Wild Wood (19 page)

Robert cleared his throat. “The man has gone, Lord Bayard. Three months ago.” He did not meet my eyes.

“Gone where?”

“I do not know.” The man was lying.

“I see strangers’ faces in the keep, Robert. And Ambrose is missing. Why?”

The man muttered a few words I could not hear.

“Speak louder.”

“The times are hard, lord. And when there is not enough to eat . . .” The reeve raised his eyes. I saw a man who was frightened, but brave enough to test if I was worth his trust.

“At Alnwick, we were told men had been seen in Hundredfield’s forests. Strangers. Raiders, maybe.” I watched Robert’s face keenly. “Is this true?”

Robert hesitated—and nodded.

“And this is where Ambrose has gone?”

Another pause. “Yes.”

“Alois, Swinson’s son. Is it he they go to?”

The man’s face shut down. That was my proof, but I said, “A bier must still be made. How shall we do that?”

“We could use a door, lord. That might serve, if we cover it with cloth.”

“Do it.”

When the man turned to go, I called out, “I thank you, Robert. My brother shall know of your service to our family.”

The man’s expression lifted a little as he bowed and strode away.

I lingered as the moon climbed the wild sky. One night past
full, the cold light searched out desolation and found it in the carpenter’s empty hut. If there was fear and anger in this place, here was evidence. And voiceless reproach.

Maugris called out, “Where are you?”

“By the cistern.” I was in the storeroom under the stables where the spare horse tack was kept, and though I was exhausted, the filth after the ride from Alnwick—and all that followed—was yet to be removed. I would not defile Flore’s corpse with dirty hands.

As my brother clattered down the steps, I took the bucket from the well’s windlass and tipped it over my head. The water near stopped my heart.

Maugris stared.

I pointed at the bucket. “Again.” I was naked but for linen covering my privates, and resolve would soon shatter. “Hurry.”

Maugris dropped the pail into the water and, grumbling, pulled it up. Then he threw the contents over my chest.

It seemed I could not breathe. Until I yelled.

Slipping on the wet stone, Maugris pulled a horse cloth from a peg. He rubbed my body hard and the flesh burned. “Fool. The kitchen would have heated water.”

My jaw clattered like a leper’s rattle. “There was no time.” I snatched the blanket and pulled it around my shoulders.

“A sword in your hand would be more useful.”

I knew that look. Maugris expected trouble. He said grudgingly, “Where are your clothes?”

On a ledge were piled my new doublet—black and amber silk with squirrel-fur tippets—and green hose, along with an undershirt of fine-spun and a mantle of black wool lined with squirrel. If we had stayed the twelve days at Alnwick I would have worn them at the feasts.

A snort from Maugris when he saw them. He thought fashionable
clothes a waste of money and tossed the garments to me as if they were of no value.

After I pulled on the undershirt and tied the points of my hose, I dragged fingers through my hair. From months in the wild it was long and tangled, so a thong must suffice to hold it back. I could do nothing about the beard. “Wash your hands and face at least, brother. Godefroi will want us to put her on the bier.”

“There is no time for such foolishness.”

“No time to honor our house? They must see us in control and know that all continues here as it always has—that we do not change and all will yet be well.”

My brother did not say he agreed, but he dropped the bucket down, and we both heard the distant splash. “In my saddlebag are clothes, though not as rich as yours. Hurry.”

The face of the dead woman shone like a gilded saint as she was carried down on the shoulders of our fighters.

But the stairs from Godefroi’s chamber to the chapel were steep, and Flore’s body was bound to the door on which she lay. Seeing a corpse tied this way was eerie—as if she might yet struggle against the bonds. But in death, the grace of Godefroi’s wife rivaled that of any living woman. Hair loose like a maiden’s, she lay in the gown of blue and silver—the bride of the lord of Hundredfield still—and her pale fingers clasped snowdrops. These flowers, innocent symbols of new life, brought hope to even this—the last, dark night of her marriage.

Godefroi walked beside his wife’s corpse, but the procession was led by Maugris; my position was at the back, behind the group. We three were armed as were our fighters, but the men were silent and did not look at the girl they carried. From all they must have heard since our return, I knew it would not have been their choice to bear Flore’s body to the chapel.

Ill lit, the stairs commanded our attention, and there was no
sound among us except for breath and the scrape of boots on stone. But when the wind began to rise, the night was given a voice, and it seemed such a howl of lamentation that the men faltered, even Rauf, and their grip on the bier slackened.

“Bear her up.” It was my plea and not an order.

Rauf nodded. “With me now.” And the fighters did as he asked.

Then Godefroi did an eerie thing. He picked up the snowdrops and, taking one of Flore’s hands, said pleasantly, “Come, dear love, I am with you.” It was as if they were setting out on a visit together, and his wife were a little shy of those she might not know.

Maugris held a torch above his head, flames guttering in the draft. Below, the stairs descended into dark. “Not far, friends.” He stepped to one side so the bier could pass him by.

The fighters moved on and their shadows fled before us.

Holding the bier, the men paused before the chapel doors. They were closed and Godefroi nodded to Maugris, who stepped forward to turn the iron ring.

It did not move.

Maugris tried again and would have used more force, but Godefroi said, “Rauf, take the men to their posts. Vigil shall be kept tonight for my wife, and we are not to be disturbed.”

Who else but the priest would have dared lock the chapel doors? This act of silent rebellion was the same as if the man had stood on the battlements and shouted that the Dieudonné were all damned, that Flore was a demon, and neither had rights to God’s grace.

Perhaps muscles had cramped from the long and careful descent, but the bier was almost dropped when our men put it down, as if it were suddenly too heavy to hold.

As the fighters filed past, I put my hand on Rauf’s arm. “This is a sorrowful time. We must all respect the dead. Gossip will not
be helpful.” But I saw that the cause was lost when he looked at me. He was as frightened as any of the others.

Maugris watched Godefroi place his wife’s hand beside her body with great gentleness, as if to soothe a bird that might escape. Bemused, my brother shook his head and muttered, “Bayard, we need—”

I said abruptly, “I can see what is needed.” I thought Godefroi’s actions as strange as Maugris did.

I ran up the stairs from the chapel. A forcing bar would be in the smithy; perhaps we could lever it between the doors. If not, an ax must be used.

One floor above, voices came from the great hall, though the murmur was subdued. I did not wish to be seen and left the keep wrapped in my cloak, the hood over my face.

The wind chased me inside the smithy as I opened the door. It too was deserted but with enough light to see what was needed.

Behind the forge, a long bench stood against the wall. Whatever else he was, the new smith was an orderly man; his tools hung from pegs or were grouped in half casks close to the forge. I found a hammer with a massive head, a flat bar with a rounded point, and a new-made ax also. Damage to the chapel doors could not be hidden, and the sound of blows would echo up into the tower, but the blade was honed well and would quickly bite a hole if that is what we had to do.

Returning, I hurried down the last of the stairs past Godefroi. His eyes were fixed on Flore’s face. He made no sign he had seen me.

I showed Maugris what I had. “There’s an ax as well.”

“We should try to force it first. There will be less noise.”

“How much light remains?”

“Begin.” Maugris was calm, but a glance at his torch was my answer. It was half burned away, though the second was less consumed.

The lock was fatally well made, and the doors sat tight against each other. With some effort I worked the point of the bar into what gap there was and stood back as Maugris hammered with the head of the ax, trying to break the tongue of metal that held them closed. All we did was splinter the wood and disturb the dark with the crash of the blows.

“The point must be driven down harder.” We were both sweating as the first torch died. “Give me room.” Maugris had the hammer poised. “One, two,
three
!” He struck, and we both felt the lock shatter. Under our weight, the doors burst apart.

No cross, no candle stands, no sacred ornaments remained. And there were no trestles. The tabernacle had been stripped.

Godefroi walked in behind us. “He has taken the monstrance. And the pyx also.” Slowly, his face turned scarlet, swollen with fury.

Apart from Easter, Christmas Day was the most sacred feast of the year; tomorrow, also, the grave had to be dug and Flore laid in the earth. For that we had to have a priest, and the furnishings of the altar returned to their places. If the funeral mass was not held, the people of Hundredfield would believe we had truly been deserted by God. And most particularly, Flore would be all Matthias had claimed she was. For her sake, and for the honor of the Dieudonné, the malice of the man could not be permitted to prevail. We must do what was possible immediately and deal with the rest as it came.

First the bier was to be placed before the altar—three men to do the work that six had done before.

Maugris said, “Bayard, you take the foot and I the head. Godefroi—”

Our brother had gone.

We found him kneeling in the vestibule beside his wife. At first I thought the soft murmur was prayer for her soul, but closer, I heard what he said:

“We left you alone, my dearest child. God strike me for that unless
you can forgive me.” He stroked Flore’s face tenderly, leaning close to the mouth of the corpse as if to kiss her.

Maugris cleared his throat. “All is well, brother.” He knelt too. “Come. You and I and Bayard will carry your lady in together.”

Godefroi stared into the chapel. “It is dark. She must have candles around her, many candles. Where have all the candles gone?”

Maugris measured Godefroi’s expression, as I did. His face was confused as a child’s. “First we shall prepare for tomorrow, brother. You and I will take vigil with the Lady Flore, and then she is to be buried. That is what you told Matthias.”

Godefroi spat on the flags and held his wife’s hand against his chest. “That man shall never upset you again. I swear this.” He smoothed the hair from Flore’s brow as if it had become disordered.

“I will ride to the priory and bring another priest. Will that please you?” I spoke to Godefroi, not the corpse.

“As you hear, lady. Do you find Bayard’s offer acceptable?” Godefroi leaned down. Kissing her brow, he nodded to me. “The Lady Flore is well pleased.” He stood, apparently calm. “It is time. We have her permission.” His face was serene again and his tone sensible, if you discounted the words.