Summerwode, page 8
part #4 of The Books of the Wode Series
Bugger off.
I should think that more reflects your tastes, my Oak. A chuckle wafted through the trees; the Horned Lord was Amused. Ivy twines within your more-pleasant dreams, yet ever your fiercest passions long for the tangle and scratch of Holly. How confusing it must be for you… or mayhap not. You merely, O serpent, have twofold lusts to companion your twofold—a pause, then a purr—appendages.
“I like it not that de Lacy was able to surprise us,” Hubert said, thankfully unaware of any silent back-and-forth. “A congenial sort, non? But clever, and playing his own game.”
Don’t We all?
You would know, Gamelyn retorted inward even as he shrugged outward agreement.
“Pontefract thought his toss a winning one, to be sure. He wants something from you.” Curious, the words, but unsurprised. Hubert turned his gaze upon the wall and the forest beyond, repeated, soft, “Most believe Gamelyn Boundys never returned from the Holy Land.” The words scratched at the surface of control, looking to expose the whirl of anger, dread, and confusion that lay beneath. Blue-grey eyes turned to Gamelyn, gauging. Piercing. “I thought so myself, for some time.”
“Mayhap”—slow, cautious—“he hasn’t.”
“Only mayhap?”
“I fear so.” The admission made control easier, somehow. It helped that any sense of revelation was subsiding, seeping into different wisps of thought.
Yet none were pleasant—or unambiguous.
“Have no fear, my Confanonier. This… amour fraternel? It could prove useful. To us even more than de Lacy.” Hubert’s rich voice held firm, but allowed a soft etch about its edges.
Brotherly love. Gamelyn’s mouth gave a sideways, sardonic tic. Aye, Hubert knew.
“In this peculiar instance, de Lacy is correct. Such a connection is as valuable as others you, ah, possess.”
“I am a Templar, my Master. I possess nothing.”
Hubert snorted fit to rival the Horned Lord. Concurrence, or reproach… or both, which Gamelyn considered most likely.
From the dovecote came another plaint. The wild bird answered.
“Our Master is upon necessary business, though he plans to meet with us at All Hallows Church. He will, no doubt, expect your, ah, possession of useful information.” This time Hubert’s tone dipped severe—a warning—even as he kept peering into the trees.
Wymarec de Birkin, Master Preceptor of all England’s Templars, had dispatched Brother Guy to learn the Wode’s secrets. It was no small disobedience, but likely a sin worthy of expulsion, to not accede to Robyn’s persistence. A smile twitching at his lip—it held absolutely no humour—Gamelyn once more closed his eyes. Heard the dream-voice…
It is what you are meant to do, were born to do, within this little Dance in which we’ve found ourselves.
Shuddered, and drew his cloak closer.
Hubert misunderstood his reaction—or else, pretended to. “Of course, this newest development must not dissuade what course originally set itself within that clever brain of yours. Your paxman… ah, considering the circumstance, I will petition our Master Procurator to shorten Much’s time of banishment. Until then, ’twill be easy to look the other way should he accompany you to siege.” A smile, albeit small.
Relief filled Gamelyn. Granted, Much had found another occupation in courting Marion—and enjoying it—but he missed his former life, fretting like a warhorse tied whilst his companions galloped into battle. Gamelyn understood that all too well.
“And this other outlaw, this, ah, Little John?” Hubert continued, peering at him. It almost seemed… wary. “Oui, I understand these companions will prove adequate to the need, but if you bring the man himself, then Master Wymarec will be well pleased. And not only because wild Robyn can aid the cause to which we have been set.”
Adequate to the need. Adequate to the danger. Aye, Much would help, but…
With Otho in residence, was there need for the outlaws to be endangered? Was this what the nightmare was trying to express?
“Of course”—Hubert had turned, watching Gamelyn close as if he guessed the rebellious timbre of his thoughts—“there will be sanctuary assured for any who choose to aid us. I myself will uphold it, with the Rule of the Temple.”
And what of our Master, Master?
Wymarec de Birkin no doubt longed to see Robyn brought before the Templars, spoil of a war to which Gamelyn had grudgingly been committed.
Letting his own gaze wander to the trees, Gamelyn kept silence—further insubordination though it surely was. One likely unavoidable when consorting with a lot of Pagan rebels.
Too much had changed in a season’s turning. He had changed.
The Temple is Gisbourne’s place, he’d told Marion in the midst of winter’s turning. Gamelyn never lived there.
Guy de Gisbourne belonged to the Templars, soul and body, questionable heart and predator’s instincts.
Gamelyn—idealistic, curious Gamelyn—was werran.
Again, the captive dove sent a question into the night. Again came the answer, clearer: Brother, here I am.
“Ah, but Sherwood Forest is a dark place. Truly, none but those of the dryw would find such depths comforting.” Hubert crossed his arms. “Finish the wine, clear your head, then come back inside. Sleep well, then join us for morning observances.”
“I should return. We parted uneasily, and Robyn should be troub…” Gamelyn trailed off, realising the careless trust—the confession—in the words.
But then, Hubert already perceived so much. Did it matter?
Mayhap, the Horned Lord rumbled. Should your Hubert stand in Our way—
He will not.
Yet if he does—
Then I will not.
“I think, my Confanonier, Sherwood is indeed good for you.” Hubert’s voice was soft. “She cracks that carapace of yours quite adequately, eh?”
She. Hubert knew. Altogether more than Gamelyn lay easily with.
“If one considers such a thing ‘good.’”
“C’est ça. If we do not occasionally crack and bend, we break. It is a knowledge that comes with age. When one is but… almost one-and-twenty, non?”—Hubert questioned Gamelyn’s age with a tilt of eyebrow, which Gamelyn confirmed with a tiny nod—“one is loath to believe we are, in the end, very brittle creatures.”
“I do realise that, you must know.” Wry.
“You might realise it”—Hubert’s return was just as wry—“but you’re young enough to still not believe it. Not as I must.”
“And if the… bending does not take?”
The wild bird called to its caged brother yet again. There was, this time, no return trill from the dovecote. Gamelyn found his eyes returning to the forest.
“It is a difficult thing, non? To bend something which is set so resolute.”
“Mayhap impossible, without breaking.”
Silence. The wild bird spoke, several times—Where are you?—and Gamelyn had the sudden, almost desperate need to compel an answer.
“Sometimes,” Hubert murmured, his grey eyes altogether piercing, “the breaking must come. If we wish to rest. Or to be whole.”
Gamelyn closed his eyes.
Stillness was a strange and welcome peace. Only the sounds of night’s breath rustled the new leaves, the thin scorch of hearth smoke trailing up and out, losing itself into the undeniable, green-dark presence beyond. The doves had gone silent.
No doubt they realised the impossibility of their situation.
“Guy. Gamelyn. Will he come?”
“I…” Gamelyn swallowed, hard, and looked away. “I know not.”
- Entr’acte -
EVEN SHIELDED in the best and most binding of silks and spells, the thing vibrated, this close to the Pagan folly.
He could see the latter, a long hill ridge of new green and old sere that dwarfed even the keep within which he stood. The top level of Peveril Castle’s tower contained a spacious hall, lime washed bright-white and embellished with a dusty ochre blush that, the castle’s seneschal had assured, nigh matched the heather when it bloomed. It was also bedecked with a wealth of colourful tapestries. At the north end, a massive window was newly unshuttered to greet warmer weather… and the magnificent view of Mam Tor.
Wymarec de Birkin whispered another cadence, further subdued the thing in its satchel at his side, and wondered how much longer he was to be kept waiting.
Before the seneschal had left, he’d vowed that the Templar’s paxman would be seen to and the horses given some fodder for the wait… which could be a while, he confided, for his master’s schedule had become, well, more erratic of late. Indeed, the seneschal had ended up confiding more than he should, including the fact that Pontefract’s master still suffered the nightmares of the damned. The seneschal’s intentions had been good; he obviously hoped the Templar’s holy prayers could help his stricken master.
No mundane prayers could vanquish the effects of what had Hunted, Wild through Nottingham the previous autumn. Neither within the haunted walls of the castle, nor the people haunted by them.
And even the highest of magicks, wielded by a Master who had time upon time proven his superiority against the Elder Elementals… gah! They were failing him, somehow. Unable to tame spells conjured by a boy.
The thing quivered again, as if the thought of its maker stirred it to some fit of… something. Wymarec had tried to break its secrets, to no avail. Had waited, patient, for the possibility of answers.
He had waited overlong, for too many things. It was past time to set a few more in motion.
A scuff and scrape sounded at the entry, then a voice. “What do you want, Templar?” Curt, bare of civility.
Wymarec turned and delivered a graceful bow. “In actuality, I think I might have something you want, my lord.”
Eyes puffy with too much drink and too little sleep, clothes rumpled and only perfunctorily brushed, the former Sheriff of Nottingham looked like something warmed over and served for several days running.
“I doubt that. Your kind has given me nothing but trouble.”
“You speak of Nottingham, I assume?”
“Of course I speak of Nottingham. What else could I possibly mean?” Voice rising to echo against the hall, de Lisle meandered the rest of the way in. The seneschal had been on his heels, lurking, and scooted for a table against the far wall. The wine earlier offered Wymarec still sat there upon its tray; quickly, the seneschal poured for his master.
“You were the one who hired one of my Templars to rid you of a wolfshead, my lord. How is that the fault of the Order?”
“Things are never simple, my lord. With your Order, or the chaos of a country without a king. There were plots within plots from the moment you sent Guy de Gisbourne to my gates, and well you know it. Thomas!” he snapped at the seneschal, “Fetch the Templar some more wine.”
Thomas hastily obeyed… but nay. This wouldn’t do, not at all.
“I am the Master Preceptor of all England, my lord. Have the Hood’s spells robbed you of all courtesy, as well as your wits?”
De Lisle jerked and spun about, eyes narrowing upon Wymarec. After a moment’s study, he raised the goblet, said, with slight rancour, “My pardon, Master Preceptor. To what do I owe the, ah, honour of a visit from such an… exalted personage?”
“What if I could give you rest? Sleep, without dreams?”
Ah, Wymarec had him with that. The dark eyes widened, and de Lisle turned away, rubbing one hand at his nape. “You churchmen, all alike in your admonishments! Pray to God for salvation and forgiveness, and all will be well! My brother the prior says the same… yet I note that he, too, still has his share of nightmares.”
“It will not be immediate, the cure of which I speak. But with luck it will be lasting.”
De Lisle took a large gulp of the wine and, shaking his head, walked over to the window.
Wymarec followed. “That place. The Tor. It is my understanding the Old Religion still holds sway there.”
A snort into the goblet. “Do you think to call Crusade upon a barren hill, then?”
“Some of my Order would, no doubt. Blind stupidity, to destroy something without knowing it. Any power can be understood, controlled. Made to serve the greater one.”
“Well, there’s little way of making that place serve anything.” De Lisle peered sideways at him. Curiosity piqued, no doubt—he was an intelligent man, if spoiled by authority. Undisciplined. A cynic, to boot. “Hill and caverns both, there’s none in their right mind will go there. When I first took the place, I would threaten… aye, and I would, the lash and stocks and anything else to hand. But the people would take beatings rather than settle anywhere near, or even use the land at certain times. Particularly during the waning moon; the villeins would let wolves take the sheep before they’d so much as round them up! It’s been worse these past several years, since—”
“Since your sister led her own crusade against a lot of Pagans there.”
“She should have killed them all! If she had, she’d still be alive, I would still be Sheriff, and Robyn Hood, curse him, would be dead. I scoffed at her zeal, but she was right. Witches, all of them, and they should all be captured and hanged. Or burnt!”
“Burning is no solution.” Wymarec could not help a slight shudder—it had been long ago, the fire that had marked him, yet its scars lingered. “Such things have a habit of rising from the ash, like the firebird of the east.”
De Lisle took another drink. “Why are you here, Templar?”
“As I said. I would offer you some modicum of peace.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Oh, make no mistake, you are but one player in the game. Unlike some, however, you are—shall we say—motivated? Your castle bides on the edge of a very powerful place. A place my Order desires to bring beneath its control.”
Again, he had him. De Lisle’s wine consumption had slowed, and the glance he hazarded Wymarec’s direction was thoughtful, considering.
“If you can be of assistance?” Wymarec gestured out the window. “Give me what knowledge you’re able to find, here on the verge.”
“And what sort of knowledge would that be? I’ve little wish to explore superstitions, after all.”
“Superstition! I take it, then, ’twas superstition that ran rampant through Nottingham?”
De Lisle scowled but gave his own shudder and glanced away.
“You see, as you come nigh to the powers, you shall know them. They have marked you. But I can aid you. Give you the means of respite, ways to help combat the worst. These uncanny things can be… dissuaded, with proper inducement. In exchange, you will be my eyes and ears over”—he gestured, again, towards Mam Tor—“that.”
De Lisle was silent for long moments. Then, “You must do me the honour of staying to sup. I would like to hear more.”
Wymarec nodded. As de Lisle turned away, giving his seneschal orders for the evening, Wymarec patted the pouch at his side, almost fondly.
Mayhap the wait would not be so long, after all.
“So far, he has failed us,” he whispered to the Pagan artefact. “But you and I will succeed, shan’t we? Force the issue. Make progress, unlike our obstinate Brother Guy.”
- V -
HE’D A little over a se’nnight, by any reckoning.
Gamelyn groomed Falcon with a slow and thorough care that had the young warhorse leaning into the stiff brush. His hands gave an occasional tremor—wine or nightmare, either was possible—but Gamelyn refused to entertain it further. Instead, his mind sped far ahead with other matters—ones more easily pondered—no less a machine being prepared for battle, cranked and tensioned.
Siege engines. Blyth besieged. Much. John.
Robyn.
Blyth.
Otho.
Gamelyn smacked the brush against the wooden comb in his other hand, pulled it through. Dust spattered, caught the beginnings of dawn filtering in through high windows and the open east door. Falcon snatched a bite of leftover hay. Down the row of stalls, the other horses dozed or picked at their own forage. The stables were, before morning feed and the bells of Matins, almost meditative, with the soothe of mindless labour and the vagrant solitudes of thought.
Displeased with the break in his massage, Falcon rolled air through his nostrils. When Gamelyn continued to peer into midair, the horse shifted his haunches sideways, nudging Gamelyn into the wall.
“You… sod.” Gamelyn snorted a soft chuckle and rolled his knuckles over Falcon’s ribs. The horse was too well trained to ignore the pressure; he did, however, turn his head and peer at Gamelyn, reproach and plea.
“All right, then, be still.” Still smiling, Gamelyn resumed his motions. A few strokes in, however, the smile faded.
So far his horse had dredged from him more sentiment than his remaining brother.
He wasn’t sure what he felt about that. Or if, indeed, he felt anything. Surely he should feel something?
After all, Otho hadn’t been Johan, hadn’t spent upon Gamelyn’s hide years of brutal umbrage against a father’s love and a mother’s death.
But neither had Otho stood in Johan’s way.
So, something remained after all: unspent resentment. Gamelyn paused, gave wry consideration to the dust on his hands and the resultant gleam of Falcon’s bay hide.
What he didn’t want to consider was what that resentment signified. Instead, Gamelyn reattended to his grooming, long strokes beneath the black mane. Falcon stretched his neck, upper lip twitching, clearly in whatever paradise lay reserved for horses. Gamelyn’s smile widened, then faded.
Had Otho been in residence when they had stolen in and taken Queen Eleanor?
Not that it mattered.What mattered was how, as Hubert had put it, a filial connection should prove of some usefulness. What mattered were results: a swift conclusion, with minimal casualties and Blyth Castle undamaged.
Durham had agreed upon more time: three days before he gave the order to begin construction. Depending upon the skill and swiftness of his people, the petraria could possibly be operational within another four. It needn’t be huge to tackle Blyth. She had been built before the great siege engines had begun their dispersal westward. The motte—tica’s hill, the common folk called it, a name that had altered itself, as such things did, and adhered to the surrounding honour and the tourney fields just past the fens as Tickhill—was the highest point amidst acres of flat grazing, marsh bottoms, and scant rises here and there. One could see any army coming for miles, but only the moat and the thick walls, beginning to crumble on one side, actually protected the castle.
