back of the altar, Matthias brought out the disk of unleavened bread and, in silence, held it above Godefroi’s head. Our brother, at last, bent to one knee. We followed.

“Lord, forgive, I pray, the actions of these men.” The chaplain’s hands shook as he raised the bread yet higher. “Grant me strength to drive Satan from the heart of your servant, Godefroi de Dieudonné. And just as you cast out demons and drove them into the Gadarene swine, let the spirit of evil depart from this house with the body of she who has bewitched this good man.”

Godefroi shook Maugris’s hand away. “Put the bread down, Priest. It does not belong to you.” He spoke softly, but I swear if he had looked at me that way, I too would have trembled.

He pointed his sword at the trestles. “Tonight my wife will lie here, and I, in vigil, shall pray at her side with my brothers. Tomorrow, on the anniversary of the birth of our Lord, her grave will be dug under these stones beside our mother’s resting place, and the Lady Flore will be buried according to the rites of the Church.” He did not bow as he turned his back to the altar and the priest. At the chapel door he said, “My wife will be escorted from the bed in which she died by me and my brothers. You will not be here to receive her body. Do you understand me, Priest?”

Matthias found his voice. “This is God’s house.”

Godefroi stared at the man, his face dispassionate. “You are wrong. It is mine. Think on that.”

Maugris caught my glance as he crossed himself and left the chapel with Godefroi.

This breach with the priest was troublesome. It was not just Flore’s death, but fear of the future and of Alois’s raiders that troubled the keep. And fear, like disease, is contagious; if Matthias left without burying Flore, its spread would be difficult to contain. I knew what I had to do.

“He loved her, Father. Grief has consumed his mind. I am certain you see that and will have compassion.”

The priest did not answer at first, but holding the consecrated bread up to the cross, he bowed low and placed the body of our Lord back in its keeping place. Only then did he say, “I know that is so. That was her power as a sorceress. But that woman, if woman she was, is now in hell for all time.” He turned to look at me. “I know you understand, Lord Bayard, that such as she may not be buried beside your mother in consecrated ground—and especially not on such a holy day as that of the Lord’s birth.” Staring at me, he crossed himself.

I sketched a response. “However, that is my brother’s decision, Father, not ours, and—”

He interrupted, “I speak for God. Lord Godefroi will think on this matter again, I know, and he will see the sense in what I have told him. And that will be an end to the matter. He can bury the woman where he likes, but it shall not be here.” The priest’s face was closed. And smug.

I said patiently, “It is the view of my family that our sister-in-law was a woman like any other. She died as many women do, and now a motherless child must be thought of. However, I agree that my brother, in anguish, may not have meant all that he said.”

The man laid one hand on the altar and pointed to my mother’s grave with the other. “That must be so, for your lady mother, a noble Christian woman, would be disgraced and polluted by such a companion in her final resting place.”

It was becoming harder to maintain a reasonable tone, but I
tried. “It seems we cannot agree on this matter, Father Matthias; therefore, regrettably, I shall ask Rauf to supply an escort of men to protect you on your journey to the priory.”

He smiled calmly. “But I shall not go. I am needed in this house. Your own soul, Lord Bayard, is also in peril; you would not defend the pariah of whom we speak if that were not so.”

If I had once thought Flore a witch, even for one moment, the pity of her death reproached such foolishness. “Enough!” My voice cracked the air.

From shock, the man’s jaw unhinged as I thrust my face to his.

“I hunt and kill the enemies of our lord, the king; therefore, think on this: As the declared enemy of your master, my brother—whose authority comes from King Edward himself—you are the king’s enemy now.” I tried to control my anger, saying more softly, “The Lady Flore was Lord Godefroi’s lawful wife. You married them at the door of this place.”

Matthias turned his shaken gaze to the great rood, as if the Christ might fly down and protect him. “Yes, I administered the sacrament after Lord Godefroi vouched the woman had been baptized and was willing to marry him.” He beat his chest. “But I was deceived. In marrying them, I sinned. Sinned grievously.”

The humility did not last. Gathering himself, he pointed at me and almost spat, “Bury her here and the people will rise up against you and your family, and you will deserve your deaths as servants of the devil, for she was his minion.”

I was bored with this man and had killed many better. “However,
Father
, you are still alive—though that may be a temporary condition. I had thought to reason with you, but I see my brother was right. I repeat his command therefore: You will not bury the Lady Flore tomorrow and you will leave this place now. Go back to the priory and send someone willing to perform the duty you have so foolishly vacated. My brother will not come for you there. Not immediately. But if he is not obeyed, in his rage he may turn you and the brothers out and seize the lands and buildings.”

“In this weather?” The fool was appalled.

I shrugged. “Do not think that any of you will lie safe in your beds if you oppose the will of our family. Best you keep silent on what was seen in this place, for your sake and for theirs.”

This was good advice. Truly, Godefroi, for pride’s sake, would not let matters rest. I did not think he would risk excommunication by evicting the monks, but in the end he was Fulk’s descendant, as I was, and he would do as he chose.

I left the man to his God. Perhaps He would protect our former chaplain, for this, most assuredly, was what Matthias now was. And we, the brothers Dieudonné, would do what needed to be done. There was no other choice.

16

A
LICIA THOUGHT
you might need this.”

Jesse slews around.

Rory stands in the doorway with her case. “She won’t mind if you put a light on.” He grins.

“Oh. Sorry.” Jesse fumbles to the bedside light and looks for the switch. “Um, how do you . . .”

“Ah, well, lots of ancient electrical devices in this house; approach with caution.” Rory bends down, and she joins him, their heads close. “So, you
twist
the switch—and voilà.” The bulb blinks on and rosy light blooms from a shade of ballerina pink.

A pause. And Rory steps back. “It’s the same on the other side. Very fifties.” He picks up the case. “Where would you like this?”

Jesse points. “Over there. Beside the—what
is
that?”

Rory strides to a shape hulking behind the door. “It’s an armoire. Fancy French name for very large cupboard.” He pulls the cabinet doors open. “You can live in it if you don’t like the rest of the room. No trouble fitting this in.” He waggles the bag.

Jesse tries not to grin as she snatches it back. “Don’t be so rude.”

“Not rude. Just penitent. Please accept my formal apologies,
Jesse. I know you were embarrassed down there. Don’t be. Please. As you see, Alicia’s pretty adaptable.”

“Adaptable. Right. You’ve told her everything, then?”

“Certainly not. Doctor-patient—”

“—
confidentiality
. Would that be the word?” Jesse sits on the edge of the bed, her eyes on his face.

“Of course. I will never betray the trust you’ve placed in me.”

Said with conviction.
“So tell me about her. Why does she work as a waitress when she’s got all this? That’s what you call being adaptable, is it?”

“Do you mind?” Rory waves toward the window seat.

Jesse nods. “You don’t have to ask.”

He sits. “From the outside, Alicia looks like a girl who’s drawn the one silver straw in the bunch. This estate still has a few thousand acres—”

“So, not big at all.”

The sarcasm doesn’t land. “Not in Australian terms, I suppose. But it’s been poorly managed for generations, if not hundreds of years, and so much has gone.” He shakes his head. “Actually, I got Alicia the job six months ago. She needed it. Quite a few nurses and doctors at the hospital sing in the choir of the church, and I heard it was going, so I let her know.”

“I can’t believe café wages would make a dent on this place.”

“She just wanted to get away from here. For good reasons.” Rory falls silent.

Jesse’s curious, but she doesn’t want to seem nosy. “So, did you grow up here?”