by Tim Hall
Robin glanced up. He counted four—five—sentries already patrolling the battlements, their spear tips glinting in the moonlight. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“We need to know what’s going on,” Marian whispered back. “Look, there goes another wagon. Are they all loaded with coin? Where did it all come from? They’re headed for the coach house. Maybe we’ll find answers there.”
A noise—just in front and overhead. Robin ducked behind a fire barrel, taking Marian’s arm, pulling her alongside. They held their breath against the stagnant standing water and they listened to the creaking sound.
It was a sentry, crossing a wooden gantry. They waited for the man to move away, his lamplight swinging on its pole and chain. They stood and continued past the small mead hall. From inside they heard a barked word and a door thump and something smashing against stone. In the distance Robin thought he heard somebody crying.
“Why is everyone so frantic? And so … angry?”
“Something strange is going on,” Marian whispered. “Some of the guards haven’t even unsaddled their horses, look. Maybe he’s not staying. Perhaps he’s only passing through. Either way, we need to know. Come on.”
They crept into a covered bower. They took cover amid the foliage and peered toward the coach house. Two guards stood near its entrance, but their backs were turned, their heads bowed. And now a third man was coming to join them, glancing over his shoulder. The three men stood whispering before moving away together.
Robin and Marian slipped out of the bower and across to the coach house. Another pause to check for danger. Then inside. Almost complete darkness. Robin took two candles from his hunting pack and he lit them both and he gave one to Marian.
They moved around and cast their light and looked in wonder. The barrel-vaulted coach house held three carriages and several long-carts and one big dray, several of them still stacked with chests and strongboxes. Some of these were bound in iron and locked, but others they could heave open. When they did the contents gleamed, and Marian gasped.
“Look at it all,” she whispered. “There’s gold and jewels and gems and … It’s a dragon’s hoard! And here, look, furs and tapestries and satin and silk …”
Robin picked out something made of silver and gold, fashioned into the shape of a hand. And here was another glittering ornament, in the form of a human head. Part of the skull was made of glass, and through this window he could see a lump of something grayish, like very old bread. Why make such an exquisite case and keep something worthless inside?
“That’s a real chunk of brain in there,” Marian whispered, coming to his side. “And the other one holds finger bones—pieces of dead saints. These are powerful relics, and worth a fortune. But they’re too bulky to take with us. Look for coins.”
Robin put the hand and the head reliquaries back in the chest and shut the lid.
“Has he sold something?” Marian said. “You could buy a whole kingdom in exchange for what … Quick, look at this.”
She had lifted the lid of another chest. Robin climbed up alongside. A dull gleam and the smell of iron. He moved his candle closer. The chest was stacked with spears. The shafts were as thick as Robin’s arm; the blades when he touched them were wickedly sharp.
Elsewhere they found hauberks and bucklers and another stack of spears.
“Far too many weapons for his men-at-arms,” Marian whispered. “It’s like he’s equipping an army. Why would he need—”
A noise at the entrance to the coach house.
Without a word, in unison, they extinguished their lights. Another flame was moving in their direction, between the carriages.
“Who’s there?” a voice said. “What’s happening here?”
The lantern moved farther into the coach house. Footsteps. The clink of keys against a belt.
“Show yourself. Who is it?”
But Robin and Marian had already gone: They had slipped silently to the wall and crept around the guard in the dark and vanished into the night.
* * *
“Pssst, Burram, it’s me, over here.”
Burram Fletch froze, cocking his head. He lifted his lantern and peered along the battlements. A soft hiss where he drew his sword.
“Who-who’s there? I-i-i-identify yourself. G-George, is that you? Identify yourself or—”
Marian hissed again: “It’s. Me. Over. Here.”
Burram Fletch crept toward where Marian and Robin were hiding, in the shadow of a guard tower.
“L-L-Lady Marian? Wh-what are you doing? You shouldn’t be up here. If B-B-B-Blunt catches you, at a time like this …”
Burram came fully into view, his lantern shaking slightly on its chain. He was by far the youngest of the men-at-arms, no more than eighteen years old, and he always had a nervous manner, especially when talking to Marian. But tonight he looked more anxious than ever.
“You sh-sh-shouldn’t be creeping around, n-n-not on a night like this,” he whispered, before pointing at Robin. “As f-for him, I ought to s-s-sling him off this wall myself.”
“We only want to know what’s going on,” Marian said. “We just saw Cuth Forrester and Harold Stint and they could hardly stand up they’re so drunk. Why is everyone acting so strange, and seem so desperate? I told myself: ‘If there’s one person who’ll know, it’s Burram Fletch.’ ”
Burram stood taller, puffed out his chest. His lantern tipped toward them.
“It’s th-th-th …,” he stammered. “It’s th-th … it’s the Sheriff.”
Marian took a sharp, audible breath. A gust of wind whispered along the wall.
“What do you mean?” Marian said. “What about him?”
“He-he-he’s coming. Here. In person.”
“Why?”
“W-w-well, as to that, I-I-I’m not certain. All I know is, your father looked for help. He w-w-w-went to all of them: Durrell, de Roye, every h-house he counts as a friend. He offered a fortune, but they all said no, e-e-every one, and so we’re on our own, and I’m not scared, you understand, I’m r-r-ready, come what may, but s-some of the others, they …”
“He’s here,” Robin said.
Burram stared at him.
“The Sheriff,” Robin said, pointing. “He’s coming up Lord’s Hill.”
Burram dropped his sword and it clattered off the battlements—he spun to look and his lantern cracked against stone. “Wh-wh-where? I-I don’t see anything! Wh-wh-wh-where?” Finally he turned back and looked at Robin and gritted his teeth. “S-s-silly boy. I ought to drop you off this wall … do-do-don’t let me find you here when I get back.” He took his cracked lantern and disappeared down the staircase, looking for his sword.
Marian glared at Robin. “You wouldn’t joke if you knew about the Sheriff.” She walked off along the battlements.
“What do you know about him?” Robin said. “Have you met him?”
“Not met, exactly, not face to face. But I remember his visits well enough, although I was young. He used to come here often, when Mother was alive. She was terrified of him—she used to hide me in the cellar until he’d gone away. And then afterward—this is what I remember most of all—afterward I wouldn’t see Mother for days. She’d lock herself in her chambers, refusing to see a soul, not even me, and Father too was at his worst during those times. I never even saw the Sheriff, in the flesh, but just thinking about him makes me feel all cold inside.”
She fell quiet. Robin watched his feet. They were making their way along the curtain wall, circling close to the main house. The night was growing darker, the moonlight dimmed. Robin looked out toward Winter Forest. Black swaths of cloud were bunching there, a storm gathering, the heat of the summer about to break at last.
Marian stopped and put her hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Listen,” she said. “Hear that shouting? That’s Father’s voice. From behind the house, I think. He’s furious about something. Time we learned what all this is about.”
They wound their way down from
the battlements. They crept across the Great Ward and reached the main house. One wall was thick with creeping vines. They used these to climb, Marian scampering up first and fastest, Robin following behind. They clambered up the steep roof. Some of the slate tiles were loose, there was a thirty-foot drop, but they were well practiced at this and soon they were scuttling and sliding down the opposite slope, and dangling and dropping onto the family chapel. Here they stopped and listened. The argument was louder now, although the words were still difficult to hear.
“My father’s father … served this house five generations … some orders I can stomach easier than others …”
They wriggled closer.
“Ready to ride away, tonight, and take their chances.”
“Then you’ve got to stop them! That’s your task. That’s what you’re for!”
They reached the edge of the roof and peered over. There, in a lamplit cloister, was Gerad Blunt, the Castellan. And with him, pacing up and down, was Guido Delbosque, Marian’s father. In Robin’s imagination this powerful lord was a towering, gleaming figure, matching the bronze statue of him that stood in the West Ward. The real man Robin now saw was far less impressive. He was a head shorter than the Castellan, and his face in the lamplight was red as a berry, ripe to burst. His hair was slicked back and the oil had run, leaving a glistening trail on his neck.
Lord Delbosque stopped pacing and lifted a shaking finger. “You’ve got to stop them!” he said again. “Scuttling away like rats. Cowards!”
At the word cowards the Castellan pulled himself up to his full height, loomed there in the half-light like a bear. Lord Delbosque stopped pointing.
“Those men you’re talking of …,” the Castellan said. “Some of them have served with me two-score years. And we haven’t always stood watchdog at your gates. Together we’ve fought Franks in the northern forests, dug Picts out of their mountain fasts. We’ve marched through Baltic blizzards, Vandals snapping at our heels. I will tell you this: Not one of those men is a coward.”
Lord Delbosque started spluttering a reply. The Castellan raised a hand, cut him short.
“It’s simple enough, as far as I can see. You have left yourself just two options, each as ignoble as the other. Come to me when you’ve made your decision. I will see it done, for our fathers’ sake. But there the chain is broken. I will never take an order from you again.” The Castellan turned, dragging his lame leg; he clomped from the cloister and was gone.
Lord Delbosque pushed one fist to his forehead. “Craven. They jump at every shadow, fearing it’s him. Do they think I’m made of the same soft stuff? I’ll show them. The Delbosque element is fire, and I intend to prove it.”
At first Robin thought the earl was talking to himself, but then he noticed there was a third man in the cloister. He moved into the light, his cane clicking on the cobbles. A stooped, silver-haired figure whom Robin didn’t recognize.
“The Castellan was wrong,” the old man said. “There is a third option. There is Sir Bors.”
“Never.”
“But, sire, at least consider. He could be here in three weeks. Four at most. If we can only hold our nerve until then. In his letter he mentioned them both. He said the boy too is—”
“Never! I don’t care what Sir Bors wants. I don’t care about their damned war. What is the boy to me? I’ll send him his head in a sack! But if he ever again mentions my daughter …”
Marian stiffened at Robin’s side. She tugged at his cloak. He slid with her away from the edge of the roof. Below them the conversation had paused, and when the earl spoke again it was so quiet Robin could barely hear.
“How could she allow it? Was she unaware?”
The old man made some answer that was unclear.
“And what of the boy, should it come to that?” Again, the reply was too soft to hear.
“Leave me now, Hapax. Make the preparations. We must be ready, either way.”
A door creaked. Silence. After a while more footsteps moved away and they knew Marian’s father had gone.
“Who was that other man?” Robin whispered.
“Hapax Gaul. The Chamberlain.”
“And who were they talking about? Who is Sir Bors?”
“Never heard of him.” She looked back toward the cloister, scowling. “I hate not knowing what’s happening. But in any case, it’s his concern, not ours. This time tomorrow we’ll be far from here. It’s too dark to set off tonight—those clouds are getting thicker. We’ll leave at first light. Agreed?”
They clambered down from the chapel and slipped back into the Lost Lands and they climbed into their tower, the way they had done a thousand times, and the way they would never do again.
They sat in their chamber, wide awake. Marian hugged her knees, her knapsack fully packed between her feet. Robin gripped his shortbow and his quiver. They waited and they waited and finally the first fingers of gray light reached into the tower.
Marian went to the window. “The storm is still building,” she said. “It’s going to be a monster. We shouldn’t set out in the middle of a tempest, should we? But the moment it passes we’ll be on our way. We won’t wait a moment longer.”
They sat again in silence. After a while Marian reached out to him and locked her fingers with his. “I know it’s going to be sad,” she said. “Leaving our home. I’m not ready to go either, not really, no more than you are. And what’s more, I’m scared. But I know it’s the right path, and the time to begin.” She squeezed his fingers tighter, leaned closer. “And just imagine it … Think what lies ahead! All the places we’ll see and the stories we’ll hear and everything we’ll make of our lives! We can make a new home, wherever we choose. And when we feel like it we’ll get up and go on again, and then we’ll pick a new place, and call that home—anywhere and everywhere, that’s where home will be, so long as we’re together. You and me versus the world, the way it’s always been.”
Robin stood and moved about their chamber. There was something he had been meaning to do for some time. He rummaged through all the trinkets they had found and stolen over the years: He threw aside a cracked drinking ewer, a folding travel altar, a necklace of acorns. He found what he was looking for: a stonemason’s chisel. He carried it to the basement. From his hunting pouch he took the jade arrowhead Marian had given him when they first met. He placed the arrowhead on a chopping block. He used the poll of their wood-ax as a hammer, bringing it down on the haft of the chisel. The arrowhead cracked the first time neatly down the middle. Using cradle knots he tied willow twine to each half.
As he carried the twin amulets back to their chamber, he heard a drumming sound, growing louder—the rolling rumble of hooves. Marian was already climbing the ladder, into the crown of the tower. Robin followed.
They stood at the edge of the parapet, blinking in the dawn light, and they watched a cloud of dust drawing down the valley. A poisonous hush had spread through the manor. It was so quiet Robin could hear the odd word drifting from the servants’ quarters. He thought he heard somebody saying that name they had heard last night: Sir Bors. Somebody else hissed, very clearly: “No, it’s him, he’s here!”
Armed riders became visible. There were four of them, wearing bloodred cloaks and black steel breastplates. Stark against those breastplates was an image, embossed in red lacquer. It was difficult to see at this distance, but the emblem looked like a wolf, its teeth bared.
“The Sheriff’s Guard,” Marian said.
The soldiers disappeared from view as they drew close. Gerad Blunt came limping along the battlements and climbed into the barbican tower. He was shouting something, but Robin couldn’t make out the words. The gates remained closed and bolted.
“It looks like Burram was wrong,” Marian said. “The Sheriff isn’t with them. Either way, this will work to our advantage. While Father’s distracted, we’ll slip away, and he won’t even notice. What’s that you’re holding?”
Robin held up both palms, revealing the twin ar
rowhead amulets. Marian smiled and bit her lower lip. She tipped her head back and gathered up her hair. Robin reached behind her neck and tied the cord. She took the second talisman from him and tied it so it hung at his chest. When she’d finished she stayed there, pressing lightly against him. She turned her eyes up to meet his.
“Robin—don’t you see?—we shouldn’t be sad, or frightened. This isn’t the end. This is the beginning. Of everything.”
She put two fingers to her lips, then touched them to Robin’s forehead. She moved away, biting her lip. She came back, stood on tiptoes, kissed him properly on the chin. She opened her mouth wide and rolled her eyes in mock shock. Then she was dancing away, glancing back, grinning.
“I’ve thought of more things we need, I’ll go and pack. Just think of it, the whole world, ours to conquer! As soon as the storm clears we’ll be on our way. Look at that sky! Don’t stand up here too long.”
Their eyes met once more through the closing trapdoor, and she was gone. Robin put a hand to his chin and in spite of everything he found he was smiling. Yes, she was right, of course she was. Whatever was happening here, this was no place for them, not anymore. They should go their own way, build a life free from the whims of Mistress Bawg or Marian’s father or anyone else.
Maybe … maybe they would even find them, out there somewhere. He and Marian would be passing through a village and someone would hear the name Loxley and would remember meeting Robin’s father. Robin would follow their trail, from place to place, until one day he would find them, and they would be amazed and overjoyed and proud beyond words that Robin was alive and had managed to track them down!
Robin was pulled from his reverie by raised voices near the main gates. Dust was rising—the Sheriff’s soldiers riding away, shouting as they went. A knife of lightning stabbed at Winter Forest, quickly followed by the first crunch of thunder.
He turned to go into the tower. But then another noise caught his attention. He peered toward the stables. Horses were being saddled and yoked, and vehicles were being prepared. One was Lord Delbosque’s own gilded coach.
