by Nicky Raven
“Stout boots, my lady,” confirmed the friar, hitching up his robes to show a robust pair of nailed clogs.
Marian looked in amazement at her confessor and burst out laughing. “You are a man of many surprises, Friar Michael,” she exclaimed and offered her hand to him so she could dismount.
The friar grinned. “A year or two as confessor to a troop of bowmen in the king’s army.”
Marian’s face turned serious again.
“And this filth,” she said, looking in disgust at the stricken men. “Are the forests teeming with their like, as people claim?”
“There’s plenty of this sort, my lady, scavengers and thieves.” The friar nodded gravely. “It’s a sign of the times. People are hungry and desperate, and even the kindest of the richer folk, like your father, haven’t much to spare with the taxes for the war and all.”
“You say this sort, Friar Michael,” Marian reminded him. “Is there any other sort of outlaw?”
“Yes, my lady,” replied the friar somberly. “There are useless ones like these, and there are—”
“The professionals,” said a voice behind them. Friar Michael wheeled around and saw an enormous bear of a man grinning at them, a long wooden staff spinning carelessly in his hand.
Marian gasped in surprise and even the friar’s cool composure was momentarily disturbed.
“Heaven help us, John, you scared my lady half to death,” he snapped.
“Sorry, Tuck,” the big man mumbled, looking a little sheepish. “And a thousand apologies to you, my lady.”
Marian looked at Friar Michael with concern. He knew this man? Men,—she corrected herself, as a number more emerged from the trees at the side of the road.
“Don’t be frightened, my lady,” the friar smiled again. “These men will not harm you. Many of them used to serve nobles like yourself and your father, before their masters were disinherited and their followers sent off to fend for themselves. They are the other sort of outlaw I was about to tell of—honest men forced into living rough, but spending their time and their . . . er . . . earnings, shall we say, on those without the skills to provide for themselves.”
Marian sensed there was little danger here. Composed now, she looked again at the giant standing before them, and realized there was something familiar about him. He stood closer to seven feet tall than six, with a mop of sandy hair and a large round, almost comical, nose that somehow made his size less threatening. Like all the men with him, he wore plain leggings with a shirt and a cloak. The cloaks were remarkable, a mixture of cloth interwoven with grasses and twigs and leaves—quite beautiful in their way, she found herself thinking. Marian looked at the man John again and suddenly placed him, imagining him dressed in livery on a horse.
“You were with—” she started.
“Lord Cedric of Ivanhoe,” interrupted the giant. “Yes, my lady. And when Lord Cedric’s lands were seized I went to the wars with my Lord of Locksley.”
Marian’s heart jumped in her breast. She was sure she must be blushing. Robin of Locksley had gone to fight in the Holy Land some three years since, but before he had left he had asked Marian to promise to wait those three years for his return before turning her attention to another man. Robin would never have gone to the Holy Land had he not been made homeless when his father was convicted of treason on some absurd pretext. His lands had been seized and given to Sir Guy of Gisburn, a devious and obnoxious collaborator.
“And you survived, I see,” said Marian with a nervous smile, trying desperately to control her beating heart. “And did my Lord of Locksley return with you?”
“He did not, my lady,” replied John, adding hastily, seeing the stricken look on Marian’s face, “though not because he was dead or injured. Not that. He was captured, my lady, by the Saracens.”
Marian looked horrified.
“My lady, this news is not as grim as it sounds,” another man, with fiery red hair and red neckerchief to match, spoke up. “The stories that are told in taverns about the Saracens are just that: stories, minstrels’ tales. The Saracens are God-fearing people and treat their ordinary prisoners well—’tis only the Templars and Knights of the Cross who suffer.”
“That is true, my lady,” agreed John, as the red-haired man bowed to Marian in a courtly manner.
“Will Scarlet, my lady, former master of the horse to Lord Robin’s father,” the red-haired man introduced himself.
“And you fought alongside his son in the Holy Land?” asked Marian, rewarding Scarlet’s courtesy with a smile and a nod.
“I did, my lady, only I was captured within the first month, left stranded when this useless lump,” he nodded at John, who grinned in response, “got himself knocked unconscious by a slingshot.”
“True, my lady,” confirmed John with a mock sigh. “Your heathen foot soldier is a devil with a slingshot.”
There was general laughter, and Friar Michael shook his head, smiling at Marian.
“Will was a prisoner of the Saracens for nearly a year. Served as a slave in some nobleman’s house,” he said, “and was never so much as beaten.”
“But you escaped, Mr. Scarlet?” asked Marian, eager to hear more of the strange land where her fiancé was lost.
“Eloped, more like,” bellowed John, laughing uproariously at his own joke. “Is that not right, Alyn?”
A slender, dark-haired man with his cloak pulled well forward stepped out of the crowd. “The ways of love will always be a mystery and a joke to you John,” said the man, in a light, almost feminine voice. Marian’s eyes opened wide as Alyn threw back the hood of the cloak to reveal that she was, in reality, a woman—an olive-skinned, almond-eyed beauty with long black hair tied in a plait down her back.
“Meet Alyn Ab-Dhali Scarlet, my lady,” said Will with a proud smile. “My captor’s daughter—now my wife.”
Marian laughed, a tinkling joyous sound. “No more surprises, please,” she gasped through her mirth.
“No more surprises,” agreed Will, more serious now. “Let us be brief; this is a less than perfect place to meet. We need your help, my lady.”
“My help?” said Marian. “But I am no fighter, Mr. Scarlet.”
“We would never ask anything dangerous of you, my lady,” continued Will. “But we have many women with us in the forest. Some, like Alyn, fight with us; some make our crude home as comfortable as possible.”
“I see,” said Marian, intrigued, but unsure how she could help.
“With women and men together at close quarters, my lady . . .” John began, tailing off as a blush spread across his cheeks and enormous nose.
“John,” tutted Friar Michael, “don’t be so such a sop. My Lady Marian is a maid but not a child.” He finished John’s sentence himself: “Women and men together tend to produce children, my lady, and the depths of the forest is no place for children, at least not newborns. We thought you might be able to help by taking them into your home.”
“We, Friar Michael?” asked Marian. “Are you an outlaw too?”
“That’ll be my fault,” admitted Will. “Any good fighting band is better with some pastoral care, so I asked Friar Tuck—Friar Michael, to you—to provide us with a confessional and hold prayers.”
“We pay him in pies!” shouted a voice from the crowd.
“Hush your mouth, young Much,” scolded Tuck. “A good appetite is a sign of a man at peace with himself and his god.”
Another gale of laughter erupted from the outlaws. John hushed them with a wave of his hand.
“Can you help, my lady?” he asked quietly when the hubbub stilled. “We will provide the money needed.”
Marian considered for a moment before replying. “How quickly my views of outlaws have changed. When we were attacked by those two cutthroats I never guessed that I might soon contemplate looking after their children!”
“Those scum were nothing to do with us,” growled Will. “They will wake up on the edge of the forest with sore heads and a bruise or
two, and God protect them if they ever return.”
“No matter,” said Marian. “I could never leave children in danger, so yes, I shall care for your little ones, and protect them as best as I am able. I will never leave children to suffer.”
At her words there was a huge cheer from the outlaws. John sank to one knee by Marian’s horse. “My lady,” he said in a formal tone. “If you or yours are ever in trouble or in fear, you have only to send Tuck to us and we shall defend you with every breath we hold. I swear this, so help me God.”
The rest of the outlaws knelt and swore the same oath; only Alyn remained standing. She moved next to the palfrey and took Marian’s hand.
“We are a proud people and that pride forbids me to kneel before my equal. But as high-born to high-born, I shall from this day consider you as my sister, and I offer you the care and protection I would my own flesh and blood.”
Marian curtsied to Alyn, then threw her arms around her. “I embrace my new sister,” she said with a catch in her voice.
There were murmurs of approval from the outlaws, and Will knelt and kissed Marian’s hand.
“Now, Tuck,” said John, calling attention back to himself. “Let’s take Lady Marian to a safer spot. I have news she may want to hear. News of the imminent return of a certain young noble.” They pretended not to hear Marian’s unladylike squeak of excitement.
“And I shall share my news,” replied the friar. “News overheard in the sheriff’s hall from two drunken fools.”
Chapter Three
Who is
That Man?
he next morning Friar Tuck was making his way through the woods to the small moss-covered hut where he kept his meager medical supplies; he was sure to need them if the outlaws attacked a column of armored men. Whistling as he went, and gnawing on another chicken leg, Tuck didn’t notice that a traveller coming in the opposite direction had stepped onto the narrow rope bridge across the river before him. Tuck was a good dozen paces onto the walkway before he realized a figure was blocking his path halfway across—a tall man with a well-worn but once expensive cloak and a wide-brimmed hat that concealed his eyes. Tuck could just see the outline of a long scar running the length of the man’s face on the left-hand side.
“Morning, sir,” called Tuck jovially, “if you could just step aside for a passing man of the cloth.”
“Ah,” replied the stranger, “if only it were that simple.” His voice was deep and rough, with a melancholic edge.
Tuck frowned. “And that means?” he asked, in a dangerous tone.
“That means, friar,” the stranger responded, “that it is you who must retreat. I was clearly at the bridge before you, and whilst I respect your calling, I am in something of a hurry.”
“I’m not sure I appreciate the type of respect you offer me,” admonished Tuck. “It smacks of insolence.”
“Not at all,” replied the man calmly. “Were I insolent I would have pointed out that two men of slender stature could cross at the same time, whereas your enormous girth puts the bridge itself in danger of a soaking.”
Tuck was incredulous. “Then if neither of us will back off, one of us will be swimming!” he cried, striding forward with his walking staff raised in front of him.
The traveller raised his own staff and braced himself. The fight was short and clean. Tuck was a mean fighter with a quarterstaff, but the other man was younger, more agile and almost as strong as Tuck. He parried the friar’s opening strike, clipped Tuck’s shins and sent him over the side of the bridge with a well-timed shoulder charge.
Tuck was no swimmer, but fortunately the water was only chest-high. He struggled to the far bank, blowing and spluttering, and cursed as he realised he’d dropped his chicken leg. He turned and saw the stranger’s back as he entered the woods on the far side, laughing and waving Tuck’s lunch merrily in the air. The laugh seemed familiar but Tuck couldn’t immediately place it.
“Who is that man?” muttered Tuck to himself.
While Tuck was having an unexpected bath, John and the rest of the outlaws were hidden in the forest along the route they knew the abbot and his retinue must take. For the past few months they had been painstakingly creating and camouflaging a series of hiding places along the main road: trenches covered with blankets of moss and twigs, tree-hideaways, and man-sized concealments cut in carefully chosen bushes. There were means of escape, too: specially dug gullies that ran too deep for horsemen to cut them down from behind, and chains of rope ladders that allowed a swift exit via the treetops.
The outlaws waited patiently in hiding. It was boring, just sitting, keeping still while a gentle spring rain gradually soaked their shirts, but these were professional men, many of them ex-soldiers.
Their patience was rewarded when they heard the jingle of harnesses and felt the intermittent beat of horses’ hooves on the forest floor. The column slowly wound into view. A phalanx of crossbowmen at the front, and two lines of armored riders in pairs on either side of the central wagons—at least twenty mounted men. At the rear were two wagons of foot soldiers and another small group of mounted crossbowmen.
The outlaws waited, barely daring to breathe, until the column was almost past them. Then they sprang into action. Nets dropped from the trees to ensnare the riders, and pits, dug in the ground, opened up beneath the wagons, lodging the wheels and rendering them useless. Most of the outlaws were attacking from behind the column and the knights struggled to wheel their horses around and mount a charge. The crossbowmen were pinned down by the four archers stationed in the trees above.
The plan worked beautifully; the wagons were only lightly guarded and the foot soldiers didn’t have much stomach for a fight. John grinned at the naivety of the Normans, as he and a handful of others loaded the stolen chests onto a pair of stout ponies. His smile soon turned to a frown when Will shouted to him from the woods. John looked where his friend was pointing and saw a troop of armored knights riding up the path; the Normans hadn’t been so stupid—they had a rearguard ready to trap the attackers from behind. John glanced the other way and saw the remainder of the knights, who had ridden with the wagons, forming up to charge—the outlaws were sandwiched between two heavily armed troops of mounted men. It would be a desperate retreat.
John smacked the rumps of the ponies and sent them off into the forest, carrying the looted chests back to camp. Will appeared at his side and they ran to meet the latecomers. The battle was short and fierce; the outlaws brought a few of the mounted men down with their longbows, but they had precious little room to shoot and once the knights closed in on them, they wreaked havoc. The horses reared and stamped and it seemed as if slashing blades were coming down from all angles. John cursed as a sword sheared off the end of his staff; he reversed it and punched the end into his assailant’s face. He looked around for Will and saw his friend backing toward the forest, fending off a huge knight in blue-black armor. John recognized the colors of Hugo De Brassy, the sheriff’s thug-for-hire. Will was stumbling and a red stain, a darker red than his bright scarlet neckerchief, was spreading across his jerkin. John tried to reach Will, but was beaten back by two of the foot soldiers who had joined the fight when it seemed the odds were a little more favorable. Despairingly, he saw the big knight raise his sword for a killing blow.
A blow that never came. Amazed, John watched the knight stop as if frozen in time, a black silhouette against the forest background, and then tumble from his horse to lie still on the ground. A black-fletched arrow jutted from his throat. As John pulled his senses together he realized it was the knights and not his own men who were in retreat; the knights who weren’t lying on the ground with black arrows protruding from gaps in their armor. He saw Alyn getting to her knees, wobbling a little, shaking her head and looking around for Will. As he peered in the direction from which the arrows had come, he saw a man with a wide-brimmed hat slinking back into the forest.
John ran over to Will, who was now on his knees. He was bleeding badly and lo
oked pale. He looked up through glazed, pain-wracked eyes.
“Alyn?” he croaked.
“Alyn is fine,” John assured him. “She just took a bump to the head.”
To confirm his assurances Alyn appeared, still groggy but more anxious than injured. Other help came and makeshift stretchers were made for Will and the rest of the wounded, as the outlaws prepared to take them off to Tuck.
“Thought I was a goner there, John,” whispered Will as they labored through the woodland to Tuck’s hut.
“Me too, old man, me too,” agreed John, although, looking at the blood soaking Will’s tunic, he wasn’t sure the danger was over.
“Who was that man?” asked Will, before sinking off again into a delirious sleep.
Tuck shared John’s view of their friend’s wound. He patched it up as best as he could and told them he was taking his patient to someone who could provide better medical supplies and surroundings fit for recovery—Lady Marian.
The journey was slow, for the countryside was crawling with Norman soldiers, but the outlaws knew the back roads and secret paths better than the Normans did, and they reached Marian’s father’s castle without further alarm. Will’s breath was coming in short gasps; he was clearly in a great deal of pain, and blood still seeped from the wound in his side. The outlaws were frustrated to find that Marian already had a visitor; Tuck could hear them speaking through the door, for their voices were raised.
“No, Sir Guy,” Marian was saying, “I will not accede to your request. Just because you have seized the Earl’s lands does not mean you have a right to seize the woman he was to marry as well.”
The other voice in the room was unmistakable. Sir Guy of Gisburn was universally loathed in the county; he was descended from a line of Saxon nobles who had thrown in their lot with the Normans and gladly taken the land of their countrymen.
“But my lady has no reason to hope for Locksley’s return,” replied Gisburn, with a note of exasperation in his voice. This was a man used to getting his way, not used to being balked at by a mere woman.
