Greenwode

by J Tullos Hennig

  The Abbess looked his way, as if she’d heard, and her smile wavered. She seemed… puzzled. His gaze met hers and held; the persistent ringing of his ears reminded him he’d be better off with his eyes to the ground and he lowered them. Nevertheless, it was hard to remain unaware of her notice as she walked over to where he and his father stood.

  “Good yeomen, both of you must accept my apologies.” Her words were truly directed to Adam, though her eyes remained upon Rob. “My retinue is from York proper, and the ways of such cities are different than country customs.”

  “The apology is ours, Lady.”

  How is it yours, then? Rob’s somewhat-still-addled brain protested, while another, more cogent reminder rose: You’re a peasant, remember? You might be the Horned One’s Son in the green Wode, but elsewhere you’re nowt, and neither is your da.

  “My son meant no disrespect, I assure you,” Adam was saying, very polite. “In this shire, we consider curiosity as ever a virtue as vice. Shall we make our way on to Worksop? The weather grows chancy.”

  “It does indeed,” the Abbess said. “But I shall ask for your guidance to the castle of Blyth, if you please. I and my closest retainers have been offered a fine welcome feast there, from my mother’s brother, Sir Ian Boundys. Do you know of him?”

  Blyth? Sir Ian. Gamelyn’s father. Ringing ears were numbed, if not totally overcome, as Rob’s mouth tucked in a slight grin.

  Adam nodded. “I have had fair dealings with Sir Ian since his arrival to our shire. I will be happy to take you there, and if you like, I can detail George Scathelock and his son to escort those who’ve need to continue on to the abbey.” He seemed to hesitate, then continued, “If I c’n be bold enough to suggest, Reverend Lady, that the soldier who—?”

  “He must go on,” the Abbess said. “But I give you my word that he will not interfere any more with your party. And your plans are more than suitable. You have my thanks and blessings.”

  She gave a brief nod, more polite dismissal than any pleasantry, and walked back to her horse.

  Adam again made as if to help Rob onto his horse; Rob shook his head, all too aware of his father’s concern as he mounted, somewhat painful and slow. And then there was Will. George was speaking to Will, who kept looking at the soldier who’d struck Rob. Will looked angry, almost. Nay, confused. And that soldier continued to glare through the slits of his helmet at Rob, alert for any further transgressions.

  Rob’s anticipation of a chance to see Gamelyn was inexorably giving way to a return of the odd queasiness that had plagued him for half the journey. He felt his stomach sink even more as his father mounted his horse, then sidled close.

  “Suppose you tell me what was that all about?” Adam murmured.

  Rob shrugged.

  “I keep telling you, son, you canna be insolent to such folk.”

  “I didna do owt but look at t’ bloody cross!” Rob hissed back. “Ent that what her like is wanting, for us poor Heathen filth to see the light?”

  “We’ll discuss this later,” Adam said, terse. “For now I’m thinking I should send you home—”

  “Da!” Rob protested.

  “If there’s no trusting you to keep yourself in hand on the road, can I trust that you’ll do so around your friend? Your nobleman’s son of a friend?”

  This was plainly unfair. “I’m t’ one as got whacked, Da. I didna do owt!”

  And neither did you. Again, it lay between them, unspoken but nonetheless heard. And Rob knew why, knew why, but still he wanted to lash out.

  His father’s flinch gave him no satisfaction, though. So he blurted the truth. “I’d Seen it, Da. The cross. Seen it.”

  But Rob was sorry the moment he’d said that, too, for the strange apprehension once again crawled behind his father’s expression and burrowed in.

  “Loxley?”

  Adam plainly wanted to ignore the summons and further question Rob, but the captain came riding up to them, determined. “Loxley, please accept my apologies. That one isn’t one of my men, and the Abbess’s paxmen have proven, well, overzealous as to her sanctity. I’ll see that it doesn’t happen again.”

  “My thanks,” Adam replied.

  The captain turned his affable gaze to Rob. “Are you all right, lad? He treated you ill for no good reason; if he was in my guard, I’d throw him in the stocks.”

  Rob nodded, albeit carefully. His skull was still tender. “I thank you, milord Captain.”

  “Just Captain, lad. I was born a yeoman like yourself. In fact, your friend over there”—he tilted his head to Will—“is quite the scrapper. If he decides he’d like to give the shire guardsmen a try, have him come apply to me, aye?”

  Rob’s mouth quirked despite the underlying dismissal. Will’s muscular frame was certainly more the fighter’s ideal than some skinny lath of a lad who had but recently won over the predilection for tripping over his own big feet.

  It was certainly what Rob liked. But Will was, unfortunately and resolutely, disinterested in anything that didn’t have breasts.

  The captain grinned back, dipped his chin to Rob, and turned to Adam. “Then if your boy is well, can I request your presence, Loxley? Discuss the detour?” Adam returned the polite overture with a remark of his own, and rode off with the captain as the cavalcade began to move again. It was slow, as such things often were, but soon they were traveling, backs to the wind, Adam and George at point with the captain.

  Will fell in beside Rob. He was quiet, too quiet. With Will, it usually meant trouble. Soon they had fallen to the back of party, both eager to be as far away from the Abbess and her overzealous guards as possible.

  “You all right?” Will’s voice was low.

  Rob shrugged. “No blood, no bones. Well enough.”

  “I’ll warrant your head’s still ringing. That bloody-minded turd knocked you good.” A strange, sick-seeming quaver threaded Will’s voice.

  Rob peered at him. Will was grinding his teeth, slow and steady, and staring at the back of the soldier who’d struck Rob. He looked unsteady, unsure.

  “Will?”

  “I know his voice,” Will said. “I know it somewhere, and I ent placin’ it. But it’s—”

  “It’s what?” Again, Rob was struck by the… the strangeness of it all. The ill-seeming wind, his father’s wariness, the Abbess, the cross.

  And now, Will.

  Was this what Marion had meant by tynged, then? This feeling, this sensation, as if someone… something… was breathing down your neck with possibilities?

  “It’s important,” Will said, flat. “I know that much.” Then, quick and capricious as ever, he smiled. “Blyth Castle, aye? Ent that where your poncy ginger paramour lives?”

  “My… what?” Sometimes there was no accounting for Will’s turns of thought. “Who says he’s my… bloody hell, Scathelock, you tosser, I’m not even going to say it.”

  “Or does he like Marion?” A snort. “Of course he likes Marion better. Who wouldn’t? She’s lots prettier than you.”

  Rob couldn’t argue with that, in fact wouldn’t, because Will would just twist it back around, probably tell Marion some nonsense like Rob thought he was prettier than she. Which was preposterous. Not that Marion would listen to Will.

  But maybe Gamelyn did like Marion better. Which was also irritating, and for no good reason.

  “Aye, well then,” Will murmured with a wink. “Simon thinks you’re prettier. But he’s a tunic lifter, just like you—”

  “Sod you, Scathelock.”

  VII

  BLYTH CASTLE was huge. Perhaps it made sense—it was, after all, a main stop along the main road from Nottingham to Doncaster. Still, it sprawled out to twice the size of the keep at Sheffield—the only other one Rob had ever seen. Stone walls as tall as an arrow’s flight greeted them, a persuasive carapace marred only slightly by a solid and misshapen outcrop on one side. Like many of its kind, the inner keep was set up on a mound, the trees scalped from the surround to let grass
grow, lush and verdant.

  Arawn was very happy with that last. He was taking full advantage of the brief stop by stuffing his muzzle with as much green as he could take. He wasn’t the only one—all the horses were grazing fast as they could.

  A bell rang from inside the stones, one of the men standing watch atop the gatehouse having shouted down warning of their approach. No doubt that was why the captain had ordered a stop, here in full view, to prove themselves friend and not foe. As the bell echoed across the sward, they started to move again. Which did not best please Arawn.

  Rob let him snatch a few mouthfuls, here and there, as they advanced.

  Details became more visible. The odd misshapen lump on the side of the castle proved to be construction along the far side, a puzzle of ladders and scaffolding, with stone bricking piled hither and yon. There were more figures on the wall, and down by the gatehouse entry—a fortified bridge, over a moat. There were dark, moving blobs to either side of the entry. They took form: cages, hanging, with carrion birds fluttering, pecking at the corpses hung in those cages.

  Outlaws, no doubt. Rob had heard of such things, like gallows poles, left as warning to others; in Sheffield he’d seen a brace of severed heads over the gatepost.

  It was sobering; Rob had always thought of Gamelyn with the label “lord” despite any protests to the contrary, but this? It was hard to process. The same ginger-haired lad who couldn’t shoot straight unless he was pissing mad, who wore hand-me-down clothes and read too many books… Gamelyn came from such state.

  “Lady’s paps!” Will exclaimed as they arrived to the massive wooden gates, flung open as if by some giant’s hand. “Each of those timbers’d hold up a house on its own!”

  Rob shrugged, wondering if Gamelyn was on the other side of those gates. Might he see him? What to do if he did? After all, his visits to the forester’s house in Loxley were supposed to be a secret.

  Will bumped shoulders with him, roughly. “See you in a few, then?”

  “A few?” Rob’s snarled senses had, on the ride, eased and untangled somewhat, but he still felt as if he was that much too slow. As if his mind had been unhinged to some speed that his body couldn’t quite catch. Cernun claimed he’d find a balance. Someday. It couldn’t come a day too soon as far as Rob was concerned.

  “You’ve put me off long enough. The alehouse, remember?” Will gave him a look that was just that much too mild. “Thursday?”

  Ah. Now he remembered. They’d been unable to keep their last plans—this journey had interfered—so they had made others, for later this se’nnight.

  The horses were milling just outside the gatehouse, some crossing the bridge and others halting. People of all sorts were gathering up on the parapets, peering down at them. The captain’s voice was singing out orders. Rob snuck a look to where the Abbess’s horse stood, still chewing—no doubt at a quid of grass that had stuck in its bits. A grey-clad novice was holding the cheekstrap, and the Abbess was leaning on the sidesaddle’s horn, speaking to several nuns gathered at her stirrup. Instructions, no doubt.

  “What a waste of a good woman,” Will sighed, and Rob looked sideways at him, snorted.

  “Is it all you ever think about, Scathelock?”

  “What else is there?” Will cocked his head, sly. “Are you ’n’ Simon going to partner up again, then? Or mayhap you’re hoping to bring the poncy ginger paramour?”

  Rob rolled his eyes, pretended to look off and down the valley.

  “I wonder if such as lives here has ever seen the inside of an alehouse like to ours.”

  “’M not,” Rob growled, “answering you.”

  Will fell silent. Rob slid curious eyes back to him, found him studying the soldiers with an odd frown.

  “The captain said you were quite the scrapper,” Rob put forth. “That should you want to be a soldier, you should apply to him.”

  “Not likely.” There was a low contempt in the words, and then Will grinned again and kneed his gelding closer. Arawn exchanged a few breaths with the gelding, then let out a short grunt and nipped at him. “Look, I only want to know because of Calla. She fancies you, and if you’re off in the hay with Simon, then she’ll fancy me.”

  Rob had to grin. “You’d best be careful, or your bits’ll be scarlet as Calla’s knees.”

  Arawn’s nip was raised and seconded by Will’s gelding.

  “Will?” George’s voice rose. “Time, boy!”

  “You don’t know how nice it is, t’ have mates that waint compete with you for a lass.” Will’s murmur was almost reverent.

  “So that’s why you like me. And why you introduced me to Simon.”

  Will’s grin was impenitent. “Well, you weren’t mindin’.”

  Rob didn’t mind. Simon was a lighthearted fellow, not one to be breaking a heart over, but quite skilled at the types of things two lads could get up to in a dark corner.

  “Now, if you could just see your way clear to talking your sister into letting me court her… aye, then life would be heaven.”

  The nipping was becoming a contest, necks snaking back and forth.

  Rob shrugged. “As long as you keep on like you do, Marion’s going to give you no more than the back of her hand. Canna blame her.”

  “If I had her, I there’d be no others,” Will said, so oddly earnest that Rob blinked and started to speak.

  “Will!” George, again.

  At the same time, Arawn rose up lightly on his hind legs and Will’s gelding bent down to nip at his shoulder. Rob laughed

  “Hoy!” Will smacked at his gelding’s neck lightheartedly. “Leave off, you two!”

  “Boys will be—” Rob waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  “You’d know, tunic-lifter!” Will snorted, and pulled his horse away. “Be seeing you.”

  “In two days,” Rob smirked after him. After the past se’nnight, Will was a breath of fresh air. Lasses, ale and lasses, with an occasional bout of archery practice, merely enough to keep his hand in before he went back to ale and lasses. Perhaps Marion had no use for him, but Will was so wonderfully… uncomplicated.

  The Abbess’s retinue was separating into two parties, the smaller one riding forward, hoofs ringing on thick planks as they went through the gatehouse arch. Adam hung back and held up a hand when Rob would have followed the smaller group—which included the good-natured guard captain.

  “Ent we staying?” Rob wasn’t sure how he felt about it as he asked.

  “They owe us a meal and a bed for our service, right enough, at Worksop.” Adam seemed uncertain. “But we’ve no true claim on Blyth. Might be best if we went on home.”

  “I’d like to see Gamelyn.” Rob said it before he thought.

  “And aye, that too.” It didn’t seem an agreement as much as a pondering, and Adam not much liking the direction of said pondering.

  “Loxley!” It was Stutely, the guard captain, riding back through the gate. “You are polite to hang back, but Blyth owes you what courtesy you would expect at Worksop. I spoke with the Abbess, and she too insists. See, even now she speaks to Sir Ian.”

  The Abbess had dismounted and was indeed speaking to a man who must be Sir Ian. He was not very tall, hunched over a staff, and frail-seeming beneath the bulk of a fur-trimmed cape. But his eyes were sharp, missing nothing as he turned them to the foresters outside his gate.

  With Sir Ian were three figures, two unrecognizable to Rob but the third immediately so.

  As if he’d spoken Gamelyn’s name, the lad’s eyes rose to Rob’s. There was a flash of a smile, gone as one of the others turned to him, said something. Rob watched as Gamelyn nodded then turned away, heading somewhere with no little purpose. He didn’t look back, disappeared behind the walls.

  Surely it wasn’t disappointment Rob felt.

  “Son!” The sharp tone to Adam’s voice suggested it wasn’t the first time he’d so summoned Rob. “Take the horses, I tell you. Go with this lad”—he nodded to a slight, brown-haired lad who h
eld the captain’s rouncey—“and see to them. I’ll come to the stables for you when food is served.”

  “You’ll both eat with me and my men, no doubt,” the captain said, and he gave a friendly clout to Adam’s shoulder. “This way.”

  Rob watched the two men stride away, then noticed the lad was watching him with a soft, tolerant gaze. As if waiting for just that notice, the lad dipped his head and started off.

  Hoofs clattered over the cobbled walk as they progressed. Rob’s eyes were widening with every step. Gamelyn’s people were bloody rich. The interior of the castle was even grander than the outside, hung with banners and draperies over the bailey walls, the wide bailey itself still grassy in spots, with fine-dressed people taking their leisure. It must be a market day, for there were a lot of people lining upper walkways and doorways—some watching the newcomers, others simply going about their business. One stall in particular caught Rob’s eye, festooned with cloth hangings and yarns—they looked like market displays until he saw the women behind them, working with more in large vats. It was the largest dye operation he’d yet seen. People in carts and stalls, horses and cattle, meat on the hoof and already butchered, implements and weapons and tools; all of it a mass of sound and smells and colors to send the senses spinning.

  It was grand. Amazing. But for all that, he didn’t much care for it. Despite their festive adornments, the stone walls seemed to loom overhead, oppressive, punishment instead of stronghold and guerdon.

  So gawking, Rob nearly ran into a man carrying a huge wooden tray of bread loaves. The stable lad yanked him aside just in time. Arawn balked as the maneuver accidentally snatched at his rein; Adam’s gelding merely sighed. Rob gave them both an apologetic pat, gave the stable lad a shrug.

  As if in answer, the stable lad touched his sleeve, then made a gesture that Rob recognized, one kept amongst those of the heath and forest.

  Rob gave polite, nigh silent answer. “Bendith y Mamau.”

  The stable lad tucked a tiny smile into the corner of his mouth and started off again. This time Rob stuck close upon his heels. The way the lad navigated the throng with such quick efficiency was impressive; before long they had reached the far side of the bailey. The stable was there, amidst several blocks of stone and mortar, outbuildings that backed up against the hill where the main keep stood.