* * *
They were all there. Usually only a few of the men would go on a job, led by Robin himself or one of his two captains, Little John and Will Scaflock, but today, for this, everyone apart from Tuck had come and Robin was glad of it although he had no doubt Gisbourne would hold to his word and meet him one-on-one as promised.
When they reached the agreed meeting place Robin had stood on the bridge and looked around, taking in the surroundings, looking for anywhere he could use to his advantage during the fight. John was looking for direction in where to set-up the men in case the Raven didn't hold true to his word and the sheriff's men attacked, but the young wolf's head was off in a world of his own, visualising how the duel might pan out and Will eventually took charge, directing the outlaws to the trees on their side of the little brook that fed into the River Don, making sure they were all well hidden with a clear line of sight to the bridge.
They didn't have long to wait.
Sir Guy of Gisbourne arrived, accompanied by at least twenty soldiers, including his own bald-headed second-in-command, Nicholas Barnwell. He waved them to a halt long before he reached the stone bridge though, ordering them to take up positions along the bank, in plain view. They carried small, but sturdy, shields and Robin smiled. They were learning to fear the outlaws' arrows at last.
Barnwell tried to argue with his commander but Gisbourne sternly waved the man back to stand with his men. There was to be no interference – one of these two men would die today, and no one could stop it. Barnwell moved back, face as black as the thunderheads gathering overhead, and the Raven walked confidently forward onto the bridge, his left hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
“Your bruises are healing.”
Robin gritted his teeth at the hated voice which brought back vivid memories of the terrible beating he'd suffered at this man's hands the last time they'd met in Nottingham. It wasn't his style to offer taunts though, so he remained silent, watching Gisbourne for the attack which would certainly come.
“I'm glad you decided to meet me. Killing you will make me famous. You're something of a hero to the peasants, you know. Although I can't see why. No offence, but you were no better a swordsman than a dozen other men I've fought and killed.”
The boiled-leather cuirass, greaves and bracers Gisbourne wore shone like metal despite the clouds overhead, and, when he drew his sword and held it in a two-handed defensive stance, he looked like something from a fairy tale. Tall, grim and dark; death seemed to hover around him like a black cloak.
Robin felt it, the sense of dread this man somehow exuded, but he too knew the power of appearances, so he hid his fear and continued to stare steadily at his opponent, gently flexing the great muscles in his shoulders and rolling his head to release the tension in his neck.
“Not in the mood for talking?” Gisbourne smiled and Robin shuddered at it for it was a genuine smile of pleasure. There was no trace of fear or trepidation in this man's eyes – he obviously trusted implicitly in his ability to defeat the younger, stronger man.
In contrast, Robin felt like puking. Never before, in his entire life, had he felt such fear going into a battle. Bigger, faster and more agile than the boys in Wakefield, he'd grown up knowing he could deal with almost anyone that tried to stand against him. When he'd become an outlaw and joined up with the men he now led, he'd learned fast, and suffered many beatings on the way, until he knew he could best any of his men – even John – either unarmed or with sword in-hand.
So why did he feel like his intestines were about to worm their way out of his mouth? He stared into the hazelnut eyes of Sir Guy and breathed deeply, trying to marshall his thoughts.
Without thinking he drew his sword and brought it up across his body, parrying the thrust Gisbourne had suddenly thrown.
Christ, but the king's man was fast! Faster than anyone Robin had ever faced before.
Gisbourne threw a few more experimental blows, parried easily enough by the young man from Wakefield, but Robin knew this was just the beginning. He expected to be played with, as he had been in Nottingham, but this time he didn't intend to stand by while it happened. He'd been in shock from the death of his oldest friend when he'd been captured by this man previously and it had slowed him; made him a much easier target than he would normally have been. Now, Robin meant to exact revenge for Much, James, Paul and Sir Richard-at-Lee. And for the torture he'd suffered himself at the hands of this dark monster of a man.
Sir Guy of Gisbourne was a man who pushed himself mercilessly to be the best. He tried to eat well without being a glutton, paid a surgeon to bleed him regularly, and he drank little alcohol, knowing his body would suffer if he indulged too much. Once he'd left his life in Gisbourne and been employed by the king he had remembered the bedtime stories his mother had told and begun to see himself as Sir Lancelot – a charismatic, flawed genius that could best any man alive with a sword. Indeed, his whole persona had been moulded on those old tales of Camelot and the round table. His armour had been influenced by the mythical Black Knight, knowing the colour inspired a primal fear in even the most hardened of warriors. His mistrust of women came from his adulterous wife, Emma, and, of course, Guinevere who had betrayed her own husband, King Arthur.
Parsival's quest for the Holy Grail was, right here, embodied in Gisbourne's battle with Robin Hood, a man the stupid peasants had started comparing to the mythical Arthur!
There was no holy cup filled with some mythical figure's blood. Gisbourne knew it was a metaphor – a symbol that showed those with the wit to see it as the way to enlightenment and self-improvement. The way to become a god.
He grinned in fierce pleasure as he aimed an upward swing at Hood's midriff, feeling power and self-belief coursing through his veins like righteous fire. He became utterly lost within himself as he traded blows back and forth with the wolf's head on the old stone bridge which had seen better days but had been neglected in recent years by the local lord.
His movements flowed effortlessly and he revelled in the feeling of invincibility as the young outlaw parried his blows desperately, rarely giving anything back, yet somehow managing to remain untouched himself.
It was a fine battle, Gisbourne admitted to himself as he danced into another attacking position. But the wolf's head was only doing enough to survive; he wasn't skilful enough to pierce the Raven's defences, and so it would end soon.
He bared his teeth in a joyful smile and went on the attack again.
When Robin had first joined the outlaws he hadn't been much of a swordsman. He could use a longbow better than most people, thanks to his years of practice growing up, like all the other boys in Wakefield. And he could handle himself in unarmed combat thanks to his quick reflexes and powerful build. But he'd rarely taken out the old sword his father kept stored under his bed. When he'd begun sparring with the outlaws all those months ago he'd been beaten and bruised mercilessly until, eventually, he'd learned how to fight with a blade in his hand.
As their leader, he wanted the outlaws to look up to him as a true warrior despite his age. And they did. Because he was the best of them.
He knew he couldn't beat Gisbourne though. It was becoming increasingly obvious that the king's man had almost supernatural abilities. When Robin launched an attack, Gisbourne knew it was coming and was able to either move out the way or parry it, seemingly without much effort. In contrast, the bounty-hunter's moves were so fast, so fluid and so relentless that the wolf's head was desperately tired already, both mentally and physically.
He couldn't hear his friends behind him, but he could feel their nervous stares boring into him as they watched the hated enemy, the Raven, gain the upper hand.
On the opposite side of the river, from the corner of his eye, Robin could see Gisbourne's soldiers watching, although their lack of movement or sound as their leader battered him relentlessly suggested they held little affection for their charismatic leader. Only his second-in-command, Barnwell, seemed excited by the whole
affair, shouting encouragement to his master and hopping excitedly, almost like a child, from foot to foot as each blow was thrown and parried.
It couldn't last forever, though. Robin was fast becoming exhausted and his parries were beginning to come slower, with less strength behind them, and he was throwing fewer and fewer shots of his own as time went on.
The young man tried to rally, picturing Matilda's face in his mind's eye, holding their unborn baby in her arms. He so desperately wanted to be a father to that little child, and, for a few moments, another surge of determination allowed him to force Gisbourne onto the back-foot. But it didn't last before he tired again, his arms feeling like they were encased in lead, and the grim king's man took control again, his wickedly sharp blade – so finely polished it almost glowed in the setting sunlight – moving so fluidly it seemed to be made from liquid steel.
Robin knew he was going to die here today.
* * *
Friar Tuck literally fell off the big palfrey as he came at last to the bridge and found his friends watching the fight between their leader and Sir Guy of Gisbourne.
“What are you doing here?” Little John demanded, trying to keep an eye on the one-to-one battle before him while dragging the big clergyman off the grass as if he was no heavier than a child. “You're supposed to be resting at the camp. And watching our stuff!”
“Never mind that,” Tuck retorted. “I have news! Robin has a son!”
The outlaws, nervously watching the fight between their leader and the man known as the Raven, suddenly cried out as they heard the friar's news.
“A son!”
“Robin has a son!”
“Are you sure?” John demanded, glaring into Tuck's eyes. “Robin's suffered enough in the past few weeks without hearing something that'll turn out to be nonsense.”
“I'm sure,” Tuck nodded, trying to catch his breath and rubbing his elbow where he'd landed as he dropped from the horse in his haste. “A boy, born on the Ides of June. Tell him!”
Little John grinned. “If you're sure, I'll let him know.” He hefted his great quarterstaff over his head and gave a deafening shout. “Lads! Let's tell him.”
Filling his massive lungs, the giant outlaw opened his mouth and bellowed across to the bridge and the men locked in mortal combat there.
“Robin! You're a father now. Matilda's had a son!”
The men behind him joined in and added their joyful congratulations, roaring and shouting happily.
“Matilda's had the baby!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
He had a son!
Images of a smiling little boy racing through the forest and the streets of Wakefield filled Robin's mind as he knelt in the mud under another of the Raven's relentless attacks. A boy with fair hair, eyes shining, gazing up at him – his father – as they played together in the thick green summer foliage.
The outlaw rose unsteadily to his feet and parried the unrelenting blows from the wiry king's man, desperately trying to stay alive as attack after attack rained down on him.
And then it happened. A simple stumble was all it took, as a foot failed to find purchase on a damp patch of grass and the blade was coming down, slicing mercilessly through skin and flesh, before scraping agonizingly down through cheekbone and jaw.
It took Gisbourne a moment to realise what had happened, before he held his left hand up to his ruined face and screamed, an outpouring of fear, pain and rage.
All his years of training to be the best, and a damp patch of grass was his undoing.
Robin could hear his friends now – cheering and whooping in happy relief as he stepped back to catch his breath, sword held loosely in his hand as he watched Gisbourne struggle back to his feet, still clutching his cheek which was bleeding terribly now.
“You lucky bastard.” The bounty-hunter mumbled as he moved back into a fighting stance, and Robin shivered as he saw Gisbourne's crazed eyes and the crimson stain that was leaking steadily between his fingers. “I'm not done yet, Hood. I still have enough left to beat you.”
Robin threw his sword up again, stunned by the speed the injured Gisbourne hurled himself back into the fight, and again they traded blows. This time, though, Robin knew he had the upper hand. Gisbourne's depth-perception was off as he tried to hold his face together and he was struggling terribly to keep up with the speed they were moving at.
Again, Robin's sword raked across his enemy's face, this time diagonally upwards, from left to right, taking the side of Gisbourne's nostril off, narrowly missing the eye, and the bleeding man continued to fight on, tears of fury spilling from his eyes and spreading the blood even more shockingly down his face, but refusing to accept defeat at the hands of this outlawed yeoman.
Both men were tired now, locked in their own little world of pain and blood.
Gisbourne tried a powerful overhand cut but totally misjudged his opponent's position and the bright steel whistled harmlessly down, lodging point-first into the grass.
They had been moving backwards as Robin's superiority forced Gisbourne onto the back-foot and were now standing in front of the old stone bridge. The sound of rushing water was the only thing the young outlaw could hear as his hated enemy stood, beaten and unmoving, looking at him through his insane dark eyes.
“You murdered three of my friends. One of them I'd known all my life – he was a good man, and you gutted him in front of me.”
Gisbourne stared, mouth open, drooling slightly, his entire face, neck and that beautiful black boiled-leather cuirass covered grotesquely in blood. He never replied – indeed he didn't seem to know where he was any more, and Robin kicked him in the stomach, so hard that Gisbourne was thrown backwards to lie on the bridge.
Still lost in a place where only he and his foe existed, Robin moved forward with a murderous glint in his eyes and raised his sword to plunge it down into Sir Guy's heart.
He hadn't noticed Gisbourne's men being urged forward into a charge by the bounty-hunter's sergeant Nicholas Barnwell though, or his own men running desperately to reach him before the soldiers did.
Barnwell reached the bridge before anyone else, sword in hand, and he screamed in fury as he swung it at Robin who only now noticed the bald man not five paces away from him.
An arrow sliced through the air, catching Barnwell in the left thigh and he spun to the side before another arrow hammered into his chest knocking him onto his backside. He sat on the bridge, a look of surprise on his face, gazing down at the missiles lodged in him.
Gisbourne's soldiers seemed to have little enthusiasm for a fight as they moved slowly towards the bridge, clearly not looking to engage the outlaws even though they outnumbered Robin and his men and Will Scarlet was shouting obscenities at them.
“Move!” Robin felt himself grabbed from behind by strong hands as Little John hauled him off the bridge, the rest of the outlaws holding drawn swords or longbows aimed at the soldiers on the opposite side of the river.
Moving backwards, still staring at the mutilated, bloody face of Sir Guy of Gisbourne, Robin Hood allowed himself to be led away into the trees by his enormous friend, their men forming a protective barrier behind them in case Gisbourne's soldiers decided to come after them.
Stephen suddenly ran past them onto the bridge and pried Sir Richard's sword from Barnwell's dead fingers before he moved back towards the trees with the rest of the men.
“You did it! You fucking did it!” John's bearded, open face was split by a wide grin and, despite his facial hair and great size, Robin marvelled at how childlike the man seemed at times.
“He slipped.”
John dismissed that with a wave of his hand as Friar Tuck moved in beside them, helping the giant to support their tired leader as they disappeared back into the forest towards their camp.
“Whether he slipped or not – and I never saw it – you beat the bastard.”
As they moved deeper into the trees the excitement and blood-lust wore off, the realisation of what happe
ned began to sink in and Robin grinned. “I beat the bastard. I'm still alive!”
If they hadn't been so disciplined, the men would have sung for joy.
Robin had won!
“Come on!” he shouted, stumbling through the mud. “I have to visit my son!”
* * *
“Will you leave us then, Tuck?”
The outlaws had made it back to their camp safely, elated after their young leader's victory over their feared enemy, and now they sat celebrating their good fortune around the camp-fire.
It was a cold evening, but the cosily crackling flames cast a homely glow on the small clearing and generous amounts of ale and roast venison had warmed the men nicely.
Robin had ridden straight off to Wakefield to see his new son, accompanied by Will who wanted to see his own little daughter, Beth. Now, the rest of the men were enjoying themselves and Little John gazed across at the jovial friar, who sat looking at the valuable reliquary they'd borrowed from St Mary's in Brandesburton.
“What d'you mean?” Tuck asked, looking up in surprise. “Why would I leave?”
John pointed at the holy relic cradled in Tuck's palm. “If you were to take that to Prior de Monte Martini in Lewes, he'd welcome you back into the church with open arms.”
Tuck sat for a moment, lost in thought. He hadn't even considered that idea, but John was right.
“I can't take it,” he replied at last. “You promised to return it to Brandesburton.”
John shrugged. “Aye, so we did, but it was stolen from the Prior so I don't think Father de Nottingham would mind too much if you returned it to its rightful owner.”
It was probably true. Tuck turned away from his big friend and gazed thoughtfully into the fire. He loved these men – like brothers, some of them. But he wasn't as fit as the rest of the outlaws and his recent health problems had taken their toll on him, both physically and mentally. He didn't feel as comfortable sleeping rough in the forest as the others, especially when winter came.
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