Robin Hood Page 6

  Robin nodded.

  “My sword,” Loxley said, the word coming out as faint as a breath. He tried to lift his head, clearly intent on finding his weapon.

  Robin saw it sticking point down in the earth just a few feet away. He glanced at Allan, who pulled it free and brought it to him. Robin tried to place the hilt of the weapon in Loxley's hands, but the knight wouldn't take it. Instead, he wrapped his hands around Robin's so that they were holding the sword together. The man's fingers were icy cold, as if death already had him in its grip. Robin tried gently to extricate his hands, but the knight held him with all of his remaining strength.

  “Its value to me is great,” Loxley said, looking up into Robin's face. “It belongs to my father, Walter Loxley. Of Nottingham. Do you know it?”

  Robin nodded. “Aye, I have heard of Nottingham. I was born in Barnsdale, to the south and east.”

  A faint smile touched Loxley's lips, which had started to turn blue. “Then fate smiles on me,” he said. “You must take the sword to him.”

  The man's hands tightened on Robin's, and the archer felt a stinging pain in his palm. It seemed Loxley would spend his last ounce of strength forcing Robin's hands to grip that blade. He wanted to refuse. God knew he did. But here at the end of Loxley's journey, he couldn't bring himself to say the words.

  Robin exhaled heavily. “I will.”

  That small smile returned to Loxley's face, and he slumped back, sightless eyes fixed on the sky. His hands fell away, leaving Robin holding the sword. Another man's quest; another man's folly. Robin looked at his palm, the one that had stung before. There in the center was a small speck of blood.

  “An oath sworn in blood, Robin,” Allan said in a hushed voice.

  Robin wiped the blood away. “No. It's a scratch, Allan. And that's all it is.”

  King Richard's charger nickered and stomped a hoof. Will, still standing beside the creature, stroked its nose.

  “And how much are you worth, you handsome thing?”

  Robin started to stand, then noticed a pouch that Loxley wore around his neck. Curious, he opened it and pulled out a map. Unfolding it, he saw that it showed the coasts of Northern France and Southern England. A spot was marked on the French coast just to the east of Calais.

  Surprised and pleased at his discovery, Robin looked up at Will in time to see his friend try on Richard's crown.

  “Take it off,” he said.

  Will's face fell. But when Robin next looked around at the treasure lying at their feet and said, “And fill it to the brim,” Will's smile returned. Robin felt something stirring in his mind: a plan. He grinned at Will, who didn't look pleased at all. Robin held up the map. “Loxley was making for the coast,” he said, loudly enough for Little John and Allan to hear, too. “To meet a ship! That crown will be our passage home.”

  Allan looked unconvinced. “Robin, we're common archers. If we arrive at the king's ship with his crown, we'll be accused of murder.”

  But Robin wasn't about to be deterred so easily. “You've seen enough of them to know that there's little difference between a knight and any other man, apart from what he wears. We all bleed. We all die. And we're all at fault.”

  Robin stood and looked at the bodies and personal items scattered over the forest road. “All we need is about us. Armor, helmets. And we'll make England with horses, chain mail, and gold.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Robin saw Will cross himself, but he didn't care. They would follow him, and they would see.

  “Fate has smiled upon us at last,” he said. “I, for one, will not turn my back on her.”

  They began the gruesome task of disguising themselves. Will, Allan, and Little John found knights whose clothes would fit them, and donned their armor and surcoats. This was not easy for Little John, but he managed to squeeze into garb without looking too ridiculous, all the while complaining about “wee knights” and their armor. Robin, who was about Loxley's size, put on Sir Robert's coat of mail and the surcoat bearing the noble's coat of arms, taking care to cover what he could of the blood. The rest he would clean off when they reached the coast, before they met the ship to England.

  When they were ready to go, they returned to the spot where they had buried Jimoen and stood over the lad's grave for a few moments, their heads bowed, each of them praying silently. At the head of the grave, Robin placed a helmet upon the freshly turned earth and silently bid the boy farewell.

  They turned from the grave and set off for the coast a short time later, Robin astride King Richard's charger, the other three sitting horses that had belonged to Loxley's knights. Robin was surprised by how convincing they looked. Dressed in the armor and surcoats of the English knights, Will, Allan, and John actually looked like noble warriors. He knew, though, that the real test would come when they reached the waters of the English Channel and had to convince the ship's captain that they were who they were supposed to be.

  Before long, he tasted brine in the air and spotted white gulls wheeling overhead. They cut over to the water and Robin washed Loxley's blood from the knight's clothes. The four companions then continued along the coast until they came to the place indicated on Loxley's map.

  Robin spotted the ship resting on the mudflats exposed by the low tide, not very far from the shoreline. Several crewmen and perhaps half a dozen English soldiers stood on the deck, no doubt watching for their arrival. He picked out the captain, even as he saw the man point in their direction and mouth “There.”

  The ship's crew jumped to life. Several of them lowered rope ladders from the deck, while others readied the ship to set sail once more. The captain was joined on the deck by two others, one of them well dressed—possibly an emissary from Richard's court.

  Robin and his companions rode to the ship, their horses' hooves splashing in the shallows. Muttering another prayer under his breath, Robin halted by the vessel and looked up at the captain and the king's emissary. The ship's captain, in turn, regarded Robin warily before looking at the others, his gaze lingering on Little John, whose armor was so tight it made him appear even larger than usual.

  “Sir,” he said, addressing Robin. “We were told to expect twelve riders. And the king.”

  “The king is dead,” Robin told him.

  The captain and the emissary exchanged glances, both of them looking as if they had been kicked in the stomach. This was just as Robin had hoped. In their shock and grief, the men might not think to question the identities of Robin and his men.

  “His Majesty was killed in battle,” he went on, pressing his advantage. “We're to take the word home.”

  “Long live the king,” the captain and court man said in unison.

  The nobleman regarded Robin, gathering himself. “And you are, sir?”

  Robin didn't hesitate. “I am Sir Robert Loxley of Nottingham. And you, sir?”

  The man blinked. “I am the king's equerry, sir.”

  “Come aboard, gentlemen,” the captain said. “Before the tide floats her. It's coming in fast.”

  Robin looked back at the others and flashed a quick grin. Their ruse had worked. They were going back to England. They were going home.

  He and the lads dismounted and uncinched their horses, the incoming tide swirling around their boots. Then they climbed onto the ship, bearing the king's crown. The ship's crew lowered a gangplank and with some effort brought their horses aboard the vessel.

  Once all were on board, the captain ordered the men to raise the covered sail, and soon the ship was moving away from the French coast. But only when they reached the open waters of the channel, did the captain order the men to uncover the sail cloth.

  A pair of crewmen scrambled up the mast, crept out on the scaffolding and untied the cover. Down it fell, billowing in the wind and revealing the three Plantagenet leopards, gold on a red field, glowing in the afternoon sun. With the canvas cover gone, wind filled the sail and the ship leaped forward, carving through the surf toward England. Staring up at Richard's
crest, Robin's hand strayed to the hilt of Loxley's sword. It was headed home, too.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  In the fields of Peper Harrow, Marion and Gaffer Tom watched grimly as Old Paul, the farmer who had tended the Loxley crops for a generation, struggled behind the plow. The man was half crippled, the land was none too easy to work, and the brown and white dray pulling the plow stood eighteen hands high and weighed a hundred and thirty stone if it weighed an ounce.

  Still, Paul, always in good cheer, glanced over at them and offered a toothless grin as he staggered past.

  “Goliath's got the soil turning nicely, but for what? Nettles?”

  “Possibly,” Marion said, in a wry tone. “Nettle soup and dandelion salad to keep us alive until …” She trailed off, searching for the right word.

  “Until there's a miracle,” Tom finished grimly.

  Paul reached the end of the row and tried to turn the dray. He hadn't the strength though, and the horse resisted his efforts. Heedless of her dress and her shoes, Marion hurried to the horse's side and grabbed its harness.

  “This way,” she said soothingly to the beast. “Come, Goliath.”

  Together, she and Paul got the horse and plow turned around. Paul started down the next row and flashed another grin her way.

  “Marion,” Tom called, drawing her gaze.

  Marion looked back at the gaffer, who wore a deep frown on his ruddy face. He gave a small jerk of his head, directing her gaze down the lane.

  “The sheriff,” he said.

  Marion saw him, too. Nottingham's sheriff rode toward them at a leisurely pace, trailed by two of his toughs. His long brown hair was unruly, his beard poorly trimmed, his face too long, too horselike. He wore a brown cloak with thick fur at the collar and shoulders, and studded riding breeches. He rode a fine bay with an elaborate leather bridle. Of the two, rider and mount, the latter was definitely the more attractive. Still the sheriff carried himself with the supreme confidence of a man who passed his days blissfully ignorant of his many shortcomings. He wore a smile that was both cruel and mocking, and that, though distasteful, did seem to fit his features perfectly.

  Marion stepped forward to meet him, conscious of the plainness of her brown dress and slate blue smock, and of the old beige cloth she had used to tie back her hair.

  “I have been at Peper Harrow, Marion,” he drawled, “waiting in vain for Sir Walter to receive me. Kindly inform him that I have better things to do than haunt his threshold.”

  “That you have, while there are robbers roaming free in Sherwood! That's sheriff's business; why don't you see to it?”

  Tom snickered.

  The sheriff's face turned beet red. “Tell the old man the next time I'll break down his door!”

  Marion eyed him suspiciously. “What have you got to say to Sir Walter that he should disturb himself for you?”

  The man drew himself up, looking even more haughty than usual. “That in Nottingham I stand for England's exchequer, and if he thinks himself too proud to pay what's due—”

  “He is not too proud!” Marion broke in. “But too poor! In the name of King Richard you have stripped our wealth to pay for foreign adventures, while at home the Church in the name of a merciful God has reaped without mercy the larger share of what we have sown to feed ourselves. Between a sheriff and a bishop, I wouldn't care to judge who's the greater curse on honest English folk!”

  She expected that he would redden and splutter in his anger, as he had before. But he remained composed as he guided his mount closer to her. Marion stood her ground, though she sensed that Tom had grown tense behind her. Paul had halted in the field.

  The sheriff leered at her. He smelled of too-sweet perfume and she thought she caught the scent of wine on his breath.

  “That's talk to get a woman locked in the keep,” he said, his voice low and oily. “Why make an enemy of me, Miss Marion, when you have the means to make me your protector?” His gaze dropped briefly to the laces that tied the bodice of her dress.

  “What means?” she demanded.

  The sheriff's hand reached out, as quick as lightning. Grabbing hold of her bodice, he pulled her roughly toward him, leaned down, and kissed her full on the mouth. She should have endured the kiss; though his manners were common, the power he wielded was real. But in her fury and her revulsion Marion couldn't help herself. She bit his lip as hard as she could.

  The sheriff thrust her away so forcefully that she nearly stumbled. He put his hand to his lip, testing it for blood. Marion spat.

  “Like being kissed by a putrid fish,” she said, her voice shaking with rage. “If you leave now, I will lengthen your life by not telling my husband when he returns home.”

  The sheriff laughed coldly. “Your husband? After ten years? If he's not dead, he's rutting his way through the brothels of the Barbary Coast.”

  If she'd had a sword, he would have been dead already. “Go. Now.”

  He remained just where he was, grinning. “Think on it, Miss Marion. Sir Walter is dying without an heir, so Peper Harrow will belong to the Crown, and you will be living in the hedgerow. You'll be glad to come to me then.”

  He laughed again, wheeled his horse, and rode away, his ruffians trailing behind him.

  Marion turned and walked quickly back to the house, too furious to say anything to Tom or Old Paul.

  * * *

  THE WINDS ON the English Channel had died down at dusk, leaving the ship to drift slowly toward England. Robin and the others were awake below-decks, their small chamber lit dimly by candlelight. Allan sat on a barrel, plucking at the strings of his lute, while Will and Little John drank wine and sang along, their voices slightly off-key.

  Robin sat apart from the others, lost in thought, staring at the palm of his hand, at the small mark that had been left there by the hilt of Loxley's sword. Allan had said something about a blood oath, but Robin knew better. This mark hadn't been made by anything so mystical. He still remembered the sting of it. Thinking this, he pulled the sword from the scabbard on his belt and examined the hilt closely. There was copper wire there, holding a leather grip in place. It was wound around the hilt, its sharp end protruding slightly. He gripped the hilt as he had before, when Loxley had put it in his hands. Yes, that was the spot.

  He leaned forward a bit, allowing the candlelight to fall more fully on the sword. The grip had a tear in it, and Robin could see that there was writing engraved on the hilt beneath it. He unwound the copper and pushed the leather aside, trying to read more of the inscription. He uncovered a single word: Lions.

  Lions. Something stirred in the deepest recesses of his memory, like a bear waking after a long winter's slumber. He pulled off more of the wire and stripped away the leather grip until he could see the entire inscription.

  “Rise and rise again” it said, “until lambs become lions.”

  He stared at the candle burning before him, and he repeated the words to himself over and over. Rise and rise again, until lambs become lions. Yes, he had heard this before. But where, and when? And why would a sword owned by a dead knight, a man to whom he had never spoken before the events of the past few days, bear words that should remind him so strongly of … of what?

  There were gaps in his memories, dark periods from his childhood that he had never been able to recall. These words seemed to take him back to those lost years. Like a small flame on a murky night, they hinted at something beyond his seeing, casting shadows upon shadows. The harder Robin tried to summon the images, the more elusive they became. Still, he knew of them now. Rise and rise again… Perhaps with time, the phrase would shine brighter in the recesses of his mind, and those shadows would be revealed.

  And still he gazed at the candle flame, Loxley's sword lying across his lap. Robin rubbed his palm, thinking once more of the oath he swore to the knight, and of Allan's words. An oath sworn in blood … Perhaps there had been more to the day's events after all. What were the chances that they would take
precisely that route through Broceliande Forest, that they should happen upon the forest road just when they did? Had it been fate that led Robin to kneel at the side of a dying knight, that led that man to place his sword in Robin's palm, that led Robin back to a memory so remote he hadn't considered it in years? What other explanation could there be?

  Robin considered this as he unwound what was left of the wire and removed the rest of that leather grip. Nearby, Allan still played his lute, singing softly. Little John and Will were playing a drinking game that Will was destined to lose.

  “How do we get off this ride?” John asked eventually, his words running together slightly.

  Robin looked over at him. “This boat docks first at Gravesend on its way to London. We'll leave the honor of delivering the crown to them, and we'll be gone.”