Greenwode Read online

  Greenwode

  By J Tullos Hennig

  Book One of The Wode

  The Hooded One. The one to breathe the dark and light and dusk between....

  When an old druid foresees this harbinger of chaos, he also glimpses its future. A peasant from Loxley will wear the Hood and, with his sister, command a last, desperate bastion of Old Religion against New. Yet a devout nobleman’s son could well be their destruction—Gamelyn Boundys, whom Rob and Marion have befriended. Such acquaintance challenges both duty and destiny. The old druid warns that Rob and Gamelyn will be cast as sworn enemies, locked in timeless and symbolic struggle for the greenwode’s Maiden.

  Instead, a defiant Rob dares his Horned God to reinterpret the ancient rites, allow Rob to take Gamelyn as lover instead of rival. But in the eyes of Gamelyn’s Church, sodomy is unthinkable... and the old pagan magics are an evil that must be vanquished.

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Map of the Shirewode

  Prelude

  I

  II

  III

  Entr’acte

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  Entr’acte

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  Entr’acte

  XVII

  XVIII

  Entr’acte

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  Entr’acte

  XXIII

  Entr’acte

  XXIV

  XXV

  Entr’acte

  XXVI

  Entr’acte

  Acknowledgments

  Night Before ACre

  Exclusive Excerpt

  More from J Tullos Hennig

  About the Author

  By J Tullos Hennig

  Visit DSP Publications

  Copyright

  For Kip

  Bendith

  Prelude

  In the Deeps of the Shire Wode

  1175 ACE

  “WIND AND water, stone and tree….”

  Firelight flickered against rock, as if in time to the low melody. Both light and song wavered as they traveled into the depths. Not that the voice was not strong or the fire not warm—the caverns were that deep.

  An old man, lean and crystal-eyed, stared into the fire. Every now and then the fire would jerk and start, as if some giant had spat upon it, but the cause was natural enough. Thunder rumbled in the forest above, sending puffs of wind through unknown entrances into the caverns. The old man could hear the stones embedded in the earth above him creak, almost in reply; he tuned his low voice as if in reverent time. Those rocks that formed the circle above him might be a tiny imitation of the ring stones on the plain of Salisbury far to the south, but no less eternal in their observance of the powers that he, too, had served for….

  How long had it been? Stubble had scarce grown on his now leathern cheeks when he’d first taken up the mantle of the god. He had put aside his real name when, on a midsummer night not long after King Stephen had taken up another, more politic authority, a peasant gathering had crowned a young man with antlers and cried the god’s name:

  Cernunnos. Horned One. Green-Father. Hunter.

  Cernun.

  Stephen had relinquished his crown to his nephew Henry even as Cernun had groomed his own successor, moving from Hunter to Hermit’s guise. It was the way of things. Shaking a twisted lock of silver from his eyes, Cernun grumbled to himself again, stirring at the fire with a long stick. He was old, but not infirm. The Sight was still strong in him, his body still hale and sound of limb; the forces of nature had rewarded him well for his service. Most men who had seen over fifty winters were bent and aged, senile from hard, miserable lives. The blood of the Barrow-lines ran strong. And he had been lucky.

  He could only wish his successor such fortune.

  The fire sparked. Cernun leaned closer, scrutinizing the writhing embers, watched them swell then flare white, reaching for the low limestone overhead. Yes? he asked, silent beneath the swell of power. You speak, Lord?

  Images assaulted him. He saw what had been: the midsummer madness of dancing and singing, the rejoicing in rites, which, for a short, sweet time, took his people from the harsh reality of toil and hunger. Saw Horned Lord take Lady, clothed in Hunter and Maiden, horns and moon-crown.

  Saw children born, Beltain-gotten, and the sweet green Wode prosper. As above, so below.

  The fire damped, the vision strayed. Cernun spoke a low, guttural word, grabbed a handful of herbs from the cauldron at his side, and threw them onto the fire. The past was a given—to what future led this vision?

  Scented smoke rose. It blossomed, damp cavern mists and heat writhing, tearing into wisps then coalescing.

  A scream. The Mother’s face reflecting flames and terror, the woods aflame, and the Horned One on the Hunt. Downed in snow, horns broken, wolves with blooded jaws snapping and snarling….

  “No!” Cernun hissed. He caught his breath as more shapes danced in the smoke, dissolving then coalescing….

  A cowled figure draws a freakishly long bow, the arrow’s flight swift and sure, to split another arrow already in the black… a sister of the White Christ bends over a kneeling soldier… clad in the red and white of the Temple, he raises his fair head to let her make the sign of the Horns upon his brow… a booted foot stomps the long bow, shattering it….

  Cernun blinked, shook his head. It made no sense, none of it. Smoke hissed, twisted into a pair of cowled figures locked in struggle….

  One slams the other up against a tree, yanks his head back, and brings a drawn sword against the exposed artery, only to have the sword fall from his hands, to stagger back as if he has seen some demon… or ghost….

  Another twist of smoke, and abruptly the flames flared high, gusting char against the old man’s face. He didn’t move, in fact bent forward.

  A figure, crouching naked in the fire, a silhouette amidst burning ruins. The fire rises again, a spiral of sound and wind, and the figure rises with it, backlit, stepping barefoot over the coals and extending pale arms as if clothing itself in fire.

  And, suddenly, it is. Flames whip, clad and cowl the figure in brilliant scarlet that ebbs to black… then gray-ash rags. Winter blows through, snow hissing in the coals and covering the figure. It walks back and forth, and in its footsteps ice crystals form. Green, sharp-edged leaves unfurl amidst the winter ice, revealing blood-red berries in their depths. The figure turns to him, eyes glowing within its cowl, still pacing, like to a wild animal caged.

  Wolf, it says, but does not speak. Witch. Hawk.

  Wind gusted through the cavern in a bank of noise and cold. The fire pitched down from copper into indigo, sparks flying, smoke rising.

  Cernun did not bother to stir it. Instead he closed his eyes, tried to make sense of what he had seen.

  Wolf. The most skilled of hunters, yet hunted throughout the land by another, even more treacherous predator. Or… outlaws were known as wolfshead. Perhaps? But not likely. Cernun would tolerate no outlaw within his covenant.

  Witch. What the White Christ’s followers called those who followed the old ways of the heath and Barrow-lines, a calling turned to hatred by outside forces, even as the Romans had done with another naming: Pagani.

  Hawk. Proud birds, another hunter/predator forced to perform beneath nobleman’s rule, barely tamed and kept from free flight, jessed, hooded.

  “Hooded.” It came out in a soft rush of breath. Not only the hawk but wolf and witch—predators cornered—the struggling figures,
the flame-gotten one… all cowled. By fire, by ash, by blood. “Great Lord who lies incarnate in us. Has it come to this?”

  He stared at the dying embers, not wanting to believe. But the image persisted.

  The one to walk all worlds, to breathe the fates of dark and light and dusk between, male and female; the Arrow of the goddess and the Horns of the god. The champion of the old ways—and the beginning of their ending.

  The Hooded One.

  I

  Near Loxley Village, Yorkshire

  1185 ACE

  “ROB!”

  The weanling tensed, twitched long, wide ears. Blinked. Then greed overcame any start of panic. The deer crept closer, switching its buff-colored tail and chewing as if it could taste the goodies being offered. Its benefactor was kneeling 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 fawn started and fled, tail flagged high. With a growl, the figure rose, revealing itself to be no forest 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 against 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.

  She was not impressed, either by the considerable scowl or the inflammatory accusation. Her cinnabar hair was tucked beneath a kerchief, twining 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, her breath steaming into the morning’s chill; she’d run at least this far.

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

  “He’ll not 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. “All right, then. Pax. You waint tell about Tom, and I say nowt to your little assignation.”

  “Little what? Are you calling me an ass?”

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

  “Well, why didna you just say that?” Rob protested as she began to propel him, hand still on his arm, toward home.

  “I did just say that. Can I help it if you’re a daft knob who canna be arsed to pay attention to his learning?”

  “Parchments are 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 tomes, I’ve my bow.”

  “I’ve a bow too. Sometimes I outshoot even you, lad. It doesna mean I’ve no need for my brain.”

  “You’ll drive young Tom off, you will. Men dinna fancy 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 had a fearful left cross. “I dinna know what you see 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 forest; 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 want to be tilting into her.”

  “This is more than I really wanted to know about you, thanks awfully. I dinna like 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 apart, right on the forest’s edge, 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 near the forest’s edge, a one-room cob cottage with a small loft. Rob liked to sleep on the little platform on wet nights, up next to the rafters and thatch, to hear the rain patter.

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

  Marion started for the garden, but jerked her head toward the small barn; Rob turned to see their father walking from it. He was a brown man, from swart skin to curly hair and shaggy beard, with startling blue eyes. Rob often wondered if—hoped—he would ever grow to be as strong and statuesque as Adam of Loxley. In one hand Adam gripped a small folded parchment; the other held the reins to a sturdy little bay jennet.

  “I need you to ride to Loxley, Rob.” His father’s speech, a deep, rounded dialect of the local-born, was clipped with impatience. “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 customer: hard to bribe, fair to a fault. The common folk knew him as their own: the one constant in a hard place. For them, Adam would overlook a kill amongst the king’s deer during starving times, claim it beneath his own sparse yeoman’s 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, it would fall back upon you threefold.

  “What have you there, boy?”

  Rob found his father’s gaze fastened upon his clenched fist. Marion had hot-footed 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. “Sir, I—”

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

  “I waint 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 take something for me?”

  Rob turned to see his mother walking toward the barn, her tread mindful of the neat rows and beds of the east-facing garden. Marion was following, carr
ying 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 dinna have to, she mouthed back. Wank, that is.

  “Did you say something?” his mother asked.

  Rob shook his head. Eluned was clad for working, her gray overdress tied up at her waist for comfort, a wide, straw hat over her braided hair, and a basket spilling greenery hooked over one arm. She wasn’t half as old as the wortwife who dwelt in Nottingham’s fortress and tended to the sheriff 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 in her black hair. It seemed that just the touch of her hands could cure a fever, that the least of simples and remedies prepared by her could cease 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 ease 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 had been away from the Welsh borderlands for many a year, yet still had the singsong lilt to her voice—one both Marion and Rob seemed to fall into more often than not. She 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 was just asking.”