“You need me to live.”
“Why?”
“Guess.”
I heard breathing. Two men, no more. Unless others were standing behind.
“Only the rich have time for games.” Another voice. The sneer was too obvious.
I said, “A girl may have come this way with children. She has value to my family; you may profit from that. If I live. There was another woman also. My brother’s wife.” I did not speak Godefroi’s name.
“If she comes to the forest, she’ll be no one’s wife.” A coarse guffaw. The light withdrew, and at a distance I heard voices but not words; it was a dialogue—one man angrier than the other.
I felt myself settle—that alert silence of the soul before time shatters into violent fragments.
The light returned and the lock bar outside scraped as it was lifted from its keepers.
I had a stone in each hand, and stepping back—one pace, another, a third—my back brushed the wall.
Each sense stretched out in the dark. What did I hear? Breath. What did I smell? Sweat. Perhaps it was mine.
Light cut an edge to a man’s shape as he stepped inside. His companion stood close, a torch of pitch pine in one hand; he was taller than the first, and as the flame dipped and flared, it kindled his eyes. I had never seen an angrier face.
Blocking the exit, the first stopped a pace away. “Why did you ask about the girl?”
Behind, the other man moved. An ear had been hacked off, the blood still running. He stared at me, a focused glare.
“I told you. She has value to my family.” I leaned back, my shoulders against the stone. If I had to run, the wall would launch me.
“Value? As if she were coin?” The other man waved the torch and agitated shadows fled as a knife flashed in his hand and . . .
. . . his head hit the floor. Winded, he gasped at my feet like a fish. The shorter man had tripped him as he sprang.
I scooped the torch from the floor. Holding it above my head, I stared at the smaller man. “I know you.”
“Then you have the advantage.” A pleasant tone.
“I am Bayard de Dieudonné. You are Alois, the son of our reeve. You almost killed me once.”
Alois stared at me. I could not read his face. Blood was on his clothes.
“I heard the fight.”
Lips peeled back from his teeth, like a hound. “Your brother knows how to defend himself, even if you do not.”
Knows. Godefroi was not dead.
The earless man stood. Close up, his head seemed butchered. “He did this to me.” Gathering phlegm, he went to spit.
“And what did you do to him?”
“Dog!”
Alois wheeled and kicked, a hit to the ribs with his weight behind it. “Enough!” He snatched the knife and shoved the man ahead.
I stepped out into a clearing lit by fire. Flame showed me ranks of men, some I knew. Badly clothed, their faces thin, they clutched well-honed blades in their hands, even billhooks. There were too many to count. They watched as Alois prodded me forward, the sting of the knife in my back.
“Bring the other one.”
At first I thought they had a flayed buck, for something like an animal was dragged from the shadows and dumped into the light.
I have seen much in my time, living men hacked open, split, or beheaded, but those were strangers. This was my brother. Snatching the torch from the earless man, I ran to Godefroi, the flame my only weapon.
Kneeling, I cradled my brother’s head. Godefroi’s blood soaked my jerkin to the skin. He was dying, life escaping from a dozen wounds; night turns red to black, and I could not dam that dark flow.
“Ask me why.” Alois was standing at my shoulder.
Godefroi opened his eyes and stared at me; words were not words, only sounds. He had no tongue.
“Ask!”
I stared at Alois. “I will remember each thing that you have done.” In the end, a man can only die once.
“Your brother has been tried. And sentenced.”
Oh, I should not have laughed.
Godefroi’s mouth bubbled blood as Alois kicked him in the back—he could not scream. “Murder.” Another kick. “Dispossession.” I lunged, but could not deflect the blow. “Rape. Many rapes. My sister among them.”
Godefroi’s breath rattled as I scrabbled to hold him. His eyes opened, the whites like raw flesh. He tried to move his hand and I grasped it. He sighed and blood puddled in his mouth.
Alois called out, “Now!”
Something moved, flashed in the flame light. When the blade sliced down and wide, iron cut to the spine, and Godefroi’s neck yawned open as the earless man jumped back.
And I was hauled away, death-red, howling, and thrown into the hut.
Godefroi’s blood dried on my clothes and on my skin, and for the first time I, a man, cried like a child.
32
RORY LEANS back in his chair and rubs his eyes. He’s nearly finished transcribing the first Hundredfield tape. Flexing his shoulders, he clicks the spools into action.
“It is dark and cold where I am. Monstrous cold.”
He winds back. Replays. “It is dark and cold where I am. Monstrous cold.”
There it is again.
The voice he’s hearing does not sound like Jesse’s. The cadence of her speech has altered, and did she really say “monstrous”? He doesn’t remember that, but this tape is the only true record he has.
He writes a careful note of what he’s heard, and what he thinks she said. Clicks the PLAY button again.
“I do not like this place. It is unhappy. And something lies here. It has the form of a woman but she has the wrong color and she shines! Aaaah. How she shines.”
Rory flicks STOP. Jesse definitely said “man” before. He’s certain she did.
She has the wrong color.
Who says has for is? He stares at the spools, utterly perplexed. These are not all Jesse’s words; it does not sound like her voice and at least some of the phrases are archaic.
“Remember the movie, this is your movie.” Rory jumps at his own voice. He’s pressed PLAY without thinking.
Then that other woman, the possible un-Jesse, says, “Oh, I do not like this.”
“No need to worry, no need to feel anxious. Maybe you’d like to draw what you see?” His voice again; the struggle for calm.
“Yes. That will be easier for me.” She seems relieved, almost grateful.
He flicks STOP as his eyes stray to the other side of the table. There are the sketches, the woman’s face framed by a wimple.
You aren’t a nun, are you?
Here are his notes in an ordered pile, the writing even and legible just as it always is. And the recorder—metal and plastic and chrome, powered by electricity—is man-made. Something that does what it is supposed to do; not something that—what?
Records the voice of an unseen, unknown woman?
That’s ridiculous.
So, what does he do now?
Look for the logic, note what is known, highlight what is not.
Very well.
He will go back to the beginning, the very beginning of this case, and search for explanations of the symptoms manifested by his patient. Scientific explanations, not subjective interpretations. That’s his job.
Rory pulls the notebook closer and puts the sketch of the woman’s face beside it. He begins to write, reviewing what he knows.
Following injury, Jesse displayed the traits of a savant.
Yes. What he said to Alicia is true in his professional judgment.
Savantism seemed to be expressed in three ways in this case—if there is no other explanation:
First, with a newly developed photographic memory, Jesse now manifests the ability to call up details from sources—books, paintings, television programs that she does not remember—though she denies that as an explanation.
Second, she is able to draw objects, faces, and places with her left hand, and also
write, where before she was right-handed.
Third, drawing is a talent she has not previously exhibited (and denies having, saying another “entity” uses her hand).
Rory’s attention has strayed to the picture of the woman, and he feels the skin on his forearms pucker. Staring in disbelief, he watches the hairs stand up like so many bristles. What does his body know that he does not?
Outside, he hears a car drive up on the gravel. With a crunch the wheels stop, and the engine is turned off. Rory strides to the window and looks down. He watches as the driver’s door of the Saab opens, and after a delay, Jesse gets out with no grace at all.
Rory goes to the recorder and switches it off, hurrying out of the room and downstairs to the great hall.
“Welcome back. How did you find driving?”
Jesse ignores Rory. Marching past, she goes toward the great staircase.
He calls after her, “I was starting to worry.”
She faces him. “Do you know I thought of running away? Just never coming back. But I’m not going to do that. I’m doing what I should have done when you first brought me here, Rory. Get on with my life, and get out of yours.”
He says hastily, “You were embarrassed this morning, Jesse. Both of you were. That’s my fault. But Alicia sees things differently now.”
Jesse misreads his expression. “Don’t you dare!”
“What?”
“Try to manipulate me.” Jesse stamps off. “I’ve decided. I’m going to Jedburgh tomorrow. And I’m going to stay there, as I planned.”
He raises his voice slightly. “It’s true, what I said.”
She rattles the door handle. “So?”
“Licia and I talked about this whole situation and I tried to explain.” A grimace. “Well, explain what I know. I haven’t finished transcribing the tape, by the way.” He hesitates. “Would you consider staying just till that’s done? There’s some stuff you should know about.”
“Don’t play games, Rory. I did not want to come back, and I do not want to stay at Hundredfield. How else can I make you hear that?” Jesse’s exhausted.
His eyes soften. He goes to put a hand on her arm. “Hey. It’s okay.”
Jesse steps back, says sharply, “It is not.”
“Please. Would you at least consider talking with Alicia? I promise you’ll feel better if you do.”
Jesse stares at him suspiciously. “Where is she?”
“In the kitchen getting dinner. A peace offering.”
Jesse says nothing.
“Just you and her. It’ll give you both a chance to get to know each other better.”
“And where will you be?”
“Bad timing, but I promised to have dinner with Mack and Mum tonight.” He changes gear abruptly. “Don’t go in the morning.” Rory never pleads.
She opens the door without answering and leaves him standing there.
In the open doorway to her room, Jesse listens as the Saab drives away. Going to Jedburgh, following the lead Fred has given her to the nursing home, that’s what’s important, what’s really important, rather than this strange game of cat and mouse and rat she’s been suckered into.
Where Rory’s the rat. Am I the cat? Or the mouse? And Alicia?
Jesse is angry. She has two immediate choices. Go downstairs, eat dinner. Make peace. Leave in the morning.
Or. Don’t go down. Stay in the room, write up everything she remembers from today—she’s learned that much from Rory—and . . . just leave Hundredfield when she wakes up.
It’s a long walk to Newton Prior.
How much would Jesse like to kick something! Everything she’s facing is difficult. And fraught.
“And I’m really, really sick of it!”
She stamps into the room, thinks about slamming the door. And doesn’t. But she opens the armoire with unnecessary force, pulls out her case, and slings it onto the bed.
Shirts, jeans, skirts, knickers—not much to show for twenty-five years on this earth—but she strips the first armful off the hangers and starts to fold the clothes. And finds she’s staring out the window.
Stars are in the sky tonight, and a discolored ring around the moon. More rain on the way? Poor Alicia.
Angrily, Jesse rips more clothes off the hangers. Why should she care? She’s got nothing to do with this woman, nothing to do with this place. Except the craziness.
But if I walk away, I’ll never know.
Jesse slumps down on the bed, face in hands. Why does she have to do the hard stuff all the time?
She sits up abruptly. She’s not doing that. She’s not a victim here.
“That smells nice.” Jesse’s standing in the open door to the kitchen. She’s nervous.
“I never manage to make enough, somehow.” Alicia’s stirring a large pot on the stove. She doesn’t look up. “Everyone loves real tomato sauce.” She takes a sip of wine, bangs the spoon on the edge of the pot, and puts the lid back. “Come in. I have a chicken pie in the oven. Drink?” A half-full bottle of wine is on the table. And an empty glass beside it.
“Thanks.” Jesse pours.
Neither of them knows how to begin this conversation.
They both speak at once.
“I apologize for being such a cow.”
“Alicia, it really was a misunderstanding and—”
An awkward pause.
Alicia nods, You first.
“You weren’t a cow. Truly. I’d have been suspicious too.”
Alicia says stoutly, “Let’s just call a spade a spade.”
“Can a cow be a spade?” But Jesse swallows a large gulp of wine the wrong way. And splutters. And tries to say, “I don’t understand any of it.”
Alicia bangs her on the back. “Rory told me that.” She sits at the table as Jesse catches her breath. “Look, you’re here because of him. And once he explained what happened, and I actually listened, I must say I was curious. This is so mysterious and . . .” Alicia waves an invitation. “Sit. Do.”
“You mean it’s eerie.” Jesse wipes watering eyes as she pulls back a chair.
Alicia looks uncomfortable. “Yes.”
They both ignore the book; it’s lying on the table between them.
“Let’s just say I massively overreacted. Doing a bit much of that at the moment, so I’m sorry. Really. Please stay. I’ll be embarrassed if you don’t.”
“That’s very generous.”
“But?”
A small smile from Jesse. “But it is odd, though, isn’t it?”
Alicia says fervently, “No shit, Sherlock.” She holds out the bottle.
“Why not?” Jesse offers her glass. Rory was right. She does feel better. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Don’t know till you do.” But said with a grin.
“Hundredfield’s so old.” Jesse dithers. Comes right out and says, “Is it haunted?”
“If I had a pound for everyone who’s ever asked me that . . .” Alicia gets up, opens the oven door cautiously. “Maybe. A monk’s supposed to patrol the old chapel in the keep. Appears through a door that’s no longer there; not happy, apparently, and seems to be looking for something. I’ve never seen him, though.” She peers into the oven. “Another few minutes.”
“You don’t believe in that kind of thing?”
“The supernatural?” Alicia shakes her head. “I don’t really know. Maybe.” A bit of a shrug.
“And there’s nothing else strange about Hundredfield?”
“Just a couple of border legends, I suppose. The Wild Hunt runs through these woods. Well, that’s what they say.”
“The what?”
“The ‘folk from under the hill.’ They go out hunting, and if they see you, they take you back to live with them forever—because you’re mortal and they’re not. Said to turn up here at times of great danger. It was Helen who rechristened the pub in Newton Prior the Hunt because it makes such a great story to con—sorry, tell—the tourists. The priory monks would ro
ll in their graves.” The glint of a smile. “And there’s also the Lady of the Forest. She’s supposed to be my family’s guardian. Said to be a portent of disaster when she turns up, or the opposite. Take your pick.” Alicia waves her hand dismissively. “Some people have the capacity to believe ten impossible things before breakfast. I’m not one of them, though I try sometimes when life is particularly confusing.”
“You’ve never personally seen the Wild Hunt?”
Alicia snorts into her wine. “God, no! I’d be much richer if I had—the papers would lap it up. And I might be able to hunt again myself if I had that story to tell.” She sighs. “Horses. Very expensive.”
Jesse changes the subject. “Speaking of the pub, can I ask you about Helen?”
“Sure.”
Jesse gets that uncomfortable feeling again. Alicia’s tone is just slightly cool. “Well . . .” How does she say this? “It’s odd, but I got the feeling she disliked me on sight.”
“Is Mack nice to you?” Alicia doesn’t mention Rory.
Jesse blushes. “He makes me laugh.”
“Aha. You like him. There’s your answer. Very protective of her boys, Helen Brandon. She’s got some kind of sixth sense where they’re concerned.”
“I don’t think it’s that.” Do I? “I mean, I’ve only met him twice.”
Alicia shakes her head, pours more wine. “All it takes.”
Jesse giggles. “Seriously. She really didn’t want me to talk to him. And—” Jesse’s thinking of Alistair Nicholls.
Alicia interrupts, “If it makes you feel any better, Helen’s never liked me, either. Rory and I were such good friends growing up, and she hated that. Sometimes I think she married the second time just to get away from here. From us.” Alicia’s face is suddenly intensely lonely.
Jesse gets a glimpse of the self-sufficient little girl Alicia once was, wandering around this vast house all alone. And thinks of herself in Sydney. Not so different. Except for the house. And the family legends. And the crested silver. Ha! She murmurs, “Must have been hard.” A pause. “Where’s Mack’s dad? I haven’t met him.”
“He’s in the navy. Away a lot. A nice man, though, just like Mack, really. Big. Very big, actually. And dependable somehow.” Alicia grins. And switches tack. “By the way, have you heard from your parents since you’ve been in England?”
Wild Wood Page 26
