Wild Wood (48 page)

Discretion is not required. Jesse’s not listening.

In the fog of misery, Jesse doesn’t see Dr. Nicholls turn back to look at her.

“Very well. Thank you for letting me know.” He puts the phone back into its cradle, glances at his watch. “Miss Marley, I do apologize, but if I’m not to have an insurrection on my hands . . .” He stands. “I’m sure you understand I must cut our conversation short. I would have hoped to renew our acquaintance in happier circumstances.”

Like a soap bubble, all hope in Jesse pops. For a moment she remains sitting. “Thank you speaking with me, Dr. Nicholls.”
But you’ve just shut me down?
“I’m staying at Hundredfield, as you know.”

A courteous nod, but he’s opening the door.

Jesse gets up. “I’ll leave a number with your receptionist. You might remember something more, or perhaps you’ll know somebody else I should speak to. I’ll talk with the police in the meantime . . .” She leaves the sentence unfinished.

He says politely, “I shall think on it, of course. Good morning, Miss Marley.”

Among the confusion, something like defiance puts words into Jesse’s mouth. “Rory speaks so highly of you, by the way. You’re one of his heroes.”

“Mrs. D’Acre’s appointment was for eleven o’clock, Dr. Nicholls.” The receptionist’s reproach is addressed to Jesse.

The doctor beckons his next patient, an aggrieved fiftysomething
woman, all twinset, pearls, and tweed, and Jesse is left unprotected to face Mrs. Newby.

“Doctor Nicholls asked me to leave my number.” The lie is delivered unflinchingly. “I wonder if you have something I could write on?” Jesse waits, and from somewhere the gift of calm descends. After all, what can this woman do—deny the request?

Some huffing fuss is made before a pen and a pad are located and reluctantly offered.

“Again, thank you so much. For everything. I’ll look forward to hearing from Dr. Nicholls.” Jesse provides a charming smile backed by nothing at all. At least she’s good at writing with her left hand now.

44

I
S MACK
about? Or Rory?”

Jesse’s found her way to the kitchen of the Hunt. The pub’s quiet ahead of the lunchtime rush.

“Mack’s doing an inventory in the cellar. I can get him, if you like. Haven’t seen Rory.”

“I’ll take over, Rachel.” That cool voice.

Jesse turns. “Mrs. Brandon. Mack said he’d call me this morning, but I’m here instead.” Jesse creates the brightest smile she can.

“Rachel, would you let Mack know that Miss Marley is here, please. Tell him we’ll be in my office.”

There seems no choice but to follow as Jesse is led out of the kitchen and through to the bar. She says, more loudly than she needs, “Thanks for your help, Rachel. Appreciated.”

“No problem, Jesse. Anytime.”

On the other side of the dining room, across a reception room, the door to the office is opened. “Here we are.”

Jesse stops. “What a lovely room. You’d never know the cloister is here from the outside.” Jesse hears herself flail. Cool people unnerve her.

“I like to be reminded that the present is built on the past.
Though in life, of course, you can only go forward.” In perfect command, Helen sits behind her large desk. Black top, chrome legs, angular and formidable.

It occurs to Jesse that
angular
is a good word for this woman. There’s little flesh covering the basic structure of muscle and bone, but the effect is not gaunt, it’s strong.

Helen clears her throat. “I hear you’ve been given some news about your mother.”

Jesse opens her mouth. And closes it. “Did Mack—”

“No. But I was sorry indeed when I was told. Very sad. I hope you’re not too upset.”

“It’s . . . That is, I’d hoped . . .” Jesse’s struggling.

“Since you know . . .” Helen hesitates. She puts both hands flat on the desk. “I should tell you that I did meet your mother—before you were born.”

Jesse’s more than bewildered. “But you—”

Helen cuts in carefully, “Your mother was a drifter, Miss Marley, a poor, troubled girl without family. No one knew where she came from. And when she died”—a pause, just a tiny fragment of time—“the authorities did not know whom to contact. I believe the parish took charge.” She shakes her head. “As I said, very, very sad.”

“That can’t be right. Dr. Nicholls said her body”—a swallow of breath—“he told me it disappeared. That it’s still missing and . . .”

Helen allows Jesse to flounder. “From time to time, we all make difficult decisions, Miss Marley. When you first began asking questions, I felt nothing useful could come from telling you what I knew; considering the facts as they are, the sadness this has caused you, I still think I was correct.” Her eyes soften. “You should go home, Jesse. I’m sure your adoptive parents love you very much. That’s where you belong: Australia, not here.”

Something clicks in Jesse. “You know nothing about me, Mrs. Brandon. You have no right to speculate on where I might belong.” Jesse gets up.

“If I can help you further, of course . . .” Helen’s half risen. Her expression is uncomfortable.

“Thank you. I’ll certainly be in touch.” Jesse means it. If words are nails, no one’s hammering this box closed.

“There you are.” Mack hurries toward Jesse as she enters the dining room. Given the news that she’s here, he’s sprinted through the pub on his way to Helen’s office. He stops. “What’s wrong?”

Jesse’s expression is dazed. “Your mother, she . . .”

Mack closes the gap between them. His arm’s around her waist as if that’s the natural thing to do. “Come with me.”

An inglenook hidden by a settle is at the back of the empty bar. With great gentleness, Mack deposits Jesse against the cushions. “Do you want to talk?”

Jesse shakes her head. Her lips are blue-tinged, and that’s almost the only color in her face.

“Right.” Mack sprints to the bar, returns with a shot glass. “Drink.”

“What is it?”

He puts the glass in her hand, guides it to her mouth. “All of it.” He watches her swallow. And splutter.

“That’s brandy!”

“Not much left. Keep going.” His reward is the flush that changes her skin from white to faint pink. “You’re having no fun at all right now, are you?” He sits beside her.

“Except there’s you.” Jesse almost topples as she leans against him. “Helen lied to me, Mack.”

A nonplussed pause. “Why would you say that?”

“She knows what happened when I was born, but she pretended she didn’t. She thinks I should go back to Australia.” Jesse starts to shake. Sometimes,
sometimes
, it would be so comforting to talk to her mum in Sydney. Ask her advice. They used to be close when she was little. Tears leak and track down her face.

“Hey. Hey there.” Mack thumbs the tears away. He murmurs, “There must be a reason she’d say what she did.”

“She said she thought I’d be upset. She was lying.”

“Mum’s tough. Life’s made her like that. But this is not about her, it’s about you.” He cups his hands around her face. “And me.”

Jesse stares at him with huge, drowned eyes.

Mack lowers his head and kisses her. Soft. He murmurs, “Us.”

She rests against him. And returns the kiss. His mouth is so sweet.

“When you’re sad, I’m sad. Don’t go back to Sydney, Jesse. Stay here. We’ll work on being happy together.” Mack was never a reckless man before today.

A movement catches Jesse’s eye.

Rory’s standing by the bar.

45

T
HE MOON
was waning toward the last quarter, and I did not know if that was good or bad. Some commanders will not attack close to the dark of the moon and yet Maugris, a prudent man, had used that surprise to some effect. Was Alois a prudent man? I thought him clever, but that is not the same thing.

“Is all well?” I climbed to the battlements.

Rauf grinned when he saw me. “It will be.”

We both knew how few we really were against the strength of Alois’s band. Wrapping my cloak around my body, I began to walk the circuit of the walls. It was for me to be certain preparations were complete. Maugris would expect my report and blame me, rightly, if they were not; these were our natural roles: he the spearhead, I the shaft.

The walk was long and observant as the night grew colder. A half barrel of arrows stood midway between the posts of each two fighters, and braziers were set there also with billets of wood and pots of pitch ready to be melted in the fire. It was old-fashioned even then, but boiling pitch was rightly feared as a weapon of war.

Night deepened and the keep settled into the dark until, at last,
only one light burned—in the armory. I returned to the battlements above the great gate.

“Rauf.”

“Lord?”

I spoke quietly. “I need your help.”

Another red dawn streaked the sky as I opened the armory door. “Brother?”

Maugris was gray with lack of sleep. “I am here.” In one corner, propped against the wall, Sim, the best of our fletchers, snored noisily.

I stared around. The room was empty, the weapons gone. “All out on the walls?”

“Yes. The geese have no feathers left. We’ll eat them when this is over. You?”

I nodded. “It is done.”

Maugris held up a key to the annex off the armory. “Come with me.”

Godefroi had been buried with his best sword, but the second-best, and three more, were laid up in the annex in locked chests. His personal bows were there too. Unstrung, five or six hung across pegs with their strings stored in waxed bags.

Maugris plucked the bows as if they were so much fruit as I followed him into the room. And stopped with a jolt.

Godefroi’s armor stood behind the door, the metal ghost of our murdered brother.

“He was more your height than mine. Put it on.” Maugris lifted the lid of a coffer and pulled out a hauberk of ring mail. “But aid me first.”

After Maugris stripped off his mantle and most of the clothes beneath, I helped him lace a felt jerkin over his shirt and dropped the suit of mail over his body. The sideless surcoat he wore over the top was woven with our crest.

“You should carry this, brother.” I lifted Godefroi’s second sword from its resting place and offered it.

“Would he mind?”

“Too late to ask.” I slid the sword into the scabbard hanging from Maugris’s belt. “You are lord of Hundredfield now. One day soon, I shall dance at your wedding.”

His face brightened. “But I shall not. I hate dancing.”

“And yet, you can fight, Maugris. And you know what they say, ‘Never trust a sword to—’ ”

“ ‘—a man who cannot dance.’ Yes. But
they
are wrong.” The years, in that moment, dropped from his face. We laughed. Maugris was never graceful unless in a fight.

Voices. Shouts. The sound of running feet.

Maugris twisted to stare at the open window.

I went to see.

The morning was windless, benign and pretty—fair face, black heart—and on the far side of the river, men were massing.

“It has come.”

“His armor. Put it on!” Maugris flung the words as he ran from the annex.

Alone, I buckled into the suit with some effort. And ran to join my brother on the walls.