by Nicky Raven
Marian watched with great interest as the sheriff called out to his sergeant; she couldn’t hear what was said, but Geoffrey had clearly been told to stop drinking, as his first act after their exchange was to give his flagon to one of his men.
A blast from the trumpeter summoned everyone’s attention back to the range, where the targets had been moved back a further twenty paces. Piers of Lincoln shot first; all five of his arrows hit the center of the target. Montcuq followed, and all his arrows hit dead center as well. Everyone expected Red Alan to falter, but he, too, scored five out of five. There was much discussion among the judges as to how the contest was to be decided, for it was getting toward twilight and would soon be too dark for archery.
An official announced that each would shoot one further arrow at yet another twenty paces back, and the arrow nearest to the center would be declared the winner.
The tinker calmly buried his arrow deep in the very center of the target—an unbelievable shot considering the distance. The crowd roared their approval—it seemed their favorite would win the silver arrow after all. Montcuq wasn’t done, though. With great precision he drew back his bow and fired. The arrow thudded into the target, dead center and just a fraction away from Piers’ arrow. A tie!
Surely Red Alan could not match that. The slim young man took great care preparing for his last shot, testing the tension in his bow, and carefully checking the fletching in this crucial arrow; one feather out of place could make all the difference. He drew, and released; the people were so quiet they could hear the whirring of the arrow as it sped past them. There was a splintering sound as it struck the target. Everyone craned to see what had happened. The official, enjoying his moment of glory, walked forward to inspect the target. He turned to the sheriff.
“My lord,” he called, “Red Alan’s arrow has split Montcuq’s in two. Therefore, Red Alan is the winner.”
There was a brief pause as everyone digested this incredible fact, and then the fair exploded in a welter of cheering and applause. No one minded that their favorite had lost—no one except Montcuq, who looked like he had swallowed a wasp. They had witnessed something extraordinary. Marian joined in the applause, even though her own favorite had been beaten.
Red Alan walked forward quietly and modestly to receive his prize. As he approached the dais where the sheriff sat, Gisburn leaped to his feet and waved a finger at him.
“Arrest this man!” he bellowed. “He is the outlaw Robin of Locksley.”
A number of the guards made as if to move, but the sheriff stayed them with a wave of his hand. He leaned forward in his chair.
“Remove your hat, bowman,” he said to Red Alan, “and let us see if Sir Guy is correct.”
Red Alan carefully took off his hat, releasing an unmanly tumble of dark hair. He looked up, and Gisburn realized his error. This man was no Earl of Locksley, for he wasn’t a man at all! Marian put her hand to her mouth and tried not to giggle—Alan was Alyn, and she had bested all the men at their own sport!
Fighting hard to suppress a smile, the sheriff looked at Gisburn. “The Earl of Locksley has certainly changed during his time in the Holy Land,” he drawled. Gisburn looked furious, his jaw working with fury as he digested his error. Like John, he had been so sure that only Locksley could beat Montcuq that he had not bothered to look too closely at the winner before making his accusation.
“The tinker,” shouted Gisburn, almost spitting out the words in his rage. “It must have been the tinker!”
“What poppycock, Gisburn,” said the sheriff in a bored tone. “Do sit down, you’re making a spectacle of yourself.” Paying no further attention to the knight, the sheriff gestured to the archer to come forward.
“You are a very bold young woman,” he said. “If I choose to, I could have you whipped for impudence, impersonating your betters like that.”
Alyn met the sheriff’s eye and responded coolly. “I rely on my Lord Sheriff’s reputation for justice. And I believe I have just answered the question about whether these men are my betters.”
The sheriff grunted, and turned quickly away, gesturing for an official to bring forward the silver arrow. He turned back to Alyn.
“Look that you never face the wrong side of that justice,” he warned. “But for now receive this prize—you have earned it. That was a remarkable display of skill.”
As she listened to this exchange, Marian kept glancing at the stall where men had been laying bets. Few were collecting winnings, but she saw one old soldier walking away grinning with a hefty bag of coins. Good for Will, she thought, showing faith in his wife.
Alyn held her prize aloft to general cheers and began to walk back across the field towards her friends. Few were watching Gisburn, so few saw him gesture to Montcuq. Marian was one who did, and she just had time to scream a warning to Alyn that probably saved her life. Gisburn’s archer had notched and loosed an arrow. Alyn turned, and the arrow caught her in the shoulder, not the back of the neck as intended.
Montcuq never got a chance to finish the job—just as three arrows hit the same target in the contest, three arrows found their mark once again. The first came from the rear of the crowd, and took Montcuq in the chest. Marian spotted the tall tinker lower his bow before a second arrow found its mark in nearly the same spot. This time the ranger, Tom O’Vale, had fired. The third shot came from close range. It was a killing blow; Geoffrey had fired his arrow into Montcuq’s throat. Gisburn’s man stood for a moment, blood bubbling at his lips, before toppling from the stands, arrows and bow falling around him in a shower of yew.
Gisburn was purple with rage and began shouting at the crossbowmen surrounding the dais to shoot at the crowd. Many of the onlookers started running for the exits, and Marian caught a glimpse of the wounded Alyn being carried to safety by Will and Much. With a detached coolness Marian noted that the arrow had passed clean through Alyn’s shoulder—the wound would heal the better for that.
Marian turned back to the dais where Gisburn was screaming at the sheriff, demanding that he arrest the outlaws. The sheriff stood up and removed Gisburn’s hand where it clutched at his robes. Even above the clamor she heard his voice, steely and threatening.
“Lay your hands on me once more, Sir Guy, and you will regret it,” he said coldly. “It would serve you and your associates,”—this with a glance at Martel—“to remember that your money is not the law in this county. I am.”
So saying, the sheriff strode from the field, Geoffrey and his escort close behind him, suddenly sober, and daring Gisburn or his allies to make a move. They did not dare, and order was quickly restored.
Robin and Will visited Marian and her new patient the next day. When Robin and Marian withdrew to give Will time with his wife, who was recovering well, Marian questioned the wisdom of the expedition to the archery contest. Robin was unapologetic, claiming that the outcome justified the risk, as it had driven a rift between Gisburn and his allies and the sheriff.
“But Alyn could have been killed!” exploded Marian.
“Marian,” replied Robin soothingly, “I didn’t even know Alyn had entered the contest until the second round, otherwise I would have forbidden it.”
“Oh, so it’s perfectly acceptable for you men to put your lives and those of others at risk, but not Alyn, because she’s a woman?”
Robin threw up his hands in exasperation.
“No,” he insisted, taking Marian’s hand in his own. “I do what I can to look after my people, men or women, but I cannot treat them like children. I must trust them to do what they think best. Alyn made her own decision.”
Marian glared and frowned, but she could never stay angry with Robin for long—his calmness seemed to seep into her. She leaned her head on his shoulder.
“I know you do,” she agreed, “but I can’t help worrying about you. Every day I wake up frightened that someone will knock at the door with the news that you’ve been arrested, or worse, killed.”
“I nearly lost you once
,” said Robin with a smile. “Never again.”
They kissed and hugged, friends again.
“Did you like my disguise?” asked Robin.
“I recognized you instantly,” laughed Marian. “Though you would have fared better without that silly hat—you should have worn a hood instead.”
“Ah, now why didn’t I think of that?” asked Robin.
“You’re a man,” teased Marian, “leave the dress sense to us girls.”
“I’ll remember that for next time,” Robin assured her. “And I will wear a hood. I rather like the sound of that—Robin Hood. Suits me.”
*
Chapter Five
A Hanging
(six months later)
he dungeons of Nottingham Castle were famed for two things; they smelled rank and were impossible to escape from. It was the second of these facts that worried Robin, for he needed to come up with a scheme to get Much out of jail.
A week earlier Much had been arrested for poaching, after shooting one of the “king’s deer.” Robin had never understood why only the Royal Family could hunt deer, when there were folk starving across the country and more than enough deer breeding in the woods and forests to feed them all. But the law said no deer, and Much had been careless. Things had quieted down since the escapade with the silver arrow contest, and Gisburn had withdrawn his men onto his own land. It was one of the sheriff’s rangers who had caught Much, but it was Gisburn and Martel and their cronies who were baying for Much’s blood, and demanding the sheriff make an example of him.
Robin recognized the sheriff as an unusually reasonable governor, but feared that even he would have to succumb to the pressure of his fellow Normans at some point. The very least Much could expect was to lose his bow-fingers—a common punishment for a first offense of this nature.
Robin had found an old rough plan of the castle at Marian’s father’s house, but it wasn’t much help. Getting into the castle itself was easy enough—it was getting down into the dungeons that was the problem. There was only one way in and one way out, and that was directly through a guardroom. Robin had it from one of the outlaws who had “taken a little vacation” in the dungeons, that there were never fewer than six guards on duty—two in the chamber, two by the doors and two in the cell area.
“At least there’ll be no off-duty guards down there,” the outlaw had added cheerily. “The smell takes care o’ that.”
Robin was in discussion with Will about the possibility of sending someone in disguise to check for any missed opportunities, when they were interrupted by a very out-of-breath Friar Tuck.
“What is it, Fat Man?” asked Will.
“Will,” admonished Robin, “we talked about this.”
“Oh yeah, sorry,” acknowledged Will, but he was grinning cheekily from ear-to-ear. He addressed the friar in a pompous tone: “How may we be of assistance, Friar Michael? May we offer you refreshments?”
“Stop messing around, Will,” puffed the friar, still fighting for breath. “I’ve run all the way from Marian’s; there were no spare ponies.”
“It must be serious,” observed Robin. Even he was smiling at the notion of Tuck jogging the four or five miles from Marian’s father’s castle.
“It is,” said Tuck, with a nod.
“Well come on, man, don’t keep us standing here gaping,” cried Will.
The friar took a last deep breath and spilled his news. “The sheriff is away at court. He’s been summoned by the king.”
Robin nodded. “We knew this,” he said, “that’s not what—”
“No, of course not,” snapped Tuck. “But I’ve managed to discover exactly why he’s away.”
Robin and Will exchanged a look and Robin raised an eyebrow. Tuck was still taking deep breaths between sentences.
“The Abbot of Mansfield used his influence to arrange the summons so Gisburn would be in charge of Much’s trial while the sheriff was away.” It was an effort to get this long sentence out, but Tuck managed it before leaning on his knees again.
Robin looked confused. “But the trial’s not until next week.”
“That’s what we thought,” gasped the friar. “But Gisburn’s brought it forward. It happened this morning. They’re going to hang Much tomorrow.”
“The devil they are!” roared Robin, while Will turned the air blue with curses.
The next hour in the outlaws’ camp was chaotic. As Tuck’s news spread, the outlaws began to gather in the glade at the center of the camp, waiting to see what their leader would decide. John was having a heated exchange with Will and Alyn, which principally involved John explaining to the enraged Will why they couldn’t just storm the castle and kill everyone in it. Will had a fiery temper to match his flaming red hair.
Robin had taken himself away to review the situation. He’d learned much during his time in the Holy Land, and one of the lessons he had absorbed was not to let his emotions cloud his judgement. The situation was serious, but acting impulsively and getting more men killed would not help Much or anyone else.
Robin thought about the problem from every angle, and came to the same conclusion every time: rescuing a heavily guarded prisoner from the castle was near impossible, since they’d be too dependent on luck and the incompetence of the guards. The only moment that presented a clear opportunity, when Much would be isolated in a place from which escape might be possible, was at the execution itself.
An hour later, Robin summoned the outlaws to the clearing.
“This is what we shall do,” he stated, in a matter-of-fact tone that invited no argument. “It is a plan full of risk, that relies on precise timing and attention to detail. If anyone gets their part wrong, Much—and others—will die. So listen carefully.” Robin looked around to ensure he had everyone’s attention; a nut falling from a tree in the next clearing would have made more sound than the outlaws at that moment. He outlined the plan, and summoned the leaders of the group to fill in the smaller details and brief them on their own part in the scheme. John was there, Will and Alyn, old Galen, Much’s uncle, and Tom O’Vale. The former ranger had joined the outlaws when it had become clear that Gisburn’s soldiers would hound him for his part in the aftermath of the archery contest. He had sent his wife and children to live with relatives in Chester and offered his skills to Robin; he had been accepted gladly, for he was a superb woodsman as well as a fine bowman.
Will wanted to send word to Much that he was to be rescued, and not to lose heart, but Robin would not allow it.
“We cannot risk whoever goes into the castle being caught, Will,” he insisted. “It would jeopardize the entire plan.”
“We’ve done it before,” protested Will.
“Yes,” agreed Robin, “but not with such high stakes.”
Will opened his mouth to continue the argument, but his wife put her hand gently on his arm and squeezed lightly. It was enough.
The execution was scheduled for midday the following day. From daybreak onward, the steady stream of folk heading for Nottingham through the forest were joined by small groups of men. The men were variously dressed; some as monks, some as laborers, some as tinkers or peddlers. The guards at the gates to the town were under strict instructions to search everyone coming in, and arrest anyone bearing arms. None of the monks or laborers or tinkers who came from the forest were arrested.
Sir Walter Kirwan and his daughter Marian were among the visitors to Nottingham that day. They were accompanied by two men-at-arms and Marian’s confessor, Friar Michael. The Kirwans had come to sell apples and pears from their orchards, and two of their serving men followed behind them in wagons laden with fruit. Had the soldiers at the gate been more intelligent, they might have noticed that the axles of the Kirwan wagons were sitting very low. But their brief was to search the commoners and strangers, not well-known local nobles, and what harm could kindly old Sir Walter and his pretty daughter do?
At ten minutes to midday, Sir Guy of Gisburn was seated atop his horse, feeling
very pleased with himself. The cart carrying the prisoner was wheeling its way slowly out of the castle and into the town square. Gisburn looked around smugly at the various points on the battlements and in the nearby building where he had secreted his soldiers; this was the day on which he would bring down Robin of Locksley.
The cart creaked and groaned its way across the square; the cobbles were worn and in need of repair and the rutted surface made the cart awkward to maneuver. Gisburn made a note to chastise the driver later—he was ridiculously overweight; no wonder the cart was foundering. With a minute to go, everything was in place. Gisburn frowned; he’d been sure the outlaws would show themselves. His complicated plan was aimed at ridding Nottingham of the whole band, not just executing one scared boy.
Much was more than scared, he was petrified. He had been sure his friends would make some effort to rescue him, but so far nothing had happened. As the gallows came closer he felt his bowels turn to water. He didn’t want to die, not yet, not just for shooting one deer. Tears began to flow down Much’s cheeks; he looked around desperately for some sign of the outlaws, but before he could see anything the hangman placed a sackcloth bag over his head. Much gasped with fear. He could hear the old priest from the castle mumbling something and he felt his bladder go as the lever clicked, signalling for the cart to move forward and leave him swinging. He felt himself fall and . . . He felt himself land, with a thump, and very much alive. A hand roughly cut the bag away from his head and he caught a fleeting glimpse of the noose attached to it.
“All right, son?” asked Will. The red-haired soldier scarcely glanced at Much, instead eyeing the knot of guards pushing through the crowd trying to get at them. Will sniffed suspiciously. “Better ask for some new trousers when we get back to Sherwood, Much,” he remarked casually. Much looked the other way, embarrassed. Tuck, driving the cart, was struggling to get any momentum on the shoddy surface, and there were people milling around, getting in the way.
