“And for that, you shall have first favor of our next hunt,” said Hood, and smiled as the tension that had crackled in the glade as much as the fire finally eased.
Listening to these men discuss her with no more concern than her uncle would show a hound or a bull, Marian could not believe that she could emerge from this safely. She looked about her, seeing the company of men—so much larger than she had anticipated—and knew that she had almost no hope of escape. To her astonishment, she saw Hood approaching her, his white skin and hair making him appear to be a ghost.
“So you are promised to Gui deGisbourne,” he said as he came up to her.
“Yes,” she said.
“And how do you regard him, your pledged husband?” The mockery in his red eyes revealed his opinion.
“As I would any husband,” she said, speaking the truth as bluntly as she could, and hoping it would buy her a quick death.
“And how is that?” Hood tweaked the straight bangs out of her eyes.
She stared at him defiantly, unwilling to show her fright. “As a master who has the right to use me as he would a cur, and probably will. I know my value is in my blood and any sons I may give Sir Gui, and that otherwise, I am no better than any drab in the land, I am purchased just as she is, but my price is higher than hers.”
“Your value is in your blood,” Hood repeated in ferocious amusement. “That much is true.”
She felt a cold grue make its way along her spine, but she held his gaze with her own. “I will not cheapen my name, for then I would truly be nothing more than a drab.”
“Why not become a nun, and keep to yourself?” Hood asked, having trouble saying “nun.”
“God is as capricious a husband as any, and more uncaring than most,” she said bluntly. “I lack a calling.”
“Then it is a shame you were not born a son,” Scarlet dared to say.
Hood glowered at him. “You’re right, Cousin, but you are also impertinent.”
Marian turned to Scarlet. “It is a pity, for I cannot remain maiden all my life, can I?”
“And you would rather die than be dishonored,” said Hood with satisfaction.
The men in the clearing moved nearer to the fire, as if trying to share its heat.
Swallowing hard, Marian said, “Yes.”
“Then you shall have your wish,” said Hood, and took hold of her shoulders. “I will not dishonor you, Maid, but I will kill you—for a while.”
She stared at him, comprehension just beginning as she felt the flesh of her throat give way under the power of his attack.
How deSteny arrived at Nottingham
THE RAIN had continued for four days, blustery and cold, soaking the forest and everything in it. The road had become so muddy that the horses wallowed as they labored on, and mud came up to their girths. Their progress slowed from seven leagues a day to four. DeSteny didn’t push the soldiers, for he was reluctant to arrive at Nottingham, where he would have to admit his failure and accept the punishment Sir Gui was certain to mete out to him, punishment he would richly deserve for allowing Marian deBeauchamp to vanish, along with Hearne. The recriminations Sir Gui would heap on him would be nothing compared to the dismay he felt already: he continually thought back to that dreadful realization that they were gone, and the hours spent searching for Lady Marian and Hearne.
The same questions rankled: What had he missed? What sign had he ignored? What subtle trace had he overlooked? What had become of the two of them? Surely if they had been set upon there would have been some sign—blood, a weapon, broken branches, anything—but aside from the discarded hood, there was nothing.
They were ten leagues from the gates of Nottingham when Byrle spoke up for the first time since their breakfast in a small, run-down abbey. “You couldn’t have known. Truly, Sheriff. Who could have?” It was drizzly and cold, and the young soldier sniffed and rubbed at his reddened nose.
“I was charged with her safety,” deSteny said. He huddled in his cloak as much for comfort as for warmth. “We know the forest is dangerous. I should have insisted that she remain with us, or kept more of our men with her, or—”
“And who is to say you wouldn’t have lost another man?” Delwin demanded.
“I might have done. But she might have been spared,” said deSteny miserably.
“So she might. But you did all that any man might to guard her. You wanted to keep her from harm when you left her in Hearne’s care.” Byrle sounded worried.
“But I didn’t. She disappeared,” deSteny said, his heart heavy. He wiped the wet from his eyes. “Who knows what has become of her? There has been no word, I take it? No demands for ransom, or any other news of her?” He had some very unpleasant notions about the possibilities, most of which made him cringe.
Delwin gave a gesture of helplessness. “We searched for her and we have asked everywhere for word of her. No one has seen anything. What more could you do without summoning a company of soldiers? And where would such soldiers be found? We were leagues from any fort or castle. What other course was open to us? I don’t think Sir Gui wants it known that his affianced wife has vanished. It could lead to speculation that wouldn’t please him.” He was incensed now, and the more he spoke the more he fueled his aggravation. “You are going to report the ... incident. You will explain what happened. We did all that anyone could. We haven’t abandoned our duty.”
“Perhaps you haven’t, but I have,” said deSteny, feeling a desolation of spirit he hadn’t known since his terrible days in the Holy Land.
“No,” protested Sprague. Under his helmet his face was drawn with fatigue and worry. “You have done all that any man might.”
“I doubt if Sir Gui will see it that way,” said deSteny with an attempt at humor. “He isn’t likely to be pleased with this news.”
“He may be relieved,” said Byrle. “If half the rumors are true.”
DeSteny knew he should discourage such talk, but all he said was, “Don’t say that where any friar can hear you.”
“Why? They gossip more than soldiers do,” said Sprague. “But we’ll hold our peace.”
“Just as well,” said deSteny, looking around as the way became more familiar. “The garrison may have realized something was wrong, for we are coming late.”
“They’ll attribute that to the rain,” said Sprague, determined to be hopeful.
“And traveling with a woman,” added Delwin. “They won’t have sent out scouts for us, not yet, not with Sir Gui’s man in charge.”
They reached a sturdy, covered bridge and went over the swollen stream. “It’s good to be out of the wet, even a little while,” said deSteny, knowing the stream protected them as much as the roof did.
“So it is,” said Sprague. “I will order a tub of hot water when we get back, to clean off the grime and warm my bones.”
“And I,” said Byrle.
“We’ll all want a bath,” deSteny said, settling the matter. He retreated into silence, and his men took their example from him.
Shortly before mid-day, they made the turn for Nottingham, and in a little while, they were out of the forest and riding up to the walls of the city. They were admitted promptly through open gates, and rode directly to the castle, drawing rein and signaling for the portcullis to be lifted. Men on the ramparts hailed them, and, hearing their names called back, raised the gates hurriedly, gathering around them as they came inside the walls, bedraggled as half-drowned cats.
Sir Humphrey was at the head of the men who came forward to meet the Sheriff and his men. He stared, counting the reduced numbers and keenly aware that the woman they had gone to escort was not with them. “Three men missing? Hearne? Meaghar? Ackerley? And—the bride?”
“It’s a long story,” said deSteny resignedly. He swung off his dun and sighed heavily. “Where is Sir Gui?”
“Heaven only knows. Not here,
that much is certain,” said Sir Humphrey, rolling his eyes upward. “And Wilem deFolleux! What a fop! You should see him in his silks, his pomander to his nose, parading about: Sir Gui’s crony has done little more than wander the castle with troubadours serenading him, play his shawm, and order elaborate feasts. My men have had to go and kill cranes and geese for his pleasure. We had to butcher suckling pigs two nights ago, and they say we’ll have to bring in three red harts for him tomorrow, dressed for the spits. Soldiers doing the work of scullions!” His indignation mounted as he spoke. “He has done nothing about the trouble in the forest, and is only interested in the quality of cloth that comes from Nottingham’s looms. The most manly exercise he undertakes is hunting, and that only when it is fitting that he accompany Sir Gui.”
DeSteny nodded. “In other words, Sir Gui’s sort of man.” It was an unwise remark, but he made no apology for it. “As you can tell, we had ... difficulties.”
“I supposed something of the sort,” said Sir Humphrey. “What will you tell Sir Gui?”
“As much of the truth as he’ll permit, when he returns.” DeSteny signaled his men to dismount. “We might as well get this over with. There is nothing to be gained in prolonging our report.”
The men obeyed, but slowly, as if they wanted to make themselves less noticeable.
When the grooms came to take the horses in hand, deSteny said, “My dun needs her hooves trimmed and new shoes. The off-side rear one is loose. I can hear it click.” This ordinary complaint seemed reassuring, an uncomplicated problem with an easy solution.
“I’ll tell the farrier. He’ll see to it tonight,” said the groom, taking the dun and the roan in hand.
Some of the soldiers not on duty had wandered up toward them, but now hesitated, as if worried they might experience some invisible contagion from the Sheriff and his men. Sir Humphrey regarded these soldiers with scorn. “Do you respect deFolleux so much that you look upon deSteny with scorn? You know how the forest is. Do you believe you could have fared any better? He would stand by you, if you had gone on this ill-omened journey.”
The Sheriff regarded the Marshal with surprise. “You are very good, Sir Humphrey,” he said. “But these men are right to be dubious.”
“Any man who has not faced danger can have no worthwhile opinion, no matter how high-born he may be,” Sir Humphrey declared. “If they were not in your company, they can have nothing to say one way or the other. You are not obliged to listen to anything. Keep in mind whose vassals you are. And,” he added portentously, “if I learn that any of you have spoken to any of Sir Wilem’s court, I will dismiss him from mine. Is this clear? You are all on your honor.” The men standing around Sir Humphrey said nothing, although their expressions were eloquent. A few of the men manning the ramparts lifted their pikes to show their support. “Come inside, Sheriff,” Sir Humphrey went on, making it obvious that he welcomed deSteny’s return. “You must be cold and hungry.”
“That I am, and all my men,” he said, falling in beside the stout, sturdy Marshal. He was surprised at the support Sir Humphrey had given him, and the polite manner in which he allowed deSteny to take the lead. They entered the keep and started along toward the ward-room. “If there is any punishment, it is mine to take.”
“Nonsense,” said Sir Humphrey. “It is Sir Gui’s doing, ultimately. If he was so worried for his bride, he should have fetched her himself.”
DeSteny agreed but held his tongue. “Sir Gui is away?”
“From Nottingham and Gisbourne,” said Sir Humphrey. “He is said to be hunting with his cousin.” The angle of his brows made it clear that he doubted this.
“A last tryst, do you think?” deSteny asked.
“That would be my guess, for there is not much sport to be had in the forest just now,” said Sir Humphrey as he opened the door to the ward-room. “I will have water ordered for a bath. You look numb and there’s mud half-way up your legs.”
“All of us have had a hard go of it,” said deSteny. Then he looked about. “Has Wroughton returned?”
“Not yet,” said Sir Humphrey. “I suppose we might expect him within a se’enight.”
“For his sake, I hope so. The weather is turning filthy,” said deSteny. He went to one of the benches drawn up before a smoking fire. “This is good. It’s warm.”
“Your men will have hot food shortly, and spiced wine to get their blood flowing once more. If you want the same, I’ll have the page bring you a tray at once.” Sir Humphrey sat at the other end of the bench.
DeSteny shook his head. “I’ll wait until my men have eaten.”
Sir Humphrey nodded. “As you wish. This is a shabby way to receive you, no matter what the reason for it.” He paused, sighing. “We’ve lost nine more crofters to whatever is out there,” he said slowly.
“Poor wretches,” said deSteny, looking over his shoulder as a page came into the ward-room.
“Amen, and may God save them,” said Sir Humphrey before telling the page to have the bath-barrel brought. “Make sure the water is hot. The Sheriff has been chilled on his journey. And bring a pot of wine with pepper and ginger.”
The page was shocked at this extravagance, but bowed and withdrew.
“I could order your quarters prepared,” Sir Humphrey suggested.
“Not until I have got out of these clothes,” said deSteny. “Besides, I must suppose that Sir Wilem still occupies them.”
“It is time he left,” said Sir Humphrey, making no apology for his brusqueness.
“He is here on Sir Gui’s invitation, and to do his bidding,” deSteny reminded him. “You have an obligation to maintain his hospitality.”
“No doubt. But my first duty is to Nottingham, and you are Sheriff here.” Sir Humphrey folded his arms. “You are in immediate need of warmth and food. It is fitting that you receive both. And Sir Wilem isn’t within the walls.”
“Where is he?” deSteny asked, only mildly curious. “You said he was away, but where?”
“He is also hunting. With Sir Gui.” Sir Humphrey’s inflection revealed his opinion of this.
“Another tryst?” DeSteny knew he ought to speak up on Sir Gui’s behalf, but couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“It may be,” said Sir Humphrey. “It is your right to reclaim your place, Sheriff.”
DeSteny was about to speak, but stopped as the page came back bearing a small tray on which stood a tankard of wine. Wraiths of steam rose from its surface, smelling of ginger and pepper and the warm vines of France. He took the tankard and felt its heat on his hand, so intense it verged on being painful. “Thank you,” he said, both to the page and Sir Humphrey. He took a long sip, enjoying the sensation in spite of the discomfort.
Sir Humphrey waited until the page was gone, then said, “Don’t wait for Sir Wilem to come back. This is your place. Take it. Otherwise Sir Gui will blame you for all that has happened.”
“Not without cause,” said deSteny.
“That’s as may be,” said Sir Humphrey. “You and I know it was foolish to bring a woman into the forest with so small an escort. All it did was alert the creatures within that there was something to find. If he didn’t go himself, then he should have sent a proper contingent. The men with you were hardly enough for three merchants, let alone a lady.”
“She wore boy’s clothes,” said deSteny.
Sir Humphrey laughed harshly. “As if that could fool those—those—” He stopped, not finding a word to express what he thought of the marauders. “There is no disguise sufficient to deceive them.”
DeSteny nodded and drank more hot wine.
How the Red Friar met an old Friend
WILL SCARLET dragged the bench toward the tree where Hearne was tied, head down, ankles lashed to the higher branches; the soldier’s face should have been purple, but it was the color of whey, his eyes staring out of darkened sockets like
empty pits. His skin was slack and what little was left of his voice came out in a rasp. Here, in the muted light of the deep forest, all the colors were faded, and that added to Hearne’s sepulchral pallor. Scarlet kicked the plank into position and straddled it, facing the dying soldier. “Don’t fight it, my friend. You can’t do anything.”
Hearne’s eyes opened slowly but were fixed on a distant point only he could see. “Be ... damned to you.” There was almost no breath left in him, but the vitriol of his curse was still apparent.
“Yes, of course,” Scarlet soothed, gently touching the blood-matted stubble on Hearne’s cheek. “We’re all damned here, every last one of us. That’s been arranged some time ago.” Then he tweaked the ragged edge of Hearne’s beard. “Don’t fret, soldier. You’re near the end. It’ll be over soon.”
“Not soon enough, no, not soon enough. You should have left me where you abandoned me. I would have been dead within a day,” Hearne whispered, his eyes unable to focus on his tormentor. His breath came out in little clouds, mute testament to the warmth that remained in his flesh; Scarlet’s breath had no fog, for he was cold as the air around him.
“Oh, don’t say that,” Scarlet pleaded. “You have given so much to so many of us. You should be proud of your sacrifice. You nurture us and become a martyr to your faith at the same time. What man could want more?” His laughter had an edge to it.
“Vile!” Hearne tried to spit and succeeded only in sending a thin stream of drool along his face toward his brow. He ground his teeth.
“Don’t be so condemning,” Scarlet recommended. “You have some time left, and you wouldn’t want it to be unpleasant, would you? We can make it so.”
Hearne strove to speak, and was able to get out a few fragmentary words, but he could not express his repulsion adequately, and so tried to ignore Scarlet, looking past him to the little grove where Hood’s band lived.
“You aren’t listening to me, are you?” Scarlet said, amused and offended at once, his youthful features marred by cynicism.
Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night Page 18
