Before Marion could place a hand on the ladder, Joan threw up an axe.
Robyn yelped as the weapon made swoosh going past her head.
Clangggggg! The axe took a chunk out of the wall.
Robyn’s heart nearly scrambled out her throat in fear.
“Watchit!” Robyn and Marion yelled at the same time.
“Sorry!” Joan said. “I did throw it handle first.”
“Are you all right?” Marion asked as he clambered up.
“Yeah, course.”
“Better we have the axes than they do,” Joan said from below. “Keep back, I’m throwing another one up now.”
Robyn kept well back as the second axe sailed past.
Taking a quick stock take, they had plenty of pots and cloths and small farming tools. But nothing to eat. Grabbing an earthenware jug, Robyn tossed it down to Joan, who caught it in her strong hands. “Fill this up from the river, then bring mother back here as fast as you can. If the Sheriff’s men get here before then, get out of town, all right?”
Joan gave Robyn a wink and a salute, “I’ll leave you two alone if that’s what you mean.”
Heat tore through her. “Hey, what?” Robyn called after Joan, but the rude girl only waved as she jogged away.
Robyn made ready to climb down the ladder and set Joan straight when Marion called out from above, “They’re coming!”
CHAPTER FOUR
Heart racing faster than galloping horses, Robyn hauled up the ladder below her to cut off access. At least now they were safe from the Sheriff’s men climbing after them.
“Good thinking,” Marion said as he came down to help.
“But now Joan won’t be able to get up.”
Marion scratched his head for a moment. “She and Mother Eleanor are smart. They’ll stay by the river. Let’s get the next ladder up as well.” Marion said.
It was exhausting work. Robyn welcomed the burn in her muscles, it meant she was too busy to acknowledge the guilt swirling through her. Guilt for not thinking properly when the taxmen had first come to Loxley. For not thinking of some other way to save their grain without getting everybody into trouble.
Every trapdoor they closed made the inside of the tower that much darker. Dust scratched her throat and nose. As they scrambled out the last hatch to the top of the tower, the air had never smelled so crisp.
Marion pulled a loose stone block from the top of the battlements and carried it over to the trap door, jamming it shut from above.
“Nice one, muscles,” Robyn said.
“Thanks Robbie.” Marion shrugged away the compliment.
Peeking from behind the walls, they saw the Sheriff’s men. Their horses leading a single carriage clip-clopped into Littleton. They were wearing ordinary clothes and coats. Some had shiny long boots with buckles that gleamed in the sun, others had laced-up shoes. She hadn’t seen such a mismatched team since her father had marched off with the village men to join the crusade.
The only motif signifying their team status was a brown armband with a sheaf of wheat on it; the herald of Sheffield. Robyn scratched her brain and concluded their liege lord in Sheffield had to know about everything that had happened in Loxley–but only from the taxmen’s point of view.
“All stop,” the man in charge said.
Robyn whispered to Marion, “It’s the same man from the yesterday.”
“Come back to finish the job,” Marion said with an equally low tone.
In silence, they watched as the men creaked and groaned from their positions on the horses and carriage. They looked sore and tired, moving stiffly. Robyn sent up a silent prayer of thanks for Joan giving them so many bruises the evening before.
The men shucked their riding gloves off and sorted themselves out at a leisurely pace.
Horror dawned on Robyn. “They’re not here to steal, they’re here to settle in.” Maybe that’s why Littleton was empty when they’d arrived? “Perhaps last night . . .” worry spiked Robyn afresh. After she and Joan had attacked them on the King’s Road, the men must have been furious. Had they taken their anger out on the people of Littleton?
No, wait. When she’d found Joan by the river, she’d said they’d already been raided.
Then again, what if the Sheriff’s mob had gone back through Littleton after the attack and made things worse?
Marion scrunched his face up. “Littleton’s so small. Why wouldn’t they stay in Loxley? Our village is heaps better.”
“The great Loxley-Littleton rivalry.”
A whiff of smoke carried on the wind. Sniffing Robyn said, “Do you smell that?”
“Have they lit a fire?”
Lighting a fire was a sure sign of settling in. Of keeping warm over night, getting comfortable, drinking and telling stories.
Why couldn’t they simply go away?
Robyn craned her neck and peered through the toothy square gaps of the battlement. It was hard to get a good look because she was trying desperately not to be seen from below. If she stuck her head out too far, the tax collectors would only have to look up and they’d see her.
“I can’t see it, but the smell is getting stronger.”
“God in heaven. Look.” Marion put his hand under Robyn’s chin and tilted her face upwards so she could see further up the road.
Fire.
Coming from Loxley.
Or, more accurately, the smoke of a fire, which puffed and grew in size like a thundercloud growing from the earth.
“I’m going to kill them.” Robyn’s hands clenched into fists.
“Get in line,” Marion said. He grabbed one of the ladder’s they’d hauled up and kicked the rungs free. Then he grabbed one of the axes and sharpened the rung into a fine dagger point.
Robyn joined him. Their furious whittling soon produced a short pile of pointy stakes.
“Mister Roger,” somebody called out from below.
Robyn and Marion instantly stopped and craned their ears. So Roger was the man in charge, was he? She made a mental note to remember it.
“What is it?” Roger said.
“Someone’s been here. There used to be a sheepskin in this cottage, now it’s gone.”
“Aww, do you need something soft for your bottom?” Roger said.
The air filled with raucous laughter, which quickly changed to coughing fits as the smoke from Loxley’s fires carried in the wind and coated them.
The smoke stung Robyn’s eyes. Marion too looked uncomfortable. The knowledge the men below were bearing the same pain gave her some satisfaction. Then the truth of the situation made her angry all over again. They were burning her village!
“I’ll get you back, Roger,” she vowed. “You won’t even see it coming.”
Eyes watering, Robyn and Marion held their hoods over their mouths and noses, filtering out the smoke.
How strange that now, of all times, Robyn should notice how long Marion’s eyelashes were. Had they always been like that?
Below them, Roger’s men approached the nearest cottage and yanked a broom’s worth of thatching from the roof.
A sharp metallic scratching filled the air. Robyn craned her neck again to see Roger striking a blade against a flint. Sparks flew out and caught the top of the thatching, turning it into a fast-burning torch. They strolled from cottage to cottage setting the roofs on fire.
Fury made her react. “No!” she screamed, grabbing a sharpened stake and flinging it down on them. It glanced one man on the side of the head. Oh dear, it came perilously close to the horses. Must not hurt the horses!
“Ow! What?” The man grabbed his wounded skull and looked about.
Marion piled a fresh supply of stakes right near Robyn’s throwing hand, then a moment later he too was flinging pointy bits of wood down on the interlopers.
“Take that!” Robyn screamed, then lapsed into a coughing fit.
“Mister Roger, we’re under attack!” A man yelled,
“I can see that. Take cover!”
Instead of returning fire, the men ducked under the tower. Well, they wouldn’t be able to climb up, because the ladders weren’t there. And if they did manage to scramble to the top, she and Marion would be waiting for them.
Arm poised to fling another stake, Robyn waited for the men to move.
And waited.
And waited some more.
The ground was littered with pointy weapons, why weren’t they throwing them back?
Suddenly the men ran out and grabbed the horses, then charged away, fleeing for their lives.
“And stay out!” Robyn screamed after them. Which also brought on a fresh coughing attack.
Marion had slumped down behind the battlement, breathing through his tunic. The smoke thickened. Flames burst through the top of the cottages, the dry thatching burning fast and free.
Dizzy with adrenaline and smoke inhalation, Robyn slumped down and covered her face.
“Well, they’ve cleared off. We should get down now.”
An unearthly “whoomp” of flames sounded below them.
Directly below.
The air filled with strange new smells, like burning bread. But there was no bread here. Only . . . uh-oh! The bags of flour.
“They’ve set fire to the tower.” Marion’s Adam’s apple bobbed out as he gulped. “We’re trapped.”
“We’ll have to climb over the side, come on,” she urged Marion, touching the stones to make sure they weren’t too hot.
Marion slumped against the wall, his skin turning as grey as the air around them. “Robbie, I’m no good with heights.”
If Marion couldn’t deal with heights, they were in all sorts of trouble. They couldn’t climb down the ladders; they’d whittled them away. Jumping from this height was out of the question. But maybe they could jump down through the trapdoor to the floor below, and then leap out the windows from there? That wasn’t so high up, was it?
“Everything’s going to be all right.” It was vital to sound like she’d thought this through. “We don’t have to climb down from all the way up here. We’ll jump down to the floor below . . . and then crawl out the window. How does that sound?”
Marion nodded as sweat broke out over his forehead. It was getting so hot up here.
Flames punched a hole in the floor. Thick smoke belched out.
The rooms below would be fully engulfed. So much for getting to the lower floor, they’d be roasted in no time if they tried. There was no way out other than scrambling over the battlements and making their way down the outside of the walls.
Robyn grabbed him by the shoulders. “We’re going to be fine,” she lied. She had to say something to get him to move, because if they stayed here they were roasted meat. “The stones have big gaps between them for your hands and feet, it will be just like climbing a ladder.”
He only gulped.
Confusion addled her mind. “Marion? You got yourself up here without any help.”
His voice came out so softly. “Yes but, it was dark when we climbed up.”
The fire devoured the floorboards. They had two options. Go over the top or die.
“Shut your eyes. Shut your eyes and do what I say.” It was boiling hot. Singed aromas filled the air. “Don’t look at the fire. Don’t look down. Just listen to me, got that? Right, we’re getting out of here.”
If anything, the heavy smoke became their ally, as it was hard to see all the way to the ground below. Robyn helped Marion straddle the battlement, his legs dangling off the side as they nudged and budged themselves until they were hanging on, vertical to the wall.
“Keep listening to me, keep doing what I say,” she said, between coughing fits.
With a pained voice Marion said, “You’re loving this, aren’t you.”
“Oh yes.” When all else failed, there was sarcasm.
Just as she’d described it, the stones really were set apart like rungs on a ladder. It was easy to find footholds and handgrips at regular intervals. “That’s it, you’re doing great. Now, move your right hand down here, and grab on to the top of this stone. That’s it. Good. We’re getting there.”
Was it her imagination, or were the stones getting warmer? Now that they’d moved a couple of painful stone courses downwards, the smoke started to clear around them.
Yet it felt hotter.
Because the tower was acting like a chimney, sucking in air through the bottom and sending it racing up to the top. The middle floors were completely alight, conducting heat into the tower walls. Thank goodness they weren’t still up on the top, they’d be dead by now. “You’re doing it. We’re both still alive, and we can tell Mother Eleanor and Joan all about it when we get down.”
Mother and Joan? Robyn prayed they were waiting this out somewhere safe, somewhere down by the river.
“You’re doing great. Keep listening to me,” Robyn said, desperate not to utter an ominous, “don’t look down”.
Block by block, limb by wobbly limb, they descended. The stones felt hotter than ever, but there was no way to protect their skin. She pulled her tunic sleeve over her palm, but it made it harder to grip the bricks. They’d have blisters for sure, but they’d also have breath in their body and that was always a bonus.
“I can’t do it,” Marion said, every muscle shaking.
“Yes you can, you’re nearly there.”
Marion pressed his body into the stones as if he could merge with them.
Robyn opened her mouth and her mother came out. “Look at me Marion. Open your eyes and look at me.”
It worked though, Marion did open his eyes.
Praise the saints!
“Here’s the thing. You won’t tell anyone I can’t read, I won’t tell anyone about this. Deal?”
A faint smile spread over his face. “Deal.” It came out in a whisper.
“Left hand, move it down to the next block, got it? Good, now move your right leg, that way you’re covering more space and spreading your weight out more evenly. Good. Now move your right hand, and then your left leg. Right?”
“You said left.”
“Don’t get smart.” Relief flooded Robyn. Back-chatting had to be a good sign.
They were doing it. And the stones weren’t as hot all of a sudden. They must be lower than she thought. Looking down at last, Robyn nearly laughed.
“We can jump from here,” she said.
“What?”
“Look down.”
With a gulp, Marion obeyed and looked down. Then he too laughed with relief. They’d climbed all the way down between the arches and were only three stone courses above the ground.
Robyn let go of the wall and landed with a welcome thud on the ground. Marion landed a short while later, having jumped from the second course.
The village of Littleton flamed on around them.
The tower beside them reduced to a shell.
All the supplies they’d tried to save had been in that tower. Now they fell as ashes.
They were alive, but they had nothing.
“Water,” Marion said, getting to his feet and holding his hand out to help Robyn up.
When they reached the river, Robyn slumped into it, covering her entire body with coldness. What sweet relief it was to cool her burned palms and baked body in the water.
“Robyn! Marion! Thank heavens you’re all right!” Joan and Eleanor came running up to them and splashed into the edge of the river. Eleanor stopped at the banks. “Get out of there, you’ll drown!” She ordered.
“It’s only waist deep!” Robyn said.
“I don’t care. Water is for cooking, not bathing,” Eleanor said, reaching her hand out to her daughter. “Now get out.”
“Mother Eleanor, this is probably the safest place to be,” Marion said as he got to his feet. He was soaked from top to bottom. His long shirt clung to his body, highlighting the muscles and planes of his torso. “Littleton is on fire.”
“We noticed,” Joan said, then she winked at Marion and said, “You should stay
wet.”
Marion snorted as he pulled the soaking fabric away from his skin.
Heat raced up Robyn’s face, so she splashed herself to hide her embarrassment. Did Marion know she was looking at him? Weighed down by her wet clothes, she dragged herself to the banks and looked at the desolation.
“Sorry Joan.” Remorse churned her stomach. Here they were, surrounded by water, yet they had no way of dousing it on the fire to save the village. The wind gusted in the opposite direction, blowing smoke away from them. It afforded a great view of what remained of Littleton.
Precious little. The stone tower stood there like a chimney, but the cottages were nothing but smouldering timber and clay shells. Their thatched roofs, made from dried straw, had never stood a chance.
“Wait a minute,” Robyn said as she sloshed her way to the river bank. “Is that another horse?”
“Oh, yes,” Eleanor said, “She was already by the river when we got here. Very friendly. Won’t leave Shadow’s side.”
Must have been the other one Robyn had let loose when she’d stolen Shadow. They’d lost a village but gained a horse.
Shivers took hold as the breeze rolled around her sodden clothes. “Right, let’s dry out.” Slosh, slosh, slosh, she walked towards the closest ruined cottage, holding her wet tunic over her nose to keep the smoke out of her lungs.
There was nothing left to salvage in the cottage. Sunlight streamed in where the roof should have been. The walls were still standing, but the wattle and daub mud had cracked from the heat. A radiant heat, which helped dry her out a little.
Everything not currently smoking had burned to black coals.
“Hey, it’s not so bad,” Joan said as she gave Robyn a hug.
Robyn snuggled in to the hug and returned it with equal sympathy and love, dreading to think what might be left of Loxley.
“We’re alive, yeah? That’s always a bonus,” Joan said.
“Since you put it that way,” Robyn said, surveying the destruction all around them.
“Let’s check the well. My parents were always throwing things down there, whenever strangers came into town. Who knows,” Joan added with a shrug, “We might find something useful.”
Robyn and the Hoodettes Page 4
