Wild Wood (34 page)

T
HE 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 stamped 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.”

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.

Maugris surprised me. He said quite gently, “Eat, girl.” He gestured at the sleeping children. “They need you strong.”

Margaretta hesitated, but nodded. It pleased me to see the delicate way she ate as Maugris and I pulled pallets from under the bedstead and found coverings in the coffers.