Tam wanted to refuse. He wanted to finish his angry ravings and then run a mile. But as he glanced around the company, his objection to this alliance felt churlish. In comparison with the fair folk, a group of whom were now resolving their squabbles by sprouting paws and long, flopping ears and boxing like hares, Herne's blunt manner served as a balm to Tam's aching body and soul. Even if he was a devil.
"Very well," he replied, guarded. "But have you any idea how we break it?"
"As of yet, none. The Elfaene will consult the spirits of the waters and the trees, and I will consult Greenwood lore."
"There must be something I can do," said Tam.
Herne arched his fine, dark brows. "For now, boy, I suggest you find your shirt."
"I was just about to do that."
Tam gathered his scattered garments from amid the foliage and the blackened toadstools, wincing at the fruit juice, sticky between his thighs. The plants glimmered with snail tracks and frothy cuckoo spittle, which coated his fingers and smelled sharp and rank. Yet the rising sun warmed his back and drew buds into bloom all around. Sensing Herne following him with his stare, he felt a modicum of satisfaction. He quietly enjoyed being admired, particularly by other men. Even by devilish spirits, so it seemed.
Nevertheless he found little to admire about his clothes. The stuffed shoulder rolls were half torn from his jacket, heavy with dew. It clung as uncomfortably to his smock beneath as the remnants of his breeches did to his arse, after he fastened them up using a stiff thorn as a pin. The honey and slime on his fingers rendered the many hooks and eyes arduous to fasten, so he made slow progress. Still, he felt relieved to be covered up.
Throwing back his shoulders, he hurried toward Herne, who had resumed his conference with the Elfaene. Her diminutive stature made Herne appear like a giant from a ballad.
"I will ask around the village, then," said Tam, interrupting with battle-ready briskness. "One of the elders must know something about these betrothal rituals. After all, village boys have been taking part in them for centuries."
"And failing every time!"
Tam could not tell which giggling fairy answered. As his ignominy excited once more, Herne raised a hand and growled, "Silence." The fair folk's laughter dying, he turned to Tam. "Your plan is a good one, but it is best we are not parted until the enchantment is broken."
"But why?" asked Tam.
The Elfaene turned to him, mockery lighting her dark eyes. "You may flee if you wish, but you will prove easy prey to fouler spirits who crave blood. In short, until the betrothal is broken, you need his protection." Smiling in the wake of ruining Tam's life, she looked to the morning sky. "We must go. The sun rises too high, and we have stones to turn and butterflies to catch. We will find you if we discover anything. Farewell."
"No…wait. You can't just leave us." Tam grabbed for the Elfaene's cloak, but it felt like grasping smoke. She whirled toward him, eyes jet-black, her adder's tongue flicking across her lips. Then she vanished. The rest of the fair folk peeled back like a retreating tide, letting the verdure engulf them.
Tam stared after them, before raising his gaze back to Herne. Herne's squared jaw visibly stiffened, suggesting his frustration matched Tam's.
"All I desired this summer was peace and quiet," said Herne. "But it seems I am to have company."
A mist passed over Herne's eyes. Tam's throat felt dry and tight, his limbs unsteady after his night without rest or food. He did not want to think too deeply on the many other reasons he might be trembling, although solitude with Herne did not trouble him as he expected. Even those antlers seemed less thrusting than they had before.
"Come," said Herne. "We have lingered here too long."
"I can't argue with that," replied Tam. Flexing sore shoulders, he let his thoughts fly to comfort. He didn't care where they went, as long as somebody offered him a bowl of water to splash his skin, then warm bread and melting butter, maybe some salted bacon. The leader of the Wild Hunt's presence would shock the unprepared, but surely Herne must have some acquaintances in a quiet corner of the Greenwood who could accommodate them. His mouth watering, he summoned his courage and hurried after Herne, who'd passed to the centre of the clearing to study the rising sun.
"I don't suppose you frequent any taverns nearby?" he asked.
"No." Herne shaded his eyes, still looking to the heavens.
"If there is no innkeeper's wife who does not wail and gnash her teeth when you lean on her bar, where can we go? I'm hungry and tired, and…"
Tam broke off, blinking hard and then rubbing his eyes. He blinked again. Either his vision deceived him, or Herne's mane alone now crowned his head. "Your antlers. They've gone—but how?"
Herne muttered inaudibly.
"You can't expect me to go anywhere with you unless I know the truth. You tell me you are no devil. But what, then, are you?"
Herne pinched the bridge of nose, turning away. The question evidently ailed him, and for an instant Tam wished to comfort him. He swallowed hard. This immortal needed no pity.
"When I lead the Hunt," said Herne, "these antlers strike fear into my prey. They rise when my lust for blood is hot, and when I am sore provoked, I can release the wild passions of the beast." Regaining his poise, Herne pressed forward, looming over Tam.
Tam edged a step back. "Uh…well, they were damnably large earlier. I suppose you saw me…as prey?"
"I confess, boy, my horns betray all my lusts."
"Oh!" He smacked his lips. Herne might slaughter him if he laughed, and yet—God's teeth. No wonder the beast did not care to wander into an alehouse, even in this human form. What if some knave started a brawl or a buxom wench took his fancy? Or a becoming lad? Still, Tam's amusement proved brief. Not only did fear stab once more, but unadorned by his bestial crown, Herne appeared no more than an uncommonly large and handsome man whose proximity alone set heat tingling on Tam's skin. And in his loins. Damn him.
"Do not worry," said Herne. "I've learned to keep my passions tightly reined. Think no more about it." He pointed east, to the thickest point of the woods that quickly gave way to shadow whatever the sun's position in the sky. "We must travel straight to Beaumont Abbey."
"Beaumont Abbey!" The words crushed Tam's warming sentiments in an instant. "I would rather go to hell itself. How much worse can this day get?"
"It is my home in the Greenwood," replied Herne. "It is the place I find peace."
"Peace? Amid the wailing ghosts of the monks?" No villager had dared enter Beaumont Abbey for over fifty years, not since the abbot refused to swear his loyalty to the crown during the Reformation. "The king's men gouged the monks' eyes out with their abbot's staff and then throttled them with their rosaries. They slaughtered every man and beast. Neither hound nor goat was spared. Even lay brothers and local women were killed, and—"
"I know what the old gossips say. The builder who brings his cart every season to plunder stone from the ruin is the greatest rumourmonger of all. But if there are ghosts, they are quiet, and I bless them for it. They keep the fair folk from bothering me."
"If you go to Beaumont Abbey, then you go alone," stated Tam. "I'd rather take my chances with the foul spirits than the ghosts."
"Don't be a fool. Even if there was danger at the abbey, which there is not, I would protect you."
"Protect me?" He snorted. "This promise from a devil who leads an army of corpses."
"I tell you again, I am no devil. I seek to help you."
He refused Herne's quiet persuasion. Had he not been degraded enough? He hated to let Herne see him turn pale once more, but what man would not, knowing what he did of Beaumont? Or indeed, knowing what he did of Herne the Hunter? Tam raised his hands in despair and turned to leave. Herne caught his wrist in an iron grip, setting his pulse racing.
He froze. Why did he not pull away, thrashing out with all his strength? Even without his antlers, Herne unhinged him as thoroughly as any wailing ghost.
He eked out tight words.
"Let me go." Herne dropped his wrist, and Tam squeezed his eyes shut. No. He would not feel desolate.
"Listen to me, boy," said Herne. "I have good reason to go to the abbey. The monks were fine scholars, and not just of Christ's creed. Buried so deep in the Greenwood, many grew fascinated with the forest's ancient lore. After the king's men sacked the abbey, Brother Herbert, one of the few men I have called friend, returned to the ruin and devoted his life to seeking a union between the old and new religions. He left many writings behind when he died, which reside there still. They may contain the answers we need."
Tam let the air drain from his lungs. Herne hadn't offered such a mouthful of information since their meeting, and the words seemed to come with difficulty. They must hold great import to him. Herne was giving Tam a reason to stay with him, beyond the risk to his life, but the thought of following him to Beaumont Abbey like some slow-witted chattel made him sick with self-loathing as much as fear.
"It will be a struggle for me," continued Herne. "My people were not men of literature. My reading is poor."
Tam swung around and looked him straight in the eye. "You need somebody to read for you?"
"It would be a great advantage." Herne drew his brows level, and Tam discerned a flush of colour to his face. Was the great huntsman abashed by this admission? "I assume you cannot?"
"You assume wrong." Tam offered a coy smile. Herne would take for granted he was unlettered, because Herne was just another brawny jolthead, albeit a rather more beautiful one than Jerome.
"The texts are long and complicated," said Herne doubtfully.
Tam refrained from laughing in his face. "By the age of eight, I read as well as the schoolmaster, knew the horn book backwards, and could copy the catechism by heart. I read Latin, a little French, and I've learned the old English of the Greenwood from the village elders. I write all my brothers' letters for them—including their love letters." He felt better already, not so tired now, though the fruit juices and the forest muck made him strain against his own skin. "You are lucky I am with you. Your texts will prove no challenge to me."
"You will come to Beaumont willingly, then?"
"Y-yes. Very well." He swiftly devised a plan by which Herne could fetch the texts and he could study them outside the abbey, but decided to keep this quiet for now.
"Good," said Herne. "You understand even if Beaumont were not my home, I would start there."
"We would start there," corrected Tam.
Herne's gaze latched on to Tam's once more, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Yes. We would start."
"And before we make any progress," ventured Tam, "I wish to bathe. Do you know of some pool nearby, some little river?"
"You think much of your comfort, boy."
"If you had fruit juices trickling down your inner thighs, perhaps you'd want to find a river to wash in before an inquisitive wasp found you. And besides…"
He paused, examining his companion. Wherever Herne's flesh was exposed—his sturdy legs or his bronzed arms and neck—grime from the road and the verdant stains of the forest ingrained it. Dirt looked good on Herne, but Tam begged a pertinent question, and newly emboldened, he couldn't contain it.
"When did you last bathe, Herne the Hunter?"
Herne flashed a shockingly white smile. "Nobody has asked me to bathe for fifteen hundred years, boy."
"F-fifteen hundred years?" Herne was legendary, but the truth stunned him. Indeed he felt unsure what shocked him most: the notion Herne was really that old, or that he'd not bathed in all that time. "I usually bathe on the second Sunday in each month, and sometimes I've wondered if the gap betwixt could be left a little longer, but…but…"
"Don't worry," replied Herne, and he pressed his tongue to his inner cheek. "I occasionally splash my face in the springs of the Greenwood or at Windsor. And I have bathed a good few dozen times over the centuries. I just do it, as I do all things, alone."
"Oh." Tam pursed his lips.
"As for your needs, the abbey possessed a mill, which we will pass. The pool remains deep and clear and less saturated with sprites than most Greenwood springs. Will that serve?"
"It, uh, will do well, I'm sure," replied Tam. "I might as well be clean before the ghosts of the abbey devour me."
"I am glad to hear it." Herne's eyes twinkled with laughter. "And while you bathe, I will hunt, so we can feast well this breakfast."
Even the prospect of a meal paled amid Tam's whirling thoughts.
Not only am I betrothed to the leader of the Wild Hunt, not only can I scarcely prevent myself lusting after the man, not only does my very life hang in the balance, but he's fifteen hundred years old. Dear Lord, that's worse than having six hundred elder brothers.
Perplexed, Tam followed Herne from the dell and into the depths of the forest.
Chapter Four
"How much farther is this mill?"
Hearing Tam's question, Herne slanted his brows into a frown and glanced back over his shoulder at the lad.
He'd forgotten what it felt like to be in the company of young men, especially one he found so gratifying to look at. Although tangled with the remnants of cobwebs and leaves, Tam's russet waves sparkled as if entwined with gold threads; his smooth skin glowed a light tan, interrupted by the merest hint of beard on his dimpled chin. Once more, Herne could not deny the boy's good looks, and his strength impressed him too. They had travelled far across rough land. Not once had Tam lagged more than a pace behind, while their only sustenance had been water from a brook and handfuls of blackberries.
Then again, Tam had good reason to be in a hurry. Not that Herne had told Tam the full truth of what would result from claiming him, but he saw no need to outrage the lad further. To be caught between the unwanted betrothal and death was cruel enough. If Tam knew the consummation of their betrothal meant Tam's probable death too, he might despair. Herne could offer no good counsel, and besides, matters must not come to that. He would have no more death on his conscience. That was why he was here.
"It is not far now," answered Herne, at length.
Tam rolled his eyes, licking lips stained with blackberry juice. "You said that an hour back. I'm still starving, I've worn another hole in my shoe, and ugh! I keep hearing this ominous buzz. If I get stung before we reach this cursed mill…I…I…Well, I won't be happy."
I'll gladly apply salve to your glowing skin, boy. Smothering a rueful smile, Herne felt relieved his antlers were gone and he could act without fear of his passions governing him. Goddess, it had been many years since his blood had been so stirred, and much longer since his cock had hardened in lust for anything more real than memories of Crea, who hadn't entered his thoughts in what seemed an age. He refused to be lured.
In truth, wasps and flies had bothered neither of them, because the August day had not proved a blazing one. White clouds softened the sun's rays as they passed into the open lands of the Greenwood realm, once areas of dense forest but stripped of their trees many centuries back. Too soon, farmers had drained these soils of all richness, leaving a domain of heather scrub, wild ponies and the odd scraggy cow, and until recently, monks.
Reaching a split in the narrow path, Herne recognized the slopes leading down toward the abbey, the peaks of the ruin rising beyond a distant meadow. Holy walls usually repelled all but the most persisting of foul spirits and proved impenetrable to fair folk and their meddling. He yearned for the peace and sanctuary he found within.
"Do we go that way?" asked Tam, pointing in the opposite direction. "I can hear a nut tree shedding its wares, and there will no doubt be ripe berries in that briar."
"No. Nuts and more fruit will not do. We go this way, to the abbey."
"I don't see you making much effort to provide anything better," protested Tam, following in Herne's footsteps all the same. "I thought you were the mightiest hunter who ever trod the paths of the English forests, yet you can't conjure breakfast. The least I can take back home is a tale of Herne the Hunter's prowess, even if
nobody believes I ever met you."
Herne tried to be irritated rather than amused. "You talk too much."
"When you're the youngest of seven brothers, you have to. It doesn't mean you will be heard, but at least it gives you a fighting chance."
Herne's interest stirred a little. "You are one of seven sons? Your father is truly blessed."
"Some might have thought him so, although he was just a yeoman of forty acres—a big man in the village, but small in this world and even in this forest, compared to Squire Brien over at Carseald Hall. Beside, two of my brothers died before manhood, two have long since left home, and Jerome possesses the wit of oxen. Richard, our eldest, is a shrewd man, and I have my talents, I humbly admit. I suppose father was proud, but I forget. He died several summers past. The sweating fever took him."
"And your mother?"
Tam drew breath sharply. "She was my father's second wife and passed on when I was less than a year old. I dream of her sometimes, yet I hardly remember her face. I just know it's her, but…Oh, it's all nonsense."
"Was she a Greenwood girl?" asked Herne, resolving it was easier to keep the lad talking than to speak himself.
"No. Father was still grieving his first wife when he met her one night, on the road through the forest. She'd run away from a good northern family, so she said. Of course, there were rumours about who she really was—some said a fairy or a witch." Tam laughed. "Ah, but gossips always say such things about women out of the ordinary. She proved mortal enough. All she left behind after she died was embroidered samplers. And me!" He fell into step at Herne's side. "Come on, you have to tell me something more of yourself. A fifteen-hundred-year-old man must have a few tales worth telling. That is a very long time to avoid fun altogether."
"It is indeed."
"God 'a' mercy, is that all I get?"
The lightness of Tam's laughter pleased Herne. He'd forgotten the joys of being with a companion, and Tam remained good-natured even when complaining.
Would Tam keep laughing if Herne wrestled him down among the bracken and the chalky soil? It had been so long since he'd felt another body pressing against his own, the strength of another man, who'd struggled in Herne's hold while aching to succumb. They'd scramble and fight until they both wept with pleasure and they could no longer feel the scratch of the scrub, just flesh striving against flesh. That was a more dangerous possibility than Herne letting slip any dark tale about his past.
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