Trouble in the Forest Book Two

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  eventhorizonpg.com

  FOR THE AUTUMNAL EQUINOX it seemed quite summery, with dust motes clinging in the butter-colored morning air, preternaturally still. Not even the call of birds penetrated this place, at the very heart of the forest. There was a stirring of dense branches and the crackle of newly fallen leaves underfoot. Gingerly the Hart stepped into the glade as if on clandestine purpose. He lifted his fine, antlered head and sniffed, taking in all the rich scents of the forest. The Boar had not yet arrived to take command of the forest from him. Warily the Hart made his way to a freshet that spilled bright water into a little brook, wondering which side of the running stream was safer. He drank slowly, as if taking more than slaked thirst from the flow.

  There was so much to tell the Boar, so many warnings to give, Peril was everywhere, and nothing was truly safe. He had discovered nothing he could do to preserve the forest, not for all his three months of custodianship, and had begun to think that the end of the trouble was not in his hands or those of his kind. If only he could convince his brother that this was a problem best left to men, so that the forest could be preserved in peace. His doubts grew as he watched the sun track to the mid-heaven, and he grew more restive. The forest was entrusted to them, and there was great danger abroad, but it was nothing he could fight, and without the help of living men, neither could the Boar.

  At the first sound of approaching footfalls, the Hart trembled and moved back into the tangled shadows of the thicket, in case what was coming was not his brother, but something much more dangerous.

  What Mother Barnaba

  learned at Windsor

  PRINCE JOHN closed the book on the stand in front of him. “So deSteny will receive me and my men the week before All Saints, when we arrive for his Fair,” he said to Mother Barnaba. “I will speak with deSteny directly and not entrust anything to messengers again. I had hoped his warning was not as dire as he indicated, but from all you have said, he may have understated the gravity of the danger. You did well to come to me—well and bravely. I am sorry that it fell to you to undertake this mission, but if Wroughton is truly among the missing, we must assume the worst—we’re agreed on that.”

  “I am afraid it is so,” said Mother Barnaba. She was still awed by Prince John, but in the last two days at Windsor had become better at masking her emotions.

  “We may also have reason to worry about him beyond fear for his mortality, for he may be one of the pernicious outlaws now, and all he knows will be disclosed to them.” He rasped his thumb along his short beard, a sure sign of his uneasiness.

  Mother Barnaba crossed herself. “Poor man, if that is so. I have counted him in my prayers every night.”

  “A charitable act, and better that we pray for him than leave him to the Devil,” the Prince approved. He walked over to the hearth. “We must make ready to travel a week from tomorrow, at first light. I only hope the rains hold off for that long.”

  “Your retinue will go with you?” Mother Barnaba could not conceal the anxiety she felt as she asked.

  “And my soldiers, to escort us.” He rubbed his hands in the warmth from the burning logs. “From all I have learned, the outlaws are becoming more brazen with every passing day, and we must be prepared to deal with them. You have done a worthy thing coming here, yet I must impose upon you again.” He looked directly at Mother Barnaba. “I ask you to come back to Nottingham with me when I go north.”

  “Of course; if you wish it,” said Mother Barnaba, surprised by this distinction. “And count myself fortunate to have such an opportunity, and such protection.”

  “Very good,” said Prince John. “I will order a jennet for you—that mule of yours will not be willing to keep up. I’ll have him taken back to your nunnery. Saint Gertrude’s, isn’t it?”

  “Yes; the Sisters will be glad to have him back,” said Mother Barnaba. “For Ellenby and the honor of my faith, I will do whatever you require of me.”

  “That is a large pledge,” said Prince John.

  “It is given with all my soul,” said Mother Barnaba in a tone that was utterly sincere.

  “Then I hope you will not be called upon to give full measure,” said Prince John. “It is fitting that you accompany us. You will serve as an example to my retainers.” He turned away from the fire. “You can read and write?”

  “I can,” said Mother Barnaba. “I am no scholar, but I can read the Gospels and write the journals of the nunnery.”

  “Very good,” said Prince John. “I am pleased; you will be charged with recording our travels. You will know what should be noticed, and you will give it proper value in your accounts. I will have you supplied with ink and quills and vellum.”

  She ducked her head to show respect. “I will do so, and gladly.”

  “Then make ready to come with us. If you need to send word to Saint Gertrude’s, I will arrange for your message to be carried by armed men.” Prince John shook his head. “I know that Ellenby and his men were armed, but they weren’t prepared to battle the evil in the forest. The men I send will know what to do.”

  “Tell them to travel only by the light of the day,” said Mother Barnaba. “Once the day darkens, they will be in grave danger.”

  “Grave—truly,” said Prince John. He regarded Mother Barnaba for a short while. “If I give you a book to guard, will you do it?”

  “I’ll do it,” she said firmly.

  “The book is an important one, and it must be preserved,” said Prince John. He went back toward the long reading tables where his books were laid out, many of them chained to their stands. He passed them by and opened a locked, standing chest. He drew out a small volume, bound in leather. In Rerum Daemonae was stamped on the cover. “It was written over ten years ago, and brought back from the Holy Land six years ago by a very brave man.”

  Mother Barnaba stared at it. “Is it what it says it is?”

  “It is,” said Prince John. “It is on the nature of demons. It is said to be the work of a blessed martyr who was killed in the Holy Land, who fought against demons in the name of Our Lord.” He smoothed the cover. “Keep it with you, for it contains the means to battle these vile creatures.”

  “Do you expect someone will try to steal this?” Mother Barnaba took the book that the Prince held out to her.

  “I think it must be kept safe,” said Prince John. “And I doubt that I will be able to secure it as well as you can.”

  She clasped the book to her bosom. “I will regard it as if it were the Evangelists.”

  “As you like. Writing the volume cost Friar Tancred his life.” The warning was clear.

  “I will keep that in mind,” said Mother Barnaba, and slipped the book into her capacious sleeve. “I will hold it here until I can secret it under my girdle.”

  “Be sure you don’t let it be known you have it. I want no one but you aware that it is with us.” He went back to the fire. “I am asking much of you, but I would not do it if I saw any way to spare you.”

  “I am much pleased that you do so. It is not fitting that I should turn from evil and the killers of my kinsman.” She squared her shoulders stalwartly.

  Prince John’s expression lightened. “Would that all my knights were as fierce as you, and as mindful of their fealty.”

  This was too much for Mother Barnaba, who seized Prince John’s hand and kissed his signet ring. “You distinguish me too much,” she exclaimed.

  He shook his head slowly. “No, Mother Barnaba—would that I did.”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth to keep
from saying anything unseemly. Finally she touched the book in her sleeve. “Will you permit me to read this?”

  “Certainly, but you must not discuss what you find there. If you think you cannot keep what you learn to yourself, then I ask you not to.” He rubbed his arms as if he had taken a sudden chill.

  “I will pray on the matter and do as my Good Angel guides me,” she said, and ducked her head again.

  “Good enough,” the Prince said, glancing toward the door. “I must now send you off to your quarters. Be ready to depart after Prime in a week’s time. One of my pages will be at your disposal until then, if you have need of him.”

  “You are most generous, Your Grace.” She backed toward the door, her head almost singing with elation. To be favored so much by the Prince! She scolded herself for delighting in such worldly advantages, but she couldn’t keep from preening as she went up the narrow flight of stairs to the room that had been allocated for her use. To think that the Prince had done so much for her! She opened the door and entered the small apartment, where she knelt before the crucifix on the wall, prepared to begin her Little Hour. But the weight of the book in her sleeve distracted her, and she drew the volume out and sat on the edge of her simple bed so that the wedge of light from the narrow window fell across the cover so that the title seemed to glow. Very slowly she opened the book, and began to read, occasionally stumbling over the clumsy Latin of Brother Tancred, whose grammar was irregular at best. But unpolished as the style was, the information contained in that slim book was as compelling as the thundering cadences of the Mass.

  “In the Holy Land there are such creatures as Hell itself spurns for their malign purpose, as if this sacred place also spawned the most atrocious wickedness.”

  So began Brother Tancred’s account of demons and devils and evil spirits. Mother Barnaba read on, fascinated and repelled at once by the horrors she encountered in the closely written pages. The sunlight moved off the page and across the floor and was gone, but still she fixed all her attention on the text.

  “Of demons of the night, there are too many to number. Chief among them are those who prey upon sleeping men, some calling forth lust and causing men to spill their seed for the use of a succubus, who then cause honest women to grow great with the unhallowed seed of the incubus. These demons may be but one in two forms, but in the Holy Land they are very prevalent.

  “Then there is the night—hag, who rides the breasts and sucks the breath from men’s lungs, imparting to them visions in such hideous wise that it would not be fitting to describe. Many are driven to madness by the visitations of the night—hag.”

  There followed a list of prayers and rituals that could guard virtuous men from the depredations of these demons, along with the admonition to preserve the body through fasting, prayer, and mortification of the flesh.

  “First among these fell monsters are the vampires, the undead ones, pale as drained corpses which, in truth, is what they are. They go among the wounded and the dying, and slake their thirsts on the blood of fighting men. They move upon the road and lanes, snaring unwary travelers. They seek out those living apart from others, and lure them to their ruination, making the living not only their prey, but their get, for those who have given sustenance to the vampires, if not wholly drained of blood, become one of their numbers: thus do they increase their numbers and visit their damnable fate upon their victims”

  “They enter where they are invited, and they betray the hospitality extended to them by claiming the lives and souls of those who have received them as guests. No man but the most wholly and untaintedly virtuous is safe from them if he is caught by these damned fiends, for they are strong with the might of those who overcome the grave. Once a man has succumbed to the attack of vampires, all hope for him is lost, for his being is now wholly devoted to the damnable clan. All loyalty is perverted to the service of these dreadful unnatural fiends. Let there be no doubt about this: those whom they kill are made to be like them, and thus their numbers are increased in the world.

  “The vampires of this region are more vicious than many others, perhaps because their damnation is the greater for being in such a holy place, and where they have come, those older than they are soon subject to these more warlike beasts. I call them that for surely they are more savage than any wolf or lion, having the apprehension of men and the wildness of the deadliest beasts in the whole of nature.”

  Mother Barnaba sat very still, her hands feeling cold to the point of numbness. So this was what lived in the forest! She crossed herself and began to pray automatically, fear welling up in her like mourning. How could anyone stand against such implacable evil? She could not bear to think of her kinsman among such fiends as the ones described in the pages of the Prince’s little book. She could not bring herself to imagine how the Prince had come by such a volume, or what had become of the man who wrote it.

  “These powerful undead are difficult to kill, particularly at night, when their powers are greatest. When the sun rules the sky, they must keep to the deepest shadows for fear of the light, or they are often held in torpor, and exposure to direct sunbeams can kill them almost instantly, reducing them to flaking bones in less time than it takes to say Apage Satanas.

  “A pure—white mare or a pure—white lamb will paw up the earth where they lie, and by this means they may be discovered and killed in the light of day. They will die if beheaded or burned, and running water, including the running tides, holds them immobile. They are unable to speak the name of God or Jesus, or Our Lord, and become agitated in the presence of sacred places and objects. Holy water is as deadly to them as it is the protection of salvation for true Christians, and forcing them to drink Holy Water assures their destruction beyond all recall or remedy, for they will vanish into dust if they are exposed to the sacred substance. The same may be said of Communion wine, which, by virtue of being the Blood of Our Lord, is as the deadliest poison to the vampires. Piercing their necks or chests with hawthorn branches or stuffing their mouths with garlic will put them into a swoon, at which time they may be beheaded and buried in the manner that keeps them in their graves.

  “A true priest may battle them with the whole might of faith to protect him, and if he is of worthy heart, and he turns not from the battle for fear, he can prevail if the vampires are not given greater powers by night or the corruption they bring upon those who consort with them. If the priest be unworthy for any reason perceived by God, he will fail and then the danger is that he will enter the numbers of the enemy.

  “Yet the fiends have powers that make such efforts difficult to perform for any among the living, and they may insinuate themselves into the hearts of those who oppose them, and make them willing vassal to their volition, and thus lead them to perdition. It is the special demonic gift of the vampire to have influence over those they prey upon. They are capable of making the most devout person lose all determination of virtue and thus embrace his own destruction, enticed into this apostasy by the glamour of the vampire.

  “They do not lie peacefully in hallowed ground. Attempts to keep them there will result in vast disturbances of the earth, gaping holes appearing without warning. This is one means of finding their lairs, which is why prudent Christians do not enter burial grounds after dark, for any vampires there may stalk and kill the living in such a place. If the vampires are properly killed, they must be buried face down at the crossroads or in front of a church or abbey, with a hawthorn staff piercing the trunk of the body, or they may still rise and continue their ungodly work.”

  The summons to supper interrupted her cogitations on this new and troubling information. She closed the book and slipped it back in her sleeve, feeling as if it were made of heated iron, not leather and parchment. What she had read throbbed in her mind like a fever. She recited a few Pater Nosters on her way down to the gallery where the women sat, above the hall where the men dined. She took her place among the reli
gious women, and bowed her head for prayers. The Duchess of Gloucester presided here, and her orison was brief and to the point.

  “In the Name of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit may this food be given to the nourishment of our bodies as Your Goodness and Mercy nourish our souls. Amen.” With that, she reached for her wine and drank, signaling the start of their meal.

  The fifteen women echoed her Amen and the first of the trenchers were brought in, laden with chunks of broiled fowl. A single tub of butter was set on the table in front of the noblewomen, and a basket of small loaves of bread put beside it. Cups of wine were provided, and a few women were given mead as well. Below them in the Great Hall, the men were being given tankards of mead, ale, and berry—wine, to wash down roast venison with galingale, the first course of the meal. The rich aroma drifted up to the women, its savor mixing with the plainer odors of their broiled fowl. The women were brought plates of quartered baked rabbits, and the servants withdrew.

  At the Prince’s signal, a harper began to sing one of the new Italian songs praising the Virgin. He was accompanied by another musician on a tabor, beating out the cadences—tumm ta—ta tumm, tumm ta—ta tumm—its eager rhythm setting feet tapping even while the guests ate. The Prince smiled and tossed the musicians silver coins from the pouch on his belt, and his courtiers, not wishing to be lax in their attendance upon him, did the same.

  “It is a pleasing tune,” said the Duchess, and the women around her agreed. “We will hear it often, I expect.”

  Mother Barnaba had to resist the urge to upbraid these women, to castigate them for sitting so complacently while dangerous undead creatures roamed the forest, preying on good Christians and turning them into worse than devils, lost to salvation and redemption. It was all very well to praise the Virgin, and to eat bread and meat, but what good would that do if the outlaws and all their fell brotherhood were allowed to go unchecked, until all of England was in their sway? She managed to keep these thoughts to herself, but discovered she had lost her appetite. Dutifully she ate, for it would insult the Prince to refuse his food, but it was as tasteless as rags, and the wine she drank might have been sour milk for all the lift it gave to her heart. The thought of another journey through the forest filled her with dread, but she did her best to steel herself for the ordeal to come.