Walk the Wild With Me

by Rachel Atwood

  “Hey, Nick, look over here!” Henry said, pulling anxiously at Nick’s sleeve. “They’re starting a game of mad football.”

  Nick looked over to the village green. Men and boys lined up on either side while the old man who’d officiated the race stood in the middle of the field juggling an inflated pig’s bladder. Tuck had a fringe of gray hair beneath his floppy hat to match his sagging hose and stained leather jerkin. The hat shadowed his face, and he moved so constantly Nick had trouble focusing on his exact height and form. He still thought the old man might be the wandering friar who’d rescued him ten years before.

  Whooping joyously, Nick and his friends ran to the line on the far side that seemed short of players. Local boys, near their own age, slapped their backs and welcomed them into their ranks. The villagers seemed to have separated themselves in youth and maturity, ten to a side.

  “All set?” the old man yelled while twisting his neck right and left.

  Something about his voice triggered a memory in Nick, a different memory from the wandering priest. He didn’t have time to puzzle it out. His eyes focused on the ball.

  Then Tuck tossed the ball straight up and backed away. All the players rushed forward, each eager to be the first to kick the ball to his own mates.

  A rough and tumble game followed. No rules to this game, except they could not touch the ball with their hands. An elbow to the nose, a kick to the shins, followed by a wrestling roll in the mud they churned up in the damp grass and sheep droppings. Nick gloried in the game and his renewed strength kicking the ball. Most of the time his kicks sent the ball wild, but that didn’t matter.

  Eventually, they all fell together in one huge shoving match. Laughing uncontrollably, Nick grabbed Henry and Dom and dragged them backward before they were crushed under twenty stout bodies. He felt the tingling numbness, and sharp ache of a bruise forming around his left eye.

  “I’m hungry,” Nick said. He barely remembered when he’d shared a small loaf of bread with his friends. He aimed for the baker’s booth and the dairymaid’s cheeses spread out on a worn blanket.

  “We’ve got no coins for the vendors from outside the abbey village,” Henry protested. “And the abbey people have nearly run out of the goods they may give us. Maybe we should return home . . .”

  “If we go back now, we’ll have to stay there,” Nick replied, his voice rising in anger. A heavy knot formed in his belly at the thought of losing this one day of freedom. In years past, Abbot Mæson had given each boy a few coppers for extra food at May Day. The elderly priest had left, fled for his life. Therefore, no coins.

  “I have an idea,” Dom said. He bowed his head reverently and drew up his wide cowl. Then he folded his hands before him in an attitude of prayer. “Honored sir,” he said quietly to the baker. “I offer you prayers for your well-being and prosperity in exchange for a few crumbs of bread.”

  “One of the abbey boys, eh?” The baker looked Dom up and down, noting his lack of stature and maturity. “Since the interdict, you can’t really offer prayers anymore, or sing Masses for my soul, but by the rood, you’re a boy and growing boys are hungry. Fair bargain, the prayers of an innocent . . .” He raised his eyebrows at Nick and Henry appearing on either side of Dom. “The prayers of three innocents are worth a small loaf.” Chuckling, he wrapped said loaf in a ragged cloth and turned it over to Dom.

  Smiling broadly, Nick approached the dairymaid. She didn’t look to be much older than himself. “How old are you?” she asked with a sneer.

  “Twelve years, my lady.”

  She threw her head back laughing loudly. “Old enough to take your first vows, but you can’t do that while the church bells hang silent and Masses unsung. Will you stay a boy until the king and the Holy Father make peace? Or will you grow into manhood with no calling and no skills to market except your worthless prayers?”

  “I’m a fair shot with a sling, my lady. I am always the one sent to bring in a grouse for the stew or a rabbit for the abbot’s dinner. But that is a skill that will not benefit you. My prayers, the prayers of an innocent, are the only thing of value I have today.”

  “If you have such skill with the rock and a twist of leather, will you kill the sheriff for me?”

  Nick reared back appalled at such an idea.

  “I can see you are too much a coward to do what needs doing. Here, take this round of cheese and come back when you’re grown enough to see the right and wrong of the man who rules us in the king’s name without the king’s knowledge of how he punishes us for his own amusement.” She threw a round of white cheese at him.

  Nick caught the treasure in both hands and bowed to her. “Many thanks and blessings to you, my lady. May the Lord God look kindly on you.” He ran with his friends to the shade beneath the tree that towered over the blacksmith’s forge.

  From their nest among the spreading roots, they watched the villagers clear the hay barn’s outside walls of obstacles, and pin sheepskin targets to the sides. Archers took their places behind a line marked in the dirt. Robin Goodfellow, once more looking tall and strong with a noble’s grace and strength, helped.

  Off to the side, in the flattest portion of the village green, three men and three women leveraged the Maypole already strung with garlands of ivy and fresh flowers into place.

  Other figures danced a weaving pattern around them. Nick couldn’t bring them into focus and didn’t know if they were fae or human.

  Before Nick could decide which activity demanded his attention first, the loud pounding of heavy horses along the road from the north caused everyone in the village to pause and stare, then scurry away from the muddy track that ran beside the green.

  Sir Philip Marc, who had recently purchased the office, rights, and privileges of Sheriff of Nottingham, galloped to the edge of the green and reined his horse into a rearing halt. When the horse settled after a sharp curbing pull, Sir Philip dismounted and tossed the horse’s restraints to his groom. He smiled at one and all, his gaze lingering too long on the dairymaid. She cringed and hastily packed her wares into a basket. Then she scuttled away without looking toward her overlord.

  Sir Philip threw his head back and laughed, sounding a lot like his snorting horse.

  Nick had overheard a quiet conversation behind a closed door about men who enjoyed inflicting pain on others. Sir Philip Marc, reputedly, was one of them.

  Something silvery glinted in the green shadows. Sir Philip cut short his braying laughter. His gaze homed in on the water lady. He shifted direction in mid-stride, sword bouncing against his hip menacingly, spurs clanking with each step to remind everyone of his rank and authority.

  Then Robin Goodfellow, now firmly in his human form, stepped between the sheriff and the lady.

  “Come for the archery contests, my lord?” he asked in a cultured voice and fully visible to everyone. He sounded much too well-educated for a simple peasant, or one of the Wild Folk. “I hear the grand prize is a kiss from the lady of St. Anne’s Well. I’ll gladly challenge you to better my shots at each distance.”

  The sheriff narrowed his gaze, making him look almost as fae as the wild ones. “Well met, my lord, late of Locksley. I’ll best you shot for shot, and then I’ll dance ’round the Maypole with the lady yonder.” He shifted his gaze back to the water lady.

  “And if you lose the match?” Robin asked, keeping himself between the sheriff and the lady.

  “Then I might consider petitioning the king to grant you your rightful patrimony.”

  “I accept the challenge.” Robin bowed low.

  The water lady had disappeared into the woods.

  Nick wondered at the tale that must explain how Robin Goodfellow had become a baron with a patrimony that had been stolen from him. And the Sheriff had named him Locksley. The name of the abbey, and of the abandoned tower fortress on the next ridge overlooking the forest and the vale. A forbidd
ing place. Haunted? Enchanted?

  * * *

  Jane stumbled over the hem of her dress, landing on her hands and knees. The rough forest path scraped and stung everywhere she made contact. Sharp stabs of burning pain jarred her teeth and joints. Nothing new.

  “Thunder and storm!” she cursed, borrowing frightful words from her captors. She really wanted to damn them all to hell and back again, but they had no fear of human punishments, or the God humans worshipped.

  Queen Mab giggled as Jane tripped again trying to right herself. Royal handmaidens joined their leader in laughter. They sounded like a bunch of jackdaws squabbling over a piece of carrion.

  Jane found little comfort knowing that the ladies of Faery had no choice but to mimic the queen’s moods.

  “Hurry up, Jonquil,” Queen Mab called dismissively, as if Jane’s clumsiness was her own fault. “We do not want to be late for the May Day dances. Such fun to see how the patterns around the Maypole pair up different couples.”

  Taking a deep breath for calm—she hated the flowery name the Fae had given her when they captured her—Jane hiked her skirts to an immodest level and tried to get her feet beneath her. A green hand reached down in front of her, palm out in peace.

  Jane looked up to find the queen’s current favorite, Bracken, a green male the same shade as his name. He placed a finger across his mouth, signaling silence, and winked at her.

  Jane breathed deeply for the first time all day. She placed her own small palm in his and allowed him to guide and support her until she stood on the firm ground. He floated half a foot above the leaf litter, his fern-frond wings fluttering lightly.

  “Trust me, please. We are not all cut from the same mold as Her Majesty.”

  The restrictions binding Jane’s chest unwound and she smiled. Only then did she realize that the green faery had lifted her more than a foot’s length above the forest floor to his level. He kissed her fingertips and fluttered them both back down.

  The pretty gown still dragged on the ground, the cut and fit suited the illusion of Jonquil, tall, slender and graceful. But it, like most Faery magic, was illusion only. Jane remained short and sturdy and the dress trailed along the ground, ready to trip her again.

  If Queen Mab had but given her an hour’s notice, she could have hemmed the garment to the proper length and embroidered some flowers, or just a sinuous vine to disguise the alteration.

  Faery traps and tricks. They found her most amusing.

  Jane kilted up the skirts, tucking the hem into her girdle of braided strands of fabric. Her knees and feet moved freely. As she righted herself she checked the position of the sun, as she was wont to when she lived in the village. Through the lush green of the tree canopy, she caught a bright glimmer halfway between the horizon and the height of the sun’s path. Nearly Prime.

  Her entire body stilled in anticipation. Any moment now the church bells should sound the call to Mass. If only she could hear the bells, be within range of their influence, she had a chance of breaking the Faery entanglement that kept her within a few feet of Queen Mab.

  If only . . .

  She waited and heard only the normal sounds of the forest: birds chirping, squirrels chattering, foxes stealing among the ground cover, and wild pigs rooting in the dirt. Then the unnatural giggling among Queen Mab and her ladies overrode the animal sounds. Even the breeze in the treetops stilled for their passage.

  Then, off in the distance, not so very far now, came the shouts and drunken laughter as the villagers and the Woodwose—those who lived in the forest outside the law—dominated the other sounds around her.

  Why hadn’t she heard the church bells?

  Her eyes focused only on her feet, and she barely avoided tripping again. Her bruised hands still stung, and her knees ached.

  Queen Mab couldn’t humiliate her much more, so she dared ask the question burning in her mind. “Why can I not hear the church bells?”

  “Silly child,” Mab smiled, full of delight as well as malice. “Didn’t you know? The mortal king of England is at war with the mortal king of the Church. The Church no longer has power in this land. No bells ring, no rituals are performed. Without their governance, we are free to walk among the mortals once more. We are finally allowed to celebrate the coming of May as we should.” She laughed long and loud. Then her attention shifted toward the village. “Ah they have remembered to hoist the Maypole in our honor. Let us dance!”

  Something tugged at Jane’s awareness. Something familiar, safe, and sane. Could anything be familiar, safe, and sane without the Church, without the bells ordering the day and reminding people of the times to pray, to eat, to bring the cows and chickens into the byre, and to sleep?

  She looked up and found a tall man, dressed in browns and greens peering through the trees toward her. His eyes drooped with sadness and his mouth opened slightly in silent questions.

  John! Her John had come for her.

  But no, though his hands might reach for her, he could not break through Mab’s hold on her.

  Six

  “Sir?” Nick stepped in front of Locksley, the archer. Could he truly be the younger son of the last baron? Village lore said that he had fallen in love. But without land and honors of his own to entice the girl’s guardians, he had gone off to the Crusades with King Richard—no, before that, on the second Crusade some fifty or sixty years before and never returned, presumed dead in one of the grand battles against the heathen Muslims. Both his father and older brother had died. So the title, lands, and castle had forfeited to the king and never been awarded to another.

  What had happened to the girl he loved? Probably married off to another and dead many a long year since.

  But that tale couldn’t belong to the tall archer in expensive Lincoln green. This man looked too young, mid-twenties at a guess. Perhaps he was grandson to the lost heir.

  Locksley dropped his gaze to Nick from where the sheriff strung his bow and tested the string. “Yes.”

  Nick swallowed deeply to make sure his voice didn’t falter and betray him when he had something important to impart.

  “Do you know that Sir Philip Marc does not miss a single target? He practices endless hours at the butts and then turns his aim on game in the forest—with and without the king’s permission. He can take down a boar with a single shot from fifty paces. When he runs out of game, he goes after poachers and the Woodwose.”

  “I know, young one. But I thank you for your concern. I have dedicated my life since before the death of King Henry and the loss of my patrimony to protecting those who are hungry and must seek food in the protected royal preserves, and to those who dwell hidden in the forest, outside the law.” He turned his attention to selecting his best arrows with the freshest fletching. “Best you turn your concern to those who dance around the Maypole. They do not belong here.”

  Nick looked in the direction the archer tipped his head. Sure enough, a dozen tall folk, dressed in the finest silk and softest linen, adorned with bright jewels and pearls and lifelike embroidered flowers and small creatures—similar to the ones he drew in the illuminated manuscripts–jumped high, clapping their hands and landing gently without disturbing the grass at their elegantly shod feet.

  Nobles did not come to village May Day celebrations except to disrupt and cause pain. True nobles would have arrived with showy horses and litters. There would have been trumpets and heralds and well-armed guardsmen.

  As he watched, the creatures flickered in and out of his vision much as the Forest Folk had. At the moment of reappearance, gossamer wings in bright jewel colors, to match their fine clothes held them aloft, half a finger’s length above the grass. Could it be? Faeries had come to the celebration.

  He crossed himself in silent supplication for protection.

  The voice in the back of his head chuckled. They only have as much power as you are willing to give them.
Stand firm in your beliefs, and they are but fluttery butterflies on the morning mist.

  One ageless male, half a head taller than an average man, with unnaturally long arms and legs, touched down a little harder than the rest, forgetting that this village green was normally used as pasturage for sheep during the long winter. Not all of the droppings had soaked into the earth with early spring rains, replenishing the soil.

  The faery’s red-and-white slippers offered no protection for his feet against mundane manure.

  Nick smothered a laugh, thankful for the sturdy leather sole of his sandals.

  The ruby-and-pearl faery sputtered and protested the soiling of his dainty feet. Head hanging and pointed ears drooping, he slunk off into the forest, bowing low at a woman who glittered in gold and white. She had pale clear skin stretched over high cheekbones, a dainty nose, and golden eyes slitted vertically. The most beautiful woman he could imagine, more beautiful than the stained-glass window of the Madonna in the narthex of the abbey church.

  Those eyes. They compelled Nick to watch her, follow her every gesture. And yet they repelled him with their strangeness. More than strange. Alien. More alien than the Moorish prince who’d visited the abbey once.

  Mab. Queen of the Faeries.

  She lifted a corner of her upper lip in disdain for the male with the soiled feet. In that moment, her face became lined and misshapen, her nose twisted, knotted, and elongated. Her chin sprouted bristly hairs and grew a black-and-red wart, marring her once flawless skin.

  He blinked. The beautiful, ageless woman returned.

  Illusion.

  He fingered the little silver pitcher in his sleeve, thanking the figure that looked three ways at once for the gift of true sight.

  The figures at the edge of the Maypole shifted and realigned their dance as the male passed them. The females twitched their skirts away from his noisome presence. All except one stepped away, putting more distance between themselves and the soiled one.