Greenwode

by J Tullos Hennig

  “Well?” Johan demanded.

  “I looked myself, my lord. There is no one in your brother’s chambers. None of my men have seen him.”

  Johan peered at the Abbess, his expression growing darker. “Look for him.”

  “My lord?”

  “Look for my brother, man! Search the castle! I want him found if he is here, and if he is not….” He trailed off and lurched to his feet, stalked over to the window.

  The captain waited.

  “Be discreet,” Johan said without turning around. “I do not want my father disturbed with this. Not yet.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The guard bowed out.

  “I think your caution is very wise, Cousin Johan.”

  Johan whirled on the Abbess, a look of such choler on his face that she feared she had been unwise. Visibly, however, he took hold of himself. “What do you mean?”

  “I do not tell you these things just to put you or young Gamelyn into an awkward position—”

  “He’s damned well put himself there! I will see him punished for this. But I must have more proof before I go to our father.”

  “There is more at stake here, Cousin.” Elisabeth called upon every bit of her skills at negotiation. They were considerable, she knew, more than a match for this oaf with a temper—if she could get past the temper, that was. “For one thing, your father’s love for the boy.”

  His eyes gleamed, and she knew she had him.

  “Listen.” She strode forward, settled her hands into her sleeves. “You need proof; I surely have it. Enough things are tied together. I believe this all started with the murder of my guardsman—perpetrated, as you recall, by one of these foresters from Loxley Chase.”

  Johan crossed his arms, leaned his hip against the table. “Go on.”

  “I have been trying to uncover the particulars of this for some time. The sheriff of Nottingham has become a staunch ally in this quest, but we have been groping in the dark for proof, for answers.”

  “And what of your brother?” Johan asked. “His jurisdiction over Yorkshire—”

  “Loxley village is part of Nottinghamshire at present.”

  Johan frowned, went over to his table, and leaned against the chair behind it. “I fail to imagine how my brother’s disgusting… choice of a….” He seemed to remember he was speaking to a nun, fell silent as he amended his words.

  The Abbess didn’t wait. “Gamelyn’s unfortunate… infatuation… is but the latest maneuver in a sinister plot. And perhaps, if we take care, Gamelyn can be the method by which we finally drag it into the light and see it destroyed for good.

  “I don’t think Gamelyn had a choice. I think he was enchanted by this peasant boy. And I think your father’s very soul is in danger from the mother of this boy and her witchcraft.”

  XXIII

  IF GAMELYN was going to stage any siege against Blyth, the dusky murk of predawn would be the time to do it. The guards were changing, the gates open in preparation for the normal traffic of the day, and the stables all but deserted. Even the stable lad, John, was snoring and curled up in his cot by the narrow back stair.

  Of course, they’d enjoyed no revolts or uprisings since they’d been here, so perhaps the laxity was understandable.

  It certainly worked for him. He’d been longer in the forest than he should have, but it had been so hard to leave. Gamelyn crept up to the family wing, worked the door to his chamber open, and closed it behind him.

  He halted, frowning in the dark. His chamber felt… odd. Even more strange, the curtain was drawn across his window. Perhaps some servant had been overzealous in their tidying up. There was movement there; Gamelyn tensed until he realized it was merely the wind lifting the heavy fabric.

  By feel Gamelyn went to the table to the left of the door, found the flints, the chaff bowl, and the fat candle he always had there. His eyes were growing accustomed to the tomblike dark, and by the time he’d rasped the flint across his dagger several times, his aim had improved. First the chaff, then Gamelyn used it to set alight several candles, spilling their cheer into the room. He nodded and turned….

  Halted.

  Johan was there, sitting on Gamelyn’s bed, arms crossed over his broad chest and feet propped almost negligently on the press beside it. At the bed’s foot were standing two of their largest guardsmen.

  “Well, gadelyng. It’s about time you’ve returned,” Johan said, then jerked his head to the two guardsmen. “Take him.”

  Gamelyn was so stunned he didn’t so much as try to evade them, and their grip made it impossible for him to shake them off.

  He certainly tried.

  “Oh, my,” Johan tsked, walking over to him. “Have you heard nothing of what I’ve taught you? Never go down without a fight.” He turned away slightly, then, without warning, kicked out.

  His boot hit the outside of Gamelyn’s thigh, knocked Gamelyn’s feet out from beneath him, and sent splinters of agony up into his hip. Gamelyn hit the ground hard—the guards released him a-purpose, or so it seemed—but mere seconds after he’d sprawled on the stones, clutching at his thigh, the guards grabbed him again, hauled him up.

  “Johan, what are you doing?” Gamelyn snarled.

  “Just a reminder before we go, gadelyng… ah-ah.” The warning came as Gamelyn lurched forward at the insult; an upraised finger and a nod to the guardsmen resulted in them clutching so brutally tight to Gamelyn’s arms that he nearly went down again. “I know where you’ve been, brother. I know what you’ve been doing and, more, who you’ve been doing it to.”

  Muscles preparing for battle quivered, betraying him. Gamelyn stared at Johan, his heart and lungs vying for position in the back of his throat.

  “Thank your stars our father and the Abbess are both concerned for you. I myself am not so willing to spend my cares on someone so intent on spoiling himself with filth.”

  “H… how?” was all Gamelyn could stammer.

  “You can ask them yourself,” was Johan’s cryptic answer, then he jerked his head at the guards. “Take him to my father’s solar.”

  And if Gamelyn had any fight left, that order robbed him of it.

  SIR IAN was there, sitting up. He seemed… diminished, somehow, and the enormous chair merely made it worse. Surely only a few days ago he had been better, chatting with Rob. Not as well as he’d been the previous se’nnight, surely, walking the balustrade with Gamelyn, still slow, still ill, certainly—but lively.

  The voice rose, sudden and deep from memory. What will you give me, princeling? What will you sacrifice?

  Not this, Gamelyn argued, silent. I never agreed to this. You cannot.

  “What do you mean, marching him in here like some villein?” Sir Ian ordered the two guardsmen, who still had heavy hands upon Gamelyn’s arms. “Release your lord, immediately.”

  They did so, backing slightly, looking at Johan uneasily.

  “But it is as you were told, Papa,” Johan countered. “He arrived mere moments ago, back from sneaking out to the forest to dally with that merdaille forester’s brat!”

  To hear Rob so casually called “scum” made Gamelyn whirl, clench his fists to wipe the sneer from Johan’s face. The two guardsmen tensed, made as if to move forward.

  “That’s enough, Johan!” Sir Ian said, then gestured to the guardsmen. “Get out, both of you.”

  “Papa—” Johan started to protest, and the two hesitated, peering at Johan.

  “This is still my solar and my manor!” Sir Ian flung a hand at the guardsmen. “Do as I say!”

  This time he was quickly obeyed.

  “This is a family matter, Johan,” Sir Ian growled as the door shut. “I told you to ensure he came to my solar once he returned, not to bring him like….” Sir Ian took in a sharp breath, closed his eyes, and seemed to wilt in the chair.

  “Papa?” Gamelyn whispered, stepped forward.

  “Not one more step, lapin,” Johan hissed, grabbing his arm. “Have you not done enough?”

&nb
sp; “Where is Otho?” Sir Ian asked.

  “He and Alais have not returned from York, Papa,” Johan answered. “They will likely be back tomorrow.”

  Gamelyn frowned. Surely his father would remember such a thing, now that he was taking the medicine. “Papa, have you not had your dose—?”

  “Gamelyn.” Johan’s hand bit into his arm. “Shut up.”

  “Gamelyn,” Sir Ian said, heavy and slow. Disappointed. “Where have you been, son?”

  “You know where he’s been!” Johan protested. “Surely the matter is—”

  “Be silent, Johan,” Sir Ian said. “If you do not, you will leave. Comprenez-vous?”

  Johan flushed darker, and he scowled at Gamelyn before looking down.

  “Tell me, Gamelyn,” Sir Ian persisted, still slow. “Where have you been? I know you and your brother are not as close as I would have you. I could scarce believe this when he came to me with it—”

  “What has he told you?” None of this made any sense. Johan never paid that much attention to him. Perhaps he’d not been as careful as he could have been, but he’d never even imagined….

  “Gamelyn.” His father shook his head. “Don’t play games with me—”

  “I’m not playing at anything!” Gamelyn protested, panic starting to crawl along his nerve endings. “Johan would do anything to turn you against me, he—”

  “You lying little—!”

  “Johan,” Sir Ian said, level, then turned that level look upon Gamelyn. “He is your brother, lad.”

  “And he hates me!” Gamelyn protested. “You know he hates me—”

  “Gamelyn, that is not what—”

  “If he’s accusing me of something, I want to hear it from his own lips!”

  “I’m accusing you of nothing, I’m merely corroborating what Abbess Elisabeth told me—”

  Johan’s retort snuck behind Gamelyn’s defenses like a poisoned dagger; somehow, he managed not to actively flinch. “And what has she told you?”

  “Something I can scarce believe you have done,” Sir Ian admitted, and this time Gamelyn did flinch as he continued. “I never imagined you, of all my boys to sink to something like this.”

  “Please. It isn’t what you think,” and he trailed off as, this time, Sir Ian was the one to flinch.

  “Listen to him, my lord. I truly don’t believe he’s in his right mind.” This soft protest came from the shadows behind Sir Ian, and black draperies whispered as the Abbess came forward. She seemed to materialize from thin air, and Gamelyn wondered how it was he hadn’t seen her until this moment.

  And realized that he hadn’t paid attention for far too long.

  You know they canna find out about us. Rob had said it, and now it seemed that they had, and Gamelyn felt as if everything he had ever held dear lay before him on an altar with the knife poised above its heart. The clues had been there, all along: Sister Deirdre, watching Eluned with wary eyes—and Elisabeth herself, making soft threats against the possibility of witchcraft. Brother Dolfin, warning him—obliquely, but nonetheless a warning—“You must take care”—and later, a caution not to attempt to face Worksop’s abbess without the clean heart of confession shielding him like mail and leather. And the Abbess herself, curious about the charm that still lay about his neck.

  Even now, as the Abbess glided over to him, Gamelyn could feel her eyes riveting to the small amulet beneath his tunic. It was… warm, somehow, as if warning him. Johan’s scowl had become uneasy, and even Sir Ian was eyeing Gamelyn with some caution, as if he more trusted the Abbess’s words than his own son’s. And why not? His son had done nothing these past se’nnights but lie to him.

  And his father’s words, leaden with worry. “I fear you’re correct, niece. He has been acting so… wayward and strange of late.”

  Elisabeth’s dark eyes pinned Gamelyn in place, yet not so much that he didn’t retreat as she raised her hand to him.

  “Gamelyn!” Sir Ian said, shocked.

  “There’s no need for fear, lad.” Her voice was quiet, altogether reasonable as she put her hand on his shoulder, held him still. “Your brother’s methods leave a bit to be desired, but I warned you of that, did I not?”

  “What have you done?” he whispered.

  “Only what I had to do to help you.” Elisabeth murmured back, then raised her voice, directed it to Sir Ian. “It is as I told you. It’s all been a lie, and your son an unwilling pawn in an evil game.”

  Pawn… game… evil? “What has she told you?” Gamelyn peered at her, disbelieving, before his gaze fled to meet his father’s.

  Sir Ian looked… beaten. “She saw you, Gamelyn. Saw you leave with the forester’s son. Two days, you were gone.”

  Gamelyn realized his teeth were chattering, small and silent; he was literally chilled with dread.

  “That... peasant... he came here and seduced you on my very step!”

  “Papa, it wasn’t—”

  “And I let these people into my home! Took their poison!” Sir Ian passed a hand over his face, shaking his head.

  “No.” Gamelyn lurched forward; first the Abbess’s hand gripped, then Johan’s, halting him. “Please. She only meant to help you. Please tell me you won’t stop taking the medicines Eluned brought you—”

  “Do not speak that woman’s name in this house!” Sir Ian thundered. “Help me? While she helps herself to everything I hold dear? She flattered all of us—even Johan says she flirted with him. My niece even warned me that the woman might be after you, my youngest… I scoffed. I scoffed, and look what my trust has gained me. That woman sets her brat on you, sets a spell about you… he was here only two days ago, setting his spell about all of us—”

  “No. You don’t understand,” Gamelyn said, shaking his head. “It wasn’t like that. It—”

  “None of us here wants to know what it was like, lapin,” Johan growled, and loosed Gamelyn like he was diseased. “You are either mad or our cousin is right: you are bewitched.”

  Bewitched. A deeper chill fetched itself through Gamelyn. Sodomy was enough to condemn him… but witchcraft would condemn everyone else.

  “Rob didn’t bewitch me. That much I swear to you. I was… weak, that I will confess, but there was no witchcraft. He is a good person, Papa, I would swear to it—”

  “Good? How can seducing a chaste, God-fearing lad into vile acts be considered ‘good’? How can you just stand there and say such things!” Sir Ian paled, leaned back in his chair.

  You did this. Gamelyn could feel Johan’s glare strafing him. You brought him to this.

  Worse, he couldn’t disagree. He had, hadn’t he?

  The Abbess’s hand, still upon his shoulder, slid down to his nape. Before he could stop it, she had threaded her fingers through the leather thong about his neck, and pulled the stag amulet from beneath his tunic.

  “This, Sir Ian. This is part of the answer.” She clutched it, pulled Gamelyn by it, closer to his father. “I told you I’d seen this about his neck on our journey back from Worksop.”

  “It is nothing!” Gamelyn protested. “It was a gift, nothing more.”

  “A gift from whom?” Sir Ian had gone even paler, staring at the thing.

  “Sister Deirdre knows of such things,” the Abbess answered, and turned to Gamelyn. “Do you even know what it is, lad?”

  Gamelyn shook his head, said again, “It is nothing.”

  Her grip tightened, and he found himself propping back, the leather biting into his neck, sending the chill into further ice. “Hardly nothing. It is called a ‘charm of making’. Its purpose is to set someone’s will to something. To make something happen.”

  “I… don’t think so.” Only Gamelyn knew. He knew….

  He said it would help me find you.

  And have you, then? Found me?

  “To make you fall in love, perhaps?” She leaned closer; Gamelyn found himself propping back harder.

  “Did that pagan give it to you?” Sir Ian demanded.

&nbs
p; “Papa, no!” At least it was the truth. “Rob has never—”

  The Abbess gave a swift jerk of the cord; it bit into Gamelyn’s neck then gave, making him stagger. “The lad has enchanted you!” she hissed, holding the charm before his face. “With this. He is a witch, from a family of witches. They are from one of the most powerful covens in six shires!”

  She flung the necklet onto the stones, then stepped on it, crushing it.

  “If that peasant shows his face here again, I want him arrested!” Sir Ian ordered. “Or better yet, shot.”

  “Papa!” Gamelyn lurched forward, fell to his knees beside the chair. “No. I beg you. You don’t understand.”

  Sir Ian reached out, touched his face. “Oh, son. You’re the one who doesn’t understand.” It was so reasonable, so gentle that Gamelyn found himself doubting his own senses. The hand shook, and Gamelyn raised a hand, cupped it against his cheek.

  Just as abruptly, it turned hard. “You will go to your chambers, Gamelyn. Now.”

  Gamelyn blinked, looked up. Sir Ian’s eyes were as hard as the hand within his own.

  “And as I cannot trust you, Johan will make sure you do, and lock you in.”

  “Papa, please. Listen to me. Don’t—”

  “There will be guards posted, Gamelyn, and the servants will see to your needs. You will stay there until I decide what must be done.”

  THE BED was cold when Marion woke, and Rob was gone.

  Perhaps he’d gone hunting. But Arawn was missing—though his saddle and bridle were still upended in their corner. It was still dark, but there were signs, small and perceptible, that dawn approached. Perhaps he’d taken Arawn to graze early. Perhaps….

  Well, there was no telling, with Rob.

  So Marion busied herself. She tidied their bed, built the fire back up from banked coals. She got water from the stream beyond the hillock, hung it to warm but not boil dry. When she ran out of things to do, she went to find him.

  Dawn had finally begun fingering the trees. Rob’s passing was fresh in the morning damp, easy to follow. Marion saw him as the trees thinned before her, became the pasture overlooking Blyth. The sun was breaking through clouds here and there, rays of gold across green. Just to one side of the flower-strewn altar, Rob was perched on a small promontory of rock and, sure enough, Arawn was picketed nearby, greedily tearing at the damp grass.