Bound to the Beast

by Kay Berrisford

"My blood is up because of your lies, man."

  "I tell no lie. Why would I meddle with fair folk and incur your wrath?"

  Herne planted his fists at his sides. He judged none of the Hunt worthy of the title "friend," and Edric had never proved an honest man. Once a ruthless warrior lord, Edric had been cursed to an eternity undead among the wraiths of the forest after offering his people as slaves to the Romans for the return of his lands. But while Edric was a good liar, nothing that happened last night would have benefited his interests.

  "The Goddess called me here," said Herne, although his stare remained hard. "Whether her wishes had anything to do with your sacrifice, I am yet to judge."

  "Judge us well, my friend. We are tired of being bound to the Greenwood, of hunting in circles. We've been calling two centuries for you to lead us out from this realm, to raze the lands wherever you choose to ride. Finally you come to us."

  "No," said Herne. "I'm through with leading you."

  Edric's eyes narrowed, his glower darkening. "Why, surely you have had enough of these vain curs who revel in their lace and luxuries. Hang thee, they are even ruled by a whore. The descendants of the invaders you and I stood forth against are as lazy as plump cats writhing on silken pillows, and—"

  "I never stood forth against the Romans," said Herne. "All I desired was to save my people."

  "But did all your people wish to be saved?" An icy smile played on Edric's thin lips. "Or did some prove as vain and greedy as the folk of this land we now call England?"

  Herne silently conceded there was truth in the words, at least with regard to Crea. The sky grew murky overhead, and the wind whipped the leaves into a bluster.

  Edric's cold smile spread to his eyes. "A Spanish invasion fleet circles these shores, and it is time, once again, for England to fall."

  No. Herne refused to believe this was his calling. He saw no shooting star streaking across the heavens, no sure sign he should ride forth. He would never reap destruction again without a direct command. Even coming from his Goddess who created him, such an order would feel like a betrayal.

  "Do you not recall the screams of the souls ravaged by the Norsemen, and then the blood turning the streams near Hastings red?" Herne could not even speak of the thousands who died in agony when pestilence had racked their bodies the last time they'd ridden. Yes, they rode as warning, but the guilt still ailed him. "I will be no part of it."

  "But remember, my friend," entreated Edric. "The thrill. The blood and vengeance! Together we were glorious."

  Herne remembered all too well. "I am not your friend. I once believed your anger was kindred to mine, but I was wrong. It may have taken me fifteen hundred years, but I have learned. Pain does not undo pain. Watching the people suffer brought me no respite from my suffering. The Wild Hunt will not ride."

  Edric narrowed his eyes to tiny slits. "Think on it. I saw you before you saw me, before even your hound sensed my presence. You say you encountered fairy enchantment? Your mind could be muddied against the message of your Goddess."

  He knew his conscience on this matter well enough. "I should cut your throat for spying on me."

  "Ah, but it was not just you we watched crossing the land," replied Edric. "I saw him. I saw him, and we saw him, the pretty lad, betrothed but not claimed. Let us solve the troubles the fairies laid at your door. Before you lead us, we wild ones will feast on the flesh of that fair young buck."

  For the fleetest moment, Herne hesitated. Why not drown my frustrations in the Hunt and let them rid me of the troublesome lad to boot? It would be so easy.

  Then Tam's scream, raw with fear, reached his ears. The decision was made. He cracked his knuckles into Edric's face, not waiting to relish the crush of his bones. Reaching for the hunting horn at his side, he tore through the forest toward the pool.

  *~*~*

  The ghosts of the abbey are real. They are here. Why was I such a fool to trust Herne the Hunter?

  As a dark whirlwind of ghosts rushed toward him, fright rioted in Tam's guts. His gaze fixed on one who wore a shirt of white hair spattered with blood, surely one of the massacred monks. The cowl shrouding his face and the upside-down crucifix dangling on his bloodied breast confirmed all.

  Tam turned to run, skirting the pool, but they gained on him too quickly. He heard the bray of a goat, and the tempest engulfed him. As he crumpled to his knees, men, horses, and beasts of all kinds swirled about him as if he were caught at the heart of a child's spinning top. White hounds snapped teeth like razors, and death had mutilated each.

  A creature reached toward him, once female. She possessed a single eye, and straw-like hair streamed from half her head, the other side bald, her scalp flaked and peeling. Tam gasped in the foul stench of a rotting corpse, and then the storm dashed her out of the way.

  The monk reared inches from Tam's nose, ripping open his own horsehair shirt to reveal gaping entrails, gore, and pus. Then the monk leaped onto the back of an ox. The animal's flesh crawled with maggots and worms, and it uttered a rasping wail.

  Storm clouds brewed overhead, but the pool reflected only the faint, pink light of a smothered sun. His stomach clenched so hard he gagged. He hugged his arms over his head, whispering a frantic prayer to whichever god or spirit would care to deliver him. The only response came from the devilish company surrounding him.

  He heard a high-pitched voice, grating and undeniably male. "Look at us, boy. Use those eyes before we gouge them out."

  He whimpered, refusing to open his eyes. Bony fingers grasped his hair and wrenched his head back.

  "Look at us."

  He had little choice but to obey, his breath hitching on the next unnatural sight. The speaker wore a long cloak that parted at the loins, revealing in place of his cock a curved horn tapered to a point. The ivory gleam of this beast's horn matched a white grin that glowed beneath a black hood, unattached to any discernible face.

  "You cried out for the power of the horned one, boy. Is this what you begged for?"

  Oh Lord, the ghostly monks must have seen every dark craving within his soul to have summoned this demon. He knew of the brutally crafted tortures that gods and kings inflicted on sodomites, even those who just thought on such sins. The demon's fingers pressed into Tam's skull, and he stared at the barbed cock, his throat too tight to yell.

  The pure note of a hunting horn shattered through his fear-racked body, so powerful his heart might burst. He heard a bestial cry, the heavy swish of a sword, a dull thud, and another sickening scream. The horn-cocked demon let him go. The ghosts that possessed lips rolled them back, snarling and hissing. They rushed across the water toward the forest in a mass of claws and fists and teeth that raked over rotten flesh and bones, each demon fighting to scramble past the others.

  Tam gaped up at Herne, who alone towered over him on the bank of the mill pool, his sword smeared with blood and his antlers spreading toward the clouded skies.

  "Come with me." Herne stooped and caught Tam under both arms, pulling him up. Tam let him, too shaken for words and gasping as if he'd nearly drowned. When Herne wrapped his thickly muscled arms around him, Tam melted, burying his face in Herne's shoulder. His body still quaked with mortal fear, yet for a few moments, he felt safe.

  Before he could think too hard about why he trusted Herne so, Herne released him. "Get dressed."

  Wordlessly Tam pulled on his breeches and fumbled with his jacket.

  Rising to his full height, his spine as straight as a battering ram, Herne shouted toward the forest. "Edric, do not cower from me."

  Still struggling to fix his clothes, Tam traced the direction of Herne's fierce stare to see a stout man dressed in dark robes at the far side of the pool. What remained visible of the man's greenish face beneath his beard was streaked with blood. Another gored monk? Was Herne about to admit he'd been wrong? Tam froze, his fingers poised above his buttons.

  "Don't let fairy madness possess you," shouted Edric. "The boy is as fair game as any willing, pl
ump-breasted whore of a milkmaid."

  "The boy is not your prey."

  Edric laughed like a howling bear. "Don't be a fool. The fairies' tricks have blinded you. Let us devour him, and you will see the Goddess's plans as clear as the light of day. She commands you to lead us."

  "I see my will clear enough. I will not lead you."

  "W-what is going on?" stuttered Tam. "Are you in league with them?"

  Herne shook his head, dropping his voice to a husk. "We must get to the abbey."

  "What?" Tam straightened with his jacket still half fastened. The big man glared down at him, impatience glinting in his midnight-blue eyes, but Tam refused to listen to the whispers in his soul saying, Trust him. "The abbey is the last place we should go. It's the ghosts' lair."

  "Come on," growled Herne, reaching for him.

  "No!" Tam shoved him with all his strength, slamming his palms right to the middle of Herne's thorax. As he turned to flee, Herne grabbed him by the arm, so he whirled around, punching his right fist into Herne's jaw. As Herne rolled with the blow, Tam took his chance to tug free and run, clutching his scratched hand that now felt splintered into a thousand pieces.

  Herne made chase, his large body scything through the same long grasses that tangled about Tam's ankles and confounded his progress. Herne's antlers seemed to stretch toward him like claws, and he possessed preternatural speed that, amid his agitation, Tam considered deeply unjust. He may have been the youngest of his brothers, but from an early age he'd been the fleetest. Yet this beast swept up behind him, grabbed him, pulled him back against his chest, and clamped his thick arm beneath Tam's chin.

  His instincts kicking in, Tam bit down, sinking his teeth into Herne's flesh. Herne growled and shifted but held fast, his physical might overwhelming Tam's attempts to wriggle free.

  "Let me go!" As Tam kicked and shouted, Herne half dragged and half carried him toward the grey ruin of the abbey.

  Chapter Six

  "Nnnng! Let me go!"

  Herne pulled Tam through the abbey gatehouse beneath an assembly of carved saints, their stone bodies shattered and their faces battered into featureless rock. At the sight of yet more mutilation, Tam dug his heels into the mud. Herne used his brute strength to lift him out of the mire and forge on. Tam kicked backward, pummelling Herne's bare shins.

  The damned beast hardly flinched. Only when they were through the gatehouse did Herne put Tam down. Slowly, without allowing him any chance for escape, Herne turned him in his arms, slipping his grip to Tam's wrists.

  "Run from me now," said Herne calmly, "and you will die a thousand agonizing deaths. Not one of them will be on my conscience."

  "A pox on thee and all thy allies! If they weren't already dead," Tam spat. Yet as he raised his gaze to Herne's, he saw the glasslike sheen of tired frustration rather than the murderous glint of a killer. What was more, it seemed Herne might be right about the abbey. They had not been followed.

  "Use your eyes, boy. See Beaumont Abbey for what it really is. I can assure you this is a place of sanctuary, the safest place you could run to."

  Tam swore, wrenching his wrists away and looking about. They stood in a large courtyard, where nettles sprawled amid fallen masonry and mud clotted between broken stone slabs. Long, low walls made up three of its sides, interrupted by many Gothic arches. Ahead of them loomed the ruins of the main church, as vast as the cathedral of a great city. Although reduced by fire to a carcass of stone, Beaumont's towers and buttresses soared high above the maze of outbuildings surrounding them, as regal and dignified as an elderly queen. A myriad of gargoyles leered down on them—men, beasts, and the spirits of the forest. On one side of an arched passage, opposite a hook-beaked eagle, Tam recognized the face of the great Green Man with his tell-tale beard of leaves. After what he'd just endured, even skulls and crossed bones could strike little fear into his heart, and certainly not green men.

  "Are you hurt?" asked Herne.

  Tam shook his head. He felt bruised, but he was not bleeding, although he noted red marks left by his teeth scarred Herne's nut-brown arm, and a shallow gash marred Herne's brow, for which Tam could take no responsibility. Returning his attention to their new environs, Tam muttered an oath of self-chastisement. He could discern no evidence of massacre, or of ghosts eager to avenge one. In a corner of the yard, a large black stallion was tethered, grazing on long grasses. Only Dewer broke the peace, bothering and barking after a pair of doves.

  Injured pride alone prevented Tam conceding Herne had been right all along. There were no ghosts here.

  "Although a wicked monk has indeed joined their number," explained Herne, "those foul demons were the Wild Hunt, and you have no need to fear them here."

  "The Wild Hunt?" Perhaps ghosts would have proved less unnerving. "But…but…you lead the Wild Hunt. Did you summon them?"

  "Only to call them away from you, you fool." Herne's tone veered so sharply toward anger Tam recoiled. He stroked his hunting horn at his side. "They've grown strong. Stronger than I've known for centuries."

  Tam shuddered. The grinning horn-cocked monster reared up again in his mind's eye, and morbid fascination compelled him to know more. "Who are they? I mean, who were they, in their lives?"

  "Men unworthy of being remembered so long. Edric was once a king—a very bad king—and among the Hunt is his wife, Godda, a witch. She killed and tortured many in her time, and now she devotes herself to the foul spirits of Niogaerst and their Lord of the Hazel."

  Tam swallowed hard. "And the others?" he prompted. "Please tell me."

  Herne rubbed his brow wearily, as if having to speak was a thousand times more arduous that fighting off a pack of demons. "That beast that held you was Yorick the Dirty." He dipped his gaze to the earth. "The curving tusk in place of his cock is the weapon thrust through his heart at his death, a punishment for rape and murder for which he showed ne'er a regret. Now tell me, boy—you still wish to know more?"

  Tam's shock yielded to fury. "How could you ever ride with such devils?"

  "I do not care what you think of me."

  Herne sounded so miserable, Tam's anger faded quickly—rather too quickly, although he could not help but believe Herne was a very different beast than the main body of the Wild Hunt. He had protected Tam from them.

  "You…you're quite sure they cannot follow us?" ventured Tam.

  Herne frowned. "They would have to grow powerful indeed to penetrate the realm of the Lord of Mankind. So come." He sighed, sounding impatient. "Let me show you where I rest."

  Still uneasy, Tam followed Herne into one of the largest outbuildings, which had been left unscathed by the fire that consumed the abbey church. Nevertheless, his hopes for somewhere comfortable to rest soon caved in, much like most of the finer stonework. Herne's "home" was a cavernous chamber around fifty yards long, a vastness suggesting it had once been the monks' refectory. Fifty years of neglect had rendered it no more than a large hovel, the floor pooled with dirty water. The gaping arched windows retained no glass, and the niches for candles homed faeces-sodden birds' nests, of which the place stank.

  "There must be better than this," said Tam. "There's nowhere to sit, let alone sleep."

  "It will do."

  "It will not do."

  Herne sank onto a stone ledge beneath one of the empty windows, stretching out his bare legs in front of him. His incredulity mounting, Tam tried not to be distracted by the broadness of those thighs and certainly not by a pang of jealously for Dewer, who nuzzled her wet nose against Herne and then curled up contentedly at his feet.

  Tam gestured toward the roof. "It's leaking like a colander, and look how it sags over there. It might fall and crush us any moment."

  Herne pinched the bridge of his nose, avoiding Tam's eyes. "The roof is sound. You will find blankets and bread in the pack on my horse. Be careful, mind—Cernunnos can kick. I will get breakfast shortly, but I must think. There are decisions to be made."

  "Well, had we better not mak
e any decisions together? I believed we came here to consult lore, and seeing as I'm the one with the best ability to read, I should think that—"

  "Silence." Herne raised his hand like a schoolmaster scolding a child. "I must think. Go fetch some vittles."

  "Fetch your own vittles." Heavens, the huntsman was vexing. Tam needed relief from his presence or he'd go mad. "I've got my life to save."

  Bursting from the chamber into the open ruins, he gulped in fresh air, and with it, the true awfulness of his situation lashed into him. So Herne gave him orders as if he were a chattel or worse, on the very day he'd intended to break free from the servitude of younger brotherhood. At least he'd had hope of winning the odd fistfight against some of his siblings. Against Herne's strength, he could never compete; his hand still throbbed from his attempt to best Herne. His predicament would be enough to make a lesser being weep.

  However, he had to admit a modicum of relief concerning one matter. He was not married to Calleagh. Although he grew so desperate even that vixen's so-called help started to seem like an attractive option.

  But he afforded no time to dwell on his would-be fairy bride or his foolishness. He needed to search the abbey for the lore, while his churning stomach pressed other priorities. He would be damned if he took food to Herne like a servant. But given he had been brought here under duress, he saw no reason why he shouldn't help himself to Herne's supplies.

  He retrieved the contents of the saddle—a rusty cooking pot, a wooden ladle, some rope, and bread as dry as the dust on the mill floor—and hurried back to the refectory. Herne seemed to have fallen asleep, his head nodding forward on his chest. His antlers had vanished.

  "Call those vittles?" shouted Tam. "Or blankets? Our hogs live better than this."

  Herne raised his head and opened his eyes slowly; Tam tried not to flinch as the hunter's gaze latched on to him. "Do you usually dwell in a palace, boy?"

  "No, I do not. But Ann—my brother's wife—keeps our house very nicely, thank you. It is any man's duty to make sure his home is kept well."