by DAVID B. COE
Marshal steered his mount in front of the king's and reined it to a halt, forcing King John to do the same.
“Close enough, Sire!” Marshal said.
But John shook his head defiantly, a fierce look in his dark eyes. “No, by God! It was not close enough for Richard!”
Before Marshal could argue, John spurred his horse past the old knight toward the heart of the fighting. Marshal watched him go, concern etched in his face. A moment later he rode after the king, as Robin had known he would. Marshal had been risking his life for the Plantagenet kings for too long to stop now.
PHILIP SAW HIS men fall under a storm of arrows and then watched as the English cavalry crashed through the lines of his army. The army that he had sent to conquer all of England. His force was being wiped out right before his eyes.
He turned to his captain again.
“Ce pays est-il vraiment ronge par la guerre?” he demanded. Is this a country at war with itself?
The captain said nothing. Philip turned back to watch the rest, though he already knew how it would end. Damn Godfrey to hell; he knew.
GODFREY THOUGHT ABOUT fleeing, as he had at Nottingham. But on that day he'd still had this battle to fight. The rout of Adhemar's men had been of little consequence in the larger scheme of things. This was different. Even if he managed to get away, even if Loxley or Marshal didn't chase him down, where would he go? There was nothing left for him in England. He had betrayed the king, and would hang for it. And if he ran now, he would have no future in France, either. Philip would never forgive this failure.
His only hope was that somehow he and the French could still turn this fight and win the day. Failing that, he was a dead man no matter what he did.
And so Godfrey steered his mount into the maelstrom of blood and flesh and steel, and fought as he never had before. His sword rose and fell, slicing through the English lines like the scythe of death. He and his horse moved as one, dancing away from the blur of a sword or the thrust of a lance, and then leaping forward once more to deal a killing blow.
The men around him might have been fighting for England or for France, but he was fighting for his life. No man could stand before him.
THE FRENCH WERE in disarray, but they weren't yet beaten. Those who had survived the fusillades from Robin's archers and the initial onslaught of the cavalry were trying to regroup. And more were still coming ashore in landing craft and pouring out onto the beach.
Robin fought from atop his mount, his sword flashing in the sun. Allan and Will, also still mounted, had their bows in hand, and their aim was lethal. They fired as quickly as they could, nocking and loosing arrow after arrow, dropping French soldiers as they came ashore.
Little John had dismounted and was wielding his stave to devastating effect. The broken bodies of the enemy lay strewn in the sand around him, and yet still the French continued to attack the man. Robin was surprised to see Friar Tuck fighting near Little John, using a stave of his own and doing a good deal of damage with it.
But he had no time to ask the priest what he was doing here. Men came at him from all sides, trying to unhorse him. He lashed out at the helm of a French soldier with a spurred boot, and hacked at reaching hands with his sword. He wheeled his horse in tight circles, first one way and then the other, fighting, killing, keeping himself alive.
As he turned, glancing up to mark his position and check on his friends, he saw what appeared to be a familiar helmet and coat of mail on a horseman who was riding down toward the beach. In the next instant, he had to give his full attention to a broad-shouldered French soldier with a battle pike, who tried to stab Robin's horse. Robin danced the beast out of reach, then darted back in from the side, hacking at the man's neck. The Frenchman fell, and Robin looked up again.
It took him a moment to locate that soldier he had seen. There, at the fringe of the battle. Yes, that was the armor of Loxley. But it couldn't be, unless … The soldier turned revealing an all too familiar face, far too lovely to be here, amidst these horrors.
Marion. And at her back rode the forest boys on their ponies.
Robin's heart rose in his throat. He shouted to her, screaming that she should get away while she could, that she should pull back to the cliffs. She didn't hear, or she ignored him.
He spurred his mount in her direction, trying to fight through to her. But there were too many soldiers between them. With every step his horse took, Robin had to fight off another attacker. But at last he reached her.
Before he could tell her to take the boys and leave, though, she glared at him, as if daring him to speak. “Not for you, Robin!” she called to him, sitting straight in her saddle. “For Sir Walter!”
She didn't wait for him to answer, but spurred her mount and rode away, followed by Loop and his boys. Robin nearly screamed aloud in his frustration. Were they mad?
A French soldier grabbed for him, and Robin raised his blade and brought it down with all the power he could muster, as if killing this man could lessen his fury. It didn't.
He searched for her again, saw her riding toward the thick of the fight, the feral boys wheeling around her on their mounts, like hive bees guarding the queen. Robin had to admit that Marion rode well and swung her blade with the grace and precision of a seasoned warrior. But she had no business being here. When she cried out Walter's name, hacking at a French soldier, he rolled his eyes. And was immediately beset by two men. He kicked out, swung his sword.
But he couldn't stop himself from searching again for Marion.
The English infantry had reached Dover Beach and was marching into the melee. Swordsmen, pikemen, spearmen, and additional archers strode across the sand. They chanted as they marched and banged their fists against their shields, creating a formidable din that carried over the sounds of the surf and the cries of battle.
Seeing them come, many of the French began to break ranks and run. They had nowhere to go, though, except back into the sea to their landing craft.
The surf tossed the empty vessels as if they were corks from a flask of wine, bashing them together, so that the oars splintered and fell uselessly into the water. Still, the French waded out to the craft and tried to climb back into them. Some men were crushed between two boats or driven underwater, but others managed to get themselves into the craft, where they could at least take shelter from the fighting, using the boats as floating fortresses.
Soon, though, English archers began to shoot flaming arrows into the boats, setting the vessels ablaze and forcing the French into the open once more.
The battle swirled around Robin. He fought, he tried to keep an eye on Marion, tried as well to mark the progress of the fight. It was easy to be distracted, and he suddenly found himself wheeling his horse hard to block the attack of a French knight on horseback. He tried to raise his sword to protect himself, but wasn't sure he could do so in time.
Thwap!
An arrow took the French knight in the chest. He swayed and fell off his horse. Robin twisted around and saw Will Scarlet reaching for another arrow to nock. They exchanged nods.
Then Robin was looking for Marion again. After a few moments, he spotted her a good distance away, still surrounded by her entourage of forest boys, still riding hard, sword in hand. And now he realized where she was headed. She was riding straight toward Godfrey. Truly she was mad. She charged the man, a cry on her lips, and managed to knock him off his mount. A moment later though, she was unhorsed as well, and Godfrey was advancing on her. Robin spurred his horse to a gallop, desperate to reach her in time. The distance, however, was great.
CHAPTER
THIRTY
An Englishman came at him from the left, hacking at his leg, trying to knock him off his horse. Godfrey blocked the man's blow and slashed him across the neck. Blood fountained and the man fell. Another of King John's soldiers attacked from the other side, but Godfrey pivoted too quickly for the man and swung his blade again, a silver and crimson blur in the morning light. This man died as wel
l.
Blood dripped from his sword, and his arm and shoulder felt leaden. Still, Godfrey could have gone on killing all day long if he thought it would have done him any good. But the battle was lost. Despite his best efforts, King John had managed to rally too many men to the defense of the realm. He still didn't know where he would go next, but he was not foolish enough to believe that there was nobility in dying well. It was time for him to leave Dover Beach.
Not far from where he fought, a landing craft still rested in the sand, waves lapping at its hull. It was intact, seaworthy from the look of it. And a group of French soldiers were massing around it, attempting to shove it off the sand and back into the Channel, so that they might make their escape. Godfrey had every intention of going with them.
Slamming the blade of his sword into one last English soldier, he broke away from the battle and drove his mount through the shallow surf toward the craft.
So intent was he on reaching the vessel before the Frenchmen pushed it out from shore, that he didn't even see the knight riding directly at him until it was too late.
He tried to rein to a halt, tried to raise an arm to shield himself from the collision, but the rider crashed into him at speed, sending him flying from his saddle.
Godfrey landed hard in the shallows. He took a second to clear his head, then tried to stand, but at first his spurred boots couldn't gain purchase in the wet sand. By the time he found his footing and began to stumble toward the craft, the French soldiers had it free of the sand. While some of the men began to row it away from the beach, others raised the gate.
“Attendez!” Godfrey bellowed. Wait! “You French dogs! Would you abandon me?”
He could still wade out to it. He started sloshing through the surf, but the knight steered his mount in front of Godfrey, cutting him off.
A wave hit the craft, lifted it, and the oars bit deep into the water. With a sudden surge, the boat pulled away.
Roaring with fury, crazed beyond reason, Godfrey whirled toward the rider, swinging his blade with all his strength. The knight danced his horse around Godfrey, dodging his blade and leveling a savage blow of his own at Godfrey's head.
Godfrey ducked, grabbed hold of the bridle and yanked the rider out of his saddle. The knight fell hard, but quickly righted himself. Heedless of his own safety, Godfrey rushed the man, raising his sword again.
The knight, tall and slender, met the attack, blocking one blow and striking at Godfrey. Godfrey parried easily and slammed his blade at the man's helmet once, twice. The knight staggered, his visor flying open. And …
Godfrey stopped, his sword back to strike again. It was a woman. The face staring out at him from within the helmet was that of a woman!
Not that he cared. This woman—this whore!—had kept him from escaping. He would die on this miserable, bloodstained beach because of her. But she would die first.
She was still addled, although she had her sword raised defensively. Godfrey lunged toward her, his sword high for the killing blow, and he struck her hard on the back of her helmet, near the base of her skull.
The woman went down hard into the shallow water of a receding wave, blood from her neck turning the surf crimson.
Godfrey would have run her through to finish her, but he saw that another rider was bearing down on him, battle lust in his eyes.
Loxley.
* * *
ROBIN THREW HIMSELF off his mount, desperate to get to Marion, who lay in the wet sand, her life bleeding away. Godfrey stood over her and Robin charged the man, knocking him down into the surf and grappling with him in the shallow water. After a few moments, they broke away from each other. Robin pulled his sword free and Godfrey did the same. The bald man grinned.
“Archer!” he said. “Let's see how you fare against a swordsman.”
Robin swung his sword, smacking the flat into Godfrey's side. Godfrey was staggered, but he swung at Robin, blindly, viciously, his sword blade whistling past Robin's head in a wide, useless arc. Robin stepped in once more and struck again with the flat of his blade, this time catching Godfrey in the side of the head. He would humiliate the man before he killed him, just as Godfrey had done to Robert Loxley.
But Godfrey wheeled hard, swinging his blade again, not at the head or body this time, but at Robin's leg. Robin tried to parry, failed. The blow sliced into his thigh and Robin fell to his knees in the surf, gritting his teeth at the pain and the sting of the salt water.
Robin forced himself up, looking at Marion, growing more frantic by the moment. She floated listlessly in the surf, and with each wave that ran up on the beach, water filled her mouth. Blood still flowed from her neck, but she hadn't moved or made a sound. Was she dead?
He glared at Godfrey, who looked like he might say something. “Save your words for God,” Robin warned. “They're your last.”
Robin leaped forward, hammering at the man with his sword, and driving him down into the water. Godfrey got to his knees, staring up at Robin, breathing hard. Robin advanced on him again.
“Look to the lady first, or she's drowned!” Godfrey shouted at him, climbing to his feet.
They stood facing each other, both calf deep in the water. Then, at once, they both flew at each other, exchanging blows, both parrying and then falling back a step.
“You are as good with a sword as a bow,” Godfrey said, offering a mock salute and a smirk.
Robin could see the man growing more confident with each swing of his sword. Robin was more archer than swordsman; they both knew it.
Another wave broke at the surf line. Water and foam swirled around their legs and up toward Marion, washing over her. Robin glanced anxiously at her.
And Godfrey saw his opening.
“And so you die together!” the man roared.
He bounded forward, hacking at Robin again and again, driving Robin back, forcing him to parry one chopping blow after another. Robin fought for his life, his feet slipping in the sand. But he blocked every strike, and when one of Godfrey's swings glanced away awkwardly, Robin renewed his own assault.
Now it was Godfrey's turn to parry. Robin struck at him from the top, from the left, from the right, and yet the bald man blocked every blow. At one point, Godfrey stumbled into the surf, and Robin leaped forward, intent on finishing him. But Godfrey managed to parry this attack as well, and all Robin got for his efforts was another notch in his blade.
The two men lunged at each other, coming together in a clash of steel. Godfrey's blade gashed Robin's face; Robin's blade just missed the man's neck. Once more they fell back eyeing one another.
And then charging again. This time Robin drove Godfrey back, keeping him off balance with his sword strokes. Godfrey made one last desperate thrust. Robin side-stepped the attack and swung. Godfrey blocked it, but only barely. He nearly fell again, back-pedaled. Robin stalked him.
As he did Robin noticed that Godfrey was looking past him, to something on the water. Robin turned just in time to see two of the empty French landing craft surging in his direction, driven by the tide toward him and toward each other. He heard Godfrey laugh, and did the only thing he could to keep from being crushed between the boats. He dropped down underwater. The surf was shallow here, and it was all he could do to go low enough to keep the boats from hitting him.
Even under the surf, he heard the vessels pound together again and again, still at the mercy of the tide. His lungs began to burn, but he could see no way to swim clear of the vessels.
At last, though, the boats separated, and Robin rose from the water, a scream of rage and bloodlust on his lips.
But rather than finding Godfrey in front of him, he spotted the man running for the white charger, which stood nearby on the beach. Godfrey jumped onto the horse's back and spurred the animal to a gallop. He rode through a knot of men, nearly trampling several of them, and then headed down the beach. Near the end of the landing area, one last landing craft rested in the sand.
* * *
THE BATTLE WAS
lost. Philip could see that. There was nothing to be done. The cost in gold and men was not inconsiderable, but he would live to fight John another day. Before he had the captain turn this ship back to France, though, he wanted to see Godfrey dead.
He thought the man fighting Godfrey would manage it, but then Godfrey found that damned horse and started away from the battle. The French king shook his head. Losing the battle and seeing Godfrey escape? Non! C'est trop! That is too much!
“Godfrey!” he yelled, though he knew the men on the beach couldn't hear him. “Qu'il soil maudit! Tue-le, quelqu'un!” Godfrey, damn him! Kill him, somebody!
ROBIN STRODE OUT of the surf back onto the beach, watching Godfrey ride away and knowing he would have only one chance to stop him.
