He leaned back in his carved chair, his small button eyes closing so that he could the better re-live the memory of the last day. He had been given a beating by the senior servant, Joaper, and the whip had peeled away the skin of his back. He was taking it as he took all beatings - in a grim and defiant silence - when he saw the master’s wife grinning by the door of the barn. That dreadful smile carried all the weight of his anger and his shame, and it smote him with tongues of fire. He crouched and turned, grabbing the whip from Joaper’s hand and smashing a fearful blow to the servant’s face. The man crumpled without a sound. Then Groundsel had leapt upon the startled woman, dragging her back into a hay-covered stall and ripping her clothes from her. She had been too terrified to scream and his rage turned to lust.
When he had finished with her, he stood and retied his leggings. Then he tapped his chest and looked down at her.
‘Groundsel,’ he said. ‘The Ape. Now you are the Ape’s leavings. What does that make you?’
He strode from the barn with blood seeping from his whipped back and walked up the marble stairs into the house. A shocked servant tried to stop him, but he rammed the man’s head into a wall and climbed the winding stair. The master was sitting in his study with his son, an arrogant young noble fond of riding and whoring. It was the boy who reacted first.
‘Get out, you miserable peasant!’ he ordered. Groundsel smiled and hammered his fist into the boy’s face. The older man ran towards his desk and swept up a dagger, but Groundsel was upon him before he could draw it from its scabbard and dragging the man to the wide balcony he pushed him against the edge.
‘I have raped your wife. I will kill your son. Die with that thought!’
The old man screamed once as Groundsel toppled him from the high balcony to crash to the marble flagstones. The rebel slave grinned as he saw his master’s head split like a melon. Taking the dagger, he cut the throat of the unconscious youth, then walked back to the stables and saddled a gelding. The wife still lay where he had left her; he thought of killing her, but decided that to leave her was a greater punishment.
And he rode for the forest. He had been foolish then, for he had not robbed the house, and it was two years before he had gained mastery of the first outlaw band he joined. Now, five years later, he was the undisputed master of the Western Wood. Five settlements paid tribute to him, and the Royal Road was making him richer than he had dreamed possible.
He had thought to give himself another name - a proud name. Yet he had not. Groundsel was how he saw himself, and the sound of the name added fuel to his hatred.
He closed the chests and dragged them back to their hiding-place in the false wall. It was not much of a hiding-place, but few would dare to approach Groundsel’s quarters in his absence. He rubbed at his close-cropped black hair. Rich, you are, he told himself. Yet something was lacking.
It was curious, but until today he had not known what it was. Then the girl Arian had walked into the settlement, along with the poet Nuada. Groundsel watched her hip-swinging stride, her honey-gold hair blowing in the breeze, her high proud head — and need flared in him like a summer fire. He felt hot as he drank in her beauty; his mouth was dry. He rubbed the back of his hand over his face and then glanced at his fingers — noticing for the first time in days that they were filthy. Ducking back inside the hall, he rummaged through another chest which contained clothing he had stolen from his first forest victims. He found a shirt of yellow silk and took it out, along with a pair of brown leather trews and a belt emblazoned with silver circles. Then he ran from the rear of the Hall to the stream. Some women were washing clothes there, so he moved upstream and bathed, scrubbing himself with mint leaves and lavender blossoms. He wiped the surplus water from his body with his hands and dressed swiftly. The shirt was on the large side, but the sleeves were far too short; he rolled back the cuffs and pulled on the trews. Again they were too long. Removing them, he took his knife and cut several inches from each leg. Once dressed, he returned to the hall to welcome his guests.
Like many others in the forest he had heard of the poet, and his first invitations had been courteously refused. Then Groundsel had sent a messenger with a gold coin - and the promise of more.
The man had better be worth it, he had decided, or he’d cut his ears off. Arian and Nuada were waiting in the cool of the southern entrance when Groundsel appeared. Nuada gave a courtly bow - which pleased the robber - while Arian merely smiled. Groundsel’s delight was complete.
‘Enter, enter,’ he said. ‘Welcome. I have heard wondrous tales of your skill, master poet. I trust you will not disappoint us, poor folk that we are.’
Nuada bowed again. ‘My Lord Groundsel, I can only hope that my poor talents prove worthy of the trust implicit in your invitation.’
‘I am no Lord,’ said Groundsel, sitting back on his chair and ordering wine to be brought for his guests. ‘Just a poor man trying to do his best for the people who need him. These are hard times. But I am not a Lord — nor would I want to be.’
‘A Lord,’ said Nuada, ‘is a man who commands respect from those who serve him, or fear from those obliged to serve him. He should also be a man of courage and leadership. Last year, I am told, a great fire sprang up, and men turned to you to save them, you organized bands of workers, dug a fire ditch, cleared the ground before the blaze and yourself worked alongside your men. That is heroic leadership, my Lord, sharing the dangers and inspiring your followers.’ Groundsel was lost for words. The fire would have destroyed his granary and winter would have brought Starvation and an end to his leadership. Could the fool not see that? But the words were pleasing, and he was beginning to see the value of his investment in the poet, he turned his attention to the girl, asking her name and straining to be cool and pleasant. He talked with them for an hour before having them escorted to an empty hut at the western edge of the village. When his men returned to explain that the woman and the man were not together, and desired separate accommodation, he was overjoyed. He ordered a second dwelling cleared, the resident family being moved to an overcrowded hut to the north. Naturally, there was no argument.
Back at the first dwelling, Arian turned to Nuada. ‘You flatterer! Oh, my dear Lord Groundsel, what a hero you are!’ she mocked.
Nuada grinned at her. ‘And you, I suppose, offered nothing by way of flattery yourself?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘He all but climbed into your breeches, but you just stood by smiling provocatively. Do not think to lecture me! I was raised at court, where the wrong word or look could see a man ruined - or worse. This is no different. Groundsel is like a king here and to go against him could result in unpleasant consequences.’
‘We are here on safe conduct,’ she reminded him.
‘Oh, grow up, Arian. Safe conduct? The man is a savage. However, he is a rich savage, so that gives me a reason for being here. But if you will take my advice, you will leave as soon as it is dark.’
Arian had already decided on that very course of action, but the poet’s words stung her.
‘I shall do nothing of the sort. I will leave tomorrow after breakfast. I wouldn’t miss your performance before these rabble for... for a gold piece!’
He shrugged. ‘As you will. I should have known better than to advise a woman so worldly-wise. But when he drags you to his bed, I think you will find there is a pig inside that silk shirt.’
‘Jealous, poet? Are you attracted to men?’ She hurled the question like a barb, and was furious when he laughed at her.
‘You are angry, Arian,’ he said. ‘Was I not attentive enough on the journey here? Did you expect me to ask you to share my blanket? How remiss of me!’
The truth of his words made her blush furiously. Had he so invited her she would have refused, but she had expected him to make an advance. Her hand snaked out to crack against his cheek. For a moment anger flared, then he smiled, bowed and left the hut.
Arian watched him go, then swore under her br
eath. The poet was right; it was foolish to trust Groundsel’s safe conduct. And yet she had only risked this journey in the hope that it would inspire some concern in the heart of Llaw Gyffes. In that she had failed miserably. She pictured Groundsel and his lust-filled eyes and slowly pulled the hunting-knife from its sheath at her side. The edge was honed to razor-sharpness and curled up into a double-edge crescent. Drag her to his bed?
She slid the knife back in its scabbard. And waited.
Arian sat beside Groundsel as Nuada stood on a central table and wove his spell over the seventy or so men who had crowded into the hall. His talent filled the room - his voice mellow and musical, his words rich and rolling, his stories vivid and compelling. Even Arian, who often found the battles of men incomprehensible, was swept along by his tales of heroes and maidens, swordsmen and sorcerers.
His delivery was subtly different here, she noticed -more quickfire and the stories less romantic, as if he had gauged his audience in the moment that he stepped to the table. The heroes he spoke of were common men, who had risen to the ranks of the great or who had fought against the evils of the monarchy in times past.
Groundsel was as spellbound as his men, his dark eyes fixed on the poet. Nuada closed his performance with the tale of the great fire, and Groundsel’s part in it, emphasizing the strength of character and the powers of leadership that were gifts from the gods to men of certain futures. The hall exploded with applause and Nuada bowed to the audience, then turned to bow even lower in Groundsel’s direction.
The outlaw leader stood and returned the bow. Bathed in sweat Nuada leapt from the table, swept up a flagon of ale and downed it.
‘You are a man of great talent,’ Groundsel told him as he joined the outlaw and Arian at the far end of the hall.
‘My talent would be as nothing without the exploits of heroes, my Lord.’
‘How did you come to hear of the fire?’
‘Everywhere I have travelled men talk of it,’ Nuada answered. Arian leaned back and shook her head. She said nothing. Early in the evening Groundsel had put his arm around her, stroking her neck or patting her thigh. But when Nuada had begun speaking he had forgotten her presence. It was galling. And as for the fire... everyone knew how Groundsel had done nothing until his own granary was threatened. Three villages were destroyed and fourteen people died before he even stirred from his own settlement.
In that moment, Arian came close to hating Nuada for glorifying the incident.
Groundsel turned to her and grinned. Sweat had drenched the yellow silk shirt and it was creased over his bulging belly. His hand pawed at her thigh. ‘You are a fire in my blood,’ he whispered, pushing wet lips against her cheek.
She blushed deeply and pulled away from him, but his brawny arm circled her shoulder to drag her in against him.
The door at the far end of the hall opened and two men entered. The first was drenched in blood; the second was Llaw Gyffes.
Llaw supported the wounded man, helping him to a chair. Men rushed towards them, blocking Arian’s view. Groundsel leapt to his feet and ran forward, knocking aside any in his way.
‘What in the devil’s name is going on?’ he roared. Llaw stood and faced the shorter man.
‘There are beasts loose in the forest. I have never seen their like. I found this man crawling in the undergrowth about a mile away to the east; he said his family had been slaughtered. I carried him half-way here, then I saw one of them - eight to ten feet tall, with the head of a wolf and a body like a bear. It was feeding on a slaughtered bull and ignored me. In the distance I saw a second creature; I would swear it had two heads.’
Noise erupted all around them, for many of the men at the hall had homes in the woods and valleys beyond and had travelled in to hear Nuada.
‘Silence!’ bellowed Groundsel, kneeling by the wounded man and ripping the blood-drenched shirt from him. Four jagged tears had gouged his chest and it was obvious from the lines that it had been a single slash. That made the paw a prodigious size. No bear could match it, not even the towering black grizzly of the high mountains. ‘Carry him to the witch woman,’ ordered Groundsel, ‘or he’ll bleed to death.’
As the man was carried out, Groundsel turned to Llaw. ‘You saw two of them. How do you know there are more?’
The tall warrior scratched at his red-gold beard. ‘The howling,’ he said simply. ‘The beast by the bull let out a howl, and it was answered from many points.’
‘Aye, I heard the strange howling,’ said a man. ‘It was from the north. I thought it a trick of the wind.’
‘And I saw a track,’ put in another. ‘On the way here, Groundsel. Big, twice the size of a lion’s.’
Other men began to shout and the clamour grew.
‘What a night for heroes!’ came a voice and the crowd swung to see the poet standing on his table once more. ‘If there are two beasts savaging the countryside, are there not heroes enough here to hunt them down? We have Groundsel, the Lord of the Fire, and Llaw Gyffes, who freed the prisoners. And as I look around me I see other men - strong men, proud men. There is a saga waiting out there - and I shall sing it. We will place the carcasses at the far end of the hall and build a fire, and dance. And your bravery will become immortal.’
Those in the crowd screamed their approval and moved to the walls to gather their bows and knives.
‘Wait!’ yelled Groundsel. ‘It will be dawn soon and I’ll have no wild men rushing around in the darkness sending shafts after everything that moves. We’ll kill more of each other than any beast.’
Llaw nodded. ‘We’ll need to lure them into a trap. I have no wish to walk into a darkened lair hunting the things.’
‘Get some rest,’ Groundsel told the men, then stalked back to his seat.
Arian rose as Llaw approached. ‘I did not expect to see you this far west,’ she said. ‘Are you lost?’
‘I had intended to leave for Cithaeron, but the howling disturbed me,’ he told her. ‘I tried to skirt it, but I sensed the beasts had my scent so I cut west. What do you make of it, poet?’
Nuada shrugged. ‘There are many songs in legend about werebeasts, but I have never seen one. It is said that, far to the east, there is a rich land where the mines are dug by giant ants with the heads of men.’
Groundsel swore. ‘It is always far to the east, or the west, or the north. It seems to me that legends always originate far from where men can study them. However, that hardly matters. I too have heard the howling, but I doubt not that the size of the creatures is exaggerated. We are dealing with a rogue bear — large, but still a bear.’
Llaw reddened. ‘It is not wise to call a man a liar — especially a man you do not know.’
‘You have it right, Stronghand. I do not know you — therefore I have no reason to trust either you or your judgement. I say it is a bear. The dawn will tell.’
‘Indeed it will,’ agreed Llaw. ‘Until then, I will sleep.’
‘I’ll show you to my hut,’ said Arian swiftly and now it was Groundsel whose colour darkened.
‘Is this your man?’ he demanded, his eyes bright.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘He is a friend of my family.’
‘Good,’ said Groundsel. ‘I look forward to the hunt with your "friend of the family".’
Llaw tensed, but Arian seized his arm and the two of them left the hall and wandered out into the night. The gates of the stockade were once more shut, and guards patrolled the wall.
‘Why did you come here?’ Llaw asked. ‘You want to be bedded by that son of a sow?’
‘How dare you? I go where I will. I am not your daughter; you have no right to question me.’
‘True enough,’ he admitted. Just then a piercing scream echoed from the woods and Llaw ran to the stockade wall and mounted the rough-cut ladder to the palisade. ‘Can you see anything?’ he asked the sentry.
‘No,’ replied the man, ‘but Daric slipped out about ten minutes ago. He was trying to get back to his family. What is
the beast?’
‘I do not know,’ replied Llaw, ‘but it’s no damn bear.’ A black shadow moved from the trees, halted in the moonlight and looked up at the stockade. The sentry stared in horror at the grisly remains it was dragging.
‘Daric did not make it,’ stated Llaw.
‘I want no part in hunting that thing,’ said the sentry.
Llaw watched until the beast moved back into the trees, then he slapped the sentry on the shoulder. ‘Think of the saga,’ he said.
The man’s reply was short, foul and to the point, and Llaw chuckled.
Arian still stood staring into the blackness of the forest. ‘Can such a beast be killed by arrows?’ she asked.
‘It lives and breathes,’ said Llaw. ‘Therefore it can die. Now show me this hut.’
*
Llaw Gyffes could not sleep as he lay on the narrow cot bed in the small hut. He could hear Arian breathing beside him and yearned to reach out and touch her, to draw her to him. Guilt washed over him. Lydia had been the love of his life and their few years together had filled him with a happiness he could never have known without her. As a young apprentice he had courted her for four years, and had worked hard to save the money for his own smithy. Lydia’s father had always maintained that he was not the man for her, and had dreamed of marrying her to a young nobleman. He had disdained their wedding, and had not spoken to Llaw again; he died three years after the marriage. Lydia’s mother had moved north to be with her family, but she at least had always treated Llaw with courtesy, if not with love.
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