In a Dark Wood

by Michael Cadnum

  Horses clattered into the courtyard. Geoffrey stood and paced and then forced himself to sit. He could not sit! He was up again. “Who is it?” he called to Hugh.

  Hugh left to find out. By now messengers must have reached the search party. Certainly an army of mounted men would not be hard to track. Geoffrey marched round the room. Certainly his men had not lost themselves in the forest. That was quite impossible. But they should be here by now. Not just a few horses clattering into the castle, but dozens of them.

  He stared at a wedge of cheese and a green apple, both untasted. He picked up the paring knife once again. Even with this little knife, he thought. Even a knife so small could gouge out the tongue of Henry, Henry the faithful, Henry the loyal tanner’s son. Or perhaps Nottingham the executioner would devise some supreme punishment for a man who slept away his duty like a gorged sow.

  Hugh waited at the door and would not come in.

  “What is it?” Geoffrey said.

  “It’s Sir Roger.”

  “Send him here at once. I want to see him.”

  “He can’t come.” Hugh’s voice was peculiar.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Sir Roger is dying!”

  26

  Geoffrey hurried with Hugh into the barracks.

  “It’s his heart,” said the physician.

  “Sir Roger deserves more comfortable quarters than these,” said Geoffrey.

  “He asked to be carried here,” said the physician.

  “Then build a fire,” said the sheriff evenly.

  “We—we don’t want him too warm,” said the physician. “He is too hot and dry as it is.”

  Hugh was struck by the trace of nervousness in the doctor’s manner. The physician was rarely startled or caught without some supple, easy answer.

  Sir Roger put out a hand that was pale and mottled. “God struck me down,” said the old knight. The stricken man’s blouse was spattered with dried peat.

  The sheriff knelt and stroked the old warrior’s brow. “God could feel nothing but love for a warrior like you, good Sir Roger.”

  “Did you catch the jack-in-the-woods, that robber?” asked Sir Roger.

  Geoffrey stood and met Hugh’s eyes. “Not yet,” he said.

  A soul in Purgatory could be released when thirty trentals had been sung. Those who sung these masses were almost always paid for their labor, and it was marvelous that Heaven and Purgatory and even Hell were anchored to this world, as weft and warp are anchored to the frames of the loom. The living souls were the ones that seemed most trapped of all, although perhaps this was a sinful thought.

  The candle flames were like golden eyes, watching him. He closed his eyes and let them watch. He was empty of all deception. He was empty of everything, a man ready to begin his life again, to take orders or be hanged.

  Even as a boy he had felt responsible for things that went wrong. There had been the usual boyhood games, of course, including Geoffrey’s least favorite, Dun’s in the Mire, in which boys grappled a log, trying to pull it from the outer chamber into the sunny courtyard. It was a game that always ended in scrapes and, among the younger boys, tears. Geoffrey had learned not to cry, but he had never been convinced that all that wrestling was anything but a waste of effort. He had enjoyed then what he enjoyed now: being left to look at manuscripts in his father’s library.

  He left the chapel. The drizzle had stained the paving stones, and his footsteps left dry kisses across the courtyard. The castle smelled cold and stony, like a quarry. A fire crackled in his bedchamber, and he gathered the gown round himself, studying the tax numbers idly, the vellum whispering in his fingers.

  Horses thundered into the courtyard.

  “Hugh?”

  As always, the quick response, like a speaking shadow. “My lord?”

  “Have Henry come to me at once.”

  Hugh’s feet made almost no sound on the floor, only the smallest hint of someone passing, the sort of sound a thought makes when the mind turns away from it.

  Geoffrey sliced the apple not because he was hungry but because he wanted to cut something. The seeds were dark, the color of old blood, like the dried blood of Christ Geoffrey had seen once, red-black silt in a silver vial. The scent of apple was in the air.

  Henry knelt.

  Geoffrey set down the paring knife very carefully. It made a metallic chime on the brass plate, a tiny peck of music. Geoffrey stood and walked round Henry as he knelt, unmoving. The man smelled of wet leather and pine needles, a combination like a field during rain. Geoffrey circled Henry once, then returned to his seat.

  Already the apple was losing its whiteness. Brown touched the edges of the white mouth in the fruit, and one of the seeds had slipped from its place, leaving an empty socket, a seed sheath.

  “Not long ago I wanted to have your tongue fed to dogs.”

  Henry did not move, his head bowed.

  “I could think of no punishment harsh enough.”

  Geoffrey picked up the apple and put it down. He waited for his deputy to speak, but the man remained silent, crouched like a man unable to move, doubled like a fist.

  “Stand up so I can see you.”

  Henry rose slowly but would not meet Geoffrey’s eyes.

  “I know what happened,” said Geoffrey. “Robin Hood told me.”

  The very name was magic. Henry cringed and put a hand out to the wall. He shook his head and tried to speak. His voice made a dry croak, like the grunt of a swan.

  “I want to hear your voice.”

  The man shook his head and groped along the wall.

  “Speak to me!” Geoffrey hurled the apple, and the fruit exploded on the opposite wall. The sheriff paced. “I command you to use language.”

  Henry swallowed. He made a noise like a cow lowing in a distant pasture.

  “What?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry!”

  “Terribly sorry.” The man shrank to the floor again.

  “Get up. I don’t like to see you crouching like a frog.”

  Henry stood, but held himself like a man with a cramp.

  “I will tell you what happened, and all you need to do is nod if I am correct. You had a bellyful of ale before you came for your instructions, and a bellyful afterwards, with our good friend the potter. When you woke late the next morning, swollen like a boil, you remembered nothing of my instructions. Am I right?”

  Henry nodded, a kind of spasm. “Hugh woke me.”

  “I can’t hear you when you mumble like a dog.”

  Again a spasm. “Hugh woke me.”

  “Thank God for Hugh. At least I have someone about me I can depend on. And you should be thankful for him, too. If not for Hugh, you might still be asleep!”

  Henry shivered.

  “It’s hard for me to recall when I have been more furious. You are, as a deputy, very nearly worthless. A man of straw would be more useful. At least from such a sack I would expect nothing. I wonder if you deserve the chance to redeem yourself.”

  “Anything I could do,” mumbled Henry.

  “Many sheriffs would have you hanged. Without discussion, without even a syllable, and without a breath of remorse. Your conduct was very nearly traitorous to the king’s will. You know this all too well. You put up a show of duty, but you think about your own skin more than anything else, don’t you, good Henry? There are those good men who would condemn me for talking to you at all. The king himself would probably flay you.” Geoffrey paced. “Well, you must have had mixed feelings when the messenger found you. He’s alive! Wonderful news! Now I can hang!”

  Henry slumped to the floor again.

  “Oh, by the love of Jesus, stand up or I’ll unman you with this apple knife, as surely as I’m a Christian!”

  Henry said something anguished.

  “What?”

  “A terrible disgrace.”

  “Ah, yes. Disgrace. Well, my dear deputy, I have been disgraced, too. And it’s not entirely yo
ur fault. No doubt Robin Hood knew exactly what he was doing when he tilted the pitcher of new ale.” Geoffrey sighed. “I guessed who the potter was. I should have had a better plan.”

  “I’ll do everything in my power to bring you the head of Robin Hood.”

  “No,” said Geoffrey thoughtfully. “I don’t want his head, and I want any of them you catch brought to me alive. I think some special punishment would do them justice, something for Nottingham to discover, something that will make them regret the day of their birth.”

  “We will make them suffer!” said Henry, climbing to his feet.

  “They expect us,” said Geoffrey. “Even now, they are in the forest, listening. Waiting. They may even have spies in this city, watching to see what we do. But we will have no secrets. We will have nothing to hide. You, Henry, will eat, rest.” He did not say “drink.” “And then you will take your best men, not an army. Your best. And you will run them to the ground.”

  27

  Geoffrey put down his slice of simnel. “Why do we have to listen to that ugly noise?”

  “It’s a psalter,” said Lady Eleanor.

  Lady Eleanor’s maid-in-waiting plucked at strings with a quill. She hesitated.

  “I know exactly what it is.”

  “I’m sorry. I wanted music. Please,” she said to the young woman. “We have changed our mind.”

  Since his return Lady Eleanor had been more gentle, and Geoffrey wondered if, in fact, she had been worried about him. She had dressed with great care for their first evening meal together since his reappearance, and the pearls round her neck were lustrous and made gentle clucking noises as they rubbed together, pleased with their own beauty.

  Geoffrey did not like music, except for the music that preceded a disorderly person to prison. A minstrel usually led a miscreant through the streets. This called attention to the punishment and made it all the more shameful.

  “No, you can stay,” said Geoffrey. “I am,” he said to his wife, “perhaps a little tired.”

  “Of course you are. What a dreadful thing to spend a night out there.”

  They were both silent, sensing the forest everywhere round them.

  “How is Sir Roger?” she asked.

  “He is asleep. He is happy in that cold place, surrounded by bucklers and axes and, by now, cursing men. I gave Henry orders. The men will have to curse quietly.”

  Geoffrey became aware of a strange figure at the edge of the firelight. The figure wore a metal bowl over its head and held a long, crooked staff. The figure was evidently on guard, watching over the meal. Geoffrey asked the server, “Who is that?”

  The server met Eleanor’s eye. “That,” said Lady Eleanor, “is the Fool.”

  “Why is he wearing that pot on his head?”

  “It’s not a pot.”

  “Why, it is a pot! An insult in my own dining hall!”

  “It’s not a pot; it’s a metal bowl. Please do sit down. I’ll send him away.”

  “No, don’t send him away.”

  “Geoffrey, you are behaving in a very strange manner.”

  “Strange! Then at last I am in a mood to enjoy the Fool’s company. Come forward, good Fool, and let me see you.”

  The Fool marched to Geoffrey’s side.

  “Yes, just like a man-at-arms. A lance, or is it supposed to be a langue de boeuf? That would be a weapon for you, my dear Fool, a spear with a tongue at the end for the easy removal of your opponent’s liver. And a helmet, missing, of course, the noseguard that keeps a point from reaching your brain by way of your face.”

  The Fool knelt, so quickly and so quietly it seemed a genuine apology for upsetting the sheriff.

  “Go!” said Lady Eleanor to the Fool. “Geoffrey, please have some more wine.”

  “No, stay, Fool. You find helmets and lances something amusing, or perhaps it’s me you find ridiculous, held like a stolen ewe in the greenwood, with a band of greasy thieves, waiting for my throat to be cut.”

  “Geoffrey, please.”

  “I’m ready to laugh! Ha-ha! See how I’m laughing!”

  “Geoffrey,” his wife said, her voice a hard whisper. “I will not allow this!”

  “Everyone finds the Fool amusing except me. I intend to be amused. I intend to be cheated out of my awareness of the world until I laugh, and why not? In my own household, a man in my castle among men.”

  “You are amusing me,” said his wife shortly. “I laugh to see the lord high sheriff in such a good humor, such high spleen, such a dry and heavy-handed fool himself.”

  Geoffrey gripped a silver goblet until it closed in on itself. He said softly, “I have long wanted to see if the Fool has a tongue. This is the night my wondering will cease!”

  Lady Eleanor’s eyes were fierce. “Geoffrey!” she said. “The Fool is your servant!”

  Geoffrey strode across the hall and stormed down one corridor, and then another, through darkness and candlelight, until he stood at last at the top of the East Tower, the wind streaming through his hair. Where is there a capable servant for me! he thought. Where is there someone who can do my bidding, even if it’s simply to talk!

  Chain mail jingled, and Geoffrey was aware that he was not alone on the tower. “Good evening, my lord,” said the spearman.

  “It’s a cold night,” said Geoffrey.

  “So it is, my lord,” said the guard, using the local swa for so. “And more to come.”

  “Yes,” said Geoffrey, as if he knew.

  “But tomorrow we’ll catch Robin Hood that lives in greenwood and drag him hither.”

  The burls and thorns of the man’s speech calmed Geoffrey. “I am glad to hear it.”

  “What is he but a man, and a mortal man at that? He’ll not last, though the people say he’ll hide until Judgment Day. Trust a man who’s seen many a thief at the end of a lance, some breathing, some not. A smart rabbit, my lord, is nothing but a rabbit.”

  Geoffrey felt his way down the steps of the tower. He bumped someone, and a body fell with a gasp.

  “Hugh!”

  “I was looking for you.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, my lord.”

  They groped their way down a corridor. “Don’t you want to hear what happened?”

  “My lord?”

  “Don’t you want to hear what happened in the forest, with Robin Hood? Everyone wants to know, but everyone is afraid to ask.”

  “What happened?”

  Geoffrey laughed. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I ate king’s venison and drank good wine. And then they let me go.” But as he said it, it sounded worse than torture, worse than injury. It made a mockery of hospitality and made mock of all hosts and all guests, everywhere.

  Hugh’s cheeks burned with gratification: the sheriff was confiding in him! But other emotions seethed within Hugh as well: embarrassment at the treatment the lord sheriff had received. Anger. And determination.

  It was a heady thought, one Hugh would not have put into words. He was, after all, only a greaver’s son.

  But some sunny morning Hugh would make Robin pay for his crime against the sheriff.

  28

  “I fear the worst,” said Geoffrey as Hugh fastened his rowel spurs. “Sir Roger is too peaceful. His vital virtue has fled.”

  Hugh was shocked at his own speech: “I want to ride with you.”

  “This is not sport, Hugh.” And then the sheriff himself was surprised. “How can you learn if you stay in the castle today?” But your safety is a weight I carry, Geoffrey wanted to say. Your life is mine to protect. “Perhaps the two of us together can make Henry feel his duty.”

  The blacksmith worked at his anvil, using the hammer with a long, tapering point and a blunt, squared face. This face flattened the red slug of iron. Red sparks kissed the leather apron. The smell of hot iron was the smell of power flowering into frailty. The definite and concrete were becoming fluid.

  “We will ride
with you,” said Geoffrey. “At least part of the way.”

  Henry tugged at his belt and looked down.

  “I mean no criticism. I thought I could help.”

  “We will be proud to have your assistance, my lord.”

  Henry had organized a dozen men, sturdy, helmeted, and doomed to fail. Geoffrey surveyed them with satisfaction. He must try to catch the highwayman. It was his duty. And perhaps, although he did not expect it, they might blunder into Robin Hood. It was not impossible.

  Boys played in the marketplace, using sticks with strings attached to set tops spinning. The dark shapes like turnips wended between the stalls until they reached the feet of a haggler, rolled, and fell still. This seemed to be the point of the game, and the people in the market seemed not to mind it, as if boyhood were a nuisance that would pass on its own, like flies, and could be endured until time did its work.

  The day was bright, and the wind cold. Oxen fed in the common land, the wetland reserved for grazing because it was too muddy for anything else. The beasts grazed, great four-legged outcrops of earth carved to resemble animals.

  A few tufts of clouds dirtied the sky, and the horizon was a crisp line of earth and sky, like vellum newly torn, still shaggy where fiber had not worn. The High Way was wrinkled with cart tracks. Grass made the sound of men walking through the fields, although it was only the wind. The wild grain nodded and stood erect again.

  “Here,” said Geoffrey at last. “This is where we left the High Way.”

  “Horses will be a burden in there,” said one of the men, whose green tunic showed him to be one of the king’s foresters.

  “A horseman is by his nature more powerful than a footman,” said Henry.