Trouble in the Forest Book Two

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Do you think it is Hood and his men?” Prince John asked, and went on before Sir Olvan could venture a guess, “I think it may be scouts for him, for on so bright a day as this one, I doubt he and his kind will be abroad until sunset. Not that the scouts cannot be dangerous,” he added thoughtfully.

  “A comforting notion,” said Sir Olvan with mild sarcasm. “But we will be careful, sunlight or nay.”

  “A good plan,” said the Prince, and signaled to Sir Vulpes. “Ride with Mother Barnaba, and lend her your protection.”

  “I will,” said Sir Vulpes, and dropped back in the party to obey Prince John’s command.

  Sir Olvan encouraged his horse to go on, and made sure his sword was at the ready. “All of you, watch the underbrush,” he ordered. “We may be near Nottingham but we aren’t within its gates.”

  “Should we go faster?” Baron Lytton asked. “The horses are fresh enough. At a faster trot, we could arrive sooner.”

  “No. That were folly,” said Prince John. “If we must flee an attacker, the horses will be better if we do not tire them now. And there may be traps set for us up ahead, in anticipation of our increased speed.”

  “That may be true,” said the Baron, lowering his head. “But who would dare, so near the town?”

  “Desperate men,” said Prince John. “And you must not forget our foes are desperate men, all of them.”

  “You may be over—cautious,” said Baron Lytton.

  “Better that than reckless,” said Prince John, and rode up to join Sir Olvan at the head of the group.

  “You should be in the midst of us, Your Grace,” said Sir Olvan.

  “Not coming to Nottingham,” said the Prince. “Here we need to show our determination, for the sake of those in the town as well as the Fair—goers. How can we expect them to undertake a journey here if we are craven?” He lowered his voice. “I would have thought we would have encountered tradesmen and adventurers on the road. They must be traveling in groups, with guards for safety.”

  “A man would be a fool to wander the Great North Road alone at this time,” Sir Olvan agreed, looking toward the turn in the road ahead. “This is where we—”

  “I know,” said Prince John. “It is the way to Nottingham.”

  “Do you think they have seen us by now?” Sir Olvan asked.

  “Who knows? If Sir Gui has ordered the Watch to the ramparts, perhaps, but otherwise, no. I do think it is likely that someone will see us soon, no matter what deGisbourne has ordered.” The Prince laughed. “You cannot imagine how Sir Gui will dislike sharing his display with me, and he cannot believe that I want it as little as he desires it.”

  “Do you expect trouble with him?” Sir Olvan asked.

  “I realize it is possible, but I don’t expect it. Much will depend on his state of mind,” said Prince John.

  “We can send a man ahead,” Sir Olvan suggested.

  “I think not,” said Prince John. “It would only increase any potential trouble.” He turned aside and watched the underbrush. “And there is no reason to lessen our numbers for show.”

  “Do you think anyone will strike so close to the town, in daylight?” Sir Olvan looked dubious.

  “No, I don’t, but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen,” said Prince John.

  “That’s true enough,” said Sir Olvan heavily, and peered ahead with narrowed eyes. When they finally emerged from the trees onto the long approach to Nottingham, three of the men broke out the Prince’s personal banners and set them fluttering in the afternoon breeze.

  “Has the Guard seen us yet?” Baron Courvier asked Sir Ninian.

  “There’s been no fanfare,” Sir Ninian observed. “As soon as they recognize the Prince’s device, the horns should sound a welcome.”

  Baron Courvier squinted at the banners flying above the ramparts. “Sir Gui is there ahead of us. Do you think he would be so crass as not to welcome the Prince? Wouldn’t that be too insolent, even for him?”

  “He might neglect the fanfare, but Sir Humphrey and the Sheriff would not,” said Sir Ninian. “They know what is due.”

  “But Sir Gui is lord here,” said Baron Courvier.

  “Not when the Prince is his guest,” Sir Ninian said a bit harshly. “As Sir Gui will soon discover.”

  Baron Courvier laughed, and pointed to the main gates of Nottingham. “They’d best open both sides for Prince John, and promptly. He is no merchant, to pass through one side as if he had nothing more than a mule in hand.”

  “They can see the banners by now,” said Sir Ninian, frowning at the potential slight that was being offered to them by the continued lack of greeting.

  “The trumpeters may not be ready,” said Baron Courvier as if such a lack were a poor excuse for the inattention.

  “No doubt they’re at Sir Gui’s pleasure,” said Sir Ninian.

  Baron Courvier nodded in sour agreement. “No doubt.”

  They had covered another twenty yards when a ragged squeal of trumpets served to welcome Prince John and his suite to Nottingham; the closed half of the gate began to swing open, and the banners on the ramparts dipped as the Prince and his company rode nearer.

  “Well, well, well,” said Sir Olvan to Prince John.

  “Truly,” said Prince John with a mordant smile. “Better this than nothing.”

  Sir Humphrey appeared in the open gateway, mounted and carrying the banner of Nottingham. He took up his position with as much dignity as he could summon, and glanced behind him to see Hugh deSteny approaching on mouse-dun gelding, an obvious attempt to show the courtesy Sir Gui had so completely lacked.

  “At least Sir Humphrey and the Sheriff are here,” said Sir Olvan.

  “For which we must thank them,” said Prince John. He took up the position at the head of the company, demonstrating that he was coming to a friendly place. “When we enter the gates of the town, head for the castle.”

  * * *

  As they clattered up the causeway into the town, the trumpets made a better announcement of Prince John’s arrival. Townspeople came running as news spread, and in a very short while, the street leading to the castle was crowded with curious Nottinghamers looking to catch a glimpse of the Prince. The crush slowed the progress of the Prince’s suite; Sir Humphrey and deSteny rode ahead of Prince John, doing their utmost to make sure there was an open way to the castle.

  “This is hard-going,” Sir Humphrey remarked to deSteny as they used their horses to shove half-a-dozen monks back from the roadway.

  “Sir Gui will have to answer for it,” said deSteny.

  “Do you think he will?” Sir Humphrey asked with a nasty laugh.

  “I doubt it,” said deSteny, urging his horse to keep moving with the pressure of his lower legs. “If he is wise, Sir Gui is making the castle ready even as we come through the streets.”

  “Is that what you suppose he is doing?” Sir Humphrey raised his riding crop to warn back a group of saddlers’ apprentices.

  “This is going to be a long day,” deSteny sighed.

  “And many of them ahead of us,” said Sir Humphrey.

  They continued on up to the castle, half—expecting a proper fanfare to signal Prince John’s arrival. The confusion in the streets diminished as they neared the imposing gates. The wind was picking up, and the brilliant sun didn’t warm them as much as it had at mid—day. As the castle door swung open, a series of clangs on the marshaling bell sounded, and then a single trumpeter yelped out a call to attention.

  “Where is Sir Gui?” Sir Humphrey wondered aloud.

  “Lingering over his mid-day meal,” deSteny said. “He probably hasn’t given any credence to the news that the Prince has come, since there is so little panoply regarding his arrival. Sir Gui himself expects full honors at every occasion.”

 
They were inside the castle walls now, with Prince John only four lengths behind them. In a show of respect, Sir Humphrey and deSteny dismounted and went down on their knees to him, setting an example for the soldiers in the marshaling yard. Most dropped to their knees, a bit more slowly than true courtesy demanded.

  Prince John reined in his horse and swung out of the saddle. “I am glad to be here,” he announced, and waited for some response.

  The men in his company dismounted, and Sholto went to help Mother Barnaba off her mount. The group stood about, waiting for the grooms and servants to come to take their horses off to be unsaddled, brushed, fed, watered, and stabled, and for Sir Gui to come to offer a proper welcome.

  The single trumpeter sounded another clarion, this time for royal mustering. It was quickly echoed by two others.

  Prince John motioned to deSteny. “Hugh. It is good to see you again. Rise. And you, Sir Humphrey.” He leaned toward deSteny. “I have something for you. Mother Barnaba has it with her.”

  “What might that be, Your Grace?” deSteny asked.

  “A book. Brother Tancred’s. Precious information. I’ll see you have it directly,” the Prince promised before stepping back.

  Now the soldiers were becoming embarrassed, and they began to mill, trying to decide what was correct for them to do. Finally one of the men-at-arms bolted for the keep, his shouts echoing as he ran through the door.

  DeSteny rose and went to kiss the Prince’s hand. “Then I take it Mother Barnaba reached you safely.”

  “May God be thanked, yes,” said Prince John. “I cannot thank you enough for sending her to me.”

  “When Wroughton didn’t return, I knew I had to find another messenger,” said deSteny, almost apologetically.

  “Yes. You and I must discuss it. You know Sir Olvan Hodge, I believe?” He indicated the formidable knight.

  “I do remember you,” said Sir Olvan. “Your circumstances were different.”

  “So they were,” deSteny agreed, and was spared any need for further remark as Sir Gui surged out of the bailey.

  “Prince John! Your Grace! My Lord!” he enthused. “I had no idea you would be here.” He came up to the company and made his obeisance. “My retinue is preparing a welcome for you even now—a paltry thing, but as we had no time to prepare—”

  Sir Humphrey snorted audibly. “Where are the grooms for the horses? They need attention.”

  Sir Gui clapped his hands and made a perfunctory summons of his minions. “You had only to command them, my Lord, and they would hasten to obey you.”

  “But they are not mine to command, Sir Gui,” Prince John said firmly.

  “Of course they are. All are yours to command,” said Sir Gui, his mouth tightening in disapproval. “Come along and let my grooms take your horses in hand. I will have a minstrel sing for you while a barrel of mead is broached. Poor enough reception, but under the circumstances, it is the best I can offer.” He made a sweeping gesture and did his best not to glare at the company Prince John had brought with him. “The Great Hall is ready for you.”

  Prince John knew it was less than the truth, but he motioned to his men to follow him as he permitted Sir Gui to escort him into the keep.

  How Alan-a-Dale journeyed

  toward the Fair

  ANOTHER sunny autumn day offered a fine opportunity to travelers, and, to Alan’s surprise, he found a company of leather—workers making their way toward Nottingham. They were traveling on foot, the three of them taking turns pulling their cart that was laden with all manner of leather—goods, including tanned skins to be sold to other leather—workers.

  “If you’ll take a turn at draying, we’ll be glad to have you with us,” said their leader, a strong, stringy man of forty, white—haired but straight of stance. He answered to Cuyler, and his two companions were his nephews, Weirton and Varne, who worked with him.

  “I’m Alan, called a-Dale,” he said proudly. “I am a minstrel, and if you like, I will sing to you as we go along.”

  “Songs can make walking lighter,” said Cuyler. “Give us a lay or two and we’ll be twice-glad of your company.”

  Alan smiled and hefted his harp, making a show of tuning it, then struck a chord on its strings. “It doesn’t hold its tune well while walking,” he said to excuse its jangle.

  Cuyler nodded his understanding. “We all know harps are chancy instruments.”

  “The strings are getting old,” said Alan, by way of excuse for the poorness of his playing.

  “It makes a difference, I suppose,” said Varne.

  Alan fiddled with the tuning pegs, and finally arrived at fairly good tones. “I can try again,” he offered, and without waiting for encouragement, he launched into his latest composition:

  “Brave men and bold they are,

  These valiant men who rule the woods;

  Some call them outlaws and robbers

  But they take neither pelf nor goods.

  Sing ho! for the greenwood,

  The greenwood of Sherwood

  Sing ho! heigh—ho!

  Tales and lies are told of these men

  To blind the eyes of all and halt goodwill;

  But those in Sherwood’s shadow ken

  The truth and—”

  “What kind of nonsense is this?” Cuyler demanded, cutting off the rest of the song and flinging up his arms in annoyance. “You call those fell beings heroes? You sing songs about them as if they were worthy men?”

  “Because they are!” Alan said emphatically.

  “Not by my lights,” said Cuyler, and looked to his nephews for support. “Heroes indeed!”

  “They are killers,” said Weirton. “Everyone knows that they have murdered crofters, travelers, even monks.”

  “A lie,” Alan insisted. “Any misfortune in Sherwood is laid at their door.”

  “For good reason,” Cuyler stated. “If you wish to travel with us, you will sing other songs, minstrel.”

  “There are others deserving of condemnation—wild men and penitents who roam unchecked in the greenwood,” Alan said, not quite sulking.

  “They don’t kill,” said Cuyler. “Some may steal, but it’s not the same thing.”

  “They are not the—” Alan began, only to be cut off.

  “Sing of something else, or travel alone.” Cuyler folded his arms in a demonstration of his intractability.

  “What other songs would you like?” Alan asked, unable to keep from sullenness.

  “Something jolly,” said Cuyler, and was seconded by his nephews. “Put a spring in our steps, if you can. Help us walk along smartly. None of those dirges, mind, nor any of those interminable accounts of long-ago battles when no one wins. Give us something merry and spry for our spirits.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Alan, and began to play the popular ballade, The Complaint of the Old Man’s Young Wife, a tale filled with innuendo and saucy deeds that relied on bouncy rhythm and lyrics filled with unsubtle double-meaning. This suited very well, and soon Cuyler, Weirton, and Varne were in charity with Alan again as they strolled along to the Great North Road, where they came upon a small company of merchants leading their heavily laden mules. They had hired four well-armed out-riders for protection, and they were pleased to include the four men in their party.

  Pollard of Saint Alwice was the leader of the group, a hearty, large—framed man with sharp eyes and a ringing laugh that he used often. He sized up the leather—workers and the young minstrel and agreed they were potentially harmless enough. “A coin or two from each of you, to pay toward our escort, and we’ll all be prepared to walk on.”

  Reluctantly Cuyler handed over three coppers, and waited for Alan to do the same. “Go on, lad. His request is reasonable enough.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Ala
n. “Though my songs should buy me passage.”

  “Not the way you sing,” said Varne, and the merchants laughed aloud at this.

  Alan, his face hot, paid his copper and glared at Varne. “Take care that I make no song on you.”

  Varne was about to answer intemperately but was stopped by his uncle. “That’s enough, you puppies. This is no occasion to wrangle. If the songs the minstrel sings please us, he will have his copper back when we reach Nottingham.”

  “That’s suitable,” said Pollard, who looked around to his companions. “Will that satisfy you all?”

  So the bargain was struck, and Alan, flattered and exasperated by turns, was required to sing for most of the afternoon, and again that evening in the tavern where they spent the night. He slept with the hired soldiers in the hayloft, and felt himself ill-used, for he had regaled the party with songs in the taproom from their arrival until the end of supper. His meal of left-overs left him hungry, but he dared not complain as he fell into a fitful slumber.

  The next day, they came upon a troupe of players, fantastical fellows in intricate motley, some even wearing masks, all of them with elaborate, wide hats adorned with all manner of leaves and other decoration. Three of the seven carried bladder-staves, the players’ comic cudgels, and used them on the merchants. One in the red habit of a Trinitarian, offered blessings in the name of the Green Man. They had a wagon that contained a small stage, as the Italian players were said to have; it was decorated with vivid pictures of angels and devils and put-upon men to show the kind of stories they enacted. Two sturdy ponies with ivy—plaited manes drew the wagon.

  “It’s one thing to have a minstrel with us,” said Pollard, “but another to travel with players.” He saw his company make signs of agreement.

  “And we’ve heard all the minstrel’s songs three times over,” complained one of the soldiers. “We won’t reach Nottingham until tomorrow, and by then, we’ll be sick of him.”