Bound for the Forest

by Kay Berrisford

  “The boy’s drunk,” he spat.

  “I think not,” she replied. “Maybe it is you whose mind is muddied, Melmoth Brien? Will you excuse us?”

  Brien was excluded from the conversation for the next few minutes as Arya dragged the irate Scarlet aside for a hushed discussion. She fiddled with her jewelry, clearly uncomfortable with the plan that Scarlet was relaying to her in low, mumbled whispers. After a short while, however, the druidess raised her hands in surrender and turned back to Brien.

  “Scarlet is right. If we are to strike fear into their hearts, the Green Man of our masquerade must have a wraith over whom he can exert his power. Naturally the degradation of a male slave will have more of an impact on our intended audience.”

  Scarlet squirmed awkwardly on his arse, and despite his simmering anger over the boy’s previous outburst, Brien couldn’t contain his feral lust. Oh, God, he knew he should not agree to this, but how could he refuse when his blood rushed this hotly?

  “But before you get any ideas,” Arya continued, “this changes nothing. You two are not to be left alone, nor to enter the precincts of the temple together. And you, Melmoth Brien, are not, by any means, to penetrate Scarlet. You may whip him and perform various other rituals of humiliation, but nothing more. Do you understand?”

  “I believe I do.” Brien folded his arms, flashing his wolfish smile. The woodsman clamped his lush, wine-stained lips tightly together, scrambled to his feet, and fled.

  Brien was still grinning after him when Arya brandished her finger accusingly in front of his nose.

  “You going to thank me for deciding to stay?” he asked.

  “No. I’ll be watching you, Melmoth Brien. If you even think about making this anything other than a charade, then, faederswica or not, I’ll be the one who sees you hanging from the nearest oak.”

  * * *

  Brien’s slumber was broken and uneasy, and when he did finally drift off, his dreams were solely of Scarlet.

  Brien was fucking him, driving ever faster toward the crest of his wave, balls slapping and bouncing off that perfect, rounded arse. He could picture everything about Scarlet so vividly. His legs were hitched up about Brien’s hips, his knees raised so high that they kissed his elbows, his body opened and spread for him as he plowed deeper and deeper. Scarlet’s face was etched with the expression of agonized bliss that Brien had witnessed the night before. His long lashes fluttered into a blur; one wisp of golden hair floated across his brow, while another strand he sucked fretfully between those appetizing lips. His slender frame shook with the force of the fucking, yet Scarlet jammed forward those slim hips, skewering himself to his limit. The image alone sent Brien’s lust fireballing until he teetered on the edge…

  Scarlet shifted, his legs spreading impossibly wide, and Brien’s focus latched on to the hazel leaf birthmark. On Scarlet’s tight, sucked-in belly, his mark had turned a luminous, liquid red as if it had been carved into the ivory flesh with a knife. Then everything changed.

  Brien was no longer fucking him. Scarlet thrashed and kicked, spitting venom as the earth sprouted a thousand creeping hands that seized his limbs and ripped at his hair. He screamed; barbed, green claws gouged deep into his skin, drew blood, and plunged into his every orifice. Brien tried to reach for him but grasped at nothingness. He stretched out farther, desperate to save him, but the claws dragged Scarlet well beyond his reach. His senses reeled while Scarlet struggled, choked, and writhed. And then the ever-multiplying tendrils dragged Scarlet down into blood and dirt and consumed him into the bowels of the earth.

  A high-pitched cry ripped through Brien’s consciousness. His eyes flew open; his cock was still semihard, the thump of his heart nearly deafening. He dragged his hand across his forehead drenched with cold sweat, then blinked up at a dark wattle roof. A gray, early morning light seeped between the cracks.

  The wailing persisted, the piercing, hungry squeals of an infant awaking, but no man, and certainly not Scarlet. It slowly dawned on Brien where he was: in a godless hovel in the dell of Arden, excluded from the company of women, children, and that infuriating woodsman. It had been a dream. At least this time it had truly felt like one, unlike the night before.

  The Green Man.

  It had been a dream, surely? Brien felt queasy, his mind racing back to the questions he’d turned over and over in his mind before he’d finally got off to sleep. Could it have really happened? Scarlet’s anger over his teasing had thrown him. If that devastating coupling had truly happened in front of his own eyes, then his anguish and jealousy had been for good reason, and he could not deny how those feelings tortured him still. It was almost too much to endure. He hated the thought of Scarlet belonging to another, even if the other was a damned tree, but that made no more sense than the dream being real. Since when did he become so bloody desperate, particularly for an angel-featured little woodsman who—damn him!—Brien still wasn’t going to admit he actually liked. He’d never found it difficult to find men or women to lie with him before. And, most vexing of all, even as he’d tried to convince himself of all this insanity, he’d ended up wondering if and how he could convince Scarlet that there was no such thing as magic. Could he persuade the boy that he was not bound to the forest, and that they could leave together? But morning brought with it a more dour perspective.

  “Pull yourself together, man,” he told himself. He had a job to do, and he’d do it well and enjoy it as much as he could, then get out of there. Though how the hell was he going to be polite at breakfast if these female chawbacons had no coffee to offer him?

  * * *

  The hilt of Brien’s dagger was long, smooth, and pleasing to hold, curving snugly into his palm. But he found it was even more gratifying to send it spinning through the air, seeing if he could get the blade hitting home into a notch on a cherry tree.

  Brien adopted this entertainment as the morning dragged by, even his plan to go and retrieve his horse having become unnecessary. Two keen young druidesses had located Smithy and had him fed, watered, groomed, and stabled before Brien had even breakfasted. Of course, idly throwing a knife at a tree invited furious looks from any forest dweller who happened to notice what he was up to, which was also rather amusing, in its way.

  He discovered at least forty women living in primitive cabins in the dell of Arden and, with them, at least a dozen children of both sexes—one of whom he had to thank for waking him from his disturbing dream. Brien had chatted with a few of the women, finding their stories about how they came to be there predictable enough. The handful of unmarried mothers, for example, had been drawn to the forest by the druidesses’ toleration of their fate. He spent a long time talking to Gaia and Artemis, the names adopted by a pair of young ladies with the crystal-cut accents of quality, who had fled because Gaia’s violent husband had tried to part them: “He hated us,” said Artemis, “because we understood the meaning of love, whereas his heart beat for nothing save gambling, horses, and pugilism!”

  The knife game, therefore, nicely kept up this flow of company, luring over many scolding and often attractive women, whom he flattered with ravishing smiles and insincere apologies. It was a good way to spend a morning. If only he could stop longing for it to be Scarlet rushing over, pink-cheeked and furious.

  I’ll make his cheeks pink enough later!

  The worst of his morning grumpiness having worn off by now, just the thought caused Brien’s blood to simmer. Damn it, how long were these preparations going to take? He raised his dagger again in frustration, narrowed eyes focusing on his target, ready for another vicious throw.

  “Melmoth Brien?”

  The confident voice startled him, and he turned to see Urhelda, her red hair held piled upon her head by pins of bone, and her arms laden with fabric and foliage. Brien conjured up a dashing smile.

  “You’re not going to tell me to stop menacing your tree, are you?” Brien sheathed the point of his dagger in the bark behind him and arched an eyebrow. “Arya’s alr
eady shouted at me twice. She warned me that its spirit might seek revenge.”

  A smile ruffled the edges of Urhelda’s generous mouth. “If the tree really objected, I’m sure it would let you know. I’ve never heard of the spirit of a cherry tree hanging anyone, but I certainly know a tale about one cutting off a man’s testicles.”

  “Nasty bugger!”

  Brien made a show of putting his dagger away. Urhelda ran her tongue slowly over her lips, making them glisten like plump cherries, then thrust a large swathe of green fabric into his hands.

  “I’ve come to help you prepare for the masquerade. It looks like you are to be our star performer.”

  “I’m rather thinking that’s going to be Scarlet.”

  Urhelda regarded him placidly. “It’s going to be a bit of a challenge for you, isn’t it? Playing at being his master and not being allowed as much as a kiss.”

  “It’s not a challenge. The boy is pretty, and when a man is lost in the middle of a forest without other company, his attractions become like water in a desert. But then when you reach a rich city flowing with fine wine, a man realizes how thin those attractions are.” Brien slid his gaze to Urhelda’s ample breasts. The fleshy globes were very pale, smattered with orange-brown freckles, and cradled in a bodice fashioned out of coloured laces and strips of dyed cloth. The outfit shouldn’t have been flattering, but it showed off Urhelda’s assets to perfection.

  She wasn’t smiling at him now, but her nut brown eyes danced curiously. He could feel his grin swelling, and he found himself hoping she was the sort to be drawn to the laughter lines that crinkled at the edges of his eyes. A woman at a gambling table had once told him they were quite enthralling.

  But unlike that trussed-up courtesan of the ton, Urhelda did not flinch away from his most penetrating stares or titter behind a fan. The directness of her manner unsettled him slightly.

  “I ought to be flattered that you think our humble little village is a rich city flowing with wine,” she said.

  He chuckled darkly. “Maybe I overstretched that metaphor a little. In fact, I was wondering how the hell somebody like you came to be living here. I understand why many of the women want to stay here, but why you, Urhelda? You’re young, you’re beautiful, and you’ve got no squalling brats dangling off your breasts. Don’t you want to leave this lunacy behind? This fucking place is like the world turned upside down.” He snapped his mouth shut. For the first time in a while, he worried that he’d sounded rather coarse.

  Urhelda gazed at him a moment. Then, as if resigning herself to the fact that he was rather simple, she shrugged. “We need to get on with the preparations. Take your clothes off, please.”

  So she didn’t want to talk about it. That, Brien decided, just made her all the more interesting.

  Upon Urhelda’s instructions, Brien stripped, and, leaning against the cherry tree, she watched him do it. There was the hint of a school ma’am about her, but much more of the air of a bossy brothel madam. He pulled his shirt off over his head, sucking in his already taut stomach so as to emphasize the size and muscularity of his chest and shoulders. Then, quirking a brow, he reached for the fastenings on the front of his breeches.

  “That’s quite enough. Men! You’re always so proud of your pricks, aren’t you?” Urhelda took her breasts in her hands and thrust them forward. “These are so much prettier.”

  “I might not argue with you there.”

  “I wouldn’t. In my opinion, the best prick is a prick bound tightly in cords, with its owner’s hands tied behind his back. Men are always shown off at their finest when they’re under a woman’s control.”

  Brien coolly disguised his surprise and excitement at her taste. “In my opinion,” he drawled, “you would look fantastic quivering beneath some silken ties. They would have to be a glacial blue, so your fiery colouring could fight against that ice until it melted your bonds away.”

  As he spoke, her roving gaze urged him on. Reaching out tentatively, he cupped her left breast, relishing its firmness and impressive weight. She let him enjoy it for a couple of rushed breaths before slapping him away. “Just put on the cloak and keep your hands and thoughts to yourself, Melmoth Brien.”

  This, he decided, was fun. Some games with a woman like Urhelda might well be his best path back to sanity.

  A nervous but decidedly male laugh distracted him. Twisting around, Brien realized that Scarlet was also undergoing preparations on the far side of the clearing, and that the woodsman was far nearer naked than he was. A ragged green strip was wrapped around his waist, fashioned to resemble a bunch of leaves. It scarcely covered his modesty at the front, while the sides of his thighs and those rounded buttocks were left exposed.

  Brien had all but forgotten Urhelda by the time she leaned up and whispered in his ear. “You’re lucky. You’ll get to wear a little more tonight. It’s going to be cold for the rest of us.”

  “The rest of you?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Her low, husky voice and the hotness of her breath against his throat ought to have been what made him shiver with excitement. But no. Scarlet had raised his arms above his head, one wrist clenched in the other hand, while Gaia and Artemis smeared his chest and belly with oil. On command, Scarlet then performed a neat pirouette so Artemis could oil his back, working down in neat, undulating circles until she cupped both hands over his bottom and rubbed boisterously.

  Damn it, Scarlet’s arse was as bitable as a peach, so tempting that Brien could quite understand how even a tree would want to fuck him. And now that oiled and shimmering backside jutted out and waggled in his direction while Scarlet squirmed under the woman’s rough handling of his thighs. Brien was caught somewhere between gratitude and rage as Urhelda stepped between him and the tantalizing view.

  “Would you like to see something even more interesting, Melmoth Brien?”

  She presented him with an ornately carved wooden mask. Smooth walnut had been hacked into roughness: a deeply lined forehead, a magnificent aquiline nose, a gaping mouth, and two large holes for eyes. A beard made of beech leaves garnished the lower half of the mask. Smaller oak leaves had been fashioned to resemble a moustache and bushy brows, and a variety of ash and dog rose served as a mane of untamed hair. Although it had sturdy straps to attach it to its wearer, the mask’s expanse was at least twice as large as Brien’s face, and it was going to be heavy.

  Wordlessly he took it and lifted it to his face, strapping it on—and the world shifted. The heavy mask felt weightless; his body straightened. His muscles clenched, then swelled, a powerful sense of virility rushing straight to his loins. Even his eyesight seemed to sharpen, focusing on just one being. Scarlet.

  To make matters worse, a thick black collar had now been affixed around the woodsman’s neck, flush against his pale skin, his quivering pulse. Matching it, two black bands had been fastened around his ankles while above his acorn cuff, the bandage had been removed, apparently no longer needed. Just for a moment, Scarlet looked his way. He gasped, then dipped his gaze. As ever, the perfect image of submission.

  With a feat of strength that nearly felled him, Brien ripped the mask from his face and rounded on Urhelda.

  “What would you say if I suggested we gave up this whole stupid plan and got out of here? I mean, leave the forest. You and me. Together. Now.”

  “I’d say you were definitely a traitor.” Urhelda gave a theatrical shrug that made her breasts shiver enticingly. “Now, does the mask fit, or do we need to make some adjustments?”

  Chapter Nine

  Perched on an upturned tree trunk, Scarlet pulled his cloak tightly about himself and wondered if he ought to pass the time by braiding another couple of little plaits into his hair.

  He had already woven in a few, and a glance in a looking glass had told him that they looked damned fine. Although, at the same time, he cursed himself for the efforts he was putting into his appearance, all for Brien. He didn’t want to think about the feelings that had
swept through him when the captain had put on the mask.

  Oh, Spirits of Holgaerst, Scarlet’s body and mind had cried out for the traitor, yearning as he ought only for the real Green Man. Arya’s words were ringing true. The pull had been stronger than any he’d felt with that spirit of the oak, although he wished with all his heart that Brien’s glory was nothing but a charade. That the faederswica was starting to believe could only render him the more dangerous. Brien had already mocked the sacred bonds that he could so easily destroy, despoiling Scarlet’s very existence to boot.

  He could not quite comprehend how Brien had seen him with the Green Man. He’d assumed the magic of Holgaerst would protect him, but then he didn’t seem to know what the will of the spirits was anymore. He ought to be ashamed that the traitor had laid eyes on him at such a moment, yet the notion that Brien may have been jealous afforded him a faint flurry of triumph. Or was it something else he felt, something more fatal? No. He must not relish the lust of the faederswica. Oh, Mother Goddess! The uncertainties made his head spin, and he knew he must be more cautious than ever.

  When Brien made his way over, Scarlet’s cheeks flared up with an unwelcome blush. Brien’s billowing green cloak made him seem taller and even more terribly handsome than usual, particularly among the crowding women. Catching Scarlet’s eye, he softened his stony features a little and raised an eyebrow.

  “I need to thank you,” said Brien. “I wouldn’t have missed this show for a night with Lady Hamilton at the peak of her powers.”

  “They…they do look beautiful, don’t they?”

  Brien stood beside him, and they absorbed the view together. Most of the women were near naked beneath their long cloaks, which they parted so a variety of body paints could be applied with brushes and fingers. Some complained about the cold, but most were taking pleasure in their tasks, weaving delicate patterns about arms and necks, and around nipples hardened against the elements. Others inscribed curling texts over soft stomachs, wide hips, skinny arms, or long, graceful legs.