“I’ll tell him that you will receive him shortly, so that you may compose yourself a trifle more.” She got up and bustled off to the door. “I would like you to tell me what you need. There is a basin for you, and I can bring you water or food.”
“How badly ... have I bled?”
She paused, one hand on the latch, and answered, “You bled a great deal while they were cutting the arrow out, and you were very cold and pale for a time—your teeth chattered. But once you were laid on your bed and your wound packed with healing herbs, your color improved. If your fever grows, your wound may fester, and that could be trouble, but if that doesn’t happen, you should be well.”
“Thank you,” he muttered before he yawned.
“Rest, Sheriff. Sir Lambert can wait a little longer.” Saying that, she left him alone.
DeSteny was about to protest her going, but he had to admit he was very tired. He closed his eyes, promising himself he would waken directly, and when he opened his eyes it was nearer mid-day than dawn. Chagrined, he tried to sit up, and moaned as pain went through him.
“Ah, you’re awake,” said Mother Barnaba from her seat near the fire where she was warming a small pot beside the flames.
“I ... what time is it?” He looked around in confusion.
“It is past mid-morning.” She made a reassuring gesture.
“I’m sorry I’ve slept so long,” deSteny said.
“Just as well you did,” she told him as she poured liquid into a tankard. “You have improved in your sleep.”
He blinked. “What’s going on here? Have we kept Hood on guard here, or have he and his men fled?” Their plan was coming back to him now, as sharply defined as his memory of the events in the Great Hall at Nottingham.
“So far as anyone knows, they have gone to ground. None of the guards have seen them. But I would not venture forth from Cannock-Norton to prove it,” she said, a suggestion of excitement in her shadowed eyes.
“You have been a very prudent woman, Mother Barnaba,” said deSteny, eyeing the tankard she was bringing to me. “What have you prepared for me? Is it dreadful?”
“Hardly that, Sheriff,” she said as she reached his side. “It has wine and honey and a number of herbs to help you recover. Drink it down while it’s hot.” She held out the tankard to him, patiently waiting for him to take it.
After a long moment, he did, using his good arm but still wincing at the movement. “It isn’t bitter, is it?”
“I said it has honey. You won’t mind the taste,” she said, adding as much to herself as him. “Men! Like sulky children when they’re ill.”
To prove her wrong, he drank the mixture down and held out the tankard. “There.”
“Very good,” she approved. “Was it dreadful?”
“No,” he said. “A bit tart, but not dreadful.”
“I will send to the kitchen for broth, directly, and you will begin to feel stronger.” She patted his hand on his good arm, her demeanor encouraging. “You have done a great deed, Sheriff. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Somewhat baffled, deSteny studied her face, wondering what the others were saying about him, that she should comfort him this way. “I would hope not.”
Mother Barnaba rose from the side of his bed. “I’ll send for the broth now. It will do you good.”
“I’m in your hands,” said deSteny.
She looked mildly shocked. “No, Sheriff, we are in God’s hands, all of us.”
He kept his thoughts to himself, but he regarded her seriously. “You are being good to me, Mother Barnaba, and I cannot think how to thank you.”
“Improve. Get well. That will be thanks enough,” she said, and left the room.
DeSteny stared up at the ceiling, trying to order his thoughts. He felt a strong inclination to weep and an equally strong one to curse, and so he ended up smacking the pillows with his good hand, paying no heed to the pain he gave himself. It wasn’t long before he was exhausted and he found himself drifting back into sleep, only to be sharply awakened by the arrival of Sir Lambert.
“At least you will probably recover,” he growled.
“I’ll make it my task,” said deSteny, attempting to raise himself up, and failing.
“You took a bad arrow,” Sir Lambert said, offering his version of sympathy. “That’s unfortunate.”
“So it is,” said deSteny. “I apologize for any difficulties it may cause.”
“No doubt,” said Sir Lambert, then dragged a stool over to the bed and sat on it. “Did you see the Old Ones?”
“I spoke with them,” said deSteny, wanting to be accurate.
“And will they help us?” He leaned forward with concentration.
“I hope so,” said deSteny. “But they may not be strong enough to do more than hold Hood’s men at bay while Nottingham’s soldiers dispatch them.”
“Sir Humphrey won’t like that,” Sir Lambert warned.
“He may not, but he would like Hood to remain in the forest even less.” DeSteny took a deep, uneven breath and tried to meet Sir Lambert’s determined gaze. “I have pledged the soldiers to them to fight Hood’s followers.”
“You. Not anyone else?” Sir Lambert shook his head. “You may have taken on too much, Sheriff.”
“I may have, but someone must secure the forest, and I am—” He broke off as Mother Barnaba came back into the room.
“I was afraid you’d done this,” she said to Sir Lambert as she tried to hold her tray and shake a finger at him at the same time. “I know you have much to discuss with deSteny, but it needn’t be now. Let him have until afternoon to gain a little more strength,” She cocked her head. “You’re too impatient, Sir Lambert, and that’s God’s own truth. In your haste you make this more difficult than it need be.”
“You may be right, Mother Barnaba. But I have cause to be,” he said as he got to his feet. “I see you’re giving him broth. Marrow as well?”
“Of course. How else will he regain his strength, but with good marrow?” She cocked her head toward the door. “I haven’t time to debate with you just now. I’ll see you shortly, you and Sir Humphrey. In the meantime, let me do my work here.”
Sir Lambert was already going toward the door. “I will await you in the gallery, Mother.”
“I’ll find you there,” she said, and sat down on the stool he had vacated. “Now, Sheriff, here is a bowl of broth. I expect you to drink all of it.”
Knowing it was useless to argue, deSteny opened his mouth for the brimming spoon that Mother Barnaba held out to him.
What Prince John did
on the Second Evening
AS SOON as he entered the study, Simon went on his knee to Prince John, his eyes filled with purpose. “I have brought the other book you requested. No Christian has ever looked upon it before,” he said, holding up the volume he had carried into the room. He glanced at the Tree of Life, carefully drawn in chalk on the inlaid flooring, and saw it had not been disturbed.
“No Christian has had need of it until now, from what you’ve told me,” said Prince John, finishing a sentence on the parchment spread in front of him.
“I have nothing more powerful than this to offer you,” Simon added.
“This is also a book of spells and magic, is it?” Prince John asked as put aside his quill and took the leather-bound tome into his hands.
“Yes. They say it has been in the family for three hundred years,” Simon declared, trying not to boast.
“A long time,” the Prince observed, motioning Simon to rise. “It certainly looks old. What does it tell you that will help us?”
“It shows various ways that the Magus may bind diverse spirits to his will, and cast demons out of the innocent, among several other things. It shows how to summon angels and demons to be
the servants of the Magus, and it gives the spells to dismiss them when their tasks are complete.” Simon indicated two pages marked by slips of parchment. “I think you’ll find those entries are the most nearly related to your purpose.”
“I am hardly a Magus,” said Prince John.
“You’re educated, if you will forgive me saying so, Your Grace,” Simon remarked. “That alone gives you some command over the unworldly.”
“Perhaps,” said Prince John. He opened the book to the first of the two marked pages and saw a complicated sigil drawn within a complicated diagram. “What is this?”
“It summons all the fallen heroes,” said Simon. “Those who died valorously while fighting in a righteous cause.”
“Whose righteous cause?” the Prince asked, studying the unfamiliar Hebrew writing on the facing page.
“Israel’s,” said Simon.
Prince John weighed the book in his hand. “No, I think not. This is England, and though the spirits may be brave and bold, Albion is not their home, nor are the people here their people. They will not see our cause as we see it.” He studied Simon’s face a short while. “What else have you?”
Simon flipped to the next marked page. “This tells how to gird one’s forces in the armor of God.”
“That seems a bit more promising, given what we must accomplish,” said Prince John, lowering his head as he thought about the ramifications of such a spell. “Must the forces be present to receive the protection, or can this extend to deSteny, Sir Humphrey, and Sir Lambert at Cannock-Norton?”
Taking the book once more, Simon read over the page, and then declared, “It can protect them, at least to a degree.”
Prince John nodded. “That is all I can ask. Some protection is better than no protection, I should think.”
“Then you’re willing to attempt it?” Simon asked.
“As long as you’re willing to help me,” said Prince John. “Tell me how I perform the ritual.”
“Well,” said Simon, consulting the page, “you draw these three figures inside the protective pattern already on the floor.”
“All right. Is there a prayer or other recitation that goes along with the drawing?” Prince John had come from behind the table and was taking a small brick of chalk from the box at the end of the table.
“Yes. I can read it for you,” Simon offered.
“Good thing, too,” said the Prince as he studied the illustration on the page. “Is this just how it is to be done?”
“The sigils must align with the points of the figure of the Tree of Life,” said Simon. “Here, and here.” He pointed to the places in the diagram on the floor. “It isn’t quite clear in the book—the drawing is a little smudged—but that is what’s required.”
“What forces do we call to aid us?” Prince John asked as he began to draw, working slowly and with precision.
“You will need to summon a messenger to bear the spell where it is to go,” said Simon. “That messenger will be entrusted with matters of the soul as well as the body.”
“Must the messenger be living or dead?” Prince John asked, his concentration increasing.
“Living, I think. One of the Abbots in Sherwood, or a forester, perhaps. Surely there must be someone you can rely on.” He tapped one line on the page. “This is specific. You need someone who will know how to find Cannock-Norton without needing to ask for directions.”
“Must I name the messenger?” Prince John asked.
“No. You may summon by abilities,” Simon answered after he consulted the book again.
“Then that’s what I’ll do,” said the Prince. “I don’t know the foresters well enough to select one or another for this work. Show me that diagram again, if you would.”
When the drawing was finished, Simon read the required invocations over it, repeating the process at the main points of the Tree of Life. “The spell will hold them inside the Tree,” he said when he had completed the last repetition of the Hebrew text.
“I should hope so,” said Prince John, who took up his position at the foot of the diagram. “What do I do now?”
“State the sort of messenger you seek, to begin with,” said Simon.
Prince John closed his eyes and intoned, “I seek one who is fearless amid the terrors of the forest, one who is loyal to the cause of the Crown, one who is pledged to defend a godly cause, one who will stand against all the damned creatures of the night.” Slowly he opened his eyes, as if expecting to see someone in the Tree of Life.
“You need to say more,” Simon prompted.
“I seek someone skilled at arms, someone who seeks deliverance instead of glory, someone who has proven his devotion and will continue to do so, someone skilled in the way of battles, someone known to Father Hugh, whom he will recognize and trust.” The Prince waited, but nothing happened. “I seek a courier who is honorable, who will brave any danger in the completion of his commission.”
Something hazy began to form in the Tree of Life, a rough-clad figure in worn leather clothing.
Simon stifled a yelp of surprise, and whispered to Prince John, “He is coming.”
Although startled, Prince John held his position and watched, fascinated, while the filmy outlines became a bit more substantial. He glanced over at Simon, “How much more definition will we see?”
“Not much more,” said Simon, doing his best to mask his astonishment. “This may be as strong an image as we will achieve.”
“Then I should speak to this ... this wispy fellow?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Charge him with the mission you wish him to undertake.” He took a step back, adding, “But be careful. You must ascertain that he can do what you require, or it may be necessary to summon another.”
Prince John nodded. “I understand,” he said to Simon, then looked at the figure in the diagram. “Who are you, and where are you?”
“I am a sentry at Ely,” the specter announced.
“Too far away,” said Prince John. “What do I do now?”
“Dismiss him, with thanks,” said Simon, and spoke softly in Hebrew while Prince John sought out the courteous phrases that would send the sentry away with assurances of favor.
“For your desire to do good and worthy service, I am most grateful. You are an example to all soldiers in your answer to my call, and at another time I may command your service with a full heart. Now you may return to drowse at your post, and may God and His saints protect you.”
“Very good,” Simon approved as the vision faded.
The second living phantom to answer the summons was a woodsman near Leicester, who assured Prince John that he was armed with an axe and a short sword before being thanked and returned to his bed of straw in the loft of a crofter’s barn.
“Do you think I should stipulate the area more forcefully?” Prince John asked Simon. “Those two were far afield from Cannock-Norton, and from Nottingham.”
“Certainly you may,” said Simon.
Prince John thought about his summons, and carefully chose a region of Sherwood that was close enough to Cannock-Norton that the courier could reach it within a day’s travel on foot. Satisfied that he had done all he could, the Prince and Simon resumed the ritual, and in a short while, a third figure began to manifest itself within the confines of the chalk diagram on the floor.
Having learned the name and degree of the ghostly form, “Where are you?” Prince John asked as the shape continued to become more defined.
“I’m up a tree in Lambert deGisbourne’s lands,” came the answer.
“Are you armed?”
“Yes.”
Prince John felt a tingle of optimism. “Could you reach Cannock-Norton in a day?”
Deep within Nottingham Castle sonorous chanting announced the beginning of Vigil prayers.
&
nbsp; “Yes. I could reach the fortress by mid-afternoon.” There was no hint of boasting, only the ring of prudent confidence.
“Then you will be my courier, and you will bear the message I will entrust to you,” said Prince John with something very like relief. “You will seek out Lambert deGisbourne and Hugh deSteny at Cannock-Norton, and tell them what I tell you now. Then, when you sleep again, you will return here and tell me all that has transpired.”
“I will,” the courier vowed.
“Then Godspeed, Sir Maynard,” said Prince John as Simon completed the incantation that sent the soul of the old Crusader back to his sleeping body.
How deSteny Endured the Night
MOTHER BARNABA held another bowl of steaming broth and dropped bits of torn bread into it, saying as she did, “This will give you strength, and you will begin to recover from your wound. It is made from goose and goat.”
“May you be right,” said deSteny, who was feverish and weak, and in more pain than he had been earlier. This didn’t surprise him, for he had seen how the pain of wounds could worsen over time as muscles cramped and the rush of battle evaporated. Yet he was ashamed at how quickly that arrow had sapped his vigor, and how completely he had been vitiated by its damage. How he despised the weakness that now consumed him! He took a spoon in his shaking hand and lifted a little of the soaked bread out of the bowl. It was an effort to get it to his mouth, and more tiring to chew than he thought possible, but he persevered, his attention on Mother Barnaba.
“It’s a bad wound, Sheriff,” she said when he had finished half the broth and bread. “I fear for you.”
“For my life, do you mean?” He was startled to hear how collected he sounded, and realized that he had been thinking the same thing himself.
“Yes. You have bled a great deal, and the wound is in a dangerous part of your body.” She crossed herself. “If you should wish to be shriven, I will send for a priest.”
Trouble in the Forest Book Two Page 23
