toward the horses, stamping their impatience near the gatehouse, blowing steamy vapor into the cold morning air. “I am not suited yet to ride a horse.” He chuckled at his own expense.
“That will pass. It has been, what, five weeks since the surgery? I think by Candlemas your restoration will be complete.”
“’Tis well enough as is. For that I am much in your debt.”
“You must thank God also. He it is who gave me the skills to aid you. He is the Lord of healing, for when we poor surgeons have done our best, recovery is in His hands.”
“Aye. That I do. Every day.”
Lady Petronilla and Lady Joan appeared at the entrance to the castle screens passage and walked toward the assembly. Richard, Lord Gilbert’s two-year-old son, toddled along in their wake, accompanied by his nurse.
“Master Hugh will guide us,” Lord Gilbert nodded toward Bruce. The old horse had caught some of the sense of excitement, and stamped his forefeet with as much enthusiasm as he was able. “Lead on, Master Hugh.”
I managed to mount with some grace. I was becoming accustomed to the solid platform Bruce provided. I glanced toward the women to see if I was observed. I was. The fair Joan dipped her head in acknowledgment. I smiled — raffishly, I hoped — however, I do not do raffish very well. I have never been accomplished in courtly uncourtliness. One must, I think, be born to it.
I turned my attention to Bruce and the open gate. As I did I caught, from the corner of my eye, the broad face of Lord Gilbert, his gaze fixed upon me. He had certainly observed my wandering eyes. Well, he must know that Joan had caught more eyes than mine, and in his presence as well. I led the troupe out the gate, across Shill Brook, and north on the road toward Shilton and Burford.
I found the coppiced woods, where Lord Gilbert exercised the rights of nobility and directed the search. This investigation was made more difficult by the crusty layer of sleet and snow now covering the fallen leaves and forest floor.
The band of searchers swept north, then south, penetrating with each sweep deeper into the forest. As we drew away from the road I began to hear the dull thuds of distant axes. This sound grew louder, then abruptly stopped.
Lord Gilbert’s crew was a noisy bunch, breaking through thickets, scattering leaves and snow with poles broken from coppiced stumps, and shouting back and forth across the advancing line whenever an object of interest appeared. I theorized that, between blows, the woodcutters heard our approach and decided to pursue their work in some other part of Lord Gilbert’s forest.
Then, through the trees, which were beginning to open as we left the coppiced area and drew closer to native growth, I caught a glimpse of white against the gray and brown background of thick oak trunks. My patient, I guessed.
Lord Gilbert was in the midst of the pack of searchers, wet to the knees — as were we all — when I approached him.
“What, then, Hugh? Have you found something?”
“No. Listen — ” He stopped his exploration of a hummock of leaves and snow, which he had been vigorously prodding with the point of his sword.
“I hear nothing,” he replied after a brief silence.
“That’s it; did you not hear the woodcutters a short time ago? They have ceased their work.”
Lord Gilbert caught my meaning. “Heard us, have they?”
“No doubt.”
“You think they may have knowledge of this matter?”
“I do…but they will hesitate to say so. They might have found other garments and fear an accusation of theft.”
“They have no doubt vanished,” Lord Gilbert shrugged.
“I think not. I saw one observing us through the trees but a few moments ago. If we go around that copse,” I pointed to a thicket to the south of our search, “we may come up behind the fellow. He’ll not see us coming, or hear us, if that lot,” I nodded toward the search party, “persist in the noise.”
They did persist, and but a few minutes later we rounded the copse and found our quarry hunched behind the stump of a great fallen oak, watching with rapt attention the overturning of the forest floor.
“Good day,” Lord Gilbert announced our presence behind the fellow in a booming voice. Lord Gilbert was well-practiced at a booming delivery. Most nobles are.
The man jumped and turned so quickly, his feet left the ground. His head, I thought, will ache after that move, for the man was indeed my patient.
“Why, it is Gerard, my forester,” Lord Gilbert exclaimed in a friendly tone. “You see us engaged in a search of the forest,” Lord Gilbert continued conversationally, as if unaware that his greeting had nearly caused the man’s heart to fail him. “Perhaps you may assist us.” Lord Gilbert’s tone shifted slightly at this last remark. The message was clear: “You had better assist us, if you can.”
Gerard stood silent, shaking, from cold, or fear, or both. I thought he might remember more if he feared less, so I sought to allay his concerns. “I showed you a cotehardie on Saturday,” I said, and pointed to the garment swinging from Lord Gilbert’s left hand. Lord Gilbert still held his sword in his right hand. Certainly this contributed to Gerard’s unease. “Have you remembered finding any other clothing in the woods hereabouts since then?”
“Nay…no clothes.”
I detected his meaning, and I think Lord Gilbert did as well, for he turned quizzically to me as I spoke again. “What, then? Have you found other than apparel?”
The woodcutter looked about him as if he sought some refuge, or a path of flight through the forest. “What, then?” Lord Gilbert echoed. His voice had gone to booming again.
“A…a dagger, m’lord.”
“A dagger!” The booming intensified, doing the woodman’s headache no good, I thought. “Why did you not tell Master Hugh of this Saturday?”
“I did not ask him,” I interceded. “I asked if he had found other clothing. Had you?” I turned to Gerard and tried some booming myself. Not being practiced, I was not so proficient as Lord Gilbert. “The truth, now!”
“Nay…nothing…just the dagger.”
“Show us,” Lord Gilbert demanded, “where you found this dagger. And where is the weapon now?”
The woodcutter nodded in the direction of the search party, the raucous exploration drawing ever nearer. “Over t’the coppicing.”
“Show us,” Lord Gilbert ordered.
Gerard peered about him once more, then turned and led toward the searchers and the road. Lord Gilbert’s men quieted as first one, then another, saw us approach, following a stranger with a bandaged head. The forester strode through the line of searchers to an area already covered — not far, I saw, from the general area where I had recovered the cotehardie.
He stopped twice to get his bearings, then walked in a serpentine pattern, scanning the ground before him and to either side. A few more twists and turns and he stopped. By this time the entire search crew, gentlemen and villeins, had stopped their work to follow, either bodily, or with their eyes, our progress through the fringe of coppiced woods.
“Here,” he said finally, pointing to the ground.
“You are sure?” Lord Gilbert asked.
“Aye. We was cuttin’ poles from the coppice. There.” The forester pointed to a stump where half a dozen poles had been sliced from the new growth.
“We was draggin’ t’poles away an’ seen somethin’ shine. ’Twas a dagger. Right there it lay.”
“Where is it now?” Lord Gilbert returned to booming. “Walter it was who saw it first. He’s got it.”
“Walter? Was he one of those who brought you to me with a smashed head?”
“Aye, me son.”
“Was he cutting wood with you just now?”
“Aye.”
“Where will we find him?”
“We didn’t know who t’owner was…didn’t know ’twas important.” The woodcutter’s voice wavered as he spoke.
