“I did, aye?”
Marion gave another grin at the way her brother flashed their flabbergasted visitor a self-satisfied look. Well, all right, then, he was entitled.
But it was still funny.
“Set it up again!” Rob demanded suddenly.
“You couldn’t do that again!” Gamelyn yipped. Then, hesitantly, “Could you?”
Marion laughed and went to repair their target. She was fairly sure she wasn’t meant to hear what Gamelyn said as he sidled closer to Rob, but she did.
“I won’t go near your sister,” Gamelyn swore softly. “I’m not interested in her, I swear to you.”
Rob didn’t move, plucking once more at his bowstring. “Then what are you interested in, nobleman?”
The answer surprised her as much as Rob.
“I want to learn that.” Gamelyn pointed at Rob’s bow. “I’ve never seen anyone shoot like you and Marion can.”
“G’wan home, then. ’Ave your villeins t’ teach you.”
The quicker clip and pace of Rob’s speech revealed, as always, his agitation, but Marion wasn’t about to let this go, twisted braies or no. “Rob! Mind yourself!”
“They aren’t my villeins,” Gamelyn said, quietly reasonable. “They’re my father’s.”
“An’ no doubt they’ll be yours when you take his place. People bought and sold like cattle.”
Marion came back over, arms crossed. She would like to hear this one, truth be told.
Gamelyn’s eyes narrowed, went hard. “So you’ve never had people work your fields, or graze your beasts when you can’t?”
“We’re freemen, but we own nowt but our freedom!” Rob retorted. “An’ precious little of that! We dinna own people, or claim their work is ours!”
Gamelyn was frowning. “But villeins live off their lord’s work, just as he does theirs. If my father hadn’t fought on Crusade, got rewarded for his service to the king with his lands, then there would be no food grown for any tables, serf or nobleman.”
“And just because it’s the way it is, we shouldna try to make it otherwise?”
Gamelyn had a half smile on his face; Marion didn’t think it was patronizing, but she wasn’t sure her brother would stop to consider otherwise.
“You sound like someone I quite admire,” Gamelyn said softly. “Jesus was quite known for trouting people who lived off the backs of others until those backs bled.”
Rob blinked. Marion wasn’t sure how to answer that one, either. The White Christ was known for humility and charity; few of his followers were so inclined.
Gamelyn looked away, crossing his arms and peering toward the sack target. “I don’t think I could hit that if I tried.”
“My da taught us.” Rob shrugged. “From when we were weans. But I ent sure I could teach you all of it. These sorts of things… they’re gifts. From the Lady. Y’see?”
“The Lady? Mary?”
Rob fell silent, looking at Marion. She answered, “Aye, that’s one of her names.”
Gamelyn seemed confused.
“You can only be as good as your heart,” Rob said, softly. “If your heart’s an archer’s heart, then….” He shrugged.
Gamelyn still looked confused. But he also looked determined. “I want you to teach me. Both of you,” Gamelyn added, smiling at Marion. Because Rob was certainly not inviting any smiles.
And then, conversely, Rob offered one up. “That means you’ll have to come back. We canna teach nowt in a morn’s time.”
“Can you come back?” Marion prompted.
The sunburnt-and-freckled face went even more determined. “I can.”
THE TWO riders took their time, no shortcuts through the green Wode. Adam explained the poaching incidents to Gamelyn with a soft anger in his voice that reminded Gamelyn of his own father.
Sir Ian was a quiet-spoken, reasonable man. But he would still be away south, so Gamelyn could only hope they could find the old stableman, Brand, and through him gain the attention of Otho. Otho had inherited more of their sire’s reasonable temperament than Johan. And maybe Johan, in charge of the daily business with their father away, was too busy to bother with his youngest brother.
Diamant was quieter than usual, no doubt due to his dalliance with the bay pony. He walked beside Adam’s chestnut gelding—a rouncey much better bred than Rob’s little jennet, Gamelyn noted—as quietly as if he were dozing. When Diamant did tug at the bit, his eagerness was not so much for a thumping good gallop but the roomy comfort of his box, a good curry, and a generous graining.
The clouds were low and ducking lower, shivering the first layer off their fluffy gray coats and letting fall a soft not-quite rain. A normal state of affairs for early autumn. Neither Adam nor Gamelyn even bothered with their hoods; in fact Gamelyn turned his face up to the mists, enjoying the tiny drafts across his cheeks.
Adam talked, some. What questions he had were not overly personal, yet Gamelyn found himself volunteering more information than was truly asked for. Adam didn’t seem to mind. He merely nodded, taking it all in. By the time they crested the hill leading to Blyth Castle, Adam knew Sir Ian was a Norman who had been in the Second Crusade, had been awarded lands in Huntingdonshire from the earl, had buried his wife there after Gamelyn’s birth. Knew they had lived there until Gamelyn’s eleventh birthday, when Sir Ian had been awarded Blyth, then had removed here. Knew Gamelyn was to receive his own riding horse upon his next birthday, had two brothers older than he, and lit candles for his mother’s soul every seventh Compline in the chapel.
When they finally did arrive at Blyth, the clouds had dipped down to wreath the crenulated stone of the towers, and their presence seemed to mute the horses’ hoofs against the paving stones.
As if whistled from the mists, a young stable lad came and took their horses, followed by a middle-aged, thick-fingered man. He eyed up the horses and gave a grunt at the gashes on Diamant’s hindquarters, well medicated with some balm from Mistress Eluned’s kit. Brand had forgotten more about horses than Gamelyn could ever hope to know. Eyeing then sniffing the balm, Brand gave another grunt, this one approving. Only then did he address people.
“Good day t’ ye, young marster.” His faded blue eyes flickered a question upon Adam, narrowed, then fastened upon a pendant lying on Adam’s breast. It was plain silver, shaped and curved into horns. Gamelyn hadn’t noticed it before. “And to you, milord.” Brand’s basso went even lower, in a soft respect Gamelyn had only heard given to Sir Ian. “Is your guest staying, then, young marster?”
Gamelyn shot a hopeful look at Adam, who shook his head.
“Nay, I’ve duties waiting. But thank you, lad, mayhap another time.”
Brand jerked his head at the stable lad. “Take the stud, grain ’im light and pitch some fodder.”
“Gamelyn!” Otho’s voice cut through the misted courtyard; his boots rang on the wet cobbles, quick and heavy. “I was looking for you to return before yester even.” He slowed as he came closer, eyeing Adam with some suspicion.
Adam quickly stepped forward and gave a quick bow, hand to his breast. “I’m Adam of Loxley, forester to the king’s Wode.”
“I am Otho, now of Blyth, second son to Sir Ian Boundys.” Just as quickly as the introduction, Otho dismissed Adam, turned to Gamelyn. “What have you done now, little brother?” There was a slight quiver of humor at Otho’s upper lip; otherwise he seemed less than pleased. He brushed a lock of sand-colored hair back from the gloss of his wool cape—burgundy and gold, Huntingdon’s colors—and calmly crossed his arms over a barrel chest.
“Diamant ran like a scared rabbit from a buck and dumped me.”
Otho’s brown eyes flickered as he took note of the finger-long gash on Gamelyn’s forehead; otherwise he still radiated that stonelike composure.
“The buck was likely in rut. Not an easy opponent,” Adam offered. “’Twas my son who found your young brother with his head laid open. Rob brought him to our home nigh to Loxley Chase. My wife is skilled
with herbs; her salves did the trick, but he was a wee addled. ’Twasn’t safe to bring him back until now.”
“You have my thanks.” Otho still seemed unruffled, and Gamelyn felt a surge of irritation. He could at least show a bit more gratitude to Adam! And neither did he offer any hospitality; at least Brand had hinted at it.
Well, then, Gamelyn would. “Are you sure, messire Forester, that you will not stay to sup with us?”
Otho’s gaze slid his way, surprised.
Adam smiled, but his gaze moved to Otho’s, gauging, before he gave careful answer. “Nay, young Master. ’Tis well of you to think of me so, but as I said, I’ve business not far from here before I turn my horse’s nose home, and the days grow shorter since midsummer’s fires dimmed.”
Otho frowned slightly.
Adam bowed, very low, to them both. “I bid you fare well. Gamelyn Boundys, you are welcome to sit to my board at any time.” A wink. “I think Rob and Marion would agree.”
Gamelyn grinned, and didn’t stop grinning until Adam had mounted and ridden out the gates.
Then a swat to the back of his head—toned down, no doubt in consideration of his injury—brought him back to full consideration. “Riding alone again—and halfway across the shire,” Otho grumbled. “You’re just lucky Johan isn’t here for several days. He won’t even know you were gone. Unless you do something even more asinine and force me to tell him.” It was definitely a threat; Otho was easygoing, but he wasn’t about to get himself in hot water over a younger sibling’s foolishness. “Come, show me what you’ve done to my horse.”
“If he hadn’t run—”
“I heard you, ‘like a scared rabbit’.” Otho still sounded less than pleased, but whether it was toward Gamelyn or the horse, Gamelyn wasn’t sure. Didn’t ask.
They went into the gloom of the stable, a block of stone and wood jutting just out of the back fortifications. Diamant had his head stuck in his grain bucket; Otho chirruped to him before climbing over the wooden bars and into his box. Brand was in the box beside, wisping Otho’s other mount clean.
“Do you have to ride out today?”
“Later.” Otho ran his fingers along the ivory flank. Diamant didn’t bother to raise his nose from his feed, but one ear twitched backward. “It looks very well-tended.”
“Milady Eluned knows her art, my lord,” Brand put in from the next box. “Milord Adam surely has a—”
“The man’s a forester, Brand, a commoner at that.” Otho was curt. “Mind who you give honor to.”
Brand fell silent, resumed his currying of Diamant’s stall mate. Gamelyn frowned. Neither he nor Adam had mentioned Eluned’s name. And it seemed that Brand had recognized Adam.
“Gamelyn.” Otho drew him from the barn with an arm about his shoulders. “I know the man did you a service, but that’s his duty. He’s our father’s vassal, now—”
“I thought foresters answered to the king.”
“They do. And our father is the good right hand of the earl, who through writ of the king administrates the land that the forester sees to. So Loxley and his son did their duty by you, their lord’s son; nothing more and nothing less. I know he said you were welcome at his table.” Otho shook his head. “He was just reaching beyond himself and calling it politeness.”
Gamelyn could feel his chest puffing up with outrage. “Otho, he has treated me with nothing but courtesy. You wrong him.”
Otho chuckled, and it stung. When would they ever take him seriously? “When you get riled you remind me so of our mother—”
“I wouldn’t know, would I?” Curt.
Otho sighed. “Listen, little brother. You’ve no business going back there, breaking bread with commoners. He might be freeman, but all that means is that he has reason to think himself a cut above what peasant stock he truly is. You’re not to accept his invitation.”
This was beyond unfair. “But I—”
Otho’s arm grew stone heavy across his shoulders. “I told you I wouldn’t mention any of this to Johan. It’s up to you whether you tell Father or no. But if you fuss me on this, I’ll have no choice but to tell Johan to tell Papa.”
“I’ll tell Papa, if I must.”
“Papa’s not here right now, and you know what that means.” Otho released him. “Just be reasonable, Gamelyn. Do as you’re told and none of it will come to anything.”
Entr’acte
POACHERS OR no, Adam was not afraid of nightfallen woodlands as were most. Lover and nemesis, companion and adversary; Adam knew his forest as only the green Wode’s true lord could. He had done his best to pass that on to his children; had succeeded in many ways, yet still too many things had passed, unacted upon.
Like the mesne lord’s son, Gamelyn. There was something about him. Some fate hovering above his fire-flax head.
In their desire to be sure that Rob’s talents would not take him too soon, they had left him in ignorance of much of what they did. It seemed Gamelyn walked in ignorance as well, and Adam hoped that the lad would take an offered hand despite a brother’s disapproval.
He felt it before he saw it: a giant, pale stag, quiet. Standing on the rise, enormous tines glinting, framed by bracken fern and yellowing leaves. Waiting.
No ordinary stag, this time of year.
He took a deep breath, dismounted, and in the time his line of sight was blocked the stag had disappeared. In its place was a man, white hair gleaming in the dapples of setting sun slatting through the trees. His approach was slow, measured.
It was Adam’s, this time, to wait.
“Cernun.” Adam bowed, and the old man halted before him, returned the bow.
“Lord.”
Adam had never quite gotten used to it; for so long had Cernun been Lord of the forest, worn the horns. And now that the old man did not wear the horns, he was no less Adam’s master and mentor.
The name said it all. Cernun.
“Walk with me,” Cernun said.
“I’D NOT expected to find you here.”
They paced slowly the shores of a deep forest pool. Adam had tethered his gelding to a stout tree; he could see the silhouette of him, hip-shot in the setting sun.
“I followed a dream.”
Quiet steps in the moist loam, breath hanging against the misting rain. Adam did not ask. Cernun might elaborate, or he might not.
“That pale nobleman’s son, he was part of it.”
Adam slid him a puzzled glance.
“I cannot see all of what he will be. But he will be something.”
“As will we all,” Adam easily agreed; often the old man was more cipher than companion.
“Tynged.” Cernun oft used the old Barrow tongue for concepts that were wider than Anglic dialect could easily encompass. “But when that magic and chance of fate calls divergent paths to conjoin, it is to ruin or ecstasy. Oak and Holly ever seek, in enmity or fellowship, the balance of the Arrow. And the Lord of the Dance of Life knows His ways too well to leave all to the chaos of chance.”
Cernun had the look to him of one who has just clawed himself back from the depths, and his speech confirmed it: lucid yet slow, filled with myths, dreamings. And when deciphered, those dreamings were frighteningly prophetic. Adam had, as a youth, wished he had a tenth of Cernun’s Sight. Now he was more than content to be as he was: gifted, but not in constant danger of a final tilt and slide into the madness.
“The little acorn of noblemen is Christian. Not… preferable. But,” A shrug. “The followers of the White Christ would, despite his teachings, see our kind destroyed. They have almost succeeded. Perhaps he will, also.” Cernun looked away, and Adam contemplated what he had said, stored it for later musings.
Again, silence, and steps through the green. Cernun squinted in a patch of sun. “You will find the poacher anon.”
Adam nodded. “He’ll slip. They always do.”
“This one already has. His took him to the bottom of Ceryth Fall. The wolves have taken much of him—and the deer he l
eft slain. Men come to our green Wode, searching, always seeking the heart of our demesne. Instead they find their own, shadows and mists. You will have most of a skull, another bargain made to keep what is ours as ours. Proof to the conquerors that we remain conquered. It is good they think this. So must it be.”
“So must it be,” Adam repeated softly. Ceryth Fall. A rocky promontory that, in heavy rains, swelled into a frothing torrent that roared to a just as rocky conclusion an arrow’s flight below. Well. It was a certainty that Cernun wandered the Wode more than even Adam—even more a certainty that no predator would stay him. He had that gift, one that Adam did not have but, when the Horned Lord possessed him, could mimic.
He spoke what came to his heart. “I think Rob—”
“Aye, my son. Your boy could also walk up to feasting wolves and walk away with nary a mark on him. It is but one of the Lady’s signs upon him.” Cernun halted, considered the shining expanse of water that lay next to them. “You have been twice saddened, but those lost souls have returned, enriched. You now are blessed fourfold in the two children that have come to you. First your daughter, her soul pierced with the gold of the Goddess’s Arrow. And your son shall one day wear the Horns, lord of winter’s passage. Be the one to bear th….” He trailed off, seemed to be in pain.
Adam bent closer. “Cernun?”
Cernun straightened, held up a hand. Looked out over the water. “Time draws near. Bring the boy to me when the moon calls winter’s solstice.”
Nodding, Adam sighed.
IV
Near Loxley, 1190 ACE
“ROB’S NOT here.”
Surely he shouldn’t feel this disappointed. Gamelyn mustered up a smile for Eluned. Not that it fooled her. If Gamelyn had learned anything in his infrequent visitations over the past several years, it was that Eluned had an uncanny ability to ferret out just about any truth.
There was a smile ghosting about Eluned’s mouth. “I know you’ve come a long way, but surely sitting to sup with me isn’t that horrific?”
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