Trouble in the Forest Book Two

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Is it a low place?” Sir Gui asked, his nose wrinkling fastidiously. He raised his hand to shield his face from the rain.

  “Not as low as some,” said Sir Garland. “But it is near the Fair, not crowded just now, and the taproom is said to have fine cider. It’s a pleasant place to shelter for an hour.”

  “Ah. Well, as it is Fair-days, we’ll do it,” said Sir Gui, and started in the direction that Sir Garland pointed.

  “There are players at the Spotted Horse,” Sir Garland warned belatedly. “You may not want to deal with them.”

  “They will not bother us. They know their place,” said Sir Gui with so much certainty that Sir Garland blinked.

  “Are you sure?” Sir Garland sounded a bit amused. “Might they not see your presence as an opportunity they will seek to exploit? Your good opinion would enhance their reception in other places, and they must know this.”

  “Of course. The people of Nottingham know the limits, and players as well. Unless I summon them, they will keep their distance; you need not fear importunity. They will not encroach upon their betters.” He stood under the sign of the Spotted Horse and reached for the taproom door. “Cider, do you say?”

  “So I was told,” said Sir Garland. “This is your town. If you have other information, it must be—”

  The interior was dark, the fire providing almost as much smoke as heat. There was a lean, young minstrel sitting in the inglenook, away from the window, plucking idly on his harp and muttering lyrics under his breath, and a workman stepped out of the taproom, leaving it to the two men of rank.

  Sir Gui stepped up to the bar. “Landlord! Cider! Two tankards!”

  The landlord appeared, his leather apron smirched with spots of blood and grease. “You want cider? You can wait a while for me to draw it.” As he realized whom he was to entertain, he doubled over. “My lord. My lord. You are right welcome here—an honor to this house to have you. The rain will be heavier in a short while, and you are right welcome to stay here until the skies clear. The best seats are in front of the fire. You will do me honor to take them, and take your ease. I will keep everyone else away, no matter who comes.” As he spoke, he dipped two tankards into the barrel under the high counter and offered them to Sir Gui. “A brass cinqfoil for both.”

  Sir Gui tossed him a cinqfoil and a penny for his trouble. “That’s good of you, landlord. We want a calm place and a little time to ourselves.”

  The landlord doubled over again. “Do you want the minstrel to leave? I’ll send him out of the taproom if you like.”

  After considering the matter for a long moment, he said, “No, I don’t think do. If he becomes a nuisance, we’ll send him off.” He carried the tankards to the bench in front of the fire and held one out to Sir Garland. “I haven’t been a page for fifteen years, but I remember the gist of it.”

  “Very gracious of you, Sir Gui,” said Sir Garland as he took the tankard and took a long, slow sip.

  Hearing the name, Alan-a-Dale looked up from his harp, astonished and alarmed that Sir Gui should be in the Spotted Horse; he supposed Ramsay had gone to warn Scarlet of this development, but he could think of no un obvious way to warn Hood. He covered the moment by working one of the tuning pegs with such determination that the string moaned in protest. Then he began to pick out the melody of The Saracen’s Downfall.

  Sir Garland tasted the cider. “Very good. Berries and apples together.”

  “And with enough virtue that two tankards might send a man silly. It gives warmth and strength,” Sir Gui approved.

  “Country cider—there’s nothing like it. You know how they make it, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for Sir Gui’s answer, but forged ahead. “All through the winter the barrels are left out without lids, and in the night the juice freezes. In the morning, the ice is removed. So the cider obtains a forceful virtue by the spring thaw,” said Sir Garland, who had often watched the Warwickshire orchardmen strengthen their cider in this manner.

  “Well, it is powerful, however they do it,” said Sir Gui, and turned to Alan. “Leave off playing, fellow.”

  Alan sighed and obeyed. “Tell me if you want music again.”

  “No, never mind,” said Sir Gui. “Go away.” He ignored the minstrel, and gave his attention to Sir Garland. “Jousting is a fine exercise, even the preliminary jousting. I trust the rain won’t interfere with the contests.”

  Glad of this excuse to leave, Alan picked up his harp and left the taproom, going toward the room behind the bar where he knew Marian and Hood were resting for the day. He did his best not to hurry, but he could not conceal how anxious he was. He closed the door and leaned against it as if to ensure privacy, and he felt himself trembling. When he had calmed down enough to be steady again, he went to the nearest cot and leaned over, speaking in a low voice to Hood. “Sir Gui and one of his courtiers are in the taproom.”

  Hood stirred, and slowly opened his red eyes. “Sir Gui? Here?”

  “And another courtier. I don’t recognize him.” Under that baleful stare, Alan began to shudder again. “They’re drinking cider.”

  “Cider!” Hood spat. “What of soldiers? Are they guarded?”

  “Not that I can see,” said Alan as carefully as he could.

  “But they might be,” Hood guessed. “It would be like Sir Gui to leave his soldiers in the street while he slakes his thirst.”

  “Yes, it would,” said Alan.

  “So we cannot attack him here,” Hood went on, looking over to where Marian deBeauchamp was beginning to stir. “And she must not see him, nor he her, or not as she is. It would be—”

  “See what?” Marian asked as she strove to come awake.

  “Sir Gui,” said Alan before he realized that Hood didn’t want him to tell her.

  “You will answer for that,” Hood promised. “After the Fair. You spoke too quickly, and before I permitted.”

  Already pale, Alan went chalky, for he knew that this promise boded ill for him. “I ... I didn’t mean ...”

  Marian sat up. “Don’t chastise him, Robin,” said Marian, daring to address Hood more familiarly than any of the rest of his blood. “He is right to warn me.”

  “Where is Morrain?” Hood asked suddenly.

  “In the stable, with Scarlet,” said Alan. “Sleeping.”

  “Did Sir Gui bring the Guard?” Hood asked.

  “No, none that I saw. Ramsay has gone to the stable,” Alan reported, ducking his head in case Hood should be angry enough to cuff his ears.

  “I should decide what is right,” Hood grumbled, but was willing to accept her remark without argument. “I’ll want to talk to Morrain in a short while. How long is Sir Gui going to remain?”

  “Sir Gui? I don’t know,” Alan admitted.

  “Then it may mean nothing that he’s here,” said Hood.

  “I don’t like it,” said Marian.

  “Nor do I,” said Hood. “And we must make sure this doesn’t become a problem.” He looked around their room. “That mask—the Devil’s face, with the horns and the pointed ears—put that on, and the red cloak.”

  Marian smiled and hurried to do what Hood told her. As she enveloped herself in the long, red wool, she reached for the mask that would cover everything but her jaw. “Shall we rehearse?” she asked wickedly, enjoying the spirit of recklessness that possessed her.

  “That’s dangerous,” Alan told Hood, shaking as he spoke.

  “So much the better,” said Hood.

  “If you flout—” Alan began.

  “I will, with as much impunity as I can hold,” said Hood, his amusement edged in fury.

  “Sir Gui won’t like that,” Alan warned.

  “I surely hope so,” said Hood as he reached for the Death’s Head mask, his smile as ferocious as that of the skull.


  Alan winced. “He may have us thrown out of the inn.”

  “Well and good if he does,” said the red-eyed vampire as he took the long, Roman cape and drew up the hood. “It is better to be able to move about freely than to be confined as we have been.”

  “What of our comrades in the stable?” Alan asked.

  “They are safe where they are. We will have them remain there for now.” Hood gathered up the long-bladed scythe and prepared to go out of the room. He motioned to Marian to follow him. “Make sure your mask is tied beneath your chin. Let us begin with the tableau in The Sins of King Herod.”

  “Shall I speak low?” Marian made her voice as deep as she could.

  “No; sound like a boy—that will succeed, for your chin is smooth.” Hood flung open the door and strode out into the taproom.

  Marian came after him, adjusting the hang of her scarlet cloak so that it swirled around her like a malign cloud. “Where shall we stand?”

  The landlord looked mortified, and tried to hold them back by extending his arm. “There is Quality in the tap-room,” he hissed.

  “Then they shall see us practice our play,” said Hood as he pushed past the landlord’s arm, grandly exclaiming, “It is our hour to rehearse.”

  Sir Gui scowled. “You will have to wait, sirrah.”

  Hood ignored him, pointing to where he wanted Marian to stand. “Begin, lad.”

  Marian obeyed, taking care not to look directly at Sir Gui. “From: “What bargain do we make?”

  “That will do,” said Hood.

  “You will not intrude upon us,” Sir Gui said, his voice harsh.

  “It isn’t our intention,” said Hood. “But we must prepare.” He turned to Marian. “Go on.”

  Marian nodded. “What bargain do we make? What price do we put upon the King?”

  “The price of eternal infamy in exchange for riches and honors in his life,” said Hood in sepulchral tones.

  “How can this be done?” Marian demanded petulantly.

  “That is for you to devise, Father of Lies,” said Hood.

  “Stop!” Sir Gui ordered them.

  Marian glanced at Sir Gui but said nothing.

  “I tell you to leave,” Sir Gui commanded.

  The landlord bustled over. “You must not bother Sir Gui and his guest.”

  Sir Garland laughed. “They can practice their play in the stable, can they not?”

  “Yes!” the landlord exclaimed. “Go there, and say your lines.”

  “Go now,” said Sir Gui.

  Hood planted the scythe like a pike. “We have paid for the place to rehearse.”

  The landlord flapped his hands in dismay. “But you must not offend Sir Gui. The Sheriff will come and put you out of the town if you do.”

  Sir Garland had risen, prepared to force the players out of the taproom.

  “So he will,” Sir Gui confirmed. “Leave us, the both of you.”

  Flourishing his cape, Hood bowed. “If it pleases you, then what may we poor players do but comply?” He signaled to Marian. “Come, lad.”

  Marian turned abruptly and trod off toward the corridor to the stable-yard. She muttered something under her breath.

  “What did you say?” Sir Gui demanded.

  She stopped. “I said that the rain will damage our masks.”

  Sir Garland agreed with her. “Just so. Take them off and hold them under your garments. That should protect them.”

  “A good notion,” said Hood, and waved Marian away, striding after her, swinging the scythe like a walking-staff.

  “We’re well-rid of them,” said Sir Gui.

  “High-handed for players,” said Sir Garland as he sat down again.

  Sir Gui lifted his tankard. “They all take on airs. But they are gone.”

  “Good thing, too,” said Sir Garland.

  “Yes. It is,” said Sir Gui with immense satisfaction.

  How deSteny sought his Enemies

  “I KNOW the vampires are here,” Hugh deSteny said to Sir Humphrey, ignoring the rain as best he could. “Not simply because of the dead men you found last night.”

  “That is enough, isn’t it?” Sir Humphrey asked as he went through the castle gates and into the town beside deSteny. His spurs rang on the cobbles. “Their throats were savaged. That must be proof that Hood and his minions are at Nottingham, for we have no accounts of ravening wolves inside the town.”

  “Possibly not Hood, although it is likely. There are thieves, outlaws, and other scoundrels attending the Fair, desperate men who might do any kind of mayhem while they are inside our walls.” He wrapped his cloak more securely around him.

  “Do you believe that?” Sir Humphrey asked. “That common criminals killed them?”

  “No. But Sir Gui does.” DeSteny lengthened his stride and peered up at the sky. “This is going to clear off tonight.”

  “So I think,” Sir Humphrey agreed. “And what of Prince John—what does he say about the dead men?”

  “I haven’t discussed them with him.”

  “Were you planning to?” Sir Humphrey stopped still, looking over his shoulder at a group of men gathered around a players’ wagon where three men were beginning to make ready for the evening’s performance.

  “Of course. It is my duty to do so,” said deSteny, stopping to look at the players. “At least we have lively entertainment.”

  “In the rain?” Sir Humphrey ventured.

  “The players and jongleurs may have to come into a barn or some other shelter, but they are most useful to us at this time. Men sitting alone in taverns, drinking out of boredom, soon turn to mischief.” DeSteny managed a sharp smile. “I think it may be best to keep the Fair-goers amused. It will make our task easier.”

  “Because the people will be distracted,” Sir Humphrey guessed.

  “Yes, and they will not be inclined to mill about together, drunk and excitable.” DeSteny turned the corner, leaving the players behind him. “There are Austins coming from their monastery today. Your soldiers should give them free escort to Saint Veronica’s, beyond the walls.”

  “Why do friars need a military escort?” Sir Humphrey asked.

  “They are all former soldiers, coming to help us contain the vampires, and they will likely have to hold off Hood and his throng at least once during their stay.” The Sheriff pointed down a side-street. “Be sure your men patrol in pairs until the Austins arrive. Once they’re here, they’ll help the soldiers keep watch on the town.”

  “Oh, the men from Bethlehem Abbey.” Sir Humphrey sounded relieved. “They are most welcome. But they have traveled far.”

  “Prince John summoned them,” deSteny explained.

  “Did he?” Sir Humphrey was surprised. “Did you know he had done this?”

  “Not until yesterday evening, when he sent me a note to inform me of his decision,” said deSteny. “His Grace informed what he had done, and I thanked him for it. I am much consoled, knowing we needn’t face these beings without help. These Austins know what it is to battle these creatures, which is a great help to us all.” He stopped at a worn, metal-strapped door and used the side-bell to summon the housekeeper.

  “Surely you don’t think a brothel-master can help you?” Sir Humphrey exclaimed as he recognized the door.

  “I think that whores see and hear much more than they are credited with seeing and hearing. I am hoping one of these women might have stumbled upon information we can use.” He stopped talking as the door was opened by a man rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Is Alcott up yet?” deSteny asked levelly.

  “He is breaking his fast, with his household,” said the servant.

  “Then he will receive me,” said deSteny, and entered the house, motioning to Sir Humphrey to remain at the door. H
e climbed the narrow stairs quickly and entered the main room of the brothel without comment. “Where are they?”

  “The room above the kitchen,” said the servant, who had followed him.

  “And where is it?” asked deSteny.

  The servant pointed. “At the end of the corridor.” DeSteny went where the servant indicated and in thirty steps, he entered a square room that contained three tables. Alcott, the brothel-master, sat alone with his back to the fireplace at the shortest of them, and fourteen women in their shifts sat at the other two much longer ones. Three household slaves were busy bringing wheels of warm cheese to the women. “Alcott of Woodhurst,” he said.

  Alcott looked up from his plate and blinked. “Sheriff,” he said in a colorless voice. He had pale-hazel eyes that fixed on deSteny as a rabbit might fix on a snake. He stopped eating and waited to hear what deSteny might say.

  “You have no reason to fear me.” He glanced at the tables. “You have more women—because of the Fair?”

  “That, and it is the time of year when poor families sell their surplus daughters,” said Alcott.

  “So they won’t starve in the winter; I know this is the way of poor families,” said deSteny, glancing at the women. Five of them were nervous, trying to cover themselves and fidgeting unhappily—these were the newest of the whores. The rest were unimpressed, putting their attention on their food and only half-listening to what the Sheriff had to say.

  “That is what they tell me when I give them their gold angels,” said Alcott, still watching deSteny closely. “If they have other reasons to be rid of their daughters, it is nothing to me. I am no priest, to question them, nor lord, to claim the women by right.”

  “I don’t expect you to be more than what you are,” said deSteny, attempting to reassure the brothel-master.