Greenwode: The Books of the Wode, #1

- I -

Near Loxley Village, Hallamshire,

Waxing of Mabon, 1185 CE

ROB!

The weanling deer tensed, twitched long, wide ears. Blinked. But greed soon overcame any start of panic, and the deer crept closer, switching its buff-coloured tail and chewing as if it could taste the goodies being offered. Its benefactor knelt in the fern and bracken, quiet as the mists hanging in the thick trees. It almost seemed he wasn’t wholly there, a ghostly, hooded figure holding too still for mortal folk, offering a small measure of corn.

"Rob!" Then the sound, coming closer, of running feet.

This did penetrate. The deer started and fled, tail flagged high. With a growl, the figure rose, revealing itself to be no woodland sprite but a mere lad, lanky and unfinished as the weanling deer.

He’d almost fed the creature, almost felt whiskers and soft lips tickling his palm. Almost touched the wild. Throwing back his hood from black hair and an even blacker expression, the lad rounded on the one who had broken his enchanted moment.

Marion! You’re noisy as a browsing cow!

She had slowed, picking her way through the copse, skirts tucked up to reveal sensible hose and worn leather boots. Unimpressed by either considerable scowl or inflammatory accusation, she kept coming. Her cinnabar hair, tucked beneath a kerchief, twined down her back with bits of bark clinging to it. The sopping edges of her skirts and boots slapped and squeaked as she walked. Her cheeks were pink, breath steaming into the morning’s chill; she’d run at least this far.

Da wants you. He’s an errand for you. Grey eyes took in Rob’s clenched palm, the suspiciously bulging bag tied at his waist. And if he finds you’ve been feeding deer again, you’ll be in for it.

He waint find out unless you tell.

And why shouldn’t I?

Rob grinned, crossed his arms, and leaned against a young oak. We-elll, mayhap if I let slip—out of fear of punishment, mind—that I saw you in the fodder bin with Tom, the carter’s son?

You treacherous little sod, Marion replied, but there was admiration in it. "Right, then. Pax. You keep quiet about Tom, and I say nowt ower your little assignation."

"Little what? Are you calling me an ass?

Marion rolled her eyes and grabbed him by one grass-stained woolsey sleeve. As-sig-nation, y’fool. It means a meeting. Tryst.

Well, why didn’t you just say that? Rob protested as she began to propel him, hand still on his arm, towards home.

"I did just say that. Can I help it if you’re a daft knob who waint be arsed t’ heed his learning?"

Readin’s a waste of time—ow! He tried to pull from her grip; she just grabbed tighter and kept him on the march. G’off me, I’m going, I’m going! And I’ve no need for smelly old parchments, I’ve my bow.

I’ve a bow too. Sometimes I outshoot even you, lad. It doesn’t mean I’ve no need for my brain.

You’ll drive young Tom off, you will. Men ent after fancyin’ clever women.

Marion snorted. "Like you would know, boy."

I’m nearly a man!

Nearly only counts in quoits.

Da married Mam when he was fifteen!

You’re not even looking fifteen in the eye yet; I know ’cause I saw you born. How about we wait at least ’til your voice breaks to speak of it again?

Rob tried to answer this, found fuming to be a word he did know.

Anyway, you’re assuming I ent clever enough to hide my cleverness. Not that I’m planning on marrying Tom.

You keep on with what I saw you two about in the hay ricks and you might have to—Ow! Bloody hell, but she’d a fearful right cross. I ent knowin’ what you fancy in Tom.

He’s got nice eyes. And golden hair.

"What’s so special about that? He looks like corn that’s been in the ground too long. He’d never have a chance in the Wode; anyone would see him coming for miles. Rob shrugged free of Marion’s grip only to have her grab him again. ’Tennyrate, the only reason Tom’s so fair-haired is that he uses lime paste."

Marion shot him a look—clearly this was news to her. Unfortunately, it didn’t stop her from continuing to propel him forward.

You’ll understand soon enough. You’ll see some girl that tilts your braies and then you’ll be after tilting into her.

This is more than I really wanted to know about you, thanks awfully. I don’t fancy girls. Giggling, silly things, all sick-sweet flowers from their skirts to their empty heads.

A snort. "You like me."

You ent a girl, then, are you? You’re me sister.

THE HOUSE was off to itself, really: close enough for convenience to Loxley village but set deeper into the Royal Forest and edged by the thick trees of Loxley Chase. A proper location for land and chattels let to a king’s forester, it was also sturdier than the wattle-and-daub siding of most dwellings; a one-room cob cottage raised upon stone foundations, with a small loft set amidst wooden rafters. Rob liked to sleep on the little platform on wet nights, to hear the rain patter on the thatched roof.

Not a bad place to call home, as such things went.

Marion started for the garden, but jerked her head towards the small barn; Rob turned to see their father walking from it, a sturdy bay jennet following on a loose rein. He was a brown man, from swart skin to curly hair and shaggy beard, with startling blue eyes. Rob often wondered if—hoped—he’d grow as strong and statuesque as Adam of Loxley.

I need you to ride to Loxley, Rob. His father’s voice, deep and rounded with the dialect of the local-born, clipped tight with impatience. Take a message to Alfred about tomorrow’s patrols. I would go, but there’s still the nor’west section to cover before night. That poacher wants catching.

Rob nodded. Adam was known to the sheriff’s guardsmen as an aloof and steady chap: hard to bribe, fair to a fault. The common folk knew him as their own, and the one constant in a hard place. For them, Adam would overlook a kill amongst the king’s deer during starving times, mayhap even claim it beneath his own sparse rights. Abandoned or senseless butchery, however, he would not tolerate. This latest transgressor had slain four deer already, taken their hearts and horns, and left the rest to rot. An outlaw, no doubt. Such waste infuriated Adam, and Rob himself was sickened by it. Everyone knew that if you held such disregard, ’twould fall back upon you threefold.

What have you there, boy?

Rob found his father’s gaze fastened upon his clenched fist. Marion had hotfooted him so smartly home that Rob had forgotten what he held. With a grimace, he opened it, displaying the handful of grain.

Adam pressed his lips tight and shook his head. Feeding animals again, when food’s short enough for the village.

Rob looked down. Da, I—

Weren’t thinkin’, Adam growled. Son. You’re of an age to understand such things. T’ harvest’s good so far, and one would think we’d eat for years, but it waint last forever. The only luxuries we can afford are our own beasts. You and your mother, you’d have the entire woodland in our laps.

I wain’t forget again, Rob murmured. As Adam held out his hand, Rob traded the grain sack for the jennet’s rein.

Rob? another voice called. Would you also be taking sommat for me?

Rob turned to see his mother walking towards the barn, her tread mindful of the neat rows and beds of the east-facing garden. Marion was at her heels, carrying a wood-and-hide pail—probably going to milk. Marion shrugged as she saw Adam holding the grain sack, but her lips betrayed a slight smirk.

Wanker, Rob mouthed at her.

I don’t have to, she mouthed back. Wank, that is.

Did you say sommat? his mother asked.

Rob shook his head. Eluned was clad for working, her grey overdress tied up at her waist for comfort, a wide, straw hat and kerchief over her braided hair, and a basket spilling greenery hooked over one arm. She wasn’t half as old as the wortwife who dwelt over to Sheffield’s keep and tended to the lord and his retinue, but she was twice as skilled—and thrice as beautiful, Rob amended, thinking of Ness’s craggy face. Surely the old white-bearded Christian god was not so ancient or scrawny as Ness. Not to mention that unlike Ness, Eluned still smiled with all her teeth, was small-boned and plump, with only a few silvered streaks amidst black locks. It seemed that just the touch of her hands could cure a fever, that the least of simples and remedies prepared by her could ease any pain. Some of the villagers called her The Maiden—despite that she’d already had two healthy children and buried two—in tones of awe and respect. It was even said she had the Old Blood of the northern Barrows.

Looking at her, Rob could believe it.

She handed him a cloth packet. Anna, the carter’s wife, is sickening from her pregnancy. Tell her this should settle her.

Ent that Tom’s mam? he asked easily.

From behind their parents, Marion shot him a look that, had it been an arrow from her bow, would have slain him instantly. Marion really was a fine shot.

I do believe Tom is one of her children, aye. Eluned’s people had lived away from Welsh borderlands for many a year, yet she’d still the singsong lilt to her voice—one both Marion and Rob seemed to fall into more often than not. Eluned raised an eyebrow. Why?

He opened his mouth and watched with no little amusement as Marion’s glare moved from well-aimed death arrow to lop your bloody head off with a very shiny axe. Rob grinned, merely said, I were just asking.

Eluned peered at him, then slid her eyes to take in Marion, who suddenly found it imperative that she milk that cow, and the sooner the better. She started off for the barn, swinging her bucket with no little nonchalance.

His mother’s eyes narrowed. Aye, Eluned of the March was canny.

Off with you, then. Adam grabbed at his son, boosted him onto the jennet’s back. No dawdling. Give Willow a good run, mind how you go, and be back before dark. And. He caught Rob’s gaze, held it. Mind you take no shortcuts through th’ Wode. Go around.

Rob deflated. This put a proper nick in his plans. I were after catchin’ some fish. I thought you said outlaws only have the stomach to attack at night.

This poacher’s no reasonable outlaw. There’s plenty fish to be had as ent biding in woodland pools. His father patted the furry bay neck with the final justification You know good ’n’ well mating season’s to hand. Think of Willow’s welfare—to a buck blind with rut, she might be nobbut another challenge to take on. Be sensible, Rob.

With a sigh, Rob put heels to his mount’s sides.

HE RODE at a brisk trot, posting against Willow’s short-legged gait, casting a longing eye upon the thick tangle of Loxley Chase. Several miles via the ploughed roads took him to Loxley village, but it measured barely a mile through the Chase itself. Besides, Rob knew every deer trace there as well as the map of freckles on his narrow, sunburnt nose.

Even now, he saw a trail—faint, but unmistakably there if one knew how to look. Too many people didn’t. The villagers were scared of the woodlands. Though Loxley Chase was just the tip of what became the great Shire Wode to the south, most of the folk who lived in its shadow remained convinced that all manner of h’ants and boggarts bided there. They told tales to put even the real dangers of wolves or boars to shame. Or the lord’s men. For it was a fact that those men given leave to hunt—those not scared of tangled paths—tramped through as if the Chase were merely a woefully overgrown and tangled common, aiming their crossbows at anything that moved, peasant or game.

Crossbows. Rob’s lip curled. Cheating, that were. A simple shortbow—aye, that made a man’s weapon.

A quirk drawing between his dark brows, Rob considered that faint trail with no little longing. As if in distant answer, the click and smack of antlers tangling stayed Rob, reminded him of Adam’s cautions. He patted Willow’s neck. She was too nice to get gored by some hey-go-mad buck thinking more with his balls than what little brain he had. Even better not to chance his father’s ire two times in one day. Adam already seemed up in arms.

As Rob had heard it, a new clutch of noble-born tenants had moved into the keep sitting athwart the North Road and overlooking the borders of York- and Nottinghamshire, rehashing some perpetual dispute over who should own the rents from Loxley and several other villages from there to here. Rob didn’t understand half of it. The lords never came around, only sent others to do their dirty work, soldiers to threaten or sheriffs to bully. The villagers should just look to Adam as they always did; he was more thane of Loxley, it seemed, than the headman there who bore the title.

At least, that was the only explanation that Rob could come up with when the people of Loxley and its surroundings called his father Lord.

He rode on, keeping to the road, quite chuffed with his own virtue. The air was nippy, pleasant and cool. Rob smiled as the little mare toyed with the bit. Mabon drew ever nearer, bringing the rest of the harvest celebrations along. There was excitement in the air even Willow could feel. The year had been prosperous, and the feasting would be good. On the ploughed road, they could make up time with speed. With a small yip, he dug his leather-clad feet into Willow’s brown ribs.

Go, Willow!

The little bay leapt forward, eager, as if she had been waiting for Rob to ken that well-cleared roads equaled a good—and easy—run. Rob laughed and leaned forward; her black mane rose to slap his face, commingling with his own hair as he urged her on.

Over and down one hillock, then another, and as they came over the third and around a long curve, something exploded from the trees and nigh ran atop them.

Willow shied and rolled sideways on her muscular haunches as if some fire-breathing dragon had come roaring from the forest edge, primed for horseflesh. Rob found himself first tossed onto Willow’s thick neck, then under her chest, clinging there for a half-breath before the inevitable happened and he smacked heavily to the dirt. He made an instinctive snatch at the rein, just missing as Willow swerved. She trotted off a few paces then halted with a jolt, head seemingly sucked against the earth as she set to a thick patch of grass.

Rob used a word for which his mother had once washed out his mouth with lye soap. Fingers full of dirt, he stood up, brushing at his tunic and hide leggings. His gaze darted about, quickly found the dragon that had leapt upon them.

It was another horse. A grey stallion, pale as a thick-stacked thunderhead, tall and long-limbed, blowing and wide-eyed and ready to take to the hills if necessary. He was tacked with a saddle and bridle that together would have paid several years’ worth of Loxley’s taxes. One of the fancy, inlaid stirrups was flung over the seat, with the saddle itself kinked to the left. A scabbard pointed skyward, its sword clinging only by the grace of being well laced in.

No commoner’s mount, this. Rob smirked, considering that the stallion seemed quite the overbred noble set adrift, peering down his nose at having his day interrupted by some grubby peasant lad and his hairy jennet.

He also bore several telltale gashes along one ivory flank.

Easy, lad. Rob held out a hand, soothing. Did that buck get the better of you, then?

The stallion stretched his neck and deigned to let Rob approach. Then, nostrils flaring, he promptly dropped his aloof pose, stuck out his knob, and pranced past Rob over to Willow, arching his neck, grunting and nickering.

Willow greeted this overture with an unearthly squeal, letting fly with a back hoof. She returned to grazing. Despite the pose of indifference, however, her tail lifted. The roll of her eye turned flirtatious.

Rob rolled his own eyes. Bloody… You too?

Still, he knew better than to get in the middle of the noble stallion and his common paramour—at least, not until the mare had definitely said aye or nay. Not to mention the possible spoils come eleven moons from now: a fine, if late-gotten, colt from a stallion whose fee they’d never otherwise approach. Rob shrugged and left them to it, once again scanning the terrain.

There had to have been a rider with that horse.

The trail was easily discerned, leading into the dusky canopy of green and fawn. The horse had panicked, not terribly choosy about where he’d fled, leaving crushed bracken and rent branches and torn-up earth in his wake. He was just as noisy outside the confines of the woodland; his loud dalliance with Willow could still be heard. Rob ignored it, ducking beneath branches and sidestepping thick bracken, treading the damp ground light as down and watchful as a priest on tithing day. His father and mother both had taught him well. He made no moves other than ones he intended, left no trace that couldn’t be mistaken for animal spoor, remained silent until he saw it, and then that, too, was a mere breath into the trees.

"Bloody damn."

A leather boot, worn but well made, hung snagged in a gorse near Rob’s eye level. Just beyond that, a bundle of fabric lay crumpled against the gnarled roots of an old oak.

Rob moved closer, cautious.

The fabric revealed itself, just as he’d figured, to be clothing. Unfortunately, it wasn’t empty; but again, just as he’d figured, it wrapped up what had to be the stallion’s rider. The boot in Rob’s hand matched the one still worn; the other leg was bare, hose yanked half off. More freckles than Rob himself had ever possessed sprayed across that pale thigh.

Tale was as easily discerned as trail. Whoever this was had been riding, run across a buck deer looking for a scrap. The poncy stallion might have challenged the deer—probably not, those gashes were on his butt end, after all—and the likely-as-poncy rider had been thrown and then dragged a short ways before he met the oak.

Rob knelt, fingered the cape bunched and flung sideways. Fine stuff, all right, soft woven and well-oiled to keep out the damp. Finer than the boots, even. Contrarily, the dark-blue tunic beneath it had seen better days, as had the woollen hose. What kind of lad—and it must be a lad, with that garb—wore such rich clothes until they wore out?

Grabbing the limp figure by his tunic, Rob gave a heave, turned him over. A pale shock of gingery hair spilled from the confines of the cape’s hood. A lad, sure enough, and about Rob’s own age. Rob grimaced as he saw the gash on the high freckled forehead.

Pure trouble, this.

Tempting to just leave it all to lie, let this trouble find another target. Rob did, after all, have important business in the village. He could tell the headman there what he’d found.

Nay, he really couldn’t. Because sure as crows flew with ill news, that grey stud would follow Willow home, and then wouldn’t Rob have some explaining to do as to why he’d not gone looking for its owner.

Rob sighed, then reached out and tapped his fingers at the lad’s shoulder.

Hoy. You, there. Wake up.

- II -

AN HORRIFIC horrific shriek echoes over and over in his head, then the pounding of hoofs. The buck blasts defiance, charges; he is spit on the horns, thrown aside like parchment ripped from a court ledger, set ablaze in a brazier. His head is burning from the fire, ground beneath the galloping hoofs.

He’s going to die. He can feel the stag’s breath heating and tugging his cape and he cannot even lift so much as his fingers to do anything about it.

Another shriek, wavering then trembling into a growl. The hoofs retreat, panicked and scattered. He groans, tries to turn over but cannot. Something shoves him, yanks him over, and his eyes, fluttering and ill-focused, open to take in…

A wolf. Black pelt gleaming, dark eyes glittering with fire and shadows. Lean and dusty, the outlier moves towards him with another growl, soft threat. Hungry…

Consciousness roared like waves against the white rocks of his mother’s south coast home. Gamelyn lurched upright, flailed, managed by some miracle to throw his cape back over his shoulder and grappled for his sword.

It wasn’t there. Neither was his sword belt. He abruptly remembered hanging his sword on his saddle, which was with his horse, which was…

Gone. The nappy git had run like a bunny from that stag. Of course, it had been the biggest stag Gamelyn had ever seen. And it wasn’t his horse, actually—it was his brother Otho’s horse, and no matter that brother’s liking for him, Otho was going to kick his arse for letting the stallion get away.

Of course, his head already felt like his arse would when he returned home. He gave up on grabbing the absent sword for protection, instead clutched his hands to his head and gave a sound distinctly like a mewl.

Buck up, Gamelyn, he told himself. If you’re about to be supper for a wolf, you can at least go down like a man.

Gritting his teeth, he clenched his fists, opened his eyes again, and looked.

It wasn’t a wolf. It was a lad about his own age, shaking a worn leathern hood back from a frowning face. That frown was a mighty one, dark brows drawn together over the blackest eyes Gamelyn had ever seen, with an even-blacker forelock nearly obscuring them. The lad didn’t say anything, hadn’t moved, just kept peering at Gamelyn, and for a panicked breath, Gamelyn wondered if all those tales the old women told around the kitchen fires were true. Mayhap the woodland here really was inhabited—not by mortal men but ghosts and demons who shifted their bodies to whatever shape they pleased.

After all, the lad still wasn’t moving. Gamelyn wasn’t sure the lad even breathed, if it came to it, and in the half-lit gloom, his skin was white as the lead chalk some ladies used on their cheeks.

Did the fall addle your head, or what?

Gamelyn started, fell back against the tree, and went sprawling sideways.

Bloody damn, the wolf/demon/lad swore. Reaching forward, he grasped Gamelyn by the tunic, and hauled him upright. Purely by instinct, Gamelyn seized the lad by his wrists, and tried to fling him aside.

Now there was no doubt but the lad surely was some ghost or demon in boy disguise. He didn’t even flinch at Gamelyn’s hold, despite that Gamelyn had been told more than the once he was quite strong for a lad whose voice hadn’t even broken yet. The demon-lad surely stood of a height with Gamelyn, but his wrists were slim in Gamelyn’s broad fingers, and his ragged tunic hung on a skinny, lanky frame.

The lad—wolf or demon or ghost, Gamelyn no longer knew what to think— gently but firmly extricated himself from what Gamelyn had thought quite the grip, then just as easily pushed Gamelyn down to a seated crouch against the massive roots of the oak. Nostrils flaring as if at some scent, he cocked his head not unlike a wolf.

I think you have addled yourself, he ventured, very soft, and reached a hand to Gamelyn’s forehead. Pressure, very light, but it stung like tens of bees.

Hoy, that hurts!

I’ll wager it does. The lad, or whatever he was, brought his fingers back to his face, sniffed them then shrugged. I fear I’m not me mam. She does it all the time, can tell what it means by the smell of it.

Smelling blood. He was a demon, then, if his mother could tell if blood was fit just by the smell of it.

What do you want of me? Gamelyn tried to make his voice steady, succeeded after a fashion. Aye, he’d not go craven, even if unshriven.

A horrific screech echoed through the thick dim, reverberating off the trees. Gamelyn remembered that sound bringing and breaking the delirium of his fall. The buck had bowled them over and he’d been dragged, had lain for some indeterminate time, heard that horrible shriek. He regretted then and there he’d not just fallen in a faint like some lass in a ballad, wondered if the demon-lad had called his kin to finish the job—then crossed himself, just in case.

The demon-lad did not, unfortunately, go up in flames at the fervent genuflection. Instead he merely blinked, as if puzzled. The shriek sounded again, this time with a definite thud at the end, and the demon-lad suddenly laughed.

Sounds as if they’ve had enough. I know you’re addled, but do you think you can walk? We’d better go and fetch them, aye? Before they wander off?

Gamelyn blinked. What?

Your stallion. My mare. I think she’s tired of him for now. The narrow face bent closer to Gamelyn and said, very slowly, Our horses. We have to catch them up. Ride home. Do you understand me? At that, do you even know where home is?

He seemed exasperated.

It was Gamelyn’s turn to frown. He was abruptly unsure he did know how to get back. This forest had twisted him all about until he was lost.

Not that he was sure he should tell a demon where he lived, anyway. Gamelyn craned his neck—subtly, he hoped—and peered at the demon lad’s ears.

If they were pointed, then he’d know for sure.

Wouldn’t he?

Anyway, what if this demon’s family went after his family? If demons had family. Gamelyn should have paid better attention to the old priest back at Huntingdon. If this demon was a lad, and wasn’t just appearing to be a lad, then it stood to reason that he was still growing and therefore had been birthed from something.

What are you looking at? the demon-lad queried, and Gamelyn was sure he’d never seen brows twist quite that way. He dropped his gaze, cheeks heating.

Still, no pointed ears to be seen in that mass of black hair. And a good thing too, Gamelyn realised, for aye, he was lost. Mayhap he’d have to make some sort of bargain with this little demon. They could have his eldest brother, if it came to it, but he’d definitely miss the rest of his family.

"Bloody damn. The demon-lad certainly flung about curses as freely as any spawn of hell. You are addled. I canna just leave you here like this. Another, somewhat aggrieved sigh. Come on, then. Prop yourself against me. We can tie you to that fancy horse of yours, if we have to, and I’ll take you to me mam. She’ll see to you ’til you remember what’s what."

Again, the amazingly strong hands grabbed Gamelyn and hoisted him upright. Head spinning, he nearly toppled over. The demon-lad swore, even more inventively, and Gamelyn had no choice but to lean on the skinny creature and accept his guidance to the wood’s edge.

GAMELYN BECAME more and more convinced the demon-lad was indeed that. He plunked Gamelyn down by a little grazing jennet, more shaggy dog than any respectable horse, and told the jennet to keep an eye on him. Then, striding over bold and self-assured as any tourney victor, the demon-lad pinned sloe eyes on nappy grey Diamant and took hold of his bridle. Quick as that.

It would have taken Gamelyn loading up his tunic with swede to get within as much as snatching distance, and even then the stud might decide he wasn’t hungry, ta!

As the demon-lad came over, leading Diamant with one negligent hand—as if he just assumed the stallion would follow!—the little shaggy mare plucked her head from her grazing and approached him like a dog. Even a hopeful grunt from the stallion didn’t distract her overlong; she merely made a sideswipe with pinned ears to put him in his place then nuzzled at the demon-lad’s breast. Gamelyn eyed her with a mixture of bemusement and disdain.

Surely demons didn’t ride hairy little ponies.

The demon-lad scowled. In the sunlight that frown bided no less fierce than in the gloom of trees, even if the lad himself was not so daunting. In fact he seemed more and more human. The death-pale skin proved, out of tree-shrouded gloom, to merely be fair, with a mix of freckles and sunburn layering cheeks and nose. Brown wrists and hands didn’t quite match the pale breastbone that peeked from beneath the sideways drag of his hood and rough-woven tunic. But his hair was indeed black as sloe, unruly and too long, thick as his pony’s mane.

And just like that, Gamelyn’s head was spinning and his legs didn’t seem to want to hold him up.

Whups! the demon-lad said, dropping the grey’s rein to grab at Gamelyn just before he hit the ground.

Not good, Gamelyn muttered. Now you won’t catch him again.

Whatever are you on about? the lad wondered, then, with a shrug, muscled Gamelyn over to the pony. Here. It waint be quite the climb, this way. Neither will she jump out from under you if the wind hits her ears. We need to get you to me mam, quicker’s best. I’ll ride yon Testicles.

Had he really meant it to sound like some ancient Roman general’s name?

Gamelyn shook his head, giving a tiny groan as it reverberated pain outward through his eyelids. Nay, you can’t… can’t ride him. Merciful Heaven, was that really his voice, so faint and wobbly? He won’t let you.

I daresay he will was the answer. There’s nowt I canna ride. I can trust Willow to take care of you. Anyway. A sudden grin, like sun breaking over clouds. I’m dying to step up in one of those fancy stirrups.

There was nothing for it; the lad was already starting to muscle Gamelyn over to the pony, and again it was startling how much strength those scrawny arms had. Wait, he said, then again, because it was a murmur and barely audible, "wait, wait… wait."

The lad waited, again with that considerable frown. And waited. Finally, he said, "What?"

Gamelyn realised that he hadn’t said what he meant to. In fact, he wasn’t sure what he’d meant to say, so what came out was What’s your name?

The brows gave another massive squinch, perturbed to puzzled. Rob. Rob of Loxley.

I’m Gamelyn. Sir Ian’s son. Somehow this last was particularly important, because he couldn’t remember the name of the castle his father had recently been deeded holding to.

Aye, Sir Ian’s son Gamelyn, acknowledged Rob and then, after a pause, Can we go now, then?

HE BARELY remembered Rob half lifting, half pitching him into the saddle of the little bay pony, didn’t remember much of the journey at all. But Gamelyn remembered, vividly, the look of dismay on Rob’s face as Gamelyn had pitched out of the saddle and into the dirt just as they arrived at a squat, cob-bricked cottage.

He also remembered the feel of cool hands upon his forehead, and cooler water…

Lurching from fog and fugue, Gamelyn blinked, tried to focus, found a figure bent over him.

He also remembered her. Those hands were still cool, soothing upon him, and she had Rob’s hair and eyes.

So you’re back with us, youngling, she said. That’s a fair-sized knot you’ve gathered on your pate, so lie still, aye?

She even sounded a bit like Rob, but her accent was thicker, more musical. Which was aptly demonstrated as Rob’s voice sounded from behind her.

Hoy, Mam, is he back in the living? I didn’t kill him, did I?

She smiled at Gamelyn, answered, Nay, my Hob-Robyn. Not for lack of trying, though.

Gamelyn blinked. He’d heard that name before, but never applied to any human. His old nurse had told him stories of such things: fey woodland sprites, trees that walked like wild, wanton girls, and wolf-men that ate naughty little boys. And all of them, led by their feral master: Jack o’ th’ Green, the Hob, the Robyn Greenfellow.

What kind of woman would name her child such a thing, even in jest?

I just figured I’d get him here however I could and you’d put him right. Rob came into Gamelyn’s view and crouched by the bed, peering at him. Only then did Gamelyn realise he lay in a narrow bed piled high with rushes and furs, one of several in the cottage’s back corner. Windows were flung open, letting in light and a cool breeze, and a hearth crackled, cheerful, in the room’s centre. A girl—she looked to be nigh grown—bent over the centre hearth, stirring a large kettle upon stones. A glint of setting sun caught her hair and it lit like fire, a fall of unruly copper twisting down her back.

Gamelyn had been told once that his own mother had been red-haired. It was a continual disappointment to him that his own hair seemed more rosy straw than honest red, even if the old priest at Huntingdon told him he’d enough red to be wary of. Red-haired children were Satan’s spawn, no question. It had been the first time he’d questioned the priest, but not the last—and the punishment had been worth it. His mother was in Heaven, in God’s grace, and had not been of any devil!

Now that he considered it, he’d like to hear that priest say such a thing to this peasant girl’s face. Or her mother, seated all poised in her chair. Both of them looked like they’d have something to say back.

Setting sun? It hit him, abruptly. Had he been out so long?

Will he be all right, then? Rob peered at him, and Gamelyn wasn’t sure it was as friendly as the query seemed. Rob’s mother reached out and gave a tug, fond but purposeful, at his tangled hair.

Son, I’ve seen wolves with less baleful stares than you. Rob shrugged, but lowered his gaze as she continued, to Gamelyn, I’m Eluned, wife to Adam of Loxley. My bold Rob here, she said as she reached out and gave another tug, said only that you were Sir Ian’s son Gamelyn.

Would that be Sir Ian Boundys, the new mesne lord of Blyth Castle? A deeper voice, male, and a tall, broad figure striding through the door. I see our young guest is awake. Welcome to our home, lad. This, then, must be Adam of Loxley.

Here you go, young sirrah. This from the girl who, as she approached, revealed a bowl cupped in both hands. It steamed, and smelled positively mouth-watering.

"You never let me eat in bed," Rob protested.

You ent as handsome as our visitor, the girl quipped.

"Bugger, she’s off again." Rob rolled his eyes.

"Rob." His mother, stern.

Don’t mind him, he’s a mouth like a piss pot, the girl told Gamelyn, almost at the same time.

"Marion." Eluned’s tone had not changed.

Well, he does, Mam. The girl—Marion—shrugged. Can you sit up, then, Sir Gamelyn?

Nor is he a ‘sir’, just son to one, an’—

Adam calmly went over, wrapped a beefy arm about Rob’s head, and clapped a hand over his mouth. Rob struggled. Gamelyn watched in abrupt anxiety until he saw Rob’s eyes were crinkling with laughter.

Gamelyn sat up, surprised that he no longer felt as if a rabid warhorse was tromping through his head, and then was further surprised when Marion sat next to him—on the bed. She began to shovel up spoonfuls of whatever it was towards his face. Gamelyn opened his mouth out of self-defence.

The pottage tasted as delicious as it smelled.

Da, Rob was whinging, don’t I get to eat too?

He had seemed so mature, out in the forest. Passing strange, to see Rob might be younger than Gamelyn himself.

Have you seen to the horses?

Rob looked affronted. Of course.

Then, aye.

A good tilting horse didn’t have a quicker start than Rob towards the cauldron. It was beyond passing strange to see him not get clobbered for whinging. Otho didn’t mind the occasional whinge, and their father ignored it. But Gamelyn’s eldest brother, Johan, was not so forgiving.

Adam was speaking, a low, unflappable voice that seemed to radiate calm. I’ve business east; no bother to see you home proper, help you make your apologies for worrying your folk.

My brothers won’t miss me, they’ll worry more after the horse, Gamelyn muttered. Then, as Adam and Eluned exchanged a meaningful look and Marion cocked her head and stopped shovelling food at him, Gamelyn furthered, My father’s away to York, doing the pretty as guest of the sheriff.

Eluned’s eyebrows arched upward, altogether too canny for Gamelyn’s peace of mind.

Doing what? Rob inserted from over the cauldron, huddled over a bowl. He abruptly gave a hiss and sucked at his thumb. No wonder our visitor is so quiet. You’ve burned his mouth shut, Marion.

"Eat, then. Maybe it’ll work on you."

You canna be travelling in the dark, at any rate, Eluned told Gamelyn. You’ll stay here with us ’til the morrow.

I DON’T like him.

I do. Nay, really, Rob. He’s nice.

A snort in the dim, quickly muffled into the bedclothes—or by Marion’s cushion over Rob’s face, Gamelyn discovered when he peeked.

Gamelyn inhabited Rob’s bed. Rob was tucked in with Marion. They’d been quiet for so long that Gamelyn was sure they slept. But no, mayhap they were just making sure their parents were sleeping.

He couldn’t sleep. His head was throbbing despite the potion Mistress Eluned had given him. The moon was full and overbright, the illumination coming directly over the bed in a manner he wasn’t at all accustomed to. And the bed was nothing like he was accustomed to, either. It smelled of horse, boy sweat, and deer must.

"He’s one of them."

Everything with you is ‘us’ and ‘them’. What about ‘we’?

Another snort, softer. You know the only ‘we’ as matters to his kind are those born on the proper side of the blanket.

You’ve been listening to Will Scathelock too much.

Will’s mam was killed, after they—

I know what happened to her. Marion’s whisper turned odd and flat. They’re surely all not like that. You canna hem people into one garment, little brother. This one, this Gamelyn Boundys. He’s seen some hurt, too.

Did the fae tell y’ so?

So you’re the only one allowed to travel along the Barrow-lines?

Barrow-lines? Fae? What an extraordinary way of speaking. It might have been another language for all the sense it made.

Aye, me and Mam. Your hair’s too red.

There was another whump of cushion against flesh, and Rob was… giggling?

You just like that lad, this between giggles, because he’s red-headed, too.

I’ll pitch you from this bed, see if I don’t.

Pax, then. A loud creak of leather and cord; through slit eyes Gamelyn saw Rob sit up. "You kick like a jenny ass even when you’re not set t’ boot me. I’ll go up top."

Marion merely said, Take a fur, then, and rolled over. The moon’s light glinted over her like cold forge fire.

Rob, on the other hand, seemed to swallow the moonlight. A shadow, silent once off his sister’s cot, so much that Gamelyn, closing his eyes against discovery, didn’t hear Rob until he’d drawn close enough so his breath stirred Gamelyn’s hair.

I know you’re awake, Rob whispered against his ear. It gave Gamelyn a sudden, deep-set shiver. Spyin’ on people’s no way to make ’em trust you, neither.

Gamelyn opened his eyes wide, affronted. Rob’s narrow face wasn’t a hand’s breadth from his, a thin skim of moon frost on his cheeks and a tiny glitter in those dark eyes.

I know your kind, he murmured. Stay away from my sister.

A frown gathered at Gamelyn’s brow. The expression stung his injured skull, but not half as much as Rob’s words had. "Grotty peasant," Gamelyn growled, sotto voce, before he had a chance to rethink the wisdom of brassing off someone whose bed he occupied. I’m not ‘after’ your sister. The dark eyes widened. "And I’d not be so ill-mannered as to take advantage in a house where I’m guest!"

Rob blinked. Then inexplicably grinned, a flash of white teeth in the dim. Aye. Well. All right, then.

And, still silent, Rob backed away from the bed, to mount the rope ladder leading to the loft.

- III -

WHEN’S THAT one leaving, then?

Marion peered at her brother. He’d flung the question all nonchalant, but seemed preoccupied. Rob bent the yew bow skyward instead of in line with the target, rolling his shoulders in their sockets as if they were stiff.

"You did get tossed yesterday," she insisted.

’M always hopin’ for a good toss. Rob smirked. "Ow!"

"You know what I mean, you little… tosser! Willow dumped you. On your arse."

Rob flipped the forelock from his face and took steady aim. A small waft of wind played at his nape hair; he waited until it had stilled then let fly.

Their target, a small drinking skin hung by a narrow rope some ells away, jerked and fetched as the arrow hit it square.

Good shot.

Aw. Rob gave a forbidding squint at his string, plucked at it with his fingers. I were aimin’ for the rope.

They had tried to get him to draw with his right, but it had been disastrous. From the moment he had aimed a bow, the ease with which he drew to the left was only matched by the clumsiness of trying to achieve a proper right-handed draw.

Their father said it simply meant he sighted stronger with his left eye, but then Rob did everything left-handed. Not a good omen to Christian or Heathen. Eluned in particular wasn’t altogether happy with her son’s leanings. Marion was more pragmatic. Her father had a point—’twere accuracy and speed as mattered. Rob’s ability with the bow was already prodigious for his age; if he could put people off with an uncanny technique, then the advantage was his, surely.

Another advantage—or maybe not, Marion considered, since she often bore the brunt of it—her baby brother didn’t give