Greenwode

by J Tullos Hennig

  Rob flicked a glance toward the two guards behind Sir Ian. One was scratching at Diamant’s rump, and the other watching with only minimal interest. With a sidelong glance to Gamelyn—no help there—Rob handed over the pot jar of ointment.

  Sir Ian uncorked it, took a light sniff. “Did your mother the healer make this, then?”

  Rob gave a tight nod.

  Sir Ian’s nostrils flared. “I see. And did your mother—”

  “Milord?” This time it was Adam who came through the barn entry, at a quickened pace, his expression troubled. “My lord, I hope my son has not been a trouble to you—”

  “Indeed, Loxley.” Sir Ian plied the stopper almost thoughtfully, then gave Rob a wink. “Your son is no trouble at all; he was merely tending mine in a goodly enough fashion. I understand your wife is a healer?”

  Adam quirked his brows at Rob; Rob shrugged and jerked his head toward Gamelyn. Adam took a breath, said, slow, “Aye, milord, she knows some herb lore. This and that.”

  “I was about to tell your lad that my old nurse was a wortwife.” Sir Ian was nodding. “Quite a talented woman, and this ointment of your wife’s takes me right back. Which is a long way, mind you. The smell, you know, honey and all the herbs. I’d no idea there was a wise woman in these parts.”

  “They’re about, my lord,” Adam said carefully.

  “The surgeons would see them gone, no doubt,” Rob murmured to Gamelyn—quietly, he thought, but Adam turned.

  “Rob.” The warning was unmistakable.

  Sir Ian laughed suddenly. “I’ve no doubt you’re right, boy. But your father is in the right, even more, to heed some caution. Not every castle’s keeper would hear of a woman brewing potions and think ‘healer’ instead of ‘witch’.”

  Abruptly Rob could hear… sense… whatever… that soft-thick hum again. He twitched his shoulders, exchanged grave glances with his father, then saw Gamelyn eyeing him with sudden trepidation.

  “Perhaps,” Sir Ian mused, peering at the pot jar in his hand, “she might have some aid for an old, ill man?”

  “Milord?” Adam’s face had gone blank.

  Sir Ian straightened, looked Adam in the eye. “As you no doubt can see, my health is… questionable. Would your wife be willing to set her skill to it?” Sir Ian peered over at Gamelyn, a tiny smile quirking his stern mouth. “You’re a father, Loxley, surely you can understand. Perhaps it is base of me, but there are many things I would prefer to see in this life before I go to meet the next.”

  “It ent base at all, milord,” Adam said, very soft. “Surely Eluned can aid you.”

  Sir Ian nodded. “She is welcome here. You all are welcome, and I hope you will at least sup with us and rest for the night, as you would have done in Worksop.”

  A foot nudged the back of Rob’s thigh; he turned to see Gamelyn grinning. As for Rob himself, he was not so sure, considering, that staying overnight was a good idea.

  Adam bowed very low. “You honor me and my son, milord of Blyth.”

  Sir Ian tipped his chin then, the half smile still upon his lips, limped from the barn. His two paxmen followed, with care for their lord’s pace.

  “Perhaps you could stay with me?” Gamelyn offered.

  Rob threw his father a look, hardly understanding what it was he pled for, only that… that….

  Bloody hell, he was in for it.

  “That ent fitting, lad,” Adam said, his mien stern. “Moreover, you two must take care. You’ve already had one lesson in minding your place, Rob; don’t court another, aye?”

  Ire, hot and sour as bile, rose in Rob’s throat. The look he threw his father turned captious.

  “I mean it. Both of you heed me, now. We ent in t’ Wode, here.”

  Gamelyn was the one who answered, soft and somewhat downcast. “I understand.”

  Adam’s gaze flickered to his bruised face. “I’ll wager you do, lad.”

  Then he was gone, following the others.

  VIII

  “ARE YOU sure you want to sleep here?” Adam crossed his arms and peered down the stone aisleway of the stable. “Captain’s been instructed to offer us both a place in the guard officers’ quarters.”

  Rob shook his head. If he had to sleep, trammeled and nigh smothered, amongst stones that had been built with the sweat and blood of people who’d had no choice but to raise them? Better to hear the soft, homey sounds of munching fodder, the groans and sighs of creatures that had little more say in life than he did, and were more pleasant to be around than any soldier. Even that friendly captain.

  “All right, then. I need to accept his courtesy, you understand?”

  Rob nodded. Just as well. He wanted… no, needed… to be alone.

  No, he needed to get out of these walls, take Arawn and thunder off over the land, running the night like the Horned Lord upon His Hunt….

  Adam put firm hands on Rob’s shoulders, gave him a shake. “No wandering, mind.”

  “I waint, Da!” It came out sharper than Rob had intended.

  His father’s grip tightened further, then went lax. Adam looked as if he wanted to say something, then shook his head. Leaning forward, he brushed a kiss to Rob’s forelock and then departed, the soles of his boots a heavy, almost resigned cadence against the stones. There was an upheaval of voices, laughter, and light as he opened the heavy door across the way—the guardsmen’s quarters—then it muffled again as he closed it behind him.

  Silence. Finally.

  Rob breathed it in like burning sandalwood flung into the need-fires, let the soft background of stable noises lull him. He hadn’t allowed himself to realize how inwardly keyed up he was, between the day’s happenings and Gamelyn….

  And. Gamelyn.

  The moon was rising, just visible over the thick walls. Despite what his father thought, Rob knew better than to wander a fortified and fancy gaol without leave, so he stayed put. He did, however, step out into the moonlight, asking….

  What? What exactly did he want?

  It was usually so simple. To want, to reach out, ask. Be disappointed or rewarded.

  “We ent in t’ Wode, here.”

  This wasn’t… simple.

  He couldn’t believe it, anyway. He’d never imagined… never even thought to look to Gamelyn in such a way. But now?

  Now, his imagination was whirling him widdershins about a fire he couldn’t quench.

  The moon wasn’t helping. She touched him, smoothed cool, silver fire over the heat of his cheeks and promised… well, the moon. The sight of his own skin hinted at what Gamelyn’s might look like, all fair and bare….

  Nay, not helping. Not at all.

  Boots, clicking against hard ground, a slow rhythm that suggested purpose—the guard, no doubt. Patrolling the castle for peasants who were wandering where they didn’t belong, for Heathen scum bathing in the moon, for anything they could bully, like.

  Rob vanished back into the shadows, watched a brace of soldiers move past, alert. He made no sound, not even a breath, and found himself sweating with relief as they didn’t turn to see him, and then despised himself for the fear.

  “’Tis well t’ not be seen.”

  A whisper from beside him, and bloody hell, but how had the stable lad snuck up on him like that? He was being a proper git, no question, literally mooning after something he couldn’t have and heeding only the lurchings of his knob! Idiot!

  He started to speak; the stable lad put a finger to his lips, jerked his head to bid Rob follow him.

  Slightly mystified, Rob did.

  They wound back through to the back of the stables, to a small alcove where the lad obviously slept, around the corner from a turret leading, it would seem, into the bowels of the keep. It was a nice little cot, as such things went: partitioned with wood, so likely a stall at one time, dry and warm from the body heat of the animals, and convenient to their care. Lots of straw to pad a bed, and the lad looked as if he’d just come from there, straw in his brown hair. There was the smell,
all about them, of corn and chaff, urine and dung; the lad smelled more horse than human, and it was lovely. Walking over to the head of it, the lad reached under the pad of skins he used to cushion his head, then rose, holding his hand out to Rob.

  From his fingers dangled a leathern cord, and in his palm was a tiny carving: a wooden stag’s head, horned and polished until it gleamed in the faint light.

  The lad nodded, his eyes lustrous, and motioned to Rob with the necklet, offering.

  “I… Nay. It’s too—”

  Again the lad put his finger to his lips, requesting silence, and instead of trying to get Rob to take the necklet, stepped close and threaded it over his dark head. The lad’s breath misted Rob’s ear as he pulled back; Rob reached out, took several wisps of straw from that mop of hair and held them up, smiling. Let them flutter to the ground.

  The lad looked into Rob’s eyes, smiled. Bent down and put his lips to the amulet—and that was what it was, of that Rob had no doubt. He could feel the little tremors of power within it.

  The lad was also leaving no doubt about what else he thought to offer. His hands had flattened against Rob’s chest, his pelvis starting to sway against Rob’s, with a knot in his loose braies to rival Rob’s own already substantial erection. The lad’s mouth had returned to his ear, tongue darting. As he slid one hand from Rob’s chest downward, seeking then finding, Rob sucked in a sharp breath, started to speak again.

  Again, the stable lad covered his words, only this time with his mouth.

  It was gentle, asking. Rob answered it with his tongue, probing, and the lad whimpered into his mouth, pressed closer. Slim, agile fingers made quick work of unlacing his leather breeks, bared him, curled about him, began to tug. Neither were Rob’s hands idle; it was a mere matter of one tie, at the top of the lad’s thin-worn braies, then Rob was fisting him, slow and firm, and the lad was kicking his braies aside, pushing into Rob’s hand even as he coaxed Rob likewise.

  No words, just need. Hands stroking, lips and tongues tangling, quick and growing frantic, the lad giving tiny whimpers against Rob’s collarbone as he shuddered and spilled into Rob’s hand. Rob gave his own whimper, first as the lad’s hand left him, then a gasp as the lad pushed him against the partition behind them and knelt down, unlaced Rob’s boots and pulled them, peeled him from his breeks. The lad knelt lower; there was the quick touch of a tongue to first one instep, then the other, then the brown head came back up. Paused at the level of Rob’s hips. Leaned forward, covered him, took him in.

  It didn’t take much, not with this, not as keyed up as he was. Just a hint of teeth, and wet nap of a very agile tongue, and a hand stroking and cupping his testicles, and Rob was driving forward, clutching hay-strewn brown hair with one hand and smothering his groans into the other, finally biting down so the silence… heady, sacred silence… would not be supplanted.

  The lad was peering up at him, expectant, and more by instinct than anything, Rob took the lad’s hands and pulled him to his feet, laid kisses into those palms. Knelt and ran his lips along the lad’s feet, then his belly, then rose and kissed his mouth. Lingered there, savoring the sweet-salt still lingering on the lad’s tongue.

  The lad stepped back, knelt to grab up his braies, then gestured to his bed. Rob frowned, started to shake his head, but the lad merely smiled, gestured again, making it very plain that Rob was to stay there. Then he bowed, murmured, “Bendith, lord.”

  And disappeared into the shadows.

  GAMELYN SPENT the first quarter of the night wishing he was elsewhere. He didn’t even climb into bed; instead, he clambered up into his window and watched the wind whip the tree line into sinuous shapes across the rise of the waning moon.

  His jaw had subsided from sullen throb to pleasant buzz.

  And he wanted to see the stag again.

  But again, he didn’t, for reasons he wasn’t even sure how to elucidate. Gamelyn had never before questioned the need to hunt anything, but had found himself secretly hoping the white stag would stay wily, free and alive.

  No stag. But his breath caught in his throat as someone inched out into the courtyard below.

  Rob. He obviously wasn’t sleeping, either, as he trod carefully out from the stable block, looking either way, cautious. He looked as if he was about to do something wayward, or devious.

  He did neither. He tossed the pitch of hair back from his face, lifted it up to the sky, extended his arms above him as if warming himself in sunlight. Only it was moonlight, streaming down on Rob as the thick three-quarter face of the moon cleared the trees. Gamelyn watched, a bemused smile tickling at his mouth.

  Well. If Rob was up, maybe he should go down. At least, if neither of them were going to sleep, they could spend the time in something of interest.

  He’d not undressed, so he waited only long enough to pull on his boots. On his way out, he grabbed up a small bag and put some fruit in it—Rob was always hungry.

  His door would groan, but not if he yanked it quickly in the last quarter of the swing inward. This time of night, with guards detailed particularly to the guest chambers in the south wing, there would likely only be one guard making his rounds. He peered both ways down the hall, listening carefully, was merely treated to the sound of Otho snoring several doors down and across. Or maybe it was Otho’s wife, Alais—he truly couldn’t be sure.

  Careful, Gamelyn closed his door behind him. His teachers from Loxley Chase had been thorough—he didn’t make a sound, hardly even breathed. He tiptoed down the passage, passing his father’s massive solar with a fond touch to the wooden door, then carefully past Johan’s door. Johan was as much a night owl as Gamelyn himself, and though Johan spent his sleeplessness in a different fashion, it was never wise to trust he was so occupied he’d not emerge.

  However, emergence was unlikely at this point. There was a rhythmic creaking and grunting coming from beyond the door. Gamelyn slowed, stopped. He knew he shouldn’t, but the illicit lure of such a thing merely made it all the more mesmerizing. Johan had a lot to confess when it came to what he did in his bedchamber—several serving girls in particular seemed to attract his attentions. But if Johan was going to spend time in Purgatory, then so was Gamelyn, since he had an unfortunate vividness of imagination. Recreating what was likely going on behind Johan’s door when the bedstrings popped so was all too easy, fantasy unencumbered by what expertise Gamelyn didn’t have.

  Another dull sound, rhythmic and slow, rived Gamelyn from erotic fascination; he turned toward the main hall entry, identified it as the tread of the guard. He sped the rest of the way and down the back stair just as the guard came walking through.

  A strong draft sucked up the black stair as he disappeared downward, sending welcome cool over the sudden flush of his cheeks. Then it wafted back downward, feathering his hair into his eyes, and Gamelyn smiled. It was comforting, in an odd way—as if the castle was a breathing entity. Not so fine in winter, though. They had to shut off this tunnel and get to the stable from a much less direct route. Putting a careful hand to the wall, Gamelyn kept going.

  His grin widened. Perhaps he could sneak up on Rob! What a triumph that would be. He’d never managed it before, but this was his territory, his place, and one that he knew like the backs of his sword-callused hands. As well as Rob knew his forest.

  He alighted on the bottom stair as noiseless as any ghost, blinked in the dim to catch his bearings. He could hear the lovely rhythm of horses chewing their fodder, an occasional snort, a shift of shod feet against straw and hard-packed dirt. He would have to be mindful making his way through; this stairwell was used by a very few, so sometimes things got moved here and there, and what with the extra horses….

  He froze in place as a soft groan sounded to his left. Then a gasp of breath, then a rustle. Not horse, but human. Reminding himself that the stable lad’s cot was just on the other side of the wall he now leaned on, Gamelyn forced his muscles to relax. Likely the lad was murmuring in his sleep.

  Better
to check, though. Using the wall as prop and concealment, he peeked around it just to check.

  His breath staggered, slipped, then nearly choked him.

  The stable lad wasn’t asleep.

  And Rob wasn’t out in the moonlight anymore.

  But it was as if he was still basking in it, neck arched, head flung back against the partition, mouth parted in an aching, endless gasp. Gamelyn found himself echoing it, clinging to the cool stone of the wall, staring mindlessly while the stable lad ran his hands and mouth over Rob’s body as if he were performing some sacrament.

  It couldn’t have been more than a moment, but it felt like forever, with something strange… foreign… painful… coursing through Gamelyn’s own limbs, pulsing as if to match the beating of his heart, stiffening him from nape to knees.

  Gamelyn wasn’t sure how he got up the stair without being seen or somehow heard. But he did, and he closed the door behind him, leaned up against it and panted like a mad dog, eyes wide into the darkness.

  He spent the second quarter of the night squirming and aching hard. He spent the third quarter easing that ache—not just once, but thrice.

  Then he crawled from bed and spent the remainder of the night on his knees.

  “ALWAYS, YOU must ask before you take. Seek the enaid—the soul—of the mere, for sympathy and benison, so that you shall See true in its waters.”

  Marion had done as instructed; asked of the mere, then gathered the fresh water just below where the upper rivulets fed in and not where it drained out into the stream leading toward the village. Beginnings were easier to parse than endings—too many paths between here and there, too many things that could be set in motion to ken a reliable future.

  And she was still learning.

  Now Marion was on her knees, hands cupped over the bowl. Dew shimmered in the grass about her, the silver bowl of lake water glinted on the small, woven wicker stand before her. It was predawn, that time when the sun’s radiance was just beginning to light the horizon of the distant hill leading to Loxley; that quiet-calm stillness when day held its breath, as if waiting to see what would come with the sun.