“You are not the only ones we must answer to,” the voice called back, but there was less defiance in it now, as if the speaker knew he had to concede. “There are others in the forest, and we must answer to them as well.”
“No doubt,” said Wroughton, not wanting to add that they were precisely the threat he and Moreton were escaping. “But open the gates to us.”
“We will,” said the voice. “And may God have mercy on all of us.”
“Amen,” Wroughton said, guiding his horse to the gates and waiting for them to be opened. When the first moaning of hempen hinges sounded, he almost wept. They would be safe at last! As soon as the opening was wide enough, he used his heels to move his horse through the narrow opening and found himself in a small square, surrounded by a dozen men of varying ages. “May God thank you for your charity.” He did his best to sound grateful, but could hear annoyance in his voice.
“That man is badly hurt,” said the headman of the hamlet, an angular fellow with a blighted right eye and two fingers missing from his right hand.
“We were set upon. By outlaws,” said Wroughton. “If you will see to this fellow’s wounds, you will be rewarded in the King’s name.”
“So you say,” the headman remarked, adding something that sounded like, “We touch the benefit of Kings.” That couldn’t be right, Wroughton thought as he stared at the headman, whose speech was almost unintelligible to Wroughton, for he was not familiar with the dialects of the crofters in this part of Sherwood.
“Am I to stay here?” Moreton asked weakly.
“No doubt,” Wroughton muttered, not at all pleased with this necessity. Then he cleared his throat. “How far are we from Nottingham?”
The headman rubbed his chin. “Our way, most of a day, the main road, a little longer.”
“Ah,” said Wroughton. “And what is your way?” He made a point of speaking clearly and slowly, hoping to get the crofters to speak in the same manner.
“We go about the crofts, of course,” said the headman, as if such an answer were obvious. He shifted his speech a little, sounding more like Wroughton. “Your kind would say we go on the by-ways.”
“You mean you have a road connecting the crofts?” Wroughton asked.
Lapsing back to his own dialect, “As well shine a chestnut,” the headman said, or so it seemed to Wroughton.
“What?” he demanded.
“A way goes among us,” said the headman as if speaking to someone nearly deaf, once more using a more cultivated manner of speech, but awkwardly, as if he were not very familiar with the language. He signaled to an older woman at the edge of the curious folk gathered about. “Mother Sibley,” he said. “This poor soldier needs your help. What say you?”
The old woman shook her head. “He may stay, but the other must go.” She spat and made a sign with her fingers that indicated she thought Wroughton was dangerous.
The headman shook his head. “You heard her. We will care for the wounded man, but you must leave.” He folded his arms, saying truculently, as if conceding too much to Wroughton, “You may ride our track to Nottingham. It should be safer than the Great North Road.”
Wroughton swallowed hard. “I have a missive from the Prince that must get to Nottingham and the Sheriff. I am sworn to deliver it.”
“Then you had better leave at once,” said the headman as two of his stalwarts took Moreton in hand, bearing him gently toward one of the wooden houses. “Stay on the track until you reach the river, and then bear to the north—to the left.”
“I know which direction north is,” Wroughton muttered as he looked about, seeing only implacable faces. “If you fail to care for Moreton, the Sheriff’s men will return and raze this place to the ground.”
“If they can find us, then they may do as they wish.” The headman pointed to Moreton. “But you will want him safe again, won’t you?”
“You have sworn to care for him,” Wroughton said sharply. “I must know you will do him no harm.”
“If any living person can save him, Mother Sibley will,” said the headman in a tone that bordered on awe. “She has saved those whose wounds stank of pus and she has made the ill sound again. If your man dies, it will not be on her account.”
Little as he wanted to accept this endorsement, Wroughton saw that to protest more would be folly for him and dangerous for Moreton. “Very well,” he said. “But if anything should happen to him that is not on account of his wounds, you will answer for it.”
“As we have for the crops and the hunt,” said the headman bitterly. “Get you gone, soldier. The longer you linger the nearer to night it is, and the more dire the hunters that will be abroad in the land.” He ducked his head as a kind of afterthought, as if he had only just realized this might be expected of him.
“The Sheriff and his men will know of this.” It was more bluster than threat, but Wroughton could not keep from uttering it.
“Then you had best be on your way, to tell them. They will not hear it on the wind,” said the headman, turning his back and adding an incomprehensible string of words that to Wroughton seemed to be, “Cats darling frober say.” The other crofters exchanged knowing nods and one man winked.
Keenly aware that there was nothing more he could do, Wroughton swung his horse around. “I will not forget this. I hope you will have no call to regret this day’s work.”
“Nor we,” said the headsman, signaling his men to close the gate behind Wroughton.
It was dim enough under the trees for Wroughton to have some difficulty picking out the narrow track that led eastward through the close-growing trees. He started his big gelding walking, and hoped they would find shelter for the night at an abbey or monastery, for he was beginning to think that the crofters might be in league with the baleful outlaws. At least the nuns of Saint Gertrude knew their horseflesh, he reminded himself in an attempt to feel reassured. He was tired and frightened and cold, but he made himself go on along the unknown road, alert to every sound as the dusk closed in around him.
How Sir Gui’s return to Nottingham was planned
ALL THROUGH the morning rain fell steadily, so that by midafternoon all the forest was drenched. Roads were morasses of mud that sank cart-wheels to the axles and horses to their knees. Those few travelers who slogged through the city gates were caked with mud and soaked to the skin. The odor of wet wool and horses permeated to every portion of Nottingham Castle, combining with the strong scent of burning oak from all the fireplaces, and the slight mustiness that came with the pervading damp.
Hugh deSteny sat in his study, a book of accounts of various ancient battles open before him, but presently unread. He had dismissed Simon some time ago, saying he would review all the records that had been prepared for him when he was more attentive, and Simon had been forced to accept this. DeSteny was deeply preoccupied with his own thoughts, none of which offered him any semblance of comfort or optimism. He was overcome with a sense of his own failure, for he had been unable to bring Marian deBeauchamp to Sir Gui. At the time he had almost been willing to believe he had done his duty, but the last two days, since he had returned to Nottingham, doubt had eroded his convictions and now he was convinced that he had betrayed the trust of his Lord, Sir Gui. He sighed and looked down at the page before him, the stilted Latin providing no refuge for him. “Horatius would despise me,” he mumbled as he quickly turned the pages of that hero’s sacrifice, holding the bridge against the Etruscans. “Lars Porsena would have nothing to fear from me.” A cup of what had been hot spiced wine stood near his elbow, now cold and tasteless. He could not bring himself to drink it.
“What do you want to do about the merchants bound for York?” asked Sir Humphrey from the doorway. He was looking the worse for wear and his voice was raspy.
DeSteny looked up apologetically. “What did you want, Sir Humphrey? Forgive me. I wasn’t attending.”
&n
bsp; “The party of merchants who arrived from York at noon. What shall we do about housing them?” He sneezed and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Sir Wilem left no instructions when he departed this morning to hunt.” The tone of his voice revealed his opinion of Sir Wilem as a hunter.
“You should be in your bed, Sir Humphrey,” said deSteny, noticing for the first time that the Marshal had fever spots in his cheeks.
“And who is to do my work? Not Sir Wilem, I think. Nor any of his cronies. They couldn’t marshal a flock of geese, let alone a town. Sir Gui is not careful in choosing those who are to defend his interests.” He sniffed, only in part because of his cold. “He is a feckless sort, callow and self-indulgent. He will not view Lady Marian’s circumstances as unfortunate. When he returns, he’ll call for musicians and cooks, not either of us. He has no sense of his duties here.”
“No, Sir Wilem does not,” deSteny agreed. He rose from his chair. “But you are ailing, and I would not want to be the cause of your illness worsening.”
“You aren’t,” said Sir Humphrey. “That’s God’s Will, not yours.”
DeSteny said something noncommittal as he fussed with the ties on his short leather cloak. “Still. You should be in the care of a nurse.” He took a step back.
“I think I should be on duty, that’s what I think,” said Sir Humphrey, settling the matter. “Not that I don’t appreciate your concern. I am grateful for it.” This was more a concession to courtesy than a reflection of any genuine feeling. “About the merchants? What shall we do?”
“They are entitled to a place to stay. Do they have money?” deSteny asked, putting aside his fretting.
“Not a great deal. They are taking goods to market, not coming from it.” He coughed, looking embarrassed. “When they return, they will have money.”
“They are not willing to stay in a hostel or an abbey?” DeSteny shook his head. “No. I suppose not, with all their goods—too much chance for theft, and they are, as you say, bound to market. Is there any room at the taverns?”
“There is some, but not as much as they would like,” said Sir Humphrey. He looked down at his feet. “A courier arrived a short time ago.”
“A courier? From whom?” deSteny asked, preparing himself for more bad news. “Sir Wilem?”
“Sir Gui deGisbourne. He intends to come here tomorrow to claim his bride. He is bringing four red deer and two boars for a feast, and dozens of birds to be roasted, and two barrels of fish. We are enjoined to supply the rest. He will expect a grand occasion—you know how he is.” Sir Humphrey shook his head slowly. “He says he wants to show his bride a proper welcome. We must tell him what has happened.”
“So we must,” said deSteny heavily. “Very well. I will prepare my report for him. I thank you for this timely warning.”
“He also says he is bringing twenty men with him as guests, to add to his welcome of Lady Marian to Nottingham,” said Sir Humphrey, more miserably than before.
“Then we must be ready to give them good welcome, whether she is here or not,” deSteny told him with a fatalistic hitch to his shoulder. “I will see if Sir Wilem has any preferences in this, and then I shall set about making ready.” He did his best to infuse his voice with encouragement, and failed singularly. “The onus is upon us. If Marian deBeauchamp isn’t here, that doesn’t excuse us from our obligations of hospitality.”
“Indeed not,” Sir Humphrey agreed, and coughed again.
“Sir Humphrey,” deSteny told him. “Get you to bed, at once. Having you ailing will not please Sir Gui, and I have more than enough to displease him as it is.”
Sir Humphrey shook his head. “I will, but not yet. I have orders to give for Sir Gui’s reception. Once that is done, I will do as you recommend. My woman will tend me.” He cocked his head. “You could do with a woman, Sheriff.”
DeSteny laughed once. “But what woman would have to do with me?” he countered, and nodded his dismissal to Sir Humphrey. “May you mend swiftly.”
“Amen to that,” said Sir Humphrey as he left the room.
Alone, deSteny began to pace, his frown deepening. He had lost men and Sir Gui’s bride, and little though he anticipated a happy marriage for the two, he knew this disappointment would be held against him. Striding down the room, he paused at the window to look out at the forest, his sense of being besieged increasing as he looked at the green gloom in the sullen rain. Where was Wroughton? he asked himself. What had become of the men who rode with him? The longer they were absent, the more troubled he became. He put the tips of his fingers together and did his best to calm his thoughts, but without success.
“Sheriff?” The young man in the doorway was one of the under-stewards, a long-faced boy called Geoffrey. “Sir Humphrey said you have need of my service?”
With a sigh, deSteny gave up his fruitless ruminations and gave the youngster his attention. “Sir Wilem is gone to join Sir Gui in the hunt, has he not?”
“So I have been told,” Geoffrey answered carefully. “I know nothing to the contrary.”
“Then we must suppose it is true,” said deSteny, certain that Sir Wilem would relish telling Sir Gui of his missing affianced bride, and the Sheriff’s role in her disappearance. “They will be here tomorrow, I understand.”
“That is what we were told,” Geoffrey repeated. “We are supposed to prepare suitable festivities for them.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Under the circumstances, what should they be?”
“A very good question,” deSteny said, shaking his head. “They will not want a happy occasion, for the circumstances are far from joyous. But his company are worthy of our best efforts, and we would be remiss not to provide the ceremony to which they are entitled.” He rubbed his face as if hoping to awaken some inspiration that had thus far eluded him. To his astonishment, it worked. “So it may be best,” he went on with unexpected confidence, “if we ask the Bishop to perform a Mass upon Sir Gui’s safe return, in which protection for Lady Marian may be sought. Then a suitably grave feast will follow, with only musicians for entertainment—no jongleurs, no baiting of cocks or bears, no dancing. That should achieve a balance that offends no one.” This last seemed unlikely, but he said it with the same determination as he had the rest of his plans.
“As you say,” Geoffrey remarked, looking relieved. “Shall I send for the Bishop to come to you?”
“No,” said deSteny, who suddenly wanted to be out of his study. “I’ll go to him. I will speak to him myself.” He pulled the hood of his cloak up and reached for his gloves. “I suppose I must find him at Saint Stephen’s?”
“So I would suppose,” said Geoffrey, stepping out of deSteny’s way and slightly averting his eyes.
“Well, I’ll try there first,” said deSteny.
“Shall you want your horse, Sheriff?” Geoffrey asked.
“No reason. I’ll walk. It will do me good,” he said, and strode off down the corridor toward the stairs. By the time he reached the courtyard, he was almost convinced that he had managed to make the best of a dreadful situation. He left the castle and went along the wide, boggy street toward Saint Stephen’s Church, the oldest church in Nottingham still used for services. The firm line of his mouth showed his resolve as he entered the building and stood in the narthex, a double row of thick columns leading down toward the altar. He flipped his hood back and looked about the dim, incense-laden interior for a monk or priest to help him.
“Sheriff?” said a voice behind him. “This is unexpected.” His accent was that of the aristocracy, for he was a third son of a minor courtier, and had been raised for the priesthood from youth, although he still had the manner of the nobility.
DeSteny turned about and saw Father Raleigh Lorimer standing near him, his habit damp on the shoulders, suggesting he, too, had just come in from the rain. “Good day to you, Father,” he said a bit awkwardly. “Is Bishop Tilton receiving?”
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“He is at prayers just now, but he will be through shortly.” Father Lorimer regarded the Sheriff with open curiosity. “How is it that you wish to speak to him?”
“He and I have matters to discuss,” said deSteny, deliberately oblique.
“If you were to impart to me what they are, I might be able to alert the Bishop so that he may prepare for your discussion.” He had a somber expression that turned sour as he spoke. “You are not often at Mass, are you?”
“I have many duties that curtail my religious exercises,” said deSteny in a tone his men would have recognized as discouraging more remarks. Very few churchmen had ever challenged him about this, preferring safety to orthodoxy.
Father Lorimer was not one of his men, or a cleric of a squeamish nature, and he decided to pursue the matter. “You should set the example to all the rest. You have an obligation to show your men the way. If officers of your position are lax, how can your men be expected to do anything more than say a Pater Noster once a day?”
“That is your concern, Father, if you will pardon me for saying so. My duty is to preserve their bodies—their souls are your concern. Just as you have taken an oath to God, I have sworn to uphold the King and his nobles, and that is where I will devote myself.” Although he was dissatisfied with himself for answering the prelate in this abrupt way, he was unwilling to be caught up in useless apologies and explanations, so he shouldered his way past the stiff-necked priest.
“You may find that the Bishop will expect more of you than that,” Father Lorimer warned as he watched deSteny go toward the altar and the chapels behind it.
“That is for him to say, Father, not you,” deSteny countered as he walked past the altar with only the slightest hint of a blessing or a genuflection. He soon saw the Bishop in the Lady Chapel, flanked by two Pied Friars of the Order of the Blessed Mary. They all were bowed in prayer. DeSteny stepped back from the doorway, not wishing to intrude, and certain the prayers would shortly be over.
Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night Page 20