Trouble in the Forest Book Two

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Sir Maynard cocked his head. “Do you suppose you will have safe passage? There are many dangers in Sherwood other than those Hood provides.”

  “I don’t know. I would hope I will,” said deSteny as he gathered up the reins and pulled the mare around to face the trail leading into the depths of Sherwood.

  “Where are you bound?” Sir Maynard called after him.

  “I am searching,” said deSteny a bit obscurely.

  “For what? If you tell me, perhaps I can point you in the right direction.” He was coming after the Sheriff, using his staff to help him move more speedily.

  DeSteny pulled his mare to a halt. “Perhaps you can at that.” He made sure he had Sir Maynard’s full attention. “I seek those called the Old Ones. Do you know them, or where they can be found?”

  Sir Maynard stopped still, his short leather cape flapping around him in the wind. “They have all but vanished, if you mean the ancient undead who used to roam here. Why would you want to find them?”

  “That is my concern. Suffice it to say that I do,” said deSteny. “Do you know aught of them?”

  “No, not I—I have not seen any of them for more than two years, nor heard more than whispers about them,” Sir Maynard told him, regret in his eyes. “I wish I had other news for you. Their loss is a dreadful sign, I fear.”

  “I have heard much the same from others, that the Old Ones are gone,” said deSteny with a resigned sigh. “No warder or traveler has said anything about them since Hood brought his band into the forest.”

  “But,” Sir Maynard went on after a moment, “I have been told by certain denizens of Sherwood that some of the Old Ones are in the barrows deep in the forest, where the first Lords of Britain lie buried.”

  DeSteny considered this information. “Do you think it’s true?”

  “I know the barrows are real. As to the rest, who can say?” Sir Maynard bowed his head. “It is sacred, that earth, whatever reposes in it.”

  “You speak truth,” deSteny said. “I’ll bear that in mind, and thank you for it.”

  “May it help you in your search.” Sir Maynard turned away. “God guide and protect you.”

  “Keep safe,” deSteny replied as he started his sorrel mare moving once more, leaving the old man behind. He kept his eyes to the front, and wondered who the old man actually was. Perhaps, when this was over, he would inquire about Sir Maynard deCoverleigh, to find out if he existed at all. He knew that wandering madmen often took fancies of greatness about themselves, and represented their plight as punishment. Thinking back over the many reports Chilton had given him over the years, deSteny decided to look for the barrows Sir Maynard had mentioned. He knew he would have to be cautious in his approach to the barrows, for they were held in awe by most woodmen and crofters, and they would look askance on anyone defiling them. He felt a quiver in his belly as he made up his mind, and that startled him. It had been many years since he had experienced that flutter of uncertainty—he hoped it augured well for his task.

  It was late afternoon when he reached the Priory of Saint Edmund the Hospitaler, a small, thick-walled establishment well off the main tracks through the forest. The Premostratensian Brothers whose priory it was, were busy in their weavery, their looms clicking and clattering as they labored at making woolen cloth.

  The Prior, a former soldier of middle years who lacked an ear and two fingers, came into the courtyard to welcome deSteny, saying, “Sheriff, how good to have your company. It has been many months since you ventured here; I’m pleased to see you again. Let our tertiaries attend to your horse, and you, come with me to the reception hall.”

  “That I will,” said deSteny, handing the reins to a young lay brother. “And gladly.”

  Prior Matthias indicated the narrow doorway on his left. “In there, if you will. You remember the way. I’ll have some mead brought to us, and bread.” He signaled to a young monk, who nodded and hurried off.

  “That would be most appreciated. I have had a long day in the saddle, and I am growing heartily tired of yellow cheese.” He stretched as he walked, feeling his tired muscles loosen. “How have you fared?”

  “I’d rather be facing the Hashasheen in Antioch again than what we have had to endure here in Sherwood,” Prior Matthias said bluntly. “I know you have been busy, trying to thwart the forces of unliving fiends. Those creatures that Hood commands have been much trouble to us. They have killed three of the Brothers here and they have stopped many of our usual travelers from venturing onto the roads.”

  “You have had few donations, then?” deSteny asked as he entered the corridor leading to the reception hall.

  Prior Matthias shook his head. “It’s been difficult. Travel through the forest has fallen off, and those who try the roads do so in the company of soldiers and sleep in fortresses. No mercer has come to buy our cloth, and the one attempt we have made to carry our own goods, we were set upon, and had to fight our way back to this priory.” He raised an eyebrow. “We could have used Father Hugh with us then.”

  “No, not any longer,” said deSteny. “You might do well with this Sheriff, however.”

  The reception hall was not large, and three small, high windows provided very little light. A dozen oil lamps were burning, their brightness making the white-washed walls look dingy with shadow. A long, upholstered bench stood before the fireplace, which, just now, held the embers of a stout log. “Any way we could have had your sword we would have thanked God for,” said Prior Matthias as he indicated the bench. “Be at ease, Sheriff.”

  “I will,” said deSteny, sinking down onto the far end of the bench while Prior Matthias put another log on the smoldering coals.

  DeSteny settled into place, and smiled slightly as Prior Matthias sat on the other end of the bench. “How are you, old comrade?”

  “I am as well as a man of forty-two may be.” He coughed tentatively. “God be thanked, I am not dead yet.”

  “If that is something to be thankful for in such times as these,” said deSteny drily. “Long life may be as much a curse as a short one.”

  “Oh, I think it is a gift deserving thanks. I think it must be,” said Prior Matthias. He rubbed his hands as the first new flame appeared on the section of log. “I am sound as I may be at this time of my life, and that is another thing to be grateful for: unlike many another, I am not stricken in limb, or in senses. I see well enough. I have most of my teeth. My guts are in good order.”

  “Then you do well,” said deSteny.

  “You seem hale,” Prior Matthias said, a tinge of a question in his observation.

  “If it weren’t for the trouble here in Sherwood, I would be so. But I am somewhat younger than you.” DeSteny cleared his throat, and began carefully, “There’s something I would like to discuss with you. A strange incident. As I came here, I encountered an odd fellow—a solitary wanderer in leather clothing calling himself Sir Maynard deCoverleigh. He claimed to have been one of King Richard’s men who is seeking to expiate his sins by living alone in the forest. Do you know anything about him?”

  Prior Matthias looked surprised. “Sir Maynard? You saw him? I thought he was long dead. I was sure the vampires had claimed him. Well, well, it is pleasant to have news of him, and I thank you for it.”

  “Then what he told me is true?” DeSteny was startled to learn this. “How does he come to be here? Tell me all you know about him.”

  “For the most part, yes, what he told you is true. The old soldier did go with King Richard to the Holy Land, a short while after we did, and while he was there, he was given to excesses of which the King did not approve. Many another have done the same, but you know how arbitrary Richard can be. I was told by Godefroy Montroyale that Sir Maynard used to serve as the King’s envoy and deputy, which is always a difficult position with the King, Richard being jealous of his authority and misliking
extending it to anyone. We all saw how he conducted himself with such men, and you know how often such men fell suddenly from favor. Sir Maynard was no exception, but for the fact that he held his post longer than many have, which demonstrated the depths of his loyalty to everyone but Richard himself, who grew increasingly suspicious of him for his virtue.”

  Prior Matthias took a long, deep breath. “Eventually, and predictably, King Richard found an excuse to send him back to England, not quite in disgrace, but with orders to disappear from the world of men, to live apart from his fellows and to repent his sins in the world. So here he is, in Sherwood.”

  “Why wasn’t I told about him?” the Sheriff demanded.

  “You know how secretive King Richard can be, and how stringent his orders are,” said Prior Matthias.

  “None better,” said deSteny.

  “Being that he served King Richard directly, Sir Maynard was also in position to have to accommodate the Royal Will more than most.” Prior Matthias sighed. “I pray for Sir Maynard, and for the King.”

  “How did you learn so much?”

  The Prior shrugged. “I only know the story because Sir Maynard has taken shelter here from time to time, most recently last year when the winter is at its height, and there was a month of unusually hard weather. He was ill, and voluble.”

  “He told you this under the Seal of Confession?” deSteny asked, shocked.

  “Oh, no. That I must keep inviolate, of course. No, he talked a great deal during his recovery from his cough and fever, and I was one of the few who heard him. I kept all but two Brothers out of his cell once I understood the import of his words.”

  “Why have you told me nothing about him if you knew so much about him?” deSteny inquired with less heat than before.

  “Because you haven’t called here since then, and because of what I know of his penance: he is required to stay away from men or forfeit his redemption. I have no wish to compromise his pursuit of penitence, so I have kept his visits to myself.” He stopped as a soft knock sounded on the inner door of the reception hall. “Come in.”

  The young monk from the courtyard entered bearing a tray on which stood two stoneware tankards filled with hot mead, a tub of fresh-churned butter, and a loaf of bread still warm from the oven. “As you asked, Prior,” he said as he put the tray on the bench between Prior Matthias and the Sheriff.

  “You’ve done well,” said Prior Matthias.

  The young monk’s cheeks grew ruddy, and he looked about in confusion. “Is there anything more?” he was able to ask when he had regained his composure. “I am here to be of service.”

  “Then you may depart: we can be left alone until I summon you again; it is well that the Sheriff and I keep our counsel privily,” said Prior Matthias. “You may eat with the rest of the priory, and attend to your duties in chapel. We will fend for ourselves now, and thank you for bringing us this good nourishment. Now go—do what you can for Brother Gerold. He needs you.” He blessed the lad before sending him out of the room.

  DeSteny accepted the tankard of hot mead, and, after a long draught, he said, “Is there anything else you’ve kept to yourself that perhaps I should know?”

  “I have no notion,” said Prior Matthias with every sign of indifference. “Perhaps you will tell me why are you here?”

  “It’s rather complicated: I am hoping to find the Old Ones, to request their help in ridding Sherwood of all of Hood’s band.” DeSteny spoke more bluntly than he had intended, and saw that he had jolted Prior Matthias.

  “The Old Ones!” Prior Matthias expostulated. “Saints guard me!”

  “I hope they may,” said deSteny, and proceeded to outline the desperate plan he, Prince John, Sir Lambert, and Mother Barnaba had settled on, all the while watching Prior Matthias to gauge the old soldier’s response to their designs. The warmth of the mead provided the semblance of comfort as he spoke, and he paid close attention to everything Prior Matthias said, knowing his observations could be crucial to his success.

  What the Old Ones Said

  MAKING his way through the tangled undergrowth, deSteny hoped for the hundredth time that he was not on a fool’s errand. It was mid-afternoon and the weather was once more turning nasty, the day already sunk in the shadows of clouds above the trees. The Sheriff found himself humming the lament Merry It Is that decried the loss of the sweet, abundant summer and bemoaned the coming of harsh winter. His mare put back her ears in curiosity, not temper, and continued to push through the forest, her hooves sounding loudly in their isolation.

  The ground grew boggy, and deSteny dismounted so he could more safely pick his way along the path. He took great care to guide his horse, for he had no wish to lose her in this dangerous place. Near sunset he came upon the barrows, and wondered what was best to do—search for a hiding place for the night, or complete his errand and take his chances in the forest after dark? He decided to make the most of the opportunity, and went up to the nearest barrow. It was the longest and largest. His flesh seemed to creep on his bones as he made himself call out, “Old Ones! Old Ones!”

  Aylmer deGlisson finally answered this summons, shambling out of the dark mouth of the barrow to face the intruder. “Who calls?” he demanded.

  “Hugh deSteny,” he answered. “I am come to seek the Old Ones.”

  “Why?” deGlisson snarled. His scholar’s robes were filled with burrs and twigs, and the seams were giving way. His beard and hair had grown and were as snarled as the underbrush. He looked more like a wild man than the esteemed teacher he had once been.

  “I hope we may be able to work together to our mutual benefit,” said deSteny, keeping a close guard on his demeanor.

  “How can you benefit the Old Ones?” DeGlisson stepped out into the fading light, his eyes shaded with his hands.

  “I think it may be possible to restore them to power,” said deSteny carefully.

  “How? Are you planning to let them drain a company of stalwart knights? Or give them a fat Bishop or two? Or had you something else in mind?” deGlisson asked with a sneer. “The others were drained by Hood already and are hardly more than wraiths.”

  “How do you mean?” deSteny wanted to know.

  “I mean the Old Ones are insubstantial as gossamer, and have lost much of their bodies to the aetheric realms. They are wisps, like smoke or fog glimpsed in twilight, and they no longer belong to this world.” DeGlisson put his hands on his belt as if he expected deSteny to argue these points with him. “If you thought they were capable of fighting Hood, you have erred. They can hardly dispute amongst one another.”

  “Have they any strength left?” deSteny asked, his head angled so that his chin led his features.

  “Almost none. They are worse than the most aged and infirm of living men, with bodies like cobwebs and their senses attenuated beyond anything you can imagine. They exist between two worlds, and can thrive in neither of them,” said deGlisson, sounding sympathetic and resentful at once. “If we scholars did not attend them, they might well waste away to less than ghosts. As it is, they are fading on us.”

  “And what do you do that nourishes them?” The Sheriff fought his rising dismay with a stern look.

  “We bring them small animals to feed on—rabbits, birds, sometimes foxes, or a stray goat. We talk to them, asking them to recall all their years in Sherwood. They have much they can tell, when they can remember things.” He sighed. “But they remember less and less as time goes by. Soon, when all that is gone, they will be truly lost to us.”

  DeSteny looked away, his shoulders beginning to sag. “Then they have no wish to reclaim their place.”

  “They might have had, once. Now, I don’t think they do, and I doubt that they could, if they wished it,” said deGlisson. He leaned back against the rise of the barrow. “Still, it would please them to know you thought they might.�
��

  “How do you mean?” DeSteny was surprised by this apparent change of heart.

  “I mean that if you wish to speak to them, I will not prevent you,” said deGlisson, moving just enough to give deSteny access to the entry to the barrow. “There are four chambers within. If you stand in the center corridor, they can hear you. They may even answer you.”

  “Why have you decided this?” deSteny asked, growing suspicious.

  “Because my fate is tied to theirs, and if they are freed from this tomb, I, and the other scholars, will be, too. You cannot know how devoutly I long for that release.” He bowed ironically. “Most of us are tired of our earthen cloister.”

  “How many of you are there left here with them?” DeSteny paused in the entrance to the barrow.

  “Our guide, Royce, and Renard Widley serve as our guards, although Widley is not much in our company, preferring to range the forest, more a feral creature than a man. He says it is out of shame, but I think he dislikes being enclosed in earth. Maeslen and Penrod Lugenis have remained here, except for occasional excursions with Hood. Maeslen is not in favor with Hood just now, and so he keeps to the barrow most of the time.”

  “And you have learned from the Old Ones?” the Sheriff inquired.

  “About many things.” DeGlisson stared hard at deSteny.

  “What manner of things?”

  “About the standing stones. The Romans didn’t raise them, nor Merlin, nor the Devil, no matter what you may hear,” said deGlisson with satisfaction. “They are much older than anyone thinks, and the people who set them in place are vanished. For all of us living, the folk of the stones are less than legends, but not for the Old Ones. They hark back to the most ancient times. The Old Ones saw them when the circles were wooden and not stone, when the Old Ones themselves held sway in the land.” He was boasting now, showing off his knowledge.