“I did long ago, and as is the way of the dryads, she left me for another. But aye, Jane is human.”
“Pren be me mam,” Derwyn said, his voice a dry and cracking whisper.
“I believe you seek the one Mab calls Jonquil? Um . . . I think she may be Queen Mab’s newest pet. We call her Jonquil, a name more suited to one of us. In Faery, we have made her beautiful and graceful. In the outer world, she was plain, even by human standards, and what kind of name is ‘Jane?’ It says and means nothing.” He was babbling now, clearly nervous. “She’s much too sweet to be the queen’s slave.”
Beneath the spurts of noise coming from the faery’s mouth, the forest grew silent. Birds stopped chirping. Little John looked to Will Scarlett as he fluttered to the ground and shifted to his human form. The bard shrugged. The insects landed and stilled their wing rubbings. Winds ceased dragging storm clouds toward them.
“Please, Master Little John,” Nick looked up at him. “Mammoch imprisoned all three of us. She follows our trail, seeking to make a meal of us.”
The usual sound of wild pigs rooting in the dirt for roots and grubs grew louder. The rancid odor that accompanied their kind intensified.
Little John and Mammoch avoided each other. He granted her the illusion of being independent of Forest Law. She granted him the illusion of retaining rule over all the forest denizens.
“We call this faery ‘Bracken’ because that’s the color of his wings,” Nick said on a quieter note.
“I didn’t tell you my . . . .” The faery cut off his words as he stared at the boy in shock, only now realizing that Nick had called him that at the pit.
Little John suppressed a chuckle. Apparently, observant Nick had guessed the faery’s true name and now they all had a degree of power over him.
“I should give you to Mammoch,” Little John snorted at Bracken.
“Please, sir, I beg sanctuary. I was not part of the trap that captured your lady. If I knew how to free her from Queen Mab, I would help you in that quest. She is kind to us when she has no cause to be. I would return the favor. Please grant me protection from Mammoch.”
“Do you, Bracken of Faery Underhill, vow by all that you hold sacred that you will aid my quest to retrieve my lady in whatever way I deem necessary?”
“Yes, yes, yes. I so vow. Though I know not how you will do it. The only door that those not born of Faery can use is locked by sorcery. Even Mab cannot exit or enter the Faery Mound by that passage.”
“There are other routes in and out of your underground cave, but no one else can use them, even if they found them,” Tuck added. He chewed his lip as he thought. “Little John, I am inclined to take this faery’s word and bind him by the sacredness of this circle. By your decree, once he passes beyond this boundary stone,” he pointed to the boulder at their feet, “he may not leave again without your permission.”
“So be it,” Little John proclaimed, and his voice reverberated among the stones, setting their magic into place.
“But . . . but I need to return to the Mound. I need to renew my strength at the Starfire. Without it, I cannot fly,” Bracken protested.
“But you will live. That is all I need. We will return you to the Mound when the moons align on Midsummer Night. Enter this circle and live, or stay outside and become Mammoch’s next meal. Your choice.”
Reluctantly, the green faery took two steps forward, placing him just inside the circle.
With an audible snap the boundary stones sent a spell around the perimeter, connecting them with an invisible barrier Bracken could not cross.
“We have not used this space as a prison or as a sanctuary for many long years. I hope not to need it again for many, many more,” Little John grunted. The hope in his heart that he’d nurtured for nigh on fifty years, hope that Jane would return to him, burst forth in tiny blossoms. He had one more ally. He almost dared believe in a future with Jane.
Twenty-Three
Nick backed up from the boundary of the circle. He didn’t want to risk Mammoch’s wicked tusks goring him. He imagined her keeping all four hoofs outside the boulders and still reaching her snout inward, almost a man’s full length. Obeying Forest Law and defying it at the same time.
“Let the Green Man deal with the Goddess of the Hunted,” Tuck said, squeezing Nick’s shoulder reassuringly.
A sudden heaviness in his sleeve pocket told Nick that Elena had returned to her silver pitcher. He patted it more out of habit than needing to know her whereabouts.
“Why have I never heard of this being from anyone except the Wild Folk?” Nick asked, noting that Henry hung close to Tuck’s left shoulder.
“Few people want to talk about her lest speaking her name brings her out,” Henry offered.
“Exactly right. You know more than you let on in classes at the abbey,” Tuck replied.
Henry looked at him questioningly.
Nick decided to let Henry figure out where he had met the abbot in disguise. (Or was the abbot a disguise for the man from the wild?)
The snorting of Mammoch as she paced the circumference of the circle demanded most of his attention. As he followed her around, paced by Little John, Nick surveyed the open ground. The three standing stones arrested his attention. Each of the pale gray stones stood at least twice the height of a tall man. The center one, tallest of all. The other two stood slightly angled so that their smooth dressed faces looked at both the other two stones. A cold fire pit guarded a wide gap between the smaller of the three giants. One had to pass around or even through the fire to enter the region of stone shadows . . . to worship?
Acknowledging the power and presence of the stones prickled Nick’s skin uncomfortably. He’d heard that before the Romans brought the true Church to England, the inhabitants worshipped many different gods in many different ways. This was the first time he’d encountered standing stones, though he’d read about them.
“The Wild Folk do not worship the stones themselves,” Tuck said, as if reading Nick’s thoughts. “They use the stones to closely define a sacred space within the sacred space defined by the boundary stones. They serve a similar function to the rood screen between the main altar and the Lady Chapel.”
Nick stopped when he identified Brother Luke at the base of the tallest stone, hand still pressed flat against the chiseled face. His wide-open eyes staring at death and the absolute stillness of the rest of the body told Nick that the old man had died.
“The physician sent us to find Brother Luke and return him to the abbey for burial,” he whispered, awed and respectful of the death.
“When you return to the abbey, you must tell the brothers that you could not find Brother Luke.”
“Not exactly a lie. We did not find him alive.”
“True. And since you are here, I think you should help Little John bury our old friend, where he chose to die, as so many of our folk have done.”
Nick turned around in a tight circle searching for signs of other burials.
“Each of the boundary stones is a burial marker.”
“Oh.”
Henry kept shaking his head. “This is not real. I am not here. I am dreaming.”
“You have permission to keep believing that, boy,” Tuck said. “But since you have trouble embracing the evidence your eyes and your emotions give you, then you will not return here. You will not be able to find this place even if you try.”
“That’s fine with me. I’ve had a lifetime of adventure today. This is not just a lark through the apple orchard to see if we can get away with stealing some fruit. I want to believe it is all a nightmare.” Henry stumbled over to an odd stone neither among the boundary or the standing giants and bent his knees as if to sit.
Little John abandoned his monitoring of Mammoch to grab Henry’s cowl and keep him upright. “You may not desecrate the final resting place of the last Earl of Locksl
ey! He was a greater friend to us than many a lord since his death.”
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t know.” Henry hung his head and backed away. “I’ll happily leave as soon as you banish yon monster pig. If you’ll point me toward the Royal Road, I’ll find my way back to the abbey on my own. And I’ll never leave there again.”
“Mammoch!” Little John called.
The Goddess of the Hunted paused in her circuit of the open space and lifted her massive head to face the Lord of the Forest. Still in pig form, she snorted derisively but could not speak.
“You will not feed today on anyone here. It is time for you to return to your wallow.”
Bracken clung to Little John’s shadow, his wings drooping and his face looking more wizened by the moment.
Mammoch swung around to face the Green Man and reared up on her hind legs. Her twelve teats looked engorged and her belly full.
“No wonder she’s so hungry,” Henry gasped. “She’s breeding.”
“Pigs breed a lot and often,” Tuck added. “Unchecked, they can overrun all the available land. They upset the balance of life. They need to be hunted to keep them from becoming so numerous that they tear up the ground cover, destroying new growth . . . .” The old man shuddered.
“So I need to check her predatory instincts here and now,” Little John said, almost sadly. With one long step, he cleared the boundary and faced the Goddess of the Hunted. They stood nearly eye to eye and equaled each other in mass.
But Mammoch had those wicked tusks capable of gutting a man from neck to gullet.
Nick wanted to turn away. He couldn’t bear to watch his friend taken down in a gory mess.
He had no experience with those who dared defy the Green Man. Which of these forest giants had the advantage?
Little John’s arms extended, becoming woody and covered with tough bark. His fingers stretched and stretched again as they became grasping twigs. His bushy beard dried into brittle moss. The giant pig dropped to all fours and backed up two small steps, putting just enough room between herself and the enraged Lord of the Forest. She backed away warily. Little John grew taller and taller until he blocked out the sun. His arms stretched as his fingers extended from twigs into clasping vines.
Nick expected the Green Man to become rooted to the ground, his thick bark the only defense against those wicked tusks. Not so. The half tree/half man took one giant stride forward, resting one massive foot on the pig’s back.
“Choose, Mammoch, mother of pigs, Goddess of the Hunted. Choose death at this moment or to run away and hide until humans come for you and your young with their dogs and spears and arrows with flint heads the size of one of their hands.”
“You can’t kill me . . . I am as immortal as you,” she grunted in a series of moans and snorts that somehow Nick understood.
“I am extremely long-lived, like any tree left alone to grow without facing the mortal dangers of fire and ax, but I am not immortal. And neither are you. You, in turn, will be killed—if not by hunters, then by one of your own get when you grow old, tired, weak, and beyond bearing young. I, too, will be replaced when my tree home succumbs to age and begins to rot from within. Then my son Derwyn will step into his tree and make it the tallest and largest in all the forest. That is the natural and balanced cycle of life. Until our demise, by treaty established long ago, long before the humans came to our land, you are subject to me, the lord of all I survey. Do I crush you now or send others to hunt you—which you might or might not survive?”
“I bow to your mastery. For now. But remember, the Faery Mound exists outside your law. The faeries were never part of the original pact or any established since. You give shelter to one of them. They do not have to return the favor.” She scuttled backward, out from under the angry foot crashing down where she had been. A moment later, she galloped off through the undergrowth, making her own trail.
Little John shrank back to his normal size and form as he shook his fist at the retreating pig.
Nick expected the Green Man to be triumphant. Instead, his hands shook, and his skin paled from rough bark to palest inner core oak exposed to sunlight too long. Sweat dripped from his face, and his posture sagged.
He and Henry looked to Tuck for an explanation.
But the old man showed the same symptoms. Both forest denizens dropped to the ground and buried their faces in their knees, arms wrapped around their legs, pulling them into self-contained balls. The other tall man, Derwyn, stood protectively between them.
Henry knelt beside Tuck, hugging him tightly. Nick did the same for Little John.
“What ails you?” Nick asked the big man.
Tuck recovered first. In a shaky voice he said, “We are all a part of this land. Any time the balance is upset, or a dispute among us becomes violent, we all feel it. We all become part of it. That is why we work hard to get along. We have our own etiquette to facilitate this. Politeness overrules dislike and distrust.”
Nick’s mind jerked forward and back. Some of his unanswered questions found solutions. “Father Tuck, is that why you did not go into exile, as commanded by both our king and the Holy Father? You are tied to the land with more rigid bonds than serfdom.”
Tuck nodded, his throat working as he sought the stability to speak further. “The Wild Folk move about freely within the forest. Here, we are strong. Out there,” he gestured vaguely toward Nottingham. “Out there, our strength is limited, our steps heavy, our lives shortened. I spent two years in Paris studying with some of the great theologians of our time. My friends and benefactors had to send me home, ill and weak from a wasting disease, not expected to survive.”
“Will that happen to me if I go abroad to study?”
Tuck shook his head. “You are far removed from your forest blood. More mortal than I. I expect you may move through the world as you wish and as politics allow.” His voice sounded firmer as he wiped sweat off his brow with his sleeve. It did not return. Not so, Little John. “I am three or four generations removed from the Wild. I am more human than Huntsman, else I could not have left England at all.” Tuck rested a bit more. “Though if you ever sail away from these shores, you will not rest comfortably until you return.”
“Serfs are tied to the land,” Henry reminded them all.
“Serfs are only tied to the land by human laws, not by the blood that courses through their veins,” Nick said. “To leave the land makes them outlaws. To defy the owners of the land makes them outlaws. No wonder the number of Woodwose grows every year.”
“Living in a Royal Forest is the closest thing to protection they have.” Tuck looked away, gaze roaming the forest verge beyond this clearing. “Legally, even the Sheriff of Nottingham cannot trespass on this preserve without the king’s permission except to travel the Royal Road. The next time King John visits Nottingham, he must renew that permission. Which he will most likely do, since the sheriff bought his title. If Sir Philip Marc defies the king for any reason, even to rebel against tyranny, he forfeits all of the benefits of the office, including his own purchase price. The king is above the law and can change it as he needs, even to redefine rebellion.”
“King John’s biggest crime is that he stays in England and enforces his own laws so that the barons, the sheriffs, and others of their ilk cannot do as they choose, making up laws to suit their immediate needs,” Nick mused.
“Ah, you have been reading, boy. And thinking. I’ll make a leader out of you yet.” Now mostly recovered, Tuck struggled to his feet, with a supporting arm from Henry. “Time for you to go home, Nick and Henry. Little John and I must bury Brother Luke and mourn him in our own way.”
“I don’t think Little John is ready to move yet. I’ll stay and help you dig the grave,” Nick replied. “Henry, you’d best stay until we’re finished. Then we’ll walk home together.”
“You’ll stay the night with the Woodwose,” Little John
said, his voice tight with fatigue and pain. “There is a storm brewing. You’ll need shelter by sunset or risk a fatal chill. And without a guiding light . . .” He shook his head sadly. “I’ll not have you losing your way again. The forest is not always a friendly place. Even if I sent Derwyn here with you as far as the last copse, he cannot protect you against everything. He does not yet have my authority. You need to stay. Best to get you to the Woodwose before the storm. We will attend to the burial.”
Nick nodded, acknowledging finally that rampaging godlings and Wild Folk were not the only dangers in the woods.
Twenty-Four
A light drizzle created a fine film of moisture on Hilde’s gray wool robe. She raised the cowl to cover her hair and tugged it lower on her forehead. Her bundle of personal linen and a packet of bread, dried meat, and cheese rested heavily across her shoulders. She’d been on the road only a little over an hour and already she longed for the sound of another voice, the outline of a building on the horizon, something to indicate she was not alone on this muddy road to nowhere.
Sister Mary Margaret had pointed to the main road six hundred paces beyond the convent that should lead her to Nottingham and then to the Abbey of Locksley. She’d seen no one since.
Dom’s friend Nick had made the journey from his abbey to her convent and back again in one night. She wondered if she’d make half the journey before nightfall. She had no lantern or torch, or even a candle stub to light her way once all lingering traces of daylight had disappeared. Even the moon would not show itself through the clouds. She supposed she could curl up under a tree at the side of the road and sleep until morning.
But that ran the risk of predators from the forest and outlaws and . . . rampaging mercenaries finding her.
“How can I defend myself?” she asked. No one was about to answer her.
Maybe she needed to address her plea as a prayer. Every lesson she’d had at the convent told her that God was always watching over the faithful.
Walk the Wild With Me Page 18
