Bound for the Forest

by Kay Berrisford

  Scarlet shot Brien a sidelong glance. “Do you think that you might fall in love with one of them?”

  “I don’t believe in love. Just in good company, pleasure, and beauty. And I suppose some of these girls are nearly as damned pretty as you are.”

  Brien’s drawling words were at the same time hateful and delicious. Scarlet loved to be complimented. He ground his toe into the dirt. “You don’t mean that.”

  “You’re a beautiful man. If you were to leave this forest, attentions would pour upon you like fine wine, for good or ill. But…if you’re never going to leave, then I suppose we need not worry about that eventuality.” Scarlet scowled, hooking one of his braids behind his ear. But the captain showed no inclination to stop talking.

  “I’ve never kissed anyone, man or woman, in the middle of a blazing row like I kissed you yesterday. And I hate to say it, lad, but the feeling was mutual. I know you wanted me. Hell, let’s be honest, you kissed me back. I’m not saying you had any more control over the forces of attraction than I did, but…bugger! I can’t decide if I ought to apologize to you about my behaviour yesterday, or whether I should have been more of a blackguard. If you really want me to keep my hands off you, why the hell did you suggest that we pose as master and slave?”

  “Arya was saying that they needed something really shocking if the masquerade was going to be a success and, well…I…I…”

  Brien’s lascivious grin and a flicker of his long chestnut lashes stretched Scarlet’s nerves to their limit. Brien touched his cheek; the spark between them forced their eyes to meet. “Spit it out, boy.”

  Scarlet snapped like a twig. “Isn’t it obvious? These feelings I have for you are so wrong! I deserve to be punished. No…I need it. That’s what I feel. The ceremony yesterday has not been enough to restore my bindings to Holgaerst. Not after what you did! So you’ve got to punish me to save me, Melmoth Brien. Beat me, reject me…break those bonds. Because it’s all your fault!”

  Brien fell back, his shoulders sagging. It was all Scarlet could do not to spit in his face before he turned on his heels and, once again, fled for the trees.

  But as he picked his way through a jumble of damp undergrowth, a twinge of regret cut deep. He resisted the feeling with all the anger he could summon. Arya might be doubtful that Brien was faederswica. But what did she bloody know about it?

  * * *

  The procession through the woods to Carseald Hall moved swiftly, punctuated by harsh whispers and breaths sharp with anticipation.

  At first, Brien could not find Scarlet among the mass of shrouded bodies carrying unlit torches, incense lanterns, and various other paraphernalia, including a polished looking glass that he’d learned would come into play later. When he finally spotted Scarlet, it was by his grace of step, and by the cuffs about those slender, golden-pale ankles. Brien fell in line beside him. Scarlet’s face was shadowed beneath his hood, which he pulled tighter as Brien closed in.

  “You ready?” asked the woodsman.

  Brien grunted his affirmative, although his unease was growing about the night ahead. It wasn’t so much the prospect of coming face-to-face with men who could have him arrested that bothered him. Indeed the madness of the plan seemed slight compared to that of the dreamlike realm into which his life had descended.

  His renewed proximity to Scarlet, nevertheless, honed his swirling thoughts. The prospect of being Scarlet’s master, even in charade, equally thrilled and unsettled him. After what he’d experienced during the rescue and that kiss, and then the rush of putting on the mask…he was terrified of losing control again. Hell, it had been dawning on him since the woodsman’s outburst earlier that Scarlet was more master of this situation than he was. Brien felt vulnerable. And there was nothing he hated more than that.

  As if reading his fears, Scarlet said suddenly, “You mustn’t hold back. Whip me as hard as you want. I’ll scream anyway, but it’s better when it’s real.”

  “Better for whom? If I go too far, Arya might shoot me, or something of the like.” Brien was only half joking.

  “Only if you try to fuck me.”

  Brien let out a long, shuddering sigh, fighting a pang of innate jealousy as he wondered whether Scarlet would ever repel his damned Green Man in such a way. If he surrendered to these feelings, he would be the madman here, and Brien refused to let the Greenwood beat him.

  On the other hand, the boy was clearly best off left here, sheltered within the wooden walls of the forest. He should not, under any circumstances, be the subject of any more ridiculous fantasies that involved Brien’s leaving the Greenwood anything but alone.

  He sensed Scarlet shiver. “Are you cold?”

  “A little. But I’m going to be a lot bloody colder later.” The smaller man gave a shaky laugh, and Brien fought an almost overwhelming urge to pull him under his cloak and hug him tightly. Yes, he could be master here still.

  As daylight faded, Brien noticed they were passing through familiar terrain—the groves of primeval oak and ash that surrounded Carseald Hall. The women slipped into action, lighting torches, touching up body paint, and assembling from small constituents a low, flat cart, which they then proceeded to decorate with holly branches. In the middle of the cart, they constructed a wooden throne, beside which they placed Brien’s Green Man mask and a small cat-o’-nine-tails.

  “This is for you,” explained Arya to Brien, gesturing to the impressive piece of carnival. “We will push the cart into a position where it can be viewed from the Hall and backlit. Your cue to perform will be an orange flare. It will be the culmination of the display, the crowning glory. You will be terrible—and you must succeed. Do you understand?”

  “We do,” replied Scarlet, drowning out an uncertain growl from Brien. Leaning forward, he whispered in Arya’s ear, “Don’t be hard on him. I can deal with the pain.”

  “It’s not the pain we are concerned about.” Arya shot Brien a stern look. “But very well, Scarlet. If you believe you can handle it, I will trust you both.” She took his wrist and examined his inner arm closely. Brien too couldn’t help but be interested, as well as a little angry. This was his first chance to see, close up, what damage Arya had done to Scarlet yesterday. But he saw only a very faint, pink mark. Arya whispered a short prayer.

  Once she had left, Scarlet turned the full force of his gaze on Brien, low-angled evening light sharpening his features and bringing an azure clarity to his eyes. He let the cloak drop and then followed it down, sinking to his knees and bowing his head.

  “Do what you want with me, Master. I’m yours.”

  Once again it was such beautiful and absolute submission. Everything about Scarlet—the sweep of his rounded shoulders, his sandy-gold hair in those quaint little braids, and the vulnerable way he bore the back of his neck—was breathtaking.

  “The charade hasn’t started yet.” Brien’s voice sounded choked; he would not—could not—lose control again.

  Scarlet peeped up. “You’d better start it then. And make it good. Remember, I want to submit to you, but a wraith or slave won’t necessarily be willing. Use force if you have to. That’s what will strike fear into the enemies’ hearts.”

  “You’re what strikes fear into my heart. Stop being so demanding!” Crouching down in front of the woodsman, Brien chuckled halfheartedly. “You’re cold. We’ve got a while yet to go. Come on, put this back on.”

  He reached to pull the cloak back up over Scarlet’s shoulders, but Scarlet swatted him away.

  “You’ll catch a chill,” said Brien, feeling like a cross between a mother hen and a randy cockerel.

  “Don’t you understand? I want to be naked for you! I want you to whip me, punish me. Hurt me!”

  “But—”

  “No fucking buts!” Scarlet’s palm cracked across Brien’s cheek. “What do I have to do to get through to you?”

  Brien stared at the woodsman, the force of the blow still ringing in his ears. Scarlet was trembling, but whether with fear o
r anger or just the cold, who knew? There was certainly fire in his eyes.

  “Whip me. Punish me. Hurt me.”

  He seized Scarlet’s jaw in a bruising grip. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, boy.”

  Scarlet’s upper lip hitched. “Try me!”

  Brien resisted kissing him. Just. Instead he brayed a low, mocking laugh. What was the problem? He loved a feisty subordinate. If he could just forget the sordid echoes of enchantment about this boy, tonight could be a hell of a lot of fun.

  * * *

  Waiting on the cart amid the undergrowth, Brien positioned Scarlet so he knelt in front of him. For the time being, none of the druidesses were whispering instructions at them or even appeared to be watching, so he leaned back on his throne and casually inspected the cat-o’-nine-tails by the light of a near-full moon. It was a beautifully crafted piece with long, brown tresses made of soft leather, and a wooden handle, meticulously polished, which swelled to a weighty, globular head. Well designed for its purpose, the cat would sting like hell across Scarlet’s backside but not cause him any lasting damage.

  Curling the tresses around his fingers, he let his focus drift down the nape of Scarlet’s neck, pale flesh interrupted by the black collar. It was irresistible. Brien smoothed his palm over Scarlet’s rounded shoulders and then traced a single finger down his spine, watching the vertebrae undulate beneath his touch.

  “Mine,” he growled. This was proving easy. He shoved Scarlet forward onto his hands and knees, and then, without warning, he brought the whip cracking down across his arse.

  It wasn’t a hard swipe, but it sent a jolt right through Scarlet’s body. By the time a few heartbeats raced by, mild red welts had already grown up on his smoothly curving flesh. Brien leaned forward and ran his thumb along the burning lines. It felt so good, marking Scarlet, laying claim like this. Pulling back, he brought the whip cracking down again, this time much harder.

  “Is this what you wanted?” he demanded. “You wanted me to hurt you?” He switched the cat for a third time, evoking a low moan of pain from Scarlet and, in his own stomach, a faint flurry of guilt. It was soon forgotten as the woodsman peeped back over his shoulder, his bottom lip red and swollen with chewing, his gaze clouded with a familiar lust.

  “If…it’s what pleases you, Master.” Brien gave a severe nod, furrowing his brow, then scarcely contained a shout of surprised pleasure as Scarlet jutted out his perfectly rounded buttocks for even easier access. “But…but wouldn’t you rather punish me with your hands?”

  Damn the sly little pixie! Yes, thought Brien. Yes, I would like to do that. But using the cat was bad enough. If he actually touched that beautiful, shuddering arse, how the hell would he resist plunging his cock up there, right to its very root? Frustration boiling into anger, he grabbed Scarlet’s hair, yanking him back onto his haunches. “From now on, I say what I do to you. Now be quiet, or I will have to gag you. Do you understand?”

  “Y-yes, Master.”

  The woodsman stared up at him breathlessly, fear and excitement luminous across his countenance. It was a potent mix, and Brien’s frustration notched up a whole new level. Scarlet was crying out to be dominated properly, and in the name of the devil, Brien wanted to take him, and hard. Nevertheless the world around them could not quite be forgotten. That faint line creasing across his forehead, even Scarlet seemed to have sensed that something was about to happen. The druidesses were opening their masquerade.

  Torches had been lit all around them, burning in a variety of colours: hot red, bright daffodil yellow, and a bold, emerald green. A heavy rustle indicated two dozen druidesses dropping their cloaks as one, and the painted women began gliding their way through the undergrowth toward the mansion.

  Two came up behind them and started moving Brien’s cart forward, while others beat down the foliage in front, flattening a path for them to move when required. Rising to his full height, Brien gained a good view of Carseald Hall.

  Light glimmered weakly at one of the windows, indicating that a fire and candles were lit, and that attempts were being made to render the mansion more habitable. Good luck to them in achieving that, he thought ruefully. He’d lived nearly twenty years between those comfortless walls and had rarely found them homelike. As night had fallen, the wind had picked up, and Brien could hear it moaning through the crumbling chimneys high above. Much worse for the occupants, he knew drafts would creep in through every fracture in the stonework and every broken pane. If Hastings and his sons did not yet believe in the unholy spirits of this forest, then as long as they were fool enough, they would soon.

  Nevertheless the subtler protests of the house were fast being overwhelmed. From the dark figures in the undergrowth, a collective wail rose. To Brien’s ears, the voices of the druidesses seemed contorted supernaturally, at once becoming harsh and high, before shrinking away to nothing. The second time, the volume of their cries rose until they were almost deafening; then, like a wave pulling back on the seashore, the voices receded once more. Torches heightened the atmosphere, sending light swirling around the clearing, mingling with the thick, heady scents of incense and smoke.

  Still covered by the relative safety of darkness, Brien stepped back to his throne, tugging Scarlet with him and positioning him at his feet. Cool air licked his eyes, and he watched and waited.

  Brien was so close, so hot. His proximity sent a tingling sensation across Scarlet’s bare skin that far outweighed the stinging on his arse. He was scared, but not by the strange noises coming from the bushes around him. The sense of power that radiated from Brien was intoxicating. It made Scarlet feel weak, shaky…and a little angry. Why must he always feel everything so strongly when the faederswica was near?

  But all of this was briefly forgotten when the door of the Hall flung open and a group of dark figures emerged. Scarlet shrank back instinctually toward Brien, receiving an affirming stroke upon his hair; just briefly he felt his captain twirl one of his braids around his finger.

  “Who’s there?” One of Hastings’s sons—William, he believed—brandished a blunderbuss.

  The wails faded into silence.

  “It’s just the wind,” answered a voice from within. “We’re going to have to get used to it.”

  “There’s somebody out there!” William Hastings raised the gun and fired it in a blast of orange splinters. As the noise faded, he yelled, “Come out, you cowards. I can see your torches!”

  Two of the younger brothers edged toward the verges of the clearing, one of them veering dangerously near to where Scarlet and Brien waited for their cue. Scarlet well remembered the feel of these men’s hobnail boots in his ribs and the lash of the birch against his back. Fear clamped rigid in his throat and chest. He wanted to run. But that could be fatal, not just for him, but for everyone. He felt sick.

  Brien must have sensed his terror. He drew Scarlet closer, pulling him between his thickly muscled legs. A large hand cupped Scarlet’s neck, tenderly reassuring him with warmth that trickled from their every point of contact. As if falling under a spell, Scarlet pressed his face into Brien’s thigh and inhaled deeply.

  Indeed Scarlet felt so relaxed all of a sudden that he could almost have snuggled up there and slept. Yet he also became increasingly aware that his mouth was mere inches away from his captain’s shaft, the hardness and keenness of which he had already sensed. Scarlet wet his lips.

  The resumption of the ghostly wailing from the druidesses came as a reawakening to Scarlet. Backlit by flares of red and green, the women started advancing, the shifting light on their naked flesh causing the patterns to move like slithering snakes. The noise was ear shattering.

  And it was working. The men retreated toward the house, arguing about what to do next in voices barely audible above the commotion—all except William Hastings, who perched on one knee as he reloaded the muzzle of his blunderbuss. If he fired it again, somebody could get killed.

  Scarlet nearly turned to Brien in his panic, but then a h
azy beam of light streaked across the clearing and hit the gunman’s face, and Scarlet realized the druidesses’ plan was far-reaching. The beam was a reflection of the moonshine upon a mirror; it was not enough to blind as the sun’s rays might, but it startled the man just long enough for a druidess to dash out and throw a cloak over his head from behind.

  Her hair washed an orangey copper by the light of flame and moon, Urhelda wrenched the blunderbuss from the man’s hands. She retreated into the bushes before he could pull back the cloak and curse.

  “Bloody fine woman,” murmured Brien.

  A pang of jealousy struck Scarlet cold, but it faded fast and he had little time to dwell on its meaning. As he strove to push his fear into the corners of his mind, a green light flashed in the forest behind, and a flare of orange streaked up from the far side of the clearing.

  It was their cue.

  Brien shoved Scarlet forward violently. He caught himself on his palms with a smack. White lights flashed, exposing them to the gazes of the terrified witnesses, but that wasn’t what made Scarlet shudder to his core.

  Something shifted—something within the realm of the forest that was primeval and elemental and so much more powerful than his fear, or even his unexpected jealousy. Scarlet glanced back over his shoulder, his breathing shallow and harsh. Brien was wearing the mask. Or rather, the man and mask had melded as one, the leaves and twisted foliage that formed the beard and eyebrows now indistinguishable from the wildly curling hair that crowned the man’s head. Brien dropped his cloak, revealing his powerfully built torso rippling in the lambent light, his thick, sinuous neck and formidable shoulders all delineated by rivulets of shimmering sweat.

  Somewhere, somebody cried out in terror. A piercing green gaze impaled Scarlet from beneath the mask, and the whip came cracking down again on his upturned arse.

  Blown away by the wonder and horror of it all, Scarlet had almost become unaware of the position of extreme subservience he had reassumed, his backside offered up like a sacrifice to this great and magnificent being. The stinging pain of the whip on his already injured flesh reminded him forcefully, yet it was a welcome reminder. The lash came down again, harder and sharper, and then once more, accompanied by a terrible roar from the powerful being looming over him. This new great Green Man showed no inclination for mercy.