Wild Wood by Posie Graeme-evans Page A

spat on the dirt floor. This time she made the sign and did not try to hide it.
    I continued calmly, “The Lady Flore is”—I was not sure what word was best—“is not a witch.”
    “No?” Rosa stood on her toes and grasped my shoulders, forcing me to look down into her face. “Ah. I see. You too have been bewitched.” She dropped her hands and stood away from me. “I say she is a whore and a witch. And I should know.”
    “Which?”
    She stared at me. “Do not think me stupid because of what I do, Bayard.” Her face, in the half-light, was less old than ancient.
    I tried to kiss her, but Rosa turned her face away. Perhaps she did not want to see me leave.

    “Put it back.”
    I looked over my shoulder as I pulled the saddle off Helios. “What?”
    “Boy!”
    Dikon, the stableboy, ran as Maugris called out, “Help Lord Bayard.”
    “I can do it myself.” I heaved the saddle to its place again. Helios was sweating from the ride, and he was not pleased when Dikon tried to drag his head from the manger to put the bridle on again.
    “I shall need armor.” It was not a question. The look on my brother’s face was grim, and he was suited in a steel hauberk.
    “You will if we ride after them.”
    “After who?”
    Maugris did not reply, but as we left the stables, he called out to the boy, “Keep the horse ready.”
    Enoch, the castle farrier, was working at the entrance to the stables shoeing a line of horses. The air was acrid—scorched hooves and hot iron.
    I raised a hand in greeting. He had been kind to us as boys when we hid in the stables to avoid our father.
    Smiling, Enoch waved back but Maugris ignored the man and hurried on. The farrier’s expression soured as he crouched to pick up the next hoof.
    “That was not well done.”
    Maugris ignored me as he ducked through a low door that led into the chain of cellars where the tenants’ rent of grain, fruit, and roots was stored.
    We heard voices. Godefroi. And the lighter tones of a woman.
    Without speaking, Maugris pushed on a door.
    Head bowed, Margaretta knelt in front of Godefroi. He was staring at her. “You must have known.”
    “No, lord.” The girl did not look up. Her voice shook.
    Godefroi wheeled. “Reeve!”
    Swinson stood in the far shadows of the cellar, behind his daughter. Flambeaux picked out lines of sweat on his face. None of the three had seen us.
    “You are right to be afraid, Swinson. No servant of mine can be allowed to lie.”
    “My daughter is an honest woman, lord.”
    Margaretta’s eyes were tragic. “Father, let me.”
    Godefroi held up a hand. “He shall speak for himself.” And pointed. “Kneel.”
    Swinson’s body was rigid as he knelt, but he spoke with dignity. “Me and mine have always obeyed you, lord. And your family. We are loyal. In your father’s day—”
    Godefroi slapped the man across the face. An explosive blow. “This is not my father’s day.”
    Watching, I could not remain impassive. Ignoring Maugris, I pushed the door wide and strode through.
    Godefroi flicked a glance from me to the reeve. “Answer what I asked. You knew he did this, both of you. Confess it.”
    Edmund Swinson raised his head. Blood joined sweat on the side of his face. He seemed sincerely puzzled. “But he is a monk, lord. Your own father sponsored him to the monastery. It cannot have been my son.” The man was pleading.
    Godefroi pulled the reeve to his feet and dragged him to where a body, dressed in Hundredfield livery, lay on the floor. “Excellent work for a man of God.” The face was covered but both hands had been cut off.
    Swinson turned his head away.
    “Look!” Godefroi ripped the covering away. The eyes had been gouged out. “Nothing to say? Your son the traitor was seen, reeve, and his men. He took the eyes with his own knife.” Godefroikicked Swinson in the back. The reeve fell beside the corpse, his head knocking on stone.
    “Father!” Margaretta tried to reach Swinson, but Maugris stopped