Chapter III

 

The Year 1119

Normandy

 

Lady Wandrille saw the body lying next to the martyr’s well. Hastening to his side, she knelt and turned the man over. A trickle of blood had congealed around a nasty purple bruise on his forehead, but he was alive. She drew a bucket of water, pulled off her scarf, and gently bathed the wound and his face.

The man was young. His frame was stocky, but he had the muscular torso of a knight and the strong arms of a bowman. A bow and quiver of arrows lay not far from where he had fallen. His thick hair was dark, streaked with auburn, his skin tan. The man was unsoiled, unlike a peasant. Clean shaven, he must be wealthy, for only the wealthy shaved their beards.

He wore a simple tunic and leggings, but the fabric of his tunic was fine linen, not coarse, and his boots were leather. The silver hilt of his sword was of the finest craftsmanship. He must be a nobleman. What was he doing here? Had he been poaching in the king’s forest?

Wandrille searched through the bundles of herbs in her basket until she found comfrey leaves. She gently rested his head in her lap, placed a leaf on the cleaned wound, and bound it with her scarf. The young man moaned. His eyes fluttered open. They were brown, like a patch-eyed calf.

“What happened?” he said weakly. He spoke with a slight accent.

“I think your horse must have thrown you,” Wandrille said.

The young man touched his hand to his head, wincing when he found the lump. “Yes. I remember now. A wild boar charged us.”

“Who are you?” Wandrille asked.

He answered slowly. “I am called Will.”

“I have never seen you in the forest. Where are you from?”

The man’s hesitation in answering seemed understandable given the lump on his head. “I am a student at the Abbey. I ran away for the day. You must promise to keep my secret.”

She smiled. “I suppose we all have secrets,” she said. “I have no reason to betray you.”

“And whose soft lap do I lie upon? Are you an angel?”

“Try to sit up,” she said, helping him. “Are you dizzy?”

He groaned a little as he sat up, holding his head in his hands. He looked at her in a manner that made her feel naked. He grinned.

“I am dizzy with love.”

The maiden filled the wooden cup that hung from the well’s bucket with water. “My name is Wandrille. My father is lord of this estate and the king’s forester. Drink this.”

He drained the cup. “I think rather that you are an angel, and this is a magic well whose waters revive me. But it is not the well water I would drink of, Milady. I would rather taste your lips on mine.”

Wandrille felt the heat of a blush fill her cheeks. “You must not speak so boldly. This is the ground of a sacred martyr’s well.”

He raised his eyebrows. “My head is clearing now. You are quite lovely, forest maiden. Tell me, what saint belongs to this well?”

“Saint Guinefort. And you, sir, look like a gentleman, but you do not talk like one.”

“I never heard of this saint. What is his claim to fame?”

She hesitated. “It is unimportant.”

“An angelic maiden with eyes as green as the forest saves my life by a martyr’s well and then tells me the martyr is unimportant? I would know the saint’s legend, pray.”

Wandrille sighed. “Saint Guinefort was a dog.”

William looked at Wandrille blankly then burst out laughing.

“I speak truly. He was a greyhound who lived in a nearby castle.”

“The saint is a dog. Oh do enlighten me.”

“The lord of the castle had a baby son,” Wandrille said. “One day the child was sleeping alone in his cradle.”

“Where was the nurse?”

“I know not. That is not part of the story.”

“What kind of nurse would leave a baby unattended? I would have the woman’s head.”

“Do you want to hear this or not?”

William leaned back on one elbow grinning. He waved his hand. “You may proceed.”

“Thank you. As I said, the child was alone in the cradle, and a very large snake entered the room, slithering right toward the baby.”

“Was the snake poisonous?”

“Of course it was poisonous. The greyhound saw the snake, dashed under the cradle in pursuit, knocked it over, and attacked the reptile answering bite with bite.”

“Good for Guinefort. I should expect nothing less from a faithful greyhound.”

“Yes. Well, in the end the dog killed the snake and threw it far from the cradle, which was now covered with the snake’s blood, as was the dog’s mouth and head.”

“I love a gruesome story.”

“When the nurse returned, she thought the child had been killed and eaten by the dog. She gave out an almighty scream.”

“She would. I do not like this nurse.”

“The child’s mother rushed in, thought the same thing, and she screamed, which brought the lord running with his sword drawn. He slew the dog.”

“A gross miscarriage of justice,” Will observed. “What happened next?”

“Only when the dog was dead did they find the child unharmed, sleeping sweetly. On further investigation they discovered the snake and realized what had happened. They were embarrassed that they had unjustly killed the dog.”

“Which did poor Guinefort no good since he was dead. What a waste of a valuable greyhound.”

“They threw the dog’s body into this well so no one would ever find the evidence of their foolishness, for it is believed the well is as deep as the sea.”

Will shook his head sadly. “I would have thrown the nurse in the well. Did the dog at least haunt them? Did they come down with a terrible infestation of fleas? Was there no recompense for this tragedy?”

Wandrille nodded. “There was recompense indeed. By an odd coincidence the lord’s castle was destroyed. It is said by divine will.”

“Ah! Good.”

“Then the local peasants heard about the dog’s noble deed.”

“How did the peasants find out?”

“The nurse told them.”

“But of course. I should have known.”

“When the peasants found out, they began to visit the well and honor the dog as a martyr. They prayed to Saint Guinefort when they were sick or in need of something. You see, legend has it that the waters of this well have healing powers.”

Will touched his head gingerly. “I can believe that. I feel much better now. But that may be because we have met and not because of magical well water.”

Wandrille frowned. “You should not mock the miraculous.”

“I am not accustomed,” the nobleman said, “to being told what to do. Proceed with your story, maiden, and pray give me more miracle water. I thirst.”

Wandrille dipped the cup in the bucket and handed it to Will.

“The peasants’ obsession with Saint Guinefort soon got out of hand. Do you see that tree over there, the one whose lower branches are in the shape of a V?”

Will nodded.

“Well, the superstitious peasants used to bring babies here and toss them through that V, and if anyone failed to catch the child, the poor baby was considered cursed. Of course, the infant was also either dead or horribly crippled from the fall.”

Will laughed.

“You would not think it amusing were it your child.”

“I would not be so foolish as to toss my child through a tree.”

Wandrille smiled. “Neither would I. But if they caught the child successfully, it was considered blessed by Saint Guinefort. Sadly many of those children grew up with addled minds.”

“Were the peasants mad or merely stupid?”

“They were superstitious and ignorant.”

“As peasants tend to be.”

“When the monks heard of this idolatry, they assembled the people and preached against the practice of baby tossing. The abbot convinced the lord of the estate, my ancestor, to pass an edict that anyone coming here to worship a dead dog would have all his possessions seized and sold.”

“I imagine that stopped them.”

“Indeed. So as the years passed, the legend of Saint Guinefort was largely forgotten, and the martyr’s identity faded. But it is called the martyr’s well to this day.”

Will knelt before the well. “Oh good Saint Guinefort,” he prayed, “I beseech you to make this forest maiden fall in love with me.” He covered his mouth and made barking noises that seemed to echo forth from within the well.

Wandrille gasped. “Do not blaspheme, I entreat you!”

Will laughed. “You are delightful as well as beautiful, forest maiden.” His eyes swept over her from head to toe. “Your form pleases me.” Impulsively, he pulled her to him and kissed her.

Wandrille, flustered, pushed him away. Her cheeks burned like fire. Her knees felt weak as if she had no bones.

“What is wrong?” Will asked, feigning innocence. “Have you never been kissed?”

Wandrille shook her head.

“Why, how perfectly delicious! Did you like it?”

Wandrille nodded. In all her sixteen years she thought she had never liked anything so much as that first kiss.

“I do believe you may have redeemed my summer, forest maiden. Will you meet me here again this time tomorrow?”

Wandrille took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and looked him boldly in the eye. She thought she could drown in those eyes. She had to see this young man again. Wandrille shrugged, trying to sound casual. “I shall meet you here if I happen to pass this way.”

Will picked up his bow and slung the quiver of arrows over his shoulder. He whistled for his horse. “You must not tell anyone you saw me here today. Can I trust you?”

“Of course you can trust me.” Wandrille had no intention of telling anyone about Will. She would not risk her father chasing this suitor away.

Will untied the scarf she had wound around his head. The comfrey leaf fell to the ground. He held the scarf out to her. “I believe this is yours, Milady. What is your name?”

“Wandrille.”

“Wandrille,” he repeated. “Named after the saint of the abbey. Thank you for taking care of me. You are very sweet, and so are your lips.”

Wandrille blushed deeply. She handed him the scarf. “You keep it, Will. How will you explain that nasty cut to the monks?”

“I explain myself to no one, forest maiden.” He brushed the scarf with his lips before tucking it into his belt.

Wandrille had to remind herself to keep breathing. He reached for her hand, bowing to kiss it then drawing her into his arms as he kissed her lips again.

“Until the morrow,” he said.

Wandrille nodded. “Tomorrow.”

She watched him ride up the path until he was out of sight. She whispered, “Your form pleases me, too.”

The quality of light seemed to have changed in the forest. Colors and shapes took on a clarity she had not noticed before. She could hear the sound of birds’ wings flapping and the scratching of a squirrel’s claws against the bark as it scrambled up a nearby tree. Her lips still tingled from his kiss. Wandrille filled the cup with water from the martyr’s well, placed her lips on the spot where his had been, and drank deeply. She picked up her basket and continued along the path toward home wondering if the bluebells carpeting the forest floor had always been so bright.