Trouble in the Forest Book Two

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  By morning lowering clouds brooded over the forest, heavy with the promise of rain. One of the guards reported seeing men on the Great North Road at first light, but no other guard had seen anyone, and the account was dismissed.

  “There are herds of deer and they move early,” said Sir Vulpes.

  “Are you sure that is all there is?” Sir Olvan asked.

  “If I thought otherwise, I would not recommend that you travel,” said Sir Vulpes. “You escort Prince John.”

  “I am mindful of my duty,” said Sir Olvan, and went to order his men to mount up for the next leg of their journey.

  Mother Barnaba cast a troubled glance at the sky, and looked toward Sholto and said, “How long before the storm begins?”

  “It should rain before midday,” said Sholto. “If the wind rises again, we can hope that we are close to Pagett Saint Oswald.”

  “Perhaps we should pray as well as hope,” Mother Barnaba suggested. The book she carried felt hot against her shift, and she had to resist the urge to consult its pages to see what protection it recommended for them.

  Sholto flung Mother Barnaba into the saddle, then mounted up himself, bringing his horse up behind hers. Purvis joined him and they all took up their place in the procession.

  The forest was gloomy this morning, and its somberness communicated itself to the travelers. They kept up the jog—trot until the horses were panting and sweaty in the chill of the day, and they were more than half—way to Pagett Saint Oswald. There was little conversation, and what little there was came in tense bursts. Even at midday, they continued to move, sacrificing a meal for the promise of safety.

  It was early afternoon when the first trouble was found: a thick—trunked oak lay across the road, its branches blocking all progress in both directions. The travelers drew in nervously, and debated what to do, furtively watching the underbrush.

  “We could go around the tree,” Sir Ninian suggested, eyeing the exposed knot of roots.

  “That may be the purpose of this, if it is something than mischance,” said Prince John as he dismounted. “It has fallen against the wind,” he observed. “It might be best to think of this as a ruse to force us off the road.”

  “Do you think the tree fell by accident?” Sir Ninian wondered aloud, voicing the fears the rest were feeling.

  “It’s possible,” said Sir Olvan. “But—”

  “Can we drag the tree out of the way?” Sir Vulpes asked.

  “It can be done,” said Baron Courvier. “We have horses enough, and we have ropes.”

  “We should cut away the smaller branches and good purchase on the trunk,” said Prince John. “There be less to drag and less to entangle if we are rid of the small branches.” He swung around. “You with battle—axes, come and hack off the small branches. Would that we had a sawyer with us.” He could see the disapproving looks from his soldiers and courtiers, and he added as he pulled his throwing hatchet from his girdle and began to hack at the nearest small branches. “Tradesmen they may be, and common, but a good sawyer could make shorter work of this tree. We must do our best with what we have.”

  “This is hardly fitting work for knights to do,” muttered Sir Gaius as he followed the Prince’s example.

  “Who else is there?” Prince John asked, working with determination.

  “Is there a village before Pagett Saint Oswald?” asked Mother Barnaba. “There may be sawyers we could summon.”

  “There may be crofters, but there are no villages, or hamlets, or forts,” said Prince John.

  “They’ve chosen their location well.”

  “Shall we search?” Sir Olvan asked.

  “No,” Prince John said at once. “It would be foolish to diminish our numbers, and one or two men alone may be set upon with impunity. They would pick us off as easily as we take stragglers in a herd.”

  No one asked whom they might be.

  Sir Olvan coughed. “Yes. I take your point. Come, knights, for the honor of the Prince. Cut the branches off the tree and make ready to pull it out of the way.”

  Some of the soldiers grumbled, but six of them dismounted and came up to the tree, their battle—axes at the ready, two of them frowning already at the damage such a task would do to the honed blades of their weapons. On Sir Olvan’s instruction they took up their positions along the fallen oak. Soon the sound of their chopping resounded along the road, to be augmented shortly by the steady patter of the rain.

  Mother Barnaba raised the hood of her boiled—wool pluvial, and stayed on her jennet, in spite of Sholto’s offer to help her dismount. Her whole attention was given to the forest that now seemed to loom around them all, making their efforts appear nothing more than the paltry industry of ants. She thought of Ellenby, and what he must have felt when the forest fiends claimed him. Without intending to, she clutched the book she carried under her habit, knowing it was now very much sought—after.

  A few of the smaller branches had been chopped away, and now the knights were struggling to get a rope around the trunk of the tree. The rain made this messier but not more difficult, but everyone chaffed at the slowness of the progress they were making.

  “Sir Vulpes,” Sir Olvan called out. “You and Sir Maxon, bring your horses up to help us pull.”

  The two knights broke ranks and came to take the ropes held out to them. They joined three others making ready to pull on the ropes. At first the horses scrabbled on the moist ground and the tree remained stubbornly in place. Two branches groaned and one of them snapped, the sound making the company jump, but the tree hardly budged. At Sir Olvan’s order, another two knights joined in the efforts. Then, finally, the tree began to move, and the horses strained more urgently. Gradually the men dragged the tree to the side of the road. The branches still projected into the way, but there was room enough to go around the bulk of it without entering the undergrowth of the forest.

  With the tree moved enough to give the company passage, they mounted up again and kept on. No one mentioned the fading afternoon or the heavier fall of rain—no one had to.

  The sight of the stockade around Pagett Saint Oswald was enough to lighten the hearts of all those who rode with Prince John. It was as if they had all held their breaths until they reached the walls. Sir Olvan rode forward to the gate and called out, “Open the gate to Prince John!” in Norman French.

  “Sir Olvan,” Prince John admonished him, and called out the same hail in the language of the people.

  “If they hear French, they should open the gate,” Sir Olvan complained. “They know the sound of it, if not the sense.”

  “In this place at this time?” Prince John challenged him, watching as the gate slowly swung back.

  Sir Olvan coughed for an answer. “I take your point, Your Grace.”

  Two burly men stood in the opening to the village. “Prince John! Not likely,” said the older of the two.

  For a response, Prince John rode up to them, holding out his hand with the massive signet ring that marked his office. “I am Prince John,” he said in their tongue. “These men are of my household, and they are bound with me to Nottingham for the Fair.” He tossed back his hood to reveal the coronet on his head.

  The older man stared while the younger one stifled a laugh. “Quiet, boy,” the older man said at last. “This is the Prince.” He lowered his eyes as he was required by law to do, and stood aside. “Enter, my lord.”

  “My company needs shelter for the night,” said Prince John as he rode into the village.

  “We haven’t much room,” said the older man, his gaze still averted.

  “We will be glad of whatever you can offer. A barn is preferable to being abroad in Sherwood at night.” Prince John signaled to his party to enter the village.

  “You say right,” said the older man. “There is no haven in the forest an
y longer.”

  “That is why we have come to you,” said Prince John patiently. “Your homes and barns and your church will protect us through the night. We’ll even mount guards to ensure you will not be unprotected.”

  “For which we will be thankful,” said the older man.

  “Then we place ourselves in your hands, and accept your hospitality with gratitude, and will provide proof of it in the morning,” said Prince John as if he could not commandeer every house, hut, barn, and hutch in the village. “Assign us where you will—so long as the women are in the church, we will be content.”

  The older man actually stared at Prince John in a flagrant disregard for the law. “Will you not occupy the village according to your desires?”

  “No. We are an imposition, and, as all travelers may say, we seek the safety of your village. It isn’t as if we have the luxury of choosing where we might lie, and that imparts a favor to you, for it is by your grace that we may sleep without dread. We have no wish to gain your enmity, for that would lessen our safety, and yours.” Prince John turned and signaled to Baron Courvier and Sir Olvan. “You will work with these villagers to secure us places for sleeping and you, Sir Olvan, will set the watch for the night.”

  The older man looked about uneasily. “We have little that will suit you.”

  “You are within walls and you have a church. Under the circumstances, this suits me very well.” Prince John sighed as he dismounted. “You are—?”

  The older man stared at the ground in front of the Prince’s boots. “I am headman here. I am Edwy, son of Gant.”

  “Then Edwy, son of Gant, for tonight you will share equal rank with the knights, as suits those who are hosts to us. Listen to me, all of you,” Prince John insisted, raising his voice and speaking in the French of the court. “We are here as guests, not lords. These crofters are saving us from more than an uncomfortable night, and it is fitting that your conduct reflects that awareness. I will not want to hear a single complaint from these crofters—not one. I will know if they have any act to protest. You will not use their women nor steal their food. Is that understood?”

  Baron Courvier answered for them all. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Then let us set about it. Night draws on apace,” said Prince John, and watched as his party dismounted. “Sir Vulpes, you will take the women to Saint Oswald’s at once.” He walked over to Mother Barnaba as Sir Olvan Hodge helped her to dismount. “What do you think, Mother? Will this place suffice?”

  “It had better,” she said. “I don’t suppose we have any other place to go— not before dark in any case.”

  “No,” the Prince agreed. “Not before dark.”

  How they Fared at Nottingham

  THE STEADY noonday drizzle had soaked the banners and put most of the men on the ramparts into a surly mood as they kept to their exposed posts, rain dripping down their faces and sliding gelid fingers down their necks. Not even an extra ration of heated wine had alleviated the misery they all felt as the day dragged on to mid—way. When the horn sounded announcing a horseman on the road approaching the town, only half of the men rose to their feet to watch the courier spattering through the ruts on a muddy horse.

  Sir Humphrey trundled up to the main gates, seeking the shelter of the eaves as wanting to show the courier all required courtesy. “You are right welcome in Nottingham, in the name of Sir Gui deGisbourne.”

  For a response, the courier sneezed before holding out his herald’s baton in a wet, embroidered glove. “I am Sir Mortimer Bonsieur, herald-knight in the service of Sir Gui deGisbourne. I am sent to tell you that Sir Gui is not far behind me, moving with his men in the direction of this town.” He stopped, coughed, and finally was able to speak again. “He will be within the gates by mid-afternoon, unless he meets with a misadventure.” The herald almost fell from the saddle, and Sir Humphrey reached to steady him, noticing as he did that Sir Mortimer’s face was pale where it wasn’t splotched with red and that his skin was hot to the touch.

  “This man is ill,” Sir Humphrey announced in alarm. “Send for the leech!” He helped get Sir Mortimer off his horse and onto his feet.

  Sir Mortimer staggered and coughed. “I am very cold.”

  “Small wonder,” Sir Humphrey exclaimed, shouting, “Soldiers! Come help this herald to the house of the Widow Grantham.” She was the town’s most respectable herb woman and was called upon to treat everything from broken bones to broken hearts.

  Three soldiers surged toward Sir Mortimer, two of them offering help, the third blanching as he looked at the courier, for the man was visibly ill.

  “Come on,” Sir Humphrey exclaimed. “The man needs our help.”

  In answer to Sir Humphrey’s orders, the three men prepared to take Sir Mortimer to the Widow Grantham. Sir Mortimer tried to summon up the words to thank the soldiers, only to end up being lavishly sick.

  “Hurry,” said Sir Humphrey, his nose wrinkling with disgust. “And send one of the housemen to scrub the stones.” He watched the three soldiers half-support, half-carry Sir Mortimer toward the narrow street where the Widow Grantham lived and kept a dark, narrow shop where she sold herbs and simples. Sir Humphrey started off toward Nottingham Castle to inform Hugh deSteny of Sir Gui’s imminent arrival.

  “May I help you, Sir Humphrey?” asked Jotham. “I am at your service.”

  “Tell the Sheriff that Sir Gui’s courier has just arrived. He’s ill. But he says that Sir Gui and his retinue will be here directly. Let us do our utmost to make him welcome.” Satisfied that he had done all that could be expected of him, Sir Humphrey turned and left the castle, bound for the town gates. He made himself stride along as if he were eager to welcome Sir Gui, for he knew it behooved him to set an example to his men.

  “Is Sir Gui arriving soon?” asked the Master of the Guard coming down from his post on the battlements.

  “According to his herald,” said Sir Humphrey.

  “Is that the fop who vomited?” the Master of the Guard inquired.

  “The same. He’s ill.” Sir Humphrey glanced in the direction his men had carried Sir Mortimer.

  “Are we to trust him?” asked the Master of the Guard. “Might he not be confused if he is taken with fever?”

  “He might,” said Sir Humphrey. “But I’m unwilling to take that chance. Send the trumpeters to the ramparts between the gate-houses, and tell them to make ready. You don’t want Sir Gui to blame us for failing to receive him properly.”

  “The rain is ...” The Master of the Guard raised his hand as if to show how useless all display was. “All that will happen is that they will be wet. Their clothing will not be handsome if it is soaked.”

  “Send them and order them to make ready. The rain does not excuse us from our obligations,” said Sir Humphrey emphatically. “You know what Sir Gui is. He would expect a fanfare in a blizzard.”

  The Master of the Guard nodded. “It is vastly unfair to the trumpeters, sending them out in this,” he grumbled.

  “It is their job,” Sir Humphrey reminded him. “I can’t fault anyone for being grouchy in this miserable weather, but still we must do as Sir Gui requires.”

  “So we must,” said the Master of the Guard with a heavy sigh.

  “Then I will leave you to it,” said Sir Humphrey, and strolled away toward his house so he could don his surcote with his arms blazoned on it. It was a shame to have to get it wet, but the weather was not going to change to spare his raiment.

  It was half—way through the afternoon when the trumpets brayed out their greeting to Sir Gui, and the portcullis rose to admit him and his entourage, all sodden, on dripping horses. They crowded into the town, their cloaks heavy with water, and dismounted without waiting for any welcome, so eager were they to be shut of their mounts and dry again. The squires and grooms hurried forward to assist the new arriv
als, and there was a flurry of activity as the men of the castle mixed with Sir Gui’s retinue, giving them what welcome they could in the rain. For once, Sir Gui had no complaint for the lack of courtliness in his greeting.

  The Great Hall of the castle had been made ready for Sir Gui: the floors had been swept and new rushes laid down, and pine boughs hung on the walls, their scent sweetening the air. The High Table was prepared for a banquet, and the lower tables had been scrubbed and their benches brushed clean. Pennons hung from the gallery, the arms of Sir Gui and Sir Humphrey displayed on them. A log blazed in the maw of the fireplace, imparting its ferocious warmth to any coming near it. This was as cordial a sight as Sir Gui had reason to expect, and yet it was plain that he was dissatisfied.

  “We are here for a Fair, Sheriff. Is there no entertainment ready for us?” he demanded as deSteny came up to him.

  “There will be players and musicians aplenty in a day or so. Jugglers, too, and players to perform for you. Their travel, like yours, has been slowed by the rains.” DeSteny would not let himself be dragged into long apologies for the state of the castle. “For the nonce, I can offer you a drummer and a performer on the shawm to brighten your feast, which is even now being readied, and will be served as soon as the orders are sent to the kitchen. The cooks have made a fish stew as a first course and it will be brought in shortly.”

  “Crofters and peasants eat fish stew,” Sir Gui complained. “Can’t you provide anything more appropriate?”

  “There are farsted swans and curlews in wine, and suckling pigs for the High Table,” said deSteny, knowing that this would mollify Sir Gui somewhat. “And the cooks are even now roasting three boar for your pleasure.”