“Is there a chapel at Wainford Croft?” asked the youngest of the men.
“There may be,” said deSteny, who did not remember seeing one when he had passed that way two years ago. “If there is not, they will have a shrine where you can recite your prayers. There is one to Our Lady beside the ford. There will be many more as we continue down the road.”
The young man sat a little straighter in the saddle. “I am no palmer, to offer Aves at every cross-road shrine. I thought only it would be well to be shriven.”
“You were that before we left Nottingham,” deSteny reminded him.
“Still,” said the youngster.
A scarred veteran of the Crusades laughed harshly. “Blessings won’t stop arrows, if it comes to that. Nor swords.”
“But they will protect our souls,” the youngest man-at-arms said with feeling. “And in this place, our souls are in peril. We all know that.” He cocked his chin in the Sheriff’s direction as if seeking confirmation. “Those who have died here have not kept quiet after. They do not lie still in the graves, awaiting the Last Trumpet.”
“Who says so?” demanded the veteran, who was called Canute, after the great Danish King who had ruled England long ago.
“Everyone,” muttered the young man. “No one in the market wants to set foot in the forest between dusk and dawn, not without an army to guard them and an escort of monks. They are all afraid they will become fodder for the Devil.”
A few of the older soldiers in the escort laughed, but the laughter was more bravado than amusement, which troubled deSteny. He raised his hand for silence. “If there is danger, better listen for its subtle approach than comfort yourselves with noise if what you dread is abroad. No more jollity, not tonight.”
The youngest man-at-arms, Byrle of Penndale, who was not quite fifteen, had the grace to blush under his mail coif. The men on either side of him chuckled at this boyish lapse, though neither of them was older than eighteen.
DeSteny gave an abrupt signal to quiet them, and tried his best to ignore the chafing on the inside of his thighs. Long hours in the saddle at the trot always left him with raw patches, and he was glad to have the salve made for him by Mother Hezibeth: let the Church say what it would against herb women, to deSteny’s mind, Mother Hezibeth and those like her were worth a week of Psalms and Masses. He would use her ointment to ease his discomfort, and he would offer it to his men, no matter how much the Church condemned such methods.
It was late in the day when the Sheriff and his men entered the stout wooden gates of Wainford Croft. They were met by wary men just in from the small fields, and their women, who sighed at the badges on deSteny’s men’s surcotes as much as their numbers.
“Welcome,” said the master of Wainford Croft, a man deSteny’s age called Hamm of the Gates family, who did not appear sincere in his greeting.
“God show you favor and a bountiful harvest, good crofter, and send you many healthy sons. I am the Sheriff of Nottingham, and these seven men are my soldiers. We are bound for Arundel, on the business of Sir Gui deGisbourne, who is lord here, for you and for us,” said deSteny as he dismounted, cursing the aches and bruise he felt gathering in his flesh. “My men and I need shelter for the night.” He patted the wallet on his belt. “I have money to pay our keep, and our horses’.”
Hamm Gates regarded him slightly less hostilely. “That’s as may be. But our cooking pots are not full, and our children are hungry. We have our own to feed,” he said, his eyes measuring deSteny and his men, assessing their worth.
“Then coins will help you, come market-day, and a smoked ham will give you a meal for tomorrow. Take them with my thanks,” said deSteny, taking care not to let the crofters offend him. “And we will not have to demand anything in Sir Gui’s name. You will have meat from his larder and we will be safe for the night.” He did not want this to become a confrontation, so he added, “I will tell him of your generosity, and ask that it be considered when his tax collector comes.”
“We have little meat,” Hamm Gates warned. “If you want venison, you must find it at an abbey, where the monks are allowed to kill deer. We have only goats and sheep, and we cannot slaughter one for you.”
“And some of them have horns that do not curl, but antlers that branch,” said deSteny evenly, his hands away from his weapons. He regarded the crofters without any sign of disapproval. “I am not here to punish you for poaching. If you have poached, that is not my concern. My mission is otherwise.” He felt the collective intake of breath more than he heard it. “You need your goats and sheep alive, I know. And the deer you have killed were doubtless raiding your fields, and you did away with them to save your crops. Let us help you dispose of the evidence, so that if the King’s Warden should come, he will find nothing to make him think you have broken the law.”
“Is the King’s Warden coming?” demanded Hamm Gates, a touch too urgently for an innocent man. “When is he to be here?”
“Eventually—when he is satisfied that all he will find amiss in the forest is poaching,” said deSteny, holding the reins of his horse out in suggestion that the animal should be stalled, brushed, watered, and fed. “There are two coppers for the lad who cares for my horse. Two coppers for each of our horses,” he added, knowing his men were as tired as he, and the coppers would purchase as much goodwill as grooming. The sum was generous, enough to persuade one of the children to step forward.
A boy of nine or ten presented himself at once. “Two coppers? For caring for one horse? Are you sure?”
“Yes.” DeSteny handed him the reins. “He will not bite you if you do not touch his mouth. Clean his feet, too, after he’s brushed. I don’t want him going lame because of a pebble. Brush the mud off his legs when it has dried. Make sure the saddle-pad is free from dust and any burrs or grit.”
The boy squared his shoulders and tugged the horse after him toward the extension on the barn that served as stables.
“He will do a good job,” said Hamm Gates, and motioned for the other children to come forward. “You know how it is done: see to the horses,” he said.
“Your son?” deSteny asked Hamm Gates as the horses were taken off by youngsters. “A fine boy.”
“With your horse? My nephew. My heir, however,” answered Hamm Gates, his bluntness mildly surprising to deSteny, who wondered how it was that Hamm Gates had no living sons to inherit his croft. “My late brother’s boy.”
“A hopeful lad, by the look of him,” deSteny observed.
“Thank God for it,” said Hamm Gates, then indicated the forty or so people standing around the huge barnyard. “Let us portion out our guests. Each of the houses can take two men. There are eight of you. That leaves only two to sleep in the barn, to guard your horses and your gear. No doubt you can decide who they will be. There is room in the loft. Which might be just as well, for the sake of your horses.”
“Canute, then, and Sprague.” He pointed to the men-at-arms in turn. “Tonight you will sleep in the hay. Meaghar, you’ll keep watch until midnight. Ackerley will relieve you. If there is trouble, sound your alarm.”
“Like Our Lord, we sleep in a stable,” quipped Sprague, who fancied himself a wit. He was in his middle-twenties and had been to the Holy Land where he had lost four toes, an injury he regarded as a sign of distinction.
Canute accepted the assignment with a sigh. “Are we to keep watch, as well?” His tone suggested that he would rather not.
“I doubt that will be necessary,” said the Sheriff, more to keep from insulting Hamm Gates than from any conviction that they were safe here. He coughed and went on, watching the crofters from the tail of his eye. “With Ackerley and Meaghar to guard, you may sleep as best you can.”
Meaghar laughed once. “Repose your faith in me,” he quipped.
“Men sleeping in stables do not sleep soundly, not even when the loft is full of hay,” said Sprague,
his rich chuckle bringing a few, faint smiles from the crofter. “We will be alert to any disturbance, without question. If Meaghar or Ackerley should sound the alert, we will be up and ready in a trice.”
A few of the escort were becoming restless. Ackerley had his hand resting on the hilt of his sword now, and Delwin had taken to tapping his foot so that his spur jingled. The village made them nervous, and they didn’t trust peasants. Now they were out of the saddle, they were realizing how hungry and tired they were. Nottingham seemed very far away, and the road ahead most uncertain. They did not like having to wait while the crofters arranged matters to their satisfaction. DeSteny was aware of this. He opened his wallet and handed over money to Hamm Gates. “Here. For our food and lodging, and the stabling and feed for our mounts.” He smiled as he did this, hoping his men would take their lead from him and present a more agreeable demeanor.
Hamm Gates seized the coins at once. “Very well. Assign your men as you think best. You will sit at my table tonight. You and one other.” If he wanted this offer to sound gracious, he did not achieve his ends.
“Very well. Hearne, you will keep me company.” He knew that Hearne was more readily amused than most of his men, and that he knew more tales and songs than half the minstrels who wandered England; he hoped those abilities would stand them both in good stead during the evening.
The other men waited as various crofters pointed out who among them they would have in their houses. When it was settled, the oldest woman went to the bucket suspended over the little branch of the river that had been diverted to run through a corner of the barnyard. As she watched the bucket fill, she motioned to deSteny to approach. “It is sweet, and clear-flowing,” she announced as she offered the water to deSteny and his men. “You may drink it without harm.”
“And right welcome it is,” he said, drawing his drinking cup from the pouch hanging from his belt. He filled it and drank. “You are fortunate to have good water. When water is foul, then the horses must suffer.”
“Good water makes for good beer,” one of the crofters said, doing his best to make the occasion a friendly one now that money had changed hands.
“We broached a barrel tonight,” Hamm Gates announced, his expression melting into one of pleasant accommodation.
Hearing this, deSteny hoped the morning would not be too unbearable, or the men too slow to rise, but he showed his appreciation, and was glad the awkward moment had passed.
* * *
It was some time after supper had finished and the rushlights were burning low that Hamm Gates said, “I must talk with you, Sheriff. It is very important.” He had drunk four generous cups of beer but his tongue was not unruly and his eyes did not shine as some of the crofters’ did.
DeSteny regarded him with interest. “Yes? What is it?” His two cups of beer had not done more than release the worst knots in his sinews.
“I am ... troubled.” He glanced around as if he feared they might be overheard, though none of his household was paying them any attention—they were caught up in listening to Hearne describe the wonders of London.
“Why?” asked deSteny, and waited for the answer.
“My brother ... he lost his wife and child ... to ... to what is in the forest. Their bodies were frightful to behold, and he had to bury them. It filled him with a grief that was terrible to see. I did not expect such mourning as he has done, for was altered nearly beyond recognition. He was like one gone mad, swearing he would bring an end to the ... the trouble, or die trying to do it.” Hamm Gates fell silent, staring toward the narrow window as if it held something only he knew of.
When he began to worry that Hamm Gates would tell him no more, deSteny said, “Is that all?”
“No,” said Hamm Gates, looking embarrassed at his lapse. But he took his time in resuming. “He went into the forest. Alone. We have not seen him since. He vanished. We have had no report of him, and no message, either. He might as well have been carried off to Heaven. Or Hell. And he isn’t a man who can easily become invisible. He is large, my brother, much larger than I, more than a head taller and with shoulders as wide as a doorway. His arms are thick as haunches and he can drive nails with his fists. He has been our sawyer and smith for ten years and more, so he is stronger than any of the rest of us.”
“I did not meet such a man on the road as we came here,” said deSteny, to keep Hamm Gates talking.
The crofter shook his head. “He went to find his wife and son ... He found them dead, and brought them back to be buried. He saw them into the ground and he swore he would avenge them. He set off from his house with his quarterstaff and his knife, and enough food for three days. That was more than six weeks ago. The monks of Saint Procopius’ Monastery, who pray for us, say he is lost.”
“Is that why you are worried about him?” DeSteny knew there was more.
“Yes,” Hamm Gates admitted as if such concern were shameful. His beer slopped over his chin and he drank again.
“And you have looked for him?” He guessed the crofters would not go far into the forest, but he did not doubt that some effort had been made.
“How far have you gone to find him?” Hearne interjected.
“Not beyond our usual limits,” Hamm Gates said, turning away in shame.
“But you do continue to search,” deSteny said.
“Yes. And ask travelers if they have seen him. Nothing. A big man, strong. He was always laughing at himself for being so big, but after his family were dead, he stopped. He could not smile, let alone laugh. He swore he would not face the danger of the forest but over running water, so that he could not be taken by outlaws. He carried his staff with him, and he is a powerful fighter with it. The monks told him he could only be safe over running water, and with a wooden weapon.” Hamm Gates offered this last as if to approve the prudence of his missing brother. He frowned, reiterating, “He was very good with a quarterstaff. No man for a day in all directions has ever bested him in contest.”
DeSteny shook his head. “I have seen none such in Nottingham, but I will ask for him as we go, if you like, and look for him in the villages we pass. I will make inquiries of other travelers.” The thought that the creatures in the woods might have claimed more victims chilled deSteny to the bone, and made him hope more fervently that Wroughton had reached Windsor safely.
“If you will, I will remember you to God every night,” said Hamm Gates. “Find out, also, if he has done what he swore to do. If he has found what he sought—” He stopped again.
“It might not be wise to have him back, if that is the case,” deSteny appended.
Hamm Gates smiled wanly and reached for the spigot on the barrel. “When you inquire, use his name. We call him Little John.”
How Much the Miller’s Son came Home
IN THE mill there was a pervasive odor of dampness and the constant groan of the wheel turning in the millrace. The grinding of the stones kept the old building shuddering, but the miller paid no attention to any of it. He had become accustomed to the sound so long ago that most of the time he no longer heard it. But tonight he was alert to every sound around him, for his son was missing, and had been missing for six days: it was being said that he had been carried off by evil sprites that lived in Sherwood.
“Who’s there?” he called out in a shaking voice when an unfamiliar clink sounded. He held his breath, waiting for another sound.
A small, black scrap fluttered toward him, and he almost giggled in relief—a bat, nothing more. The miller gave a wobbly smile to the little animal as it flapped upwards toward the thatched roof. There was nothing to fear from the bats, no matter what the priest said about them: the miller had never been troubled by the tiny beasts.
Another sound caught his attention, a sound from outside. It seemed a bit like someone calling his name, but with a rough intonation, harsh and grating, as if the very grinding of the stones had gained a v
oice and was calling to him. He stood still, listening and concentrating, trying not to hear the water, the mill-wheel, and the turning stones. He moved nearer the door, concentrating.
“Father!” The call was louder, or closer.
The miller could not entirely believe it. “Much?” he whispered, saying his son’s name as if praying to a saint.
“Father! Come out! I know you’re in there!” The voice was close-by, probably in the meadow by the stream where the mill stood.
This time he shouted. “Much! Is that you, boy?”
“I’ve come back for you, Father,” he answered. “Come out to me.”
He could not guess why Much would not come in, and imagined all manner of hurts the lad might have that made climbing the stairs and crossing the narrow bridge into the mill difficult or impossible. It was hard to bear, thinking of his child being hurt, and that ended any sense of caution he might have. He made up his mind at once. “Stay where you are, boy!” he yelled, hearing a muffled echo from the mill itself. “I’ll be out shortly.”
“I am lonely, Father!” Much called out. “I miss you.”
This simple plea tore at the miller’s heart and hastened all he did. He pulled his smock over his head, paying no heed to the fine dusting of flour that was deposited on his clothes. Then he opened the door and stepped outside, taking the enclosed torch to light his way. “Ah! My son!”
“Father!” Much sounded more urgent.
The miller hurried along the narrow bridge and clambered down the steep stairs to the ground. He peered into the dark, looking for his son. “Much?”
Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night Page 11
