“No, don’t stop. Go all the way to Clipstone.”
“What if you get in trouble? Your leg…”
“I’ll get there eventually. As you said, they don’t mean to hurt us.”
A twig bounced off Robin’s cheek, and the young Will threw another at William, darting his tongue out. “What are you two whispering at?”
“Just arguing about which one of you is more handsome.” William smiled.
The young thief smiled back. “John, tell us again what it was you were thinking of doing with their skulls?”
Time was up, and the mountainous man again demanded their belongings, which his two companions hustled forward to collect.
With only the slightest nod, Robin and William moved in symmetry. William slipped his body low and grappled Alan’s legs, hoisting him up to flip head over heels onto his back. Beside him, Robin swung the heft of his saddlebag into the chin of the blond boy, then pulled him down.
Careful, William thought, don’t hurt them too badly. But he did not dally. He heaved himself up and away, shouldering his saddlebag and pushing off to the south as fast as he could.
With luck he might come across the horses and return to heroically save the day, but he was just as likely to be ambushed by more of the thieves’ gang. He could not risk the latter. He braved one glance backward, but had already lost sight of Robin. Alan, however, was back on his feet and giving chase.
William controlled his breath for a long run and focused on the terrain. A tiny dark doubt in his gut screamed guilt at him for abandoning Robin to the mercy of these bandits, but this was Robin’s plan after all. Odds were they’d be drinking and laughing about this within hours.
Either way, it was a fitting punishment for Robin having lost the damned, damned horses.
TWELVE
ROBIN OF LOCKSLEY
SHERWOOD FOREST
STARING AT THE YOUNG brat Will, who was rolled into a ball and clutching his head, Robin decided against all reason to run away. He had not meant for Will’s skull to collide with the boulder, but he was certain that an apology would not protect him from John Little’s massive quarterstaff. Fortunately the brute took a moment to tend to his friend’s injury, and Robin did not intend on being punished for it. Despite his shin, he knew he could navigate the forest better than the giant, so he hopped away from the road and down the slope on one leg.
The grass grew longer as he made it closer to the river, wide and shallow here. His limping made a terribly sloppy noise of it all, but he hoped the water and softer ground would hide his movement. He only needed to hide long enough for the man to outlive his anger. Robin sloshed on, though certain pockets in the ground turned out to be deep and his good boot was now soaked through, and it hurt fierce to pull his injured leg out of the mud whenever it sank in.
When the land flattened out again, the huge bear man was simply standing there waiting.
John Little barreled forward with surprising speed, and Robin’s stomach lurched at the inevitable impact. But it didn’t come, and instead the quarterstaff slung wide toward him, too short, and Robin slapped it as it passed and grabbed at its other end with both hands. The brute slammed his shoulder full into Robin, and he dropped into the water trying to move with the blow. He rolled, out of the mud, deeper into the river where movement was slower but the ground was even. Breaking the water between a few nearby rocks was a thick, straight birch branch, which Robin pried free and turned to defend himself.
Little was close, but not advancing. He squinted, letting Robin get his bearings, the way a man might watch a child learning to walk.
“Nice stick.”
“Stick, you say?” Robin gave the branch a few practice swings, feeling its heft in his hands. It couldn’t have been riverborne for long, as its core was strong rather than rot. He could flourish it well enough to look like he knew what he was—
Little’s staff swung heavy and down to Robin’s left. He caught it, just barely, with the north pole of his branch, and instinctively he swung back with the south, too obviously, Little was there as well. They traded two more snaps at each other, but there wasn’t enough weight behind the blows to push Robin down. He’s toying with me. His hood was loose around his neck, and he tried to swing it around his back again. He’s toying with me and he’ll win that way.
“Seems perhaps we had the same teacher, my friend.”
“Same teacher, you say?”
Round the staff came again, on the opposite side, and Robin’s leg screamed as he pivoted. High and low he managed to block the next flurry of blows, until Little swept broad and flat. Robin avoided one end only to have the other crack his side. The scaled plates in his leather vest kept his ribs from breaking, but only barely. He rolled away with the force of the blow, stumbling down into the water. He had to push up to his elbows just to keep his head above its surface. Cold water flooded him, refreshing and brisk, but it would weigh him down.
Little passed his weapon from hand to hand, smiling, beside himself. “This is my game!”
“Alright, alright,” Robin admitted, a hand out, begging for time. Time is all you need, to give William a chance of escape. Robin didn’t need to win this fight, he could take a little beating in exchange for William’s safety. He spat mud from his mouth. Or you could kick this oaf’s ass—that would be a fine alternative.
Robin clambered to his feet again, wheezing for breath, wondering why his opponent didn’t need to do the same. Bigger lungs, he supposed.
“I think I’ve got a handle on you now.”
Little laughed. “Do you, now?”
Robin nodded and moved forward, spinning his branch elaborately behind his back, then suddenly jabbing out. The ogre flinched away and retuned a volley of lashes on both sides that Robin struggled to keep up with.
Pay attention, Robin, he’s telling you where he’s striking. The man’s eyes gave away his next target, and he pulled back too far each time, giving Robin the opportunity to block. Even still, the next one he stopped sent a painful shock through his forearms. The sheer power of each attack could break his wrists if he took it the wrong way. Then the butt of Little’s staff clipped forward unexpectedly and smashed into Robin’s sternum.
He was in the water again and the world was blurry and dark.
“That was fancy,” his better was saying, trying to swing his staff behind his own back, but his arms were stubby and his body quite the obstacle. Instead he settled for waving it around childishly, entertaining himself, mocking Robin, “You a court jester?”
“You have no idea,” Robin coughed, and why he was on his feet again he wasn’t sure. He picked his branch up, fighting the massive pain across his chest. He breathed, then again, stretching his ribs. The pain was there but nothing felt broken.
“Alright, let’s go again.”
Little raised his eyebrows and laughed, so Robin laughed, and then they both laughed harder, and when Little attacked it was the same lunge he’d used before. Robin feigned hard away and slapped his branch up and quick onto John’s knuckles, then fast around to bury the south end into his exposed armpit. As the massive quarterstaff fell to the water, Robin pushed the middle of his branch up, up fast and hard into Little’s nose, which gave way, blood popping out each side. Little’s lumbering weight toppled backward into the river with a crack and a heavy splash, and Robin was quick to follow. He raised his weapon, wanting to smash it down again, to give back some of what he’d taken.
But Little’s battered face was wrought with blood and defeat, his hands out in surrender. The water rushed over his shoulders and into his mouth.
Robin’s muscles tensed.
Edmond would keep swinging. Beat him bloody.
He blinked it away, and let the branch dangle loosely from his hand.
His head was buzzing, his right eye was swollen though he didn’t remember taking the injury. But even with water still clearing from his ears, he realized there was another noise in the melee. Sharp steel touched his ba
ck, just so, between the plates in the leather, just hard enough to keep him off balance.
“Let’s be perfectly clear on what’s about to happen,” the recovered Will breathed through his words. “I’m going to tell you to surrender, and you’re going to turn and attack me, because you think you’re that fellow who always outsmarts his enemies. But you’re not that fellow, see? I’m that fellow. I’ll sink one knife through your ribs and the other where your neck meets your shoulder, then I’ll wash your blood off my blades in the river, have a very nice lunch, and forget about you and my morning entirely.”
Robin couldn’t see behind him, couldn’t tell if the knife was in Will’s left or right hand. If he picked correctly he could turn quickly enough. If he picked poorly it would go just as described.
Below, Little’s hand touched Robin’s leg, softly. He looked scared, his big eyes locked hard. No longer a giant, he was just an old man stuck in a river. Little gave a curt shake of his head, a warning that said, Don’t.
Robin hadn’t dropped the branch yet. “You’re a cocky little thing.”
“I know when I’m right.”
“You do this a lot, I imagine?” Eyes still on John, who squinted at him and nodded his head harder, telling him to drop the branch. “Not a bad living if you can keep it up?”
“Stalling to catch your breath?”
“Most people don’t put up too much of a fight? Aren’t expecting it?”
“I’m hungry.” This one was a threat. Robin looked down, hoping for a shadow or reflection to give away Will’s stance, but he was just a whisper in Robin’s ear and a knife in his back, nothing more.
“Unfortunately, I’ve actually traveled quite a distance just to find you,” Robin said. “Didn’t think you’d make it easier by coming out and greeting me like this.”
“What does the king’s personal guard want with me? Recruitment?” Will’s blade wasn’t the only thing that was sharp. He had remembered one of the first things they’d said, even after a painful blow to the head. This may not end well, Robin realized.
He decided to turn left.
“Now hold your say a moment,” John interrupted, and started the labor of rising to his feet. “Seems we’re at a bit of a misintroduction. What was your name?”
Robin hesitated, but was fairly certain William had already said it aloud earlier. There was no point in lying. “Robin,” he said, intentionally leaving out his surname.
“You say you know King Richard?”
“Well enough,” Robin answered cautiously.
Little wiped some blood from his nose and let the water take it. “You a knight?”
Definitely not. Knights are worth ransoms. “No, an archer.”
Something important passed between John and Will.
From behind, Will’s voice. “Your name’s Robin, and you’re an archer in the war.” It wasn’t a question. Robin had given up only two bits of information, but they knew exactly who he was. He felt very much at a disadvantage, mostly because he was.
But John just shook his head. His dark green tunic clung desperately to his skin, the fur lining his collar now matted black. “Scarlet, stow your metal.”
There was hesitation. “They’re not satisfied yet.”
“Stow them.” The edge disappeared from the small of Robin’s back. A few splashes meant Will, or Scarlet, was retreating to the banks. Little tugged on Robin’s branch and forced his help in rising, then chucked the branch into the middle of the river where it quietly floated downstream.
They moved out of the water, slowly. “You’re a long way from the war,” John said.
Scarlet’s knives were sheathed again, but he kept his distance, hands on their hilts. “He’s a long way from the truth, I’d say. Here…” he reached down and gingerly selected an arrow from Robin’s quiver, which he must have brought along. But he’d opted to approach with his knives rather than use the bow. Must be a poor shot. “For your life, I’ll bet you couldn’t hit that oak from here.”
The tree he pointed to wasn’t an oak, and would have been an easy shot for any novice bowman. Robin made a show of thinking about the challenge, then snapped the arrow in half over his knee. He cast the pieces away into the shallows. “I’m not here to fight.”
“I’ll bet he’s a deserter.”
“I’m not a deserter, but there are plenty of men who are. The army’s supplies are dwindling. Weapons, food, supplies aren’t making it to the men. Specifically those coming through Nottingham. We figured it might be the Sheriff, hoarding and keeping it all—”
This seemed to touch a nerve, for Will at least. “Oh, it’s definitely the Sheriff. Let’s deal then. We’ll let you go, and in return you can kill the Sheriff to your heart’s content.”
Robin almost laughed out loud. “Kind enough, excepting three things. First, I wouldn’t be killing the Sheriff, that’s not really quite sane.”
“Pity.”
“Second, and more importantly, is that you’re the ones stealing the supplies, yes? Not the Sheriff at all.”
Little frowned. Soggy and sopping, blood flowing pink into his grey moustache and beard, he had lost all his ferocity. “A solid point. And the third?”
“The third? Well, the third being it wouldn’t be you letting me go,” Robin did his best here to stand tall, and he hoped his soaked and tousled garments didn’t make him look unusually foolish, “it would be me letting you go.” After a moment without reaction, their mutual laughter told him he looked precisely as ridiculous as he felt.
“We’re your prisoners then?” asked Little.
“That’s right.”
“That’s right. Alright. Alright.” Little turned and moved back toward the river, plodding his way through the water to dip his hands beneath its surface and wash his face off. His beard was still pink, and he motioned for Robin to follow.
“Come on, now!” Will picked up the quiver and the saddlebag, too, already hopping after his friend.
They made no effort to bind him or drag him along like a proper hostage, nor did they need to. He was wet and injured. They had his weapons, his food, and his horses. If they meant to ransom him to his own father, then they were at least invested in keeping him alive. That was more than he could say for the next traveler who might find advantage in his obvious vulnerabilities, were he to try to run.
So Robin limped forward, following their lead.
Besides, he told himself, they were potentially leading him directly to the missing supplies.
That reasoning made it feel less like a surrender, but only a little.
THIRTEEN
WILLIAM DE WENDENAL
NOTTINGHAM CASTLE
“COME INSIDE,” GRUMBLED A voice with a grinding cough, and William was escorted through a small uneven door into a space something closer to a privy than a sheriff’s office.
The room was tiny, which William did not find surprising given its location at the top of the tallest keep in the castle, but it was certainly an unexpected size for its occupant’s esteem. The cramped stony walls angled oddly, as if threatening to crumple. Only one small shuttered window let in some crisp air and the setting sun’s last glow, but the two walls beside it were lined with candles, dripping long tails of wax down to the floor. There were shelves built into the stones filled with scrolls and books that had no discernable order. Behind the desk, awkwardly placed and entirely too large for the wall, an unflattering portrait of the Sheriff glowered down upon the living one.
Baron Roger de Lacy had a long face and sunken cheeks, which William assumed was the cumulative look of a man who had spent his life scowling. William’s first thoughts were unkind. Perhaps the sheriff was a private, squirrelish old man who enjoyed such cramped quarters, but to William this would be a prison cell.
“Baron,” barked the captain, a stiff man who was skeptical of William’s story. “Pardon the urgency.”
“No need,” de Lacy waved off the apology. He cleared his throat and rose from his table, a
slab of rough wood covered in papers and small ornate boxes. His eyes sharpened harshly, as if he would prefer to deduce William’s existence for himself.
“I bring word from King Richard—” William started, but the captain cut him off.
“He claims he’s with the king’s private guard.”
“I have letters that prove as much—”
“He carries letters to that effect, but their seals are broken.”
“They were damaged—”
The baron quelled the explanation with another wave of his hand, continuing to scrutinize William. Roger de Lacy’s eyes were skull deep, his skin thin. He wore a heavy furred robe but no jewels or rings, and his grey-brown hair stuck clumsily to his head in an unimportant way.
“Do I recognize you?” he asked.
“William de Wendenal. We met once.” Truth be told, William could hardly remember anything more than a name. He had been grieving for his brothers then, and de Lacy had been only one of several judiciars involved in his family’s compensation.
A justice disinterested in justice, his father had complained.
De Lacy’s eyes lit up, seeming to recall a different version of the same story. “Ah yes, I thought so. Lord Beneger’s son. You’ve … grown, haven’t you?”
William had no interest in small talk, no luxury of getting comfortable. Robin was still in danger, and time continued its rude march.
The captain fidgeted. “He demanded an audience, Baron. I refused him due to the late hour—”
“Yes, thank you, Gisbourne, your irritation has not gone unnoted. Go on now. I’m sure you have other people to harass.”
Gisbourne bristled for a moment, then nodded obediently. His men lowered William’s weapons and saddlebag to the ground, drawing a bit of attention in trying to find an available space for them.
“I’ll be close,” Gisbourne promised as he shut the door behind them.
“I’d like to say he means well,” de Lacy stared through the door’s thick planks, “but I’m a poor liar.”
The Sheriff seemed instantly more at ease with the door closed, alone but for the two of them. William took the opportunity to push. “Baron, I come with an urgent matter from King Richard himself.”
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