Bound for the Forest

by Kay Berrisford

  Brien was baffled. “You want to leave the forest?”

  “Yes! I mean…no.” Scarlet puffed the hair from his eyes, visibly exasperated. “I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to talk about it. It’s…it’s my turn to ask questions.” Composing himself, Scarlet pushed back his shoulders and took a tentative step forward. “So…I suppose you’ve had a lot of lovers, Captain Brien?”

  “Hundreds of them!” Brien grinned and continued on his way, although he was far too intrigued to think about himself. He’d naturally assumed Scarlet was the sort of backward creature who didn’t want to leave the forest, but pondering it for a moment, Brien realized that Scarlet’s revelation was unsurprising. The woodsman was ill-educated and naive, but he was far from stupid. And he might be small, but he was deadly tough. If Scarlet wanted to leave, what actually kept him here? Fear of the unknown, possibly? Or was there something or somebody physically preventing Scarlet from leaving the Greenwood?

  “We’re nearly there,” said Scarlet abruptly. “You’ll be rid of me soon.”

  Scarlet picked up his pace, moving so close behind Brien that he verged on pushing past. Brien shot him a hard look. Since that morning, Scarlet’s cheeks had steadily regained their healthy, pinkish hue, as had those claret-coloured lips, which he now smoothed together and licked as if tasting the remnants of a delicious meal. It was so provocative that Brien’s intrigue fast dissolved into irritated lust, recalling Scarlet’s question about lovers.

  Was the woodsman deliberating goading him? Did he realize how much Brien wanted to see him sink to his knees right there on the forest floor and slip those shiny lips over his cock? Damn it, yes, that was still his only interest in this wanton cove. He leveled his brows, his glare thunderous.

  “We’d better be bloody well nearly there. I can’t wait to get out of this hell. My God, any poor fool who chooses to live here in this day and age would be better off in Bedlam.”

  * * *

  “Here we are,” said Scarlet.

  Brien grunted and gave the leather strap a deliberate jolt that made his captive stumble forward. They didn’t seem to have arrived anywhere. There were still just endless trees, ferns, twigs snapping under his boots and scratching at his face, and the confounded gossamer strands sticking to his chin. He scraped his fingernails across his stubble, patience running thin.

  “If you’ve just been leading me in circles, believe me, I’ll—”

  “I told you. We’re here. This is Arden. That ditch we crossed—that was the outer boundary of the village, and see those earthworks?” Scarlet nodded toward two earth mounds that the path had passed between; they were obviously quite ancient, swamped beneath a sea of nettles. “That’s the wall.”

  “So there is a ditch and some sort of old enclosure here. There’s still nobody about.”

  Scarlet rolled his eyes. “If they don’t want to talk to you, I can’t help that. We’re nearly at the edge of the temple. There’s the gateway.” Scarlet nodded toward two large oaks standing on either side of the narrow track as it wound ahead. Each over a yard in girth, their lower boughs formed an asymmetrical archway over the path, while their higher branches stretched toward the sky like twisting turrets.

  Nature imitating a medieval castle. It was pure coincidence.

  “Stop talking bollocks, boy. You’ve brought me to absolutely nowhere.”

  Scarlet curled his lip. Brien turned away, fists balling—and then a flash of movement caught his attention, high above.

  His eyes stretched wide, if not quite in wonder, then with curiosity. Slung between the branches of two cloud-scraping trees was a narrow walkway fashioned of rough hemp and wooden slats. It swayed from side to side, a jerky, rhythmic motion out of keeping with the afternoon’s mild breeze. Somebody or something had just run along it.

  “Believe me now?” muttered Scarlet.

  “Who was that?”

  Scarlet shrugged. “One of the druidesses, I suppose. She probably took one look at you, you great bufflehead, and decided to run a mile…ow!”

  Yanking Scarlet forward with renewed energy, Brien burst between the two great oaks and found the dense woodland opening into a long, narrow clearing. On each side, a dozen smooth-barked beeches formed perpendicular columns that stretched toward the skies. Rope walkways were laced between them, resembling inverted Gothic arches, while shafts of dappled light swept toward the forest floor, each mimicking the path of a flying buttress.

  This was no medieval castle. This was a glorious cathedral that reached reverently up to the heavens. Or maybe its purpose was to draw the heavens down to earth? The aura of hushed sanctity was tangible on the breeze. And now Brien’s gaze lowered toward the front of the cathedral nearly fifty yards ahead of him. In the middle of a half circle of yew and crab-apple trees, an array of yellow and white spring flowers decorated an altar.

  “Believe me now?” A scornful note touched Scarlet’s voice, dragging Brien back from the verge of stupefied wonder. He rounded on his unwilling guide.

  “This still isn’t good enough. There’s nobody here to talk with. I’m not letting you go until I’ve seen my sister.”

  “That wasn’t the deal. I’ve done all I can!” Scarlet yanked on his bonds, baring his teeth. Brien easily countered his efforts, tugging him close again and then taking a firm grip on his collar. But he felt far from in control. A few moments ago, he’d convinced himself he was looking forward to being shot of the woodsman, but there was something about this place that made him…desperate.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” he growled.

  “You can’t! You promised! Find somebody else to tie up and bully, because I’ve had enough of it.”

  The slam of Scarlet’s forehead against Brien’s chin was not brutal but caught him off guard. Rebounding, Scarlet gave a strenuous tug at the leather strap. Then, as Brien swore and rubbed his jaw, the woodsman yanked again. The leather creaked; somewhere, a seam was going to give. If Brien wanted to keep Scarlet, he’d have to physically overpower him again.

  “Let me go!” screamed Scarlet.

  “No fucking way!” Brien squeezed his fingers, bruising, into Scarlet’s upper arms. Scarlet heaved a shuddering, wrathful sigh. Furious stares latched together as they both braced themselves for the effort ahead—and then Brien scooped Scarlet close into the powerful circle of his arms. An irrefutable energy arced between them, and Scarlet tipped his chin back and parted his lips. Brien’s blood rushed far too fast to refuse him, and he claimed Scarlet’s mouth with his own.

  Chapter Seven

  A dissonant scream tore through Scarlet’s mind as their lips, bodies, and passions clashed together, the kiss frantic, messy, and wet.

  No! Not here. Not upon the sacred ground where the spirits of the Greenwood reached toward their goddess. Scarlet was aware he was committing a great sacrilege. Yet the tighter Brien held him and the deeper he kissed him, the less Scarlet found he could fight.

  Holgaerst, forgive me!

  This was not good. The plea did not come from his heart. And the ache in his groin was fast overwhelming the rest of his faculties.

  As Brien intensified the kiss, Scarlet’s resistance sagged and surrendered, his mind turning disarmingly blank. The coarse stubble of Brien’s jaw scraped against Scarlet’s chin while Brien’s tongue explored every facet of his mouth. Scarlet returned the kiss with an ever-swelling fervor, sweeping his tongue against Brien’s and inviting the captain to plunder. It was like being sucked into a hot, swirling pool; the rough brush of Brien’s tongue unhinged him, swamping his caution, his self-willed loathing, and even his fear. Scarlet wanted this far too much.

  Brien ground his body against Scarlet’s, melding them as one to the rhythms of the kiss. The closeness of their bodies sent Scarlet’s desires spiraling further out of control, all his loyalties to Holgaerst and the great Green Man momentarily banished from his mind. The kiss consumed him, but he wanted more. And so, it seemed, did Brien. A steel rod of an erection pressed
against Scarlet’s stomach, just below his tied and crushed hands. Scarlet too was hardening toward full arousal, a whirlwind of need spinning in his guts; and whether he was possessed by Holgaerst, Niogaerst, or the devil, he didn’t know and no longer damn well cared. Scarlet scrubbed himself wantonly against Brien’s thigh, hitching up his leg until his knee brushed the hard line of his captain’s hip. He needed this man inside him. He needed him to claim him, right here, right now…

  “Stop!”

  The first cry was not enough to part them. But the second, a commanding, wordless yell, ripped through Scarlet’s ears loudly enough to reawaken his deadening consciousness of the world beyond, and of the severity of his crime. He felt Brien tense, the flow of passion severed. Fuelled by a spasm of mortal fear, Scarlet wriggled himself free from the now lax embrace.

  “Scarlet! What on earth are you doing? Do you not recall where you are, lad?”

  Scarlet dabbed his tongue anxiously at his swollen lips, and he turned to face Arya. The druid priestess was not a tall woman, slight of breast and hip, her hair blanched nearly as white as the wood anemones strewn on the altar behind her. She was flanked by six of her sisters in faith, her superiority marked only by her air of confidence—and her formidable glare, the full force of which she now brought down on Scarlet.

  “I’m sorry,” he started. “The blackguard wouldn’t let me go.”

  “Even if that were true, I believe tradition once dictated that strangers must have their hands tied before entering the sanctuary of the Mother Goddess to show their submission to Holgaerst. Instead you are the one whose hands are tied.” She paused, and her lips twitched with the merest hint of a laugh. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  “I’m sorry, Arya, but have you seen the size of the bugger?” snapped Scarlet. “Like I said, I didn’t exactly have much bloody choice!”

  Scarlet knew he had done wrong, and he knew he should fear the wrath of Arya nearly as much as he should the wrath of the spirits. He had always held her in great awe, as he had Jemima. Yet, much like when he’d encountered Jemima the previous day, he could not help but feel slightly irritated by her manner toward him. Who are you to scold me? he thought, but he didn’t quite dare say it. He had lost Arya’s attention, anyway. Arms folded, she squared up to Brien, who had severed the leather strap between them and was now mustering an impressive air of belligerence.

  “You look familiar to me,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “Don’t blame the boy. It’s quite obvious that I forced him to bring me here. My name is Melmoth Brien.”

  “Melmoth Brien? Faederswica!” The colour visibly draining from Arya’s weather-tanned cheeks, she gestured wildly to the other women. “Take Scarlet to the altar. Strip him and prepare him. We must thank the Mother Goddess that it was only a kiss, but the damage may still have been done. And as for you!” Whirling back around, she jabbed an accusing finger into the middle of Brien’s chest. “Get out of here before I bring every curse in the Greenwood pantheon down upon your head!”

  Brien folded his arms, pressing out his biceps with his knuckles. “I’m not leaving this place until I’ve spoken to my sister, Jemima, and she’s given me back what she stole. And if you think I’m afraid of your heathen spells and potions, then you’re sadly deluded, woman.”

  “This is about Jemima?” Arya spat the name out with an obvious distaste. “I don’t have time for this. Just…get out of here.”

  Arya turned her back on Brien and paced off toward the altar, leaving him fuming but going nowhere. He’d come this far, and he’d be damned if he was going anywhere without getting what he wanted.

  Nevertheless, right then what he wanted above all was to do something about the erection still pressing in his breeches. He was inevitably drawn to what was happening to Scarlet, who had been led away by the six priestesses. It appeared they were preparing him for some sort of ceremony.

  The priestesses had swept the flowers aside, untied Scarlet, and laid him flat on the wooden altar. He was stripped to the waist, and shafts of light penetrated down between the trees to highlight the ripple of corded muscle on his lean torso. Scarlet looked a little nervous about what was going on, but he put up scant resistance as the women stretched his arms and legs toward the four corners of the altar. His wrists and ankles fastened into place with straps, Scarlet turned his head sideways so his cheek rested again the wood. And then suddenly he began to shout.

  “It’s hazel wood! The altar is bloody hazel wood! Untie me! Please get me away from it.”

  The underling priestesses stepped away, looking to Arya for guidance. “We always use hazel to make offerings to the Mother Goddess, Scarlet,” she explained. “We used it last time we performed this ritual upon you, although you were too sick to know it. The Goddess holds sway over all earth’s spirits, the hazel and the oak. Hazel is the tree of Niogaerst, whom we must appease always in our offerings, much as we offer our thanks to the grace of Holgaerst.”

  “I’m well aware,” Scarlet interjected. “That’s why…ngggn!” He tugged at the binds at his wrists, straining with his every sinew. “Let me go!”

  Brien toyed with the idea of intervention when Arya leaned forward and whispered something in Scarlet’s ear. He paused, watching closely. Scarlet’s eyes lulled closed. Then the woodsman let out a long, resigned sigh and stopped struggling.

  What were they going to do to him? Brien edged a little closer, but unlike the previous day, he experienced no overwhelming compulsion to rush to the lad’s rescue. One of the women dipped her finger into a large pot, which turned out to contain some thick, blue ointment. She daubed a large circle on Scarlet’s chest. Two others chanted while another two swayed lanterns, in which flickered candles emitting a sweet, woody aroma that was distantly familiar to him, although he could not quite recall why. Arya still lingered at Scarlet’s head, smoothing his long, honey-blond fringe from his brow.

  “He will not touch you again,” she whispered. “Everything will be well.” Then she straightened sharply and glared over at Brien. “Did you use his body, traitor?”

  Brien was too startled to be anything but honest. “No!”

  Lowering her tone again, she reverted to Scarlet. “Is this true?”

  “Yes. I…I… He’s not my master. Last night, Holgaerst…came to me. I know I’m safe now. There’s no need…no need for this.”

  “But here of all places, a kiss could be almost as destructive as a claiming. I have to perform the ceremony to be sure. You must understand that.”

  Brien watched Scarlet bite into the fleshy fullness of his bruised lower lip. “Will it hurt?”

  “It might, but only a very little. You can take it, Scarlet. I know you can.”

  “What the devil are you going to do to him?” Brien closed in fast on the altar.

  Arya’s furious gaze stilled him on the spot. “Faederswica!” she hissed. “Stay away!”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sakes.”

  “Captain Brien! Please…” Scarlet’s voice cracked, but he seemed sure enough. “Don’t interfere. They know what they’re doing. I want this. I need this.”

  Brien fell back a step, earning a cold nod from Arya. He felt powerless. He didn't want to start a brawl, although he had a sneaking suspicion that Arya, at the very least, might be able to give as good as she got. Much worse, he wished to God that, with Scarlet stretched and helpless on the altar, the only thing he felt was anger. The truth was that the preparations had done nothing to make him feel any less aroused. More likely than a rescue, Brien felt like he might just transform into some rabid wild animal, push the women aside, and screw Scarlet into the heathens’ altar.

  So he did not move at all. He felt like he was shaking, although his body remained motionless, the numbing of his limbs almost akin to his previous night’s dream of paralysis.

  The chanting grew louder. A particularly striking redheaded woman cupped Scarlet’s neck, urging him to raise his head and drink some sort of steaming
liquid from a bronze goblet. She made sure the vessel was emptied and then stepped away, allowing Arya to take over at Scarlet’s side. Arya slipped down the top of the woodsman’s breeches, revealing the prominent line of his pelvic bone, then leaned down to examine the mark near Scarlet’s hip.

  “If that truly is the sign of the hazel, the mark grows bolder,” observed the flame-haired girl who, Brien dispassionately noted, had magnificent breasts. “He still belongs to Holgaerst?”

  Arya shook her head, perplexed. “I don’t care what Jemima says, Urhelda. We cannot dismiss the destructive powers of Niogaerst. We must complete the ceremony, just in case.”

  Scarlet murmured something in response, but he sounded as if he was becoming sleepy. Arya raised her hands and began to chant in a deep, serious voice. Brien didn’t understand the Old English dialect, but it was some sort of pagan spell, he was sure of it.

  He’d seen his sister practice such atrocities. That was it! He recalled everything now. Brien had watched Jemima from behind the holly bush, years ago, before slipping off to inform their mother of her sins. That had been the last time he’d smelled these heady, exotic aromas of sandalwood and spice. Even the symbol one of the women had painted on Scarlet’s chest was familiar. A full moon, encircling the waxing and waning crescents: the ancient sign of the Mother Goddess. He remembered and loathed it all.

  An eighth woman emerged from behind the crab-apple, carrying with her a long metal staff with a rounded tip that glowed brightly. It looked white-hot.

  A brand? Brien’s blood ran cold. Surely they were not so cruel as that? Arya took the staff from its holder, nodded for them to hold Scarlet still, and then pressed its glowing nub to the inside of his lower arm.

  Scarlet’s hoarse scream obliterated Brien’s mental strivings to remain detached. He charged forward, and a single arrow whizzed inches from his ear before piercing the earth. Five women dashed to defend the altar, forming a barrier with their bodies between Brien and Arya—and Scarlet. Brien pulled out his dagger.