Wild Wood

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “Eccles cake.” Jewel scribbles diligently, but as she turns to go, the doctor beckons her back and murmurs, “Did you not take all the antibiotic I prescribed?” Jewel half answers as she leaves, a mutter Jesse can’t quite understand.

  The doctor sighs. “Conjunctivitis.”

  “That’s contagious, isn’t it?” Jesse’s alarmed.

  “It shouldn’t be if she’s taken all of the course, but . . .” He shakes his head. “Patients forget. Or they don’t really listen.” Dr. Nicholls stops himself. “Forgive me. One of the duties of the old is not to be boring. Doctors can be tedious about their work, especially, perhaps, to strangers who are kind enough to listen.” A faint smile.

  And there it is again. That sense he’s inspecting her quite closely.

  Jewel arrives with a tray, and Dr. Nicholls captures the teapot as a cup clatters down. “Shall I pour?”

  Jesse sends Mack a silent prayer: Rescue. Help! “Um, thanks. Do you practice locally, Dr., er . . .” She’s forgotten his name.

  “Nicholls. Yes. For many years, though originally I had rooms in Edinburgh.”

  Jesse struggles. “It must have been something of a contrast. There, I mean, and, er, here.” She’s properly trapped.

  “Ah, yes. But babies, you see, have been a constant in both places. Tell me about yourself, Miss Marley.” Dr. Nicholls nudges her cup across his table and pours one for himself.

  “Oh. Well, not so much to tell.” She sips the tea.

  “On holiday?”

  “No. It’s beautiful here, though; that’s like a vacation.” Inside Jesse’s cringing. She so hates useless chat.

  “A refreshment to the soul, I always think. Beauty. And it must be so different from your home.” His eyes crease encouragingly.

  Jesse puts the cup down. “Actually I was born in Jedburgh.”

  His looks interested. “Is that so?”

  She nods. “I’m adopted. I found that out just recently. It’s why I’m here.”

  Something has changed. They’re engaged with each other.

  “Perhaps I can help. We’re a close community here.”

  “You’re the third person who’s told me that.” Jesse smiles, but it occurs to her that Dr. Nicholls is just the slightest bit nosy. “I’ve only just begun to look.”

  “Is everything to your satisfaction, Doctor?”

  Jesse turns in her chair.

  Helen Brandon is standing behind the table. “Miss Marley, lovely to see you again. So soon.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Brandon.” So, no first names.

  “A moment of delightful respite, Helen. As it always is, coming here.”

  Rory’s mother goes to say something and hesitates. “On your way out, if you have a minute, Doctor? Just a quick question.”

  Alistair Nicholls nods. “Of course.”

  “Miss Marley.” Helen’s smile is perfunctory as she walks back to the till.

  That’s that, then. No way Jesse is going to ask Helen anything. Not now.

  Alistair pats his jacket, searching a pocket to find a slightly scuffed card. “If I can help you in any way, the number’s here. Good luck with your search.” He stands with a courteous smile.

  “Thank you.” She accepts the card and watches as he pays Helen and they talk.

  “Excellent result.”

  Jesse jumps in her seat and tea spills on the front of her shirt.

  Mack grabs a table napkin.

  Jesse takes it from him. “It’s okay. Really. The pattern’s very forgiving.” She mops her chest.

  “Look, can we start this again? I promise never to hit you or spill things on you, so if you’ll just wipe your memory tapes, we can—”

  “You blush like me! I’ve never seen that. In a man, I mean.” Jesse feels quite bold.

  “Fair call. Right.” Mack holds out his hand. “My name’s Mack. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Me too. Call me Jesse.” She offers her left hand and he takes it awkwardly. They laugh.

  His grasp is warm. “Give me a call when you’re ready to go to Jedburgh, Jesse.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He still has her hand. Jesse takes it back. She stands and he jumps to help.

  “It’s okay. My arm’s the problem, not my legs.”

  He can’t help glancing down. And says absently, “No.”

  That makes Jesse laugh out loud. So loud, Helen looks up.

  She knows Helen’s watching as she strides from the dining room. And Mack is too. She can feel it.

  The Saab starts reluctantly, and something about that unwillingness punctures Jesse’s mood.

  She’s in no hurry to face Alicia because it all feels so outstandingly awkward; as if she’s just busted up with a flatmate and all that’s left is to pack and make a dignified exit, hoping she can get through the door without a screaming match.

  Time’s come. Walk away. Think about Hundredfield from a distance, when she’s staying somewhere less fraught. Less odd. Less, to be honest, scary.

  There’ll be a hostel in Jedburgh. Maybe she can take Mack up on his offer of a lift sooner than he thinks. If Rory wants to keep going with the research, he can come to her there.

  Helen Brandon’s face swims up from somewhere. “So, how would you feel about your baby boy taking me to Jedburgh, Helen?” A bitchy little laugh.

  But it’s hard not to be hurt when people don’t like you and there isn’t any reason.

  Except a good-looking son. Two good-looking sons—though Rory doesn’t count (that’s not remotely the way things are between her and him).

  Mack, though—admit it—Mack could be different. And then Helen might really have something to worry about.

  Yes, Jesse’s looking forward to seeing Mack again, one-on-one. No mum, no pub, no brother. Awkward, though, when such a good-looking bloke’s playing piggy in the middle and he has no clue. Not yet.

  Jesse’s not about to tell him, either.

  30

  THE FERRY across the river was reached by a path from a postern gate in the wall of my mother’s pleasure garden. I remembered this as a sheltered place, a green bower where bees robbed flowers of pollen. But no bees cheered us that freezing Christmas afternoon as Godefroi and I walked away from the keep—away from the noise in the hall, the fire on the hearth, and the beer soaking through the rushes. There was only the jangle of thoughts that must find words.

  “Aviss is a fine child, Godefroi.”

  Godefroi grunted. “A bastard has no place in succession.” He had stopped for breath beneath the branches of an ash. In the cold light, his face was gray.

  “But a girl-child is—”

  He flared at me. “I am not shamed by her sex. She will be my heiress.”

  “Then she must be baptized, brother, and acknowledged before the people as yours. To protect her.”

  “My daughter will always be safe within Hundredfield’s walls.”

  There was no escape. “She is Flore’s child and at the heart of the rumors. The keep is unsettled and—”

  “Pagan rubbish. You called it that, Bayard.”

  I tried again. “Superstition is hard to fight, harder to suppress, I will agree, but—”

  Godefroi spoke with great force. “These were the terrors of a woman facing childbirth, fanned by ignorance in those who served her. She was right to be fearful.” He stared back toward the keep. “Flore died in her birth-blood up there, in my bed. Her daughter is true-born, flesh of her mother’s mortal flesh and of mine.”

  “Then why do we go to the ferry, Godefroi?”

  “To find Flore’s body! And the people who stole her from me.” His voice cracked.

  Godefroi’s suffering was raw, and I was touched. I said quietly, “Perhaps your daughter might be sent to the sisters at Berwick.”

  “For what purpose?” The hauteur returned.

  “Until our difficulties here are resolved.”

  “Difficulties? Bah!” Godefroi stamp
ed on.

  I called after him, “You spoke of succession. Your word. Yes, your daughter is the heir to Hundredfield, but infants are tender and many die in a harsh season.”

  Godefroi stopped. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing more than I said. If you will not consider Aviss, then Hundredfield needs a legitimate son.” I did not say, And you need a different wife. “You must marry again, Godefroi. For the good of us all.”

  “You will not tell me my duty to this place.” He ripped his sword from its sheath.

  I danced back as he came at me, drawing my own. “Who else can tell you the truth?”

  A heaving slash from Godefroi, badly timed.

  I parried.

  He was panting. “Do not—”

  My blade slid on his.

  “—presume—” Godefroi sobbed a breath and rushed on. “—to dictate to me!”

  I pivoted, raising my sword. As Godefroi blundered past, his neck was undefended. For Hundredfield, I could have killed him. Who would have known?

  But I did not.

  I stood aside and waited.

  “I go to the ferry.” Godefroi was panting. “Be gone when I return.”

  I planted the tip of my sword in the earth. “Brother, I am sworn to protect and defend our house. Take my sword if that duty is extinguished and I will agree to go. But I will not come back.”

  To destroy takes no time, to build is another thing.

  There was silence except for the wind and our breath.

  After a time, Godefroi shook his head. He said heavily, “I will not take your sword.” He did not apologize. He never did.

  Behind the walls of the garden the sky was clear, but shadows had begun to grow on this short day; they crept on like fingers toward the postern gate, so long unused and nearly overgrown. This had been our mother’s private way to the river when she wished to cross unseen by those at Hundredfield; now it was almost lost to human sight. As she was.

  Godefroi watched as I cleared the overgrowth of briar and woodbine. Below, we heard the river move in its cold bed. Rain falling in the west had swollen its margins.

  Rusted metal groaned as I pushed against the gate to force it open. Then I saw the world from on high.

  On the other side of the river was a hut—an outlier from the village that lay beyond sight behind the trees. When I had been a child, a woman, Hawise, lived there. Strong and brown as a donkey, she dwelled alone, never having married and poled a punt across the water when called by our mother; a bell was kept at the wharf for that purpose. Hawise was given a tiny sum for her service and permitted to forage firewood among Hundredfield’s trees. A goat for milking, a patch for growing greenstuff, a bee skep, and an orchard with a collection of shabby hens kept flesh on her bones most years. In famine, she begged at the gates of the keep like everyone else.

  I asked, “Is it Hawise still who pulls the punt across?” I was thirteen when our mother died. The years since seemed very long.

  Godefroi stepped through the gateway to the path. It was steep and, from little use, narrowed by brambles and gorse. He said grudgingly, “I do not know. She was old when we were young.”

  Our mother would often visit the village beside the river unannounced. Because our grandmother had been the daughter of a Saxon noblewoman, our own mother was well liked. Or liked better than we at least, the men of the family—and it was she who had arranged for the hut to be built and for Hawise to be given animals from which to feed herself. So that lonely woman—an outsider because of her size and her strange ways—was personally devoted to “the lady of the keep.” If she were there still, I hoped she felt something for her sons.

  I arrived at the wharf before Godefroi. Jetting out over the water, elm planks were fixed to trunks rammed into the shallows. It was old, but the structure seemed sturdy, though the bell had disappeared. I cupped hands and called out, “Hawise!”

  Nothing stirred on the far bank as Godefroi joined me.

  I tried again. “Hawise?”

  Something moved beside the hut, dark against dark. We strained to see, for mist was rising as daylight dimmed.

  After a splash, a wide, low shape began to glide toward us.

  I milled my arms around my head. “Over here!”

  The punt drew closer. The rhythm of the cloaked figure was hypnotic: plunge the pole, walk forward; plunge again, walk forward. We could not see the face in the shadow of the cowl.

  Ready to catch the rope, I bent down. But the figure dug its pole deep—and kept it there. The punt rocked in the stream but came no closer as a voice called out, “Who are you?”

  “I am your lord.” Godefroi was not by nature polite to peasants and spoke French.

  The figure did not reply.

  I called out, “Are you Hawise?”

  The cowled head swung toward me. It was eerie to be inspected by that unseen face.

  “I remember you. You are the youngest one.” The cowl dropped back from the head.

  I stared. It had been a long time, but the woman seemed unchanged. I thought of Rosa. How could a girl become a crone sooner than Hawise?

  “I have business with you.” When Godefroi spoke again, in English, his tone was less gruff.

  “Yes, Lord Godefroi, we shall speak. But on the other side.” The woman lifted her pole and plunged it into the rushing water. And again. I caught the landing rope as, with a neat swirl, she brought the punt along the wharf. “You must pay for the passage.”

  “I have no coin.” Godefroi turned to me.

  “I, neither.” My last penny piece had been given to Dikon.

  “She does not ask for metal money.”

  “Of whom do you speak, woman?”

  “The river asks you, Lord Godefroi. Three drops of your blood is her price to cross.”

  Godefroi reared back. “Blasphemy!”

  “Then you will never know.” With a sharp jerk, Hawise pulled the rope from my hands and drove the pole deep, walking the punt away from the Hundredfield shore.

  Godefroi called out, “I will pay the fare.” Kneeling with some trouble, he took a dagger from his belt and drove the point into the skin of one wrist. Blood dripped into water dark as steel.

  Returning, the woman threw the rope again and I caught it; she reached to help Godefroi down into the punt.

  Holding the craft against the wharf, I waited to climb on board.

  “No.” Godefroi pushed the punt away.

  I hauled on the rope to bring it back. “Brother! You should not go alone. The monk—”

  “—does not concern me. Guard my daughter. Keep her safe.”

  Hawise called out, “Throw the rope, third son.”

  “Do it!” Godefroi’s shout startled rooks from their roosts.

  And so I did as I was asked. I threw the rope and watched as the woman caught the coil and Godefroi lifted an arm in farewell. And I let my brother go.

  The sound of men’s voices pulled me to the hall of the keep, but as I opened the great door, the chamber fell silent.

  Too late. The phrase stung my soul like a venomous fly, but smiling to left and right, I strode to the dais as subdued conversation followed me.

  I beckoned a kitchen girl and said, loud enough for all to hear, “Lord Godefroi is resting. He asks that wassail continue. Bring beer! Ale for all!”

  Pulling out a stool, I sat beside Godefroi’s chair and beckoned Rauf—he had been sitting with several of our fighters, separate from the other folk.

  “I hope Lord Godefroi improves?”

  I nodded. “His situation is better.”

  The girl returned with several kitchen servants, all bearing skins of ale. She hurried first to me.

  “A drink for my friend, to toast the season.” I pointed to the ale horns hanging from her belt. She was young, not much more than a child, and frightened. I remembered being ten and scared, and so found her a smile.

  When it was filled, Rauf raised his horn to me. “To what must be done.”

&n
bsp; I nodded, lifting my own. “And it will be done well, God willing.” I owed Rauf much. But then, I had saved his life also, and not only once. I leaned across the board. “Tell me the mood.”

  Rauf smiled as if I had said something funny. “Nothing changes unless it is worse.”

  I laughed, and Rauf joined in. “We must set a watch on the postern. Also it must be repaired. I had to force it open.”

  Rauf nodded. He did not ask me why.

  “And?” Beaming, I raised the horn to his. We knocked together and ale fountained as we threw the rest down our throats.

  Wiping a hand across his mouth, Rauf said through a smile, “I have reports there’s a proper camp in your woods now. Well hidden, well defended. No doubt the monk holds his own feast there today.” He beckoned the girl for more ale. “And tonight, the village will empty. He tells them he will feed their children if they fight for him.”

  The hall grew silent. Maugris was striding from the door. As I stood to salute him, I muttered, “Then we must find the monk.” As Rauf withdrew, I raised my voice and called, “Brother!”

  Maugris stared at me, eyebrows raised.

  As the ale-girl filled a silver goblet, he sat. When she had gone I murmured, “He went alone.”

  Maugris raised the goblet to the hall; one or two responded. “Why?”

  “Pride. Foolishness. I could not tell. He says he wants to find her body.”

  “Not foolish. Godefroi is hard. He does not believe he will be harmed. He thinks no one on Hundredfield would dare.”

  I muttered, “Then he courts his death.”

  Maugris swallowed the last of his ale. “And ours, brother. Kill him, and they will come for us.”

  “Let us in, girl.” Maugris tapped urgently. Only he and I knew Margaretta and the children were behind Godefroi’s locked door. As she pulled it open, he brushed past. “Here. This is for you.”

  The girl took the napkin he offered, filled with food—bread, cheese, sausage, and a large piece of a raised pie—and set it down on a coffer.

  “There are pallets under the bed. I will get them for you.” She spoke quietly. Aviss and the infant were asleep together in the middle of Godefroi’s vast bed. A sight to touch the heart.