Bound to the Beast

by Kay Berrisford

  He grasped at hope and at that auburn-haired man who smiled and stretched a hand in invitation. The lad was dressed strangely now, in a short jacket with stuffed rolls of fabric at the shoulders, a stranger from foreign lands—but the image grew too distant, too faint. Vividly Herne saw himself leading his new army toward the Romans' flimsy camp and the forts of Crea's new allies, bringing a storm of fire in his wake, giving his people a chance to flee to the north and west. The lure of vengeance throbbed so potently his muscles twitched with strength, his antlers and his cock stiffening once more.

  "One blow on that horn, and the Wild Hunt is yours to command," said the beautiful Epomaros. "Let your power consume you. Ride forth, Herne the Hunter."

  Herne swept his gaze across the valleys, narrowing his eyes. The storm had destroyed some of the tents, over which the clouds had stifled all trace of daylight. Small figures battled against the elements and looked to the hill where Herne and his company stood, raising their arms and voices in panic. Sucellus streaked more lightning into the sky, and Taranis shouted more thunder.

  All Herne had wanted was to protect his people and to gain oblivion from his pain. He stared at the hunting horn, and the message it sent to him formed words in his mind as clear as fresh spring-water. His people were lost, but he would find oblivion in revenge. He would summon the Wild Hunt.

  He raised his horn to his lips, and he blew. If the Goddess commanded him to seek vengeance, why should he deny her? She must know a heart as broken as his was good for nothing else, for he could never love again, and he wanted none to love him.

  Not if a thousand years swept by.

  *~*~*

  1588 AD

  "The Spaniards are coming," the one-armed peddler exclaimed.

  Herne stared into the embers of his fire. Dwelling here, so deep amid the oaks of Windsor, he felt irritated his solitude had been shattered by this wandering man who sought to sell him some ribbon or trinket and thirsted for conversation.

  "The Armada will land any day now for sure, and who's to stop 'em? They'll tear this country apart; be certain of it. You're best off hiding here. Although, a strong fellow like you ought to take arms for Queen Elizabeth."

  Herne ignored him. He sensed unrest in the air, heard it in the babble of the streams and the cry of the birds; he could smell the peoples' fear, as burdensome as the summer heat. So it was the Spanish this time, was it? He had long ceased to bother following the petty quarrels of the world of men. They fought for land, for their God, and sometimes for no apparent reason at all, but always they fought, and always it ended in death.

  "The Wild Hunt will ride soon enough, I'll be bound," the peddler continued. "And then we'll know there's no hope for us."

  "If we are all to die, why would I want your ribbons?" asked Herne in a quiet, gruff voice that startled the peddler, who'd so far held up both sides of the discussion. "You may rest here if you like, but cease your talk. I have nothing to barter and no coin to make purchase."

  The peddler sat a few moments longer. Then his gaze alighted on the silver-rimmed hunting horn that hung at Herne's belt. He jumped to his feet, tucked his pack beneath his single arm, and scurried away into the trees like a squirrel. Had he finally realized just whom he had been addressing?

  Two hundred and forty years had passed since he'd last raised his hunting horn and summoned the Wild Hunt to remind upstart humans of their place in nature. But in the dying embers before him, he still saw a thousand burning homes, so distinct he could hear the screams of the suffering—and his bestial cry as he rode on over the horizon. Since the spirits conjured the storm of death that destroyed the Romans' camp, he'd led the Wild Hunt five times, and the Hunt had granted him the oblivion he'd craved in the rapture of the chase, the racing of his blood. Each time, war and pestilence had swept in his wake—along with guilt that gnawed to his very core.

  He was the creature of the Goddess. If she gave clear instruction that he must lead them, he would have no choice, but rumours and peddlers were not enough. He was sick of revenge and would not ride unless he had to.

  The fire on which he'd roasted his dinner was now little more than thick grey ash, although its heat still made him sweat. He rose to stretch his stiff limbs, then heard a soft voice calling his name.

  He slid his hand to his sword.

  No one stood before him, just a swirl of leaves on the wind and a small sapling that, in the fading light, made some spindly imitation of a human form. He had lived long enough in the realms of forest magic not to ask but merely to listen.

  "Ride south to the Greenwood, huntsman," insisted the voice. He could not tell where it came from. It seemed to echo all around him, breathy as a flute, and female.

  He swore, loud and bitter, and punched the side of his fist against the nearest trunk.

  The ancient Greenwood. Even now, when ancient magic foundered elsewhere, the Greenwood remained alive with fair folk, with the foul spirits of the forest underworld of Niogaerst, and with Herne's allies, the sweet spirits of the oak.

  He'd find no peace there. The Hunt dwelled in the depths of the Greenwood, waiting for his call.

  "To the Greenwood, Herne the Hunter," the voice repeated.

  He frowned. Here was a summons he could not disobey. But perhaps his Goddess might have some other mission for him. After all, it was summer, and at this time of year, the village lads oft grew frisky, and maybe they preyed on the fairies these hot summer's nights. If so, his protection would be needed.

  In this hope, he saddled his horse and then rode like a tempest, his temper boiling until his antlers burst forth in his frustration. As his passions rose, he felt that enduring ache in his cock.

  For Herne the Hunter had not known the caress of a lover in over fifteen hundred years.

  Chapter One

  Little Lyndton, The English Greenwood, 1588

  A hunting horn blasted through the forest, and the gallop of a dozen horses shook the earth. Tam pushed the sights and sounds to the back of his mind and concentrated on the tall, beautiful warrior with the eyes that shone like sapphires, the flowing ebony locks, and shoulders broader than the trunk of the spreading chestnut Tam waited beneath. Sword in hand, the warrior advanced toward him between the trees.

  Tam writhed with need, his face flushing as his cravings commanded him. "I surrender, mighty one. Use me as you wish."

  The warrior grinned, wolfish, and flung his sword, then his belt, to the ground. In the man's blank gaze, Tam sought the awakening of real affection, of sweeter emotions that burned deeper and longer than lust, but then the warrior tore his tunic away, paced forward, and bodily needs held sway. Tam grew transfixed by the man's cock, huge and erect, the glistening head bobbing up toward a tightly muscled stomach.

  Heavens, Tam was hard for him too; he wanted this man to pin him down and fuck him roughly, and Tam craved every inch of him. Backing against a tree, he yearned to feel the scratch of the bark against his arse, even the sting and tear of a thorn, pleading with his heart as well as his gaze. Closing in fast, the warrior clamped rough hands about Tam's shoulders, and Tam strained toward him, desperate to know this man's strength. As he reached to touch the man's chest, which looked hard as granite, his hand sliced through air.

  Don't wake up now. Why must it always be a dream?

  His world shook; he wished this were caused by the warrior slamming him against the oak and claiming him. Somebody tapped his shoulder and ruffled his hair. A soft female voice goaded, "Tam, wake up; it's nearly time."

  "Time for what?" he murmured. He knew well enough what Ann, his brother's wife, was about to say.

  "Sunset," she replied, mournful. "It's the night you're to be wed."

  Oh yes. Tonight I, of all men, must claim my fairy bride.

  "Agh!" He pulled the threadbare blanket to cover his head, rolling over. Denying the truth felt easier than it ought. "Leave me be."

  For a few moments, he wandered back into the forest of his slumber. It was silent now. His
warrior had gone. Tam's erection withered as his rushing thoughts vexed him.

  One late summer eve every dozen cycles of the sun, the fair folk offered the chance for a village man to travel into the Greenwood to attempt to claim a fairy as his bride, a task for which Tam had been selected, to his initial horror. Although the ritual brought great luck to the village, sorely needed right now, no poor lad had ever actually returned with his bride.

  Nobody knew what became of them. The legend said, they lived their days happily wed to one of the fair folk, although rumour told they fell to foul spirits or the fairies' protector, Herne the Hunter, or even the terrible Wild Hunt.

  Tam would have fled for the hills, had not the very fairy maiden whose embrace he feared approached him. To most careless villagers, Calleagh might have seemed no more than an uncommonly beautiful woman. Tam had perceived she was fair folk when he'd first glanced into her violet eyes four weeks ago, before he'd recognized her green cloak that danced in the breeze as only cloth spun by fair folk could. She'd praised Tam for his keen wit and told him she'd help him triumph where all men before him had failed. Calleagh wanted to marry him, to become human, and he knew he should desire this betrothal, his key to respect and adult life.

  As Ann's mutterings crept once more into his consciousness, his instincts still whispered, Run away!

  "Damn you!" Waking fully with a jolt, he pulled the blanket from his face and glared at Ann, who scowled back, wrinkling her thin, freckled nose and tucking a stray tendril of mushroom-coloured hair into her cap. Her eyes looked red and swollen, as if she'd been crying.

  "I've made you supper," she said, "and all you can do is swear at me? You better come down. Richard is getting impatient, and Jerome will have eaten everything if you don't make haste." She rose, scuttling from the room and slamming the door so the wattle and daub shook.

  This, then, would be the night of his betrothal. Even if he made it through the forest, how soon after must follow the consummation he truly dreaded? Ballad singers informed him a woman's moist cleft would set his loins blazing as his hands never could, and he was willing to learn if he truly must. He'd rather roll in the bracken with a beautiful fellow, but that could be no village man's waking life. He only hoped Calleagh would bless him with time to grow accustomed to the idea.

  "Damn," he repeated miserably, and he followed Ann downstairs.

  "Behold! The hero who'll keep the Spaniards from our doors," shouted Jerome as Tam entered the little hall, ending his greeting with a snort of derision. "Woe is England, then! Tam can't even keep the hogs from our doors. I don't see how he's going to save us from invasion, even with all the luck of the fair folk shoved up his arse."

  Still bleary from sleep, Tam ignored his second eldest brother, a thickset, red-haired jolthead, who chewed on a hunk of meat like a cow on the cud, his pea-green eyes filled with an equally cloddish level of intellect. Tam had enough worries without paying attention to Jerome or being reminded yet again why a little fairy luck was sorely needed by the village of Little Lyndton. Not only was harvest hard by; the Spanish Armada circled English shores like wasps, and rumours of invasion abounded.

  "They say that if the land is to be ruined, first the Wild Hunt must ride, as in every old legend of destruction." Jerome grinned, baring his yellowed teeth. "You venture into the Greenwood, and they'll skin you alive and roast you on a spit, runt. If the fairies don't eat you first."

  "I'll die happy if they tell me they're going to boil your head for their next meal," muttered Tam.

  "Lads! For once in our lives, let us have peace," said Richard. The eldest brother raised a hand, demanding quiet.

  While Ann shuffled off to pile food on a platter, Tam slid onto a bench next to Richard, on the far side of the hearth across from Jerome. Yeoman and head of the household since their father's death, Richard wore his black beard styled to a fashionable point, and his clothes were cut of a finer weave of linen that the rest of the family's.

  He placed an empty tankard down on the straw-scattered floor and regarded Tam with probing curiosity. "How you feeling about your betrothal, lad?"

  Tam shrugged. "Ready, I suppose." He nearly choked on his lie. He'd never felt less ready, but what choice was left to him? Then Richard slipped a stiff arm about his shoulder, and Tam nigh jumped an inch in the air. His eldest brother had never been an affectionate man. Now Richard smiled indulgently. Did the gleam in his eyes hint at some sort of pride?

  "I know the precedents aren't good," said Richard, "but you're the cleverest fellow I've ever known. You'll be lauded by the whole village on your return, hailed as a hero." Jerome chuckled and slurped mead from his tankard. Tam considered kicking his shin. "When you return with your bride," continued Richard, awkwardly rubbing Tam's back, "I'll build you a cottage. Yes, a fine stone cottage, and you can farm your own strip of land. How does that sound?"

  "Most generous, sir," replied Tam, but he wriggled so violently Richard pulled his arm away. They stared at each other a moment, Tam wondering if the deep mistrust he felt was mutual. In all Tam's twenty-one years, Richard had never before seemed so pleased with him. Despite that he was one of the best students ever to bless the village petty school and dreamed of being a scholar, Richard had set Tam labouring on his forty acres and looking after the chickens and hogs.

  And now he was offering him his own home?

  Before further questions could form on Tam's lips, Richard turned away and shouted at his wife.

  "Hurry up and serve this lad some food, and pour him some mead. He's got a long journey ahead, woman."

  "I'm working as fast as I can," snapped Ann.

  Tam hissed sympathetically and hurried to the table to help her, ducking to avoid the beams. Ann, the only occupant of the house tiny enough to stand up straight in all its tight corners, had been busy that warm afternoon. The low, smoky room filled with a delectable mingling of odours. She arranged succulent morsels of meat, and candies from violets, cowslips, and gillyflowers, some of the ingredients for which must have been costly—another sign that Richard was feeling particularly well-disposed toward Tam. Being the youngest, slightest brother, Tam rarely received the best food in the house. Ann, nevertheless, had tears streaking down her freckled cheeks as she worked.

  "What's wrong?" Tam touched her shoulder.

  "Leave me be. It's just the smoke." She dabbed her eyes with her apron, then tugged at her high collar. "I've been slaving over a hot skillet, so what do you expect?"

  Tam received his food with thanks and settled back down next to Richard, his stomach clamped so tight with nerves he could not enjoy eating. Ann's weeping, although she denied it, alarmed him. Was she really so scared for him? He wished he could whisper to her that there was more hope than she realized and that Richard's faith would be rewarded. But Calleagh had sworn him to secrecy. Nobody must know she had helped him.

  As the sun set, Tam fastened the hooks on his jacket and tidied his hair. Although he tried, he could not muster enthusiasm to make himself handsome. Getting betrothed to a fairy maid seemed a glum prospect compared to an evening at the alehouse or roaming the hills and haystacks with his friends.

  Hell, he'd much rather spill his seed in male company than with Calleagh. He'd done so a few times, though such frisking had been jest. He'd always reminded himself it could never mean more, despite wishing his companions would speak less of milkmaids while pleasuring themselves, and would revel in the strong bodies and bearded faces of men alone—as he wanted to. As he pulled the comb through his shoulder-length auburn waves, he struggled to keep his hand from trembling. Lord, he wanted to run away, to London, to the sea, to go anywhere but the Greenwood. Damn Calleagh, and damn Richard's strange turn of faith.

  He stared through the open window toward the western horizon, where the sun sank, still blindingly bright, behind a dark line of trees.

  Heaven preserve me. Will I ever see daylight again?

  He drew a deep breath. Yes, he would see many more days, months, and y
ears. Most of the companions with whom he had frolicked had settled into marriage. Tonight he, too, must push his youthful fancies and his sodomite desires aside and become a man.

  At the door, Ann frowned as if he'd clouted her, and then hugged him tightly until her tears wet his shoulder. Richard slapped Tam's back so jovially he nearly toppled forward. "I know you'll survive, lad. The clever ones always do."

  Jerome snickered, gulped his mead, and belched at him. Then Tam set off, up the track toward the forest, quelling his misgivings by concentrating on the instructions Calleagh had given him.

  "Follow the narrow track that winds from the ash grove until you near the blasted oak, and then wait. The first guide will come to you, and when you answer its question correctly, it will set you on the right path."

  The blasted oak proved easy to find, and he waited, palms sweating, breathing deeply of the hot summer night rich with the syrup of windfall fruits. Always hating idling, he kicked at a mouldering plum, felt his toe scorch—and then tumbled back onto his haunches. A green sprite, shaped like a tiny, exotic monkey with orange eyes as round as cartwheels, leaped from the plum and demanded, "What roars in your ear yet has no throat?"

  Such an open play of magic snatched Tam's breath, but he steeled his nerve. The little sprite jumped on his knee and leered at him, and Tam refrained from laughing in its face. Calleagh had told him the challenges would prove no challenge—but riddles? He offered a coy smile before he answered. He couldn't help it.

  Riddles were as simple to him as pissing in a pot.

  *~*~*

  The night seemed to last an age. Tam answered two dozen riddles and followed winding paths through ditches and bogs thick with mud that clung to his shoes, and with brambles that bit his ankles as readily as the flies did. When finally he heard Calleagh call, she startled him.