He grinned at the image of Abbot Mæson, or rather Tuck, sitting cross-legged on that branch.
“Leave Brother Luke. He won’t go anywhere for hours. And I need you. Now.” The former abbot slipped out of view beyond the wall.
Eager with anticipation of a new adventure, Nick jumped up and grabbed the stout branch. In only a few heartbeats he’d joined his tutor and mentor in the orchard.
“Why do you need me?” Nick asked in hushed tones.
Tuck put a gnarled finger to his lips. Then he set out at a sprightly pace, more akin to a prancing Puck than a stately abbot.
Nick followed, eager to help the Wild Folk he already thought of as friends.
* * *
Tuck hurried forward with new urgency. His cup of morning tisane allowed him to move with haste. He took a deep breath and set a pace that was slow for him, but faster than he could manage a few days ago.
“Come quickly, Nick,” he called over his shoulder, only to find Nick beside him.
“I am coming as quickly as I can. Why do you need me with such urgency?”
“I need Elena’s wisdom to resolve a conflict.”
Nick nodded. “I have a feeling this is but the first of many summonses?”
“Elena chooses a companion when she needs to be out in the world. She chose you for a reason.”
Light laughter rippled around the back of Tuck’s head.
His shoulders relaxed, and his stride lengthened. Nick matched him stride for stride. Unsurprisingly, he now stood as tall as Tuck. By the end of summer, he’d probably be taller, like the Green Man’s kin. He already topped Henry by a whole hand’s breadth.
“Nick, there is something you need to know.”
“That I have forest blood in me?”
Tuck almost choked on his next words. “You know that Elena always chooses her companions from among those who have at least a little forest blood in them.”
“I guessed as much. I do not think I’d be able to see the true nature of the Wild Folk if I didn’t share their blood, not even with Elena’s help.”
Tuck had no answers to that. But his heart swelled with pride. The boy was bright and figured out the way of life more easily than Tuck had. Unusual for one raised in the abbey with limited contact among mortals.
Except that Nick was curious and adventurous. He’d been coming and going as he chose since he was tall enough to reach the apple branch overhanging the back wall of the herb garden. He wondered if the branch drooped lower when Nick and his friends were shorter.
“Who is my ancestor linking me to the forest?” Nick kept pace without deepening his breathing.
Tuck feared he’d have to slow down soon to catch his breath. But they neared the line of trees that marked the boundary of the Royal Forest. Once there, he had tricks to draw strength and breath from the land and the trees.
Then Tuck felt Nick’s strong young arm encircle his waist to boost him along.
“When I was young, before I took my first vows, I sired a daughter on a girl from the Woodwose . . .” And so he related the tale of Nick’s heritage. Now, in perfect hindsight, he should have recognized Nick’s willow-green eyes the moment he saw them. He’d been told his own eyes were that color, as was the girl’s.
The boy said not a word, but he didn’t change his hurried pace either.
Tuck endured the silence for seemingly endless paces. He was curious how Nick felt. But he was also grateful he did not need to talk.
“Thank you, grandsire. You and I have had a bond since you first found me. Now I know why. It’s more than our shared willow-green eyes.” A big grin brightened his countenance, making those green eyes sparkle. “I have family,” he whispered. “A real, blood-related family!”
“Aye, boy. Blood calls to blood. You know why your heritage, and mine, must remain secret between us? Those of the abbey will not understand our forest heritage. They will understand our blood ties, but not necessarily accept it.”
“Aye, sir. The path forks here. Which direction?”
“Think about it. Feel the tug of anger and fear. Follow your forest instincts.”
“Left toward St. Anne’s Well.”
“Aye, boy. You’ve the right of it now. Did Elena help you decide?”
“No. I just felt like my left side was heavier.”
He is prepared for what comes. Are you, old man?
As long as my heart beats strong and regular, he replied.
Fifteen
“Unhand her!” a masculine voice shouted in the near distance.
Tuck hastened his steps along a path that seemed to open for them but remained invisible to Nick’s eyes. He followed his mentor—his great-grandfather—anxiously. He still had to absorb the wonder of having blood ties to anyone. He had a living great-grandsire!
Abruptly, they came upon a wide clearing beside a small pool of clear water. It spread out at the base of a waterfall trickling down a rocky hillside. St. Anne’s Well. He’d heard the place described often enough but never felt the urge to make the pilgrimage here. The accepted path here traveled a long way by the Royal Road, then a shorter trek along a well-beaten trail across the pond from here. Tuck had brought him by a shorter route that wound through the forest in an almost straight line.
“I claim the lady as my bride. All has been arranged with King John,” Sir Philip Marc proclaimed.
Nick didn’t like the way the man’s eyes narrowed and his mouth smirked.
“King John has no right to decide the lady’s fate. He is not her guardian,” Tuck said breathlessly. He panted heavily from their rapid trek through the forest. Even with Nick’s assistance, he’d moved too quickly for his aging body. The tisane every morning worked well enough for normal activity, but urgency had pushed him to move beyond the limits of the remedy.
“She has no apparent guardian at all; therefore, she falls under the king’s jurisdiction, and he has given her to me!”
“Um . . . since when?” Nick whispered to Tuck.
“Since King John said so,” the old man replied.
“Why doesn’t she just break away and fling herself into the pool?” Nick measured the distance between the lady’s feet and the pool. If she was truly a water sprite, then she should become indistinguishable from the flowing water once wet.
“As long as Sir Philip holds her, she cannot break away.”
“What happens if she goes with him?” A dire emptiness wiggled around Nick’s belly. He sensed something very wrong about this situation, but he couldn’t pinpoint his distress.
“She cannot stay dry and away from her pond for more than a day. She will wither and crack into dust,” Tuck replied sadly. Then he brightened. “Can you make a distraction? Make him loose his hold so that she can break free?”
Nick looked about him for tools and methods. He couldn’t find an apple tree with old fruit to drop on Sir Philip’s head. That always distracted Brother Theo. Nor could he find a long stick and a hollow trunk to beat and make loud noises.
If he ran at the sheriff to tackle him, as he would in a wrestling match or village football game, the heavily armed men in the sheriff’s hunting party would shoot him, and if they didn’t kill him right off, they’d haul him off to jail and then hang him.
While he hesitated, Sir Philip lifted Lady Ardenia onto the back of his saddle. She balanced precariously. She looked toward Tuck and Nick, pleading with her eyes for assistance.
You know what you need to do, Elena whispered.
Nick caressed the little pitcher in his sleeve. “Promise you’ll come back to me?”
Silly boy. Of course I will. I have chosen you, and our time of final separation has not yet come. You have too much to learn.
Nick took a deep breath for courage and knelt by the pond. He dipped the pitcher, filling it with water. Then he found a lump of wax with hi
s other scribe’s tools in his belt scrip, warmed it with his hands, and stoppered the pitcher. Three quick steps took him to the lady’s side. She clutched Sir Philip’s leather jerkin desperately to keep from falling off the impatient hunting horse.
Silently, Nick slipped the pitcher into her sleeve. She smiled and winked at him.
He’d had to act quickly, thinking only of the necessary steps to complete the plan. If he faltered at all, he’d not have the courage to release the little silver pitcher to another.
He’d been brought up to think little of possessions. Life in the abbey was contemplation, obedience, poverty, and . . . and charity. Tuck—Abbot Mæson preached the value of charity much more than Father Blaine, or even Prefect Andrew. The little pitcher was a possession, not his to keep.
That it was Elena’s chosen home was important. But it was hers. He had no right to it.
I will return to you, Elena told him. Was that a catch in her mental voice? A reluctance to leave him?
He breathed deeply, fearing an emptiness from her absence.
A tiny tingle in the back of his mind let him know that she was still tied to him. For a time yet. She’d let him go when she decided it was time.
That time had not yet come.
“Sir Philip, you may keep me as long as you can hold me,” Ardenia said, a note of triumph creeping into her voice.
“Then you shall abide in the top of my tallest tower with plentiful guards, my lady. But you will be mine.” He kicked his steed into motion and galloped back toward Nottingham.
“That was brave of you,” Tuck said, eyes wide in amazement. “An act of charity. You are blessed.”
“It needed to be done.” But need now left a huge hole in his mind and in his gut, wounding him almost as deeply as the loss of Dom.
I have not deserted you, Elena laughed. I shall return soon. In the meantime, find Hilde.
* * *
Little John struggled to find himself within the tree. He hadn’t been merged with the giant oak long enough to rest properly. Now he was needed by his people, but he couldn’t find his hands or feet to start moving outward. He barely had enough mind to know he must.
Blink rapidly. Twitch his nose. Sap in the tree became his blood, flowing inward. Rapidly for a tree. But trees measured time in seasons and generations, not in human days or the arc of the sun. Or even heartbeats.
Heartbeats. He willed his heart to take on the rhythm of the horses pounding along the Royal Road.
Finally, he twitched one bare toe and then another and another. His fingers followed, and he began tearing his way through the tree’s heartwood to emerge.
“Easy, John,” Tuck whispered. “The lad did what was necessary. Sir Philip has a promise he thinks is his advantage. The lady has a means of escape. And the boy . . .”
“What about the boy?” Little John demanded in a voice that resounded through the forest like thunder. His face pressed into the inner bark, barely reaching the air.
Tuck looked up and frowned. “Do you know how formidable you are in this half state?”
“Yes.” His voice boomed, several tones lower than any human body could achieve. “What about the boy?” Warm air caressed Little John’s eyes, nose, and lips. He heard four chips of bark land in the moss at his feet. A few moments more. He needed only a few moments more to release himself.
“He filled the Elena pitcher with water from Lady Ardenia’s pond, stoppered it with sealing wax, and gave it—willingly—to the water sprite. She carries a part of her home with her. She can return any time she wants.”
“He relinquished the pitcher?”
“Quite willingly, and of his own volition.”
“Then he can do it again.”
“I believe so.”
“He can release Elena to help us open the door to the Faery Mound on Midsummer’s Night Eve?”
“One would think so.”
“Then I live with hope in my heart and no need to sink myself into this tree.” He stepped clear and shook himself free of bark, twigs, and moss. He picked a stray twig from his beard and combed moss back into hair with his fingers.
* * *
Find Hilde. Elena’s words echoed repeatedly through Nick’s head. “How am I supposed to do as Elena commands?” He stood near rooted to the spot where he’d been when he handed the little silver pitcher to Lady Ardenia. His mind and his feet seemed stuck in thick mud.
“Think, lad,” Tuck chuckled. “Elena never gives you a task until you are ready for it. It may be hard, but you can do it.” The old man wandered off, along with the other Forest Folk. Aimless. They all seemed aimless and unconcerned for the water sprite.
That left only himself to find Hilde, Dom’s twin sister.
He closed his eyes a moment and called up one of Prefect Andrew’s lessons in logic. “What do I know?” He held up one finger.
“I know that Hilde abides in the convent a league the other side of Nottingham. I have been there, talked with her. She knows me and therefore should trust me.” What else?
“I know that Dom left his cot in the dormitory right after Compline when all the other boys had fallen asleep. And that he returned before Matins. He did this on the night of the quarter moon both waxing and waning, every month without fail.”
He studied his feet as he trod the narrow path back toward Locksley Abbey. “Therefore, Hilde must expect a visit from her brother on those two nights and no others. What is the moon phase?” He hadn’t thought to check. His life had been regulated by bells for so long, he rarely considered marking the moon, except to note when it was full and likely to betray him if he escaped for his own adventures. That must be why Dom chose the quarter moon for his escapades—barely enough light to keep him on the road, but sufficient to keep him from running into trees or stepping in a mud puddle.
As Nick’s steps took him into a modest clearing near the boundary of the Royal Forest, he looked up. Sometimes he could catch a glimpse of the moon during the day. Not today.
He needed help. Was there a book in the scriptorium that charted the moon’s passage?
* * *
Prepare! The voice of Elena chuckled into Little John’s mind.
“Now what?” he snarled, picking himself up off a fallen tree trunk just beginning to show clear spaces within the massive root ball. The tree had been an old friend, gone these three winters and only now giving up the effort to survive. Bracken and other low growing plants had taken root in the crumbling bark and the dirt left among the entwined roots. Out of death comes life. In the forest.
Outside the green shadows Little John could not say the same for his human friends. Dom had been too young and too innocent to die from an accident Little John should have prevented.
How could you have prevented the accident? Elena asked.
“I should have known the axle on the cart was weak and old and ill cared for. I should not have trusted the villagers to . . . to . . . .”
“To know the strengths and weaknesses of a wooden construct that had served them well for many years?” Elena appeared before him, little more substantial than a silver mist, as elegant and graceful as always.
“But . . . but . . .”
“Grieve as you will, silly boy, but do not blame yourself. Your friend was not happy at the abbey. He had no place in the village where he must bind himself to the land or flee. He respected the law too much to ever belong among the Woodwose. Had he the will, he might have lived or moved out of the way.”
“No, he did not have the time . . .”
“He heard the axle crack. He knew the danger. He moved to hold up the wheel. You are not to blame. It is not my place or yours to know or judge if he allowed the wheel to fall on top of him. Put aside your guilt and prepare for what is coming.” She faded, becoming vague around the edges.
“What is coming?” Little John jump
ed up, anxiously searching the shadows for an intruder. “Is it Jane?”
Not today but soon. Beware. Elena’s voice drifted to a soft whisper of a breeze in the tree canopy.
Sixteen
Hilde feigned sleep in her cot. Sister Marie Josef paced the hallway outside the girls’ dormitory ready to pounce with her stout stick should any of her young charges venture out—even to use the privy. All around Hilde, the girls breathed evenly, too exhausted from the endless chores and hours on their knees in prayer to do aught but sleep.
The night sky sparkled with distant stars, and the waxing quarter moon rose almost sullenly, unwilling to share her light with the stars. But tonight was the night Dom would come to her. The empty achiness in her belly would go away as soon as she heard the crunch of his footsteps along the graveled path that circled the outside wall of the convent.
Her eyes closed. She imagined Dom’s happy countenance when he first caught sight of her through the grille on the postern door.
She startled awake, heart pounding loudly in her ears, at the sound of bits of gravel hitting the outside wall beside her cot. How had she slept on the night she awaited Dom?
Hastily, she grabbed her thick, gray woolen postulant’s habit and hastened along the cloister barefoot and without her wimple. Heedless of the evening chill, she flung herself into the open courtyard and greeted the wind that presaged a storm. Then she had to slow down as her knees nearly collapsed in pain from the punishment rod.
“Dom,” she said on a sigh of relief. “When can we run away together? Sister Marie Josef hit me again. I . . . I can barely walk.” The last came out on a mournful wail.
“I am sorry,” a different voice whispered through the grille. “I am not Dom.”
“Who?” She took two careful steps backward, hand to her throat in fear. Had she heard that voice before? Maybe.
“I’m Nick, Dom’s friend. I have horrible news.”
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