Bound for the Forest

by Kay Berrisford

  “Stay away!” commanded Arya, unruffled. “You do understand what he is?”

  “All I know is that you just branded him for no good reason. This isn’t the Dark Ages!”

  “We’re trying to save him. Can’t you see that? The pain was nothing at all compared to what might have been. See, he is asleep now.”

  Peering beyond the women, Brien realized there was some truth in Arya’s final words. Scarlet had fallen still, his body relaxed. He was asleep—or more likely, he had fainted. Brien felt a renewed spurt of anger when he saw the beautiful Urhelda examining the woodsman’s arm. But she had brought salve and a bandage and proceeded to untie his wrist, no doubt to undo a little of the hurt. Not that any scarring was visible. Yet.

  “We mean him no harm,” Arya reiterated, her tone much softened. “If you’d just let me explain, you might understand.”

  Brien observed her guardedly. He ought to dismiss anything she could tell him as nonsense or, worse, the excuses of a torturer. Yet he was genuinely curious about Scarlet, even in what Arya had to say about him. Maybe it was the intoxicating effects of those sweet-burning candles? Ruffling his fingers back through his hair, he reminded himself why he was there. Scarlet was just a side issue. He might be able to make Arya the key to getting himself out of this hell.

  “Thank you,” she said, reading his silence as consent. “But I won’t tell you a thing if you keep your dagger drawn in the sacred realm. In the name of the Mother Goddess, put it away, man!”

  * * *

  Arya settled herself opposite him on the floor of a small shelter, legs crossed. The ground felt uncomfortably damp, seeping through Brien’s breeches, although a freshly crackling fire in a tiny hearth was doing its best to fill the cabin with smoke and the first inklings of warmth.

  “In all honesty, we don’t really know what Scarlet is,” she started. “Old Brigit raised him, so she ought to know best, and she told Scarlet he was a changeling, entrusted to her by the fairies. The Elfaene apparently took pity on the child and asked Brigit, as a follower of the Goddess, to help bring him back to the light.”

  “Those are just stories that an old woman told a small boy to stop him from misbehaving and make her life easier.”

  Arya afforded him a gentle, contrary smile; he now noticed the myriad of fine lines around her eyes and realized that she was rather older than he’d first assumed from her athletic build, and probably well into her fifth decade. “Old Brigit was coarse in her manners and sometimes harsh,” she continued, “but she loved Scarlet, in her way. She told him the truth—or, at least, what she believed the truth to be. Of course, most of us here like to think Scarlet is something rather less sinister: a puck, a caargaerst, some sort of forest underling. And the village folks like to believe he is a pixie.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! A pixie? Hell, yes, but not the sort you’re twittering on about. I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re a fairy or something?”

  “No, I cannot make that claim. But one thing we know for certain. Scarlet is bound to the Greenwood, body and soul. Holgaerst nourishes and sustains him, but if somebody breaks his bonds with the spirits, or if he breaks them himself by leaving the forest, the laws of nature dictate there will be serious repercussions.”

  So that explained why Scarlet had never left the forest. He’d been indoctrinated from childhood by old wives’ tales, which forbade him to wander. “What do you mean by repercussions? Sounds like an excuse for you to keep him here and carry out your witchcraft on him.”

  “No, let me explain. Last year Scarlet strayed beyond the bounds of the forest. The pedlar who trades our herbs and spices had been spinning him tales, and he wanted to go to Southampton—to see the sailing ships and barter for trinkets, I believe. We were frantic with worry, although he didn’t get much beyond the borders of the Greenwood realm before he could go no farther. Scarlet became desperately unwell, racked by seizures and a burning fever. But it was no bodily illness…” Trailing off, she looked at Brien strangely, as if expecting some sort of reaction to what she was about to say, or even waiting for him to speak the words for her. He merely lifted an eyebrow. “It was the enchantment,” she explained. “But he was fortunate. We brought him back quickly, and Holgaerst showed mercy, reclaiming him before it was too late. Although our devotion is chiefly to the Mother Goddess, we also did what we could, praying for Scarlet and anointing him.”

  “Is that what you were up to today? Anointing him?”

  “Yes. Exactly. Scarlet belongs to Holgaerst, but the spirits of the forest are at one with the Mother Goddess of the Earth, and we must all work together to protect him.”

  Brien’s focus dropped to her throat. Arya’s collarbone was very prominent, her skin slightly scaly, battered and browned by sun and wind. A bronze disc hung on a chain about her neck, showing the moon again, with its waxing and waning crescents. Once more he felt a great urge to hate this woman.

  “Why are you fighting me?” she asked. “I feel Holgaerst stirring in you. When I was performing the ritual, I tried to cast a spell on you to keep the foul spirits at bay, but I felt you working back against me. The magic was weak, but its intention was…not as I expected. No, don’t get up and leave; listen to me. You have wronged the Greenwood, but I don’t believe you are a traitor. I assumed so at first, we all did when we heard about the sale of the house…but I think I was wrong. What’s more, I think you and I can help each other.”

  Brien was well aware that walking out now would gain little for his cause. On the other hand, the last thing he wanted was to think too hard about everything he’d just been told about Scarlet. “Then please stop talking about magic and help me find my damned sister.”

  “Fair enough. Actually you and I might just have something in common in that particular area. You see, Jemima and I are not exactly the best of friends.” Arya poured out two glasses of elderberry wine and passed one over to Brien, her fingertips poised gracefully around the rim. “I suppose you could say the problem lies in a clash of alpha females. We’re like two queen bees in this forest, although she is more of a solitary empress and I the leader of a hive. But I stray from the point. We rarely see eye to eye, not even on our religion. Jemima tells me that now we women are in ascendancy in the forest, the foul spirits have been all but vanquished. I feel—no, I know—that things are not so simple.”

  Brien was enjoying his wine, which was strong and had an interesting floral undertone that he took to be rose hips, but now he drummed his fingers impatiently against the side of his boot. “You said you wouldn’t talk about magic. How do I get to see her?”

  “You want your sister, and I’m probably still your best chance in persuading her to speak to you. However, she and I had a blazing row yesterday about how to deal with those blackguards who bought Carseald Hall.”

  Brien nearly choked on the wine, caught between a halfhearted apology and laughter. “I’ve had a few of those with her in my time!”

  “She’s certainly a strong woman,” Arya conceded. Brien hadn’t really ever considered Jemima that. He’d probably never had enough respect for her to think her strong, but he couldn’t help but feel a growing respect for Arya and her businesslike manner. “I want those men out of the forest. I am willing to make things up to Jemima as soon as I can, even do a little groveling and ask her to see you. But on one condition. Some of my girls have been over to have a look, and they tell me that Hastings returned to Carseald Hall this afternoon. He brought with him a constable, several dragoons, and an undertaker—although only the new owner and his sons have stayed on. Now, I want you to help us drive them away, once and for all.”

  “I see.” Brien sipped ruminatively, a refusal looming large in his mind. Any second assault against Hastings and his sons would be madness. Their word against his, should they choose to exercise it, might already be enough to frame him for Connor’s death. Why give them more reason to hate him? “How come you need me? If Holgaerst is really so powerful, why can’t the spiri
ts drive away the intruders?”

  “They may choose to help us, or they may not. No magic is powerful enough to undo every man-made wrong. All I know is that we need all the help we can get. You see, for whatever reason, the power of the foul spirits has been growing lately.” Brien shifted irritably, but Arya calmly topped up his wine, then reached into her cloak and pulled out a long, pale yellow catkin, which she presented to him on her outstretched palm. “Do you know what this is? It’s the male flower of the hazel tree, the tree of Niogaerst. When foul magic is in the ascendancy, the spring catkins have been known to turn bloodred. See this?”

  She pointed to a cluster of flowers at the catkin’s very tip. Brien had to squint in the firelight, but he noticed they were a deep, reddish brown, a stark contrast with the pale yellow of the rest of the blooms.

  “That could have been caused by anything,” said Brien. “Probably some sort of insect or blight.”

  “No. Niogaerst is rising, and if you didn’t stir the foul spirits, the newcomers’ presence is all we have to explain it. We need to act to restore the balance, not least because of Scarlet. He is peculiarly vulnerable to Niogaerst.”

  “I don’t like being talked about behind my back.”

  Arya and Brien turned as one. Scarlet was leaning against the doorpost. His arm was heavily bandaged, and he looked tired. Gray shadows highlighted the sharp angles of his cheekbones, and the venom in his eyes rendered his ethereal good looks all the more enthralling. Brien only just managed to suppress a groan of lust.

  “I’m sorry, Scarlet,” said Arya. “How do you feel?”

  “I’ve been worse.” Scarlet did not avert his gaze from Brien for a second; his upper lip curled, as if he was repulsed by the sight of him. “What’s he still doing here?”

  “None of your business, boy. I should beat you black-and-blue for eavesdropping.” Brien’s glare was more than a match for the woodsman’s; he wanted to grab Scarlet and force him to experience the true potency of his mauling hands, if just as punishment for making him so damned pleased to see him.

  They were both so absorbed in each other that Arya’s burst of laughter was as much of a shock as Scarlet’s arrival.

  “Oh, in the name of the Mother Goddess, I’ve never seen two beings so caught up in lust! If it wasn’t such a risk, I’d tell you to fuck and get it over with—right here, right now.”

  Chapter Eight

  A muscle twitched along the chiseled line of the captain’s jaw, and Melmoth Brien looked as if he might spontaneously combust. Scarlet wanted to explode with anger too, although he also half wished that the forest spirits, sweet or foul, would rend the ground open and let it swallow him up.

  “That you two are attracted to one another is nothing to be particularly surprised about,” said Arya, gesturing to Scarlet to come and sit down. “You are bound to the forest, Scarlet. Melmoth Brien is of the bloodline of its protectors. The pull between you is quite natural. But of course, we can’t risk your acting upon it.”

  “Why not?”

  Brien’s terse inquiry took Scarlet by surprise. Despite all that had happened, even the kiss, he had assumed Brien would deny an attraction at this stage in order to humiliate him. He now experienced an unexpected wash of relief and just a hint of begrudging gratitude.

  “I told you before what happens if Scarlet leaves the forest. I will consult my books of lore about this, but even if you’ve not committed the sins of faederswica, I don’t think we can risk the consequences of your claiming him.”

  “I am still bloody here!” Having settled himself next to Arya on the far side of the hearth from Brien, Scarlet waved his hand in front of her face.

  “Sorry, Scarlet.” She passed him her own goblet of wine, which he took, muttering his thanks. “Maybe there’s nothing more to this than the matter that you’re both extremely handsome beings. My knowledge is chiefly of the Mother Goddess, not Holgaerst, but I don’t need a book of lore to tell me that the best thing would be for you both to admit to your attraction. It will make it easier for you when you have to part forever. Will that be so terribly hard?”

  Scarlet felt Brien’s stare drilling into him, and a rush of despondency smothered the lurch in his heart. Arya’s words made perfect sense. He would be a fool to believe this dangerous man wanted anything more than his body. Even that, at best, the traitor would desecrate and destroy. He lowered his own gaze to his wine. The liquid looked black and very thick, like dark blood, and it captured the dancing reflections of the flames. “No,” he said softly. “I don’t see why that would be hard.”

  “I can resist him. He’s not that damned pretty.” Brien laughed. He didn’t sound derisive, but his sudden lightening of mood irritated Scarlet.

  A sharp pain stabbed in his pelvis but faded quickly, and he covered his reaction beneath a healthy gulp of the wine. Brien stared at him, and a blush rose up in Scarlet’s cheeks. He whispered a quiet oath.

  “How are you doing, Scarlet?” asked Arya. “Do you think the ceremony worked?”

  Grateful for the slight change of topic, Scarlet told her his arm didn’t hurt at all and hitched up his clothing to show her the mark of the hazel. The redness appeared to have faded slightly since that afternoon, which pleased Arya, and she proceeded to explain to Brien that she hoped “anointing” Scarlet with the sign of the Goddess might lessen any effect of Niogaerst. “Of course, we can entreat through her to Holgaerst, but we have no real control over these things.”

  “You don’t say,” muttered Brien. There was no doubt about the derision in his voice now. Scarlet backed into the shadows as yet another debate broke out, and felt grateful to be briefly forgotten. He needed to think.

  So Arya did not seem to believe that Brien was faederswica? Well, he didn’t want to start another argument, especially with Brien right there, but she was wrong. Scarlet felt Brien’s power growing stronger every time he looked at him and, while it might look faint in the firelight, his birthmark kept flaring up like the stab of a thousand needles beneath his skin. The Mother Goddess had done little, he feared, about that.

  But what could he do about it? Scarlet drew a deep, calming breath and shut his eyes, not least to stop himself forever glancing the man’s way. Brien sporadically glared back, although each time Scarlet caught his eye to return his malice with interest, the captain would pretend not to notice and look away. It was all too much. Scarlet had to try and surrender himself to his better instincts, to pray for some guidance from Holgaerst about what to do next.

  He tried to empty his mind, but it was difficult, particularly sensing Brien still so close by. Scarlet was grateful their sleeping together was so completely out of the question…wasn’t he? The memory of that kiss came sweeping back, of how he’d craved this man, how he’d melted into the contours of his body, and above all, how perfect it had felt to be bound to him…

  Scarlet groaned softly to himself, the first pangs of sexual excitement stirring beneath the pit of his stomach. Spirits of the Forest—do what you want to me. Punish me, hurt me…but please remove this traitor from my life before he destroys me.

  The pain in his middle came so strongly this time that Scarlet couldn’t help crying out loud. Arya and Brien stopped arguing, and the druidess rubbed his arm concernedly.

  “Scarlet?”

  He stared straight through her into the firelight, pressing his palm into his stomach as the discomfort throbbed and faded. “That’s the answer,” he said so quietly that only he could hear himself above the crackling flames. “I need pain. I need to be punished.”

  * * *

  Brien had to admit to himself that the boy was game.

  Before Scarlet made his alluring suggestion, Arya had tried to persuade him that they should stage a sinister masquerade that would play on the Hastings party’s fears of the forest. While Brien had blithely reminded her that she was a druidess, not a past doge of Venice, Arya maintained that it was their best chance to succeed without having to resort to violence. Brien
had argued that there had to be a better plan—right up until the moment when Scarlet had suggested that he, Melmoth Brien, should masquerade as the embodiment of the Green Man, while Scarlet posed as his wraith; or, as Arya had neatly explained it despite adamantly opposing the plan, as his “pain slave.”

  The surprise almost snatched Brien’s breath away, and then the hot rush of excitement began to build. Scarlet sucked the inside of his cheek, studiously avoiding his eyes.

  Damn it, but he was persuaded! Even despite his rational mind protesting otherwise, it was a struggle not to sound too keen.

  “Very well,” said Brien, forcing a sigh. “If that be what’s needed for this to be achieved, I’ll do it. Just one thing…” Unable to resist, he threw Scarlet a teasing wink. “Won't your real Green Man have something to say about it?”

  Scarlet’s fists balled at his sides, the colour rising so fiercely in his cheeks that Brien was startled into standing up straight, nearly striking his head on the low roof.

  “How…how dare you?” fumed Scarlet. “Do not speak of that which you refuse to understand!”

  The ferociousness of Scarlet’s reaction might have felled a lesser man. Brien merely gaped at him for a moment. He had spoken in jest; despite the specters that haunted his sleep, there was no such thing as the real Green Man. But how else did he explain the fury that glittered in Scarlet’s eyes?

  “How dare you?” Scarlet seethed again. “If your eyes can see the truth, can you not comprehend who I belong to? Holgaerst ought not to rest until you’re hanging from the branches of its most sacred oak with the crows pecking out your guts!”

  The lad’s vehemence bewildered him, and it cut Brien so deeply that he barely avoided lashing out. No. He would not let Scarlet see how those words stung. The dream hadn’t been real; that was just ridiculous. He turned to Arya, half afraid she would read the questions on his countenance that he refused to let pour forth from his lips.

  She offered him the merest of nods.