Wild Wood (44 page)

“Rory thinks you should rest. He’d like to talk to you later, but only when you’re ready.”

Jesse unwraps the towel carefully. “Alicia, you saw this. Do you know what it is?” Jesse holds up an oval of blackened metal. Light catches the surface and it glints in her hands.

Alicia hesitates. “It’s a face, isn’t it?” She peers at the object. “Can I hold it?”

Jesse nods.

Alicia takes it carefully. She taps the discolored surface. “It might be silver.” Her finger traces the shape of an empty eye socket. “Could it be a mask?”

“It was there, in the water, and . . .”

“You haven’t finished your tea.” Alicia offers the mug.

Obediently, Jesse takes another swallow. “How did it get into the river?”

Alicia’s eyes widen. She stares at Jesse. “I’ll be back.”

Mack’s in the passage outside Jesse’s room. “Can I see how she is?”

Alicia hustles past. “Where’s Rory? Ask him.” She disappears down the passage to her room.

He watches her go. A beat. Then he knocks. “Only me.”

“Come in.”

“I hope you don’t mind.” Mack stops inside the door. “Rory won’t be pleased, but . . .”

“I’m glad you’re here.” Jesse’s face is all eyes and shadows.

It hurts Mack to see her looking so frail. He goes to the bed.

“I know I nearly drowned.”

Mack sits. “Good thing you didn’t.” It’s meant as a joke, but that thought, that Jesse might actually have died, that he might never have seen her again as a living woman, is overwhelming.

Jesse reaches out with her left hand.

He takes it.

“How do I say thank you for my life?” Barely a whisper.

He leans forward. Kisses her gently. “Consider that a down payment.”

“I took this to my room last night and—” Alicia’s returned.

“I’d better go, Mum’ll be stressing.” Mack gets up without haste. “See you soon.”

“When?”

“Soon as . . .”

They’re gazing so intensely at each other, Alicia feels like an intruder.

In the doorway, Mack points at Jesse and mimes calling on the phone. She nods. As the door closes, she slumps against the pillows.

“You need to see something.” Alicia hesitates before she takes her grandfather’s book to the bed. She leafs through the pages. “Here.” She lifts the tissue paper that covers the illustration and turns it around for Jesse to see. “This once stood in the chapel.”

Jesse stares. “Does she have a name?”

Alicia finds the text. “ ‘The Madonna of the River was a more-than-life-size statue of Christ’s mother with Her infant son. She was also referred to as the Mother by local people, and the antiquity of this statue—it is said she was an object of pilgrimage before Norman settlement of the area—is attested by the fact that
the image was carved from crystalline limestone, rather than oak. The Madonna was revered by mothers and childless women, and was also noteworthy for her
silver face and hands
.’ ” Alicia taps the page. The enigmatic disk lies between them on the bed.

“Is there more?”

Alicia continues, “ ‘It was thought these objects may have been crafted in the early medieval period by the Master of the Hundredfield Rood, since the workmanship was similar. The eyes of the Madonna were inlaid with topaz and her hair was gilded copper wire. Over time, the gilding wore away to reveal the color of the metal beneath. This statue is considered one of the great lost treasures of Hundredfield. During the disturbances of the Border Wars, the Madonna disappeared and is believed to have been destroyed.’ ” Alicia looks up from the page. “Do you think . . .”

Jesse’s face is flushed. “What color is topaz?”

“Greeny-blue? It can vary, I think.”

“And she would have looked as if her hair were red?”

Alicia looks down at the page. “Could be.”

Jesse gasps.

“What’s wrong?” Alicia’s seriously concerned by Jesse’s expression.

“Can you find Rory?”

39

T
HE SONG
was a cloud of sound I could almost see.

Outside the sanctuary, it ebbed to nothing. Closer to the altar, the music flowed again. The source was close, and, taking a lit candle from one of the stands, I began to walk the chapel walls.

I came to the Madonna’s alcove. The hangings moved in and out, as if the stone behind were breathing. I pulled them apart. Inside, the doors of the screen stood open and the song grew louder, deep and slow.

From respect, I knelt before the Madonna, Mother of All. Our own mother’s devotion to this image had been great; as a young wife, she had prayed here for children.

The candle flame wavered and I saw another light: a faint line of brilliance in the wall. It should not have been there.

I leaned forward. Panels of oak lined the Madonna’s alcove to the height of my chest, and one was sprung slightly open, as if it were a door; from here, the light shone out.

But the gap was narrow and I used my knife to probe a way to make it wider. All the while, the song seeped through, now soft, now louder, moving like wind over water.

I found a post on which the panel could turn. It was simple enough but clever; no metal in the fittings—this was old work from skilled hands.

Crouching, I used my shoulder to push through, and wavering flame showed a tunnel sloping down to a glowing point. I could not tell how far away that light was, but I opened my arms to judge the space around me. The walls were two handsbreadth wider than my shoulders, with a roof close enough to brush against my head.

From somewhere distant the song came again, the thread that caught and drew me on. And there was something else—a rushing thunder; water, falling from a height.

I moved toward the glow and toward the singer. And as I came out from dark into a firelit space, it seemed a kind of second birth.

In sheer surprise I gaped.

Flames gilding her face, Margaretta sat on a broken plinth among a grove of tall, white pillars; she held the baby close against her chest.

It was the child who sang.

“How long have you been here?” I was not angry. I was awed.

“Since the night of the yule feast. And before that too. After her birth we hid here.”

The baby ceased to sing. She stared at me as the air shivered with the last notes.

Light flared from the fire, and I saw two things. The first was Aviss; he was sleeping on a pile of skins at Margaretta’s feet. The second was a stranger sight.

On all the walls of this cavern were red-handed prints pressed to the rock. Small hands, large hands. They seemed numberless.

“Each hand a woman’s life, or her daughter’s. So many, many lives.”

“What is this place?” I struggled to take in the sight. I wanted to ask where they had come from, all these women.

Standing, Margaretta beckoned.

Deeper in was an opening in the rock. Around it, like the painted border of an arch, a trail of tiny handprints defined the shape. Holding the baby up, Margaretta helped the child stretch out her arm, and as she pressed the palm and fingers against the rock, I saw that both were red.

“These are her sisters. It is your turn now, Bayard.” The baby was staring at me, and so was Margaretta.

“Why?”

“You will see.” She gestured at water seeping through the rock beside a seam of ocher, dark as dried blood, and showed me how to wet my hand for the color.

It seemed some strange blasphemy, but I put my red hand beside the palmprint of Flore’s daughter. In that flame-lit place it seemed to flicker as it dried.

Then I saw.

My handprint, a man’s hand, was so much larger than those of the children, larger still than that of my niece. Fingers like sentinels, it stood as a warning and a protection beside hers. The promise I had made given form.

“I see no other hand like mine.”

“No. You are the first. This is not a place for men.” Carrying the baby, Margaretta bent low to lead me through the narrow way. “This is called the Red Door.”

I followed, though my way through was harder than hers, and I entered a second cavern on my knees like a supplicant. But this was a place of wonder.

In the center of its floor was a dark pool, and a spring welled at its heart. The moving face of the water broke flame into jewels, and at the pool’s farthest lip a stream fell away and disappeared.

“Where does the water go?”

“To the cistern in the stables. And when it floods, to the river through the old moat. It carries offerings from this place, when they are given.”

I looked up and blinked. Above, ribs of stone fanned to form
the roof. It seemed to me the structure must have been made by human hands.

Finally I understood. These caverns lay beneath the floor of the chapel, under the very foundations of the keep.

Margaretta beckoned. “Come closer, lord.”

There was only the sound of falling water, the soft crack of distant fire. I hesitated. Was I afraid of the child?

Margaretta held the baby so the hand marked with ocher could touch my skin. I felt those small fingers explore my face as if my niece were blind.

“Why does she do this?”

Margaretta said, “She is learning.”

“I do not understand.”

The baby drew back into Margaretta’s arms but did not cease to gaze at me.

“Flore brought me to this place before the child was born. And through her daughter, she has brought you here as well. It has always been a refuge in times of need.”

The sense of the child’s touch was still on my skin. “But you have no need to hide in caves, Margaretta. The keep will protect us and—”

“Hate is stronger than any wall.” She bowed her head, and when she raised it, tears were in her eyes. “Flore’s daughter must be given her name.”

“The priest will not christen this baby.”

Margaretta swallowed. “We do not need the priest. She is to be called Felice. Happiness. That is what her mother wanted.”

She held out my niece.

Cradling the infant, I asked, “Why did you do that?”

“Hold her above the pool.”

I hesitated, but did as I was asked.

And Margaretta said, “Mother, can you hear me?”

The baby was untroubled, smiling down at us both from my hands.

And, watching, the flow of the water seemed to ebb.

Margaretta clapped her hands. “We, your children, have returned.”

The stream stopped flowing.

The girl gestured to me.

I saw what she wanted me to do and lowered the baby. Margaretta scooped water from the pool, and her voice grew in power. “Here is your daughter, and we are her guardians. Protect her, Mother. Her name is Felice.”

Yes, it was a blasphemy. But I stood beside Margaretta for Godefroi. And for Flore.

And for Felice.

40

I
RETURNED FROM
the carpenter’s workshop with small pieces of cast-off wood. My nephew was sitting on the floor in the kitchen beside his sleeping sister. He said nothing as he took the blocks I had found for him, and I watched as, with much absorption, he built them up into a tower and knocked them down, then happily started again. When he remembered, he peered at the baby, his face close to hers, as if to be sure she was breathing.

Felice, wrapped tight, looked like a wax effigy as she slept in a fleece-lined box away from the heat of the cooking fires.

“Lord, I must give Aviss his food.” Margaretta lifted her son from the floor and took him to the trestle that served the kitchen as a workbench. The only stool was too high, and too dangerous, for the boy to sit on. She hesitated.

“I can hold him.” My tone was gruff, but she handed me the boy without comment, and Aviss seemed not unhappy. I did not show it, but the child’s trust pleased me.

As Margaretta went, I whispered, “Eat fast, little one.” It was true. I must soon share the board with our men in the hall before
we went back out to the walls, and as the kitchen women were already ladling barley and fish from the largest of the cauldrons into smaller vessels, I knew I had little time.

The child shifted and clapped his hands as his mother returned with a full bowl and a heel of bread. “He is hungry.”

“That is the way with growing children, lord,” she said with downcast eyes.