Wild Wood

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “Being bored’s a good sign.” The nurse pronounces it gude, which Jesse finds charming. “The sore throat will last a few more days, I’m afraid—it’s from the tube. I can ask the doctor to prescribe something if it’s bothering you.” Moving closer, she murmurs, “Would you like a bit of good news?”

  Hope lights up like a sparkler. Jesse says fervently, “Yes, please.”

  The nurse looks around. “I shouldn’t be telling you, but if all goes well with your tests today, you might be back in the real world sooner than you think.”

  “Cross your heart and hope to die?”

  A grin. “Yes. But, only if Dr. Brandon thinks you’re well enough. There. Stuck my neck out.”

  “Hooray!” Jesse tries to throw her arms up. The sling gets in the way and she yelps as her elbow bumps the bedside table.

  The commotion upsets the old lady in the next bed. “What’s going on?”

  “Won’t be a moment, Mrs. Darling. Everything’s fine.” The nurse tries to make Jesse comfortable.

  “It is not. The way this place is run, it’s a disgrace!” The morning-TV presenters are back to shouting again.

  Rolling her eyes, the girl helps Jesse move her right arm back across her body. “Oh. You must have dropped this.” Scooping up the notepad Jesse had in ICU—it’s open on the floor—the nurse goes to hand it back. And pauses. “Is this your drawing?”

  Jesse, eyes closed, is slumped against the pillows. “Can’t draw.” She’s drained and abject.

  The girl says, “It’s very good, though.”

  Jesse opens her eyes.

  The nurse is holding the sketch so Jesse can see. “Amazing detail. Just like a photograph.”

  Jesse shifts uncomfortably. In the sketch, the massive walls of a castle rise tier after tier above a river that defines the base of a hill; above, a brutal tower dominates the site.

  The nurse hands the pad to Jesse. “Try to rest.” She grins. “I know that’s hard. Would you like some earplugs?”

  “Might as well get used to the real world.”

  Even louder, there’s no avoiding the TV now. “. . . and a source at Buckingham Palace has a tip for us. The soon-to-be Princess of Wales has approved final designs for her wedding dress. Woven from silk thread spun by British silkworms.”

  “Silkworms? What’s that?” Juggling the cord on the cumbersome remote, Mrs. Darling presses the volume button with impressive results.

  “. . . Lady Diana has been quoted as saying that she hopes this wonderful fabric will help restore the British . . .”

  Mrs. Darling shouts over the booming presenter, “I can hear it now.”

  Jesse says nothing. She’s staring at the sketch of the castle. Like a tooth that’s loose, she can’t stop worrying the stump of that anxiety one more time. She stares at the picture, really looks at it, as if each detail of the drawing can tell her more than the whole.

  Turning the page over, Jesse clutches the pen in her left hand. Eventually, indecision makes marks on the paper, but the lines are tentative and she screws up her face when she holds the image at a distance. She tries again, but none of her scrawls is anything like the drawing on the other side.

  She mutters, “Useless.”

  “What?” Mrs. Darling leans over between the beds.

  “Nothing. I didn’t say anything.” Jesse rips the page out and drops it in the rubbish bin beside the bed.

  4

  I REMEMBER MAUGRIS calling my name, though his voice was faint, and I had no breath to respond. How he took the ring mail from my body I cannot say, and though he bound my chest with his own shirt, the mouth of the wound was too wide to be closed and I could not ride. All I have left from that night is an image of Rauf trying to light a fire on the snow. I was told later of a litter made from pikes and that Maugris had it slung between Helios and another horse. He tied me in it and wrapped me in his own riding cloak. I do not know why he did not freeze to death.

  With little food but snow, Maugris led our men over three days and nights, where two should have done before I was wounded. But Maugris got us back to Hundredfield. He did not lose one man, not even me, though they told him each day I was dying.

  If I did not die, when I first opened my eyes there was no sound and no light, and it was hot. Terror stopped my breath. My many, many sins had found me out, since I could feel the fires of hell! But night broke like a bowl and I was surprised by the sun. Somewhere, in the dark, I had given up the thought of life, expecting never to feel Sol’s heat on my face again.

  I lay in a curtained bed, and there was Talbot, my coursing hound. He saw me open my eyes and scrambled to lick my face, whimpering. By this I understood I could not be dead; animals are not found in hell, or in heaven, since only men have souls.

  Yet at the edge of sight, two figures stood. Against the sun it seemed they had no substance but light. I watched them for a little time. One, the shorter, leaned to the other as if listening, yet I heard no words. And I was again uncertain. Were these angels?

  “Is this . . . ?” I swallowed. “Am I . . .?” The words hurt my throat.

  The taller figure moved and I saw it was a woman—flesh, not spirit. Sunlight dazzled the silver basin this lady held in her hands and I could not see her face, only that her head was veiled. The other was a girl, her face so pretty and young I almost wept to see such grace, for I had been a long time gone among destruction.

  Turning, the girl touched her companion on the sleeve, and the lady came to the bed. Dressed in ruby velvet, the train of her gown held up in in one hand, she bent close and smiled at me. And I saw she outshone the girl as day obliterates night. Christ’s own mother could not have been more beautiful.

  I heard a voice. My oldest brother, Godefroi, appeared at the chamber door, and his expression was joyous. Many had called Godefroi de Dieudonné cold, and his hand was hard when I was a child, but today we seemed true kin.

  “An honest welcome home at last, dear Bayard. The Lady Flore and I, and Maugris, of course”—I saw him there also—“despaired these many, many days that you might not live. The whole household has prayed for your recovery, and they shall be rewarded by this news. A mass of thanksgiving shall be sung in thanks, but you should know that it was my wife, the Lady Flore, who saved your life. She nursed you devotedly, and without her skill, well . . .” He picked up the red-clad woman’s hand and kissed it. When she turned toward Godefroi, I saw the beginnings of a proud belly beneath her gown.

  Maugris murmured, “We must wish Godefroi and his wife, the Lady Flore, much happiness in their marriage, Bayard.”

  It hurt my chest to force air into my mouth, but I said, “Yes. Blessings to you both.” I hoped my face did not betray me, but I was bewildered. Why had our brother not sent for us to come to his wedding?

  Godefroi leaned down to the pillow and murmured, “We have been married some few months only, and you should know, brother, that my wife does not speak. Or rather, she does not know our language. It was for that reason a small wedding seemed best. However, we understand each other well for the power of God is very great. I am blessed in my wife.” Godefroi straightened and held out his hand. “Come with me, lady.”

  I turned my head on the pillow to watch the pair leave. The girl at the back of the chamber bowed as Flore gave her the bowl and, with returning sense, I saw that I knew her. She was Margaretta, the daughter of Edmund Swinson, Hundredfield’s reeve. I remembered a brother also, Alois, but he had been sent to the brothers at the priory. Our father had sponsored him since the boy was considered clever.

  At the door, Godefroi turned. “Bayard, my wife’s servant will shave your face.” He pointed at Margaretta. “Truly, you would frighten even the Scots with that beard.” The Lady Flore nodded pleasantly as if she understood the joke.

  The girl closed the door, and we three were left alone.

  Godefroi’s chamber was high in the keep, Hundredfield’s great defensive tower, and a gust of wind nudged through the open window, sen
ding smoke from the brazier through the room.

  The girl tried not to cough. “Shall I heat the water, lord?” She nodded at the bowl, her expression timid. “It will not take long on the coals.”

  Maugris spoke for me. Often, this had seemed natural to me. “We must lift my brother first. He will be too weak to sit unaided.”

  I began to protest, but Maugris, smiling, said, “Ignore Lord Bayard, girl. His wits desert him.”

  I let them help me—and was grateful, though I did not show it—and as the shaving water warmed in a firepot, I lay half upright against Godefroi’s pillows, in Godefroi’s bed, and stared around the room I no longer knew.

  This had been our parents’ bedchamber, washed with white lime. The only ornament in their time had been a plain crucifix over the prie-dieu my mother used each morning. The bed had never been curtained, and since so many people slept here each night—our parents, us children on pallets, my mother’s waiting woman, and with at least one fighter outside, sleeping across the door—a brazier was little needed. Human breath kept the room warm.

  Godefroi had used much coin to transform this room. Woven hangings of red, green, and white now covered the walls and rush mats lay on the floor—a luxury our mother had never been permitted. Glassed casements replaced shutters in several of the windows and new dressing coffers stood in a row near the door; some of the bright oak was inlaid with darker wood and patterned in ivory, and each was richly carved, most often with the Dieudonné arms. This was the same image that Maugris and I had on our shields, when we did not carry the Percy arms: blue wavy lines in parallel, for the river at the foot of the keep, surmounted by a tower. Above the tower was an arrowhead and a sword crossed with an ax.

  The bed in which I lay was not the one where my brothers and I had been conceived and born. Godefroi’s new bedstead was vast and filled near half the space; four men might sleep abreast there and still have room to turn in the night. Piled on it were mattresses of feathers and wool, with woven blankets, fine linen, and a coverlet of winter fox. But certainly, if a man has to die in his bed, goose down is better than straw.

  “The water is hot, lord. May I fetch soap, and the knife?” Margaretta fixed her eyes on my brother’s feet and her tone was humble. Someone had trained her well to the service of the Lady Flore.

  “Knife?” Maugris did not mean to sound suspicious. Women made him nervous, and he had no talent for charm or light conversation.

  “It is Lord Godefroi’s, sir. It is kept in the garderobe for the purpose, with the soap.”

  Maugris stepped back. “You may bring what is required.”

  Margaretta hurried to the door that led to the privy and we both watched her go.

  Maugris found something of interest in the sky beyond the glass, and I closed my eyes with relief. Questions churned, and perhaps the girl could provide answers, but I would need to gather what strength remained to me.

  When she returned, I asked, “Do you personally shave Lord Godefroi?” The words came a little easier, but my voice was thin.

  “Yes.” She held up the towel. “May I spread this across your shoulders, lord?”

  “Of course.” Her touch was deft, but I lay naked in the bed, and though I was used to servants, being tended by a girl one does not know well is intimate. The women of the town baths can be hired for service such as this, and other things as well, and where money is given embarrassment does not exist, for the rules are clear. Yet this was awkward, and I looked away as Margaretta rubbed curds of soap into my beard. Her fingers were gentle, and both her breath and person pleasant—unusual enough to be remembered.

  “I shall use the knife now, lord.”

  A blade at the neck is a thing to worry a man if the edge is keen, but she held the steel with confidence. I began to relax. “Maugris, I—”

  The blade stopped. “Lord, perhaps not to speak?”

  I waved for Margaretta to continue and said nothing as she finished her work and then wiped my face with linen dipped in the last of the water.

  “Would you like to see?” She held the silver bowl close to my face.

  I had not seen myself reflected since I was a child; my mother had a hand mirror brought back from the Levant—rare and precious. Now, a gaunt man stared at me, eyes sunk in pits of dark flesh. I looked like my father.

  Maugris guffawed. “Poor Bayard. Pretty boy all gone. They will be disappointed when they see you tonight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There is to be a feast in your honor, and I am to escort you to the hall. Lean on me and you will not disgrace us, little brother.”

  “If I am to walk, brother, it will be without your arm.”

  Maugris was amused. “And if you cannot?”

  “Believe me, I shall walk.”

  He chuckled. “A silver penny says you trip on the stairs.”

  “You have always been foolish with money, Maugris.”

  An annoyed look was my reward for his being embarrassed in front of the girl. Turning to Margaretta, I continued with some serenity, “You have a most generous mistress. It was kind of the Lady Flore to provide your service to me.”

  Her expression changed. “I am indeed fortunate in my mistress, sir. She is kind, and compassionate.” The girl’s face shone with sincerity.

  “And yet, she cannot speak to give orders. Is that not confusing?” I was curious.

  Color flamed in her cheeks. “My mistress has no need of words. We understand each other very well.”

  Godefroi had said something similar, and I swear there was no evil intent when I asked Margaretta how Godefroi came to meet Flore.

  Tidying up, she replied, “In the forest, lord.”

  “She was out hunting, the Lady Flore?”

  Margaretta shook her head. “Your pardon, I must dispose of the water.” A bob of a curtsey, and she hurried to the garderobe.

  Maugris coughed, an elaborate performance.

  I stared at him. “Met in the forest? What does that mean?”

  He sauntered over to stand beside the bed. “He came upon her one day; the lady was cold and our gallant brother offered his cloak.” Maugris peered at my face. “You look almost tolerable, Bayard. Less like a monster fit to frighten children.”

  I was impatient. “There is more. I can tell.”

  Maugris replied pleasantly, “Not according to our brother—though I have heard, from others, that Flore was naked when he met her. He gave her the cloak so that she would not freeze.” An elegant movement of one shoulder, not quite a shrug.

  My jaw dropped so fast I heard it click. “A hedge-girl?” Only the most destitute of prostitutes haunted common roads. “And he married her?”

  Maugris had his tongue well controlled. “Our dear sister-in-law, the Lady Flore, now carries the heir to Hundredfield. Godefroi desires we pay her the respect her position demands.”

  Margaretta returned. “If this is all you need, lord, I must go to my son. He will need feeding.”

  “Of course.” I waved dismissal.

  As the door closed behind her, I waited a moment until her footsteps died away. “What son? She is little more than a child herself.”

  My brother leaned against the door. “It seems we have a nephew, Bayard. The boy is Godefroi’s.”

  The words would not assemble properly. “His bastard?” I tipped my head to the door. “And she waits on his wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that not cause scandal?”

  “More than that.” Maugris’s expression was grim. “The name of Dieudonné suffers by Godefroi’s actions. We have been away too long, brother. Much has changed in two years, and not much that credits our family.”

  5

  MAUGRIS WAS right, for I did nearly fall as I stepped down to the hall. Quivering, my thighs and calves had all the strength of a sixth-month child, but the keep’s household was gathered and, once dressed, I could not allow weakness to be my master.

  Godefroi waited with Flore on the
landing outside the hall. “Hundredfield’s household is impatient, brother. Maugris, escort Bayard. He will need your strong arm.”

  Maugris offered a broad grin with his hand. “Certainly, brother.”

  I did not like to lose, but just then Margaretta stepped from the shadows to pick up the train of Flore’s dress; this too was of velvet but richer than the last, since it was sewn with pearls.

  As he fell in at my side, Maugris murmured, “A very queen, apparently.”

  “And dressed in Madonna blue. Shameless. She wears clothes that would build a village.” I spoke softly, but perhaps not low enough, for Margaretta glanced back. I could not tell what her expression meant.

  Entering, I had never seen the hall look so fine. Hangings of green—a pattern of oak leaves picked out in gold thread—were stretched along three of the walls, and fresh rushes had been laid so that the appearance, at least, spoke of summer, even if the air did not. And though that great space was crammed with Godefroi’s greater and lesser servants, and some of Hundredfield’s tenants, I saw no guests from among our own friends. That seemed odd to me.

  There was silence as we walked to our places at the high board past Swinson—the castle reeve sat among captains from Hundredfield’s guard. Our own men too were ranged close, with Rauf in the place of honor sharing a bench with Godefroi’s horse master. One or two of my childhood companions smiled as I passed—tenant farmers on the estate now—and I saw some barely familiar sycophants. Perhaps it was hard to know the first from the second after all this time.

  With some ceremony, Godefroi led Flore to a backless stool at his right hand, and I, the cause of the celebration, was placed beside her. Maugris sat to our brother’s left. Godefroi, as master, had an oak chair with lion heads at the end of the arms and a high back. I had never seen it before. Tall as a throne and massively carved with the Dieudonné arms, it would have dwarfed a lesser man. He did not immediately sit.

  If it had been quiet as we entered the hall, the silence now was thick, as if smoke in the rafters hid thunder as Godefroi began to speak.