Chapter 6

Mid-morning. At least, it was about ten o’clock. I suppose ‘mid-morning’ depends on what time one is accustomed to getting up. We’re gathered at the edge of the woodland, Boreas, Zephyra, and Albus’s mount, Bellerophon. As is appropriate for the name, Bellerophon is magnificent – eighteen hands and glossy, solid black. A little group of people: Aster, of course, Albus, Father Quercus and Mother Clio, Steve Baxenby, and three I didn’t know, though I’d seen them at gatherings: Kat Bird, Rhiannon Donahue, and Aibhilin Bird. Aibhilin was a flame-haired girl, about seven years old, Kat, Aibhilin’s mother, a comfortable plump, red-haired woman, and her mother, Rhiannon, her red hair slightly dusted with grey. Those three were in robes – Kat, in red, Rhiannon in black, and Aibhilin in white.

Kat was the spokesperson. “Princess ... Prince ... Praesul. We are here as requested to cast a glamour for your ride to Sherwood.” She looked at her companions, who began to chant, walking and spinning around the travelling party. As they did so, it seemed as though we were wearing traditional riding garments, with hard hats and hi-vis, and even that there was tack on our mounts.

“That’s amazing,” I told Kat, who shook her head.

“All an illusion,” she replied, smiling. “Reality is what you’ve got. What I’ve got, if it comes to that. There’s a blessing on your day, too. Go in peace.”

I looked round, caught Aster’s eye, then Albus’s. We didn’t speak, just nodded. I patted Boreas’s neck and vaulted to his back, amazed at how easy it was. “Ready to run, my friend?”

“I think we’ll walk a bit at first, but I am ready to go.”

Looking around, Albus and Aster were also mounted, and Albus was already moving. Aster and I followed, the horses walking up hill until we got to a place where the ground is level and it’s okay to jump a gate to get to the road. It’s preferable to skirt north of Chesterfield, and we did, using an underpass to cross the dual carriageway A61, then using a mixture of back roads and open fields, the latter where we could do so without damaging crops or disturbing livestock.

Only once we were challenged by a farm worker, who climbed down from an enormous tractor in the middle of ploughing up a field of stubble. He was not unpleasant, though he did inform us that the owners – a faceless corporation – might not look kindly upon our trespassing. “On the other hand,” he grinned, “they’re not likely to know about it and you’re obviously doing no damage.”

In Britain, trespass is a tort, not a criminal matter, unless damage is caused by entering the private area, which can be ‘breaking and entering’. Otherwise, the owner’s only resource is to the civil courts, which often is not worth the expense. In one high profile and historic occasion in 1932, four hundred people trespassed on Kinder Scout in the Peak District, which led to laws giving access to open country for private citizens. There is, of course, a requirement that such access is on condition of care being taken of the land and livestock. The moors may be closed during certain times for shooting of game birds. Unfortunately, the open access has resulted in several moorland fires thanks to careless discarding of disposable barbecues or rubbish such as broken glass. Anyway – sorry about the lecture. I get into ‘conservation’ mode much too easily, perhaps.

We crossed under the M1 motorway north of Bolsover, and entered Sherwood Forest from the west, after crossing open country next to Church Warsop and Meden Vale. Nowadays the Forest is a mere shadow of its former self

It was easy to rest, then, to rub down our mounts (though they seemed happy rather than tired from the journey) and indulge in a picnic under the trees.

The bonding was to take place after dark in a clearing near the Major Oak. This tree is famous for its size and age, though it probably did not shelter the legendary Robin Hood or his ‘Merry Men’. Around the time Robin of Loxley is supposed to have lived, usually during the reign or regency of King John, the tree would have been quite young. Nonetheless, we made our way there as the shadows lengthened, walking beside our mounts.

The regular visitors were drifting away as dusk approached; others, remaining, I recognised (among them Penny), many I didn’t.

Albus took my arm. “You need to meet my father,” he told me. “Take the knee in front of him and offer him the hilt of Werebane. Call him ‘Your Majesty’ the first time, then ‘Sire’ afterwards.”

Now I’m just an ordinary sort of chap. The only royalty I’d been close to was Aster and Albus. I don’t mind saying I was nervous about meeting the Elven King.

He was seated in an elaborate carved wooden chair. I duly took the knee in front of him, drew Werebane from over my shoulder, and very carefully offered him the hilt. Carefully? Try handling a razor-sharp sword by the blade. Head down, I spoke clearly. “Your Majesty, I am Oliver. Accept my service, if you will.”

I felt the sword move, and released my hold. The King laid Werebane across his knees.

“Oliver, will you pledge allegiance to the Elven Realm? It will not conflict with your allegiance to your Queen.”

“I will, Sire.”

It’s an odd thing which I cannot explain, but the oath was in a language I’d never learned; let’s call it ‘High Elvish’. Nonetheless, I fully understood what I was repeating.

“I, Oliver of Padley,” I’d discussed with Albus how to identify myself, and ‘of Padley’ seemed more appropriate than my birth-name, “vow to serve the Elf Realm in the person of the King, and to strive to protect the Spirits and environment of the land, to the full extent of my abilities, even unto death.”

“I, Rex Solaris, hear your oath, Oliver of Padley. I accept your service and your oath. I will reward your service: Integrity with honesty, loyalty with loyalty, treachery with vengeance.”

I looked up, and the King was smiling. “Receive your weapon, Oliver.” He extended the sword, hilt first. There was a slight tingle when my hand touched the grip. “I think my daughter has made a good choice, Oliver. Unusual, surprising, but a good choice.”

I stood, and bowed, a little awkwardly, the sword still naked in my hand. I was about to sheath it ... him? When I heard an unearthly animal howl from behind me. I turned, to see a huge dog ... no! A huge wolf... bounding towards me. Werebane was vibrating in my hand. Yes, my hand was trembling, but the sword was actually vibrating and that was quite independent of my nerves. All I could do was hold the blade straight out towards the approaching beast. It skidded to a halt, the tip of the blade perhaps a foot from its chest, and cowered on the ground.

“Sire...” I spoke without taking my eyes off the animal, “I do not wish to end the life of any creature, but if this is a danger to anyone, I will do so.”

Another voice sounded from nearby, a woman’s voice. “Nocht tú féin, Mac tíre-fear!” (Reveal yourself, Wolf-man!)

The creature writhed and twisted, but became ... a man, naked but for hair, shivering and cowering before me.

The king spoke from behind me. “Speak, Wolf-man. Mean you harm to me or mine? This human is offering you mercy.”

“A dhuine uasail, is fuath liom a bhfuil éirithe agam, agus ní féidir liom mo nádúr a shárú, anois. Géillfidh mé chun báis, nó geallaim gan aon duine mothaitheacha ionsaí, mar is maith leat.”

(“Sire, I hate what I have become, and cannot overcome my nature, now. I will submit to death, or promise to attack no sentient, as it pleases Thee.”)

I’ll just comment here, that there seemed to be a variety of languages in use which previously I could not have understood. The High Elvish, of course, and Kat – yes, it was Kat’s voice – was speaking and the wolf-man’s response – was in Irish Gaelic.

“Oliver...”

I turned towards the king’s voice. “Sire?”

“Will you accept responsibility for this creature? It is dangerous, but I think it is not evil.”

“Oliver,” Aster, standing just behind and to one side. I hadn’t noticed her approaching. “I will help, and so will Kathleen.”

“Thank you.”

“Sire, I accept the responsibility.”

“Very well. Wolf-man, you are now under the authority of this human. You are on probation, and sentence of death is suspended as long as you obey.”

The creature bent and touched his forehead to the dust, then turned to me, head bent.

“Do you have a name, Wolf-man?”

He hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was rough, rusty as with disuse. “I was born ... Liam Hanlon, sir.”