Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  There was a strangled cry from Hearne as his eyes at last picked out the bustling figure of the Red Friar. “You!”

  The Red Friar stopped in his tracks, a swift look of chagrin going over his features. Then he steadied himself and continued on toward the soldier. “They have you, haven’t they?” He meant this to be sympathetic, but he heard himself, and to his own ears, he sounded as if he were gloating.

  Hearne couldn’t answer. His eyes fluttered and his mouth trembled.

  “You’re annoying him,” said Scarlet to the Red Friar.

  “I don’t want to add to his discomfort,” said the Red Friar, and castigated himself inwardly for lying so obviously.

  “No. You want to drain the life from him,” said Scarlet, chuckling. “Hood wouldn’t like you doing that, not while he hasn’t finished.”

  “But he said ...” the Red Friar began, but could not go on. “His lady hasn’t had her first kill yet. It is fitting that she have this one, considering.” Scarlet rose and took a step back. He studied Hearne critically. “He isn’t going to last much longer. She’d better get her fill soon or miss out on the satisfaction.”

  “Perhaps she’ll find it distasteful,” the Red Friar ventured.

  “She may,” said Scarlet. “And if she does, she’ll starve.”

  This blunt statement troubled the Red Friar. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Hood coming out of his cave in the roots of his hollowed tree. Shoving his hands into his sleeves, he began to pace. “She is new to this life. She may not like it. She is a lady. She isn’t used to the hardships Hood’s men endure daily.”

  “Well, she can’t go back to her family now, can she?” Scarlet said.

  “No,” the Red Friar conceded. “But she has to be able to ... to attack living men and drink their lives. She is gently raised.”

  “Her late father was a fighter. He went to the Holy Land and he fought the French in Aquitaine. His daughter isn’t made of feathers, Friar. She has more substance than you give her credit for having.” Scarlet looked down at Hearne. “He won’t be able to fight her, in any case. Look at him. He’s worse than a dying dog.”

  The Red Friar had an impulse to pronounce the blessing for the dying over Hearne, but even thinking of those sacred words made him queasy, and instead of pronouncing a blessing, he pointed his finger as if in criticism. He went up to Hearne and said, “I’m sorry it has come to this. You have been a loyal soldier.”

  Hearne managed to shake his head, but could not speak.

  “Is he alive yet?” Hood asked suddenly as he lifted the bearskin that covered the entrance to his cave.

  “Yes. For a little while. He is becoming faint,” said Scarlet, moving aside so that Hood could see for himself.

  “A pity, but still necessary,” said Hood, shrugging slightly. “Come, Marian. It is time you made yourself one of us. You don’t want to be apart from us, do you? I will make you the crown of my ... my heart.” He held out his hand to someone standing behind him, and a moment later, Marian deBeauchamp emerged, still dressed like a boy, her face glowing in anticipation. “You know what is to be done.”

  “Yes, my Lord, I know,” she said, moving past him and strolling toward the tree where Hearne was tied; her long stride reminded Scarlet of a big cat’s rolling gait. “He’s proving to be most robust,” she approved as she stopped in front of Hearne. “Well met, soldier,” she said, smiling a little.

  “My Lady,” he muttered, torn between duty and fear.

  “Yes. Truly.” She knelt next to him, her face so near his that they almost touched. “You wanted to preserve me, and preserve me you shall.” Her fingers swept aside the disorder of his hair, exposing the top of his neck.

  “You mustn’t, my Lady,” Hearne whispered. “You mustn’t.”

  “But I must,” she said, and bent to pull off the scabs that had formed over his wounds. She drank eagerly, and, when the stream faltered, she sucked at the torn skin until she could pull no more from it. Sitting back on her haunches, she shook her head. “There wasn’t much left of him.”

  Hood grinned in lupine delight. “Then we will have to find you more. I cannot have my Lady go hungry.” He pulled his horn from his belt and blew on it, summoning his men from half a league around. While they came in answer to the brazen call, he walked up and down in the space before his cave, impatiently tapping his long, pale fingers on his wolf-skin tunic. As his men arrived, they watched him narrowly, trying to discern the purpose of his muster.

  “All but your guards are here, Lord,” said Little John when the clearing was full. He still carried his quarterstaff, but he no longer brandished it.

  “Good. Very good,” said Hood, looking about. “Well, my fine lads, my Lady—who is your Lady—has had her first taste of the eternal food, and she is hungry for more. She must have more or she will go hungry to bed, and this cannot be.”

  A few of the men hooted derision, but most remained silent and expectant.

  Marian deBeauchamp rose from where she had been crouching next to Hearne. “My Lord—who is your Lord—has promised me sport.”

  This time there was a more enthusiastic response as the men realized that they would participate in the hunt. Will Scarlet lifted his hand in ironic salute to Marian, and she inclined her head to him as if to a courtier.

  “Who is in the forest this day? Near enough that we can reach them before nightfall?” Hood asked, looking directly at Little John, whose task it was to know such things.

  “There is a party of merchants from the north, all fat and with well-laden mules. They travel with ten armed men and three monks for guards. There is a tinker with his pack, a crofter and his son taking pigs to market, and a small contingent of soldiers from Windsor, judging from the arms on their surcotes. None are more than three leagues away.” Little John almost smirked as he said this.

  “The merchants are tempting,” said Hood.

  “But they are well-armed, and they are bound for the monastery of Saint Hilarion. They may well be within its walls by the time we can reach them. The crofter is small fare, hardly worth our effort for what we would get from it.” Little John took a deep breath. “The party from Windsor is most easily reached—it is little more than two leagues away, and they are not moving very fast. One of their number has brought mead for them all, and they are inattentive.”

  “You say they are drunk?” Hood asked, his red eyes shining in anticipation.

  “I say they are well on the way to being so.” Little John pointed to Nicholas the Joiner. “You observed them. Tell Hood what you told me.”

  Nicholas coughed awkwardly. “I saw two large jars of mead being passed among the men. They were letting their horses pick their road. All but one, who was fretful and would not drink. The rest made mock of him for his fears, and, I think, imbibed the more to show him how foolish they thought him.”

  “He is the one we must stop first,” said Hood, and held out his hand to Marian.

  “He is riding in the rear, or he was when I saw them,” said Nicholas. “We can still separate him, if we plan for it.”

  “No matter. He is ours.” Hood brayed a terrible laugh. “You shall have the pride of kill, my Lady. You will be the one to take his life.”

  Her face brightened. “You are gracious to me, my Lord.”

  “Not gracious,” Hood corrected her. “It is mete that you should have the most worthy prey.” He ducked inside his cave and retrieved his longbow and a quiver of arrows. “Come. All of you arm yourselves. We may have to fight these men.” He pointed to Little John. “Lead the way. We’ll keep pace with you.”

  Little John pointed to one of the many narrow paths that led away from their clearing. “On to the old shrine, and then south on the road. We should meet them within a mile, if they have kept on at the same pace.”

  “Onward!” Hood ordered, and strode towar
d Little John, Marian deBeauchamp right behind him. The men sorted themselves out into a single file as they made their way through the dense undergrowth of the inner forest. Shortly before they reached the old shrine, Hood called the Red Friar up to his side. “I want you to go on the road. We will flank you in the bushes. I don’t want them put on the alert. A single monk on the road shouldn’t bother them—in fact, if you ask to join them, they will probably think you more unfortunate than they.” He gave the Red Friar a shove, sending him ahead of the rest.

  The Red Friar staggered on the uneven ground and almost steadied himself against the old shrine, but thought better of it, for the Church had consecrated the sacred niche as its own, and the Red Friar knew it would be unsettling to get too near it. He recovered himself and straightened his habit, brushing off as much of the mud and bits of forest matter as he could see. Then he took up his position across the road from the shrine, his hands folded above his slight paunch. He hardly saw Hood’s men melt into the shadows around him, but he knew they were there.

  A short while later the sound of ambling horses came through the trees. Their tack squeaked and jingled, and one of the men was half-singing a song about an amorous mouse; the Red Friar moved to the middle of the road and stood patiently in the dull light of the cloudy afternoon, waiting for what was coming.

  * * *

  Ellenby was at the head of the party, swaying a bit as they went along. He held one of the jars of mead in his free hand while he leaned back to try to join Fortesque, who rode on his right, in song. Behind them, Simmons and Danebraugh shared a jar of mead, but didn’t bother to sing; they preferred drinking to making their presence known in the forest. Moreton and Wroughton brought up the rear, and both of them looked uneasily about.

  The Red Friar held up his hands. “Good soldiers,” he said as they came up to him. “May your day be blessed.”

  “Amen to that, good Friar,” said Ellenby, slurring his words a bit. He pulled his horse to a halt.

  “Well met,” said the Red Friar, who could think of nothing else to say.

  “Indeed.” Ellenby belched. “How is it you’re abroad at such a time?”

  “Alas, it is for penance,” said the Red Friar. “I am supposed to walk from Saint Matthew’s to Saint Erconwald’s.”

  “York to London, nearly the whole of the Great North Road,” said Ellenby. “What sin have you committed that demands so many leagues of you?”

  “It is not fitting for me to say,” the Red Friar said, “but to my Confessor.” He lifted his hand as if to cross himself, but thought better of it and sighed.

  From his place at the rear of the company, Wroughton shook his head and stared. “I know you,” he said, “I know you, Trinitarian!” He raised his voice as fear shot through him. “You were the one we lost in the forest—” Without thinking he began to back his horse up, putting distance between him and the fell monk.

  “I know you, Wroughton,” the Red Friar agreed, saddened that he should have once been friendly with the soldier. “I ask your pardon for this.”

  “You’re one of them!” Wroughton pulled his horse back onto his hind legs and swung him around.

  The Red Friar moved forward and seized the reins of Ellenby’s horse. “Well met,” he said again, with deadly purpose, as he heard Hood’s horn order the outlaws to the hunt.

  How Wroughton made his way toward Home

  MORETON LOOKED about in confusion as he saw Wroughton attempt to bolt just as more than thirty men in green and brown poured onto the road from the thickets and the branches of the trees. The four soldiers on the road ahead of him were surrounded by unknown men, and he knew this meant serious trouble. He quickly decided to follow Wroughton, and tried to wheel his mare, only to find himself caught by four of Hood’s men. He drew his sword and struck out at them as they grabbed at his legs in an attempt to pull him out of the saddle.

  “Moreton!” Wroughton shouted as he tried to spur his mount away from the chaos. “Follow me!”

  “I’m trying!” Moreton shouted as he kicked one of the men near him. His horse sat back on his haunches, squealing in distress, front hooves flailing, scattering the outlaws like autumn leaves. Taking advantage of this, Moreton clapped his heels to his gelding’s sides, sending the horse bounding toward Wroughton. An instant later, he drew rein and looked back, compelled to see what had happened to his four companions. He held his horse with hard hands, keeping the frightened animal under strict control as he prepared to give battle. In the next breath, he was upset to discover that his leader had been overwhelmed and that the other three men were also in the hands of the outlaws.

  Ellenby was on the ground, half a dozen of Hood’s men around him, holding him down. Hood himself approached the supine soldier, ignoring his curses and threats. He nudged Ellenby with his toe. “It is your hour.”

  “Never! May God strike you down for this!” Ellenby shouted desperately.

  “All in good time,” Hood said, his red eyes glowing like living embers. His stride lengthened and he drew all his men around him.

  There was a long howl as men took hold of Ellenby’s arms and legs, holding him spread-eagled on the ground, holding him in readiness for Hood. Moreton kept his horse still just long enough to see one of the outlaws drop down beside Ellenby and bend over him as the others leaned closer in shared anticipation. The scream that followed goaded Moreton to action and he set his gelding galloping after Wroughton. “Oh, God save us!” Moreton shouted, and a moment later felt a weight on his back as a pair of outlaws emerged from the underbrush, daggers drawn. He didn’t realize that he had been stabbed until he felt warm wetness spread down his back from the wound in his shoulder.

  Wroughton charged at Moreton. “Get onto my horse! Go!” he yelled as he came up to the other man. “Hurry!” He used the pommel of his sword to brain one of their attackers and had the satisfaction of hearing the bone crack. As the second outlaw faltered, he swung his sword and hacked the fellow’s shoulder, all but cutting the joint through, then swung out his arm to help Moreton get onto the rump of his horse. “Hang on!” he bellowed as he urged his mount into a run. The big gelding surged forward as if in his panic he was unaware of his extra burden, and wanted only to escape.

  “What were they?” Moreton asked breathlessly. Now that he was out of immediate danger his wound was hurting him. He could feel the blood running and it began to worry him.

  “Outlaws,” said Wroughton. “Worse than any.” He pulled his horse in to a canter, not wanting to exhaust the animal before he was out of range of Hood’s men. “They are dire things, not men at all.”

  “Did you see—” Moreton began.

  “No. Nor did I want to,” said Wroughton grimly. He was more frightened than he could admit, and he whispered a prayer as he rode.

  “What will they do to the others?” Moreton asked in gasps.

  “Kill them, if they are merciful,” said Wroughton. “Or, if they are not, those men will swell their numbers.”

  “How? They are sworn to Prince John and the King,” said Moreton. He shifted his hold on Wroughton so that he wouldn’t bounce so much, for that was making his pain much worse.

  “Not once those men have charge of them,” said Wroughton. “We should have hurried. I knew we should have hurried.” He began to look for side-roads, knowing that not only was he going the wrong way now, but that the outlaws would be lying in wait for him to make another attempt to reach Nottingham. He also doubted that Moreton could ride much farther.

  As if to confirm this, Moreton groaned. “I’m getting weak.”

  “Hang on,” said Wroughton.

  “I will,” said Moreton with more hope than certainty.

  They rushed on, the curve in the road shutting out the dreadful scene behind them. Neither man bothered to look back, although the noises that followed them raised the hair on their necks. They put half a league betwee
n them and the slaughter before Wroughton saw a lane coming in from the left, and he swung his horse onto it, pulling him in to a walk and letting him begin to recover from their mad rush.

  “Where does this go?” Moreton asked in a thready voice.

  “I don’t know,” Wroughton admitted, ducking his head to avoid a low-growing limb.

  “Then why—” Moreton wailed.

  “Because we must get away,” said Wroughton. “This appears to be a wagon-way, which means it may lead to an abbey or a hamlet, in either case, we’ll be safe for a while.”

  “Are you sure?” Moreton asked, his voice fading to a whisper.

  “Of course,” Wroughton lied as he peered about into the darkness, his thoughts preoccupied with unwelcome impressions of the dangers around them. He kept on in silence, hoping that Moreton would continue to remain conscious. When he finally caught sight of a stockade, he was weak with relief. “See?” He said more heartily than before. “A hamlet. The crofters will let us in, most certainly.”

  “Um,” said Moreton, as if incapable of thinking of any words.

  Wroughton rode up near to the gates of the stockade and stopped his horse. Rising in his stirrups, he shouted, “Hello the gates! Open in the name of the Sheriff of Nottingham and Prince John!” He waited and repeated the summons more loudly, and was finally rewarded by an answering shout.

  “How many are you?”

  “Two!” Wroughton answered. “And one of us is wounded. I ask you to let us in for the duty you owe your Lord.”

  There was a longer pause this time, and the next voice was louder than the first, and less cordial. “Why should we?”

  “Because your failure to aid a messenger of the Prince will cost you dearly,” Wroughton shouted back.

  “If anyone ever learns of it,” came the sharp rejoinder.

  “It will be known,” said Wroughton. “And good service will receive as much favor as poor service will bring censure on you and your hamlet.” He hated having to argue with the fellow, whoever he was. “I have a wounded man with me, a soldier of His Grace Prince John. If he isn’t helped soon, he will die. Do you want his death held against you?”