The Hoodsman - Killing Kings Read online

  It was a pretty place, this pool, and inviting after his hot and scratchy scramble along game trails. Before fetching his other gear from its hide he enjoyed a quick plunge in the pool. After finding his gear and changing into his city clothes, he once again looked like a traveling merchant. He bundled the soiled forest clothing, the hood, the soft soled shoes, the cheap bow and the quiver, and then shoved them into the same hollow oak he had used to store his city clothes. If all went well he would never need them again.

  With a second thought, he decided to keep using the homespun cloak along the dusty road in order to keep his good cloak clean. Only then did he succumb to his hunger. He had hung a package of food by a cord up in the tree to keep it safe from animals, and now his stomach rumbled in expectation.

  Looking up the run of the cord made him curse. The end of the cord was shredded. The packet of food was gone from where he had suspended it up high and out of sight in the boughs of the tree. His efforts to keep it safe from animals had failed. Something had gnawed through the suspending twine and had dragged the entire package away.

  He spoke aloud to himself, "Well it's a good thing they are not in hot pursuit. Without some food it would be damn hard to stay hidden and travel at night along a roundabout route through Wiltshire." He would have laughed but his empty stomach churned.

  Grumbling, he tied his sling belt around his waist, hid his gold purse well, shouldered his traveler's pack, put his rolled hat on his head, picked up his stout staff and wandered back to the ford. He felt naked and defenseless without a bow. Not that he was defenseless. The staff was strong and he knew well how to use it, and it did have a trick end that concealed a long thin steel bade.

  At the ford there was nothing to do but to wait for other travelers. It would look suspicious to be traveling this forest road alone and so close to sunset. If anyone was tracking him, he would be too easy to spot, alone. Unfortunately, sunset turned to twilight and then to night and still there had been no other travelers.

  There were some local folk heading home from the fields. As they passed by, their looks of fear and suspicion convinced him to quit his perch by the ford. He stumbled through the dark back to where he had stored his forest cloths and made a bed from dried grass and his two cloaks under some bush willows. Hunger tried its best to keep him awake but exhaustion eventually won out.

  Folk who sleep out, and not behind strong walls and locked doors, never sleep well. One ear is always tuned to hear a crack of a twig. Raynar's trick was to encourage dreams rather than sleep. He needed a comforting dream, so his last thoughts were of Sonja and Britta, the two sisters from Loxley. They and their children had always been such an important part of his life.

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  THE HOODSMAN - Killing Kings by Skye Smith

  Chapter 9 - Lovers Again, Hathersage in July 1064

  June had become July and the skies became blue, and the sun warm, but young Raynar was still locked in his grief over his sister's murder. Porters tended to think a lot. It came from spending long days trudging the roads with your body fully taxed, but your mind not at all. Some days it was if Raynar’s sadness weighed more than the lead ore he carried. As if the summer sun did not shine on him, but was blocked by a dark cloud.

  On Sundays, the day of rest that the abbey demanded of all its porters, he would go hunting, alone, and would always return with meat. He found that he no longer regretted the killing the handsome forest beasts. All he had to do was pretend that each was Garrick, Leola's murderer, and his bow would aim itself.

  He was not alone in his grieving. John moped around his father's forge satisfied to do the most menial chores and without a complaint to break his silent brooding. He and Raynar now rarely sought out each other's company, for their sadness swelled at the very sight of each other.

  One day, a Friday it was, John's mother Hilde watched for and stopped Raynar in front of her house. Raynar expected her to yet again tell him that he should not be ignoring his best friend at such times as this, but that is not what she said this time. Instead she handed him a folded and sealed paper and told him that it had been left on their doorstep that morning.

  Raynar just stared at the wax seal on the folded paper, and for the longest moment did not move, but then he crouched by a bench to set his load of ore down, and then took the message from her. Hilde stood still, wishing him to open it immediately and tell her what it said, but no. He did not. Instead he left his pack with her and walked down to the river and sat on the bank and carefully opened it.

  The message was brief. "Urgent Sunday Noon Pool Sonja." His first emotion was anger. The last time he had seen her was the day that he had executed Garrick in the church square in Scafeld. Sonja was connected to Garrick's family, as was her sister Britta.

  Then his anger turned to curiosity because of the word 'urgent'. Sonja's last words to him on that fateful day were 'kill him'. Was she now in trouble over those words? Urgent. Had someone found out about their tryst at the pool?

  His curiosity now turned to concern. Sonja had been his first sexual partner. He quite liked her, and her sister Britta. Besides, from what Britta's husband Osgar had said, both must be the daughters of old Hugh, and he had worked with Hugh for years in the high pastures. If they were in trouble, then he owed it to Hugh to help them.

  On Sunday well before noon, he was waiting at the pool for her. Though he was waiting, and expecting her, she surprised him when she arrived. This was because she did not come down the main trail along the stream that led from pool to pool. Instead, she emerged from behind a thicket of brambles and was suddenly, magically, standing in front of him.

  Sonja saw his surprise and her first words were to explain, "Behind that thicket, there is a game trail up that winds up the layers of the cliff to the top of Stanage Edge. The grazing land at the top of the edge belongs to Lord Sweyn. There is a path that leads from his manor near the village of Loxley, to the edge. Not many know the way down the cliff. From the bottom it is hidden by the brambles, and from the top it looks like it drops off the cliff."

  He kept his silence and stared at her. She was so comely, even dressed as a farmer's wife rather than in the fine clothes she had worn at the Moot. He took a deep breath and kept his mind away from the vision of her without her clothes, but the vision was too strong and he did not trust his voice to speak.

  Sonja read the worst into his silence. She walked slowly towards him, and then sat to share the boulder he was sitting on. "I wanted to thank you for killing Garrick, but I could only do so if I was alone with you."

  "There is no need," he said with a frog's voice. "I did not kill him for your thanks. I did not kill him because you asked me to. I killed him because he was still alive and Leola wasn't, and she was far more deserving of life than he. It was between him and me and no one else."

  "You're not going to make this easy, are you?" she whispered and reached over and took his hand in hers and held it.

  She was confusing him, both mentally and emotionally. He wanted to leave, sort of, but not really. He wanted to smile just because she was holding his hand, but that seemed like a betrayal of his grief. He wanted her to stop talking and kiss him, but how could she tell him what was so urgent if she didn't talk. "Make what easy? Your message said urgent."

  "If you won't accept my thanks, then will you accept your reward?" She pulled his hand from his lap to hers and squeezed it down between her legs. "Garrick made me fear for my life. I was terrified of him, every day, terrified. He was capable of doing horrible things, wicked things, and afterwards he would laugh as if the wickedness had been his noble right."

  "There is no need for a reward," he whispered and tried to stand, but she pulled him back down beside her and wrapped both arms around his neck to hold him down, hold him to her.

  "You are grieving," she whispered ever so softly into his ear. "You need to hold someone close and feel another warm, living body beside you."

  Her touch felt so
good. Her hair smelled of summer flowers. He felt a bit dishonest accepting her hug, for many of the women at the porter's glade had been giving him long full hugs to comfort him. At first he had pulled away from them, until Gwyn had scolded him for not allowing himself to be comforted by poor women who had little else to give him other than their comfort.

  So he allowed himself to be comforted by Sonja. He allowed her hugs. He allowed her soft kisses on his neck. He allowed her to press his face into her bosom. He allowed her to undress him. He allowed her anything and everything that she gave.

  Later, as they lay in each other's arms, naked on the warm sand in a very private place behind boulders, he felt happiness for the first time in weeks. The warmth of the sun, the warmth of the woman, the touch of her skin against his, the sound of her gentle breathing as she dozed, it was all good.

  A shadow flicked across his eyes, and that was the first he knew that they were not alone.

  "Shh," came a soft voice. "Don't stir, you will waken her." It was Britta's voice. Then there was silence for a moment, and the rustle of cloth, and then there was another touch of warm soft skin sliding along beside him on his other side from Sonja.

  "You poor man," whispered Britta when her head came up next to his. "You poor man," she repeated as she softly kissed his ear, then his cheek, then his eyes. She reached for the pendant that lay on his chest. It was just a local crystal but it felt good in her hand. "Is this a healing crystal? Does it help?"

  The words woke Sonja and she looked over him, at her sister, just once, and then rolled away from him mumbling something about going to pee. He didn't see her again until Britta had had her way with him. Britta used the same word, 'reward', but she did not go slowly, softly, sweetly as Sonja had. The two sisters were very different in that way. Britta was a joyous fuck.

  Again he lay between them, all three naked and feeling delicious as they were licked by the warm sunlight. Britta was now the one dozing and her ample breasts were gently wobbling with each soft breath. Raynar reached over and hovered his right palm above her closest nipple. Eventually the nipple began to swell, and the skin around it turned pink as if sunburned.

  Good. During his weeks of grieving, he had feared that he had lost his healing touch. Good, it was back. He smiled to himself and he felt the smile all the way down to his toes. It was as if an old and dear friend had returned from a long absence.

  Britta moaned, "Oh that sun feels good," and opened her eyes and saw his hovering hand. "Oh, it was you. How do you do that?" She moaned again. "Never mind how you do it. Do it again." She pulled her arms together so that her breasts formed higher mounds.

  Raynar was taken aback. He often used his 'touch' when he was tending the aches and pains of the crippled miners at the glade, but not since the first day he was told by the healer that he had the 'touch', had he used it on a woman's breast. He had never thought of using it during sex.

  Feeling ever so naughty, he did what Britta had asked of him and hovered his hand over her breasts. The effect was almost immediate. Britta was moaning again. He moved his hand to the other breast, and down across her belly, and then lower.. Now she was writhing and then gasping for breath and uttering prayers to her goddess between the gasps. Then she spoiled it all by grabbing his hand, and the feeling disappeared.

  "Oh, what was that?" sighed Britta as she rubbed her breasts with both hands, "and more important, when can we do it again?"

  "Oh no, you don't," hissed Sonja, who had sat up to watch. "It's my turn." She grabbed Raynar's hand and pulled it towards her breast. "My turn."

  The scene quickly turned into a three way wrestling match where tickling was the weapon of choice, and afterwards, after they finally managed to quell their infectious belly laughter, they all had turns, of everything.

  That afternoon as he strolled back home to the glade, he didn't stomp in anger, and he didn't walk quietly with his eyes on the ground, ignoring the hails of friends. Instead he strolled in the sunshine, and helped others with their loads, and returned the wishes of good cheer from the regulars along the way. The old happy helpful Raynar had come out of his mourning and the whole porterway soon knew it.

  Over the weeks of summer that followed, he became addicted to Sundays at the pool. He could not wait for Sunday to come, and then resented that his time with Sonja was so brief, for they always parted before noon. Britta came or not, but Sonja always came.

  His new found joy was wasted on John, however. His friend resented that Raynar was no longer grieving for his sister. John was still morose, silent, brooding.

  The three lovers were fools to think that their poolside trysts could go unnoticed forever. Unluckily for them, or perhaps luckily, the route Raynar took to the pools passed close to the mill at the smithy. One Sunday, John followed him up the gorge and discovered them cavorting and splashing about in the pool.

  It had been a dry summer, and the pool was now barely thigh deep at its deepest, and was a bit scummy. When John came out of hiding and walked up to the three frolickers, there was no way that the women could protect their modesty. The four of them just stood still and stared at each other.

  "You," John pointed at Raynar as if he was pointing an arrow, "you would do this, with them. They belong to the same family as Garrick." He was trying to ignore the women's breasts, so that meant keeping his stare hard on Raynar.

  "John, John, don't judge them so harshly," Raynar begged. "They were old Hugh's daughters long before Britta was betrothed to Osgar. They wanted Garrick dead as much as we did. He was living in the same house. He was a danger to them every day."

  "John," cooed Britta, "you have grieved long enough. Come in with us and I will wash away your grief so you can begin living again."

  John turned to her ready with some words of anger, but her smile warmed him and stopped the harsh words. As he watched her she stopped covering herself with her arms and hands and stood tall and leaned forward and arched her back and took a deep breath and reached out to him with a long and graceful arm. At that moment he was in love.

  After a stunned moment he started pulling at his clothes and dropped them and his boots on the bank and then waded in to the pool to join them.

  Raynar turned to Britta to whisper his thanks, but she was frozen in place watching John. He turned to Sonja, but she also was staring at John, or rather at John's john. Both women gasped a breath. John was a big man and his work at the forge was building his arms and shoulders to the size of other men's legs, but that is not where their eyes were looking. Not what they were admiring. John was a big man, everywhere.

  "You must take him, Britta," Sonja whispered urgently. "He is too big for me. He will tear me."

  "First we must wash the soot off him," replied Britta in a normal voice. "John, how do you get so dirty?"

  "Charcoal, coal, smoke. What do you expect? I am a smith," John said, comforted by having something ordinary to talk about to two comely and naked women. Comely naked women who were now walking towards him through the water. Coming to wash off the soot. For the first time in weeks, he smiled.

  After John was clean, sort of, Britta took his hand and led him over to the boulders, to the private place. Raynar was glad that Sonja did not pull away from him to go with them. He felt possessive of her, and for a few minutes he was fearing that she also would go and 'reward' John.

  When he said as much to her, she smiled back and said, "No. Not me. Britta can manage him by herself. Besides, she has already had a larger head than his inside of her. I have not, not yet." She looked at Raynar's blank look. "Her daughter Marion, silly."

  Late that afternoon, both lads shared Sunday meat at Hilde's table. John's braying laugh was a joy to her ears. She had her son back, both her sons, for Raynar was as close to John as a brother. The boys were sharing some new secret that had them quick to laugh and quicker to smile. Life was good again.

  John, however, did not have Sundays enough to become as addicted to them as Raynar was. It was only two Sundays later
that the women announced that they could no longer come to the pool. Raynar was immediately heartsick. He loved Sonja, deeply and truly. John and Britta were more like friends who thoroughly enjoyed each other's bodies.

  While Britta led John behind the boulders to their private place for one last good old-fashioned shag, Raynar led Sonja to a sunny boulder where they could sit side by side and hold hands and talk.

  "Why?" Raynar asked the obvious questions. "Why now? The weather is still warm. Why this Sunday and not next?"

  "Because next Sunday is my wedding day," Sonja blurted out, immediately regretting the saying. She held Raynar down so he wouldn't run off before she could explain. "Don't blame me. I am manor born. Our marriages are arranged. If you want blame, then blame the Neb Storm. Do you know of the Neb Storm?"