by DAVID B. COE
Fighting for King and Country
Climbing the rest of the way to the top of the gate, Jimoen set his hook, hung the naphtha bag, and after pumping his fist in celebration, leaped from the gate.
At least that was the plan.
Instead of dropping, though, the young fool just hung there. Somehow, he had managed to hook not only the leather sack, but also his cloak. He flailed his arms and kicked his feet, trying desperately to break free, but to no avail. Seeing this, several of the French archers leaned out over the wall again, and tried to finish him.
As Will and Allan fired at the bowmen, Robin dashed toward the castle. Halfway there, he scooped up a discarded shield, practically without breaking stride. When he reached the base of the gate, he shouted Jimoen's name and tossed the shield up to the lad.
Jimoen caught it, and put it over his head, barely in time to block a bolt that would have pierced his skull.
Robin began to climb, hearing cheers behind him.
“Look what they do for the Lionheart!” he heard the king call out.
The French archers were still firing, but as he drew closer to Jimoen, Robin caught the scent of something far worse than arrows and bolts. Boiling oil. The French were preparing to pour it over them. He reached the young soldier and after a moment's struggle managed to unhook him. They dropped to the ground and rolled away just as the oil splashed down the castle walls. Grabbing hold of the shield, Robin and Jimoen sprinted back to safety, bolts and arrows pelting the ground and the shield. More cheers greeted them when at last they ducked behind the barn door.
OTHER TOR BOOKS BY DAVID B. COE
THE LONTOBYN CHRONICLE
Book 1: Children of Amarid
Book 2: The Outlanders
Book 3: Eagle-Sage
WINDS OF THE FORELANDS
Book 1: Rules of Ascension
Book 2: Seeds of Betrayal
Book 3: Bonds of Vengeance
Book 4: Shapers of Darkness
Book 5: Weavers of War
BLOOD OF THE SOUTHLANDS
Book 1: The Sorcerers' Plague
Book 2: The Horsemen's Gambit
Book 3: The Dark-Eyes' War
ROBIN HOOD
A novelization by
David B. Coe
Based on the screenplay by Brian Helgeland
and the story by Brian Helgeland
and Ethan Reiff & Cyrus Voris
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
NEW YORK
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This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
ROBIN HOOD
Copyright © 2010 by Universal Studios LLLP. Robin Hood is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Licensed by Universal Studios LLLP. All rights reserved.
Edited by James Frenkel
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN 978-0-7653-6627-6
First Edition: May 2010
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Nancy, Alex, and Erin—my merry band
Many thanks to Tom Doherty, Liz Gorinsky, Steven Padnick, Seth Lerner, and all the great people at Tor Books, especially Linda Feldman who put in effort above and beyond the call of duty to make sure production on this book was successfully completed; Cindy Chang and Julie Margules at NBC Universal, for answering my queries and getting me still images from the movie; my terrific agent, Lucienne Diver; my editor, Jim Frenkel, for making this happen; and to Nancy, Alex, and Erin, for putting up with me while I worked at breakneck speed to get this done.
CHAPTER
ONE
From within the brooding shadows of Broceliande Forest, Robin Longstride could see the pale colors of dawn touching the morning sky; glimpses of pearl and pink and pale yellow sifted through branches and leaves. A wren sang from the shelter of a nearby thicket and a woodpecker drummed in the distance. A fox slinked through the underbrush, pausing to regard Robin and his companions with luminous eyes before slipping away into the darkness. A peaceful morning, the air still and cool. If not for the subtle scent of a hundred cooking fires lingering in the wood, and the faint murmur of a thousand voices not too far off, it would have been easy for Robin to forget that he was at war.
He had been up with the first hint of morning light, as had the two men walking with him, Will Scarlet and Allan A'Dayle: a hunt to begin their day. And a successful one it had been. They were carrying back to their camp coneys and quail, a brace of pheasants, and two plump grouse that Allan had managed to kill. They couldn't know what the coming battle would bring, but at least they would start their day with a good meal.
Robin had grown fond of his two companions through their travels together. Will, with his fiery orange hair and beard, and a spirit to match; Allan, bearded and long-haired, less flamboyant in appearance than Will, more reserved and considered in manner. They were younger than Robin by several years, and both were prone to the foibles of youth. Will's exuberance occasionally landed him in fixes that a more seasoned soldier might avoid, and more often than not Allan blindly followed his friend into trouble. But they were brave and loyal, and good in a scrape. A man could hardly ask for more in his comrades.
As they drew nearer to the encampment of the English army, the forest around them thinned and brightened. They passed through a small camp of Moors and Gypsies. It was common for such bands to follow armies on the Continent, hoping to make some coin catering to the various appetites of fighting men. Though a few of the dark-skinned men looked up at Robin, Will, and Allan as they made their way through the camp, none of them offered much by way of greeting.
But a Gypsy girl sidled up to Robin, her hips swaying, dark eyes peering up seductively through long lashes.
“I tell your fortune?” she asked him sweetly. “Read your palm?”
Robin grinned but didn't break stride. “I've been in this army ten years. I've a fair idea what's going on.”
“You have a quest,” the woman said.
“Indeed I do: Breakfast.”
He continued past the girl, as did Allan. Will, however, eyed her with obvious interest.
“Tell me about our future, you and I,” he said. “Does it rhyme with luck?”
She took his hand, stared at his palm a moment, and then gasped. Robin and Allan stopped to listen.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “You will always find love … by your own hands.”
Robin and Allan burst out laughing and continued on. Will hurried after them. His face was still bright pink when he caught up.
The three men reached the edge of the forest and entered the enormous camp of King Richard Coeur de Lion'
s army. Beyond the army loomed the French castle to which they had been laying siege for the past seven days. The banners of the French lord still flew above the battlements, but the stone walls of the fortress were blackened and her gates scarred though still intact.
As the three men wound through the army camp, Robin began to distribute some of their kill from the morning's hunt. He gave a quail to one man who'd shared a meal with him a few nights before, and offered a rabbit to a fletcher, receiving a stack of arrows in return. Some of the meat he gave for no apparent reason, sharing a good word and a laugh with the surprised recipient. After ten years he had learned that there were two things an archer in the king's army should never have in short supply: arrows, and the good will of his fellow soldiers.
By the time he, Will, and Allan had reached the embers of their campfire they had just enough game left to feed themselves. Before they could even get their meat on spits, though, they were joined by young Jimoen, a foot soldier they had befriended during their return from the Holy Land. He was gangly and pale, and he regarded them now with an apology in his eyes.
“Archers are called to ranks.”
Allan stared ruefully at his breakfast. “Bloody typical.”
Robin merely shrugged and set the meat aside. “It's alright boys. Hide it well. We'll have it for supper instead.”
He reached for his armor, he began to suit up for battle.
MARION OF LOXLEY should have been asleep, dreaming of her husband's return from Richard's Crusade. The time she and Robert of Loxley had shared as husband and wife had been all too brief, though the memory of their wedding night was still enough, after all these years, to bring a smile to her lips and heat to her cheeks. To relive that bliss, even if in a mere dream, would have been a balm for her uneasy heart.
Instead she tossed and turned, listening to the sounds of the night: the sweet tones of a nightjar, the resonant hoot of a nearby owl, the howl of a wolf, the soft rustle of countless leaves as a gentle wind stirred the boughs of Sherwood Forest beyond the walls of Peper Harrow, the Loxley home.
She lived with her husband's father, Sir Walter Loxley, a great man in his day, now reduced by age and blindness to awaiting the return of his son from war. She wondered if he was awake as well, if it was some whisper of fate, some purposeful foreboding that kept her from sleep. She considered going to check on the old man. Deciding against it, she rose and crossed to the narrow window that looked out from her bedchamber toward the Loxley fields and the wood beyond.
Doing so, she beheld something puzzling. It began as a flicker of shadow at the edge of Sherwood Forest, and then a second. Soon there were nearly a dozen of them: animals, moving with purpose and stealth across the fields toward the town of Nottingham. She spied a badger, a boar, and a fox, a wolf, a sheep, and a bear; as unnatural a company of creatures as she could imagine. Comprehension came to her just as the alarm bell in the town watchtower began to toll.
“They're coming!” the sentinel called, his voice echoing from the village.
Marion rushed to her door and out into the corridor. She could hear some in Nottingham raising the alarm, while others shouted angrily at the raiders in their fields. Just as she reached Sir Walter's chamber she met up with Gaffer Tom, who had worked here at the Loxley house since well before Marion's marriage to Robert. Pausing at Walter's door, she heard the old man within. He was mumbling to himself and moving about. Marion pushed the door open.
Sir Walter Loxley might have been blind, but as soon as she and Tom entered, Walter turned toward them unerringly, his sword in hand. He was still tall and lean, despite his years, and the fearsome look on his face would have given pause to any intruder.
“Don't be foolish, Walter!” Marion told him. “You can do nothing for them.” It broke her heart to speak to him so. He deserved better, as did all of Nottingham.
Walter appeared to sag a bit at her words.
“Keep him in here,” Marion told Tom quietly. “Bar the door.”
She hurried away. Walter could do nothing, but she had some skill with a bow, and she was angry enough to kill.
“I'm still master of this house!” Walter called after her.
Marion continued on to the armory, where she retrieved a bow and hastily wrapped a creosote cloth around the head of an arrow.
Reaching the gates of Peper Harrow, she could see enough of what was happening below in the town to confirm her worst fears. The “animals” were running rampant through the lanes of Nottingham, some carrying chickens, others with pigs slung across their backs, and still others laden with the hard-earned foodstuffs of the townspeople. She raised her bow, the arrow already nocked, and drew it back smoothly, just as her father had taught her long ago. With great care, she touched the cloth to a candle, igniting it, and then she loosed the flaming dart into the night.
It arced over the walls of Peper Harrow and descended like a flare, illuminating the hoar-covered field and the edge of Sherwood. The raiders were in retreat, carrying away Nottingham's food stores.
“I see you, you bastards!” Marion called to them, “I see you!”
The “animals” were running now, disappearing back into the shadows of the forest. She wanted desperately to chase them down, but she had responsibilities here. With a sigh, she left the gate and made her way to Peper Harrow's barn. Tom was there, ruddy-cheeked and solid, holding a lantern and looking forlorn. The grain bin was empty.
“They've taken the seed grain,” he said.
She stared at the empty bin, her chest aching. “I can see that, Thomas. I can see.”
She turned away, knowing she needed to tell Walter that they had nothing left to plant, and that a hard life had just gotten harder.
CHAPTER
TWO
Philip the Second, King of France, known to some as Philip Augustus, sat beside his campaign table on the banks of the Seine, the expansive grounds of the palace at Fontainebleau at his back. A servant held a platter of oysters, while the king alternately pored over a military map that covered his table and opened the shells with the skill of a surgeon. Occasionally he looked up to gaze out over the river. Philip was a handsome man, in the way of the French. Godfrey thought there was something slightly soft about his looks, something that bespoke the decadence of his land and his people. But Godfrey was also wise enough to understand that it was the king's libertine nature, his utter lack of scruples, that made him the perfect ally.
Godfrey watched the man, his eyes drawn repeatedly to the brilliant glittering ruby on the hilt of the king's ornate dagger, which Philip used in place of a more traditional oyster knife.
The king opened yet another shell, held it to his lips, and tipped back his head, so that the treasure within slid into his mouth and down his throat. Smiling with satisfaction, he glanced at Godfrey and gestured at the grand plate of oysters, clearly intending for the Englishman to help himself.
Godfrey smiled thinly, but remained as he was, eyeing the king.
“You and John,” Philip said, reaching for another shell, “you go back a long way together.”
“To the same breast.”
The king's hand hesitated over the plate. “I trust you are referring to your wet nurse.”
“And we have remained close ever since,” Godfrey said.
The king appeared as satisfied by this as by his meal. “Good, because England under your friend John is a country with no fighting spirit. I can take London with an army of cooks. But King Richard is on his way home. Under Richard …” He shrugged, gesturing with the dagger. Godfrey's gaze was drawn once more to the ruby. “England would be a different animal altogether.”
Philip took another oyster from the plate and jabbed at it with his blade. This time, the point slipped, slicing into his hand, which began to bleed profusely.
“Merde!” the king said. “Even dying animals can be obstinate.” He opened the shell with a second twist of the dagger and offered the oyster along with a generous helping of his own blood to Godfr
ey. Godfrey eyed the king for just an instant before taking the proffered shell, tipping his head back and swallowing the bloodied oyster.
“Richard will return home through the Forest of Broceliande,” Philip said, watching Godfrey in turn. “We know the exact place.” He swept aside several empty oyster shells with one hand and with the other pointed to a spot on the map. “He always travels ahead of his army, with only a few trusted knights around him.”
By way of answer, Godfrey took another shell, opened it deftly, and drank down first a half-shell of seawater and then the oyster.
“With him gone,” the king concluded, “there will never be a better moment to invade.”
