Wildwing (22 page)

The High Table

I
’ve made a proper mess of my own life, but there’s one thing I’m still hoping to do right: get Mr. Greenwood safely home again. I kept checking in on him yesterday, hoping to speak to him alone and find out if the lift is still coming, but he never woke. And now it seems I’ve missed my chance, because after Beatrix comes rushing up to find me—”My lady, you’re late for dinner! They’ve started without you!”—I walk into the great hall to see him seated at the high table, Sir Hugh on his right and an empty place, mine, on his left. He looks wan and gray, the lines in his face etched deep, but he’s surprisingly alert. In fact, he’s saying something to Sir Hugh.

Oh, Lord! What has he given away? Has
he
been eating the plates? I force myself to walk, not run, to the dais.

“Pray, forgive my lateness,” I say, slipping into my seat.

But they’re none of them listening. Sir Hugh and Eustace are both leaning forward to catch Mr. Greenwood’s every word. I strain to hear above the room’s clamor.

“But of course you can do better than that,” he’s saying. “A plow can work eight- or ninescore acres a year.”

“Impossible,’ says Sir Hugh.

“Nowhere near that amount,” says Eustace.

“Haven’t you read Walter of Henley’s
Husbandry?”
asks Mr. Greenwood, astounded. “Oh, that’s right, that’s probably not for decades yet.”

Please, God
, I’m praying.

“Well,” he says. “A furlong is forty perches long and four wide; the king’s perch is sixteen and one-half feet. Am I right?”

They nod.

“Hence an acre is sixty-six feet wide. If you go thirty-six times around in your plowing so the ridge is narrower …”

I don’t believe it! He’s teaching
them
medieval farming techniques. I think of those stacks of papers on his desk, the rows of leather-bound volumes lining his shelves; I remember our teas, and how he knew all those details about the past off the top of his head. And now Eustace and Sir Hugh are drinking up his words like the finest wine.

He finishes his description, and Eustace says to Sir Hugh, “We could take those young oxen, they’re nearly grown, and …”

As the two of them start in, I grab my chance. Leaning close to Mr. Greenwood, I whisper, “Are you all right?”

“The library door was open,” he whispers back. “Everything was too clean, including the contraption, so I looked inside—”

“I say!” exclaims Father Bartholomew from my left. “What a nice wine! And have you tried the partridge?”

“Yes, delicious,” I say. “Please, Father, do take some more.”

He occupies himself with searching for the perfect morsel.

Mr. Greenwood is lifting his goblet to drink. “Stop!” I hiss under my breath. “Wipe your mouth.”

He smoothly lifts his napkin as if he meant to all along, then whispers, “I saw the dates had reset. I knew you’d gone back, and—”

“—other arrangements for the king’s visit,” says Eustace. “I instructed Harold to make sure all the bridges are in good repair for hawking with the royal company, and he assures me …”

“Hawking!” exclaims Father Bartholomew, placing atiny, clean-picked bone on the side of his trencher. “That reminds me, Sir Alec. Have you heard of our lady’s holy vision? We’re having a plaque carved for the church to commemorate—”

“I’ll have more of that partridge,” says Sir Hugh to Father Bartholemew.

“At first I didn’t believe my eyes,” whispers Mr. Greenwood. “The lift had never been used before.”

I draw in a sharp breath. “You mean, you never—” He shakes his head. “Some of the equations weren’t coming out right, and I had concerns about the wiring. With my son depending on me, I couldn’t take the risk. And once he disappeared …” His voice fades to a stop, and he sips from the goblet to steady himself. “I see now that I stopped trying, or caring,” he says. “I damn near stopped living. I believe I was merely waiting to die, until you came.”

“Right there in her solar!” exclaims Father Bartholomew, leaning toward Mr. Greenwood, sure his tale is the most fascinating thing our guest has ever heard. “And out they ride on horseback, her ladyship following the dulcet voice of the Virgin herself, to a spot where, exactly as her vision foretold, a peregrine perches: a bird of prodigious size and absolute perfection, a halo shining around its noble head, and a golden …”

Mr. Greenwood leans toward me again. “When I realized the lift had taken you to the past and left you stranded, I knew I had to—”

“You there!” Sir Hugh raises a hand for the butler to refill our goblets, and then continues, his voice still too loud. “And how many are accompanying the king?”

“Other than the soldiers, an intimate party, my lord,” replies Eustace. “Only fifteen or so. Chambers are being prepared, though of course the noblewomen who are to remain with her ladyship as ladies-in-waiting will sleep in the—”

Father Bartholomew lets loose a massive belch, and conversation stops. “Oh, do pardon me!” says the priest, patting his mouth with his napkin. “As I was saying, I’m thinking of sending word of the vision to the pope. Though it would bring much more attention if she had been carried off then and there by the angel to …”

The droning resumes from both ends of the table, and Mr. Greenwood starts whispering so intently, I’m worried the others will notice. “I thought you’d need saving, Addy, but now I don’t know what to do. Do you
want
to marry? You’re only fifteen, and he’s—”

I grasp his hand urgently. “It can’t be helped. Just tell me when—”

“I’ll take a look at the bridges myself,” booms Sir Hugh.

“Organize a hawking party for us tomorrow, Eustace. Our guest will no doubt enjoy the sport.” He turns our way. “Won’t you, Sir Alec?”

At the word “hawking,” Eustace goes as stiff as a broomstick. “I will tell the grooms to prepare for the two of you,” he says to Sir Hugh. He looks at me, his eyes narrowing. “I very much doubt her ladyship would wish to accompany you. She will be resting in preparation for the king’s arrival.”

“She’ll come,” commands Sir Hugh, crashing his fist down on the table for emphasis. The goblets jump. “The fresh air will put some color in her cheeks. Indeed, Lady Matilda, do me the honor of flying Pilgrim tomorrow.”

I give up trying to talk to Mr. Greenwood in this confusion. Tomorrow, when everyone is spread out on the trails, I’ll ride alongside him and ask about the lift and figure out if we can get him home. And I’ll finally have a chance to tell Will about the danger, the dowry, why I can no longer leave. He needs to know before he does something rash… .

I look up from my thoughts and see the steward seething at Sir Hugh’s rebuke. I mustn’t anger him any further. So I lower my head and say, in the meekest voice I can muster, “If it is your wish, my lord.”

Hawking at the Brook

W
e leave so early, the sky is still pale and pink, the air sharp with autumn’s chill. Fidelius nickers with pleasure as I approach; he nuzzles my hand for the piece of sweet bread he knows he’ll find there. Mr. Greenwood watches how Sir Hugh mounts his horse, then follows suit on his own roan, as easily as if he’d been doing it every day of his life. But one person is missing.

As Harold hands me Pilgrim, I ask in a low voice, “Where is William?”

“He rode on ahead to find the best flocks, my lady. We’ll meet him on the way.”

And then we’re all clattering across the drawbridge and down the trail. I try to angle in next to Mr. Greenwood, but the path is narrow, and Sir Hugh is stitched to his side asclose as silk lining. He’s telling our guest about the castle’s construction, the many advantages of the cliff-top location. As we move into denser trees, the two men start discussing the amount of timber that can be harvested from what type of forest. I hang back a few horse lengths, wishing Mr. Greenwood weren’t proving to be such a useful guest.

They only stop talking when we halt at the top of a rise. Harold rides alongside Sir Hugh and points down to an open stretch of marsh and ponds; a flock of mallards drifts peacefully like a sprinkling of colorful leaves. And there’s Will, astride his horse, raising his hand to us in a signal.

Sir Hugh turns to Mr. Greenwood. “Now you’re in for some good sport,” he says. He leads the way, moving us to a better position. Is this going to be my chance to talk with Will? Will, who still thinks we’re looking for any chance to run off, who might even be planning to try this very day—I hate what I have to tell him. Pilgrim, sensing my tension, shifts her feet on the glove.

But this isn’t to be the moment. We’ve stopped, close enough for a good view, far enough not to frighten the flock. Will is dismounting. He hunches low and begins creeping toward the pond; two spaniels slink at his heels.

Sir Hugh looks at me and says, “Let’s see what you’ve taught that peregrine.”

I turn until Pilgrim and I are facing into the wind, and we’re both alert to the weight of it, the speed and shift of it. I feel her excitement right through the glove. I hold out my arm, then drop it, casting her off. With forceful strokes, she spirals up into the cool morning air, quickly reaching her height. Now she waits-on directly above me, circling, watching. Ready.

The only sounds are the wind in the branches, the horses’ breath, and Pilgrim’s bell ringing bright and clear on high.

Then Will lifts a small drum—and the air explodes in drumbeats like a battle tattoo! And the spaniels are leaping, the mallards fleeing skyward in frantic confusion. We look up, and Pilgrim is already tucked tight as an arrow, a rocket, hurtling downward—a blur of speed—the sound as she slashes the sky—

She stands victorious atop her prey.

“Perfect!” exclaims Sir Hugh, nudging his mount.

We ride down through the damp grass as Will runs to Pilgrim, holds out the tidbit, and gets her back on his glove. He stands as we ride up alongside. The spaniels wag their muddy tails, panting with joy, and Sir Hugh looks as proud as if he had made the kill himself.

Will pulls out another bit of meat, and as he offers it to

Pilgrim, he whistles that lilting line of notes. Pilgrim’s tune.

From beside me there’s a sudden, harsh intake of breath. I look over in alarm. Mr. Greenwood is clutching his hand to his heart, staring at Will as if he’d seen a ghost. At Will’s long, thin hands. At the angle of his cheeks. At his golden blond hair.

He’ll draw too much attention to Will, the wrong kind of attention! I’m just about to suggest we move on when Mr. Greenwood opens his mouth and croaks out a thin thread of song:

“My sweetheart’s the man in the moon …”

Suddenly something clicks in my head, and in that moment I see it, like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle snapping into place. Now I know what tugged at my heart each time Will whistled Pilgrim’s tune, why the notes always hung in the air, incandescent, like a magic spell.

“I’m going to marry him soon …”

In my mind I’m carrying the tea tray down the hall, hearing what I think is an old gramophone recording. I’m at the door to the drawing room, watching Mr. Greenwoodgaze up at his wife’s portrait, realizing the song is coming from him.

“Twould fill me with bliss just to give him one kiss,

But I know that a dozen I never would miss …”

The old tune his wife loved, the one she was always singing: it’s Pilgrim’s song.

Now both Pilgrim and Will lift their heads to stare at him. Pilgrim’s eyes are as black and huge as night. And Will, his eyes—why didn’t I see it before?—his eyes are the brilliant blue, the unusual blue, the remarkable blue, of the eyes gazing from the portrait of Mr. Greenwood’s wife.