As for other possible culprits—fair folk or unholy creatures that craved blood sacrifice? He shuddered, though the feathers trimming the arrow that lay near his feet were speckled with black and grey. Not the snow-white said to distinguish the fairies' arrows.
Murmuring a prayer of thanks for that alone, he pulled his tunic back on, hauled his woollen cloak over his shoulders, and refastened the clasp at his throat. When he brushed skin left bruised by the knight's rough handling, he winced. He'd run a great risk tonight, knowing Randolf's taste for throttling boys half to death as he fucked them, but could waste no time on self pity.
Even his horror at entering the Greenwood seemed a fraction of his immediate troubles. What if Randolf was dying? Or if he revived to accuse Cal of attacking him, he could have Cal flogged or blinded.
Cal dropped to his knees. He lowered Randolf, then tugged him backward, groaning at the weight till he'd laid the man flat. The knight's red hair was sticky with pomace and rind, a brown pip stuck in the stubble on his chin. A purple lump swelled on his brow, where his injuries had been compounded when his head hit the tree. Still, Randolf lived, moving his thick lips restlessly, though he remained oblivious to the world around him.
Cal sighed, refusing to panic. He smoothed down Randolf's clothes, ensuring the knight appeared respectable. What to do about the arrow?
He sucked his sore lip. Mayhap it had been a warning shot. Since it had struck so far above their heads, this explanation made every sense. But a warning about what, and from whom?
He needed time to think but didn't have that luxury. He picked up the arrow, tossed it into a thick patch of brambles, then turned on his heel and ran.
He burst into the clearing, skidding and sliding on the mud. "All you good men, come quick, I beg you."
To his consternation, the clearing proved more crowded than when he had left. Baron Odo de Belesme, Lord of Pontefract and High Sheriff of Nottingham, had passed the day in Winchester, but he'd re-joined their party and now stood drinking by the fire. Though tall, Odo was built lithe for a warrior. The bold lines of his features could have blessed the marble tomb of a crusader.
Baron Odo spun to face Cal, his lustrous black hair glistening. "What is it, man?"
Cal blanched and bowed his head, staring at the emblem of a chained bear on the baron's cochineal surcoat. Court gossips labelled Odo the most handsome noble in England, but Cal couldn't forget he was also the cruellest. Odo would lop off a man's limbs for as meagre a crime as poaching a songbird.
"It is Sir Randolf, my lord," replied Cal. "He commanded me to walk with him, and an apple fell from a tree. It struck him on the head, and I think… Well, he lives and breathes, but my lord… he looks poorly."
The fire snapped and crackled, and a bird squawked. Each member of the company stared at Cal, none more viciously than Berolt of Romsey, the head of the foresters and cast like iron from stolid yeoman stock. Berolt rose, clamping the pommel of his rusty old sword, and Cal resisted the instinct to roll his eyes. He didn't doubt the foresters' black-bearded master would love to see him punished for Randolf's plight.
Odo motioned that Berolt should stay. "I'll deal with this. Father Buckley, come with me. Forester, show us."
Cal took them to Randolf. The knight still lay beneath the tree. Spittle trailed from the side of his mouth, and his loud snores resonated through the orchard. He looked more the drunken victim of an accident than the target of an attack.
The generously proportioned priest sank to Randolf's side. "I could bleed him to relieve the pressure on the brain," he suggested. "But we need to wake him if we're to know the truth of the matter and deal with this man."
"I believe what has happened is obvious enough," said Odo. "This tree chose to do battle with my friend the knight, and the wooden rogue has bested him. Do see if you can revive him, though. Nobody will wish to desert their ale and carry him."
Odo slid an arm about Cal and led him beyond Father Buckley's hearing. "I think my goodly companion Sir Randolf would appreciate never hearing more of this accident. Although…I do wonder." Odo dropped his voice to a guttural husk, turning Cal in front of him and grasping his shoulders. "That mark on his head suggests Sir Randolf fell forward against the tree. What was he doing facing it, eh?"
Odo regarded Cal's bruised throat. The amused spark in Odo's hazel eyes left Cal little doubt Odo suspected Randolf had been indulging his vices. But Odo chose to keep the business quiet and seemed disinclined to penalize Cal for his involvement.
Cal knew he should seek advantage, try to get close. If any of this party was clever enough to plot treason, Odo struck him as that man. Yet Odo frightened and befuddled him; was it usually so hard to think?
At length, he managed a cool response. "I'm afraid, my lord, 'twas dark, and I don't recall."
"Indeed." Odo held Cal's stare till Cal could endure it no more, and he struggled to maintain his calm demeanour. "Very well, boy. You sensed nothing strange afoot?"
"Strange, my lord? Forgive me, but what do you mean?"
"This is a forest, and forests are the refuge of the basest of rogues. Confound it, even that lowborn scoundrel Robin Hood has strayed south these late months, so I've heard."
"Robin Hood?"
A dozen tales of the outlaw's adventures spun through Cal's mind, stories every soul knew well, and Baron Odo's dislike for Robin Hood came as no surprise. In return for Odo's barbarism, Robin had plundered the baron's crops, goods, and livestock to redistribute to the poor. When Odo had captured him, Robin became hailed as the only soul to escape the baron's dungeon.
"I saw no other man," answered Cal carefully. "But as I said, 'twas dark."
"I see." Odo stared beyond him into the darkening woods. "The Greenwood is the most haunted of all the English forests. There is magic within these bounds, powers beyond comprehension."
Cal held his breath. With a convincing lie, the evils of this place could be turned to his advantage. "Now that I think of it, I might have heard something before the apple fell, a trilling sound. It could have been a bird, or a woman singing—mayhap the fair folk or one of those fearsome tree spirits."
Odo clasped the apple trunk and stared up into its branches, enthralled. "Be off with you," he muttered.
Cal didn't need telling twice.
He ran, stumbling across the dewy ground, slipping and nearly falling more than once. When he burst back into the camp, he ignored the surge of voices and picked through the hoof-pitted muck. He retrieved his bedding from his saddle pack and then hurried to the foresters' side of the hearth. His fellows having claimed the warmest places near the fire, he located a plot of soft moss, threw his blanket down, and collapsed on top.
His fate was decided. He must go into the Greenwood with the foresters at first light.
He shook to his core, no longer because of the chill or his worries about whether Odo or Randolf would punish him. He didn't even fret about his botched mission, though he'd failed on his last and Marshal might never entrust important work to him again. He pressed his thumb to his mother's bronze ring, wedged about his middle finger, and wished for the thousandth time he could get the damned thing off.
He'd been a babe in swaddling when his mother's lands had been seized and she'd fled these parts, seeking refuge at court with her son. She'd warned him since his childhood, "Never return home." Many times he'd tried to convince himself her stories were mere fancy, that fairies and spirits didn't exist, so they couldn't slaughter those who'd deserted the Greenwood as traitors. Yet how could he deny them when Baron Odo, the highest of men, held faith too?
What if the fair folk captured Cal and saw his ring, a family heirloom, and learned the truth of his lineage? The best he could do with the accursed band was swivel it around so its insignia lay on the palm side of his hand.
Berolt's mutterings floated to Cal's hearing betwixt the crackling of the fire. "Face like a sodding angel and skin smooth as a girl. He ain't right nor natural, that one."
; Cal snorted. Berolt might be a blockhead, but for once he was right. Cal had long known he was "neither right nor natural," that his inclination to tolerate the touch of other men placed him below contempt in the opinion of many. Not that he respected the judgment of idiots like Berolt, and neither was he ashamed of what he was. While he didn't deny he craved men, he'd rarely desired the rogues his master sent him to prey on. Like everyone in this blood-drenched age, he did what he must to survive. No one—not Marshal, not his fellow foresters—would leap to his aid. All Cal had was himself.
As exhaustion battered his defences, he grew aware of the bruises Randolf had patterned across his skin, of the soreness on his assaulted flesh. He surrendered to wonderings that had claimed him at desperate moments before—what would it be like to have somebody touch him with true affection, one whose caresses he burned to reward? He would offer himself to one man for the sake of companionship alone, and that man would still see value in him when his boyish looks faded. Screwing his eyes closed tight, he toyed with the silliest fantasy of all.
Maybe that arrow had been unleashed by some mysterious protector. A rich and powerful baron like Odo. But…no. That notion set his insides crawling, and he squeezed his arms about himself, refusing such folly. Trusting fools ended up with swords thrust through their bowels or their brains dashed out. Besides, he found his truest pleasures under his hand. On that and on his mind he would continue to rely for all things.
Reaching under his clothes, he slipped his palm to his cock, cupping his softness and willing his body to relax. He sighed, the warmth comforting. He stroked his length, kindling a fine thread of arousal that tightened his balls and hardened his shaft. He pictured a naked archer with muscular limbs, broad shoulders, and a magnificent, jutting cock—which this warrior would know what to do with, unlike that court jester, Randolf. Hell, he'd rather have frisked with the outlaw Hood than that bumbling knight.
His prick twitched, stiffening further, and he winced, dragging his hand away. Lord, he must be losing his wits tonight. Pining over some unknown spectre, he verged on needing to fist himself to satisfaction, which wouldn't be wise with Berolt and his cohorts lying near.
Cal wriggled into a tighter ball, conserving the heat his excitement had summoned. He managed a tired snigger. Whoever would watch over a royal spy…let alone a regent's whore?
Chapter Three
The noise from the camp faded from Robin's hearing. He forged across a stream rippled with moonlight, detected the faintest brush of a footfall, and his last doubts vanished.
He drew his dagger and turned around. "Show yourself."
At first, nothing moved beyond the cloud of his bated breath. Scanning the reeds beneath eye level, he discerned a tiny figure of a woman advancing toward him. Framed by cropped raven-black hair, her petite features were placid, her complexion like moonshine, and her eyes… Oh Goddess. Jet black pools of fathomless depth swirled like smoke, while her green gown floated weightless on the breeze like no fabric wrought by human skill could.
Though she was bolder than the waiflike pixies he'd glimpsed on his travels through the Scottish Highlands, he had no doubt she was of the fair folk.
She hooked her hands on her shallow hips. "If what we've heard is true, only a single living soul could make the shot I witnessed. It is nigh impossible in the noonday sun, yet you achieved it at dusk. I look upon Robin Hood."
Her silky voice held a challenge that wearied him. Though he'd devoted his life to claiming justice for the poor, he'd rarely acted alone and never understood why his name was the most famous. He wouldn't answer to that title tonight, and then her interest would wane.
"I know of whom you speak," he said. "But you're mistaken. I'm not him."
He turned from her scrutiny. She grabbed his wrist and hauled him back with a strength that shocked him. "Don't lie to me. You are Robin Hood. The waters told me of your coming; the trees whispered of it. Though even that name pales in the light of your true identity."
He wrenched away from her crushing grasp. "True identity? What in hell do you mean?"
"You feel different from how I expected." She flexed the fingers of her flowerlike hand, then tossed her chin up. "The heir to the bloodline of the protectors of the Greenwood has returned. We sensed him breaching the bounds of the forest, and it must be you. Of all mortals, the one they call Robin Hood would be worthy. This realm and all who reside in it are yours."
She opened her arms in a lavish gesture. Robin squeezed the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. I haven't a notion what you're talking about. I'm very tired, miss, and—"
Two dozen tiny beams of light streamed from the trees, illuminating the briar and brook so they glowed like the stained glass of a cathedral. He choked on his awe. Once accustomed to the dazzle, he realized the sources of the colours were eyes. Fairy eyes, so he guessed, glittering from shadowed figures that clung amid the branches.
The black-eyed fairy's sharp words broke his entrancement. "If you were any lesser being, Robin Hood, I would shear your testicles off for daring to defy me. Daughters, show him our affection."
A dozen fairies in a variety of shapes and sizes plummeted from the trees, each landing with a soft thud and forming a circle about Robin as he spun around. They launched forward as a pack, grabbing him from all angles. From behind, one pried his hand from the hilt of his dagger.
"Get off!" he yelled. Their faces seemed young, each a blur of freckles, dimples, and keen eyes round as kittens'. His instincts shied from inflicting harm, even in self-defence. "W-what are you doing?"
He twisted and tugged, determined to get free. One hugged his legs, pinning him to the spot. Two others hung off his arms, swinging as if on bell ropes, and another tugged his cloak. A lanky ginger-haired female raised herself up to shove her face close to his, which she began to stroke.
"So prickly, and I like it." She licked his cheek, though it must have been spiky as a chestnut sheath. He pushed her, and she fell back. He parted his lips to protest but felt something warm and wet against his leg and gaped instead.
A fairy leaned in her sunny-yellow head, lifted his tunic, and pressed her mouth to his thigh, bare above the top of his hose. She scrubbed with lips and tongue, fingertips dancing upward till they skirted his unprotected groin.
"Let's see what we have here." She giggled and stroked his soft cock. "Ah, why does your serpent coil so? Is he shy?"
In synch with the revulsion that cramped his guts, Robin unleashed his fury. He shook the two molesters from his wrists and kicked out so the yellow-haired creature tumbled back and landed on her haunches. The ginger fairy puckered plump cherry lips for a kiss. He shoved her again. "Get away from me."
The tiny one he'd met first pressed to the front of her scattering companions. "Do you not know that I am Elfaene of the Greenwood? How dare you mistreat my daughters, Robin?"
No less than a fairy queen. Too angry to bow, he nodded. "Elfaene. I can be of no use to you."
"You no longer deny your identity, Robin Hood."
"These late days, many men assume that title." It was true. Despite the bounty on Robin's head, half a dozen northern outlaws acted under the name.
"None but the true beholder would so persistently deny the honour." The Elfaene drew so close he smelled her saccharine nectar. Fairies surrounded him and the queen, and others crept from the bushes to join them. "Look about you and see your prize. You may take any of my daughters as your wife. How glorious it would be to mingle the protector's line with fairy blood. Such a marriage will instil loyalty and stop your weak kind from wandering."
He closed his eyes but couldn't shut out the heat of the fairies' expectant gazes, which burned into him like two dozen hot brands. None truly desired him any more than he wished for a future with the fair folk, yet the Elfaene asked him to sire offspring with one of them.
If only it were so easy. When he'd left Sherwood, he'd cherished hopes he would break with a lifetime's habits and find a woman he could adore, a mother for
the child he'd always dreamed of. But he'd turned down warmer female embraces than the fairies' soulless groping. He'd found no girl whom he could picture waiting by his hearth for him, and none whose body he could revere as he did the rough thighs and firm arses of fellow woodsmen.
Or even wanton blond foresters.
Robin couldn't dwell on that. He'd enough to deal with, especially now that the Elfaene exacerbated his desperate pang for family. Above all, he needed to put an end to this protector nonsense.
"Walk with me?"
The Elfaene conceded to his gruff request, though they didn't succeed in shaking off the rest of the bunch. As they wound along the bank, the foliage rustled, the fair folk's laughter vying with the babbling of the brook. While Robin struggled to articulate his final refusal, the Elfaene pulled a nut, a hazel, from a low branch nearby and held it up for him to see. Beneath feathery leaves and a flare of green, the shell darkened not to the usual brown but to black. After cracking the nut open with her teeth, she twisted her features in disgust, then spat it out.
Inside, the contents shone blood-red. "What does it mean?" he asked.
"'Tis a sign the foul spirits of Niogaerst are rising. I've seen crimson catkins many a springtime, but never this. Even the Green Man bows his leafy crown and weeps. We must have the protectors back to continue their bloodline, to bring balance to the forest before the fairer spirits of the oak are annihilated. Before Wild Men roam free and strip the flesh from my daughters' bones. We need you."
Robin pressed his temples, trying to wrap his head around it all. He couldn't recall when he'd first heard about the Green Man, the soldier of the sweeter Greenwood spirits, half oak and half human. Someone must have told him the stories early in his life, because images of the Green Man had frequented his dreams since his childhood up north. It seemed everything in the Greenwood was dreams and cautionary tales. The Elfaene's story supported that of the old peddler woman, who'd told how the viler spirits grew powerful now that the locals had been driven from the forest.
Lord of the Forest Page 2