Summerwode, page 4
part #4 of The Books of the Wode Series
R
“Events have moved much swifter apace than any could have foreseen.” Hubert’s long-legged, bold gait always had the power to carry Gamelyn along with it—this time it led through a small inner bailey and into Clipstone’s main hall.
Meanwhile, Hubert’s Templar companions—both well-known to Gamelyn—split their duties: the squire to see to the horses; the sergeant taking up residence at the door. This was to be a private audience. Pontefract’s men lingered in the courtyard. Waiting for others, no doubt. Gamelyn had encroached upon some sort of meeting.
Not that Hubert seemed ruffled or resentful of the intrusion. His boots clipped a steady measure over the stone floor, laid an echo against the bare far wall and the dais crouched there. The latter lay unburdened by so much as a wooden bowl. The great hall of Clipstone might be built comfortable, but it sat chill: a demesne without its monarch, pretend or legitimate. Silent and obedient, Gamelyn followed over to the hearth—a round, blackened pit in the hall’s middle, where a fire leapt and crackled with fresh-kindled vigour. Upon one edge of the hearth’s perimeter perched a ragbag of rough-spun resembling more a tattered, grubby sheep than any man. But a bundle of splits lay piled between two horny, filthy—and human—feet. Concerned solely that the smoke should curl upward and out a narrow set of unshuttered upper windows, the villein paid them no heed, waited with mute and tedious patience for a proper moment to further his charge.
Hubert’s close-cropped hair gleamed like well-tended steel, backlit by the fresh blaze. Little else was visible; nonetheless, Gamelyn could discern a wry eyebrow cocked his direction the closer he came.
With an abrupt, loud sniff, Hubert untucked a pouch from his belt and pitched it over. “Don’t those outlaws feed you? You’re too thin.”
Gamelyn snatched the pouch midair, opened it to find an assortment of dried fruits and nuts. Only then did he realise he was, indeed, hungry. And chilled. “It’s spring,” he replied with a shrug.
Hubert snorted acknowledgment as Gamelyn popped a delicacy in his mouth. One of the benefits of having regular shipments of supplies to outfit strongholds in the Holy Land: those ships oft returned bearing marvellous things. Like apricots. Bliss.
“You’re a distinct shade of blue as well. Come, by the fire.” Hubert made room for Gamelyn with a flick of his cloak.
The flames danced, inviting. The old villein didn’t so much as flinch. For long moments they remained in silent comfort.
Hubert reached out, tapped fingers against Gamelyn’s cheek. “I say, you’re thin, but by God you’re fit!” Quiet before, the deep voice resonated through the hall with unbridled approval. “And healing strong, I see. Mayhap I should send all my invalids for a stint of, ah, rough living in Sherwood.”
Gamelyn’s own satisfaction let loose in a broad smile as Hubert clasped his shoulder, gave it a fond shake.
“But tell me, lad, how came you here? Were you looking for a message? I have tried to not disrupt your time—there was healing to be done, in various ways.”
“I was… hunting. With Robyn.” It was strange, to admit such a thing aloud to his Master—but this was not the same, to take game for food and not for sport. His own culpability surprised him—after all, how many other tenets of the Rule had he bent, stretched, or broken? And at his Master’s behest?
Hubert was, of course, serene. “Ah. Does the wolf of Sherwood wait, then, out of sight?”
Gamelyn shook his head, a sudden and barren thought sinking him: what if Hubert kept him here, and that ungainly parting the last?
Only if you allow it. The Lady, unlike her Consort, seemed quite comfortable lingering in walls of Church-consecrated stone. You are born to wield your power, not subsume it in unthinking obedience, however it may comfort you.
Hubert peered at him, frowning. Gamelyn cast his gaze down, away. Such evasion brought his gaze to the crouched villein. No longer an impenetrable blank of dingy rags and matted locks, the old man contemplated the two nobles in his realm, thick brows drawn almost in… puzzlement?
The moment Gamelyn’s eyes met his, however, the villein turned back to his fire with a sullen hunch.
“Nay,” Gamelyn answered, soft, his eyes upon the villein. “Robyn Hode is to green Wode gone.”
The ancient intonation was purposeful. Rag-clad shoulders twitched, went stiff, hunched further. The villein took a split of wood from between his bare toes and leaned over the great open hearth to arrange it upon the blaze. Nevertheless his eyes flickered towards Gamelyn again—Gamelyn knew, for he saw the glint of them beneath a lock of grey-wool hair.
“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” Hubert’s query was low, for his Confanonier’s ears alone. Uncertain.
What is happening? I’m not so certain myself, Master. Who am I, here? Tell me, I beg you, who I am.
Ambiguity washed in, merely to be drawn away by a relentless tide of artifice.
Gamelyn snagged another apricot and several nuts from the linen bag, tossed it back to Hubert. “All progresses to plan, Commander. I am your ambassador, no more, trusted by both and neither. As it should be.” Hubert frowned, his blue eyes piercing nigh to bone, so Gamelyn pursued an alternative subject. “What brings you here? You said events were moving apace?”
And Hubert, bless him unto eternity, gave and followed the evasion just as swift. “King Richard should land upon our southern shores any day now.”
“It is no rumour, then. He is free.”
“Indeed, and the powers are gathering, vying for position.”
“Which is why Pontefract’s men are with you.”
“He is due later today, with Durham. Huntingdon and Chester will likely not be far after, though from a different direction. Their men already bide at Nottingham.”
“A baron, a bishop, and two earls,” Gamelyn murmured. “This is no small assembly being prepared.”
“The word has been given, with the King’s seal upon it: his most noble brother, Count John, is hereby disseised of his English possessions. Those castles that persist in holding in his name are to be taken, if not by parley, then by force. Marlborough and Lancaster are being dealt with, and Mount St. Michael has surrendered to the inevitable. Rumour has it the commander there dropped dead of fright in the north transept when he heard of the King’s release.”
“Reputation has its advantages.”
Hubert’s lip twitched. “There is, ah, also another matter, closer to home. Two other castles resist, unshaken by threats and altogether defiant beneath the beginnings of siege. One is Nottingham. The other”—blue-grey eyes fastened to green and held—“is Blyth.”
Gamelyn blinked midchew.
“If you had not arrived so fortunately, I was preparing to come find you. After all,” Hubert angled closer, “mightn’t one whose childhood knowledge of Blyth Castle retrieved a Queen and thus ensured a king’s ransom?—ah, mightn’t that one prove useful against said fortress?”
Another wide-eyed blink; Gamelyn couldn’t help it.
“My lord Commander?” A question from the door, hurried and a bit breathless.
Hubert nodded, and the squire sprinted into the hall.
“My lord Commander. My lord Confanonier,” the squire gave rushed acknowledgment of his lord’s favoured lieutenant. “My lord of Huntingdon has arrived. And my lord the Bishop of Durham has been sighted, riding with my lord of Pontefract.”
“Bon! Well ahead of time!” Hubert dismissed the squire with another nod, grasped Gamelyn’s arm when he also thought to heed the dismissal. “J’aimerais que tu restes.” And when Gamelyn tensed, something within him resisting the request, wanting dismissal—escape—Hubert sensed it and repeated, in Anglic, “I would prefer you stay. You are used to the company of the exalted, and I would have my faithful Confanonier at my side for this.”
Tell me who I am.
It seemed Hubert had just done so. Odd, though—the only protest within Gamelyn was his own. The Lady remained silent, satisfied and… approving. Complicit, for some reason, in this scheme of Temple and Church and Crown.
That, plus the deep-hewn glint of affection in Hubert’s gaze, set Gamelyn back into reflection, commingling self-possession and disquiet.
“So we’re to go up tica’s hill,” Gamelyn murmured. His fingers stung, cold. He held them to the fire.
R
It came lumbering on four legs through the gloaming and over the rise girdling the old Saxon meeting-howe. Lumped and laden, it might have been some ferocious and legendary malformed bear’s spirit, or mayhap a fell and demon-shackled ’Ob ’Oss straight from stories told to keep children from wandering the Wode o’ nights.
Yet no one in camp so much as reached for a weapon.
Marion leapt to her feet, spindle and spinning chasing altogether close to the fire. She didn’t notice. Fisting warm skirts up to her knees, she ran to greet her brother and Will, laughing.
“Sweet Lady!” David sang out. “But will you look at the pair of you? Bring on the supper!”
Gilbert was even more demonstrative, starting an impromptu jig around the hearth’s edge. This woke Much, who’d been dozing. A strike of his hand outward and he’d grabbed Gilbert’s ankle, sent him tumbling sideways. Unfortunately for Much, Gilbert landed right atop him. Arthur howled with laughter.
“Ah, for… quit allockin’ about and come help!” Robyn gave a stumble—somewhat feigned, Marion was sure—beneath carry pole and sacks. “’Tis bloody heavy, this lot!”
“That’s more than one deer.” Marion crossed her arms, trying to look fierce and failing, she knew, miserably. Her stomach had already started up a plaintive rumble at the thought of fresh meat roasting on a good fire. “Why didn’t you send for help?”
“Will insisted,” Robyn complained. “I’m thinking he pined after looking t’ proper hero.”
Not just Will. Both of them had the smug, giddy look that had surely been on Man the Hunter’s face since their ancient ancestors had roamed with stone spears and brought food to cavern hearths.
Well, they deserved it. Marion kissed her brother’s cheek right atop a dried smear of blood, gave Will the same service, then grabbed one of the leathern sacks and swung it over one shoulder.
Not without an “Oof!” It was bloody heavy. “Well done, you!” Marion acknowledged, pretending her own stagger.
Much strode up with a grin—he’d disentangled himself from Gilbert—to take Robyn’s end of the carry pole. Arthur was right behind, easing Will’s end, all the while Will boasting, “Two of ’em, mind.”
“We’ll eat fine for a stretch,” Gilbert agreed. “And plenty to take to… whose turn for the portion, Marion?”
“Matlock.” Marion unloaded, smiling at David. He and John were clearing a large stone to one side of their camp—surrounded by new grass and perfect for further rendering the meat. “You can take it come t’ morn, see your gramma and your boy.”
The nod and tilt of David’s face told of a pleasure past any smile. It quivered silent outrage in Marion’s heart. There was no excuse that David shouldn’t be with his family. Aye, there were those as were so dangerous they needed to be locked away or, better yet, sent back to the otherworlds, to start over and mayhap be kinder in another form. But all David had tried to do was feed a family sick with starvation. In thisnow, that often meant taking what the lords wouldn’t let you earn.
In her mam’s time, outlaws had been forbidden the Shire Wode’s ancient covenant. Now outlaws were the last bastion to uphold the hallowed ways of Horned Lord and Lady Huntress, using heath and cunning to help their own survive hard times.
Marion rubbed her hands on a thick-new patch of grass, picked up her scattered spinning, then went to see about warming some water. The light might be fading, but ’twas plain Robyn and Will were filthy with blood and mud.
“Blidworth’s a need as well,” Robyn said, shrugging his carryalls beside the stone. “A fever’s gone through there of late. Fresh meat would do them good.”
“If you can get past the priest.” Gilbert unloaded his own burden next to Robyn’s. “Brother Aelred’s been replaced by Uptight Pillock What-sis, remember?”
“You’ll leave it nigh t’ dryw stane, then.” Robyn grinned.
“I’ll leave it?”
Robyn smirked, blew him a kiss. Marion brought a large bucket of rainwater—gathered from the overhead tarpaulins—over to the fire. As she poured it into an empty cauldron, she saw her brother pass Much, hesitate and turn back, leaning close with a murmured question. Much listened, then shook his head, frowning. Contagious, that frown; Robyn caught it and turned away.
And as she set the cauldron over the coals, Marion summoned up Gamelyn. He en’t returned, yet.
“I’m off for a wash.” Robyn started off opposite the way he and Will had come in, waving a grimy hand in the air.
“I guess since you and Will did the skinning and breaking, we’ll let you!” Gilbert called after.
“That’s right fair of you, lad,” Robyn allowed, with a hint of a grin. “Comin’, Will?”
“Too cold for me,” Will declared. “I’m for waiting on that lovely hot water Marion’s brewing.”
Robyn snorted and disappeared into the darkening trees.
Marion saw the water well started and Will minding it. She set up a spit for what meat the others were busy portioning—she’d offered many a time, and been every time refused. The chore hierarchy was quite fixed in her brother’s band; those who couldn’t do in one fashion were expected to make up in other areas, and no whinging. Marion and David both did most of the cooking, so they rarely had to process the game. Indeed, David had disappeared into the small cavern that based their present camp—going through stores, no doubt, for seasoning.
So Marion dusted off her hands and went after her brother.
- III -
“LET US be to business right away!” The voice filled Clipstone’s great hall: Norman French, without the slightest hint of quaver or aged rasp. But then, Hugh de Puiset’s unwillingness to resign to any dotage was well-known. Indeed, he marched into Clipstone’s great hall with a pace that belied holding Durham’s bishopric for well over forty years. “Some wine, mayhap, and quick introductions… you. Boy. Leave us.”
Gamelyn’s comprehension came belated: the Bishop spoke to him. A scant patience for niceties with those considered underlings was part of Durham’s legendary repertoire. The scruffy, ginger-haired young sergeant was plainly little more than Commander Hubert’s baseborn and uppity underling.
“I think not. You have your attendants.” Hubert gestured to the monk in Durham’s wake, as well as the two young men with their own masters: Pontefract and Huntingdon. “I too would have my Brother’s participation in these matters.”
A small snort escaped the Bishop.
“Let neither his youth nor manner of dress fool you.” Hubert’s serene insistence could, Gamelyn was sure, erode stone. “He bears the honour of Confanonier to my Preceptory.”
“Then you are welcome, Brother Confanonier,” Durham conceded, with a rather frosty bow and an extension of one beringed hand. Just as impassive, Gamelyn bent and touched his lips to the proffered ring.
“Hirst isn’t that far from Durham, Hugh. Surely you’ve managed to hear of the skill with which Sir Guy de Gisbourne upholds his place as the Commander’s personal guard?” This from Pontefract’s lord, coming forwards with a small bow for Hubert. With a rather-cheeky grin to Durham’s frown, de Lacy tendered another bow, the smile lingering. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Sir Guy.”
The name tickled Gamelyn’s nape, both comfort and goad. Tell me who I am. Here.
It seemed de Lacy just had.
“The pleasure is mine, my lord Baron.” Gamelyn returned the bow, unable to help a swift glance in Hubert’s direction.
But Hubert was greeting David of Huntingdon with a graceful bow, the picture of impervious—and effortless—civility. “Good day, my lord Earl. I hear your royal brother is riding from Scotland.”
“William always has gotten on with Richard.” A respectful inclination of silvered head, and a careful shrug of burgundy-clad shoulders, yet Huntingdon’s gaze lingered upon Gamelyn. “Please to meet Roger’s man, Geoffrey, and Brother Lucias over there with Hugh, and of course my seneschal, Raymond… faiths, but where has the man scarpered the now?” A quick scan of the hall gave no answer, so Huntingdon’s dark eyes returned to Gamelyn, this time openly curious. “Your man seems altogether… familiar, Commander.”
“I’ve no doubt he is, my lord. My Confanonier came to us bearing the name of Gamelyn Boundys.”
“Boundys.” Huntingdon’s gaze strafed Gamelyn, intent, and his frown deepened. Small wonder, since a freckled, copper-haired youth’s only resemblance to a tall and broad-shouldered man with an incongruous Templar’s cape thrown over rough clothes was said hair and freckles. Gamelyn had been born at Huntingdon, had in fact done homage to Earl David at the age of nine, upon his father’s enfeoffment with the honour of Tickhill and the castle known as Blyth. Of course, not long afterward had the King sold the honour—and Sir Ian’s allegiance, did he want to keep his fee—to Roger de Lacy. Supposedly Huntingdon had encouraged Sir Ian’s decision, sanguine with his vassal’s gain, if not de Lacy’s.
“Ian Boundys de Blyth,” de Lacy prompted, with an air suggesting Huntingdon’s memory was failing him. “His youngest.”
“Ian’s lad a Templar!” Huntingdon marvelled, not without a halfhearted glower at de Lacy—one remarkably well humoured, considering.
Well, players upon such a powerful field had to realise the capricious favour of kings… and the repercussions of inconsistent loyalties.
De Lacy merely loosed another offhand grin in Gamelyn’s direction. Gamelyn returned a brief, courteous nod: acknowledgment, but one leery of full trust. By nature, Roger de Lacy remained an ebullient sort, true—yet it was also true Gamelyn had been involved with the death of de Lacy’s sister. Granted, the Abbess Elisabeth had shot Gamelyn in the back, and de Lacy maintained the same sort of consciousness about his chivalric position as any who’d fought and bought their way into it. Or mayhap Pontefract’s baron considered his sister unworthy of lament, not unlike Gamelyn with his own sadistic swine of an elder brother.
