Walk the Wild With Me

by Rachel Atwood

  Nick was glad he had the stout walls of the monastery to retreat within when marauders were about.

  Most of the boys in the dormitory had similar stories. But Nick was the only one Father Blaine pursued, expecting him to err with every step.

  Maybe because Nick was the one most likely to find trouble—or create it.

  Nick had to smile at that thought. He was just trying to make life interesting. The never-varying routine of the monastery was comforting. Predictable. Safe.

  Stifling.

  And boring beyond measure.

  He pressed himself tightly against the interior wall of the roofed colonnade, keeping to the deepest shadows. Almost there, he reassured himself. Another foot’s length.

  Father Blaine’s leather sandals slapped against the paving stones. He kept to the open garden at the center of the cloister, in full sun. He cast his own shadow rather than hiding within those cast by the building. Shadows hid things Father Blaine didn’t know how to explain.

  Nick’s fingers touched wood. Keeping his movements as small as possible, so as not to disturb his cloaking shadow and thus attract attention, he fumbled with the iron latch on the door.

  Just yesterday he’d oiled the latch and the leather hinges on this door that he wasn’t supposed to know about. But then he knew he’d be in trouble today, or tomorrow at the latest, and wanted to ensure his escape.

  Nick still didn’t understand why Father Blaine, the youngest and most recently ordained of the priests, found Nick’s little drawings in the illuminated manuscripts in the scriptorium so offensive. All he did was embellish the trailing vines and flowers he was supposed to draw in the margins of sacred texts. With a few flicks and squiggles, the greenery revealed the hidden faces of fantastical creatures.

  Nick saw those faces within the greenery every time he went into the copse on the abbey grounds to gather acorns or shoo the chickens back to their coop. Occasionally, he trapped a rabbit or downed a grouse with his sling, but he always asked permission of the faces first.

  Ah, there, the latch in the door behind him clicked softly. Nick paused half a moment to make sure Father Blaine hadn’t heard the telltale sound of metal against metal. The young priest had made his way around the garden to the far side, next to the entrance to the boys’ dormitory.

  Before Nick could think better of his plan, he eased his slender body into the musty darkness and closed the door behind him. Again, he waited for sounds of pursuit with his ear pressed against the thick wooden panels. Nothing. He doubted he’d hear Father Blaine even if he paced and shouted right in front of that door.

  With one hand trailing the damp stone wall and the other in front of him, he moved down the lightless, narrow spiral staircase that began less than a full pace inside the door. Father Blaine—too new and uncertain of his authority and his powers as a priest to venture into the unknown—would never follow him here.

  Nick counted thirty-three steps and shifted his balance to meet the stone floor of the landing. Then another thirty-three steps downward into the crypt. His senses told him he was beneath the Lady Chapel, behind the high altar of the abbey church.

  He had to be more quiet than usual. Noise might filter up through the small spaces between building stones. Since the Holy Father, Innocent III, had imposed an interdict upon all of England, no Masses could be sung at the high altar, or anywhere. And all the senior clergy, including his own Abbot Mæson, had to leave England for Paris or Rome. So the three remaining priests, twenty brothers, and the dozen orphans who lived here knelt in the Lady Chapel to offer prayers. People from the village did, too. The place was rarely empty these days.

  Nick held his breath as he struck flint to rock, a particularly hard one placed conveniently on the stairwell just for this purpose. A spark glowed against a rush light. It found food and flared to cast a golden glow. When Nick knew that the flames would continue, he turned and surveyed the small circular cavern lined with narrow shelves where remains of the dead rested. He lowered his gaze, not willing to converse with ancient skulls and bones crumbling to dust.

  No new bodies resided here now. Two generations ago, the then-abbot had declared this place full and began burying the dead in a cemetery in a secluded courtyard outside the main abbey buildings.

  He shifted his attention away from the dead toward the low altar pressed into a niche against the far wall. Elaborate figures carved into the stone marched in an orderly row just beneath the top lip. A scrolled column supported each corner.

  Nick didn’t think the founding monks of Locksley Abbey had made those carvings to honor their dead fellows and patrons. A scroll in the scriptorium he’d read hinted that the founders had chosen this place to build an abbey because locals had worshipped here for as long as anyone could remember. The altar was here when Romans bricked around it. The altar was here when the walls were built above it. The altar was here honoring the dead before the first abbot was laid to rest in his niche on the bottom left.

  Nick sat on the single low step leading up to the altar. A bracket on his left accepted the rushlight. He let his fingers trail down the Roman brickwork. Old bricks. Older than the stone walls and floor. He found the imperfections in the mortar and picked at them nervously, waiting until he was ready to face Father Blaine and his punishment. He knew that hiding only enraged the priest more and made the punishment worse. But . . . he needed the peace of this place while he gained the strength to accept his due.

  Pick, pick, pick. He worked at the old mortar, feeling a measure of satisfaction in each crumb he loosened.

  Pick, pick, pick. The brick wiggled under his fingers. He looked more closely. The rushes had burned down to embers. Time to return to daylight and Father Blaine.

  Wiggle, wiggle, shift. The brick dropped onto his palm.

  He looked at it, wondering if it had a life of its own trapped into the baked clay. If the brick wanted out, then. . . ? But the brick was inanimate. Then. . . .

  He peered into the blank spot behind where the brick had lain. Something glinted back at him. He moved the remains of the rushlight. Another glint. Something metal.

  He reached in, felt around, and found something solid but not smooth. He pinched it between two fingers and carefully drew it outward. A protrusion caught on the side bricks. Then, with a scrape and another wiggle, it burst free.

  Nick brought the object up to his eyes to examine it in the fading light. A tiny figure of a woman, she had braided hair wound around her head into a crown, and she was seemingly draped in graceful folds of cloth made from the same metal that formed her body. Her back rested against a cup along with two other identical figures. Between each woman the cup formed a pouring lip. And each of the three women held forth a tiny candle lantern. They glowed faintly when exposed to the dark of the crypt.

  The cold metal warmed under his touch and seemed to mold to fit his hand perfectly.

  The rushlight flickered ominously. But the tiny lanterns continued to glow.

  Nick hastened to the staircase, reminding himself to bring new rushes next time he sought refuge here. Absently, he thrust the tiny cup into the pocket hidden within his deep sleeves so that he’d have both hands free to clasp the railing and balance against the curving wall.

  All will be well, a voice that might have been his own, but wasn’t, whispered into the back of his mind. His feet bounced up the stairs with new vigor.

  Nick opened the door a crack and peered through. Father Blaine was nowhere in his narrow field of vision. No misshapen shadows—though they were a lot longer than when he went down to the crypt.

  He opened the door a bit farther, holding his breath. Still nothing.

  Cautiously, he stepped into the open cloister and looked around again. Father Blaine stood behind the door. But his eyes remained fixed on the door as if waiting for it to open.

  Nick froze in place, his heart pounding loudly in h
is ears and near bursting from his chest. The priest remained motionless, eyes focused on the door but not noticing that it had moved. If he had noticed, his short temper would have pushed him to grasp the edges and rip the door open wide.

  Continuing to hold his breath, Nick tiptoed in the opposite direction. And he didn’t stop until he reached the refectory where the delicious smells of chicken broth, roasted turnips, and fresh baked bread enticed him. He released his pent-up breath and replaced it with another deep intake. He released that and continued to breathe normally as he picked his way through the long room filled with tables that stretched from end to end. Boys and novitiates sat on benches. Chairs on a dais were reserved for the abbot and priests. No one sat there tonight.

  Abbot Mæson had fled into exile by royal decree. Father Blaine still searched for Nick outside. And Prefect Andrew presided over the cauldron of broth and greens for the abbey supper.

  Nick bowed his head reverently and walked slowly to his place near the far end of the table farthest from the arched entry to the kitchen, with the youngest of the boys. Their food was always nearly cold by the time it got to them. He sat and clasped his hands before him, as did everyone else while they waited for someone to begin reading the lessons for the day.

  A few benches away, Brother Theo from the scriptorium nodded briefly to Nick, acknowledging his lateness with a tiny curved smile.

  Father Blaine burst into the refectory with a scowl on his face, searching right and left. When his gaze lighted upon Nick, he looked startled, amazed that the boy was where he was supposed to be, as if he hadn’t been hiding for half the day.

  Two

  “Tonight,” Dominick whispered to Nick. He kept his auburn head bowed in an attitude of prayer.

  “Huh?” Nick grunted, also keeping his head down. He risked lifting his eyes to survey the frowning visage of the novitiate who read the lessons for the evening.

  “It has to be tonight. My sister will look for us at midnight.”

  “If anyone can figure out a way to rescue Hilde from that odious convent, it’s Nick,” Henry said.

  Nick’s stomach bounced nervously. “May Day is only a few days off. If we get caught . . .”

  “We won’t get caught.” Dom’s voice rose in agitation. “We can’t afford to get caught. Hilde’s depending upon us.”

  Across the long refectory, Prefect Andrew twitched his rod of discipline.

  Nick knew from experience that another word and they’d all feel that shaft of hard polished oak across their knuckles.

  “I’ll cover for you,” Henry whispered from the other side of Nick. “They think I’m slow and unthinking. I can divert and misdirect as well as you can.”

  Nick dug his elbow into Henry’s ribs. “You’ll do anything to get out of work.”

  Henry flashed him his big grin, pursing his mouth while he stared at the end of his nose rather than look him directly in the eye.

  “You look stupid when you do that,” Dom grunted.

  “That’s the idea,” Henry admitted, returning his attention to his folded hands.

  Nick hid his laughter behind his folded hands. “One of these days, the priests will figure out just how smart you really are and won’t let you hide anymore.”

  Then their turn came for food. Each of the boys on their long bench grabbed their wooden bowls and filed toward the door to the kitchen where Prefect Andrew presided over a cauldron filled with broth and a few precious chunks of chicken meat and vegetables. Likely, the priest had made certain the ladle dug deep to capture those treasured mouthfuls. As the eldest among the boys, Nick, Dom, and Henry stood at the end of the line, the last of any to get their supper. The nine-year-old assisting Prefect Andrew lifted his half-full ladle and poured only a little of it into the bowl of the five-year-old directly in front of Nick.

  The little boy’s face screwed up, his mouth ready to loose a mournful wail.

  Nick cleared his throat noisily.

  Prefect Andrew scowled and nudged his helper. “You’ll not steal more for yourself by shorting those in need,” he said.

  Reluctantly, the boy dipped the ladle again and this time filled the small boy’s bowl almost to overflowing.

  “Less fer you,” he muttered as Nick presented his bowl.

  “I don’t think so.” Prefect Andrew tapped his rod against the rim of the cauldron and handed Nick his half round of bread.

  The boys continued their meal in silence.

  “I’m still hungry,” Nick complained quietly when he’d sopped up the last of his broth with the new bread.

  “Not ours to claim,” Dom replied. “Though I’d like a bit of cheese to take with us tonight. It’s a long walk to visit my sister.”

  Dom watched as Prefect Andrew slid two poles through the handles of the soup cauldron.

  Nick rose from his place and hurried to assist him with transporting it to the postern where the poorest of the poor from the village lined up for any leftover food.

  “I thank you for your help, young Nicholas,” Prefect Andrew said. “I’ll see that you get an extra portion for it.” The middle-aged priest tucked his rod of discipline in his belt rope and shouldered the poles. Nick took up the other end and crouched beneath them. Then he stood, easily taking the weight of the heavy iron pot. To his surprise, he stood tall enough to keep the burden level with the prefect’s shoulders.

  “When did I grow so tall?” he asked himself.

  “Over the winter, boy. I had to find you a larger and longer robe after the last snowstorm. Your sandals will need replacing by May Day. You’re like a puppy. Your feet grow too big for your body, so you stumble over everything. Then you grow into them and are fine for a while.”

  “The line of petitioners looks longer than last time I brought out food,” Nick mused.

  “Sir Philip Marc has raised their taxes again. He purchased his office as Sheriff of Nottingham from the king. He figures the people need to reimburse him. If they’ve no coins, then he takes the taxes in whatever food they have left in their stores. They’ve nothing left to barter with the miller for flour and end up trading skills and services for an egg.”

  If Nick had a free hand, he’d cross himself. The villagers who lived closer to Nottingham than the abbey deserved every blessing they could beg for.

  When the last of the petitioners had left the gate, barely a drop of broth remained. Nick looked askance at the emptiness at the same moment his stomach growled for more sustenance.

  “Don’t worry, my boy.” Prefect Andrew chuckled and clapped a reassuring hand on Nick’s shoulder. “I’ll see that you get something more before you retire. A goodly chunk of cheese, I think. Big enough to share with your friends, who are also growing faster than the berry vines along the back wall.”

  Father Tuck suppressed a yawn as he waited within the branches of an apple tree in the orchard behind the abbey. A half-moon rose above the thin layers of clouds as the time approached midnight. His boys should be returning to their beds after Matins. A low glimmer of candlelight flickered, highlighting the glorious reds and blues of the rose window behind the altar of the Lady Chapel, turning the colored glass into brilliant jewels.

  Silently, he recited the words of the Mass. The beauty of the Latin words rolled across his mind, reminding him of why he had chosen the regulated life of a priest over the freedom of living with the Forest Folk.

  Only now that King John warred with the Holy Father, Tuck was back in the forest ministering to those whom the Church had forgotten.

  The branches of an adjacent tree bounced, the new leaves rustling and stray, white flower petals drifting down.

  He sat up straighter in the junction of a stout branch that angled to the tree trunk. He could see the shadows of two lithe young men scrambling from the wall of the herb garden to an overhanging branch and down again on the other side of the wall. He’d used
that unofficial exit from the protection of the abbey when he was the same age as Nick and Dom. When he lived within those walls, he’d watched many boys discover the same path to adventure.

  But Nick was special and needed closer observation.

  Once on the ground, the boys walked cautiously among the apple trees, feeling their way toward the road that would lead them north.

  Tuck waited until they’d broken free of the orchard and walked in the dim moonlight before descending from his perch more slowly and with less agility than the boys. He cursed his aging bones and dimming eyes. His forest blood might extend his life beyond normal humans, but he still aged.

  “Did you hear that?” Nick whispered to his companion.

  Tuck froze in place and cursed silently. He thought he’d forgotten most of those phrases that he’d learned at an early age while living wild. Of course, Nick heard him tiptoe through the lush grass. He had to have forest blood in him, or Elena would not have chosen the boy for rescue.

  He also would have better night vision than his human friend.

  “Just the wind in the trees,” Dom replied. “We have to hurry if we want to be back by Lauds at dawn.” He set a faster pace.

  Tuck held back. He knew their destination and needn’t fear losing them in the darkness. He’d walked to the Convent of Our Lady of Sorrows many times over the years as an itinerant priest.

  “No, Dom. I’m sure we are being followed,” Nick insisted.

  “If Father Blaine is following us, he’d have cried out and stopped us before we left the orchard. It’s just your imagination.”

  “But . . . there are still raiders and outlaws roaming the forest.”

  “Not this close to the city or the abbey. Now come on. We’ve only got a few hours to get there and back.”

  “There are as many hazards on the road as in the forest,” Tuck reminded himself.

  Tuck slid into the shadow of a tree and contemplated his options. He needed to follow the boys and find out the true situation at Sorrows. The sisters there wouldn’t reveal much to him during the day. The orphans in their custody would reveal much, much more without knowing what he discerned.