Summerwode, page 3
part #4 of The Books of the Wode Series
Gamelyn swiped at a branch, felt leaves sting his palm, shallow cuts cooled with rain and new growth. Kept walking.
Kept his hand upon his dagger.
And now, when contentment seeks to warm that cold heart of yours, anger and regret can no longer hold those shadows at bay. A pause, almost musing. I think, mayhap, you hate and fear yourself most of all. For you know the predator lying within. You know what you are capable of—
He whirled, dagger in hand—as if he could kill a god!—but even before the futility of the strike, the Lady spoke again.
Enough. It was as close to a growl as Gamelyn had ever imagined. There was the unearthly, discomfiting feel of fingers riffling through his thoughts, of tangled threads being smoothed, combed. Gamelyn had the strange and no doubt irreverent image of Marion grabbing the Horned Lord by one tine and smacking his nose. Hard.
Take that, he thought, and laughed out loud.
You cannot hide behind Her skirts forever, Summerlord. A bare echo, it mingled with the sound of Gamelyn’s mirth and lingered in the air, teasing him until it wisped into blessed silence.
Gamelyn took in air, released it and watched the exhaust rise, contemplating what a relief it was to hear nothing but his own breath. However did Robyn stand it, having this… this tug-of-war battering within his skull?
He turned, started back for the camp.
Halted as another sound infringed upon the peace. Something altogether familiar, yet seldom encountered in the past cache of fortnights.
Hoofbeats. Not a leisurely rate, and not just a few.
A great company of horse travelled the road a mile distant, pace reverberating through the treetops like thunder.
- II -
SOUND WAS deceptive in the Wode, acutely so when spring bade a lush—and early—sprawl over the landscape.
Nevertheless, Gamelyn followed it, waft and wobble, with the precision of a hungry lion. Mayhap the deadliest of his skills had been gained in desert heat and high, dry alpine, but he’d been bred here, born here. He’d begun learning woodland lore before his voice had broken, and from two of the best. Even the youths of Alamut who had trained with him, hated and feared then respected and honoured him, had realised that with their friendship and a name: the fire-haired djinn of the forest.
Hariq aljini alshier al-ghaba. The liquid syllables sounded strangely comfortable upon the Horned Lord’s soft breath. No taunt this time, but esteem. Gamelyn smiled, kept to the track.
The sounds were fading, though. Travelling at speed, so likely the North Road. Merely a short sprint to reach it, but once there, he’d no horse and they would leave him behind, unless…
Another burst, a two-beat rhythm carried on the damp breeze. They’d slowed.
Gamelyn also paused, fingers trailing the new bracken. It swayed, reaching for his hips. He cocked his head, intent.
Ah. Heading south.
Gamelyn leapt over the creepers of gorse to his left and followed.
The deer paths were becoming overgrown—particularly for someone of his height. Gamelyn spent as much time ducking and dodging new branches as he did in forward progress. More gratitude, accompanied by a surge of relief at what Marion’s wortwife mastery of root and leaf had recaptured in him. What the Wode granted him, sap-heat in his veins and a power both exhilarating and terrifying, like riding into battle bridleless and bareback.
He owed Marion beyond any price. Owed Robyn beyond any sense of sanity. Owed them both more than evasions, and this dance around the truth of why he couldn’t do as they wished.
If only that little ginger-haired lad hiding in a dark corner of his heart wasn’t so adamant in his superstitions: If you do tell? Give it voice? Make it real?
“First there was the Word. And with the Word was made flesh…”
Not only Christian. The Heathen folk believed even more that utterances were power.
Gamelyn paused, misted breath roiling from pursuit to advance scout. The trees opened up ahead, brighter: the North Road, cutting a twisting clearance through the Shire Wode. Still plenty of cover, though, for a Templar turned outlaw. This time of year, the woodland remained persistent in its retaking the cleared ribbon of pounded-down soil. He trotted down a rise, leapt a small rill, and headed up the other side, to be rewarded with sight of the road. Taking refuge beside a thick tangle of hedge, Gamelyn made careful measure of the surround.
Nothing.
He let out a small huff, reached up to stroke the hilt of his sword—ensuring the shoulder scabbard’s easy reach—then circumnavigated the hedge, hopped a rotted log, and strode onto the open sward.
Still nothing. The hoofbeats maintained their southward retreat.
With a frown, then a shrug, he followed.
R
Mayhap Scathelock were right. Hard enough to catch supper lately without distractions, and Gamelyn offered ones beyond any desire to shag him senseless.
The staghead oak was a rare—and auspicious—denizen amongst its kind. Likely lightning-struck at some time during its reign, it was aged and doughty, with plenty of new leaf cover, allowing two hunters to forgo stalk for the advantage of a natural stand. Better yet, the small clearing it guarded was edged to the south by a grove of silver birch and bracken, the latter bruised and the ground fresh with deer sign. Robyn stroked the old tree as gentle as he would little Tess. A fond blessing of breath, asking both permission and success, whispered past parted lips.
They’d stored their bows, strung and ready, in a makeshift hide tent. Sometimes there was no choice, wet or dry, but… well. Nowt louder than a sodden bowstring loosed. Tufts of otter fur only silenced so much. Thankfully, this sort of weather made the deer less spooky, what with the rain slackened into thick mist. The does would be tucking up, either guarding early fawns or growing heavy with them—fair enough, with orphans being made every day as ’twere. The bucks were most likely the ones a-wander in little bachelors’ herds, browsing on new spring shoots.
Any outward conversation was sparse, nigh silent. The wait turned long, each of them taking turns at a light doze, yet Robyn didn’t allow himself to contemplate another failed hunt. Will was right: the deer would come. Had been coming, from the look of this glade, for several days, and the forage still plentiful. Besides, just being here gave comfort beyond measure. The broad warmth of Will, hunkered down shoulder to shoulder, made fond reminder of seasons past as foresters’ sons. Robyn’s da had often sent them out on culls, once they’d left off fooling about and set more to proving themselves. Robyn had the best marksmanship, and Will, even before his balls dropped, had possessed the brawn to wrestle any carcass onto the sumpter mule…
“Arthur’s told me sommat I think you should know.”
The murmur broke silent reverie, not so much because of sound but because of tone. Head turned so his cheek nearly rested against Robyn’s shoulder, Will sounded… hesitant? Defiant? Smug?
All those and more.
Robyn slid a wary gaze sideways.
Will’s amber eyes were downcast, his cheeks misted with wet. “Y’know the wool as Marion is spinning?”
Wool. Well, that was harmless. Robyn chided himself for being so tetchy, let his gaze roam the clearing once more, and nodded.
“It’s fine stuff. Me da used to say the better wool grew up t’ North.”
“John’s mam would have at you ower that,” Robyn teased. There was a goodly wool trade in the Peak District, and John’s family had been shepherds for the lord at Peveril.
“Well, but there’s no arguing wool from up North is different.”
Robyn yawned. “Aye. And?”
“And.” Will took in a long breath, as if girding himself for confession. “Well, it’s northern wool.”
“Y’ keep saying.”
“It’s only… David knows how—where—it came from. And it en’t from where your poncy ginger paramour said.”
Doziness wicked itself away. “Will—”
“Nay, Rob, hear me out. Please. I swear by t’ Horns you need t’ let me finish.” Not an oath taken lightly, and earnest, the plea.
Of course, it always was.
Encouraged by Robyn’s silence, Will turned. Barely a leaf stirred as he reached out, put a broad hand upon the nearest of Robyn’s crossed knees. “See, Arthur were out ’n’ about a fortnight ago, checking snares.”
A fortnight? Aye, and Robyn was proper sure where this was going…
“He’d set ’em up quite a ways out—you know what hunting’s been like—and ended up passing nigh t’ Lodge.”
Most of the denizens hereabout had a bitey sense of humour; no question but t’ Lodge was a nip at the ginormous, fat, and fancy manor adjacent to Clipstone, complete with not only a great hall and gatehouse, but dovecot, stables, rabbit warrens, and a bloody big fish pond. The old King Henry had built it, enclosed a prime swathe and proclaimed it untouchable Royal Forest, turfing out a great lot of people in the doing. The villagers couldn’t so much as hunt a bunny or gather acorns on the fifteen hundred odd acres of land that had once been theirs to roam.
Supposedly King Henry had given the nigh-a-castle to his youngest son as a hunting retreat, which was why Robyn had told his band more than the once to stay clear of the place. No telling when his Royal Arse-Pain-ness might show up again. No matter that Gamelyn insisted Count John had left the country. Plenty of guards bided there, and Robyn would make book those guards had specific instructions regarding a notorious pack of outlaws. Count John wasn’t about to forgive them for humiliating him at Nottingham.
“Minding his own business, nowt but, and… um.” A pause, then lower. “He saw Gisb… well, him. At the Lodge. And he weren’t alone.”
And how long had Will sat here, gathering his nerve for this particular subject? Because bloody damn, but by now he should know better!
“Saw Gamelyn.” Flat.
Will was too intent on what he was saying to heed. “Aye. Talking to some woman.”
“And this has sod-all to do wit’ wool?” Robyn made the tired start, then frowned as something rustled over by the birches.
“The woman got the wool from another visitor that Arthur saw earlier.” Will slid an equal frown Robyn’s way. “It was a Templar. T’ Lodge is some kind of meeting place for ’em! So Gisb… Well. He didn’t fetch it from no pedlar, did—!”
Robyn cupped a quick hand over Will’s mouth. As a protest started against his fingers, Robyn tapped at his own ear, inclined his head to the birch thicket.
This time they both heard it. Another faint rustle, then a telltale blat. A damp shudder, a shuss of hide against bracken, and the slip-stop of cloven hooves against soggy roots and earth.
Anger melted into the moment, tickling at anticipation as Robyn lipped the fletchings brushing his cheek—as usual, he’d a trio of broadhead arrows knotted into his hair. He leaned, oh-so-silent, to slide first Will’s, then his own bow from under makeshift cover.
Five deer meandered into view, brockets in their second or third year. Just as the velveted spikes burgeoning upon their skulls were scarce representation of the lethal antlers slowly forming, the little bachelor group gave no indication of the bad temper that would divide their ranks come autumn. Nibbling at the new green, their coats plump and glossy-brown against the silvered mottling of the birch trunks, the brockets seemed placid as fawns beneath the soft rainfall.
And prosperous, certainly more so than two outlaws lean from short rations. By their Lady, but Robyn was bloody tired of bloody salted fish!
As he and Will put careful arrows at nock, the largest of the brockets reared up on the gnarled trunk of an oak. Will nodded his claim. Well enough, Robyn would take the one stepping into his sights; not only supper, but for the larder.
The yew bows uttered a mild creak, complaining like any old granddad with the damp. The large buck swung his head around, eyes wide and ears pitched. Neither Will nor Robyn waited for him to bolt, but loosed their arrows. One of the brockets leapt in the air and fell. Will rumbled a foul curse as his target sprang sideways off the tree and crashed to earth, but rolled up to flee. A second arrow sang, then a third, which finally downed him.
The last sight of the remaining brockets was their flagged tails, as they escaped with a thrash-crush of foliage.
“Since when do y’ need three arrows for one deer?” Robyn swung down from the tree. Sniping, and no more did he care.
“He heard the damned bows!” Will defended, leaping after. He rolled as he landed, regained his feet, and darted over to ensure the last shot had done its work.
Robyn’s quarry, by the thicket, was still twitching. He crouched by the brocket, gentled him with soft hands and breath—invocation, then gratitude, then mercy with the skinning dagger at his belt. Drawled, “So. You’re saying things weren’t what they seemed at first glance. Fancy that.”
Will straddled his own kill—well away from the possibility of a final kick—giving honour to the slain with a smoothing hand and soft hex-breath. He threw a puzzled frown Robyn’s way. “Eh?”
“I were just remarking on how you’re bloody set t’ queer sights on some things.” Robyn bent, tapped at the deer’s open eye with one finger, murmured, “Aye, you’re gone, lad. Good journey to you.”
“Robyn, are you off wit’ fae again? Queer sights? You saw, t’ buck spooked—”
“I en’t after deer!” Working on two rows in one day, Robyn was. Mayhap he should take his temper back to camp, see if anyone else needed kicking. Like Arthur. “You said Arthur followed Gamelyn.”
“Arthur weren’t meaning to follow nowt, I tell you. And that en’t the point.”
“What is the point? Other than you’re bloody set on—”
“You’re acting like I’m one as is sneaking off and doing what he oughtn’t!”
“And you’re actin’ as if I weren’t knowing where Gamelyn went!” That set Will back on his heels.
“Do you really think I’m such a daft sod, Will?” Robyn snorted. “Mayhap I am. You had me all cozened, you and that best-mates act with Much—”
“It weren’t no act! I like the man.”
Robyn raised his eyebrows, gave purposeful prod. “Should I be jealous?”
Will rolled his eyes. “Rob—”
Another prod, harder. “Y’ know, if you’re thinking on sleeping with Much, you’ll be shoving Marion out t’ way.”
No reaction—at least not the one Robyn was expecting. Instead, a tiny—and canny—smirk twitched at Will’s lip. “Aye, well, summer’s coming.”
Eyes narrowing, Robyn started to speak.
Before he could, Will’s grin widened and he gave a shrug. Once again the uncomplicated companion of green summers past, he toed the carcass at his feet. “See, you only ever needed summon keeping your sights on a proper hunt. We’ve more meat than we figured, now. Let’s parcel and take ’em home. Or”—another impudent smile—“are y’ feeling too dainty wit’ all those late nights, and we need to hang ’em and fetch help?”
R
Clipstone.
They’d ridden to Clipstone.
Robyn and the others called it the Old King’s Lodge. It was indeed that but also more—an area Gamelyn knew well for his own reasons. A hunting eyrie was maintained here, with an attached dovecote, and the servant who minded that dovecote was sworn, mind and soul, to the Templars. Sarah, placid as the birds she tended, safeguarded whatever messages came via human or avian messenger from Temple Hirst. It had been Sarah who’d confirmed the rumours of Count John’s flight from England. And Sarah who had passed to Gamelyn the singular communication from his Master within the past several fortnights, complete with cryptic warnings towards political matters, and a bundle of fine wool in pointed acknowledgment of the Feast of the Maiden.
There had been no further messages, which had rendered Gamelyn both grateful and apprehensive.
He shrugged his cloak closer and settled into the thick stand of trees north of the side entry, watching the small group of horsemen milling about. Most had dismounted, the captain chatting up Clipstone’s seneschal—another friend to the Templars, who didn’t seem concerned by the sudden descent of Pontefract upon his doorstep.
And they were Pontefract’s. The saffron cloaks and the purple lion sketched upon the captain’s shield—athwart the saddle of the horse he handed to a servant—testified to that.
Why were Baron de Lacy’s men making camp at a royal site?
The hairs on Gamelyn’s nape shivered. He frowned and twitched his cloak even closer, stilled midshrug. Stiffened.
Parting the saffron and brown of the soldiers like Moses commanding the Red Sea, a tall, grey figure strode into view. At his heels were two men clad in dark kit, their only adornment a formidable sword and a telltale, tiny cross breasting their cloaks. Their leader’s close-cropped head was bared despite the drizzle of rain, eyes keen over the small outer courtyard. He flung aside his plain cloak to reveal an ivory tabard emblazoned with a scarlet cross.
Of chance happenstance, surely this ranked amongst the most bizarre. A jongleur would be hard put to credit it as anything save the most fanciful of contrivances. But here they were—and likely this was no chance.
Standing, Gamelyn raked back his own hood and walked from concealment towards the gathered horsemen. Voices rose—he’d been spotted. Accompanying that, the scatter of booted feet, the scuff of steel freeing from leather and chainmail rasping cloth—all the sounds of well-armed men preparing for a possible enemy.
Gamelyn ignored them with a deliberate stride for the white-clad Templar. The Templar turned, saw him. A hint of surprise, and what might have been a twinkle in steely blue eyes, then a sharp mutter of command. Its message was plain. The surrounding soldiers, albeit reluctant, reseated their weapons and allowed Gamelyn’s approach.
“Ah.” Hubert de Gisborough, Commander of Temple Hirst, inspected his Confanonier fore and aft and clearly found him lacking. “How… fortunate you should join us, Brother.”
