Wyldingwode Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  - I -

  - II -

  - Entr’acte -

  - III –

  - IV -

  - V -

  - Entr’acte -

  - VI -

  - VII -

  - VIII –

  - IX -

  - X –

  - Entr’acte -

  - XI -

  - XII –

  - XIII –

  - Entr’acte -

  - XIV –

  - XV -

  - XVI –

  - Entr’acte -

  - XVII –

  - XVIII -

  - XIX -

  - XX -

  - XXI -

  - XXII -

  - XXIII -

  - XXIV -

  - XXV -

  - XXVI -

  - XXVII -

  - XXVIII -

  - XXIX -

  - Entr’acte -

  - XXX -

  - XXXI -

  - XXXII -

  - XXXIII -

  - Postlude -

  - Author’s Note -

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  About the Author

  More Books by J Tullos Hennig

  Copyright Information

  Book 5 of the Wode

  Being a Tale of Robyn Hode

  (a.k.a. Robin Hood)

  Dedication

  This is for all those

  who question ‘authority’

  and

  who resist, even in the smallest-seeming ways

  for

  We will always need Robin Hood

  We will always pursue legend

  We will always create stories that question

  and

  Challenge

  and

  make Dreams in the shadows

  We will sing back the light

  We will hold hands in the darkness

  and Dance

  when they would have us on our knees

  We are werran

  We understand

  and accept:

  There are indeed things worth dying—and living—for.

  Prologue

  Mam Tor, the Peak,

  Derbyshire/Hallamshire

  Fête of Beltane (May Eve), 1201 CE

  A TUG at his sleeve—come away, it’s done.

  Only for now—he’ll see to that, he will—but aye, for now it is done. Over. He should retreat, ‘twere merely sensible. Of course, his best friend—only friend left, truly—often made sense.

  But ‘tis as impossible to leave as to, in the end, stay away. He’d held out, he had, for a brace of years. Loath to return. Unwilling to believe.

  Drowned in the black of Barrow Mere, it was said… or, more likely, poisoned by the Templars… or ta’en awa’, as Arthur would say, to the Fae and the otherworlds… Aye, the rumours were rife the farther south they’d returned, telltales to one ill wind: the Hooded Green Man was lost to the Shire Wode.

  Why, Rob? I told you. Told you the treacherous sod would be t’ death of you. O, Rob…

  He’d burned his own nest to give those warnings, was reduced to crouching a stone’s throw away from the Maiden stones, nursing bruised ribs and a bitter heart.

  “He’ll come.” Firm, the Maiden’s words; her eyes gleaming gold against the flames, her chin held high despite a troubled swallow.

  “But if—”

  Those gleaming eyes slid sideways, quelling. Beside her, the younger lass bit her lip and lowered her head. To the Maid’s other side, an elder woman muttered a sigh. Silence lingered and crept across the stones where they sat: an honoured—if troubled—triumvirate.

  And that was why he’d challenged, truth be told. Because sommat needed to be upheld. Especially since one who should protest just stood there, supposedly Guardian to the women with hand to sword hilt but not acting… noble’s lackey! Whilst one who’d have stood up to any noble who thought to take their forest—save the one, damn him to his Hell…

  Robyn was gone. It was over.

  Drowned in the black of Barrow Mere… poisoned by the Templars… taken away to the otherworlds by the Fae…

  Yet May Day still blazed with light—somehow, and the Horned Lord’s power all about them—somehow, pricking even the most dulled and unused senses. The flames licked high and into the starless night with that power, reflecting against heavy clouds to shimmer the sand and scrub about them, flinging dancing shadows across the hilltop. The gatherers, nearly fifty strong, circled, capering, singing… and if ‘twere more shouting, really, it held its own merriment and music, and wasn’t that the proper way of things during the feast of Beltane?

  That, and the challenge to the god.

  None had shown any signs of knowing him as he’d challenged the cocksure noble bastard. And thank t’ Mother none had recognised who’d slunk away in defeat…

  “Will.” Once more, Arthur tugged at his sleeve. “Come away.”

  Instead Will glared through his greasy forelock at the victor, who stalked the hilltop like he owned it. A lord, right enough. Not the man Will had expected to find—hoped to find, take down, defeat, humiliate—but this one just as foul, a newcomer wearing a greenman’s face that sprouted tiny goat’s horns. Stripped down for the wrestling, hair skimmed crimson in the firelight, anointed as challenger for the god’s right—the cheeky bastard had neither height nor heft on his side, but he was deceptively strong, and more treacherous-quick with the staff than Will’d believed any of his like could boast.

  Noble-bred bastard.

  He wouldn’t’ve taken Will, if—

  “I know. He’d not’ve taken you if you weren’t drunk.” Arthur’s hand landed firm on Will’s shoulder, proof he’d spoken the last aloud. “Faith, lad, you’ve been drunk one way or another since… since… Well, it’s done. No use staying. I’ve no stomach for rites like t’ these. Letting such folk in… the lass has turned away from our Lady’s true face—”

  “Marion did nowt!” Angry, clipped harsh. “I wain’t believe that from her or any our folk! ‘Twere that ginger bastard, letting his kind run over our places like vermin! Taking, allus taking, just as he took Rob!”

  “Bendith, friends.”

  Drunk and slow Will might be, and Arthur soft from keeping a tavern by day and a wife by night, nevertheless both of them whipped around, hands to weapons, as quick as it took the speaker to finish the blessing.

  A cool customer, he was. A blink of pale eyes beneath a grey cowl, and a slight tilt back of head, but his gloved hands stayed steady where they were, resting at his belt.

  “It is blessing time, friend,” the stranger repeated, stressing the last with a smile curving his lip. An old Saxon tilt coloured his speech—it even coaxed a fond smile from Arthur as he fingered his granda’s axe hanging burnished at his belt. Yet Will could dredge up no like affection even for an elder tongue; the stranger’s clothes, though of plain woollen, lay with a fine sheen no peasant hereabouts could afford.

  And of course, he’d an opinion. “Tha fought well. But sadly, tha also fought as one with too high a stake—and too much drink in the belly.”

  “What’s it to you?” Will snarled.

  “I’m… drawn to lost souls.” A shrug of the grey-cloaked shoulders. “One might say it’s my profession.”

  “Your what?”

  “He’s a bloody priest!” Arthur spat. “It en’t enough that nobles can take up the god’s horns, now Herself’s letting their like in here?”

  “The Church can lay no claim to me or mine.” Saxon warmth went flat and cold. “Why else would I be here, but to witness the elder powers? Ref
ute the Great Lie?”

  The man was raving. Great Lie? Will started to speak, scoff.

  Instead a bellow from the fire reclaimed everyone’s attention. “Come now! Are there none who dare challenge?” ‘Twere the Motherless nobleman in his bold greenman’s mask, crowing like a bloody cockerel and brandishing his staff.

  The silence hanging from the trio seated in state upon the Maiden’s stone trickled outward, damping the gathering’s songs to whispers, shouts to murmurs. Bare and booted feet scraped and shifted. The fire became the only sound, still crackling high but hissing as, from the heavy clouds, droplets began to fall.

  The nobleman smiled, broad and entitled. Cruel.

  Will wanted to wipe it from his face and break the mask over his head.

  O, Rob, better you be dead than see this.

  “You’re Scathelock, aren’t you?”

  This time they did draw daggers, whipping about towards the stranger. Who merely cocked his head and continued, still a murmur, “And this fellow must be Arthur, the famed one-armed axeman.” A tsk as the daggers inched closer. “The time of a Great Rite, and you would profane it with unconsecrated blood? My, but you have wandered far from the Hood’s people.”

  “How do you know who—?” A sharp jab from Arthur stiffened Will’s drink-supple tongue, twisted it in another direction. “What gives you t’ rights, judgin’ us?”

  “I make no judgements, I merely observe. And you seem overly edgy for one no longer wolfshead. Or are you so again?”

  “I’m freeman, so is he,” Arthur growled. “We’re respectable folk, makin’ our way.”

  “And here to defend something dear to you. So, good fellow, am I.” A bow, graceful. “It so happens I represent a cohort of, ah, respectable men, both common and otherwise.”

  Will rolled his eyes.

  “It is our desire to return to… older ways. To re-open paths many would prefer eradicated.”

  “Rad-ih…” Will shook his head, growled, “‘Twere better when you were speaking the old Saxon.”

  “Well enough,” the stranger answered, in that tongue. “Dost tha miss wild Robyn? There are rumours of his return.”

  “Robyn’s dead!” Arthur hissed. “Else he’d be here, protectin’ what’s his!”

  Will couldn’t speak; the words had lodged, quivering, like an arrow to the gut.

  Beyond them, Marion rose, graceful and self-possessed as any queen, to face the challenger. Behind her, Much the bloody noble’s lackey remained, useless hand to useless sword.

  Not that Will’s hands had proven any more capable …

  “Harrogate is a peaceful vill, and the Preening Peacock at the foot of Bland Hill well known for an excellent brew. But pray think on what I’ve said.” With another bow, the stranger turned away.

  “Wait!” Arthur hissed. “You know our names; we know nowt of yours.”

  The man hesitated, cowled head betraying a flash of teeth in the dim. “I am Chevalier Déguisée.”

  “That en’t Saxon,” Arthur challenged.

  “We often must use enemy devices to achieve good aims,” the man rejoined. “Enjoy the festivities, good freeman. Bendith.”

  As he disappeared into the murk, Will found himself staring after and wondering: how had the man known of Arthur’s tavern?

  - I -

  “HE’LL COME.” Firm.

  “But if—”

  A look quelled Aelwyn’s protest. Doubt, however, remained, an insidious weave around the great, sandy rock upon which Marion, Aelwyn, and Gunnora sat.

  One could only be grateful that past the stones, in stark counterpane to any doubt, raucous merriment echoed across Mam Tor and into the night. Indeed, as the last beaten opponent slunk away, bruised and limping, the newcomer brandished his staff and gave a roar. The crowd roared back, smitten. Wagers flew, sure and swift as the man’s staff.

  “Never thought he’d make it so far,” Aelwyn muttered, and her hand crept into Marion’s. “Why is he even here?”

  But Marion knew. All of those tightest-bound to the Shire Wode covenant knew, from the small and waiting semicircle keeping watch just past the fire’s bounds, to their Maiden sitting with her women upon the altar stone.

  The price of sufferance, this particular aspirant to Kingship, whilst the Wode’s true Kings bided absent.

  Marion hadn’t agreed, at first. But her Summerlord had been persuasive—and surprisingly, old Gunnora too, harkening back to tradition older than any of them. Finally, Marion demurred. Surely any nobleman would prove inept to the challenge, complete the farce she suspected him of playing out.

  A Fool deserves honour, Gunnora had said.

  Yet this particular nobleman Fool had foxed them all, beating four challengers already, and stalking the wrestling grounds looking for more.

  “He has to come.” It escaped Marion’s tight throat, desperate and fraught with shameful things.

  “But if he don’t?” Gunnora’s filmed eyes turned towards the fires. “I nivver thought… but if he can’t…”

  “Then,” Much growled from his place amongst the tight-knit group guarding the altar stone, “‘twill be mine to—”

  “—Challenge?” The Fool bellowed, his voice a little too shrill, patrolling the firelit clearing as if ‘twere his. He rolled his shoulders, staying limber—narrow and stooped, they were, but nonetheless overlain with a soldier’s muscle. Barrel-chested, bandy-legged… and that last betraying a horseman from the cradle. Marion wondered how many had caught the hints, scattered like coins from a royal tour.

  “Who will challenge, I say?” The gaze behind the greenman mask slid, mocking and arrogant, towards the Maiden.

  Aye, and his like saw nought in their Lady but a stepping stone to what power could be taken from Her. I can unman you with a word, Maiden’s eyes answered, her back straight and proud as Mother and Crone gathered closer. As Guardian put a hand to his sword hilt.

  Fool’s gaze flickered behind the mask, at first unsure, then thwarted-furious. Lifting the staff, he whirled and shrieked, “Are there none who dare challenge?”

  Silence began a slow trickle, from the Lady’s stones and over the gathering. It damped song to hum, shouts to murmurs. Bare and booted feet scraped and shifted. Soon the huge centre bonfire was the only sound, crackling high but hissing as, from the overhanging clouds, droplets began to fall.

  The Fool smiled, broad and entitled. Cruel.

  The Guardian started to unbuckle his sword belt.

  Instead the ring of shod hoofbeats upon shale and sand resounded—ke-tump, ke-tump ke-tump—across the heights.

  Everyone turned as moonlight crested a bank of clouds, revealing a rider and horse ambling the ridge of Mam Tor. Closer they came, hoofs striking rock all the faster. Threat or boon? Cause to flee? To fight?

  The people looked to their Maiden, saw she merely waited, unafraid. ‘Twas then the murmurs started; first on the far edge of the gathering, forward and rippling back. Awe replaced any wish to panic as the rider crested the last rise and passed the peripheral bonfires.

  He wore a hood, and upon his courser’s saddle hung a tangle of bone, black, and silver.

  It drew more whispers, rising into the night as he loomed closer, as the moon drew a veil of cloud across her face and sent Him into shadow.

  Lord. Horned One, some acknowledged, whilst others entreated Hooded One!

  And many others Robyn… Robyn!

  This last plainly angered the Fool. It stabbed Marion like a dirk to the belly, but not from anger, nay. ‘Twere wild and forlorn, her reaction: an unending ache, a scab nearly healed only to be torn to bleed. Even as thisnow changed about her; as her brother’s memory shifted, inexorable, into something other. Something legendary.

  Horned Lord… Hooded One… Master…

  Robyn Hode.

  I can’t be dead or gone, aye? Robyn’s voice tickled her ear, borne upon a shadowed moon and specked with rain. Not as long as memory lasts and stories are told.

 
All of it, part of their purpose.

  The rider stopped upon the edge of the shadows. As the clouds chased past, he held aloft in one fist what had been hanging at his saddle. The skull was painted with woad and weld; a horse’s bony carapace made into a mask, its long mane a fall of ebon and silver.

  The Mari lwyd.

  Astonished whispers rose, became hoarse cries of approval. Another string to the bow. Another legend to hallow the past:

  And Robyn Hode defeated Guy of Gisbourne, took from him both head and name…

  Aided by another gust of shadows, the rider replaced hood with mask, nudged his horse forward. The revellers parted before him like rainwater upon rock.

  “My Champion,” Marion greeted, stern. “You’re late.”

  “My Lady, I must apologise. I encountered… difficulties. But I’ve ridden, the Hunt on my heels, to do you all honour.” A soft voice, resonating outward from mask and hunch of cloak, incongruous with the broad-shouldered warrior. Boyish-fair. Beloved.

  Her heart swelled within her breast, and from behind her, Much breathed “Milord” as if in benediction.

  The eyes behind the mask regarded them both for a long breath, then he put two fingers towards his concealed lips and shared a kiss. A scathing, sideways glance towards the bonfire followed as he threw the reins. The stallion stretched his neck and shook, a shuddering jingle-flap of hide and kit. The hunch of cloak proved itself another rider, slight and a-pillion, sliding from his perch and down the grey’s haunches. Their little John, gliding forward to take the rein, stroking the grey’s steaming neck.

  John shared with Marion a quick, cheeky smile as their champion swung down. Much was already there, helping shed the garb. Aelwyn too, waiting with filled ewer and bowl.

  Beside the fire, a Fool stood waiting.

  “You,” he said.

  The mari lwyd mask dipped, acknowledgement. Or perhaps to merely allow Aelwyn to lift away the long front carapace, leaving a smaller one beneath. “Aye, my lord. I’ve come to defend my crown.”

  “Your crown?” Raked with disbelief and—threaded undeniable—trepidation.

  ‘Twere one thing to defeat young men who thought to grasp the horns from a noble-bred newcomer who claimed rights to their Rite. But now a Fool who would be King faced the Lady’s own Champion, a sorcerer’s powerful gilt behind the mask’s hollow gaze, and a shimmering cord girdled at his bare hipbones, knots and tassels brushing his left thigh.