“Because they are cold,” said Hood, and went to climb up into the tree that spread its boughs over the clearing, where he could watch for the return of Little John.
“Cold or hot, they will be welcome here,” said one of the men whose eyes were hollow with hunger.
“Be sure you drain them and thrust hawthorn down their gullets. We can’t manage too many more men,” said the Red Friar.
The men in the clearing began to build up their central fire, adding trimmed branches to the rock-bordered pit. The Red Friar supervised their activities and took charge of making their camp appear welcoming to any who might happen upon it. By the time the fire was blazing merrily, Little John appeared, leading a dazed and exhausted Wroughton, whose haggard face no longer expressed any emotion but despondency.
Marian was the first to move toward the soldier, smiling broadly as she approached him. “Welcome, Wroughton,” she said.
He looked toward her, but gave no sign of recognizing her.
Hood came to her side. “You may have the first of him, but I must have the last. He will be my servant, not yours.” His hand on her shoulder was terribly heavy.
“You are good to me,” said Marian as she moved to Wroughton, putting her arms around his neck, the better to hold him in position; after a long moment, he put his arms around her, as if needing her strength to continue standing. “Oh, very good,” she murmured as her teeth pulled open the half-healed wounds on his throat. While she fed, he began to sag, his grip on her slipping away as he dropped to his knees.
“Enough,” said Hood, pulling her aside. “Now he is mine.”
Marian staggered to her feet, swaying a little, her face slack. “Oh, very good. Very good,” the words slurred.
Hood paid no attention to her; he was relishing the bounty that poured from Wroughton’s neck.
How Sir Gui laid his Plans
“I HAVE hit upon a notion,” Sir Gui announced to Hugh deSteny the morning after the Sheriff returned to Nottingham. “I have considered many possibilities, and, after due reflection I think this will serve our purposes very well.”
DeSteny paused in his perusal of the message brought to him from York and looked up. “What purposes?” He felt uneasy, for Sir Gui was often attached to his notions and disinclined to turn from them.
“Why, the capture of Hood and the return of my bride. I am agreed with my father: the marriage contract must be honored, for the sake of both our families, and then she may retire to the cloister to live out her life in expiation of her sins and thus restore her good name.” He smiled in anticipation of that happy time.
“And how are we to do this?” deSteny asked, troubled and fascinated at once.
Sir Gui waved his plumed hat. “Why, at Nottingham Fair. It is not so very far off,” he said as if it were obvious. “Harvest will shortly be upon us, and the Fair will come soon after, on the Eve of All Saints. Think about it. There are contests of marksmanship and strength, and there are games of chance. Everyone comes from miles around for the last festival before winter comes. I think if I were to announce high stakes for the winners in all games, surely the outlaws would hear of it, and they would come with all the rest, in the hopes of enriching themselves, and we could capture them.” He lifted his hand. “I cannot think why no one else has hit upon so obvious a solution.”
DeSteny did his best to consider the suggestion with as open a mind as he could muster. “It might be possible, but, as you say, people come from miles around: how are we to identify the outlaws? There will be many strangers in the town, and how are we to determine which of them are well-intentioned and which are desperate men?”
“We have some who have seen the outlaws and lived to tell of it. Let them accompany the men-at-arms and pass through the crowds, and that will give them the opportunity to identify such men as they have seen with Hood. Send for that crofter—Hamm, is it?—to point out his missing brother. It is his brother who is missing, isn’t it?” Sir Gui paced the breadth of deSteny’s study, humming slightly. “It will be an easy matter to find the miscreants and take them into custody.”
Although he didn’t share Sir Gui’s confidence, deSteny said, “It might work, but it would expose all the fair-goers to all manner of danger. And who is to say Hamm Gates would come?”
“They want the outlaws gone, do they not? What, then, is a little risk, when being abroad on the roads is ten times more perilous?” Sir Gui stopped in front of deSteny’s table and slapped his hand down. “You cannot tell me that the outlaws cannot be caught this way. They are greedy men, and they are experts with the bow and staff, or so those who have fought them say. They must come to the Fair, and when they do, we shall make the most of their temerity. You know as well as I that they are cowards in their hearts, as all such men must be. All we need is enough soldiers, and they will be ours.”
DeSteny could see that argument was useless. And perhaps, with Sir Humphrey’s help, he could turn this idea of Sir Gui’s into a useful strategy. “What arrangements do you want to have made?”
“First, of course, we must have soldiers, many of them hidden in the crowd. Then we must have the gaols ready to hold them, and guards enough to hold them secure once we have them in hand. If they bring Marian deBeauchamp with them, we must have women to receive her. Nuns, preferably, very discreet ones. And we will need to have a Justice of the Peace on hand, so we may try these criminals at once, and execute them forthwith.” He rocked back on his heels. “As you see, I have thought of everything.”
“So you have,” said deSteny, then put his fingertips together, his eyes focused beyond the half-shuttered window. “And yet, I cannot help but wonder how you plan to bruit about the rewards you intend to use to entice these men in from the forest. This is not the manner of occasion when you can send an invitation or a summons. Yet they cannot learn of it by chance, it must be—” He stopped. “The foolish minstrel.”
“What has that to do with—” Sir Gui began, only to be interrupted.
“Calls himself Alan-a-Dale. The outlaws tell him tales, and he makes ballads to them, praising their exploits. He thinks that he is building a noble legend. Well, perhaps he can tell the outlaws a few tales for a change. I want to make him useful.” There was a hint of optimism in his manner now, as if he began to think Sir Gui was not completely beyond all circumspection with his plan.
“You will attend to such matters,” said Sir Gui, not wanting to be hemmed in by any such considerations that implementation of his idea might impose upon him. “I have done my part by conceiving of a plan.”
“That you have,” said deSteny, as much in charity with Sir Gui as he had ever been. “And I will begin to do my part, as well. It is still a month until the Fair. I’ll see that the first steps are taken at once.”
“Very good,” Sir Gui approved, beaming. “I will have my clerk inform my father what I have proposed, and my messengers will carry the notice to him—under guard, of course.”
DeSteny saw his opportunity. “Yes. And I will want to talk to the guards you select for the journey. I think they can perform a double duty for us, if it will please you, and if you agree to my choices.”
Sir Gui was basking in his own good opinion, so he said, “Yes, of course. You may give them your orders, so long as they do not supersede my own.”
“Certainly,” said deSteny, forcing a note of respect into his voice.
“In the meantime, I am going to spend a day or two with Sir Wilem. We are going to hunt deer. If there is time, we may also hunt wolves.” He smoothed the front of his beautiful clothes. “I will visit you upon my return, to find out what progress you have made.”
“Very good,” said deSteny, and rose to accompany Sir Gui to the door of his study. “You may rely upon me.”
“Of course I may. You would not be Sheriff of Nottingham if I could not,” he said with formidable hauteur. “See that you do n
ot botch this opportunity,” he warned before he turned on his heels and departed.
Left alone, deSteny went to the window and stood looking out on the bright morning. This was going to be a clear, windy day, the sort that still had a little summer in it, where the sunlight fell; in the shadows autumn had already come with its chill. He could smell the ripeness of the fields beyond the walls, and that encouraged him. Gradually a second plan formed in his mind, and he considered it carefully as he weighed his situation. If he went too far afield from Sir Gui’s original intent, he would be ordered to abandon his efforts, so his own plan would have to dovetail with Sir Gui’s. That could be managed, he decided, particularly if the Bishop would agree to help him. That would be difficult, but not an impossible stumbling block to his burgeoning scheme.
There was a scratch at the door and Nicholas called out, “You have a visitor, Sheriff. A nun.”
The Sheriff lifted his head and thought for a long moment. “Who is she?”
Nicholas hesitated then answered, “Her name is Mother Barnaba. She says it is about Wroughton. She is Superior at Saint Gertrude’s, or so she tells me. She has the look of her office.” This last was not entirely a compliment.
“Mother Barnaba?” He didn’t recognize the name. “Have I met her?”
“She says not,” said Nicholas. “Do I admit her? She has come a long way.”
DeSteny was curious. “Yes. Admit her. And then go fetch bread and mead for her.”
“That I will,” said Nicholas, and opened the door.
Mother Barnaba came forward, her head lowered respectfully. “My good Sheriff, thank you for receiving me; this is an honor and I will remember your kindness in my prayers. I am the Superior of Saint Gertrude’s, and I may have information for you. I pray I have, or I will have come a long way for nothing, and that would vex me deeply.” She looked up, the wrinkles strong in her face, her eyes reddened from tears. “You know what has been happening in Sherwood—well, you must!—those creatures who prey on all who enter the forest: I have lost kinsmen to those things—I cannot call them men, or even outlaws—in the forest and I come to you to redress the wrongs I have suffered.”
“I will strive to help you,” said deSteny, wondering why she had chosen him to petition instead of the Bishop. He could certainly understand why she might not go to Sir Gui, but he struck himself as an odd choice.
“For that, I thank God,” she said, devoutly crossing herself and launching into her account. “I have lost my kinsman to what men are calling the forest outlaws. My kinsman was in the company of your man Wroughton, serving as his escort. The outlaws so worked upon him that we have not been permitted to bury him in sacred ground.” She caught her hands together. “I don’t know what more I can do but appeal to you to deal with the outlaws.”
“It has been my purpose for many days,” said deSteny.
“Better a plague than these outlaws,” said Mother Barnaba. “Ellenby was a good man. It grieves me that he must lie at the cross-roads, his face down in his grave, a sprig of hawthorn through his heart.”
“Is that what has happened to him?” deSteny asked.
“Yes. It is all we were permitted to do.” She pursed her lips. “I must see him revenged.”
“You have pledged to avenge him? A strange vow for a nun, if you do not think it wrong of me to say so.” He leaned forward. “Do you insist on vengeance quickly, or will you be content to wait for a while?”
“I want revenge while I live, and I am not a young woman. But as long as God will give me breath, I will be seeking vengeance for Ellenby, and his men, who were lost on his account.” She clutched her rosary crucifix that hung from her belt. “I am content to wait so long as vengeance is sure.”
“It is as sure as anything on this earth may be,” DeSteny wrapped his hand around the hilt of his dagger.
“You place your faith in cold steel.” Mother Barnaba noticed his gesture. “I might do the same, were I you.” She crossed herself as if to protect herself from her own blasphemy. “You may say that I am wrong to seek revenge when God will do it at the Last Judgment. But he and I are of the same blood, and I cannot leave this completely behind, for that would bring disgrace upon my House, and God would not expect that of me.”
DeSteny said nothing. He looked toward the window. “We may find a way to bring these men to justice. It may succeed, but if it doesn’t, I will come to you, and it may be that I will have to use you as part of our plan.”
“Were it not that it would be a sin, I would wield a weapon myself,” she said staunchly. “I have much to expiate, for I have brought shame to my family.”
“Would you take a letter to Windsor for me?” deSteny asked impulsively, expecting her to refuse; it would be a very dangerous venture, and Mother Barnaba was not a young woman.
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “I will pass unimpeded through the forest, for I have a pyx with me, and those creatures will not touch me so long as I have it with me. I am devout enough to be protected.”
“They have attacked clerics before,” deSteny reminded her.
“I reached Nottingham without any hindrance. I can go to Windsor as safely.”
DeSteny allowed himself to be persuaded. “All right. I will make you my messenger, and thank you for the mission you have undertaken.”
She gave him a tight little smile. “When will you have the message I am to carry?”
“If you will come to my study after Vespers, I will give a letter for you to take to Windsor for me,” said deSteny.
“You will want me to keep this to myself,” Mother Barnaba said shrewdly.
“If you would. For your protection as well as the souls of all who travel through Sherwood,” said deSteny.
“I will carry your letter, and tell no one. If I can battle these fiends in no other way, this will content me,” Mother Barnaba assured him.
“If you can keep your purpose through our efforts, you might do the next thing to using a weapon,” deSteny said, thinking that this old woman was more formidable than many captains he had encountered in his years campaigning.
“Good,” she said, and used the sleeve of her habit to blot the tears from her eyes. She prepared to leave the study, then said, “I am going to stay at Saint Anne’s, if you want to speak with me again.”
“I will consult with you before you leave, when I give you the letter. I will make two copies. One for you to keep on your person, the other to go with whomever among your guards you most trust,” deSteny promised. “I thank you for all you’ve done. Simply coming here is a fine thing, and for that I thank you. It is more than many another have done.” He had a long moment as he thought that if Sir Gui’s ploy failed, he might still have an opportunity to bring about the end of Hood and all his followers.
“You begin to give me some hope, Sheriff, and I had thought all hope was gone.” Mother Barnaba bobbed a courtesy to deSteny as she opened the door. “God give us victory over these fell beings.”
“You have done the same for me: given me hope, Mother Barnaba. Would there were men with your courage and determination,” said deSteny, offering her a salute as she departed.
When she was gone, he rose and paced his study, recalling his ordeal on Crusade that had first exposed him to the evil of undead monsters who preyed upon the living, and whose victims brought the horror to England. He knew what he had to do to triumph over the blood-drinkers, and much as he might wish to avoid it, he could not turn from his duty. He began to steel himself for what he feared was to come.
How deSteny prepared for Combat
“HOW MANY arrows and pikes do we have in our armory?” deSteny asked Sir Humphrey as they made their way around the battlements shortly after mid-day.
“Is this for the Eve of All Saints and the Fair?” Sir Humphrey knew that there was a plan afoot to trap Hood during the competitions.
> “Among other things,” said deSteny. “Do we need to ask the armorers and smiths to make more? What do you advise?” It would be unwise to act without Sir Humphrey’s support, for his men would police the All Saint’s Fair.
“Do you expect an attack?” Sir Humphrey folded his big arms and glared out toward the vastness of the trees.
“I expect that Hood will become bolder, and I know Sir Gui is becoming restless. I anticipate open battle before too many more fortnights pass. Sir Gui expects us to do something to restore Lady Marian to him.” DeSteny laughed his anger. “I have to show my determination in more than words.”
“Tell me what you want from me, Sheriff,” said Sir Humphrey.
“I’ll need weapons and a few men willing to patrol the roads. This will prepare us for the trouble that we may have to face. It’s dangerous work, going into the forest, and I have no wish to put any of your soldiers at risk, but my own men are not willing to take on the patrols without others to support them. You can’t blame them.”
“No, I can’t. If it’s true that the outlaws have Wroughton among them, then there is much to consider. Wroughton knows a great deal that those creatures will find useful, and it is likely he will give up all to the outlaws, if they have him. And we must suppose that they have him, or the wolves have eaten him, if we are lucky.” He sighed heavily and went a dozen steps in deep thought. “I think there are a dozen men who might be willing to patrol for you. I will ask among them, if I deem it necessary. You don’t want to leave Nottingham unprotected. I don’t believe I can spare more than a dozen.”
“I will be glad of any help you may extend to me,” said deSteny. He pointed toward the forest, shading his eyes against the glare from high, thin clouds that turned the sun to a bright smudge overhead.
“I’ll decide by tomorrow, once I have had a chance to think about this. I want to consider all that must be done.” Sir Humphrey put his hand on deSteny’s shoulder. “I don’t envy you your predicament, Sheriff, that I don’t.”
Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night Page 26
