The two of them sat in silent contemplation for a while then Morrick articulated all he had been thinking.
‘What are Dryads?’ he asked, as simply as he wondered.
Riark threw back his head and looked up at the stars which were now beginning to appear in the new night.
‘That will take some time to tell.’
The king of the Dryads stood and reached out a hand towards Morrick to help him to his feet.
‘We will walk together while you are in my realm. You will be safe, and perhaps we can be of use to one another.’
Chapter Seventeen
Belman had known a fair few brothels in his time but not many that had been the site of such obvious carnage.
The Whoreswood had an ethereal quality, at the same time dank, dark and luminous. The trees were old, twisted, black and close-packed, yet paths wound their way around them and the way was lit by small candle-lamps hung in the lower branches of the trees.
At first this was all Lachlan, Hadwyn and Belman could see besides the usual sights in woodland, but within minutes, when behind them all they could see were trees they had already passed, with no glimpse of the outside world, they came across their first dead man. It was Hadwyn who caught sight of him in the brush, off to the side of the path, lantern light shining white on his pale flesh.
‘Over here,’ he hissed. Lachlan and Belman followed, and the three men stood looking down at the fallen soldier. He had been dead a few days, as far as they could tell. He was partly eaten, and his empty eye sockets stared up into the trees. If he had been carrying anything, his body had been robbed of it. Here was an empty vessel frozen in the last memory of a painful death, all too apparent from the gaping wound in his left side and a smaller wound in the neck.
‘What do you make of it?’ asked Belman to nobody in particular.
‘I think the ladies of the wood are not to be trifled with,’ said Hadwyn. Lachlan said nothing, merely thinking that the ladies must be a sight to behold if being with them could cost so much.
‘Do you know much of them?’ asked Belman, shifting nervously from foot to foot, ‘We are only three, after all.’
Hadwyn smiled and tousled his hair.
‘I have finally seen everything! The great Lord Belman, slayer of Devised, who stood nigh at hand watching my back in the midst of our enemies, quakes now in fear at the doorstep of prostitutes.’
‘Not prostitutes,’ replied Lachlan, fast and low. ‘At least, not just prostitutes.’
He walked back to the path, looking all about him for signs of movement.
‘I should have paid more heed to my tutors,’ muttered Belman.
‘More heed? You paid any heed?’ laughed Hadwyn.
They once again followed the path lit by the lanterns.
‘Did you at least hear of the Partisans of Crinan?’ asked Lachlan, not turning back.
Belman and Hadwyn exchanged a look as they walked behind him. Much of the humour seemed to be leaving Lachlan the deeper they went into the Whoreswood; the two men were feeling a darkening of tone within their company.
‘The fighting clans?’
‘Indeed, the fighting clans. What do you know?’
Belman thought for a moment.
‘That they rose up against the last king of Crinan and travelled the wild places in secret, striking where he was weakest; a law unto themselves.’
‘True enough. And when Awgren came out of the wastes, a law unto themselves they may have been, but the Partisans rallied together and fought by skirmish against him. When King Abernath sounded the retreat, the Partisans protected the rear as the armies fled south. When they reached the Maw Gate, the Partisan men packed their women and children into their wagons, sent them on to safety, but stayed to fight with sword, knife and fist, whip and garrotte against the Creatures of the Devising. They refused to retreat even after the bravest warriors of the three kingdoms left the battle. Even the king of Tayne retreated into the Folly before the Partisans’ last stand was done.
‘The gates closed, not to open again for many centuries, and the Partisans’ charred bones were ground into the surface of the road to the Maw Gate.’
Lord Lachlan stopped and turned, brooding, to look at Belman and Hadwyn.
‘We owe our lives and our victory to the ancestors of the people who live within this wood. I want you to carry that with you.’
‘Aye, my lord,’ said Belman. He hesitated and then went on, ‘So how do we come to be calling them whores?’
Lachlan turned and carried on walking.
‘The womenfolk who survived have made their choices over the years, and who are we to judge? But it is clear that they are still a people not to be trifled with and the price to engage their services could well be the highest, as our friend back there would attest.’
With that he would say no more and they travelled on in silence into the glow of the lanterns, feeling ever more watched.
A bell rang out at head height just off the path, and Lachlan jumped. As he did so, his feet became tangled, and he flailed about to regain his balance. Looking down he saw that he had unwittingly kicked a tripwire.
‘They know we’re coming now, it seems,’ said Hadwyn. Belman half drew his sword, but Lachlan shook his head.
‘We proceed with caution, but do not act threatening. These are still my people, after all.’
‘Your people, are we?’ A woman stepped out from behind the tree even as the bell still rang out amongst the branches. She lifted a horn to her lips and blew. A great blast issued forth, and Lachlan knew that her people were warned. The woman dropped the horn.
‘I don’t know your faces,’ she said, standing beneath a lantern. Lachlan’s eyes began to adjust. The woman stood taller than he. She wore a leather corset that displayed her ample bosom, across which were tattooed tally marks, criss-crossing black lines counting some unknown score.
Fallen foes or lovers? wondered Hadwyn.
She wore leather breeches and boots that came up to mid-thigh. Her woollen coat hung to her ankles, and it had a high collar that framed her long, pale neck. Her jaw was sharp and her nose somewhat upturned. Her skin was pale, Lachlan supposed, from a life sheltered under the trees. Her hair was long but stacked in elaborate patterns, pinned, tied and plaited, coursing in places and taut in others. She carried no obvious weaponry, but a crossbow was leant against the tree next to a small, round, targe shield. She spoke again, confident,
‘I know not your face and yet I am one of your people?’
Lachlan bowed his head.
‘You have caught me unawares with my tongue unguarded, lady,’ he said.
She laughed.
‘There are worse things than a man with an unguarded tongue.’
‘A married man with an unguarded tongue?’ Hadwyn ventured, smirking.
‘I’ve not known that to be a barrier, in truth,’ she said.
‘Do you have business with my ladies?’
‘I may do. To whom do I speak?’ said Lachlan.
‘Think it’s only right that those who come a-knocking put names to faces first. I don’t know how it is under your roof, friend.’
‘These are not whores to take lightly,’ whispered Belman.
‘Nor is it polite to speak hushed and secret,’ the woman warned, planting her hands on her hips. Lachlan could not tell if the gesture was meant to be alluring or threatening. He decided both, and a stirring in his groin confirmed at least half of the assertion.
‘We’ve travelled out of the south, lady. We are on serious business, and I’d rather not discuss it on the path.’
From behind the woman by the bell tree, another six drew close, though these wore their arms openly. All were tall and easy on the eye, having chosen their apparel with both appeal and armour in mind. They looked like a grim band, and Lachlan saw in them the resolve of the Partisans in the tales he learned as a boy. Nevertheless, he knew to be cautious, as the ladies had a fearsome reputation for brutal retribution and
swift justice as they deemed it.
The lady turned to consult with the newcomers then delivered her decision.
‘As you’re speaking half-frankly and you’re all strapping lads, we’d be happy to bring you further into our woods. If you’re lucky and…’ she looked them each up and down, ‘maybe if we’re lucky too, we can conduct our usual business when the serious stuff is done; if you can best us of course.’
Belman forgot his propriety as prurient interest took hold.
‘Best you?’
‘Aye.’ A blonde woman, coming up from behind the first, grinned. ‘None lies with a lady of the Whoreswood lest he can best her in combat and steal her honour.’
The bell tree woman’s face cracked into a smile.
‘But never fear; you’ll be bested when we wrestle betwixt the sheets. Prove your manhood or lose it. Win our hearts on the battlefield and willingly lose the battle in the bed.’
Lachlan’s cheeks flushed, and the other two men exchanged a look with raised eyebrows and barely suppressed smiles.
The band traipsed on after the women as they cut across country, abandoning the lantern-lit path to hurry through the grass, between bushes and darting between the trees until more distant light appeared ahead.
Lachlan spied the sides of what appeared at first to be wagons but soon became clearer as wooden caravans. Since he was young he had been told stories of these folk, and he was a little disappointed to find that these appeared to be plain, oiled wood with no designs. He watched the fearsome women who walked in front of him and lamented the fact that in this realm he and Cathryn commanded, function had negated beauty in many ways. Once more he felt that familiar ice-hand wrapped around his heart and wondered for what they had been fighting all these centuries – a world devoid of individuality and character?
A glade was encircled with these wagons, their entrances pointing towards the centre of the circle where a bonfire was burning. Horses wandered just outside the circle and animals wandered here and there. Each caravan’s porch was stacked with plates, bowls, bottles, weapons and was lit by a lantern. At the foot of its steps, a few yards away, a ring of benches formed an inner circle so that upon them one might sit and stare into the flames in the middle of the wide space.
The women trooped on and filed away to their caravans, but the lady from the bell tree addressed Lachlan and his companions.
‘We are a little early for tonight’s contest, so there is some time to talk if you have other business, travellers from the south. I must warn you that my mother is not well, but we will do her the courtesy of talking in her caravan.’
‘Do you have no menfolk about?’ said Belman, scanning the camp.
‘Our brothers and sons go out in the world. It would not be good for business to have them around.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Who knows about our fathers? They could be any man who passes this way by night and triumphs in the contest.’
Belman raised his eyebrows, whistled and the bell tree woman led them across the circle and towards a caravan.
‘My name is Habit,’ she said, the words tossed back over her shoulder, enjoying the certain knowledge that the eyes of the men behind her were following the exaggerated sway of her hips.
Upon reaching the caravan she ascended the steps and rapped three times on the door.
‘Ella,’ she called.
There was a shuffling inside and then bolts were drawn back on the door. Moans came from inside and though Belman’s ears initially pricked up, it soon became apparent they were of pain or discomfort, not pleasure. A young girl pushed the door open, and after an exchange of words, she nodded and ducked out to allow the newcomers entry. Habit ushered Lachlan in first, and he entered the dim light of the caravan. Ahead of him stood a wide bunk, and the air smelled foul. A woman thrashed and moaned on the bed, covered by a thin grey blanket. Her head was shaved and her frame was thin and frail. Her face contorted as she turned and made eye contact with Lachlan, but still her limbs flailed.
‘Good evening, madam,’ said Lachlan, feeling he wanted to look anywhere but into her eyes, yet doing so anyway. Hadwyn and Belman followed his lead, but after a few moments, Hadwyn said, ‘There is little space for five, Brother. Belman and I will wait outside if the lady approves?’
Habit shot them a knowing look and showed them out, pulling the door closed behind them so the room was lit only by candles.
She moved over to her mother’s side and picked up a bowl. Carefully she began to feed her using a narrow wooden spoon. She never took her eyes from her mother as she spoke.
‘This man travels from the south and says he may have business with us, Mother.’
Now she looked to Lachlan.
‘You have an unusual bearing and have the look of a man from the Isles. I’ve been with a few in my time, but not many. Still, they were memorable. Your apparel is less…militant than folk wear in the Drift.’
‘You see much, lady,’ said Lachlan.
‘And now you are under my mother’s roof, perhaps you can tell us who you are.’
‘First I must tell you what I know of your people.’
‘G’ahead, sir.’ Her eyes blazed with curiosity.
‘I know that the Partisans of Crinan were free folk and under the sway of no man. I know that when Awgren rose, they fought hard to withstand his might and paid a great cost. I know that in the end, the Partisans who had been deemed traitors came to be some of the most loyal to mankind.’
‘Kind words.’
‘But do they still apply?’
Habit’s mother spluttered and food ran down her chin. Habit reached for a rag and wiped it away. She stroked her mother’s hair.
‘Enough for now?’ she smiled at her.
‘This is our family’s curse – one in two of the daughters in my mother’s line are struck down with the Daughter’s Blight. It’s said even those who first came to these shores were thus afflicted.’
Habit fixed Lachlan with her gaze, candlelight dancing across her face.
‘Much is passed down in the blood. Though of course it would be a lie to say that those who survived remained entirely unchanged, but still, much about us endures.’
‘And what of your honour? Can I trust to your word?’
‘Question it, and I’ll question your need for blood in your veins, sir,’ she snarled.
Lachlan smiled and raised both open hands to pacify her.
‘I will take you into my confidence if I can trust your word and hold you to it,’ he said.
‘You’ve my word and that of my mother.’
Lachlan took a deep breath and instantly regretted it. The smell in the caravan was oppressive; it spoke of incontinence and illness. But he had experienced much worse on the battlefield and worse still in the tents of healing after battles.
‘I am Lord Lachlan of the Isles,’ he said, ‘and I believe the realm to once more be in peril.’ He worried that he sounded over-pompous in his attempt to sound more lordly than was his custom, but Habit showed no signs of discomfort.
Habit narrowed her eyes as she scrutinised his face and re-crossed her legs.
‘Lord Lachlan?’ she squinted at him.
‘The same,’ he replied. ‘Consort of Queen Cathryn and fresh from victory in the south.’
‘So we’d heard. The soldiers newly returned are full of stories of the glory of the queen and her lords. But what proof that you are the man himself?’
‘My seal and my word. The men outside are Lord Hadwyn, my brother and Lord Belman, one of my generals.’
Habit scratched her temple and swept loose strands of hair behind her ears.
‘And what would bring you gents north, if this be true. The warm, wet wiles of the Whoreswood? I think not.’
Lachlan was about to answer, but Habit reached up to fetch a bottle down from a shelf.
‘Wine?’ she asked.
‘I wouldn’t turn it down,’ he replied.
‘Why you speak so fancy? What’s wrong with a simple
yes?’ she scolded, laughing. ‘Keep your graces for your lady-missus, lord.’ She handed him a goblet and returned to her seat.
‘What would Queen Cathryn make of her husband skulking around with Partisans and whores?’
‘The queen trusts my judgement and knows all too well she owes her realm to your ancestors. But I’d like to think even Queen Cathryn is not beyond a little jealousy at seeing her husband associating with one as comely and pleasing to the eye as yourself.’
‘Oh is that the case? Be mindful now or I’ll be facing off against ye in the circle before the moon is full tonight. Never had me a Lord of the Isles before. Lord of the Drift maybe.’
‘Linwood?’ Lachlan near spat out his first mouthful of wine, and Habit’s face lit up as she grinned.
‘Jealous? Or just not into sloppy seconds, lord,’ she teased.
‘What do you make of the man?’
Habit lifted her cup to her mother’s lips and poured a bead of wine into her mouth.
‘Just for the taste. She does not drink well. Not so easy to swallow water or wine these days.’
The woman on the bunk flicked her face away to the wall and back again, staring at Lachlan imploringly, he judged, though he could not discern her desire.
‘Thank you for taking me into your home, madam,’ he said, feeling the words sounded artificial. He could not feel less comfortable in the presence of this woman and yet she was one of his subjects and of a bold line, for sure. Perhaps in his youth he would have dismissed her, but Cathryn’s influence on him was marked.
She made no reply, but her arm flailed out towards him and he took her hand, stroking the back of it with her thumb.
When he looked up, Habit appeared serious. He did not release her mother’s hand.
‘Lord Linwood? He’s harsh and cold. Single-minded. Runs the Drift so that all have enough and if it comes to defending what they’s got, they can do it. Doesn’t bandy much with us, except to meet his manly needs where his mistresses ain’t cutting it,’ she said. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘You know of the road building?’
‘Aye, all round here do. And the new villages he’s building. Not with his own hands, of course.’
Dark Oak Page 21
