He shut the door, locking Tam away to die there if he had to. Anguish lanced through him, but he refused it.
He would do for Tam what he could, but these feelings were impossible. This was the price Herne paid for possessing a body eternally too young that played tricks on his ancient mind that knew better. He must wrap the armour of ages about his ensnared and bleeding heart.
*~*~*
Tam awoke suddenly, his back sore from the uncomfortable position in which he'd been sleeping, but not as sore as other parts of him. Recalling all the reasons his arse smarted—inside and out—took a few moments. Morning light filtered through the high windows, and he heard the pitter-patter of rain. He scraped his fingers through his hair, half a mind to tear it out.
Last night. He'd let Herne tie him up, asked him to perform acts unspeakable under the light of day, and he'd begged for more. Herne told him he was dangerous, yet Tam pushed him to the brink.
He glowered up at the death's heads leering from the corners, furious with himself and with Herne, even though his body still ached for him, fool that he was. And what should he make of Crea? This rival, even long dead, ought to bother him. But after all those centuries, he, Tam, had been the one who'd helped Herne forget. He felt a glimmer of pride. Although after last night, he worried Herne might want to forget him too.
Ah, but it had felt so good, so right…till that blade had slashed through the darkness, and he'd briefly feared Herne would murder him. Cold fear clamped his stomach. Had Herne ever threatened his beloved Crea with a knife?
Sighing, he got up, groping toward the door, which he didn't recall pulling shut. He'd not meant to stay here long, just long enough to get dry and stop shivering, before going to wait at the gate for Calleagh. Yet he'd fallen asleep. Curse it, time pressed so.
And where was Dewer? The dog had returned to his side last night after Herne had left and stuck to it like bark gum. He shoved the door. Somebody had bolted it from the other side.
Alarm budding, he thumped the wood.
"Herne? Are you there? Let me out!"
Silence answered. Not even the whimper and scuffle of the dog. Had Herne done this for some good reason, or was he punishing him? Irritation mingled with Tam's growing alarm. Had he pushed Herne so far he'd imprisoned him here to die?
No. Tam could not believe that; he would lose his nerve. He saw no possibility of squeezing through the narrow windows, so the door afforded the only escape. He didn't much like the idea of knocking it open with his shoulder or fists, but the writing desk could be fashioned into a battering ram.
He cleared a path between the books, shifted the desk carefully down onto its side, and pushed it forward. Mustering all his strength, he slammed it against the door. Walnut clashed loudly against solid, metal-studded oak, echoed by a sharp splintering. The door remained shut fast, not even dented. The smooth edges of the writing stand were ruined.
"Damn!" he yelled, dropping the side of his fist against the stand. Then he froze.
Footsteps sounded from the staircase beyond, a gentle patter that could never be Herne.
"Tam?"
"Ann!"
Tam stepped back in shock. Was this another dream? The voice of his brother's wife was the last he'd expected to hear. Uncertainty tinged his shout. "I'm in here! Can you lift the latch? It's heavy."
He pushed the writing stand out of the way, and moments later, the unlatched door opened. Ann stared up at him, her mushroom-coloured hair escaping from her linen cap and framing her small, freckled features.
He clasped her to him. "By heaven, I thank you. How did you know where to look?"
He gripped her shoulders. Her lips pursed and her expression tight, something about Ann appeared different. She'd eschewed her usual high collar, and she'd laced her black bodice tightly at her waist, then generously slack above, revealing a swath of speckled flesh. This seemed odd, although he had little time to discuss the niceties of fashion.
"Is Richard with you?" he asked.
"No. Calleagh sent me into the abbey to seek you. She heard your call but could not enter the precinct, being of the fair folk, and—"
"Calleagh sent you?" He stared at her, perplexed. "How do you know her? Do you know all that happened with Herne the Hunter? Heavens, how long have you known Calleagh?"
A flush raced across Ann's face. "Don't plague me. You know I can't stand it."
"Answer me, Ann. We were always friends, weren't we?"
"We still are friends." She wriggled on her toes. "And I'm sorry things went wrong. Honestly I didn't know of her scheme, but…Oh Lord, I cannot conceal it. She did it all for me. Calleagh has been visiting me for this past year, in the dead of night and when Richard is away in the fields or at market. She…she…Oh, I am not ashamed! She brings a taste of heaven to my wretched existence, and I love her. When I learned she had been willing to bind herself to you to be near me, I did what I thought I'd never have the courage to do. I left Richard."
Tam followed in stunned silence until they reached the top of the steps. If Ann spoke truth, Calleagh's actions made some sense. Calleagh had wanted to be human, to become his wife…to be nearer to shrewish little Ann.
So the fairy vixen had played him for a fool. Although he could hardly chide their bond of attraction given the compulsions he'd experienced toward Herne. Neither could he find it in his heart to resent or blame Ann, but he could not suppress anger altogether as they passed from the cloister into a drizzling rain. He was paying dearest for their folly.
"You understand I might die for this? I have but two days left to break the betrothal."
"I truly didn't know what she'd planned," protested Ann. "Honest! I didn't want you to go to the Greenwood in the first place. Everyone was keener than I."
This was true. While nobody had wept on the eve of his departure, Ann had laboured long hours over a hot skillet to make his favourite candies. Quite different from Richard, who'd jovially slapped him on the back. "I know you'll survive, lad. The clever ones always do."
"No poor lad had ever come back, had they?" said Ann. "If I'd thought it was in my power, I would have stopped you going."
"I believe you." Reaching forward, Tam caught her hand and, with it, the sharp edge of her stare. He bit his lip, tasting the cool rain that flecked his skin, and the truth dawned, more pressing than any ill humour. Ann could prove his salvation. "Listen to me. If you are sincere in what you say, there is still a chance this can end well for you and Calleagh—and, if the Goddess is merciful, for me. My betrothal might be gifted to you and her, if one of you is willing to become the other's kind."
Ann's eyes widened. "I could become like her, of the fair folk, and be with her forever?"
"Yes. I've spent these last few days studying Greenwood lore. Calleagh and her cursed Elfaene have to recall the ring of fire and transfer this bond from Herne and me onto you and her. And they must do it before the moon sets tomorrow night, or I'm lost."
"Then let's hurry," said Ann. "Calleagh is waiting. You'd best come with us."
He winced. "I have to be mindful of leaving the abbey. The Wild Hunt are bent to rip me apart."
She looked back at him, whitening beneath her freckles. "'Tis true the storm last night drew them out, and now they ride at will through the Greenwood realm. They set a farm on fire before dawn, fifty acres of common land torn to shreds, and then they rushed through the village, tossing flames as if they were children's toys, setting everyone screaming. And I…" She hurried toward the gatehouse, lifting her petticoats an inch and nearly breaking into a run. "…I heard the strangest cry, like a strangled goat. Richard said it means the Spanish are coming for sure, while Jerome just shouted and shouted and ripped his hair like a fool. I hid, but I knew Calleagh would come to comfort me, and she did. She'd started out to find you, but she returned first for me and told me all. That's when I left."
He rubbed his brow wearily. So the Hunt had gained enough power from the storm to scourge the villages. Did Herne play any
role in this?
"I think all is clear in this part of the forest," said Ann, pausing under the arched passage to beckon him on. "At least that's what Calleagh said."
"Well, that is sweet music to my ears."
Ann read his sarcasm. "Don't take on, Tam. She does feel sorry about what happened to you. She told me so."
"How gracious of her."
Waiting for them just outside the gatehouse, Calleagh squatted amid droopy, cotton-coloured flowers, her skirts hitched about her thighs as she batted a butterfly betwixt her palms as a cat would a cornered mouse.
As she ran toward Calleagh, Ann's shrewish features blossomed into a smile. "I found him," she cried.
"I knew you would, sweeting." Calleagh let the butterfly free; then, jumping up, she scooped Ann against her breast. She pressed her lips to the forehead of her lover, who proved much slighter than the voluptuous fairy but only a little shorter. "I'm glad you called," she said to Tam, who waited beneath the gatehouse. "That beast Herne the Hunter has been bellowing for days, worrying the fair and the foul with his man-rage. But I didn't want to see him. I intended to come and find you, though, to help as I said I would."
"You were taking your blessed time," said Tam.
She shrugged. "You understand why I did it all?"
"Yes," he replied curtly. Hours pressed too short, and his wrath could wait. "Listen, Calleagh. You can indeed help. If you can convince your Elfaene to be a little more generous with her gifts, there might be a way out of this for all of us."
As he explained how the betrothal could be transferred, Calleagh and Ann slowly shifted their gazes from each other to him.
"According to the lore," he said, "a fairy maid can claim a human maid, although my mind begs how."
Calleagh laughed, squeezing Ann's hand. "Men are so stupid. No wonder they rarely know true love."
He ignored her. "And you are willing?" he asked, looking solely to Ann. "You yourself reminded me no village lad ever returned alive from seeking a union with the fair folk."
She answered by sliding her arm about Calleagh's waist. Turning, Calleagh sank her forehead so close to Ann's the tips of their lashes touched in a prelude to a meeting of their lips.
"My secret rivers flow for you," sang Calleagh, and he cringed. Those words sounded no less ridiculous than when he'd last heard them, though perhaps they rang truer now. How could he have contemplated spending the rest of his life with this vexing maid? He could never be that desperate for respect from his one-trunk-inheriting fellows.
"I will protect her," said Calleagh, looking back to him. "Anyway, while no village lad has ever come back, it might have been different if your folk had the foresight to send a maid one late summer's eve and not keep the prettiest so secreted away. Hmmmmm?"
She grinned, and while it harried his conscience, he decided to trust Calleagh's feelings for Ann were true. "Very well. You two must seek the Elfaene and beg on your knees if you have to."
"What are you going to do?" asked Ann.
He frowned. Waiting here for Herne to return seemed a gratingly passive course of action. Besides, if Herne still sought Calleagh, she was here with, joy of joys, a human willing to be bound to her. The Elfaene would surely not refuse them now.
"We need Herne present if the betrothal is to be successfully transferred," he said.
Ann shuddered. "That monster? But he imprisoned you and deserted you."
Imprisoned you and deserted you. It sounded so cruel, another challenge to his faith. Herne had made no promise as he'd left, had all but cursed him. "He will help us. I…I'm sure of it."
"In truth?" asked Calleagh. "You'd better come with us back to our heortland and wait there. I can keep you safe from the Wild Hunt."
"And you expect me to take your word."
Her violet eyes flashed, far brighter than the dull white of the flowers surrounding her.
"While you make a particularly juicy morsel, boy, it's not just you the Wild Hunt would rip apart. They possess a mighty appetite for fair folk—and pretty young wenches." She reached for her lover's hand, pressed it to her lips, and kissed it. As she pulled away, he saw her flick her shining tongue over the tiny pink nub of Ann's little finger. Ann giggled with delight. "Do you really think I'd imperil my heart's love?"
He hitched his lip in distaste but felt prudish for it.
"My senses are sharp, even among the fair folk," boasted Calleagh. "What's the point of waiting for the huntsman here, when he rides at large?"
Because he will come back for me?
"Cheer ye up," said Calleagh, seeming to read his doubts. "Come with us. Consider this all an exciting riddle. I'm sure you can solve it, my clever boy."
Stepping from the precinct, he shot her a thunderous glare. "Things have come to a merry pass," he murmured, "when I trust you again."
Chapter Fourteen
Herne galloped toward Little Lyndton, drizzle pounding against his face, his horse's hooves squelching in the thick black mud. He'd cast the spell near every forest village, and still the fairy Calleagh refused to answer.
He pressed Cernunnos faster and whistled to his hound. After much cajoling, Dewer had committed to follow at her master's heel, yapping and growling betwixt her panting. She smelled the Wild Hunt, which distressed the dog greatly. Without intention, they now followed the Hunt's trail.
Seeing the first wooden cottages of the village up ahead, he gripped Cernunnos's reins tighter. A woman pulling a handcart up the track stopped to tug her hood back from her eyes, her burden of dirty brown sheep shuffling and bleating. Then she screamed.
"The Wild Hunt. They've come to finish us!" She struggled to drag her little cart from the road.
"No, 'tis worse." A black-robed churchman, leading his mule into the village, waved an arm and shouted. "'Tis a Spaniard!"
Deserting his mule, he threw himself flat into the mud behind a trough. Herne pounded past them into the village, amid the bawls of fleeing folk and slamming doors. The church bells began to toll. His gaze swept from the burned wreck of a blacksmith's shop to where axes had shredded a cottage's wattle and daub. Under the sign of the Duke's Stirrup tavern, which hung on one hinge, a cow sprawled dead on its side, its bony hide sodden. The waste set his anger flaring, even as it reminded him of the price of refusing the Hunt. How many must suffer while his quest to save Tam continued in vain?
At the heart of the village, the market cross had been hacked through, leaving a jagged wooden post. Beside it, he paused.
"Calleagh?"
His shout rivalled the tolling bells. He sprinkled the potion but sensed only the villagers' fear. No fair folk would linger here. Had Calleagh scuttled back to her Elfaene? If so, Tam's cause might truly be lost.
His horse frothing at the mouth, he pressed on. But as his hopes for Tam slipped from his grasp, the armour about his heart chinked. He could not shut out the memories of Tam stroking his back, Tam's laughter, his smile, Tam clenching his arse as he wriggled over the barrel, demanding to be mastered and fucked. Herne's affection kindled despair. He couldn't be with Tam or even give the lad what he needed to save him. Despair exploded into anger. When had he become so desperate, so weak? Once again he refused Tam's death as more than he could bear, roaring to vent the throb of his fury and frustration.
His antlers split forth from his skull. A girl's scream heightened his pain as she tore from a house up ahead, slipping and sliding toward the safety of the church, her blonde hair streaking in her wake. He did not slacken Cernunnos's pace. A young man, blond also and sturdily built, ran out after her.
"No! Don't go now, you little fool," shouted the lad.
He veered into Herne's path, where a puddle sent his feet flying from under him. Herne tugged his horse's reins, dug his heel to its flank. Cernunnos reared with a loud whinny, the stallion's hooves landing inches from the lad's head.
"Roger!" screamed the girl.
The lad scrambled up, mud-spattered, breathless, and for an instant he and Herne
stared at each other, transfixed. The repugnance in Roger's blue eyes punched Herne like a fist.
So Tam must once have felt. But how quickly Tam discovered what lay beneath his horns and his preternatural size. He'd uncovered parts Herne had forgotten existed. Tam saw through the beast to the man. In that brief moment, Herne wished Tam abhorred him as this man did. Being hated and feared had been so easy, until Tam reawakened his heart.
"Herne the Hunter!" yelled Roger. "Fie thee, devil!" Backing away, he drew phlegm from his throat and spat, setting Cernunnos snorting like a fire-breathing dragon. Herne smothered a flinch. Roger turned and fled, stumbling as fast as he could toward the church.
Herne galloped from the village, striking a cloud of mud in his wake, but no loyal hound followed at his heel. So Dewer now deserted him. Never had he felt more impotent, hardly comprehending now for what he rode save sheer desperation. He'd do anything—anything—to assuage this new pain.
From the vantage of the downs behind the village, he saw the foul cloud of the Wild Hunt, moving fast against the wind. They rode straighter now, westward toward the abbey.
What would imbue them with such purpose? An unclaimed soul? Surely Tam had not escaped.
Either way, Herne needed no more prompting. His chance at finding the fairy maid had nearly ended. Raising his hunting horn to his lips, he summoned the Wild Hunt to him.
*~*~*
The drizzle had stopped, but the bay of the hounds and the bleat of the goat reached Tam's ears as they waded knee-deep in heather. They were still over a hundred yards from the edge of the trees.
"The Wild Hunt?" Ann froze.
"They must have wheeled back around." Even Calleagh's smooth tone grew fearful, and Tam swung his angry gaze onto her.
"So much for your damned protection. We've got to get back to the abbey."
"But I can't shelter there," protested Calleagh. "Even if you invite me, holy ground sets my skin itching. I won't go in."
He wanted to spit. He wished he lacked gallantry and could leave her, but even if he did so, Ann might refuse to go any farther with her "love" left behind. He could never desert Ann.
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