Hugh followed the hoofprints of the hunting party easily, recalling Ivo’s comment that the band of thieves would most likely eye the castle from nearby. Hugh hoped so. The thought of a long search in the forest filled him with dread.
The dagger hidden in his wool blouse, the sword heavy at his side, Hugh followed a forester’s path, the trail cut years past by honorable yeomen tending the king’s wood. Hugh made his way parallel to the route the cheerful hunters had taken. His plan was dim, but real enough to give him hope. If Robin Hood was near the castle, then he would hear the hunters wagering, see them, count their rabbits—and maybe lift a few from the hunters’ hands before the day was done.
And if the thieves were watching, they would not be aware of a new step in the forest, someone watching them. But as the oaks closed in over Hugh, and the twitting birds made his solitude all the more perfect, he began to doubt his plan. Was it, he wondered, too late to creep back to the fastness of the castle?
How strange it was to tuck in and out of branches, listening to distant sport, conversation, laughter, the quiet of anticipation. Hugh made a wide, uneven circuit, and as he clambered over the roots of grandfather oaks, he felt the foolishness of his plan. What did Ivo know about the habits of Robin Hood?
A sword is a poor companion through nettle and dock, the shrubbery along the paths. Hugh found the crotch of an oak and sat, finishing the last crumbs from his pocket. He had seen the huntsman ask for quiet at times like this, everything already still as stone. Perhaps there was something about silence that made a hunter want more. Hugh listened. Sometimes he heard the whisper of wind in leaves and turned, expecting to see an outlaw.
But there was no one. And even the sound of the hunt was too far away, too muted by the forest, to be anything but a hint. Less than a hint—and Hugh wondered if he would be able to find his way back.
Because he would have to return, that was clear. There are no thieves to be stumbled upon by someone as guileless as myself, Hugh thought. He brushed green peat from his clothes. And stood still.
What did a bear sound like?
Much like that throaty, shattering rumble, Hugh told himself. It was too far off to be sure of the direction. Hugh ran, stumbled, splashing through a brook. His deerskin leggings were wet through. Was that another bear roar, off to the north? Hugh could not be certain. And by the time he was sure he had hurried too far, the silence was all the more perfect. His heart was beating hard and fast.
But he was lost.
A keep—that was what some called a castle. Because a castle kept the living whole and safe. He was as good as naked here, in the ever-twilight of the greenwood. Hugh calmed himself. He had learned from the sheriff the importance of a steady outlook. Over there, he reminded himself. The sound of a dying beast came from far over there.
But there was no path. The oak trees had not been trimmed, the youthful branches harvested, in this little-traveled copse of wasteland. A lone songbird, black as a jet brooch, squeaked, toiled upwards, and broke into song, but its tune made the silence all the more complete.
A treeful of rooks celebrated the afternoon by the time Hugh found the blood, the flattened shrubs, the snapped branches. A fly tasted the drying gouts of blood. A late-season wasp hovered over the gleaming black-red blood, and shied away.
Hugh puzzled together what had happened. A man with a sole print like the sheriff’s—very like—had encountered either a bear or a bull. A bear, to judge by the tuft of black hair on a maiden-berry bush and the distinct claw marks. Hugh put his hand out to a tree to support himself. The blood was in quantities here, beyond the sweep of branches. And surely some of this blackened gore was human.
The sheriff had been hurt!
But Hugh had learned from the sheriff how to weigh evidence, how to forestall judgment, taking care, always, to trust reason. Here was the way the hunting party had followed, trailing blood from a gigantic carcass. And here was another way, a footprint pressed into the fallen leaves, and another.
Hugh almost understood what had happened, was forming a picture, his sword hand tightening round the hilt, when he heard a laugh.
A giant stepped out from behind an evergreen. Sword in hand, this huge man was a nightmare warrior, bearded, showing yellow teeth. But the giant was not looking at Hugh, even when Hugh whisked his sword from its sheath. The imposing figure looked off to one side, calm and cheerful, watching someone Hugh did not see.
“What have we, Little John?” said a voice in the shadows. Branches swayed, and Robin Hood stepped into the clearing.
36
Hugh did not speak.
“The sheriff’s squire,” said Robin with a smile. “Put up your weapon, Little John. This was one of my hosts when I bested the miller’s son at drawing a bow. You came late to the kill,” added Robin. “Your good sheriff survived a bear, no less.”
“He’s not hurt?” Hugh heard himself ask.
“A nip, a little wound,” said Robin.
Relief weakened Hugh for an instant, and then he recalled his purpose. “I have come to win honor for the sheriff,” said Hugh.
Amusement was bright in Robin’s eyes. “Honor!” He laughed. “A good thing, although not as fine as a warm fire on a wet night.”
“The sheriff has been merciful,” said Hugh. “Patient, charitable—and brave.”
“Your sheriff is an honorable man—”
Hugh angled his sword upwards in an unmistakable gesture. “I call upon you to match blades with me, Robin Hood,” he said, uttering a challenge, just as the knights in songs were known to do, although Hugh had never heard it done himself.
Robin put his hands on his hips, and Hugh realized that the outlaw was armed only with a longbow, slung over his back. “A challenge would have to be weighed seriously, squire,” said Robin Hood.
“I challenge you before God,” said Hugh, marveling at his own pluck, his bravado, his near-mad courage. “Before Saint Michael, Our Lady—” Hugh stopped himself. To swear by such holy names was close to sinfulness, unless a man was in dead earnest.
“Strong speech,” said Robin, almost sadly. The outlaw crooked the fingers on one gloved hand, and a figure in Lincoln green stepped to his side, carrying a sword and belt. Quickly the bow was whipped from his shoulder and handed over to his man, and Robin Hood fastened the sword onto his hip. As he worked the buckle, the outlaw said, “You are not born of the castle, I think.”
“My father was Peter, an armorer.” Honesty prompted Hugh to name a slightly more lowly, and more actual, craft for his parent. “A good Christian greaver. My name is Hugh, and I am one of the sheriff’s men.”
“The man of his right hand, I would guess. Craftier than the lot of them,” said Robin. “A few of my band led Henry and his cohorts off and off, into the north.” He smiled. “If your honor demands swordplay, we’ll sport awhile. Although the truth is I am in no fighting spirit myself.”
His gently mocking tone was embellished with some warm feeling Hugh could barely guess. It was kindness, Hugh decided as he took a fighting stance. Kindness, and something like a patronizing tone. Hugh felt anger—cold, fighting anger. He took a quick step and made a false lunge, what Ivo called a Frenchman’s stab, all feint and little power. It was what a swordsman did when he wanted to deceive his opponent into thinking how easy this game would be.
But even such a decorative attack drew Robin’s sword from its sheath. The blue light of the afternoon sky and the black claws of overhead branches reflected off the steel. Robin Hood made a salute with his blade, teased his steel out to touch Hugh’s, and then stepped easily, sword balanced in his hand, not a swordsman so much as a man at play.
Hugh had often wondered if he had the power in his heart to kill a man. The power, and the malice. Hugh begged the forgiveness of Heaven, and while Robin Hood tested his footing, toeing aside the dry, yellow leaves underfoot, Hugh double-stepped and skewered the outlaw.
Except that at the last instant Robin Hood danced and was behind Hugh,
tickling the sleeve of Hugh’s blouse with the point of his weapon. Hugh parried, the ring of steel on steel shocking, real. This was not courtyard play. This was not Ivo hacking at half speed with a sword fettled in the castle. This was a man wanted by the law, fighting off Hugh’s blow with a sword that rang sweetly. Spanish metal, thought Hugh, or something even finer, Damascus steel.
And from the moment Robin Hood began to drive Hugh back, with a kindly light in his eyes, still at play, it was clear. For all my practice, thought Hugh, Robin Hood will kill me easily.
Footwork, Hugh reminded himself. Footwork and surprise. The two of them parried, swung, counterstroked, like two opponents hoping to make as much noise as possible, the ringing steel a bright, astounding music in the quiet forest. Fluid as his movements were, the outlaw was quicker. And stronger. Hugh’s wrist and arm were already tired. Little John chuckled as Robin worked easily, defending himself from a furious attack that had Hugh sweating and Robin barely breathing hard.
The sword was too heavy! Robin Hood’s sword must be growing heavy, too, but the outlaw switched hands, altering his stance, and fought as cunningly left-handed as before. A fierce stitch in his side had Hugh bending sideways, and his vision was growing vague. The sound, like woodsmen dragging branches, step by step, was his own breath, hot in his throat.
For a long time, for an age, Hugh kept Robin Hood off, blocking, parrying, lunging, but the young man fought at the limit of his power, while Robin Hood had an easy smile, uttering encouragement: “Good stroke! Again—a real arm on this squire, Little John!”
Bitter, even desperate, Hugh blinked as sweat stung his eyes. The iron ringing music of the swords vibrated up his arm, into his shoulder. His body ached.
“And he’s fast on his feet,” said Robin Hood. “You could learn from him, John.”
At the last, his legs growing weak, Hugh stepped back, feinted, feinted again, mock lunges intended to break his opponent’s rhythm. Hugh drove his sword towards the outlaw’s breast, carrying the point on a straight line, guiding it true, footwork exact, sword arm locked at the elbow, left arm held as a counterbalance. But Robin stepped sideways and closed, embracing Hugh, laughing.
“I’ve been taught a lesson today, Little John,” said Robin, panting.
Hugh sank to his knees, breathing too hard to speak.
“I’ve been taught a lesson in blade style and courage,” said Robin Hood gently. He knelt beside Hugh on one knee. “You have defended the sheriff’s honor well. He would be proud.”
Hugh’s hand crept into his blouse. All the while, during the fight, Hugh had been aware of this other, secret blade. His fist closed over the hilt. Perhaps this dagger had been an extra weight, a distraction. Maybe the presence of this heavy knife had cost him victory. But, Hugh thought, I carried it here for a reason.
This was still the moment, before the outlaw knew what was happening. The hilt of the dagger was warm, and Hugh saw how easy it would be. How many times had he seen a roebuck cut, throat opened, body drained of blood? Here was Robin Hood, bright-eyed, unaware. A quick move, one quick stab, and it would be over. Something in Robin Hood’s eyes told Hugh that the outlaw knew, he knew there was a dagger, a stiletto, some night knife secreted in Hugh’s blouse.
Now was the time.
The moment was passing. They both rose to their feet. Robin folded his arms, regarding Hugh.
With a long, chilling whisper, the giant drew a sword from a blackened, worn scabbard at his side. Robin glanced, and the giant stayed where he was.
“And you continue to win honor,” said Robin Hood, in a voice quite different now, neither amused nor kind. “By knowing when to strike and when to stay your hand.”
Hugh did not know how he knew the manner—what rhyme he had heard, what minstrel tale, had taught him how to act. Hugh bowed, briefly—like a man of court, a gentleman, a knight. On any other day before this he would have blushed, feeling false.
“Little John, I pray you accompany Hugh, the sheriff’s man, to the castle,” said Robin Hood, adopting the high speech a man would use in the company of a man-at-arms. “If not to the walls, certainly within sight of them.”
“I thank you, sir,” said Hugh, in a voice he could barely recognize as his own. “And trust we may meet again.”
How can I speak like this? wondered Hugh.
“The hope is welcome to my heart,” said Robin.
Hugh turned back at the edge of the clearing, and Robin gazed after him. But when Hugh looked back again, the man was gone.
37
Geoffrey was surprised how happy he was to see Hugh.
They sat in the dining hall. Hugh’s leggings were muddy, but otherwise he looked no worse for his brief stay in the forest. The sheriff sent for Ivo, and Hugh returned the dagger to the swordsman with a stammered apology,
“I’ll feel all the better if you give me your word this went unused,” said Ivo.
“I could not bring myself to cut a throat,” said Hugh, his eyes downcast.
“And I thank Heaven for that, Hugh,” said Ivo.
“Why does he teach weaponry and then fear the thought of a cut throat?” asked Hugh when Ivo was gone.
Geoffrey listened to Hugh’s story. Sword to sword with the outlaw: it was an exciting tale, and the sheriff knew it was true. The young man was different now, chastened, pale. And there was some other quality the sheriff could not name. Hugh ate a chunk of loaf bread hungrily, and a wedge of cheese, washing it all down with small beer.
“I am sorry I deceived you,” said Hugh. “I wanted—”
Geoffrey raised a finger.
“Let me tell you all that happened when I was the guest of Robin Hood,” said the sheriff.
“No need,” said Hugh, not eager for the sheriff to embarrass himself. “The kitchen is full of the story of it—”
Geoffrey put his elbows on the oak table, the overcloth and tablecloth both taken away earlier in the day to be shaken and aired in the sun. The sheriff told his story. He recalled every word, every detail.
When he was done, the two sat quietly, house stewards clearing away the dishes, wiping the crumbs.
“Do you hate the man?” asked Hugh at last.
“Robin Hood? Hate him?” Geoffrey wanted to say that of course, he hated any enemy of the king. But instead he laughed quietly, almost silently, and said, “Come with me, Hugh. Today we have another sort of outlaw to contend with.”
A peasant girl used a besom to sweep the street in front of her doorway, a bundle of broom that was too big for her. She stopped to watch the two riders pass. A white kerchief sheltered her head, and her white apron flowed nearly to the ground.
As they approached the mill, a crabbed figure stole from the doorway and stood in the road. “My lord,” said the stooped figure, “my bear wore itself out on me so it was too weak for you.”
“It was not weak, exactly,” said Geoffrey.
“No healthy bear can maul a man and he walk away, my lord. Although we all grant it was a fine and brave thing to stick it to death.”
Geoffrey pulled at the rein, and by accident his punctured shoulder bunched. He nearly gasped but instead looked away and screwed his features up, as if studying the weather.
“A fine thing to slay a bear, be it sick, drunk, or otherwise,” continued the miller, “and my son might be given a bit of credit, too, for filling him with enough arrows to make him weak.”
Geoffrey listened hard for a hint that he might not have killed the bear without help, but there was only the gaping mouth of the miller waiting for a compliment regarding his son. Geoffrey was glad to give it. The miller did not bother to hide his stiffness, while Geoffrey tried to disguise the pain his shoulder gave him, and every other part of his body, too, whenever he moved. “He’s a fine archer, a sure hand, and a steady eye.”
“Nearly the match of Robin Hood, they tell me.”
Geoffrey studied the miller as he spoke, but there was no telltale gleam. “It may well be, although how co
uld we ever know?”
“Some say there’s a way of knowing. That Robin Hood paid my lord sheriff a visit and that there was an archery match between my son and Robin, before your eyes. Although, at the time, you did not know it.”
Geoffrey leaned forwards, and grinned with pain. “This is true. Robin Hood came in a disguise. As a potter, good miller. A counterfeit potter, and we were deceived.”
Geoffrey had expected the truth to disarm the miller, but the miller limped forwards and clutched the bridle of Geoffrey’s horse. “In your own castle, before your wife and servants, my lord?”
“Indeed.”
“Then the rest is true. How he led you into the greenwood?” The miller paused, and then, when Geoffrey said nothing, continued. “And there held a feast, a mocking feast?”
Geoffrey made a quiet laugh. A false laugh, at first, a way of hiding his anger, but in a moment it was genuine. “Yes, all true. But miller, you should know something.”
“And what is that, my lord?”
“Robin Hood is a much better archer than your son.”
“We have come about the pigs,” said Geoffrey.
The abbess looked away, at the window, as if she could see through the translucent glass. “I know why you are here. I would not bother to see you, except that this time, Lord Sheriff, I want you to be sure this will never happen again.”
“That is my wish entirely.”
The presence of Hugh obviously disappointed her, because she forced a pleasant smile and gestured round her. “Do you like our library?”
Geoffrey did not glance to either side. He stared straight at the abbess, one half of her face illuminated by light from the window. “I wish I had time to examine it more carefully. Unfortunately …”
“Certainly you have a moment to look at this.” She opened what was apparently the finest volume of all, so special it had a stand of its own, like a lectern a priest might use, but here there would never be any homily, and no worshipers.
“Some other time, perhaps,” said Geoffrey.
In a Dark Wood Page 16
