Wild Wood (23 page)

Mack bangs her between the shoulder blades.

Jesse shakes her head as the paroxysm subsides, and with one more thump, Mack scales back the assault.

Rory murmurs, “Did I tell you about the broken clavicle?” He points the soup spoon at Jesse’s sling.

Mack’s horrified. “
So
sorry! Really, I—”

She manages the facsimile of a grin. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Poor Mack. He’s scarlet.

“I’m a doctor. All will be well.” The glint in Rory’s eye is wicked.

“Well, if you’re sure you’re okay, I’ll . . .” Mack bumbles toward the door.

“That wasn’t very kind.”

Rory contemplates the rest of the soup with interest. “No one ever said I was.”

The lunchtime crowd is thinning as Rory shepherds Jesse through the bar. “There she is. Mum!” He waves.

A handsome woman somewhere in her later forties stands behind the cash register.

Now that’s a smile,
thinks Jesse, as Rory’s mum leaves her customers and hurries to her son.

“Mack said you were here, but”—those bright eyes glide to Jesse’s face—“I didn’t want to disturb.”

Rory puts an arm around his mother’s shoulders. “We’ll be at Hundredfield for a couple of weeks, Mum, so I just wanted to say hello and—”

Helen interrupts, “Alicia’s not with you? We haven’t seen each other in, oh, ages.”

“I asked her to come, but she apologized. Things to do.”

“That’s Hundredfield for you. Eats you up, that place.” Helen touches Rory on the arm. “Come and have dinner while you’re here. Give me a call.”

Jesse clears her throat.

“Of course! Mum, I should have introduced you properly. So, this is Jesse. Jesse Marley.” It’s rare for Rory to be flustered.

“Nice to meet you.” Helen Brandon holds her hand out and Jesse goes to grasp it.

But Helen swings to point at the growing queue stacking up around the register. “Rachel!”

It’s odd to be left standing with an outstretched hand.

“Sorry. You’re a patient, I gather?” Those cool eyes assess Jesse quite blatantly.

How did you know that?
“Yes. I’m recovering from an accident.” Jesse lifts the sling slightly. She feels foolish. As if she’s pretending. “But I’m researching too, while I’m here.”

“We have a very rich history in the borders, of course.” Helen’s tone says she’s only mildly interested; she’s had history conversations with tourists countless times.

“Yes. In fact, at the library they said I should talk to you.”

“Oh?” Helen’s sweeping the busy room with her eyes. “Rory, d’you know where Mack is?”

Jesse feels like she’s talking to the wind. “I’m looking for my birth parents, actually. I was told you’re an expert in local history?”

“Really?” Helen puts her head to one side when she turns back. She doesn’t say she’s not. “What’s your family name?”

“Green.”

“There was only one lot of garlic prawns. You’ve overcharged us.” A man’s voice, quite aggressive, cuts through.

“Please do excuse me.” A duck of the head, and Helen strides away to the cash register.

Rory glances at the embarrassed girl beside him. “Um, sorry about that.”

“It’s fine. She’s busy.” But Jesse’s perplexed. Was she just snubbed?

They watch Helen dispensing efficient charm as she takes money and provides receipts as Rachel’s banished to clearing tables. Outside, rain assaults the windows of the pub, blurring the view of the Beast Market.

“I can drive the car to the front door if you’d like?” Sometime in the past, a cast-iron-and-glass portico has been added to the ancient building.

Jesse’s look is sardonic. “I’m not going to melt, Rory. It’s just a bit of water.”

“Okay. One, two, three,
go
!” He rushes her from the pub to the car but, in haste, drops the keys in a puddle, and they’re both wet by the time they fall into the front seats.

“Been a top day for me so far, I’d say. What about you?”

“Excellent.” Jesse is just as good at irony.

20

T
ELL THEM
I have ridden to the village—if they ask.” Foot in the stirrup, I swung a leg over the stallion’s back.

Hurrying to saddle the mare I had asked for, Dikon nodded. He did not look at me.

I punched him lightly on the arm. “I have friends there, boy. And it is the season for a little, ah, joy.” He would think I was visiting Rosa. If I did not return before dawn, the lie might win me time.

But Dikon’s manners were good. He did not ask why the extra horse was needed if I was visiting “friends.”

I threw him a groat and, nudging Helios forward, gathered the pack rein so the mare walked close behind.

The portcullis was raised for me, and once across the river, I booted the stallion to a fast canter and allowed the mare more room on the rein. Helios had left the stable with bad grace, but the night air woke him and now he ran willingly enough.

Not one light shone from the houses as we rushed through the village; we were gone so fast only a lone dog heard us pass. But as he barked, another joined in and then another, until it seemed a
pack of wolves howled on our scent. Most would be chained. Most. But those that were not, we could outrun. Dogs did not worry me. My concern was that I was one man alone, riding at night. One man against a pack of wolf heads and runaways who hated the Dieudonné; if they were there. If they heard me.

The ride was a blur. Where the path was clear, I pushed both animals to speeds I knew were foolish. I did not allow myself to think I would fail. I could not fail.

Not fail. Not fail. Not fail.
The words were beaten out by the rhythm of the hooves, and I do not know if one hour or two passed before I saw the priory wall. When I reined to a stop, plainchant came to me through the frozen air. The monks must be singing lauds. There was still time.

“Open!” I beat on the closed gate with my fist. The mailed glove struck hard.

Wind, as it came and went, swept men’s voices closer and then away, but none answered the summons.

“Open. Or I will destroy the door.” That was presumptuous. I did not have the means or the intention; it was good the brothers did not know that.

The cover of a barred port slid back, and a face peered out. The boy was young. And frightened. “Sir, I cannot let you in. The brothers are—”

I leaned down from my horse. “Fetch the prior, boy. Tell him Bayard de Dieudonné is here. And if he does not come quickly, tell him my brother is close behind with his men. Lord Godefroi. Be sure and tell him both our names.”

The boy gasped and the door port closed with a slam.

The horses stamped in the cold, steam rising from their hides. If the prior did not come soon, it might truly mean I must find a way of breaking the door down.

“What do you want?” The port had creaked open again and light shone through. This was a very different face. The size and
shape of the risen moon, it seemed to me the prior was too well fed to be a holy man.

“Prior.” I bowed from the saddle. “Hundredfield has need of a priest.” Helios was cooling and I spurred him in a tight circle, dragging the mare behind.

“Father Matthias has the cure of souls at the castle.” The man did not look at me.

I spoke politely. “Perhaps the novice did not tell you my name. I am Bayard de Dieudonné, brother of the lord of Hundredfield. I regret to tell you that the man you speak of is a thief. He despoiled the altar that was in his charge.” I crossed myself. “If those holy furnishings are returned to me tonight, and if you provide me with another priest, perhaps he will escape with his life.” I shrugged.

The voice of the prior wavered. “I do not understand what you are talking about. Evil is truly abroad in these hard times, but your soul must be corrupted for you to slander a servant of God in this way. I cannot grant the services of another priest while . . .”

So, Matthias had told the prior.

I jumped from the saddle and launched myself at the port, shoving my hand through too quickly for the man to duck. “My brother asks for your help, and he does so courteously. Whatever you might have heard, it is your obligation to provide our house with a priest. If you do not, the endowment of this priory will be removed immediately and given to others more prepared to provide these sacred duties.” I squeezed my hand around his throat and with the other put the prick of my dagger beside an eye. “I have been out of my bed for a very, very long time, Prior. Perhaps, from exhaustion, my hand will slip. That would be sad.” Another squeeze and the man gurgled. He could not speak, but I heard a chain rattle and felt the door move.

I was never so quick in my life. The prior might be white lard, but he was a big man and perhaps some muscle still hid in those arms; he might try to slam the door on the hand that held the knife.

A neat twist, however, and I was through; and this time, though I dropped the grip on the prior’s throat, I had the steel at his kidneys and an arm around his neck.

I said politely, “Perhaps I should meet the candidate you will propose. Just to be certain he is suitable.”

That white face flushed. Moonlight made it black. “The bishop at Durham—”

“—is a personal friend of my family, as is the king in London. Perhaps, if it worries you, you may also enjoy a conversation with the warden of the East March? Baron Percy is our liege lord, and therefore yours.”

“My allegiance is to Rome. Only the pope is my mortal overlord.” A flash of courage.

I allowed myself to yawn. “I should counsel you, Prior. There is a choice here: provide me with an obedient priest and return the furnishings of our altar, and you and the priory will not be harmed. Disobey me in this, and I will call my brother and his men. And perhaps you will die, as will Matthias. I warned him of this; perhaps he did not properly convey the caution.” The point of the knife was sharp and cut through the man’s habit. I allowed it to sink into the fat of his lower back, though only a little way.

The prior gasped. “By these actions you damn yourself.”

I was weary. “Lord Godefroi, as you know from Matthias, is not a reasonable man. Neither am I, though, perhaps, I am kinder than he. And dead men have nothing to say. Do not forget that.”

The prior stood very still. “I will instruct my novice.” The remark was measured, the tone cold as ice on bone. I heard some of what was said between them, though he spoke softly to the boy; “box” was mentioned and “in my cell.”

I permitted the prior to dismiss the child, but I called out as he hurried away, “One moment.”

The boy quivered where he stood, his eyes large as a cat’s. I did not like to frighten children and said gently, “Your brothers should stay in the chapel. They will be safer there.”

The boy nodded, and with one wild glance he ran; skinny legs flickered white as the habit flew up.

We waited. At first the prior held himself rigid and still as a tree, but lack of muscle let him down. So did fear of the knife in my hand. Soon he began to tremble, and his sweat, rank and doglike, drowned the air we both breathed. But I was used to sweat and said conversationally, “You made the right choice, Prior.”

Two dark shapes hurried toward us, one small, one larger, and I could no longer hear the service being sung.

The taller was a young man and properly thin. His expression too was mild and certainly anxious. I saw he stumbled under the weight of the large wooden box he carried.

I made shooing motions to the boy. “Back to your prayers.”

A glance at the prior, and the child scurried away.

I addressed the priest. “Can you ride?”

The man swallowed, his eyes on the prior. “No. That is to say, not well.”

“Then I am the man to teach you. Tell me your name.”

“I am called Simeon.” He controlled the quaver quite well.

“Father Simeon, my brothers—Lord Godefroi and Lord Maugris—will be pleased to welcome you to Hundredfield as our new priest. As shall I.” Perhaps I was too pleasant.

The prior muttered, “No priest can save your family.”

I stared at the man and he dropped his eyes as I hustled Simeon through the gate. Outside, the mare had wandered a little way, cropping what fodder there was. I grabbed her reins and got her to stand.