Greenwode

by J Tullos Hennig

  “I don’t und—”

  “Don’t you?” Cernun angled forward so abruptly that Rob jerked back, butting up against the oak. The old man’s eyes began to gleam, hot as the need-fires on Beltain, and like smoke from those huge fires came the ghost-stag, wavering into being, coalescing between them. Black as night, fire-coal eyes, horns spread wide against the moonlit trees; the rank smell of must and the bitter-soft taste of earth tickling at the back of Rob’s throat….

  You stand firm, proud. It was Cernun’s voice, but… not. Do not presume upon mere mettle over long, Princeling. You must move, swift and sure. Time is catching us up, twining us fast.

  There was no longer a question of who spoke: god or man. One was human, possessed of mercy and doubt; the other older than the trees, giving quarter to no trace of weakness. The Horned Lord leaned closer, hot breath gusting over Rob’s cheeks, purling down against his throat. It chilled, making as if to ice panic into Rob’s very bones. Settling his spine against the hard wood, he snarled back.

  Good. You show no fear but…. Nostrils flaring, the Horned Lord snuffed a sharp breath. I can smell it, nevertheless. A small chuckle. You think you know fear? You know nothing, boy. Nothing. But you will.

  Rob reached out quite by instinct, felt only the tender, new tendrils of the hawthorn to hand. Instead he dug his fingers into the bark of the oak and closed his eyes. Not that it mattered—he could still See the Horned Lord, limned in gilt against the darkness….

  Even now, you reach for innocence, set yourself against the oak and hope he will hold your back. But first must he be woken from an unwary, unwise slumber. For if the coppicing comes before the waking, it is doubtful he can survive.

  “New tendrils grow, from a coppice.” Rob found his voice. It shook, soft and hoarse, answering on mere instinct, yet his answers made no more sense than the questions. “An oak’s roots grow deep.”

  Aye. They do. And that might yet be your undoing. Do you really think yourself able to cozen him in? Is he prepared to draw back a scratched and bleeding hand? For Oak is ever your rival, is he not?

  Silence. Breath held behind his teeth, breath fading from his neck, the Horned Lord’s visage wavering as if the air had thinned.

  Then He scattered, flits and sparks melding into mist, and….

  Darkness.

  Rob sucked in a huge breath, opened his eyes. They were smarting.

  And Cernun was gone.

  Entr’acte

  “I’LL NOT fight you, Adam.”

  “You know why I’ve come, George.”

  Aye, he knew. Just as he’d known why Adam had to come. There was no choice, no choice for any of them, really.

  Why had he ever believed there might be one?

  They had come riding, five of Sheriff de Lisle’s soldiers led by the king’s forester, over the land George’s father had worked, and his before him. George had hoped his son would work it, after him, but he should have known. Will was no likely farmer.

  His neighbors had disappeared, were no doubt huddled in their cots, unsure whether disaster might rub off on them as well. He didn’t blame them for that. Again, what choice did they have?

  The soldiers had dismounted, tied their horses, and waited just inside the wicket gate of his steading as Adam had come to his door. At least they gave Adam that much deference. Of course, Adam had worked hard to gain that respect, to ensure the safety of his people; likely it didn’t hurt that the leader of de Lisle’s small contingent was the English captain who’d been with them when this entire mess had started. Stutely looked uncomfortable.

  Good. It was good to know that an outsider saw the wrong of what was happening.

  “Where is he, George?”

  There was such misery in Adam’s blue eyes, misery to set the world wailing, more than in George’s own heart at this moment.

  He’d cried all his tears. Said all his good-byes. There was only this one left.

  “Gone. You waint find him.”

  Adam closed those eyes, shook his head. “You know what’ll happen. He’ll be made wolfshead, outlaw. Anyone can hunt him by rights, from nobleman to serf.”

  “And he’ll be free. Not caged like an animal for killing a beast.”

  A muscle ticked in Adam’s cheek. “Then,” he said, very soft, very controlled, “I will have t’ take you.”

  “Aye, you will. As I said, I’ll not fight you.”

  Adam stepped closer, voice low. “If I take you, if you confess the crime… ’twill likely appease them.”

  “Even so.”

  Adam closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, then opened them. They gleamed suddenly, with unshed tears. “Then we understand each other.”

  “In this, we do. In others?” George shook his head. “The time comes when nowt we do will appease them. When we’ll have no choice but to hide in shadows and strike as we can. As my boy did. Adam, no child should have to see such a thing done to his mother.”

  “I know. I know, and I’m sorry.”

  “I know you are, Adam, else I’d not be standing here with you now. But you dinna understand. Not really.”

  “And you don’t understand why I’ll not let these things happen. The time for fighting… ’tisn’t now. Too many will die.”

  “Are we not dying, now?” George’s voice rose slightly.

  Behind Adam, Stutely leaned forward, frowning. Adam knew it; he turned and shook his head. Stutely nodded, crossed his arms, and set to wait.

  “Heed me, George,” Adam returned. “To protect our people, we play their game.”

  “I’ve heeded you long, master of the Shire Wode. You and the one before, you long held light into a darkening forest. We have known… peace. Contentment. Yet more and more, you uphold laws we’ve no say in making, see justice that waint apply to us. We’re safe, aye. And all the while the Sacrifice is winnowed to a mere blood-letting—a nick here, a slice there, a slow seepage of what dignity and pride we had.” George shook his head. “Worse things than death stalk us, Horned One. Have y’ forgotten?”

  “I would give my life for my people!”

  “As I give mine for my son.” George watched as Adam’s gaze flickered. “You have a son, Adam. What will his future hold? What power can even a god’s son hold when he bears the weight of such shackles?”

  “George—” It shook, then Adam looked down. “You ent Seen what I have,” he whispered. “You know nowt of what crux my son is perched upon.”

  George also took his voice down, a bare murmur. “I’ve no Sight as you and your woman, master, but still I see where this path of submission, of pretending, will lead. They’ll see our kind wiped from the face of our own Mother—do we just let it happen without a fight?”

  “We’ve the right to make that choice for ourselves. Not for others. That ent the purpose of the covenant.”

  “Sometimes there is no choice. Like now.” George extended his hand, palm up. In it was a dagger.

  The soldiers saw the motion and went abruptly alert. The captain took a step forward.

  Adam merely met George’s eyes. Then he nodded, reached out, and took the dagger.

  George lowered his head. “You’ll come across my measure, coiled beneath th’ mattress.” Cernun had been the one to cut the cord to George’s measure and mark it with his blood; his own initiation to the covenant. He’d been not much older than Will. “I’d prefer none else find it.”

  Adam nodded.

  “Give it to th’ Mother for the fires, when it’s over. If you see my boy….” His voice, abruptly, refused to work.

  “I pray I never see him again,” Adam said, gently.

  XI

  “GO ON, lad, go with your brothers. A nice long hunt, a chance to test what new skills Roberto has taught you.” Sir Ian peered at him, gaze canny. “I know you were fond of the forester and his son. This will be just the thing to get your mind off all this….”

  As if that was likely. He’d tried over the past few days, really tried, to find a cha
nce to slip away, head for Loxley. Fate had foiled him every time, and now?

  Now Gamelyn was torn between several books he’d found, the snack he’d cadged from the kitchens, and the nearly packed rucksack for the hunting expedition that was due to set out at any moment.

  This, when those two books he’d unearthed actually had something of significance in them. One was old, about the runic alphabets—Gamelyn hadn’t realized there were such things—and the other was newer, a treatise on ceremonial consecration of weapons by one of the founders of the Knights Templar.

  “Christ’s wounds, Gamelyn, how long does it take you to pack a day’s bag?” This from Otho, striding down the hall and into his chambers. “The horses are ready, Johan and I are ready… my wife doesn’t take this long at her toilet!” Otho trailed off, exasperated as he spied the opened books on Gamelyn’s bed next to his pack. “You aren’t taking those.”

  Well, it had been tempting. “Nay, of course not!” Gamelyn retorted. “I wasn’t reading them just now, either. They’re from this morning, and—”

  Otho rolled his eyes. “Lad. Are you ready?”

  Gamelyn grabbed up an apple, tried to grab up his cloak and his pack, finally ended up sticking the apple in his teeth so he could gather the rest. “’M ’eathy nah.”

  “Then shift yourself. The day’s wasting!”

  THEY’D HERDED the boar into a natural cul-de-sac of tangled brush—or so they thought, for things had gone disappointingly quiet. There were six huntsmen accompanying them—all had been send out in a wide arc as beaters and diversions, to drive their quarry farther in. Gamelyn was trailing his two elder brothers step for step as they approached where the boar should, by all rights, be.

  “If you hear anything, shoot,” Johan ordered. “If it is a boar you won’t stop it with one bolt or even two, but hopefully you’ll slow it down a bit until I can get a go with the pike.”

  They crept forward, weapons poised, ready. Behind and to the side, the huntsmen began to fan out even more into their semicircle, purposeful and noisy.

  “I hope it hasn’t flanked us,” Otho muttered.

  The forest was quiet. Too quiet, Gamelyn knew. Everything already knew they were here. Including their quarry. Wherever the boar had gone, it wasn’t near.

  This was pointless. Rob would have given up the stalk already, be casting for new spoor. Marion would be climbing a tree, stealthy-silent—she had a longer eye than her brother and Gamelyn both, was the better scout.

  It was a startling realization, that he seemed to know more forest craft than his brothers. He was so accustomed to being the weaker link of their hunting trine at Loxley.

  A rustle in the bushes to his right. Gamelyn slowed, slid his eyes toward it.

  Otho and Johan kept going.

  Gamelyn gave them a puzzled look, shook his head, and resumed creeping after them. Perhaps he’d imagined….

  Again. Louder.

  Gamelyn turned, saw something close to the ground, twitching in an odd fashion. Odd, because whatever it was seemed not to realize there were dangers about and kept moving. Gamelyn let his brothers go on, hesitated then, curling his finger steady on his crossbow trigger, took a few steps closer.

  And froze as he saw it: creeping silent, black as soot. Golden eyes raised to his, stark and glittering, and white teeth shone beneath a warning snarl.

  No fear. They’ll sense it.

  Muscles quivered and the wolf set back on his haunches, ever so slightly. Gamelyn snarled back and pulled the trigger.

  The crossbow bolt loosed just as the wolf leapt. There was a harsh, thick thud, a ki-yi that shrieked harsh into Gamelyn’s ears, and the black wolf fell nearly at Gamelyn’s boots, the crossbow bolt buried deep between his front legs.

  “Gamelyn?”

  “Hoy!”

  Gamelyn looked up, saw his brothers standing a stone’s throw away. They looked stunned.

  He was a bit surprised, himself.

  Reaching down with his crossbow, he nudged at the wolf, just making sure. It was quite dead. But the strange rustling that had alerted him in the first place was still going on.

  Gamelyn stepped over the wolf and took careful steps toward the rustling. It had gotten louder. His brothers were striding back toward him. Otho gave a warning hiss, but as Gamelyn rounded the small tangle of bushes, he saw merely a hare. The wolf had obviously already gotten to it; the hare was on its side, thrashing and bloodied, mortally injured.

  He reached down, picked it up. It wasn’t even aware of him, still in paroxysms. Brows twisting, Gamelyn cradled warm, soft fur for a moment, then gave a sharp twist of its neck. The rabbit shuddered, then went limp.

  “Hoy, lapin, it seems you have also slaughtered not only your enemy but your namesake for our fires today!” Johan said, coming over to look at the limp body in Gamelyn’s hands. “Excellente!”

  “Bloody hell, Gamelyn, did you smell them coming, or what?” Otho was laughing. “Are you part wolf yourself?”

  “Fitting, then, that our little brother will have a wolf pelt to adorn the foot of his bed.” Johan grinned, sly. “Unless you’d like the silver pennies.”

  “Silver pennies?”

  “You know. Thruppence for a wolf’s head. More if the wolfshead happens to be two-legged, granted.” Johan shrugged, toed the dead wolf with his boot. “I’m teasing you; you’re no peasant’s brat in need of a few pennies. Better to keep the skin for your own use. It is very beautiful.”

  “And our shepherds will thank you,” Otho pointed out.

  “You’ll have to fetch and carry yourself, I’m afraid.” Johan was looking off into the distance. “It looks like the men have found sign.”

  Indeed, one of their huntsmen was motioning. Johan gave Gamelyn a friendly slap on the back—which, naturally, could have felled a horse—and strode off.

  “Nice shot,” Otho threw over his shoulder as he began to follow. “I’ll try to send a lad back to help you.”

  Their show of triumph was truly his own: the dawning of respect. Gamelyn put two fingers to his lips, blew a kiss of gratitude in the direction of Loxley and his absent mentors.

  Slinging the spent crossbow at his side, Gamelyn took a piece of lanyard from his pouch and tied the rabbit’s legs together, hung it at his belt. He bent down beside the wolf and, brows quirking, ran a hand down the black pelt.

  It was very beautiful. Again, he felt a pang not unlike he’d felt for the pale stag; actually murmured a tiny prayer and crossed himself before he realized what a total git he was behaving. It was an animal—a dangerous vermin, actually, and he was being foolish. More than foolish. The shepherds lost enough of their sheep to marauding wolves as it was.

  And not that he’d had much choice. That wolf would have killed him in a heartbeat and never thought on him again. It was never on to forget whose territory this truly was.

  Gamelyn smoothed the black fur, gave the body some consideration. It was a big wolf, likely heavy, and the horses were tied a good furlong back. “‘Fetch and carry yourself’, Gamelyn,” he mocked sourly. For someone who spent most of his time saying how ill-grown and soft Gamelyn supposedly was, Johan certainly seemed to think he could do the work of two men in “fetch and carry.” He started to give it a small heft, just to test it. Because frankly he’d never hear the end of it if he had to ask for help.

  He paused mid-motion, frowned. Considered again, but this time upon why, he felt as if there were eyes upon him. His first thought went to the wolf. It was male, not a rangy yearling or a tattered outlier but a full pack member, well fed and strong. Wolves had kin even as people did, in fact mated for life. It was just possible that those eyes he felt upon him were another wolf’s.

  He reached up, slowly, for his crossbow. Let his gaze slide back and forth, then up beneath his brows.

  It was then he saw the stag. Not even a stone’s throw away, coming toward him through the green Wode with steady silence. Its coat was pale ivory, dappled gold and green from the light throu
gh the trees.

  “They be coming back this way, young marster… glory and faith!” The approaching voice staggered off into a gasp.

  Gamelyn shot a glance sideways, saw the young soldier, Much, halt in his tracks then amazingly, slowly, go to his knees.

  Even more amazing, the crème-colored stag did not bolt. He didn’t even blast an alarm. Instead he halted, raised his wide-racked head and peered at them both with mild, amber eyes.

  Some part of Gamelyn’s brain finally heard all of what Much had said: “They be coming back this way….” And Gamelyn’s heart lurched in his chest.

  “Go,” he suddenly hissed, flinging a hand out. “They can’t find you here!”

  In some twist of sanity, it seemed an old man was standing there, leaning on an antlered staff, hair hanging down his back and amber eyes fond upon Gamelyn. He held out a hand, gave a low, soft whistle, smiled….

  Gamelyn squinched his eyes shut, shook his head. When he looked again, there was no man, only the stag giving a small, odd noise—half bleat and half buzz—and, further beyond comprehension, walking closer.

  “Blessed stones, but he’s callin’ tae you, m’lord. You.” Much’s stammered statement sounded as incredulous as Gamelyn himself felt. “He wants you, He does. Best to not make ’im wait ower long,” Much stammered as he made a furtive sign against his chest with his right hand.

  He wants you.

  It didn’t make any sense. Much was mouthing superstitious twaddle—about a stag?—and this entire situation was impossible. Gamelyn walked forward, hands held out. “Get out of here!” he ordered. “Go on! If they—”

  As if in answer, the stag extended his neck, put its nose against his palms.

  The breath snagged in Gamelyn’s chest, both pain and delirious, unaccountable bliss. The stag’s breath heated his palms then curled about them, the warmth traveling up his arms to meet at his heart; even though such a thing was surely impossible, he still felt it, as if the breath had a meaning, a presence that echoed with the roll of air in the stag’s nostrils and the sudden hammer of his heart….