Upton was a stiff man with a puckered scar running from the bridge of his nose to his ear. “I’ll convey any message you have from Sir Gui to the Baron,” he said in a rough voice. He studied deSteny a long moment. “You seem familiar, Sheriff. Would we have met before?”
“Not that I recall,” said deSteny a bit too quickly.
“Um,” said Upton, and turned toward the keep. “Come with me.” He didn’t wait to see if anyone followed him; he walked away, his men and deSteny and his following after him into a long, narrow corridor.
The Great Hall was gloomy, a cavernous room with thick black beams overhead and a few small unglazed windows providing no real alleviation to the dimness. Torches in wall sconces gave off a fitful illumination that only made the darkness more oppressive. A long plank table dominated one end of the chamber, and it was there that Upton led them.
“You may eat here. The servants will bring you bread and honey. If you have ale with you, then you may drink. The Baron doesn’t pour his brew for strangers, unless they come at his invitation.” He had the decency to look abashed at this lapse in courtesy. “If you will sit, I will send to the kitchen for the bread and a little roasted meat. I think there is butter, too, and some stewed onions. We have half a pig on the spit, and that should assuage your appetites. There is no wine and no soup.”
“We’ll be glad of whatever you provide,” said deSteny with better manners than truth. He climbed over the bench fronting the table and sat down. “We have no ale with us, I am sorry to say.”
“It is unfortunate,” said Upton, embarrassed afresh.
As the six soldiers took their places at the table, deSteny said, “If you will tell the Baron that the marriage he arranged for his son, Sir Gui, has suffered a blow: Lady Marian was taken by outlaws on her journey from Arundel to Nottingham. Tell him that I am charged with her recovery, for Sir Gui is still eager to uphold the marriage contract for the honor of his House and hers.” He took a deep breath, wanting to be through with this. “He will keep apart from her, but he will not repudiate the union.”
From the far end of the Hall, an old, cracked voice declared, “Who thought of such a solution? For I wager my fop of a son never came up with so acceptable an answer as that.”
A white-haired figure came toward the table. “I am Sir Lambert deGisbourne. What does my son want of me now?”
How Wroughton came to Grief
NOW that he had the river between him and the Great North Road, Wroughton had allowed himself to slow down. “At least,” he said to his horse, “it isn’t raining, and the mists are gone.” The fog of the day before had lifted but now the sunlight was fitful, emerging from heavy clouds from time to time but not long enough to make it easy for Wroughton to determine his direction of travel. He had hoped to cover the last few leagues quickly. But the horse was still limping, so Wroughton had been leading him all through the day, with as much of his weapons and equipment tied to the saddle so he would not be too worn out. His feet hurt and his back was stiff from the long hours of trudging on narrow, rutted paths that served as roads. Finally he decided to stop early for the night, continuing the following day as he had done previously, moving slowly as he made his way through the small tracks toward the side-road that led to the south gate of Nottingham. He had yet to find a hamlet he knew, but the speech of the crofters was more familiar, and that reassured him. He was somewhat uneasy, for it seemed possible that he might have become disoriented among the trees. “If we reach the sea, we’ll have gone too far,” he told the gelding, and did his best to laugh at the notion.
A pair of pheasants burst from cover, flying upward in a daze of brilliant feathers, accompanied by cries of excitement. The gelding reared suddenly, pulling the rein from Wroughton’s hands and ran off into the trees, cantering awkwardly on his injured leg.
“Come! Come back!” shouted Wroughton, and tried to run after the animal, certain that the gelding could not go far. Pushing through the underbrush, he tried to keep the horse in sight, and when he could not, he listened for his hoof beats until they, too, faded. He was forced to stop and take stock of himself, going forward cautiously. He had covered half a league in this manner before he realized he was well and truly lost. The horse was gone, with all his weapons but his dagger, his bedroll, and his water-gourd, and he was in no position to continue his search. The track he had been following was behind him, and so he decided to reverse his steps. The day was dying, and soon the forest began to darken. Wroughton tried to make his way through the forest, but he couldn’t make out his route, and finally he found himself in a glen he didn’t remember passing through as he chased the gelding. He stopped still and looked carefully about, seeing a heap of rubble at the far end of the glen, as if a chimney had collapsed there many years ago. This troubled Wroughton, but he tried to ignore his nervousness as he went over to the tumbled stones, wondering if he could make a shelter for the night. He had a message he had to deliver for His Grace, Prince John, and that was the most pressing obligation of all. Nothing else mattered more than his mission, he reminded himself while he struggled with some of the looser stones. With steady determination he began to pile up a low wall that would give a modicum of shelter.
By the time he had the wall to his satisfaction night had fallen, and the wind had picked up to a steady roar like the sea. Unseen boughs lashed and bent, groaning as the tempest gathered fury. Wroughton pulled his cloak tightly around him and sank down in the lee of the wall he had just built, wishing now he had a small fire to give him a little light and a bit of warmth. He tried to pray, but the storm distracted him and he ended up saying, “Protect me tonight, my God,” before trying to find a comfortable position in which to sleep, taking what comfort he could in the knowledge that the denizens of the night were on the far side of the river, and he had nothing to fear from them. Even as he strove to persuade himself that he was out of danger he began to feel fatigue overtake him, and he began to doze fitfully, and gradually he fell into an uneasy slumber.
It was full night when he awakened again, and at first he thought it was because his cloak had soaked through and water was running down his neck and shoulder. A moment later however, he saw someone approaching him across the glen, and he sat up, his hand on his dagger. He wanted to be ready, whatever he had to face. He wished now that he had not kept his broadsword in the scabbard on his saddle, for he would have been glad to have it now, to use against the approaching foe.
“Wroughton?” said Fortesque as he came up toward him. His stride was easy and his manner cordial, as if he had only been out for a stroll. “Well met, Wroughton.” His smile showed sharp teeth.
Wroughton stared through the rain. “Fortesque?” he asked, relieved and astonished. “I thought ... How do you come to be here? I thought you were ... lost with the others. It’s good to know you’re alive.”
“I’ve been looking for you,” said Fortesque.
Struggling to his feet, Wroughton said, “How did you escape? I was sure you’d been caught by ... those fell creatures.”
“I ... I ran,” said Fortesque, trying not to appear too hungry. He could feel Wroughton’s pulse even at this distance.
“Wise, very wise,” said Wroughton, stumbling around the stone walls toward Fortesque. “I wish I had the strength to do the same. My horse bolted and I’m going to have to walk back to Nottingham, once I am sure of the way.” He laughed once, a little wildly. “It will be easier for your company.”
“It is still a long distance to go,” said Fortesque, aware of Hood’s men gathering around the little meadow.
“And it will be more easily done with a companion,” said Wroughton. “In the morning, we’ll set out early and if we keep on steadily, we should be there before they close the gates at sundown.” He had to keep his enthusiasm in check. “It’s going to be a hard day’s walk, but together we should be able to do it.”
“Do you want to retu
rn so badly? After all that has happened?” Fortesque exclaimed. “What is there waiting for you that you want to return?”
“I want to deliver the message I carry,” said Wroughton somberly. “It is my sworn mission.”
“You have it with you still?” Fortesque asked, trying to keep from sounding excited.
“Certainly. I was charged to defend it with my life.” He placed his hand on his chest, over the place the letter was carried.
“You were,” said Fortesque as if remembering something he had forgotten. “How much responsibility has been imposed upon you.”
“And I will complete my mission or I will die in the attempt,” said Wroughton with utter simplicity.
“As any true soldier must,” said Fortesque, and fell on Wroughton, bearing him back against the wall as he savaged his throat. Wroughton let out a shriek that stopped in a heartbeat.
At the sound, Hood’s followers burst from the trees and joined in the attack, Scarlet pulling Fortesque aside to take his place.
“Hold!” Hood ordered as he strode up to the bleeding, supine body of Wroughton. “I want to look on him.”
“What do you want to see?” Scarlet asked, as close to insolent as any of his men dared to be.
“He has a letter,” he announced.
“Can you read it?” Scarlet asked, bending to the torn throat again.
“No. But the Red Friar can,” said Hood, and flung Scarlet out of the way before he tugged the front of Wroughton’s cote open and seized the flat leather pouch. “Now you may finish with him.”
“Do you want him to waken?” Scarlet asked.
Hood considered his answer. “I may. Don’t drain him entirely.” He turned away, holding up the packet. “Trinitarian! Come here.”
The Red Friar trundled toward him, the hem of his habit mired in mud. “What do you want of me?” he asked.
“This.” Hood held out the packet. “I want you to read the letter for me. You can do that, can’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, I will,” said the Red Friar at his most compliant. “But I will need light to see the words properly.”
Hood sighed and frowned. “Isn’t this enough for your eyes? You’re a vampire now. Surely the dark is light enough for you.”
“I see fairly well in the dark,” the Red Friar assured him. “But not well enough to read this letter.”
“Ah, well,” Hood said, a nasty edge in his voice. “How much light will you require to read this?” He tapped the letter.
“A candle or two, a torch. The page is filled with writing, and I will need to pick it out under a lamp, one bright enough to make the writing stand out from the page. Anyone would have the same problem.” He rolled the letter and slipped it inside his habit where it would remain dry. “What about Wroughton?”
“Better bring him along. I still want to make him one of us. We can use his talents.” He stopped, thinking of something. “Could one of those scholars read the letter?”
“I suppose so,” said the Red Friar cautiously.
“Then I shall let them see it. So that you may all agree on its content.” There was a smug hostility in Hood’s silky voice. “Perhaps I should have brought one of them along with us.”
The Red Friar did his best not to shudder. He nodded to show he understood. “I can’t think of any reason we should not agree.”
Hood kept on walking, going toward Wroughton. He said nothing more to the Red Friar, and instead called out to Fortesque. “You did well. It is wise of you. You didn’t get greedy. I don’t like my men to be greedy.”
He put his arm over the Red Friar’s shoulder. “You’ll do this for me.”
“It is good of you to say so,” the Red Friar exclaimed, trying to put a little distance between himself and the fell Hood.
“I honor the men who serve me well.” His grip on the Red Friar’s shoulder tightened. “You will all do well to keep this in mind.”
“Thank ... Thank you,” said the Red Friar. “I am well and truly—”
“You need not busy yourself here. Just prepare to read the letter for me. And remember that you will have to be correct, or the scholars will know that there is an error.” He finally released the Red Friar.
“Mercy,” the Trinitarian muttered, unable to pronounce the blessings he would have done when he was alive.
“Bring the letter along, and the man,” said Hood, turning on his heel and striding back toward the forest; he motioned his men to follow him but hardly bothered to see if they obeyed.
“We had better get Wroughton,” said Scarlet, going toward the fallen soldier.
The Red Friar sighed and went to help him.
How deSteny learned of Wroughton’s Fate
SIR LAMBERT deGisbourne leaned on his stick and regarded deSteny and his mounted company of men. “My son is fortunate to have you to serve him, Sheriff,” he said, coming as close to praise as his character would allow.
“You are most kind,” said deSteny. The morning was bright; the sun glared behind a thick film of clouds that promised worsening weather as the day went on.
“But you will not tell him I said so,” said Baron deGisbourne, nodding to show he understood.
“No, I will not,” said deSteny.
Sir Lambert almost laughed, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything so undignified, so instead he called out, “I will remember you in my prayers.”
“And I’ll tell your son what you have pledged to do on his behalf. If you disavow your oath, I rely upon you to inform me so that I will not have to betray your trust or his.”
“Do you think he will care?” Sir Lambert asked. He shook his head and gestured to deSteny in dismissal. “He is better served by you than he has any reason to expect. Not that he is likely to acknowledge it, although he has an obligation to those who are his vassals, just as you have an obligation to him.”
“It isn’t my place to remind him.” It was more than he intended to say.
“No,” Sir Lambert agreed, turning away as deSteny and his men started down the narrow track toward the wood below.
DeSteny sighed as he signaled his men to follow him. He was trying to recall what he had seen on the road on their way, for he sensed they would have to find shelter before the afternoon was over. As they made their way along the crest, he signaled Twitchell to ride ahead of him, thinking as he did that they would need somewhere to take shelter. He seemed to recall a travelers’ inn some five leagues away, and said to his men, “Not much farther, lads, not today. By the middle of the afternoon, we will rest. We can eat and have a bed for the night and wait for the storm to pass.”
“Not an abbey or monastery,” said Edhard. “Waiting out the storm in the company of monks is worse than getting drenched.”
DeSteny chuckled. “I wouldn’t do that to you.” Or to myself, he added inwardly. “No, it is an inn, nothing too fancy or obvious, so we won’t be noticed by other travelers. We passed it as we came here, in a meadow with a spring; it was of good size—we may not have to share beds. I noticed a barn, as well, so our horses can be stalled instead of being turned out in paddocks to get muddy.”
“It may be several days before the skies clear,” Mallory warned. “At this time of year, the storms can last for days.”
“So they can,” said deSteny. “And if we must wait, we will do so. No one will be moving in the forest other than those dire creatures Hood has made.” He looked over his men and saw that they were tired and worried. “We’ll have a day at least to rest and prepare to travel on to Nottingham.”
“Do you think it is safe to do this?” Bayard asked. “Shouldn’t we return as quickly as possible?”
“Yes, but there is no reason to take such risks as traveling during a storm would confer upon us.” DeSteny was firm on this point, for he knew their dangers were not limited to wet and cold.
&
nbsp; “What do you expect, Sheriff?” asked Edhard.
“I think Hood’s men are out in force. We have not seen as many travelers as we should, and that means either that fewer travelers are on the road, or they have been preyed upon more regularly than before, which means the number of dead crofters has reached a significant number,” deSteny said heavily. “Lady Marian may well be dead by now, or worse, and we must take care that we do not fall to the same evil that has claimed her.”
“Are you certain that she was taken by Hood?” Twitchell inquired too sweetly.
“I fear we must think so. If any Lord had made off with her, there would have been a demand for ransom, and since no such claim has been made, it is likely that Hood’s men drank her blood. They may even have made her one of their number.” He let this sink in, then said, “I do not want the same to happen to us.”
His men were silent as they thought over what he had said, then Mallory spoke for all of them. “We will find a place to wait out the storm.”
“Ahead. Keep riding. Don’t push too hard; we don’t want any sprains or splints. We have no reason to hurry.” He looked up into the sky. “The clouds are gathering.”
“It may still clear,” said Bayard.
“It may, and it may rain toads, but I think it would be best to assume that we will have rain before evening. This isn’t the Holy Land, this is England.” DeSteny heard his men laugh and found it heartening.
“And England rains,” said Twitchell, leaning back as far as his high-canteled saddle would allow as the trail began to wind down from the ridge into the heart of the forest.
By the time they reached the inn, the wind had picked up and was moaning through the trees; rain was falling at an angle and the men huddled into their cloaks in the vain hope of finding shelter from the tempest.
Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night Page 24