In a Dark Wood Read online

  “The king is unhappy with what he learns from this city.”

  Geoffrey blinked. “I am his eyes here, and his ears.” He stopped himself. The king could pluck these eyes, trim these ears, and grow others. Geoffrey took a deep breath.

  “He is unhappy with what he learns about his High Way.”

  The High Way ran south, all the way to London. It belonged to the king as a man’s arm belongs to the man. The road was an expression of the king’s will, as this man was an expression of his will. The king’s agency traveled like a vine over the land and peopled itself in men like Baldwin, as the flesh of Christ multiplied itself in the Blessed Sacrament.

  Baldwin waited to see if Geoffrey would display remorse, or incompetence. Geoffrey returned his gaze.

  “He is concerned about what he hears about travelers on his road.”

  Geoffrey groped for a memory.

  “About travelers not having free passage along the road.”

  “Highwaymen,” Geoffrey prompted, relieved. “I knew it!” This was a mistake. If he had known it, the problem should not have existed, but Geoffrey added quickly, “I am as concerned as he is.”

  “Not highwaymen.” Baldwin closed his eyes and said as in prayer, “Geoffrey, not highwaymen in general. But a particular highwayman.”

  There were so many, Geoffrey nearly said.

  “That particular robber who waylays people. People on the king’s business. And demands a toll. As if the road were his!”

  Geoffrey shivered.

  “Stealing, thereby, not only the tax the king would collect, if he so desired, but the road itself!”

  “The king’s taxes have been paid on time,” Geoffrey said, running a fleck of dust off the table with his finger. “And in full.” He looked up for confirmation.

  “So far. So far, Geoffrey, but while he continues in his faith in your power to collect the money that is his, he worries that you have lost his road.”

  Geoffrey bowed his head. The king’s men were bits of the king’s body. A hazard on the way was like a paralysis, and in this case, it was also an insult, implying that the marriage of king to country was invalid, a thing to be mocked. Mockery was a terrible thing. Geoffrey shook his head in disgust.

  Baldwin lifted a hand, as if in benediction. “Be at ease, Geoffrey. The king stands in faith with you; he trusts you as he trusts his toes to do his bidding.” Baldwin looked away, no doubt displeased with the image of toes, raising, as it did, the picture of a king wiggling his naked feet. The broad hand fell gently to the back of the chair. “He knows that this problem will be resolved. He knows that you will apprehend the body of this outlaw and deliver justice upon it.”

  Geoffrey was struck by the well-formed speech of this Londoner, ripe, as it was, with the influence of French and the influence of decades of Latin study, the beautiful pagan masters Geoffrey could read only with difficulty. “Let there be no doubt—” Geoffrey began.

  Baldwin waved him silent with an easy gesture. He closed his eyes. “No need. No need.” He dropped, as if exhausted, into the chair. “There are many men seeking honor in the south. I speak as a friend now. As a man who knew your father.” Baldwin massaged his large, square chin. It was like seeing a priest immediately after mass and finding him weary and human, scratching beneath his cassock. “There are dozens of men who would love to be sheriff of Nottingham.”

  Geoffrey poured wine from the silver pitcher. The clear green wine was too tart for Baldwin’s soft London mouth, and the steward rolled his lips into a knot. Geoffrey lowered his cup, feeling it discourteous to savor such an unworthy wine.

  Baldwin drank and touched a cloth to his lips. “I know that you are a gifted administrator.” He looked into his empty cup, and Geoffrey filled it at once. “The king appreciates this.” The key words were gifted and appreciated. Gifted meant that God had endowed his talent. Appreciated meant that the king had appraised Geoffrey as one appraises cloth and knew his value. “But we both know that you are not overfond of wilderness.”

  Geoffrey drank but did not taste.

  “Not that you are cowardly. A crisp, worthy man.” Worthy in the mouth of a man like Baldwin was a deep compliment. It summarized all that was esteemable among men. To be worthy was to have weight, as gold has weight. “But administer the forest as well as you administer the city.”

  This combination of praise and criticism made the criticism all the more scalding. To defend himself would be craven. Geoffrey stood and stepped to the lintel and stared briefly at the granite. The quartz flecks glittered in the late-afternoon sun.

  “I will,” said Geoffrey at last.

  That simple answer made Baldwin clasp his hands and close his eyes. “I know you will.”

  This meant that Geoffrey might fail but that Baldwin was still a friend. “We hunted boar this afternoon,” said Geoffrey lightly. “It threw itself upon my spear and ran to the cross-shaft just as they are supposed to do.”

  “They have so much courage that they are stupid.”

  “I have seen them outsmart the spear,” Geoffrey offered.

  “I am like you, Geoffrey. I have little use for blood gluttony. This age of men loves shouting, and the chase, and the hacking of flesh.”

  He refused to acknowledge Geoffrey’s feat. Geoffrey was puzzled. And annoyed. He did not feel much in common with this soft court steward. “It’s important for the city to see the king’s man holding a steady spear.”

  Baldwin tossed a hand in agreement.

  “We interrogate a thief tomorrow.”

  “Not a highwayman,” Baldwin chided, with a smile.

  “No,” Geoffrey conceded. But he wanted this agent of the king to know that Geoffrey FitzGodse pursued the breakers of the king’s law with a hungry sword. “A common street thief. But word is that he has hidden some treasure, no one knows where. We will find it.”

  “I have seen enough men racked.”

  “My man has a new method. I’m very curious as to its effectiveness.”

  Baldwin held forth his cup. “You have my curiosity aroused.”

  Good, thought Geoffrey. He poured more wine and wrestled the conversation to nostalgia, tales of Geoffrey’s father in the old king’s court, tales of shattered lances and sweaty horses, the sort of story Geoffrey always pretended to enjoy. The pretense was always successful, and Baldwin drank wine, growing red and deeper-voiced, describing a siege engine, and a boulder shot from a catapult, and a helmet crushed like an egg so the brains ran like yolk.

  Baldwin used the London word for egg, ey, not the local eyren, his speech reminding Geoffrey of all that was soft about London and all that was coarse about this place.

  When Baldwin had been escorted, reeling, down the hall, Geoffrey sent for Henry, his chief deputy. Henry huffed into the room and seized the edge of the table to keep from falling. “Is it all right, sire?”

  Geoffrey used a gesture Baldwin had just used, a flick of the hand. It was elegant. He did it again.

  “God’s Lips, sire, why is he here?”

  “Don’t worry, Henry. You’re all flushed.”

  “I ran up the stairs.”

  “We needn’t panic. The visit was sudden but not unpleasant.”

  “I’ll tell the men to relax. We were so worried—”

  Geoffrey was touched at their loyalty, although of course, a new sheriff would need new men. “Henry.” The sound of a man’s name did have a strange effect on him. It silenced and drew attention like a dirk from its scabbard. “Henry, I need the name of that highwayman.”

  “Highwayman, sire?”

  “That—you know the one. The one that waylays people as a prank. Collects a toll from them. As a joke.” Geoffrey hated jokes. Even as a boy he had hated those boys in the back pew who made fart noises as a hefty franklin sat down. Geoffrey’s response to a joke was to overlook it. He had overlooked this prankster on the High Way, knowing that he was less a robber than a jester.

  “Yes,” said Henry, “I’ve heard of
him.”

  “What do people call him?”

  Henry bunched his mouth, searching his memory. “I think they call him Robin.”

  “Robin.”

  “I remember: Robin Hood.”

  “Robin Hood,” Geoffrey repeated, with emphasis on the second name.

  “Yes, I think so, sire. Do you mean that he is what all of this is about?”

  “I know. It’s amazing. I’ve ignored him as an unimportant nuisance. That was a blunder. He is a speck in the eye of the king, and he must be removed.”

  Henry backed towards the door. “I’ll have him in no time at all.”

  “Him,” said Geoffrey, “or his head. Either will do.”

  6

  The abbess looked up from the page in her hands. Geoffrey bowed courteously. “Madame Emily,” he said, “how can I possibly be of service?”

  “My dear Geoffrey, it’s so pleasant to see you. I am afraid my mission is a bit mundane.”

  “Pray elaborate.”

  “Pigs.”

  “Ah.”

  “An invasion of them, just like last June.” She laughed through her nose, like a Frenchwoman. “Certainly you remember that, how they rummaged through the hedge and were so terribly naughty, even when we threw stones.”

  “I remember,” he said softly. He had not seen her since that afternoon, nearly four months ago. Her gray habit was crisp and new, and a band of coral ran round her wrist. Every eleventh bead of her rosary was jade, and a golden brooch hung from the beads, engraved with the letter A. Round the peak of the A ran a crown, and in fine letters, he knew, having come close to it all those months ago, were the words Amor Vincit Omnia.

  “A very interesting picture,” said Madame Emily.

  He stepped to her side and looked at the page she held. He fidgeted at the sight of a nude figure, albeit sexless. A creature was displayed on each part of its body, indicating which astrological sign controlled that part of the anatomy. A sheep foraged among the curly hair of the head; a crab clung to the throat, just beneath a bull that peeked out from behind the neck. With a wince, he noted that the androgynous crotch was bejeweled with a black scorpion. “My father assembled this humble collection,” he said.

  “There are many beautiful things.”

  “I’m sure the library at the abbey far surpasses this modest assortment.”

  “It does, of course, but step over to the light to see this lion. Even in the sunset it is so delightful. You can almost see it twitch its tail.”

  Near the window meant behind an archway, and he walked her to the wall, although careful not to touch her. “Why have you come here?” he breathed.

  “Because I had to see you,” she whispered. “Besides, pigs did break into our garden and soiled everything.”

  With a sick feeling in his stomach, Geoffrey knew that the slaughtered boar had caused its brethren to attack. There were spirits in things, just as the spirit in water struggled to escape when it boiled. Did not our Lord cast the evil demons into a herd of swine?

  But the sight of her melted him, as heat renders wax. He opened his hand, and slowly, very slowly, his hand approached her cheek, and he touched her.

  “You haven’t forgotten?” she breathed.

  A memory of great pleasure made him tremble. “How could I?” he whispered into her ear, the crisp edge of her veil at his lips.

  She had come, as she had now, to complain of pigs, and she had insisted, daintily but with a touch of impatience, that she see the sheriff himself. He had been ready to ride forth, a gentleman attending a gentlewoman, to the sight of the ravaged hedge.

  It was another blot upon his soul. And yet her beauty—not youthful beauty, but something riper—had already dissolved him again, here in the East Tower, cold stone beside them, vellum page rattling to the floor.

  He wanted to have her here, now, in the quoin formed by the archway and the wall, but the lion on the chest of the naked figure reminded him where he was and who he was. The black scorpion gleamed on the surface of the parchment.

  He hadn’t forgotten. He would come to her. Yes, the pigs were shameful creatures. Once again he would inspect the hedge. Love did, it was true, conquer all. He kissed the brooch, the gold warm as flesh at his lips.

  Geoffrey was glad that Hugh could not overhear his love patter with the abbess. And he was glad, too, that Hugh had no thought of the jealousy he felt now, as his wife turned to meet him. Could such a freely lustful man feel so possessive of his wife? Hugh might be moved to ask, if dismay allowed him to speak at all.

  Yes, the sheriff would have to answer. Indeed he could.

  His wife’s dress flowed to the floor, her sleeves reaching nearly as far. The insides of her sleeves were lined with blue silk, embroidered in gold with the pattern of trefoil leaves. Gold circled her neck, and a drape of coral beads fell from one shoulder to the opposite waist, each bead the size of a knuckle, but perfectly spherical. The beads chuckled as she moved to adjust her hair, speaking to her lady-in-waiting in Parisian, “Oh, look, my husband wears green just as I do, as if it were May.”

  “If I could speak with you …”

  His wife tossed a shoulder, and they were alone.

  “So—” he began.

  She made a pout in the looking glass. “You’re angry.”

  “Why did you go fowling this afternoon?”

  “Why not?”

  He controlled his voice. “For what purpose?”

  “My pleasure.” Said softly: myn pay.

  “I told you I did not want to see you in the company of the falconer.”

  She turned to glance at him. “He amuses me.”

  Geoffrey paced the room, head thrust forwards. “The man is a lecher.”

  She lifted an eyebrow.

  “People see you riding off to the woods, and they know!”

  She touched her lips as if to keep them in place.

  “I don’t want to see you with him again.”

  “I will do as I please.”

  “I will have him killed.”

  She made kissing sounds, and a wire-haired dog scrambled from under the bed. She roughed its fur. “You are boring.”

  “I will have his throat cut,” said Geoffrey, voice trembling.

  “He is the best falconer for a hundred miles. He has the finest brace of thrice-mewed gerfalcons I have ever seen. I was raised with a bird at my wrist. Everyone knows that. Everyone expects a gentlewoman to be able to withstand the eye of a peasant’s son. And they expect me to love that touch of blood. That warmth of the fresh-killed squab. They expect it of me. And I do love it. It makes me feel alive.”

  She studied his clothes, then turned to the dog and ran her fingers over its ears. “I have to do something to amuse myself, now that we no longer amuse each other. Why are you wearing that silly sword?”

  “I thought Baldwin would be impressed by such a fine jet hilt.”

  “It looks like a toy.”

  “It has a fine edge.”

  She put down the mirror at that most subtle of threats and allowed the dog to lave her finger with its tongue. She had been such an excellent choice. Moneyed, intelligent, and pretty after the current fashion, a long, slender neck, like a doe, and a plump belly like a woman always just pregnant. “Don’t tell me what to do, Geoffrey.”

  He closed his hand round the hilt.

  “You have your … companions.” She let her voice curl round the word. “And I have mine.”

  He had only half guessed. Now he knew. He sat. He knew that a man had no choice in what he did. His father had chosen his wife, and his father had chosen his profession. The type of clothes he wore, the sort of thoughts he had were all prescribed, and happily so. There were no uncertainties. But why, with that little margin of freedom they had, did men and women choose to sin?

  He laughed dryly. He was not a brave man, but he wanted to be honest to himself, and he was insightful enough to know that his wife and he were, in a way, well matched. Painfully well. Chess-
players who had gone to checkmate many times. They had never loved each other.

  She fastened a gold clasp round the dog’s neck. It was too bright to be the finest gold, but it claimed the dog as a servant of its mistress. “You are giving me a pain in my head.”

  “I so often do.”

  “Please leave.”

  “All I ask is that you not embarrass me.”

  She fingered the coral beads, and they clicked like a rosary. She had always valued what were called perre pres, jewels of price. They were a way of storing wealth, as ale is a way of storing the sun. “That,” she said, “is the only way I can hurt you.”

  7

  Geoffrey regretted telling Hugh that he could have the evening free. He missed the young man’s presence.

  Geoffrey preferred to wear green when he dined. It was important to pay respect to colors. Blue was the color of Heaven. Green was the color of earth, the color, as his wife had said, of May. No one was ever offended by the color green, and Geoffrey sometimes thought it brought good fortune. He needed good luck this evening, dining on boar garnished with steaming squabs. Geoffrey was the son of a baron, and wealthy enough, but it was a strain to have the servers dressed in their finest livery, one stocking green and one patterned with white leaves, and black sleeves that tapered to the wrist so not to dip into the dishes.

  Especially when Baldwin, the king’s steward, did not seem to notice. The two wire-haired dogs pranced on the white lace tablecloth and lapped pudding off a silver plate, and the whippet, a white, graceful figure, caught bits of breast meat tossed through the air, but Baldwin chewed, watching only one thing in the entire room, no matter how Geoffrey tried to distract him.

  The Fool juggled red balls and made a penny disappear and appear again, a bright stigmata that opened and vanished, a miracle. He stood on his head, on one arm, and made amazing faces.

  And worst of all, the Fool frowned, thrusting forth his head, chewing, so that even the servers colored on their way to the table, and Lady Eleanor laughed behind her napkin. Baldwin stared, fat glistening on his chain, then turned to Geoffrey.

  Geoffrey opened a hand to say, “You have a question?”