Trouble in the Forest Book Two

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Morrain shall go fetch him, and that will serve as a signal to all,” said Scarlet, knowing it would be a dreadful gaffe to ask a man of Sir Garland’s rank to summon a mere harper. “We will begin as soon as he joins us.” He ducked his head and remained so until Sir Garland retreated; then he said to Morrain, “Go get Alan. He’s at the end of the High Table. Tell him it’s time.”

  Hood folded his arms and smiled. “They will be ours. Just remember: the Prince is mine. None of you may touch him but me.”

  The men nodded, and there was a soft chorus of compliance. Marian only smiled. “I will have Sir Gui.”

  “That you may,” said Hood, adjusting the gold-painted wooden crown on his head. “It is fitting that you should have him, after all. He is pledged to marry you still, isn’t he?”

  “Here comes Alan,” said Scarlet, peering through the break in the curtain.

  “Good. He will need to change his hat before going out onto the platform,” said the Red Friar, picking up the soft cap in red silk that returning Crusaders often wore.

  As if in response to these instructions, Alan came up the steps to the narrow backstage area and murmured, “Is it time?”

  “It is,” said Hood as the Red Friar handed him his cap. “I’m ready,” said Alan as he adjusted the cap and pulled at his tunic one last time before lifting his harp.

  “Then let us begin,” said Hood.

  How the Eve of All Saints Ended

  ALAN was half-way through his opening verses before the jabber and exclamation of all the guests in the Great Hall grew quiet enough for everyone to hear, and he sang more loudly, demanding greater notice from those on the benches. Gradually all attention turned to the young harper on the platform, and his song.

  “... for the love of Sir Balzidor

  Did her father’s house forsake

  And herself an eunuch make

  So that she may her own true love adore

  For his own sweet sake!

  Falatima in her mannish garb did find

  Sir Balzidor and offered him herself as squire

  To do whatever he needs must require

  From comfort to what the heat of fray inclined.

  So faithfully Falatima wrought

  To serve the man whom she had sought

  In every wise—in body, in her soul and mind

  And for complaint of him she loved had naught.”

  “I know this tune,” Sir Gui said softly to Prince John.

  “Half of England knows this tune,” said Prince John as he watched the stage. “The story is familiar.”

  “He’s improving, the harper,” said Sir Gui, a bit more loudly.

  Prince John held up his hand to silence his host. “The curtains are opening.”

  Marian, in her Saracen finery, stood with the Red Friar in front of a painted cloth that was supposed to represent the Palace of the Sultan, with pointed towers and gleaming domes. She reached up imploringly and laid her hands on his shoulders. “My revered father, I beseech you. Surely you cannot deny me.”

  “Falatima, favorite of all my children,” the Red Friar intoned, “you have displeased me. Your wayward will is set against mine, and your ingratitude is gall to me. Better I had nurtured asps and scorpions than an undutiful daughter.”

  “No, no. I am not such. I proclaim my love of you here and will do so for all the world to know. But Sir Balzidor has lit a fire within me, and I am bound to follow the urging of my heart.”

  “Foolish wench, to believe such twaddle. Your Christian knight is false, and his promises worse than deception. You have listened too much to the men of the West, who lure girls from their duty and fill their thoughts with lovely lies.”

  DeSteny gave very little attention to this performance; his own experience in the Holy Land made him uneasily aware of how far from the truth this little drama was. He had seen how the daughters of Saracen nobles were treated—worse than chattel, worse than the daughters of poor crofters in the harshest part of England—and knew that no Sultan would permit any child to question his will. He put his elbows on the table and faced the stage, his eyes distant by leagues and years; the fine softness of wine made his memories bearable.

  The second scene shifted—thanks to Ramsay’s skill—to the Crusaders’ camp, where Sir Balzidor was having essentially the same conflict with the King of the West that Falatima had had with the Sultan. Sir Balzidor professed himself completely in the thrall of the Sultan’s daughter and ready to throw over all restraints put upon him to be with his beloved. The King of the West refused to allow it, saying that Sir Balzidor must spend more time fighting for his faith than pursuing Saracen maidens. Sir Balzidor, reminded of his oaths, consented with a broken heart to do what his liege Lord ordered him to do.

  The scene shifted again to the plain of battle, where Sir Balzidor was preparing to ride against the soldiers of the Sultan. He was surprised when a eunuch calling himself Faladil presented himself as a servant to the knight, vowing to tend to him in every way. Sir Balzidor agreed to give Faladil the chance to show his worth, and went off to battle, leaving Falatima to explain her strategy to the audience. Sir Balzidor returned shortly, having been wounded and needing help, which Faladil gave him, vowing to nurse him back to health.

  As the curtain closed, Alan came to sing the next summary of the action in the next act. There was rustling and some activity in the audience during his recitation, but the greatest activity was behind the curtain as the vampires prepared for their most crucial scene, which would come at the end of the act.

  “Are you ready?” the Red Friar whispered urgently as he prepared to open the curtain.

  “Yes,” said Hood in avid determination.

  Offered more hot wine, deSteny refused, and thanked the page. In spite of himself, he was being drawn into this absurd drama.

  The play went on, Sir Balzidor recovered and was ordered by the King of the West to return to Europe and marry his sister, but before he could depart, a challenge was brought by the Sultan’s messenger, challenging the King of the West to a contest of champions to culminate in an archery competition. The King of the West ordered Sir Balzidor to remain and fight as his champion. Faladil warned Sir Balzidor about the coming trial and pleaded with him to refuse to fight, since his wounds were only recently mended. The moment was as tender as any in the play, but some quality of Sir Balzidor gave a hint of menace even as he professed himself much moved by Faladil’s concern for his safety; he said he must honor his word. The King of the West met the Sultan of the East and the contest began, Sir Balzidor triumphing twice, the Sultan’s champion doing the same. Only the archery contest remained, and it would decide the victor. Both the Sultan and the King were increasingly uneasy, each fearing he had entered a trap, and each confided his fears to the audience before addressing each other.

  “Then archery must decide,” the Red Friar declared. “Summon the champions again and let them test their skills.”

  “And may the right prevail,” Hood proclaimed as the archery butt was moved into position.

  Morrain, now in the enveloping garb of the Sultan’s champion, strode onto the edge of the stage and carefully fixed his arrow to the wire that would guide it into place. Then he drew and let fly. The arrow sank into the center of the target to the general applause of the audience.

  “Nicely done,” whispered Sir Gui. “A good device!”

  Prince John nodded.

  From his place at the end of the High Table, deSteny found himself staring at the eunuch Faladil; there was something familiar about the face under the half-mask, something that reminded him of the journey from Arundel, with Sir Gui’s affianced bride, something that wakened chagrin and an overwhelming sense of ignominy. He began to rise in his seat. “Marian deBeauchamp,” he said, hardly above a whisper, so outrageous was the impl
ication of his recognition.

  On the stage Scarlet took up his position a little further back than Morrain had stood, and fixed his arrow on the wire as he prepared to fire it. The arrow cut the Sultan’s champion’s arrow in half, and cheers erupted in the Great Hall. Scarlet drew another arrow, swung around, and shot directly at Bishop Tilton, hitting him squarely in the chest. He fired a second, and this time caught the Bishop in the throat as howling confusion spread through the Great Hall.

  The players seized their daggers and turned on the audience, flinging themselves on the panicky, drunken crowd, carving their way through the benches as they made for the High Table where the Bishop had fallen forward and now lay twitching while Sir Gui shrieked and others tried to find their way off the dais.

  It took deSteny a moment to realize what was happening, the brazen enormity of the plan almost taking his breath away. “It is you!” he exclaimed, recognition coming over him as dazzling as sudden sunlight. As soon as he knew what, and whom he faced, he shoved himself out of his chair and pushed his way to the Bishop’s side, and pulled the large pectoral cross from around his neck, holding this up to stop the advancing vampires. “Apage, Satanas!” he shouted as Marian fastened on Sir Gui and, despite his screams and imprecations, dragged him over the table and down onto the floor. “Thou soulless creature! Away!”

  She flinched at this order, but she continued to hold her prize, worrying at his throat.

  Prince John was standing up now, his ceremonial sword drawn. “I wish I had something better to fight with! This has no temper for more than bread,” he said to deSteny as he took up his position beside the Sheriff. “We must make sure these dreadful beings don’t get any more of these men.”

  “Don’t try to chase them. They’ll have you if you do; they’re stronger than mortal men and their appetites are boundless,” deSteny warned, remembering what he had seen in the Holy Land.

  “They are so few,” Prince John marveled.

  Marian slung Sir Gui over her shoulder and reached for another knight who was doing his drunken, befuddled best to escape her.

  “They are sufficient to kill half the men in this room.” DeSteny glared at the nearest vampire—the Red Friar—and swung the crucifix toward him. “You shall not!”

  The Red Friar snarled and drew back, then turned abruptly and took hold of Sir Olvan, knocked him in the head, and dragged him away as a bear might drag a pig. He plunged into the chaos of the long tables and benches and became lost in the confusion.

  “What of the Guards?” Prince John asked, trying to rouse Sir Humphrey from the stupefaction that had taken hold of him. “Where are they? Why haven’t they come to defend us?”

  “I ... I don’t know,” he said distantly, shaking his head slowly.

  “Summon them!” The Prince ordered.

  Sir Humphrey stared at the growing turmoil in front of them. “How?”

  “They have played us as if we were nothing more than infants,” said deSteny, reaching for his missing sword.

  “They’re killing—” exclaimed Sir Humphrey. He started to climb over the table, but Prince John held him back.

  “No; you’re needed. Don’t throw yourself away on fruitless attacks.” He ducked as the leg of a chair sailed toward them; it struck Sir Humphrey on the neck, and he howled as he fell back onto the dais.

  Scarlet had grabbed Sir Ninan and another knight—Sir Rufus—and was pulling them across the floor toward the door with terrifying ease. He stopped from time to time to thrust his dagger into anyone impeding his path. Once he bent to drink from a welling wound he had just inflicted, but otherwise he continued on, unimpeded. Ahead of him, Marian, with her prize of Sir Gui and the second knight, was already at the main doors, ready to leave. She was laughing as Sir Gui’s blood ran down her face and over her ruined costume.

  Alan and Morrain were cutting their way through the crowd, using short-handled axes to clear a path toward the door. Since the guests had not worn their swords—this being a holy feast with the Prince present—they were reduced to trying to fight with their fists and anything they could throw. Tankards, stools, platters, bits of carcasses—all flew toward the vampires. Some struck but none did damage as the confusion and carnage increased, blood mixing with spilled wine and abandoned food.

  Suddenly Hood loomed up over the High Table, his baleful red eyes fixed on Prince John. “A fine reward for our playing,” he said, and reached out, his face fixed in an atavistic grin. An instant later, he drew back, his hands burnt where deSteny had blocked them with the cross. With an outraged wail, he hesitated, fury and bafflement taking possession of him. “You! Vile! You’re a priest!” he accused.

  “Not a very good one,” said deSteny, “but enough for this.”

  Hood lifted his head and keened. “You will regret your interference,” he promised as he turned away and reached for the nearest dinner-guest, savaged his neck, and slung the limp man across his shoulder as he made for the door.

  “Find me a weapon,” Prince John bellowed, preparing to go after the fleeing vampires.

  “There is only this crucifix,” said deSteny. “Nothing else is strong enough to halt them. No blade is proof against them, unless you are able to strike off their heads in a single blow, and for that you need an axe, not a sword.” He continued to hold the cross up, and in a loud voice, began reciting the Benedictus, the words coming slowly for long disuse.

  Hood screamed in frustration and wrath, then leaped down from the table. He grabbed two soldiers and slammed their heads together, then bore away his trophies, keening like a great wolf hunting.

  “—in nomine Domi—” deSteny intoned, the crucifix held so tightly that his hands ached.

  “Is it safe to chase them?” Prince John asked, his tone doubtful.

  “I don’t think so,” said deSteny, ashamed of his own fear. “Not unprepared. No doubt they’ve set a trap for those reckless enough to follow.”

  “Will the Guard stop them?” the Prince asked.

  “I wouldn’t think so,” deSteny said, making the sign of the cross over the fallen Bishop. “May this soul enter the gates of Heaven unscathed by these fiends.”

  “Do you believe he will?” Prince John sank down in his chair again as the full impact of what had just transpired was borne in on him.

  “Enter the gates of Heaven?” deSteny asked. “Who knows?”

  “But you pray for it,” said Prince John, lacing his hands together to keep them from shaking.

  Oaths and moans filled the Great Hall as the doors banged closed, shutting the chaos within. Two-dozen men, injured and deeply appalled, wandered about the long tables, many nursing serious wounds, the rest caught in a rapture of fear. Sir Humphrey, still dazed, was trying to get to his feet, one arm waving ineffectually in the air as he strove to regain his balance.

  “I say words,” deSteny told Prince John. “If they have any merit, then I am grateful for it.”

  From outside came a ragged blare of trumpets, warning that the enemy was at hand. DeSteny shook his head. “A little late, I should think.”

  “And the enemy is leaving,” said Prince John. “Thank God fasting.”

  “At least the town may be warned,” said deSteny, as he bent to help Sir Humphrey to rise. “Don’t move too quickly. You’re still dizzy.”

  Sir Humphrey bent at the waist and struggled to right himself. “What are ... did they hurt ...” He sat down abruptly and heavily.

  “Have a draught of wine,” Prince John recommended, and stared at Bishop Tilton’s body. “His monks must come for him. This is a great loss to this city.”

  “And he is the least of it,” said deSteny. “The very least of it.”

  Prince John nodded. “Unfortunately,” he agreed.

  What Mother Barnaba Saw

  MORE than fifty monks swarmed in the
Great Hall, some tending to the injured, some laying out the dead, a few keeping watch over the Bishop, praying for the protection of his soul. The night was more than half over, and the Vigil prayers had been recited amid the carnage, and now the monks sought the protection of Heaven as they continued their grisly tasks.

  DeSteny divided his attention between the monks and the Guards who had the office of identifying and tending the dead. Most of the guests who had been spared in the ruinous attack had left the Great Hall—some to their beds, some to the chapel—but Prince John still remained to lend his assistance to Sir Humphrey’s men.

  “What about the women in the gallery?” deSteny asked Sir Humphrey, who was still nursing his aching head.

  “What about them?” Sir Humphrey was truculent.

  “Who has seen to them?” DeSteny looked up toward the grille that marked the dining area of the women.

  “I don’t know,” said Sir Humphrey. “Perhaps no one.”

  With a nod deSteny went to the small door that opened on the narrow flight that led up to the gallery. He stepped onto the stairs and began to climb, trying to prepare himself for what he was likely to encounter in the gallery. “This is the Sheriff coming,” he called to reassure the women.

  “For that may God be thanked,” said Mother Barnaba. “These women are in need of help. They all feared they were forgotten and that they would be attacked.”

  DeSteny was almost at the top of the stairs. “Is it fitting that I should—”

  “By all the Saints, yes,” said Mother Barnaba exclaimed. “And send for the maidservants to help these women.”

  As he stepped into the screened gallery, deSteny saw Mother Barnaba leaning over a sweet-faced young woman in a swoon. Other women knelt and prayed, while three had taken up knives and stools to fend off any attacker.