The Pale Mare's Fosterling: Volume III of Tales of the Dearg-Sidhe

By S. P. Hendrick

The Pale Mare has ridden through a time that is not a time, through a space that is not a space, carrying Dubhghall mac Cu to a forest outside Nottingham just before the news of the death of Richard Plantagenet arrives. John Lackland has proclaimed himself King of England, but what of the rightful heir, Arthur of Brittany, son of Geoffrey, John’s late elder brother? And what of the strange and dark happenings rumoured to be occurring at Nottingham Castle, with or without the knowledge of the Crown? Can the ancient Guardians of Britain stand up to the dark forces stirred up by the Crusaders’ folly, or will the islands forever be lost to a never-ending night?

The Pale Male's Fosterling is a perfect read for Anglophiles and anyone who can remember escaping into stories about Robin Hood and Arthur while making the hero an "Immortal". The perfect mix for this Anglophile and vampire writer.

Hendrick brings to the reader passion, mystery, and British mythology in a perfect swipe of her pen. The Pale Male's Fosterling is such a unique twist on a story dear to so many readers hearts. Hendrick does a wonderful job at honoring the legends while delivering a perfect story that everyone can enjoy. - Bertena Varney, Author of Lure of the Vampire and Paranormal Literature Examiner

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pendraig Publishing
• Release date: Jun 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781936922420

Book preview

Volume III of Tales of the Dearg-Sidhe

S.P. Hendrick

First Edition Copyright 2012

SmashWords Edition 2012

By Pendraig Publishing

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except brief quotation in a review.

Cover Design & Interior Images, Typeset & Layout by: Jo-Ann Byers-Mierzwicki

Pendraig Publishing

Los Angeles, CA 91040

www.PendraigPublishing.com

ISBN: 978-1-936922-42-0

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Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Epilogue

More Great Books by S.P. Hendrick

Fiction Novels from Pendraig Publishing

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Dedication

To Mark Ryan,

the Once and Future Saracen,

who may not remember the story happening in exactly this way,

And to Richard Kip Carpenter,

whose vision opened our eyes to the many possibilities.

And to Carl and Toni Nelso,

who taught me the Fletcher’s and the Archer’s Arts.

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Chapter One

I do not know how long I travelled upon the back of the white mare, either in the measure of time or of space from that cave on the coast of Cornwall. A part of me did not want to know. There was too much I wanted to remember, too much I wanted to forget, and I was not certain which part weighed the most heavily upon me. Those I loved, all save one, were dead. I doubted those I hated were capable of dying.

I knew I was not.

Immortality is a mixed blessing.

There were days and weeks of wandering through countryside bright with spring, of fording creeks and rivers newly swollen with the first melting of Winter’s snowy blanket. There were nights ablaze with drunken starlight and the impossible caresses of the lonely moon.

Lonely. That was the word for it. I never spoke with a single soul for the first few weeks, taking nourishment from where I could, when I could, and hoping I had caused no one to grieve overmuch. The elderly, those too tired to go on, the poor, whose own painful hunger was eased as their life’s blood eased mine…

Why the white mare had not thrown me from her back, abandoned me to my own two feet and the darker inclinations that were inherent in my nature, I shall never know. Perhaps there was something I was intended to see, intended to witness during these travels. If that were the case I can truly say I must have missed it. The trees, the grass, the landscape and foliage were the same verdant shade they had always worn in this fair season. The birds sung as merrily, and what other wildlife I observed seemed no different than they had before.

The human habitation, when I mingled with them for longer than to take nourishment, all seemed a trifle less joyful, less confident, and thinner, paler, more apprehensive than I had seen. It seemed odd, for the country, from what conversations I had gleaned, was relatively at peace; all their wars seemed to be far away on some sandy soil where they fought to liberate a city mentioned their ancient texts from the people who had lived there for generations.

My texts were far older, and though I knew my homeland had been overrun by wave after wave of conquerors, I knew My Lady would take it back on Her terms when She decided the time was right. Meanwhile, we would all live and learn.

I tethered the pale mare outside the inn, more for show than anything else, as I knew no tether could bind her to this world. The ale I ordered was thin, weak and watery, and the look in the server’s eyes, when he dared to look at me at all, was one of dutiful resignation, combined with fear. He looked briefly at my attire, it seemed, bowed his head.

I had not noticed before, but I was still in the blood-spattered tunic of the Templar. I had donned it…how many years ago?

They came for the taxes today, said a low voice somewhere behind me.

What did they take? asked another low voice.

The cow and the last two chickens. They said they’ll be back for more in a week. There is no more.

What will you do?

There was a short bitter laugh.

Die.

I drained the cup, leaving two silver coins on the table, tossed two more to the men who had sat behind me and left the place, rubbing the velvet nose of the mare before I mounted her.

This time she seemed to know where she was headed. Like a bolt of lightning she headed past towns, past villages, past farms and castles, all blurring into one as they passed by. I held on to her mane in awe of her speed, this glorious creation who had been my companion throughout the centuries, throughout the miles, throughout whatever plans My Lady had made for me, wondering when at last this fanciful ride would be over and I would be set adrift to find my purpose once again.

At last the motion ceased.

I was upon her back still, in the midst of a forest clearing. The oaks were thick around us, lofty and majestic, silent sentinels straining upward toward the sky. A rustle of leaves to my left drew my attention and I was quick enough to catch a glimpse of the red stag, his many-tined antlers crowning a noble head.

The rustle to my right was even more pronounced. As I turned I saw them, five of them, clad in brown leather and wool the shade of the oak leaves above them, their bows all drawn, arrows pointed at me.

Off the horse, Sir Knight, ordered the tallest of the five.

Wondering what their game was and not ready to let them know mine, I complied. I heard them gasp and looked behind me.

The pale mare had vanished.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Chapter Two

The effect was immediate. The looks of astonishment upon their faces were the most profound I had seen since the first man who had tried to run me through with his sword had found me standing unbloodied and setting to work upon him with my own. This astonishment, however, was not coupled with action from me against them. I simply stood there, empty-handed, with a question upon my lips.

What would you have of me?

The tall man who had ordered me off the horse seemed of all the lot the least perplexed.

Quite a trick, Sir Knight. Now what did you do with the horse?

I smiled enigmatically.

It is a secret of my Order. I can not impart it to anyone outside that Order.

He nodded, but I could see he was far from satisfied.

You look as though you’ve come a far distance, he smiled.

You have no idea, I responded.

We’ll take you back to our camp and sort you out. Plenty to dine upon, if you don’t mind eating the King’s deer.

I was tempted to ask which King, but stayed my tongue lest I be thought a fool.

I had fed the night before…I think it had been the night before…and was not in need of sustenance. My only hunger was for knowledge.

I have taken today as a fast day, as is common with my Order, I lied. But I would be thankful for a cup of something with which to quench my thirst.

He nodded, and together we six strode through the forest for what seemed a goodly number of minutes, until the smell of roasting venison was strong upon the air and the sound of voices not too far in the distance.

There were more than half a dozen of them, different ages, different sizes, all with the same air of industriousness about them. One turned the spitted haunch of venison which hung above the fire. Another sat upon a workbench, fletching arrows by affixing the feathers with sinew and linen and strong glue made from hide. Still another whetted the edge of a hunting knife against a stone, testing it every so often to see if the edge was keen enough to suit his needs. Across the way wood was being chopped for the evening’s fire by one man, stacked by another, and a short rotund man in the brown robes and tonsure of a friar pulled an oaken cask down from a cart and pounded a tap into it, draining off a measure of it into a leather jack and sampling it with satisfaction. Two more were engaged in the arts of the bowyer, one twisting a waxed linen string, the other shaping a yew stave with a sharp blade.

Three men a bit further off were engaged in animated conversation.

How’s the ale? asked the man on my left.

The friar turned and smiled.

Find yourself something to put it in and you tell me. Who’s your friend?

Sir Dubhghall MacCu, I answered without flinching.

It was my name and title, and I used them both freely, though not without a measure of trepidation. I was a Knight, though not of the Order whose garb I wore. It was the first time I had spoken of myself using the title. It rolled across my tongue with unfamiliarity. It had been they who had called me Sir Knight first, or I wouldn’t have traded upon the address; Sir Knight I was to them, though not yet to myself. I fingered the pendant around my neck. It had belonged to a real Knight, a fine Knight, one of my own Order, and one whom I missed very much. What did I know of Knighthood and Orders? I was a lone wolf, packless and predatory, roaming through time and space on my own terms. I may have been a founder of what the Order of the Sword and the Rose had become, but I had been absent in its growth and maintenance, did not know its history as did its current members, could not recite its litanies nor tell the lineages of its most important members, the Four Companions to the True King, the Rightful King, the King whose blood would heal the Land and make it whole. And there I stood in the bloodied surcotte of a renegade Templar, knowing even less of that Order, yet passing myself off as one of their own.

Templar, eh? remarked the Friar. Robin will probably want to speak with him. He has a particular interest in Templars these days.

The man couldn’t have been more than thirty, yet he bore a much older countenance, as if he had seen things beyond his ken and had been aged by them. No wrinkles were upon his face, but that could have been the effect of his portly stature. The same blade which had shaved his tonsure seemed to have been drawn across his face, for not a whisker showed. The eyes were the same grey-blue as the winter sea, and like the sea, held an unfathomable depth to them. He smiled as he topped off the contents of the leather jack and handed it to me.

Here you go, Sir Dubhghall. It must have been a long and dusty road that brought you all the way here on foot. Now tell me if this isn’t the best brew you’ve had in a long time.

I reached out my hand, smelling the liquid before I drank, an old custom born of imbibing too many ill concoctions disguised as harmless drink, but found no scent that should not have been there. I thanked him, and quaffed the entire contents of the jack in one draught.

He had a horse when we found him, offered the tall man. Pale as moonlight she was, too. Splendid animal.

As I basked in the richness of the dark liquid, indeed as fine as any I had ever tasted, I noticed the change in the friar’s expression. He was interested, and…there was something else I could not read.

Indeed. Where is she now? Did she run from you?

All eyes were upon me as he replied.

No. As this Knight stepped to the ground we watched the horse evaporate before our eyes, into a vapour and then…nothing.

Witchcraft! shouted one of the men.

The friar studied my face intently.

No…I think it is something far different. Pale as moonlight, you say?

The tall man nodded.

Pale as the chalk horse at Uffington. I saw that once as a boy.

And a mare? For certain it was a mare?

As I breathe.

The friar scoured my face with his eyes.

You may be a Knight, Sir Dubhghall, as you say. You have the bearing of a Knight, and the trappings. Yet I have a feeling it is not the Order of the Temple of Jerusalem which has called you into its service, is it?

And I had no doubt he was not merely a friar who had taken up residence in the forest to brew and take care of the spiritual needs of this band of men.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Chapter Three

The three men I had observed talking made their way over to where the friar and I were standing. The one in the lead was slender and fine of features with straight dark brown hair and eyes the colour of the leaves on the tall oaks surrounding us. His gait was sure and steady, that of a leader who felt no awkwardness at meeting unfamiliar people. He was clad in a simple woollen tunic of dark green and brown leathern breeks, shod in sturdy leather, and over it all wore a brown capelet, the hood of which lay flat against his back. From his brown leather belt hung a scabbard upon which had been carved a quatrefoil. Judging by the cruciform design and shape of the hilt which protruded from that scabbard, the sword was of Norman crafting.

The two men who walked with him allowed him to keep a lead of about two steps. They were each about a half a head shorter than their leader, garbed and armed similarly, though the wool they wore seemed not so fine as his, nor the colour of it as deep a hue, nor did their scabbards bear a design carved into the leather. One man was muscular, ginger-haired with beard of the same shade, both full and curly, the other slighter, clean shaven, with straight hair the shade of tow, cropped the shortest of any man in my presence. They were sure of themselves also; their demeanour showed that; still they counted the man in front to be their leader and would let him make the first moves, ask the first questions.

We stood eye to eye, studying each other for a moment, assessing strengths and weaknesses like a pair of wolves sniffing each other out, waiting for one to drop his head and his guard and become submissive to the other. Finally I smiled and broke the eye contact, not wanting him to appear to his men outranked.

I hear you have come a long way, Sir Knight, he said in a soft voice which bore an accent of a more northerly clime, and that somewhere along the way you lost your horse.

I nodded. My gaze was back upon his eyes, steady, without challenge. I had no need to challenge him. I wanted nothing he had except information, and there was nothing he could have taken from me by force of arms.

You too are a far distance from your home, I replied. From above the old Roman Wall, if I am not mistaken?

He drew himself up a little straighter, a little taller.

Your ear is good, Sir Knight. Robert of Huntingdon I was known as once. They call me Robin here in Sherwood.

Robin, began the friar. He’s not really a Templar.

No?

I could tell by both his facial expression and the tone of his voice this somehow intrigued him, even before he spoke again.

That is the garb of a Templar, Sir Knight. Or are you even a Knight?

I am, I replied.

Though not of their Order. How then did you come by the clothing of a Templar?

By right of Arms. I slew him as he burnt the stable around me. He left me no clothing so I took his.

Templars are not usually in the habit of burning down stables, nor is it their usual custom to ride alone.

Robin, that was my first thought when we encountered him back in the clearing near the Nottingham road.

The tall man who had led the party escorting me hither made a point to Robin he had never made to me, but I sussed it was the truth. I had seldom seen Templars in groups of less than three.

And yet you said nothing, John.

The tall man’s mouth opened and closed several times, reminding me of a fish taken from the stream gasping for water, but like the fish no sound came from his mouth.

Pay it no heed, John. The sudden evaporation of a horse before my eyes would have left me without my full complement of senses as well.

He turned to me.

Word does get around.

His name is Dubhghall, and he is a Knight of a much older Order than the Templars. You will want to speak with him in private, Robin.

Quite right, my sagacious friend. But we shall feed him first.

I thank you for your kind offer, I answered, but I am in no need of food, only drink and information, I believe from the words of this friar here, you may possess.

Nonetheless, it is time for our supper and we shall speak of these things over food and more of this fine ale. You have outdone yourself, Tucker.

The man beside me grinned at the compliment and appeared to my eyes to blush a little.

I thank ye, Robin. This batch was surely blessed. Must have been the heather in the wort. Nice taste to it.

It is truly a taste that is in my blood.

It was an unusual phrase, one that triggered something within me and set my tongue involuntarily across my upper teeth in search of a taste which had been there perhaps a day before. Robin noted the look upon my face which had evidently accompanied this and clapped me on the shoulder.

An inborn craving of my palate, Sir Knight. In my veins runs the blood of the Kings of Scotland, though that title shall ne’er be mine. My tastes run to the extravagances of royalty, though my purse be that of the populace at large, and in these times that purse is often light.

My hand brushed my own leather pouch, still heavy with silver which I did not need. The gesture was duly noted by all eyes present, or so I