Wild Wood (9 page)

Gathering the reins, I turned the stallion back toward the village. “My best to your mother.” Spurring Helios, I called out, “This remains with us, John. Just you and me.”

But I was angry.

Godefroi was driving our tenants away because sheep made Hundredfield more money than people.

“Men are beasts at heart, Bayard. And all beasts must have masters or the world descends to disorder.” Godefroi waved a hand broadly. “Maugris, is that not so?”

Maugris cleared his throat and would have spoken, but I did not let him. “The people of Hundredfield are not beasts, Godefroi, unless we make them so. And turning them off their land—”

Godefroi’s tone was severe. And cold. “It was never their land. It
is
Dieudonné land. And I do as I do so that our family, and you, my brothers, may continue to prosper.”

Maugris said quietly, “But what will happen when the beasts return with other masters?”

“That will not be disorder, Godefroi. It will be war.” Perhaps I was shouting.

“Lower your voice, Bayard.” Godefroi was irritated. “It is necessary to control enemies of the king.”

We were in the hall, he in his great chair, Maugris and I two steps below the dais. “Edward Plantagenet may be your friend, and you wish to please him, as do we also, but these people are not enemies—not his, and not ours. Be careful, Godefroi. By your actions you may make them so.”

My brother lifted his brows. He said mildly, “Ah, righteous anger. It improves your color, Bayard. A relief to us all.”

Perhaps I glowered, for he smiled and said, “Yes, I serve the king. But I turn out only those who oppose his will through me, their lord. We must all do better in Edward’s service if the realm is to thrive. I certainly plan to.” He threw me a scroll.

Maugris peered over my shoulder as I unrolled the parchment. “These are mason’s drawings.”

Godefroi leaned forward, his face animated. “There will be improved fortifications at Hundredfield, and I shall build a much larger outer ward. The inner ward will be extended too, as you see, and the gatehouse made stronger—prudence in the face of those who envy the good fortune of our family. But this is what royal favor brings, Bayard, and you should be grateful.” He gestured. “There will be separate quarters as well.”

So many new buildings were on the plans it was hard to understand them all. “For what purpose?” I stared at him.

“The family and the house servants will live here.” He pointed to a large structure with many rooms at one end of the ground within the walls. “Even now, the keep is too small for Hundredfield’s household. It will become garrison quarters for the men.”

Maugris tapped the mason’s drawings with some respect. “Impressive. But can the estate afford all that you plan?”

Godefroi leaned back. “Our wool is excellent quality; soon the river will drive fulling mills and there will be looms in all the cottages. Weavers from France, and dyers also, shall be our tenants, and there will be expert craftsmen for each stage of the cloth. Those sheep you despise so much will make us all very wealthy, Bayard. And the estate will need more than me to run it. Think on that when you are both sick of soldiering.” Godefroi grinned and picked his teeth with the point of a knife.

I did not let him change the subject. “Give our people the chance to serve us in this new way, brother. Teach them, let them live in their homes. Winter is early again; we can all feel it. If you have no compassion, at least think of—”

My brother’s eyes were alive with malice and, yes, a certain pity. “The world is changing, Bayard. You think me harsh, but what I do is necessary—for my children and for yours. One day they and you will be grateful that I saw what needed to be done and did it.”

I thought of John’s pinched face, of the roofless buildings in the village. “Your children. Do you mean your son, or the child carried by the hedge-girl? Is it even yours?”

Maugris put his hand on my arm, but I shook it off.

Godefroi half rose in his chair. “I must presume your mind is still weak.”

I heard the hushing of skirts behind me and saw Godefroi’s expression change. He held out his hand. “There you are.”

I turned. Behind me, Flore was framed in the doorway, and as the girl walked to the dais, I saw tears in her eyes.

I was shamed and brushed past without grace.

“Brother!” Maugris called after me.

I ignored him. I ignored everything as I strode from the hall.

Bayard.

Flore called me by name. No voice, but still the word was in my head.

Fearful, I half turned.

She was standing beside Godefroi’s chair. My brother held her hand as if she were a captive. And if he glared at me, her sorrowful gaze struck my heart.

“Come.” Maugris was beside me.

And I let him lead me away.

8

S
O MY
aim for today is to work out your mental and physical state before the accident and compare it with your condition now. Apples with apples.” Rory and Jesse are in a consulting room in the oldest part of St. Barts. Anonymous, white-walled, the space has a desk, Jesse’s chair, and a pin board with fire-regulation notices. Deep-set windows and the low height of the door are the only hints of the history of the building.

“Most of what I’ll do shortly will be familiar, but I’d like to ask some questions first.”

“Okay.”
Most
. What does that mean?

“I prefer to take notes as we go, if that’s all right?”

Jesse nods.

Rory pulls a lined pad closer. “Right. Here we go. How would you describe yourself before the accident?”

“In what way?” That tight, cold feeling is back. Why does she feel so fearful?

“Well, your principal character traits. For instance, would you say you were a practical person?”

She considers. “That can mean anything. Give me a hint.”

“Okay. Resourceful, decisive, good at making plans and carrying them out?”

“On that basis, I’d say I was practical.” She smiles at him nicely.

Rory makes a note. “And did you think of yourself as physically competent—play tennis, climb ladders, drive a car? Actions that require mental and physical coordination?”

She nods again. “Hockey, not tennis, and I learned woodwork in high school. The only girl in the class, but I wasn’t bad. I could even use a lathe.”
True story, Dr. Brandon.

“Good at math?”

“Better than words, that’s for sure.”

“And could you think your way through problems—life, not just equations?”

Jesse lifts her left shoulder into a half shrug. “I could always rely on logic to see me right.”

He looks up from the notepad. “And what were you most proud of about yourself?”

Jesse says promptly, “That I faced my fears and did something about them.”

He’s working to keep up. “Good. Very good. Now, a change of tack. Would you have described yourself as imaginative or creative before the accident?”

“Not creative, I think. And maybe not especially imaginative, either.”
Or anxious. How things change.

“Could you sing?”

“Sing? No. They always stuck me in the back of the choir at school.” A faint smile. Some of that stuff had been funny. A bit. When it wasn’t humiliating.

Rory nods thoughtfully. He puts down his pen. “So, Jesse, play a little game with me. Just word association. Say the first thing that comes. Don’t think about it.”

“This is the other side of ‘most,’ is it?” She’s trying not to be defensive.

Rory leans forward. “Just try. The results are often interesting.”

In the end, she nods.

“Thank you. So. Fear?”

“Loathing.”

“Love?”

“Landscape.”

“Together?”

“Sometimes.”

“Black?”

“Red. Look, is this helping? I’m not an ink blot.”

Rory laughs. “Just mapping the boundaries, nothing sinister. Your word association is interesting, by the way. Tangential.” He picks up the pad again. “And just to make a formal note for the record”—he holds up his pen—“in the ward yesterday, you told me you could not draw.”

“Yes.”

“Please consider your next answer, take your time. The pictures I saw of the castle. Do you think you drew them?”

She closes her eyes and the seconds tick by.

Rory says nothing.

“It might have been someone else.” The eyes stay closed.

“Do you have any idea who?”

“No.” A pause, then a false start. “I suppose, well, I have to think it might have been me. But I don’t know how.”

He makes another note. “I’m going to suggest we come back to that in a little while, Jesse, but meanwhile, have you ever heard of a person being referred to as left- or right-brained?”

She shakes her head.

“Medicine has made some strides into brain functioning and consciousness in the seventies, but the research that interests me is the broad biases that make up different kinds of functioning and personality—how they’re created and how they interact. As you’ve described yourself before the accident, I’d say you stacked
up as a classic left-brain person: organized, methodical, process driven. But listening to you today and having seen the sketches, it seems to me you exhibit an increased, or increasing, right-brain bias. The right-brained person, by the way, is broadly defined as creative, intuitive, good with language, an innovative thinker. And it’s interesting too that you spoke of ‘seeing words’ just after the accident; that could be a description of synesthesia. That’s where nerve impulses get scrambled in the brain: sounds can seem to have form, smells exhibit colors instead of scent. That sort of thing. That seems to have died away, but it could be a useful pointer to the other things you’ve been experiencing.”

Jesse settles deeper into her seat. What’s he
really
saying?

“It’s striking, don’t you think? There you were—rational, competent, no-nonsense, in your own estimation. And now. How would you describe yourself now, Jesse?”

She opens her mouth. And closes it. Twice.

“Does what I’ve said bother you?”

“There’s so much I can’t seem to control about myself anymore. Like someone else is driving.” The words are a blurt.

“Ah, control. Who says that’s real?”

“Hello? The concept of free will?” Jesse can hear herself—she sounds so vulnerable, and this man is an almost-stranger. She really, really hates that.

Rory responds patiently, “But that’s just what it is. A concept. In my terms, that means a hypothesis that needs rigorous testing if we’re to accept it as having merit. There’s little hard science that favors the existence of free will, by the way; it’s more a matter for philosophy.”

She stares at him in confusion, and his gaze softens. “Philosophy of Science 101. Sorry. I’m here to listen. Literally.” He holds up a stethoscope. “And that’s a cue for the basics. Heart first.”

“Haven’t I done enough of this?”

He nods. “Yes. But it’s consistent monitoring that counts. And I always feel happier checking patients myself.”

Jesse hesitates, then gestures to the buttons of her shirt. “Shall I?”

“Just the first couple.” Calm and professional, Rory holds the end of the stethoscope in his palm. “Shouldn’t take long to warm this.”

Jesse nods, but she watches his hands.

Rory says gently, “It’s okay to be nervous. You’ve had a difficult time with the profession lately.” His eyes are kind. “Ready?”

She nods, and he slips the head of the stethoscope inside her shirt on the upper left side. “So, deep breath, and hold it. . . . Good. And again.” Eyes unfocused, he listens to her chest. “Excellent. Now, we’ll do the same for your back to check lung function.” He waits without fuss while she pulls up the back of her shirt and gives him a nod when she’s ready. She rates him for that.

Rory taps Jesse’s back in several places, efficient but not perfunctory. “Absolutely all clear. We worry about problems with lungs after prolonged bed rest. But you’re young and fit and healthy. Excellent outcome. So, just temperature, pulse, and eyes to go. Not long, I promise.” Rory holds up the thermometer encouragingly. She
is
a fit girl, and well put together—long legs, small waist, wide shoulders. Pretty, too, with an open face and striking eyes. Rory smiles faintly. A doctor can still be a man.

“Funny, am I?” Jesse wills herself to remain calm as he slides the little glass stick under her tongue and picks up her wrist.

“Me, I’m lousy at telling jokes. No sense of timing.” Rory concentrates on her pulse.

They’re so close, Jesse can feel him breathe, hear the sound as air moves in and out of his nostrils. It occurs to her that she’s with a man she hardly knows, in a small room in a hospital where she’s a name on top of a list of injuries and little else. Even her parents don’t know where she is. If she disappeared, it might be days or weeks before—
Stop this!

“Something wrong?” Rory looks up.

She forces herself to speak. “Imagination, that’s all. It’s a riot in here.” She taps her skull.

“You don’t have to be brave, Jesse. And it’s okay to be vulnerable. We both want to get at the truth of what’s happened to you.”