THE FOREST seemed to moan around them as they emerged from it and onto the main road, a pitch of not-quite-sorrow that echoed the wind. Adam straightened in his saddle and halted just past the crossroads. He cocked his bare, brown head this way and that, as if testing the wind, the foothills, and the fens.
Beside Adam, his lieutenant, George Scathelock, took the rein in his teeth and unbuckled his crossbow from its harness. Rob, mounted beside Will, exchanged uncomfortable glances with his friend.
“Da?” Will put hand to his own shortbow, athwart his back.
“No worries, lads,” George said easily, hefting his crossbow and watching Adam as he knelt and put ear to the ground.
A gust of wind tugged at Rob’s dark curls and fluttered at the fur over his father’s shoulders.
“Brr,” George said. “From muggy enough to sweat yourself sick to this. The wind’s turned all chill t’ sudden, eh, lads?” Then, as Adam stood: “Is sommat wrong?”
“Nay.”
But they all heard the unspoken: Not that I can put my finger to.
Rob watched his father, frowning. They were here as courtesy, a forester’s escort to see a cavalcade through their territory of Barnsdale and the Peak Forest. Many travelers chose to have a good man of the forest as traveling companion. And no doubt Adam would receive a goodly tip to share with his companions. It was a normal and easy enough obligation, yet Adam seemed ill at ease.
Aye, very strange. Rob was starting to sense it as well. It sent prickles over his arms and a hum… nay, more a vibration… was shimmying its way all slow up the back of Rob’s neck. Between his legs, black Arawn crabstepped, as if also feeling it. Not for the first time, Rob missed Willow’s steadfast presence. Arawn was more fit for both Rob’s leggy height and new station, but was young and often lived up to his name—not necessarily bad by nature but aloof, and sometime unpredictable as any lord of the otherworld’s darkling realm.
And Adam watched Rob—when he thought Rob wasn’t heeding him. Adam had always kept a careful eye upon Rob, in truth, but since Rob had ventured into Cernun’s caverns and come out to be crowned with the Hunter’s wreath, it had turned even more piercing, more… apprehensive. As if when Rob had gone down into the Seeking and taken hold of things he still was fighting to grasp, Adam too had found existence tenuous. His father had taken on a weight, somehow, and Rob couldn’t help the wondering: was it a weight that was meant to be his own?
There was fear, now, in Adam. Rob could all but scent it. Yet he didn’t know how to classify it, what to do with it other than turn his head from it, discomfited.
“They’re coming. The ground echoes. It’s quite a body of horse, for a church retinue.” Adam’s frown swept over his companions as he remounted.
“And the other?” George pressed. He was Adam’s assistant forester, but he was also of the covenant; he knew something was… off.
Adam shrugged. “Probably the coming storm, nowt more.”
The words grated, somehow, opened within Rob a fissure of that deep, ancient place—the one that could issue the same tiny tendril of fear in his own heart that had taken root in his father’s soul.
The coming storm. Nothing more, and nothing less.
They unslung their bows, mere show if that approaching company was indeed large and heavily armed, and set themselves to the wait. Soon a group of blue-clad soldiers, some on foot and some a-horse, straggled over the north-most rise and spilled down the dirt road. They were followed by two wagons and more soldiers. Bannermen marched fore and aft—or in this case, bannerwomen. Nuns in black gowns, dusty from the road, in a dutiful and grim march amidst the sheriff’s soldiers, carrying the colors of their allegiance—a crimson so black it looked like old blood. The first wagon was overlarge, pulled by a team of cold-bred horses, while the other was drawn by a light team.
“Prosperous,” remarked George.
“You don’t invest a new abbess with sackcloth,” Adam said, wry, then rode forward, hand held up in greeting.
The soldiers had already grouped together in defense. One, obviously the captain, rode forward on his high-mettled horse, sword prominent at his hip and head defiantly bare. Several others flanked him, helmeted and a-horse, to surround the party of foresters. George and Will went rigid, both ready. The tension was sudden, palpable.
One never knew what would happen when strangers collided upon the roads. Friend—or foe? Outlaw—or gamekeeper?
“I demand recognition,” the captain demanded, “in the name of Her Most Reverend Lady Elizabeth, Abbess of Worksop.”
Adam inclined his head courteously, but did not relax his guard for a second. “I am Adam of Loxley, king’s forester. We were requested by the Lord High Sheriff of Yorkshire, Brian de Lisle, to provide escort through our territories of Barnsdale and t’ Peak Wode. It is my honor to serve.”
“And mine to take your service.” The captain also gave an amiable tilt of his head. “Please, ride with us. We were expecting you and welcome your knowledge of this place. I am Colin Stutely, guard-captain to Sheriff de Lisle.”
“Has manners,” George murmured to Rob and Will. “Must be English.”
Will smirked at Rob, who wanted to smile but couldn’t. The odd drone purling beneath the wind had gotten louder with every step the party had taken, ramping up into a throb behind his ears. He was desperately afraid he was going to be sick, and this only his third foray at his father’s side for something so important.
Behind the mannerly guard captain, the soldiers parted, revealing a black-veiled rider. The Abbess—it must be—was dressed like to the lesser nuns afoot, her voluminous skirts made of the same wool serge. Her veil, however, drifted on the wind in the manner only silk had, and her pectoral cross was large and set with gems. It winked against black, off and on catching the wind-tossed light.
Adam ducked his head respectfully, as did Will and George in quick secondary tandem. Rob disguised a heavy lean against Arawn’s neck as obeisance, but his eyes did not give way. They were snared to the Abbess.
Or rather, to the cross upon her breast. It was a lavish thing, unique, inlaid with enamel, set with sapphires and rubies in gold and hanging from links of finest silver.
He had seen it before.
Dreamed it before, dangling over his head while he lay bleeding, breathing sharp and shallow, dying….
“Lower your gaze, boy!” A sudden, sharp blow to his temple knocked Rob sideways in his saddle. Head ringing, eyes watering, he yanked himself back upward and flung a flat, furious snarl at the soldier who had ridden up and struck him.
“Don’t you dare raise that insolent look to me, you—!” And the next blow knocked Rob out of the saddle and to the ground.
It had all happened so quick and brutal, in a furious almost-silence, and Rob was unable to hear anything further for a smattering of seconds. He half lay, sprawled on the ground with ears ringing and head spinning, hoofs dancing altogether close to his head.
Suddenly, he heard shouts, saw another body hit the ground on the other side of his horse. He barely rolled aside in time to avoid Arawn’s sideways spook.
“Will!”
“Stop him!”
A feminine voice, imperious. “Stop it, stop it this instant!”
Then his father’s voice, rising above the rest and setting the earth beneath Rob pulsing with its power. “Enough of this! Captain!”
And the captain’s voice, shouting orders.
Arawn had settled down; Rob reached up, grabbed at his stirrup and dragged himself gingerly to his feet. Thankfully, Arawn stood like a rock, for Rob still felt as if sparks from a very large fire were scattering and popping off the inside of his skull. He peered over Arawn’s withers to see a soldier holding one of their own—Rob assumed it was the one who’d struck him—they all looked alike in their ridiculous helmets. George was holding back Will, who was snarling silent curses toward their antagonist, and several soldiers were ringed around them.
Adam was still mounted, and while Rob knew his father would never entangle himself with the authorities for any reason, this time it bit deep and bitter.
After all, his son had just been whacked off his horse, and his underforesters were cornered.
“What in Hell is going on here?” The captain had dismounted, was stalking over. To Rob’s surprise, he vented his ire not on Will or George, but the soldier who had struck Rob down. “You there! By what rights do you abuse our escort?”
“That boy villein”—a gesture over to where Rob was still clinging to his saddle—“gave my lady an unseemly gaze, Captain!” Neither was the soldier backing down.
“You pu—!” Will’s growl turned into a muffled snort as George clapped a hand over his mouth, gave a terse order into his son’s ear.
The Abbess, meanwhile, had dismounted and come forward. Her eyes were as a burning brand into Rob’s skin. Blood pounding in his ears, he met her gaze, unable to help himself. A hand came heavily onto his shoulder, and his father’s voice murmured in his ear.
Gritting his teeth, Rob looked away. Pulled away. His father’s breath hitched, troubled; it seemed another, deeper breath exhaled about them. As if something had been avoided, just barely, but not averted.
“Rob, are you all right?”
No thanks to you, it was on his tongue to say, his own disappointment raw and angry. Instead he murmured, “Aye. I’ll live.”
“Let me help you back up—”
“I’ll do it m’self—”
The Abbess’s voice broke the silence, soft but underlain with steel. “Joubert. Your diligence is valued, but you misconstrue. He is but a boy and needs forbearance, not harsh admonition. Come away.”
Rob looked up to see the soldier—Joubert—nod curtly. He obeyed his mistress without another word.
“And as to that lad, he merely rose to the defense of his friend. An honorable trait in any man or woman. Release him.”
The Abbess had charm—and Will was, as always, susceptible to a lovely woman. The fact that this particular one was a professional virgin merely roused his spirit. He bowed, very low, and her lips quirked, as if she knew exactly what he was about. “He is your son?” This to George.
“Aye, Reverend Lady. And more temper than brains, most days.”
She smiled, dipped her head, and turned from them. Arawn shifted; Rob hissed a hoarse-slurred, “Be still, you nappy bugger,” and the gelding quieted.
The Abbess looked his way, as if she’d heard, and her smile wavered. She seemed… puzzled. His gaze met hers and held; the persistent ringing of his ears reminded him he’d be better off with his eyes to the ground and he lowered them. Nevertheless, it was hard to remain unaware of her notice as she walked over to where he and his father stood.
“Good yeomen, both of you must accept my apologies.” Her words were truly directed to Adam, though her eyes remained upon Rob. “My retinue is from York proper, and the ways of such cities are different than country customs.”
“The apology is ours, Lady.”
How is it yours, then? Rob’s somewhat-still-addled brain protested, while another, more cogent reminder rose: You’re a peasant, remember? You might be the Horned One’s Son in the green Wode, but elsewhere you’re nowt, and neither is your da.
“My son meant no disrespect, I assure you,” Adam was saying, very polite. “In this shire, we consider curiosity as ever a virtue as vice. Shall we make our way on to Worksop? The weather grows chancy.”
“It does indeed,” the Abbess said. “But I shall ask for your guidance to the castle of Blyth, if you please. I and my closest retainers have been offered a fine welcome feast there, from my mother’s brother, Sir Ian Boundys. Do you know of him?”
Blyth? Sir Ian. Gamelyn’s father. Ringing ears were numbed, if not totally overcome, as Rob’s mouth tucked in a slight grin.
Adam nodded. “I have had fair dealings with Sir Ian since his arrival to our shire. I will be happy to take you there, and if you like, I can detail George Scathelock and his son to escort those who’ve need to continue on to the abbey.” He seemed to hesitate, then continued, “If I c’n be bold enough to suggest, Reverend Lady, that the soldier who—?”
“He must go on,” the Abbess said. “But I give you my word that he will not interfere any more with your party. And your plans are more than suitable. You have my thanks and blessings.”
She gave a brief nod, more polite dismissal than any pleasantry, and walked back to her horse.
Adam again made as if to help Rob onto his horse; Rob shook his head, all too aware of his father’s concern as he mounted, somewhat painful and slow. And then there was Will. George was speaking to Will, who kept looking at the soldier who’d struck Rob. Will looked angry, almost. Nay, confused. And that soldier continued to glare through the slits of his helmet at Rob, alert for any further transgressions.
Rob’s anticipation of a chance to see Gamelyn was inexorably giving way to a return of the odd queasiness that had plagued him for half the journey. He felt his stomach sink even more as his father mounted his horse, then sidled close.
“Suppose you tell me what was that all about?” Adam murmured.
Rob shrugged.
“I keep telling you, son, you canna be insolent to such folk.”
“I didna do owt but look at t’ bloody cross!” Rob hissed back. “Ent that what her like is wanting, for us poor Heathen filth to see the light?”
“We’ll discuss this later,” Adam said, terse. “For now I’m thinking I should send you home—”
“Da!” Rob protested.
“If there’s no trusting you to keep yourself in hand on the road, can I trust that you’ll do so around your friend? Your nobleman’s son of a friend?”
This was plainly unfair. “I’m t’ one as got whacked, Da. I didna do owt!”
And neither did you. Again, it lay between them, unspoken but nonetheless heard. And Rob knew why, knew why, but still he wanted to lash out.
His father’s flinch gave him no satisfaction, though. So he blurted the truth. “I’d Seen it, Da. The cross. Seen it.”
But Rob was sorry the moment he’d said that, too, for the strange apprehension once again crawled behind his father’s expression and burrowed in.
“Loxley?”
Adam plainly wanted to ignore the summons and further question Rob, but the captain came riding up to them, determined. “Loxley, please accept my apologies. That one isn’t one of my men, and the Abbess’s paxmen have proven, well, overzealous as to her sanctity. I’ll see that it doesn’t happen again.”
“My thanks,” Adam replied.
The captain turned his affable gaze to Rob. “Are you all right, lad? He treated you ill for no good reason; if he was in my guard, I’d throw him in the stocks.”
Rob nodded, albeit carefully. His skull was still tender. “I thank you, milord Captain.”
“Just Captain, lad. I was born a yeoman like yourself. In fact, your friend over there”—he tilted his head to Will—“is quite the scrapper. If he decides he’d like to give the shire guardsmen a try, have him come apply to me, aye?”
Rob’s mouth quirked despite the underlying dismissal. Will’s muscular frame was certainly more the fighter’s ideal than some skinny lath of a lad who had but recently won over the predilection for tripping over his own big feet.
It was certainly what Rob liked. But Will was, unfortunately and resolutely, disinterested in anything that didn’t have breasts.
The captain grinned back, dipped his chin to Rob, and turned to Adam. “Then if your boy is well, can I request your presence, Loxley? Discuss the detour?” Adam returned the polite overture with a remark of his own, and rode off with the captain as the cavalcade began to move again. It was slow, as such things often were, but soon they were traveling, backs to the wind, Adam and George at point with the captain.
Will fell in beside Rob. He was quiet, too quiet. With Will, it usually meant trouble. Soon they had fallen to the back of party, both eager to be as far away from the Abbess and her overzealous guards as possible.
“You all right?” Will’s voice was low.
Rob shrugged. “No blood, no bones. Well enough.”
“I’ll warrant your head’s still ringing. That bloody-minded turd knocked you good.” A strange, sick-seeming quaver threaded Will’s voice.
Rob peered at him. Will was grinding his teeth, slow and steady, and staring at the back of the soldier who’d struck Rob. He looked unsteady, unsure.
“Will?”
“I know his voice,” Will said. “I know it somewhere, and I ent placin’ it. But it’s—”
“It’s what?” Again, Rob was struck by the… the strangeness of it all. The ill-seeming wind, his father’s wariness, the Abbess, the cross.
And now, Will.
Was this what Marion had meant by tynged, then? This feeling, this sensation, as if someone… something… was breathing down your neck with possibilities?
“It’s important,” Will said, flat. “I know that much.” Then, quick and capricious as ever, he smiled. “Blyth Castle, aye? Ent that where your poncy ginger paramour lives?”
“My… what?” Sometimes there was no accounting for Will’s turns of thought. “Who says he’s my… bloody hell, Scathelock, you tosser, I’m not even going to say it.”
“Or does he like Marion?” A snort. “Of course he likes Marion better. Who wouldn’t? She’s lots prettier than you.”
Rob couldn’t argue with that, in fact wouldn’t, because Will would just twist it back around, probably tell Marion some nonsense like Rob thought he was prettier than she. Which was preposterous. Not that Marion would listen to Will.
But maybe Gamelyn did like Marion better. Which was also irritating, and for no good reason.
“Aye, well then,” Will murmured with a wink. “Simon thinks you’re prettier. But he’s a tunic lifter, just like you—”
“Sod you, Scathelock.”