‘You mean the dryad.’
There was muttering then. Some of the people thought it was bad luck to name the demon at all. Herrick was a little taken aback.
‘A dryad? A tree-woman?’
‘You think that sounds harmless?’ Antonius raised his hand to quiet the chatter. ‘This used to be a prosperous enough place to live. There was farming, as now, and mining of lead seams in the forest on a small scale, and animals to hunt and timber to send downriver. Then …’ He looked around at his people.
Herrick waited, biting down on his impatience. To him this was only another challenge but to them this was the central drama of their lives, and all their little passions and rivalries and struggles were worked out in its shadow.
‘Then,’ continued the capo, ‘things changed. We went too deep. There had always been stories about the forest; that a dryad lived in its heart and should not be disturbed. But we heard the King was building his new church, and that good oak joints and angles were being paid for in gold coin. We went deeper in, looking for bigger trees to fell.’ He shook his head. ‘Something woke her. She came out one evening, and killed everyone right up to the field margins: the charcoal-burners and the miners and the woodcutters. They all died.’
‘How?’ said Herrick.
‘They were torn to pieces. The flesh pulled from their bones.’
‘A dryad did that?’ The old monsters had emerged again in remote places since the devastation of the Gothic Wars, but Herrick had never heard that a dryad was something to be feared.
‘Believe what you like, Lombard. I saw it.’
He switched his attention to the new speaker: an elderly beldame shawled in black. Her eyes were full of challenge. ‘Go on,’ he told her.
‘I was in the church the night she came. It stands on the mound north of the village, nearest to the forest.’
‘Yes?’
‘I was praying for the soul of my youngest grandchild, given to God and the earth that winter. That tree-witch threw down the doors and marched in, and all the wooden furnishings in the church – the rood screen, the tables – they broke out in blossom. I remember the smell of hawthorn.’ Her voice faltered as her eyes focused on the memory. ‘Then she went up to the priest and embraced him. And he died in her arms. The scent of hawthorn is the scent of death, you know.’
She fell silent.
‘What did she look like?’
Her black eyes rested on him. ‘Beautiful.’ There was contempt in her voice; it took a moment for him to realise that it was directed at him. ‘Be careful, Lombard. The priest hesitated too long and let her act.’
‘But she let you live, I see.’
The woman’s head drooped. ‘I ran while the priest screamed. And she came no closer to the village.’
‘And since that night,’ Antonius continued, ‘we have not been into the forest. Not even to gather dead wood. There’s no priest in Estoli, and no wealth. Did you hope to be paid for this, sir knight?’
Herrick waved the question aside. ‘Tomorrow I will go into the wood and hunt down your dryad, and return your forest to you.’
They cheered him then. If there were any doubts they were drowned in weak beer and the excitement of the moment. The whole village celebrated on into the evening, until the barrels were empty and heads were drooping with sleep. Then, because this was not a proper inn with rooms, Antonius invited Herrick to sleep in his own house: ‘You will have the best mattress my wife can find.’
They went out into the darkness together and Herrick stopped by the miller’s stable to check on Bastion. The big black stallion was eating hay steadily.
‘You won’t be riding up into the wood, will you?’ asked Antonius. ‘The ground is steep and broken.’
‘No. I’ll go on foot and leave Bastion here.’ Herrick cast him a sideways glance. ‘He’d better be well when I return, capo.’
Antonius’s fingers interlaced. ‘He’s an expensive animal to look after, I’ll be thinking. He’ll need oats, a groom …’
‘Let him run free with your village mares,’ answered Herrick shortly. ‘You’ll make profit enough by him next year.’
The headman’s house was two storeys high and stone-built, the lower floor consisting of stores and tool sheds and winter byres, the upper where he and his family lived. Instructions to his wife caused a flurry of rearrangements as family members and servants were shifted about and worked to make their guest comfortable. Herrick accepted a draught of ice-distilled apple brandy from Antonius’s daughter, served in what looked like a glass from Imperial days. It must be a family treasure, he thought, no one made glassware like that any more.
Then he was shown to his chamber, which had a stone hearth and just enough clearance under the roof beams for him to stand without stooping. A servant brought him a bucket of heated water to wash in – a bit of luxury he was genuinely grateful for – and once he was alone Herrick unbuckled the plates protecting his limbs and bent double to shuffle his mail shirt off over his head. He arranged the armour carefully on the lid of a wooden chest; the accoutrements of war were his most precious possessions. The mail links were fine and neat, each one riveted in bronze. His bow was strongly built of yew. The sword, embossed with a lion’s head at the pommel, was a gift from the King. He ran his fingers over the tiny snarling face.
He was naked and scrubbing his thighs when the door opened and a girl came in with a second bucket. It was Antonius’s daughter – Fosca, he remembered dimly. She put her bucket down, leant back against the door to close it and looked him up and down. Herrick had made no attempt to cover himself. He stepped out of the bucket, damp and dripping, the hair on his shins drawn in dark stripes by the runnels of water.
‘My father said to see you were comfortable tonight,’ she said, one hand playing with the hem of her overtunic. She had a plain peasant face but the smile on her full lips gave it character. ‘What would you like me to scrub?’
It wasn’t that unusual an offer in Herrick’s experience, especially in remoter communities. Farmers knew what the tradition of hospitality demanded, and weren’t averse to acquiring grandchildren with noble blood. And the girls … The girls usually found the change from the local boys exciting. And Herrick was not off-putting in his person, not judging by the way Fosca’s eyes lingered over his body. Herrick knew he was one of those few men that look better without the adornment of clothes; his muscles were bulky and defined, sculpted by years of campaigning. His prick hung long and dark between thighs like hewn wood.
‘Anything you like,’ he said, throwing her the rag he’d been rubbing himself with. Her presence neither disconcerted nor delighted him. She was not attractive enough to pique his interest so he merely accepted her as a simple courtesy, like the bucket heated with stones from the fire, and an aspect of his duty. If he turned her down the headman would be insulted.
Fosca started with his back, seeming to think some sort of niceties were to be observed – or perhaps, Herrick thought with a flicker of distaste, that she needed to flirt with him. ‘Have you really been in all those battles you were talking about?’ she asked, rubbing his broad shoulders.
‘I have.’
She slopped water over his buttocks. It ran down the crack between, tickling him pleasantly and dripping from his balls. ‘And you’ve been to Rome?’
‘Yes.’ He’d been part of a delegation sent by King Cunicpert to the papal duchy.
‘What was it like?’ Her fingers traced the indent of his spine and he felt his scrotum tighten.
‘Magnificent.’ And heart-breaking, he thought. The ancient capital of the Empire was in ruins, sacked repeatedly over the centuries. Broken aqueducts, burned-out buildings of almost unimaginable size, shattered temples littered with excrement and the desecrated statues of pagan gods: those were his memories of Rome. Its insignificant population was only a fraction of that which must have teemed the streets during its prime, and he’d felt like he and his fellows were ghosts haunting the broken corpse o
f the city.
‘And what is the King like?’
‘Cunicpert? He’s a wise man, and a courageous one, blessed by God.’ What else was he supposed to tell her – that after being deposed by the Arian Duke Alagis for nearly a year the King was now foul-tempered and erratic, mistrusting even his most loyal noblemen? That he was pushing those following the Arian form of Christianity to convert to Catholicism, and that Herrick was better off away from court now that ‘heretic’ was a word being plied freely?
‘You’ve really killed those monsters?’ Her fingers traced the scars across his ribs.
‘Really.’
She looked down at his crotch slyly. ‘I’ve never seen the pizzle of a famous hero before.’ She grinned. ‘It’s big enough, isn’t it?’
He smiled. ‘I hope so.’
Thoughtfully, she draped the rag over his prick. It was full enough to hold the cloth up without dropping it, a solid elegant curve beneath the wet linen. ‘Getting hard too.’
The wantonness in her eyes filled his stones with heat and stiffened his cock until it twitched. He flicked the rag away and ran his fingers up his hot length. She was no beauty but she’d do, he thought. He hadn’t had a woman in weeks and his seed was curdling. And he was tired of her questions. ‘Suck it,’ he suggested.
‘What?’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Is that how ladies do it in Pavia?’
With a sigh he pushed her unceremoniously to her knees, and when she opened her mouth to protest he slipped his prick past her lips. Her mumbles turned to chokes. A few strokes made it obvious what he wanted, and once she’d got that clear she became quite willing.
Not her fault, he thought, gripping her hair, his cock luxuriating in the hot wet grip of her throat. He could see her eyes watering. She was just a village girl, as stolid and unimaginative as one of the cows she herded down to the meadow of a morning. She’d been handed to him as a gift, and if she wasn’t and never could be what he needed then how was she to know?
Her lips looked good around his girth though. Herrick warmed to her just a little. She sucked nosily, gasping for breath, almost slurping. The sight and the noise were at least as arousing as her inexpert movements. When he was good and erect – really erect – he pulled her off him, hearing her gasp. His cock was shiny with her spit and a dull angry red at the bludgeoning head. Her breath washed round his wet glans like a memory of her mouth. He wished she’d tease at the split of his cock-head with the tip of her tongue, but she only gaped.
‘You want to make me comfortable, Fosca?’
‘Yes.’ She was as eager as a puppy, eyes shining.
‘Show me your breasts. I’d like to see them.’
She struggled to peel down the layers of her dress, but he was disappointed. Her breasts were flabby and there was a distractingly large mole next to her right nipple.
‘Stand up.’ He lifted her to her feet and turned her, lifting her skirts. Her rump was much better than her front, properly plump with a good wobble on it when she staggered forwards, pushed to the bed. He was relieved. But she could have had the most bountiful breasts in the Kingdom of the Lombards and he still would have swived her from behind; he didn’t want to look at her face. He arranged her face down, bum in the air, throwing her skirts up over her back. Her pink slash gaped at him from between her rounded thighs. Her white buttocks cushioned his hard body as he entered into her, relishing the tight hot grip. She squealed under her breath.
This was part of being a hero, he thought, as he powered into her. There were expectations to be met; an aura of overweening masculinity to be maintained. He was the monster slayer, the weapon bearer, and now his weapon was stabbing the furry beast between her legs over and over, burying itself to the hilt. Fosca squeaked enthusiastically, pushing back against him as she grew accustomed to his size.
A hero, he thought, watching his shaft pump into her tight slot, smelling her sex. A veteran of wars in which he’d seen courage debased to savagery and ideals soaked in blood until the face of God Himself ran red. A slayer of monsters; a banisher of ancient pagan horrors; a defender of the weak. Showing the lowly some of the greatness of those that ruled them. Showing a slattern how a knight fornicated. The contradictions swarmed in his head.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she gasped, her dangling breasts wobbling wildly as he battered at her frame.
The bed creaked like it was cheering him on. Her buttocks shook and he grabbed them with both hands, spreading them to get a look at the little knot of her anus. He should stick her in the arse, he told himself as his sap rose. He should stick her in the arse because that’s what peasants were probably used to, living like animals, living in shit, fucking in shit …
With that thought he loosed his seed, pulling her rump up hard into him and gasping. When he let her go she collapsed onto the mattress and rolled over so she could look up at him. Herrick slumped beside her, his long limbs spilling over the edge of the bed, and ran his hands over his face.
‘That was … so good!’
Herrick couldn’t help staring. Fosca’s eyes were shining. No it wasn’t, he wanted to say, it was boorish and brief and I paid no thought to your pleasure. If I am unsatisfied, how bad must it have been for you? Out loud, he only grunted.
She snuggled up against him. ‘You’re wonderful – like one of the old heroes in the stories.’
Had she climaxed? he wondered, not recalling any sign to that effect. Did she even know that anything was missing?
‘Will you take me back with you to Pavia?’
‘What?’ His heart sank.
‘I could be your mistress.’ She kissed his bare shoulder hopefully. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to marry me, you know.’
That was too much. He disentangled himself from her, trying to be gentle, and began to pull on his discarded clothing.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. I’m going to the privy.’ Maybe she would be asleep by the time he returned, he told himself; maybe she would have left.
He did go out into the yard, but he only pissed on the dung heap. His cock was still fat, loaded with a strange frustration. He was heading back to the outside stairs when a shadow detached itself from the wall and intercepted him.
‘Looking for a bit of something more?’
It was the servant girl who’d been carrying the bedding about as sleeping arrangements were made. Dear God, he thought, is there no end to it? She was considerably prettier than Fosca but as plump as a suckling pig, so he steered her to the sty wall and bent her over that to swive her. The pig grunted softly at having its sleep disturbed.
This is what I do, he told himself, staring at the roofline as he thrust patiently. I fulfil the same role as Bastion: injecting new blood into an inbred backwater. I am a farm animal servicing other farm animals.
Her bottom bounced under his hands, warm and soft and infinitely eager. Stars shimmered in the sky; the clouds had evaporated and the night was now still and chilly. He fixed his eye on one bright one whose red tint identified it as the planet Mars. The star of warriors, he told himself. He’d been a great knight once; forged in war, looking always for the moment of heroism, the cause that would be worth dying for and the leader to whom he could pledge himself wholeheartedly. It wasn’t fame that had drawn him, but the quest for something greater than himself. He’d remained loyal to Cunicpert through his exile even though the King was a Catholic, because he’d believed the man was a better monarch than the Arian who’d deposed him, and Herrick’s lifelong quest was to find a man worthy of his service.
But Cunicpert was no longer loyal to the men who’d been loyal to him – and rulers of the duchies further south had proved no better, not in Friuli or Spoleto or Benevento. He’d met monarchs and dukes and popes, and all had fallen short of the true standard, so now he roamed the Lombard duchies and lands even further afield, killing bandits and slaying the monsters of a pagan past. This was what he’d reduced himself to, he told himself bitterly: swiving peasant girls in murky villages, garner
ing the acclaim of people who lived one notch above their animals and two steps from starvation.
‘Harder!’ moaned the servant girl, and Herrick obliged. His cock made a wet noise in her with every thrust. She spread her big pale cheeks with her hands and squealed. ‘Fuck me! Fuck me!’
By the good Christ, yes, he’d tried. He’d saved lives and brought hope to people who hardly recognised it. The star seemed to burn into his eyes as he focused unblinking upon it. His body was a dull beast heaving beneath him, disconnected from his mind.
I want … he thought. I want …
But he could not articulate what he wanted except that it was the star, the point of light, the beacon far overhead. And as the girl began to moan and jiggle her hips he became aware that he was not going to come this time, that there would be no face-saving end to this exchange, just a shamefaced acknowledgement of failure. He slid his hand surreptitiously down to his crotch. The root of his cock was hard still, but he felt almost numb. Pinching a fold of his own skin between thumb and forefinger, Herrick dug in his nails. Pain lanced through his groin, like life returning to a dead thing. He inhaled quickly, tasting the night air. His cock jumped and his spine prickled with sweat. His nails bit in harder, shearing the skin. There would be half-moons of blood when he took his hand away, but for now there was only pain. Pain bright as a star. The Mars-light poured through his veins and down into his cock and there, at last, was the climax he was reaching for. It boiled through him into the sex of the girl, and it didn’t matter that she didn’t know what was making him spend or that he didn’t want her, it didn’t even matter whether she was there; his whole being was fixed on that blazing star.
In the morning, when he was alone, Herrick made his prayers and donned his armour. Preparing for battle was a ritual thing. It focused his mind, leaving no room for his doubts. The last act of the ritual before lacing on his vambraces was to kneel by the fire slab and pull out the dagger whose tip had been resting in the hot embers. Baring his left forearm, Herrick pressed metal to flesh. Pain flashed through his nerves, bright and fierce. He gasped in welcome.
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