“Never say so,” the Prince admonished him.
“Everyone knows it,” deSteny protested.
“Never say so,” the Prince repeated, and took up his tankard again. “Do you think the vampires will come tomorrow?”
DeSteny accepted this enforced change of topic, and answered truthfully, “As I have said before—I believe they’re already here.”
How Hood and his Band
fared in Nottingham
THE WAGON of the players was admitted through the main gates into the town shortly after dawn, their fantastic appearance attracting a great deal of attention. A party of monks stood aside to allow the players to enter the town ahead of them, a few of them pretending to be shocked by the illustrations on the wagon. The Guards joked with the lavishly dressed strangers, pointing out the Spotted Horse, a tavern where they would be welcomed.
“There are jugglers and rope-walkers there already, and who knows what other mountebanks,” said the Sergeant of the Guard. “The landlord will give you beds for the night and a barn for your wagon and your ponies. The green where you may set up your stage is a short distance beyond the Spotted Horse.”
“Our thanks to you, Sergeant,” said the player in scarlet. “You have been most helpful.”
“It’s always good to have players in the town,” said the Sergeant. “You’re right welcome. I am sorry you had to spend the night outside the gates, but, you do understand, we have our orders.”
“And sensible ones they are,” said Scarlet.
“The Sheriff wishes to keep us safe. And there are august persons in the town who must have more protection than the likes of you and me,” said the Sergeant. “They are an advantage to you, for you will perform for the highest in the land, but they are a burden to us, since it falls to us to keep them safe.”
The elaborately attired Hood came up to the Sergeant. “Perhaps you will come to see us play? We have an allegory to present—The Rebel Angels—that should cause some excitement.” He nodded to Scarlet. “Let us go claim rooms.”
The Sergeant coughed once. “Right you are. Pass on. And welcome to Nottingham.”
Riding in the back of the wagon, as light—headed as if he had been drinking hard cider all night, Alan-a-Dale heard all this distantly. He tried to recall the night before, but all he could summon up in his mind was the impression of many hands and mouths around him, and surely that couldn’t be the whole of it. No doubt he was tired from his journey, and that accounted for his present state. The players must have entertained him while they rehearsed, he decided, and his memory was muddled by fatigue. He felt the wagon move off up the street, the players keeping close around it in the general confusion that the Fair had brought to the town. He attempted to sit up, but soon gave that up as a bad idea, contenting himself with lying back and being carried wherever the players decided to take him.
“Do we go to the Spotted Horse?” Scarlet asked.
“Yes. The Guard may ask if we have taken rooms there, and if we have not, then they will become suspicious of us.” His voice was low but all the men heard it, and the youth that Alan had suspected was a woman in disguise, outrageous as that notion might be.
The Red Friar laughed uncomfortably. “The landlord will want payment.”
“He shall have it, as we shall have ours,” said Hood.
The street turned and opened into a small square filled with milling people that was circled by taverns and inns. There was a small church crammed in among the various hostelries; its single bell rang Matins as the players approached. A few of the people stopped for a moment to offer a prayer, but most continued about their business, so the players attracted very little attention for their lack of observance of the Hour.
The Spotted Horse was diametrically opposite the church, its sign showing a crudely executed cream—colored horse with clumsy black spots daubed on it. There were three jugglers in the front of the tavern, tossing daggers up in the air and catching them with bewildering speed. A small audience cheered them on, but parted to let the players approach the entrance to the tavern.
“Where is the landlord?” Scarlet asked, holding the brim of his broad, dramatic hat so that no light struck his face. “We must command rooms.”
One of the jugglers snatched three daggers of out the air and pointed toward the taproom. “There. But he’s almost full-up.”
“All the more reason to bespeak rooms now,” said Scarlet, and passed into the shadow of the entrance with a sigh of relief.
Hood was right behind him, his cloak’s hood pulled up and his broad hat set atop it. “The ponies will need stalls.”
“Of course. And one of us at least should sleep in the stable, to be sure they aren’t misappropriated.” Scarlet laughed once, and looked into the low—ceilinged taproom. “What do you think?”
“The landlord,” said Hood, and went up to the stout man in the leather apron who held sway behind a short counter. “Good sir,” he said, doffing his extravagant hat, revealing his hood but not his white hair. He bowed. “We are poor players, come to the Fair to test our plays. The Guard told us you might have rooms for us, and so I have made bold to enter here and ask for such as will accommodate our troupe.”
The landlord rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Players, are you? How many are you?”
“Eight, counting the minstrel who joined us on the road. We could get by with three rooms, or two and space in the hayloft. That will suffice for us, but there is more: we have a wagon pulled by ponies,” said Hood smoothly.
“Two rooms and a space in the hayloft is the best I can offer, at least while the town is full for the Fair,” said the landlord, regarding Hood with a practiced eye. “Three copper angels a night, six paid now, the balance when you leave.”
“Six copper angels? For two rooms and a place in the hayloft?” Hood feigned indignation. “You’re as bad as the tax—collectors!”
“And hay for your ponies,” the landlord reminded him.
“We might as well feed them silver,” Hood complained, as was expected of him.
“Take it or sleep in the fields. It’s all one to me.” He folded his hands over his belly and waited, smug in the knowledge that he would prevail.
Hood pretended to puzzle over the amount, then slapped his wallet and pulled out the demanded copper angels. He handed the coins to the landlord. “Where are these rooms?”
The landlord winkled the angels into the deep sleeve of his smock. “One is up that staircase, at the end of the corridor, over the kitchen yard. The other is there, behind the taproom. It’s apt to be noisy in the evening, but that shouldn’t matter to players. You will probably be performing as long as there is someone to watch you.”
“No; it will give us more opportunities to play,” said Hood, and bowed again, more effusively than before, flourishing his hat before placing it back on his head. “May your kindness be rewarded, landlord.” He turned to Scarlet. “Bring the minstrel in with you, and let us all rest while we may.”
“In the daytime?” the landlord expostulated. He had overheard this last and was shocked at the notion.
Hood rounded on him. “Last night we slept in the open, keeping guard through the night for our own safety, and so none of us had much rest. Ask the Guard if you doubt me. This morning we’re tired, and if we are to perform later, we must avail ourselves of this opportunity to recruit ourselves.”
The landlord nodded twice. “Of course. I hadn’t thought ...” His voice faded as he met the ferocious, encarmined gaze of Hood’s eyes.
“Just so,” said Hood, and turned back to Scarlet. “You and the Red Friar— you take our wagon around to the stable and see the ponies are fed and watered. That is a good beginning. Then bring our troupe to their rooms. I will take the room just there”—he pointed to the dark little chamber behind the taproom—“and I will
take the Beauchamp ... lad with me. He is in need of a little protection. For that reason, you will bring the minstrel to my chamber, and put Morrain in the stable—only a fool would try to fight with him. You others can take care of yourselves.”
“Well and good,” said Scarlet with a sardonic brandishing of his enveloping cloak. “It shall be as you wish.”
Hood glanced at the landlord. “This evening, we will play for you here, in your taproom, if you like. It will do us good to practice.”
“I won’t give back any angels for that,” the landlord warned.
“You won’t have to, if you will allow us to pass the hat,” said Hood with sinister geniality.
“Of course, of course,” the landlord said hurriedly. “I will take only one copper angel for permitting you to do so.” This was far less than most landlords required for such an opportunity, and both of them knew it.
“Agreed,” said Hood, and spat into his palm to seal the bargain.
The landlord regarded him uneasily. “What will you play? When you play tonight?”
“I haven’t decided,” said Hood. “Something bloody, no doubt.”
The landlord nodded quickly. “People like bloody stories.”
“Yes,” said Hood. “They do.” With that, he headed toward the little room at the rear of the taproom, lifting the latch and entering it cautiously. No crucifix hung on the walls, and the windows were shuttered. Hood smiled in spite of himself. He swung around and called out to the landlord, “Very suitable.”
The landlord sighed in spite of himself. “Do you want ale or beer? Or cider? Or berry wine?” he asked Hood.
“Not just now. We’ll tend to our drink later.” He wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself and signaled to Scarlet. “Send the lad in to me, and have someone help the minstrel in. He’s a little unsteady on his feet.”
The landlord laughed aloud. “Poor minstrel. Did he drink too much last night?”
“There was a lot of drinking,” said Hood, and clapped his hands once. Scarlet left the taproom at once.
The bed in the little room was little more than a straw—stuffed sack with an old, musty blanket of boiled wool laid atop it. Hood tested it with his foot and managed a suggestion of a smile. It was barely adequate, but that would hardly matter. He took off his cloak and hung it near the cold hearth, deciding that he would order a fire laid in the evening, for although it meant little to him, the landlord would be suspicious if he failed to have a few logs set ablaze once the sun was down.
Marian came into the room, her jaunty cap set at a boyish angle on her close-cropped hair. “What did you pay for this closet?”
“A copper,” said Hood.
“You were robbed,” she said bluntly, then grinned as she flung out her arm. “I like this place. How suitable it is to our purposes.”
“It is,” he agreed. “We’ll have the minstrel with us shortly.”
“Good,” she said, tossing her hat aside. “I hope he has recovered enough to give us a taste of him before nightfall.”
“Don’t bother to take much, he won’t stand it and we need him alive for a while yet. There’ll be many other opportunities before dawn,” Hood told her. “Better to rest now, and make yourself ready to play tonight.”
“Do you think the Bishop will allow us to play after dark?” Marian asked as she flung herself down on the bed.
“If it weren’t for the Fair, probably not,” said Hood. “But with the town full to bursting for the Fair, he ought to welcome our playing at night—anything to keep the people from turning on one another, which they’re sure to do before the Fair is over.” They had discussed this before, but Marian was still wary, and so he answered her without chastising her. “You won’t go hungry, not here in Nottingham.”
She laughed a bit nervously. “What of the Sheriff? What of Sir Gui?”
“What of them?” Hood asked, and went silent.
“What is it?” she whispered.
Hood shook his head and moved toward the door, which he shoved open abruptly, and had the satisfaction of seeing the landlord stumble back. “What did you want to know, sirrah? Did you expect to discover something disgraceful?”
The landlord coughed and looked confused. “I ... I can’t ...”
“Leave my troupe alone,” Hood warned silkily. “It will be better for all of us if you do.”
Blustering, the landlord did his best to recover. “This is my establishment, and the Bishop will hold me responsible for the sins committed here.”
“We have committed no sins, nor are we likely to, with you peering in at the latch.” Hood took up a stance that dared the landlord to do anything more.
“But if there is anything unsuitable ... the Bishop ...” said the landlord, much less confidently than before.
“If the Bishop wants to search for unsuitable behavior,” said Marian at her most boyish, “let him look no further than Sir Gui. All the world knows his business.”
“Sir Gui is ... is ...” The landlord backed up another three steps.
“Is fonder of men than women,” said Marian, and pressed her lips together, knowing she had said too much. “and he suborns both to his own purpose.”
“Beauchamp,” Hood warned, all indulgence gone from his manner. “You will keep a respectful tongue in your head.”
Marian lowered her eyes, sulking. “It is only what everyone says.”
Dismayed, the landlord retreated just as the Red Friar and Scarlet brought Alan to Hood’s room. The landlord shook his head and deliberately looked away.
“What do you think?” Scarlet asked as he lowered the shaky-limbed Alan onto the bed.
“About what?” Hood snapped.
“The landlord, of course,” said Scarlet.
“I think he will be troublesome, but no more than others might be,” said Hood.
Scarlet cocked his head toward the door. “Shall we plan to silence him?”
“Not until the Fair is over,” said Hood. “For now, let us hunt among the travelers in the streets, but not while the sun is up. If we rest until afternoon, we will be able to go out, into the shadows of the houses and the walls.”
“Have you chosen a place where we may play yet?” Scarlet asked.
“No, nor will I until we may see how the town goes,” said Hood. “We must play where we will be noticed, but not where we will attract the curious.”
“No church porches,” said Scarlet, and laughed. “The Red Friar will be relieved.”
Marian ducked her head, tired of all this banter. “Then let’s sleep. We can decide these things later in the day. The night will come faster if we slumber the light away.”
Hood bowed to her. “It will be as you say, Beauchamp.”
What Sir Gui asked Prince John,
and the Answer he Received
SIR GUI dismissed Sir Humphrey with a negligent movement of his hand. “I am sure you know what will be most appropriate for you to do. If there is trouble, inform me, if not, continue as you have done before.” He had been attending to various petitions all morning, and he was becoming annoyed. The reception hall was chillier than he liked, and he was wasting a fine day to be in the field.
“But the town is full to over—flowing, and we cannot admit many more. You must decide whom we are to house and whom we are to order to make camp outside the walls,” Sir Humphrey said in exasperation.
“You should know what is best to do,” said Sir Gui. “I don’t want to be bothered with every little decision that any soldier could make.”
“Are you so certain of that? Do you want to put the safety of the town in the hands of the Guard?” Sir Humphrey recalled the many disparaging remarks Sir Gui had made about the ineptness of the soldiers at Nottingham and it was now all he could do not to quote them to Sir Gui
. “These soldiers are not wise in the ways of the court.”
“But they know pick—pockets when they see them, and other miscreants, and they will keep such raffish fellows out,” said Sir Gui.
“That is likely,” said Sir Humphrey, his face devoid of expression.
“Then let them keep the unworthy out, and let the Fairgoers in. That cannot be beyond their capacity.” He stared at Sir Humphrey. “Is there anything else, or are you going to find another excuse to linger?”
Sir Humphrey glowered at the floor. “There is nothing more, my lord,” he said tightly.
“Then, Sir Humphrey, be about your business,” said Sir Gui, satisfied with his disposal of the matter. He took a long draft of the spiced mead in the flagon at his elbow, relishing the fuzzy warmth that spread through him. When he set the flagon down, Sir Humphrey had left the reception hall. “Is there anyone else waiting?” Sir Gui asked Nicholas Woodhull, who had been assigned to his morning audiences.
“Not just at present,” said Nicholas. He hesitated. “The Prince would like a word with you.”
“Prince John?” Sir Gui asked.
“Is there another Prince at Nottingham?” Nicholas dared to ask.
“Don’t be impertinent,” Sir Gui admonished him. “What does he want, do you know?”
“Your presence in the library,” Nicholas mumbled.
Although it was entirely correct for Prince John to expect Sir Gui to wait upon him, Sir Gui took umbrage at this most reasonable request. “What haughtiness! It does him no credit to treat his brother’s vassals so.”
For a moment, Nicholas wished he could escape, but he checked his impulse and said, “It will be my honor to escort you.”
“To the library?” said Sir Gui as he shoved himself to his feet with every appearance of ill—usage. “Lead on, boy.”
Nicholas went out into the corridor, walking a bit too quickly, but not wanting Sir Gui to be immediately behind him. “This way.” They climbed the narrow stairs and arrived at the gallery above the Great Hall. “It’s at the end of this corridor,” said Nicholas, pointing down the dark passageway.
Trouble in the Forest Book Two Page 7
