“I thank you for that, I think,” said deSteny with the suggestion of a laugh.
“Time enough for thanks when I decide what I am to do,” said Sir Humphrey, on whom deSteny’s irony was lost.
“Tomorrow I look forward to talking with you in the morning,” said deSteny.
“After Mass. I will need to consult the Bishop as well as my good angel. In the meantime, leave me, so I can attend to my duties. There is much for me to consider.” He had reached one of the stairs down to the inner courtyard. “Is there anything more we need to discuss just now, or can any further discussion wait until tomorrow?”
“Perhaps I should have an accounting of the state of your supplies. I have had mine inventoried. Nicholas has spent the morning preparing the lists for me. I will be pleased if you will take a copy it, and I would like to have a—”
“—copy of mine,” said Sir Humphrey.
DeSteny made a gesture of concession. “Yes. I want that exchange. I know it can be useful to both of us.”
Sir Humphrey shook his head as he began to descend the stairs. “You are a persuasive fellow, deSteny, no doubt of that.”
DeSteny followed after him. “I will hope that you will accommodate me.”
“Of course you do,” said Sir Humphrey.
They were almost to the cobblestoned courtyard now, and deSteny knew he only had a few more breaths to set his agreement with Sir Humphrey. “Shall we plan to review our supplies and weapons when we meet tomorrow after Mass?”
“Very well,” said Sir Humphrey, giving in. “What you wish is prudent for us to know, and shared knowledge is strong knowledge.”
“Yes. It is.” DeSteny was vastly relieved. “Well. Until tomorrow, then.” He took a step back. “I will await you in my study.”
“Fine,” said Sir Humphrey, and strolled away toward the marshaling yard, his arms swinging.
DeSteny watched Sir Humphrey, trying to decide how much more he should tell the Marshal. He thought it made more sense to wait, in case Mother Barnaba could not complete her mission, and he would be forced to improvise. When would word come from Saint Gertrude’s? he asked himself. He went into the keep, wandering through the Great Hall, his thoughts in a muddle.
“Sheriff,” called out Sir Gui’s second squire, who was still at the castle while Sir Gui was away.
“What is it, Osbert?” deSteny asked as the youngster ran up to him.
“A messenger is here, from Arundel, with a letter.” He was in a smirched tunic, his hair in need of cutting. He could be an engaging scamp, but just at present he was annoying.
“What does deBeauchamp want?” deSteny asked the air, feeling aggravated by this intrusion: he had too much to deal with, and another screed from deBeauchamp would not be welcome.
“He’s asking about his niece, according to the Grey Friar.” He chuckled. “He says the language is intemperate.”
“DeBeauchamp or the Grey Friar?” deSteny asked, although he knew the answer; the Grey Friar who served as clerk for the garrison was overly nice in his tastes, and Lady Marian’s uncle was an intemperate man.
“The Grey Friar,” said Osbert.
“What is on deBeauchamp’s mind, that he should suddenly send a messenger? Hasn’t he heard enough of our situation here?” deSteny wondered aloud, then said to Osbert, “You needn’t answer. I wasn’t addressing you.” He tapped his finger on the hilt of his dagger. “Oh, very well. Bring me the message if you haven’t it with you.”
Osbert sulked. “I have it in my bed. I’ll go fetch it.” He scowled as only a boy of nine could.
“I’ll be in my study,” said deSteny. “Find me there directly.”
“I will come, bye-and-bye,” Osbert said, and scampered off before deSteny could issue orders to the contrary.
Trouble with deBeauchamp, thought deSteny. This only complicates matters. He knew better than to send word to Sir Gui, who would dislike any complaints being sent to him. “It has better be sooner than that. Attend to my order at once,” he called to Osbert’s retreating figure as an afterthought.
There was a scullion near the gaping maw of the fireplace where deer and boar were roasted on grand occasions; at present, the carcass of a goat was roasting over the banked coals. The scullion stared nervously at the Sheriff as if he had been caught pilfering. He got ready to flee, but could not bring himself to move.
“What is it, boy?” deSteny asked.
“I don’t know ... I’m not ... It’s nothing,” the youngster stammered.
“It must be something,” deSteny said, who was beginning to think the scullion had actually done something he was ashamed of doing. “You needn’t be afraid. Speak. I’ll listen.”
The scullion put down his ladle, paying no attention to the mead that splashed from the pail in which the ladle landed. “I shouldn’t ... My brother was ... he is planning to ... the All Saints ...” He looked around as if wanting to bolt.
“Anyone can participate in the Fair,” deSteny said.
“Perhaps,” the scullion said. “But he wants to compete in the archery, and ...”
“Ah,” said deSteny, understanding at last. “He is not above poaching, and he fears he will be trapped if he does too well.” He laughed. “He may do his all without worry.”
“May I tell him?” the scullion asked.
“If you think he won’t compete without such a reassurance.” He pointed to the corridor leading down to the kitchen. “Does your brother work in Nottingham?”
“He comes to town for Mass. Otherwise, he lives in the hamlet four leagues from the south gate.” The scullion rubbed his hands on the hem of his smock, looking about awkwardly. “I don’t think I can tell him anything until Sunday, m’Lord Sheriff.” He picked up his ladle again and began to pour measures of mead over the turning goat.
“There is plenty of time between next Sunday and the Eve of All Saints Fair,” deSteny pointed out to the scullion.
The boy nodded several times. “This is for tonight’s meal,” he said unnecessarily. “I have to tend to it, or Silas will beat me.”
The invocation of the name of the formidable master-cook brought an understanding nod from deSteny. “Silas does not outrank me, boy,” he reminded the scullion. “And so I will tell him, if you like.”
Cowering, the scullion shook his head and kept on with his chore, so deSteny decided to show him a little mercy, and left him to it.
As he climbed the stairs toward his study, Osbert came hurtling down toward him, a roll of vellum clutched in his hand. “Hold there, young fellow,” deSteny said, blocking the squire’s perilous descent.
Osbert stopped his mad rush so quickly that he nearly fell back on his rump. He glowered at deSteny as he held out the piece of vellum. “From Arundel. You can see the Grey Friar’s seal is unbroken.”
DeSteny took the rolled sheet. “Yes. I see that.” It was a dollop of wax dropped next to the Arundel seal, which was broken. “Thank you, Osbert. That will be all.”
The boy laughed and shoved past deSteny, resuming his plunge with undiminished enthusiasm.
Was the vellum really hot, or was it only his imagination? deSteny wondered as he carefully broke the Grey Friar’s seal and unrolled the sheet, scanning the contents with an anxious frown. When he had finished, he stood for some little while, then went on to his study to draft an answer to this garbled message of accusations, threats, and worries: if Reynard deBeauchamp were so troubled about his niece, deSteny decided, let him come to Nottingham and help find her.
How Hood came to know of the Fair
ALAN tripped over a root and put his hand out to keep from falling. He muttered and clutched his harp close to his chest, protecting it from any damage. He had been walking since early morning, hoping to stumble upon one or more of Hood’s men. As he walked, he went over his rhymes, planning the song he would offer up
to Hood, with the hope that the outlaws would allow him to come along with them to the Fair, where his songs of their exploits would certainly make his reputation.
“So what brings you into the forest?” Will Scarlet seemed to materialize out of the forest, as if the trees and shadows had created him.
“I ... I was looking for you,” said Alan, feeling his pulse pound in his temples as he attempted to conceal his shock.
“And you have found me,” said Scarlet, his smile menacing and ironic. “For what purpose?”
“Thank goodness I have,” Alan said, faltering. “I have heard something that I think you may want to know of.”
“What would that be?” Scarlet sauntered up to him, his hand negligently caressing his dagger.
“Ah ... there is a ... a Fair ...” He coughed and tried to take a step away.
Scarlet backed him up against a tree. “The All ... All Sacred Ones Fair. It happens every year.”
“Not the way this one will happen,” said Alan trying to make this as encouraging as he could. “This one is grander than any they have had in Nottingham in many a year. There will be contests and prizes. Great lords will come, with their households. I’ve already written a song about it, in the hope that I might win the minstrels’ contest.”
“You will have to try it on Hood and the rest,” Scarlet said, making it more of a command than an invitation.
“Oh, Yes. Of course.” Alan clung to his harp as if trying to save himself. “That is what I intend.”
“That being the case, you had better come with me now, harper,” Scarlet said, as he caught Alan by the scruff of his neck and half-shoved, half-dragged him along.
“I? Now?” His voice rose half an octave. “I thought I should tell you, and you would then impart the news to Hood.”
“Did you? Well, my lad, you’re wrong,” said Scarlet, forcing Alan to keep moving.
“I am expected at the tavern,” Alan protested, his voice rising to a squeak. “I cannot be gone much longer without failing my kinsman.”
“Then the landlord must be disappointed. We have a prior claim upon you.” He forced Alan to move faster as they went deeply into the forest, traveling by trails only Scarlet seemed to read in the tangle of trees and brush. Alan could only pant as he tried to keep up, fear twisting his feet and playing hob with his mind—he would never be able to retrace his steps without help.
“If I don’t return ...” Alan said as they finally reached a ruined stone building.
“The landlord is no fool—in that you are different from him,” said Scarlet acidly. “You say you have information for Hood, and if you do, you shall deliver it.” He shoved the young harper ahead of him, his attention on the ancient wreck of a house. “Stay here. I will bring Hood to you.”
Confused, Alan looked about as if he expected trickery. “Why should I stay here?”
“Hood does not like having the living brought to his hearth, unless he intends they should not leave until they become one of us.” Scarlet saw the dismay in Alan’s face, and laughed. “You may not think so, boy, but I am being kind to you.”
“If you say so,” said Alan, looking up at the tree branches where the roof had once been.
“Stay where you are. If you try to leave, you will get lost, I promise you, and when I find you again, I will be in no humor to accommodate you.” He touched the quillons of his dagger and left Alan alone in the old house.
Alan held onto his harp as if to keep hold of a floating limb. He could not stop feeling that he had put himself into danger, and that he might still regret what he had done. His fingers shook as he tried to practice his melodies on the harp, and the notes came out badly. He gave up, and found himself a heap of stones to sit upon. This was better, he told himself, because at least he was resting. He began to recite “The Lay of the Bride of Fairisle,” taking what comfort he could from the familiar tale. By the time he reached the verses about the dead bride-groom, the floor of the house was in deep shadow and the forest was growing darker. He shivered, and not from cold, and returned to the story of Melusine.
“So this is the singer you described to me,” said Hood to Scarlet as they came through a gap in the walls. “Not a very taking example.”
Torn between umbrage and fear, Alan concealed his apprehension in petulance. “How would you know?”
Scarlet made a sharp, warning gesture in Alan’s direction. “This is no time to make jests, boy,” he said sternly, his expression forbidding.
“All right,” said Alan, wishing he could leave without depending on Scarlet to guide him home.
“It is said you have information to impart to me,” said Hood; he was playing with the short dags on his sleeves, his baleful gaze fixed on Alan.
“I do. Yes, I do.” He felt his courage return in a rush. “I do.”
“Then out with it. Your assurances mean nothing if I hear only babbling.” He came a step closer to Alan, and grinned as the young harper drew back.
“The Fair in Nottingham. On All Saint’s Eve?” He looked about anxious, as if hoping to find supporters materializing from the fallen stone walls. “This is to be a grand occasion, finer than in years past. Nobles and gentry will attend, and Sir Gui has stated that he will award prizes—rich prizes—in all the competitions. People will come from all over Sherwood, and they will come with treasure.”
“That they will,” said Hood. “And so many of them strangers.” He stared musingly at Alan. “Go on. Tell me all.”
“Well,” said Alan, gathering up what courage he could. “The competitions are open to all, not just to the Sheriff’s or Sir Humphrey’s or Sir Gui’s men. The prizes will be given to all, as well, no matter who they may be, or of what station. The Bishop will supervise the judging so it may be fair, and the prizes will be displayed for all to see, so that the awards will be given as promised.” He coughed as if to clear his throat. “I am going to make a song about the All Souls’ Eve Fair, and sing it in the contest.”
“Are you?” Hood chuckled. “Then I must wish you good fortune, I suppose.” He turned to Scarlet. “What do you think?”
“I think it is a fine opportunity. So many people on the road, it would be a shame to miss the feast.” Scarlet laughed.
“But it may well be a trap,” said Hood. “What should we do in that case?”
Scarlet knew the question was a test, and so he considered his answer very carefully. He wished young Alan would go away for this, but it was he who had brought him, and so he was left to deal with this as he could do best. “I think that we must find a way to go, disguised, among the folk, so we may take what we desire. I think we must attack in the forest, but only the stragglers, and take their places in the town. I think we must enter such contests as we may, and claim what prizes we can. I think we can slip away before the fair is at an end, and the soldiers of Nottingham will be unable to chase us if they still have a town full of fair-goers to contend with.” He took a deep breath. “And I think we must make traps to waylay the late travelers from the fair.”
Hood nodded. “Well-considered, Scarlet. I will say you have considered well.”
“I have your example,” said Scarlet, trying to hide the relief he felt.
“We will have to plan for the event.” He chuckled, and the sound he made was sinister. “When I went on Crusade, I did not plan, and the fell denizens of the desert graveyards made me their kind; when I returned here, I had to subdue all the old undead before I could be sure in my rule in this place. The Old Ones were my first prey. I conquered them, becoming their puissant suzerain. They obey me utterly or they are lost to eternal darkness. Since I have nothing to fear from them, now I hunt only the living, and they give me their strength and their lives so that I may be mightier.”
He rounded on Alan. “I am told you have made songs about me before. Well and good: you wish to sing of me—sing of that, and of
my right to rule the forest. I am its lord, no other. Within its borders, I say who lives and who dies, and who rises after death. Make your song of that, harper.” He advanced on Alan so quickly that the young man had no time to brace himself for what was to come.
Long, pale fingers fixed in Alan’s shoulder, and the force of his grip all but tore the muscles from bone. Hood’s red eyes were like flaring embers as he worried at the young man’s throat, tearing the skin and exposing the strong muscles of Alan’s neck, beneath which the bounty of his artery pulsed. The second bite sank into the shining flood, and Alan lost all ability to struggle, or will to resist. In a few moments, he had become light-headed and was about to faint.
“No, not yet,” said Hood, and forced himself to drop his prey, standing over the fallen harper. “You are not dead yet, but you are my creature now, come what may. If you fail me, you will die and go directly to Hell. But serve me, do my bidding, and you will thrive in my favor.” He turned away to face Scarlet. “You may have first pick of the travelers for this. Unless that callow youth betrays us, in which case, you will suffer as you cannot imagine.” He twitched his hood to conceal his face, which bore smears of Alan’s blood about the mouth. “Get the lad home. I will expect you back before midnight.” Saying that, he was gone.
Scarlet stood in the stone ruin for a short while, waiting for Alan to come to himself again. Eventually he ran out of patience and nudged the young man’s side with the toe of his boot. “Come. You aren’t dead yet.”
Confused and frightened, Alan levered himself onto his shaking elbows. “What happened?”
“Hood gave you orders. You had best obey them,” said Scarlet, reaching down to haul Alan to his feet. “Take your harp and come with me.”
“I ... I’m dizzy.” He put his hand to his torn neck and fought the urge to vomit. “What did he do?”
“What he always does,” said Scarlet. “He drank your blood.”
Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night Page 27