Free Forbidden Forest by Michael Cadnum Page B

wondered, or were they as kind-hearted as market folk believed?
    Hal Whitehead and Lionel Ogbert were joining Sir Gilbert in kicking the juggler, and Osric was hurt too badly to protest. Lionel was a ham-fisted, hard-faced man, noted for his tavern brawls and his habit, when he’d drunk enough ale, of settling disputes with a knife.
    Margaret would happily have gone deaf rather than hear Osric gasping, unable to beg for his life.
    Bridgit strode up to Lionel and seized his ear. The crowd laughed, but a grip like Bridgit’s was fierce, and the loud snap of cartilage giving way was accompanied by the bearded shield bearer’s grunt as he gritted his teeth to keep from making an unmanly yelp. A few onlookers laughed as Lionel begged, “Leave me an ear, good woman, I pray you.”
    Sir Gilbert stopped punishing the juggler. He was bleeding and holding his body doubled up on the ground. Gilbert gazed at the young woman he was going to marry in three days, and Margaret looked right back.
    â€œYou should be ashamed,” said Bridgit. “All of you! And our dear betrothed Margaret on her way home from prayers.”
    Sir Gilbert was a worthy man, and as a young man had fought in tournaments in London before King Henry and Queen Eleanor. If he decided to punish a juggler for some slight, his betrothed was no one to judge him. She should mouth, “Good day, my lord,” and lower her eyes. But she gave him a disapproving look, the sort of gaze the prioress gave a peasant when his pig urinated in the priory garden.
    And half the city was watching—thatchers and cord-wainers, bakers and fullers, a crowd of faces. The knight frowned, peeved at having his sport interrupted. He gave the shuddering juggler one more great kick and asked Bridgit when she would be done torturing his shield man. Then Sir Gilbert doffed his cap and made a sweeping gesture with it, doing honor to Margaret before everyone in the street.
    The young woman bent her knees and made a show of ladylike obedience that the prioress would have admired. “In gentleness is the lady meek,” taught the nun, “and in her meekness beautiful.”
    â€œMy lord plays a rough game,” Margaret said, her eyes downcast, her voice soft.
    The juggler was a brown-eyed, bearded man, his close-fitting hood knocked awry. He was breathing hard, and bleeding from his nose.
    â€œAn honest game, my lady,” said Sir Gilbert. “This juggler’s a dirty creature, and should not blemish your sight.”
    â€œHe made some coin of my lord’s vanish?” asked Margaret. Her voice continued to be meek, but her words made the knight keep silent for a long moment.
    Sir Gilbert drew close to her and took in a breath. Perhaps, thought Margaret, he would use such speech as he had put into his loving letter, the only written communication she had ever received from anyone in her life.
    â€œMy lady will forgive me—” he began. For a moment his eyes were full of gentle feeling. “I pray.”
    â€œKick him again!” called a rough, drunken voice.
    Sir Gilbert turned away, self-conscious.
    He had a reputation for roughness to maintain. He laughed, easing his belt so that he could give full voice to his good humor. He walked away with his stiff-legged stride and made a mocking yelp, imitating the juggler’s pleas. As his squire and shield man chortled, the knight turned and made a handsome bow, smiling at Margaret. The crowd began to disperse, some of the women looking back at the young woman, walking on, and looking back again.
    â€œMy gratitude, my lady, for your great mercy,” the juggler was saying.
    Margaret liked the juggler’s bright eyes and ready smile as he climbed to his feet, but she had the positive belief that Osric could steal the words out of her mouth.
    â€œYou are covered with mud, Osric,” said Bridgit, “and look exactly like the bottom of a shoe.”
    The juggler made a