Wild Wood (4 page)

Maugris held up one hand, palm out.
Wait.

Time passed—long or short I am not sure. Should I speak to him? His face held no expression, though he inspected the mist as if quartering ground. And he had drawn his sword.

When I caught his eye, he nodded.

I signaled,
Weapons, draw!
And wrenched Helios around, facing him back to where we had come. Now I commanded the front of our troop. Behind, I heard the men. I did not look back. They would be massed in lines, four wide—swords to the front, archers at the rear.

Maugris called out, “Nock!”

A stretching creak as the bows were bent.

Standing in my stirrups, I heard a single horse. Running too fast, a half-seen shape cannoned from the fog. Rauf. “They come!”

Maugris bellowed, “Now!”

I spurred Helios as Rauf wheeled his horse and the men at our backs screamed the challenge.

It was answered.

Fury tore the fog to rags, for as we charged and arrows striped the air, we saw them. Men in filthy plaid on horses half the height of ours. They came at us like wolves, teeth bared to tear our throats out.

But I did not doubt my stallion. Strength and speed and heart would scatter the reivers after the arrows, falling as knives, did their work.

Man, horse, sword, ax—as the mist cleared we saw the truth. The Scots rabble had pursued us too fast, for we were more than they, and better trained; all they had to throw upon the field were their lives and their fury. Neither would be enough.

Snow had begun to fall—snow on this first day of summer—and sight became uncertain. But Maugris cut the sinews of a pony as its rider lunged for me, and therefore I did not die; I took the
man’s face off from the side. Perhaps he was their chieftain, for seeing him fall, the clansmen scattered. As last blood flew from the blades, the snow, as it settled, turned pink. That startled me. In the pleasance at Hundredfield, my mother had roses of the same delicate hue.

Distracted, I did not see the man with the ax. He came up behind and got a slash away, low and wide.

I twisted, too slow, and we saw each other clear as the face of Christ. This was the man from the fort; bristles sprouted in a circle where hair had been scraped away at the top of his skull.

A monk had tried to kill me.

“Hah!” Maugris. His sword came down between the priest and me. A chance blow, it should have killed him, but it sank into the pony’s neck.

The animal screamed and fell, and snow hid the monk as he ran.

“Bayard?” Maugris circled his horse. “Rauf! Over here.”

Slumped over the pommel, I raised a hand. “No need.”

Rauf waved. He was busy, though few Scots still stood.

Breathing against the pain, I heard the last of the reivers scream.

I did not think I was wounded for the mail I wore was of good quality, and the blow to my ribs seemed more a bruise than a cut. But as Maugris and Rauf gathered our men from the field, the leather under the rings become wet as blood seeped from my chest into my breeches and boots.

I did not tell Maugris.

Soon enough, the blizzard turned corpses to lumps on the ground as we rode to find shelter. But I was weak and, riding behind the men, fell from the stallion’s back.

Maugris found me, and that was a strange thing. Too weak to save myself, I had dropped into a drift as the dark busied itself in weaving me a thick, white shroud. . . .

3

T
HE SOUNDS
come first. Rhythmic. Hush in, hush out.

I can’t breathe!

But she can. Something is breathing for her.

“Jesse, it’s okay.” That hand on her arm. She feels it. If she tries really hard, she
can
open her eyes. But the world has become an odd place. As if she’s under the sea, air thick as water.
What does that mean?

Jesse tries to ask the question. Nothing. No sound at all.

He swims into her sight, the man with the chestnut hair.

“There’s a tube down your throat, Jesse. It’s taking air and oxygen straight into your lungs and bypassing your vocal cords. That’s why you can’t talk.” He pats something out of her line of vision. “It’s attached to this. And if you feel strange, we’re administering a sedative while you’re on the ventilator. You had a seizure as your head wound was being cleaned. Now we want you to rest, and . . .”

Head wound? Seizure?
Ventilator?

“Nurse?” He can see Jesse’s panic.

Someone else wades closer.

“Good to see you looking so much better, Miss Marley.” She’s
sympathetic too. They do a nice line in that here. “When you’re a bit stronger, I’ll give you a pad to write on. You can ask questions.” A bright smile, almost a flourish.

Now. Give it to me now!
But when Jesse tries to move her writing hand, it all goes to shit. Pain mauls her shoulder. She wants to scream. She really, really wants to scream.

The shape of the woman wavers, but Jesse hears voices. His and hers. That strange effect again. As if she can see the words. Something about getting a sling for the arm and . . .

Awake?

Eyes open by themselves. Tube still there. Surrounding situation normal—where normal means machines and beds and unconscious people.

Jesse still feels like she’s under the sea, and the drip is dredging odd stuff from somewhere deep. Even now, there’s . . . something not quite gone. A woman. Just her face, and not all of that.

Eyes. And veiling around the head—like a nun.

Jesse turns her head from that stare. Not easy. Intense. Direct. Words like that. But, what? Kind too. The nuns at her school were tough.
Kind
was never the word.

Pain sweeps the nun away as a thumping, red stutter settles in behind her temples. Jesse snaps her eyes closed, screws them tight. After a time—minutes, hours, seconds—who can tell, not her—she opens up to the light again and there, as promised, is a notepad and a pen. She tries to grab them, but a sling is in the way and something like a cattle prod belts her right hand when she tries to move it.

That leaves the left.

It’s just stupidly difficult to reach across her own body as the wash of pain recedes, but Jesse perseveres. Time stretches out, and writing
No machine
seems like the work of hours. At last she has enough actual letters on the page, but . . .

It’s depressing. They wobble everywhere; even she can’t understand what they say.

“You’re awake. Excellent.” He’s back, the doctor, shining and healthy and fit.

Jesse bumps her left hand against the notepad.

“Oh. Let me see.” He picks the pad up. Tries not to look confused.

She can’t point properly, but it’s an indication. The machine. Tries to mime cutting her throat.

Those benign eyes snap focus. “Jesse, we can certainly help if you’re feeling depressed.” He pats the machine like a friend. “Everyone finds it hard to adapt at the beginning. We hope you feel you can persevere. It’s easier if you just let go.”

Hah! You try.

Jesse tries to breathe deep, but the machine won’t let her, counting out each ration of air, doling out oxygen like she should be grateful.

The doctor nods encouragement. “Mr. Bynge is your specialist. He’ll see you on his rounds today. If everything settles down”—the doctor doesn’t quite look at her—“we could start weaning you off the ventilator in a day or so. We need to be sure you can support your own breathing without undue stress.”

Wean? Settle down? What?

The nurse arrives. A big smile. And one offered to the doctor too. Bigger. “Hello, Jesse.”

What happened to Miss Marley?
Jesse feels weirdly aggrieved.

“Nurse, would you page me when Mr. Bynge arrives?”

“Certainly, Doctor.”

That’s a breathy giggle.

The nurse sneaks a glance as the doctor walks away. Turning back to the ventilator, she even stifles a sigh.

Jesse would laugh if she could. Not unkindly. Just from . . . what?

“Temperature time.” Default-bright, the nurse slides a thermometer
into Jesse’s armpit, an unasked-for intimacy. “Blood pressure next.” She picks up a cuff. She’s got a lot of observations to get through. “This is all perfectly standard, by the way. Good obs and we’re so much closer to getting you out of the ICU.” She takes out the thermometer, makes a note, picks up the left arm.

Jesse stares at the ceiling. It’s not interesting. Her eyelids droop.

What if the machine stops?
Her eyes jerk open.

The nurse looks up sharply as the air deflates from the cuff. “All done.” Another note, and the clipboard is dropped on the end rail of the bed. “You can trust your ventilator, Jesse. Utterly. It will never fail you. It’s stronger than your own heart, and my charts say yours is excellent. What good fortune.”

Now that is a genuine smile
.

Jesse watches the nurse as she goes to the next bed. When Jesse thinks about it, she is more than lucky.

George might have killed her. But he didn’t. She’s here for a reason. Must be.

She closes her eyes. That nun’s there again.

Jesse sighs. It’s not a problem, she’s not doing any harm. . . .

“Your progress is excellent, Miss Marley. A model patient in every respect.” Thus says the specialist from central casting. Black hair, discreetly gray at the temples, tanned skin. Expensive suit.

Glad I’m not paying for that,
thinks Jesse. But she’s sitting up and feeling better.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Dr., er, Brandon?” The specialist is vague with the neurological registrar’s name.

“I would, Mr. Bynge. Excellent. The very word.”

So that’s his name!
Jesse watches the younger doctor smile. Everyone else around the bed is smiling too: specialist, two nurses, the ward sister, and all the students clustered in a neat fan around the great man. Concentrated benevolence, and all aimed at her like the beam of a flashlight.

Jesse narrows her eyes. Four days in this place and she’s had enough. She pulls the pad over and, though it hurts, forces her hand to write,
Machine?
Even she can read what she’s written; that’s something.

“I’d say we can start weaning you off it from today.” A charming smile—well, crinkles around the eyes—and off goes Mr. Bynge.

Jesse’s not quick enough to ask another question. The mob breaks up and throngs after the surgeon, fluttering down around the next bed like birds in from the sea. She’d sigh if she could, but not in a resigned way. It’s hard staying alert, hard fighting the sedative in the drip. Off guard for even a moment and hazy dreams well up behind her eyes.

“Back again.” Dr. Brandon stands at the end of the bed.

Jesse picks up the pen and manages,
Machine go?

“Much better!” Dr. Brandon beams. He points at the pad. “Your writing.”

To grind her teeth right now would be satisfying. But like a cart horse trying to clear a fence, Jesse struggles for liftoff. What is it? What . . .

The thought appears, fully formed.
I do feel better.
She smiles.

“Now that really is good. We like it when you smile.” His own grin is charming.

Jesse’s not for distracting today. She labors with the pen, and Dr. Brandon watches with interest. He peers at the page when she’s finished and reads out loud, “ ‘ICU. Why?’ ”

She nods. He’s professionally kind, but there’s something else in those eyes as well. Detachment. That’s it. In the end, the patient is just an amateur operative in this world; he’s the professional, the keeper of the keys of knowledge.

“Do you mind?” He waves at the chair beside the bed.

Jesse waves back.
Knock yourself out.
Unintended interior pun.

He taps his skull above one ear. “So, your fracture was a minor one. Do you remember I told you that?”

Jesse nods. His expression is neutral. She distrusts neutral.

“The treatment for a simple fracture is not complicated: clean the wound, apply cold compresses, control the swelling with medication if required, and observe the patient for a day or so.” He pauses. “And if we diagnose concussion also, strict observation, two hourly, is mandatory. We check really, really thoroughly that we haven’t missed anything: fragments of bone driven into the lining of the brain as a result of the accident, for instance.” He leans forward slightly. “Was it an accident, by the way?”