Forbidden Forest by Michael Cadnum Read Free Book Online

and stretched Tom, still bleeding, on the rush-strewn floor. “You can’t lay him here,” spat Albert. “Blood from here to the road, and every sheriff’s dog on your trail.”
    â€œNo one followed,” said John.
    Albert was not servile, and he did not smile. His voice was hard. “Get that bleeding man out of here.”
    John carried Tom to the injured man’s cottage. Lord Roger arrived just after Tom stopped breathing. John let his friend’s body lie flat, now that the wound would cause no pain. He folded the yeoman’s hands over his breast, the broad hands and square fingers gentle now, and still. He pressed the amulet into the peaceful hands of his friend, the cross with the single knucklebone. Tom had died unshriven, unable to breathe his sins into the ear of a priest.
    His lordship’s leather leggings were wet from riding, and he carried red kid gloves in one hand. “Have you ever run down a stoat, John?” he asked.
    John was in deep sorrow, and he expected the nobleman to share his grief.
    â€œOf course you have not,” said his lordship, answering his own question. “Devilish creature, smart as a ferret, and stronger.”
    John waited while the nobleman raised the blanket and gazed down at Tom’s peaceful, pale features, so unlike the ruddy, alert expression he had worn in life.
    â€œIs the abbot still alive?” asked Lord Roger after a long silence.
    â€œWhen I left him he was sitting in the mud,” said John. Putting the carnelian ring back on his finger , he did not add.
    â€œDid Tom not understand my instructions?”
    â€œTom Dee,” said John, “was not the only man on the High Way this evening.”
    Lord Roger let the blanket fall and did not speak at once.
    â€œI’m thirsty,” he said at last.
    John stayed where he was, settling the rough wool blanket over the face of Tom Dee.
    â€œHave some pigeon pie and a pitcher of wine with me,” said Lord Roger. “I’ll find better men than Tom, and richer quarry than the abbot.”
    John had heard that many lords had less feeling than peasants, and that some men of quality never wept. He had not believed it, until now.
    â€œMy lord, I’m leaving your service,” said John. The speech was simple, but it had a deliberate legal character, the formal parting of a serving man with his master. He rose to his feet.
    â€œYou can’t, John.”
    A man could be bound to his lord for a period of service, perhaps an entire lifetime. “You found me free, my lord, and I joined you willingly,” said John.
    Lord Roger gave a dry laugh. “Carrion crows would have eaten your eyes by now, John, after some royal forester’s crossbow brought you down.”
    John knew the truth of this. But perhaps, he considered, such a death was not the worst fate after all.
    â€œYou’ll stay with me,” said the nobleman. “And have a life of pleasure, John. Silver you cannot imagine, with your poor life.” Pauvre lyf .
    John made an open-handed gesture—what did silver matter? A man was dead, and John had done too little to prevent it.
    â€œYou and I can rule the High Way,” said Lord Roger. “No proud, wealthy man will be safe from us. No traveler with a fat purse will arrive home with one coin kissing another in his sack. You’ve always wanted to serve a master of cunning.”
    John began to grow angry.
    â€œI am a man of my word,” continued Red Roger, “and I do not lie to myself. You wanted to be deceived. You’re young enough to not know your own nature, but I see it in your eyes—that skill waiting to be trained. I’ll make you a master robber, John, a man after my heart. My word on it. You’ll be a legend.”
    John stepped out into the dusk.
    â€œIf you flee me, John, I’ll have every peasant with an ax putting an edge on it for you,” said the nobleman, staying right