“Uncover before your lord!” The sadistic little pig, still behind Gamelyn, tangled hard fingers in the woolen scarf about his ears and yanked it away. Gamelyn grabbed it just before it throttled him; the captain seemed satisfied, did not press the matter. Damp oozed down his nape, and Gamelyn caught a whiff of vomit; he had worn the wrap first to ward away the damp Channel passage and now against the crisp wind rattling the tent flaps.
A snort from the Templar. “Well, there’s no doubt he fits the physical description here.” He brandished the parchment; Gamelyn’s eyes rose to it then chased away. “The hair alone…. Leave us, Etienne.”
“My lord, he came with a horse. A fine courser.”
“And this is my concern how? Other than he’s well equipped and I am grateful for it.”
“He’s a mere squire—”
“Who will likely earn his knight’s spurs anon, as he is not baseborn. You are covetous, Etienne, and you will see the chaplain for it before night’s end.” There was an almost-lazy threat beneath the words, merely emphasized by the opulent baritone; Gamelyn snuck a look at the sadistic little… at Etienne… and saw the threat blossom apprehension in the narrow face. “I will myself come and ensure that you give such a valuable animal into the care of my own groom. Va t’en. Vite!” the Templar added as Etienne hesitated further.
Etienne obeyed, retreating from the tent. Gamelyn breathed a bit easier; he had not liked leaving Diamant tied outside all packed up like a charcoal burner’s nag. But only a bit, as he was left, kneeling alone, before the Templar.
“You’re a quiet one.”
Ah, but Rob would have laughed himself sick at that one….
And the great, aching hole opened up again, making Gamelyn sway sideways and put a hand to the chill, well-trodden mud to steady himself.
Enough. He would not do this anymore. Enough.
“Get up, lad. You will be my squire, not my serf.”
Gamelyn resumed the relentless backfilling of the despairing rent in his soul, got up. Slow, wary, he watched his new master the entire while. The Templar was some inches taller than Gamelyn, his frame lean but built up into a power that gave suitable promise beneath the white tunic with its bloody cross. His brown hair was cropped short, beginning to grizzle; his beard similarly grayed and trimmed. He met Gamelyn’s gaze and matched it, edged keen and glinting pale by the flickers of lantern light.
But his eyebrows were drawn together, considering. He seemed… nonplussed.
“Well. No doubt I’ll talk enough for the both of us.” Once again the Templar consulted the roll of parchment Gamelyn had presented him. “It says here your father has but recently died. Your brother has given you a proper writ of lineage, stating you are Gamelyn Boundys de Blyth, third son to Sir Ian, mesne lord of Blyth and noble vassal to Huntingdon and King Richard. He states, here, your intent to pledge yourself to Crusade for absolution of your sins.” The eyebrows drew together even tighter, then relaxed. One climbed upward. “Hard to know what sins a sixteen-year-old lad can truly claim.”
Gamelyn clenched his jaw, said nothing.
“Hm. I see that none of this amour fraternel kept your brother from sending you in lieu of the scutage he could have paid for your service.”
Brotherly love? Again, Gamelyn clenched his jaw….
“You were the one who cozened our father to send so many marks to Ely’s monastery; now you will make up for that lack. Our king demands scutage; instead he shall have you. If we want to keep these lands our father worked so hard to gain, then sacrifices must be made….”
Sacrifice. What will you sacrifice, Summerling? The velvet-deep voice of Rob’s god had queried… then had not sounded again, not even in the depths of nightmare.
He was, truly, bereft.
The Templar was still watching him, still seemed… curious? “No doubt, however you inconvenienced your brother, the worst of those sins was likely mere proximity.”
Ah, yes. Sins.
If he lived to see ninety-nine, he would never atone for what sins the fires of Beltain had wrought. Nightmare had become reality: all of them, dead.
Even his father. The illness had taken him that same night, and Gamelyn hadn’t been there. Hadn’t said good-bye. Everything was lost, had in truth been wiped from Gamelyn’s existence in that moment when Rob’s hot, dark eyes had leveled down the arrow he aimed at Gamelyn and screamed: Rival. Lover. Betrayer.
They had dragged Gamelyn’s unconscious body back to Blyth; he had woke, chained like a mad dog to the first convenient barrier—a buttress in the main hall. Otho had been the one to explain, painstaking and patient, how when they’d brought Gamelyn back to the castle and managed to revive him, he had, indeed, gone a little mad. Drawn a dagger on the Abbess, taken out several guards and nearly Johan as well.
Under the circumstances, what choice was Johan to make?
“The church might be loathe to take in a madman; the Crusade, however, is full of them. Otho has insisted you be given a choice, petit frêre: this is your choice. You can either ride to your new appointment of your own will, or I can deliver you there tied hand and foot. But you will go and be gone….”
“Well,” the Templar said. “Not an uncommon predicament in these troubled times; you are one of many secondary sons marching with us. It is no cause for shame.”
His throat still too tight and thick to speak, Gamelyn bowed his head, acknowledging the kind words.
“I knew your father, lad. Sir Ian was brave, fought in Palestine like a tiger. You could do worse than emulate him.”
Strangely, this unclenched Gamelyn’s throat, made it possible to say, quiet, “Thank you, my lord Chevalier.”
The Templar blinked, taken aback, and Gamelyn realized it was the first thing he’d actually said. Then the Templar shrugged. “I would hazard you’ve heard more than a few tales about your new master… or his Order, I should say.”
It was Gamelyn’s turn to blink.
“Eh, boy? Have you heard we sacrifice virgins upon the full moon, eat the hearts of our enemies? That we worship Heathen idols and lie with each other instead of women?”
Well, Gamelyn considered grimly, the last two should suit him just fine….
Enough! He slapped misery mid-whine and tipped it into the never-ending hollow; began, again, to backfill.
“The women which, I assume, we sacrifice.” The Templar gave a derisive snort. “Hear me, Gamelyn Boundys de Blyth, you are now squire to Chevalier Hubert de Gisborough, Templier, Master and Commander to Hirst Preceptory of Yorkshire. I do not answer to Church, Crown, or any idle gossip. I deny nothing. I admit nothing. It is no one’s business but our own, and if you have the leanings insinuated in this letter, then you might have the Holy Orders within your grasp should you act with humility and prudence. You will do well to keep your mouth shut. Which I assume,” the Templar rolled up the parchment with a swift twist, “from these past moments we have spent in each other’s company, will not be a hardship for you.
“So. I know enough of why you’re here in Normandy—”
Actually, you really don’t, and that’s just fine.
“You’ve been sent to me because, as it happens, my junior squire was killed in a bizarre accident. Run over by a loose tourney horse. He was a good lad, but stupid. Clumsy. And couldn’t write a blessed word… can you write, boy?”
“Yes, my lord Chevalier.”
The Templar’s gray eyes lit up. “Really? Can it be possible you achieve more than a pathetic scrawl?”
“Yes, my lord Chevalier.” Gamelyn was beginning to take note of more than the minimalist details of tent and Templar. All about, on tables and stacked in open trunks, were an assortment of tomes and parchments being packed. It loosened his voice even more. “I can write Latin as well as both Langue d’oc and Langue d’oïl. I used to pen letters for my father. He often remarked upon my steady and legible hand.”
Pride, Gamelyn. Pride will be your death….
If only. Now, ’twas al
l that was left.
“Bloody marvelous!” the Templar exclaimed, his voice a smooth power of accompaniment to the slap of his hand against the table. “And you seem to know words of more than one syllable. Dare I hope your reading is as easy as your spoken vocabulary?”
“I can read, my lord Chevalier.”
“But do you like it, lad?”
“Never liked reading. Too many thoughts gathered all ripe in one place, too many scrawls and marks t’ make anyone’s head full to bursting. You and Marion can have it, and welcome….”
“I….” And bugger and piss, but his throat was trying to close up again. “I do, my lord Chevalier.”
“Excellent. You’ll be a goodly improvement over my last squire—rest his soul.” The Templar peered at him, searching. Gamelyn dropped his own gaze, uncertain. “Well. You’ve come far from home, and will be farther yet, anon.”
“I’ll go. Of my own will. There’s nothing left for me here….”
“We’ll see what you’re made of. A few cautions, then. When you do address me, it will be as ‘Commander’, or ‘my lord Commander’. In actuality, I prefer you not address me unless I speak directly to you; again, I assume this will not be undue hardship. You seem not overly made of chatter.”
“Yes, my lord Cheva… my lord Commander.”
“Go, then. See that your horse and baggage is tended to, and report to Etienne. He is the sergeant in charge of the squires. He has taken up the duties of Confanonier since that unfortunate man was killed in a sortie north of here, but he is not of noble blood, so you will address him merely as Sergeant. It annoys him, but we all have gadflies we must endure. If you have questions, Etienne or your fellow squires are the ones you will ask. I am not your nursemaid. You are no peasant, so we will find a boy to see to your basic needs, but you are new and shall work your way into favor no less than anyone. You are not one of us yet, mind.”
And may never be. What Holy Order would take me now?
“Va t’en.”
“Yes, my lord Commander,” Gamelyn said and bowed out of the tent into the wind and the rain.
Worksop Abbey
Autumn of 1190, ACE
YOU WILL find the abbey a safe and holy place, the Reverend Lady had promised, and so she had found it. The stone walls had enclosed and clothed the mother-naked bairn that she was. Her life had truly started anew. No doubt for the better, or so Sister Deirdre would say; even if there was something about Sister Deirdre that was somehow unsound, tainted.
No doubt it was due to such feeling that she had not quite trusted to drink the draughts Sister Deirdre had provided when she had first been brought to the abbey from the castle, bundled up and taken away in a cart not unlike the one used for the dead. The secrecy was necessary; there was an evil spirit loose in the castle, the Reverend Lady had explained, an unfortunate man driven mad by the same evil ones who had tried to sacrifice her to their demon, and her spirit could not be contaminated with his. She had heard howling, like a demented wolf… and it followed her into dreams when she poured Sister Deirdre’s draught into the piss pot instead of drinking it.
No, not just dreams. Nightmares. Of horned demons and naked worshippers, of blood and fire and a hooded figure leaning over her in the dark, as if to steal her, breath and spirit….
From that night forward, she took the draught, and the dreams stopped.
There had been talk of traveling, since she had recovered so quickly—a miracle, the Reverend Lady said, when they had found her in the forest. God Himself had smote the filthy pagans about her and it had been the Reverend Lady who had first put hands upon her, found her not dead, but healed of her grievous wounds. A miracle. Traveling had been an exciting thought. But when she went too far from stone walls, too close to the tangled horrors of the woodland surround, the headaches would start, and the half-memory/half-nightmarish things would swirl about her, as if she held some sort of recognition for them.
As if she were unclean.
It would get better, Sister Deirdre promised. Once the spirits had found her unassailable by anything but God, they would cease their caterwauling, the Reverend Lady insisted. She should stay cloistered, and pray.
The barren stone would protect her.
She was eager to do so. The abbey of Worksop was a proud edifice to do God’s work, but also held a private chapel for those who did not choose to open themselves to secular scrutiny, and a separate dormitory to the same ends. She was given a tiny cell, and a simple white shift to wear until the Bishop could come and witness her case. It was not so simple as taking oaths or vows, the Reverend Lady had explained; a novitiate needed to be in a state of grace to take communion, and considering the miracle, surely she was, but…. It was a man’s world, at the end of it, and the Archbishop wanted to see this wondrous nearly martyred victim for himself, to judge.
And when she asked for a name, at least—a name with which to cloak herself to meet this uncompromising Archbishop—the Reverend Lady told her she might choose herself. When she spoke the first name that rose to her tongue, it seemed to give them pause, but it… fit. Was hers, in a world where nowt belonged save the sound and feel of it upon her tongue.
“Marion,” she said. “My name is Marion.”
More from J Tullos Hennig
Book Three of the Wode
Robyn Hood is the undisputed ruler of the wild, green Wode. Reunited with his sister Marion and his lover Gamelyn, Robyn and his band of outlaws seek to raise the Ceugant—the magical trine of the Old Religion—against the tyranny of Church and Crown. Yet their forest kingdom is roiling with conflict. Marion has been made welcome, but old shackles and new fears hamper her true promise. Gamelyn is torn between oaths of heart and head—and the outlaws never let him forget he was but recently Guy of Gisbourne, defrocked Templar and Robyn’s fiercest enemy.
When a lone traveler is waylaid on the road, a common occurrence quickly proves uncommon. Knight and Maiden, Archer and Men, all are conscripted to aid a Queen’s—and ultimately a King’s—ransom. For beneath winter’s chill is awakening the deepest of magics, and there are those who seek the power of Robyn Hood and his Shire Wode for their own ends.
J TULLOS HENNIG has had varied professions over a lifetime—artist, dancer, teacher, equestrian—but has never successfully managed to not be a writer. J Tullos is blessed with an understanding spouse, kids, and grandkids, is alternately plagued and blessed with a small herd of horses and a teenaged borzoi who alternates leaping over the furniture with lounging on it.
And has, for the entirety of that lifetime, been possessed by a press gang of invisible “friends” who Will. Not. S.T.F.U.
Correspondence welcomed through the website: jtulloshennig.net and e-mail: [email protected].
By J Tullos Hennig
7&7 - A DSP Publications Anthology of Virtue and Vice
THE WODE
Greenwode
Shirewode
Winterwode
Published by DSP Publications
www.dsppublications.com
Published by
DSP Publications
5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Greenwode
© 2014 J Tullos Hennig.
Cover Art
© 2013 Shobana Appavu.
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Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format can
not be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact DSP Publications, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or www.dsppublications.com.
ISBN: 978-1-63216-437-7
Digital ISBN: 978-1-63216-438-4
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014944945
Published October 2014
v. 2.1
First Edition published by Dreamspinner Press, January 2013
Printed in the United States of America
Greenwode Page 48
