Bound to the Beast

by Kay Berrisford

  "Calleagh is not to be trusted." Frustrated anger swept through Herne like fire through straw. He felt unsure what solution he'd expected to find, but he couldn't violate his duties to the fair folk.

  When Tam rounded on him, equal fury flashed in his eyes. "Do you want me to die? Whether we trust her or not, she is my only hope."

  "It is my duty to protect the fair folk, to see none are forced against their will."

  "Calleagh wanted to be human. She wouldn't mind a different husband. Heaven knows, she never loved me."

  "It is not merely an issue of the human or fairy being willing." He felt as if he pummelled Tam with his fists, but he could not seem to stop. "This union will require the Goddess's blessing and that of the Elfaene, if a fairy is to be bound."

  "Then we will beg of them. The Elfaene seemed willing enough before, and you are the Goddess's spirit. Cannot you entreat to her in some way?"

  "You understand very little, boy."

  "I understand enough of you." Risen to his full height, Tam balled his fists at his sides. For a moment, Herne thought the lad would strike him. Tam's words slammed into him instead. "Why won't you help me? Is it because you want to fuck me? You want me to become your slave?"

  Herne hardly knew if the accusation was true. Colour rose in Tam's cheeks, his eyes flashing like steel blades on a sunny battlefield.

  "You are not so enchanting," said Herne. "I desire no slave nor wife nor even a companion."

  Even as he spoke, the truth became obvious. Tam had stumbled on a possible solution, a reason they could part and he could be alone again with a clear conscience, and he recoiled as though it were another foul curse.

  Then Tam's right fist hit his jaw.

  Caught unaware, Herne staggered back. The flaming torch scorched his fingers.

  "Damn you!" yelled Tam. "Won't you even fight me?"

  "I would kill you," said Herne flatly, rubbing his scalded hand.

  "You're doing that anyway, aren't you? You're certainly ruining my life."

  He flexed his creaking jaw. Two blows in one day had left it sore and bruised, and the last had been nearly enough to crack a bone. He guessed Tam's fist was in an even poorer state. "We will keep searching the writings. There is much still to be read, and there may be a second solution. Or the Elfaene may have discovered something of use."

  "Devil take thee!"

  Tam shoved past him and pounded up the spiral staircase. Herne stared after him, his lie still ringing in his ears.

  You do want him. He's strong, sweet, brave, and damnably saucy. Part of him wanted to thank Crea for his betrayal, for it had brought him here, to this young man.

  "Goddess help me," he muttered. Already his affection for Tam had boiled into anger at the notion of giving him up. This fascination must indeed be a form of madness, and he steeled himself against it. He was a solitary beast, deeply entrenched in his ways, and that he would remain.

  He must find a willing fairy, see Tam's plan through, then let him go free before any more damage could be done.

  Chapter Ten

  Cradling his knuckles, Tam dashed across the cloister. The cloudy day had dissolved into drizzle, forcing him to blink beads of water from his lashes. Dewer padded toward him, wagging her tail. He snarled, feral, and sent her whimpering back, her tail drooping.

  "Why won't you help me?"

  How wretched he'd become. He'd made mistake after stupid mistake today, and now Herne must perceive him as a whining child. Why should Herne help him? Why, when only that abominable betrothal spell brought them together?

  The truth felt all the more bitter because Herne had awakened that dark core of his being Tam avoided dwelling on in the light of day, setting his desires slowly spreading through him, yearning like tender shoots for light and rain. Desires neither pure, innocent, nor clean. There was no reason Herne should return his lusts. He was fortunate Herne had been as generous thus far. Only Tam had much to lose.

  And what about Herne's ancient lover? The witch, Godda, evidently knew Herne's past, and Tam remained sure it was not all lies.

  "A passion that has echoed through the centuries, that even now gnaws all that's left of his rotted heart."

  Ah, yes. That pain he felt as plainly as his own. Another lover caused this injury, another man at that. He should have known. Somehow knowledge of an ancient female lover would have choked him less. If Herne's feelings for this other man endured, then Tam could never be more to him than a whore or a slave. Still he wanted Herne; for just one murmur of true affection, he feared he would give up his life.

  With a wordless shout, Tam turned on his toes and sliced a kick through the rain. I'm a vile cur. If I even get out of here, I don't deserve respect or a home of my own or, God forbid, a wife. I deserve to be somebody's chattel forever. Dirty sodomites ought to be made slaves or put to death.

  He'd never held faith in the sentiments running through his head, but they seemed easier to stomach than the truth. Confusion dizzied him. He'd give anything for this all to be over, to be back home drinking mead and eating Ann's pea pottage. He'd rather listen to Richard scolding him for overfeeding the chickens, or stare at Jerome's fat visage, than wither beneath the onslaught of Herne's midnight-blue gaze. Oh heavens, would nobody help him, or worse, would his wits fail him?

  Herne drew near again. Tam could feel it. Slowly he turned to watch him approach. Amid long evening shadows cast by the pillars of the cloister, Herne might have been taken for another stone monster come to life. When he spoke, his voice was low and very human.

  "I'm sorry," said Herne.

  "Sorry for what?" Tam suppressed a flinch of surprise. Herne's apology seemed to soften the edges of this hard man, although Tam steeled himself for more bad news. "You're sorry that you want me dead?"

  "No. That is the last thing I want, Tam."

  Tam? Startled, he bit back an angry retort. Herne had called him "boy" enough, but he'd never used his name before.

  "I regret how I acted," said Herne. "The reason I was so angry…is…is hard to explain. But we cannot let these bodily cravings divert our course of action. Our lives can never be as one, I assure you. The betrothal must be broken. My will is bent on it."

  Tam shrugged, a faint and puzzled gesture. Truly this was all he wished for too. What fool would choose ungodly urges over freedom and life? "So…what do we do next?"

  "I will ride out tonight," answered Herne. Tam's heart sank further. He hardly relished a night alone amid the gargoyles, skulls, and crossed bones, even if it made every sense for Herne to leave. "I will consult the Elfaene about transferring this betrothal to those who may bear it better."

  "So there is hope for that?"

  "I do not know," replied Herne. "Right now, the fair folk's assistance in this matter is the sole course we have, but there remain many more scriptures for you to read. Who knows what they will reveal? I will seek out the perpetrator of this deed. If they cannot help us, I will slay them."

  "I don't see how that will help anybody." He sighed and grabbed the opportunity to glare again. "I suppose I'd better get back to the scrolls."

  "You should rest first." Herne took hold of Tam's wrist and lifted his injured hand. Tam's battered knuckles bled still. His strike against Herne had left more lasting damage than any agonizing witchery. He winced but did not pull away; a breeze drifted through the cloister, gently stirring the herb plants and Herne's dark hair. Its freshness touched Tam's cheek, making him aware his face was hot, his skin burning.

  "You should let me bind this," said Herne.

  "Why? I bruised it against your jaw. I should be healing you."

  The merest hint of humour ruffled the edges of Herne's mouth. "That is not necessary."

  Herne held Tam's gaze as well as his wrist, and Tam lost track of what was possible or impossible, real or unreal, everything other than a growing desire to be close to this man. The pain in Herne's eyes touched his deepest vein.

  Yes. This is why I came here, why I woke
up in the morning, why I was ever born. I can heal that pain, the scars left by that long-lost lover, if you would just allow me.

  When Herne let him go, Tam staggered back as if shoved. "Sweet spirits," he murmured. What spell had he fallen under now?

  They knelt by the empty hearth, under the low vaulted ceiling of the monk's refectory. Herne used strips of his torn bedding to bandage Tam's hand. He wound the fabric neatly and tightly, pursing his lips in concentration. Doves cooed softly, the only interruption to the silence, and Tam found himself smiling. He could not recall his mother's touch, only that of frantic maids, his brothers' ham-like fists, and Ann's, always hurried and fretful if she tended to him when sick. It was fortunate he'd been an uncommonly healthy boy and healed quickly. Because the touch of this man, who could so easily destroy, proved the most tender he'd ever known. He shivered.

  "It is done," said Herne, as he tied the ragged ends in a knot.

  Pulling away with a pang of reluctance, Tam flexed his fingers. "Is there anything I can do for you in return?"

  "Nothing, beyond giving me your word you will not leave the abbey while I am away, nor invite anybody else in."

  "Why, yes. I swear it. I've seen what devils are trying to get in."

  Herne relaxed his expression, as if the reassurances eased him. "I do not know how long I will be, but I promise I will return to you as soon as I can."

  This made every sense in the world. Yet as Herne rose to leave, Tam had to suppress a shout. He wanted to grab him, to use all the power he had to pull him into another crushing kiss, to feel the scrub of his beard against his chin, and to taste the strength of ages once more. He nearly fell to his knees and begged—anything to make Herne linger.

  What would he do if the Hunt were to get in? Without Herne to protect him, he would be slaughtered. But neither did he wish Herne to view him as a coward who was helpless without him. He would reward Herne's faith. At least he'd try. He clenched his jaw to quell emotions irritating and choking him in equal measures.

  Herne said nothing, swiftly turning his back. Feeling the prick of frustrated tears, Tam looked away too, furious at his weakness. He'd not wept since his father passed. When Herne's departing footsteps faded, he realized he'd missed his chance to see if Herne granted him a backward glance, and he couldn't stifle an angry sob.

  From under the butchered saints of the gatehouse, he watched Herne ride into the dusk, bats darting and diving and the air sending shivers down his spine. "Devil take him, I'm glad he's gone," he said to Dewer, who had been instructed to remain. Her ears drooped to match her sad tail.

  His relief proved scant, the heat of the summer's night and the magnitude of his task pressing in like a shroud. Choosing the company of books and rats over the vast abbey above, he built a nest in the library, using Herne's rough bedding. The Wild Hunt filled his dreams, impaling him on dry bones before feasting on his guts. He was naked, mutilated, his blood streaming across the stone slabs where he lay and pooling in every crack. He cried out for an end to the pain and indignity—and for Herne. He wanted Herne to wrap his arms around him, as if his embrace were the only safe place he'd ever known.

  He heard bony feet scraping against stone and woke with a gasp. Were the Wild Hunt coming for him?

  A rat scuffled nearby, the sound of its claws all too familiar. He sat up, blinking into the darkness and pushing damp hair from his brow. He would have preferred a softer bed, but he did not yearn for his home, his family, or even for the power to conquer his troubles alone. Any pangs for these proved transient. But he ached for the strange beast of a man he'd met a day ago and with whom he'd frisked but once in the strawberry patch. He scorned his desperation.

  The next day's reading reaped little reward. A mere seven lines grasped his interest, because he'd seen them somewhere before. Locating quill and ink amid Brother Herbert's old accoutrements, Tam scratched down his translation on the back of one of the scrolls.

  "One stabs and tears

  Clad in bright emerald green.

  One stretches to the heavens

  And through ages unseen.

  One rules the tides of summer.

  One blazes through the frost.

  When both entwine, the answer is…"

  Dewer whined for attention, pressing her wet nose to Tam as he worked on the floor. Hissing, he shooed her away. The riddle seemed a simple one, describing the entwining of the oak and the holly, but where had he seen it before?

  He racked his memories for some time, wondering if it was a song he'd learned at school, although his masters wouldn't have likely taught a pagan rhyme. Maybe he'd heard it from one of the village elders who'd schooled him in the old English tongue, or even chanted at play by other boys. Whenever he'd encountered it was long ago, and while he'd always loved riddles, this one seemed too obvious. The holly bush clung to the oak, a verdant coat for the mighty but naked tree through the long, cold winters.

  The answer was surely love. In the old English, heortlufu.

  But that bore no importance to his quest, so he placed the sheet aside and read on, until his torch burned out for the tenth time and his eyes were so sore they nigh bled. Exhausted, he curled up to fight bad dreams with thoughts of the riddle—and, irresistibly, of him.

  "Herne the Hunter," he murmured, as sleep claimed him once more. "Come back to me."

  *~*~*

  Herne scoured the Greenwood for a night and a day and then deep into another night, the heat growing unbearable. No spirit of Holgaerst or Niogaerst stirred to take the blame for the betrothal, and the fair folk remained evasive, as did any sign from the Goddess. Hours before dawn broke on the second morning of his quest, he cried Calleagh's name for the thousandth time, a desperate shout echoing miles through the Greenwood. Answered only by a lumbering badger and the caw of a crow, he dismounted Cernunnos and sank to his knees.

  "Goddess, why have you deserted me?"

  As he beseeched toward the waxing gibbous moon, he stretched out with all his senses. Nearly two days had passed since he'd left Tam, yet his fervour to save him still seared through his veins. Was he to be given no sign now, when he pleaded from his very heart?

  Or maybe she turns a deaf ear because this cause is unworthy of your time. Give it another three days and you will forget him, even as the full moon sets. The true thief of your heart will never return his prize.

  Tracing the deepening lines on his brow with his fingers, he thought of his home in the forest of Windsor, of riding north to memories and solitude. He urged his heavy bones to rise.

  And then pure silence struck him.

  No lumbering badger, no eerie hoot from an owl. The last of the breeze fell dead, as if an elemental force crippled all nature.

  "Goddess?" he murmured.

  "Herne the Hunter, come back to me."

  He knew that voice. The light masculine tone sounded bright as a hunting horn, shaking his body and entrancing his mind. He opened his eyes, his gaze fixing on an ancient oak half drenched in moonlight.

  At first he saw a dark shape warped about the trunk, a twisting low branch or a thick vine. As he stared, the image grew clearer. The branch took form as a human arm, its rough bark smoothing into peachy flesh. Herne squeezed the bridge of his nose, looking away for a moment, and then dared glance back.

  A man leaned with his back against the tree's trunk, his arms reaching behind him about the bark. He hitched a knee, sliding one foot up the trunk, and parted his thighs, a gesture of silent invitation that displayed his cock bobbing before him, nigh engorged.

  Herne drew breath sharply and refused the throes of instinct. He whispered the name he'd uttered so many times before, in dreams and waking life.

  "Crea?"

  He discerned no prominent ribs, no ice-coloured hair. Although his face remained shadowed from the moonlight, the man's lithely muscled limbs and thorax spoke of youthful beauty and strength. Herne heard a soft laugh, familiar too, but still he could not see his face. The laughter sounded warm, m
ingled with the voices of a robin redbreast and a wren, which seemed alien this deep into the night. The little birds fled as Herne drew closer, but the man who laughed at him stayed. Herne admired his chest, his walnut brown nipples, and his rust of body hair, vibrant with colour.

  "Tam." He nearly chided, I told you to stay in the abbey. But this could not be the real Tam, this sprite who emerged from the foliage about the tree.

  "I've come to comfort you, master," said Tam. The shadows lifting, he offered a coy smile. His back still braced against the wood, he slithered down the trunk until he rested on his knees. He lifted his chin, smoothing his tongue over holmberry red lips. And Herne's antlers tore from his skull.

  He growled, so swept away by his need to thrust his cock between Tam's lips he hardly knew if he or Tam lifted the encumbrance of his clothing. Tam wrapped his arms about Herne's thighs and sealed his entreaty, begging with his grey-green eyes.

  Whether this was a sign from the Goddess or more fairy enchantment, Herne no longer cared. He slid the head of his cock into Tam's mouth, and Tam engulfed him in a paradise of wetness and heat. His heart pounded, his cock gave a spasm, and his body veered toward rapture.

  He threaded his fingers through Tam's hair, easing the lad forward onto his thrusting cock, urging him to lick and suck. But after Tam's first ghosting slip of his tongue, the contact proved too little, as if Herne pushed into thin air.

  He gripped Tam's hair harder, knuckles whitening.

  And he grasped a tangle of holly. His hand torn by the barbs, he jerked his body back before his cock suffered the same fate. Where Tam had knelt now spread a shining holly bush clasped about the oak's trunk.

  "Goddess," he pleaded softly. "What foul sign is this?"

  Silence hammered in around him. Then shrill, shrieking cries answered his whisper, as did the yap of a hunting dog.

  The Wild Hunt cajoled him again. Was this vision another of Edric's tricks? He did not wish to encounter them here, to have to fight them off so deep in the woods, where their strength would be greatest. Godda's renewed magic might prove more than he could handle. Adjusting his clothing, he raced back to his horse and hoisted himself onto the saddle with a mighty groan of discomfort. Shooting a final glance toward the oak and the holly, he prodded his heel into Cernunnos's flank. The stallion started forth then reared his forelegs, braying a high-pitched cry of pain. Whirling around, Herne saw an arrow piercing the horse's rear thigh, dove-white feathers in its trim.