Looking up at deGlisson, Little John muttered, “Thank y—” before his body became nothing more than bones.
Then the forest’s whispers rose to a near-shout, and the trees bent and shook as if freed from the dreadful burden of chains
How Prince John bade Farewell
to Nottingham
“IT WILL BE SPRING before we have a new Bishop,” said Sir Jardine Monroi to Prince John as they made their way to what had been deSteny’s study. The castle rang with the sounds of on-going repairs and the clamor of workmen, and the corridors were more crowded than usual, for Prince John and his retinue were preparing to leave after Mass, and all their gear and chests were stacked up for the house-karls to carry out to the mules and wagons being loaded in the courtyard.
“Yes, so I have been promised. In the meantime, there are two priests to uphold the Church and perform its rituals,” said Prince John. There was more grey in his short beard than there had been a fortnight ago, and he was thinner. “Nottingham has been struck a hard blow, to lose its Bishop, its Sheriff, its Marshal, its Lord, and a third of its fighting men all at one stroke. It is for me to make sure their loss is never repeated.” He looked over at Sir Jardine, and realized that he could easily come to dislike the blunt-spoken, ambitious knight.
“So you have done,” said Sir Jardine, raising his voice to be heard over the pounding of hammers. “No one could say you haven’t fulfilled your responsibility to the town.” He was taller than Prince John, but not by much, and his ten years of soldiering had left its mark upon him—he had lost two fingers and an eye while fighting for King Richard in France, and had been assured a position for life in reward for his loyal dedication to the Plantagenets. “Now there is the matter of finding the heir to Gisbourne. Sir Lambert has a son-in-law who is eager to have the fiefdom.”
“He also has a nephew fighting in the Holy Land, and it is up to my brother to release him to return to England,” said Prince John.
“As soon as the decision is made, I will pledge my fealty to the new deGisbourne,” said Sir Jardine. “It is the duty of the Sheriff to declare his support.”
“That may not be known until summer,” Prince John cautioned him. “In the meantime, the Marshal of Windsor and Baron Couvier will manage Gisbourne for deGisbourne.”
“Honorable men, the both of them. They will not see the estate go to ruin.” Sir Jardine held up his hand to halt a mason tugging a sledge down the corridor.
“I hope they will decide not to rebuild Cannock-Norton; let it remain a tomb for the valiant dead within it,” said Prince John.
“You could order that it be left alone,” Sir Jardine reminded him.
“If Sir Lambert’s Will does not require otherwise, I may do,” said Prince John thoughtfully. He noticed Jotham making his way toward them and raised his voice. “Mead, hot, carried to deSteny’s study.” He saw Sir Jardine wince at the former Sheriff’s name.
“It is your Right, with your brother gone,” said Sir Jardine, a bit too harshly.
“I would not want to contravene Sir Lambert’s wishes,” said the Prince.
“Sir Lambert was old, and his death was not unexpected, but Sir Gui was a terrible loss for deGisbourne,” Sir Jardine stated.
“They were all terrible losses, no matter what their ages. Each has shown heroism as great as any who fights to free Jerusalem,” said the Prince, stepping around a number of long beams laid in the corridor that would replace the damaged ones in the Great Hall.
“It is the cost of winning the battle,” said Sir Jardine, touching his eye-patch. “No one fights unscathed.”
“But such a high cost—too high, in my opinion, though it had to be paid,” the Prince remarked as he preceded Sir Jardine up the stairs toward the study.
“The enemy were more ruthless than the Sultan’s men can be,” said Sir Jardine. “Had you not had men to give their lives, the trouble in the forest would be worse than before.”
“That may account for the deaths, but it doesn’t excuse them,” Prince John said, his mouth set in a severe line.
“But at least the deaths have been avenged,” said Sir Jardine, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Hood and all his vampires are gone from Sherwood.”
“Utterly gone, with God’s Mercy,” said Prince John as if to reassure himself. “Hood’s minions are turned to dust. The Old Ones are also at rest. Only the four guardians remain.” He entered the study, nodding to Simon, who was supervising the packing of the Prince’s books.
“Without doubt there is much to be proud of. The ending of Hood’s tenure is something all fighting Christians may be proud of,” said Sir Jardine.
“This was not a victory of force of arms,” said Prince John, “or not force of arms alone. This was a triumph of courage and faith. Without deSteny, Sir Lambert, and Mother Barnaba, matters might have been far worse than they were. As it was, they lost their lives.”
“Just so.” Sir Jardine glanced at Simon and said to the Prince in a lowered voice, “Are you certain you can trust him to—”
“I can trust him with my life and soul,” said Prince John. “He has proven himself staunch and as brave as any soldier in mail.”
Simon flushed but said nothing as he continued his work.
“Then I will accord him my trust, as well.” Sir Jardine looked over at Simon. “Will you serve me as you served Hugh deSteny?”
At this Simon glanced once at Prince John even as he addressed Sir Jardine. “My duty is to the Sheriff of Nottingham. So long as you are he, I will oblige you in any way I can.”
The remark was formal, respectfully given, and Sir Jardine nodded his acknowledgment. “I can ask nothing more.”
“That is well-done of you, Simon,” Prince John approved. “I may send for you to come to Windsor one day,” he added to Simon. “Not now, with the dark of the year almost upon us, but later, in the spring.”
“It would be an honor,” said Simon, but with a quick look at Sir Jardine.
Knowing what was required of him, Sir Jardine said, “I will provide him a horse and an escort to Windsor, should you request his presence.”
“Thank you,” said Prince John, and picked up Brother Tancred’s book from the last stack waiting to be put into the chest Simon was packing. “This may have helped us as much as any man did.”
“But it didn’t have to die to be of use,” said Simon, his voice low.
Prince John just nodded, and Sir Jardine filled the silence by saying, “In times to come, it may be that others will make similar books to provide those fighting such evil beings with knowledge and protection.”
“It is possible,” said Prince John said slowly as he walked around the study to stop at last in front of the fireplace to stare down into the flames. “This was not a fight won by a book, although books helped us. DeSteny did more than Brother Tancred ever could. He faced a foe few men have the strength to oppose and found the intrepidity to fight them a second time. Mother Barnaba had the valor of a lion. Everyone who took on Hood must have been welcomed into Heaven.”
Sir Jardine wisely kept silent this time, and was relieved to see Jotham standing in the door with a tray in hand.
“Hot mead in the jug,” the youngster announced. “Five cups.” He came and set the tray down near the lowest stack of books on the writing-table.
Startled from his reverie, Prince John gave a sign indicating his thanks to Jotham, dismissing him with the same gesture. “In good time,” he said as he came to fill three of the cups. When Sir Jardine and Simon both had their cups in hand, Prince John raised his, saying, “Peace be to Sherwood Forest and all who dwell within its bounds.”
Sir Jardine cried “Amen” and took a long draught of the mead, but Simon exchanged a weighty glance with Prince John before he, too, said “Amen” and drank.
Last of all, the Prince looked toward the pale sunlight in the window and the huge swath of trees beyond.“Peace be to Sherwood,” he repeated as he put the cup to his lips.
What the Boar and the Wolf said
AT THE VERY HEART of Sherwood Forest, in an impenetrable glade surrounded by close-growing trees and dense undergrowth, two strange figures met at midnight on the Winter Solstice. The Boar was still wearing his heavy pelts and laced shoes, and his axe-blade shone wickedly in the icy stillness. How so bulky a figure as he could have come to this place was a mystery, a closely held secret of the forest. The screen of branches parted and a tall, rangy man with a long wolfs head came into the glade, his lance held casually as if it were more a walking stick than a weapon. His clothes were parti-colored dark—gray and white, elegant and feral at once, and his demeanor was much less bellicose than the Boar’s.
“Well met, Brother from the north,” said the Boar in his gruff, deep voice.
“Well met, Brother from the west,” responded the Wolf, all but crooning the words. “In my dreaming, I have been aware of trouble in the forest.”
“It is over,” said the Boar. “The Old Ones have reclaimed what is theirs.”
“They are weak. They will not endure,” said the Wolf.
“As memories, they will,” said the Boar.
“And what of the others?” the Wolf asked. “If I am to hold Sherwood, will I have to contend with them?”
“No. All that is over. The Old Ones found champions to carry their fight to triumph. The soldiers of Cannock-Norton defeated Hood and his men, but now Sir Lambert is gone, the fortress will sink into ruin. It will be a fitting tomb for Sir Lambert and all who died with him.” The Boar began to pace.
“And what of Hood, and the rest of his band?” the Wolf asked, watching his brother with glowing yellow eyes.
“They are already nothing more than tales to be told, and told again, until they are what people want to hear and not what was,” said the Boar, coming to a halt.
“Will that satisfy you?” The Wolf continued to stare at the Boar.
“So long as Sherwood is at peace, what are the stories of men to me? Let them say what they will.” He dropped his massive head. “I am tired. The forest is yours, Brother.”
“Until, at the Vernal Equinox, I commend it to the east and the Bear,” said the Wolf.
“That isn’t my concern,” said the Boar, and started toward the wall of undergrowth. “Take care of Sherwood, Brother.”
“So I will, as you have,” the Wolf replied, and gave a howl of farewell as the Boar vanished from sight.
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