Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Knowing it was reckless to challenge Sir Gui, deSteny bit back his most cutting retort and said only, “Then I am to take it that you wish to travel with the men, to lead you escort? Giving full weight to the esteem in which you hold your bride and her family, that is.” He had the satisfaction of seeing Sir Gui blanch.

  “I?” Sir Gui clapped his pomander to his chest. “Sadly, I fear I cannot. There is much to do here in Nottinghamshire, and I must supervise it. As much as I would wish to present myself to her at her father’s fortress, if I were to undertake the rigors of the journey, I would not be able to arrange a welcome for her suiting her rank.” He took a turn about the room, agitated and annoyed. “It is fitting that I remain here.”

  “Fitting?” How delicious it would be to be able to call Sir Gui coward. DeSteny savored the thought even as he gave a short bow to his superior. “I will do what I can.”

  “And of course,” Sir Gui added with a sly look of malice, “I expect you to be leader of that escort.”

  “Go with the escort?” Now the Sheriff was upset. “That is impossible. My work is here. I have much to do to make this castle safe for your bride. You have said so yourself.” The shock of this order rattled him, as he knew it was intended to do.

  “In ordinary circumstances, yes, that is true. But these, you will allow, are not ordinary circumstances. And you, yourself, have reminded me that Lady Marian deBeauchamp requires more than simple soldiers to bring her to me, since her father’s health will not permit him to undertake the journey.” Sir Gui’s smile was more a gloat than a sign of approval. He rounded on the Sheriff. “You will do my bidding, Hugh deSteny. You will obey my commands or you will be disgraced. Bad enough that you fled the Holy Land. If you were to fail here, your reputation would fail utterly.”

  There was enough truth in the threat that deSteny did not wish to test it. He rocked back on his heels, absorbing the blow and gathering his thoughts. “When did you want us to depart?” It was not as much capitulation as strategic retreat, he told himself. “Since Wroughton is away, I will not have many men to guard Nottingham. I will need to depute my duties while I am gone.”

  From outside came a loud shout as the guards were changed. It was officially now the middle of the day.

  “Wilem deFolleux will do it,” said Sir Gui, naming one of the most pampered of his cronies. “He has already said so.”

  “Wilem deFolleux,” repeated deSteny, picturing the languid, effete young man. “But he has never commanded so much as a hunting party.”

  “This will remedy that lack in him,” said Sir Gui triumphantly. He preened as he strode around the room, his pomander held to his nostrils. “You know his birth is beyond question, and his family have long been staunch defenders of the realm. He will acquit himself with distinction, I have no doubt.”

  This was a sentiment deSteny could not share. “And what if there is real danger while I and my men are away? Do you seriously expect deFolleux to deal with it? How will you defend Nottingham with the garrison halved and a fop to command? If the outlaws should plunder the crofters near by, or waylay a party of merchants within a day of the gates? What if a monastery should be attacked with no one to go to the aid of the monks? Such things are not beyond possibility, Sir Gui, as we both realize,” deSteny declared, his ire building again. “What use would your friend be in such coils?”

  “He would bring a dozen of his father’s men-at-arms to fill most of the gaps in your absence, so you need have no fear for the town,” said Sir Gui, clearly pleased with this clever notion. “And Wilem’s father will be content to find that his son has shown himself to be a stalwart leader.”

  So that was it, thought deSteny. Sir Gui was using this escort duty as a ploy to aid one of his friends. He sighed once. “I will talk to Sir Humphrey. Between us, we will arrange matters.” He looked at Sir Gui with ill-disguised disgust. “Since you will have it, I will do as you command.”

  “Certainly you will,” said Sir Gui, and looked around the room once more, and paused, staring out the window. “It gives a good aspect of the forest, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does,” said deSteny. He had mastered his anger, and now he was trying to think of all he had to do in order to prepare for this ill-considered escort of Lady Marian. Briefly he wondered if Stephen was as happy with the alliance with deGisbourne as Sir Gui claimed.

  “I will expect you to leave in four days, without further dispute. That will be enough time to make the arrangements you consider necessary for the protection of Nottingham, which I expect you to do. You should be able to provision your men in that time, and make the necessary arrangements for the garrison to be placed under Wilem deFolleux in your absence.” His smile widened as he regarded deSteny. “Sheriff, you exceeded your authority once, in sending Wroughton and those men to Windsor. Now you will have to bow your neck.”

  There had been a time, a decade ago, when another man had told deSteny much the same thing, and deSteny had refused to obey. Then he had defied the man giving the order, and paid the price of that defiance. Now he shrugged. “It is your fiefdom, Sir Gui. You must choose if you wish it left in inexperienced hands. You know my warnings, and the reason I have given them. If you decide to leave all Nottingham open to attack, you will be the one to suffer. Your bride may find ruins to welcome her.” It was not entirely accurate, but it was near enough to the possible to cause Sir Gui to smart.

  “You would suffer as well, I think, you and your men,” Sir Gui shot back, color mounting in his face.

  Again deSteny shrugged. “Yes,” he admitted. “But my loss would not be as great as yours, nor would my blame.” He was gratified to see that this time his words had struck deep.

  His face stiff with disapproval, Sir Gui inquired, “What would you recommend, then?”

  This was the opportunity deSteny had been hoping for. “I would ask to be permitted to assign the men of the Guard and the garrison to support Wilem deFolleux and his troops, so that they will not have to learn afresh all we have discovered in the last weeks.”

  Sir Gui realized he could not prudently refuse so reasonable a request. “Very well. Make whatever arrangements you think best in that regard.”

  DeSteny managed not to smile. “Then I will do as you order, and leave from here in four days. Sir Humphrey will serve in my stead”—he trusted the older man would not be too lax, or too eager in fulfilling the Sheriff’s duties—“until Wroughton returns, and that should reassure you regarding the safety of the town. I will leave written instructions to that end, so they will be certain to be carried out.” He was aware that Sir Gui found the Sheriff’s skill in reading and writing suspicious, and at the moment, he used that suspicion. “Wilem deFolleux will work in conjunction with Sir Humphrey and Wroughton. They will advise deFolleux and manage the men-at-arms.”

  “I assumed Wilem would supervise them all,” said Sir Gui, petulance returning to his handsome features.

  “You said yourself he has no training in command. No matter how skilled he may be”—and the Sheriff opined the fellow had no such skill at all—“he will have to learn the manner in which Nottingham is defended. It is not something that can be grasped in a day. He will be in no position to invent a defense if it is needed. This is no place to begin such lessons, since much has happened recently that warns of greater intrusions,” deSteny reminded Sir Gui. “And given what we have faced of late, you will need someone who is familiar with the trouble in the forest if the town is to be preserved.”

  Reluctantly Sir Gui nodded. “I will send a messenger to Wilem tomorrow. He will arrive before you leave.”

  “Well enough,” said deSteny, though he did not actually think so. It was, however, the best he could achieve and he recognized it. He bowed. “My men are waiting, Sir Gui. I will speak to them when our meal is done.”

  “Very good,” said Sir Gui, realizing he had gone as far with deSteny as he was l
ikely to be able to do without courting direct opposition. “Let me know the names of the men to go with you. And tell me what you expect those who remain to face. You have insisted; you must acquiesce.”

  This was not to ensure the men were given recognition or preferred posts, deSteny was aware. Sir Gui wanted to be sure that the Sheriff took the number of men Sir Gui had ordered he have for the escort. “I will. You will have the lists in your hands before we depart. My word on it.” That was no concession, for Hugh deSteny had no intention of setting foot upon the Great North Road without a full complement of armed men. He regarded Sir Gui carefully. “Is that all, my Lord?”

  “For the moment,” said Sir Gui with a dismissing wave of his hand. “I will have to see you before you leave, of course. There are niceties that must be observed, and I want to be sure you know how to proffer my regards. In addition, I have certain gifts you are to carry to my bride. I will entrust them to you the day before you leave; you will be accountable for their safe delivery.”

  Once again deSteny felt compelled to object. “Surely they may be presented to the woman when she arrives here? Sending anything of great value with an escort is so great a risk, I cannot advise you to do it.”

  Sir Gui was determined to make the most of the slight accommodation he had gained. “I must present her with the jewels promised by the marriage agreements before she comes here. Her father would be entitled to keep her by his side if I did not provide tokens before she left his roof.”

  This confirmed deSteny’s guess that Sir Gui was not the bridegroom Stephen deBeauchamp wanted for his daughter. He coughed once and said, “I will do all that I may to deliver anything you entrust to me, but I must warn you again that the Great North Road—indeed, all of Sherwood—is no safe place, and anything you give to me may be seized by brigands while we are traveling.”

  “You will have to make it your purpose to be certain that you do not encounter any brigands or outlaws while you travel,” said Sir Gui, as if this were nothing more than a matter of decision and will.

  The Sheriff did not know how to respond, so he bowed once again, turned on his heel, and strode out the door, saying as he went, “My page is at your disposal. His name is Nicholas Woodhull.”

  “Quite a well-born lad to have to wait upon you,” said Sir Gui with a trace of envy in his tone. “I wonder that his father should send him to you instead of me. Perhaps he didn’t want to seem too ambitious.”

  “I cannot say what his reason might be for his selection. Inquire of him if you wish to know his reasons,” answered deSteny, who knew the cause very well: Nicholas’ family did not want his son in the tutelage of a man of Sir Gui’s reputation. He closed the door behind him and made his way down to the soldiers’ hall, where the cooks were delivering the first of two stuffed pigs to the waiting men. Shouts of approval greeted the arrival of the great spits with their smoking, succulent burdens. Scullions carried in trenchers for the men, and an understeward rolled a tun of ale into the center of the room, broaching it with a single blow of a mallet to the bung.

  Sir Humphrey was at his place at the high table, and he motioned to deSteny to join him. “A fine meal, as always,” he approved as deSteny made his way toward him. “I’ll say this—Sir Gui does not stint on the fare for his Guards and his soldiers. He shows us the regard we have earned, and no question about it.”

  “Enjoy it while you may. You may not have long to indulge in the pleasures Sir Gui offers,” deSteny recommended, gladdened that his insistence on first-rate food for the men was appreciated. It did not matter that Sir Gui was thanked, for morale was more important than credit. He sat down on the chair beside Sir Humphrey, his expression grave. “There is something we must discuss. This afternoon, Sir Humphrey. It is urgent. And it is important,” he said quietly as one of the waiters brought a trencher to Sir Humphrey, four huge collops of pork steaming in it. Those at the high table were given such service—the rest of the men were left to scramble for themselves.

  “What might that be?” asked Sir Humphrey, instantly apprehensive. He paused in the act of pronging meat on his dagger.

  “Nothing quite dire,” said deSteny, making a reassuring gesture.

  “Ah, well, then,” said Sir Humphrey, securing one collop and lifting it to his mouth. “What more?”

  “I have just left Sir Gui,” the Sheriff went on. “He has given me orders that I do not think either of us will relish.” He made a sign of thanks to the understeward who presented him with his pork-filled trencher.

  A heartbeat before he heard that, Sir Humphrey had been enjoying his meal. Now the pork was as tasty as coal and the trencher looked grey. “What might that be?” he asked, feeling trapped.

  As the meal progressed, Hugh deSteny gave Sir Humphrey a succinct account of his interview with Sir Gui. As he talked, his meat grew cold and his ale went flat, as was the case with much of his life.

  How Wroughton came to Windsor

  THEY WERE closing the great gates of Windsor when Wroughton and his two remaining men rode through them on lathered horses. It was dusk, and the last glow of the sun stained the western sky blood-red.

  The Captain of the Guard waited in the courtyard ahead of them, fists planted on his hips, and an air of extreme irritation about him. This was not the behavior he expected of visitors to Windsor. He made no greeting as Wroughton dismounted and flung his reins to a waiting groom from the stable. Though it was the height of discourtesy, he forced Wroughton to approach him rather than going forward to greet him.

  “I am from Nottingham, on urgent business from the Sheriff there; I have message I am charged to deliver,” Wroughton said as he went up to the Captain of the Guard. His eyes stung with fatigue and his belly grumbled from emptiness. Although it was the end of summer, his breath made ghosts on the chilly evening air. “It is from the Sheriff of Nottingham. Here. This letter is for His Grace.” He patted his chest where the letter lay. “It must be put in his hands and his alone.”

  “And for that reason you arrive near dark, well after prudent men are within walls,” said the Captain condemningly. “What made you undertake so reckless a venture? Why did you not remain in a hostel for the night, and present yourself properly in the morning, when it is safe to be abroad?”

  “Because I have lost four men in coming here, and I dared not chance another night outside stone walls, for their sake,” said Wroughton, indicating his remaining escort, who were still mounted.

  This did not impress the Captain of the Guard favorably. He glared at Wroughton as he signaled the grooms to take the horses to the stable”. “What is so desperate that you lose men and manners in this way?”

  “The message from the Sheriff describes the trouble,” said Wroughton, his expression hardening. He motioned to his men, who were dismounting now that the grooms had come for their horses. “Cathmor and Boden are the only two who survived. I started from Nottingham with six men.” He gave the Captain a hard look. “Are you saying I should have endangered these good men for your convenience?”

  The Captain did not relent, but his manner softened a trifle. “You are saying you have been set upon?”

  “Repeatedly,” said Wroughton. “And in places that should have been safe. We would not have made it through at all if we had not lasted out one assault until sunrise.” He folded his arms over his chest, as much to protect the parchment he carried as to express his defiance of the Captain of the Guard.

  “What places?” asked the Captain, disbelief making him sarcastic. “Crofts with stout walls? Gated towns? Abbeys? Fortresses? Or did you try to make and hold camps for yourself?”

  “Do you think we are complete fools? We made no camps. Monasteries, they were the worst. We stayed in monasteries and were not safe,” said Wroughton, and let the impact of that announcement sink in before he went on. “I must hand this letter to Prince John. I am ordered on my honor to present it upon my arrival
.”

  The Captain still had his doubts about Wroughton, but he had been on the rough side of Prince John’s tongue more than once and did not relish another such encounter with the King’s younger brother. “Very well. He is at table. Since you insist upon it, I will lead you to him now.”

  “And what of my men?” Wroughton asked, refusing to move while Cathmor and Boden were unaccommodated.

  The Captain made a gesture that was almost capitulation. “They will eat with the rest of the men-at-arms. I will allow so much.” With that, he turned abruptly and strode away, not glancing back to learn if Wroughton was following him.

  Windsor was a huge, echoing, draughty pile of a castle, its fortifications massive, its interior dark and confusing. The odor of smoke was strong from the braziers and the many fireplaces that did little to dissipate the chill of the stones. The corridors the Captain used were lit by torches and occasional trees of oil-lamps, and their smell was pervasive and upsetting to Wroughton, who had seen enough of fire at London when he was young.

  Finally they entered a square room where tables were laid for dining, and two dozen men hunched silently over their trenchers, picking bones from the fish-and-fowl dish they were served for their evening repast. The sizzles of fat from the open hearths where venison turned on a spit were the loudest sounds in the room.

  Wroughton was so hungry that the odor of the dish made his mouth water as if he were a child and this a feast. Hunger gnawed at him, immediate and intense. He did his best to shut his distraction from his mind as the Captain led him to the high table and bowed with just enough respect to those seated there.