Greenwode

by J Tullos Hennig

  “Dogs,” Rob muttered. “Are you a dog, then? Does the smell of blood just make you want more? Nine out of ten of your guardsmen would see these lash marks on my back and think it made them free to give me more.”

  “Are you a wolf, then?” Gamelyn asked, just as soft. “Like your friend you met by the mere?”

  Rob tilted his head to peer at Gamelyn. He didn’t seem surprised that Gamelyn knew—or he hid it well. “A wild wolf’ll kill a dog any chance he gets. Unless, somehow, that dog smells of his own kind.”

  Gamelyn nuzzled against the black locks curling down between Rob’s shoulder blades, breathed him in. “Then I’d have to bathe in forest lakes, roll in green grass and juniper boughs, rub mint into my hair so I’ll smell like you.”

  “You’ve made a good start, then.” Rob turned, pointedly untangled the foxglove from Gamelyn’s temple, peered at it. Then he raised his eyes once again to Gamelyn. “Best to be careful. You’re already in danger of going back to the dogs smelling of a he-wolf.”

  And it was either break down and bawl like a bairn, or kiss Rob until he couldn’t think straight anymore.

  “Don’t go,” Rob whispered against his mouth. “Please. Stay a bit longer.”

  The decision wasn’t so difficult, after all.

  XX

  NO MORE time for sleeping, girl.

  The voice pulled her from the lovely pale of slumber, not beckoning but bidding. Marion groaned into the lightweight linsey-woolsey that made up their bedding in warmer weather, and dug in all the deeper. Surely it wasn’t dawn yet; it felt like she’d just got to sleep.

  Up with you now, lazy girl. You’ve slept too long, all of you.

  All of who? The utter nonsense of it made Marion roll over with another groan. “Mam, have a heart! I….”

  She trailed off as nothing but darkness met her eyes.

  Slowly, her eyes adjusted. Moonlight was coming through the window next to Rob’s empty bed. Her mother was across the room in her own bed, one plump arm flung sideways, resting in the hollow beside where her husband usually slept.

  She had been dreaming.

  With a disgusted huff—’twas sure morning would come all too early as it was, without waking for no reason—Marion lay back down, started to draw the light coverlet over her, then realized she was sweating and kicked it back down.

  I suppose you are dreaming, but that is no reason to lie about. Get up, girl.

  Marion sat up.

  Better. Dawn comes quickly. We do not have much time, you and I.

  Unsure even as she did it, but trusting the security of instinct, Marion rose. She didn’t bother with boots or slippers, but slid a tunic over her head and tied loose braies at her hipbones. Starting to tiptoe out, she hesitated, shook her head at herself and crept back to her bed, found the sheathed dagger in its place beneath her mattress and hung it from its lanyard about her neck. As daft to go out in the forest at night unarmed as naked.

  Her mother snored lightly, deep asleep as Marion exited and closed the door gently behind. She had to go to the mere. She didn’t know how, or why, only that she must.

  Sheltered from the wind, dear Maiden daughter, came the answer. Better to bathe in the moon and draw her down.

  It was inside her head, somehow. Marion had never heard Her like this before. Was this how Rob heard the Horned Lord?

  Of course. And if you have never heard Me, it is because you have never listened, before, save in dreams.

  The forest took her in, wrapped her close. Rob loved the early hours best, the stirrings of predawn; Marion loved the nights, velvet and deep-quiet. She had missed them, lately; with the menfolk both gone, the chores were all the more numerous, tiring and tedious. Both Marion and Eluned had lately been gladder of sleep and its rest than any thought of wandering.

  The night was still, only the treetops shivering and whispering with the lightest of wind. It was still remarkably warm for a late-spring night; by the time Marion had reached the mere a few ells away, she had a light skim of sweat. It was no chore to strip down to nothing but her knife and bathe in the cool, dark water.

  The fifth time Marion surfaced from a lovely, deep dive, slicking the ringlets back from her face, she saw it. A flicker in the water’s surface, no mere ripple from her passing. She put fingertips to her knife, flipped the rope catch that held it in its scabbard.

  Nay, Maiden, no dragon bides in these waters, no kelpie to drag you under. Only spirits, to show you what you must See. For many things have been, here, and will be. You must look at them, and remember.

  Many things. They flickered about her, lights dancing upon ripples, images rocking on the calm patches. Marion drew herself still, even held her breath for fear of disturbing the mirror of the surface

  It had been a tangled, untouched thicket for so long, trod only by deer and bears and an occasional wildcat, then….

  It had been a source of water for a small, dark people painted with indigo and woad, flitting through the forest without a sound, hardly seen, drinking from the stream feed yet giving the mere a berth, recognizing the holy mirror of it by instinct rather than lore.

  They are your mother’s people, your people. They fled north when the conquerors came.

  It was where the conquerors had indeed come: a tall and fair people who hunted and enslaved the dark, painted ones, yet they had garnered geld in doing so, were also brought to heel. These conquerors brought horses and dogs to better hunt the forests… but they too avoided the mirrored mere as if it held a sickness. The surroundings grew more tangled. A magical place, that none dared touch.

  Until your mother’s people began to return.

  It had been Cernun’s Maiden who had drawn the moon down upon the water for the first time, sung the magic back into being and called the spirits to life.

  It had been a small, dark family, blood and bone of the Barrow-lines, who had bought themselves free from their Saxon captors and stayed in Saxon land. They had come here, asked the mere spirits for permission to settle, and since there was a tiny Maiden in their midst who could sing to them in the old tongues, the spirits were pleased to listen, to be gentled and let her swim their waters.

  It had been where her mother and father had been handfast, where Marion herself had been born, a child’s wail into a still, cold night, soaked in by the mere’s memory.

  It was where Rob had whispered the mere’s name in the mornings, had called a Summering lover to his side.

  It was where Rob had last seen Will….

  She reached out to this last, but as her fingers touched the water, ripples obscured and sent it sinking.

  You long for what eludes your touch. You and your brother both.

  “Shall I….” Her throat was dry despite the wet. “Shall I see him again, Lady?”

  It is not to be, now. Perhaps it is never meant to be, but such things are never constant. Look at what your brother has shaped. Was it her imagination, or did the Lady seem… amused? My Consort is not one to have his tail tweaked lightly. But then… he does enjoy the game. Moreso if Chance also plays.

  “Game? Chance?”

  The Lady shrugged. He is, after all, male.

  Her flesh, where it was uncovered by the water, was drawing up, drying and quivering from her pubic bone up. “And all of this,” Marion murmured, skimming her fingers back and forth where the moon pictures had played.

  Is your birthright. Maiden is often merely a title, a given honor for a moment in time, a crown made of withies and ivy that lasts for but a night or a season’s blooding. With you, as with she who bore you, it is what you are.

  “So my mother—”

  Knows this. It is woman’s to keep and remember this sacred story. And it is time to tell it to your brother, so he may sing the spirits gentle by right and not mere instinct.

  “He is… not here.”

  I know. You must go to him.

  Marion shivered, began to wade from the mere. She didn’t really want to… and it seemed the wate
r pulled at her, bidding her to stay for just a while longer. “Rob is—”

  Courting a lover. Yes.

  “Well, aye, and I’m not sure he’d welcome me now—”

  He needs you more than you know. They both do.

  “Both?”

  You are part of the balance, Maiden. You are not the arrow’s bloody point, but one of the foundation edges which hold it in the quarry, which set it to the shaft and allow it to fly.

  “One of the edges.” Marion knelt upon the bank, peered into the water. The moon’s face drifted past her, and she trailed her fingertips along one side; moonlight spread out from her touch.

  Heed what the waters have told you. Do you think they would have allowed their Hunter to call the magic with anyone but one whose spirit they recognized?

  “Gamelyn.” Marion breathed, then shook her head. “That’s hardly possible.”

  You seem so certain.

  “He’s… Christian. A noble’s son.” Even as she spoke the words, she realized they were mere echoes of her mother’s doubts, her father’s worries.

  Even so. I told you, the Lady chided, that my Consort enjoys a good game with Chance.

  Marion had to chuckle. Her knees and shins were sinking into the soft bank, her fingertips still skimming the water, teasing strands of moonsilver into the goddess’ hair.

  Heed your heart, not the fear in others’. You know the truth. You are the Hunter’s sister-twin, the Huntress owned by no man. Your brother would seek to take his rival’s heart instead of his blood. The Hooded One is the Horned Lord’s weapon but he is also mine: my Son, my Consort. It is only right that your brother’s soul would seek a balance. Enough blood will be spilled in his reign.

  Chilled, Marion brought her fingers from the water, felt a thick shiver course up her spine.

  We have long known peace, but the price has been high. The pendulum must now swing another direction. It is the way of things.

  Marion thought of all the things gone so horribly wrong, wrapped her arms about herself, closed her eyes.

  Nay, the wrongs have not yet begun, my bravest of daughters. It will be a brutal time and you must stand fast. The Ceugant is in gravest danger, from within and without. The Hooded One will be blooded upon the night of sacrifice, his heart broken by the seeds of betrayal. Brother will turn against brother amidst the crypt, one will seek to sell the other as slave, burn a fiery cross into his breast to placate a king. And a raven of the White Christ would seek to scatter you to the farthest winds, would cloak with black wings My power, try to claim it, tame it. The links must be forged now, the trust must be made and held to, no matter what. As long as you are together, Holly, Oak, and Ivy, back to back and heart to heart, nothing can stand against you.

  The voice faded as the moon crept from the water, setting behind the trees. Marion knelt there for some time. Dawn was beginning to streak the sky when she finally moved, got dressed, and headed for home.

  “SWEET CHRIST, Rob, you really are hopeless at this.”

  “It’s like holding a shunt of firewood that’s too long to put in a pit,” Rob complained. “Too long, heavy as hell, and p’rhaps on fire in the bargain, because that edge would sear a nice gash in you, no question, and… bloody damn!” This as Gamelyn, for the sixth time in quick succession, gave a twist with his own sword and sent Rob’s blade flying across the clearing.

  And the ginger-haired sod was grinning. “It’s about time you looked a proper pillock while doing something,” Gamelyn called after, as Rob trudged over to retrieve the sword. Again.

  He’d found it tethered to Gamelyn’s pack; no more than an emergency spare, really, like Rob’s own short bow that he always carried but usually scorned in favor of the Welsh-made, rune-incised longbow he’d only last year grown strong enough to pull. The sword was a shorter, uglier thing than the fine blade Gamelyn wielded with such finesse, and definitely had a mad on at being wielded by a ham-fisted peasant. Rob was fairly sorry he’d ever made the suggestion that Gamelyn teach him how to use it.

  “That’s it, then.” Rob feinted left, then stepped back, dived sideways and down into the sun-scattered grass, coming up from the roll with staff in hand. “This is a man’s weapon.” He tossed the hair from his face, eyed Gamelyn.

  Gamelyn rolled his eyes, gave a negligent twirl of his sword. Raised his free hand, held up the first and second fingers. The meaning was unmistakable.

  “That’s just plain rude, then,” Rob protested.

  With a smirk and a shake of his head, Gamelyn gestured again, the two fingers twitching, the meaning still unmistakable:

  Bring it.

  Bloody arrogant prat. Rob shifted an eyebrow upward, pinned the staff between arm and ribs, then reached down to tug at his boots.

  “Sun’ll go down anon,” Gamelyn said, lazy, then gave a yip and ducked sideways as Rob lunged forward, the staff plunging toward Gamelyn’s head.

  “Cheeky sod,” Rob told him. A flurry of blows, and Gamelyn was driven back nearly to the cavern mouth. “Ha. Watch what you’re doin’ and quit faffing that cute arse so close to our fire.”

  Gamelyn feinted, then ducked straight down and rolled past Rob. And fetched him a tap on the arse as he went.

  “Who’s faffing what?” Gamelyn accused. “But I agree, you are much better with a piece of wood than a sword, after all.”

  “Aye, well, I just prefer to stroke my wood two-handed.”

  Gamelyn stared at him, then laughed. “You sod…!” And yipped again as Rob flew forward. “All right, then. We’re done.”

  “Are we, then?” Rob pitched his staff into the air, caught it, then fetched out with several more lightning-quick blows.

  Gamelyn countered them, then swung his sword, not unlike a battle-axe, right between Rob’s hands. Two separate pieces went flying, and the sword tip left a streak of blood welling across Rob’s breastbone.

  “We are,” Gamelyn told him. “Done.”

  “You’d rather chop wood with that great sword, then?” Rob blustered, swiping at the trickle of blood with his thumb and licking it off.

  Gamelyn merely smiled, cocked his head, and brought the sword tip up from Rob’s chest to lie flat against his neck.

  Rob considered it for a moment, then shrugged, stuck his tongue out, and ran it up and down the flat of the blade.

  “So.” Gamelyn snorted. “You’ll… tongue your opponent into submission?”

  Rob merely cut black eyes his way. “Works with you.”

  IT ENDED up where almost all their sparring matches ended up—another struggle, only horizontal and naked instead of vertical and minimally clothed.

  And then they headed for the nearby lake. The early heat had but intensified over the time Rob had been there—or so he said—and it was nigh unbearable in the small cavern about midday.

  Gamelyn was, under Rob’s tutelage, learning to swim. Or to at least not sink like a stone. Keeping his head above water wasn’t as hard as Gamelyn had thought it would be. And he had the most incredible sensation of… freedom… when he went leaping off the rock that seemed to be Rob’s favorite perch.

  Rob had needed to fish him out only the once….

  Was this what love felt like?

  Was this what love was?

  All Gamelyn could think about was Rob: the lithe, almost unreal grace of him, swimming or running or riding… the deadly economy he displayed in the forest, watching him find a trail from nothing, or watching the lithe muscles push/pull against the long Welsh bow as if it were featherlight, and not so heavy a draw that it made Gamelyn’s sword-hardened arms quiver… the way those black eyes would light on him, light up… the way his laugh would break into a snort when he’d laughed so hard he’d run out of air… and Gamelyn loved, loved to make him laugh.

  Loved watching him. Loved talking to him, touching him. Loved sparring with him, lying beside him, kissing him… kissing all of him… loved tupping him so hard he would shudder and whimper and stuff the heel of his hand into that l
ovely, full-lipped mouth so he didn’t cry out loud enough to wake Blyth all those furlongs away.

  Loved making him cry out.

  Could two lads… love each other? So impossible—sin… damnation… Hellfire… lost—in the world outside the green Wode. But here, it seemed possible. Inevitable. It was Eden.

  Eden.

  And just as inevitable that it couldn’t possibly last. For surely they were eating of every fruit in the Garden….

  “You keep saying that.” Rob smirked. “And you keep not going.”

  “I don’t want to go. They won’t miss me, I know, but if I’m gone more than a few days all together, they might notice. Start to look. Find our garden, here.” The thought of it chilled him.

  What will you give me, princeling? What will you sacrifice for your… garden?

  The voice was never far away of late. The one, honey-tongued serpent.

  “Mm. The Wode’s no garden, believe me. Winter’s no cozy lord’s fête. But from what you’ve told me, that garden sounds right boring.” Rob smirked and rolled atop Gamelyn, licked his nose. “No sex, after all.”

  Gamelyn chuckled.

  “Ah-ah… see? You wouldn’t like a place with no sex.” An eyebrow disappeared into the black forelock. “Would you?”

  Was it wrong to be ecstatic that Rob sounded… worried? “It’s… it doesn’t have to be exact. It’s more… the idea. A place where evil cannot touch.”

  “What would be the point of such a place?” Rob flattened his hands upon Gamelyn’s breastbone, rested his chin atop them. “If you don’t know what evil is, then how can you appreciate the decent things? Nowt to compare it with. No struggle to be decent.” He shrugged. “Not only boring, but pointless.”

  Having theological discussions with Rob was not one of the things Gamelyn loved. They made his brain hurt.

  He tried again. “But to be in God’s grace. To walk with Him, in the cool of the evening, by your side—”

  “Walking with gods?” Rob gave a tiny shove, flipped onto his back. “That’s not all it’s cracked up to be, some days.”