In a Dark Wood by Michael Cadnum Page A

Regret, or nostalgia? “Sloth.”
    â€œA terrible list,” said Geoffrey.
    â€œA terrible list.” Agreement so vehement it was like sarcasm. “How will any of us reach Heaven?”
    â€œHeaven!” said Geoffrey, exasperated.
    â€œGod’s retinue …” began Sir Roger.
    â€œSir Roger,” said Geoffrey, speaking fast, before the old man’s mind clouded further, “I need to catch a highwayman who hides in the forest. My men are inexperienced, and I can’t race them like a brace of hounds through the woods. Even if I did, they’d fail.”
    â€œYou think me mad, like that woman by the churchyard.”
    Geoffrey pulled his sword belt back into place. “May I speak bluntly?”
    â€œYou think I should be sealed into a stone tower just like that madwoman, that shrieking hag.”
    â€œSome people think her half a saint.”
    â€œYou think I am like her. I can’t sleep. I wake and think: I have wasted my life.”
    The very phrase appalled Geoffrey. He had never imagined such a thought. How could a life be wasted? He did not want to listen to Sir Roger suddenly and found himself listening to the distant clatter of the smith’s hammer, thankful for such a common, simple noise.
    â€œWe catch what we want by letting it come to us,” said Sir Roger.
    The memory of the boar spear made Geoffrey frown and rub his hands together. “How am I supposed to lure this man here?”
    â€œWhat does he like?”
    â€œI don’t know anything about him.”
    â€œIf he wanted to lure you, what would he use?”
    If a man wanted to lure Geoffrey into the forest, he would use women.
    â€œWhatever you do,” said Sir Roger, “do not play his game. Play your own.”
    The concept of the game was very important. Every courtly man understood the importance of the contest as a test of wits and courage and as proof that life itself was a serious game, human souls to the winner.
    Sir Roger had been stout. He had killed dozens. He had been to Jerusalem and had despised weakness wherever he discovered it. Even now he seemed strong, but it was a much different strength. Again, Geoffrey laid a hand on Sir Roger’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t keep to yourself. You should grace these halls with your presence.”
    â€œWhat is that strange man who says nothing?”
    â€œAh,” said Geoffrey.
    â€œI thought, at first, that he was a relative, a brother of your wife’s, who has become weak-headed and whom you have taken in.”
    â€œNo, he is a Fool.”
    The old man formed the word Fool with his lips.
    â€œIt is a fashion in Paris. And—and other places. He amuses people.”
    â€œHe pretends to be separate from human relations, like a ghost.”
    â€œApparently,” said Geoffrey.
    â€œWhy does he do this?”
    â€œIt’s his duty.”
    â€œBut why did he discover that duty, of all others? Was his father a Fool? Did a nobleman discover him and teach him to be a Fool?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’ve never asked him.”
    â€œDo so. I want to know.”
    â€œHe never talks.”
    For the first time Sir Roger offered something like his old smile. “Make him talk.”
    Long after Sir Roger had gone, Geoffrey watched the kitchen wench bent over her pot. Her arms were bare, and her gray dress flattered the curves of her body as she worked.
    He sent for Henry, and when Henry puffed into the room smelling of sweat and wine, Geoffrey spoke without taking his eyes off the girl’s white arms. “What does this prankster like most, this Robin Hood?”
    â€œThe forest, I suppose, sire.”
    â€œI mean, what sport? Feasting? Drinking? Swordplay?”
    â€œI have heard that he draws a good bow.”
    Geoffrey turned to embrace the robust deputy. “My good Henry! Most prized Henry! You are a gift from God!”
    Henry stammered his thanks.
    â€œWe