Nick’s resolve to stay home and concentrate on his studies and his work lasted only long enough for him to break his fast with some thin oat gruel and secrete some extra bread, cheese, and a raw turnip in his scrip. The moment he was alone in the orchard, sent to rake up fallen branches for kindling, he abandoned his tools and followed the tree shadows across the brook and through the copse of oaks, pausing to gather handfuls of old acorns to supplement his bread and cheese, and thence to the footpaths into the wildwood beyond the village.
Once out of sight of the last roofline he had to stop and reassess his position. The trail withered into nothing. He had no landmarks. This was as far as he’d ever explored on his own.
Stop thinking with your eyes, Elena admonished him with a giggle.
“How. . . ?”
Silly boy, she answered him with another laugh.
“I am not silly.” His voice cracked, and he lost the last syllable. He was starting to resent that endearment.
You are silly if you do not listen to me, Elena, goddess of crossroads, cemeteries, and sorcery. Close your eyes and absorb the forest. The path will open to your other senses.
A vacancy gaped wide at his nape. Elena was done with him for now.
Nick sighed and, reluctantly, obeyed. He closed his eyes. How could he find a path if he couldn’t see it?
He heard the rustle of leaves and scrapes on bark. A red bird landed on a mid-level branch and began singing joyfully. If Nick didn’t know the mating season of birds had passed, he’d swear that Red celebrated a mating. Maybe he celebrated the successful hatching of a nest full of eggs.
How did he know the bird was red if his eyes remained closed?
Another of Elena’s mysteries.
Red Bird. Will Scarlett of the Wild Folk wore a red feather in his cocked hat and shifted from human to bird and back again.
Nick smiled in recollection of the sprightly dance tunes the man sang with the lyrical quality of a songbird.
Then Nick smelled fresh, moist dirt disturbed by a burrowing creature. He breathed deeply, relishing the scent of new life ready to sprout inherent in freshly-turned soil this time of year.
Another odor, muskier, overlay the cleanness of the dirt. Then another rustling of leaves, closer to the ground, not leaves, more like . . . like fern fronds. A larger animal moved almost silently across a clearing left when a larger tree, probably ancient and diseased, had fallen in a windstorm several winters ago. Bracken ferns grew thick in the open space.
Deer tended to follow the same pathways over and over, making a trail. People used game trails to mask their own passage, and because the animals instinctively avoided boggy spots and tricky, thorned plants.
He opened his eyes and sought the faint depression among the ground cover.
Dew still sparkled on the tips of the ferns and grasses. A fine spider’s line shimmered in the rising sunlight. Nick froze with one step over the line. In his experience spiders were smart enough to string connections to their web higher, where they wouldn’t be broken by passing game or unwary humans.
He knelt to examine it closer, tracking it from a tiny knot on one plant across the path to a new branch on a sapling. The line was more substantial than spider silk. More like a fine weaving thread.
A trap for the unwary. He’d read folklore and heard tales from some of the older novitiates at the abbey about people caught in faery traps, never to be seen again. Stories tended to grow with each telling. But they had to begin somewhere. He didn’t think this one was completely made up to keep people out of the forest. It had the ring of truth at its core.
Carefully, he skirted the silken line and continued along the faint depression of the game trail.
The red bird chirruped from an overhanging branch at Nick’s shoulder. The vocalization sounded more like a greeting than any beak had a right to emit.
“You talk sweeter than I sing,” he said quietly, so as not to disturb the wild creature.
“Of course I do.” The words came from a human throat more used to singing a fair tenor than chirping like a bird.
“What!” Nick jumped to the side, startled. His heart pounded so loudly his ears throbbed.
“You are a long way from home, abbey boy,” Will Scarlett, the bard from the May Day celebration, said. His hose and jerkin were dyed with berries to give them a rusty red hue. Only the bright feather in his cap retained the brightness of his bird garb.
“I . . . um . . . I . . .” Nick couldn’t think of a lie to explain his thirst to explore the forest.
“You are curious,” Will said flatly. “A dangerous trait in mere humans. Perils beyond your imagination lurk within.” He gestured broadly toward the towering trees beyond the clearing.
“How can I defend myself from those perils if I do not know what they are?” Nick replied. “Some Wild Ones might retreat from a prayer and making the sign of the cross—invoking our God’s protection.”
“Others can only be pierced by an enchanted spear wielded by one of the Forest Lords.”
“Like Little John,” Nick affirmed. “Or Robin Goodfellow.”
Will threw back his head and laughed, the ripples of sound imitating the raucous calls of a full murder of crows. Gone was the songbird sweetness. “And the enchantment has to come from a long dead wizard or an ancient goddess who presides over crossroads and cemeteries.”
Nick’s chest clenched, and his breath caught in his throat. He reached into his sleeve to ensure that Elena was still there. He felt her chuckle in his nape, a calming tickle.
“Thank you for the advice,” Nick said, without a bit of a quaver, wondering how to get past the man in order to find the Woodwose and the Wild Folk.
“As soon as you stepped off the Royal Road, Little John asked me to find you and bring you to him.” Will Scarlett gestured Nick to follow him along the path that Nick had already decided was the right one. Except for the faery trap.
“Little John. He’s the very tall man who dressed as the Green Man at May Day. And you are the bard who sang so sweetly, both for the dancing and victories.”
“Yes.” Will Scarlett paused, twisting his neck all around, listening and peering deeply into the woods. “Come, quickly. We have unwanted company. You shouldn’t be seen by the sheriff’s men.”
“Oh.” At a fierce glare from the bard, Nick clamped his mouth shut and rose up on his tiptoes to tread the path more softly.
They continued silently for another half hour, doubling back and crossing and recrossing the road. In the distance, Nick heard galloping horses, their shod hooves pounding and reverberating against the packed dirt. He felt their presence against the soles of his sandals more than heard them. Once he spotted far ahead of them the sway of draperies for a litter. Someone important. A lady? Most men would ride astride unless very ill.
Eventually, Nick followed Will Scarlett into yet another clearing. This one was larger and more clearly defined than the one where he’d seen the faery trap. A dozen or more rough lean-tos were scattered around a central fire pit. Easily dismantled, the shelters could disappear in moments and the inhabitants scatter before a raid by the sheriff’s men, or the king’s mercenaries. One or two permanent houses with four walls and thatched roofs dominated the group—likely once owned by charcoal burners or licensed trappers. Those who dwelt there could not erase evidence of their lives so easily.
Except for the chickens. The semi-wild birds stalked the ground everywhere, clucking and pecking at seeds in the grass and bugs hiding in the shadows. One fat beetle basked in the bits of sunshine and soon found itself gobbled. The rooster set up a proud crow of triumph.
The presence of chickens would always betray any settlement.
A swoosh of sound like wind gusting through the upper canopy of leaves startled Nick out of his contemplation of how to move the village in a hurry if the king’s men came calling.
He tried to identify the creaks and cracks as if a dozen branches rubbed together and then snapped from that single gust of wind.
He spun around, scanning all the nearby trees.
But the villagers ignored the potential danger of broken limbs dropping on their heads.
His eyes focused on a giant oak, a monster that would need five fully grown men to link hands and stretch their arms widely to encircle the trunk. The bark shivered and rippled and the Green Man, bedecked in leaves and twigs, stepped forth.
Nick clutched his temples to keep his mind from exploding at this impossible vision.
Nine
“Are you incredibly brave? Or the stupidest boy alive?” Little John roared. He shook his entire body, and his garb of leaves and mossy hair and beard slid into normal human appearance. Then he took one long stride to loom over the boy from the abbey.
His insides quivered with dread. The boy had to willingly give up possession of Elena at midnight on Midsummer Night in order to unlock the door into the Faery Mound. If anything happened to him before then, Elena would not have time to find another innocent to carry her. Little John did not understand why Elena had to have a human carry her about. She could roam freely if she needed to. But something about the bond between the goddess and her companion enhanced her magic and strength.
Nick searched the faces emerging from the shadows and the homes. Probably looking for Tuck, a friendly face among the strangers.
Not finding anyone to fix upon, Nick shrugged his shoulders, stretched his backbone, and firmed his chin.
“Neither, sir,” he said, finally engaging Little John’s gaze. “I am curious. I need to know if you all are a danger to the ordinary villagers. They live in the shadow of the abbey and are our responsibility. Now that the Church no longer ministers to England and the Wild Folk are visible, the people might need protection. Someone needs to know how to protect them. That cannot be learned from books. Only by experience.”
“Huzzah!” Tuck chortled as he emerged from the tree line, righting his hose and straightening his tunic. “The boy has you there, Little John.”
“He still needs to learn the hazards of the forest. This place is dangerous to the unwary. And even those familiar with the perils can succumb. . . .”
“I already know about the faery traps,” Nick said, still standing proudly and facing Little John.
A smile tugged at Little John’s face and laughter tickled his throat. Still, he needed to teach the boy the error of his ways.
“What would you do if you encounter a giant boar with tusks two feet long? Or worse, how would you counter Mammoch, the mother of all pigs in my forest? She is near immortal, and while her tusks are shorter than the boars’, she is deadly, perpetually pregnant, and very protective of her young.”
“I’d climb a tree and whistle for help.” He pursed his lips and loosed a fair imitation of Will Scarlett’s warning. Not many humans could mimic the bird’s call so accurately.
“Why climb a tree? You might be stranded up there for days,” Tuck asked, approaching the boy and eyeing him quizzically, as he might have before . . . before the current situation descended upon them all.
“Real pigs can’t climb; they have cloven hooves and can’t grasp a branch.”
“And Mammoch?” Little John pushed Tuck aside to confront the boy.
“I presume that she can’t climb either. I’ve never heard of her, so I suspect she is but a minor goddess and has few powers that endanger me.”
Fire and flood! The boy was smart.
“You could get caught in a storm, take a chill, and die of a lung infection.”
“That could happen in the abbey if I have the watch to protect the chickens and rabbits from a marauding fox.”
“And if you stumbled in the dark and fell and broke your leg?” Will Scarlett asked, rubbing his own limb where he had broken it while in human guise about a hundred years ago.
Nick chewed his lip while he thought, looking down at his own feet that seemed a bit too long for his sandals.
“Well, I suspect I’d have to use that special whistle I heard Will Scarlett use to call for help.” Then he looked up with a challenging gaze and grinned. “That is, as long as you do not order your people to ignore my calls.”
Little John had to laugh at that. “You aren’t safe in the woods, but then none of us are. We help each other, and we know the dangers to keep us wary. Now join us, help us gather some fresh roots and firewood. Then we’ll eat well of the venison Robin brought in yesterday. Will, find your flute and play a lively tune to lighten our work.” He slapped Nick on the back in comfortable camaraderie and nearly sent the boy stumbling across the clearing.
Little John felt a prescient pang. Something would happen to the boy, sooner rather than later. “You must promise me, young Nicholas, that you will not linger too long in the wildwood. You will always return to the abbey before sunset. Always.”
* * *
The day after Nick’s adventure in the wildwood, Dom whispered, “You’re preoccupied this morning.” He nudged Nick with his elbow as Father Blaine rerolled the scroll of inspirational thoughts he’d read from throughout the morning meal.
“Thinking about what you were really doing when you were late to supper?” Henry asked, keeping his eye on his spoon and his porridge rather than betray the fact that none of them truly listened to Father Blaine’s droning voice. Prefect Andrew read with dynamic shifts of tone and volume.
“Trying to stay awake,” Nick whispered. He, too, kept his gaze downcast so that his preoccupation didn’t show.
Prefect Andrew took Father Blaine’s place behind the podium. He peered closely at a piece of parchment. The middle-aged man didn’t show his face in the scriptorium often. Reading, even in good light, was too hard on his rheumy eyes. “The tasks for today!” he announced.
Nick sat up straighter and listened closely. He hoped Brother Theo needed him in the scriptorium again. There he could contemplate his sins in quiet and plot ways to redeem himself.
“Nicholas Withybeck, the infirmary.”
Nick groaned. “Is Brother Luke wandering again?” he asked his friends.
“He was quite docile when I sat with him four days ago,” Henry admitted. “He talked a lot about working his garden and drying his herbs so that the essence of them remained vital when needed for cures. I remembered some of his plants from my mother’s garden and always wondered what each was for. Wish I could remember what he said now.”
“You should have written them down,” Nick mused.
Dom made a face. “You write them down. I’ve got trap duty in the kitchen garden. Gotta keep the squirrels and rabbits from eating all our food. And make sure the crows don’t make off with the newly planted seeds,” he grumbled.
“Maybe I will write down the old man’s mumblings. Might come in useful,” Nick decided, already planning how to draw the plants with tiny animal faces hiding among them.
“Nicholas,” Brother Theo stopped him as he aimed his steps for the scriptorium and writing materials. “I have spoken with the others. We all think you are the best of the boys to stay with Brother Luke.”
“But you need me to transcribe . . .”
“We need you to write down all of Brother Luke’s aimless mutterings. Even those that tell of his life before he took vows of obedience, chastity, and poverty. He remembers nothing of yesterday, but still can name every plant in his garden, what it looks like, and how to use it. Priceless information that should not be lost. You have the finest hand and the best memory.”
“Yes, of course. My duty to the abbey and to all of the brothers must be fulfilled.”
“Of course.” A tiny smile touched the corner of Brother’s Theo’s mouth, vanishing almost before Nick noticed. “I’ve arranged for scraped and worn parchment, ink, and quills to be at Brother Luke’s side at all times. You m
ay have to write in dim light if the healing brothers forget to refill the oil lanterns, but I have faith in your abilities. I know you can draw the plants without looking at them.”
“Thank you, sir. Um . . .”
“Spit it out, boy. We have no secrets here.”
Nick doubted that. “Sir, the last time I sat with Brother Luke, he wanted to visit his garden and inspect his drying herbs. Should I allow him out of his bed?”
“The old man is feeble. I do not believe he can walk far. But if the garden helps him remember some of his healing knowledge, then perhaps helping him go there and then sitting with him will let the spring sunshine do him some good.”
“Yes, sir.” Nick’s insides bounced with excitement. Something new to learn.
“After a trip to the garden, Brother Luke is likely to sleep. When Henry relieves you of duty, you have an afternoon to transcribe your notes. Take as much time as you need. I will not expect to see you in the scriptorium until after we convene in the refectory. Sunset comes late this close to the solstice. We will not waste the light.”
Nick walked sedately along the cloister toward the infirmary, as he should. Then, when Brother Theo had disappeared into the scriptorium, he skipped a few steps.
I can teach you what the old man has forgotten.
“Thank you,” he whispered to the goddess. “If I write it all down correctly, then I can spend the afternoon exploring.”
You have much to learn.
* * *
“Just a few more steps, Brother Luke,” Nick coaxed the old man while holding his arm and supporting him with the other hand at his waist.
“Did you know that in the Holy Land they grow olive trees?” Brother Luke said, almost as bright and clear as in his youth. “You can do marvelous things with the bark and sap and leaves, aside from the olives themselves. . . .” He trailed off as he lost the direction of his thoughts.
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