“I am near, Father,” said the young man, seeming to materialize out of the nearest clump of trees.
“My boy!” The miller began to weep with joy. “I thought you were lost to us. Come, my boy. Embrace me.”
“That I will, Father, and gladly,” said Much, and came up to the miller in a rush, wrapping him in arms that were stronger than the miller remembered. “I have missed you. You don’t know how keenly I have missed you.” Much repeated as he took his first, deep bite of his father’s throat.
The miller jerked like a gaffed fish, his mind recoiling from what was happening. How could his boy, his Much, do this to him? Surely it was a devil that had taken the form of his missing child. It could not be Much worrying his neck. His thought began to blur, and terror built in him as he realized he was bleeding to death.
Much raised his head, and the miller saw his face was smeared with blood, and he called out, “Hurry. He won’t last long.” Then he resumed his grisly task.
Half a dozen figures came out of the darkness and converged upon the hapless miller, a few of them snarling as they waited for their turn as the pulsing red fountain began to dwindle to a weak stream.
Wolves, thought the miller in an eerily calm way. That is what they remind me of. They are just like wolves. He tried to lift his hand to touch his son, but it was much too heavy, and the effort was unimportant in the fading glimmer of his thoughts. Then he lost consciousness, and a short time later, his life.
Much laid his father down regretfully—he was still hungry—and turned to those who had accompanied him. “I told you I could get him out of the mill.”
“So you did,” said Will Scarlet, who just now lived up to his name: blood covered his face and hands, bright in the moonlight. “We could not have got into the mill, that’s certain.”
“He might have been in an iron tower,” said Penrod Lugenis, the former scholar.
“Built over running water,” said Amadin, who had been a skinner until Hood’s men found him. “As safe as a church.”
“Safer,” said Piers, recalling how the monk had cozened him out of the monastery into the grasp of Hood.
“Still, he came out when I called,” said Much with pride. “Nothing could have lured him out but my voice.”
“So you said,” Will Scarlet remarked with a trace of boredom.
“Because it is true.” Much took a defiant stance beside his father’s body.
“The two of you, stop it,” said Amadin. “There’s nothing worth fighting over.”
“You have done what we all do,” added Penrod Lugenis.
Much sulked. “No one could find us prey. You all looked and you failed. You were hungry. I told you we would have what we sought. I did that, and I have been one of you for no more than five days, and yet I have brought you to feed.”
“And that was good of you, but nothing more than is expected,” said Will Scarlet, trying to maintain his composure. “You cannot boast of every kill.”
“None of us are allowed to boast of doing what we must,” said Marzial deGranville, who had been a Royal Courier until Hood’s men had set upon him almost a year ago. “It is not pleasing to Hood.”
The others agreed with growls.
“This was my father!” Much insisted. “Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Ease of capture, most certainly,” said Piers. “As for the fact that he is your father, that is past.”
“Because he is dead,” said Much.
“Because you are one of us, and all your living ties are for naught,” said Will Scarlet.
There was a long silence among the small group of Hood’s men. Then Amadin coughed. “We shouldn’t linger,” he said pointedly. “Someone may come looking for him, and then we would have trouble.”
“That’s so,” said Will Scarlet. “We should return to our camp.”
Much shook his head. “Does this mean nothing to you?”
“It means we are no longer famished,” said Piers.
Thomas Franklin, who had not spoken until now, observed, “The night is young, but I suppose you’re right: we must go back. Hood doesn’t want us abroad for long.”
“You will tell him what I did,” said Much, looking toward the forest. “You know who to tell, and how.”
“If you insist,” said Will Scarlet, “I will do it.”
“He must know my devotion,” said Much, beginning to trudge toward the trees. “I have a mother, too, and two sisters. We can return here.”
“Not for a while,” said Will Scarlet. “Once they find your father, they will arm against us.”
“Will he rise?” Piers asked, trying to recall his own transition.
“Not he. We broke his neck,” said Will Scarlet.
“Oh, yes. That’s right,” said Piers.
A moment later they were into the trees and the sight of the mill was lost behind branches. They moved along steadily, as if in daylight rather than under the ashen moon. Along barely visible trails they went, startling badgers and foxes on their way, covering ground with unholy speed.
Midnight had just passed when they reached their camp again, and found a good number of their fellows gathered about a fire, some of them with the bloated appearance that showed they had glutted themselves on the blood of animals. Others showed the lethargy of hunger, and they watched their comrades with the steady, envious gaze of foxes.
“Where’s Hood?” asked Will Scarlet, speaking for the half-dozen of his companions.
“Still hunting,” said a lean palmer called Clemence. He had taken off his jerkin and was washing blood off his body using water from a leather bucket.
“On his own?” Marzial deGranville asked.
“Who knows?” Clemence shrugged. “You must have found prey to your liking, to return so early.”
“That we did,” said Piers, sinking down on a log and readying himself for a nap.
“I took them to my father’s mill,” said Much.
“That he did,” Will Scarlet confirmed. “And he drank first.” This last was delivered in a cutting tone.
“I caught him. He was mine,” said Much.
“We all slaked our thirst,” said Penrod Lugenis, no longer interested in the argument.
“But he was my father,” Much persisted.
“And?” Penrod Lugenis prodded.
“What’s the importance of that?” Clemence asked. “He’s dead in any case.”
“The importance,” said Much with exaggerated patience, “is that I killed him, even though he was my father.”
Will Scarlet shrugged. “And Hood killed me, though we are cousins. The only difference is your father will stay dead.”
The men around the fire showed a little curiosity about the debate, but most of them were not very interested.
Much stomped over to the well and pulled up the bucket. “I have to wash.” He dropped his hands into the water, staining it red.
“So do we all,” said Piers. “There are other hunters who will be drawn to the scent of blood.” He went to join Much, doing his best to keep the young vampire from blurting out any more claims about his father.
“How long will it take for the Sheriff to find out?” asked Clemence.
“About the miller? A day or two, no more. Chilton should know tomorrow,” said Will Scarlet.
“If we made Chilton one of us, we would not have to worry about him,” said Thomas Franklin.
“They would just appoint another to his post, and what would be the use of that?” said Amadin. “We know Chilton.”
“Besides, if Chilton dies, or becomes one of us,” said Penrod Lugenis, “it is likely that the Sheriff will appoint more than one man to guard the forest, and that would not be useful to us. Best to keep things as they are.”
“The scholar is right,” said Orlan Royce. “When
I was a guide, I often encountered Chilton, and I know that his reports are heeded in Nottingham.”
Amadin clapped his hands. “That can be to our advantage. Let him try to keep up with what we do, and see how well he fares.” His laughter was like the yapping of wolves. “There are more of us than him. We can run him ragged, so that he cannot make a true report, no matter what he may do.”
A few of the men made noises of agreement, but most of them were too busy preparing themselves for the arrival of Hood, who would not be pleased if they had not cleaned themselves after the kill.
“Well, just so you think about it,” said Much, sloshing water over his head and rubbing his face with his free hand.
Will Scarlet flung up his hand in exasperation. “Very well. We will think,” he said, and set about neatening himself along with the rest.
How Hood wrought among the Pilgrims
ALL DAY long the Red Friar had tried to remember his prayers, and to repeat them without feeling desperately ill. Now that the sun was going down, the urge to piety had left him, and he was unable even to think about God, for any attempt along those lines left him as wrung out as a bad case of dysentery. He drew his hood over his head and prepared to leave the hovel he shared with Will Scarlet.
“They say there will be ample drink tonight, for all of us. We will feast upon the unwary,” Will Scarlet remarked from his bed of straw and lichen. “There are pilgrims on the road, bound for the coast to take ship to France.”
“They may be protected,” said the Red Friar, recalling the many times he had accompanied such men and women along the Great North Road.
“Not from us,” Will Scarlet declared as he flung back the bear-hide rug that covered him. “They are not wise enough to arm themselves against us.”
“They carry ... joined sticks, you know the kinds I mean—the sign of their belief. They have them around their necks, with special beads.” This last was hard to get out. “And many of them have ... that bread on their persons. They carry it to guard them.” He wanted to say the Host, but that was beyond his capabilities. He motioned to the troubadour. “Can you ignore such things?”
“Not really. Not I. But Hood can. He is ... less hampered than the rest of us are. I don’t know why, only that he is so. He is the strongest of us, and he has proved it often.” He was on his feet now, stretching as much as the low, earthen ceiling would permit. He sighed as his hand brushed a fall of dust from his head. “Might as well be in a grave.”
“It is where we ought to be,” said the Red Friar. “In a grave, with the ... protection over us.” Just admitting so much left him queasy.
“So we ought, but it isn’t going to happen, not to us.” Will Scarlet sighed as he prepared to raise the flap of the deer-hide covering the entrance. “Unless there’s someone out there smarter and more determined than Hood is, and as ruthless and as strong. Even if there is, he’d have to know just what he was up against, and that doesn’t seem too likely.”
“Perhaps not,” said the Red Friar, rubbing the stubble of his unshaven pate. “I don’t like thinking about how we will go on until it’s over.”
“Neither do I,” said Will Scarlet as he left their quarters.
Sherwood Forest was rustling down into dusk. Blue gloom spread everywhere under the canopy of leaves. The men around Hood were emerging from their various dens and burrows, most of them restless with need. All were silent in anticipation of what they know must come. Will Scarlet and the Red Friar joined the others at the side of their leader and waited for him to speak.
Hood’s face was unusually gaunt as he stared around the clearing. His cloak hung open so that the faded green of his garments could be seen in the last of the daylight, and the shine from his red eyes was as brilliant as sunset. He stretched with animal thoroughness, sinuous as a cat, and then addressed the gathered men. “Tonight we will feast. No one will go unfilled. You will drink to the dregs.”
There was a sound compounded of hunger, wrath, and longing. It was not quite a howl, but it echoed uncannily through the trees, carrying silence in its wake.
“Not far from here there is an abbey. Most of you know the one I mean, for the Trinitarians. We have been there before, on similar missions,” Hood went on, his expectations finding expression in the relish with which he told them. “A party of pilgrims arrived there in the afternoon and sought the protection of the monks. This was granted. The abbot has sent word that his Trinitarians will be at prayers in the chapel from sundown until midnight, and if we come during that time, the pilgrims will be ours to do with as we wish, if we will but continue to leave his monks untouched. They will not bar the gates against us, or set guards on the walls. We will encounter no opposition from anyone, for the wine the pilgrims drink will be laced with poppy, and they will sleep deeply. We will be able to take our fill so long as we are away by midnight.”
This time the sound was louder, and a few of the men began to pace energetically.
“There are more than thirty pilgrims, so you will have to stay quiet as you drain them, so as not to disturb any who might have not been touched by the poppy. And you must drain them.” He paused, and when he went on his voice was as cold as a hinge in winter. “We cannot have them joining us, so it is best if they are all forever dead. You know how this is done.”
“Take their heads!” one of the men shouted.
“Break their necks,” said Will Scarlet.
“Put a hawthorn branch down their gullet,” said Penrod Lugenis.
“Yes,” Hood approved. “Bring the heads you take to me. All of them. If you break necks, or stuff them, cut off their noses instead, but be sure all are reckoned. I will count them all, to be certain that we have left no one behind to—” He broke off, peering up into the massive darkness. “The man who fails to take a head or bring me a nose when he has fed will be sent away from here, and kept away.”
The Red Friar nudged Will Scarlet and whispered, “Where is the disgrace in that?”
Will Scarlet answered as quietly as he could, “The crofters are warned, and they know what to do. It has happened before. For them we are bad enough—they do not want rogues.”
“You mean you let the crofters kill vampires?” The Red Friar was shocked.
“Yes. So long as the vampire is not one of us,” said Will Scarlet. “They have made the Old Ones as they are.”
“But if they can kill us ... How are we to survive? Won’t it be the end of us, to have the crofters kill us?”
“And consign us to Hell everlasting,” Will Scarlet reminded him. “You no longer serve ... your old master. Hood is the source of life and death here.”
“I suppose so,” said the Red Friar, doing his best to accept this dire situation. Perhaps, he thought, he would be considered a martyr if he defied Hood. But as soon as the notion crossed his mind, he knew it would not happen, and he all but staggered under the weight of his despair.
“The pilgrims will be given the wine with their meal, and they should sleep shortly afterward, with sleepy guards to watch over them,” Hood continued. “Their dormitory doors will not be locked, and you will have nothing barring your way. Strike swiftly and allow no one to escape.” He pointed up toward the sky. “Bring your swords and your daggers. It is time we were off.”
Somehow the Red Friar heard himself say, “I do not carry a sword, nor any weapon.”
Hood rounded on him, his red eyes alight. “Then have one or the others do the work, just so long as you bring a head or a nose to me.”
It was an order impossible to disobey. The Red Friar nodded dumbly and tried not to look at Hood.
“I am ready to go,” Hood announced, holding his sword aloft. It was a signal to the rest of them to prepare for the night. All hurried to arm themselves, and then fell into step behind Hood, making their way through the dusk toward the Abbey of Saints Florus and Laurus which had stood in the fore
st for more than three hundred years.
* * *
The walls of the abbey were thick and its buildings squat. The gates, of iron-bound oak were so heavy that two monks were needed to open them. Hood swung them as easily as a lady might push aside a curtain, and waited while his band trooped into the small courtyard where they stood together until he closed the doors. From the far side of the courtyard came the sounds of monks chanting their prayers. He pointed in the direction of the cells where the pilgrims were quartered. “There. Do not alert them, or we will have a fight and the monks will have to get involved. The Abbot would not like that. He would have to resist us, and those monks under his authority would be in danger.” His low laughter was dreadful to hear.
“What must I do?” the Red Friar asked Will Scarlet, hoping he did not know the answer. “How should ... it be done?”
“You will know,” Will Scarlet answered grimly, his features lupine as he started along the corridor leading to the dormitories.
The first of the band was inside the building already, and the rest were close behind. In spite of his best intentions, the Red Friar found himself falling in with the rest, an emotion stirring within him he did not want to acknowledge or recognize. In this place, he should feel his perfidy, and his shame should stop him from taking part in the debauchery. This was his own Order, and he was coming as a thief in the night to steal more than gold. His jaw tightened uselessly against the thirst that had started to rage in his veins, compelling him to go in search of the one remedy that would bring him ease. He could not recall how he had reached the door to the men’s dormitory, but he slipped inside and flinched as he caught sight of the crucifix over the sleeping pilgrims’ heads. He stumbled forward, suddenly eager to feel the pulse of life under his lips. He leaned over a scrawny young man lying under the single rough blanket provided by the monks, and laid his fingers on the lad’s neck.
“Wha ...?” the pilgrim murmured, disturbed and about to awaken.
Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night Page 12
