Trouble in the Forest Book Two

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Did they raise the stones?” DeSteny asked, intrigued.

  “No—they caused them to be raised. They made it their purpose to bring about lasting monuments to them and their people.” He fell silent abruptly. “Go in. Tell them anything you like. But don’t be astonished if they pay no heed to you.”

  “All right,” said deSteny, and stepped through the door into the close, loamy confines of the barrow. He took a deep breath and found the air close and moist, tasting of dead leaves and dirt. The narrowness of his confines seemed to shrink the space around him. He blinked, searching for light and finding only a single torch at the far end of the narrow corridor, its flame near guttering in the dampish air.

  Something between a gust of air and a whisper went past him, saying, “What do you want, living man?” in a voice that was like a winter draft.

  DeSteny mustered his courage and answered firmly, “I come to seek your help. I want you to assist me and mine to rid the forest of Hood and his vampires. In return, we will lend you soldiers to fight for you.”

  This blunt announcement was met with faint, ghostly laughter, and another bodiless voice rose in the dark. “What makes you think you can fight them? Hood and the rest?”

  DeSteny didn’t bother to ask how the Old One knew whom he meant. “I think I can fight them because I have studied learned works that tell of the origins of Hood, and how he came to plunder Sherwood. I am convinced that once I have stopped Hood, his followers must fall.”

  “And if you are wrong?” a third murmur ventured.

  “Then, at least, I will have done all I might to be rid of him,” said deSteny, wishing he were as confident as he sounded. “I would think that you would be relieved that someone may be willing to stand against these vampires.”

  “How grand your scheme is,” said the first voice, a bit more loudly than before. “What would you require of us, assuming we agree to help you?”

  “I would ask you to prey upon his men, taking as much from them as you can hold, reducing their strength and sapping their will, and then leave them in disorder so that the soldiers of Prince John and Nottingham town may slay them with wooden arrows and lances. I would ask you to find ways in which to delay their actions, by keeping their weapons or leading them astray in the forest,” DeSteny heard himself with a touch of consternation—now that he spoke his plans aloud, they seemed woefully inadequate.

  “Why should we do this for you?” the third voice asked edgily.

  “To regain what is rightly yours,” said deSteny. “To put yourself into the position you have occupied for century upon century.” He walked down to the little torch. “To preserve all you have been.”

  “Most of that has been gone for more than a thousand years,” said the first voice, now loud enough to seem to come from something fairly solid.

  “Then to restore the balance that has so long been maintained here in the forest,” said deSteny, seizing the little advantage he perceived. “You have in times past been afforded sacrifice four times a year. Everyone accepted this as your rightful tribute—as your due. No one begrudged that to you, and all of us knew of it. With Hood in the forest, you starve and we living men are reduced to fodder.”

  “So you claim you might restore our rule here?” This was the second voice, sounding more calculating.

  “If you help to end Hood’s tyranny, then I would gladly aid you in your effort to occupy the position to which you are entitled,” deSteny responded. “You deserve to be restored, as Hood deserves to be struck down.”

  “So we might,” said the third voice. “But it is beyond our power to help you. We are not strong enough, nor have we any desire for battle.”

  DeSteny took a moment to steady himself before he spoke. “If Hood himself were not among these creatures, could you prevail over them?”

  Something faint that might have been laughter hung in the air, and finally the first voice said, “If Hood were not here, we could perhaps influence some of his followers. Not all of them—that is beyond our strength. But it may be that we could help to contain them, and then you living men could strike them down.”

  “Are you offering a bargain?” deSteny asked.

  “If you are,” said the third disembodied voice, putting subtle emphasis on you.

  “I give you my word that the soldiers of Nottingham will strike at Hood’s band once he is removed,” said deSteny, and felt something cold pass along his neck.

  “If you fail, you will not be safe in Sherwood ever again, Sheriff,” said the second voice. “We have long memories.”

  “We will hold you to your promise,” said the first voice.

  “I accept your terms,” said deSteny. “And I will see you are warned in advance when I am ready to strike at Hood.”

  A gentle sigh went through the barrow. “Then it is done,” said the first voice, almost as loudly as deSteny was speaking. “And if you do not bring Hood down, you will answer for it to us and to ours in the forest.”

  “I will do as I promise or die in the attempt,” said deSteny.

  This time all three voices laughed and the sound wasn’t good to hear. “Truly,” said the second voice.

  “Now go,” said the third. “We are weary and you have much to do.”

  “I will remember you with kindness for this good deed,” said deSteny with genuine courtesy.

  “Not that such will matter to us,” said the first voice with a tinge of sad amusement. “Your memories are nothing.”

  DeSteny started toward the barrow entrance, but paused. “What of the scholars who care for you now?”

  “We will not desert them,” said the third voice. “They are not your concern.”

  The chill that went through deSteny was more than that of his dank surroundings. “Very well,” he said as he walked out into the fading, dappled sunlight.

  Aylmer deGlisson was waiting for him. “Well, Sheriff, and have you accomplished what you came for?”

  “I trust I have,” said deSteny after he had considered his answer. “You and your comrades may expect to hear from me again, and before winter closes in.”

  DeGlisson shook his head. “If you have a plan, may you prevail.”

  “I have a plan,” said deSteny, and glanced at the small patch of sky visible through the leaves. “Is there a safe place to rest near here?”

  “There is a shrine about two leagues away. You should be able to reach it before dark if you keep to the main path and don’t dawdle. Whatever you do, stay clear of the upper road.”

  “Why is that?” deSteny asked. “Isn’t the upper road faster?”

  “Yes, it is,” deGlisson said. “But Marian deBeauchamp keeps watch there. It is fortunate for you that she has chosen that place. Had she discovered you, we would not be speaking now.”

  “Truly,” said deSteny, a chill coming over him as the day waned.

  “Go to the shrine. It is strong enough to give you real protection, although it honors no Saint in the calendar. It is more than a niche with a roof—it is a small chapel, in its way,” said deGlisson. “Once the sun sets, you will be the chosen prey of Hood’s company.”

  “Then I won’t tarry,” said deSteny, reaching for his sorrel mare’s reins and turning her around so that they could begin to pick their way back through the marsh to safe ground.

  How Sir Lambert made Ready

  IT WAS pouring rain by the time Sir Lambert, Baron deGisbourne, reached the gates of his fortress, Cannock-Norton; the skies wailed and wept, thrashing the trees with angled bands of furious drops. He had wrapped himself in his pluvial and drawn the hood up to keep the worst of the rain out of his eyes, but now his bones ached in his old skin and every joint protested as his Guard came forward to help him dismount, and to welcome the men he brought with him. Although it was mid-afternoon, darkness was desce
nding quickly, and sputtering torches were lifted to light their way into the keep.

  “I trust I see you well, Purcifer? This is a most unhappy occasion. My son’s coffin is in the wagon in our midst. Have it taken to the chapel and a place made in the crypt for its repose,” said Sir Lambert as his right foot touched the cobbles of the courtyard, addressing his most senior Guard and major domo.

  “You do,” said Purcifer. “See me well.”

  “And where is Nicodemus Upton? Do not tell me that my Captain of the Guards is not here to greet me.”

  “Alas,” said Purcifer. “He left three days ago, to give escort to Bishop duFay.”

  “And when is he expected back?” Sir Lambert asked critically.

  “In a day or two. A waste of time, escorting Bishops,” said Purcifer.

  “As much a waste of time as waiting upon my son,” said Sir Lambert darkly.

  “Sir Gui! Oh, yes. It is a dreadful loss for deGisbourne,” Purcifer exclaimed. “May God welcome him in Heaven.”

  “So we all pray,” said Sir Lambert. “Do help Sir Humphrey and his men down and show them to the barracks. They will be with us for several weeks if there is reason for them to stay. Welcome them to Cannock-Norton and Gisbourne, and see that all our men do them courtesy for now and for all their days here.”

  “They will remain here into the Season of Our Lord?” asked Purcifer, who was slightly scandalized by this unexpected development. Martial guests at Christmas would offend some of the stricter religious men.

  “They will be with us through Twelfth Night, and longer if needed, and circumstances demand their presence; they are here to honor my son,” said Sir Lambert, feeling his knees crack as he finally stood on the ground. “Wretched weather, I fear,” he said, looking up at Mother Barnaba, who rode in the center of the armed men and immediately behind the wagon that bore Sir Gui’s coffin. She was so engulfed in cloaks and furs that she seemed more a large, captive animal than a nun.

  Purcifer gave a shocked stare to her. “Good Saints protect us! A nun!” he expostulated.

  “Good Saints indeed,” said Mother Barnaba as she slid out of the saddle.

  “Be welcome here,” said Sir Lambert, nodding to her as he went to Sir Humphrey. “This is my fortress and castle,” he said somewhat unnecessarily.

  “A fine location, here on the crag,” said Sir Humphrey. “Not much can sneak up on this place, I should think. And only one gate in. Very clever.”

  “There is also a tunnel, but only my Confessor knows where it is. Even I am in ignorance. That is the tradition here—the priest of the castle knows and only he may lead us to safety,” said Sir Lambert, starting toward the main door of his keep. “Come. You will soon be warm and dry. Purcifer, attend to the coffin and then bring blankets for the men to the Great Hall, and tell the cooks to put venison on the spits. We are hungry for good meat and strong drink. Send along one of the women to wait upon Mother Barnaba.”

  “I will, Sir Lambert,” said Purcifer, clapping his hands before he began to issue orders to those men who had gathered around the new arrivals. “Enough of goggling. You, Walther, see that the horses are stalled, fed, and brushed. Use as many stableboys as you must. You, Rowan, tend to the wagon and await my aid; Sir Gui must be properly bestowed. You, Fleance, you supervise bringing the blankets to the Great Hall. You, Gervis—get you to the kitchens and see that there is food made ready quickly, and have hot drink prepared. Dalhowie, you go to the women’s quarters and bring ... bring the Widow Stokepoges to the Great Hall.” He gestured abruptly, and the men hastened to obey.

  Sir Humphrey saw the Guards disperse to their tasks and nodded in approval. “You have wondrously obedient men, Sir Lambert.”

  “They know it is obey or be cast out. None of them wants to be in the forest alone, not now. Nor do I fault them for their caution.” He stepped into the shelter of the main door, and into the narrow corridor that forced them to walk in single file. “You see? Even if the enemy should gain access to the court, he could not penetrate the keep in vast numbers. All I need to do is station my men to pick them off as they attempt to seize the Great Hall.” He gestured to the high-ceilinged room they had entered. “This place has a gallery for my archers, as well as protection for my soldiers by the door.” He put his hand on the stone embrasure that was near the corridor. “There is a Soldiers’ Hall as well, adjacent to this, which is smaller and more closely defended.”

  “Very well-designed,” said Sir Humphrey. “DeSteny told me you had an admirable fortress, and I see now why he said that.”

  Sir Lambert looked as close to pleased as he was capable of being. “It was good of the Sheriff to say such things.”

  “He’s a man who knows the value of protection,” said Sir Humphrey, shrugging out of his pluvial cloak and letting it drop onto one of the benches drawn up near the large fireplace. “Your Guards must be glad of this, too.”

  “So they say,” said Sir Lambert. “And so they may prove before they are much older.”

  “True enough,” said Sir Humphrey, looking up as two young scullions rushed in bearing large ewers of warm mead and trays of tankards for filling. “Ah. Fine hospitality. I know we will boast of the generous reception you have provided when we return to Nottingham,” he said as the nearest scullion handed him a tankard and prepared to pour mead into it.

  Sir Lambert held up his hand. “Serve my guests first. Then tend to my men, and last of all to me.” He paused. “And bring a goblet for Mother Barnaba,” he added. “She will want to be as warm as we are.”

  “Very good,” said the older of the scullions, and went toward the entrance to the Great Hall where the soldiers were still coming along. He noticed Mother Barnaba as soon as she stepped into the light from the fire, and he politely drew her away from the men. “I’ll attend to you shortly, Mother, as soon as your waiting-woman arrives. She is a widow of excellent repute who is the cousin of Sir Lambert,” he boasted as only a servant could, and went back to serving the soldiers.

  Fleance and two other young men came hurrying into the Great Hall, each bearing a stack of blankets that they offered around to the new arrivals. Sir Lambert tossed a handful of small coins onto the floor, chuckling as the pages dove to scoop them up. “You have my thanks, and proof of my thanks,” he called out as the pages scrambled for the bits of brass.

  By the time all the men had gathered in the Great Hall and had wrapped themselves in the rough-woven wool of the blankets, the scullions were passing around their fifth ewer of hot mead, and Mother Barnaba was safely bestowed in one of the two flanking embrasures near the corridor, where she would not be exposed to the rough comments of the soldiers; the Widow Stokepoges had come and was seeing to the nun’s care, wrapping blankets about her shoulders to keep her from becoming more chilled than she was, and attending to her comfort as best she could. Two new logs were flaming in the fireplace, and the cold stones seemed to warm in the shared light of the fire and good fellowship.

  Sir Lambert had taken his seat before the fire, and had stretched out his legs, resting them on an upholstered French stool. “I hope deSteny may have succeeded in his mission,” he said to Sir Humphrey.

  “So do I,” said Sir Humphrey with real emotion. “I don’t know what we will do if we have no support from the Old Ones.”

  “We will do all that we can, and we will know of it soon enough,” said Sir Lambert as if the answer were obvious. “In the meantime, it would be better if we said little about it.”

  “Aye, that’s a good point,” said Sir Humphrey, and permitted the scullion to refill his tankard again. For the first time since he left Nottingham he was beginning to feel at ease. He sidled himself back in his chair and drank deeply, enjoying the soft, warm muzziness that spread through him. “You have good mead here.”

  “I should hope so. The hives make good honey, and that means good mea
d.” Sir Lambert stifled a sneeze. “How inconvenient,” he remarked to the air.

  “That you should have—” Sir Humphrey fell silent. “None of us can ail now. There is too much at stake.”

  “A sneeze is hardly an ailment,” said Sir Lambert, and drank more mead. “I have no reason to believe I will become ill.”

  “See that you don’t,” Sir Humphrey advised, his tongue becoming unwieldy halfway through his thought.

  “Once your Guards are posted and my men deployed, then we will be as safe here as if we slept in the bosom of the Church in Rome,” said Sir Lambert. “My son deserves that from me.”

  “Poor fellow, to be killed as he was,” said Sir Humphrey, less careful than he would have been without the mead to warm him.

  “Amen,” said Sir Lambert, looking abashed. Recovering himself slightly, Sir Humphrey said, “That is not meant as any slight upon him. All of us fared badly in that encounter.”

  “He wasn’t much of a fighter,” Sir Lambert said sadly.

  “Nonetheless,” said Sir Humphrey. “A bad way for anyone to die.”

  “Truly; I know I will feel it for the rest of my life,” Sir Lambert agreed, and listened to the desultory bits of conversation that the Guardsmen shared. Finally he straightened up in his chair and shouted, “Where is bread and meat? What kind of host am I, that I let my guests go hungry?”

  In answer to this, Purcifer arrived, his face marked by cooking smuts and his clothes daubed with grease. “We are working as quickly as may be. When Bishop duFay left, he took three of the undercooks with him, so that he would not have to rely upon cheese and bread for his journey. Nicodemus Upton granted him such service.”

  “He may have overstepped himself. Well, do your best, Purcifer. Send us bread and new-churned butter,” Sir Lambert ordered. “And a wheel of cheese—anything so that my guests are not hungry.”

  “At once,” said Purcifer, and fled back to the corridor that led to the kitchens.

  “How is it that he’s playing the cook?” Sir Humphrey asked. “Haven’t you a master in the kitchen?”