Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “There!” shouted Bayard; he was miserable and the sight of the stockade around the inn was as welcome to him as the walls of Nottingham. He pointed toward the gates as if the rest might have missed them, water flying off his arm with the force of his movement. “We’ll be warm in a trice!”

  “So we will,” said deSteny, who had already signaled to his men to leave the road.

  Twitchell rode to the gates and shouted for aid. “In the name of deGisbourne and the Sheriff of Nottingham, open for us!”

  Two small men in engulfing rain-cloaks flung open the gates and bowed the company inside, calling for the landlord to come out and greet his guests; the landlord appeared, a blocky man with a blotchy face set in an obsequious grin. “Come in, come in,” he exclaimed. “Company is welcome, especially on such a night as this.”

  “Very good,” said deSteny as he dismounted from his horse. “See our mounts are given a handful of oats with their hay. Don’t water them until they have cooled. Brush as much of the water from their coats as you can, and see that they are warm in their stalls. They have a long way to go yet, and we can’t have them tying up.” He stood upright, his back aching from the weather and the long journey. “We’ll have ale and beds for the night, and until the storm is done.”

  “A costly stay, if I may mention it,” said the landlord carefully. “If you have no silver in your pockets ...”

  “I have silver, even gold,” said deSteny as his men came out of the saddle. “I will pay you nine silver shillings for two days’ care of my men and our horses.” It was a generous sum, and everyone knew it.

  All but doubling over, the landlord’s grin widened. “A most satisfactory sum, very generous of you, m’lord. Better than I had hoped for,” he enthused. “It speaks well of you that you will do this during this storm.”

  “It doesn’t,” said deSteny, and motioned to Twitchell. “Come. There must be a fire in the taproom. Let’s all go in and get warm.”

  The landlord bustled over to him. “I have a nephew. He fancies himself a singer, of sorts, and he has been in the taproom all afternoon. If you will let him sing to you, I would count it a great concession, and the food I serve you will be the better for it.”

  “If your nephew wants to sing to us, unless he has no music in him at all, we’ll be glad to listen,” said deSteny.

  The taproom was a low-ceilinged room with blackened beams overhead and heavy wooden panels made dark from years of smoke and grease. There were four barrels standing behind the counter, and a boy of nine or ten was waiting to measure out drink into crockery tankards. By the fireplace, a reedy young man lounged, a harp in one hand, a slab of bread in the other. He looked up as the Sheriff and his men came in, got slowly to his feet, and bowed as if to a great gathering.

  “Not those,” said the landlord. “I have good pewter tankards for men such as you.” He shooed the child away toward the kitchen, then nodded in the direction of the young man.

  “My nephew,” he said in a tone that suggested he was not completely pleased to have this known. “His name is Alan.”

  The young man uttered a practiced laugh. “I call myself Alan-a-Dale, for I roam the woods and by-ways to make my songs. I am the singer of the forest, and I am—”

  “He is a self-important braggart who would rather amble beside a brook than do honest work here,” his uncle went on in ill-concealed disgust. “He would rather hear whispers of Hood’s doings than serve a meal or tend a horse.” He stopped. “But he does make songs, and if you will listen, he will sing to you.”

  Alan did his best to ignore the landlord’s condemnation, but he said, “I have a new song I have been working on—it isn’t finished, but I could sing it for you.”

  “Not finished?” Edhard asked, as if this admission put the song beneath consideration. “Do you have nothing ready? No song we might know?”

  “I prefer to make my own songs than copy others,” said Alan stiffly.

  “Nephew!” his uncle admonished him.

  “I only heard of the events yesterday; I haven’t had time to put it all together.” There was a shine in his light-hazel eyes, an excitement that went beyond the joy of composition. “I chronicle them, you know,” he went on confidentially.

  “Whom do you chronicle?” Bayard inquired as the youngster behind the counter handed him a full tankard of ale.

  The soldier expected a trivial answer and so doubted he had heard correctly when Alan said, “Hood and his men.” The young man leaned forward. “They are bold, brave men, and they are worthy of legends and songs.”

  DeSteny heard this with a blank expression. “How do you—what manner of songs do you sing of Hood?” He was able to keep the condemnation out of his voice, but his men knew his polite inquiry masked deep dismay.

  “You know about how Hood robs the merchants and other wealthy men who travel the Great North Road? It is astonishing how they can set upon groups of soldiers—simple woodsmen with bows and staves—and best them.”

  Bayard glowered at the young singer. “He and his men also murder crofters, and steal from humble folk.”

  “Those are the lies rich men want you to believe. They seek to belittle him in the eyes of those he protects, in the vain hope that one of the simple folk will be foolish enough to give him away to the officers of the law—” He broke off, realizing the men he spoke to might well be the very officers he so roundly condemned. “The agents of the merchants, and the dupes of the Lords and Royals,” he amended.

  DeSteny took the tankard of ale held out to him and did his best to assume a nonchalant manner. “Let us hear your new song, then. We may learn something from you.”

  Alan shrugged awkwardly, but reached for his battered old harp, tried its strings, which were far from true, adjusted the most egregious of them, and began with an air of bravado:

  A spy went out from Windsor on the order of the Prince

  Carrying a charge that bold Hood must be taken:

  “Bring me this audacious Hood that he may answer at once

  To all the crimes that have been laid to him.

  For I will it, and my word is law everywhere.”

  Thus it was that armed men did straightly fare.

  So Wroughton and a guard set out bound north as they were bid,

  And one by one the men fell until but one was left,

  To ride on alone, his mission to fulfill. But even he was led

  Astray, and wandered on alone, his heart bereft,

  His soul forfeit, for Hood came upon him and—

  “It needs work, and I haven’t got the rhymes right yet, but I think it will make for a fine ballad, eventually.”

  “What became of Wroughton?” deSteny asked sharply. “Or don’t you know that?”

  “I have been told that he has decided to join with Hood,” said Alan, shrugging. “He must have done, for no one has seen him.”

  “Why should Wroughton do such a thing?”

  Alan gave deSteny a scornful stare. “What do you think? He has seen that Hood is a champion of the forest and all who live within it, and he has turned away from the Court. I’ve been trying to find the right rhymes to show how he came to join with Hood, rather than stand against him.”

  “Why praise such a one as Hood?” deSteny asked, his face set in forbidding lines. “Or do you do it to placate him?”

  “Why not? Praise him, not placate him.” Alan cocked his head defiantly. “Hood has done much that is worthy. He has taken money from rich men and he has protected those who serve him.” He moved with a bit of a swagger. “You have heard how he robbed the Bishop of York and gave the gold to the children of the orphanage of York.”

  “No, I had not heard that,” said deSteny. “I have heard that Hood took gold that was going to ransom King Richard from the prison where he is being held, and that Hood then set upon a children’s home an
d drained them all. That was two years ago, when the tales of Hood were only getting started.”

  “Lies,” said Alan. “Nothing but lies.”

  “I don’t think we will agree on that,” said deSteny.

  “You are a servant of the Prince. You won’t listen to me, or anything that is to Hood’s benefit, will you?” The young man raised his head, his face set in uncompromising lines. “It is up to people like me to tell the story truly.”

  “If only you would,” said deSteny lightly, but with a cold sensation in his middle.

  “And you think that Hood is a hero,” said Bayard, who had been listening with growing incredulity.

  “I know he is. Ask anyone who lives in Sherwood. Hood is the one who defends us, he is the one who knows our worth. We all know that he only attacks those who speak against him. None of you care for us but Hood. You may try to shame him as much as you wish, but you are servants of the Prince, and your opinions are his.” Alan picked up his harp and struck a twanging chord on it. “We are grateful to him for all he has done for us, or we should be.” He cast a meaningful glance at the entry to the kitchen.

  The landlord came into the taproom and began to fill tankards with new ale. “You haven’t been listening to this rapscallion, have you? He has moonbeams in his soul. Pay him no mind.” His hands shook as he passed out the tankards. “He is entertaining in his way, but do not heed him.”

  “I begin to think I should listen to him closely,” said deSteny, the seriousness of his remark silencing the laughter that was burgeoning among his men. Alan beamed as the Sheriff went on, “I begin to think he is saying something very important.”

  How Hood brought Wroughton into his Fold

  MARIAN DEBEAUCHAMP was standing near the dying fire in the center of the clearing where Hood’s men lived, her hair clubbed back, dressed as the men were. She had a dirk thrust through her belt, and she rested her hand on its hilt as she turned to Hood as he emerged from his lair. “Have you made up your mind about Wroughton?”

  “Yes. I do want to keep him,” said Hood. “He has shown his value and it would be useful to have someone in the confidence of the Prince and deSteny to help us in our dealings with them.”

  “When do you want to change him? I expect you do still want to change him. You might as well. He’s already halfway there; why not take him the rest of the way?” She laughed aloud. “I’d like to have a taste of him, and not just because I am hungry. He is one of Sir Gui’s men, and it would suit me very well to serve him such a turn. To think that I should be bartered to one such as he! If my father had lived, he would not have required me to marry that fop. But my uncle insisted, and so I had to go to him.”

  “Which brought you to me,” said Hood with great satisfaction.

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes alight with a passion that was not wholly of the flesh. “And for that I thank him.”

  “Do you want to have Wroughton before me? Is that what you are asking of me, Marian?” His voice was low and silky, more a purr than speech, and there was a light in his red eyes that made Marian wary.

  “With you—with you,” she said. “Both of us together. It will be sweet for me, and for you, to drain him together.”

  Hood put his hand on her shoulder. “If that is what you want, then you shall have it. This once.”

  “Oh, you are so good to me,” she said almost merrily. “When shall we do it? Tonight? Tell me!”

  “I haven’t decided that yet. I would like to get the most of him. Once he joins us, he will be among us, and live here.” Hood put his hand to his brow as if to keep any hint of light out of his red eyes.

  There was a moment when the men around them were still and silent. Finally Little John spoke up. “He’ll be useful, more than the scholars are.”

  “The scholars help us with much,” said Hood in a tone that brooked no opposition. “I’ll hear nothing against them. They know too much to let them go.”

  “What’s the point?” Scarlet asked sarcastically. “They could provide us a little nourishment, if it comes to that, I suppose.”

  “They can do much for us,” said Hood bluntly. “Why should I be rid of them? They haven’t been anything but useful. They can record our deeds and show the world that we’re not the fiends so many believe us to be. They can tell us what the world is doing, more than the Red Friar can.” He looked at Marian, challenging her. “They can be proud of the good they do on our behalf.”

  “Why should they think that?” Scarlet asked.

  “Because it serves our purposes to have us praised in the world. The common folk pay more heed to the tales they hear on market-day than they do to anything the priests say to them. If they learn songs and stories that show us to be their champions, they will aid us because of their faith in rumors,” Hood said imperiously. “If the gossips say we are not dangerous, then the merchants will not use so many men-at-arms as escorts and we will feast again, without having to fight for every drop we take.”

  “Is that why you send messengers to that fool Alan?” Scarlet demanded with as much indignation as he could muster.

  “Certainly,” said Hood. “And the scholars will do the rest.”

  “But this is dangerous,” said Scarlet.

  “It is more dangerous to frighten the merchants so much that we cannot feed,” said Hood insistently. “And that’s an end to it.”

  Scarlet spoke up. “It is your decision.”

  “Exactly,” said Hood. “I want to hear no more about it.”

  The Red Friar, who had been standing in the shadow of a great, blasted oak, stepped toward Hood. “He is yours already, isn’t he? Wroughton is.”

  “I am thankful one of you knows this,” said Hood with meaning.

  “Where is the man?” the Red Friar looked about.

  “He is with the Old Ones,” said Hood, his voice dropped down to a near-whisper. “At the barrows.”

  There was another uneasy silence at this mention of the first of Hood’s victims, creatures so desiccated that they were like husks, only their bones left to give them shape. Some were said to be eons older than Hood himself. They lay in a crypt marked by barrows deep in the forest that was said to be the burial place of an ancient King who had ruled long ago; the people of the forest thought the place was haunted.

  “He should be safe there,” said Hood after a brief consideration. He pointed to Little John. “Go fetch him. And tell the scholars to put a tale together that we may feed to Alan; let it be heroic and grand, so he will want to make many ballads about it. Let the forest ring with his songs, so that many believe they are safe.”

  “You will have it as you wish,” said Little John. “Do you want me to bring him now?”

  “Yes. It will take you some time to reach the Old Ones,” Hood pointed toward the depths of the forest.

  “I can go quickly,” said Little John, and turned away from the vast fire-pit where Hood’s men were gathered.

  “Then do, and at once. Lady Marian wants something to eat.” Hood was beginning to be impatient.

  “I am going,” Little John called out as he disappeared into the shelter of the trees.

  Hood folded his arms. “The rest of you had best go scouting—if you want to slake your thirsts, you must find the means to do it yourselves.”

  Scarlet favored him with an elegant sneer. “You are always the one to determine who shall feed and who shall go hungry.”

  “In this place, I do,” Hood said with an arrogance so complete that some of his men stared in disbelief.

  The Red Friar sensed a fight coming and moved to intervene. “Hood is master, Scarlet, and you know it best of all.” He leaned on his walking-staff, making it clear that he would stop any disputes that erupted in the clearing, no matter who instigated them. “It was you who taught me that lesson—how is it you have forgotten it?”

  “Ve
ry good,” Hood approved. “You become more worthy with every night.” He gave Scarlet a hard glance. “You would do well to learn from this man.” He raised his voice. “Bring Wroughton. I want him here now.”

  “The Old Ones aren’t reached in an instant,” Scarlet reminded him. “Travel as fast as he will, Little John will need time. He is no bird, to fly there.” He sat down. “Where do you want us to hunt this evening?”

  “I should think you would go to the cross-roads near the Abbey of Holy Rood.” Hood shrugged. “Or you might go to the well on the Ely road. There are always a few men to be found there—pilgrims and other solitary men.”

  “And that is what you want us to feed on—the dregs of those who travel the Great North Road?” Scarlet asked, and shrugged before Hood could say anything more. “If that is what you have to offer, then it is what I must accept. I will take five or six men with me, and the rest may fend for themselves.”

  “I thank you, Will,” said Hood with silky condemnation.

  Scarlet shrugged again. “Those who want to eat with me, come along. There’s no reason to wait here.” He turned on his heel and started off along the main trail. “We’ll be back before dawn, unless it rains.”

  Hood laughed, the cruel sound echoing among the trees, following those who left with Scarlet. “You and I will have Wroughton to ourselves,” Hood said to Marian, his red eyes shining like embers in his white face.

  “I thank you for it,” said Marian, touching his arm.

  The Red Friar watched them, feeling uneasy. “What of the rest of us?”

  “I will make an arrangement for you later,” said Hood negligently. “Build up the fire, if you would. It is going to be cold tonight, so cold that we will notice it.”

  “Why should that matter to you?” the Red Friar asked.

  “It doesn’t,” said Hood. “But there are swineherds in this part of Sherwood who would be grateful for a little warmth.”

  “So you wish to set a trap?” the Red Friar said. “Why should they take such a chance?”