Trouble in the Forest Book One: A Cold Summer Night

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Alan moaned as much in terror as in pain. “Then—”

  “You’re tainted, but you aren’t one of his group yet. You are between your life and his.” He grabbed Alan and forced him to stand up enough to move. “It’s going to be dark by the time you’re back.”

  “Oh ... celestials,” said Alan, fighting off an attack of vertigo.

  “Don’t try to say those words,” Scarlet recommended. “You’ll only make yourself ill if you do.” He continued into the forest, walking confidently along secret by-ways, all but dragging Alan after him.

  Although he was fighting confusion, Alan was unable to resist Scarlet’s determination. He felt his legs begin to tremble, and his vision swam, but he dared not stop, for fear of what Hood might do if he thought Alan was unable to complete his assigned tasks. But try as he would, he could not think of rhymes for his songs—just now that was as much beyond him as climbing the mountains of the fabled East.

  How Mother Barnaba came to Windsor

  HER MULE refused to go faster than a walk, stubborn after the nature of his kind; he moved along steadily enough, but at the same dogged pace he had set out in, covering the ground inexorably but slowly. Mother Barnaba sat in the saddle, her thighs and backside aching from her long ride. Most of her cheese was gone and only a handful of grain remained in her saddle-bag for the mule, and that would only see her through one more night. Then she must seek shelter and food if she had not yet reached the Prince. It had been several years since she had gone to Windsor, and she was reluctant to do anything more than let the mule find its way, for the woods were much changed from what she remembered. She had been passed by four groups of merchants, each heavily escorted by soldiers, and she prayed for each of them, certain in her heart that some of them would be set upon by the evil that lived in the forest before they came to their destinations.

  She had gone through a number of hamlets, making note of the state of the houses and crops, and thinking that the crofters were taking more of a chance in the forest than they had done in years past. Those villages that had a church or an abbey near-by could be much more protected, but there was still the constant chance for trouble. She had made it a point to stop only at walled abbeys and churches within village walls, for she was sure that some of the fell creatures had taken over various religious buildings, and in those places, she would have no protection from them. Her last night had been spent in a fortress, in a stone room that was no larger than her mule’s stall. She had not complained, but her back had yet to forgive her the night on the straw mattress.

  “Nun!” a small boy shouted as he emerged from the undergrowth, his dirty face set in an angry smile.

  Mother Barnaba pulled in the mule, covering her jitteriness with a smile. “Youngster. May God send you a good day.”

  “Hoo!” The boy rubbed his nose.

  “Do you look for birds, or other small prizes?” She was mildly chiding, for even such minor poaching was forbidden.

  “You don’t know anything.” He turned away from Mother Barnaba. “The Prince is hunting today. You shouldn’t be on the road.”

  “Prince John?” said Mother Barnaba, hope flooding back through her.

  “And his nobles. You can hear the horns, sometimes. Sometimes they just rush up on you.” He capered along the road as if this would be a high treat.

  “Don’t you worry about being hurt? Out here on your own?” she asked, trying to listen for the sound of horns.

  “They don’t bother with me. I’m too small for them.” He chuckled. “The Prince doesn’t mind, either.”

  “How do you escape trouble?” she asked, truly interested.

  “I climb into the trees. I see a lot in the trees.” His boast was mischievous.

  “Of course you do,” said Mother Barnaba. “Perhaps you can climb a tree now, and tell me what you see?”

  “I don’t have to. The hunt is heading this way. I saw it a while ago.” He was about to slip back into the underbrush, but stopped before he did. “I think you should get out of the way of the hunt. You can’t keep up on a mule.”

  “I’ll keep your suggestion in mind,” she said wryly, but held her mule still while she saw the boy go off to a beech tree. “Do you see anything?”

  “Trees,” came the laconic answer.

  “I mean hunters. Where are they? Do you—?” She stopped as the sound of a horn caught her attention.

  “Over that way,” said the boy, pointing to the southeast.

  “Yes. I hear them.”

  “Coming this way,” he went on, and climbed higher into the branches. “They don’t like anyone interfering with their hunt.”

  “I’m not going to interfere,” said Mother Barnaba, a bit mendaciously.

  “Don’t blame me if they take you in hand,” said the boy, his voice fading as he went further up into the boughs.

  “I won’t,” she promised. “Thank you.”

  “Pray for me,” he called down, and then went silent.

  She hung onto the bridle, making the mule move to the side of the road. She listened closely to the forest, and once again heard a pair of hunting horns, a bit nearer than before. For a while she waited patiently, but then she grew nervous as she heard the hunting horns getting nearer. She started the mule walking again, wanting to get away from the very thing she wanted. In a quarter of a mile she reached a bridge and was trying to decide whether she should cross it, when she saw four huntsmen on fine, sweating horses break from cover on the other side of the stream. Involuntarily she checked the mule again, and winced as he brayed fulsomely.

  Two of the huntsmen drew rein and stared in her direction. “Sister!” one of them exclaimed.

  Mother Barnaba straightened up. “I’m Mother,” she announced.

  Now all four huntsmen had stopped, and one carrying a boar-spear rode up to the bridge. “What are you doing, Mother? The Prince is hunting here.”

  “I am looking for the Prince,” she said with a boldness she could hardly believe.

  “He is hunting,” the man repeated.

  “Then I will go on to Windsor and await him there,” said Mother Barnaba.

  “No. You might disrupt the hunt,” said another of the huntsmen. “You come to us, and we’ll look after you.”

  “Don’t you have to ride after game?” Mother Barnaba asked, regarding the men warily.

  “We have an obligation to the Prince,” said the first huntsman. “We should give you escort.”

  “Well and good,” said Mother Barnaba, making up her mind and kicking her mule to make him cross the bridge. “It is just as well that you will do this for me. I have an urgent message for the Prince alone.”

  The third huntsman sighed. “Always petitioners.” He spoke with a Scottish burr.

  “This is not a minor thing,” said Mother Barnaba in the same tone she used to rebuke wayward nuns. “For that, I would go to the Bishop.”

  “That’s what every vassal tells his lord,” said the first huntsman, lowering his boar-spear. “Bad enough that King Richard should bankrupt the kingdom—the people make no allowances for his burdens.”

  “I make allowances,” said Mother Barnaba, losing patience even as she joined the men on the south side of the stream. “But I am charged by the Sheriff of Nottingham to bring the Prince—”

  “Him!” exclaimed the fourth huntsman. “He already sent a messenger, who has long since departed for the north.”

  “He never arrived,” said Mother Barnaba, and saw the four men exchange glances.

  “That’s different, then,” said the fourth man. “You had better come with us.”

  Two of the men looked at him unhappily. “But the hunt,” said the second.

  “We wait here for the Prince,” said the fourth man. “We would fail him if we do not.”

  The others had to agree, but did so reluctantly
.

  “What shall we do now?” Mother Barnaba asked.

  “We wait here for the Prince. He should be along in a little while.” The first huntsman glanced about uneasily. “It isn’t good to linger in the forest too long.”

  “If you fear the outlaws, then perhaps we should go on to Windsor,” Mother Barnaba suggested.

  “I fear no outlaws,” the first huntsman blustered. “But the Prince is hunting, and I have no wish to ruin his pleasure, or drive away his game.”

  “I should think,” said Mother Barnaba dryly, “that any game you might have flushed is long gone. The hunt has been blundering about the woods for hours, and anything you might have run to ground must have been found already.” She could hardly bring herself to admit—even to herself—that she felt safe for the first time since she left Nottingham, and wanted nothing more than to remain in the company of these huntsmen.

  The second huntsman laughed aloud. “You may be right, Mother.”

  As if to add weight to this observation, the sounding of a horn echoed through the trees.

  “The Prince will come by-and-by,” said the third huntsman. “He will not be best pleased to have his sport interrupted.”

  “Then he will send me on to Windsor, and I will wait to report to him there.” She was regaining some of her natural air of authority, and the men felt it as well as she.

  The second huntsman sighed. “Either way, we won’t be in on the kill.”

  “There will be another time, Botolf,” said the first huntsman.

  “Easy for you to say, Purvis,” complained the third huntsman. “Not all of us are given the honor of riding at the Prince’s side.”

  “I am not there now,” said Purvis, slipping the boar-spear back into its sheath.

  “We’re supposed to protect the flank,” said the third huntsman. “How can we do that and escort this Mother at the same time?”

  “You have nothing to worry about, Sholto,” Purvis told him with a trace of exasperation. “We must give this woman the respect her office commands. There are other huntsmen to do the Prince’s will, but if we abandon her, then we will fail to do what the Prince requires of all his household.”

  “What a lot to say,” marveled the fourth huntsman. “No one hears you but us. You needn’t come the courtier with us.”

  “I do not,” said Purvis. “Nor do any of you.” He ducked his head in apology to Mother Barnaba. “I am sorry these men behave as they do.”

  “They are men, like my brothers and cousins are,” said Mother Barnaba indulgently. “I have heard far worse than that.” She was about to say more, but heard the hunting horns coming closer, sounding loudly among the trees.

  “We shall learn shortly what the Prince requires of us,” said Purvis. “Godey, ride up the road a short way, and signal the others as they come.”

  The fourth huntsman grumbled, but did as Purvis ordered, spurring his skewbald spotted horse to a canter as a way to show his dissatisfaction.

  “Tell me, Mother, how you come to be here alone?” Purvis asked, as he brought his horse in front of her mule.

  “I said, I bring a message to the Prince.” She did not feel comfortable revealing anything more, not while they remained in the forest.

  “But without an escort?” Sholto asked.

  “The last messenger had an escort, and he failed to arrive,” she said.

  “Weren’t you afraid?” asked Botolf.

  “If God cannot protect me, then no one is safe,” said Mother Barnaba, hedging. “I prayed every Office at every Hour, and trusted in Him.”

  Purvis and Sholto laughed, and Purvis said, “You may say that more than anyone, I suppose.” He slewed around in the saddle as the hunting horns sounded much closer to hand; the sound of horses and occasional shouts from men could be heard approaching. “They’re almost here. Are you ready, Mother?”

  “I am,” she said and hoped it was true.

  “Then come up the road with us. The hunt will break from the trees near the next bend in the road.” Purvis set his horse moving.

  Mother Barnaba urged her mule to a walk, aware she would fall behind the trotting horses. As the rest of the hunt came crashing out onto the road, the three huntsmen halted and dismounted, waiting for Prince John to appear. Mother Barnaba remained on her mule, nervous in spite of herself.

  It didn’t take long for the Prince to arrive, surrounded by men-at-arms and huntsmen as well as courtiers. He was mounted on a fine French destrier, a liver-chestnut with glossy hair and lavish mane and tail. Seeing the four huntsmen and the nun on the mule waiting for him, he drew rein, resigned to the end of hunting for the day.

  The four huntsmen went on their knee to him; he motioned them to rise. “What is it, Purvis?”

  “We found this nun, Mother—” He stopped, realizing he didn’t know her name.

  “Barnaba,” she said. “I come to you on behalf of Hugh deSteny.”

  “God’s Teeth, what does he want now?” the Prince asked impatiently. “I have done as much as I know to do.”

  “It is more a matter of what he wants still,” she said, emboldened by her purpose.

  “This bodes ill,” said the Prince; no one laughed.

  Mother Barnaba gathered up as much of her courage as she could. “His man Wroughton, who carried a message from you? He failed to return.”

  “Yes. I remember Wroughton.” He rocked in his saddle. “Are you saying he never reached Nottingham?”

  “He did not,” said Mother Barnaba. “And the Sheriff has learned that the deadly men who live in the forest have taken him captive.”

  “If that is all they have done,” said Purvis, and crossed himself.

  “True enough,” agreed the Prince, frowning. “Well, Mother,” he said after a long moment of consideration, “you had better come along with me. We have much to talk about.” He indicated the place on his right. “We will go back to Windsor. Let us go.”

  With a signal, a pathway to his side opened and Mother Barnaba was actually able to get her mule to trot up to the Prince’s side. She was aware of the honor he had done her, and she was determined to be worthy of it.

  How deSteny prepared his Trap

  IT WAS cold in the mornings now, promising a hard winter ahead. Hugh deSteny stood over the bushel-barrel of water in the corner of his bedchamber. He steeled himself for the icy immersion that was to come. He was prepared for the cold, but he still took a sharp breath as the chill drops struck his face, puffing out his cheeks against the chill. He straightened up, using a length of cotton to wipe the water away, feeling his skin shrink. He would soon have to go to his washtub and take care of his morning ablutions. At least that tub sat in front of the hearth, and a blazing length of oak-trunk would provide some warmth.

  A new page—a slight youngster of nine years of age, newly orphaned and brought into Sir Gui’s service—came hesitantly to the door of deSteny’s apartments. “Sir Humphrey has sent a messenger. Will you see him?”

  “Yes, Jotham. Send him to me.” DeSteny gestured to the table in the corner. “If he has a message, I can draft an answer here.”

  “He carries nothing but the words he is told to speak,” said Jotham. “He will carry the same back to Sir Humphrey.”

  “All right,” said deSteny, who was growing upset.

  “Shall I bring him now?” Jotham asked.

  “Yes, if you would,” said deSteny patiently. He would bathe a little later; perhaps the water would be a bit warmer.

  “Then I will.” He bowed awkwardly and withdrew from the room, only to return a short while later leading a youth of about fourteen, a weedy sort of lad with a hint of a beard on his chin. “This is Garvey deLindley, from Sir Humphrey.”

  “Sheriff,” said Garvey.

  Jotham lingered, curious and forlorn.

  “Should we speak in
private?” deSteny asked Garvey.

  “It would be best,” said Garvey.

  “Wait in the corridor, Jotham,” said the Sheriff. As soon as the page had withdrawn, he looked over at Garvey. “Well, what is it then?”

  “Sir Humphrey has been informed that he will be provided twenty extra men-at-arms for the Eve of All Saints. Sir Gui’s father is also sending ten archers before the celebrations begin. Sir Humphrey asks if you still want them in disguise.” Garvey wasn’t the least bit curious.

  “Of course I do,” said deSteny. “I need them to be hidden, to move through the crowd undetected, so they will be at hand when they are needed. They must not bruit it about that they are in the crowd, or their purpose in being there. Let them dress as merchants and monks and workmen. They will do everything to make themselves invisible, to vanish among the various fair-goers. If the outlaws should see an armed camp, they will not enter the gates, and will take vengeance on the fair-goers when they set out for home. The soldiers must be there to spring the trap, and to do this, they must seem to be part of the throng—they must be unremarkable, or their intention will fail. Let them be ordinary, making them no more than a potential prey, so that the outlaws will overlook them. That is the way we will catch the monsters.”

  “Sir Humphrey says some of his men are not pleased at having to go about without their armor and their badges.” Garvey folded his arms. “He says they want to show their purpose, and so hearten the people.”

  “Many armed men will not do that,” said deSteny.

  “But Sir Humphrey says his men think that to conceal themselves is cowardly, and that it dishonors them as soldiers.” Garvey’s stance dared the Sheriff to contradict him.

  “Then they are fools,” said deSteny bluntly.

  “Why?” Garvey asked, his inquisitiveness finally roused.

  “To put their pride in display instead of victory is folly. Vainglory will reap a barren harvest. They may be able to strut and swagger in chain-mail and surcotes, but they will only help their enemies by doing so. There is no value in military array, not in such a campaign as this must be.” DeSteny cocked his head. “If they were to hunt the criminals in the forest, would they wear red cloaks and carry polished metal shields? No, they would not. They would wear green and brown cloaks and they would carry shields with their devices painted upon them, because they would know that they must not give any advantage to the foe. This is no different than hunting in the forest, and it will succeed as a hunt in the forest would.”