Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  As much to silence him as to feed, the Red Friar abruptly bit away his throat, opening his mouth wide to the delicious, vile fountain of blood, hot, damnable, and delicious. Never had anything satisfied him as that hideous, sweet, red liquid did. No lust, no matter how intense or shameful, had ever worked on him as the slaking of his thirst did now. There was blood all over his face, his habit was gory with it, and still it was not enough. As the pilgrim’s veins gave up their treasure, the Red Friar wallowed in his sin and fulfillment, oblivious to the others around him.

  A sharp sound brought him to his senses. Will Scarlet was standing by the cot, the lower half of his face smirched with blood, his sword raised, a head dangling by the hair from his belt. “Hurry. Finish up.”

  “Hurry?” the Red Friar repeated as if he did not understand the word.

  “Yes.” Will Scarlet pushed nearer. “I’ll get the head for you.”

  The necessity of this act nearly overwhelmed the Red Friar, who held out his hand to stop the blow. “It is profane.”

  “Then I’ll take the nose instead,” Will Scarlet offered. “It’s all one to me.”

  “The nose,” the Red Friar agreed. “It isn’t so bad.”

  “Truly,” said Will Scarlet as he shoved the Red Friar aside. And struck. “There, you see? Nothing easier.”

  Replete and despising himself for it, the Red Friar permitted Will Scarlet to hand him the young pilgrim’s nose. He walked as if overcome with wine, his steps weaving and unsteady as he did his best to keep up with Will Scarlet. Around them the rest of the band was also making their way back from the dormitories to the courtyard of the abbey, many of them dazed, a few of them giggling.

  In the courtyard the rest of the band was gathering, many of them moving quickly with excitement, a few lethargic from their over-enthusiasm. Hood was waiting for them, the heads of three youths dangling from his red hands. He waved his men forward, an expression of something hideously like gratification on his lean features. “Is it all done?”

  As if responding to the question, the night was sundered by a single scream.

  “The Devil!” swore Will Scarlet, his pleasant features blanching beneath the red smears. “The monks will hear that.”

  “Who is the fool who—” Hood demanded in a voice that left all his band still and silent as if riven by lightning.

  The scream had become a high, keening whimper of unmitigated horror.

  “It was Much, the miller’s boy,” said Penrod Lugenis, his tattered scholar’s gown engorged from neck to hem. “He has not finished.”

  Hood stared around, fixing in his mind the faces of those about him. “Yes. Much is not here. Well, he has done his worst. Now I will do mine.” The promise inherent in those simple words chilled his men. “Do you—Will Scarlet and the Friar—go fetch Much. Be sure you dispatch his victim, for it would seem he has made a mull of it himself.”

  The Red Friar trembled. “If you would allow—” he began, only to be interrupted by Hood.

  “You heard my order. Did you not understand me? Or do you seek to disobey me as well?” His words were smooth, almost gentle, but none of his men were deceived. “Fetch Much for me. Now.”

  “Of course,” said Will Scarlet, plucking the Red Friar by the sleeve. “Come,” he urged in an undervoice as he started back across the courtyard.

  “But this is ...” The Red Friar could think of nothing heinous enough to describe their errand.

  “We must do it,” said Will Scarlet. “Or he will dispatch us.”

  “Would that be so terrible?” the Red Friar inquired as they stepped again into the pilgrims’ wing of the abbey.

  Will Scarlet stopped and turned to the Red Friar. “Are you in such a hurry to burn in Hell?”

  The Red Friar ducked his head. “No,” he admitted. “But this will only compound our sins.”

  “The fire is no hotter for a dozen sins than one, and eternity is the same length. You might as well take all Hood has to offer until you stand before God, for until then, Hood is our lord and we owe him fealty,” said Will Scarlet and resumed his search for the unlucky Much, following the echoing sounds of fading shrieks.

  The Red Friar was not as certain of these doctrinal assumptions as Will Scarlet was, but he was absolutely certain that Hood’s wrath was immediate and hideous. He trudged after the troubadour, resigned to their task.

  They found the youth on the second floor, in the women’s dormitory, cowering in the corner away from the fragile girl he had attacked. As she writhed on her pallet, blood spurting from her mouth and ears as well as the wound in her throat, she continued to cry out, her voice now hardly more than a gurgling rasp. Very quickly her writhing turned to spasms and she twitched with oncoming death. Much shivered at the sight, unable to bring himself to act. As Will Scarlet and the Red Friar entered the dormitory, the look of relief on Much’s loutish features turned to dismay.

  “No. No. I thought—”

  “You thought the monks would find you, didn’t you?” Scarlet said as he went to dispatch the girl, standing over her as blood shot from her neck. “It is a waste. Pity.”

  “It is. I ... I’m sorry.” Much lowered his head. “Hood is angry, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Will Scarlet as he handed the girl’s head to the Red Friar. “As you knew he would be. What made you do such a foolish thing?”

  “I don’t know,” said Much, getting slowly and awkwardly to his feet, as if he had suddenly become very old. “It wasn’t anything like my father. She was—”

  The Red Friar went to his side. “It was mad of you.” He had wanted to rebuke Much for his folly but could not now summon up the indignation to do it.

  “You’d better come with us,” said Will Scarlet, holding out his hand to the miller’s son.

  “She was just so thin and pale,” said Much as Will Scarlet led him out of the cell. “I could tell she was ailing, and doing ... this ... was more than she could endure. I ... faltered when I realized what her trouble was.” He paused to lick the spatters of blood from his mouth, then went on as if he might exonerate himself with Will Scarlet. “She wanted God to heal her, that was why she was a pilgrim. She had put her hope in being cured on her journey. I didn’t want to add to her suffering. I thought that if I let her bleed to death she would not be so frightened. I didn’t drink very much of her blood. It was thin and tasteless. I was afraid she would start to pray if I bit too deeply.”

  “You are babbling,” said Will Scarlet without a trace of sympathy. “It will do you no good.”

  Much swallowed hard twice, then glanced at the Red Friar, who brought up the rear, the head of the girl still clutched in his hands. “I thought she didn’t deserve to die this way.”

  At that Will Scarlet laughed aloud. “No one deserves this. We do not, nor do those who fall to us. If you start to trouble yourself about who is deserving of our attention, you will end up like a rabid beast.” He shoved Much ahead of him and out into the courtyard.

  Already there was a pyre of branches prepared for Much, packed tightly so that the fire would be concentrated and burn hot. Hood’s band stood around it with quiet purpose. There was a moment that seemed suspended, when no one breathed, and even the monks in the abbey stopped chanting.

  “You know what to do,” Hood said to Much.

  Mutely the miller’s son nodded. Then he began to climb onto the pile of branches. No one offered to help him, and no one protested.

  “Bring a torch,” Hood ordered, paying no attention to the man who rushed to obey. “Put the heads with him.”

  There was a flurry of activity as the band did as Hood ordered. Two of the heads rolled off the pyre and had to be flung higher onto the branches. The Red Friar strove to think of the holy words to protect these plundered souls, but his head ached as if caught in a vice and all he could do was whisper, “Farewell,” to the hea
ds, and to Much.

  Hood took the torch from his man and thrust it deep into the branches, stepping back as the first flames sprouted, his eyes reflecting the same color as the fire. “Come.” With that, he turned his back on the pyre and walked straight out of the abbey gates, not looking back as the fire’s plume suffused the night sky beneath a thickening cloud of oily smoke. The smell of burning meat filled the woods, putting all its denizens on nervous alert, for all of them dreaded fire.

  Bringing up the rear, the Red Friar tried to find compassion in his heart for Much, who was bound from this world to the fires of Hell, and was disgusted when he was unable to summon the sensibility required. As he went deeper into the forest, the fire’s brightness faded and the Red Friar began to comprehend the depths of his damnation. What caused him the greatest despair was the realization that he did not mind.

  How deSteny passed through London

  THE GREAT North Road led down to London Town, and past the old, partly ruined Roman fort on the river where ferrymen waited on the west end of the walls of the Tower to carry the men from Nottingham across to the south bank. The town was full and bustling, the traffic increasing as they neared the river. Hugh deSteny and his men tried not to stare at the close-huddled houses that spread out along the Thames for almost a mile, the smoke from their chimneys making the air pungent, although deSteny, and a few of the others, had seen London, and grander cities in other climes. They approached the ferrymen carefully, not wanting to alarm them with all their weapons. The early afternoon sun made the river shine like old silver.

  “I am the Sheriff of Nottingham,” deSteny called out. “I am on the business of Sir Gui deGisbourne, and we must go over the river.”

  The leader of the ferrymen—a hulking fellow with a squint and one missing ear—shouted back, “Even men on nobles’ business must pay.”

  “Yes. Of course,” deSteny agreed. “The full rate. We’re not here to haggle, we’ve other concerns.”

  “Very good,” said the leader of the ferrymen. “Do your horses balk at boats? I warn you, I won’t stand for any kicking or rearing once we’re away from the shore. You’ll all have to dismount, of course. If you damage my craft, it will cost you six shillings.” An outrageous sum, but the ferryman’s face was set.

  “They do not balk at water, or anything but fire,” said Hearne. “Unless your ferrymen are afraid of horses.” His chuckle spread through the men-at-arms and brought scowls to the ferrymen’s faces.

  “How much to take us over to Saint Thomas Southwark?” deSteny asked.

  “A shilling for the lot,” said the ferryman. “And a pence to each of the men.” It was another outrageous price and each of the men knew it. “For each ferry.”

  “You shall have it,” said deSteny without protest. He could see Byrle and Ackerley swell indignantly.

  “We can cross Friars’ Bridge,” Hearne suggested.

  “We could swim,” Meaghar suggested, only half-joking.

  “And pay the Church more?” Sprague countered.

  The ferryman laughed harshly. “That’s right. You’ll pay the friars more for their help over Father Thames than you will pay us.”

  “But they’ll say prayers for us,” Canute shouted.

  “And we may need their prayers,” Meaghar added.

  “Then cross with them,” said the ferryman. “But if the bridge doesn’t hold, don’t blame us.”

  It was well-known that the Friars’ Bridge could not support more than two horses at a time, and that alone made the ferries preferable. “We will forego the prayers,” said deSteny. “Come. Let us be about it.” He signaled his men to dismount and lead their horses. While they settled on the order of their crossing, he rummaged in his leather tunic for the coins to pay the ferrymen. “Four shillings and seven pence,” he said, taking out the coins and holding them up for the ferrymen to see. “Here are two shillings and four pence. When we are over the river, you shall have the rest.” He rocked back on his heels. “You know I have all the money, for I have shown you the coins.”

  The leader of the ferrymen scowled but accepted the money and the terms, nodding grudgingly. “All right. But if you cheat me, your lord shall know of it. Get your lot aboard and we’ll set off.” He took up his position to work the sweep-oar, saying to his assistant, “Look lively now. These soldiers must be on their way.”

  “Very good,” said deSteny, thinking that any appeal to Sir Gui for money from such laborers as these would fall on deaf ears.

  Four of the nine ferries were shortly loaded and the boats set out into the river, the sweep-oars sculling them toward the far side and the low-lying wharf of Saint Thomas Southwark, the Abbey sprawling at the edge of the close-built village. The current was strong but the ferrymen knew it well and kept their craft steadily on course.

  Delwin’s chestnut stamped nervously, but the other horses managed to remain calm for the crossing, although deSteny’s dun took exception to a floating log, snorting a challenge and tossing his head as it drifted past. When they reached the wharf, a pair of friars came hurrying down from the abbey gate-house and helped to get the horses up the bank.

  After he paid the ferrymen, deSteny gave the friars thruppence each and signaled his men to remount. “We must press on. The afternoon isn’t faded yet. I want to be at Croydon before nightfall.”

  Only Hearne had a good notion of where that was, but the rest looked displeased. Byrle shook his head. “It’s getting on. Half the afternoon is gone. We could stop here.”

  “No,” said deSteny. “We must press on.”

  “But Croydon is a long way yet,” said Delwin. “And we have been pushing our horses for days.”

  “All the more reason to make haste,” said deSteny, swinging up into the saddle and pulling in his reins. “If we go now, we should arrive by sundown.”

  The men exchanged uneasy glances. “There are said to be robbers on these roads.”

  “Then keep your swords out and be ready to fight,” deSteny recommended. “Tell me how you plan to avoid trouble, morning or evening, if we must travel on these roads.”

  The men accepted this unhappily, remounting slowly and coming around to follow the Sheriff of Nottingham as he led the way to the Croydon Road.

  “Have you ever been here before?” asked Ackerley.

  “Many years ago. I went on foot then.” DeSteny did not enlarge on his experience, preferring to keep his attention on the road ahead of them. His memories of that first journey were mixed with the later events of his life, and were tender as a new-healed wound.

  “Did you have any trouble?” Canute had to shout to be heard from the rear.

  “Not from outlaws,” said deSteny in a tone that stopped all questions before they could be asked.

  As they headed off into the brilliant afternoon, they passed open fields where cattle and sheep grazed and crofters toiled. The country was more open than that to the north, and although forests loomed in the west, here the fields and meadows joined together, making a broad swath of grass and crops through the gentle hills that led toward the sea.

  Late in the afternoon they passed a group of pilgrims bound for the South Road to Hastings, and from there to France, where they would join with many others bound for the Holy Land. The pilgrims were glad of the company of men-at-arms and such an important official as the Sheriff, although one of them complained that they needed a priest more, and was quickly silenced by his companions.

  “This is a fine beginning to your travel,” said deSteny, ignoring the complaint. “You should make a good passage at this time of year.”

  “Well,” said the oldest pilgrim, a fellow in his forties with a slight hunch in his back and the hands of a man who had worked all his life. “If God is good, we will.”

  “God and the weather,” said deSteny.

  The pilgrim smiled and shook his head. “That comes from
God, as do all things.” Around him the pilgrims said Amen.

  “Perhaps,” said deSteny. “Though I think it may be the nature of things more than God’s Will that shapes the weather.”

  The oldest pilgrim looked shocked and went silent, withdrawing from the side of deSteny’s horse in favor of walking with his companions.

  “Why did you say that?” Byrle asked deSteny in a lowered voice, hoping not to be heard by the pilgrims. He had ridden up beside the Sheriff.

  “Because it is what I think, and because I don’t want to be forced into escorting them to the South Road and all the way to Hastings.” DeSteny shook his head. “They believe because they are bound to the Holy Land for the sake of their souls, they should be able to commandeer assistance from anyone they meet. They will ask for charity for their evening meal and their lodging. They’ll probably get it. But we cannot accommodate them, no matter how much they may want our escort. And you may believe that they do want our escort. We have no obligation to them. Sir Gui is our master and we must fetch his bride. That is our duty.”

  “True,” said Byrle, frowning a little. “But these pilgrims are—”

  “They are not our charge,” said deSteny.

  “No, they aren’t,” said Byrle unhappily.

  “They expect our help,” said Meaghar.

  “They have need of us,” said Byrle.

  “That is part of the problem,” said deSteny. “Our mission is for Sir Gui and his affianced bride.”

  “But the pilgrims are on a holy journey,” said Delwin, who had been drawn into the debate.

  “They cannot turn us from our sworn duty,” said deSteny.

  “No, I suppose not,” said Meaghar.

  “Keep your purpose in mind,” said deSteny, and turned his eyes to the road ahead while Byrle and the others fell back behind him.

  They came to Croydon just at sunset when the sky was filled with red banners, announcing a change in the weather. By then the pilgrims were some distance behind them, and they had caught up with a party of eleven merchants traveling with three men-at-arms; they kept a steady progress that suited deSteny and the merchants with their laden carts and even-tempered palfries ambling along were glad of new company, and the time they shared the road passed pleasantly enough.