Trouble in the Forest Book Two

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “He has much to do, Purcifer does, well beyond his usual duties,” said Sir Lambert vaguely, and then shook himself. “He should be waiting upon us here, not turning a spit in the kitchens.”

  “So I thought,” said Sir Humphrey. His wandering thoughts gained more cohesion as he got to his feet, where he swayed a little before taking a couple steps toward the kitchens. “Shall I go along and—”

  “No,” said Sir Lambert. “I will.” He levered himself out of his chair and went unsteadily toward the corridor Purcifer had just used. “A fine thing, that we should be so unprepared.” He tottered and almost fell as he took a faltering step.

  One of the scullions hurried forward to support him. “Steady on, my Lord,” he said as he wedged his shoulder under Sir Lambert’s arm.

  “Thank you, Rawlins,” said Sir Lambert with tremendous dignity as he made himself stand upright. “The day in the saddle has taken a toll upon me.”

  “That it has, my Lord,” said Rawlins. “On you and all your company. All the more reason to take your pleasure now, so that you may sleep deeply tonight.”

  This impertinence was too much for Sir Lambert to accept. He shoved the youngster away. “Don’t be cheeky. It doesn’t become you, or this fine fortress,” he enjoined the youth and made himself remain erect, his considerable effort turning him red in the face. “Go on about your duties, then, and come back to me when you are done.” He made his way back to the Great Hall, using one hand to steady himself against the wall. “Fine thing for Nicodemus Upton to leave Cannock-Norton and Gisbourne, all for the whim of a Bishop.”

  Rawlins, who was a step behind Sir Lambert, sighed. “Of course, Sir Lambert. Just go back to your guests and leave us to supply a meal as quickly as may be,” he said, and went off to try to discover why food was taking so long to be brought.

  As soon as he reached his chair, Sir Lambert took hold of the back of it and addressed all those assembled in the Great Hall. “My men will stand guard tonight, and you, from Nottingham, will stand guard tomorrow, even during the Mass for Sir Gui. Let us of this castle bury him; you must keep us from all danger while he is consigned to God. I want you to become familiar with the countryside near this fortress, and so I will order Purcifer to instruct you what to watch, and where, before he retires for the day. I want nothing to move within a mile of this place that we do not know of it, and are prepared to deal with it, whatever it may be.”

  “Including red deer for our dinners,” said one of the local Guards.

  “Most certainly that,” said Sir Lambert as the laughter in the hall began to die. Then he leaned a little toward Sir Humphrey and lowered his voice. “A pity that for some of this company, they will only depart these walls for Heaven or Hell.”

  Sir Humphrey nodded solemnly. “May God be kind to us.”

  This time when Sir Lambert said “Amen,” there was pathos in the word, and a look in his old eyes that almost froze the blood in Sir Humphrey’s veins.

  What Alan-a-Dale Discovered

  Alan-a-Dale sat beside the fireplace at the Tavern of the Red Hart on the Great North Road. He had hoped to waylay some travelers that he could take to Hood in triumph and tribute, but so far had seen only one man other than the landlord and his staff of three—a solitary merchant with two mules laden with bales of wool. This was hardly promising, so he kept near the fire and sang his songs, and tried not to succumb to the hunger that coiled through him like a serpent.

  By sunset the landlord was ready to bar the gates and set the brace on the doors; the rain had slowed to a mizzle, but it wasn’t enough to encourage anyone to venture onto the road. So it was with some surprise that Alan heard the unmistakable sound of approaching horses and the soft jingle of armor and tack. He called out to the landlord, alerting him to the unexpected arrivals.

  “Thanks be to Our Lady,” said the landlord as he prepared to go out to the courtyard to welcome his guests. “Build up the fire. These travelers will be cold!”

  Alan went to fetch a log from the stack at the other side of the fireplace, and he laid it in place while glancing out to see how many had arrived at the Tavern of the Red Hart. He could make out four figures in the gathering dusk and thought there might be more; he regarded them with curiosity, as if trying to decide if they were worth the trouble to drain, or to attempt to carry one or two of them off. His indecision turned out to be worthwhile, for as he watched, five men entered the taproom, all wearing Prince John’s badge on their arms. More curious than ever, he took up his place by the fire again, and began to play When Winter’s Blast Is Come, listening to the men as they ordered their drink and pushed toward the fire, shedding their damp cloaks and oiled woolen hoods as they did.

  “Wretched weather,” said the first one into the taproom, removing his mail coif and its linen lining to reveal red-blond hair and a short beard.

  “So it is,” agreed the man behind him, also ridding himself of his coif and lining before pulling off his leather gloves. “A miserable night.” He was fairly young, as well, but not as fair as the first man.

  “We should have made Nottingham by now,” said the first as the other three men trudged into the taproom.

  “The rain slowed us. They’ll realize that,” said a third man, his observation ending on a loud sneeze.

  “And they said not to chance the forest at night,” said the second man, and swung around to look for the landlord. “We need drink, man! Drink!”

  “Hot drink,” said the fourth man, who was somewhat older than the rest and seemed more tired. “And lots of it. Our bones are freezing.”

  “The Prince needs us at Nottingham,” said the first man as he tugged off his heavy riding gauntlets and dropped them on top of his coif. “Until the Sheriff returns, His Grace will remain there, for there must be someone to command the garrison.”

  “But why the Prince?” asked the red-haired man. “He could easily deputize one of his knights to man the place.”

  “Prince John is hardly a great fighter,” said the fourth man.

  “But he is knowledgeable, and they say he has an excellent understanding of the dangers in the forest, and is doing much—” the third began.

  “Ha!” The fourth emphasized his scorn by tossing his gauntlets across the taproom to the plank table near the far wall. “All he knows is books! If you had to go into battle, would you want him at your back?”

  “If I had to fight demons, I would,” said the third, his chin jutting.

  “And I,” said the first, but with less conviction.

  “Then you believe all this talk of demons and vampires? Do you really think the Powers of Darkness reign in the forest?” The fourth man laughed aloud. “There are outlaws in Sherwood, I grant you, but such creatures as ferocious monsters—that is nothing more than tall tales to justify fear.” He glanced toward Alan. “Tell me, harper. Have you seen such things as vampires in your travels?”

  Taken aback by this sudden notice, Alan floundered. “I don’t know ... that is to say, I am ... uncertain. It is possible that something ... that there are ...”

  The fourth man cut him short. “There. You see? He’s heard the rumors, but he doesn’t know for himself. But the stories are enough to make him fearful, aren’t they?” He laughed again. “And the tales improve with the telling, so that one man vanishing becomes two, then five, then a dozen, and so on until no traveler is willing to risk going into the forest.” He clapped his hands. “We’re cold and dry!”

  “I think travelers should be wary,” said Alan softly.

  In response to the order for drink, the landlord came bustling out with a cauldron in which spiced wine swirled and made Alan’s remark inaudible. “I’ll just hang this over the fire and leave you a ladle to serve yourselves,” he said. “When this is gone, I’ll bring another if you want it.”

  “A good offering,” said the
fourth man. “The tankards on the wall?”

  “Take the ones you need,” said the landlord, his face showing no feeling as he struggled to put the cauldron over the iron arm that swung above the fire. He drew it out, listening to the moan of the hinge, set it on the arm’s hook, then pushed it half-way back toward the fire. “Not too close. You don’t want to boil it. That takes away the virtue of the wine.”

  “We’re not simpletons,” said the second man, and reached for a tankard.

  The fifth man silently took up the task of filling the tankards of his companions, finally turning to address Alan. “Do you want any of this, harper?”

  Before Alan could decline, the fourth man said, “If he wants drink, let him earn it. Let’s have something less dreary.”

  “Leave him alone, Parkin. He was doing well enough.” The second man dropped down on one of the benches and took a long draft of the hot, spiced wine. “This is quite good.”

  The fourth man wasn’t to be deterred. “I don’t want any more of that song. Choose another—something lively.”

  Alan held his harp carefully, and, after a moment, began to pick out Maidens in the Meadow, taking it at a rapid clip, showing off his skills on his instrument. He decided not to sing the words, for he wanted to encourage these men to speak, in the hope they would say something he could take back to Hood.

  “A pleasant air,” said the third man. “And one that I am glad to hear.”

  The men said little as their tankards were filled and they found comfortable seats for themselves.

  “It’s a bad business, this,” said the second man.

  “The Prince commanding Nottingham?” the fourth man suggested. “That it is.”

  “No,” said the third. “Having the Sheriff gone with the escort to return Sir Gui to his father’s castle.”

  “If he has done that. I heard that he left on his own, on a private errand for Prince John,” said the first man.

  “It hardly matters which he’s done,” said the fourth man. “It’s all ill-considered.”

  “To leave the Prince without protection?” the first man asked.

  “The Prince, the castle, the town, the lot of it,” said the fourth man with a harsh gesture.

  “Were they supposed to wait until the men in Sherwood—no matter what manner of miscreants they are—storm the town?” The third man looked angry but he was clearly making an effort to keep his ire in check.

  “Outlaws don’t storm towns,” the fourth man said. “Not while the town is guarded, in any case.”

  “Nottingham is guarded,” the first man reminded him. “And we’re only one company of six that have been summoned to strengthen the guard. The Sheriff and Sir Humphrey are gone to Gisbourne, and that is far more exposed in spite of its location.”

  “Because it is a small fortress in the middle of the forest,” said the second man.

  “And because it has a tunnel entrance—that’s what makes it vulnerable to attack,” said the first man. “My uncle served there for more than ten years, and he said the priest of Gisbourne used it often to visit his woman in the hamlet below by means of the secret tunnel. My uncle was the warder, and he learned of the priest’s excursions, and through that, of the tunnel itself. He told me about it, though he probably shouldn’t have.”

  “A good story,” said the fourth man doubtfully. “Not that priests don’t keep doxies.”

  “My uncle guarded the tunnel while the priest was gone, so that no enemy could enter the fortress.” The red-haired soldier was becoming belligerent. “He was very old when he told me where the tunnel is.”

  “And that would be—?” the fourth man prompted.

  But the first man seemed to recall himself, and he said slowly, “It’s not my place to reveal what my uncle pledged to keep secret.” He drank again and glared at the fourth man over the rim of his tankard.

  “Your uncle told stories, as all men do,” the fourth man said, dismissing the whole.

  The first man slammed down his tankard and stormed out of the taproom.

  “So much for him,” said the fourth, smiling at his success.

  “You’re a petty-minded fool,” said the fifth man as if he had only just noticed. “You shame our whole company.”

  “Better a fool than a puppet,” said the fourth man, but gave his attention to serious drinking until the landlord produced three spitted ducks and a tray of mutton pies. By that time the first man had returned and taken a place as far from the fourth man as he could and still feel the warmth of the tire.

  While he continued to play, Alan watched the men eat, drink, and grow sleepy. In the warmth of the fire, the taproom became stuffy as well as warm, slightly smoky, making it tempting for the soldiers to doze as Alan played on. He began to gloat, certain that he could carry off two of the soldiers to Hood, and, before draining them, learn everything that they could impart about Gisbourne and Nottingham. He kept his attention on his harp until the second man drooped and began to snore, and then he chose a simpler, more monotonous tune to help to lull the rest; slowly and inexorably the soldiers drifted off to sleep.

  It was nearing midnight when Alan left the Tavern of the Red Hart, the red-haired soldier under his left arm, the silent fifth man under his right. He struck off through the forest at a good pace, restored by the blood he had taken already—blood that would keep the men in stupor until he presented them to Hood to divulge their knowledge and to nourish the company.

  How deSteny came to Gisbourne

  DAWN was drizzly, the light barely penetrating the clouds and the forest’s gloom. Hugh deSteny was stiff with cold, and he missed his morning bath; under his acton, his skin felt grimy. He came out of the shelter of the shrine where he and his horse had spent the night. Now, as he tightened the girth in preparation to mounting, he noticed that his sorrel mare was fretful. Patting her in reassurance, he led her toward a small meadow. “You can have breakfast,” he promised her, and let her graze for a short while. “I’ll give you grain tonight,” he said as he swung into the saddle and gathered up the reins.

  It was almost noon by the time he was able to ford the river and strike out for the road to Gisbourne. Little as he wanted to admit it, deSteny was profoundly uneasy about the task he had set himself. So much could go wrong, he thought, and then it would be much the worse for all of those venturing into Sherwood. Although he was wet through to the skin, he did his best to ignore the discomfort, recalling the days in the Holy Land, in a hair shirt and heat. This was far less uncomfortable than that had been. At one time he would have offered up his misery, but no more. Now, such futile activity seemed to him to be a perverse form of boasting, and he wanted none of it, so he bore his discomfort in stoic silence.

  It was mid-afternoon before deSteny realized that he was being followed. It was hardly noticeable at first, just a suggestion of movement in the undergrowth that might be a deer or a fox, or perhaps a wild cat. But the movement stayed with him, persistent and insubstantial as a shadow. He could not help but watch the shifting progress of figures just out of sight. He could feel the mare becoming nervous, mincing along at a jagged trot, occasionally pulling at the bit as if to urge him to greater speed. As the road grew narrower and steeper, the mare’s dismay increased, so that she was soon panting, her coat foaming where the tack rubbed, and the whites of her eyes showing as she attempted to toss her head.

  “Steady, girl,” deSteny told her, fighting to hold her. “It’s still four leagues to the castle, and I don’t want you wearing yourself out.”

  For once the mare paid no attention to his calm voice, but strove to move forward in spite of his firm hands on the reins.

  As the end of the day closed in, deSteny reached the edge of Gisbourne, and saw the squat towers of Cannock-Norton in the distance amid the trees. It would be hard to make it to the gates by nightfall, but he d
ared not try to seek other shelter, not now. He could feel his mare flagging, her flanks heaving as she continued the climb even as she kept gamely going on. It was growing very cold, and deSteny shivered as he rode, telling himself that the encroaching shadows had nothing to do with it.

  Suddenly, at a bend in the road, a figure stepped out of the brambles at the side of the track. A figure blocked deSteny’s way. “Hold, Sheriff,” a voice called.

  DeSteny went rigid in the saddle. “Wroughton!” he exclaimed, and the enormity of what he saw bore down upon him.

  “Hold,” Wroughton repeated.

  “No,” said deSteny, and tightened his grip on the reins.

  “You know who I am,” Wroughton said, taking a step toward deSteny.

  “I know who you were,” deSteny corrected him, and dug his spurs into his mare’s sides, swaying as she bounded forward with a terrible shriek. “You are a dead man.” There was more sorrow than fury in his words.

  “You let me be so,” Wroughton spat and reached for his dagger. “You will answer for it.”

  “Perhaps one day, but not now,” said deSteny, preparing for the impact an instant before it happened.

  Wroughton raised his arms and held to his place, his dagger ready to thrust into the sorrel’s vitals; the mare knocked into him at full force and, in panic, scrabbled at his supine form in an attempt to escape. A bloody track ran from her stifle to her rump.

  For once deSteny gave her her head, and clung to the saddle as she plunged up the rise toward the gate to Cannock-Norton. He held the reins firmly in order to keep her head up, for he could tell if she went down, he would not get her up again before those tracking him were upon him. He could tell Wroughton had been counting on some mishap that would have left him afoot, and that gave him a desperate strength he had not known he possessed. The narrow approach to Cannock-Norton was just ahead. DeSteny began to hope he would make it after all when he felt the mare stumble. Too late he tried to drag her head up by main force, but it wasn’t enough. With an exhausted sob, she went down on her knees and started to pitch onto her shoulder, an arrow quivering in her chest.