Heartwood (19 page)

Looking around she saw the skirmish was over. The outlaws were all dead. Most worryingly, Erubesco had been wounded, shot in the shoulder with an arrow that had embedded itself in her armour, and her pale face glistened with sweat.

Sheathing her sword, Beata ran up to her and caught her as she slid from the saddle. She lowered the knight to the floor and knelt beside her, examining the shaft. The bodkin head had just managed to enter the links in the mail. With careful fingers she pushed aside the broken links, apologising as Erubesco groaned in pain.

“Sorry.” She examined the tip of the arrow. “It has not gone in too far. I can still see the head. The mail and the jerkin caught most of the blow. I think I can pull it out.” She looked up at the Militis who stood around her. “Gavius and Gravis, can you move the horses out of the way, just take them a little further ahead to that clearing, and keep your eyes and ears open? Peritus, can you retrieve the small green bag from my horse's side panniers – I have some herbs there that will help the wound to heal?”

Beata waited until Peritus had brought her the bag, then removed from it some of the linen strips she had taken from the Infirmaria in Heartwood. She had not thought she would need them so early in their journey. She folded the strips into a wad and handed it to Peritus, who was kneeling by her side. Then she removed a small, thick wooden stick. Instructing Erubesco to open her mouth, she placed it sideways and closed the knight's jaw so she bit down on it. Then she took a deep breath.

 

IV

It was a long journey around the Forest of Wings. Grimbeald saw Fionnghuala and her escorts glancing impatiently from time to time at the trees as if wishing they could make them part and reveal a road straight through to the Neck Pass. But the trees remained closed, and the road long and treacherous.

Grimbeald had suggested to Fionnghuala they take the river instead of the road, but the Hanaireans had distrusted the water even before the appearance of the Darkwater Lords, and they stated firmly they would stick to the road in spite of its lack of maintenance. Grimbeald could have left them at Acelstan, as there was a river route from there straight up to the Highlands, but decided instead to stick with them to Karlgan. He could feel the growing tension in the land as the political climate escalated on the Wall; each town they passed through now held groups of Wulfians talking about war. The Heartwood knights were looked on with dislike, and Grimbeald did not want to leave them alone until he had to.

Wulfian attitude to Heartwood had never been benevolent. The Militis were regarded as interferers by the Wulfians in a private relationship between themselves and the Laxonians, and were generally only tolerated because they were the holy guardians of the Arbor. The violent nature of the Wulfians was not a random thing; it was an integral part of their religion. The Wulfian branch of Animism had developed over hundreds of years, until it was as much a part of their lives as the sap was part of the tree, and it was not something that could be talked out of them at one Congressus. And yet they still worshipped the tree, and thus the Heartwood knights had been endured, until now.

Grimbeald had not discussed it with the Congressus, but he had been hearing very disturbing conversations on his journeys across Wulfengar. There was talk of a major invasion of Laxony – which was nothing new, really, and tended to be a general topic of conversation – but, more worryingly, there had also been talk of taking over Heartwood. The Militis were regarded as being too friendly towards the Laxonians, and there were many Wulfians who thought their own priests would be better able to defend the Arbor.

But he had not told Valens about these rumblings. Grimbeald's loyalties were torn. He was not your average, typical Wulfian. His mother had been half Hanairean, and her mother had ensured she was educated in the ways of other people and their beliefs. Grimbeald's mother had done the same with him, and therefore although he had grown up trained as a Wulfian knight by his father, he was not as antagonistic towards Laxony and Heartwood as many of his peers were.

But there was more to his differences than that. Wulfians were generally straightforward men, raised on a diet of aggression, taught that violence was the way to show their love for the Arbor. But Grimbeald did not have the heart of a warrior. Sometimes he fancied that, as a child, someone had crept in to his room in the night, taken out his heart and replaced it with a bard's or an artist's. Instead of seeing violence, he saw beauty everywhere he went. And he enjoyed expressing that beauty through music, writing and painting. But he could not express it openly because he knew he would be chased from Wulfengar before he could sing a note.

And yet sometimes he wanted that to happen. Sometimes he felt life was an elaborate game, a play, and he was a pawn placed on the board and moved by unseen hands, while in his mind he daydreamed about things he was sure very few other Wulfians had ever considered. He would be at a Council meeting, and the room would be filled with Wulfians all talking animatedly, and he would be sitting at the head of the table but his mind would be outside, running through the grasses, or lying by the river and watching the fish dart in and out of the reeds. Because of this he had gained the reputation of being a thinker, a strategist, someone who considered all the options and trusted his head before his heart, which in a strange way was something the passionate and impulsive Wulfians admired. But he had never explained to anyone this was not the case, although now, as he wandered along uncomfortably on his horse and looked across at the elegant Hanaireans talking quietly among themselves, he wondered how different his life would have been if he had escaped at a young age and made his way to his grandmother's land.

But it was a ridiculous notion. He sighed, his hand coming up to touch his bushy beard. He did not appear to have a trace of his grandmother's blood in him – there was absolutely nothing about his appearance to suggest he was in any part Hanairean. Going to Hanaire would have just meant he would be an outcast in two lands – he would not have been able to settle there, to feel at home. No, he lived his life the only way he could – his body in Wulfengar, his mind in the clouds, free even if his physical self wasn't.

Karlgan must be close now, he thought, seeing the Spina Mountains rearing up before him, dusted with white. He looked to the south towards the Forest of Wings, the trees close and forbidding like a trained army. He had not been strictly truthful with Fionnghuala. There
was
a path through the forest from Redgar to Karlgan, and although it was narrow and fraught with obstacles, it would probably have cut off a day or two from their journey. But the forest held many dark memories for Grimbeald, and he had not travelled through it for years. He looked at the trees, at the dark spaces between them, which could hide a thousand pairs of eyes. He had the strange sensation of being watched.

It was not the first time he had felt the presence of an invisible observer. That evening in Redgar, in the room with Fionnghuala, he had thought he saw a figure standing by the door, watching him. He had caught it out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look, there was nothing there. But now, staring at the forest, he was sure he could see a person, just visible within the trees. He blinked a few times and suddenly it was only a pattern cast by the branches, a scatter of light against dark, but still he shivered and kicked his heels into his steed, picking up the pace.

They reached Karlgan at midday, or what felt like midday; there was still no sun to guide them.

“I think we will continue on rather than stop here,” said Fionnghuala. “There are several huts along the Pass for travellers to stay.”

Grimbeald nodded, knowing she felt uncomfortable in Wulfengar, and he did not blame her. “May your Quest be successful,” he said, giving her the Heartwood salute.

She smiled and returned it. “And yours, too. Take care, Grimbeald.” Turning her horse, she led the party left at the crossroads towards the mountains.

Grimbeald did not stay to watch her disappear into the Pass. He had a long journey still to undertake, and besides, he wished to put as much distance between himself and the Forest of Wings as possible. He cast one last look at it before turning his horse towards the road north. The forest glared at him, resenting him. The tree branches bent in the wind and formed the figure that watched him, waiting. Then they moved, and the figure was gone.

Grimbeald turned in his seat to check his companions and saw one of the Heartwood knights studying him curiously. Her name was Tenera, and she was very young – maybe not even in her third decade, and shorter than most of the Laxonian female knights, with very long brown hair she wore in braids to her waist. Her snub nose covered with freckles somehow emphasised her youth. He had asked Procella why she had decided to send such a young Militis with him when he really needed strong and experienced warriors, but she had just smiled and said not to judge her knights by their appearance. Grimbeald had found out what she meant when during the brief exchange at the inn in Redgar: Tenera had been the first knight across the tables when the Wulfians all stood up to challenge them. She had disarmed one of them and pinned another to the wall with her sword before the rest of them had time to blink. What she lacked in height, she obviously made up for in agility, and she was clearly skilled in many forms of weaponry, as he could see from the bow she carried across her back.

What took him by surprise now, though, was her searching gaze and quizzical expression. He said nothing, kicking his heels into the horse and guiding it onto the road north, but he was not to escape her curiosity.

She manoeuvred her horse up to his and rode alongside him for a while. The rain had lightened to a steady drizzle, and she tipped back the hood of her cloak so the mist settled on her hair, making it glitter with droplets.

Eventually he looked across at her and gave her his best scowl that would have cowed most Wulfian women. “Do you want something?”

Instead of looking alarmed, however, she merely smiled. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few Questions. We have quite a journey and a big task to complete – it would be nice if I knew a little about you.”

“You do not need to know me intimately to be able to complete the Quest.”

“True,” she agreed. “But it is a long journey, and conversation would help to pass the time.”

He turned away, looking ahead at the path that rose gently to meet the hills of the Farmines. He sighed. It was true, he had not been very good company since leaving Heartwood. His men were used to his morose moods, and spoke to him only when spoken to, but the Exercitus spent months, if not years, on the road and would be used to finding ways to pass long journeys.

“Forgive me,” he said, “I am not used to spending much time with others.”

She cocked her head at him. “That is a strange thing to say. I would have thought conversation and companionship were compulsory for a lord.”

He shrugged. “I was not chosen for the role because of my social skills.”

“You were chosen for the role?”

“When my father died, I was the strongest candidate for succession and did not have any serious contenders.”

“I bet your father would be very proud of you, if he could see you.”

His smile faded and he returned his gaze to the road. “Maybe.”

He said nothing for a while, and when she spoke she changed the subject, clearly picking up on his reluctance to talk about his father.

“Are you married? I mean, I know Wulfians do not generally believe in marriage, but I have heard that some do get involved with a long-term partner.”

“Yes. Well, I was. But my wife died several years ago, and she never bore me a child.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” she said with sincerity.

He shrugged. “It is one of those things. Wulfian law states that the woman is barren if she cannot bear children, but I have taken my fair share of lovers both before and since my wife, and none has ever had a child.” He stopped talking. Why was he opening up like this? He had never spoken to anyone about his wife before.

He looked over at her again. Perhaps it was the “trust me” look in her wide eyes, a dark grey-blue like the sky during a thunderstorm. Or her honest face, with its upturned nose. There was definitely something about her that intrigued him. He had spent most of his life with Wulfian women who, brought up to believe they were inferior beings, had failed to do anything other than satisfy his occasional sexual needs. Even his wife had not been a soulmate – he had always doubted such a thing existed, even though his heart told him the stories bards sang were true. Now, staring at Tenera, he found he could believe it – a woman such as this would be a just companion for him, someone he could finally open up to, and tell of all the fears and worries he had never before shared with anyone.

He felt a stirring in his stomach, a surge of desire, which he quelled quickly, looking away. Even if she was twenty, which he doubted, he was still over fifteen years her senior. And she was Heartwood Militis, a holy knight, bound by vows of chastity and obedience to the Arbor, and she was talking to him now for no other reason than because she was inquisitive and wanted to pass the time.

It was raining heavier now. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, trying to discourage further conversation, and he waited for her to do the same.

But she had not finished with him yet. The droplets falling onto her face, she blinked them away from her lashes and said: “So why are you so frightened to go into the Forest of Wings? And who was the figure watching us at the edge of the trees?”

 

V

“I am going to pull the arrow out now,” Beata told Erubesco, whose white face was covered with a sheen of sweat. She leaned her left hand on the knight's breastbone, pushing down, and closed her right hand around the shaft. “Three, two…” Before she finished the countdown she pulled up sharply. Erubesco's body bucked, but the arrow slid out neatly. Beata took the wad of linen from Peritus and pressed it onto the wound. “Lean down on this,” she instructed him. Sitting back, she examined the arrowhead. It was intact, the wood unsplintered, which meant none would have been left in the wound. The only problem would be if it had been poisoned in any way.