Winterwode, p.51
Winterwode, page 51
So, a hound denied the hunt, Gamelyn fastened his rebellion and resentment upon Wymarec de Birkin.
“Brother Guy?”
“What is it, Stephen?” Gamelyn asked, soft, and tried to not exhibit undue relief as his swordpoint tipped to rest against the floor.
“Sir.” Chastened, Stephen had choked his voice down to a nigh-whisper. Thankfully it could be heard in the quiet. “There’s a stranger at our gate, and Master Hubert wants to see you right away!”
A… stranger? Gamelyn’s heart gave an odd shiver and thud, and it was only then he realised what he hoped—and how truly absurd that hope was.
“Master Hubert said to tell you…” The boy paused, no doubt making sure his words were accurate. “That an old friend has returned home, but not in a manner either of us expected.”
Gamelyn frowned, then handed his sword to the lad. “Kindly return this to our cell. I’ll change and go from here.”
With a duck of his wheat-coloured head, Stephen cradled the shamshir and scooted away.
OF ALL the hopes he’d entertained the past, drawn-out month, this was both greatest and least. Unexpected. Gamelyn’s feet faltered upon the stones, just as unsure as his gaze. The duty guardsmen were there, of course. Hubert waited this side of the opened gates with several lay brothers at heel.
Just past Hubert waited Much. Standing a proper distance of two paces outside the preceptory, one hand on his sword hilt and the other holding the rein to a stout, iron-grey rouncey, Much looked well—if a bit thin—and hard. His sudden, brilliant smile upon Gamelyn’s approach belied that hardness.
A warm surge of affection filled Gamelyn’s belly and he quickened his pace, didn’t stop until he was past the gate and grasping his friend’s broad shoulders. “Putain de merde… you’re here!”
Much wasn’t so constrained. He nearly hoisted Gamelyn off his feet with a huge, hard embrace, chattering as eager as Stephen had ever done.
“Sweet Lady, milord, ’tis good to see you!
“I never thought—”
“Feels like a year, ’stead of a month!”
“Marion. Did you fetch her back safe? Is she—?”
“She’s well. She’s with t’others, and Himself.” An inexplicable tint rising in his cheeks, Much pushed Gamelyn back. His blue eyes were swimming wet. “You en’t looking so well. You’re awful pale.”
“It is still winter, after all,” Gamelyn said, wry, and cuffed a hand at Much’s temple. “Have you joined the outlaws, then? Look at you, a proper wild man with all that hair.”
“Whilst you’re a bloody rack of bones… begging your pardon, milord!” Much apologised as his hug turned to a shake and Gamelyn winced, ever so slight. “You’re overdoin’ it, en’t you?”
“As usual,” Hubert drawled, and they both started like guilty boys, turned to make quick, belated acknowledgement. Hubert paid little attention. He was eyeing a rather-fine sheet of parchment, unrolled in his hands. “But he would not be your lord and my Confanonier if he did not always push, pace, and push, like a caged lion.” A shrug, and Hubert twisted the parchment back into its snug roll, handed it to Gamelyn.
Gamelyn peered at it, brows quirking.
“Well?” Hubert seemed impatient—or bemused, Gamelyn wasn’t altogether sure. “Take it. See what your paxman-turned-messenger has brought to our gates.”
Turned… messenger? Gamelyn took the parchment roll and eyed Much, who gave a laconic shrug. All sorts of questions begged utterance; instead, Gamelyn opened the missive. The moment he glanced at it, he knew Marion’s hand. It answered no questions, and surely the thrill-chill that roiled in his gut then settled in his chest was untoward. Commanding himself to some sensibility, he read. Not once, but thrice over, a tiny smirk begging, then tugging his lip.
To my lord Hubert de Gisborough, Master and Commander of Temple Hirst: Greetings.
It was my old and beloved mentor, Cernun, hailed by the Wise dryw ardhu and now taken to the Lady’s embrace in the otherworlds, with whom you first treated in peace and wisdom and for the understandings of pleasant intercourse. Indeed, in the time after this past Samhain, you declared your willingness to extend that same courtesy to my self, upon whom is bestowed Horns and Cup, and the Maid, my sister-consort who wields the Arrow of Our Lady.
At present you have within your ranks and fealty one who also bears his own honours, and therefore, is sworn and dear to us. If my lord de Gisbourne, known to those of the Shire Wode covenant as Gamelyn, is held within his own consent, then we have no reason to disagree. Indeed, I would have us, for his sake as well as good will, clasp hands and reaffirm the accord of Cernun. In truth, it has become necessary to speak of many things.
Yet if my lord de Gisbourne is not held within his own consent, then I pray you to reconsider your charge. It should be taken into account whether any covenant of the White Christ has the rights to claim or hold what is ours by right, be it hallowed artefact or sworn consort. Nottingham is testament to what can be laid upon those who scorn the ancient ways.
Much better, then, that we meet in amity, one with another, in a safe and mutual place upon which the bearer of this message has been empowered to agree.
For the thawing is now upon us, my lord, and he who is dryw ardhu of the Shire Wode covenant would fain claim his Summerlord home.
Robyn Hode
The first thing that came to Gamelyn’s mind was how no doubt Robyn had put that bloody “intercourse” in there on bloody purpose.
The second was outrage—how dare that arrogant, buggering sod of a wolfshead… treat for him? Like he was some well-landed widow?
The third was a self-conscious, silent curl of satisfaction. Robyn was coming. Robyn wanted him back, and badly enough to throw a veritable gauntlet at the whole of Hirst to see it done.
You have sommat as is mine, Templar. Robyn’s voice purled from the missive, and then Marion’s. Summer must come to the Shire Wode.
Summer must claim what is his by right. The Lady, at his shoulder. The Maying comes, and the stones must let you go. Set them aside, lovely Oak, in places of honour, to make room for Plough and Seed.
Gamelyn shivered. How apropos, that She whispered at his left shoulder.
“Well?” Hubert demanded.
The voice was soft, yet still a whipcrack into stillness. Gamelyn looked up, found the guards dismissed to a discreet distance, Much watching him with a mix of concern and conviction, and Hubert…
“Well?” Hubert said. “What is your opinion to this?”
Gamelyn blinked.
“Yes, yes!” was Hubert’s demand, pettish. “I am asking your opinion. You know these outlaws better than I. There is no reason we cannot meet with them… despite the arrogance of this”—he reached out, took the parchment—“which is, given circumstance, not entirely unjustified. So. Are you, ah, ‘held within your own consent’?”
“Commander!” Gamelyn protested.
“I am impressed by the way this peasant frames a letter,” Hubert mused, looking over the missive. “It shows a remarkable presence of mind. He believes we have something that belongs to him, so in true chivalrous process, he has demanded either hearing or confrontation. I’ve no doubt the Maid at his elbow has her own… agenda.” His eyes rose to Gamelyn’s, then slid sideways and took in Much, waiting stout as any oak and just as deliberate.
A frown twitched at Much’s brow, and he seemed chary as to whom he should look to: first Gamelyn, then Hubert, and back again.
Hubert stepped closer, laid one hand upon Gamelyn’s shoulder—light, with some consideration of weakness—yet forcing Gamelyn to return his gaze to Hubert.
“We will speak of this in private,” Hubert told Much, a benign dismissal, but one nevertheless. “You may wait, or return to these gates before the sun sets behind the trees, there.” A wave of one hand towards the grey silhouettes of elm and birch near the river’s bend.
“I’ll wait.” Much’s answer was firm, but he caught Gamelyn’s gaze again, a plea.
Hubert saw it, ignored it, and gestured Gamelyn back through the gate.
“HE LOOKS to have settled well enough in Sherwood,” Hubert mused, looking out the window of his chamber. Beside him, Gamelyn had to agree that Much did, rather.
Leaning against the stones, giving his horse enough rein to graze the commons just past the gate, Much was engaging in spare speech with young Stephen, who had been assigned watch upon—but was more curious about—the man who had previously served the Confanonier. It was obvious that Robyn—or Marion, now Gamelyn thought on it— had possessed enough sense to give Much some sort of purpose. The trust implied in this errand eased Gamelyn’s heart, yet also gave an ever-so-slight twist of rue. Would Much return when he could?
Unworthy, the thought. They had seen too much together to doubt what each owed the other. Even if it became a fond fare-you-well.
“He will fare well there, serve out his time into the new year and the spring rising.” The dwindling sun spilled past Hubert, glimmering the silver in his beard and slatting into the dim-close stones. It made a lamp unnecessary and left murky shadows in the far reaches of the chamber. “And how would you fare, my Confanonier,” Hubert continued, still looking out, “at the side of your brother-in-arms? In the spring’s rising, running with your wild wolf, his pack, and his, ah, vixen?”
Gamelyn slid his gaze to Hubert’s profile, breath escaping in a long hiss.
“Would you choose to return your oath, should I offer your release from it?”
Like our kind ever has choices.
Shut up! he told the memory, merely thankful it didn’t clothe itself in Thorn and Rose, or Horn and Holly… but then She ran fingers of mist and new leaves down his spine, hummed, Come to Me.
Why, so you can use me to betray him again?
Nay, so We can make of thisworld more than forgetfulness, betrayal, and death!
He almost—almost—wanted to believe Her. Gamelyn hardened his heart and mind, seeing blood seeping through his fingers and a black arrow flaming, arcing against the green.
“What oaths I have made, I will keep.” Started firm, it faltered beneath the memory: those very words, vibrating cold in the depths of fever dreams.
And Hubert’s gaze, never leaving him. As if Gamelyn were himself some unique and troublesome artefact.
“My lord Commander,” Gamelyn finally murmured, looking down. “What would you have me do?”
“I would have you,” Hubert said, curt, “for once, admit your will in this matter. England’s Master has noticed you and made many plans upon your dispensation and shall have you do his bidding regardless. Yet I, Hubert de Gisborough, Master and Commander of Hirst Preceptory? I would know this much about the man with whom I have fought and bled, shielded and prayed—the one who carried our banner beside me for the past four years!” He leaned closer, until his breath stirred the hair at Gamelyn’s temple, a gilt flutter at the edges of their sight. “What is in your belly? In your heart?”
“Neither are the same as what my will would see done.” Quick, almost furtive, the answer—but undeniable.
“Ah, then,” Hubert murmured, not moving away, “but our will is not our own. Is it? So, what is your will? Whose is yours?”
Gamelyn met his mentor’s eyes, was held there, writhing through a glut of foreign, fatal emotions.
Hubert’s grip tightened, painful, then he bent closer and kissed Gamelyn, first one cheek, then the other. He pushed back, blue eyes suspiciously a-glimmer. Peered at him, moments stretching long, then nodded. Turned away. Clasping his hands behind his back, Hubert paced into the murky shelter of those shadows lengthening across the chamber.
More interminable moments, each one nigh swallowed in silence. Hubert finally spoke, soft against the shadows.
“Master Wymarec has given us our charge, Templier. Where our Order demands us, we will go. Be it to Outremer and the caravanserais of the East Road beyond, to the keeps of our fathers in Normandy and Anjou, or”—a shrug—“even the sweet green Wode.”
Gamelyn’s heart shuddered against his breastbone. He did not drop his gaze from Hubert. In truth, could not.
“Mayhap,” Hubert ventured, “there is a way you can keep to all your oaths… ah, I neglected to inform you.” He turned. “Speaking of oaths, your paxman brought not just the one, but two messages.”
And if Gamelyn’s heart had given a hard twist as Hubert had kissed him, it lurched and jerked and fell downwards as Hubert came from shadow into a shaft of fading light. As Gamelyn saw what was hanging almost negligently between the callused fingers of his master’s right hand:
Gamelyn’s quillion dagger. Robyn’s dagger. Their dagger.
Hubert forgot little, did nothing that was negligent.
“Much said you would recognise it,” Hubert continued, still so quiet, so… casual. “Said he’d been requested to tell you that you would know why it had been sent.”
Why it had been sent… why Robyn had sent it. Surely he didn’t know what Gamelyn had dreamed, over and over and over…
Why?
Challenge? Another gamble, another game for the Horned Lord’s own pwca? A gauntlet thrown?
A… good-bye?
A swift lurch forwards, with unhealed tendons snatching a grunt from Gamelyn, bringing him back to sanity. At the last moment he kept himself from seizing the blade from Hubert. But his fingers gave an angry, thwarted tremble as Gamelyn contained them to measured-slow acceptance, curling about the dagger’s oak pommel.
All the while Hubert watched him, just as measured, just as slow. Taking it all into account.
Then, again, turned away.
“I think we shall meet, you and I alone, with this dryw ardhu… this black druid.” Hubert translated the Barrow Talk effortlessly. “An ominous title, eh? We shall see what choices—or challenges—he would offer.”
Like our kind ever has choices, the Lady whispered, mimicry from the shadows just beyond Hubert.
It sounded all too satisfied.
ROBYN HAD half expected the proffered meeting place to be refused.
So when Much came riding into the forest overlooking Blyth—carefully, for even if the rumours held truth and Count John had fled, he’d left behind enough troops to hold the place—and delivered Master Hubert’s agreement, Robyn was thrown for six.
But only for a span of heartbeats. He had, after all, issued another sort of challenge by sending along the dagger with Marion’s letter.
“How is he?” This from Marion—and wasn’t she more anxious than she wanted to let on? Lit with sparks to set the entire woven swath upon tynged’s loom aflame.
So many kinds of love. All this wealth, waiting, and only a fool would refuse it.
And it is past time for your leman to shrug aside the mantle of the Fool, the Horned Lord muttered.
Robyn quieted him with a soft breath as Much said, mostly to Marion, “He’s well enough. Though he looks like bloody murderin’ hell. Been pushing too hard.”
“They’ll be here tomorrow, then,” she murmured, frowning as she looked down.
“Aye. As y’ asked for: when the moon begins to rise, a few hours past noon-tide, in this place.” Much gestured to the tiny cavern where he, Robyn, and Marion had stayed the night. He didn’t know the place, only that it lay close to where they’d camped with the Queen and her trouvère. But Robyn and Marion did.
And Gamelyn sure as bloody hell did.
Robyn wished he could have seen the cant to those juniper-green eyes when Much had asked, oblivious to what he was asking.
Much reached out, albeit gingerly, to brush back the fat curl fallen over Marion’s scrunched brows. Marion looked up, slight surprise levelling into a dollop of gratification as well as a liberal helping of about bloody time, you daft bugger.
Aye, Robyn had to agree, ’tis about bloody time. You should’ve been the one as kept her warm last night, not her brother. Damn me, but you’d better find some sort of compass in this, and right quick. Else I’ll pound you into butter for hurting my sister. You and your bloody Milord the Stubborn Arse of a Bloody-Minded Templar.
All kinds of love, and they’d trammel it in stone. Fearing it, all of ’em, and passing that fear on like pox, or leprosy.
Robyn walked a few paces away, pretending to ponder but in truth letting his two companions have some kind of moment, whatever it might end up being. Not for the first time, he was satisfied with his insistence upon the others staying behind. As usual, John had taken charge—and John’s relief as to why and whatfor had seemingly infected the others. Gilbert and David had openly professed their support—Gilbert with a sly, fond dig at how Robyn kept moping like a silly twelve-year-old lass over “that scarlet knight of his.” Arthur was resigned, nowt more, but agreeable for all that. The odd thing? There hadn’t even been a peep of I’m going with you protest from Charming William.
It niggled behind Robyn’s eyeballs, an itch he couldn’t so much as scratch. Will was being too biddable, too quiet. Biding his time, he was… but for what and why? Hoping that Gamelyn wouldn’t return to the Wode; that he was, finally, gone?
Not if I can help ’t, Robyn swore. The Horned Lord growled soft agreement/threat as Robyn cleared his throat and spoke aloud.
“The dagger?”
Marion’s hand was in Much’s—promising, that. Much started, tried to pull away. Robyn smirked as Marion didn’t let him.
“The—?”
“Dagger,” Robyn repeated. “Does he have it, then?”
Much nodded. “I didn’t see Master Hubert give it ower, but when they came back, milord had it stuck in his belt.”
