Marion picked up the bridle and began unknotting the rein from the bit. Rob went to the packs to search for rope.
THEY WERE following him.
Gamelyn had stopped at a stream to let Diamant take some air, to offer him several sips of water—not too much, they still had a ways to go—to take several sips for himself from the water skin hung on his pommel.
There was a distinct presence coming from the northeast—a larger one, surely, than an escaped third son guilty of sodomy would merit. Why would they bother?
“Perhaps,” he told Diamant, “they aren’t really after me. Perhaps she just wants to be in on it.”
“Does the smell of blood just make you want more?”
He could believe that. He could still remember the chill it had given him, the light in the Abbess’s eyes when she had talked about “saving” him. “Saving” the shire….
Either way, he had to get there first. Gamelyn mounted and Diamant settled back on his haunches, once more ready to be off. He scratched the stallion’s withers and gave him his head.
THEY WERE still as stones in the trees, dark against the darkening forest. Rob held the makeshift rope bridle with a hand on Arawn’s nose; Marion held his tail, ready to pull at it should he start to lift it, whinny.
It was a medium body of horse, but they were soldiers, armed to the teeth, trotting and cantering like they had somewhere to be. The rumble of them had carried across the land like thunder across a stormy sky, and Rob and Marion had heard them, hidden away long before they had appeared on the horizon.
No good consequence had ever come of any peasant traveler staying on a road to meet a company of horse.
“What are they doing out? Where are they going?”
“I don’t like it,” Rob said. “This is the third patrol we’ve come across….” His breath sucked in. “Look at this one’s banner.”
It fluttered, shadowed with the dusk, with a deep hue dark as clotted blood. As dark and Sight-less as the futures he could no longer sense, only feared.
“That abbess,” he gritted. “’Tis hers. I’m not understanding it, but we have to get home, Mari.”
Entr’acte
THEY SHOULD be here by now.
“Horned One protect us!”
“Protect us… protect us… protect us….”
They would have been here by now. Something must have happened.
“Lady be with us!”
“Be with us… be with us… with us….”
Her worries did not reflect in her face as Eluned raised her arms to the cloudy night sky. The chanting continued about her, a gathering of nearly the whole of Loxley, as well as those, serf and freeman alike, who had traveled across the shire. They circled about her in groups, even as she walked a small circuit within the ancient stones. Cernun crouched, naked and hair unbound, upon the middle altar stone. When Adam appeared, Cernun would disappear, descending into the caverns. The fire flickered at his feet, reflected in the faces of the watchers, against the stones, down from the low-hanging clouds.
She saw the questions in Cernun’s eyes, the worry carefully disguised. The Horned One would appear; did their followers also wonder where the Maiden and Hunter were? Her children, who were supposed to have arrived over an hour ago, in plenty of time for the Fête of Beltain.
It could not occupy her now. Eluned took a staff of wood from an acolyte, raised it high. The chanting ceased. Silence ruled, echoing back from the stones as powerful as any sounds of the throat. No fire. No sound. Yet they all started to sway, first Eluned then the gathering, as if in thrall of the music held beneath the silence. The wind rose, small gusts swirling her hair about her.
She walked forward, thrusting her unlit staff into the small pyre, and the bit of chaff at its end sparked, blazed, broke the silence with a rush and popping. “Dance!” she cried. “Make the power! Call the Hunt!”
Cernun did not move, head bowed, still kneeling in almost fetal position, as if he had no life. As was so. The people must weave the life-spell, raise the power.
Call the god to life.
“Raise the magic.” Eluned began the chant, stepping onto the altar. “Rise. Rise…. Rise!”
The fire leapt into the air, a showering of sparks and a plume of smoke… and Cernun was gone.
“It is time!” Adam’s deep voice rang out. As one, they all turned to find him standing at the key stones, bronze-tipped antlers on his head, clad in deerskin armlets and breeches. Beside him, the horse gathered on its powerful haunches, rearing and plunging, eager.
“The Hunt!” a woman cried out, then another, and soon the glade was alive with gleeful shouts, clapping, voices ringing out with encouragement. “The Hunt! The Lord of the Wode to the Hunt!”
“To the Hunt!” Adam bellowed out in return, and swung up on the horse. With a shout, he whirled the beast beneath him and took off
“Why does he go, Lady?” It was a lad only several years younger than Rob. She felt the fret and pang of absence once again—where were they?—then straightened. The vessel of the Lady must not appear worried, or frail.
“The Horned One rides to Hunt the vision of his tynged. He must chase it, seek the way of it. Only then can he return to his people and his Maiden, drink of the cup then bless the fires in the heat of blood-rut.”
The boy blushed and turned away. Then he jerked backward, stumbled, and fell across Eluned, a crossbow bolt through his throat.
XXVI
GAMELYN OVERTOOK them not far from the crossroads, and would have missed them had Diamant not whinnied and had there not been an answer from the thick cover of trees an ell west.
Arawn. And Rob and Marion sidling out of the trees, and every wary, slow step twinged Gamelyn’s nerves all the tighter.
He had found them. Found them, and now they had to go and warn….
“Loxley!” he shouted. “Get up—we have to go, we have to ride, now!”
Rob was making motions for him to come on. “Get off the road! The soldiers—”
Gamelyn sent Diamant cantering over to the tree line. “Mount up! I know! We have to stay ahead of them!”
Rob’s face went pale. With no more words, he swung up on Arawn’s back, offered an arm for Marion to mount, and as soon as she was pillion, he drummed his heels on Arawn’s ribs and took off.
Diamant spun on his haunches and followed with hardly a word from Gamelyn.
“What is happening?” Marion was shouting above the rush of wind.
“They’re following me!” Gamelyn shouted back
Rob slid him a confused gaze, said nothing. Instead he bent lower on Arawn’s neck.
It wasn’t much farther to the village, but farther yet to the stones. The two horses thundered down the road, toward the crossroads that would take them more swiftly toward Loxley. Arawn was faster, lighter; he’d obviously not galloped much of the way and was fresher; Diamant would go until he dropped, but Gamelyn could feel the great horse was starting to tire, was falling back slightly.
Rob noticed the slowing of Diamant’s pace as well, threw Gamelyn a sharp look.
Then a small company of horse came bearing down upon them from the east branch of the crossroads.
More of the Abbess’s soldiers—no more than four or five—but more than enough to head them off. Crossbows leveled, swords at ready, the small company descended upon them. Rob started to drive Arawn on; Gamelyn grabbed at his rein, halting him.
“What are you—?” Rob rounded on him.
“Trying to not get us shot at!” Gamelyn snapped back as he shoved the scarf from his head and demanded of the outriders, “I am Gamelyn Boundys, son to the mesne lord of Blyth. By what right do you delay us?”
“I beg your pardon, milord, but we have orders to stop and identify any heading toward the border.”
“And you have done so. Let us pass, at once.”
From the north came rumbling, closer than Gamelyn had thought possible. The soldier hesitated.
“I said, let
us pass.”
“Stop them!” came the shout from the approaching riders. “Stop them!”
Gamelyn met Marion’s eyes, then Rob’s. “Go!” he hissed.
Rob kicked Arawn, but it was too late. The soldiers closed in. One grabbed Arawn’s cobbled-together rein; the others leveled their weapons, crossbows and lances, on the riders.
“Let us pass!” Gamelyn growled, brandishing his brother’s sword. “Or I’ll—”
Again, it was too late. The small body of horse came galloping up, slowing and circling behind. A few soldiers from Blyth. And Johan. And the Abbess Elisabeth.
Rob’s breath escaped him in a low, purling growl.
“Rob,” Marion moaned out. “Gamelyn—what is happening?”
“Excellente, petit frêre. Your foolishness has saved us some work after all. Now.” Johan rode over to Gamelyn and held out his hand. “My sword, s’il te plaît.”
Gamelyn was prepared to give him his sword, all right. He drew up, ready to knock Johan into the next shire. Froze before he could even begin the motion.
Rob was watching him. Watching him, and the expression on his face was raw, disbelieving; as if Gamelyn had taken the sword and thrust it deep into Rob’s belly.
And Gamelyn processed, abruptly, all that had been done, and said—more, what Rob had heard in it.
Johan rode between them, breaking the stunned contact. “I said, give me my sword.”
Numbly, Gamelyn let him reach over and take it. All he cared about was catching Rob’s eyes again
He had no chance. Rob had bent forward, reaching up Arawn’s neck. There was a hissing sound, and Arawn suddenly reared up, black head bare and bridleless, front hoofs flailing. The guardsmen beginning to ring him fell back; one who had dismounted was flung aside, face blooded from a hoof strike. Rob was making the hissing noise, with several murmurs peppering it, and it seemed to make Arawn mad; he plunged forward, kicking and striking, with Rob hanging tight to his neck and Marion clinging to him like a limpet. Darting sideways, they whirled and galloped away.
“They’re escaping, you fools!” the Abbess cried. “Stop them!”
The report of crossbow quarrels broke just as Gamelyn spurred Diamant. With a grunt, the stallion leapt in pursuit of Arawn. More bolts chased past Gamelyn’s ears.
“Don’t keep shooting, you idiots!” Johan’s voice rang out. “You’ll hit Gamelyn!”
Why do you care? Why…? Of course. They thought him mad. Enchanted. And Johan was many things, but he did not want the curse of kin-slayer upon his head any more than Gamelyn had wanted him dead in the undercroft….
Arawn took an abrupt detour, heading into the trees.
Gamelyn didn’t stop to think; all that mattered was that look of sudden suspicion he’d seen flickering on Rob’s face, the disbelief on Marion’s. Diamant veered off after Arawn; Gamelyn let the stallion follow. His pursuers were foiled for long moments, enough to him to get a headlong start into the forest on Arawn’s heels. Calls resounded behind him—varied expressions of panic at having to ride into the dense growth. But Gamelyn knew Rob would know a horse-safe path, Rob knew Loxley Chase like he knew the backs of his brown, bow-hardened hands.
Gamelyn didn’t consider that his path would be a beacon to the others just as Rob’s was to him… and by the time he did consider it, it was too late. They were following him.
And then he saw the orange glow lighting the trees.
“HANG ON, Mari, we’re going!” Rob saw the path leading into the Chase and instinctively leaned, used hands and weight and voice to guide Arawn into the forest’s shelter.
Marion didn’t waste any breath on words, just burrowed in tighter against his back. There was an odd tremor in the normal wiry strength of her arms, but her thighs were firm against his, following his movements since she couldn’t see what was going on. Like the games they’d played as children, one blindfolded pillion on the horse, while the other guided them headlong through the Wode.
This was no lark.
And… Gamelyn….
Rob didn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it. Yet every time Rob asked the question there was nothing in answer but the ending; the frayed soot of tynged behind his Sight, curling and cowling him. Everything rational pointed to rightful suspicion; everything in his heart wanted to explain it away, to find that core of belief that had been so firm in him only days earlier. To let it envelop him, wrap him close, murmur love words in his ear and tell him it was a mistake, had to be.
Had to be….
Rob smelled it before he saw it; the sweet-thick tang of wood smoke, the sweet thickness of green wood and foliage mixing in with the sharper, dry taste of straw and wattle-daub. It sent suspicious tendrils into his mind just as he saw the orange glow rising, lighting the lake clearing just east of the village, slatting angry light through the far copse.
Several people burst from the undergrowth into the clearing, sending Arawn backward and snorting.
“Run! They’re burning Loxley!” a man cried, running past them to disappear into the trees.
“Burning?” Marion’s voice was slurred all thick, like clotted blood; she gave a hard shudder against him, tipped sideways.
Rob barely caught her before she fell from Arawn’s back and was nearly pulled over himself. He grabbed to the black mane just in time, turned tumble into slide and twist, landed mostly on his feet with one arm still around…. “Marion?”
Her head lolled against him. Rob clutched her, started to shake her. “Mari!” His voice castrated itself into a choke as his hands came across the arrow in her back. She shuddered back into consciousness as the accidental touch jostled the shaft, let out a raw and smothered cry.
Rob’s knees went weak. He almost fell again, managed by some miracle to keep upright long enough to lower her to the ground. “Marion, please….”
There was a loud, soaring rush of air—wind past the copse, bringing with it ash and heat and the crackle of wildfire. And then soldiers started pouring into the clearing.
Rob let Marion down, swift but gentle, and threaded his bow over his head. There was only one thing to do, and he had to make sure he’d the time to do it.
You must listen, little pwca. You must hear the breath beneath the words.
He was listening. Finally.
An ending.
Thankfully Arawn was still beside them, croup hunched and shivering; Rob snatched his quiver and spared a few more precious seconds to put his cheek against Arawn’s nose. “Wait for her, Arawn-bach,” he whispered. The words would give him the power, but it wasn’t just words—horses knew words, but they more understood feeling, body cant, mind-pictures. “Wait in the trees for her, I’ll send her to you. Go!”
The black bolted for cover.
… make the pact: wed yourself soul and heart’s blood to our sweet green Wode, defend the virtue of our Lady, give our body to our challenge.…
Rob turned on his pursuers, a smile on his face, and put an arrow to nock. Beltain was the time of the Great Marriage—this would be its own giving, its own taking and submission. Drawing in a deep breath, he drew his bow. Drew down the moon of Beltain. Drew the blood rite, this time with fire and death, and poured the moon’s silver light into the fading life of his Maiden.
IN THE few seconds that Gamelyn lost sight of Arawn and he was searching madly ahead, a tree seemed to rise up out of the ground before them. Diamant went right and Gamelyn went left; Diamant kept going and Gamelyn ended up against the tree.
This time, Loxley Chase didn’t keep him. He peeled himself off the tree, staggered to his feet, and kept running. Diamant’s pale croup was disappearing into the trees before him; he set his sight on that and gave pursuit.
He wasn’t sure why, anymore, only that he had to catch Rob. Make him see. Help Marion. Save them all from this mad and horrific catastrophe that had somehow come crashing down on Eden.
The soldiers were all about now. He ended up in a brief and brutal hand-to-hand with a guardsman
who had neither Gamelyn’s skill nor a knife; only the sword that was useless in the close quarters Gamelyn forced upon him.
His own sword was still on Diamant, so Gamelyn took the soldier’s blade. An inferior weapon, but it would do.
He lurched into the clearing, saw the mere shining orange, the sky burnished with flame, the smoke starting to hang in thick hanks through the trees. People were running, screaming, being slaughtered like cattle by soldiers wearing the colors of Nottingham’s sheriff.
But the Abbess herself was there, riding upon the clearing, two soldiers at her stirrups. She looked as if she were observing a picnic. Johan was there, as well, cursing and looking frantically about.
Rob was on the opposite side of the clearing. Marion was lying at his feet. It seemed that there was a vibrating, thick darkness shifting about him, and when Gamelyn looked, Rob’s lips were moving. Every arrow he shot was sent off with a word, and he never missed. He looked to be some darkling angel—surely Lucifer had not been so terrifying leading the rebellion into Hell—cold and systematic, standing over Marion and daring them to come and get her, black hair haloed with the glow of the burning, and the wind blowing it like fire.
ROB WAS running out of arrows and he knew it. He was running out of spells; he’d sucked every last bit of light and air from the still place about him, pouring it—breathing it—into Marion, willing her heart to keep beating. It was working. He could feel it in his own pulse, feel his knees wobbling from the draw of the bow, the draw of Moonsilver and Maiden.
A glint of gold impinged, more in Sight than vision, and he turned, saw his rival stagger into the clearing. Saw him See: the magic of Beltain, the blood and breath.
Lover. It pulsed between them, blood coursing thick-hot through a struggling heart. Rival.
A shiver of consciousness still young and human screamed within Rob—I loved you, I believed in you…! Did you do it? Did you? Why did you?
Greenwode Page 45
