The young officer, whose name was Renard Widley, took up the same tune. “We will not separate. Our only strength is in our numbers.” He did his best to sound as if he believed this.
“A wise plan,” said Aylmer deGlisson, the oldest of the scholars, a greybeard of nearly fifty years who had studied in Paris and Rome and was said to know all there was to know. He had a Norman father and a Welsh mother and had spent more than ten years in the Holy Land. “To do otherwise would cause a double risk, in reducing our numbers and in alerting any outlaws that we have less force than when we started out.”
“So you have not spent all your life with your nose in a book,” said Orlan Royce, the most experienced guide of the escort.
“I would not be truly educated if I had,” countered deGlisson. “The world instructs as much as the word does.” He managed to smile at his own wit.
Sergeant Ballard made a quick gesture for silence. “We don’t want to invite every miscreant from here to York to follow us, hoping to pick off our stragglers.”
DeGlisson touched the saddlebags on his mule. “What outlaw would prey on books, do you think?”
“There are those who would hold you, deGlisson, and your fellows, for ransom. And they would get it, as well, knowing how the sentiments are at court, the Prince given so much to reading.” Renard Widley could not hide the rancor of his words.
“Let’s not bicker,” suggested Sergeant Ballard, aware that they had more pressing trouble on their minds. “It’s not for such as us to decide these things.”
“Right you are,” agreed Widley. “Let the courtiers tend to the court.” He stared up at the branches above them. “There will be a little light for a short while longer. Perhaps we can find a glen or a shrine where we may make safe camp for the night?”
Privately Sergeant Ballard thought it was a desperate notion, but he could not come up with an acceptable alternative. He did his best to make the others want a better means of finding safety. “What say you, Royce? Is it best to press on?”
“In the forest it is always best to keep moving as long as you might,” said the guide. “The trail is narrow but we can make it out. As long as there is a path to follow, it would be best to continue to travel. We might yet reach the Priory.”
“How will you know the way?” asked deGlisson, without any sign of fear. “You cannot see the stars to show you.”
Royce laughed once, a harsh sound in the deepening twilight. “I have been on all the paths of this forest since I was old enough to toddle. If I cannot find my way in Sherwood at night, you may nail my hide to the drawbridge.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin and made his horse move forward. “These animals know the way better than any man does. They will take us safely to the Priory.”
There was a moment of nervous quiet as the rest of the party considered what they had heard, though it was obvious that they had little option but to continue on.
It was as if night were muffling the travelers in engulfing silence, for speech among the members of the party became desultory as the darkness increased, eventually ceasing completely, so that the clop of hooves and the jingle and squeak of tack were the only sounds made as they kept on. It made their passage eerie in the gathering darkness as the woods thickened around them. Somewhat later, the purling of a stream provided a descant to their travels. Then a rustle on the far side of the stream brought the little party to a halt.
“What was it?” whispered Widley. His nervousness communicated itself to his horse, which was sidling and sweating.
“An animal,” said Royce, a shade too quickly, adding obscurely, “It is on the far side of the stream, thank God.”
As much as four of the men in the party wanted—all for different reasons—to find out why that should be a welcome thing, no one said a word. After a long, hushed moment, they moved forward again, the horses picking their way with a finickiness born of fear, the men tense in their saddles.
Then there was a bridge ahead, where the stream took a turn to the east. Widley motioned to the party to stop again. He swung around in the saddle to make certain all the scholars were still with them. “Is it safe to cross, do you think?” he asked Royce when he was satisfied no one was missing.
“The bridge will hold us,” said Royce. “It may not be much, but it is strong enough for our wants.”
“And the animals?” Widley demanded, not trusting the evasion Royce offered. “What of them?”
Sergeant Ballard spoke up confidently. “The men-at-arms can deal with the animals. It is the least of our difficulties.”
“Would the animals not cross the bridge, in any case?” asked deGlisson, who was aching with fatigue. At his age, he needed his rest, and tonight promised him very little.
Royce mumbled an answer that no one dared to ask him to repeat.
“What if we rest here?” asked Penrod Lugenis, the best-known of the scholars. “Surely we can stand guard through the night and give the alarm if it is needed? If we keep a fire burning, we should be safe.”
“The animals might cross over. Even with the horses hobbled, we could not soon enough be in the saddle to defend ourselves and our mounts,” said Maeslen, who was still chagrined at having his horse go lame.
“What should we do, then?” asked Sergeant Ballard, hoping Widley would make up his mind quickly. It was a bad strategy to remain here dithering while the night dragged on. There had been warnings given about being abroad in the forest at night. It was said that worse than outlaws hunted the unwary. Creatures of damnation so terrible that the devils did not want them in Hell were rumored to prowl the heart of Sherwood.
“Let us keep on,” said Widley, urging his horse on so abruptly that he nearly slammed into the rump of Royce’s mount. Both horses squealed, the lead animal kicked, Widley’s mare put her ears back, prepared to teach Royce’s gelding some manners.
With a number of sharp jabs with spurs and loud, inventive oaths, the two men brought their horses under control, and turned them in the direction of the bridge.
Perhaps it was the hour, and perhaps it was a last remnant of resistance from her denied flight, but Widley’s mare balked at crossing the stream. She planted her hooves and refused to budge in spite of the use Widley made of his spurs. No amount of tugging on her reins would get her to venture one step farther. Finally he moved her back so that the rest could pass, then dismounted, prepared to lead her across.
The mare neighed in protest, reared abruptly, and broke free of Widley’s hold on her rein. In the next instant, she had whirled and bolted away, down the narrow trail.
“A thousand demons seize her!” Widley shouted after his escaping horse. Feeling himself a total fool, he looked apologetically at the rest of the party, all waiting for him on the west side of the stream.
“Get up with Royce,” called out Sergeant Ballard. “Hurry!”
Ordinarily Widley would not have taken an order from the sergeant, but at present it struck him as the most sensible thing to do; he was glad he didn’t have to make the final decision. Wishing his fleeing mare every hardship he could envision, he trudged forward, through the horses and mules and riders, making his way toward the sturdy brown gelding Royce rode, prepared to mount up behind. He had almost reached the animal when he noticed dark figures emerging from the mass of the forest, a number of men with longbows and quarterstaves. He was too surprised to be immediately frightened, and so he failed by two heartbeats to give the warning that might have saved his company.
At the head of the men was a tall, thin fellow with a mass of white hair, making him look like a wraith or malign spirit. He held a boar-spear in one hand and a short sword in the other. He approached the scholars and their escorts, unafraid though he was on foot. The first swipe of his sword bit deeply into the neck of Royce’s gelding.
The horse screamed and his legs buckled, throwing Royce and Widley to the ground and causing c
haos among the others. Horses panicked and tried to run, but the wood was too dense and the trail too narrow for this to happen, so the animals bucked and kicked and shouted as the dire men from out of the shadows closed in on them. No one riding was able to divide his attention between his mount and these sinister figures.
Aylmer deGlisson was tossed by his mule, and huddled under the thrashing legs of the other animals, his hands clapped to his head, his prayers lost in the cacophony around him. A hoof struck him in the ribs and he fell full-length on the ground, certain that he would be killed by the horses—hoping he would be killed by the horses.
And then the rest of the forest pack was upon them, as relentless as they were ravenous. They seized men-at-arms and scholars without hesitation, falling on them with the ruthlessness of the famished. The hot-copper scent of blood filled the air as the outlaws savaged throats for the rich, life-bearing stuff that welled and spouted there, drinking with a deepness that defied satiation. Those who were not attacked first were stupefied by what they saw, and lost precious time and with it any prayer of escape. More outlaws came to reap the carmine harvest their fellows had begun. They were without fear. Even when one of the attackers was all but run through with Maeslen’s lance, he met his end with a desperate courage that bordered on eagerness. None of his companions came to his aid.
Now blood steamed in the night air, making a deadly fog around the carnage as the forest men fed. No rout of starving wolves had ever so ruthlessly plundered a hapless peasant family as these fell men pillaged the travelers.
As the last of life ran from his veins, Sergeant Ballard was grateful that there was no more light than the scattered moonbeams from above the trees. He did not want to see the ruin he knew was all around him: he could smell it, and that was enough to tell him that the predation was unspeakable. At least the Saracen arrow which had robbed him of his eye and ear had been honorably fired in battle. That was a cleaner loss than what was happening here. He was distantly aware of the figure of Penrod Lugenis being lifted onto the shoulders of one of the attackers, and he could find a trace of pity for the scholar. To be fodder for these beasts! He found it unbearable.
“Did any escape?” asked a voice that seemed to come from the bottom of a well.
“Only the lame horse, and it will not go far,” answered the white-maned apparition who led the appalling band.
“Shall I go after it?” asked the first voice.
For an answer the leader gestured at the stream and gave a snort of contempt.
It was the last sound Sergeant Ballard ever heard.
What deSteny found in the Forest
UNLIKE his men, Hugh deSteny bathed every morning, washing himself briskly in cold water. It was a habit he had picked up on Crusade and had not abandoned in spite of the odd looks he received from those who feared he had joined the followers of Mahamot, who were known to wash often, and who still desecrated the Holy Sepulchre, to the shame of all Christian chivalry. This morning was no different, and as he rubbed himself dry with a length of old linen, deSteny tried once more to prepare himself for what he feared lay ahead. Blocking the deep fright that rose in his mind, he did his best to concentrate on ordinary things. He had pulled on his leggings and tugged his acton over his head when he heard Nicholas at the door. “What is it?” he asked.
Nicholas entered without being bidden. “They are waiting for you in the courtyard, the men-at-arms and the warden. They are growing impatient. Also your clerk is in your study. He said you ordered him to see you away this morning. Why you should want him, I cannot guess. But he is there, nonetheless.” He scowled in displeasure, making it abundantly clear that he thought he should be the one so distinguished and not the clerk. “It’s not right, you taking him. I ought to go with you into the forest. You may need a page, or a messenger, not a scribbler.”
“Your father would not like it if anything happened to you and I cannot afford the blood-price. You are not going with me.” DeSteny reached for his tunic of chain mail and bent down to slide his arms and head into it. Then he rose, letting the steel links settle over him of their own weight. It was a technique he had perfected while in the Holy Land when he had no one to serve him as squire: men of his position and rank did not often have squires to arm them under the best of circumstances, and the campaign in the Holy Land was hardly that. “I don’t know how dangerous this will be, and you would be a hindrance in a fight.”
“What fight?” demanded Nicholas. “You are going to look at dead crofters. The men say that outlaws came and slit their throats. You’re taking men-at-arms. I would not be in any danger with you.”
“Possibly not,” said deSteny. “But if it came to a fight, you would be in the way, and that isn’t desirable.”
“What if I should ask Sir Gui to give me leave to go?” It was a blatant challenge, but deSteny was not willing to accept it.
“Sir Gui would think it very strange for you to want to examine a dead crofter, youngster. Sir Gui might hold it against you.” That was the least of it, for he had often heard Sir Gui upbraid his Bailiffs and Sheriffs for devoting too much time to the foresters and crofters. “It would not gain you the favor you seek.”
Nicholas pouted. “How am I going to advance if you hold me back this way? You never allow me to show my worth.”
DeSteny slung his scabbard over his shoulder and fixed the band diagonally across his chest so that he could easily draw his sword over his right shoulder with his right hand; he was no belted knight, to carry his sword at his hip. As he reached for his helm, he signaled to his page. “There are more ways for you to advance than risking your life against outlaws, or through force of arms.”
“They’re all slower,” complained the youth.
“But they’re safer, and where’s the use of advancement if you’re in your grave?” said deSteny. “Come. Bring me my gauntlets.”
Nicholas shrugged as he picked up the metal-studded leather gloves, fondling them with mingled respect and envy, longing naked on his young face. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
“We should return before nightfall,” said deSteny, leaving his chamber without ceremony. He was moving ahead of the page, going down the stone corridor toward the stairs. “If we are not back by noon tomorrow, a second party of men-at-arms will have to be sent to search for us. Be certain they have priests with them. Don’t attempt to rescue us without soldiers to escort you, and don’t separate in the forest. Simon has my instructions.” He hastened down the stairs, going quickly in spite of the weight of the chain mail.
In the courtyard twelve men-at-arms stood with their horses, ready to ride, their mounts fresh and impatient to be off. The leader of the men was a scarred veteran of the wars against the Saracens, a man nearly forty with a marked limp and three fingers gone from his left hand. He nodded to deSteny and touched the edge of his chain-mail coif in a show of respect. “God give you good day, Sheriff.”
“And you, Wroughton,” said deSteny. He looked around. “There’s Chilton, who will show us where we must go. Where is our Red Friar?”
“He’s at prayers,” said Wroughton in some disgust. “Getting his Holy Water and Holy Oil and all the rest of it.”
“Good,” said deSteny.
Chilton, already mounted on one of the two mules in the courtyard, regarded the men-at-arms uncertainly. “Yes. It is good.”
DeSteny glanced from Chilton to Wroughton. “Pay attention to what he says,” he recommended to the men-at-arms. “He has been where we are going, and he will guide us to the croft. Otherwise we may become lost in the forest.”
“Why do you want to make such a fuss about dead crofters? Crofters die all the time, just like the rest of us,” declared Wroughton, cramming his helmet onto his head and muffling the last of his remarks.
“Because they matter,” said deSteny, knowing his point of view was shared by few others in his position. “And
if they were killed unlawfully, we are obliged to avenge their deaths.” He took a bit of pear from his wallet and held it out for his sorrel mare, smiling faintly as she ate it.
“You want to rid the forest of outlaws?” Wroughton asked and started to laugh. “Well might you hope to do so.”
“If outlaws are all we must rid the forest of, then we may count ourselves most fortunate.” There was a sharpness in deSteny’s reprimand that caught the attention of the other men-at-arms as well as Wroughton’s.
“Those who prey on the King’s game are not only men,” said Wroughton, beginning to look worried. “It isn’t fitting for us to hunt boar and wolves and bear. That’s for the King to order.”
“That it is,” said deSteny, and looked around for his clerk. “Simon,” he called out to the lean-faced Jew who kept his records for him. “Be sure that if we do not return, the message I wrote out last night is delivered to the Prince as fast as courier can reach him. Send the courier with an armed escort, to be certain he arrives at Windsor.” He pulled his helmet into place and adjusted the strap under his chin.
“I will,” said Simon, bowing with more respect than deSteny’s rank deserved.
“Yes. I know you will,” said deSteny before he swung into the saddle. “And keep that boy Nicholas out of my things. I don’t want to come back to disorder.” He indicated the page with a ponderous nod. “If he will not learn to read, he is not permitted to tamper with anything on my writing table.”
“As you wish,” said Simon, a bit more nervously, for it was known that deSteny’s tolerance of Jews did not extend itself to his men. “I will comply with your orders, on my oath.”
One of the men-at-arms spat.
“It is my order, and he is my clerk,” said deSteny. He was about to add something more when he saw the Trinitarian friar come bustling out of the side door into the courtyard, a silver pyx clutched in his hand.
Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night Page 2