“I see both,” said the Red Friar, wringing his hands to show his confusion.
Scarlet clapped and the curtain in front of the inner stage closed. “Then we must look further,” he declared, and came and took the Red Friar by the hand, and led him up and down the narrow platform, to simulate a journey. Sounds came from behind the curtain that both Scarlet and the Red Friar ignored.
Behind the stage area, Donat, the wagoner, steadied their wagon with an angled brace made of three lengths of oak while Ramsay, their general hand, stood on the ground on the far side of the wagon, ready to intervene if any trouble arose.
“Where do you lead me?” the Red Friar cried out.
“To another place, where you may judge my purpose afresh,” Scarlet declaimed. “Come. Let me hear you directly: what would you have from me, what you wish to know. I will strive to answer you as clearly as any man could, frankly and without deception. It is fitting that you should question me, for that is the work of the faithful soul, as I must answer you. Just as dreams reveal our deepest truths, so questions must be asked and answered before the soul may shine out.”
“Alas, alack!” the Red Friar moaned. “Into what snare have I wandered?”
“No trap,” said Scarlet. “This is the peregrination all souls must take on their way to eternity.” He stopped again at midstage and again raised his hand. “Look upon this and learn.”
The curtain lifted and revealed a feminine figure in a blue veil sitting on the edge of a well, a rose in her hand, staring at a little model Iamb that had been placed a short distance from her. There was a shocked gasp from the audience, for Marian, even with her half-mask, looked much too womanly for the usual youths who played females in dramas. That these players might actually have a woman perform was unthinkable, and no one expected such an outrage as that would be, but it was startling to see a figure so openly effeminate as she. The buzz of whispered speculation ran through the audience like a chilly wind. Then Morrain, who had been a toll-taker at the Avon bridge before he had fallen to Hood, came onto the stage, painted-canvas wings on his shoulders. He held out a lily and spoke to Marian.
“Surely you are most favored, Lady, and shall bring redemption to Man.” He stumbled over the next bit of his speech. “It is ... This is the prophesy, and you shall fulfill it.”
Marian pitched her voice low. “What are you saying?”
“Humble Maid,” said Morrain, “you are called upon by High Powers to bring salvation to the world.”
“How can I? What am I, that so much should come to me?” She looked up winsomely.
“It is your destiny, Lady.” He was more confident now, and he went down on his knee with something very like grace. He held out his arms to her.
“What will become of me?” Marian asked as she fell into his embrace and the curtain fell again, this time to the shocked hush of the crowd.
“What have I seen?” the Red Friar exclaimed.
“That will be revealed, never fear,” said Scarlet, pointing to Morrain. “This messenger will inform you of the purpose here.”
“I hope I may,” said the Red Friar.
Scarlet faced the audience. “We will conclude this drama tomorrow evening at the same hour. On the night after next, on the Eve of All Saints, we will perform The Rebel Angels in its entirety. For those of you who wish to see the whole of the drama, remember to come promptly at sunset, for we will start on time. Our minstrel will now pass among you with a hat, so you may express your appreciation.” He made a flourish with his hat that made the fixed expression of his mask seem much more emphatic than it had before.
This announcement was greeted with moans and hoots of protest, but some in the audience had copper coins ready to put in Alan’s out-stretched hat as he made his way through the crowd as if he were half—asleep.
Scarlet left the stage and stepped into the narrow confines of the wagon that served as storage and preparation room, though it was scarcely more than confines fit for a goat. Hood was there, his turban in his hand, his mask dangling from his fingers. He cocked his head at Scarlet.
“Well?” Hood asked, a world of implication in that single word.
“Very well indeed, I should think,” said Scarlet. “The people who watched us tonight will tell others of our performance, and tomorrow we should do very well.”
Hood chuckled. “All of this under deSteny’s eye.”
“I am not as easy about that as you are,” said Scarlet. “You may delight in tweaking his beard, but I don’t. He could make our lives very difficult, if he should recognize us for what we are.”
“And he may do so,” said Hood. “That is what makes the game worthwhile.” He leaned back against the nearest upright post. “What say you, Donat? Have we not acquitted ourselves in fine fashion?” He waited for no answer and got none. “It is all well and good to come here and do as we will, but it is better to do as we will and know that deSteny can do nothing to stop us.”
“And for that he has to know we are here?” Scarlet guessed.
The Red Friar, who had been listening to this exchange, frowned. “DeSteny knows me. He has seen me and he will—”
“So much the better,” Hood interrupted. “He should also know Marian, if he can bring himself to acknowledge what he sees.”
“You think he will see us perform?” Scarlet asked, feeling uneasy for the first time.
“I think we should send Morrain to the castle and offer to play for the occupants on the last night of the Fair, as a demonstration of our good-will,” said Hood audaciously, his red eyes glowing with unholy mischief. “And as our duty to Sir Gui and the Prince.”
The Red Friar was taken aback. “Oh, no. How could we dare? That were folly.”
“All the more reason to do it, for it will make our mark in the world as nothing else could,” said Hood. “The scholars and the Old Ones would find this a great jest.”
“They would be even more amused should we be detained and killed,” said Scarlet, alarmed to the point of defiance. “They wish us bad cess, for all they have given you this plan, and claim it cannot fail.”
Hood narrowed his eyes. “They wouldn’t dare such a betrayal. I have no doubt that they may not want us to succeed, but they will do nothing to affect the outcome here. Little John has orders to kill them all if anything untoward happens to us, and they know it. Just as they know that Little John will do as he has pledged to do.”
“I’m sure that will sweeten our damnation,” said the Red Friar, a note of panic in his voice.
“There will be no damnation, at least not yet,” said Hood at his most implacable, all pretense at levity gone. “We will do this because we can. We’ll perform The Truest Arrow, and we will take our nourishment from those who watch us. We will prevail in spite of Sheriff and Sir Gui and Prince John and all. No one will be able to hold us at bay, no one. That way deSteny will learn that he cannot stand against us, no matter what he may do.”
“Are you certain this will go well?” Marian asked.
“As certain as I am of nightfall,” said Hood.
The vampires were silent for a short while, occupying themselves with storing their masks and their costumes. None of them looked at Hood, and Hood made no effort to claim their attention. Finally, when they had put all their accouterments away, Hood spoke up again.
“We shall all hunt tonight, within the precincts of the town. Choose those who are not from Nottingham, preferably those alone, and do not drain them utterly of all life if you can help it, for that would alert our foes to our presence before we wish them to know of it.”
Scarlet stared toward the empty stage. “Should we stay away from this wagon?”
“It would be wiser to go away from here, but if your opportunity is near at hand, be careful.” Hood prepared to leave the wagon.
The Red Fria
r sighed. “If we must, we must.”
“Yes,” said Hood. “You must.” Then he jumped down and headed off into the deepest shadows.
How Sir Gui arranged
for an Entertainment
“THIS IS MOST inconvenient, this contest,” said Sir Gui to Sir Wilem as they stood at the front of the bailey of Nottingham Castle. It was a windy, clear, early morning, but with a hint of rain to come before day’s end, with a bite in the air that was more than chill. Both men were dressed with warm and lavish care, their deeply dagged triangular sleeves piped in gold, their hats adorned with brooches and feathers. Their gloves were of parti—colored leather, matching their leggings, and their boots were strapped on with embossed bands of red Turkish leather. They had just come from Mass and were both ready to break their fasts, chafing at the delays they were encountering. “I must help to judge the quarterstaff competition this afternoon, though I would rather not bother with it. Peasants striking at one another with sticks. Phaugh! I am no great advocate of the sport.”
“Sir Humphrey will judge with you. Let him bear the brunt of the trials. I am sure he is more in tune with the fighters, and knows more of the manner of fighting,” said Sir Wilem diplomatically. “Listen to him, and you will not go wrong in appraising what those peasants do with their staves.”
“It is too vexing,” said Sir Gui. “I wouldn’t mind judging jousting, but that must be for Prince John to do.”
“It is fitting,” said Sir Wilem in a resigned voice.
“Fitting! Oh, yes. The privilege of position! As if birth alone could make a man a knight,” scoffed Sir Gui with a fine disregard for the working of society, including his own title. “The Prince spends his time with books, and by accident of rank, he is thought fit to decide the jousts.”
“If it is soldiery that must know jousting best, then all should defer to deSteny,” said Sir Wilem with a smirk to show he thought this was ridiculous.
“Because he was in the Holy Land?” asked Sir Gui. “He was no soldier in the Holy Land.”
Sir Wilem looked surprised. “Do you say he was a herald? So plain—spoken a man, for such work.”
“Herald!” Sir Gui scoffed. “Not he.” He was about to go on, but stopped as a pale, fantastically garbed player approached the two of them, a cap and mask covering his head and half his face. “Yes?”
Morrain offered a low, Continental bow, just as Scarlet had taught him. “Most worthy Sir Gui,” he said in a tone of voice that was both respectful and theatrical. “I am here in the name of our company of players, to offer you our services for the last night of the Fair. If no one has claimed the right to entertain you then, our company would count it an honor.”
“Just the last night?” Sir Wilem asked.
Somewhat startled by the question, Morrain blinked and recovered. “There are many others who are anxious to perform for you, Sir Gui. It would be ill-done of us to prevent them from entertaining you and your illustrious guests.”
“Very prettily said,” said Sir Wilem. “Almost as couth as a lordling.”
Sir Gui studied Morrain a long moment. “If your troupe is to play for us on the last night, what play will you do?”
“The Truest Arrow, of the great contest of the Unknown Knight and the Christian champion, in the days of the First Crusade,” said Morrain, as he had been instructed to do.
“Not a religious play, surely?” Sir Gui asked.
“Not a religious play,” said Morrain.
“But an heroic story, nonetheless,” said Sir Wilem.
“Truly heroic,” Morrain made bold to agree. “And one that has stood the test of time. The play is almost a century old.”
“How do you suppose the guests would like it?” Sir Gui asked Sir Wilem.
“I like it, and I doubt I’m the only one,” said Sir Wilem. “It is a story I have heard since I was a boy, and I think of it as a friend.”
Sir Gui made a show of considering the matter. “That may be so, but isn’t it too simple a tale for an evening’s entertainment?”
“It is not complex, and these are not very good players, but they have verve,” Sir Wilem allowed. “And the story is a good one—it has power to move the hearts of all men.”
“That it does,” Sir Gui mused. “But it is hardly great art.”
“All the better for these players,” said Sir Wilem.
“A shame that we can find no better, for our final evening,” mused Sir Gui.
“On the last night of the Fair, do you think your household will want great art?” He turned to Morrain, who had listened to the whole impassively. “Nothing against you, player, but your audience must be served, don’t you think? They will be filled with mead and their inclinations will turn to merriment and mischief. Do you assume they will want to see somber lessons of great truths, or something that delights them?” Sir Wilem asked lightly. “Don’t you think a familiar story, with the triumph of the Right would be more welcome than the complicated theatricals that the court might enjoy at Windsor, or in France?”
“It is a play we have prepared for this occasion,” said Morrain.
“You have a good point, Sir Wilem,” Sir Gui said magnanimously. Then he motioned to Morrain. “You may bring your troupe to play for us, as you have offered. I will give the Guard instruction to admit you to the castle.”
Morrain all but abased himself. “Many thanks. All of us are grateful to you for your generosity.”
“If you do not play well, you will regret your offer; remember that you perform not only for me, but for the King’s own brother,” said Sir Gui with a raised finger as a warning. “Now, be gone with you.”
“As you wish,” said Morrain, and took three steps back before turning away from Sir Gui.
“That player is a strapping lad,” said Sir Wilem with a speculative lift of his brows as he watched Morrain walk away. “I wonder if what they say about players is true?”
“You will have to find out for yourself,” said Sir Gui huffily.
“No, thank you. He is much too common for me.” Sir Wilem smiled at Sir Gui. “You cannot blame me for being curious, though.”
“Perhaps not,” said Sir Gui, and began to walk away from Sir Wilem. He motioned to Sir Wilem to follow him, and didn’t bother to look to see if he was obeyed.
* * *
Morrain made his way through the streets back toward the Spotted Horse, whistling tunelessly as he went. The sun had risen far enough to make him uncomfortable, and he sought out the darkest, narrowest streets to avoid the light, but he still felt queasy as he slipped into the stable and went to the Red Friar, who was busy painting a length of canvas with barren, light-brown cliffs and a brilliant blue sky, such as were known to be found in the Holy Land. “They will see us play,” he said. “The Truest Arrow.”
“Hood will be pleased,” said the Red Friar, continuing on with his work.
“Should I tell him?” Morrain asked.
“Later. He’s already asleep, and will not rise until the sun declines in the west. There’ll be plenty of time to talk to him later. When he comes to us,” said the Red Friar. “You might as well go up into the loft and sleep while you can. I’ll finish up this painting, and then I’ll join you in a nap.”
Morrain seemed relieved. “Thanks. I’ll take your advice.” He went up the ladder at once, and flopped down on a mound of sweet-smelling hay.
The Red Friar continued to work, though he stayed out of the advancing sunlight. When he was satisfied with his efforts, he took the brushes and went to wash them out with water from the horse—trough, and it was there, in the shadow of the stable, that Scarlet found him.
“That’s well-done, monk,” he said as he studied the backdrop.
“It should be what’s wanted,” said the Red Friar as he went on with his task.
“Hood will be pleased,” said Scarlet, half-smiling.
“So I hope,” said the Red Friar.
“Are you ready for our play tonight?” He laughed as he pointed to the wagon. “There will be quite a crowd in the market square, and feeling should be running high, the contests coming to an end as they are.”
“I am ready,” said the Red Friar.
Scarlet sat down on a hitching rail and tugged off his horned cap. “I’ll be pleased to be gone from here, and the sooner, the better, if you ask me.” He looked about to be certain they weren’t overheard. “The forest is our fiefdom, and we belong there, not within these walls. Damnation, but it has been dull work finding prey. No sport to it at all.”
“Why is it dull? Do you truly miss the chase?” The Red Friar didn’t look up from his washing of brushes.
“I do. And anyone would. There is no pleasure on falling on a man who is slumbering from drink, or tasting one who has worn himself into a stupor.” He sighed. “It is so much more rewarding to hunt.”
“There is more danger here, for if you are caught, you would be hard—pressed to escape.” He shook the water out of the brushes and thrust their handles back into an earthen jar at the edge of the wagon’s stage.
“Perhaps,” said Scarlet, unconvinced.
“I hope it will not come to that,” said the Red Friar. “For all our sakes.”
“No doubt,” said Scarlet, and took a deep breath. “So. To sleep. The afternoon will come soon enough, for the days close in early now.”
“Nothing like the long days of summer,” said the Red Friar.
“Or the cold nights of the dark of the year,” said Scarlet. “Then we have sway of all the world beyond stone walls.” He stood up and flung his cap upwards. “Is Alan with Hood and Beauchamp?”
“He is. They ought to take care. He is so pale and weak, he may not last until the Feast of All—” He coughed, not wanting to use even that word.
Trouble in the Forest Book Two Page 9
