“Gamelyn, what are you doing—?”
“Holy Mother of—”
“You’ll hit the lad, for Christ’s sake—!”
A thunder of feet, running into the small copse, and shouts with an edge of panic.
The stag backed, lowered his head. No longer mild, but wild and undeniably dangerous.
“Shoot it, before it—!”
And crossbows arming. Johan quick-stepped off to one side, raised his crossbow. Without thinking, Gamelyn lunged forward and got between Johan and the stag.
Chaos, suddenly. More shouting, and Johan cursing at him to Get out of the way for Christ’s sake! and huntsmen taking aim and afraid to shoot so close to their lord’s youngest son.
Then a sound of hooves, retreating. Gamelyn turned just in time to see a flash of white rump disappearing into the trees.
Not another breath later, he was careening face-first into the dirt, chased by his brother’s boot against his backside.
Quick as a ferret he rolled over and regained his feet—not quick enough, though, as Johan backhanded him right back down.
“Are you out of your bloody sodding mind?” Johan raged. “That stag was ready to charge at you and you were just standing there like some idiot peasant drooling before their horned devil, like… like…!” He was obviously contemplating throwing his crossbow at Gamelyn, instead turned and lobbed it at Much’s head. With the quickness of one used to dodging the blows of his betters, Much skittered sideways just in time. Fortunately, the crossbow discharged down into the dirt.
“Johan, he didn’t do any—!” Gamelyn’s protest was truncated by his brother turning back to him, dragging him up from the ground merely to shove him back down on his backside.
“That’s true!” Johan snarled. “You were the one who kept getting in the way of us shooting it!”
“I couldn’t let you shoot it. It… he came up to me,” Gamelyn stammered, unsure what he could say. Or should.
“It ‘came up to you’?” A flabbergasted Otho repeated. “And you let it?”
“I… it... we...” Gamelyn tried to explain, found he had no words that would make any coherent sense. The others had gathered in a loose, purposefully outlying semicircle, most with uncomfortable looks on their faces. Gamelyn was unsure whether it was because of what was happening, or what he was foolishly saying and doing.
He got to his feet, wary of Johan’s proximity. “It was… beautiful. I didn’t want you to shoot it.”
“Oh, bloody….” Johan rolled his eyes, plainly imploring the heavens to give him patience. “Do you think I’d relish going back to our father to tell him you’d gotten yourself gored by some mad buck?”
Johan’s ire was real, no doubt. But the disquiet was, too. Gamelyn looked down, said, “I’m sorry.”
Johan kept glaring at him. The silence could have been cut and quartered.
Otho broke it, true to form. “You, and you,” he said to Much and another huntsman. “Take the wolf carcass to our mounts.”
“I should have them tie you to your horse and drag you back to the castle,” Johan growled.
“It was foolish,” Gamelyn said, quiet. “I am truly sorry.”
He meant it, every word. Johan obviously believed him, for he closed his eyes, shook his head.
“We’re off!” he suddenly shouted. “We’ve still not found meat for the larder!”
THEY FINALLY found the boar. A sow, with a litter of piglets that would make good eating for several days at least. It took three pikes and four crossbows to take her down, and Johan had delivered the coup de grace then gave fervent thanks to God for such a worthy opponent.
They cooked a well-earned meal on the tree edge before they headed home: Gamelyn’s rabbit plus another that one of the huntsmen had taken, plus two skins of brandywine. Johan had pulled that last from his saddlebags with a distinct air of triumph and shared all around—one for his brothers and one for their assistants. The recipe was, according to Johan, “The newest gift to come from Queen Eleanor’s lovely bosom!”
Which followed, of course, that on the way home there would be much drink-inspired talk about exactly what else had come from, or been around, Eleanor’s bosom. And though Gamelyn wasn’t too sure that the Queen Mother’s royal bosom was something to be making dirty jokes over, it was so bloody pleasant to be on good terms with both his brothers at the same time that he kept it to himself and laughed in all the right places.
By the time they rode up to the gatehouse of Blyth, the sun was beginning to descend below the trees and they were all more than a little squiffed. Otho was giving orders for the disposition of the game they’d caught to their assistants, and Johan was wondering where Brand was to the gatehouse guards, who seemed anxious to tell Johan something but too polite to interrupt, and Gamelyn was humming to himself and twirling a hank of Diamant’s mane with the same two fingers he’d blown a kiss to Rob and Marion with, and wondering how they would fancy some of that brandywine, because it was truly a thing to be fancied….
“Johan! Otho! Gamelyn! Thank God you’ve come!”
The shrill tone to Alais’s voice brought all of them sober, and the brothers suddenly realized how quiet the courtyard was behind her. Otho turned to her, and Johan leapt off his horse and they both said exactly what Gamelyn’s thoughts had flown to.
“It’s Papa?”
“What’s happened to him?”
“WE WERE sitting, just playing chess as we often do, and he just… wilted over.” Alais was wringing her hands, her eyes red from weeping. “I got him into bed with the help of Donall and the guard standing at the door. He’s resting well enough now—”
“Has the leech been sent for?”
Alais made a face. “I have, for all the good it will do—!” She gasped as Johan closed on her, grabbed her arm.
“Woman, you aren’t allowed an opinion on this! Did you send for him right away?”
“I told you I did,” she spat at him. “Johan, you’re hurting me!”
Gamelyn made an abortive move forward, halted as Otho strode forward and, with remarkable ease, broke Johan’s grip and shoved him back. “Enough. I’ve warned you before about your manners toward my wife, Johan.”
“Our father’s life—”
“Is precious to all of us, Johan.” Otho drew Alais to him. “But you’re drunk—”
“We’re all drunk!”
Otho put his hands up in surrender. “I know. But that is no reason to doubt Alais’s care for our father, brother.”
Gamelyn had had enough. “And while the two of you piss on each other’s boots, he’s waiting for us!” he snapped, shoving past them to take the steps two at a time up to Sir Ian’s solar.
Two long flights of stairs were enough to send his heart pumping. Not even bothering to catch his breath, he rushed through the entry and stopped just over the threshold, sobering all too quickly as he saw his father.
It was worse than Gamelyn had yet seen. Sir Ian lay propped up, paler than the linens beneath his head, eyes sunken in his head. The leech was there, packing up his things, as was Donall, Sir Ian’s body servant, speaking in low tones to his master as he arranged cushions and coverlets.
“Are they here?” his father was saying, and Donall looked up, jerked his head at Gamelyn.
“Here’s your youngest now, milord, and if you can’t hear the others coming you’ve gone deaf as well, then.”
Sir Ian chuckled, but it was more a cough, and the grin at Donall’s teasing was more a grimace. Sure enough, Johan and Otho’s voices, still growling at each other, could be heard coming up the remainder of the stair. It broke Gamelyn’s odd paralysis, and he lurched forward.
“Papa?”
“Take his hand, lad,” Donall instructed as the others entered the solar. Gamelyn eased one buttock onto the bed. “He’s still a wee bit chancy in his senses.”
“I am not,” Sir Ian protested, and reached out. Gamelyn took his hand—it felt more a cold, thin claw than flesh—
and put it to his cheek.
Johan had stopped in the doorway to the solar to quiz the doctor, arms folded across his chest and his brows drawn together. Otho was also listening. Alais left them to it with a grimace and came over to stand next to Gamelyn. She put a hand to his head, riffled at his hair. It surprised him; she was not usually so open with her affections.
Her voice was also threaded with concern, shaky. “See, my lord father, your lads are all here about you again. I’m sure Gamelyn will read to you later, should you want.”
“I should… indeed.” Sir Ian lay back on the pillows, closed his eyes with a small groan. Gamelyn looked up at Alais, concerned; she gave a sigh and shrugged, once more stroking at his hair. But her words were to Sir Ian.
“Shall we all leave you, then?”
“Nay.” It was very shaky, but firm.
“The doctor says you need to rest,” Johan said. Behind him, the leech was departing the solar.
“I’ll rest anon. Come, son, sit with me.” He looked them all over and his brows drew together. “You look a trio of sots!”
Gamelyn had to admit that they did, rather.
“You took the brandywine.” It was stern, but there was a hint of a smile curving into Sir Ian’s cheek.
“I left plenty for you,” Johan assured, and his father fully grinned, this time.
“I should think you had better. Did you manage to get some game for our bare table before the drinking started? Tell me how you all fared. Was it a good hunt?”
Johan took a tentative seat on the bed across from Gamelyn. “It would have been, had your youngest not spoiled my shot.”
Gamelyn rolled his eyes. Of course, that would be the first thing Johan brought up. After they’d already agreed to not worry their father with what had happened.
Otho came to Gamelyn’s defense; drink seemed to have mellowed his earlier irritation. “Perhaps our little brother had a point, Papa. It truly would have been a crime to shoot that lovely old stag. Perhaps he deserves, after all, to live out his days and make more fawns like him. He was very beautiful. His hide was the color of fresh milk and toffees.”
“And would have made a lovely foot rest for our ailing father,” Johan pointed out.
“I have plenty of foot rests,” Sir Ian chided, putting his hand on Johan’s knee.
A twinge of something altogether close to guilt and sorrow passed over Johan’s face as he looked down and covered his father’s thin hand with his broad, brown one.
“I’m sure you found better game than an old, bleached stag, anyway.” Sir Ian winked at Otho and Gamelyn.
“In fact, Johan took a boar,” Gamelyn said; it was hard to not feel generous with his father’s hand so snug in his—and the memory of Johan’s face upon the hand he held.
“And Gamelyn took a bunny,” Johan put in, smirking across at Gamelyn.
So much for generosity.
“And?” Otho put in mildly.
Johan grinned wider, impenitent, then relented. “Aye, not just a bunny. He took down a wolf, Papa.”
“Did he?”
“A clean kill, one shot,” Otho added. “Methinks Gamelyn has been practicing his archery a bit. He’s gotten quite deedy with a crossbow.”
“Maybe when he grows a bit more he’ll be able to stand a pike against a boar.” Obviously drink had not mellowed Johan enough. “Until then, he can keep to his arrows and books.”
“And I’ll wrap them in the wolf skin,” Gamelyn retorted.
“Milords,” Donall interrupted, curt. “Your lord father was bled and needs his rest. He’s in some pain. P’rhaps later you can visit again?”
Johan looked as if he’d protest Donall’s cheek, then looked at Sir Ian, who was wilting sideways on the cushions. “Of course. Later, then, Papa?”
Sir Ian gave each of them a look, then peered at Donall’s stern gaze and conceded. “Later.”
For a man willing to face a mad boar head-on, Johan was unwilling to stay in a sickroom for long. He kissed his father’s hand and beat a quick retreat. Otho and Alais began to follow. Gamelyn started to untangle his hand from his father’s, paused as Sir Ian’s grip tightened and his eyes fluttered.
“Lad?”
In the doorway, Otho and Alais paused.
Gamelyn bent closer. “Yes, Papa? Would you like me to come later, read to you?”
“Yes, son. But… something else.”
He settled back against the cushions and paused. Gamelyn looked over at Otho and Alais, then to Donall, started to rise again. Again, his father’s grip tightened.
“What else, Papa?” Otho asked, gentle.
Sir Ian nodded and frowned, then opened his eyes. “Gamelyn. The wise woman?”
Gamelyn looked up at Donall, who shrugged. “Wise woman, Father?”
“The forester. His wife.” Sir Ian’s hand came up, brushed against the healing gash on Gamelyn’s face. “The lad with the simples jar. Remember?”
Not that Gamelyn was likely to forget. “You mean Eluned. Rob’s mother.”
Otho was frowning at Gamelyn, curious. Gamelyn told him, “Loxley, the forester. His wife knows of healing. “
“I want her here.”
“Surely the leech—” Otho began.
Sir Ian shook his head. “The forester said she would help, if I asked.” His eyes were very clear. His grip tightened in Gamelyn’s with some of its former strength. “Go, lad. Ask her for help. Bring her here, if she can come.”
“Aye, Papa. I’ll go,” Gamelyn told him. “I’ll go tomorrow at first light and see if she can come to you.”
“Good.” Sir Ian relaxed back against the cushions, and his hand went lax in Gamelyn’s.
“Bring her regardless,” Otho said suddenly. “If he wants her, then she must come.”
Gamelyn peered at him, saw the worry in his brown eyes, then nodded. Putting an arm about Alais, Otho drew her from the solar.
“You too, young master,” Donall directed. “Out. Come back after supper. If he’s awake you can read to him then.”
Gamelyn rose from the bed, peering down at Sir Ian with worry weighting his chest. But not just worry….
There was also excitement.
“And you need to get a good night’s rest yourself, mind, if you’re to be traipsing all over the kingdom!” Donall was shooing him out, albeit gently, and fussing the while.
Gamelyn shot another glance over at his father, thin and drawn amidst all the bedclothes, then escaped the room, speeding across to his own chambers and feeling like the lowest of scum.
Because he was.
He shut his door firmly behind him, bolted it, leaned against it.
There was no longer any question in his mind but that he was going to Hell… or at the very least Purgatory, for a long while. Because right below the apprehension for his father was elation. He had a legitimate reason to visit Loxley.
To ask Eluned to help his father.
To ask about the arrow, and the other foresters.
To see if everyone was all right.
To see Rob.
Elation skittered and fled, to be replaced with an odd trepidation.
Fear. It was fear, eclipsing down from that moment, down in the barns, when he had seen Rob pinned up against the stable wall by that lad and had more of… something… coursing through him than he’d ever felt in his life. One that even now put a tilt to his breeks and a slow, shivery hollow in his gut.
He had no right to feel like this. Surely nothing more than his body’s temptation, a wicked willingness to look at anything—including two lads groping each other in the dark—with a lecherous wish for pleasure.
It was wrong. He should turn from it. And not in any craven fashion that held as much a sin as the thought.
As the fantasy….
Desperate, Gamelyn bit at his lip, sawed teeth against soft flesh. Unfortunately all it did was make him harder, and he barely stopped himself from reaching downward to grip himself tight, ease it. Instead, he shoved away
from the door and went to the books lying on his bed. He had plenty of reading to do, and no doubt it was a better way to spend his time than some wanton, mindless humping of his hand or the bedclothes.
There was no better way to prove triumph over weakness than to spurn it.
He opened the book on runes, skimmed, and saw a sigil that looked like stag horns. Stopped. Wondered, suddenly, what had transpired out in the green Wode, at Much’s reaction to it, at how he himself had reached out and touched a wild thing as if he were… Rob.
Had Rob ever seen that pale stag?
And what would he say about it, if he had?
“…like some idiot peasant drooling before their horned devil…!”
“He’s calling tae you, m’lord.”
Surely it was no devil. Something so lovely and wild seemed more a bearer of light than any darkness. A unicorn, not a basilisk.
Yet….
Gamelyn was still there, hunched over his books and attempting to wrestle some meaning from them when Alais came tapping at his door. His father had awakened, and would like some reading time with his youngest. Gamelyn acquiesced, marking his place in the old tome and then shrugging on his cape—the sun had descended while he read, and he was chilled.
As he walked to his father’s chambers, Gamelyn decided it was imperative he go to evensong this night. There was no doubt he was going to need some guidance on this journey.
XII
“HOY! A fish!”
A splash in the stream before her, patently caused by the rock that had been thrown from behind and above. A tall, lanky figure dropped to the bank, not an arm’s reach away, peering into the clear water, expectant.
Marion glanced over to her brother, held his gaze as his brows quirked. He lasted for a few slow breaths then looked down and away, fool’s demeanor fading, cheeks darkening.
Then, “I’m sorry. I didna mean it.”
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