In a Dark Wood Read online

  “‘What can trouble thee?’ asked Kanut. ‘Fair maiden, answer me what grieves you.’”

  “‘A monster has destroyed this land,’ she said. ‘It has gutted the men, burned the hayricks, and left only myself to weep, so that the loss might be felt by one survivor, one person who remembered the world as it used to be, when men laughed and women sang.’”

  “‘Where is this monster?’ asked Kanut, shaking his sword. ‘I have come to kill him, and I will not leave without his head.’

  “‘He lives in the cave beyond the Blue Marsh,’ answered the maiden.

  “And so Kanut found the Blue Marsh and crossed it in a scull, working his way across water that clung to his pole like paste. Birds cried through the air with a sound like infants bawling, and the sun was a stab in the sky.

  “Kanut stood before the cave, sword in hand, and called, ‘Come forth, beast. I have come to slay you.’ A flock of transparent sheep trotted forth from the cave, a herd of intestines and brains. But Kanut knew devil’s work and stood his ground. ‘Come forth, beast,’ he called, and a train of maidens came forth, beautiful and fair, singing in the voices of very old men, ‘Kanut, mighty among men, who fears no creature, leave us to our peace.’ But Kanut knew devil’s work and stood his ground. ‘Come forth, monster, that I might slay you and be finished.’”

  “The wind stopped, and the herd of sheep and the beautiful maidens vanished. The clouds glowed like heated iron, and the sun was as pink as a scar. And then a child came forth, a little child. Kanut waited for the child to transform itself into a dragon, or a griffin, or a manticore, but the child took Kanut’s hand and said softly, ‘I am the beast. Kill me.’

  “And Kanut prayed, ‘Mary, Queen of Heaven, I cannot kill a child!’

  “But the child said, ‘Kill me or I will waste more, and savage the world with my devouring.’

  “And Kanut prayed, ‘Jesu, Prince of Paradise, I cannot kill a child!’

  “But the child said again, ‘Kill me, for no evil done upon this land does not flow from these arms, no rapine does not come by these hands, no sorrow except by these fingers, this child’s form.’”

  “And Kanut slew the child before another word was spoken, with a single blow, his blade slicing the child as easily as a stick slicing wind.”

  “The Blue Marsh cleared, crystal bright, and the scull was transformed into a barge of silk and damask, and the perfume of flowers was in the wind.”

  “Ruddy-faced farmers embraced Kanut, thanking him for their deliverance. And their wives embraced him, thanking him for their lives, and the elders of the village embraced him, thanking him for returning them to the world.”

  “But Kanut threw his sword into the sea, and dropped his shield upon the sand, and let his chain mail slump to the jetsam of the shore, because he had killed a child and had no more taste for battle.”

  Little John turned slowly and picked up a knife and cut himself a chunk of venison. He sat and ate. The spice of the meat was in the air, and a drizzle began to fall, a small rain that made the band of men and women huddle in their cloaks.

  “A good story!” said Robin. “A magnificent tale! What do you think, Sheriff?”

  “A good story.”

  “And what lesson does it tell?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You were telling me the lessons of the bee—”

  “That was something I learned in childhood. I have never heard this story before, so I can’t guess what it might mean.”

  “And you’ll never hear it again. He made it up, on the spot.”

  “He invented it?”

  “Yes. Here and now.”

  Geoffrey shook his head. “What a strange thing to do.”

  Robin smiled, chewing and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “You never invent anything, do you, Sheriff?”

  “I invent traps that fail.”

  “But you never create anything new, something that was not there before you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You do not make things up.”

  “I am not a craftsman,” said Geoffrey disdainfully. “I was never intended to work with my hands.”

  “You are too good for that,” said Robin.

  “Besides, I didn’t really like the story.” He paused to see if anyone acted offended, but everyone chewed, seeming to ignore him. “It seemed pointless.”

  “How was it pointless?” asked Robin.

  “It seemed so to me. Ask the storyteller what it was supposed to mean.”

  “Oh, Little John almost never talks, unless to tell a story.”

  “He never speaks a truth, then,” said the sheriff peevishly.

  Robin laughed so long Geoffrey stopped eating and pushed away his wooden plate. Robin wiped a tear and said, “Never tells a truth!”

  “I amuse you. This is not surprising. This must be how you derive pleasure from your captives.”

  “Forgive me, my good lord sheriff, but you are an amazing creature. A talking mute! A seeing blind man! A dead man with moving arms and legs.”

  “I am glad I please you.”

  “I expected a burly man, a man who was cruel but also fiery. A man filled with fury and hatred. I expected a man of muscle and little wit.”

  Geoffrey tasted his wine. “And?”

  “And I get a dry man.”

  He said “dry man” as he might say “dried peach.”

  Geoffrey gathered himself. “A pity that I disappoint you.”

  “I am delighted! I see so few like you! You are a piece of furniture! You are a door knocker, a stirrup! You have lived so close to duty that your soul has shaped itself to it, like a glove worn so long that even when the hand is gone, it still has the full shape of a hand.”

  “A guest should delight his host.”

  “My good lord sheriff, I do you wrong. You have a muscular soul. You have fears and hopes. But”—Robin leaped to his feet—“you should laugh! The world, the very world, is pointless, just as Little John’s tale seems meaningless. The story of all of it makes no sense, tells no lesson, makes no one wiser; it is a smear of honey pricked with flies, and a man who frowns all the time takes no more pleasure than the bee working from flower to flower, every day until he turns into an empty thimble.”

  “My host is a philosopher.”

  “Music!”

  The lute jangled, and somewhere in the dark a bagpipe squeaked. The squeak swelled into a drone, and the pipe bleated as Geoffrey winced. Robin danced well, Geoffrey conceded to himself. The lute broke a string, but the bagpipe continued. Robin danced beside the fire, and Little John joined him, prancing like a frenzied bear.

  “Dance, my lord sheriff!” said Robin. “Life is an inch!”

  Geoffrey smiled grimly and sat where he was.

  24

  The sheriff woke. He could smell morning, a gentle stirring in the air, but it was still dark.

  Geoffrey sat up, and the pine needles beside him crackled. He looked up, into the deep-set eyes of Little John. Little John placed the end of his quarterstaff on Geoffrey’s chest, and Geoffrey lay flat again.

  A night bird cried, a sharp, passionless scream, without fear or fury. His guard was gone, but Geoffrey sensed the men round the camp and cursed the darkness. How he hated night! And how easy these men seemed in the dark, at home in it, wearing it like disguise. He lay still, an organ in a gigantic, sleeping creature.

  The darkness was rotten, a gray patch of mold spreading high above them. The charred logs lifted a single white thread of smoke. A figure stooped over a single red tooth and dropped a handful of shavings.

  “You’re awake,” said Robin Hood.

  Geoffrey searched himself like a man who has just fallen. He groaned to his feet. “What are you going to do with me?”

  “Are you still afraid?”

  “Not anymore,” he answered truthfully. “Something about a new day gives me courage.”

  Robin laughed.

  Geoffrey took
the crust of bread he was handed, a chunk the color and shape of a chunk of peat. He chewed, and sipped wine from the icy metal goblet. “My men will run you to the ground.”

  “Such confidence, so early in the morning.”

  “The wisest thing for you to do,” said Geoffrey, “would be to run me through, this moment, with your sword.”

  “I knew you would have an eye for this,” said Robin, holding the blade into the drizzle. The bright steel was unblemished, the sword of a knight. “I was given it by a traveler once.”

  “Most yeomen don’t know how to use a sword.”

  The pines dissolved in mist. Water pattered from the black boughs, and the world was gone. There was only this knot of blanket under a veil of smoke. The air was ripe with wood decay and a human odor, sweat and wet wool. There was a smell of horse manure from beyond the camp, and the crack of an axe.

  Robin slipped the sword back into its scabbard. “I don’t know if we will ever see you again.”

  “How many times have I seen a hound kill a rabbit by shaking it once, like a rag? And how many times have I seen a pack of them tear a rabbit to bits?”

  “Threats, my lord sheriff?”

  “I wish you luck.”

  “I will keep your fine horses, and thank you for them. In exchange I give you back your sword and this gift—”

  Will Scathlock grinned toothlessly, leading a fine white palfrey.

  She was beautiful. Slender and powerful-delicate, in that breathtaking way of the finest mares. She accepted Geoffrey’s touch, giving over to him peacefully, her pink nostrils playing across the pine needles, puffing some of them aside to expose the dark ground.

  Suddenly he was in darkness. The hood rasped over his ears, and the voices round him were distant, words in a dream. Whether he left the band or the band left him, he could not tell. His sword was buckled into place, and he was helped onto the palfrey. His hands were tied behind him with coarse rope.

  Branches crackled, and the horse felt its way through the forest. “Who’s with me?”

  “Only myself, and it pleases Your Lordship, leading you through the greenwood, since a man can scarcely ride when he can’t see.”

  “You don’t have to live here anymore,” said the sheriff. “Why don’t you come back to the city? Robin Hood and his men are doomed.”

  “Every man alive is doomed, good Lord Sheriff,” said Will Scathlock. “Every man breathing is only waiting for the thread to break, and that’s certain. Besides, forgive me, you’ll never find us.”

  “Never?”

  “Can you find fleas, Lord Sheriff, except they find you first?”

  “Leave them, Will. Your head will end up on a pike if you don’t.”

  “My head is little more than a turnip, at best, Lord Sheriff, and that’s the truth.”

  “My men were unjust to you. I understand this. But that’s no reason to abandon the world.”

  “And who’s abandoned the world? The greenwood is as real as any tapestry, forgive me, and a deer is as tasty as a ram. Don’t worry about me, my lord sheriff, and don’t worry for a moment about Robin Hood. You might as well spend your worry on a cat.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” said the sheriff. “I don’t like to see unnecessary death.”

  Until the end he knew an arrow could stop his breath. Until the end he half expected the sound of a sword singing through his ribs. But after what seemed a day of riding blind his bonds were cut.

  “Take it off now. You’re free,” said the toothless mouth. “And a good day to you.”

  Geoffrey blinked, wadding the round dark cloth in his fist. He was alone. The High Way opened ahead of him to stubbled fields. A crow glinted like black glass, and a rut was filled with a long, slender puddle the color of steel, a lance of water that reflected the gray sky.

  25

  All day Hugh labored with the wooden sword, making Ivo sweat, lunge, parry until at last the old swordsman had to resort to a a hip throw to knock Hugh down to the straw-littered floor.

  Later Hugh helped Ivo with an inventory of caltrops, large balls with spikes of iron. The spikes were rusty, never used, and Hugh helped Ivo chip away at the red glaze, long into candlelight. The spiked instruments were used in battle, scattered in streets to discourage war-horses. Hugh was glad to help Ivo, but the young man could not help thinking of the forest, the nightmare forest, and the real one, the one that had swallowed the sheriff.

  Geoffrey did not return by the time the beeswax candles were stubs. Lady Eleanor paced the halls, glancing from window to window. Hugh stared at the dying fire in the great chamber and at last crept off to his pallet, to lie sleepless.

  Every rustle of nesting pigeons, every sneeze of stabled steed, was surely the sheriff returning. Hugh prayed to Our Lady, asking that her mercy guide the sheriff and keep him from all harm.

  By dawn the castle stirred, servants-in-waiting whispering, distant roosters cheering the sun.

  But the familiar voice, the familiar step never came.

  The cream-colored walls of cottages were bright across the gray ground. The brown thatch of roofs matched the just-harvested fields. The wicker hives trickled bees into the cool noon, and the well cast no shadow, its handle chuckling as Geoffrey cranked. He drank deep from the water scoop.

  A peasant dog wagged its tail, and Geoffrey massaged its head through its tangled hair and worked a spear of wild rye out of its ear. The peasant himself shuffled to the well, hat in hand. “Day to yer’dship,” said the peasant.

  The peasant stared after Geoffrey as Geoffrey turned to look back, surveying the dark wall the forest made, pressing up against the peaceful fields. The cut the High Way made in the dark cloth was a tiny opening, barely a slit, and all round the fields, and all round the city in the distance, bright with its windows and chimneys, the forest was waiting.

  The thief was still hanging from the gibbet, but the clothes hung loose now, and a carrion crow folded itself over the skull like a great black book of prayers.

  The drizzle began again, the gray wool lowering over the city. Drops of water small as dust fell over the palfrey’s mane. Geoffrey’s sleeves looked floured for a moment and then darkened as the water soaked in. The walls of the city were grimy with damp, like the sides of a sweating horse. The market was strangely empty, except for an orange cat that stared and fled.

  Geoffrey tickled his spurs into the palfrey, and she eagerly leaped into a gallop. A duck fled in a burst of white feathers.

  The gatesman called, “He’s here!”

  Only the swans ignored him, grousing among the greasy weeds of the moat. Ivo, the furbisher, ran across the courtyard in his leather apron, and Hugh clutched Geoffrey’s leg. “I prayed for you, my lord,” said Hugh with a fervor that brought tears to Geoffrey’s eyes.

  “I’m glad to see you, Hugh. Where’s my good deputy?”

  “Henry’s gone forth with a crowd,” said Ivo.

  Geoffrey allowed himself a thin smile. “Has he? But not you two, the best of the castle.”

  There was something canny in Ivo’s expression. “I recognized a fool’s errand even as I fastened on my sword, my lord.”

  “Ivo and Hugh are the only men I can count on not to be fools,” said Geoffrey.

  He gave the reins to a horse steward, an old man who was nearly weeping. “Take good care of her,” said Geoffrey.

  Lady Eleanor held out her hand and did not let Geoffrey’s go. “I thought the worst. Indeed I couldn’t sleep.”

  Geoffrey took each step slowly. “I have a gift for you,” he said.

  “I can’t imagine—”

  “It’s a white palfrey, very dainty but strong in her way.”

  “You seem so strange.”

  “Do I?”

  “So—so strange.”

  “I have spent a very pleasant night. Whyever should I seem strange?”

  “For God’s sake, you haven’t disgraced me—”

  “Ah. I can see now why you were worried.”
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br />   “Forgive me, Geoffrey. I know you have more discretion. I just—I was very worried.”

  “You can stop worrying,” said Geoffrey. “I am quite safe.” He paused at the doorway to his chamber. “Hugh, please send Sir Roger to me at once.”

  “He’s gone, too.”

  “What!”

  “He said that Henry was too much an idiot to lead men in battle, and he put on his breastplate and helmet and rode out ahead of them all.”

  “But the saints help us—he’s not well.” He meant: he was too old.

  “He looked,” said Hugh, “magnificent. I saw him as he must have looked outside Jerusalem, standing in his stirrups to count his men.”

  “I hear good news from all sides.” Geoffrey smiled. “I come home in triumph to hear that everything is well organized and that not a trace of panic has touched the castle.”

  “Please don’t look so terrible,” said Lady Eleanor.

  “Terrible! My dear, I am the picture of calm.”

  “Too calm. Hugh, leave us.”

  “Hugh, stay. I will need new clothes. My study gown. I don’t think I will be going forth today.”

  She took his hand. “Please tell me what’s happened,” she whispered.

  It was a long time before Geoffrey would allow himself to answer. “What has happened is that Henry, the man of my right hand, is a virtual traitor.”

  “No!” The word traitor had an ugly sound. Traitors were disemboweled and made to look upon their own intestines before losing their limbs and eventually their lives.

  “Not, of course, quite literally. Although I am by proxy the king, he escaped actual traitorhood in all but intent.”

  Lady Eleanor was pale. Geoffrey sat, and Hugh unfastened the spurs. “But,” said Geoffrey, “as you can see, I am quite calm.”

  Geoffrey stayed in his chambers, wearing the soft green gown he liked to wear when he studied. He had a large book of tax numbers before him, but he was actually studying a second, much smaller book, which he had sent Hugh into the tower library to find. In this manuscript the Archangel Michael poised in the air over a city. His white wings were spread against the blue sky, and a beast of gold had just been stabbed by the sword the angel brandished. Blood ran in an alternating pattern in twin lines of drops, but the blood did not reach the city; it seemed to evaporate in the air.