DeSteny had his men in the courtyard, mounted and ready to leave. He turned to his host and said, “I would feel better if we had a wagon for your niece.”
“Might as well advertise a woman, and attract every rapacious rascal from here to York to prey upon her,” said the newly installed lord, Reynard deBeauchamp. “No. Her father made his intentions plain. She is to be dressed as a lad and ride with the rest of you.”
“A pity he should die so suddenly,” said deSteny. “You said it was unexpected, the fever that took him?”
“That it was. But Stephen had forty-nine good years, and not many fighting men can claim so much for themselves. Our brother Oliver died at twenty-three, coming home from the Holy Land, and our brother Nicholas succumbed at age five, from a broken leg that festered. I barely remember him.” Reynard deBeauchamp shook his head. “A good man, my brother Stephen, and a credit to the family, but God has His reasons, and it is not for us to ask what they may be. It is the way of the world that men die, and God knows the why of it.”
DeSteny stared into the middle distance, “I suppose He must,” he said.
DeBeauchamp put his hand on deSteny’s shoulder. “It is good that Marian is to be married. With her father gone, she should be with a husband. This cannot be her home as it was when her father lived. A woman alone—it is never a good thing, Women were made from men so that they would always have to be a part of men. It is what God intended.” He looked at the black mare his niece would ride. “This is a good horse. It should do her well.”
“I’m sure the mare will be fine,” said deSteny. He was aware that deBeauchamp wanted to have his niece gone as soon as possible—the girl was strong-willed and held her father in high esteem, far less so her uncle. She criticized Reynard deBeauchamp at every opportunity. “It’s her grief that has made her sharp-tongued,” he went on in spite of his own prudence.
“Sharp-tongued!” DeBeauchamp spat to show his opinion of her behavior. “She is a proper shrew. My brother would not curb that in her, and this is the result. Well, I wish Sir Gui good fortune with her. Tell him to beat her often or he will have to surrender rule of his house.”
DeSteny could not imagine Sir Gui using a rod on his wife—it would be too demeaning for him. No, Sir Gui would be more likely to ignore his wife than chastise her. He supposed that Marian deBeauchamp would be left to her own devices most of the time and treated like a castle hound the rest of the time, fed and indulged but given no special notice. He said, “I shall tell him what you advise.”
“Her father spared the rod, you know,” said her uncle condemningly. “And look what has become of her.” He shook his head. “My sons will be glad to see their cousin gone.”
“And so shall I,” said Marian deBeauchamp as she emerged from the main house of the fortress. She was a slim girl with only a hint of bosom. This morning she was wearing good quality men’s clothes and her brown hair had been cut off short, as most youths’ hair was. Judging by her appearance, she might have been a page or an apprentice to a notary. “DeSteny, I am in your hands.” Her manner was condescending but subdued. Looking to her uncle, she added, “I wish you joy of my father’s fief.”
Reynard deBeauchamp contemplated his niece for what seemed a long moment, then shrugged. “It is the right of our family to rule here. You would be the first of us to uphold our right.”
“Yes. I know.” She went to the black mare and took the reins, preparing to mount. “I am ready.”
“Very good,” said deSteny, disliking being caught in this family squabble. “When we reach Nottingham, Sir Gui will send a messenger to you with their plans for the wedding, so you may attend.”
“Good of him,” said deBeauchamp, and watched while deSteny gave Marian a leg up into the saddle. “She rides well enough, I’ll allow her that.”
“Such a kindly admission,” said Marian, making no effort to hide her sarcasm. “Sheriff, are your men ready?”
He indicated the seven of them, saying, “Eight, counting myself. By order of Sir Gui, who is eager to see you.”
She laughed. “Did he tell you to say that?”
“Most certainly,” said deSteny as he got onto his dun. He took up his position at the head of his men, Hearne immediately behind him, then Marian deBeauchamp. Next came Delwin and Byrle riding side by side. Behind them Canute, Ackerley, Sprague, and Meaghar brought up the rear.
“It is time,” said Marian a bit testily.
“Yes. We need all the daylight we can find,” said deSteny. “And the weather isn’t going to hold much longer.” He looked up at the high clouds veiling the morning sun, “We could have rain tomorrow.”
“This is England,” said Marian. “Surely you didn’t expect sun all the way to Nottingham?”
“No,” said deSteny. “But I would like to see the summer last a little longer, since the signs are all for a hard winter.”
Marian laughed again, not quite mocking him. “Then why linger? We are not needed here,” she said pointedly. She nodded once to her uncle and pressed her heels into her mare’s sides.
“Move out,” deSteny ordered his men. “At the jog.”
“Nothing faster?” Marian sounded disappointed. “The road is not too rutted. We could canter a while, to put distance between this place and us.”
“We have a long way to go and we will not get there more quickly if we tire the horses.” He offered Reynard deBeauchamp a salute as he passed beyond the gates of Arundel and began the long journey north.
* * *
By nightfall they had reached the priory of Saint Honorius of Canterbury, and the hostel the monks maintained for the travelers, where they were received with some disapprobation on the part of the Prior, who looked askance at Marion deBeauchamp, and only consented to giving her a place to sleep if she allowed him to bar her into her cell for the night. “It isn’t seemly for a maid to dress as a man,” he declared, staring at her as if he expected the worst from her. “She must be kept apart.”
“I am willing,” she said, accepting the condition gracelessly but deciding to comply with the Prior’s orders; it was only one night.
“A bad thing,” he said later to deSteny, “letting a woman go about the world in such a guise.”
“It was the order of her father, for her protection,” said deSteny.
“And she must obey him. I do understand. But her father erred greatly.” He folded his hands in his habit sleeves and glared up at the vaulting in the refectory. “I hope this does not bode ill for her marriage.”
“And I,” said deSteny. He decided to keep his thoughts about Sir Gui and his pretty pages to himself. He was relieved that they had remained at the dining table rather than visiting the chapel. “She is not the sort of woman to comply with—” He stopped himself before he said anything inappropriate.
“You may think it is important to maintain decorum, and say nothing that would redound to your lord’s honor,” said the Prior, “but we hear many things here, on the Sussex Road near the cross-road with the London-Portsmouth Road: we hear many things.” He spread his fingers on the table as much as his knotted joints would permit. “There are almost as many rumors about Sir Gui deGisbourne as there are about the Great North Road.”
“And you would like to know if you should believe them,” said deSteny.
“They seem—ah—troubling.” He waited for deSteny to speak. “Both those about new outlaws and those about Sir Gui.”
“With good reason, I fear,” deSteny admitted. “Merchants have been set upon more often than in past years.”
The prior nodded and crossed himself. “It is more than outlaws, they say.”
“It is,” deSteny said, but ventured nothing more as much as he wanted to know what the prior had heard.
“Some fear for their souls.” The prior coughed. “Devils and imps and worse than that, according to some.”
&
nbsp; “Perhaps not devils and imps, but dangerous creatures nonetheless,” said deSteny, wanting to end their conversation without appearing to retreat. “I think it is wise to be cautious.”
“And trust in God,” said the prior, giving deSteny a disapproving stare.
“An armed escort is as wise as prayers, perhaps wiser, at least in this world,” said deSteny. “I wouldn’t offend you for any reason, Prior, but I would recommend soldiers as well as prayers for those bound north.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said the prior condemningly. “And Sir Gui?”
“No worse than any other popinjay,” said deSteny. “And no better.”
“Well, then, I will pray he has worthy sons to follow him.”
DeSteny rose. “We must depart at first light, for we still have a long way to go and the weather is against us. I am grateful to you for your hospitality. A suitable donation will be made upon our departure.”
“It will buy only Masses and Psalms, not armed men.” The prior gave deSteny a look of pitying contempt. “If only you comprehended the power of faith.”
DeSteny listened without any emotion. “I’ll bear your remarks in mind.”
He withdrew to his cell for the night, and paid no attention to his dreams. When he rose at Lauds, before dawn had begun to glow in the east, he made a point of avoiding the prior.
“How far today?” Hearne asked as he saddled his horse.
“Twenty leagues, if there is no rain.” It was a demanding pace and both of them knew it. He glanced at the sky, trying to decide if the thickening clouds heralded a storm.
“And if there is?” Hearne took his short military cloak and pulled it around his shoulders, showing that he expected a downpour.
“Then we must try for ten leagues at least. We must cross the Thames in four days if we possibly can. It would be better to cover the distance in three days, but that would mean no delays of any kind.” DeSteny placed his saddle-pad on the dun’s back and reached for the saddle, hefting it from the stand and lifting onto his horse.
They left the priory as the monks were beginning Prime, bound for London on the Portsmouth Road. They made good time until mid-day, when the skies opened and drenched them, chilling them and making the road slick under their horses’ hooves. By nightfall they had gone twelve leagues and needed to stay the night at Leith Hill in a hamlet of crofters. They left the next morning in a steady drizzle, coming to Bishops’ Ford on the Wandle before the light faded too much for travel. They went on the next day on the Streatham Road and finally reached London Town.
“Four days,” said Marian as deSteny signaled to ferrymen on the opposite bank to come to get them.
“The rain slowed us, but we haven’t had to stop because of it,” said deSteny.
“Very true,” said Marian.
“We have a long way to go,” deSteny reminded her.
She gave him a sharp look. “Where will we stay in London?”
“At Nottingham House,” said deSteny, as if the choice were obvious.
“My father arranged for me to go to Arundel House near the London Wall,” said Marian with such determination that deSteny stared at her. “I would dishonor his memory not to go there, as he wished.”
“I cannot leave you in the care of others,” said deSteny. “If you are going to stay at Arundel House, then we must stay there as well.”
She glared at him. “You’re the Sheriff of Nottingham. Why should Arundel House open its doors to you?”
“Why, on your behalf, of course,” said deSteny, unwilling to argue with this tempestuous young woman. He wondered if she knew anything of Sir Gui, or he of her.
“Tell me,” she demanded, “why.”
“We cannot give you proper escort—” he began, only to be cut off.
“You can escort me to Arundel House, see me installed there, then be off to Nottingham House. In the morning, you may come for me.” She made a gesture of dismissal.
“And if you should need help in the night?” He studied her square little chin.
“Then you must attend to me,” she said without concern.
“If you insist upon this, I must remain with you.” He sighed. “I am charged to guard you day and night, which I cannot do from half-way across the town.”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “All right. You may remain, but only because Sir Gui would require it of you. Not that I am certain that he is so solicitous of my welfare as you say he is. That is all I can arrange for you, though. Your men must go to Nottingham House. I won’t have them be a charge on my uncle.” From her expression of distaste, she was as displeased with Reynard deBeauchamp as she was with deSteny.
“Very well. I’ll send my men, with Hearne in charge, to Nottingham House. They will come for us at first light so we may take full advantage of the day. We must have all the light we can.” He knew his men would be offended with this arrangement—he was annoyed, himself—but he doubted he could convince Marian to change her mind.
What Wroughton encountered on his way
to the Great North Road
IT WAS ten days since his arrival at Windsor that Wroughton was summoned to Prince John’s presence. Again he entered the library and found His Grace striding up and down the aisle between the reading benches. He went down on his knee. “Your—”
“Get up, Wroughton, do,” said Prince John impatiently.
“I have two letters for you to deliver to deSteny. One is for Sir Gui which I want deSteny to see before he hands it over. I have stipulated that in the contents, so Sir Gui will be aware of what I have done. The other is for deSteny himself.” He held out two rolled and sealed letters to Wroughton. “If you leave before mid-morning, you can be at Holy Rood by nightfall.”
“What of my remaining men?” Wroughton asked, anticipating having to travel alone, and dreading it.
“You will travel with an escort from Windsor, of course. It is fitting that Windsor provide you escort, for you travel on the Court’s business now,” said Prince John. “Your men will be sent back later, when they may go more slowly, and they will be protected, even as you will be. You must hasten.”
Wroughton swallowed hard at this unexpected honor. “Who will be in command?”
“Why, you will, Wroughton. You know the danger better than anyone.” He watched Wroughton kiss the seals on the letters and shove them into his tunic.
“They will lie over my heart every step of the way,” he vowed.
“Just so they get to deSteny, they may travel in your shoes for all of me.” The Prince stroked his short beard. “The roads must be protected at all costs. England must have safe roads, or we are nothing.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” said Wroughton, bowing in the French way he had seen the courtiers do.
Prince John held up his hand, forbidding Wroughton to depart just yet. “Think about this if you would: there are many men out there on the roads who are in dreadful danger and yet do not know it. How am I best to deal with this? I have an obligation to see them safe. The men are subjects of the King and as such are entitled to protection in his name. Should they be warned, and thereby able to prepare as well as to panic, or should the danger be minimized in the name of keeping tranquility in the land?” He waited a long moment, then said, “I know our people must be guarded, but I fear for travelers who may seem suspicious to others. There is enough mayhem done to strangers as it is. If more suspicions are added, they may well be called to account for themselves in a most unkindly way. It is not acceptable to me, or my brother, to have such misadventure befall traveling men.” He went over to the hearth where a small fire was laid. “Well, I shall consider the ramifications before making my preparations to guard the roads. There must be a balance between the protection of travelers from the trouble in the forest and their safety from one another. I cannot have crofters refusing to give shelter to travelers, bu
t I cannot permit the crofters to be attacked by these dreadful creatures.”
“Your Grace,” said Wroughton, as much to show he was paying attention than from any lack of opinion.
“Tell deSteny that I am mindful of his plight, and I will do what I can on his behalf. I am aware of the danger in which he stands and I will not turn my back on him or Nottingham. The men remaining here will return in good time, with men who will reinforce Nottingham. I realize Sir Gui will not be pleased, but he’ll have to endure it as best he may. Perhaps I will allow him to entertain me for three days. That will assuage any hurt he may feel for being slighted in favor of Nottingham.” He gave a single shake of his head. “Men like Sir Gui are the very devil to keep pleased. They speak of their dedication to our absent Richard, and they strive to carve out as much of this island for themselves as they may while he is gone.”
Now Wroughton was embarrassed. Even if he agreed with the Prince’s remarks—and in a general way he did—he knew it was unseemly to volunteer anything. So he cleared his throat and did his best to listen closely.
“I mustn’t keep you. You have far to go today and I should not encourage you to waste daylight—what little there is of it this morning. I trust you have a cloak of oiled leather to keep the rain off.” He held out his hand again, and let Wroughton kiss his ring, then motioned him to depart. “May God see you safely home, Wroughton.”
“Amen, Your Grace,” said Wroughton as he left the Prince’s presence, hastening down the stairs to the main courtyard where an escort of ten men awaited him, eight of them soldiers, one a priest, and one a farrier, to tend the horses. Wroughton got into the saddle on a raw-boned blood-bay, pulled up the reins, and turned toward the main gate where a winch was being worked to raise the portcullis. He peered up at the sky and asked himself if he would be dry by day’s end.
The man at the head of the soldiers came up to Wroughton, saying, “I’m Ellenby; I’m in charge of the Prince’s men.”
Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night Page 15