Free Forbidden Forest by Michael Cadnum Page A

choke a good woman like yourself.”
    A man at Bridgit’s elbow made the mistake of laughing. She turned to the grinning laborer. His yellow cap marked him as a hayward—they had to be seen across miles of cropland.
    â€œIs it funny,” she said tartly, “the rig-bone of a fish choking me to death?” Bridgit was a squarely built woman with three silver strands in her otherwise red hair. She had been Margaret’s nurse in years past, a guardian of her wardrobe and well-being. She performed similar tasks now that her charge was no longer a girl. Although Margaret treasured Bridgit’s companionship, and often fell asleep to the sound of Bridgit singing some enchanting ballad, sometimes her tread was a bit heavy, her speaking voice not as lovely as her songs.
    The hayward made an open-handed gesture of apology, careful not to make a sound. Such street bargaining was a form of public sport, along with dogfights, dice play, and the occasional fight between ale-flushed drivers, but something about Bridgit intimidated even the most hale of men.
    â€œPlease, good pie man,” said Margaret, addressing him first by his trade, which was proper. “Good Ralf, if you please.” She used her highest speech. A young woman betrothed to a man like Sir Gilbert was expected to speak well. “We’ll take one of your largest pies,” she said. “Or maybe two.”
    â€œMy lady,” beamed Ralf. “This pie is the best I’ve baked in a month, good white flesh, and no fins or scales.”
    â€œBut more bones than a grave,” said Bridgit.
    â€œRalf is not the pie man who sold us the fish bones,” said Margaret, walking slowly so that Bridgit could keep pace as she trudged along with the heavy market basket. They both skirted a dunghill, one of several seeping brown liquid toward the center of the street.
    â€œI know, but it doesn’t matter. They are all cheaters, my lady,” said Bridgit happily. “Every man who breathes, except your father. And my father, God rest him. And now you’ve two big pies your father can’t afford.”
    A street pig hurried away from the din of a scuffle, nearly colliding with Bridgit. The big brown-and-white animal made almost-human grunts of apology. The sound of angry voices brought boys skipping down the lane, merchants breaking off conversation to stroll in the direction of a commanding voice shouting, “Hold him, by Jesus, and I’ll break him in two.”
    Margaret knew this voice. She crossed her hands over her breast, as the prioress of Saint Mary’s had taught her, to ward off evil.
    â€œWhen men aren’t busy cheating,” said Bridgit, “they soil our ears.”
    Margaret knew what she was about to see—and she did not want to look.

Chapter 15
    Just before Goose Gate, with its pretty tower, Sir Gilbert Fortescue had gotten his hands on Osric the juggler and was twisting his arm. The knight’s squire and a shield bearer, bald Hal and bearded Lionel, were laughing and cheering as their master put a knee in the juggler’s back and forced him down into the street. Sir Gilbert was a broad, ruddy-faced man, who always wore a broadsword with a silver pommel. He pronounced his name Zheel-bear , in the manner of the nobility.
    Jugglers did more than dazzle the eye with colored wooden balls tossed into the air. They could also make small objects vanish, and sometimes Christian folk did not like the shadow of a juggler to cross their path. But young Osric was admired by many because he was rumored to be a friend of the mysterious Robin Hood of the forest beyond the city, and of Robin’s right-hand man, Little John.
    Widows and goose girls alike knew all the songs about the outlaws, but no one ever set eyes on them. Margaret believed the two were men of charming legend and nothing more, but sometimes she dreamed of encountering such a forest figure. Were such men dangerous, she