by Nicky Raven
Much looked back towards the gallows, his heart still pounding. The hangman was screaming in pain—an arrow had passed clean through his hand.
It had been fired by Tom O’Vale, and aimed to incapacitate, not to kill. Two other arrows fired by Robin and Alyn were to try and sever the rope that had held Much. As usual, they both hit dead center, and Much had felt not so much as a tug on his windpipe. It was a brilliantly executed rescue, but it was far from over.
Will motioned to Much to pick up the bow lying at the bottom of the cart. All around the square, outlaws were throwing off monks’ cowls and tinkers’ cloaks and hefting the bows and swords that had been carried in on the Kirwan wagons. There were a lot of outlaws, but there were a lot more of Gisburn’s men pouring into the square from all sides, and the crossbowmen on the battlements were starting to fire into the crowd, not caring who they hit.
“Tuck!” Much yelled, hoping the friar could hear him above the din. “Tuck, we’re going the wrong way, we’re heading toward the castle!”
Friar Tuck turned and grinned at Much, nodding his head fiercely. Much was confused, but when he turned around to face the square again, he realized the outlaws were all battling their way toward the castle, and he could see why. A troop of mounted men led by Martel of Ashby had entered the square from the road that led to the main gates; Gisburn had encircled them, knowing that a rescue attempt would be made. Much felt something, or someone, land on the cart next to him, and he turned to face the boarder. It was Robin.
“Shoot at the crossbowmen, Much,” Robin encouraged the youngster; Much had been so amazed to still be alive, he had forgotten to use the bow he had been given. Immediately he notched an arrow and looked for a soldier’s helmet peeking above the parapet. There weren’t many; a group of the bowmen retreated across the square, firing upward and outward at Gisburn’s men. Gisburn himself was with his personal guard, holding back from the hail of arrows. The archers were surrounded by a wider circle of swordsmen, led by John, wielding his great metal-banded pikestaff.
Martel was gesturing furiously towards Gisburn, but by the time Sir Guy realized Martel was telling him to shut the castle gates, it was too late; the outlaws were almost in the courtyard and the men manning the pulleys were under intense fire.
As soon as the cart rattled beneath the huge portcullis, Robin swung down and Will followed. Other outlaws wielded grappling hooks with scaling ladders attached at the ramparts, and they were soon swarming up the inside of the castle walls. Two fell, pierced by crossbow bolts, but some of the main body of archers made it through the gates and kept their crossbows quiet whilst Robin and his men seized control of the gate levers.
A horn sounded, and the swordsmen holding Gisburn’s guards at bay in the square broke formation and sprinted the fifty yards or so to the castle gates. As they did so, Martel led his mounted guards in a desperate charge to head off the sprinting outlaws. The guards were almost upon the last stragglers when a hail of arrows from high on the castle ramparts sent them scurrying for cover. One of the more fearless riders carried on, but regretted it when a mighty buffet from John’s pikestaff sent him flying off the back of his horse.
John was the last through the castle gates. They swung shut in the faces of the advancing guards, and the portcullis was lowered. Gisburn had not only lost his prisoner, he’d lost control of the sheriff’s castle.
Robin and the small troop from the ramparts rejoined their comrades on the ground.
“How many?” he asked John.
“Two, I think,” John answered, “but a handful of the townsfolk were hit too, at least one’s dead. And you?”
“Two,” replied Robin, nodding towards the bodies of the fallen outlaws spreadeagled in the courtyard.
“There’s a darn sight more of Gisburn’s clowns sporting feather jackets,” called Will from where he was helping Alyn bind a wounded man’s arm.
The outlaws could hear Gisburn shouting instructions from outside the castle to his men that were still inside.
“He’s calling for ladders,” confirmed John. “We need to go; it won’t take them long now that we’ve abandoned the gates.”
Robin nodded. “Remember the drill: one man to each of the wounded with an archer covering; spare men to spread themselves through the column.”
As the outlaws formed up and helped the injured to their feet, they could hear the commotion as Gisburn and Martel organized the scaling of their own stronghold. Will listened for a moment, then shook his head.
“Gods, that man is stupid,” he said, to no one in particular.
John grunted. “This from the man who wanted to scale the castle with them inside it.”
Robin bellowed with laughter as the mood briefly lightened.
“A fair point, William!” he cried, slapping Will on the shoulder.
Will spat on the floor and said nothing, pausing only to give the briefest nod of acknowledgement before roaring at the gathered outlaws.
“Move out,” he shouted. “Right corner door, first right, second set of stairs downward.”
The outlaw band, looking for all the world like a hardened military outfit, trotted three abreast toward the right-hand corner door. They met little resistance; most of the soldiers were either locked out, helping their comrades up the outer wall of the castle or, wisely, simply keeping out of the way.
The stairs led to the cellars, which were vast and old. It took the outlaws a minute or two to find what they sought—an old culvert leading down to the river, where deliveries for the castle used to arrive by boat. The culvert was disused—the sheriff wasn’t overly fond of entertaining—and the cellar was dusty and near-empty.
Luck was with them; the water in the culvert was only knee-deep. Robin had feared they might have to swim, which would have been a challenge with the wounded. The rusted gate at the end was easily forced, and the boats and rafts were exactly where Sir Walter had promised he would leave them, tethered to the landing posts on the crumbling old jetty.
More than half the outlaws were aboard when the first shout went up from the walls. Within moments the battlements were swarming with crossbowmen, and the outlaws were being peppered with bolts. Most of them were wild and inaccurate but it made loading the last boats a slow process. At least the two boats on the river had the wounded aboard. The two rafts remaining were finally unmoored and as many men as could fit clambered aboard. Others plunged in the river and grasped the side; the Trent flowed strongly and once out in the current, the boats would be carried quickly away from the town.
The last line of archers began to retreat toward the final raft, Robin, Alyn and Tom among them. Alyn jumped and was hauled up on to the raft—she was no swimmer, coming from a hot desert land. Tom shouted to Robin to jump, while he held the bank. Robin hesitated but Tom simply barged him with his shoulder and sent him flailing into the cold water.
The rope was cast off and the raft slowly slipped its mooring and drifted into the river. Tom O’Vale loosed one last arrow and made to dive after the raft before it caught the full current.
On the battlements Gisburn grasped the bow he had called for and took careful aim; crossbows were useless at this distance, but Gisburn knew how to draw a longbow. How typical of Locksley to be the last to leave, thought Sir Guy, such a noble sentiment! What a fool, he smiled, as he loosed his arrow. It took the tall archer in the wide-brimmed hat between the shoulder blades.
“Good shot, Gisburn,” Martel congratulated him as the figure fell head-first into the water, not in the controlled dive that was planned, but dead, with an arrow through the heart.
Gisburn’s triumph was short-lived; the men at the back of the raft parted and another tall man stood at the stern, hands on hips, staring up at the castle wall. Locksley.
Gisburn snarled and leaned over the parapet.
“Next time, Locksley,” he roared. “This is not finished.”
“So say we all, Gisburn,” replied Robin, “so say we all.” But he said it in a whispe
r, so Gisburn never heard.
The sheriff was incandescent with rage when he returned from London. Gisburn and Martel blustered, claiming they were acting in the interests of the law, and that the outlaws had conducted an unprovoked attack on the sheriff’s guards.
“Poppycock!” the sheriff exploded. “Twelve men, Gisburn! Twelve men I lost, and God knows how many of your own and that idiot, Martel’s. Because you engineered a free-for-all in my town square! And why? Because you dislike Robin of Locksley. And why do you dislike him? Because you are afraid of him! You stole his lands and you covet his woman, and you are afraid that one day he may tire of your pettiness and deceitfulness and put an end to you.”
The sheriff drew in a deep breath before continuing his rant.
“And do you know what, Gisburn? Sometimes I wish he would. Now GET OUT!”
Even Gisburn knew better than to labor this particular point, and he scuttled hastily from the room. The next in line to see the sheriff was Marian, who, by the grin on her face, had heard every word of the sheriff’s tirade.
“My Lady Marian,” the sheriff greeted her calmly, his equilibrium restored. “Do please take a seat.”
“Thank you, Lord Sheriff,” she replied, still grinning. She curtseyed daintily and sat.
“I believe you are due thanks for your help in tending the wounded at the castle during the recent . . . um . . . unrest,” began the sheriff. Marian waved off his thanks as if the matter was of no import.
“It seems you have something of a reputation for helping the needy,” said the sheriff thoughtfully, examining Marian for her reaction.
“My lord?” she said, unsure where the conversation was going.
The sheriff kept his gaze upon hers. “How is your extended family?” he asked. His tone was innocent, but there was weight beneath the words.
Marian opened her mouth to reply, but it had gone dry. She licked her lips, and realized instantly that the sheriff would recognize any denial as a lie. Maybe they underestimated this sharp-faced little man.
“My lord,” she said, looking downward, and putting as much humility into her voice as she could. “They are only children. I could not let them starve and do nothing.”
“And nor should you,” replied the sheriff.
Marian looked up quickly, surprise registering in her eyes.
“Your charity and your courage become you, Lady Marian,” continued the sheriff. “But I would advise that your involvement with certain parties goes no further than caring for stray children. No good will come of it.”
Marian nodded, not knowing what else she could do or say. She was halfway to the door before she remembered that it was she who had requested this interview, to persuade the sheriff to release much-needed medical supplies that were being held by the tax collectors at the castle.
*
Chapter Six
Endgame
isburn was very quiet for a while after his humiliating failure in Nottingham. When he did resurface, his next scheme was a particularly vile one. Robin knew something was wrong when he visited Marian one afternoon; her face was streaked with tears and her eyes were red from rubbing. It took Robin a while before he could tease from her the details of a conversation she’d had with Sir Guy that morning.
He had pressed her again to marry him, only this time he threatened to arrest all the outlaw children and have them shipped off to the army as camp followers if she refused. Marian knew enough from Robin and Will to understand that the life of a camp follower was brutal and ugly; opposing forces were unlikely to spare them just because they were civilians and even their own troops would treat them like slaves.
Robin assured Marian that the outlaws would do anything to protect their children, and he resolved to organize a guard for the Kirwan castle. The next day thirty men were armed and ready to march with Will to the castle when Damson arrived, with his familiar lolloping gait and his tongue hanging out. Robin read out the message that was attached to his collar.
“Gisburn changed the rules. They took the children this morning, as well as most of our servants and maids. Father is away—I am gone with the children, disguised as a maid. Come quickly. To Ashby.”
This time Robin did not have the luxury of half a day to devise a strategy, they just had to get ready and go. He sent out the group who were already equipped as an advance party, with Will and Alyn leading them. Robin and John followed on behind with as much of the outlaw band as they could muster. Their numbers were thin—there was no time to call back all the outlying sentries and many of the outlaws had taken advantage of the quieter winter months to visit relatives in the villages nearby. Robin set out with no more than thirty-five fighters to support the twenty already gone. Ten of them were women—mothers of the stolen children.
Robin’s outlaws were fit and lean after living in the woods for so long—all except Tuck, who had been sent to round up as many extra men as he could. Damson tried to follow the troop as they left the forest, but Robin sent the old dog back to Marian’s home with a message for Sir Walter, in case the old man returned. The troop set off at a brisk jog, but they were well behind Gisburn’s party and it was nearly twilight before they heard the clanking of the wagons ahead. They were only a mile or two from Ashby, and once the children were inside the castle they had no hope of being rescued. This wasn’t Nottingham, where Robin and his band had friends and informants; this was a Norman stronghold, and Martel ruled with an iron fist.
Robin ordered an extra burst of speed from his tiring troops, and they broke cover of the trees at a full run, giving up on any element of surprise. The wagon train was already in chaos, as horsemen wheeled and shouted, and Robin heard the unmistakable sound of steel on steel. Will’s advance troop must have attacked to give Robin time to catch up. It was a suicidal gesture; they were hopelessly outnumbered. The outlaws threw themselves into the fight, Robin and John hacking and slashing their way through to the wagons, while their archers released shaft after shaft at the mounted men. Robin saw many of his scouting party lying wounded or dead, and Will and Alyn were on the far side of the wagons, fighting back-to-back against at least three circling horsemen. Robin noticed how Will was fighting with his left hand, his sword arm hanging uselessly by his side. Alyn whirled and cut with her two curved blades, but it was easy for the horsemen to keep out of reach. There was no sign of Marian.
John gave a shout of rage when Robin pointed out Will and Alyn, and forced his way through Gisburn’s guards with renewed passion.
He would have reached the horsemen threatening them, but a crossbow bolt took him in the leg and he fell with a bellow of pain and frustration. Robin heard hooves approaching from in front, and cursed as Martel and another column of mounted men joined the battle, riding out from Ashby to meet Gisburn’s party.
Robin was surrounded, but he still saw Alyn sink to her knees, an expression of surprise on her face, a crossbow bolt jutting between her shoulder blades. In vain, Will threw himself at his nearest adversary, but these were seasoned guards, and a one-handed man was no match for them. Will fell by his wife’s side, covered in the blood from a dozen sword wounds. It was all over quickly. When a shout went up that yet another troop of soldiers was riding hard from the direction of Nottingham, Robin’s men gave up. The bowmen were forced to retreat to the edge of the woods, and the fighters, including Robin, were overpowered and disarmed.
Gisburn had taken no part in the battle, but was all too ready to enjoy his moment of victory. With Martel at his side, he approached Robin, held captive by two armed guards, clapping his hands sarcastically.
“Oh, very good, Locksley,” he mocked. “Very good. Perfect, in fact. You know what I like about you so-called honorable men? You’re so predictable.”
Robin said nothing. He was shaking with anger.
Gisburn stood by the wagons and surveyed his young prisoners.
“I should get a pretty penny for this lot,” he remarked casually, looking for a reaction from Robin. John, sitti
ng on the floor grimacing with pain, growled threateningly, and the soldier standing over him hit him hard with the butt of his sword.
“Be quiet, peasant,” spat Gisburn. “Your turn will come.”
He turned to Robin, a look of triumph on his face, triumph tinged with fear, as if even now he expected Robin somehow to rise up and foil him in his moment of glory.
“But we’ll start with you, Locksley,” he smiled, his hand on his sword pommel. “Traitor, outlaw, thief, murderer—it’s not even worth bringing you to trial, so I’ll kill you now and have done with it. I’ll be damned if I’ll stand around waiting for that mealy-mouthed sheriff to preach about rights and justice. This is my justice.”
With that he began to draw his sword, a sick look of anticipation in his eyes. As the sword came clear of the scabbard, a gray blur shot from between two guards, and Damson’s sharp canine teeth sank into Gisburn’s wrist. Gisburn gave a cry of pain and dropped his sword as he tried to shake off the dog.
Martel, standing next to Gisburn, was too taken aback to react quickly. The plainly dressed maid hiding in the cart nearby wasn’t. She jumped down, seized Gisburn’s sword, held it to his throat as he stared at her in astonishment and pushed, hard. Gisburn didn’t cry out, he just looked stunned as a fountain of arterial blood gushed from the wound. His eyes glazed and he slumped forward onto the sword blade, hanging there like a gruesome puppet. Marian gave a little cry of shock, as if astonished at her own actions, and staggered back.
Martel shook off his amazement and drew his sword; Robin struggled hopelessly against his captors. Marian simply laughed, dropped Gisburn’s sword and threw her arms wide, moving a step closer to the Norman.
