Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “No, not yet,” said the Red Friar. “That is for later.” He looked away and caught sight of Lady Marian deBeauchamp striding across the clearing, a vulpine smile curving her lips; he watched her with an emotion that was almost regret. “Look at her. She has taken to this life quite well.”

  “That she has,” said Scarlet, a little envy in his remark. “And I suppose we should all be grateful for it.” He glanced at the woman, who was still in boy’s clothes. “How could she have wanted this life?”

  “She was Sir Gui deGisbourne’s affianced wife,” said Fortesque.

  Scarlet laughed. “So they say. Sir Gui married, though.” He cocked his head to show his skepticism.

  Fortesque bristled. “They were plighted.”

  “Do you think she was pleased?” Scarlet asked, and motioned them all to silence as Hood emerged from his quarters.

  Hood went to the fire and brought his horn up to his lips. He blew a loud, unmelodic summons that was swiftly answered; his men erupted from their various shelters, hastening to gather at the fire. “The day is almost over,” he said when most of his company stood around him. “And there is a man abroad in Sherwood whom we must make our own before he can reach the edge of the forest. Fortesque has told me where our quarry was bound. We must reach him tonight or lose him.”

  There was a moan of displeasure, and Little John folded his massive arms over his chest in blatant dissatisfaction.

  “Why not kill him?” Lady Marian asked. “We could all have some then.”

  “He is little enough—one man for all of us,” said Scarlet.

  “We may need him for later, as a guide or in some similar capacity. In fact, I intend that he should render a double service to me: sustenance now and treachery later,” said Hood with a peremptory flourish of his hands. “We have foes, strong foes, and we must be ready to confront them.”

  Scarlet laughed. “What foe could defeat us?”

  Hood rounded on him, red eyes smoldering. “You know of whom I speak. So do you all.”

  “I don’t,” Fortesque whispered and was hushed by the Red Friar.

  There was a mutter of unease that moved through the gathering like wind through branches.

  “So tell me,” Hood went on, “who is willing to come with me after this poor, lost soldier? It should be a good chase, if nothing else.”

  A roar of assent arose, and Scarlet laughed more loudly. “Then take up your bows and your staves and strike out for the Abbey of the Four Crowned Ones of Rome. We will begin our chase from there. Scarlet, you and a dozen men take the north path, Little John and another dozen, the south. I’ll go by the middle way with Lady Marian and all the rest. Be careful, for this man we hunt is alert to the danger we are to him. When you find the man, if you find him before I do, you may subdue him, but you are not to drain him. Anyone who fails me in this will lie under the cross-roads with hawthorn through his heart. This soldier Wroughton is marked by me to become one of us.” He pointed to Fortesque. “You will guide me.” He signaled to another of his men. “You, scholar, you will stay behind to watch the fire. See it remains burning while we are gone.”

  Had he still been living, Fortesque would have blushed; as it was he turned a pasty shade that made his face look splotched with white lead. It was troubling to be so conspicuously singled out and he felt embarrassed even as he contained his pride at this distinction. Since the blood had stilled in his veins, he turned a pasty shade that was tinged with green. “It will be my honor to hunt with you.”

  Hood shook his head. “So untruthful,” he murmured even as he signaled Fortesque to come to his side. “You detest me.”

  “I ... fear you,” Fortesque admitted as he moved forward reluctantly.

  “Such is the beginning of wisdom,” said the Red Friar softly as he fell in behind Hood, Fortesque, and Lady Marian. He didn’t bother to watch the others disappear into the undergrowth, for he had grown used to this facility in the last month.

  “So, young Fortesque,” Hood said as he set foot on the narrow path leading away from the clearing, “when did you last see Wroughton?”

  “I saw him settled to sleep last night. He was on the other side of the stream that runs through the forest past the Abbey of the Four Crowned Ones of Rome. He was in a hunter’s cabin, his horse tied to graze. I think the horse was lame, for he favored his off-side front foot. I couldn’t see if the joints were swollen; it is also possible he was throwing a splint. In any case, he will not be able to ride away.” Every word seemed treason, but he could not keep himself from revealing all to Hood.

  “This is most promising. We can drain the horse if nothing else is available.” Hood glanced toward Lady Marian. “It’s not as if he can run away, if he’s lame.”

  Marian tossed her head. “Let me have the man first. For the love you say you bear me. It is your right, but cede it to me.”

  Hood went a short way in silence. “All right,” he said. “Since he was part of your escort, you may claim him. Take him as tribute for your loss of a husband. But be certain that you drink only a little of his blood. There are others as deserving of his bounty as you are. You may want it all, but you must not—”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “I am not to take more than a mouthful or you will not be able to imbue him with your nature.” She was mildly annoyed.

  “Tell me,” Fortesque began apprehensively, “why do you wish him to be with us?”

  “I’ve explained that,” said Hood shortly.

  “But it seems ... so arbitrary.” Fortesque frowned deeply.

  “Do you say I have not the right?” His question was a sinister purr.

  “No, no, of course not,” Fortesque answered hastily.

  Hood spoke with exaggerated care. “I need Wroughton for the same reason I need you: to serve as bait for a larger catch.”

  Fortesque nodded. “I see.” He considered this and then made bold to ask, “And whom do you hope to catch with Wroughton?”

  “Why, the only one the length and breadth of Sherwood who can harm me—Hugh deSteny, the Sheriff of Nottingham,” said Hood, and heard Lady Marian’s light laugher as he lengthened his stride and hurried into the darkness.

  How deSteny began his Chase

  “MOUNT UP!” the Sheriff called as he climbed into the saddle. He was riding a big-shouldered bay gelding so dark he looked black when not in direct light; the horse had been provided by Sir Gui, and he was a handful, mincing and bouncing in an excess of vigor while deSteny gathered in the reins and brought him under full control. The Sheriff hoped this pent-up friskiness indicated stamina, but, knowing Sir Gui’s taste in horses, he wasn’t sanguine about the prospects.

  Three of his own men and three of Sir Humphrey’s obeyed deSteny’s command, one of the men— Twitchell—shouting out “Courage for the Right!” which was Sir Humphrey’s family motto, as he brought his seven-year-old dapple-grey into line with the rest.

  “You may give my fond greetings to my father,” said Sir Gui, his nose wrinkling with distaste. “Tell him I will do myself the pleasure of waiting upon him before year’s end.” He was very fine in Milanese velvet and Antioch silk, his moustache and beard newly trimmed and his hair perfumed with sandalwood. These clothes cost more than deSteny was paid in a year, and all of the men knew it.

  “As you wish, Sir Gui,” said deSteny.

  “Then, you will continue into Sherwood, as we have agreed you will do, and you will retrace the steps of Lady Marian deBeauchamp.” He held up his hand in his most peremptory gesture. “Bring me word of her or do not return.”

  “I will do my utmost to find her, Sir Gui,” said deSteny at his most calm.

  “You had better, or it will be the worse for you,” Sir Gui insisted. “I will not be made a laughing stock. I will hold you accountable for my reputation.”

  It was an empty threat and both men knew it,
but deSteny inclined his head. “I will do my utmost to serve you, Sir Gui.” He lifted his hand and called out, “Onward!” and let the big bay head for the gate at a slow trot, his men falling in behind him.

  From Nottingham they rode toward Litchfield, keeping on the main road along the river and spending the night at a small castle whose Lord was a veteran of the Crusades and who beguiled his guests with tales of his battles with the Saracens. Most of the men listened eagerly; only deSteny was disinclined to pay attention to his reminiscences, though he took pains to thank Lord Gambert for his hospitality.

  The next day they reached the turning for Everhampton and Cannock. The road grew steep and the forest loomed around them, the turning leaves making unexpected brilliance in the deep, green shadows. The men rode steadily, taking care not to wear out their horses, and covered nine leagues before nightfall. They passed that night at a travelers’ inn, a squat building hard by the river, with a number of small rooms to let, and a kitchen that provided meat they called goat but was more likely venison, poached by local hunters. It was a pleasant place for the soldiers and they left it reluctantly. The next day was much the same, but the way was harder, demanding more of the company than had been the case the previous day. By the time they arrived at Everhampton, men and horses were worn to the limits. Their host, an earl with a perplexing family tree and an ill-defined fief, took them in, saying, “Not the time to sleep on the road, if you take my meaning.”

  “No, it’s not,” the Sheriff agreed.

  Two of his men growled agreement.

  “And where are you bound?” asked the Earl, leading deSteny and his men into the Great Hall of his keep, an old building with a high, wooden ceiling rising to a point above a cross-hatching of massive beams. Two fireplaces with logs blazing in them kept the chamber from being cold as the branches of a tree.

  “To Cannock-Norton,” said deSteny.

  “That’s Lambert deGisbourne’s Baronial lands,” said the Earl of Darton, mulling this over.

  “We are charged by his son to carry a message to him,” said deSteny, and didn’t enlarge on their purpose.

  “Well,” said the Earl of Darton, “I wish you joy of seeing him. He keeps to his quarters, as cloistered as a monk.”

  DeSteny shrugged. “It is our hope that he will see us.”

  “And hope may be the extent of it. Sir Lambert deGisbourne is not a hospitable man. He keeps himself as remote as his fortress, and title or no, he reserves the right to shut his gates and hold himself to himself. He has been known to turn travelers away on a hard night, and to require his guests to bring their own food. He does not observe any virtue beyond loyalty to the Crown,” warned the Earl, and clapped his hands. “These men are cold and hungry. See they have food and drink, and a good bed for the night.” He pointed to the gallery where the women of his household had gathered to watch. “If any of you are in need of a companion, I might send you one, to beguile your night.” It was an old-fashioned courtesy, and the soldiers hesitated for that reason alone.

  “A very generous offer, and one that we may not deserve. Nevertheless, I think we had best sleep alone tonight,” said deSteny, and saw two of his men wince. “You soldiers may have women when we are done with our chase, when you have discharged your duty,” he offered. “For now, we must cleave to our mission.”

  “How very ...” one of the men began.

  “You would be wise to say nothing more,” deSteny warned, and saw his men turn away from him.

  Twitchell coughed. “As you order, Sheriff.”

  “Well then,” said the Earl with false heartiness. “You must have mead, then, to ease your slumbers.”

  “An excellent notion,” said Twitchell, who was the senior of Sir Humphrey’s soldiers, and the most experienced man next to deSteny. “We have had a hard ride today, and will want to make the most of our rest.”

  Although deSteny had doubts about the advisability of allowing his men heavy drink, he knew that another denial might spur an insurrection. “All right. Two tankards, and then retire to the barracks-room.”

  Twitchell ducked his head. “We will do as you order,” he said, as if to make amends for his truculence.

  “Very well,” said the Earl, and clapped his hands again. “Mead! And take these soldiers to be fed. See there is new bread on the table.” He pointed to the long planks at the far end of the Great Hall.

  DeSteny went to the nearer fireplace and held out his hands to the warmth; he removed his gloves slowly. His face, lit by the flames, was unreadable. “Tell me more about Sir Lambert, Baron deGisbourne, if you will.”

  The Earl waved his hand. “There’s little I can say. He’s a recluse. I don’t know why, nor do I want to know.”

  “Then whom shall I seek out at Cannock-Norton?” deSteny asked.

  “I cannot advise you; ask for the Baron. Who knows? He might receive you,” said the Earl, amused in some way that deSteny could not comprehend. He swung around as a busine sounded from the gallery. “Ah. My harper has come. At least you shall hear a good singer.”

  The men in the Great Hall looked up as the craggy-faced musician took his place on the bench at the edge of the gallery in front of the trumpeter. He plucked at his instrument while the man behind him sounded another blast on his busine, then waved the businist away. “I will sing of Isabeau and Roland.”

  “Oh, good,” the Earl confided to deSteny. “I like this one.”

  The music filled the Great Hall as the harper launched into the tragic tale, singing with more emotion than musicality. The men below watched him as the scullions brought food still sizzling on spits and set out wheaten trenchers that were still warm from the oven. A basin filled with mead was the first offering made to the soldiers, then tubs of butter were put on the table, and, while the harper sang of the hopeless love of Isabeau for Roland, the six men sat down to their meal.

  When they left in the morning, it was into a heavy mist that clung to the trees and masked the narrow road. DeSteny ordered his men to hang their spurs on the saddles, so that they would ring and help them stay together.

  “It may also bring our foes to us, and we wouldn’t see them,” said Bayard, deSteny’s most seasoned soldier.

  “Yes. But if we become separated or lost, then we may as well hand ourselves over to the outlaws now.” DeSteny peered ahead into the dim sepia depths of the forest. The cry of a hawk overhead took his attention. “Pay attention to the forest creatures,” he ordered, and set his bay into a slow trot.

  “Do you expect to reach Cannock-Norton today?” Mallory asked. He was just nineteen and eager to show his mettle.

  “It is six leagues from here, if the Master Sergeant of the Earl’s Guard is to be believed,” deSteny said as he raised the hood of his cloak.

  “Six leagues uphill?” Twitchell’s tone of voice revealed his annoyance.

  “Oh, God,” muttered Mallory.

  “It would seem so,” said deSteny. “And the sooner we reach our destination, the sooner we may return to Nottingham.”

  Edhard, the Sheriff’s third man, brought his piebald horse in behind deSteny’s bay. “You set the pace, Sheriff, and we’ll follow.”

  The fog cleared shortly after mid-day, leaving a glaring sky overhead and anemic sunlight to reveal their upward path. By mid-afternoon the trees were thinning, and here and there broad meadows gave pasturage to cattle and sheep. Occasional clusters of huts indicated the presence of crofters. Once or twice a stone building surmounted by a cross revealed small abbeys at the verge of the forest.

  “There!” Mallory called out from the middle of the line of men. He pointed toward the crest of the hill they were climbing. “Cannock-Norton!”

  “So we hope,” deSteny responded, but as he studied the blocky fortifications fixed on the point of the spur at the end of the crest that spoke of ancient battles, he was certain it must be.


  The fortress could only be approached by a narrow track on a ledge so precarious that the men had to ride single-file and at a slow walk, their horses picking their way cautiously. Guards on the ramparts signaled their approach with a series of unmelodic blares on wooden trumpets.

  Finally, an officer appeared on the crenellations above them and shouted down: “Ho! Men! Who comes?”

  “I am Hugh deSteny, Sheriff of Nottingham, and I am the messenger of Sir Gui deGisbourne, sent with a message for Sir Lambert, Baron deGisbourne. It is urgent. I ask to be received in the name of Sir Gui, whom I have the honor to serve in this mission.” He motioned his men to halt, and waited for the officer to admit them.

  “Come to the portcullis. We’ll raise it so you may enter,” the officer called back after a brief consultation with some unseen companion.

  “Much obliged,” deSteny called back, and rode nearer to the yawning entrance to the fortress. He heard the heavy crump of chains as the soldiers inside began to work the windlass to raise the portcullis.

  By the time there was room to enter, a group of officials were waiting to greet them. DeSteny was the first man through, and he waited until all six of his comrades were inside before he dismounted and looked about, trying to determine which of the men gathered around them he should address first.

  The problem was resolved when a tonsured monk in Victorine blue stepped forward. “Sheriff, you are welcome at Cannock-Norton.” He ducked his head respectfully. “In the name of Sir Lambert deGisbourne, Baron deGisbourne, I welcome you.”

  “Thank you, Brother—” He waited for a name.

  “Oh. Brother Gilchrist,” he said, ducking his head a second time. “I keep the chapel here.”

  “Isn’t that work for a priest?” deSteny asked, puzzled by such an arrangement.

  “Usually, yes,” said Brother Gilchrist. “But Sir Lambert deGisbourne prefers it this way.” He indicated the rough-visaged officer next to him. “This is the Captain of the Guard, Nicodemus Upton. He will serve as your host.” He tried to pass this off as usual behavior and put his hands together as if in prayer. “Come into the Hall, all you men, and we’ll see you fed.”