Trouble in the Forest Book Two

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Struggling out of the saddle just before his mare’s weight pinned him to the ground, deSteny drew his sword and took a stance, readying himself to make Hood pay dearly for killing him. He could see the figures emerging from the shadows, some holding longbows, some bearing quarterstaves. For the first time in years, he was sorry he no longer prayed, for if ever prayers were needed, now was the moment. He backed toward the stones on which the fortress was built, and looked upward, as if hoping to see soldiers bristling along the distant ramparts, but none appeared.

  “Wroughton’s gone,” called a mocking voice. “You’ll answer for it.”

  “He was gone long before I rode him down,” deSteny countered.

  “So condemning,” the voice jeered. “You are much too severe.”

  “Come close enough to put that to the test,” deSteny challenged with more bravado than courage. His gloved hands felt slippery on the hilt of his broadsword.

  “All of us?” The voice was nearer. “There are more than twenty of us, Sheriff. Do you think you can vanquish us all?”

  Hearing his title took deSteny aback, but he made himself answer as bluntly as he could. “I know I can dispatch some of you, and that is enough.” It wasn’t, but he couldn’t bring himself to say so.

  There was a distant sound of horses, down the slope. They were moving at the trot, noisy and impatient.

  “Let’s get this done,” said the voice, harsh now.

  A howl went up that made the hair rise on the back of deSteny’s neck, He had heard that same unearthly ululation in the Holy Land, and he knew what it portended. His grip tightened on the hilt, and he swung the blade up, at the ready. “Come ahead.”

  The first rush was a quick one, a dart from the side over the bulk of deSteny’s dying mare. Two of Hood’s men rushed toward him, one with a dagger, the other with a boar-spear. It was not hard to fend them off, and they retreated without much protest. In the meantime, four more of Hood’s men had come from directly in front of deSteny, and now fanned out just far enough apart to make a single sword-swipe dangerous to more than one of them.

  “Have a care, Scarlet,” warned one of the four to the man who was their apparent leader, who carried the boarspear. “He’s a good fighter.”

  “No doubt. But so am I,” said Scarlet, moving a little nearer to deSteny, hefting his long-handled weapon. “Are you good enough to best me, Sheriff?”

  “Come find out,” deSteny recommended.

  “Oh, don’t be troubled. I will. In time, I will.” He sauntered just out of range, drawing a dagger and letting it hang negligently from his fingers, his smile devoid of humor.

  “I’ll take as many of you with me as I can,” said deSteny, preparing to swing his sword; the weight of the weapon reassured him and gave him a little encouragement, holding despair at bay just as it held Hood’s men. No man would approach him recklessly so long as he had his sword.

  “Hood is watching, from out in the trees,” said Scarlet, using the boar-spear to point. “We found out about your little ploy. Some of your soldiers boasted where they shouldn’t have.” He leaned toward deSteny, still well out of reach. “Let me tell you something, Sheriff. We could shoot you with arrows until you looked like a hedgehog, but it would waste too much blood.”

  “You haven’t tasted it yet,” said deSteny purposefully.

  “In time, in time. There’s no need to rush,” said Scarlet, then glanced quickly over his shoulder as he heard a horn sound loudly. “What’s this?” he shouted back toward the outlaws in the trees.

  “Men! On horses! Coming fast!” was the answer, and two of Hood’s company stumbled out of the trees and hurried toward Scarlet. “Hurry!” the older one shouted, clutching Scarlet’s shoulder to drag him after them.

  “But I haven’t finished,” Scarlet complained, shrugging himself free of Fortesque’s grip. “The Sheriff is ours for the taking.”

  “You may try,” said deSteny, still ready to strike.

  “Hood says to let him go. We will claim him soon enough,” said Fortesque. “Hurry. There are soldiers coming.”

  Scarlet heard the urgency in his warning, and shook his head. “Give him something to have as a keepsake!” he shouted toward the trees. “Hood!”

  In answer, a bowstring twanged, and an arrow struck deSteny high in the shoulder. He stifled a cry and his hold on his sword weakened, but the blade remained up.

  “What a hearty fellow you are,” Scarlet said, and turned toward the trees, following Fortesque and the others.

  Shaking with pain and effort, deSteny lowered his sword carefully, listening as the hoofbeats came nearer, the jingle of armor almost as loud, covering any sound of retreat that Hood’s men might have made. The cold he felt now made his teeth chatter.

  As the soldiers broke from the cover of the trees a horn sounded from the battlements overhead, to be answered by one from the armed men. A sudden bustle of activity erupted within the fortress as the portcullis was raised, its chains clanking and groaning. Then came the protesting wail of the gate hinges.

  The armed men were almost upon deSteny before they saw him in the gathering dusk, and pulled in. “Who’s there?”

  “Hugh deSteny, Sheriff of Nottingham,” he answered. “And you?”

  “Nicodemus Upton, Captain of the Guard of Cannock-Norton,” he called out as he peered into the gathering darkness. “What happened to your horse?”

  “Dead. Hood’s men shot her. And me,” he replied, and had to bite his tongue to keep from weeping for the mare.

  “That’s ill-done,” said Upton, looking at the men accompanying him. “Can you ride?”

  “If I can mount, I can ride. It’s my shoulder that’s hurt,” deSteny answered, the first flickers of serious pain radiating out from the arrow.

  Upton grunted. “Good thing it isn’t far.” He swung around in his saddle. “Swain, take the Sheriff up with you. Your gelding’s got the easiest paces.”

  Swain rode forward, guiding his gelding around the dead mare. He kicked his foot out of the stirrup and reached down his hand to deSteny. “Let me have your hand, Sheriff.”

  The agony of being hauled onto the gelding’s rump almost put deSteny in a faint, but he managed to remain conscious until he was in position behind Swain, his good arm around the soldier’s waist, He was grateful that their destination was so near, and that he had survived to carry out his part of the plan.

  Riding into Cannock-Norton, Nicodemus Upton shouted out, “Injured man with us! Injured man with us!” as he got out of his saddle and looked about for Sir Lambert, wanting to discover exactly what had happened while he and his comrades had been gone.

  How Prince John fared

  at Nottingham

  IN DESTENY’S STUDY, Prince John spread out the books he had brought with him, many of them lying open to pages he was consulting, other stacked and waiting. The oil lamps were lit, and a torch stood in a sconce near the door, casting its yellow, uncertain light into the heart of the room. Jotham stood near the fireplace, doing his best to remain awake, for he had been given the signal honor of waiting upon the Prince, and despite the late hour, he was determined to be worthy of the trust placed in him.

  A discreet knock at the door commanded Jotham’s attention, and he went to ask, “Who’s there?”

  “The night-steward Crossleigh,” came the answer from the other side of the door. “I bring Simon Levi to the Prince, as he has asked.”

  Prince John had looked up from his books. Now he nodded and motioned to Jotham to admit the secretary. Jotham drew back the bolt and pulled the door open. “You may enter,” he said, doing his best to sound important.

  Simon Levi was of medium height, with dark-brown hair just beginning to gray. His features were regular, and to Jotham, he appeared slightly French, for his skin was olive and his angularity was
not in the English style. He bore two old, old books, one carefully wrapped in a linen cloth. “May God send you good evening, Your Grace,” he said, going on his knee awkwardly as Jotham closed the door behind him.

  “Yes. I trust He will.” Prince John indicated an X-shaped chair on the other side of the writing-table. “Sit down. I thank you for answering my summons so quickly, and for bringing those volumes with you.”

  “It is my duty and honor to—”

  Prince John waved him to silence. “Yes, I know all that. Have done with courtesy tonight.” He indicated the unwrapped book. “Tell me what you have there.”

  “This belonged to my grandfather,” said Simon. “He said it came from the Holy Land many years before the Crusades began.” He laid the book on the table. “It is called The Catalogue of Unearthly Spirits. Everything from angels to demons is contained within it.”

  “And you can read it?” the Prince asked uneasily.

  “Yes. I can read both of the books I have with me,” Simon assured him.

  “That’s all to the good,” said Prince John. “I have Greek, but no Hebrew or Arabic.”

  “You have more than most,” said Simon, and opened The Catalogue of Unearthly Spirits. “The creatures you seek are in these sixteen pages.” He showed the place to the Prince. “Ghouls, Vampires and other Devourers, it says.”

  “Then it is what I want to read,” Prince John said, and looked at the cloth-wrapped book. “And that? What is it?”

  “It is a book of incantations, rituals, and spells,” said Simon, dropping his voice little as if he hoped not to be overheard.

  “It must be very precious,” said Prince John.

  “To my family, it certainly is,” said Simon, touching the cloth around it with a respect that bordered on awe. “It is said to be four hundred years old.”

  “A great age,” said Prince John. “How is it you come to have these remarkable tomes?”

  “My father was an accomplished student of the mystic teachings of our faith,” said Simon, choosing his words. “Just as he was secretary to the Sheriff in his life, I am doing my poor best to follow in his footsteps in this as well as in secretarying.”

  “He must be proud of your dedication,” said Prince John, not without a touch of irony, for his own father had not always been pleased with his sons.

  “He was,” said Simon. “He’s been dead for nine years.”

  “That is a great loss to you,” said the Prince, extending his hand in sympathy. “A good father is a precious treasure.”

  “Truly,” said Simon, and began to unwrap the book. “I believe what you seek is contained on the pages marked with cloth strips. I took the liberty of reading through the book in search of what your letter indicated you wanted.” He studied Prince John for a long moment. “Your Grace, this is not an easy battle, and you will need help to complete it.”

  Jotham put another log on the fire. A shower of sparks marked his efforts.

  “So I think,” said Prince John. “I would be glad of yours, if you will provide it.”

  “You are Prince Regent. You could order it,” said Simon.

  “I could, but in such a fight as this, an unwilling heart is worse than none at all,” he said. “If you have not the stomach for it, then do me the kindness of refusing.”

  Simon ducked his head. “I am ready to do whatever you may require of me, Your Grace. But I have no skill at arms.”

  “You consent quickly,” said Prince John warily.

  “Only because I have spent the last two days thinking on the matter, and I have made up my mind,” said Simon, leaning forward with the intensity of his emotions. “I can do little to help the soldiers, but I can assist you in any way you enjoin, so I offer you my services, such as they are, to be commanded by you.”

  “That is most commendable,” said Prince John. “I am obliged to you for this.” He rose as he took the book of spells into his hands. “It would be best for us to begin now. I believe the confrontation cannot be long in coming.”

  “With so many of the soldiers gone, I fear so,” said Simon.

  “Oh, the battle will not be here, it will be at Cannock-Norton, deGisbourne’s fortress,” said Prince John. “If any of our efforts have succeeded.”

  “Which efforts are these?” Simon asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

  “The efforts of eight small companies of soldiers who have been going about Sherwood, stopping at inns and taverns to spread information,” said Prince John. “Some came from Nottingham, some from other places near at hand, a few were even part of my escort from Windsor. They had instructions to discuss particular things where the landlords and other guests could overhear them, in the hope that someone would carry word to Hood.” He touched the book again. “Those men at Cannock-Norton need our support, and we shall give it to them.”

  “You mean to use these spells?” Simon was startled.

  “With your help,” said Prince John. “I have found much in these books”—he gestured to the ones on the table—“but not enough to take on Hood’s murderous band.”

  “This may not be sufficient, either,” Simon cautioned him.

  “It may not, but it appears to me that we stand a better chance with what you can do with those spells than with anything else. Brother Tancred’s book may be the closest thing to what you have, and it isn’t strong enough for the purpose.” Prince John picked up Brother Tancred’s volume. “If you would like to make a comparison?”

  Simon took the proffered volume and began to read through it. “A most interesting tome,” he said a short while later. “This is most troubling.”

  “That’s certain,” said Prince John. “I have read the whole of it, and it put me into a state of dismay I cannot fully express.” He regarded the book of spells. “I notice there are sigils and diagrams in this work. Are they part of the work we must do?”

  “Yes,” said Simon, “if you intend to summon aid for your work.” He patted the leather wallet hanging from his belt. “I have the right chalks and candles with me.”

  “Excellent,” the Prince approved.

  “But I should warn you that there are grave risks in these summonings. If you fail in any particular, or if you aren’t prepared in your soul for the rites, you may bring injury on yourself and others.” Simon shook his head. “If my father were still alive, he would advise you. But I haven’t his skill, and I don’t know what is best for you to do.”

  Prince John considered him. “I am grateful to you for your candor,” he said at last. “In other circumstances, I might decide against this ritual, but after what transpired in the Great Hall, I have no choice but to pursue every means of which I may avail myself to try to put an end to the ravages of Hood and his band. Their numbers are increasing, and soon they will have to spread from York to London, which will mean that no place in England will be safe from them.”

  “True enough,” said Simon after a little calculation.

  “And it behooves me to do all that I can to end this scourge. If it is hazardous to try, well, so is traveling the Great North Road.” He turned the pages of the book of spells. “Which of these will help us in our fight against vampires?”

  “De angeli malig—” Simon leaned over the writing table. He looked up from his reading. “Let me examine them again, and I will tell you what would be best to do, and at what hour.”

  Prince John gave him the book and took back Brother Tancred’s little volume. “Keep in mind, it will be just the two of us to do the spell.”

  “So I assumed,” said Simon, and began to read.

  What Transpired

  at Cannock-Norton

  MOTHER BARNABA was leaning over deSteny when he came to himself, shortly before dawn. She clicked her tongue at him and forced him to drink some hot wine, then wiped his foreh
ead with an old cloth and said, “They got the arrow out. You’ve had a touch of fever, and may do so for another several days, but you are likely out of danger, thanks be to God.” The light of a single oil lamp revealed little of her expression.

  “What ... ?” DeSteny’s tongue felt like a wad of matted wool in his mouth. He tried to swallow and speak again.

  “One of Hood’s men shot you as you came up to the castle. They shot your horse, too.” She seemed saddened by imparting this news, and she ducked her head to cross herself on the mare’s behalf. “They say that animals do not enter Heaven, but I don’t think that can be true. Not with the devotion they have for mankind. Your horse is worthy of a martyr’s crown.”

  “It is ... astonishing that they ... should be so ... kind to us,” said deSteny, framing the words with difficulty.

  “I believe that’s God’s Will,” said Mother Barnaba. “But I hope God rewards them for doing their duty.”

  “And I,” said deSteny, panting a little. “How did I ... get here? Inside?”

  “Nicodemus Upton, who had been off with a small company of soldiers, escorting a Bishop, returned just as Hood and his men were closing in on you.” She favored him with a sweet smile. “You were wounded just as they arrived, I understand, and they carried you into the fortress. Do you remember any of this?”

  “I remember ... seeing the fortress and Wroughton ...” There was something about Wroughton, something to do with his dead mare, but it was gone before he could identify it.

  “Well, it may come back to you as you heal. That happens,” said Mother Barnaba. “Sir Lambert wishes to see you as soon as he may. Are you willing to have him come in?”

  “Of course,” said deSteny, although he was feeling a bit woozy and his head rang like an ill-tuned gong. He tried to sit up only to be gently pressed back against the pillows on which he lay. He groaned in spite of his best efforts not to.