Wild Wood (29 page)

“Remember the movie; this is your movie.”

She moves her head from side to side. “I don’t like this.”

“No need to worry, no need to feel anxious. Can you draw what you see?”

Her face clears. “Yes.” She starts to sketch, the strokes quick and confident.

Rory watches. His eyes widen.

26

W
HAT HAPPENED?”
Jesse sits up in the chair, blinking. “That felt different.”

“In what way?”

Jesse’s focus shifts as she tries to catch something elusive. “Just . . .” She struggles. “It wasn’t very happy, was it? At the end, I mean. In the beginning it was different.” She doesn’t want to tell him what she felt then—that sense of tenderness, of love without boundaries. It’s too precious to talk about.

“You became a little anxious so I brought you out earlier than I’d planned. We made progress, though.”

“Oh?” Jesse’s not sure. It feels like she’s walking an emotional high wire between light and dark.

“I want to show you something. Two somethings.” He hands her the sketches. And watches.

Jesse stares at the woman’s face first. Her eyes soften as she touches the paper.

“How does this make you feel, Jesse?”

“Happy. If she’s an anomaly, I’m glad.”

“And this?” Rory gives her the second drawing.

“I . . .” She hesitates. “I don’t know what it is.”

Rory waits.

“Is it a crucifix?” Jesse rations the words. “He looks real, though. Like he’s a real person.”

A quick glance at Rory, and she puts the image down, picking up the first drawing again. “But this . . .”

“This?” Rory speaks softly.

Jesse shakes her head. She knows. She really does. This is the woman she dreams about, the one who was there when she was on the ventilator.

“What do you think of when you look at her, Jesse?”

There’s a jolt. “It’s hard to put into words.” That’s true.
How do I say I know this face?

Rory doesn’t push her. “Would you be okay with me showing the sketches to Alicia?”

“Why?”

“Maybe she can help. She knows the history of Hundredfield better than anyone. Since you’ve drawn them here, they might mean something to her.”

Jesse thinks about that. And nods. “But if you don’t mind, I think I need some air.” She gets up and almost stumbles toward the door, as if her legs have gone to sleep.

Rory waits a moment before he strolls across to the windows. Minutes later, Jesse walks along the terrace outside. She doesn’t notice him. He watches her until she’s out of sight and goes back to the table. Picking up the drawing, he tries to make sense of what he sees.

It looks like a man but . . . not really. He’s the wrong color and he’s in the air. He’s shining!

He stares at the tape recorder, flicks rewind.

Gibberish chatters as the tape goes backward. He’s watching the counter. Abruptly he hits
STOP
, and then
PLAY
.

This girl is not your servant. You may not command her as you wish to do. I shall not permit that.

Rory hits
STOP
again. He stares at his notes and writes,
Who are you, Jesse Marley?

She stares into the sky, right in the eye of the sun. When she drops her head, black dots obscure the world. A hand over her face, Jesse walks, just walks, trying not to think, staring at the ground as it slowly turns into what it should be, the cobbles of the inner ward as the ground begins to rise.

Jesse stops. She’s come farther than she thought. In her cloud of unknowing, she’s begun to climb the path to the keep. She drew this view in the hospital, and the new sketch of the woman with the tower behind her seems to be of this same place.

Clear, cloudless sunlight mocks Jesse’s confusion—it warms the stone of the keep, makes it normal. Jesse shades her eyes. “You’re just a battered old building, you.”

Ahead, a gate leads to the tower and, on the other side, the stairs—and the door in the wall.

Jesse’s feet take responsibility.

There’s the path right under the gate, walk further, climb the stairs. Only the handle now.

It’s a bird’s-eye view somehow when her hand stretches out and hovers.

Jesse snatches it away. It’s a conscious effort—her fingers want to grasp that iron ring.

But
she
does not.

The sun is no longer warm and color has bleached from the day, leaving it flat.

She wants to run.

27

B
AYARD!” MAUGRIS
was behind me in the stair tower.

“You found the girl?”

I nodded. I did not want to say she had found me.

“The child is healthy?”

“Yes.”

He searched my face. “Why did Margaretta hide?”

“She thought the baby would be murdered. I asked her to stay in the chapel.” That at least was true. Before she vanished.

He spoke over me. “What else did she say?”

I rubbed my eyes, no longer able to tell real from unreal. “She spoke nonsense.”

“Tell me what she said!” He grabbed my shoulders.

I struck his hands away. I was no longer the runt of our litter.

Maugris stepped back, breathing hard. So was I.

“She said Flore was . . .” What words did I have?

“Bayard! Tell me.”

I sighed. “She said Flore was known by another name.”

“What does that mean?”

“I do not know. I am repeating what she said, that is all.”

“And?” His tone was dangerous.

“She said Flore was the Lady of the Forest.”

Maugris stood very still. “Well?”

“This
lady
comes when she is needed.” I waved a hand as if to sweep away cobwebs. “And it seems Godefroi’s daughter will bring great fortune, or disaster, to Hundredfield. No telling which. Peasant rubbish.”

“There was more.” Maugris stared at me intently.

I did not know how to read the expression in my brother’s eyes. “Why should you think that?”

“Please, Bayard.” It was like the grating of a key in a lock. My brother never
asked
.

I thought carefully on what Margaretta had said. “The girl told me Flore’s kind do not die, though they seem to. Their bodies vanish after they bear a living child, and they cannot be buried like a Christian woman. The child is always a girl. Make of it what you will.”

Maugris leaned against the wall. “So that is why.” He stopped.

“You
believe
this?”

“Others will, even if we do not. Our mother knew this story. She got it from our father’s old nurse and told it to me—a bedtime tale when I was very young. She said the Forest Lady was the guardian of our family and she would help me when I was frightened in the dark.”

I snorted. “Our mother was a good Christian woman and these are pagan lies.” Why did our mother not tell me of a guardian? I too had feared the night.

Maugris shook his head. “Our father heard her tell me. He struck her for it.”

“Why would he do that?” I was suspicious.

“He was frightened of the priests, that they would burn her as a witch. Our mother cried, and I remember.” Maugris stared at me.

“What?”

“She said she had no daughter and, though it was forbidden,
she must tell her sons if our house was to be saved.” He glanced furtively up and down the stairs.

“You think Margaretta is right.” I was incredulous.

“No. I think it a children’s story. But we have enemies inside and outside Hundredfield. One spark to light a fire, that is all, just one. And if they hear what this girl said to you—”

I interrupted, “An apostate monk and peasants with billhooks. These are our enemies. You fear a monk?”

“A billhook is still a blade. We are few and may be overwhelmed. And in the forest”—Maugris waved at an arrow slit—“they wait. Do you think our household will stand with us in a fight? I do not.”

I stared at my brother. “Our cause is not so hopeless we cannot outthink a rabble, protected by these walls. What have we been doing all these years?”

He said stubbornly, “Matthias refused to bury Flore, and they know why. Margaretta is right. The disaster of this birth can certainly destroy our family, and her prophecy will be fulfilled. That is the spark.” He paused. And sighed. “This child should not survive the winter. Babies are vulnerable, everyone knows that.”

“I will not kill an infant.”

“So scrupulous, Bayard.” He pointed. “In the service of the Percys that hand has murdered—yes,
murdered
—children. I have seen it.”

I flared at him. “This baby is our brother’s daughter. Our
niece,
Maugris.”

“But perhaps it must be done.”

“You do it, then.” I did not want to think he was right. I remembered the little one, staring up at me.

Maugris was silent.

I said, “What happened last night? Where is Flore’s body?”

“Godefroi does not know.” Maugris flexed his neck. And blinked. “He can talk but says he remembers nothing.”

“Yet she must be properly buried. With honor.”

Maugris stared at me, red-eyed. “What do you mean?”

“A coffin with close-packed rocks inside, nailed and sealed over with lead. It shall be buried beside our mother, in her grave.”

“The priest will never agree.” But Maugris straightened and some kind of hope was in his eyes.

“Simeon will not know, and, yes, he will agree for I shall ask him. Politely. Then he will say a Christmas mass and be sent back to the priory. How sad it would be if he was attacked on the road.” I crossed myself.

Maugris absorbed what I said and finally nodded.

“But you must make the coffin, brother.”

“I?” He looked at me, puzzled. I had always obeyed
his
orders.

“Yes. Ambrose left planks in his workshop. It must be done quickly while I talk to the priest. Then there is the grave to be dug—before the burial.”

My brother crossed himself and pounded his chest with a closed fist. “For our sins, Father, we seek forgiveness.”

I muttered, “And with speed.”

As I unlocked the priest’s cell, I said heartily, “Father, it is good you are at Hundredfield on the day of Christ’s birth.”

The man got up from the prie-dieu. His face was pinched and white.

“It is cold in here. I shall have a brazier brought.” Breath was mist on the air.

“That is not necessary. Cold concentrates the mind on God.” Simeon folded his hands into his sleeves. His expression was wary.

“Father, I know your welcome here has been a strange one, but sorrow makes men less courteous than they should be.”

“I have prayed for your family, Lord Bayard, and all here at Hundredfield. God will support your suffering as Christian men.”

“I am grateful. The mass you give to celebrate the birthday of
our Lord and Savior will provide even greater comfort in these dark days.” I crossed my chest.

The priest echoed the gesture fervently. “Amen, Lord Bayard. Amen to that.”

I nodded piously. “Another service is required also, Father, as you know. A private requiem for the Lady Flore must be sung, since she has passed into God’s keeping.”