“No. No!” At the last heartbeat, she remembered to drop her voice to a whisper Sister Marie Josef had notoriously long ears. She heard the faintest of sounds, almost as if she used magic to aid her.
“I dislike being the bearer of sad news. Dom is dead, Hilde. We buried him yesterday. I am so sorry. I grieve for him, and for you. But I guessed the sisters would not tell you even though a . . . a messenger was sent to you.”
“No,” she sobbed, bending double in renewed pain as she had earlier when she collapsed in the herb garden. The emptiness stemmed from the loss of her twin. Her body knew about her twin’s death the moment Dom knew it.
Her chest tightened. Each gasping breath became an agony of effort.
“I am so sorry.”
“He died in pain,” she gasped.
Silence on the other side of the gate.
“Get me out of here!” she demanded with new resolve.
“I . . . I can’t.”
“Please, you have to. I no longer need to worry about how Dom would fare on the outside. I need to get away from this awful place,” she pleaded with this friend whom Dom had talked about so often. She almost felt as if she knew Nick already; knew his sense of responsibility. She knew he needed to save all those in need. And she needed to breathe fresh air, to not spend hours on her knees in prayers that went nowhere and did nothing. She needed to stay away from Sister Marie Josef, who enjoyed inflicting pain as a way of reinforcing her view of the world. Or relieving her own inner torment.
“If there were a lock on this side of the door, I’d steal the key and just leave,” she added.
“Where will you go? If I can find a way to set you free, where would you go? Who would take you in?”
“Dom spoke of a village deep in the forest, hiding from the law. He talked about a dairymaid who had run away from the sheriff and lived with the Wild Folk, the serfs who have fled their landlords, outlaws, and widows, the people the Church says do not exist, but live freely among the trees and streams.”
“The Woodwose,” Nick said quietly, as if speaking of them openly would bring the wrath of God and the sheriff down on him.
Another moment of silence that went on so long Hilde almost spoke a new argument in her favor—if she didn’t leave soon, Sister Marie Josef would cripple or kill her.
“I think I ken a way to open this door. There is no keyhole on this side either. There is a way to break the sorcery that hides the lock. But I can’t do it tonight. I need . . . I need a special tool. I’ll be back next week, at the waxing half-moon. If I’m not here that night, I will be the next. Trust me.” His words faded as the gravel crunched beneath his feet in his slow retreat from the portal. “I’m sorry that Dom is dead. But I promised him I’d do what I could to help you. I promise you the same.”
Hilde limped back to bed, new hope in her heart. She’d have a hard time enduring the hours on her knees tomorrow. But for the chance of freedom, she would endure.
* * *
Nick picked his way along the rutted road that the spring rain had turned to mud. He longed to sit before the suppertime fire among the Woodwose. They lived precariously, but they had a warm fire where the abbey’s stone walls always held the chill and compounded it in winter. His new friends had each other, bound together by friendship and family—and blood; the same kind of blood that ran through his veins. The abbey folk might strive toward brotherhood in their faith, but they did not hug each other, did not touch in any way. They weren’t truly family, and he was alone. He had no family except distant Tuck, but he might find more kin among the illegal forest dwellers.
Dom had Hilde. His sister and his twin. She would cry and mourn him.
Would anyone ever cry for Nick? Perhaps Father Tuck and, maybe, Little John.
He jerked his thoughts away from his lack of family, dwelling instead on how he’d fulfill his promise to Hilde to help her escape the convent. Not taking care where he placed his feet, he splashed into another puddle that rose above his ankles and mud sprayed up to his knees. A chill ran through his body, moving upward in waves of cold, far above the splash of water. He sought higher ground at the center of the road where a few tufts of grass clung bravely to the less-disturbed mound.
He paused, looking upward toward the faint glimmer of the quarter-moon hiding behind fitful clouds. “Dear Lord, please grant me, your humble if disobedient servant, a respite from this endless wet,” he intoned, then remembered to cross himself and conclude the prayer with proper promises of prayer chains with his beads and extra time devoted to his duties.
The comforting rhythm of a plain chant swirled in his mind. He found the words and cadence and sang them under his breath. He missed the tolling of the massive bells calling him to prayer, to meals, to rest. His body remembered the routine of life even without the bells. A bit of weight lifted from his shoulders, and he found the strength to trudge on, going back to his dry, if not especially warm, bed. He might as well start in on those prayer chains while he walked. He reached for his beads in the deep sleeves of his robe. A niggle of disappointment weighed him down again when his fingers found only his beads and not the little silver three-faced pitcher.
A familiar chuckle eased the tight cords of his neck. “Are you back, my lady Elena?” he whispered into the darkness.
Not yet. A little while longer.
“Why do you laugh at me?”
Silly boy, you will figure out what you need to do. Think, but don’t think, on the problem.
“Think but don’t think? How am I supposed to do that? Either I am thinking about something, or I’m thinking about something else. I should be saying my prayers.”
Then say your prayers as you hold your breath. Walking in your sleep will give you little rest.
A peculiar numbness replaced the voice in the back of his head. The lady had withdrawn her favor. Again. He hoped she left him alone because she had nothing more to say, not that she was disappointed in him.
As the moon hid behind a darker cloud, he remembered that he had looked for the lock on the postern door of the nunnery and hadn’t seen one. But he’d felt it. He doubted a key would open it, even if he or Hilde could find one. The door had been locked with sorcery.
Sorcery, he whispered. Or had Elena spoken inside his mind again? Either way, the blacksmith who dwelled with the Woodwose couldn’t help open a magically-sealed door.
Only Elena could. She was the goddess of crossroads, cemeteries, and sorcery. He and Hilde needed to wait for Elena’s return. Enduring the wait was easier for him, he suspected, than for Hilde. Maybe a word to Tuck about the evil sister who thought faith came from the punishment rod could ease Hilde’s torment.
His jaw cracked from the pressure of a mighty yawn.
Nick needed sleep. He could barely hold his eyes open or discern where he placed his feet.
He obeyed the lady’s instructions and held his breath.
Dawn was just beginning to think about reaching above the horizon when he awoke at the crossroad.
Somewhat refreshed, he rose from his nest of bracken and stretched. Then he patted the stout column of the circled cross and raced the last one hundred yards to the apple tree in the orchard that would give him access to the garden by the infirmary. The physician would find him digging weeds by the back wall when he arose with the first glimmer of daylight.
* * *
“How long must I wait?” Herne bellowed. His voice sounded like the roar of a wounded stag challenging the sheriff’s hunting dogs.
“For a near-immortal creature of the forest, you have a lot to learn about patience, Uncle,” Tuck laughed.
Little John nodded sagely as if he knew how to wait. As Midsummer’s Night approached, and the time of the moon phases aligned with Faery, he found it harder and harder to wait. Nigh on fifty human years he’d waited. Now these last few weeks seemed to stretch into eternity.
He knew how Herne suffered while waiting for the return of Ardenia.
The sun had set, the moon had risen and set, sunrise approached. A full night they’d waited. And still they’d discerned no ripple in the smooth waters of the lady’s pond. Not even the constant drip of the cascade from the feeding creek disturbed the surface. All the creatures of the wood that depended upon this pond for life had grown silent and still as if waiting with bated breath.
Only Herne disturbed the silence with his frequent roars and constant pacing.
“How much longer?” he asked again, still not muting his tones that bounced and echoed from tree trunk to boulder and back again.
A gentle splash brought him to a frozen halt.
Little John released his breath, allowing his human chest to heave as he renewed and replenished himself.
Slowly a water spout, silvery in the false dawn, rose up from the still waters. The sounds of the creek plunging downward renewed. The forest awakened with chirping insects and the rustling of night creatures seeking their burrows and dens among the underbrush.
Lady Ardenia solidified and stepped from the water, her gown clinging to her body, outlining each curve and pinch of her figure. Quickly the fabric became whole and caressed her skin without clinging, the skirts swinging free as she strode.
“Now, my lords, I will tell you of all that I have seen and done inside Castle Nottingham. The sheriff is much too confident in the strength of his stone walls and stout locks. He had no idea how a watery hand can reach into a keyhole and release a lock, or how quickly that same hand can douse torches so that weary guards cannot see a thin form flowing along the drain gutter in the center of the floor all the way down into the dungeons and thence through the labyrinth of caverns where water trickles outward into a stream that feeds the river and then up the web of creeks to my pond. ’Twas quite the harrowing journey.” She cocked an eyebrow at Herne in mirth. “But now I need to rest in water. You may sit on the bank, Master Huntsman, and tell me of all that has occurred during my absence.” She stepped backward, retreating to her natural element.
“And what of the Lady Elena?” Little John demanded, no longer content with only the water sprite’s safety.
“You mean the spirit who dwells in the little pitcher?” Ardenia reached inside an invisible fold of her gown and brought out her empty hand. “I do not know,” she said, utterly surprised.
Little John’s chin quivered in pain. How could they unlock the door into Faery without the ancient goddess of crossroads, cemeteries, and sorcery?
Seventeen
A comforting heaviness filled the folds of Nick’s left sleeve. He waited patiently while the Welsh physician raised his arms in salutation to the sun as its first rays of light shimmered along the damp stones at the top of the wall. The healing monk’s voice rose in a clear tenor voice to complete his greeting.
Nick didn’t understand the words, voiced in a foreign tongue he’d never heard before. Maybe an older form of Latin, maybe something else.
Ah, Elena sighed. I have not heard that language in many a long year.
Welsh? Nick asked her without speaking. He knew the healer hailed from the West Country that had been a thorn in the side of England’s borders for as long as there had been a united England.
Older, the mother tongue of all of this land before the Romans defiled our language, our people, and our religion.
Oh.
The monk finished his song of greeting the dawn and drew a deep breath. Then he froze in place, staring at Nick. He shifted his weight to a more relaxed pose.
“You are up early, my boy?”
“I slept fitfully, sir. So I thought to put my wakefulness to good use.”
“Commendable. But be careful of the verbena. It needs thinning, not eradication.” He turned abruptly and retreated to the infirmary where patients awaited him.
Nick heaved a sigh of relief. And yawned again so deeply that blackness encroached upon his vision and stars glittered behind his eyelids.
But dawn had come, and he’d not get another chance to sleep until after sunset, which was getting later and later each day as they approached the solstice.
He trudged toward the Lady Chapel where all the abbey’s inhabitants began to gather. He swallowed his yawns with each step.
The Holy Father had dictated no Masses could be said or sung, no church bells rung, and no sacraments administered except funerary and baptism. That did not mean the brothers and fathers couldn’t say prayers, discuss theology, and practice singing the Masses.
After a long, long time on his knees, nodding off with only Henry’s elbow to keep him upright, while Prefect Andrew meditated aloud about the nature of obedience, and all the inhabitants of the abbey practiced the prayers of the Mass, Nick shuffled behind the other boys on the way to the refectory. Old bread, stale cheese, and a bowl of watery gruel must sustain them all through a morning of chores.
“Your turn to read the lessons for the day,” Brother Theo said, prodding Nick with a firm hand upon his back.
“But . . . I’m only a postulant, not even a novitiate,” Nick replied, suddenly more awake with the dread of reading aloud.
“You read well enough. And it means fresh baked bread and first cut of cheese from the wheel.”
Nick’s mouth watered. He hadn’t had truly fresh bread since he won the loaf at May Day.
“Since I will not be allowed to eat until after the lessons have finished, does the privilege of reading keep me from singing practice?” He turned hopeful eyes up to his mentor.
“You do not like singing?” Brother Theo stopped abruptly. “Since the loss of Dominic, we need every voice. None can replace his fine, pure notes. But we can hope to overcome the empty spot with volume if not purity. I truly hope that this war between King John and the Holy Father ends soon so that we may go back to our true purpose in worshipping God properly. With song as well as silent prayer.”
“I have always enjoyed singing, sir, even if I cannot carry a tune as well as Dom could. But, of late every time I try, my voice sounds like a wounded frog.”
“I thought that those with the worst voices enjoyed singing the most. Everyone should enjoy lifting their voices in songs of praise to God.”
“My voice sounds more like guttural curses.” Nick hung his head in shame.
“Guttural?” Brother Theo tapped his chin. “How old are you, boy?”
Nick had to shrug. “When I was first brought here, Abbott Mæson believed me to be three or four. I was small, so he said I was three. Nine years since then.”
“Maybe you were just small for your age, underfed. I must speak with Brother Michael. Only he can excuse you from singing until . . . your voice recovers. Deep baritone, I’d guess.” He started forward. “Come along, boy. You may earn an excuse from singing, but you can still speak and read the lessons.”
* * *
Jane fingered the silver needle between embroidery stitches, judging where the next bit of flower should go to cover a clumsy mend. Her fingertips prickled with the need to rub them along the flowing embroidery. Whoever had done this work before her hadn’t cared or known how to fix the torn cloth properly. She wanted to do more than just repair the gown, make it right.
She needed to enhance it. Make it perfect. Her heart tugged her toward an upward spray of flowers.
Queen Mab had drunk more than a little too much mead during the last round of festivities and danced more enthusiastically than usual. She drank to forget that her current favorite courtier, Bracken, had not come to her when called and was not available to dance with her.
He was only the favorite at this moment because he was not there. No one else could compare to him.
Also, because she was drunk and disappointed, she’d tripped on her hem at least once during each dance, and every time she changed partners. The fragile silken f
abric that had been torn before did not survive well. But the gown was a favorite, and nothing would do but Jane must mend it properly and the rents must not show.
The needle was as fine as the thread it carried and slid through the weave of the fabric without a trace. Jane’s tired fingers resisted the next stitch. She contemplated adding more flowers spraying out from the mends, like bluebells spreading across a meadow. Except her embroidery thread was the same purple as the gown, the same purple as deep twilight on the distant hills. The flowers were only visible when the magical lights shifted and shimmered, revealing the slightly different texture. There one moment and gone in an instant with the sunset. The embroidery made this gown unique among Faerie garb.
Queen Mab would love it.
Therefore, Jane would do no more to enhance the dress. She’d done as asked. If she did more, she risked Mab’s displeasure. Reason enough not to try to surprise and delight a fickle queen. She pushed aside the useless feeling of pride in a job well-done.
Satisfied, Jane wove the end of the thread back through a dozen stitches to anchor it. Then she pulled the needle upward, so the thread was taut, and bit it off, leaving no tail.
The needle felt different in her fingers. She ran her finger along the length, seeking an imperfection. There, a tiny bend near the eye. She applied a little pressure to straighten it. Her fingers kept pushing, no resistance. The needle kept bending.
Until it snapped.
It felt like her heart snapped as well and all hope of escape spurted upward through the opening in the ceiling.
She no longer had a weapon to combat her captors.
* * *
Nick suppressed his third yawn since he had knelt for Compline prayers. He missed the comfortable weight of Dom’s head lolling onto his shoulder. He worried about how to rescue Hilde from the nunnery she hated. And he worried if taking her to the Woodwose village was the right thing to do for her. He’d found safety and sanctuary and . . . and a vocation at Locksley Abbey. Having seen some ugly bits of life outside the sheltering walls, he wondered if Hilde’s discomfort at the convent was more about missing Dom than the discipline imposed by the sisters. Perhaps in time . . . .
Walk the Wild With Me Page 13
