Trouble in the Forest Book Two

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  His laughter was short and painful. “No. No need to do that.”

  “But if you should fail—”

  “Then I will leave myself to whatever I have earned in my life, if such things matter. They may not,” he said, and did his best to ignore her shock.

  “This is your wound talking, Sheriff,” she said roundly. “You are no craven, to surrender your soul in the face of opposition.”

  “No, you’re right about that. Such a fear would require faith, Mother Barnaba, and I lost mine years ago. So I thank you for your kind intent, but I will remain as I am.” He steadied himself against his pillow and gingerly touched the bandage on his side. “This cannot talk—it is only injured flesh.”

  Doing her best not to be scandalized, Mother Barnaba took the last of the broth and set the bowl on the chest that stood next to the bed. “You are a priest, and that makes you sworn to God for all eternity.”

  “I ... I am no longer certain of that.”

  “How could you not be?” She half-rose in indignation, but stopped herself. “Your hurt has made you despair. You mustn’t. Truly, Sheriff, you mustn’t.”

  “I’ll discuss this another time.” He felt his lids grow heavy. “I am sorry, Mother, but I am about to fall asleep.”

  “Then may God and His Angels guard your rest,” she said, undeterred by his claims of doubt.

  “If you say so,” deSteny responded.

  “It is not I who say it, but the promise of Our Lord, Who died for us.” She rose and picked up the bowl. “I will return at first light. Sir Lambert thinks we have only one day left before an attack is made.”

  “He’s probably right,” said deSteny, and closed his eyes. It was some while later that he heard a soft footfall near his bed, and opened his eyes, one hand going to his dagger as he made ready to do his utmost to fend off an attack.

  A faint light glowed from a hooded candle, and a vague shadow revealed one figure making his way toward the bed. “Sheriff,” a voice said softly.

  “Who’s there?” deSteny demanded, his voice low.

  “Nicodemus Upton,” was the answer. “My men and I brought you into the fortress when Hood’s men shot your horse.”

  “I remember you.” His curiosity was awakened and he tried to lever himself upright in the bed. “I’m grateful to you.”

  “No need for that, sir,” said Upton. “I’ve come with a message from Sir Lambert. He says to tell you that a stranger has come, just now, with a message from Prince John.”

  “A messenger? From Prince John? At this hour? How could he get through the forest without falling prey to Hood and all his men?” DeSteny tried to ignore the pain that gripped him.

  “He obeyed a powerful spell wrought by the Prince, or so he says. One that came upon him in his sleep. He claims to have met you.” Upton bent over deSteny.

  “And what is this messenger’s name, and how does he say he knows me?” asked deSteny.

  “His name is Sir Maynard deCoverleigh, a strange sort of man, very wild from living in the forest.”

  “White hair, carries a staff, and limps?” deSteny asked sharply.

  “That sums him up fairly well,” Upton allowed. “Says you’ll vouch for him, and that he has a message he has received from the Prince.”

  “When did he arrive?” DeSteny was attempting to get up, but could not summon up strength enough to get to his feet. He had a short moment of realization that his wound was not getting better, and this annoyed him.

  “After Vigil was sung. He claims to have walked all through the night since his vision ended and he woke. It is coming up to dawn now.” Upton glanced toward the window.

  “Dawn,” deSteny repeated. “Well, I will keep that in mind.” He groaned as his legs trembled at his second attempt to get out of bed.

  “Shall I lend you a hand?” Upton asked, slightly embarrassed to have to make such a suggestion.

  “If you would,” said deSteny, and accepted Upton’s aid in getting out of bed while he fought off a spell of dizziness. Once on his feet, deSteny tottered precariously, his head ringing and his vision unsteady as he tried to walk to the door. The wound raged in him like a caged animal attempting to escape the confines of his flesh. “If you would lend me your arm?” he said to Upton. The shift he had been tugged into was not enough to keep him warm, so he added, “And get me a cloak, if you would?”

  “A cloak. Of course,” said Upton, and held up the candle to try to locate the cloak. “Can you stand while I fetch it?”

  “Of course,” echoed deSteny, not at all sure it was so. He wavered as he did his best to stand on his own. He could feel sweat break out on his face, and his whole body quivered with the strain of remaining upright. As Upton dropped the cloak around his shoulders, the weight was enough to make him stagger. “Thank you,” he muttered as Upton took hold of his good arm and helped him out of the room.

  “This Sir Maynard is something of a mystery, isn’t he?” Upton remarked as he guided the Sheriff along the corridor.

  “That is one description,” said deSteny.

  “He has certainly been about the world, if his tale is to be believed,” Upton went on.

  “Do you doubt him?” deSteny inquired, his breathing becoming increasingly painful, pulling him over so that he hunched as if he were an old man.

  “I wonder more than doubt; there are stranger men in Sherwood,” said Upton. “There is a trip-stair coming up. Be careful.”

  “Up or down?” deSteny asked.

  “Down,” said Upton, and resumed his questioning. “How did you come to meet him?”

  “He was in the forest when I went to find the Old Ones. He gave me information about how I could do that.” He paused to pant.

  “A useful man to know,” said Upton. “Step down.”

  DeSteny did, and almost fell. Steadying himself against Upton, he said, “If Sir Maynard is here, you may be certain he has come on account of honor.”

  “Truly?” Upton exclaimed, and steered deSteny toward the small gallery above the Hall where a cluster of torches were burning and a small group of men stood around the hearth where a fire smoldered.

  “My life upon it,” said deSteny, and strove to walk on his own.

  “Ah, Sheriff,” said Sir Lambert, turning to greet the newcomer. “I hope I see you improved.”

  “I hope so, as well,” deSteny responded, and looked past him to the man leaning on his staff. “Sir Maynard. Well met.”

  “I pray it may be,” said Sir Maynard with a quick glance from deSteny to Sir Humphrey. “I am sorry to see you wounded, Sheriff.”

  “As I am sorry to be wounded,” said deSteny, and turned their talk to the matter at hand. “You are here with a message for Sir Lambert from Prince John?”

  “Yes, and perhaps something more,” said Sir Maynard. “It was a splendid image of warriors girded for battle that was given me to bring to you.”

  “Was it?” said deSteny, making no apology for his doubt.

  Sir Lambert indicated a bench near the fireplace. “If you would rather sit, Sheriff?”

  “It might be best,” he allowed reluctantly, and made his way to the bench, permitting Upton to help him to sit on it.

  “You will remain here, Upton,” said Sir Lambert.

  “Yes, sir,” said Upton, taking up a post immediately behind deSteny.

  Sir Lambert was already in his acton and was waiting for his mail harness. “They rarely come into the open during the day, or so I’ve been told. We may be able to take our fight to them while the sun is up.”

  “Would that it were summer,” said Sir Humphrey, who looked sleepy.

  “Amen,” said Sir Lambert. “But it isn’t, and we cannot make it so.” He glowered down at the floor. “So what have you to tell us, Sir Maynard, that will aid us
in this time?”

  “The Prince has conjured great powers to aid you, or so the vision claimed. If you fight Hood, you will do so with greater might than you have had in times past, and it will be aid that will overcome his followers as if they were mortals. This aid is to be summoned by the Prince, in your cause.” Sir Maynard crossed himself. “The powers he has enlisted aren’t damnable, but in the company of the blessed.”

  “Or so they claim,” said Upton darkly. “They say the Devil can speak Latin.”

  “What can we hope from these conjured forces?” Sir Lambert asked, fixing Sir Maynard with a weary eye.

  “ ‘Strength when strength is gone, purpose when it has faded, and hope when there is only despair,’ ” Sir Maynard recited. “Also, ‘timely warning when it is needed.’ ”

  “And who is to decide when that is?” Sir Humphrey asked. “Do you know how that is to be determined?”

  “Not directly, no,” said Sir Maynard. “That wasn’t imparted to me.”

  “And how are we to summon these forces?” asked Sir Lambert.

  “They have already been summoned,” said Sir Maynard. “They are gathering even now, from what the Prince told me.”

  “In a dream?” suggested deSteny.

  “It was more than a dream,” said Sir Maynard. “You may doubt, but that is the truth, and so I swear on peril of Salvation.”

  “Then tell us how we are to use this beneficent force,” said deSteny for them all. “It is almost light and we have much to plan.”

  How the Day was Spent

  “HOW MANY ARCHERS do you have on the walls?” deSteny asked Sir Lambert as they began their mid—day meal at a small side-table in the Great Hall of Cannock-Norton. The men had spent the morning reviewing the troops and setting up armament stations around the battlements and the bailey. Now deSteny was wholly exhausted, and he ached in every part of his body.

  “Thirty-four,” said Sir Lambert. “That is all of them. The other soldiers are posted elsewhere, as fits their skills and rank.”

  DeSteny considered this. “Thirty-four. Well. It will have to do. And they all have arrows of wood, with the metal points removed and the wood of the shafts sharpened? Same with spears? All the rest of the necessary preparations have been made?” He felt giddy from mastering his pain, and his eyes hurt for want of sleep, but he kept on, marshaling every last bit of strength he possessed.

  “Most of it. The men know what is expected of them,” said Sir Lambert. “They have been busy since dawn.”

  “The test will come at twilight, of course,” said deSteny. “They will have to be ready to fight shadows.”

  A wind had sprung up in the white morning, and had shouldered its way through the forest, leaving drifts of dead leaves to mark its passage. Now bare branches pointed like fingers at the sky, shaking from the cold, and the chimneys of the fortress whistled and moaned from it.

  “The wind is helping for now,” said Sir Lambert as smoke billowed from the fireplace into the Great Hall. “The barer the trees are the less mischief Hood’s men can do during the day. They dare not venture out into the sunlight.”

  “True enough,” said deSteny, drinking a little of the hot, spiced wine Mother Barnaba had made for him. “They must keep out of the light. The more the leaves fall, the less shelter Sherwood provides them, and the more confounded they will be—at least during the day.”

  “But it is not enough to stop them, is it?” Sir Lambert asked.

  “No, it isn’t,” said deSteny. “And knowing Hood, he may be resentful at such thwarting as has been achieved.”

  Sir Lambert cut a wedge from a wheel of yellow cheese and held it up, impaled on his knife-point. “This day will be long, but the night will be longer, and not in hours alone.”

  “It is true,” said deSteny, who could not bring himself to eat any cheese. The stewed goose with rampion was more than enough for him just at present. He broke off a bit a bread and dipped it in the thick, greasy gravy of the stew.

  “They tell me you have some fever,” said Sir Lambert critically.

  “That I do. I am hot and cold at once. It is to be expected, with a wound like this.” He didn’t want to say anything more about his injury, so he went on, “The archers will be posted all day and all night?”

  “They will. I have ordered braziers set up on the ramparts, to give the men some light and to help keep them warm.” He swatted at a new welling of smoke that came from the fireplace, and listened to the curses of the men who took the brunt of the sooty onslaught. “This happens when the wind is easterly.”

  “Then I hope that it changes quarter soon,” said deSteny, doing his utmost not to cough, for the anticipated pain it would bring was more than he wanted to consider.

  “Amen to that,” said Sir Lambert, and took a bite of cheese, chewing determinedly. Before he had his next bite, he remarked, “I’m lucky to have most of my teeth, given my age.”

  “Undoubtedly; many another are not so fortunate,” said deSteny, wondering what Sir Lambert wanted with him other than his company.

  “I’ve had a notion,” Sir Lambert said, as if he knew deSteny’s thoughts.

  “One that you wish to impart to me,” said deSteny, all but giving up on his meal. His pain was getting worse and he needed to concentrate on resisting it.

  “Yes. I fear you may not like it, but it may be our only way to combat these vampires.” Sir Lambert glared at the new billow of smoke from the fireplace, striving to ignore it as he continued. “It would mean asking much of you. It is more than I feel is proper for me to require.”

  “Ask what you like. I doubt I can live much beyond this battle, come what may. That arrow got too deeply into me. It will undo me.”

  “You mustn’t say such things,” Sir Lambert protested.

  “Why not? You know mortal wounds when you see them, don’t you?” DeSteny didn’t wait for an answer. “So do I, often and often. And I know that the wound itself, or the fever of it, will probably carry me off before many days pass. If you think otherwise, you must have forgotten all you have seen of wounds. So if you have something you would like me to do, ask it now, while I may still grant your request.”

  Sir Lambert gathered his wits. “I appreciate you, Sheriff, for not embracing foolish lies and well-meant prayers.”

  “Then what you want of me may well kill me,” said deSteny without emotion.

  “Yes. It may,” said Sir Lambert. He thought for a long moment, then said, “You are still a priest, aren’t you?”

  “As much as anyone who has lost his faith may be. I haven’t forsaken my vows, if that’s what you mean. And as I suppose you know. If conduct alone is the definition of a priest, then I have remained one, no matter what my position in the world.”

  “Mother Barnaba did impart some such information,” said Sir Lambert a bit obscurely. “You say it is so?”

  “To all purposes, yes,” said deSteny. “No matter what I think, I keep my oaths for the sake of my honor.”

  “Commendable of you.” He studied the Sheriff in the haze of smoke. “Are you willing to put yourself at more risk than most of us are?”

  “You mean serve as bait?” deSteny guessed. “Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be? What risk am I taking?” He knew the answer to that, but said nothing of the fate of the undead.

  “Hood will come for you,” said Sir Lambert.

  “Let him try.”

  “If he gains access to the fortress, we won’t try to drive him back—just his men, if they should follow him,” said Sir Lambert.

  “You mean if he uses the tunnel entrance I’ve heard rumors about? You could let him in and keep his men out through that tunnel. It would be one means of dealing with him.” DeSteny managed a little slice of bread, and then gave up on eating again.

  “Those are my t
houghts, too,” said Sir Lambert, looking relieved.

  “Do you think this is going to be tonight, that he will try to get in?” DeSteny had decided that it probably would be, for Hood’s followers must be growing ravenous, and the advantages of delay weren’t sufficient to hold them back.

  “I think it would be very like him, if that happens; Sir Maynard is of the same opinion, and he has had years to study Hood,” said Sir Lambert, helping himself to a generous slab of yearling veal. “If you decide that you cannot do what we ask, it would not be to your discredit.”

  “You need not think that I will change my mind,” said deSteny.

  “I wish you to consider carefully.” Sir Lambert put down his meat, took a cup filled with ale, and drank it down. “Let me urge you to ponder this before you make a final decision.”

  “A final decision: I will,” deSteny said.

  “If you are willing to help lure Hood, you may believe that we will all do our utmost to preserve your life, if we’re able.” Sir Lambert prepared to continue eating. “If you want to see what we have arranged, find Nicodemus Upton and ask him to demonstrate how the tunnel into the fortress works. You may have some recommendations to make.”

  DeSteny was grateful for the chance to get out of the smoky Great Hall, but rose with care so that he would not stumble in his effort to leave. He made his way along the stone corridors, knowing that Upton would be in the principal Guard House for his dinner. He paused frequently to lean against the walls, his head ringing and light from fever, and pain made his steps tottery. When at last he came to the Guard House, he asked one of the young men-at-arms to fetch Nicodemus Upton to him, and then sat on the stone bench in the arming room between the Guard House and the corridor.

  “Sheriff?” Upton said as he came to the door.

  “Sir Lambert suggested that you show me the secret tunnel,” said deSteny, panting from the effort of speech.

  “I will take you shortly.”

  “I thank you,” said deSteny.