In a Dark Wood by Michael Cadnum

no means impossible, as Geoffrey explained to Sir Roger, who squinted across the green towards the butts with an expression of disgust.
    The weak ones would be weeded out, Geoffrey explained, by this series of eliminations, until by the time the last four faced the targets they would see the sort of shooting a man could imagine taking place only in Heaven.
    Lady Eleanor kept well under the canopy, whispering to her lady-in-waiting, the same furtive creature who acted as her chambermaid, and they both giggled. No doubt the sight of so many well-stockinged men exhilarated them.
    â€œWho is that?” Geoffrey whispered to Hugh, who stood beside him.
    â€œThurstin, son of the miller. Strong-looking, but I doubt a miller’s son can compete with the foresters.”
    The arrows struck the target with a smack, like the flat of a sword striking wood. A cry signaled a good shot, then a groan indicated a miss, as the archers stepped up and took their turns, reacting or remaining calm, as fitted their temperaments. The sky was clear blue, and the grass perfect green. Peddlers offered hens on skewers, and beggars, driven off by the sheriff’s men with black pikes, worked the edge of the crowd, shuffling and stooping as their state required.
    Geoffrey could speak lightly, but it was obvious that the highwayman had not come to the tournament, and a terrible taste rose within him: the realization that this trap had failed. The sight of his wife leaving the tournament did nothing to cheer him. “The sight of your beauty would encourage many a fine archer,” Geoffrey said.
    â€œI am afraid that I am not well,” she said. “I have a headache, and now, furthermore, I have a heaviness in my stomach.” She said this with a soft voice and a sideways glance that implied that Geoffrey had caused her to be ill.
    â€œI wonder why there is a crowd of people around that potter’s cart,” Geoffrey said idly.
    â€œPerhaps the pots are of unusual quality.”
    â€œHow can a pot be of unusual quality?”
    â€œThere are excellent pots, and not excellent ones, too.”
    â€œI have never given it much thought.”
    â€œI have, and I shall send my maid to see what excites these people,” said Eleanor tartly.
    Geoffrey smiled and nodded to a passing franklin. “You do this simply to annoy me. You have no more interest in pots than you do in oxtails.”
    â€œMost marvelous pots,” the maid panted upon her return. “And a most witty potter, who says that my lady could have the entire cart for three pennies.”
    â€œThe man is a simpleton,” said Geoffrey.
    The doctor waited with a great show of patience, a careful smile on his lips, his hands clasped, demonstrating that wisdom gave a man peace and that the more he was forced to endure the outrageousness of the world, the more patient he would become. He was dressed in blue, with a blue cap that flowed down his back and blue inner sleeves, to show that Heaven itself had charged him with wisdom.
    â€œWhat is wrong with my wife?” asked Geoffrey. It was late afternoon, the castle quiet after the pageantry of the tournament.
    â€œShe has a phlegmatic stomach,” said the doctor with a smile.
    â€œCan it be cured?”
    The doctor smiled as if delighted. “It can be cured, with time and with the proper ministrations of the correct foods and herbs.”
    â€œWhat have you done for her anxiety?”
    â€œAnxiety is easily cured. The nerves are the simplest aspect of the body to act upon. I have given her a potion made from sage.”
    â€œAnd what is that?” asked Geoffrey.
    â€œAn herb that grows in the sun in countries of the south and, since it absorbs the sun, delivers its influence into the body. It does have one danger, which is—my lord, don’t worry; I have never seen such a solicitous husband—that it removes the dark color from the hair. But it is simple to add to the potion