A solid line of mounted knights had emerged from the woods; a second host of fresh fighting men clearly held back to await the outcome of the initial encounter.
It was a trap! Gisbourne had somehow been alerted to the ambush!
Alan a’ Dale had told them there would be forty of Gisbourne’s guard riding escort and Robin had thought it an error of ignorance (to an uneducated cotter, ten knights looked like forty) that less than half that number had accompanied the wagon through Sherwood. It was clear the number had indeed been in error, but to the lesser side of evil.
Now there appeared to be thirty, perhaps as many as forty knights charging out of the woods, all with lances thrown forward and saddlecloths streaming back over the powerful, galloping strides of their destriers. Robin, Littlejohn, Dag, Richard, and Geoffrey were trapped near the wagon, vastly outnumbered even though the valiant foresters were swiftly closing together to form a line of defense in front of their wounded leader. Some of the archers cut back for the slope so as not to be run down beneath the hooves of the ram-pagers. Some became moving targets and the knights mowed them down like so much chaff underfoot.
Brenna struggled to help Will to his feet. Her arrows were at the top of the hill; she had only one in her quiver. Will’s horse had bolted halfway down to the road again with his spare arrows and Timkin, understanding the desperate look on Brenna’s face, set off at a run after it.
“Leave me,” Will gasped. “Get back up the hill and do what you can to—”
He stopped and squinted hard against the glare of the gray skies. Brenna followed his gaze and froze as well, for silhouetted on the crest of the hill, his long black hair flowing loose around his shoulders, his armour glinting dully beneath the hunting green silk of his tunic … was Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay. In his hands he held a longbow, with an arrow nocked, the steel broadhead aimed straight for Brenna’s heart.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Behind you!” he shouted, loosing the arrow. Brenna’s head whipped around as she followed its flight and saw it strike the breast of a crossbowman who had seen them and was attempting to cut them down.
Griffyn was already firing again, and, like magic, two more silhouettes appeared by his side, outlined against the low gray ceiling of cloud. Derwint the Welshman and Eldred of Farnham took their stance and started firing, choosing their targets with much more care than Griffyn, but counting nearly every one a hit.
“Where, by Christ’s toenails”—Will gasped—“did he come from?”
Brenna shook her head, still in shock. She slung Will’s arm around her shoulder and hauled him up to the top of the hill, where she propped him against a boulder. The blood was oozing between the fingers he held clamped around his thigh, and with an urgent “Go! See to Robin!” he tried to work the quarrel free.
Brenna ran over to where Griffyn was calmly loading, aiming and firing. He paused for the briefest of moments to read the question in her wide, dark eyes, and smiled grimly. “Like I told you: I always assume the worst.”
She fit an arrow to her bow and fired, striking the arm of a knight whose sword was about to cut Sparrow off the back of Littlejohn’s horse.
“Here,” he said, shoving another full quiver of arrows into her hands. “1 have told Derwint and Eldred to try mainly for the horses. Despite your confidence in their ability, I am not sure I trust them aiming for anything smaller.”
“Where are you going?”
“Where I am needed more,” he said, glancing down at the bloody melee. He half turned and gave a shrill whistle, which brought Centaur galloping across the grass, his proud head held high, his nostrils flared wide with the scent of battle. “You must hold this hill; can you do it?”
It was Will, limping up behind, the quarrel broken but still wedged in his leg, who took Griffyn’s bow from his hand and nodded. “We can do it.”
“Good man.” He fit his helm on his head, clapped Will on the shoulder and, almost as an afterthought, tucked a freshly gauntleted hand under Brenna’s chin and kissed her. Hard. “As for your faith in me, my love,” he murmured, “we will discuss the matter later.”
Brenna watched him swing up into Centaur’s saddle. Her eyes widened, grew round as two glittering coins as he slid a hand beneath his surcoat and withdrew a flimsy slip of rose-colored silk. It was the veil she had worn into the bath house at Amboise, and he had been carrying it next to his heart all this time!
He tied the scrap of silk to his arm, put his spurs to Centaur, and rode down the hill, his sword drawn, his roared challenge causing several of Gisbourne’s men to veer toward him. She felt Will’s eyes on her but before she could say anything, he was knocking another arrow to his bow.
“He picked a hell of a time to turn human. But I am damned glad he did.”
It was an awesome, awful sight, and it had happened so quickly, going from the pulse-racing anticipation of victory to the heart-sinking realization it had been a trap, that Robin met the oncoming rush half blinded by rage. The foresters had fought bravely, his brothers like courageous fools willing to follow him anywhere regardless if they agreed with his tactics or not.
He had no choice now but to unsling Henry from his saddle and lower him as gently as possible to a patch of wet grass beside the road. His brothers and Littlejohn had already ridden out to meet Gisbourne’s men; Geoffrey, with more blood than skin showing behind the nasal of his helm, had attracted a swarm of ten or more crossbowmen who had detected his weakened condition and sought to pull him down out of the saddle.
Sir Tristan reared high and obeyed the command from Robin’s knees, charging headlong into the crossbowmen, trampling two underfoot while his master’s blade scattered several more. Something struck Robin from behind and he whirled in time to get a gauntleted hand around the long metal tip of the pike being smashed across his back. A moment later he was holding the pike without resistance; the man was sinking to his knees, his hands clawing at the arrow between his shoulder blades.
Robin was struck again and although he saw the sword and anticipated its coming, his shield slipped and the blade slashed across his shoulder with enough force to split the links of mail and open a gash in his arm. Cursing between gasps, he shook off the pain and tried to maneuver Sir Tristan clear and regroup his senses. Something was blocking his way now. Another knight! He wheeled again in time to see a large kit-shaped shield with four red lioncels painted in the quadrants loom before him.
Andrew de Chanceas brought his sword smashing down over Robin’s head, denting the side of his helm, driving a sharp edge of steel into his temple. The blow was stunning and Robin grasped instinctively for the pommel with his right hand, blinded instantly by the profuse flow of blood. He heard Sparrow’s voice behind him and saw a blur of brown-and-green leather fly past him, axes glittering in the dull light, and he wiped as best he could at the blood filling his eyes, clearing them in time to see the seneschal flung aside like a pesky gnat.
Another blow was coming, a savage chop and slash that would have hacked through bone and flesh and brain if not for the bright stroke of steel that came down like a crack of lightning and halted the assassin’s blade in a screaming shower of hot sparks.
Robin recognized the serpentine hilt and followed the mailed arm to the pale, luminous eyes glowing out from beneath the unvisored helm. That was all he had time to see, for Griffyn grasped the hilt of Albion with both hands and put all the might of his powerful shoulders into reversing the momentum of both swords, forcing de Chanceas’s arm back and down, twisting the assassin’s shoulders hard enough to bring forth a sound of screeching mail and popping crampons.
Seeing who it was who had interfered, de Chanceas roared and struck again, aiming this time for the gold falcon. Griffyn was ready for him, and the two blades came together, neither giving way. It took a third and fourth smash before Griffyn saw his opening and sent his blade slashing across the assassin’s throat. The streak of steel silenced the knight’s raging vengeance and sent de Chanceas
’s horse bolting away to fling the headless body onto the grass in a welter of gore.
“Your timing”—Robin gasped—“is most impressive.”
Griffyn laughed. “I thought you could take care of this paltry business without my help, but I see I was wrong.”
“Robin … are you all right?” It was Dag, pounding up behind them.
“I am intact, brother. How do the others fare?”
The others were still fighting like madmen and, like madmen, were turning away their opponents with the sheer force of their indefatigable frenzy. Littlejohn’s glaive still windmilled over his head, causing any who ventured too near to shrink back in terror at the destruction it wrought. Arrows still found their marks and several of Gisbourne’s men tried to ride up the hill where Brenna and Will ruled supreme, but they died before they covered half the ground.
Griffyn’s sword flashed again and again, bloodied to the hilt, and with Richard, Dag, and Robin forming up beside him, they drove Gisbourne’s troops back … back … until they retreated to the edge of the wood as quickly as they had come, with the foresters running after them, flinging arrows and insults in their wake. The sheriffs knights rode clear to the verge of trees where they regrouped around a small party of observers. Sir Guy was among them, identified by a keen-eyed forester from his black velvet robes and gold sallet.
“Will he send them again, do you think?” Richard gasped.
“I doubt he will give up too easily,” Robin said grimly, and glanced around the bloody field. There were bodies everywhere, man and beast alike, some well dead, others wounded and groaning in their misery. Some of the injured outlaws, heeding Alan’s orders, were already beginning to limp back along the road toward Sherwood. But there were more who walked, ran, or pulled themselves into a determined line that stretched out on either side of Robin and his brothers, exhausted, battered, but resolved to fight to the last man if need be.
Brenna, with Derwint the Welshman clinging precariously to the saddle behind her, came riding down the slope, her hair flown loose from its braid, her eyes searching out her brothers, Littlejohn, and Geoffrey, settling briefly on Griffyn before she came to a mud-splattering stop in front of Robin. She helped the forester slide off before she asked the same question and received the same answer.
“How are you set if they come again?” Robin asked.
“Will has been hurt. He says he shoots with his arms, not his leg, but he has lost a great deal of blood and the arrow is wedged fast against the bone.”
“Christ! Arrows?”
“I left most of what we had with Will. I have sent Derwint to retrieve as many as he can.”
Robin cursed again for not thinking of that first and dispatched more men to search along the road and the meadow for spent arrows. He tried to sound confident, but he was not hopeful of fending off another full attack if it came any time soon. The men were sapped. Even though the heat of battle could sustain a false strength for a while, injuries and armour took a heavy toll; his own arm was folded across the pommel of his saddle, not because it was convenient, but because his sleeve was soaked with blood and he could not lift it. His head was clearing, however; the loss of blood had helped that. And he had the further foresight to send several more men to fetch the swords and crossbows left behind by Gisbourne’s men. Such weapons would come in handy throughout the long outlaw winter ahead.
“What of Lord Henry?” Brenna asked. “Is he—?”
“He is alive, but barely. Alan’s men have him.”
Brenna searched the line again. Geoffrey’s face was pale as snow beneath bright splotches of blood. Dag’s chausses were torn and stripes of blood flowed freely through the mail, dripping onto his boot and stirrup. Richard looked bashed but was still a formidable threat with his blazing eyes and grim, compressed lips. Littlejohn looked the least affected of the lot, but his fine suit of jazerant plates was covered in gore—whose it was, she could not tell. And Griffyn …
Her gaze lingered on him the longest after Robin. He had claimed no prominent place in the line and stood a little apart, magnificent in his green-and-gold.
She frowned and sought Robin’s attention again. “Where is Sparrow?”
He turned his head. “He was with Littlejohn.”
“I saw him by the wagon.”
“No, by the boulder,” said Richard.
“I last saw him attached to the shoulders of one of Gisbourne’s men.” Dag chuckled. “Trying to fell him like a tree.”
Robin remembered the blur of leather he had seen flying to his rescue and he stood higher in his stirrups, twisting around to see more of the field. The first pass went unrewarded but he thought, on the second careful sweep, he saw a scrap of buff jerkin poking out from beneath a clump of gorse.
He flung himself out of the saddle and hastened over to the bushes, his footsteps slowing when he drew near the last few feet. It was Sparrow, and Robin felt his stomach slide down to his knees and his knees to the ground, for the little man was dying, and dying fast. The side of his neck had been torn open from throat to shoulder and blood pulsed onto the grass, thick and dark and not able to be staunched, regardless how tight and close Robin pressed his hand over the wound.
The huge agate eyes were opened wide, searching for an explanation in the gray vastness of the sky, as if he could not believe his own end was near. And yet he knew it. He knew it even as he saw the blood and tears flowing down Robin’s face.
“Do not weep for me, Master Robin,” he gasped weakly. “Only tell me we have won the day.”
“Aye, Sparrow. Aye, we have won it. Gisbourne has crawled back under his rock where he belongs.”
“And your brethren?”
“All are well.”
“Littlejohn? Will? Lady Gillian?”
Robin saw death beginning to cloud the dark eyes and let the error go unchecked. “Everyone has come through safe.”
“Good. That is good.” His eyes drifted shut and Robin thought he was gone, but a moment later, they opened a squint. “I would ask you grant me but one boon, my lord.”
“Anything, Sparrow. Anything.”
And the voice came out surprisingly insistent. “I do not want English worms growing fat on my flesh. I would sooner sweeten the orchards at Amboise.”
Robin clasped his hand. “It shall be done.”
“And … tell my Lord Randwulf… tell him I loved him well. Tell him …”
Robin squeezed the pudgy hand tighter, as if by sheer strength of will, he could keep the elfin soul earthbound a little longer. He had never passed a day of his life without Sparrow’s wit and wisdom by his side, nor had it ever occurred to him he might one day lose him. It had just never occurred to him.
“Cyril save me,” came the merest gasp of breath. “I see her there, waiting for me.”
“Who?” Robin asked, leaning his ear closer. “Who do you see?”
His lungs deflated on a sigh of resignation. “Old Blister. I should have known … she would not even let me rest in peace …”
The black wings of his lashes fluttered closed a final time and Robin shook his head. He squeezed the cold hand harder and when there was no response, he took the tiny body into his arms, rearing back with a cry filled with such rage and sorrow, it echoed across the field and shivered up into the sky.
Richard and Dag bowed their heads and balled their hands into fists. LittleJohn’s face remained hard as granite, but his eyes grew round and wet and turned slowly to stare menacingly across the meadow. Brenna stood behind Robin, feeling helpless and useless and ashamed for every harsh word or thought she had ever had for the fiercely loyal villein who had always been there and never would be again.
“Robin! Look!” Alan a’ Dale hurried over. “The white flag. Gisbourne seeks a parlay!”
Robin lay Sparrow gently on the grass. He wiped his eyes and stood, then stared hard at the small group of riders who were venturing forth from the trees. Gisbourne rode in front, strutting his finery and arrogance. By
his side was another man with silver hair, and behind were five guards, one of whom carried a lance with a white flag.
“Has he come to offer his surrender, do you suppose?” Richard asked grimly.
Someone handed Robin a cloth to clean his face of blood. Brenna held out his helm, but when she started to move back to rejoin her brothers, he stopped her.
“No. I want you with me. And bring your bow; they may have some treachery in mind. Besides”—he gave his mouth a wry twist—“it should warm the cockles of their brave hearts to know a woman has wreaked so much havoc.”
“Will it not only anger them more?”
“I sincerely hope so,” he said brusquely, and called for his horse. “Angry men make stupid mistakes.”
Griffyn nudged Centaur forward and produced a scrap of bloodied silk emblazoned with the device bearing four red lioncels. “I thought perhaps I was affected by the heat of battle when I saw de Chances. But he was here, and so is Bertrand Malagane.”
Robin nodded, recognizing the silver-haired noble who rode by Gisbourne’s side. “He wasted no time … but how did he know where to come?”
Griffyn returned his steady gaze and smiled tightly. “Permit me to ride out with you and we can ask him.”
Robin delayed his answer long enough to give his brow a final swipe with the cloth. The bleeding had stopped, but the pain was setting in and he hoped the fiery stinging would keep his senses sharp. He put on his helm and fastened the linked camail beneath his chin.
“All right. The three of us then.” He kept his eyes fastened on Griffyn, but turned his head slightly to address Alan. “Have your men take Lord Henry … Tuck … to Kirklees. If aught happens to separate us … we will meet there.” He paused and glanced down. “And if you will see to Sparrow as well? I would be in your debt.”
“Any debt you owe me could not amount to a tenth of what we owe you,” Alan said gravely.
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 129
