by Wayne Grant
“We bungled the job,” the Sheriff said, “and lost three good men.”
Tuck crossed himself and laid a hand on the Sheriff’s shoulder.
“Learning to kill takes time, Sir James. It doesn’t come naturally to farmers and tradesmen, but sadly, they must learn. We must do what we can to keep them alive whilst they do. The Sheriff nodded wearily and sat down heavily on a nearby rock. He looked up at Tuck, but did not speak the words he was thinking.
I’m too old for this.
***
“Ambush?”
“Aye, lord,” Barca said. “A dozen or so men. They looked to be farmers and poor fighters, though they had proper weapons. We killed two and wounded one, but the rest scattered up into the hills where our horses couldn’t follow.”
De Ferrers rubbed his chin.
“The wounded man. Has he talked?”
Barca smiled.
“Of course, my lord. We couldn’t shut him up once I put Catchpole on him. He’s from some village in the Derwent valley. Says we burned his miserable little hut a week ago.”
De Ferrers nodded.
“We cannot tolerate this, Captain. Let a few peasants challenge me and the rest get ideas. This village the man hails from on the Derwent—burn it all!”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Did your prisoner say who leads this band of brigands?”
“Oh, aye, lord. It’s the Sheriff you banished and some monk.”
“Ferguson!” De Ferrers slammed a fist down on the table in front of him. “I should have known that stiff-necked old man would cause trouble. We should have killed him the day we arrived.”
Barca did not remind the Earl that he had recommended exactly that course of action at the time. The Gascon was not a man to dwell on what might have been, nor one to point out his employer’s mistakes.
“And what of these weapons? Where are peasants getting decent weapons?”
“The prisoner says he and a dozen others were sent to the forest of Sherwood where they met a man named Loxley,” Barca replied. “He gave them the weapons.
“Loxley? I’ve heard that name before, though I can’t place it. No matter. We can’t have good weapons falling into the wrong hands. Find this Loxley and kill him.”
“As you wish, my lord. The wounded man can ride. We’ll have Catchpole persuade him to show us the way. Shall I take men off the collection patrols?”
“Aye, Captain. We’ll deal with this problem in Sherwood, then root out Ferguson and these farmers playing at being rebels!”
Sir Robin of Sherwood
Robin heard the whistling call of a kite and set his steaming bowl of stew down by the fire. John Little and Magnus Rask paused in their own meal to look off to the west where the call came again. The day was clear and cold.
“Trouble,” said Rask as he set aside his bowl and reached for his axe. Little stood up and leaned on a long staff carved from iron-hard ash. He was a big man, taller even than Rask, and had been a woodcutter before joining this band in Sherwood. He was a passable shot with a bow, but seemed to prefer the simple cudgel as his weapon of choice. Robin reached for his longbow.
“The warden’s men?” Little suggested.
“Maybe,” Robin said. “Have the men get out of sight.”
Little and Rask moved off to relay Robin’s orders to the knots of men gathered in the clearing. Their numbers had grown to almost a score over the past fortnight and this glade deep in the forest had taken on the aspect of a small village with makeshift huts springing up at the edge of the trees.
In the warm days of September the men had slept under the stars, but it was late October now and there was frost on the ground most mornings. The red and yellow leaves on the trees had turned to brown and fallen in deep drifts on the forest floor. Winter was coming and residents of the clearing were preparing for the bitter season.
Most of the men here had hunted at dawn and would stir themselves again at dusk when the deer came out to feed, but it was midday now and many were gathered around campfires to ward off the cold. A second shrill call, more urgent now, echoed through the deep woods as Rask and Little had the men scatter into the trees. The two joined Robin, who was hunkered down behind an ancient elm toppled over during a summer storm. Together they anxiously watched the far side of the clearing.
Long moments passed and then, on the western edge of the open ground, a man on horseback appeared. He reined in at the tree line and studied the clearing. Then he turned his horse around on the narrow trail and disappeared back into the trees.
“A lost rider?” Rask ventured half-heartedly. Neither Robin nor John Little responded. A lone rider this deep in the woods was unlikely to have simply wandered here by chance. They stayed still and watched. They hadn’t long to wait.
All along the western verge of the clearing, men emerged into the open. They were dressed in mail and were heavily armed. As they moved into the clearing they kept good order, alert to any threat from the encircling trees. A man at the centre of the line raised an arm and the advancing warriors halted. He barked out another command and men on each flank moved forward, dragging staves from the still-burning campfires and using them to torch the crude shelters the men had built around the clearing.
As flames caught in the wooden structures, John Little growled and stirred, but Robin put a restraining hand on his arm. Of the twenty men hiding in the woods watching their camp burn, no more than half a dozen had any experience of war. They were farmers’ sons with no land of their own or village men who’d fallen on hard times.
They were no match for the men in the clearing. Robin knew such men well. He’d fought beside them and against them for three years in France. Their business was war and his little band of farmers would be as sheep before wolves if they challenged them. Huts could be rebuilt.
The leader of the raiding party watched the woods around the clearing intently as smoke and flames rose from the huts, half expecting some challenge. When none came, he issued one of his own.
“Loxley! I know you can hear me. Will you hide like a rabbit, or show yourself like a man?”
Rask looked at Robin.
“I think it best you hide like a rabbit,” he whispered and Robin nodded agreement.
Hearing no reply from the woods, the leader of the armed band called out again.
“This is a message from the Earl of Derby,” he said pointing to the blazing huts. Then he gave a hand signal and a man was led out from the trees on the far side of the clearing, a rope tied around his neck. The man who led him was as tall as John Little, but thin and pale as the belly of a fish.
Robin felt a knot grow in his stomach. He knew what would happen next. The leader nodded toward his pale henchman who jerked the end of the short rope and pulled the forlorn man near him. In one swift motion, the man drew a dagger from his belt and slid it across his captive’s throat. The prisoner gave a short scream and sank to his knees. His hands went to his throat, trying to staunch the eruption of blood from the wound that shone starkly red in the afternoon sunlight. A moment later he toppled over and did not move. The leader turned back toward the unseen men in the treeline and delivered a warning.
“This is what happens to enemies of William de Ferrers!” he said, pointing to the body on the ground. “Do not meddle in Derbyshire, or it will be the same for you!”
He gave another curt command, and the armed band began moving cautiously back into the trees. They’d have horses there Robin knew, but horses could not move fast on the narrow track leading west from the clearing.
“John, see to the men. Magnus, with me.”
The three rose from their hiding place as the last of de Ferrers’ men disappeared into the trees. John Little ran to see if there was any life left in the poor soul who’d been butchered in the middle of the clearing. Robin led Rask toward the north. There was a trail there that looped around to join the western track two miles on. Rask scooped up his bow as they passed their dying fire and the forgotten
bowls of stew.
***
Savaric Barca was lost in thought when he heard a loud grunt from the rider ahead of him. He started to hail the man, but the words stuck in his throat as he watched the rider topple backwards off his horse, a clothyard shaft buried in his neck. He reflexively raised his shield as a second arrow buried itself in the oak.
“Ambush!” he cried out, and all down the single file of riders, men scrambled to grasp their shields and draw swords. Two men were slow to heed their captain’s warning and Barca heard screams to his front and rear. He scanned the woods around and saw nothing. The oaks and beeches were mostly barren of leaves and the underbrush was thin at this time of year, but there was deadfall and stumps and rocks on all sides that could conceal archers.
There was no room for horses to manoeuvre on the narrow forest track and footing for the mounts would be treacherous among the trees on either side. Whoever had laid this trap had chosen the spot well. Ahead and behind, men looked nervously into the trees, but there was nothing to see. Barca knew that to stay here was death and did not hesitate.
“Ride!” he screamed and men desperately whipped their mounts forward over the broken ground. More arrows buzzed in from the flanks, but the riders’ discipline held and most of the shafts lodged in shields. Behind him, Barca heard a horse squeal in alarm as it stepped in a hole and went down throwing its rider to the side of the trail. The man struggled to his feet only to take an arrow between his shoulder blades.
For long minutes the fusillade continued, but finally the lead riders reached an area of the forest thinned by fire. The trail widened here and men spurred their horses into a dead run, putting distance between them and the deadly hail of arrows. Robin and Rask watched as the last rider disappeared over a small rise. Robin lowered his bow and screamed at the man’s back.
“Don’t meddle in Sherwood Forest, you bastards!”
He turned to Rask, his face a mask of fury.
“I tried to stay out of it, Magnus.”
“You did,” Rask agreed.
“I’ll want only the men who are fit to fight.”
“Of course,” Rask said. “When do we leave?”
“Tonight.”
***
“Four men lost?” de Ferrers asked, not sure he’d heard Barca correctly.
“Aye lord, this band of Loxley’s went to cover at our approach. Chasing them in those woods would be like chasing rats in a grain bin. So we burnt their camp and warned them to stay clear of Derbyshire.”
“And how did you lose four men, if Loxley’s band wouldn’t face you?”
“There were archers in the trees, my lord. That forest…it’s not a good place for mounted men.”
“So I gather,” de Ferrers said acidly. “I will trust that burning their camp will teach them to keep out of our business, Captain, but we cannot afford to lose men, not with the old Sheriff stirring up trouble.”
Barca bowed and left the Earl’s chambers. The encounter in Sherwood had troubled him more than he’d let on with the Earl. He’d lost four good men in that damned wilderness and had never laid eyes on a single enemy. The men who’d ambushed them could not have been close at hand. With the woods barren of greenery at this time of year, they’d have been seen. Yet to strike with such precision at a great distance, this gave him pause. He’d heard the English longbow had astonishing range but had never encountered the weapon in all his battles in France. Was that what they were facing here in England?
He was not a religious man, but he prayed it was not.
***
Darkness fell swiftly in the high country of Derbyshire with the approach of winter. The six men hidden on the ridge east of Castleton began to stir as the sun dropped behind the hills to the west. They’d set out at noon the day before, travelling eight leagues from the heart of the royal forest of Sherwood to this windswept ridge east of the market town. Twice they’d scattered off the roads to avoid mounted patrols and kept to cover on back trails as they drew near to the town. They’d come to Castleton in the hope that someone in the town knew where to find Tuck.
Locating the wandering friar in normal times was difficult enough, but now that the monk had gone into hiding as a rebel, finding him without help would be impossible. They’d reached this spot outside the town as dawn was breaking and had gone to ground in a huge patch of gorse that even sheep and goats avoided. Through the long cold day, they’d slept in shifts and watched the surrounding countryside—and argued.
“Don’t be an ass, Robin,” Rask said. “Why go alone into a town where you don’t know friend from enemy.”
John Little grunted his agreement with the big Dane’s position. This was a point they’d both made more than once during the afternoon, but Robin had been unmoved.
“So who should I take, Magnus? You? John? For God’s sake, look at the both of you! At my size, I might at least pass as a local on a dark night, but you two? Never! No offense, but the sight of you would be enough to bolt every door in Castleton and draw the interest of any of de Ferrers men in the town. So you stay here until I make contact with someone who can take us to Tuck.”
John Little looked at Rask.
“Has he always been this way?”
Rask nodded sadly.
“Aye. Since he was a boy.”
***
It was full dark when Robin reached the edge of town, though a half moon cast a silvery illumination over the village. He stood out of sight beneath the eaves of a small barn watching and listening for anything that might seem amiss in the town. To his left he heard a hen cackle then settle back on its roost. Off to the right a man was tossing a bucket of something into the now-barren garden behind his hut. Somewhere in town two dogs snarled and snapped at each other until one yelped and the dispute ended.
He looked up the steep slope to the east and could make out the stark silhouette of Peveril Castle. There was a faint glow along the top of the curtain wall, no doubt from a torch burning somewhere inside the bailey. He’d never seen the castle before and had given the place a wide berth as he’d approached the town. But he committed to studying it in daylight when given the chance.
He slid out of the shadows of the barn and turned up an alley that led to the main east-west road running through the town. He hung back in the alley for a bit to judge the activity in the village and was thankful he did as two men came walking boldly down the middle of road. They were well-armed and as they passed his hiding place he heard them speaking in a foreign tongue. He recognized it as Gascon. It seemed de Ferrers had put his mercenaries to work patrolling the town and perhaps had billeted some of them in the village.
When the men were well past his alley, he stepped out into the street and walked casually toward the town square as though he were some local innocently going about his business. As he reached the square, he was surprised to see it crowded with makeshift stalls and pens. Then it struck him. The next day was Sunday and Castleton was a market town. Though a small one, the town market no doubt serviced the many farms that lay in the valleys of the high country. Merchants and the city elders had set up these structures in the square to be ready for the influx of farmers with livestock or other items to sell on the morrow.
He ducked between two stalls and studied the buildings enclosing the square. Most were dark, but the glow of candlelight shone through the windows of one and there was a horse tied up out front. Most market towns had at least one inn and this looked to be Castleton’s. A placard over the door announced that it was The Nag’s Head.
He left the cover of the stalls, walked across the cobbles and pushed open the door. In a corner, a burly man stood behind a counter drying a cup. In the main room there were six tables set in an arc around the blazing hearth. Two men sat at the centre table staring at the fire and sipping their ale. Three more occupied the table farthest from the door. The other tables were empty. He guessed the place would be full on Sunday after a day’s deals had been struck at the market. Moving between the ta
bles was a girl carrying a pitcher of ale.
The girl looked to be thirteen or fourteen and bore a slight resemblance to the burly man behind the counter—a daughter perhaps. She looked up as he entered, but turned to serve the men at the far table. Robin took a chair at the table nearest the door and studied the other patrons while he waited for the girl to come his way. He was watching the two men nearest the hearth when he heard a high-pitched squeal and saw the girl lurch away from the far table. One of the three men there had grasped the strings on her apron and was pulling her toward his lap, but lost his grip as the girl pulled away. His companions roared with laughter and jeered at the man’s clumsy attempt to snag the girl.
The girl’s face was flushed, but she said nothing and hurried away from the table. The innkeeper had made a move to come around the counter, but stopped when the girl jerked free. Robin saw that the man’s fists were clenched, but his face was impassive as he moved back behind the counter and busied himself once more with washing and drying cups.
When the girl reached Robin’s table, her face was still red.
“Ale, good sir?” she asked, her voice a little unsteady.
Robin smiled at her.
“You were very quick over there, miss. Well done.”
The girl looked at him strangely, then shrugged.
“Soldiers with too much ale,” she said dismissively.
Robin nodded.
“I’ll have a cup as well, lass, but I promise not to molest you.”
That brought a faint smile to the girl’s lips. She nodded and snatched a cup from a deep pocket in her apron and set it before him.
“I’ve not seen ye here before,” she said politely, as she poured the amber liquid into the cup. “ Have ye travelled far?”
“Oh, half way across the world and back again, miss, but happy to be here now.”
That brought a giggle to her lips.
“Why here to Castleton, sir?” she asked sweetly. “Come for the market on the morrow?”
Robin looked past her toward the three men across the way.
