Then Herne, a different and younger Huntsman than Tuck’s grandsire, scooped up his mate and carried her off to his hidden bower.
Satisfied that life continued on a balanced path, Little John led Tuck toward a small clearing where he knew they’d have at least an illusion of privacy.
“The time is coming when the moon aligns properly,” he whispered. “Have you heard from Elena? Will she be able to help open the door to Faery?”
“Yes. Elena chuckled a greeting to me only yesterday when I passed through the apple orchard. She chose the best time to be found. I believe we will observe the one who carries her later today at the village festival.”
Four
Nick roused at dawn out of long habit. Even though the bells no longer rang the changes of the day, his body knew that the sun crept toward the horizon. Time to put on his robe and sandals and trudge to the Lady Chapel for Lauds. Along with silencing the bells that ordered the day, the Holy Father had silenced the Mass.
Nick missed singing the plainsong Mass more than the bells.
Dom joined him and Henry in line to proceed into the chapel. The boy’s eyes drooped with fatigue, black shadows encircled them, and he frowned.
“You did not sleep after we returned from Our Lady of Sorrows?” Nick whispered.
“My sister is not happy in her convent,” Dom replied, his frown deepening. “How can I rest comfortably now that I know she is entrapped by sorcery?”
“I don’t know how to help,” Nick said, mind racing to find a new plan for opening that door or getting over the wall. “Sorcery is beyond my ken. I can read about it, but that won’t give me a way to break the seal on the postern.”
“First I have to find a place for her. Perhaps with the Woodwose?”
A stern look from Brother Theo silenced them both.
More than one drowsy boy fell asleep during the long silent meditation that replaced the joyous hymns to greet the day. Nick ran the Latin words through his head just to keep himself awake.
Within minutes of filing into the Lady Chapel and dropping to their knees, Henry breathed deeply, evenly. His head nodded. Nick had to shrug his shoulders high, twice, to dislodge Henry’s head before he began snoring. Just then, Father Blaine stepped up behind the altar. Thin as a willow switch, the youngest of the priests—Abbot Mæson had hastened his ordination by two years to perform the sacrament mere hours before the interdict forbade such things—the young man cleared his throat and looked apologetically toward Prefect Andrew.
“Today is May Day. By long tradition, each of you has a free day to visit the village. We encourage you to mingle with the locals, get to know them so that you may minister to their needs when the time comes that we may do such things again. Return here by Compline.”
“How’re we supposed to know when it’s Compline?” Dom whispered. He’d only come here a year ago and hadn’t lived with the orderly routine long enough for it to become a part of the natural rhythm of the day. “At home, the chickens ordered the day for us.”
“Compline is sunset. You’ll know to come home before the sun dips to the horizon,” Nick whispered back. His voice started to waver into higher notes, but he closed his mouth before it did.
Dom nodded. “Why can’t they call it sunset?” he muttered as the boys walked a little too eagerly toward the refectory and their early breakfast of yesterday’s bread, hard cheese, a withered apple, and a pint of morning brew.
Barely satisfied, Nick and his chums folded their hands in reverence as Father Blaine recited the final prayers of thanksgiving for the meal. Then, as one, all the boys, novitiates, monks, and priests pushed back their benches and stood. Hands still clasped before them, they filed out in order of their rank within the community.
The moment Nick stepped free of the refectory into the cloister, he aimed his steps toward the exit to the courtyard and outer buildings. He led all the boys, from the oldest—himself and Dom—down to the newest entrants at the age of six. Each step grew faster until Nick hit a good run through the outermost gate set into the surrounding protective wall.
And then he was free. An entire day of freedom!
He walked rapidly, with long strides, over the arched stone bridge spanning the wandering creek that fed the fishponds and irrigated the orchards and gardens. A quick right turn put him on the path that skirted the oak copse and stretched along the sheep pasture to the miller’s pond and spillway that turned the waterwheel and thence the giant stones that crushed grain into flour. A ford across the scattered stones of an ancient collapsed bridge put him on the same side of the river as the monastery, but above the bog. The new bridge stretched before him, spanning both the creek and the water meadow on the other side. The main road came from the north, leaving the abbey mostly isolated to all but foot traffic. He crossed the creek eagerly on the wider span meant for wagons, and into the ring of thatched cottages partially encircled by the edge of the Royal Forest.
The baker sang as he set out a table filled with mince pasties, buns, and—best of all—honey tarts. Nick snatched a pastry filled with dried apples and walnuts. He paused to wipe a drip of wild honey from the corner of his mouth, savoring all of the special flavors as they burst upon his tongue. Along the way, the weaver twirled and snapped lengths of linen and wool dyed with woad or oak tannin or dandelion.
The abbey’s brewer banged his wooden spurtle against a copper pot. “Cider! Last of the autumn’s brew,” he called to one and all. The common folk would have to trade something for the refreshment. To the abbey boys it was free. “Fresh small beer brewed yesterday.”
Dom and Henry stopped before him, each holding out their wooden cups tied to their rope belts. The thick amber liquid frothed as it settled into the cups.
Nick passed by, attracted by the sound of the loud bong of a stout branch against a hollow stump.
“Races! Line up for the races,” an old man with a bald pate and an astonishingly clear voice pronounced. He hadn’t performed that chore last year, the blacksmith had.
A dozen young men and boys formed a straight line behind the marks in the turf. Nick and the other boys from the abbey kilted up their long robes, tucking the tails into their rope belts.
“From here to the millrace and back. First one to cross this line on the return will get a loaf of fresh bread and a kiss from the Queen of the May!” the old man continued. “Ready, set your mark . . .” He paused as if searching for the right words, but licked his lips with teasing relish.
The expression reminded Nick of someone. Someone he ought to remember but couldn’t. Maybe he’d seen him before he came to the Abbey in the arms of the itinerant monk who had rescued him from the burned-out village.
The racers shuffled their feet anxiously. “Get on with it, Tuck,” someone called from the far end of the line.
“Tuck?” Nick whispered in astonishment that the man no longer wore the robes of his vocation.
“Go!”
The runners took off. People pushed and jostled Nick from behind, keeping him from gaining ground. At last he had open space. He didn’t waste any more time, setting his feet to moving as fast as he could lift and replant them. Right, left, right, left. He caught his rhythm, his breathing evened, and he surged forward.
In a few long strides he passed the littlest boys. He stretched his legs and matched Henry step for step. Then his friend began to flag, and Nick matched shoulders with Dom. He, too, fell behind.
Nick’s thighs grew hot and heavy. His breaths came short and sharp, piercing all the way to his side. He should give up, as had so many of the younger runners. He still lagged behind the pack of young men with longer legs. He’d turned twelve last winter and had a growth spurt soon after. Those men weren’t so very much taller than he.
The millrace up ahead sounded muffled beneath the pounding of his heart in his ears.
A tall man dressed in expensive Linc
oln green came up behind him. He had a bow and quiver slung across his back.
“What’s keeping you, lad?” he asked, not breathing hard at all. Then he surged ahead of Nick, and quickly outpaced the pack of locals.
Nick felt the challenge deep in his gut. Something about the man’s tone taunted him. A lot like Father Blaine’s disapproval challenged him to create more little faces in greenery drawings.
He gulped air and plunged ahead.
He reached the turn at the millrace and pivoted on the toe of his left foot. Most of the others ran in wide circles, not nimble enough to control their turns. Nick moved ahead of them.
But the archer in green saw the homestretch and lengthened his stride.
Nick’s chest hurt from trying to breathe. He couldn’t let the stranger win. His vision narrowed, and bright sparks flashed before him.
He forced himself to keep running.
They left the watermill behind. The man stayed five paces ahead as every one of the others fell behind Nick. Did the archer’s feet even touch the ground? Each stride stretched longer and longer.
Nick wanted to stop and puzzle out the bewildering man. But he’d been challenged.
He kept stumbling forward.
One. Foot. In front of the other. The village green came into view. Tuck, the bandy-legged old man in the floppy brown felted hat, bounced up and down at the finish line.
The archer practically danced across the line, raising his arms in triumph and prancing in a circle. Then he doffed his cocked hat as he bowed gallantly before a young woman with silvery blond hair.
For three heartbeats the archer appeared to elongate and grow short brown fur, while tall, strong antlers grew upward into twelve-points, each horn tipped in silver. Nick blinked, and the man returned.
A small gnome of a man, also in Lincoln green, pranced around them in an intricate dance, slapping his knees, tossing his cap in the air, and catching it on his head again. His nose looked like a twisted and knotted branch that nearly met his elongated, beardless chin.
Nick almost stumbled trying to slow down as he crossed the finish line. He had to bend forward, grasping his knees as he dragged gulps of air into his laboring lungs.
The archer clapped him on the back. Nick coughed and choked, but air moved easier in and out of him.
“Good race, boy. Your courage astounds me. Here’s the loaf I was promised. You earned it, and I don’t need it.” He pressed the fresh bread wrapped in fresh leaves beneath Nick’s arm.
Before Nick could gasp his thanks, the archer disappeared, along with the gnome, who could only be Robin Goodfellow according to descriptions of unnatural forest dwellers in the newest tome in the scriptorium. His words fell into the blank space where Robin Goodfellow had been and came out all breathy and uneven. He saw nothing of the pretty blond girl in a white gown and a circlet of tiny white daisies (or were they water drops glistening in the sun?) crowning her.
The remaining runners staggered in.
No one seemed to have seen the man in green. They all presumed Nick had won the race; he had the loaf of bread to prove it.
A procession of costumed people danced out of the nearest forest path. The sunshine caught the dew still lingering in the shadows and sent shimmers of light across the dancers. Their faces went all blurry and vague, taking on sharper ears and chins, their hair greening, and their eyes slanting up. Nick blinked, and the Green Man became a shepherd on stilts. The Huntsman with a stag’s face and an antler crown returned to the look of an ordinary man—the tall archer. The troll and a lady tree spirit remained the same. And elven Puck, or Robin Goodfellow, took on the guise of a strong man with a noble face and an unstrung long bow slung over his shoulder—another archer, but not the Huntsman. Then he faded, becoming almost invisible before resolving into the shorter gnome. The lovely woman wearing a shimmering gown that reminded Nick of a waterfall wavering in and out of view had been the blond girl with a crown of white daisies the Huntsman had kissed as his prize.
Nick blinked again, and all the dancers reverted to their fae forms. Another blink and they resumed their humanity.
A chuckle sounding in the back of his mind reassured him that he had nothing to fear.
“Those are the best costumes I’ve ever seen,” Dom said, coming up beside Nick. He had refilled his cup with small beer. Nick frowned at him. On ordinary days they were only allowed the essential beverage of life at meals.
“I wonder who wove the silver into that lady’s gown?” Henry asked. “Much too rich for the likes of this abbey village.”
Silver? Maybe that was it. She could be a baron’s lady or daughter taking a day away from her noble responsibilities to have some fun. All Nick could see was water, falling water, no pool above or below, just water rippling downward with a delightful chuckle, similar to the one he heard in the back of his mind.
And then he fingered the little cup in his pocket graced by three ladies, wondering if he dared fill it from the brewer’s barrel. Suddenly, he knew why the dancers’ forms wavered back and forth.
They weren’t people dressed in costumes. These were the actual Wild Folk of the forest. The fae. With the Pope’s interdict, the Church could not preach to deny their existence, they were now free to wander the real world and enchant normal humans. Or would they lead people astray into the ways of sin as the Church insisted?
What is sin but another way of looking at life?
* * *
“You met with a boy the other night,” one of the convent girls taunted Hilde. Then she turned serious and looked all around as if making certain no one listened and whispered, “Is he nice? Are you going to run away with him?”
The others called her Nan. Of all the girls, Nan seemed the most destined to take her vows as soon as allowed and then rise to running the convent. She spent hours every day and night on her knees. But occasionally she stepped down from her pedestal of piety and acted like she wanted to be Hilde’s friend.
Sister Marie Josef did not approve of friendship. She urged all the girls, ungently, to learn to endure the aches of solitary inactivity for longer and longer periods each day. The older woman frequently stated her goal of being able to pray to God for mercy and redemption for a full day and night, then go about her daily chores joyfully.
Some days Nan joined her. Most days she behaved normally.
Hilde decided to not answer, lest she be overheard. Just talking to Dom about life in the outside world, about their mother and their three younger siblings, remembering when life was happy and secure, was enough to allow her to endure life within the convent.
Sister Marie Josef came up behind Hilde and pinched her hard upon her upper arm. Even through the thick gray wool of her habit, she knew she’d have a bruise tomorrow when they had to remove all of their clothing for their weekly cold bath. Would the sisters who supervised the ritual cleansing inquire about its source?
“Who is he?” the sister demanded.
Hilde said nothing. Any excuse she made, good or bad, would result in more strikes with the oak cudgel.
“Where were you that you’d notice if I wasn’t sleeping deeply in my bed?” Hilde turned the question back on her inquisitor. Nan had scurried ahead with the other girls.
“Where I was and what I was doing was not the question,” Sister Marie Josef sneered. “You wandering the gardens after midnight is.”
“Is it? I thought you might immerse yourself in deep prayer in the Lady Chapel. If that was your reason for defying the Rule, then you should be punished. But if you accuse another of wandering the gardens after midnight, when it was you, then perhaps I should tell Sister Mary Margaret of your whereabouts and your lies and your sin of meeting one of the local village men making plans for May Day.”
Hilde lifted her chin and set her feet to taking her place in line with the other girls.
“You will pay for thi
s,” the nun hissed, then dropped her head in feigned humility as she folded her hands into the sleeves of her habit.
Five
Nick crossed himself out of habit, a brief prayer of protection that Brother Theo had taught him passing his lips. Then his curiosity won out over his lessons. He stared agape in wonder and awe at the dance of the newcomers.
“By the grace of God, what is this?” he added to his prayer. “What am I seeing and why?”
Robin Goodfellow bounced up and down, knees level with his chest, and slapped each in turn. The bells tied to the points of his green jerkin jingled in lovely counterpoint, or invitation, to the sound of gentle water rushing to meet . . .
Nick shook his head to clear it of these strange thoughts.
He released the little cup in his pocket.
Nothing changed, except that Herne the Huntsman danced up to the water lady, or lady in the water, and held out his hand to her. “Ardenia, my dear, join me?” He turned a circle in place, jingling as he clapped his hands over his head.
She curtsied and circled him.
A lady clad in fabric leaves over a brown tunic touched the Green Man’s arm with fingers that looked like twigs. She stood nearly as tall and strong as he. He jerked out of his thoughtful stare at shadowed figures within the forest and smiled at the tree woman. Then he slapped his knees enthusiastically. If he’d truly been an ordinary man on stilts, he’d have fallen off them. They danced off together, feet lifting high and hands clapping—hers against his—in light counterpoint to the bells and drums.
A pair of massive trolls—who truly resembled the abbey blacksmith and his wife—broke into enthusiastic stomps and hops. The ground shook with each step, and they laughed loud and long. Their joy sounded like thunder.
Walk the Wild With Me Page 4
