Bound for the Forest

by Kay Berrisford

  “You will release the boy to me now. Or you will answer to the spirits of the forest.”

  Somebody laughed. Brien thought to himself, Are you bloody insane? Then he saw Connor stoop down and pull an ancient-looking flintlock rifle from a dumped saddlebag, and he realized the time for negotiation had passed.

  Brien galloped forward, the first swipe of the branch knocking the rifle from Connor’s grasp, the second knocking the wind out of the man and sending him sprawling back into the brambles. Wildfire stirring in his veins, Brien then turned to take on the four brothers.

  The smack of boots and wood against bones and flesh filled the clearing, along with shouts and grunts and the high-pitched distress of the horses. No individual among Hastings’s men possessed Brien’s strength and ferocity, but they closed in, united in spirit. As he bludgeoned away one assailant with his fist, another cracked a club into his ribs. Momentarily debilitated, Brien lost his grip and then his balance and tumbled from the saddle.

  Landing on his side with an athletic roll, Brien shouted away the pain and scrambled up. One of the brothers lay on the ground, apparently unconscious, and a couple of the others had run to attend to him, distracted for the moment. Sensing somebody approaching him from behind, he cracked back with his elbow, satisfied to feel the crunch of ribs. He turned to see Connor sprawling on the ground once more, then glared at the club-wielding younger son, who visibly blanched at the prospect of taking on Brien alone. Seizing his opportunity, Brien sprinted over to where Scarlet had been left dangling.

  The boy had wrested one of his arms free. The skin of the other wrist was red and raw, torn by the thin ropes cutting in, although Brien could still see that silly little acorn bracelet in place. As he approached, the fear and pain etched across Scarlet’s delicate features bled into a tangible confusion. The woodsman blinked hard, shaking his head so that a strand of golden hair slipped down across his face. Then he reached out toward Brien with his free arm, his lips parting in a silent cry.

  Brien engulfed Scarlet’s slender form with his own, his heart leaping with a wary delight as he felt the woodsman nestle into the curve of his body. Scarlet felt cold, small, and fragile, ragged breaths heaving against his scarred ribs. Brien skimmed his hand gently over the bare sweep of Scarlet’s injured back, grasping mindlessly for the perfect, fleshy curves of his arse. And then lower, deeper, Brien roved across the remnants of Scarlet’s breeches to catch at those hard, sinewy thighs and hitch one up slightly, parting the lad’s legs. Scarlet gave a wordless murmur, clinging all the tighter about Brien’s neck.

  “I’ve got you,” whispered Brien. Then the myriad of unanswerable questions became deafening, and he snapped from his stupor. What in hell’s name was he doing? The idea of rescuing a man he’d parted from as an enemy was madness enough, and they were hardly out of danger yet.

  Brien drew away and cut free Scarlet’s other wrist with his knife. “Bloody barbarians! They could have severed your hands with those ropes.”

  “Look what we have here,” sneered Connor. “The mangy dog just wanted a last grope before we hang ’em both.”

  Brien turned to stare down the barrel of Connor’s gun. He retained his firm hold about Scarlet, pushing the younger man behind him.

  “I’m no woodsman. My name is Melmoth Brien.”

  “Good Lord!” The words were Hastings’s. Making his way forward to stand beside Connor, he placed a cautious hand on his man’s arm. “What are you doing here, Brien? This is my property now.” In an undertone, he added, “I’d be careful, Connor. Disposing of a little woodsman is one thing, but the Briens are quality of a sort. The law might not stand for it. There could be…repercussions.”

  Connor snorted. “I beg your pardon, sir, but you’re behind the times. Melmoth Brien is nothing more than a drunkard and a gambler. If we told the world that he’d turned highwayman and tried to rob us, nobody would bat an eyelid. Besides, it’s clear the man is so mad that he can’t tell that that’s a rum little arse bender and not a wench!” With a scathing laugh, Connor took a small step forward, jabbing the barrel inches from Brien’s nose. “Squeeze all you like, Squire, but there ain’t no bubbies on that scrawny chest, though I grant he’s a pretty thing. When we’re through with you, maybe I’ll bugger him raw—before or after I’ve flayed the rest of his skin from his back.”

  Brien’s shoulders squared like granite. Behind him, he squeezed Scarlet’s hand tightly in his own, and everything became clear again. He had to act. He had to survive. Without him, Scarlet’s fate would be unthinkable. Narrowing his eyes, Brien glared at Connor. The man’s pupils darted rapidly, and his hand was not steady either. Connor was no soldier.

  With a lightning crack of his forearm, Brien swiped the gun from Connor’s grasp, dived for it, grabbed it, rolled—and fired. The single shot struck impotently toward the skies, the repercussion ramming even Brien’s sturdy frame flat down into the dirt. As the blast faded, a chilling cry set his ears ringing once more. Connor’s body fell forward onto the ground.

  Brien bit back an oath, hurling the rifle as far as he could into the undergrowth. He felt a gentle stroke upon his arm and started.

  “Look,” said Scarlet.

  Connor lay with his face to the soil, a single arrow piercing between his shoulder blades. The dove white feathers of its trim painted a stark contrast with the patch of dark red blood that was spreading across Connor’s light-coloured coat.

  “What witchery is this?” cried Hastings. His sons edged cautiously toward Brien and Scarlet.

  “We’ve got to take them in, father. They’re killers.”

  “But neither of them fired the arrow, William.”

  “White arrows!” One of the younger men spoke in a hush. “They’re the weapons of the fairy folk.”

  “Save that bollocks for the fireside, David. It just means there’s more of ’em out there. Steady now.”

  The eldest of the sons, William, pulled a knife, and Brien reached for his own. In the corner of his eye, he saw Scarlet stoop to pick up the elm branch that he had used earlier.

  “No, Scarlet, run!”

  It was too late. The men surged forward, and Brien hacked and sliced about himself again, driving them away with his more powerful blows, while doing his best to keep Scarlet behind him and protected. A strike to his arm made him drop his knife, so he grabbed the branch from the woodsman, jabbing it like a gladius. Fortunately his assailants were becoming as weary of battle as he. Already mounted on his horse, Hastings yelled at his offspring, commanding them to come away before somebody else was killed. The eldest spat blood into Brien’s face and then spun on his heels; the three younger siblings shared nervy looks.

  It was then that Brien sensed something was horribly wrong. With a hoarse cry, he turned. Scarlet was slumped on his side, his eyes shut. A rivulet of blood carved its way down his forehead. And the rest of the world vanished to Melmoth Brien.

  He dropped to his knees and scooped the stricken woodsman onto his lap and into his arms. A rational little voice told him that he hardly knew this man and that Scarlet ought to mean nothing to him. His greatest care ought to be the men, still only yards away, who’d been trying to kill him. But every facet of his soul screamed otherwise.

  He buried his face in Scarlet’s soft hair. Finding it matted with blood, he hugged him even tighter. The boy’s breathing felt labored and shallow. Brien slipped his fingers to find Scarlet’s pulse; it was hard to find at first. When he did locate it, it seemed unsteady and faint—or was that just the effect of his own trembling? Brien murmured a prayer he wanted desperately to believe in and felt his heart cry out to Holgaerst.

  * * *

  When Brien finally lifted his gaze to the night, the clearing was empty and silent.

  “What the hell just happened? Am I drunk?”

  Gathering his senses as if he’d awoken from a long and deep sleep, Brien concentrated his attentions on Scarlet. He carefully swept back the blood-clotted hair from the unconsc
ious woodsman’s brow. The wound was above the hairline but bleeding fitfully. Finally prompted into practical action, Brien lay Scarlet down carefully on his side, retrieved the remnants of the boy’s clothes, and wrapped them back around him as well as he could. Then he ripped a strip from the bottom of his own shirt and bandaged Scarlet’s head. He took the greatest of care to assure it was tight over the wound but did not cover Scarlet’s eyes, in case he awoke and became alarmed by the darkness.

  If he should awaken.

  He pulled Scarlet back into his lap, carefully cradling his head, and sniffed back doleful frustration. He’d been a soldier long enough to know that head wounds were the most unpredictable of injuries. Scarlet might wake up, be sick and then feel a little groggy for a while before everything became well. Or he might keep sinking into a deeper and deeper sleep until he slipped away.

  “Why do I care?” Brien asked himself. “His last act before I returned to save his sorry arse was to kick me in the bollocks!” Yes, he couldn’t deny now that he fancied Scarlet and that the tastes of several decades had been overridden by the lad’s honeyed good looks. None of this explained the way he had felt compelled to return to the house, or the all-consuming lust to protect and possess that had fuelled him into action when he saw what those men had done to Scarlet. Most perplexing of all, why had Brien’s anguished mind—nay, his tongue too—been so overwhelmed by some madness that he’d called upon the heathen creed that he’d rejected as a child?

  Each question stabbed at him, but nothing could compete with his desolation as he stroked his fingers down Scarlet’s throat. The throb of his lifeblood was definitely sluggish now. The clouds parted, a waxing gibbous moon rising behind the turrets of the mansion, and Brien traced its bright rays down onto the woodsman’s face. Scarlet’s complexion had faded to a deathly white hue, only his lips retaining any hint of colour. Even with the blood and the bandage across his forehead, he was still the most beautiful thing Brien had ever seen.

  He swore, brutal and heartfelt. He’d been in much worse situations than this. Paul had died. He’d been Brien’s lover and his friend, much more than Scarlet was to him, and Brien had got over it. Theirs had been a strange relationship that ebbed and flowed over a decade of army life. He and Paul had drunk and laughed and fucked together, but talked very little. Brien had never met Paul’s brother, a baronet. He scarcely knew where his family seat had been. Somewhere in Kent, he believed. Two days after Lieutenant Paul Woolgar had died on the field of Waterloo, Brien had actually cried a little. But only once liquor had loosened his emotions.

  A single, crystalline tear threaded its path down Scarlet’s cheek, and Brien realized it must be his own. With that realization, however, came a further hardening of heart. Paul’s loss had been one thing, but he’d not even shed tears at the grave of his own mother. What the hell was he doing crying over this woodsman?

  Brien’s onslaught of rationality triggered a further analysis of his current situation. Hastings and his sons may have fled, but they could easily return. Did he want another fight on his hands that night? Worst of all, he suddenly became aware that there was another man’s body lying just yards away, pierced through the heart with an arrow. No, it was not his doing, but did he really want to still be here a few hours later, when Hastings might bring more men, or even some yeomanry?

  He had to get out of there. The only question that remained was, did he leave Scarlet or take him with him?

  Carrying Scarlet’s slight form in his arms as easily as if he were a child, Brien trod over to where Smithy patiently awaited them.

  * * *

  Brien had no memory of going to sleep. He didn’t even recall dismounting from the horse. Yet he was roused to a strange awareness that he was asleep on the mossy carpet of the Greenwood—and that he was lying alone.

  A strange pang twisted in his guts, pushing him closer toward a semblance of wakefulness. He hadn’t a clue how he came to be here, but he was definitely on the damp ground, and the man he had held so tightly in his arms was gone.

  Gone? Taken? How?

  Brien told himself he had to wake up now. He sent a message commanding his body to roll out from the uncomfortable position he was settled in and rise. Nothing happened. He tried again and found movement was impossible.

  It was as if the air above him had grown supernaturally heavy and was pinning him down with an effortless but massive weight. He felt no restraints about him, and certainly no pain. But he could hardly move a single muscle.

  With an effort, he pried open his eyes. The scene that greeted him almost choked him.

  Scarlet stood not a few yards off, motionless and staring dead ahead. Stark naked apart from the little band about his wrist, he was washed in moonlight that highlighted his silky skin and the agile contours of his body to perfection: his willowy limbs, his slim hips, and the rounded sweep of his arse. With tiny steps, the woodsman turned himself upon the spot, as if displaying himself deliberately. His features were placid, a mask of flawless, youthful beauty. Brien gazed at his face for a moment, in awe, before his attention was drawn down to two peaked, brown nipples and the wispy mesh of golden hair on his lithely muscled chest.

  Brien’s mouth slavered, and his focus rapidly lowered. He followed the line of blond down over Scarlet’s boyish belly to the slender, pink cock that bobbed up toward his stomach in its first throes of arousal. His limbs may have been paralyzed, but Brien felt his prick twinge and start to harden. Then he noticed something strange. On the taut flesh above the boy’s pubic bone, there was a small stain or birthmark. The mark was either brown or dark red; it was hard to tell by the moonlight. It struck a stark contrast with the golden-pale flesh and appeared to mimic the shape of a tree, or possibly a leaf, although this slight phenomenon was hardly enough to divert Brien’s interest for long from the fascinating overall picture.

  His mind, almost to spite him, made a vague attempt to rationalize it all. This had to be a dream. He could not see any sign of the boy’s injuries. The bandage had been removed from Scarlet’s head, and the welts on his torso had vanished. Then again, dream or not, Brien found all he really wanted to do was throw himself upon the woodsman and touch, lick, and caress every part of him until Scarlet begged for surrender. And then fuck him into the dirt beneath them.

  Brien tried to call out, but his voice failed him as completely as his limbs. All he could do was lie there, helpless, unable even to squirm or touch his own burgeoning erection. So he let his gaze do the wandering as Scarlet turned from him and, with the grace of a dancer, dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

  To whom was he submitting himself? Jealousy surged through Brien’s inert frame, and he scanned the scene the best he could. There was nobody else about, was there? Nothing but sleeping snowdrops and the gnarled silhouettes of the oaks encircled the small clearing. But…yes, oh God, yes! Now Brien sensed something. The watch of a thousand eyes flashed upon him, and the primal power of an earthquake’s magnitude shifted in the air.

  But still nothing actually moved or sounded, not even the murmur of the wind through the trees.

  Then a twisted oaken bough reached out, unfurled its twiggy end into an enormous hand, and touched Scarlet’s shoulder.

  “It’s just a bloody dream,” Brien murmured and tried to shut his eyes. If anything could kill his arousal, it was the confounded stench of enchantment. But his eyelids were as incapable of closing as his body was of rising. Helpless, he was forced to watch while a second bough reached out and placed its splintered fingers under Scarlet’s chin.

  Scarlet inhaled sharply, his skin pulling tight about his ribs. There was no aura of fear about him. The fingers gently urging him, Scarlet rose. His cock jutted up in an erection, moonshine glittering on its moistened tip.

  What the devil is happening? What the bloody hell is that thing going to do to him? The questions were facile. Deep in his heart, Brien understood what was coming.

  With an ever-accelerating hungriness, the mighty tru
nk of the oak sent out more and more shoots that drew Scarlet bodily toward it. Two reedy, green tendrils encircled his wrists. Several more ensnared his ankles, while others wrapped around his waist and draped loosely about his shoulders, turning and positioning his malleable body until he was held fast to the tree. And even as this strange phenomenon unfurled in front of Brien, something odder was happening to the ancient oak itself. Its trunk had split in two, its roots matting and then spreading into what resembled giant, human feet. Brien did not really want to see what gruesome beast was emerging, but the sight veered up in front of him. Where once had been branches and leaves, there now swayed a giant head. Two jet-black eyes stared out of a mottled brown face, from which sprouted a beard of shiny new leaves.

  Brien was awestruck. All Englishmen knew the Green Man, whose images infiltrated school books and even churches, as much as his legends wove their way through ancient rhymes. The songs were often bawdy, but he had a feeling that nothing in any alehouse ballad could hold a candle to what was about to occur.

  Scarlet was trapped in the Green Man’s multiple and marauding arms, which slithered over every inch of his flesh. One giant hand took control of the lad’s cock, pumping the shaft with its callous palm, while fingers of feathered leaves teased and toyed with his sensitive foreskin.

  As he gasped and writhed under the Green Man’s touch, Scarlet’s beautiful features flowed from one exquisite expression of pained pleasure to another. Wild wooden tendrils raked through his hair, kissed his shiny, parted lips, and carved light grooves over his chest. Brien nearly exploded with envy, his inflamed and needy cock throbbing painfully and helplessly between stricken, motionless legs.

  How much longer could this torture continue? How much worse could it get? Brien groaned internally as the great Green Man wrenched apart the boy’s legs, and even more terrible for Brien, he lifted his great, wooden feet from the floor and shifted sideways, affording the most perfect view of the ravishment that lay ahead.