Wild Wood

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “My brother, the Sieur Bayard de Dieudonné, has returned to us from the borderlands of death. Those that are real, where murderers and thieves lurk—the men who almost killed his mortal body—and those where God alone rules. That fearful place to which, one day, we shall all go.” He crossed his chest, as did we all.

  I should say that sieur was a courtesy title, as was lord. I was the youngest legitimate child of this house, a soldier of little account, and that was known to all at Hundredfield. However, if I was suspicious of the flattery, the courtesy warmed me.

  “Therefore, tonight we celebrate his living presence.” Godefroi put a hand on my shoulder. “And for this, we give thanks and gratitude to our Father.” Godefroi crossed himself again, a graceful sweep. Dutifully, all in the hall followed his example.

  I was surprised that my brother spoke in English. Maugris and I used it with our men and in the garrison towns of the East March, but with our parents and among friends court French was always spoken. Godefroi said often that English was coarse, the language of peasants, and unfit for expressing thought, or poetry, or any of the finer sentiments. But that day he used it well, as I will freely admit, and proved himself wrong.

  “Perhaps, however, the knowledge and tireless effort of my beloved wife, the Lady Flore”—he lifted the girl’s hand and kissed it—“pleased God, for it seems to me that this hand was the means by which He permitted the Sieur Bayard to return to us. I know that later my dear brother”—Godefroi bowed to me—“will pay just tribute to the skill that has saved his life.”

  My attention was caught by a sound. Less than a sigh, not a wind; something like a soft groan passed among the people seated below us. It seemed to me that the men in the hall stared at Flore with hard eyes.

  Were they offended that Godefroi had seated me next to his harlot? Perhaps. Yet I was alive when I should, it seemed, have died. Her hands, those same hands that lay like lilies on the cloth, had saved me, and this woman, whatever her past, was now my brother’s wife. No help for that.

  “Eat and drink well, therefore, in honor of this day.” Godefroi nodded, and Father Matthias, our house priest in those times, stood up from his place beside Maugris. In a firm voice he began the prayer: “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, amen.” But as the words continued, the man’s tone altered—he seemed furtive, or uncertain in some way, and I wondered at the change, but as he finished the grace, food was immediately brought from the kitchens and set out on all the boards, starting with our own, and I wondered no more.

  Placed between me and Flore was a dish of pike fritters with a green sauce of pounded walnuts and sorrel; then came a mighty raised pie of hare and leeks and hard-boiled eggs, which was set beside my salver alone. Salmon too, caught from our river, lay covered in a saffron sauce—an expensive delicacy. Deer, taken from the forests around the castle, had supplied venison pastries, and these were scented with cinnamon and stuffed with onions and almonds and currants from Spain among the meat. Ale flowed as if a fountain were hidden in the cellars, while jugs of Gascon wine were filled beyond overflowing, and no goblet on the boards was permitted to stand empty.

  To cover the lack of conversation between us, and as courtesy demanded, I offered choice morsels of the feast to my sister-in-law and tried not to stare. I found her face distracting—it is hard to hate beauty, after all—and was annoyed by the weakness of my flesh. If I thought it strange she ate none of the food on her plate, I resisted the charm of the modest way she patted her belly to excuse herself.

  As I looked at her with hostile eyes, I tried to convince myself that Flore was not alluring. Her mouth was certainly wide and full—not the rosebud of convention—and the bones of her cheeks seemed too strong for a woman’s face. Her chin offended me also, and the dimples that came and went in her cheeks when she smiled. I could not see her hair, covered by a pointed headdress slung about with ropes of pearls, but it seemed unlikely to be blond, since her brows and lashes were dark.

  I sniffed. Black. Peasant coloring.

  But as Flore turned to look at her husband, I saw a truth I could not distort. Her eyes were a true sea topaz, clear and bright as water, while her pale skin had a clarity and quality that was well flattered by the sheen of blue velvet and rich fur in the neck of the gown.

  Godefroi, on her other side, kept up a steady stream of information for his wife: this person, seated below, had nine children, all of them boys; that woman raised good pigs for the home farm (a delicate gesture to his nose, as if he could smell her, even at a distance); that man . . . Flore seemed to listen carefully, a lively expression on her face, touching his arm and laughing from time to time.

  Not deaf, then, Flore. Just without speech.

  Somehow that made me more aggrieved. A slut who cannot speak, after all, must have some advantages.

  Godefroi tapped a knife against his goblet and the small wash of voices dwindled to nothing.

  “Friends, we have all eaten, and very well, and I know that Sieur Bayard is anxious to speak.” As a courteous salute, my brother drank a long swallow of the wine, his eyes fixed on mine.

  Now, I had been ill for some time and my mind was weak, as was my body, but not so weak I could not see the truth. Nothing, really, had changed. Godefroi was a spider. He had spun this web carefully, and I had allowed myself to be caught in it. He wished me to speak in praise of Flore because she had few supporters at Hundredfield, at least among the men. But if the woman was as Maugris described her, sister-in-law or not, I would betray the honor of the Dieudonné in complimenting her. Yet, she had saved my life and she carried Godefroi’s heir.

  Offering to fill Flore’s beaker—a gentle shake of the head—I slopped wine into my own and stood, with no certainty I would remain on my feet.

  “Friends”—I turned away to belch discreetly—“we have known each other since”—I waved a hand, uncertain how many of those in the hall I really did know—“I was less than a pup.”

  My hound, who had followed us into the hall and lay under the table, barked.

  I said gravely, “Very well spoken.”

  That got a laugh. I glanced at Flore for I felt her eyes on my face. I am not a whore.

  It was hard not to stare. Flore had not spoken, but I had heard her.

  Fearful of witchcraft, I crossed myself so fervently that, after a pause, the gesture was mimicked around the hall.

  But Father Matthias was staring at me, and I began to sweat.

  A hand touched my arm and I looked down. Flore smiled, and the kindness in those eyes brought such peace that the terror of even a breath ago seemed absurd.

  “Forgive me, friends.” I stumbled on the words. “I, a weak man, find myself dazzled by the renewed sweetness of life.” I did not look at Flore. I did not have to. Some in the hall had seen my face, and the silence growled like a dog.

  I wanted to shout, Why do you hate her? Instead, I raised my goblet and bent a stiff bow. “Gracious lady, I thank you. With God’s help, you made whole what was broken. May this marriage be blessed even more than it already has been.”

  I sat because I could no longer stand and had Godefroi’s expression as my reward. His glance was loving. This was the brother I had never had.

  Maugris was staring at me also. His eyes were hard as pebbles. In honoring Flore, I had done what was expected, what he himself would have done if Godefroi had asked him. But only I saw the gesture he made with his right hand. Staring at Godefroi’s wife, he made the sign of the evil eye.

  6

  JESSE HASN’T slept since dawn. She’d dreamed of the nun again. Just a feeling at first, a sense of consolation as the woman stroked her forehead. In the dream, Jesse opened her eyes and saw her smiling; it was as if she understood Jesse’s sadness, as if she had come to offer comfort. And Jesse had woken on a pillow soaked with tears. Now she’s sitting beside her bed, fully dressed.

  “Hello, Miss”—the new day nurse pulls back the curtains and picks up the chart—“Marley. How are
you feeling today?” Her teeth dazzle when she smiles.

  “Good, thank you. Very good.” Jesse can’t resist the sound of the girl’s accent. Bahamas? “I’m leaving today.”

  “You are?” The nurse looks worried.

  “Yes, it’s all arranged. My doctor, Dr. Brandon, the neurological registrar, he said it would be fine and—”

  “I said should, not would. Thanks, Nurse. I’ll take over.” The man himself appears behind the black girl’s shoulder.

  The nurse puts the clipboard on its hook and maneuvers past in the limited space. “That’s fine, Doctor. Call me when you’re ready.”

  Dr. Brandon twitches the curtains closed.

  Jesse keeps it cheerful. “So, what time’s checkout?”

  He points at the transverse shape across her chest under the cotton shirt. “That might be more comfortable on the outside? The sling, I mean.”

  “I dressed myself. Best I could do.” She absolutely will not wince in front of him.

  “Impressive.” He takes in Jesse’s pale face. “Is your shoulder painful this morning?”

  Jesse lies valiantly, “Not at all.”

  “What about your head?”

  “No. Not even a headache.”

  “Remarkable. World-record fracture recovery, I’d say. Must tell the Lancet.” He pauses to smile. “But seriously. No pain at all?” Not to accuse, more to support.

  Jesse unclenches that rigid smile. “Only a bit. Maybe.”

  “I prescribed some tablets yesterday. Would you like a couple?”

  Jesse tries not to sound relieved. “That would be good. I think they’re on the table.” Getting dressed in her own clothes—her case sent to St. Barts from the hostel—has exhausted Jesse, especially pulling the jeans on. She’d not expected it to be so hard.

  Dr. Brandon tracks around the bed to the opposite side. The top of the table is clear except for a water jug and a glass; no pills. “Shall I look in here?” He gestures at the top drawer.

  “Go for your life.” Jesse’s deliberately cheery. She’s absolutely, positively not giving in now, and this man is key to her getting out and getting on with her life.

  The doctor smiles as he pulls out the drawer and pops the top off the pill bottle. He likes this girl’s spirit. “Just what we need.” Shaking a couple of tablets into his palm, he fills a glass with water. “We don’t believe in pain around here.”

  You would say that, wouldn’t you? But Jesse swallows the tablets obediently. Distracted by the ongoing protest from the broken clavicle, and the fizzing ache in her skull, her attention wanders and she doesn’t see him glance back at the open drawer.

  “Jesse?” Dr. Brandon has pages of the pad in each hand. He holds them up, side by side. The first is the drawing the nurse saw last night—he’s picked it out of the wastebasket—while the second is a much closer view of the same place. In this, the tower broods over the castle and the lower levels of the hill. “I know this place.”

  It feels like he’s just dropped something on her head. “What?”

  Dr. Brandon stares at the second drawing. “It not like this now, of course. A lot of the structures are in ruins—but it’s recognizable. Definitely.” His finger traces the river below the walls. “And this too, of course, the Norman keep.” He taps the paper. “Quite famous in the north, this keep.”

  “The north. Where in the north?”

  He says absently, “It’s an estate in the border country—top of England, bottom of Scotland.”

  Jesse takes that in, starts to say something, but then he asks, “Are these your drawings, by the way?”

  She slides her eyes away. “I don’t know.”

  Dr. Brandon says nothing.

  Jesse swallows. Her throat is dry.

  “Take your time. No rush.” He holds the glass to her mouth and she sips from it, her hand over his. She’s shaking and the surface of the water trembles as she gulps like a child.

  “Enough?”

  She nods, sits back with her eyes closed. “Looking forward to those drugs kicking in.” The pain in her shoulder feels as if it’s found a home for life. “Please, Dr. Brandon, just . . .” Jesse winces. She has absolutely no idea what she’s asking for.

  “Rory.” He sits on the chair beside the bed, assessing his patient.

  “Doctors don’t sit.”

  A faint smile. “I’m different.”

  There’s a pause, and Jesse holds out her left hand, staring at it. “Look, I’m right-handed. I taught myself to write with this only because I had to, okay? But draw?” She shakes her head and there’s a strange feeling, as if her skull’s a balloon and might just float off her shoulders. “I tried to draw with my left hand last night, and I couldn’t make it work. How can the sketches be mine?”

  “It’s my job to find an explanation for your symptoms. That’s what I’m here for. Let’s take this one step at a time.” Rory offers Jesse the drawings just as the curtains part and the pretty nurse peers through.

  Rory barks, “Not now.” Her confused expression modifies his tone. “If you could see that we’re not disturbed, Nurse, I’d appreciate that.”

  The girl nods hastily and backs away. “Certainly, Doctor.” The curtain rings clatter as she leaves.

  “So, you’ve seen this place before?” He points to the first picture.

  “I live in Australia. We don’t do castles.” Jesse doesn’t want to look, she really doesn’t. If she tries to think about the why of the drawing, it’s like being forced to stand on the edge of a cliff. A tall cliff. Heights nauseate her; in fact, they make her want to jump. A not-so-secret terror her mum has always known about.

  “Magazine, then, or a book? TV?”

  “I don’t think so. No. I’m sure.” She really is. “Why do you want to know?” The question frightens her. She’d take it back if she could.

  He says patiently, “Because remembering is important. It speaks to brain functioning and what your mind has retained after the accident.” He picks up the second drawing, the image of the keep. “There’s more detail in this one. Would you agree?”

  Jesse feels odd and tired and close to tears. She mumbles, “I suppose so.”

  Rory relents. He’s pushed her too hard. “I’m sorry. How’s the shoulder now?”

  “Better.” She sniffs, but something dark churns and coils at the edge of her sight. “The pills are making me weird, that’s all. I can’t think properly. Maybe I’m seeing things.” Half serious.

  He says gently, “If they take the pain away, that’s no bad thing in the short term. Nurse?”

  The curtains open cautiously. “Yes, Doctor?”

  Rory stands. “Would you help Miss Marley back into bed, please? She’ll need a fresh gown.”

  Jesse starts to protest.

  Rory interrupts politely, “Jesse, I wouldn’t suggest this if I didn’t think it was a good idea. You’re not ready to leave the hospital. In fact, I’d like to suggest we do a few more cognitive tests. As I said, what you can remember after head trauma is important. It can be an indicator of recovery.” He doesn’t have to name the opposite. “I’ll visit again this afternoon. That’s a promise.”

  Jesse starts to say, “I don’t need more tests,” but with a pleasant smile, Rory Brandon strides away.

  The nurse, a tactful person, says kindly, “It won’t take a minute to get you changed, Miss Marley. You’ll feel more comfortable in bed.” She opens the second drawer and picks up a clean gown. Shaking it out, something flutters to the floor.

  Jesse’s eyes follow the piece of paper.

  The nurse stoops. “Here you are.” She says pleasantly, “What an interesting face.”

  A man stares from the page. His face is gaunt, the planes strongly angled, and hair falls against a broad collar that seems to be made of fur. There’s no escaping the eyes. Jesse looks away.

  “That’s some vest he’s wearing.” The nurse smiles.

  Jesse says nothing. She doesn’t protest as the nurse unbut
tons the shirt, or when the hospital gown is eased over her shoulders and arranged around the sling. She even tolerates the moment when her jeans and knickers are pulled down, leaving her half naked.

  There’s nothing to say.

  She doesn’t remember drawing the man’s face, just like all the other stuff. Is someone else making these sketches and leaving them to be found, just to mess with her head? But who? She doesn’t know anyone in London. And why would anyone bother?

  Jesse stares at the drawing. The man’s eyes are filled with suffering. Abruptly, she drops it in the drawer. Closes it with a snap. Nothing explains why she knows he’s wearing a cuirass. How? And what’s a cuirass anyway?

  Maybe it’s silly to complain about more tests. Maybe she needs them.

  7

  DAWN WAS rigid with frost, and morning crept over Hundredfield as if shamed to hold winter’s hand.

  Fulk, the Norman who had built the keep, would have been offended by such unseasonable weather. Long summers and brief winters were part of the unshakable luck that lasted all his life, and he took such things, and much else, as his due.

  Following William the Bastard to England, our ancestor had cut his way to fame at the side of the duke. For as the country drowned in a tide of blood, Fulk swam high, and understanding he had a servant of some worth—a man as brutal, as pragmatic as himself—Duke William sent him north. He was to assist in the conquest of the borderlands by slaughtering the lowland Scots, and for this service, Fulk was licensed to carve an estate and build a castle in that disputed territory. To hold what he grasped, Fulk picked out a defensible site for his first keep—a high crag that overlooked the land for leagues uncounted.

  This crag had a river at its feet and a grove of oaks on its summit. These great and ancient trees Fulk cut down to build the keep and its palisade.

  And when the Saxon nobles rebelled—in horror at the desecration—he burned them from their homes and forced them to build his stronghold in the ashes of their own houses.