Wild Wood (21 page)

“You were asleep when we arrived so you didn’t see any of this.” Rory hasn’t spoken for a while.

Jesse says breezily, “That’s right. All new to me.”
As it is now.
“But this yard! You could lend it out to Her Maj for the Trooping of the Color, you really could. Or put the tents up and have ‘the wedding’ reception right here.”

Alicia grins. “Well, it’s officially called the inner ward, but they did rather plan for the days when everyone was home. Must have been quite a crowd. Those are the stables, by the way.”

A row of roofless barns gapes. Jesse hadn’t seen those in her drawings—they’d been hidden by the point of view of the sketch—but they’re huge. Her breathing ramps up.
Getting closer . . .

“There are cellars under there that go for a really long way, each one linked to the next.” Rory flashes a glance at Alicia. “We weren’t allowed in as kids on pain of, well, pain, because they were unsafe even then. But you can still see where water from the spring was diverted into a cistern down below; it supplied Hundredfield with water and drained into the moat.”

“A moat. You talked about that.” Jesse so wants to look at him, but does not.
Closer still . . .

Rory nods. “They dug the bed halfway up the hill. You can still see the workings.”

“And when the castle was extended, the river was diverted to circle the base of the hill. They drained the old moat and left it as a defensive ditch, but they never did solve the problem of the spring; it’s still there and sometimes the old moat fills up again and overflows.”

“They?”

“My ancestors.” Alicia’s quite curt.

“Must have had a lot of labor to build all this.” Something about the scale of this place is horrifying.
So many deaths to build it.
Jesse stands still.
Close. Really, really close.

Rory puts a hand on her arm. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine.” Jesse transfers her attention to Alicia. “You were saying?”

The other girl sweeps an arm toward the castle’s perimeter walls. “Once, you could walk all the way around that parapet, from here to the keep and back, and it was wide enough for four men to march abreast. The point was, you could see your enemies coming. The stone’s too dangerous now, of course, and the enemies long gone.” But she narrows her eyes.

Jesse so longs to ask,
Define dangerous?
“It all looks spectacularly old.”

The trio saunter on, Alicia and Rory matching Jesse’s slower pace.

“The Normans. Who were they really?” Jesse’s staring at the keep.

“Invaders. Dressed up in fancy rhetoric to justify William stealing the throne and the country, but that’s what they were. It’s the old story: the victors take everything from the original people and murder or enslave all those who stand in their way whilst rewriting history. They were brutal—the times and the men.” Alicia could be speaking to herself.

A quick glance at Jesse’s white face, and Rory taps his watch. “Maybe we should come back and see the inside of the keep another time?”

Jesse’s happy to go, though she tries not to show it. As they walk away, wind ruffles her hair like fingers and she turns to look back. There’s nothing to see. Just an old tower scarred by a thousand years.

Ruin.

The word whispers in her head, like the sound of a quiet sea.

Dear Mum.

That’s not right. Jesse puts the pen down and peers at the fingers
of her left hand; they wrote those innocent words. Correction. Her
brain
wrote the letters. Her brain, not her soul. Or her heart. Habit, that’s all it is.

Jesse gets up. What does she really want to say?

Dear Mum, why didn’t you tell me?

Dear Mum, who are you and who am I?

Dear Mum, who’s my dad?

Dear Mum, WHY?

Jesse knows her parents are suffering as she is suffering, and she knows too that they must have had a reason not to tell her the truth. But this is so hard. All her remembered life, she’s felt like an outsider, so different to look at from her parents. And she thinks of the answer her mum gave when she first asked the question:

But this is the way God wants you to look, Jesse. You were our gift from Him.

Their gift from God. Her parents had sent her to a Catholic parochial school though they were Presbyterians. Now, knowing what she does, Jesse wonders if her real parents were Catholic and this was a gesture to them.

Jesse stares again at the words she’s written. She sits down and leaves the
Dear Mum
, adding,
I’m staying in the borders of England and Scotland and hope to be able to visit Jedburgh soon. Any information you can send would be appreciated. You can address it to me, c/o Post Office, Newton Prior, Northumberland.

What else was there to say?

I’m well
—economical with the truth, that statement—
and looking forward to the future.

No
Give my love to everyone.

No
Hello to Dad.
She signs it with just one word,
Jesse.

19

T
WENTY MINUTES
from Hundredfield and Rory’s Saab idles into the main street of the village of Newton Prior.

“Oh! This is lovely.” Jesse twists in her seat, tries to look everywhere at once. The road is lined with pretty houses of gray stone and opens into a paved square. Window boxes spill flowers and a cheery tearoom has checked curtains in the windows. It’s an unexpectedly sunny day.

“That’s the Beast Market.” Rory points to a graceful building with open sides that stands in the center of the square. “Newton Prior’s still a market town, by the way. Sheep, cattle, and horses—they’re all sold here once a month.” He swings the wheel and the car slides into a parking space. “Pub’s over there.” He waves at an austere building with small windows crowded up beneath the roof. “Quite ancient too, actually. Not as old as Hundredfield, but close.”

“You said there was a post office?”

“You go along the lane beside the church, and that leads into the other end of the shopping street. It’s halfway down.” As he gets out, Rory points.

Jesse stares at the church that takes up most of one side of the square. It has little decoration, and the blunt tower claims the sky as if entitled to the real estate. “That’s old too, isn’t it? Not Saxon, but . . .”

Rory nods as he opens the car door. “Well done, young colonial.”

Jesse just looks at him.

Rory staggers, as if she’s shot him in the heart.

“Pathetic, Dr. Brandon. Just, really . . . pathetic.” But they’re both, finally, smiling.

“
So
, anyway, this whole village basically grew up around a Benedictine priory. Hence the name. And in case you’re wondering, that’s the Church of St. Michael the Archangel. He was always picking fights on behalf of God. Normans must have loved him.”

They peer up at the tower, Jesse shading her eyes.

“It looks like a, well, not quite a castle—more a fortress?” Jess points at the battlements.

“It was violent around here. And local legend says it was built on the site of a Roman temple. Mithras. Another god who rose from the dead—he was a warrior too. Churches were often built on top of the sacred places of other religions.”

“Interesting.” Jesse sneaks a look at her watch. “By the way, what’s the name of the street I should look out for when I come back?”

“Same as this. Silver Street. You won’t get lost. The village is a grid. Keep turning left and you’ll find yourself back here. That’s the Romans for you.”

“Romans?”

He nods. “This was a garrison town in Hadrian’s time.”

“
The
Wall.”

Rory nods. “What about we meet back here in half an hour?”

“An hour might be better.” Jesse doesn’t say why.

“Right. And I’ll introduce you to my mum, and Mack.”

“Mack?”

“My half brother from Mum’s second marriage. He’s a few years younger than me.”

“Okay. Where?”

Rory points at the pub. “My mum’s the licensee; Mack runs the business.”

Jesse stares across the square at the name board of the old gray building. “The Hunt?” She squints, puzzled by what she sees.

“Not the red-coat kind. I’ll let Mack explain.”

“See you in a while.”

He calls after her, “Take things gently. Doctor’s orders.”

Take things gently.
Jesse ponders the indirectness of polite conversation as she lengthens her stride across the square. Her mood lifts. She’s alive and that’s so much better than the alternative.

The façade of the church looms as the tower casts a shadow across her path. Jesse pauses and tips her head back. The archangel’s expression, even after a thousand northern winters, remains severe. Jesse’s tempted to call out,
Cheer up, Mike,
but she doesn’t; she’s trying to be English, and English people don’t talk to statues. She waves instead—when no one’s looking—and walks on.

Trying to be English.
That sets Jesse thinking about what she has to do, and, preoccupied, she looks up to find she’s almost walked the length of the other end of the shopping street. She turns around. There’s the post office, a modest building of red brick squashed between a cake shop and a boutique, and even here, in this tiny place, “the wedding” lurks.

On one side of the post office there’s a towering cake in the window, with
CHARLES & DIANA, LOYAL CONGRATULATIONS FROM NEWTON PRIOR
written in icing around a pair of glass-eyed figurines. On the other, a dummy wears a face mask of Diana, plus a blond wig and a tiara, and sports a gown so fussy—such a froth of lace and bows and frills—it might stand up by itself.

The dress cheers Jesse up. She likes the way the whole country has embraced the story of an obscure, blushing girl being made
into a princess with the wave of a royal wand. A genuine fairy tale, coming to life, right here, right now.

But fairy tales aren’t real. Jesse’s turned her back on the only family she’s ever known in search of—what? Truth, not fantasy. Shocking, unwelcome, but still the truth.

She stares at the small blue rectangle in her hand. She wrote the address without a wobble; now all she has to do is post it.

Jesse draws curious looks as she stares at the red letter box. Then, as if wet, she shakes herself and drops the lettergram through the slot.

What will they think when they open it?
Too late now.
She looks up and down the street. “Excuse me.” A woman with too many shopping bags pauses. Jesse picked her because she has a nice face. “Sorry, but could you tell me where the library is?”

The library is a 1960s building and very ugly. A brutal concrete box that’s someone’s idea of a suitable prison for books. It’s as if the knowledge and wisdom trapped inside are medicines—things you swallow to make you better even if you hate the taste.

Jesse walks through the tricky revolving door—it snatches at her skirt—and in the foyer is the ghost of wet winter coats and the dank sense of mold growing somewhere out of sight.

“Do you keep copies of past phone books here?”

The girl behind the
INFORMATION
sign draws her cardigan close, as if Jesse’s brought a cold breeze inside. “How far back?” She starts to cough and, hunching, turns away.

Jesse has the odd feeling the paroxysm’s her fault. “The midfifties? I want to find a family who may have lived somewhere in the borders area. Have to start somewhere.” She smiles apologetically.

The girl coughs again, shakes her head. “Stacks.”

“What?”

“The stacks. In the stacks. Phone books from then.” A cascade of hacking barks.

Jesse winces.

Breathing in gasps, the girl pushes a form across the desk. “We . . . can . . . get . . . them . . . in a few days. Different building.” The last words tumble out. She offers a pen. “Years. Which ones?”

Jesse starts to fill in her name and then realizes she doesn’t have Hundredfield’s number as a contact. “I’m staying locally but I don’t have the number of my host.”