Trouble in the Forest Book Two

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I’m coming,” said Sir Gui. “How much we have to do, who serve the mighty.”

  “Alas,” Nicholas dared to respond. He passed a brazier where embers offered more smoke than light, and reached for the latch to the door.

  “Wait for me. This should not take long,” said Sir Gui as he went through the door Nicholas held for him.

  “As you wish,” said Nicholas, who had intended to leave as soon as the door was shut. He caught a glimpse of Prince John on a tall stool at a writing table, and then the thick oaken door swung closed, leaving him in the cavernous corridor.

  Prince John was finishing a sentence on a sheet of vellum. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Sir Gui,” he said, not interrupting his work.

  “Writing is for monks,” said Sir Gui. “Why do you bother with such tasks? Haven’t you scribes enough to tend to your letters?”

  “I have scribes aplenty,” said Prince John as he set aside his crow-quill pen and sanded the sheet. “But when I write for myself, I know what is on the page is what I intend should be there. I do not want to be wholly dependent on monks as many lords are.” He moved back on the stool and looked over at Sir Gui, noticing that he only inclined his head instead of offering a proper reverence.

  “I have petitioners to hear,” Sir Gui said.

  “Not just at present,” said Prince John. “I stipulated you weren’t to be brought until you had no others waiting for your attention.”

  “Generous of you,” Sir Gui sniffed. “Your brother would show me higher regard.”

  “My brother is fighting in the Holy Land,” said Prince John slowly and precisely. “You may be a favorite of his, but just at present this doesn’t benefit you.”

  Sir Gui straightened a little and scowled in the Prince’s direction. “When he returns, you will have to explain why I have been—”

  “He hasn’t returned yet,” said Prince John. “Until he does, I am responsible for England, and I will discharge my obligations as I see fit.”

  It was difficult for Sir Gui to bite back the retort that hovered just behind his teeth, but he managed to, saying only, “As well you should.”

  Prince John came down off the stool and went over to the window. “Have you reviewed the book I presented to you last night?”

  “Brother Covell was attending the Bishop last night,” said Sir Gui.

  “Brother Tancred gave his life for what is in that book,” said Prince John.

  “Then he is a martyr among the angels of God,” said Sir Gui boldly. “I will ask Brother Covell to read me the relevant passages before I retire tonight.”

  “Little enough,” said Prince John quietly. “You must not delay.”

  “A day or so is hardly delaying,” said Sir Gui.

  “In this instance it may be,” said Prince John.

  Sir Gui folded his arms, his whole body expressing sarcasm. “Clearly you have assumed I will leap at your order. Very well. Let’s get this over with, so each of us may return to more important matters.” He struck a pose of exaggerated regard. “Tell me, Your Grace, what do you expect of me, so that I may be at your service?”

  Prince John ignored the blatant disrespect Sir Gui evinced, and answered coolly, “I expect you to prepare yourself to battle the evil that has descended upon us. I know you do not anticipate trouble, that you think that Hood and his men will not come, but I fear you are too optimistic. Not even the brother of one of the men will risk coming here, I’m told. So I expect you to be informed about the nature of our foes. I expect you to provide help and support to those soldiers who will take it upon themselves to fight these unholy beings. To do that, you must know them for what they are, and you must learn for yourself their nature and the danger they pose to all living men.” He turned away from the window. “The trouble has been in the forest, but unless we act now, it will spread to the towns, and then all will be lost.”

  “So you claim,” Sir Gui said, sounding bored.

  “Read the book and find out,” said Prince John.

  “If I must, I will summon Brother Covell as soon as I leave you, Your Grace.” He sounded put—upon.

  “You would be well-advised to do so,” said Prince John in a steady voice.

  “Is there anything else?” Sir Gui inquired insolently. “Or am I dismissed? Your Grace,” he added as if the title were an afterthought.

  “There is one thing. In this matter, you will take your orders from Hugh deSteny. He is more capable than any of us of defeating these fiends.”

  “The Sheriff of Nottingham?” Sir Gui was incredulous. “What can he do?”

  “He has fought these creatures before, at great cost, and he is more cognizant than anyone in England to assess the risk we take when moving against them,” said the Prince. He looked older and more tired than he had moments before. “I rely on him implicitly, and you would be well-advised to do so, as well.”

  “The Sheriff,” said Sir Gui again.

  “Yes.” There was an implacability in him now.

  “And you expect me to take orders from him?” Sir Gui was appalled.

  “Yes, I do,” said Prince John. “As I will.”

  How the Eve of All Saints

  Fair at Nottingham began

  BELLS tolled and trumpets blared as the procession started from Nottingham Castle, Prince John leading the company of nobles and clergy toward the cathedral. The afternoon was cold and clear, with a frisky wind enlivening the occasion, tossing the pennants and banners in eager gusts. The streets were full of people, many of them staring and pointing. Guards kept the most rambunctious of the Fair—goers in check, guiding the procession along the streets.

  Mother Barnaba was in the middle of the procession, riding a white donkey that was led by Hugh deSteny. She found the cheering disorienting, an intrusion on her morose thoughts, and she said as much to deSteny as they turned toward the cathedral.

  “It is part of the Fair,” said deSteny. “It is part of our plan.”

  “But still, with so many, many people in the town,” said Mother Barnaba carefully, “isn’t it possible that the vampires will slip by your Guard?”

  “It’s not only possible, I hope it will happen,” said deSteny, a mirthless smile stretching his mouth.

  “Truly?” asked Mother Barnaba.

  “We want them in the town, where we can discover them,” said deSteny, touching the brim of his hat in recognition of a man in the crowd. “Ten of my men are with the Fair—goers.”

  “Is that fellow one of them?” Mother Barnaba asked.

  “No. He is a woodsman who has helped me a great deal.” DeSteny kept walking, listening to the music as it drifted back to them. “There will be a bonfire tonight, to begin the Fair. Tomorrow is the Eve of All Saints, and we will begin our hunts for the vampires.”

  “Won’t they be expecting such an attempt?” Mother Barnaba wanted to lower her voice, but knew she wouldn’t be heard if she did, so she spoke as quietly as she dared, watching the crowd as she did.

  “Perhaps,” deSteny allowed.

  “But you will not allow that to stop you,” she said with great certainty. “As I must do my utmost to see Ellenby avenged.”

  “Do you think he will be?” deSteny asked before he could stop himself.

  “I pray it may be possible,” she said as she recalled everything she had read in Brother Tancred’s book.

  The trumpets sounded more loudly and the drums thundered. Another fanfare rang out and the drums beat an energetic tattoo, to be answered by the cathedral bells. All this was greeted by cheers and shouts of “Plantagenet! Plantagenet!” while the banners carried in the procession were dipped to show reverence to the cathedral.

  DeSteny halted and Mother Barnaba leaned down from her saddle. “Is the Prince going to address the crowd?”

/>   “He will not, not until the end of the Fair. Sir Gui will deliver a greeting,” said deSteny, doing his utmost to conceal his opinion of this plan.

  “Oh, dear,” said Mother Barnaba.

  “Truly,” deSteny agreed.

  “His father, the Baron, hasn’t come yet, has he?” Mother Barnaba wondered aloud.

  “No,” said deSteny. “He sent archers, but he, himself, has not yet arrived.”

  “A pity,” said Mother Barnaba.

  The clamor died down, and the procession moved on, filling the square in front of the cathedral. Mother Barnaba and deSteny found themselves off to the side of the group, in the shadow of the Joiners’ Guildhall, where it was almost impossible to see what was happening on the cathedral steps.

  “Will this place suit you?” deSteny asked.

  “I thank God for small mercies,” said Mother Barnaba, amused at their predicament.

  DeSteny said nothing, but he could not conceal the little smile that tugged at his lips.

  Sir Gui’s voice was loud, but not enough to penetrate the buzz of celebration that swept through the square, and deSteny heard only fragments of this welcoming harangue.

  “People of Notting ... to the Fair ... Eve of All Saints! Let all come to ... Be welcome and good cheer ... Let everyone keep the Fair in good ... holiday celebration ... contests of excellence in diverse skills and ... worthy conduct and honorable ... before God and His Church. Great prizes and honors to the victors … The peace must be ... as part of the ... Now is the time ... all gaiety ... through the night, and into ... Revelry and rejoicing must prevail, and ... Those who plan mischief, be warned that ... not tolerated, with penalties enforced ... and our Guard will patrol all the ... which is due under the law of King Richard ...” Sir Gui went on for quite a while, alternately cajoling and reprimanding the Fair—goers, his gaudy clothing reminding deSteny of a French cockerel. “The Bishop will offer ... blessing on all who ... and may God defend England and keep the land ...” The last of his address was drowned out with renewed cheers.

  Bishop Tilton was mercifully brief in his blessing of the multitude, reciting the Benedictus and offering a short prayer that the crowd muttered along with the monks who flanked him. The Amen was more a cheer than a worshipful exclamation.

  The trumpets sounded again, the drums rolled, and the banners were raised again as the Guard shoved a path through the crowd so that the nobles and their suites could return to the castle.

  “Well, that was a fine display,” said Mother Barnaba, an implied criticism in this apparent praise.

  “Display being its purpose,” said deSteny as he tugged on the mule’s lead.

  “Then it succeeded,” said Mother Barnaba. “Sir Gui is a most elegant lord.”

  “As elegant as his father is austere,” said deSteny.

  Mother Barnaba nodded. “It is often thus,” she said, lowering her head and glancing at the mounted nobles trying to make their way out of the square.

  Although deSteny agreed, he said, “Do you think it must be?”

  “No, of course not, but it often is.” Mother Barnaba sighed. “Ellenby had a martinet for a father, severe and bound to duty as a monk is bound to poverty. He had honors given him for his knightly rigor, and the House regarded him with pride, sin though it may be, for he was an example to us all. Everyone said he was a most worthy man, a great credit to the House and a faithful vassal to the King, but his severity made sons who are lax in application, insouciant, fine company, but with a tendency to put their pleasure ahead of their responsibilities, patterns that have grown more prominent since their father fell at the walls of the Holy City. And I have not corrected them in their errors, for which I am punished, for I knew Ellenby was not upholding his obligations in coming to me, and yet I accepted him willingly, entertained him, encouraged his dereliction, all for the delight of his companionship. So it falls to me to avenge him.”

  DeSteny was surprised by her burst of confidence, and he struggled to find some way to assuage her self—condemnation. “You aren’t responsible for what those sons do.”

  “But I am,” she protested. “I have thought for weeks, and I know that had I sent Ellenby on his way as I should have done, rather than indulging him, he and the men with him would still be alive.”

  As they joined the procession back to the castle, they passed a number of temporary stalls where all manner of goods were displayed. In the midst of a cluster of these canvas—sided structures there was a players’ wagon, a fantastical vehicle with all manner of devils and angels painted on its flanks. Costumed men swarmed around the wagon, making ready for their coming performance.

  DeSteny glanced at the players and had an unaccountable grue slide up his spine, like a cold finger or a sliver of ice. Perplexed, he shot a second stare at the players, trying to discern why he should have such a reaction to these oddly garbed men. Nothing occurred to him, and the procession forced him to move on.

  “God’s Nails,” said Mother Barnaba. “They were a sight, weren’t they—those players?”

  “That they were. I don’t know why they trouble me, but they do,” said deSteny, taking a last look over his shoulder.

  “They are strangely dressed,” said Mother Barnaba.

  “And I cannot see their faces,” said deSteny, finally hitting upon the most obvious thing that made him uneasy.

  “Players wear masks,” said Mother Barnaba.

  “When they are performing,” said deSteny. He could no longer see the players beyond the bend in the street. “Most of them do not wear masks while they set up their stage.”

  “But for this Fair,” said Mother Barnaba. “They’re celebrating.”

  “Perhaps,” said deSteny, promising himself to go back and see what the players were doing later in the day.

  Mother Barnaba sighed. “The Fair will last for seven days. You need not fill every one of them so soon.”

  They reached the castle gates. “I have an obligation,” said deSteny.

  “You do, but you aren’t bound to your task,” said Mother Barnaba. “Do you want to make yourself—”

  “I have an obligation,” deSteny repeated as the trumpets sounded the end of the procession.

  How the Players

  wrought their Craft

  “BE you Angel or Devil?” the Red Friar demanded of Scarlet, who was robed like a bishop but in a dark—red chasuble that had spiking flames painted on it. The Red Friar gestured dramatically as he had been directed to do, his upper-face mask giving him a perpetual appearance of curious innocence. He strove to remember his next line.

  “I am a gentleman,” Scarlet intoned, reverencing the Red Friar as he doffed his plumed hat, at odds with his ecclesiastical garb. His mask covered all his face but his mouth, and was made to have a look of beneficence and hauteur at once.

  The crowd hooted and bellowed at Scarlet, pointing at the little stage on the side of the wagon. A small group of men called to companions to join them for the performance, and the crowd began to swell. Four torches provided unsteady illumination as the evening faded to dusk. A few of the youngsters in the audience whistled their derision.

  “That may be honor or disgrace,” the Red Friar exclaimed.

  “Then you may tell me which,” said Scarlet, and again made a flourish with the broad hem of his garments.

  “How am I to comprehend? In what wise shall I know which you are?” The Red Friar began to back away from Scarlet, but the stage only allowed him three steps retreat. He pretended to cower there as Scarlet strode to the center of the stage, an arms-length from the nearest audience members.

  “You shall know by my deeds and the things I reveal to you.” He held up his arms. “Behold what I show, and judge for yourself.”

  At this signal the curtain behind him rose, revealing a private room in w
hich all the props were painted yellow for gold, and Hood, swathed in shining fabric, reclined on a luxurious couch, a huge turban on his head. His half—mask covered his upper face, showing a perpetual look of debauchery and corruption. He drank red liquid from a yellow cup studded with colored glass to simulate jewels, and he summoned a somnambulistic Alan to play for him upon his harp. Alan wore no mask, but his face was as set as if he did, a blank, expressionless visage that a statue might envy.

  “Good minstrel, sing to me of the days long past, sing of that time when Adam still dwelled in Paradise.” He lolled back on his couch, his turban almost brushing the painted curtain behind him.

  “That I will, Great Sultan,” said Alan without any inflection. He struck a chord on his harp and began:

  “When Adam lay in Eden, Paradise on Earth,

  He knew no want, nor lack, nor pain

  Of all delights there was no dearth.

  This will not come again.

  When Adam ruled in Eden, how fortunate was he!

  All animals were his scancion, honored him as lord

  But for the subtle Serpent in the Tree

  All was in true accord.

  When Adam sinned in Eden, that was Adam’s Fall,

  Swayed by Eve, in error grave, the apple ate he

  And through that sin, did Man lose all

  Wherefore we cry ‘Mercy.’ ”

  Alan paid little attention to the whoops of approval that greeted his song. He continued to stare at Hood.

  “Well-a-day,” said Hood when he could be heard. “That so little a lapse could bring such catastrophe upon mankind.”

  “Even so,” said Alan after a brief pause. “Mercy!” The two froze in place.

  On the front part of the stage, Scarlet made another gesture and said to the Red Friar. “What think you, good monk? Do you see virtue or vice in this?”