Wild Wood

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “You like him.”

  I looked up to see Margaretta staring at me. Her eyes had a silver sheen in the half-light. Tears.

  “Yes. He is a fine child.” I reached a hand to her face, and she turned her head away. “Look at me.” When she did, the tears had spilled. With great care I wiped one away and then another. “Do not cry, Margaretta.”

  “There is much to cry about.”

  This was uncomfortable—the yearning I felt to hold this girl was a powerful surprise, though Aviss, big-eyed, was staring at us both and I would not frighten the boy.

  She did not look at me as she said, “When Aviss was born, and our family was so shamed by what Godefroi had done, I was still blamed. That was very hard.” Margaretta shook her head. “But yet I love my son.”

  “My brother was at fault, Margaretta, not you. Certainly not Aviss. Of course you love your little one.”

  She stared at me. “I do not understand why Godefroi did what he did to me, for my father told the truth that day. He had served Hundredfield with loyalty, we all had. How can your brother have been so cruel to us? So cruel to all his people?”

  I shook my head. “Maugris and I are shamed by his actions, Margaretta. Shamed for all you have suffered.”

  The girl watched her son eat. “When your father said he would send Alois to the monks, he thought he was helping my brother. But Alois did not want to go, and my parents could do nothing to change the old lord’s mind. Even I tried to plead for my brother. It was for this ‘presumption’ that I . . . that Godefroi”—Margaretta swallowed—“that your brother raped me. He said it was my fault; that by punishing me for disobedience, by making me an example, the people of Hundredfield would learn their duty better. And Alois was still sent away. Then, I was set to wait on the Lady Flore. I thought it a final humiliation and yet it was not.” She leaned down to wipe the child’s face. “There. Have you had enough?”

  The little boy nodded, though he was still staring at me.

  I took the cloth from Margaretta’s hand. “Help us with Alois, Margaretta. You are his sister. You know what kind of a man he is, what he might do.”

  She shook her head. “When he was sent away, Alois did not know I had tried to help him. He cursed us all.” A bitter shrug. “I will do what I can. I do not want my brother to die. Or you.”

  One of the cook women had returned from the hall with an empty platter. She was staring at us.

  I murmured, “There will come a time after this when we shall speak. And then . . .”

  “Yes?”

  I ran out of words. Perhaps there would be no “then.” I heard noise growing in the hall as the food was distributed and stood to give Aviss into her hands. “Stay in Godefroi’s chamber, Margaretta. You will be safe there. Lock yourself in; take food and water and do not come out unless it is Maugris or I that calls. And if Alois comes . . .”

  I did not finish the thought. There was no if—Margaretta knew that. And we both understood what I had asked.

  As I left the kitchen, I turned for one last look at that little trinity of souls. And it seemed to me that these three were all that truly bound me to the world.

  “The girl is addled. Why hide from us?” Maugris was in the armory. “Where is she now?”

  “In Godefroi’s room, with the children. I’ve set a guard on the stairs for their safety.”

  “The baby?”

  “She thrives.”

  “Where were they?”

  I hesitated. “I was praying in the chapel, brother, and—”

  “No more time for prayers, Bayard.” Maugris yawned. And forgot his question.

  “Margaretta will help us when they come. She will speak to her brother.”

  A snort. “If Alois does not kill her first.”

  “She tried to save her father from Godefroi, you saw that.”

  Staring out through the window, Maugris grunted. “The girl wants something—she hopes to profit by playing both sides.”

  I was exasperated. “She wants what all women want, Maugris. Food for her son and a safe place to sleep.”

  He shook his head, his face stubborn. “Nothing is as simple as that.”

  I would not fight with my brother now. We were both haggard ghosts. I said politely, “You have used time well.”

  In the armory, open coffers held newly sharp swords and axes, and bundles of arrows were stacked on the floor. “But to prepare for a siege—you think that the best way?”

  “We cannot challenge Alois in the forest until we have more men.”

  “But there is still the virtue of surprise.”

  Maugris said sharply, “Surprise is not enough. No. I have set Robert to tallying stores and the cistern is full. Let them try to take this place. They will break against Hundredfield’s walls, as so many have.”

  Discussion was useless. Hunched against the wind, men were climbing to the battlements below, and I lifted the latch to join them. “I must go.”

  “Wait!” Maugris nodded over the river. “Well?” It was rare for my brother to ask advice.

  “Alois must come soon. He will surely know we have sent for aid. Our advantage grows with each day that passes.”

  “Then why does he wait?”

  “What does anyone wait for? More men.”

  Maugris said confidently, “They will win us what time we need.” He meant Hundredfield’s household.

  I did not reply. Since I had returned with Godefroi’s corpse, fear had spread like a plague and our supporters decreased each day. Alois was a clever man.

  Maugris hesitated. He closed the lid on a coffer and propped himself against it. “If the day does not go well when it comes, there is another way.” He beckoned.

  I followed him down to the hall.

  The great room was empty and the fire had burned low. The ghost of the meal just eaten still floated in the air as Maugris strode to the high board. After a moment, he took Godefroi’s seat and waved me to the stool at his right hand.

  “What would you say to firing the keep?”

  “When?”

  Maugris actually grinned. “Not now, fool.” The glance he gave was almost affectionate. “If we do not kill enough of them, we burn it down. After that, when we have won, we rebuild. Godefroi gave us the plans. We can improve Hundredfield’s defenses.” He looked almost happy.

  It was good strategy to deny the enemy what he wants if all else fails, but it was a wrenching thought.

  “We might get caught in our own snare. Denying them shelter, we deny ourselves.”

  Maugris got up and strode to the hearth. “Almost dead.” He kicked the ashes, looking for coals.

  I stood beside him.

  “Look. Under your feet, Maugris.”

  “There’s only the floor and the . . .”

  The grin grew wider. “Old rushes. Well done, little brother. These will fire well. All that grease.”

  “And the trestles and the settles. They’ll burn too.” I would do it, if I had to. “Godefroi’s new hangings are wool. They won’t take flame easily. But there, above the screens. Do you see?” I pointed.

  Years of our mother’s labor had made the tapestries that hung above our heads. They were old and dusty, and the linen backing would burn. “If we start the blaze in the rushes around the hearth and in front of the screens, the hangings will catch and then the rafters.” I did not think our mother would care—she would want us to live.

  I hurried to the kitchens. Returning with coals in a leather bucket, I found Maugris piling furniture directly beneath the tapestries.

  “There are things we must consider, brother.”

  Maugris raised a sweating, scarlet face. “What?”

  I tipped the coals on the hearth and piled rushes to cover them. “The silver Christ and the Madonna. They must be hidden.”

  He passed a hand across his face. “Where?”

  “I know a place.”

  “Then do it. Tonight. When there are none about to see.”


  41

  OLLIE’S ON the end of Jesse’s bed. He’s put his head on her knees.

  “You’re sure you want to talk about it?” Rory’s back is against the west-facing windows. His face is in shadow.

  “No. But I think I should.”

  Rory takes note of those unhappy eyes. “You’ve had a very upsetting time, Jesse, and—”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

  Rory hesitates.

  “I did not try to kill myself.”

  He says nothing.

  “But . . .” A long exhale, and Jesse’s expression changes. She’s staring past Rory.

  He resists the urge to turn around. “But?”

  “Did Mack tell you about Sister Mary Joseph?”

  “He tried not to.”

  Jesse finds some kind of a smile. “He’s a good man, your brother.”

  “Yes.” A brief admission.

  “My mother’s dead, Rory.” Jesse huddles into herself as she strokes Ollie’s ears. “What a nice dog you are.” Tears drop into the fur.

  “Here.” Rory’s found tissues. He takes them to Jesse and sits quietly beside her.

  Jesse blows her nose. “Did Mack tell you I didn’t want to come back to Hundredfield?”

  “He said your case was in his car.”

  “Alicia was very nice at dinner, and she invited me to stay on, but I just couldn’t, Rory. I had to do it, had to move on.” Her voice dies to a whisper. “But then, I saw something.”

  “What?”

  Jesse gathers herself. “At the river. There was a woman under the water. And before you say anything . . .” She holds up a hand.

  But Rory’s silent.

  Discomfited, Jesse shifts against the pillows. “She was there. It’s her face I’ve drawn, Rory. It’s her I see in the dreams, and when I was on the ventilator in the hospital.” Jesse stops. As clearly as she can, she says, “She did not want me to die, she wanted to give me something. Maybe she knew Mack wouldn’t let me drown.”

  Rory’s staring at her.

  Ollie barks, shattering the charged silence. He whines anxiously, scrabbling at Rory’s knees.

  “Smarter than anyone thinks you are.” Rory scruffs the dog’s ears. “What did she give you, Jesse?”

  A Harrods bag is beside the bed. She hands it to him.

  Rory unfolds the layers of towel warily. And stares at the eyeless face in his hands.

  Jesse takes it back and holds it over her own face.

  Rory pales. Living eyes stare out from that immobile, glinting countenance.

  Jesse says, “Permit me to speak.”

  “. . . so relaxed. More relaxed than you’ve ever been. Nod if you can hear me.”

  Jesse nods. She’s lying on a couch in the library. Her hair, spread over the pillows, seems almost to glow as she holds the mask over her face.

  Rory injects calm into his voice. He says soothingly, “That’s good, very good. So, I will count down from five to one.”

  “There is no need.” Older, deeper, the voice has a tone so different than Jesse’s.

  The spools turn and turn. Rory says, “May I ask questions?”

  Jesse’s head nods once. A graceful, courtly movement.

  Rory swallows. “Who are you?”

  Slowly, the mask over Jesse’s face turns to look at him. “The messenger.”

  Rory cannot meet that glance.

  “What I say is for the child to know.”

  He hesitates. “Yes.”

  “This is hard for you.” The voice warms.

  Rory looks up. “Yes. It is very hard.” Conflict strangles his breathing.

  “You are honest. She needs that honesty, having been lied to.”

  “I need to understand what you are saying.”

  “Accept.”

  “I am not used to . . . accepting. I am trained to question. That is what scientists do.”

  The voice is kind. “Be at peace. Let her hear this. The child must return the mother.”

  Rory’s puzzled. “What do you mean? Jesse’s mother is dead.”

  “Her family will tell her the meaning of what I say.”

  “Her family? But—”

  “She will find the child who was lost.”

  As if a light has been flicked off, something changes. The mask is just a mask, not a face.

  “Jesse?” Sweating, Rory lifts the mask away.

  Jesse’s asleep, deeply asleep.

  42

  ELIZABETH HUMBOLDT is a surprise. She’s young—somewhere in her thirties—and charming. Optimistic, sunny, delightful: each word fits like a glove.

  Opening the front door, Alicia is immediately wary. If she decides she wants to back away, that open face, those bright eyes, will make it harder. “Thanks very much for coming at such short notice.” She holds out her hand.

  Elizabeth takes it between both of her own. “This is an honor and a privilege for us, Lady Alicia. When you called me yesterday, I was so very glad.” Elizabeth ignores the bandage; the two black eyes are more difficult.

  “Alicia. Please.” She extracts her hand from the oddly intimate grip of the other woman.

  “Hundredfield is such a remarkable building—Alicia—a collection of remarkable buildings. And so important to the history of the country. This is a wonderful thing you’re doing.” Elizabeth leads Alicia a pace or two into the hall, as if she were the hostess. “But where are my manners?” A pretty laugh. “May I present my colleague? Dr. Brian Curlewis is a consultant expert to the trust for Norman-era buildings in the English border region.”

  Brian Curlewis coughs.

  “Oh, and of course he’s also acknowledged for his expertise in medieval architecture.” Elizabeth beams at Alicia. Determined kindness spreads like a prewarmed blanket.

  Alicia tries not to clench her teeth. “So, what is the actual . . .”

  “Procedure?” An encouraging nod from Elizabeth.

  “Thank you. Yes, that’s what I meant. When we chatted—you’ll have to forgive me—I just, that is . . .” Alicia is finding it hard to control her voice.

  Elizabeth has large, soft eyes. They grow softer still. “Oh, this is all very, very preliminary, I do assure you. Today is only the first step. Think of it as a briefing on how we might approach the various options that could exist for Hundredfield within the work of the trust. If you’re agreeable, Brian and I would welcome an opportunity to see more of the buildings. We can discuss any questions you might have as we go. Before we leave, we’ll provide you with a pro forma contract—just to read through and discuss with your lawyers, of course.”

  Alicia murmurs, “Of course.”

  Ignoring the interruption, Elizabeth continues. “Brian and I will make a preliminary report to the regional office in the next few days. It will only be a very broad assessment, the first of a number if all goes well. And it goes on from there. Our lawyers come in later as the contract is refined to embrace Hundredfield’s actual requirements and condition.” She sounds apologetic. Lawyers. There it is again. That word always punctures the mood.

  “I see.” Alicia swallows. “There’s rather a lot to see at Hundredfield in one day, but we could start with the New Range, since that’s where we are. We have a number of state rooms in this building.”

  “What do you think, Elizabeth? I, for one, would be particularly keen to see the Tudor dining room. It’s almost a legend, Lady Alicia, and so few people have ever actually seen it.” Brian Curlewis looks quite excited.

  Alicia takes a deep breath. “Perhaps we can remedy that in the future.”

  Unprompted, Elizabeth clutches one of Alicia’s hands. “Oh, I hope so. I do so very much hope so.”

  “This way.” Alicia extracts her hand with grace.

  Small talk lasts just about the distance from the front door to the great staircase, and Alicia gets through by pinning a smile to her face. “There are so many eras represented in this part of the castle alone—as you would know. The Normans built t
he keep, of course, and the later medieval buildings—although quite a few are ruined, as you would have seen—were built anywhere from the twelfth century on.” She steers them up the left-hand flight and throws the doors open to a long room; morning light fills the space with dazzled gold.

  Brian stares around with bright, bright eyes. “And so much that is untouched. Original condition, I mean.” He thinks he’s being tactful.

  Elizabeth stops with an intake of breath. “And these must be the famous Hundredfield nixies. The water spirits?” She’s smitten.

  A pair of double-height doors faces the little group. Framed by sinuous lines of apparently female figures carved deep into the reveals, there’s a riot of forms to interpret.

  “Yes. Though no one’s ever been able to say with any certainty just what they represent. There’s some sense that they’re linked with our local legends.”

  “So very mystical, this part of the world.” Elizabeth nods enthusiastically. “The Wild Hunt, for instance. I hear Hundredfield has its own?”

  Her offside gently interrupts, “May I?” Brian Curlewis is punctilious. He absolutely will not inspect these tantalizing forms until given permission.

  “Of course.” Alicia stands to one side.

  “They seem to have fins on their shoulders. That might support the nixie hypothesis.” Brian makes room for Elizabeth.

  “Exquisite. And such bold carving too. Unique.”

  Alicia clears her throat. “Not fins. Wings, I think you’ll find—like dragonflies. And if you look, you’ll see they don’t really have faces, just eyes. Someone came up with the nixie idea, since that’s as plausible as any of the other explanations, and it stuck. The palmprints are a puzzle, of course. No one knows what they mean.” Alicia produces a long black key.

  “They are indeed unusual.” Brian leans in to inspect a ribbon of half-size human hands, forming a pattern around the central figures.

  The wards in the lock click and the nixies spring apart as the doors open. “So, here it is.”

  A burnished surface as long as a short jetty stretches away into the room.

  Elizabeth is startled. “This must be quite the largest oak table I’ve ever seen. Tudor, of course, as you’d expect.” A quick smile for Alicia. “Brian?”