Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “And will that satisfy him?” Wroughton asked, not willing to admit how badly shaken he was. “He may want to know more.”

  “Then he will have to ask someone other than me,” said deSteny, his voice sounding far away even to his own ears.

  “But will he accept what you tell him?” Wroughton persisted, as if afraid he would be held accountable for what happened in Sherwood.

  “Perforce. I am still Sheriff,” deSteny answered abruptly before he got out of the saddle, moving as if every joint ached. The trouble, he knew, was not in his sinews or bones, but something far deeper, something he thought was forsaken long ago in the abattoir of the Holy Land.

  What Sir Humphrey learned

  SIR HUMPHREY looked at the bedraggled company of ragged men who straggled up to the watch-post, their faces drawn with fatigue, their bodies moving as if against heavy weights, their garments in tatters, blood marking their footsteps. They were an odd sight for mid-morning on a fasting day, when most of the town bustled with preparations for Market Day, three days hence. The townspeople averted their eyes from the newcomers, crossing themselves to preserve themselves from whatever had happened to these unfortunate men. The most senior member of this group was all but carried between two of the younger men. There were fifteen of them in all, and all carried swords thrust through their belts, showing rusty stain of recent use.

  “Let them in,” Sir Humphrey ordered his lieutenant, the young Gawain deBracy. “They are not dangerous to us. They need our help, by the look of them. It is our duty to aid them—we are Christians, after all.”

  The young man-at-arms shouted to those manning the narrow gate of the watch-post, just at the edge of the moat that separated Nottingham Castle from the town itself. The wooden gate creaked open, and the first of the men staggered through, and all but collapsed as he came to a halt.

  With a quickness rare in a man of his age and portliness, Sir Humphrey came down the stairs from his observation post. He would have to explain about these men before questions could be asked, and he would have to know what calamity had befallen them in order to accommodate their needs to his. As Marshal of the Castle and the Town, he would be held responsible for their safety. When such pathetic men as these arrived in Nottingham, he felt moved to act promptly so that he could not be faulted by Sir Gui, or the more demanding Hugh deSteny, or made to take the blame that these men had come to grief. He went up to the nearest of the men and addressed him with more urgency than respect. “Who are you and what happened to you?”

  The nearest man had a great bruise on the side of his face as if he had been struck with a club. He could only shake his head and point to the man next to him, whose hands were scraped and grotesquely swollen. “We were set upon by outlaws.”

  “In the forest,” finished Sir Humphrey. “How recently?”

  “Last night, as we were making camp in the clearing with the shrine to Our Lady of Perpetual Prayer. You know the one?”

  “To the south, six or seven leagues,” said Sir Humphrey, impatient to hear more. “How did it happen?”

  The wounded man shook his head as he tried to bring himself to speak. Finally he marshaled his thoughts and said, “I don’t know how it began. First there was no one, and then a dozen men came out of the trees, like shadows at the start, and then ... worse than wolves.” He crossed himself.

  The man beside him with the injured face began to weep, keeping his jaw tightly clenched.

  Sir Humphrey could see now that these men’s clothes had been of good quality and he began to suspect that they were merchants traveling together for protection. He would not be able to dismiss their troubles as minor or unimportant. He would be expected to account for their misfortune, since he was supposed to keep such things from happening at all. He mumbled a concerned phrase or two and passed on to one of the less obviously hurt. “You were set upon by outlaws last night. Will you tell me how it came about?”

  The man, whose eyes were dazed in a face grey with exhaustion, turned to Sir Humphrey. “They were demons, demons and devil, not any outlaws I have ever known. They were not interested in our goods, though they took them and our mules quickly enough. Our lives were forfeit, not our merchandise. They wanted only to have us. Us! Nothing else mattered!” He trembled and moved toward the wall as if needing something to hold him up.

  Sir Humphrey followed after him. “What did your mules have? What were you carrying?”

  Distantly the man answered, “Cloth, for the most part. Cloth and thread. And hides for shoemakers.” He made no complaint of their loss, which struck Sir Humphrey as odd, for merchants were known to wax irate at the deprivation of a single item of trade, not matter how small or unimportant. “It was hideous. Those men. They attacked us as if they would kill us.” Without warning he fell to the ground and lay there, twitching.

  Aghast, Sir Humphrey stood over the man, uncertain of what to do, fearing that the merchant had taken madness from his attackers and was now dangerous to everyone near him. He bellowed to his men to tend to the fallen merchant and turned to one of the others, a meaty youth with rings on his fingers. “What about the outlaws? Did you notice anything about them? How were they armed? How many of them were there? Didn’t you have men-at-arms to escort you?”

  “We had two,” said the young man in a pain-roughened voice. He was favoring his right leg and there was blood on his clothing. “They were cut down first. And they fell quickly. These outlaws knew what they were about. No one could have prevailed against them. No one. They came after the men-at-arms, four or five of the outlaws to each man. The men-at-arms had no chance to defend themselves before they were ...” His face went ashen. “They were gutted, like deer or sheep. They had set aside their mail, you see, and had only their actons. Any sword could go through an acton.” He crossed himself. “I never want to set forth in Sherwood Forest again. Once I return home to London, I will not travel the Great North Road for as long as I live.”

  Sir Humphrey believed him, and thought it strange that a merchant would make such a vow when he depended upon travel to make his trading worthwhile. He left the young man and sought out another of the merchants, a man nearer his own age and looking marginally less ramshackle than the others. “What can you tell me about the outlaws?” he asked, regarding the merchant with keen attention.

  The man shook his head as if still unconvinced of what he had seen. “They were like no outlaws I have ever encountered in England. Nor have I seen their like in France. Only in the Holy Land have I encountered any fighters as bloodthirsty as these men are. And the outlaws have less pity in them than any Islamite.” He crossed himself and tugged his sword out of his wide cloth belt. He made a show of wiping the blade to rid it of its stains, and then rested the tip between his feet, his hands resting on the wide quillons. “They were relentless, and lacked any sign of fear. Never have I seen an attack like theirs for fearlessness. Nothing kept them off long—not wounds, not blows, nothing.”

  “There were a great many of them,” said Sir Humphrey.

  “No more than fifteen or sixteen, I should say. Well-trained by the look of them. And with a leader who was the most ruthless of the lot, a great, tall, lean man all cloaked in dark green, so that the shadows and the leaves would hide him. In the battle his cloak was thrown off, and I saw that his hair was very light, like chalk. And he had teeth like a lion, with long fangs. You may not believe me, but it is the truth, as God will witness.”

  “I don’t question your answers,” said Sir Humphrey, though he did. “I will send for the farrier, to set your bones,” he went on more loudly to all the merchants.

  One of Sir Humphrey’s men-at-arms took that for an order and hurried off, heading in the direction of the garrison stables.

  “We walked all night, for we were afraid that if we stopped or slept those creatures would be upon us once more and we would not live to see the morning.” The merchant heft
ed his sword. “Had I not faced pirates before, I am certain I would have suffered as much as the rest of the party. As it is, I hope never to face those creatures of Sherwood again.”

  Sir Humphrey thought about this. “How many of you actually fell?”

  “Other than our men-at-arms, five,” the merchant reported. “And we lost a sixth on the way here in the night. He fell into a fast-running stream and we could not save him.”

  “Unfortunate,” said Sir Humphrey, starting to think. He realized he would have to arrange for these merchants to be escorted back to London as soon as possible. He could not have it said that the garrison of Nottingham could not keep a band of outlaws at bay. As to the far-fetched reports of the outlaws’ ferocity, well, anyone would say such a thing if attacked at sunset by determined killers. It was a hazard that any traveler had to accept on the Great North Road. The dangers were so well-known that many were used to the risks and regarded them with an air of tolerant amusement. He would have to make sure his men were instructed to make jests about the more extreme accounts, so that rumors would not start, let alone spread. It was bad enough that these merchants had been robbed, but it would not do to allow the people of Nottinghamshire to worry about wolfish ruffians attacking any traveler at will. He signaled to one of his nearest men-at-arms who was not busy with the merchants. “I will want you to carry a message to the Sheriff in a short while. He must be told about this.”

  “Of course,” said the man-at-arms. “I am at your service.”

  “When you report to him, tell him just as much as matters—that robbers set upon the merchants in their camp. Add nothing else. To report these fantastic accounts would serve no useful purpose, but to bring scrutiny from the Church.” He made his last words heavy with import. “That would not serve us a good turn.”

  “No, it would not,” said the man-at-arms readily enough, wanting no trouble for the garrison.

  “So. Have Waterman go to the Cistercian priory and ask the abbot if he will take in these men. Tell the monks that misfortune has befallen the travelers. The Cistercians are supposed to succor travelers, aren’t they? Let them take the merchants in, for charity—God knows they are in need of succor.” Sir Humphrey wanted to send the merchants away from the castle as soon as possible, so there would be no occasion for questions that might embarrass him and his men. It was bad enough that the merchants were attacked in the part of the forest that was supposed to be under his control; he had no intention of taking more blame upon himself than he had to.

  “That I will,” said the man-at-arms and turned on his heel to do Sir Humphrey’s bidding.

  Reassured, Sir Humphrey went to the side of another of the merchants and asked him to tell him about the attack, adding, “I find it hard to believe that these outlaws could overwhelm you as completely as I have heard. You are stout fellows. You had weapons, didn’t you? How many of them were there? You seem to be a prudent enough man. I should think with guards in your company, you could have fought them off.”

  “Not those outlaws. They are worse than wolves. They are worse than famine. They were worse than the ocean in a storm,” the man said grimly. “They were on us—us, not our goods—like the Devil’s own. Nothing escaped their attack. Ravening beasts they were, seeking blood with a fury beasts cannot match. A few went for our horses and mules, but most of them came for us.” He looked down at his ruined clothes. “The forest did little of this, or our flight. Most of it was done by the outlaws.”

  Sir Humphrey acknowledged this absurd assertion with a slight nod and the request that the merchant tell him how he recalled their escape from the outlaws, all the while determining how to make his report so that none of this would be to his discredit. After all, he reasoned, outlaws attacked merchants from time to time, and these outlaws had taken mules and horses and cloth, and murdered the merchants’ escort. It made sense that the victims would magnify the events, being unused to combat as they were. Doubtless he would be doing the merchants a service not to repeat their exaggerations, for it would only bring derision upon them later.

  Satisfied that his decision about his report would prove best for everyone, Sir Humphrey swung around to see the farrier hurrying forward, his two apprentices trailing along behind. Soon, thought Sir Humphrey, it would be out of my hands. And by the time deSteny learned of this event, he would have the whole account ready, and his position protected. There would be no inquiry beyond the usual, and Sir Humphrey would retain the prestige he had worked so hard to achieve.

  How Sir Gui charged deSteny

  NOTHING annoyed Sir Gui deGisbourne as much as bad news, and never more than when it came from Hugh deSteny, since he knew of old that his Sheriff did not approach him on minor matters. He was not in humor to have bad news today, and he took it badly that the Sheriff had come to wait upon him. Pulling at his neat, little beard, he met deSteny with his best forbidding frown as deSteny went onto his knee and kissed his hand as a sign of homage. He pulled his hand away at once and fixed deSteny with a ferocious glare.

  “Very well, Sheriff, what is it this time? I had better warn you that I am not inclined to be lenient today,” he said without any exchange of pleasantries. He leaned back in his chair and fixed deSteny with his most penetrating stare, to show how much of an imposition this audience was.

  “I would not have come if I did not require your authorization to undertake a necessary operation,” said deSteny, using the phrases he had been rehearsing for more than a day. He got to his feet and stood very straight in front of his elegant and decadent superior. “I would not ask if I were not convinced that we must act quickly or face greater dangers than already exist.”

  “Yes. So I gathered from your message. My clerk read it to me as soon as I came in from hunting, though I confess it has left me confused.” He had the knack of being able to look down his nose at someone standing above him, and he used it now. “What is this danger that has you—of all men—in such a dither? It’s not the merchants, is it? Sir Humphrey already told me about them.”

  DeSteny reminded himself that he was not going to let Sir Gui aggravate him, no matter how insufferable his attitude might be. Much as he hated being characterized as one who dithers, he bore it as best he could. He made his countenance expressionless. “No, this is not about Sir Humphrey, not directly. You have not been on Crusade, have you, my Lord?”

  “You know very well I have not,” said Sir Gui impatiently. “If this has more to do with disabled soldiers returning, well, I am heartily sorry for them, of course, but they are the King’s men, not mine, and they must look to him for their livelihood. I am not one to attach another man’s vassals.” He waved his hand to indicate that this was his final word on the matter. “Though that would mean following him back to the Holy Land, wouldn’t it?” He grinned at his own witticism.

  “It is not a matter of soldiers,” said deSteny with all the patience he could summon. “Or not the soldiers you mean.” He paused and launched into the purpose of his coming. “On Crusade we learned of those who have become servants of the Devil, men who were dead and not dead, men who made prey of other men in the Devil’s name. They drank the blood of the living to make them one of their depraved numbers. The Greek priests told us of them, and how they must be fought.” He had not believed what he had heard, not at first, he reminded himself, so Sir Gui’s incredulity should not amaze him. He himself had required proof, and only when he had it did he seek the aid of the Orthodox priests.

  “I will not sponsor an expedition to Greece,” said Sir Gui, fingering his fashionably pointed beard.

  “I will not ask that. I only want to tell you of this danger, newly arrived on our shores.” Again he waited, thinking that this jeweled and velvet-clad exquisite was a disastrous choice to rule Nottinghamshire. He might come from a distinguished line, but he had done little to add to his family’s distinction. But King Richard had given the fief to Sir Gui shortly after gainin
g the crown, and Sir Gui had been a man of distinction ever since, elevating his whole minor-nobility family to positions of importance and sparking great ambitions in his father. Many another family had done the same, and though Hugh deSteny disliked the results, he understood the impetus. Detesting his task, he went on, “It seems, from what I have been told, that the Devil’s servants we were warned of in the Holy Land have come to England.”

  “How is that, pray?” asked Sir Gui as if he were heartily bored of the whole matter. He stifled a yawn to make his point.

  Beginning to worry that his task was in vain, deSteny pressed on. “I have lately seen dead crofters who had been killed by the Devil’s servants.”

  “Oh. Crofters. Well, they are ... they are crofters. How can you expect them to defend against marauders?” He gave deSteny another look of displeasure. “If you are here because of a few dead crofters ...”

  “Not that they are dead, my Lord,” said deSteny, “but because of how they died.” He let this sink in, and added, “They were all drained of blood, my Lord.” He knew he should not tell Sir Gui that the bodies were missing: Sir Gui was repelled by accounts of desecration of the dead.

  “Someone murdered them, do you say? Or slaughtered them like hogs.” Sir Gui raised his eyebrows, anticipating an answer. “There are marauders from Greece killing crofters?”

  “Hardly marauders, my Lord,” said deSteny. “They are creatures who were once men, as other men, but who were seduced in death to the Devil’s cause, and do his work in the world.”

  “Murdering crofters,” mused Sir Gui. “Not what one would expect of the Devil. He is supposed to prefer finer game.”

  Now deSteny was hard-put to control his temper. “Killing anyone who has the misfortune to come upon them after dark. They do more than rob, they care more for shedding blood than taking plunder.” He tried to find a way to persuade Sir Gui of the horror he had witnessed. “They prey on hapless travelers, as well—”