Bound to the Beast

by Kay Berrisford

  "I have no wife to keep mine."

  Tam wanted to hit him again. Maybe Herne had never huddled in the corner of a dirty cot, watching a rat gnaw through his coverlet while a maid, only a few years older than he, wept through tiredness. Growing up motherless, Tam had learned it was in his interests to help the overworked girls his father and then Richard employed, and in recent years he'd helped Ann when he could. For sure, nobody else ever noticed the need.

  Herne's reaction, therefore, set his temper flaring once more. "Keeping our home neat and comfortable is just as great a challenge as labouring in the fields. It should be the duty of a man as well as a wife, and of men who are not blessed with wives. That knowledge separates man from beast."

  "I wish for no comfort," said Herne softly, still not looking up. "Even if I did, neither man nor woman could bring it to me."

  Tam raised his hands. "You like wallowing in despair, don't you? Well, I don't, and I don't see why I should rest in this filth."

  He turned on his heels and headed for the door. He heard Herne start up after him, but Herne's gentle touch on his shoulder still made him jump. "You will stay here until I say it is safe for you to leave."

  "So I have no say in the matter at all?"

  He had no intention of leaving the abbey. He merely wanted to find somewhere less austere, and most importantly, he wanted to find the Greenwood lore. He was beginning to doubt these writings existed at all. His head swam with irritation and tiredness, but far worse, Herne's touch raised bumps on his skin like the flesh of a goose. The sensation proved both delicious and as excruciating as the switch of a whip. He brushed Herne away. "Leave me be."

  A small wooden door in the corner of the long room caught his attention. To his shock, it was on its hinges and completely intact. Wherever that leads, it can't be any more joyless than here.

  He hurried over, hauled open the heavy oak portal, and passed through, letting the darkness beyond engulf him. Then the door closed behind him with a resounding slam.

  *~*~*

  Herne slipped the rusty bolt across the back of the door and listened just long enough to check Tam had not tumbled down the steps into the vaults. Then he turned a deaf ear to Tam's muffled oaths and strode away.

  Tam would be safe there. From him, let alone the Hunt. Because even fighting with the lad, holding him close again, stirred Herne's long-dormant needs that he struggled to suppress.

  The bite wounds Tam had left on his arm stung with sensations transcending pain, kindling memories of ecstasy, agony, and betrayal—but no, he must not waste any more time on these. He desired to hunt alone and in peace, to gather his wits as well as breakfast. Whatever he encountered in the Greenwood, his mind would be clearer without Tam nearby.

  He elected not to ride, taking his longbow from his pack without calling Dewer. But the doves had fluttered to the highest reaches of the abbey to coo, no longer providing sport, so she bounded to his side.

  As they passed out of the gatehouse, he grew alert to every buzz of a fly, every swoop of a swallow. Unease wafted through the warm summer air. The Wild Hunt's power rose this summer, of that he felt sure. They were already venturing from the trees and into the open lands of the wider Greenwood realm. Without him, they had no ability to forebode great events or pass the realm's boundaries, but they could harry and harm those within. When he'd summoned them away from Tam, several had turned rotting tooth and nail on him and fought back. His situation grew greatly troubling.

  The Goddess had summoned him to the forest where the Hunt awaited him, baying for blood, and half the country already expected them to ride. Yet being with Tam only strengthened his resolution against them. Why must this lad claw so deeply under his skin?

  Herne heard a faint rustling in the undergrowth, a welcome diversion. Before he drew his next breath, he whipped an arrow from his quiver, cocked it, and sent it slicing through the air, striking a young hart dead.

  *~*~*

  Herne slid back the bolt and opened the door to the vault, peering in. It was not completely dark down there. After a few seconds, light from some high windows afforded dim illumination, but the vault was spacious, with many thick columns supporting the roof, and he saw no sign of the lad.

  "Tam?"

  No immediate answer came. Assuming Tam slept, Herne shut the door quietly. He turned his attention to the deer slung over his shoulders, retrieving rope from his pack to string it up at the far end of the refectory.

  During a brief but successful hunt, he had procured a brace of coneys in addition to the hart, the former of which would provide sufficient breakfast for two men and a hound. He'd also gathered tinder, with which he built a hearth on a stone slab in the middle of the courtyard between the refectory and the high walls of the church. Working fast and with rather more care than usual, he skinned the meat, cut it into fillets, and had it boiling in the pot before he ventured to coax Tam from the vaults.

  Opening the door wider, he took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom. "Tam," he called. "I have breakfast."

  He heard a groan, a scuffle, and then a dark shape stumbled toward the bottom of the staircase. "Get out of my way," mumbled Tam.

  Herne stepped aside, letting the lad hurry past him up the steps. He followed, but there was no need to make chase. In the courtyard, Tam stopped, breathless, staring at the cooking pot. The lad curled his fists at his sides, his cheeks faintly flushed, his lashes flickering rapidly as he tried to force himself into sharper awareness. Herne folded his arms, suppressing a smirk. Whatever Tam's plans had been, escape or otherwise, he found breakfast diverting.

  "How dare you lock me in there?" Tam ripped his gaze from the pot and rounded on Herne. "I'm not your slave, nor your wife."

  "No. But you are my betrothed. I needed to gather food. I didn't trust you to stay in the abbey if I left you alone."

  Tam glared at him, and damn it, the lad's fury set Herne's hunger rising again. Agh! He still wanted to pin the lad to the ground with the full weight of his body and fuck him with equal vigour; just the thought was nearly enough to set his antlers rampant.

  "Apologies," he said tightly, straining for polite words and having to force them off his tongue. "I craved…solitude."

  Tam raised his hands, a gesture of apparent conciliation. "Well, so did I, believe me. And I thank you for imprisoning me in a room with only two reeking birds' nests and a small colony of bats. Oh, and several barrels of wine. There's some really fine stuff down there. Gascon, I'd pledge."

  Rarely touching liquor, Herne had forgotten Brother Herbert's supplies for the long and lonely winter nights. "You've been drinking?"

  "Just a little, and straight from the barrel too. It, uh, helped straighten my thoughts, and…" He trailed off, and Herne wondered if the lad hovered on the verge of some sort of apology. Instead Tam raked his fingers through his hair, shifting awkwardly on the balls of his feet.

  "There was no need to lock me up. I wouldn't have run again. Today's events have been unsettling, but I'm not a fool." He winced. "And you must admit my mistake was understandable. A pack of wailing ghosts near the abbey? After everything I've been told about this place, you can't be surprised by my error."

  "We both benefited from some time apart," he said. "Enough to call a truce?"

  Tam laughed. "I don't recollect we ever declared war, Herne the Hunter. But yes, maybe a truce would be a good idea, if we're going to work together without me trying to dislocate your jaw again. Or without you trying to lock me in the vaults. I'm just glad this is an abbey, not a castle with a dungeon full of chains and whips."

  Herne's throat went tight, his head throbbing. He swore once more he did not want to harm the lad, and the notion of Tam's body racked with brutal torture was terrible. But to dominate and possess him, to chain him up and see him writhe and wriggle, completely at his mercy—Goddess, how long must he guard against this temptation? The heat rising within him grew overwhelming.

  Tam seemed oblivious. The lad had
turned his attention to the food, leaning over so his breeches clung to the curves and cleft of his arse. He poked at the cooking pot with the wooden ladle.

  "You call this breakfast?" he asked. "It's just a rabbit in a pot. Where are the herbs, the seasoning?"

  "It will suffice," said Herne.

  Tam's withering look argued otherwise. "It won't do. Now, I can season the meat with nettles. It is hardly saffron or capers, but it'll no doubt be the best I can find around here. With the wine and bread I found in your pack, we might just conjure a meal worth eating."

  Herne stared at his betrothed and folded his arms, pressing his knuckles against the hardness of his muscles. This was a truce? He felt battered already.

  Giving the pottage a final prod, Tam jumped to his feet. "I will fetch nettles, then. You go retrieve us a barrel of wine, and then bring the Greenwood lore so we can get started."

  Herne frowned so hard his temples ached. Yet he could not think of a single good reason why he should not grant Tam's wishes. So he did.

  Chapter Seven

  As Tam prepared the herbs he'd found, Herne emerged from the refectory with Dewer at his heel, carrying the barrel on one shoulder as if it weighed no more than a bag of flour. He laid the barrel on the ground near the fire, then pulled out the wooden stopper and caught the wine in his bowl.

  He offered it to Tam. "Drink."

  Tam dropped the herbs into the pot and took the bowl from Herne with a quiet, "Thanks."

  Herne raised himself to his full height, and the muscles of his thighs flexed. With effort, Tam shut his eyes and concentrated on the liquor. The wine from this barrel was finer than he had tasted earlier, rich as a ripe plum, with hints of young, fresh oak. Not half as potent as Herne's kiss.

  Wordlessly he passed back the bowl, unable to suppress a shudder as Herne's fingers brushed the back of his hand. By comparison, Tam's fingers seemed small, and he urged himself to dislike his vulnerability in the light of Herne's size and strength. Yet as he had lain angry and tired in the vaults, he'd slipped into a dream about Herne overpowering him as he fought and struggled, then stripping him and chaining him to those unyielding stone walls. Rendered helpless, he'd imagined Herne's callous touch on his exposed flesh, fingers parting his buttocks, and then…

  While his loins hardened, his insides seethed with frustration that neither his efforts in the pool nor Herne's irritating ways had diminished his lust. He was surprised he'd not awoken from his dream with his breeches smeared with seed as when he'd been stirred in sleep as a younger lad. Never before had these visions of being roughly claimed felt so real or so damnably hot.

  Herne settled on the upturned barrel and took a swig of the wine. Tam stripped off his jacket, then stirred the pot furiously. Lord, he hated this awkward silence. Arguing with Herne was a thousand-fold easier than this.

  "What are you thinking?" he snapped, not daring to meet Herne's gaze. He'd nearly asked, What are you looking at?, but the answer would have been far too obvious.

  "I'm thinking the pottage smells better than I expected," said Herne, and he nodded toward the pot.

  "No thanks to you. I found a garden through one of the arches, in a cloister. Your Brother Herbert kept it well, until recent years. There was rosemary and fennel, so I eschewed nettles. I even saw a ginger plant."

  "Indeed," said Herne, arching an eyebrow in apparent amusement.

  "You like ginger?"

  "It has its uses, so I've learned."

  "It's delicious, plus hard to cultivate in these climes and expensive to buy. I will gather some, and I found strawberries too. They're perfectly ripe. We should pick some."

  Herne levelled his brows. "I don't much like strawberries."

  "Why does that not surprise me? You are a very strange man. What fool abhors sweet foods, especially strawberries?"

  "This fool." The merest hint of laughter set fine lines crinkling about Herne's eyes.

  "But…but maybe you can take a little of them and stop before consuming all." He blurted out the words before he could stop himself, his cheeks flaming with a sudden rush of blood. Did Herne realize he was no longer talking about strawberries? Damn, it was all he could do to stop himself from screaming for Herne to fuck him there and then.

  "Maybe," said Herne softly.

  Tam threw his concentration back toward the pottage, breathing in the rich odour of herbs. The meal was ready, and this presented yet another problem. Herne possessed only one bowl and one platter, and it seemed a shame to serve the meal using the bread, wasting it so soon.

  "Maybe it is best if I eat from the pot," he suggested, balking at the not unusual custom of sharing.

  "No. You will scald yourself. We can share well enough."

  Tam threw some scraps to the hungry dog and then ladled a portion of the meat onto the platter. Still rested on the barrel, Herne took the platter from him, and then held it at arm's length. "Come," he said. "Eat with me."

  Herne regarded him steadily, his long, dark lashes flickering. The warmth of the little fire seemed nothing compared to the furnace-like heat pulling Tam toward Herne. Tam knelt down at Herne's feet, and his hunger overwhelmed him. He stretched his eyes wide, lips parting as his heart hammered in his throat. I'll take whatever you give me.

  A faint grimace contorted Herne's rugged features, and then, carefully, he picked the choicest morsel of meat and placed it between Tam's lips. Herne let his fingers tarry, and Tam relished the savoury tang of the meat, the redolence of the herbs, and Herne.

  Tam couldn't get enough of that taste. He swallowed the food whole just to remove the obstacle. As Herne started to pull away, Tam grabbed Herne's wrist, sucking two of his fingers to their very roots. Herne's lips parted silently in shock, his stare so penetrating Tam moaned with thrill. He rolled the broad digits on his tongue, savouring the coarseness of Herne's flesh, feeling him shudder even as his own body pulled taut and his cock hardened. Damn, he needed more than just Herne's fingers.

  Herne jerked his hand away, leaving Tam with his mouth gaping open, momentarily bereft at the loss of contact. Then his senses rushed back to him.

  "Faith, I did not mean that to happen," said Tam.

  "Yet you came to me like a pet," said Herne, with quiet thoughtfulness.

  "I did not." Tam winced. He had begged like a damned chattel, a grateful slave. He felt lower than the whimpering dog. "You eat," he murmured with a dismissive flap. "I have lost my appetite."

  "No. Take the platter."

  When Herne leaned forward and placed the platter in his lap, Tam could not muster the spirit to refuse. But even spiced with the rosemary and fennel, the rabbit tasted bland after the heady flavour of Herne. He chewed, trying to avoid staring at Herne, but his throat felt too tight to swallow.

  So he smothered the lingering taste of the huntsman with a healthy gulp of wine.

  *~*~*

  Herne watched Tam pour a second bowlful of wine and lift it to his lips. Curse the lad, but the diffuse sunlight did nothing to diminish his beauty. Even the delicate sinews shifting on Tam's pale throat as he swallowed proved enticing, stoking the erection between Herne's legs. His skull ached too; any moment now, his antlers would prove rampant. Something had to be done, and soon.

  "Be careful how much you drink," said Herne. "You need to remember your learning when we study the lore."

  "Well, where are these scriptures, then?" demanded Tam. "This lore does exist, man?"

  Herne wondered upon his distraction. He should have fetched the writings long ago. "I will take you to them as soon as we have eaten."

  "Yes, do that." Tam reached for more wine. "And don't you worry; I'm perfectly sober. It takes more than liquor to undo my wits."

  Tam drank another bowl's worth, and Herne could well understand Tam's need to dispel these urges. However, if Tam's suggestive talk about strawberries meant what Herne believed it did, Tam was willing—at least, as willing as he was—to do something about them, which captivated his interest. Among his anc
ient peoples, few men had feared taking male lovers. In these latter times, folk were held in thrall by beliefs and new religions he scarcely understood, and strange prejudices held sway. But not over this lad—or at least they did not affect him now, as if he sensed Herne was a kindred soul, in this practice if none other.

  Tam's solitary labours at the pool had evidently not helped him much, but there were ways they could find relief together, just as long as Herne could resist going too far. He had spent many a long century learning to keep his passions under control.

  Herne swallowed a mouthful of food without tasting it and placed his hand on Tam's shoulder. "You and I must parley. We are both men with…our blood and loins aflame. It may help…if we are to concentrate on our labours, if, uh…" Goddess, he sounded like a stuttering simpleton. Why couldn't he just say the words?

  Breaking off, he slid his thumb up Tam's throat. Tam's eyes grew wider, his pulse pounding under Herne's touch. Herne exhaled slowly, trying to keep mastery over his body, only to find his heart filled by a tender yearning a thousand times more alarming.

  "We may do this without harm, without sealing our betrothal. May I…taste something sweet?"

  The gentle note in his voice sounded unfamiliar, not used in many centuries. Tam stared up at him, his lips moist and parted. Herne leaned in until they nearly touched his own. For an instant, the lad pierced his gaze deep into Herne, a wordless invitation. Then Herne's head split with pain, and his antlers burst forth.

  Tam cried out and shoved him away. "If you want strawberries, man, just say so. Or go pluck your own."

  He hurried off toward the cloister and the monks' garden. And Herne boiled over with frustration. Damn, did Tam want a good thrashing? Crea would have demanded one, and they'd both have loved every minute of it. He wiped his brow and willed his mind and body to throw off these incessant pangs, his antlers pulsing on his skull. He needed relief. And damn it, if there was any way possible, he would have these cravings assuaged.

  *~*~*

  Tam sat on the ledge of the garden's little pool, picked a strawberry, and popped it in his mouth. Washed in afternoon sunlight, the water glistened, the leafy bushes of fennel, yarrow, and rosemary blending into one vibrant smudge of verdure, as if viewed in a dream. But he did not appreciate any of it, because Herne the Hunter had just tried to kiss him, shouting his desires with those frightful antlers.