Confession, and a good night’s sleep, and Gamelyn felt like he could draw breath freely in the dim light of false dawn, no longer pinned down by the weight that had threatened to sink him since he had returned to Blyth with too many precarious secrets.
If he was not exactly untainted, he was at least cleansed.
But he would rather be traveling into Eden instead of Worksop.
ROB WAITED.
And waited.
The first days he had spent engrossed with the river counts, tallying up the numbers in his head. Marion preferred to write such things down, but he had a better memory behind his eyes than skill with nib and paper. The days had been too busy to think overmuch on a missing lover, but the nights were different. Rob had eaten himself sick on fresh fish and wallowed in the furs that still smelt of Gamelyn, altogether miserable.
The fourth day he spent in the cavern, cleaning his saddle, which had gotten wet one too many times in the river—and smelt of fish—and had finally thrown it across the room because the fat he used to oil it had him hard as stone and wanting.
The fifth and sixth days were more tallies, cramming more numbers in his head and hoping—unsuccessfully—they would crowd Gamelyn out, and on the evening of the sixth day, Rob realized he had finished his obligation.
He had nothing more to block out the misery, no reason to stay here, plenty of reason to go.
He hadn’t heard the Horned Lord’s voice in over a se’nnight, but that night Rob felt him, crawling under his skin and through his dreams. Nightmares.
It had been pent up too long, all the frustration and fury, all the hurt and longing and possibility of betrayal….
Flirting with death.
Nothing but a game.
Rivalry or rutting, the Horned Lord whispered and ran fingers of flame and smoke through his hair, I care not which. He is yours and you must take him.
“How can I if he’s not here?” he cried back.
The seventh day dawned, and he totally lost it.
Arawn put up with the noise and the banging coming from the cavern, but when the furs came flying out like enormous hairy bats… well, that was it. He spooked, hauled at his picket until it snapped, and thundered off.
Rob ran after him, throwing every vile curse he knew and, finally, as Arawn’s black rump disappeared into the forest, he hurled a dirt clod after him and screamed abuse.
“That’s just fine!—fine, then, you lazy sodding brute! Why don’t you just leave me too? Why don’t you just… just….”
Fury seeped from him, wretchedness took its place, and Rob fled back into his cavern, eyes hot and spilling.
Fell to his knees and sobbed like a child.
Doesn’t want you, never did… nowt but a peasant, no more than a slave to bend your back… you’re bugger-all to the likes of him. Nothing.
He’d never felt like this, so inadequate and miserable and… helpless. Never known such pain since the time those soldiers had yanked his limbs to the four points, ground his face in the dirt and held him down for the lash… never felt like he would die from pain alone since then….
Until now.
Rob wept until his eyes burned, his brain throbbed thick in his skull, and his nose clogged so tight he couldn’t breathe save in rasping, openmouthed pants, his thoughts zigzagging from pain to comfort, whispering them as if to fill the sudden, empty silence.
“Sweet Lady, Marion, I wish you were here. I miss you. I miss your smile, the way you whack me upside m’ head when I’m actin’ addled, that clever brain of yours….” Rob curled up in a ball on the chill, hard floor amidst the wreckage of his haven—of his life—put his head in his hands, and started to laugh. It was bitter, and ragged, but he had to, because there was surely no crying left in him. “Those last two would be most help right about now, pet, because ’tis sure your brother’s thinking with t’ smaller brain in his cod-wrap and needs a good swift clout about now….”
A shadow fell over the cave entrance. Rob froze, hand going to his knife… only he didn’t have it. It was still sticking in the tree where he’d thrown it.
Slowly, every nerve in his body primed—fight or flight—he raised his smeary, clotted-up eyes to the intruder. There was a knife drawn in one hand and, oddly, the coiled-up, broken picket line in the other, and behind, nosing at a broad, well-clad shoulder stood Arawn, covered with mud and blowing, looking as abashed as Rob himself abruptly felt.
“Um,” said Gamelyn, looking around the cavern. Rob abruptly saw it all through startled green eyes: the furs and coverlets lumped and trailing at Gamelyn’s feet, the bedding boughs kicked hither and yon, blackened coals scattered out the entry, tack and rucksacks heaved up against one wall with contents spilled and scattered. “Are you… all right?”
Diamant sauntered into view, pinned his ears, and snaked his head at Arawn. Arawn gave a squeal and lashed out with his hind feet.
Suddenly Gamelyn had his hands full of two sparring horses. He sidled just as Diamant’s front hoof flashed where he’d been. Arawn decided he’d taken enough from the stallion—this was his pasture, after all—and the fight was on in earnest.
“Bloody sods!” Gamelyn burst out, yanking at reins, and Rob lurched up, launched himself into the fray.
It was rather a relief.
Squeals and grunts, shouts, ivory and ebony hides colliding and hoofs flying. Gamelyn cursed as a hoof smacked him in the thigh. Rob snatched at Arawn’s rein, missed. The second time, he snatched it, and between the two of them they pulled and smacked the two horses apart.
Everyone was heaving, staring each at the other, wary and anxious. Gamelyn shook his head and closed his eyes. “They’ve been acting tossers since I found Arawn—”
“I told you not t’ bring the horse, y’ poncy git—hoy, Testicles!” Rob suddenly shouted as Diamant puffed up and reared. “He’s not a mare to be bred, put your rod back in th’ pouch, you flaming daft tunic lifter of a horse—!”
Gamelyn started laughing, then. Hard. And before he knew it, Rob was laughing with him.
“I cannot believe you actually called him a—”
“Aye, that’s right daft comin’ from me, eh?”
“You’ve got to be—”
“A fine rider makes a fine horse—”
They didn’t stop giggling like proper idiots until they’d gotten the horses tethered—across the clearing from each other—and started back to the cavern. It was Gamelyn who sobered first, grabbed Rob by the sleeve.
“Rob?”
Rob looked away, shook his head.
“Rob.” This time Gamelyn pulled him close, peering at him. There was so much behind his eyes, suddenly; too many tangled worries and suspicions raking claws against Rob’s nerves.
In answer, Rob lurched against him. Kissed Gamelyn until his knees weakened, and then pulled him down on the forest floor where they tangled in some bizarre shadow box of the battle they’d just broken up, with just as much desire but toward the opposite of destruction.
Or… perhaps not.
There was something in Gamelyn that Rob suddenly recognized—the fear, the thrill of adrenaline… the fight… flight… how close to the edge they both were running.
He’d learned how to unbuckle the swordbelt, learned how to tug and unravel the hitch-knot at Gamelyn’s thigh, lobbed it aside, and started working on Gamelyn’s breeks. “Where were you?” he growled out.
Gamelyn already had Rob’s tunic off, was ghosting his mouth down Rob’s breastbone. “They wouldn’t let me go.”
“I waited for you—”
“I tried. I kept trying and—”
“I thought your god had taken you back. I wasn’t sure—”
He stilled, hands knotted in Gamelyn’s hair, both of them crouched before the other like two wrestlers at a midsummer fairing, and Gamelyn also went still, clutching Rob’s tunic where he’d pulled it half down his shoulders.
Finished it.
“Wasn’t sure if you’d come back to me.
”
For fear was not an alternative and struggle was what they were meant to do… or so the Horned Lord said….
Then he saw his own fear, reflected in Gamelyn’s eyes.
Then he saw nothing but a blur, because Gamelyn was kissing him again, only it wasn’t tender, wasn’t sweet or hesitant, but keen. Ruthless.
Hard enough, merciless enough, brutal enough to slay even fear.
Fingers sliding, snarling, mouths seeking, suckling, biting. A roll, a shove—again seeming as much a wrestling match as any lover’s tangle—only Gamelyn was not holding back and Rob was getting pinned at every opportunity. A lucky twist gave him the upper hand, and he took it, grabbed Gamelyn’s arm and flipped him over. Held him there, shoving Gamelyn’s forearm up between his shoulder blades, curled hard against his back and pushed his hips against Gamelyn’s buttocks. Gamelyn tried to pull forward, twist around, but Rob wrapped both arms about him, snugged him closer before he could free the one arm, then slid one hand down to curl about his erection and the other up across his chest.
Pushed again. Pumped his hand.
Gamelyn shuddered, his head falling back on Rob’s neck.
“So,” Rob breathed against his ear. “Is it ‘stop’?”—he pushed against Gamelyn’s haunches one more time—“Or ‘don’t stop’?”
A harsh intake of breath and an arch, ever-so-slight, of Gamelyn’s back. “No fear,” Gamelyn whispered suddenly, Rob’s own words back to him. “If you show fear, they’ll have you.”
“Are you afraid, then?” Rob breathed. Because he was. He was.
“Afraid enough,” was the hoarse reply, “to let you have me.”
Rob held him there, both of them trembling, then let him down.
The first push made Gamelyn tense all the more, knock his head into his hands and clutch at his hair.
“Easy,” Rob whispered against his spine. “Easy. I’ll go slow—”
“I… it won’t—”
In answer Rob pushed again, and Gamelyn cried out, a harsh grunt wobbling into a hiss and a bone-deep shudder as Rob thrust even deeper. Then again.
By the fourth slow thrust, Gamelyn was hoving up beneath him. Begging.
Rob worked him, hand and hip and voice. And Gamelyn kept moaning beneath him, sharp breaths into whimpers into growls, and beneath all of it the demand:
More. More…. Harder.
Rob didn’t know what had changed… why… but it sung sweet in his ears, this admission—submission—of soul. It was fear, aye. It was relinquishment of fear. It was throbbing ache into searing pain into fierce, rippling of pleasure… dark and relentless and absolutely, unmistakably devastating.
“I COULDN’T get away. My brother has been at me and at me. Papa wanted me with him, and I couldn’t just….” Another type of confession, just as needful, and almost as raw against his throat. Gamelyn knew his voice was usually soft and unassuming—unthreatening, which was a constant blessing and curse—but now it had an edge to it, felt gritty. And no wonder. The sounds that Rob had driven from him, the hoarse cries that had literally echoed into the forest’s silence. And every time Gamelyn thought of it….
No fear. Fear vanquished, and not only desire but love was sitting atop the carcass, waving victory with a blood-spattered sword. Gamelyn had looked damnation in the eye, spat in it, and begged it to take him. And the only remorse he felt at this moment was that he had been so foolish about something that had been so… bloody amazing. Not only for himself, but Rob.
“I couldn’t just leave him.”
“I understand.”
He pulled Rob closer, buried his face in damp, black locks. They’d retreated back into the caverns, made hasty repairs to the bedding, and settled in to recover. The rushes hadn’t packed quite the same, however, and they would have to find more before night came. For now, Rob was using him as his part of the pallet.
Rob understood.
“And then I had to go and escort Abbess Elisabeth to Blyth. That was another day’s work.” Rob stiffened slightly, and Gamelyn quickly explained, “She’s as bad as Johan, watching me like a hawk. I kept trying, but couldn’t get free. I didn’t know how to let you know what was happening… it was bloody miserable. I’m sorry.”
“So how did you get away, then? What with your brother and that abbess watching you.”
“Papa said he wanted a report on the tallies you’re doing. So Johan sent me to ‘find the forester who was doing the earl’s tallies, even if he’d already gone to Conisbrough’.” Gamelyn smiled, bit at his lower lip. “So. Have I found him, yet?”
“It might take you a while to find this forester.” Rob played along, twining his fingers into Gamelyn’s then cupping their hands against Gamelyn’s chest. “Mayhap the entire night, I’m thinking.”
“Mm. Hard work, looking for the man. Vagrant that he is.”
“What,” Rob said slowly, “does that abbess want with you?”
“Not so much what she wants with me, but that Papa has asked her to find a good place for me. I’m only a third son, after all, and I’ve no prospects outside the monastery.”
“You want to be a monk?” Rob still didn’t raise his head, but he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shudder. Gamelyn realized, suddenly, that they’d never spoken of any future. Ever. They’d shared a few dreams, and wishes and wants….
And Gamelyn wasn’t so sure what he wanted anymore. Outside of this time and this place.
“The monasteries aren’t so horrible. It’s not just about being a monk. I can further my education more there than anywhere else. You talk of tales and stories? There are countless stories contained in the books of the monasteries. So much to read, and learn.”
“Sounds a place Marion might like.” Rob snorted suddenly. “Exceptin’ the males-only rule and the no sex.”
It was meant in jest, but the reality of it was a blow. “Rob,” Gamelyn whispered. “What are we to do?”
“I don’t know.”
They lay quiet, holding tight for long moments, then Rob propped himself up, peered at Gamelyn. “You talk of being damned. Of damnation,” Rob said, ever so soft, and Gamelyn tensed. He’d never been the one to bring it up. Never the one to speak the word save in thrown-aside curses.
“I told Marion once that damnation wasn’t what you claimed. I had me own thoughts upon it, but now I know. It’s what my heart feels every time I have to watch you walk away and know you might not ever be comin’ back.”
Gamelyn closed his eyes. “I’ve one for you. All the while I was at the castle without you, knowing that you were here, so close to me… but you might as well have been in another existence… that was Hell.”
“You asked me once what I believed in. I believe in this.” Rob raised their hands, laced together like an embroidered bodice. “I believe in this.” First a kiss to their hands, then a kiss to Gamelyn’s pale, freckled shoulder, then one against his cheek. Gamelyn turned his head, tried to catch Rob’s mouth with his own, but Rob ducked his head, one side of his mouth tucking and turning up.
“Trickster,” Gamelyn said against his ear. “Tease.”
“Is a thing worth believing in if you can catch it too easily?” Rob murmured. He nearly slipped from Gamelyn’s grasp, instead gave a yip as Gamelyn tangled hard fingers in his black hair and held on.
Then Rob turned to him, kissed him dizzy, then pushed him back and said, hoarsely, “I believe in you.”
From fear into love. It was enough to be here, be with Rob, think of him and deny Hell… no, embrace Hell.
Because if Rob was going to Hell, Gamelyn wasn’t going to let him go alone.
XXII
“ARE YOU trying to have yourself shagged so hard that riding might be painful?”
“Mm,” Rob said, only this time it was a purr as he wrapped his arms around Gamelyn’s neck and licked at Gamelyn’s lower lip.
Of course, Gamelyn was already unsure he was going to have the most comfortable ride himself. And if Rob had his way…. “We a
re expected to arrive no later than today, if you remember.”
“An’ that ‘lord and master’ voice waint work on me. You expectin’ me to bow? Or beg?” A snort. “I’ll make you beg, I will.”
“And you honestly think I don’t know that by now?” Gamelyn decided they could just leave the horses saddled. It was not even afternoon yet. They had time. “You’d better get on with it, then. We really do have to arrive there sometime today—”
Rob abruptly shoved away from him; any protest Gamelyn thought to make died aborning as he saw the wary light in Rob’s eyes, and the hand that dropped, instinctive, to his knife. Gamelyn put a hand to his sword, then heard it. Far away, a rhythmic pace that could only be hoofs approaching.
Gamelyn started to speak; Rob put a hand to Gamelyn’s lips, head cocking sideways. He frowned, shook his head, held up one finger. Gamelyn reached down, pulled his sword from its sheath as Rob slid silently to Arawn’s off side and unlaced his bow from his pack.
They couldn’t hide, with horses all saddled and packed.
So they waited, Gamelyn with his sword and Rob with an arrow to string and a few stuck, as he often did, close to hand in a hasty knot of hair at his nape. The unseen horse was advancing unerringly toward their camp; Diamant challenged it.
“Should’ve tied a bloody stone to his tail,” Rob muttered, half drawing his bow.
The other horse answered, and Arawn nickered distinct welcome as the arrival came jogging into the clearing. Rob sucked in a surprised breath, then muttered a curse and relaxed his push on the bow. Gamelyn also recognized the riders: the burly, brown-haired man and the flame-haired young woman seated pillion behind him.
Marion swung her leg over and slid to the ground. She had a smile for Gamelyn and a pat of her hand to his cheek as she passed him and gave Rob a hard hug. Rob was smiling, that lovely wide-open expression that so seldom graced his features, and he swung her about, hugging her tight.
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