Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  The ringing of a bell brought the Bishop to his feet and the monks to his side, tending him as if caring for a sick calf. He blessed them both, then waved them away. “What is it you wished to see me about, Sheriff?” he asked, coming out of the Lady Chapel with alacrity.

  DeSteny had been preparing for this moment, and so did not hesitate. “I was hoping you and I could arrange for a proper celebration of Sir Gui’s arrival here. I am sure you understand the difficulties inherent in this occasion.” He saw Bishop Tilton nod, and went on. “I know we must show proper regard for the lamentable events in Sherwood, and we must also receive Sir Gui with appropriate display. So it occurs to me that a Mass, said in thanks for his safe arrival, and for Lady Marian’s protection and deliverance, would be welcome to all.”

  Bishop Corby Tilton was as much a politician as a spiritual advisor, and he weighed this suggestion carefully. “Two Masses, I think,” he said in a measured tone. “One upon Sir Gui’s arrival—thanksgiving, of course. It will be fairly brief, but a good display. Then, after the banquet—and I am sure there will be a banquet, won’t there?—yes, I thought so—we will have a second Mass for Lady Marian. This Mass will be Solemn and with all the augmentation that is allowed, so that the gravity of the situation is fully appreciated. No one will find fault with such arrangements, not after I have given the homily, which I will deliver in language that will address the dangers she faced in coming here as well as all the efforts that will be needed to rescue her. That should answer all the questions that may arise.” He rocked back on his heels, mentally reviewing this plan. “The banquet should not be too grand.”

  “I agree,” said deSteny, pleased to have someone with the same understanding as his own. “Musicians only to entertain.”

  “And no bawdy songs, only doleful ones,” said the Bishop. “Sir Gui may not quite approve of that, but it is fitting.”

  “That it is,” said deSteny, almost allowing himself a little sense of relief. “What will you require of me for the Masses?”

  “I think it would be best for me to take a short while to meditate. I will send you my answer later today.” He was about to dismiss the Sheriff when something more occurred to him. “Do you know when we are to expect Sir Gui?”

  “Tomorrow, weather permitting.” He held up his hands to show he had no ability to change this. “Should we pray for rain?”

  Instead of being amused, Bishop Tilton turned a disapproving look on deSteny. “Best not to jest about God’s work in God’s House.”

  DeSteny ducked his head. “I meant no disrespect.”

  “Well, and fighting men are not gentle in their ways,” the Bishop said, relenting. “I will give you the benefit of the rigors of your profession.”

  DeSteny managed a bit of a smile. “Each profession has its own demands.”

  “And God knows the whole of them,” said the Bishop. “Look for my messenger after sundown. I will strive to have a plan in place by then. Brother Erwin here”—he pointed to the older of the Pied Friars—“will bring my thoughts to you.”

  “I do read and write,” deSteny reminded him.

  Bishop Tilton nodded. “Yes. I recall hearing that. An odd accomplishment for a man in your position, if you will pardon my remarking upon it.”

  “You may remark upon anything you like, Bishop Tilton,” said deSteny, and with that, made his escape.

  What became of Wroughton

  in the Forest by-ways

  WROUGHTON had spent the night in a goat-shed, the animals gathered around him in the pesky way of goats. He now knew why they were considered animals of the damned, and in the morning, when he wakened, he saw that they had made a feast of part of his cloak. Struggling to his feet, Wroughton drove the goats back, and opened the small, high window to look out into the morning. He saw rain, heavier than the night before, but with less wind driving it.

  He stretched and scratched at his chin, and wished he could have a glass of ale and a wedge of cheese, as he would do in Nottingham. His joints ached and he felt heavy-headed, but he attributed this to sleeping on three heaps of straw, and the damp. It was too frightening to think he might be ill, for he knew sickness could mean death. He saw the horse the nuns had given to him standing haltered under the eaves of the sheepfold, a short distance away, and was perversely glad that his mount was out of the rain. It would have slowed him down more than he wanted had he had to wait for the gelding to dry. He looked about for the crofter, and noticed that three small children had emerged from the nearest house, two of them headed in his direction, running through the puddles with eager enjoyment.

  “You!” the older child shouted. “You! Get up! It’s morning.”

  Wroughton worked his shoulders to ease the kinks that had settled in there during the night, then he went to the door and let himself out into the wet day. “I am up. I thank you for the safe accommodations.”

  The taller child laughed. “It is only because you are the Sheriff’s man. We want no trouble here.”

  So young and yet so canny! Wroughton thought. “You shall have none on my account,” he told the boy. “I have given your father my word on it.”

  “Just as well,” said the boy, and walked past Wroughton to deal with the goats. Wroughton saw a pile of hay had been dropped for his horse, and he was pleased that the crofter had been willing to do so much. He rubbed his eyes, wanting to get the last of the sleep out of them, and prepared to knock on the door of the crofter’s hut.

  The crofter anticipated him by a breath or two. “May God send you good day,” he said rather formally to Wroughton.

  “And to you,” Wroughton replied, taking a copper coin from his wallet and giving it over to the crofter. “For your generosity.”

  “You are most kind,” said the crofter as if speaking to a cleric. “We see few strangers here from one season to another.”

  “Even with the crofters’ track?” Wroughton asked, wondering if they would offer him anything to break his fast.

  “Crofters aren’t strangers; we know whom among them we can trust,” said the man. “Sheriff’s men are another matter.” He walked a few steps to the midden and relieved himself into its steaming mass.

  “True enough,” said Wroughton, doubting if he ought to do the same. “I think it would be wise if I were to leave shortly.”

  “Yes,” said the crofter. “It is a way to the next hamlet, and still a long ride to Nottingham.”

  “Can I reach it today?” Wroughton asked.

  “Today?” The crofter gave it his consideration. “I should think you could, if the river isn’t too high. If you have to go along to the bridge at the Abbey of Four Crowned Ones of Rome, that will slow your journey. You should stay with the Blue Friars in that case.”

  “Ah,” said Wroughton. “Victorines. Well, I shall keep all you have told me in mind.” He decided he couldn’t ask for food outright, so he suggested, “Is there any cheese or smoked meat I could purchase from you? If I am to travel a long way today, I want to be sure of a meal.”

  The crofter laughed. “You may have some cheese. You can get smoked meat at the next hamlet. We call it Four Oaks, since there are four oaks inside the stockade.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Wroughton did his best to conceal his disappointment. “How am I to find this place?”

  “Stay on the track and bear to the left where the road meets another.” He gestured to the right as he spoke.

  “Which is it?” Wroughton asked, confused by these contradictions.

  “To the left,” the crofter said, again gesturing to the right.

  “North or south?” Wroughton attempted to get better information.

  “East. Toward Nottingham,” said the crofter as if it could be the only answer. He signaled to one of his boys. “Hey! Bring a mug of goat’s milk to our guest.”

  The boy coughed and said he would.
r />   Wroughton fetched out another copper from his wallet. “For the goat’s milk,” he said.

  Again the crofter took it. “Much appreciated.”

  “I should go as soon as I may?” Wroughton suggested.

  “The goats will be milked shortly.” The crofter pointed toward a three-sided shed. “Your saddle is in there.”

  “Yes. I recall,” said Wroughton. “I can be away directly, then.” He started toward the shed to claim his saddle.

  “Very good,” said the crofter, then went to let the sheep out of their fold and into the pasture outside the stockade.

  Wroughton brought his saddle and put it on the horse, tightening the girth enough to be snug but not tight enough to interfere with eating. He checked the bridle to make sure the bit hadn’t shifted during the night. Then he patted the horse’s neck.

  The boy came up to Wroughton and held out a wooden mug that was almost full of warm goat’s milk. “This is for you.”

  “Good,” said Wroughton as he took the mug and drank its contents down. He tossed the mug back to the boy. “I’ll be under way.” He busied himself tightening the girth and when he was satisfied, he climbed up into it, gathered up the reins, and rode out of the hamlet.

  The rain dripped through the trees and soaked into Wroughton’s cloak. At least the water would hold the fell outlaws at bay, he told himself, and did his best to ignore the discomfort of getting slowly sodden again and kept his eyes on the narrow track through the forest.

  Then the path he was on ran into the slightly broader trail that went two directions away from the narrow way he was on. Left or right? Which way should he turn? It was dark enough that he could not readily reckon which direction was east—if indeed east was the way he should go—so he looked along the path as if to determine which seemed the most traveled direction, but could not discern anything specific that suggested which was the way for him to choose.

  At last he arbitrarily chose the right-hand direction, and rode down the track for some distance, not at all convinced he had selected the proper course. He was just about to turn back when he saw a stockade ahead and a broad meadow with a number of fenced pastures in it, reminding Wroughton that he was eager for some smoked meat, or a haunch of veal at the least of it. A herder out in the fenced pasture caught sight of him and lifted his staff in what seemed to be recognition, or a signal, a gesture that encouraged Wroughton to push his horse to a trot as he came up to the gates, now standing open. A few fingers of watery sunshine penetrated the clouds overhead, lending a brightness to the hamlet that was almost supernatural.

  “Hello!” he shouted, rising in the stirrups.

  There was no answer from inside the walls.

  “Hello!” Wroughton yelled again, looking about. He waited, then called out, “I am coming in. I am the Sheriff of Nottingham’s courier.” With that, he nudged his horse to action, and ducked his head as he rode into the village. He saw the four oaks the crofter had mentioned, and he spoke up. “I was told I could get smoked meat here. I have coins to pay for it.”

  No one came forward.

  Wroughton got down from his horse and walked up to the four oaks around which the huts of the hamlet were clustered. He kept his full attention on the various dwellings and other buildings, not yet wary, but becoming uneasy because of the continuing silence. “Is anyone here?”

  “Yes.” The voice behind him shocked Wroughton so much that he jumped. “Most of us are gone to market.”

  Wroughton swung around and saw a man of advanced years in a worn woolen smock and leather leggings leaning on a short staff, his head turned slightly away in the manner of men whose ears were keener than their eyes. “Good day to you, crofter,” he said, being as courteous as he knew how to be. “I hope God has shown you His Grace.” He waited to see if the holy name caused any perturbation to the crofter; when it didn’t, he went on. “A bad day for marketing, with the rain and all.”

  “Good day, courier,” said the old man. “You are a long way from the Great North Road.” He made this observation with the suggestion that this was a suspicious circumstance. “As to the market, it is the time for selling the lambs and kids of last spring that they do not want to keep through the winter.” He waggled his eyebrows. “It is now, or we must wait until spring, and the new lambs and kids.”

  “I suppose it must be so,” said Wroughton, who didn’t think that the crofters wouldn’t all go to market in such weather.

  “They had a chance to travel in a group, for protection,” said the old man. “I and two shepherds are kept here to watch.”

  “Thank God for their prudence. Many of my companions were set-upon by brigands.” Wroughton made sure that he crossed himself in thanks for his delivery.

  The old man shook his head. “No one is safe in these times.” He chuckled nastily. “Not even a man wearing mail.”

  “No,” said Wroughton, feeling uneasy. The emptiness of the hamlet troubled him, and now he regretted coming here. “If all your people are at market or in the pastures or the forest, I’ll press on to the Victorines’ abbey of the Four Crowned Ones of Rome. God give you a good day, old man.”

  “The monks will not be able to help you,” said the old man with an emotion suspiciously like satisfaction. “It is all they can do to care for themselves. They had a fire in their barns and half the abbey is in ruins.”

  “When did this happen?” Wroughton asked, feeling slightly ill.

  “Two days since,” the old man told him. “They were fighting off night creatures and their torches started a fire in the hayloft. We smelled the smoke here.”

  Wroughton blanched. “The bridge? What of the bridge?”

  “The shepherd who brought us this news said nothing of the bridge,” the old man informed him.

  “Do you know anything more about the road to Nottingham?” Wroughton doubted it was wise to ask, but he also believed that he had to find out as much as possible for his own safety as well as for the protection of his mission.

  “Only that it is long and narrow,” said the old man, leering at Wroughton and trying to bring him into focus. “Like the grave.”

  Wroughton got back on his horse and swung the animal around, going toward the gate, and thinking that he would be glad to be in Nottingham barracks again. He was beginning to shiver, and he couldn’t persuade himself that this was only because the air was chilly. There was a tickle in his throat and an ache in his head that didn’t bode well for tomorrow, and his shoulders ached in the steady, relentless way that warned of worse to come. He stifled a sneeze and headed off along the track, telling himself it was his imagination that he was being watched. In spite of what the old man said, he kept on toward the abbey of the Four Crowned Ones of Rome, wanting to get over the river before nightfall, for he was convinced that he would be safe once he had running water between him and the Great North Road.

  The rain had picked up again, and there was a blustery wind thrashing the branches of the trees so that any movement in the undergrowth was covered or disguised by the encroaching storm, and this, too, contributed to Wroughton’s unease. He ducked his head and huddled into his cloak, but none of it helped him stay warm or dry.

  By the time the abbey came into view, Wroughton was thoroughly miserable. His hands were cramped on the reins, and he could tell by the uneven walk and the nodding of his head that his mount was going lame. At another time he would have dismounted and led the animal, for it belonged to the nuns at Saint Gertrude’s and for their sake he would have cared for the gelding with more concern. But in this place and at this time he daren’t dismount, or slow their progress more than was already the case. He peered through the wet afternoon and was able to make out the blackened gaps in the walls that spoke eloquently of fire.

  “I think it might be best to go over the river at once,” Wroughton said to his horse. “It would be unkind to impose upon these fria
rs just now.” Hearing himself speak, he felt more decisive. “The monks will need everything they’ve salvaged.” The gelding nodded, and although Wroughton knew it was from lameness, he took it as agreement. “Yes. I was hoping you would see it the same way I do.”

  Coming closer to the abbey, Wroughton saw that there was no one about. He thought perhaps that the monks had gone to seek shelter in another abbey or monastery, and resigned himself to being alone. “I’m sorry,” he said to the horse as he turned toward the bridge and prepared to go across. “I’ll dismount on the other side, and give you some relief.”

  The sound of the hooves on the bridge seemed unnaturally loud as they crossed over the swollen river. As soon as he reached the other side, Wroughton dismounted and pulled the reins over the gelding’s head in order to lead him. He felt a bit dizzy as he started off, but he steadfastly ignored his discomfort. He wanted to get out of the forest before nightfall, and so he struck out at a brisk walk, trying to make good progress as he went along the rutted path. At least, he told himself, he no longer felt cold. The walking must be warming him. If only he didn’t ache.

  He came to a fork in the road and after a long hesitation, took the wider branch, and hardly noticed when the curve took him once again back toward the heart of the forest.

  * * *

  From his vantage-point in a near-by tree, Fortesque shot an arrow toward the next grove where a dozen of Hood’s men were waiting. He would show them he was as worthy of feeding as any of them. Poor old Wroughton, he thought, to have come so far and tried so hard, and yet to be destined to fail in his mission. He would shortly have to report back to Hood, to describe where Wroughton was bound, but after, he would have the opportunity to reap the reward of his devotion. He climbed down from the massive oak and fell in behind Wroughton, determined not to be deprived of his first major kill.