Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “What is your reason for your coming, Captain?” demanded one of the most formidable figures at the high table, a middle-aged man with grizzled hair and half the fingers gone from his right hand.

  This unpromising beginning was ignored. “Your Grace,” said the Captain, going on his knee to a slender man of moderate height with regular features in a long face framed by silky, ruddy-brown hair and a short, neat beard. Dressed well but simply, he was no more outstanding than several other men at his table. His most striking features were his keen, deep-hazel eyes under a wide, high brow.

  “Captain,” was the answer in a deep voice as he rose.

  “Your Grace, this man has come from Nottingham on the Sheriff’s business, and he claims urgency of commission in presenting himself now.” The Captain got to his feet. “Fellow,” he said to Wroughton, “this is His Grace, the Count of Mortain and Lord of Ireland, John Plantagenet, Prince of England.”

  Wroughton had already knelt. “Your Grace,” he said, kissing the ring on the large hand extended to him. “I am here as the deputy of Hugh deSteny, Sheriff of Nottingham, who entrusted me with the mission of delivering this message to you. It has never left my person since Nottingham’s gates closed behind me.” It was undignified to have to wriggle so industriously to get the message from under his belt and acton, but his orders required no less of him. “It has lain along my spine since this journey began,” he said as he drew it out of his padding and mail, and handed it to Prince John, saying as he did, “Now I have done as I was sworn to do.”

  “So you have,” said Prince John, taking the letter and looking at its flattened appearance, frowning as he broke the seal, unrolled it, and read the salutation. “An urgent matter requiring knowledge and discretion, and from so careful a man as deSteny. He sent you to me most hastily, didn’t he?” He signaled Wroughton to rise. “You have done well to bring this to me, good soldier.”

  “Will you read it, Your Grace? There is some hasty purpose, or so I have been told. If you will read it?” Wroughton asked anxiously, wishing to know what he had carried that was worth the lives of four of his men. He knew it was incorrect to question Prince John in this way, but he could not help himself.

  “Yes. When I am done here, I will give it full attention,” said the Prince, no trace of offense in his manner. “Whatever the trouble is, I will learn of it before midnight. I will send for you if I have anything to ask you.” It was a dismissal, and the Captain tapped Wroughton on the shoulder, motioning him to leave.

  “But the Sheriff said—” He stopped himself before he said anything unseemly. This was not what Wroughton had anticipated, and he hesitated before he stepped back from the Prince’s chair and bowed. “I am at your service, Your Grace.” It was vexing to be so close and yet not be permitted to tell what had happened on the journey from Nottingham to Windsor.

  “Oh. Soldier,” the Prince called after him. “To be certain: this is from Hugh deSteny himself, I take it, and not at the behest of Sir Gui deGisbourne?”

  Wroughton hesitated. “That is correct, Your Grace.”

  “Not from Sir Gui. Curious.” Prince John rose, making a sign to the others to remain seated. “That puts a different complexion on things,” he said, and indicated a corridor at the rear of the dining tables. “If you will come with me, soldier? I will attend to this at once.”

  “Your Grace?” said the Captain of the Guard.

  Prince John shook his head. “No, Pearce, not you. This soldier—”

  “Wroughton,” he supplied.

  “Wroughton,” echoed Prince John. “Have food sent to my study, if you will,” he went on to a steward who hurried up to him. “Some for Wroughton, too. Drink as well, I would guess. For Wroughton. I will want a clear head, I fear, if deSteny is writing to me.” And without other formalities, he led the way out of the dining hall, along another smoky, ill-lit corridor.

  This was more than anything Wroughton had hoped, or prepared for. Exhausted though he was, he smiled at this unexpected favor, and did his best not to grin, thinking there would be men in Nottingham who would squirm with envy for such distinction as this, and Sir Gui would not believe that a simple soldier would receive such distinction from the Prince. “Your Grace is—”

  The Prince waved him to silence. “You are the one who has braved the forest on this mission. And if Hugh deSteny sent you, it is no minor thing.” He reached for a key hanging from his belt as he approached a bolted room. “I will read the whole of the message, and then you and I will talk, Wroughton.”

  “Your Grace,” said Wroughton, all but overcome by the honor the Prince was bestowing on him. When he reported back to the Sheriff, he would have to report everything from this meeting. Men in Nottingham would stand him a drink just to hear what the Prince was wearing.

  Prince John unfastened the lock and lifted the bolt, then opened the door. The room was L-shaped, dark, and unlike any Wroughton had ever seen before, lined as it was with shelves, all containing books, great, massive books with leather-and-board covers and closed with metal hasps. A few of the volumes were chained to the shelving for reasons that escaped Wroughton. One of the chained books lay open on a stand, clearly a Testament, for the pages were filled with beautiful illuminations of scenes and incidents that were familiar to Wroughton, and an elaborate cross was at the top of the pages Wroughton could see. He wanted to examine the book more closely, but dared not touch it without permission. The stacks of other books astonished him, for he had not supposed there were so many in the world. His awe was too great to do more than glance at the stands occasionally. For the first time in his life, he wished he could read. Three braziers supplied a modicum of light, hanging oil lamps over a trestle table standing in the middle of the room giving the greatest brightness. Two stools flanked the table.

  Prince John sat on one of these, making a negligent indication that Wroughton could take the other stool while he perused the letter, his frown increasing as he read: twice he shook his head in dismay. When he had finished, he read the message a second time, then folded the parchment and placed it on the table, directing his gaze toward Wroughton. “Your Sheriff does well to send you to me. I do not think deSteny is often in error, is he?” He watched Wroughton for his single shake of his head. “If what he reports is true—and I must suppose it is, for I know him to be an honest man—there is cause to worry.”

  Was this supposed to be a compliment or a fault found? Wroughton could not bring himself to ask Prince John. He nodded and made himself wait for more. “Your Grace,” he said, to indicate he was listening. What on earth had the Sheriff said that evoked such concern from the Prince?

  “DeSteny tells me that you have seen the trouble in the forest for yourself, that you can describe it for me. Will you tell me about it?” Prince John regarded Wroughton with intense curiosity.

  Wroughton coughed once, struggling to find words. He knew he had to say what he knew, but it would have to be to the Prince’s satisfaction, and that banished sense from his thoughts and left him with a pervasive panic.

  “Let me make this less difficult for you, Wroughton,” the Prince suggested with a glance at the folded letter. “It is reported here that, among other things, you came upon crofters who had apparently been drained of blood, and who would not be properly buried. Is that what happened?”

  “Chilton reported it, Your Grace, the warden for that part of the forest, the Nottingham precincts. He led us to the croft. A friar went with us, to tend to the dead. There were six of them. The White Friars would not bury them.” As he gave his account, the horror of that refusal claimed him again.

  “And the friar who accompanied you was lost in the forest? Lost, or did you see him laid to rest?” Prince John prompted him.

  Wroughton had the unhappy feeling that the books around him were whispering, for he had never before been in a room that contained so many words. He made an effort to concentrate.
“That he was. Lost, that is. It was through no fault of his, or the Sheriff’s. The day was waning, and we were all in a hurry to be out of Sherwood. He—the Red Friar—fell behind, and when we noticed this, we were ... unable to find him again.”

  “A bad thing,” said the Prince, his manner slightly distracted as his thoughts rushed ahead of his tongue. “And there have been other attacks?”

  “Yes, and there must have been some we have not yet discovered, given what the tales are on the Great North Road.” He could feel his pulse mount, his temples beginning to pound. “Coming here—I left with six men and arrived here with two.” He could not stop the shiver that went through him. “Piers was the first to go, at the Austin’s monastery. Then Newlyn vanished the next night, and Gaynes the night after that. I found none of them. They might have vanished at a witch’s spell. We were spared on the fourth night, and I had hopes that the worst had passed, that we had moved beyond danger. Then Simkins left the protection of the hostel last night, saying he could hear Piers calling him.”

  “And what did you hear?” asked Prince John.

  “I thought I heard ... wolves. There were howls. Everyone heard the howls. I tried to stop Simkins, but ... he went out into the forest. We found no trace of him in the morning, not even his sword or his boots.” His voice had dropped to a mutter. He wondered why he should speak so openly to the Prince, who would surely despise him for his failure to protect his men.

  “You did not follow him?” Prince John saw the nodded response. “Excellent. Very good.”

  Wroughton was shocked. “Your Grace?”

  “Better to lose one man than two, and your mission was more important than the men lost, or deSteny would have sent you alone,” said the Prince, his thoughtful gaze directed toward Wroughton in a mildly distant manner, revealing his preoccupation. He sat a little straighter, his eyes sharpening. “Given all that has transpired, you would have been reckless beyond forgiveness to have attempted to bring back the soldier last night. Or any of the others,” he added darkly. “And on your return, stop for no one, not even those you think may be your men. They will be the most dangerous of all.”

  “But ...” Wroughton began, and faltered. “The men must be dead.”

  “They are undoubtedly not alive,” Prince John agreed. “Yes. They must be, most assuredly, dead. I have an account in one of my books that speaks of those who die improperly. But that does not mean they lie quiet in their graves.” He rose from the stool and went to one of the shelves. As he pulled out a massive, leather-bound volume, he said, “I will have to read more before I can do as your Sheriff asks. But he was right to send you to me.”

  “He is an honorable man,” said Wroughton, convinced that he had to say something.

  “That he is, little though he may believe it,” Prince John said, continuing to read, placing the open book on the trestle table at the limit of its chain. “In a short while, I will have more questions for you. In the meantime, pray do not interrupt me.”

  Wroughton bowed, knowing he would never dare such a thing, for it was nothing a soldier would do, not to the man deputized to rule England, Ireland, and half of France. He sat on the stool, feeling as exposed as if he were in a Saracen camp. Just sitting in the presence of the Prince was an honor he had never anticipated, no matter how it made him twitch. Even the arrival of a servant with two trays of food did not lessen his apprehension, for he dared not eat while in the company of John Plantagenet. It was an effort not to fidget, and he did what he could to keep from sighing or tapping his toe.

  “Aren’t you hungry? The hour is quite late and you have been in the saddle most of the day, haven’t you? You must be famished. Why don’t you eat?” the Prince asked suddenly. “God in Heaven, man, do not stand on ceremony in this room. You have already rendered me good service and the least I can do is feed you. So long as you are here, you must fend for yourself—I have been known to get lost in reading for hours, as my wife would complain to you, should you mention it.”

  “But Your Grace ...” He could think of no way to say it. To imagine Prince John’s wife complaining of anything her husband might do was unimaginable.

  “You’ve ridden all day, haven’t you? And your bones must ache—I know mine would do. And if you are not hungry, you are ill, which is much worse. I hope you will not have to be physicked.” He made an impatient gesture with his fingers. “Eat. No need to wait on form. This is a library, not a court. I have no desire to have you collapsing on me, or thinking poorly for lack of food. This promises to be a long night, and you will have to keep pace with me.”

  Chagrined, Wroughton bent over his tray, carefully plucking out the morsels of chicken with his fingers and devouring them before he began to pull the trencher apart. It was the best wheaten loaf he had ever tasted, and the chicken was savory and tender, not baked to dryness as most he had had were. Onions flavored the gravy, and a small tub of butter was more delicious than the cheese he was used to. A tankard of dark brown ale helped to slake his thirst as he guttled down the meal. By the time he licked his fingers, Prince John had taken three more volumes from the shelves and was searching through them, marking his place with strips of cloth as he went.

  “DeSteny says that these marauders hunt in the dark. And apparently only in the dark. Is this true?” Prince John asked suddenly.

  “So it seems,” said Wroughton, choosing his words carefully. “The reports have been few, Your Grace, and I am not privy to all of them, but I have not heard of them hunting when the sun is high.”

  “Ah.” He pulled at his lower lip with his long fingers. “I feared as much. Yes. I must concur. Your Sheriff is right to be worried, or so it seems. These are not ordinary outlaws, are they? They do not hunt in the day, or have not been observed hunting in the day,” Prince John corrected himself, and went back to his studies, leaving Wroughton to fight off the weariness that threatened to overcome him.

  Now that he had food in his belly and stout walls around him, and his duty was done, fatigue picked at him with a persistence of a hungry duck, and he had much to do to keep from falling asleep. His fatigue embarrassed him and he strove to keep his eyes wide open and his expression alert. The warmth of the room was treacherous, and he found it increasingly difficult to resist his exhaustion. Only his precarious seat on the tall stool made him strive to remain awake. It would cause more chagrin than Wroughton could endure to be so shameless as to drowse in the presence of Prince John. So he kept to his perch and did his best to remember his prayers.

  It was much later in the night when Prince John interrupted Wroughton’s dozing, saying, “This is going to be difficult.” He closed the volume open in front of him. “I will need some time to prepare, and I must do so alone. You might as well have the Master Sergeant assign you a place to sleep.”

  Wroughton, mildly disoriented, looked about the library. “Won’t you need someone with you?” He was so accustomed to guard duty that he was ready to serve.

  “To protect me?” Prince John suggested mildly. “Here at Windsor? I doubt it. What could assail this place that armed men could not stop?” With that question, he ushered Wroughton out of the door and prepared for serious study.

  How deSteny began his Journey South

  “IN A single column!” Hugh deSteny turned in the saddle and stared back at the road leading from the edge of Sherwood to the gates of Nottingham. He hoped he would see them again, and the town they protected, but he was not certain he would. The forest was too dangerous now for any of them to assume they could cross it safely. The mounted men with him watched him with a variety of reactions, and one of them made a joke that was instantly hushed. “Let us be underway,” said deSteny in the tone of one announcing an execution. He faced the forest as he would an army of the Prophet’s warriors.

  The wood was filled with the calls of birds, the rush of wind, the chuckle of running water, and the countless noises marking the
passage of many animals that lived within the forest’s shelter. The clatter, jingle, and squeak of men-at-arms were nothing more than another part of the counterpoint that greeted the morning, and one that seemed vain compared to the vast welter of sound in the forest.

  “To Arundel,” deSteny called out, and set his dun moving forward, noticing already that his mail coif was chafing his neck. By evening, he thought, he would have a blister at least, if not an actual wound, and that he would have to treat with woolfat mixed with pansy. Annoying though it was, it would have to be borne.

  Once into the trees, the party moved at a steady trot, covering ground handily for the first part of the journey. The horses had all been chosen for steadiness of temperament and stamina, and the Sheriff hoped they would reach Saint Dunstan’s Priory by mid-day, which was more than seven leagues from the gates of Nottingham, and a more than satisfactory distance for mounted men to cover in the space of the morning in heavy forest. It was his intention to cover fifteen leagues this day, and the same the next, if the horses would stand the pace, and they met with no mischance. It was a punishing pace, requiring them to trot half the time, with little allowance for rest. Worry about trouble kept them all moving at a crisp jog longer than they ordinarily would, and they covered three leagues in half the time most riders in the forest would. During the later part of the morning, as the horses began to tire, the Sheriff signaled his men to rein in to a walk.

  They arrived at Saint Dunstan’s in good time, made a hearty meal there, and were on their way before the monks had finished singing mid-day Mass.

  “We should reach Wainford Croft well before sunset,” deSteny told his men, as he had done at the meeting on the eve before their departure, when he mapped out the roads they would take. The fortified farmhold was more of a hamlet than a walled barnyard, and the shallows of the river were carefully maintained by the Gates family and their neighbors, for the coppers they charged for helping wagons through the water augmented the earnings of their farming. “They have rooms and will not charge us more than two pieces of silver to house us and our mounts for the night.”