“Come, Red Friar,” said Will Scarlet, amused and forbearing at once. “You will need rest. It is getting too bright for us.” He indicated the hut next to Hood’s. “You can share my roof for the time being.” He smiled. “Don’t touch my harp, though. I will tolerate many things, but not that.”
“Your harp?” asked the Red Friar, shocked afresh at this revelation. It was as if he had discovered that Belial was a gifted stone-cutter, or Asmodeus an orator.
“Yes.” He made a gesture of encouragement. “You see, I am a troubadour. Or I was, once. I came upon Hood in the dungeon of Ely Castle, and I was imprudent enough to let him out, being as we are remote kindred. I was told he was a killer, but the lord of the castle had not paid me as he had promised. I thought it would be a good idea to set my distant cousin and his enemy free, to show the lord I would not let him get away with fleecing me and remaining unscathed. Hood agreed, when I told him my plan.” He shook his head slowly. “He was on me like a cur on a rat.”
Stunned by this information, the Red Friar followed Will Scarlet into his hut.
How deSteny sought Aid
ANXIOUSLY now, Hugh deSteny read over the letter he had written, trying to determine if the tone was right. There was so much he wanted to convey, and he had so little certainty that his account was convincing. But he had to have help, capable help, informed and intelligent help, in order to defeat the Devil’s servants. Sir Gui was useless in this battle, deSteny knew it. If there was to be any chance of defeating the evil in Sherwood Forest, he would need a better ally than either Sir Gui or the Bishop of Lincoln, who was a venal and worldly cleric disinclined to believe in undead creatures preying on the living. It would take more than belief to triumph, in any case. It would take knowledge and the capability to perform rites and rituals powerful enough to blast the soul. And there was only one man in all England with enough true scholarship to prevail against these outlaws: John Plantagenet, Prince of England.
To deSteny the letter seemed, on this second perusal, to be lacking in purpose and without any real persuasive power. There should have been special language that could convey everything he had in his mind. But he could think of no other way to tell of what he had seen and what he feared without making his missive seem like the ravings of one gone mad, or the carking of a fool. No, he decided, it was probably best to leave the account bare and unelaborated, so that the stark report would not depend on eloquence or dread for its impact. He signed his name and office, sanded the parchment, rolled it, put a cloth band around it, and dripped sealing wax over parchment and band, then pressed his Sheriff’s ring into the hot wax, leaving a sharp impression. Done, he summoned his page. “I need to talk to Wroughton. Bring him to me at once.”
Nicholas Woodhull stared at him. “Why do you want to see him?”
“Bring him here, whelp, or I will see that you have cause to regret it,” said deSteny, who was in no mood for Nicholas’ posturing.
“My father—” began the page.
“Your father will have the pleasure of finding another place for you to serve, caitiff, if you do not carry out my orders, and at once.” Had he been dealing with a man, and not a boy, he might have slapped the writing table for emphasis, but aware of Nicholas’ youth, he only raised an admonishing finger. “And do not think I will not set you back to him, in disgrace, if you defy me again.”
Chastened, Nicholas looked down at his feet. “I will get Wroughton for you, Sheriff. At once.”
“Yes. Now,” added deSteny, pressing his advantage. He watched the gangly boy hurry out the door. Left alone, he tried to convince himself that his letter was strong enough, and made the danger apparent without such language as must alarm any clergy who might read it. It was tempting to write another letter, but that would mean using another precious sheet of parchment, and that would not do, for it would draw attention to the predicament he faced, putting it into a more sinister light than was seemly. It was true the danger was real, but he had not yet confronted the peril for himself, and did not want to have his judgment questioned. In matters like this, he had learned that reserve was the wiser course: men panicked so readily at the mention of the undead. Little as he liked it, he would have to rely on messengers to deliver his letter without mishap. He was still frowning as Wroughton came into the room, leaving Nicholas hovering near the door.
“You wanted to see me, Sheriff?” He was sweaty and red in the face, the result of having his morning fighting practice interrupted.
“Yes.” He leaned forward, arms braced on the writing table as if to guard his sealed letter. “I have a necessary errand for you to perform, and it must be done quickly, and with great care and discretion. I want you to leave by noon today.”
The urgency in his voice caught Wroughton’s attention. “What is it?” he asked with none of the impatience he had shown a moment before.
“I need you to choose six men, men you trust, brave, strong men, to ride with you to Windsor, carrying a message for me to the Prince.” How could he describe the courage they would need should they fail? He tapped the tips of his fingers together.
“To Prince John?” asked Wroughton, astonished at the idea. “Not to Sir Gui?”
“Sir Gui has other things to do just now,” said deSteny, thinking of Sir Gui’s coming marriage and his determination not to become engaged in any disputes that would detract from his place at court. “In this instance, it must be Prince John.”
Wroughton was much perturbed, but all he said was, “If that is your order, Sheriff.”
“Yes. It is. And these are my instructions. You are to obey them without cavil.” He paused to be certain he had Wroughton’s full attention. “You must go as fast as you can, and only in daylight. Do not let yourselves be caught on the road at night. Seek out monasteries and churches for your nights’ rests. I cannot have the message lost, and not to—”
“The outlaw bands—no I think not. That would be very bad,” said Wroughton quickly, realizing deSteny’s intent. “We will do as you command. Fear not, where errands to Prince John are required, every precaution and courtesy will be observed. I understand your motives, sir, given that you act without the instructions of Sir Gui. Whatever the matter may be, the Prince will not have to wait for Sir Gui’s alarms. I will choose my men carefully. I’ll see they’ll all be well-armed. And our mounts will be the strongest.” He stood up straight and did his best to smile. “It will be a fight, won’t it, Sheriff?”
“Yes, Wroughton, I very much fear it will. But not on the road to Windsor, if we are to have any chance of prevailing,” said deSteny, adding in an undervoice, “and it is not of our making.”
“No, sir,” agreed Wroughton, crossing himself.
After a noticeable silence, deSteny copied the gesture. “I want you to leave every place you stop at first light. Do not dally once the sun rises. And do not press on when sunset is near, not when you may find shelter close at hand. I would rather you take two days longer to deliver the letter than have you fall to the outlaws and fail to deliver it altogether.” He paused to let the importance of this warning fix itself in Wroughton’s thoughts. “Very well. Get your provisions at once, and have the farriers re-shoe your mounts. I don’t want anyone lost because a horse casts a shoe.”
“It will be done,” said Wroughton. He stared at the letter lying between deSteny’s elbows. “Is this what we must deliver?”
“Yes,” said deSteny, his right hand moving to cover the parchment. “Never let go of it, day or night. Keep it next to your heart, and let nothing happen to it, or all of Nottinghamshire will pay the price of it.”
“The price is a high one, and so is the prize,” said Wroughton, pleased with himself for being entrusted with such an important commission.
“More than your life is worth, Wroughton,” said deSteny, his dark-gold eyes catching the light and shining like new bronze.
“It’s the w
ay of rulers to demand,” Wroughton observed with more nonchalance than he felt. He looked at the letter again, not daring to touch it without permission.
“And for those who serve them to obey,” deSteny agreed, and continued more somberly. “I would like to hope that you will arrive without incident, but I cannot assume you will have no impediment. Therefore, make sure Father Andrew blesses your weapons and presents each of you with a pyx to wear, which none of you are to remove until you arrive at Windsor. Do you understand me?”
“I trust I do,” said Wroughton, growing eager to hold the letter.
“And I,” said deSteny, and handed the letter to Wroughton. “Do not crack the seal. It must be received intact or the Prince will not be pleased.” Worse, he thought, he might not credit what he read.
“I will guard it with all care.” He slipped it inside his camise, next to his skin. “I will secure it with a band before we depart.”
“Better yet,” said deSteny with a decisive gesture, “get an underbelt and wear it against the small of your back. That way, if you have a fight, there is little chance of it getting damaged.” As he thought of the dead crofters, he discovered his faith in such measures was lacking.
“As you wish.” Wroughton prepared to go, then paused. “Do you want me to report to you before I depart?”
“No. Dispatch a page to me as you leave. I want no delays. It will be noon before long and you must be beyond the walls of Nottingham by noon.” He made a sharp gesture to send Wroughton on his way.
“God defend us all from evil,” said Wroughton, blessing himself as he turned on his heel and strode to the door. “I will place this in the Prince’s hands myself. I swear it on the blood of my mother and the honor of my father.”
“I will not hold you to that oath, if you are attacked. Your safety must come before all else but this letter. If you cannot reach Windsor yourself, make sure one of your men takes the message for you. It is essential. Fail in this, and it were better to have been taken by the Saracens than to return to Nottingham.”
Wroughton’s face changed little but his eyes took on the glazed shine of a fever. “It must not happen,” he declared with such simple determination that deSteny at last believed him. “We will be away before noon.” He no longer felt he was being hurried beyond all sense. He saluted and departed.
DeSteny watched Wroughton go, his face shadowed with worry. He hoped that the sight of the crofters would impose restraint on Wroughton, who was inclined to be too much on his mettle. After a short while he sighed and rose from the table; slowly he walked to the window, where he stood looking out beyond the roofs of Nottingham to the vast expanse of Sherwood Forest. It was huge and virtually unbroken by turrets or steeples. Not so long ago he thought of the forest as a sea, with the brave port called Nottingham holding firm against it. Now the trees seemed a relentless, besieging army, every uncertain shadow concealing an enemy, every thicket an engine of war, and Nottingham the hapless fortress standing alone against its green might.
One of the women of the castle, her expression and tongue blurred by the mead she had drunk a short while ago, came to the door and leaned in, her gates-of-hell sleeves revealing more than her arm as she reached toward him. “My good lord Sheriff,” she called out to him, her long hand extended in his direction. “You have a burdened look. Come and let me ease you for an hour.”
He smiled but signaled her to leave. “Not just now, Vidonia,” he said, his dismissal softened by a rueful smile. “I have my burdens and may not yet put them down.”
She made a petulant moue. “You never have time for me, or any of us. One might think you have no taste for—”
“You are all so charming that I cannot choose among you.” He said this readily, the excuse an old one. “It would hardly be wise for me to favor one and not the others when you are all so deserving.”
Now she was pouting, and she struck out at him the one way she could. “You know, they say you were wounded. The women all say it, and some of the men as well. That while you were in the Holy Land, you had your satchel cut from your staff, and you are no longer able to do the act.”
“Surely you know that to stop the deed being done, the rod must be taken as well as the satchel,” he said brusquely, adding, “in the East, such a man is prized by women whose husbands are long absent, for that man cannot fill her belly. It is also said of such men that they may continue the act much longer than those who are entire, for they do not release seed. Do not seek to compare me with those men.” He watched her, asking himself suddenly: why not? What held him back? It was so long ago that he had abjured the rest, why did he cling to this one last—
Vidonia cut into his thoughts. “You might as well be a priest!” she scoffed. “Not that they aren’t the randiest of all.”
It took him a moment to shake off the shock she had given him. He did his best to smile at her. “That they are,” he agreed, and went back to his table. “Now, lady, leave me to my gloomy thoughts.”
She came and leaned across the table toward him: he could smell the honey of the mead on her breath. “Show me, lord Sheriff. Show me how you are a man.”
He stared at her. “Not now, Vidonia. Unless you want outlaws to lie atop you in nights to come?”
“Outlaws!” She moved back as if he had slapped her. “How could such a thing happen?” With a grand gesture that was only slightly out of control, she swung around and left him alone in the room.
What Wroughton found on his Journey
“GOD PROTECT me.” Wroughton stood at the small monastery window, looking out at the encroaching night. He shivered and blessed himself, trying to hold his thoughts at bay, for it would do him no good to anticipate the worst while he slept here. The hospice of this monastery, which had seemed a bastion against all evil in the late afternoon, now felt to him like a fragile egg in the land of serpents. It would take so little for outlaws to breach the walls. He did his best to banish that prospect from his apprehensions, and came near to succeeding until the Vespers bell rang a second time, reminding him that the last of the light would shortly be gone. The cautions Sheriff DeSteny had issued, so over-circumspect at the time, he now realized were barely adequate to the risk they were taking.
“Good Sir Messenger,” said one of the Grey Friars, coming up to him with a show of deference. He held the door open. “The Abbot of Saint Coemgen wishes me to ask you to join him at table.”
“Does he?” said Wroughton, his uneasy gaze flicking about the gathering shadows, trying not to see faces in their depths. “Well, I suppose it would be correct. It is very good of him to extend such an invitation, of course.” He looked at the monk who had approached him, and said, “This is somewhat unusual, taking us in as you have; you Austins are not often keepers of hospices, are you?”
“No, not often,” said the monk, his manner diffident but his voice stern. “In such a place as this, it is fitting that we should keep watch against the darkness.” He touched the rosary that hung from his belt. “Better to serve here and welcome travelers than to take our chances in caves and solitary cells, which afford no protection beyond prayer.”
“Doubtless,” said Wroughton with feeling. “The forest being what it is, it is dangerous enough within these walls. Outside them—” He did not say anything more.
“If you will follow me?” said the monk, indicating the corridor behind him. “He is waiting for you.”
“Very good,” said Wroughton, and fell into step behind the monk. His thoughts, as he went along the hall, were dreary. He had not considered at the beginning of the journey that the woods would encroach upon him as they had begun to do. It was as if the world had contracted to this endless realm of brush and trees. He cleared his throat and stared at the rough crucifix at the end of the corridor, and for him it now seemed more important that the thing was made of wood than that it depicted Christ at the moment of His Sacrifice.
/> The Grey Friar led the way to the refectory door, and stood aside, permitting Wroughton to enter ahead of him, so that no taint of pride could be attached to his piety.
Everything about the refectory was familiar in a skewed way. The plank tables and benches were like those in the barracks mess, where Wroughton and the other men-at-arms ate when they were without wives or other women to provide for them. The fare was as plain as soldiers’ food, but lacked the generous sections of meat, offering instead leeks and turnips. And the silent ranks of monks were so eerily unlike the roistering bonhomie of fighting men that Wroughton had an uncomfortable moment when it seemed to him that he was in the company of ghosts, or the damned, and not living men at all.
The Abbot Ambrose rejoiced in austerity, which had spread his fame over half of England: he was gaunt with fasting and hoarse from reciting prayers through most of his waking hours. It was said that his knees had calluses thick as the knees of camels from long hours before the altar in the chapel. It was known he drank only water and ale brewed by his monks, which he called The Living Breath of God in honor of the Host. This Abbot Ambrose was held in superstitious awe by those who traveled the Great North Road. He motioned to Wroughton to join him, and as soon as the solider was at his side, he began to intone the blessing of the evening meal, which consisted of a single loaf of bread, a single salted fish, and a third of a wheel of cheese per man, less than half of what Wroughton’s men were used to. As the abbot continued his prayers, Wroughton contemplated the meal and hoped that in the morning his men would not be exhausted by hunger. With the ground they had to cover tomorrow, he did not want the men-at-arms accompanying him to succumb to fatigue while within the shadow of the forest.
Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night Page 7
