But Robin Hood fought for the people, not fairies or woodland magic.
"When did you first detect the presence of this protector of yours?" he inquired.
"This morning. I felt him in my bones. The waters foretold him and drew us here. You first breached the bounds this very day, before the sun reached its peak. Am I right? I am right!"
He shook his head. "I've been in and about the Greenwood for over a fortnight. Besides, I was raised in Inglewood and passed most of my years in Sherwood, hundreds of leagues from here." And where he'd been born, nobody knew. "I can't be your protector."
Grabbing his arm, she bared her teeth. "Why isn't it you? I can smell your goodness. Strength fills you like the scent of primrose fills the glade in summer. Most men are so pathetically weak."
"I'm sorry." Brushing her away, he pointed back up the stream in the direction of the camp. "Others entered the forest this morning."
"Those men are the enemy. Of the Norman tribe who laid down the laws that drove the protectors away. It was their kind that caused this trouble. If a Greenwood man is among their number, he is faederswica, a traitor. All would be lost."
She sounded so desperate Robin felt sorry for her. "There are many other paths into the forest. If you're sure your protector is here, he must have taken one of those. But please, I wish to go now." His voice cracked, betraying his weariness. "I have other duties on the morrow."
"What duties, outlaw?"
He indicated back in the direction they had come. "Somebody must pay those villains' debts to the folk of the nearby villages, because they won't."
Renewed interest shimmered across her countenance. "My daughters have been watching the party and have learned the foresters are to travel into the Greenwood at first light, ahead of the warriors. We were considering a little surprise for them." She pressed a finger to her pursed lips. "What do you say, Robin Hood? You can thieve alone in the night, but you cannot ambush a whole party by yourself."
"You want to help me?"
The notion didn't fill him with relish, but the fairies cheered, and temptation pricked. He could plunder more if he joined forces with the fair folk, though their sinister cries dampened his enthusiasm.
"Let's tear the foresters apart," screeched the yellow-haired fairy.
"They will splash and slip in their guts," yowled one of her companions, whose laughter then trilled. "We'll impale them on the trees!"
He balked. "I want payment for the people. Not a bloody massacre."
"Daughters, silence." At the Elfaene's command, each obeyed. "Forgive them, Robin. They are frightened of the Wild Men and the darkness that approaches. Besides, in this age of blood, killing is so necessary. Surely Robin Hood has slaughtered?"
He'd killed to save the lives of friends and in the heat of a skirmish. Not as many times as the stories would have the world believe, but still too often.
"I'm interested in learning what that party is up to," he said. "I've heard talk of some new body of forest laws that could bode badly for all of us."
"More wretched rules? Like those that brought this nightmare upon us, driving our protectors away?"
He sighed. "I fear so. I want to find out their plans, not slit their throats. If we are to stand together, you must promise me that."
As contemptible as they were, he didn't wish death on the knights or foresters.
And especially that mysterious blond man, Goddess help him.
As if reading his unheeded thought, the Elfaene drilled her gaze into him. "That wretched whore whose neck you saved, he wore the forester's garb, did he not? And he was pretty, in a fashion." She drummed her lips. "So that is why you reviled the prospect of fucking my daughters. Robin Hood lies with men."
She didn't sound angry, merely thoughtful. He bristled all the same. "There are a thousand reasons I would never wed a fairy. As for earlier, all I saw was a young man in distress. I acted out of pity, but on the morrow, he will be my enemy. Believe me, I can kill if I must."
The Elfaene arched her brows. Robin dug his heels into the soft loam and squared his shoulders, standing firm. He'd spoken the truth. Yet his heart leaped at the prospect of seeing more of that forester, and he wished he'd confronted the man about his strange actions. Whose side was the lad on?
"So," said the Elfaene, "tonight you will make camp with us. And tomorrow we shall stay our hands unless we're given good cause to do otherwise. I give you my word."
Robin stiffened his sinews. The forester was irrelevant. The villagers needed payment, and the Elfaene's alliance could be a valuable one if he was to oppose this new charter.
"Very well," he answered, folding his arms. "In the morning, we track the foresters together."
Chapter Four
As the half-dozen foresters rode deeper into the Greenwood, Cal kept glancing over his shoulder. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, as if his body sensed somebody following him.
He trailed last in the procession, and none of his companions seemed aware of any danger. Jed, the grey-bearded veteran who rode before him, appeared as relaxed as if he snoozed beside the hearth. At the head, Berolt forged on through the tumbling leaves, a mottled shower of orange, scarlet, and gold. The hooves of Cal's horse slipped on the carpet of mulch, and the occasional spider's web caught in his hair. But none of the trees stretched out gnarled fingers to throttle him, as he'd dreamed the night before.
He sighed, twining the reins about his cold fingers. This festering unease was just his mind playing tricks. Still, a hoarse cry set his blood lurching, and his horse bridled. At the front of the party, Berolt drew his old sword. A crow flapped up into the arms of an elm.
"Well, I'll be buggered!" yelled Berolt.
"Scared of the birds now, master?" The weasel-faced young forester travelling closest behind Berolt snickered. "Or have the poachers clad themselves in ebony and sprouted wings?"
"Nay, Edolf, my lad." Berolt flashed his tombstone teeth in a grin. "No outlaw dare challenge old Berolt with such an open assault. I salute our winged friend, though I'm getting hungry. If Squire Crow tries that again, I'll fillet him alive."
"I'd rather catch me a ripe fairy maid," chanted Edolf, "and swive into her plump hind."
Berolt's laughter chimed nervously. "You shouldn't jest about the fair folk. This deep in the forest, even the trees have ears."
"You're not afraid of the fairies, master?"
Berolt shrugged. "I've patrolled the bounds of the forest many a long winter, and they've not dared bother me yet, lad. Seen plenty of strange happenings, mind, and fucked ten score buxom wenches from the villages, though you'll have to wait till we get to Castle Brock for that pleasure. Unless we catch ourselves some pretty girl after the coneys."
Berolt and Edolf shared a dirty laugh, and Cal hitched his lip in a sneer. Enduring the Greenwood was bad enough, but he couldn't stand this company much longer. He'd find the evidence needed to return to London, whether it existed or not. Hell, he'd forge incriminating documents if he had to, and the regent might not scold him. After all, counterfeiting had been the only skill Marshal had schooled Cal in personally.
As soon as they reached Castle Brock, he'd select a victim even nobler than Randolf and seduce him with a flicker of his lashes and a flash of his brilliant blue eyes. He'd work the man's shaft with tongue and lips. He knew well how to reduce a baron to a boneless wreck and wondered if he could force one to seal a falsified document. Had he the nerve to hold a dagger to a nobleman's throat? He'd do anything to get back to the relative comfort of court life. To curl up dry and safe near the hearth in the great hall of Westminster and…
A renewed buzz of disquiet interrupted his plotting, though he could determine no obvious cause. The gentle breeze had fallen hush, the forest quiet as a stagnant pool. Far too still. They passed between tall beeches hung with leaves bronzed with age yet so thickly layered high summer might have never waned. A rustling from the undergrowth seemed to mimic a whispering voice and elevated his fea
rs. "Jed, I think I heard something," he said. "I don't know what. Just… something."
Glancing back, Jed knitted his shaggy brows. "Don't fret, Cal. It's a deer, maybe a horned hog."
A faint twang and a blur of movement defied Jed's words. Something—an arrow?—shot across the track just inches from Jed's nose and buried itself deep in the brush.
"What the devil!" Jed steadied his horse, glancing wildly from side to side. "Berolt," he shouted. "We're under attack."
Berolt waved his sword. "Show yourself!"
The whiz of a second arrow reached Cal's ears the same instant it struck the track to his left. He noted the snow-white feather trim of the projectile, and his veins ran cold. "Fair folk!" he shouted and grabbed his knife from his belt.
Edolf scratched his head in bewilderment. "Master, I thought you said—"
Berolt cut him off with a shake of his fist. "Stand off, wood-wives. We mean you no harm. The boy spoke in jest!"
A third arrow sliced through the air, piercing Berolt in his upper thigh. He bellowed like a bear. Edolf's jaw fell slack, and he stared so hard his eyes bulged. Laughter crackled, leafy boughs shaking all about. No enemy showed their faces.
Jed nocked an arrow in his bow and sent it into the depths. One of the beeches quaked. "Move faster, you fools," he hollered. "Let's fly."
Blood poured between Berolt's fingers as he grasped his wound. Digging the heel of his good leg into his distressed stallion, he urged the animal on. The unseen adversary unleashed a full volley of arrows. Cal jerked his reins, chivvying his horse.
Then a point struck the flesh of his left shoulder, hot pain shocked through him, and he dropped his blade. Jed turned back, his eyes glassy. The old man dragged an arrowhead from his horse's flank, then kicked his heel against the blighted animal and went on.
Cal yanked the stone broad-head from his shoulder. His mount whinnied and lifted her forelegs, and he tumbled from the saddle. Sprawled in the mud, he gaped after his ride as she stampeded off.
The fall had blasted the air from his belly, and awe crippled him. Female figures poured from each bush and tree ahead of him, a deluge of creamy flesh, gauzelike fabric, and loose, billowing hair. Many wielded bows. Others hurled stones and clumps of mud after the foresters as the latter drew to an abrupt halt, indicating their path had been blocked.
A deep and very male shout cut above the clamour. "Taxes for the poor, and you might just live."
The fair folk allied with outlaws. Cal's situation didn't improve, though nobody paid attention to him. Maybe he could slip away unnoticed.
Gasping, he pushed up onto his knees, retrieved his knife, and then touched gingerly at his shoulder. Blood soaked his tunic where the arrow had struck, between the bones of his breast and shoulder. Though the gash didn't seem deep, he felt queasy and weak, and luck afforded him no time to tend to his wound. A little freckled fairy dropped from the branches above, landing nigh soundlessly on two feet.
She was alone and unarmed. She hesitated a moment, staring down at him with very round, green eyes.
With an effort that required every iota of his strength, Cal jumped up and grabbed her. Pulling her flat against his good shoulder, he pressed his blade to her throat with his ailing limb.
"Not a word," he whispered.
A man worth his salt would cut now, then run despite his injury. It might be his sole chance. The fairy blanched beneath her freckles, and her lower lip trembled. She looked little more than a babe. His blade nicked her quivering flesh, but… Oh Lord.
Six months past, he'd held a knife to the throat of a Venetian merchant's son and demanded the father cancel the English crown's debts or he would kill the boy. He'd known then, his hand shaking, he could never murder an innocent in cold blood. Regrettably for Cal's career, the merchant had suspected the same.
His strength faltered. He slid the knife away, and the fairy's scream ripped through him. As she struggled to free herself, he retained enough wit to clench his fist, concealing his ring's insignia. His legs turned to butter, and he slumped to his knees. Footfalls pattered, and then fair folk set upon him.
"Your friend wished to plunge his nasty cock into us? Hmmmm?" He discerned the voice of the freckle-faced one. She moved behind to twist her fist in his hair, then jerked him upright so he faced an encircling group.
He swallowed bile from his throat. Fairies were females, right? He could handle women, but it was hard to radiate boyish charm under duress. "He…he… That man is not my friend. I am new to the foresters and… Oh God, it hurts so much!"
Gritting his teeth, he pleaded to the little fairy whose throat he'd failed to slash. "Please spare me. I… I spared you."
"He didn't want to show mercy." Her words bubbled, sweet and girlish. "He's just a coward who quails to spill blood."
Her friends answered with shared smirks.
"He is pretty," said another. Clad in a vermilion gown fit for a lady of quality had slits not shredded the skirt to the thigh, she tilted her head as she examined him. He batted his lashes. "We should heal him. Then we can keep him as a pet."
"We don't heal foresters," snapped the freckly fairy. "Strip him and whip him and watch him bleed."
She seized his bloodied arm beneath his mantle and twisted. A burning blackness consumed him, pain blistering and commanding his every faculty. Not only did it feel as if she'd ripped the wound wide open, he'd swear she was about to tear his shoulder at the socket. At least five of them tugged him side to side. An argument broke out, and snatches of their conversation filtered through his anguish.
"Fetch healing herbs. Let's fix him."
He recognized the freckle-faced one's voice between her cackling. "Let the hazel cleave his nasty flesh!"
Whoops drowned a couple of cries of consternation, and his tormentor tightened her grip. He wished he would faint, that darkness would claim him, but light veered relentlessly. A ginger-haired fairy and a like-minded companion arrived with a pot of ointment and were held back by new arrivals joining the fray. A grinning brunette reached bony fingers to his throat, tore apart the clasp that held his cloak, and ripped the garment from him. Four set upon him at once, talon-like fingernails tearing his tunic. All the while, the one he'd spared chanted, "Let the forest fuck him to oblivion!"
He muttered a silent prayer to whichever deity cared to listen. Fucked to death by the trees? Even he didn't deserve such a fate.
Words spoken to him by that merchant on the banks of the Venetian lagoon thudded through his mind as surely as his heart hammered. "You're not an angel, nor a king's assassin. You're just a dirty whore."
This day was turning out worse than that one.
*~*~*
The pickings from the foresters were richer than expected. After the fairies had subdued them with arrows and threats, Robin cut a pouch of solid gold from the leader, though the man's sword was rusty and old, and Robin profited only a meagre collection of weaponry from the rest. As for the new charter of forest laws, the group protested they knew little. However, a grey-bearded elder seemed willing to share.
"A charter of the forest will be drawn up at Castle Brock," said the spokesman who'd introduced himself as Jed. "The barons will demand equal hunting rights to the crown in all the royal woodlands. Doubt we foresters will have much say. I'd wager we've been called in as bodyguards or mayhap as bait."
Jed raised his bushy brows. Robin regarded him from under the shadow of his hood. His instincts told him this man was honest, not least because the group's leader, who'd given the name Berolt, seethed at Jed's words.
"Let 'em go," Robin muttered, and he turned his back.
The Elfaene instructed two of her daughters to take possession of the injured horses to "lick and heal." The fairies sent the men and the remainder of the animals charging up the track, with threats of more arrows—this time tipped with poison—thrumming in their ears.
Hooking the purse to his belt, Robin sighed. He'd something to pay back the locals with, and the fair folk
had kept their promise not to slaughter without cause. He smothered his disappointment that the blond lad hadn't been with the party. It was no doubt for the best.
"We must act against this charter they speak of," said the Elfaene, drawing level at his side.
He frowned down at her. "Have you a plan?"
"I know somebody who could help us—somebody who could set the most fearsome baron quailing. If you come with us to our heortland, I will summon him."
"Who? Man or spirit?"
The Elfaene smiled mysteriously. "You'll see."
He grimaced. The idea of this battle—maybe his last—fired his blood and swayed his mind from his loneliness. "I'll come, but I want to know all. There are no secrets between allies."
"Very well." Still beaming, the Elfaene turned to pat the nose of a dappled mare that one of her daughters had brought to her. Robin's heart lurched. A third horse with no rider. So there had been another forester. Where was he…and was it him?
The Elfaene asked the burning question of her daughter who held the mare's harness. "Does the scum who rode this beauty still live, or did he meet with an unfortunate accident?"
Robin grew aware of voices and giggling seeping up the track. Then a scream, ragged with pain, overwhelmed the answer from the fairy with the horse. He recognized that cry. He ran.
Beneath the trees by the road, the blond lad knelt at the centre of a pack of fair folk, his tunic torn and sodden. Behind him, a freckle-faced fairy twisted his bleeding arm, giggling with glee, while a tall sister tugged his hair with joyful malice. Others ripped animal-like claws through his clothing while a beefy brunette dragged a knife through the air in a sawing motion inches from his throat. The lad's skin had turned ashen, his breath laboured.
When he saw Robin, a desperate light jolted in his eyes. "Help me."
"I said no unnecessary bloodshed." His heart pounding with more urgency than he liked, Robin shoved two of the fair folk from his path and started prying off the others.
"Indulge our friend," instructed the Elfaene.
Lord of the Forest Page 3