“Very good,” said Wroughton. “I saw you at bowls, didn’t I?”
“I do play at bowls, so you may have.” The clatter of the horses’ hooves grew louder as they crossed the draw-bridge, and left the comforting embrace of Windsor’s stone walls. “I am told you know the way?”
“I came down the Great North Road,” said Wroughton, not wanting to claim any expertise he lacked. “There is only that one road, after all.”
“True enough,” said Ellenby. “But if we should encounter anything irregular, you would recognize it.”
“So should you,” said Wroughton with feeling.
Ellenby laughed. “As your experience is foremost, then I will rely upon you to serve as our guide in these matters.” He swung around in his saddle and called out to his troops, “Moreton, Simmons, Danebraugh, come ride ahead of us. Wroughton is to be protected at all costs, by the order of His Grace, Prince John.”
The three men put their horses into a fast trot and took up their positions ahead, making a lozenge formation on the road. The wind had whipped up the trees so that they thrashed their branches and moaned. It wasn’t a very comforting beginning to what promised to be a hard ride.
Behind them, a soldier past his first youth but not yet ancient, called out, “I am going to keep my mace ready. No telling what may drop from the trees in such weather.”
“Fortesque is right,” said Ellenby. “Let everyone of you have a weapon to hand.” He pulled his dagger from its sheath and brandished it.
Wroughton wondered if he should tell these men that the foes they might encounter were not damaged by iron and steel, but by wood and holy water. He kept this to himself, trying to maintain the air of a favored messenger rather than a frightened soldier. Taking his short sword, he swung it purposefully, but the sound of the blade cutting the air was lost in the soughing wind. “We have a long ride ahead of us,” he said. “We will have to be vigilant all the way to Nottingham.”
“So we must,” said Ellenby with a kind of cheerfulness Wroughton found off-putting. “We have cheese in our saddle-sacks for mid-day. Evening will see us safe within walls.”
The rest of the men shouted in agreement, and continued in under the cover of the trees, keeping a good pace for the first half of the morning, but slowing down when they came upon a party of merchants bound north.
“Will you give us the protection of your company?” asked one of the merchants, a tall, angular fellow riding a white jennet.
“Alas, we are on the Prince’s business and must hasten,” said Ellenby dismissingly before Wroughton could speak. “You have three armed men to guard you. They should be sufficient if you do not remain abroad past sunset. Do not remain outside once the sun is down, not if you wish to be safe.”
“Safe!” The merchant regarded Ellenby with a hard look. “You are the Prince’s man, and we pay his taxes—”
“Those are King Richard’s taxes,” said Ellenby sharply. “The Prince is honor-bound to collect them, for the maintenance of England and the honor of the King. The Crusades have cost a great deal and may continue to do so; Prince John must do his duty to his brother.” He urged his horse ahead of the merchants’ train of mules, ponies, and jennets. “The man probably hides his money in France or Scotland, so that he cannot pay the full amount. So many merchants do that, and similar things to keep their gold in their coffers.”
“No one enjoys taxes,” said Wroughton.
“If they are not paid, England is lost to France,” said Ellenby with a deliberate curl of his lip. “King Richard owes a mortgage to the King of France, and the French will not forgive a groat of it.” He spat and swung his dagger. “Those greedy men think only of their profits.”
“And King Richard thinks only of his war,” said Wroughton impulsively. “It is good for him to Crusade, but at what cost does he ransom the Holy Sepulchre?”
“It isn’t for us to fret over such things, it for us to do our duty to the lords,” said Ellenby. “Let the great ones do as they must, for the sake of God and Christ and honor. We have enough to do in our ventures. And all men know this.” He pointed to a narrow bridge ahead. “Single file!” he ordered. The men obeyed, and once over the stream, they remained in a column as they moved ahead of the merchants.
Although Wroughton agreed with Ellenby, he felt as if he ought to argue with him, because he so disliked the man’s haughty manner. “Should not we be consulted when we must face the dangers?”
“It is our duty to face dangers,” said Ellenby. “If we cannot do that, we are less than dust in the road.” He fell silent as he pushed ahead of Wroughton and used this as the excuse not to speak with any of the others.
The wood was lively, filled with dappled light and rustling leaves, and the occasional sound of animals moving out of sight, but the impression made by these activities was more sinister than cheerful. The shadows of clouds passing overhead added to the changing light, reminding the men that rain was coming, and casting vast shadows over the green expanse of the forest. The men continued along the road, holding their horses to a slow jog-trot; their gear and tack jingled, squeaked, and clattered, marking their progress as they went on, and rendered Sherwood silent where they went.
“There is a turn-off to Saint Gertrude’s up ahead,” Ellenby called out a while later. “We’ll stop there for a meal and to rest the horses.” He grinned. “They make fine beer and good cheese at Saint Gertrude’s.”
One of the men whooped, the sound echoing and becoming lost among the trees, accompanied by a flurry of birds taking to the air in alarm. The horses pulled and pranced as the men continued to laugh.
“Better conduct, better conduct,” Ellenby said. “These are holy women we will ask for food and drink. You cannot behave as if you are in barracks.” He chuckled. “Not that nuns don’t have their charms.”
“How do you know?” Fortesque asked.
“It would be unseemly to tell you,” said Ellenby with a smirk. “Besides, the nuns I spoke of as charming are not at Saint Gertrude’s.”
Another burst of enthusiasm made Wroughton wince. These men were less than worthy of high regard, he thought, but dared not reprimand any of them. It wasn’t his right, and it wasn’t sensible to be at odds with his guards, so he held his tongue as they left the road for the track that led to the nunnery.
* * *
The nunnery walls were partially stone but mostly wood, a stockade topped with an array of crucifixes that was as elaborate as it was imposing. There were a half-dozen serfs working in the small fields where the nunnery’s sheep grazed and barley grew. A bell rang as Wroughton and the Windsor guards came into view, and the heavy wooded gates swung open. Habited nuns bustled out of the nunnery to greet the men, and one of them called for a household slave to take the horses in hand.
“Mother Barnaba,” called out Ellenby.
An elderly nun with a weathered face came forward. “Sir Willard, you are welcome here, in the name of Christ.”
“And amen, good Mother,” said Ellenby, dismounting with alacrity. “We have come to ask for a meal and some oats for our horses. Perhaps a small keg of beer to take with us.”
“Ah, Sir Willard, you are impertinent, but you shall have what you ask.” She tisked as he went onto his knee in a mocking gesture of submission to her will.
“I am unworthy,” Ellenby said, and winked at the nun.
As Wroughton got off his horse, he heard one of the men mutter, “She’s his aunt. She won’t refuse him anything.”
“We’ll have goose and onions,” said another with merry anticipation.
“And double rations of beer,” said Danebraugh as he surrendered his reins to the stable slave.
“We might as well enjoy it here. There will be precious little extras on the way north,” said Simmons.
“It won’t be that bad,” said Fortesque. “Wroughton here must know where
we will be well-received.” He gestured his approval of the possibilities.
A young nun came up to Wroughton. “If you will follow me, I will bring you to the refectory.”
“Thank you, Sister,” he said and fell in beside her, feeling awkward. “You are good to take us in.” That was ill-said, he knew it, but he never knew how to behave around nuns, particularly in the ones in their own buildings. He would rather storm the ramparts of a castle than enter a nunnery.
Ellenby sauntered along beside Mother Barnaba, chatting genially with her, and accepting her affectionate admonitions. “I’m sorry we can only stay for this one meal, but the Prince has ordered us to hasten. We must be about his business as soon after sunrise and breakfast as we may put saddles on our horses.”
“You always say that,” Mother Barnaba reminded him. “And you always stay the second night.”
“We mustn’t this time. Prince John would not approve,” Ellenby said emphatically. “This man—Wroughton—is under orders to return to Nottingham as quickly as possible and as we are his escort, we’ll have to go at his pleasure. If you wish us to remain, it must be with his permission. It is his mission to carry a message from the Prince to Sir Gui, and other lords, and you know how stringent the Prince can be.” He glanced over his shoulder at Wroughton. “So we have to depart as soon as our fast is broken in the morning. Unless Wroughton should decide that we must remain the second night, so as not to risk being abroad after dark.” His laughter was insinuating as he looked toward his men. “We have a long, hard ride ahead.”
“Then let us ease its beginning,” said Mother Barnaba, addressing Wroughton for the first time. “It would make us happy to aid you in this capacity. It is past mid-day, and you may well not be on the road again until late morning, tomorrow. You must rest, so why not rest here? Your horses will be well-fed and you will return to the road in fine fettle, and we’ll remount those of you who need fresh steeds.” She had a hard smile, but one that was difficult to resist.
“Yes, Wroughton,” said Fortesque to the Nottingham soldier. “Let us remain here for the second night. We’ll be off again after morning Mass.”
Wroughton knew he should refuse, but he also sensed that these men would resent his depriving them of the stay here, and so he coughed delicately. “If you must remain, then I suppose I must comply. This place is more readily defended than many, and that will mean something, if we are attacked. I should not go on alone, and if you believe our mission is best served by staying an extra day, then, so be it.”
Ellenby cried out approvingly as he entered the refectory. “Then bring on the beer, Mother Barnaba, and cook geese and onions and lamb to serve with your bread and we will be glad of your hospitality, in the name of Our Lord and Our Prince.”
“Goose and lamb today and pork tomorrow, with cheese and ale as well,” Mother Barnaba promised. “We have new, white bread, too. And we’ll send you on your way with mead and smoked venison. Mind you give a little to the cats, for Saint Gertrude.”
“Their patron,” said Fortesque knowingly. “Small enough token for such a goodly reception.”
This was a generous offer and all of them knew it. “You are a good Christian, Mother Barnaba,” said Ellenby. “Isn’t she, Wroughton?”
“She is most generous.” Knowing this was a mistake, Wroughton allowed himself to be convinced, and followed Ellenby to the high table.
What became of Marian deBeauchamp
ON THE third day north from London, Ackerley came down with a persistent cough that sapped his strength even as it heated his humors. Because of his condition, the party was forced to go slowly, and that put them behind their intended progress for the day. During the night, spent in a croft of pig farmers, his fever worsened, and the headman of the croft told deSteny they would have to take Ackerley away from their hamlet, for he was dangerous to them all.
“Where might he receive care?” deSteny asked.
“At the Trinitarians’ abbey of the Holy Sacraments,” said the headman. “But he mustn’t stay here. Who knows what vapors he has released among us?”
“Yes, he may be a danger to all of us,” said Byrle. “He will have to be left with those who can care for him.”
“Very likely,” said deSteny, hating to have to do this. “Very well. Tell me where this abbey is.”
The crofter sighed with relief. “Down the lane just beyond the cross-roads. There is a shrine to Saint Christopher at the turning.”
“How far?” deSteny asked.
“Two leagues, nearly. He will be taken in there, never fear. They do not turn anyone away. The Abbot is Harold of Yarmouth. He was once the Sheriff of Suffolk, or some such place.” The crofter averted his head as Ackerley was half-led, half-carried out to be assisted into the saddle.
Marian deBeauchamp had already mounted, and she looked down from her horse. “If the man is sick, he cannot remain with us. It won’t do to have the men all taking ill. You cannot expect him to ride all the way to Nottingham.”
“No, he cannot,” deSteny agreed. “Which is why we must take him to the abbey.”
“And quickly. This day will not make for easy travel.” She pulled her cloak more tightly around her as if to emphasize this point. “There is rain in the air.”
“As you say,” deSteny responded and gave his attention back to the crofter.
The man almost doubled over to show his regard. “May God keep you safe, Sheriff.”
“For now I had best rely on my men to do that, but I thank you for your good wishes.” DeSteny watched Canute and Meaghar wrestle Ackerley into the saddle. “I am thankful to you for sheltering us. I trust no misfortune will come upon you on our account.”
“No. I should think not.” The crofter blessed himself and refused to look at Ackerley again. “You paid us well enough.”
DeSteny nodded to show he was paying attention, though he truly had no wish to linger in the hamlet any longer than absolutely necessary. He offered the crofter another two copper coins and said, “For your next market-day, so the people may be merrier.”
“You are good, Sheriff,” said the crofter as he seized the coins. “May God guard you on your journey.”
As the other soldiers said Amen, deSteny mounted up, glancing over at Marian deBeauchamp, who looked unperturbed by all the recent developments. He settled himself into the saddle and moved his horse to the head of the line. “Meaghar, you ride next to Ackerley. Be sure he doesn’t fall off his horse. And don’t stay any nearer to him than you have to. I don’t want you sickening, too.”
“That I will,” said Meaghar, more resigned than obedient.
“And you,” deSteny added to Marian deBeauchamp. “Keep your distance from him. You mustn’t enter his miasma. I do not wish to bring you ailing to Sir Gui.”
She looked mildly annoyed. “What shall I do? Stay a mile back? Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of your escort?”
“Not a mile, but five lengths at least, to escape the miasma,” said deSteny, noticing the heavy clouds crowding out the morning above the trees. “And perhaps Hearne should ride with you. He will serve as your own guard.”
Hearne swung his horse around and went back to ride at Marian’s side. He seemed neither pleased or annoyed at this assignment, though his horse sidled under him. His face showed no emotion, and his voice was flat as he said, “I will ride with her.”
“Very good,” said deSteny as he prepared to lead the little party away from the croft.
“Sheriff,” called out Marian. “Where are we bound?”
“To the Trinitarians,” said deSteny. “They will take care of Ackerley. You may stop there for a meal if you like.”
“With such a sick man? With all your worries about the illness, shouldn’t we be careful?” Marian asked sarcastically. “I think we would be safer taking our meals in the saddle than with him—don’t you agree?”
<
br /> “I think I must keep you safe at all cost,” said deSteny. “So we will eat in the saddle, and you will be able to tell Sir Gui that you were guarded at all times from all evils.”
Marian laughed aloud. “Will he care, do you suppose?”
DeSteny was tempted to say no, but he knew she had hit upon something undeniable, so he only responded, “He will be relieved.”
Again she laughed. “Oh, very good, Sheriff, very good.” She waved him away and looked toward Hearne. “You will be with me, won’t you?”
“I will,” said Hearne curtly.
With that they followed after the other soldiers in her escort, leaving the crofters behind with their pigs.
The overcast sky was clouding over as they rode along, making the road under the trees so dark that they could not easily see its turnings, or the places where the road was uneven or deeply rutted. In a short while, a slow, sullen drizzle began, and the group rode more slowly, and Ackerley grew worse.
“When we turn for the abbey, you wait at the shrine with Lady Marian,” deSteny shouted back to Hearne. “I don’t want to take any more chances than we must.”
“As you wish,” Hearne called. “I hope we can find shelter while you go to the abbey. We’re going to get wet.”
“If there is any shelter, yes, avail yourself of it,” deSteny replied. “This is only going to get worse. I am sure a storm is coming.”
“And it should be here by nightfall,” said Meaghar.
“Which might as well be now,” said Canute. “It is almost too dark to go on.”
“But we must,” deSteny said sharply.
“Yes. For Sir Gui and for poor Ackerley,” Canute agreed with an edge of cynicism in his voice.
“That is all to the good,” said Meaghar. “But what are we to do when the storm hits? If we are still on the road, it will be—”
“We will deal with that when we must,” said deSteny in a tone that allowed for no argument. “For now, we must keep ourselves in order.” He looked back at Ackerley as he swayed in the saddle, humming to himself. “He has to get care—that much is certain. Once he has been attended to, then we will look to the rest of us.”
Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night Page 16