In a Dark Wood Read Free

boar? Some awkwardness, a clumsy silence, fell upon the sheriff whenever he began to express affection.
    The field was cluttered with birds. A scarecrow on a stick held a bow and arrow, like half a man miraculously endowed with the power to fight or at least kill magpies. A horse dragged a wooden frame weighted with a stone, the comblike teeth of the frame breaking the earth into perfect lines. The borders of the field were ragged with green. Trees with thick, stumpy trunks raised branches in shocks. A peasant with a white cap stretched down over his ears sat astride the horse, flourishing a small whip. The horse was stocky and shaggy. It shat, and the teeth of the wooden frame combed the golden manure into the field.
    Geoffrey knew that at night, in May, when the full moon rose like a petal on black water, such a man led his wife into the plow-ridged fields. He laid her down on the dirt, lifted her smock, and grunted like a bull under the glittering sky so that the earth would rouse from her sleep and remember her duty. The farm folk often recalled such ancient rites.
    â€œLady Eleanor goes fowling this afternoon,” said Hugh. This was not conversation. This was a report, and Geoffrey turned in his saddle to see a gown cascade from the side of a horse and wings flutter from wrists.
    Geoffrey looked back towards the forest. The grinning head approached, bobbing at the end of its stick.
    He wrapped the reins round his hand so tightly it hurt, and ground his teeth. He was trapped between the devil’s face in one direction and the devil’s work in the other. He glanced at Hugh and forced a smile. “It will be our good fortune to wish them success.”
    â€œIt’s already proven a perfect afternoon for the kill,” said Hugh, and if he understood anything at all, his expression did not show it.
    â€œOnly the stars are perfect,” said Geoffrey.
    A quick contradiction was the signal that his lord wanted silence, and Hugh looked away, studying a flock of blackbirds.
    The falconer dragged a long stick, a graceful arc of wood, and two falcons gripped his gloved hand. He wore one red stocking and one black, and his sleeves were rolled up, baring two brown arms. Two small wire-haired dogs danced and sniffed the dirt. Lady Eleanor’s reins were decorated with red fringes and gleaming buttons, and the horse fought the bit with its tongue.
    She rode side-saddle, her head protected by a white wimple, its shadow falling over her shoulders. Her black dress flowed with the prancing of the horse, but her red silk sleeves were tight. Her gloves were tight, too, so close-fitting she had struggled to force each finger into each even more slender sheath. A falcon turned its head at the sound of her voice, the gray cloth of its hood like the cowl of a monk.
    â€œI knew we’d see you,” she said.
    â€œI thought you were sick,” said Geoffrey with a smile.
    â€œIt passed,” said his wife, the drape of her wimple hiding her face as she said to one of the dogs, “and I decided to amuse myself.”
    Geoffrey balled his fist so tightly a knuckle cracked. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he said, and pulled his horse into the ragged border of the field.
    At that moment the huntsmen arrived with the huge head dripping black, its fine black eye pricks taking him in and knowing him, comprehending him entirely and not with contempt. With understanding, fellowship even.
    â€œIt was quick work,” said Hugh, eager to tell it. Geoffrey flushed with pleasure at the tale of a flying beast, a spear in a sure hand, dust, blood. All in a young man’s chatter.
    â€œI know all about what goes on in the forest,” she said, and long after her skitterish horse and nervous dogs had slipped by the carcass, her words hung round him like a necklace of thorns.

3
    The clop of hoof among walls soothed Geoffrey. Straw on stone. Baskets of green apples. Barrels of ale lifted into