by April Hill
Alice reached the wall, wiping tears from her eyes, crawled up on the wall, and looked to the left, where she had seen Arthur’s body fall.
Arthur’s body was walking toward her, singing, with one hand holding its bleeding side. The body said a cheerful hello, smiled at her, and then collapsed, still singing. Alice screamed for help, and seconds later, Robin Hood and Little John leaped over the wall. Little John scooped Arthur into his great, warm arms.
Behind them, both Wills– Fletcher and Scarlett– appeared out of the lingering fog, and Alice fell into Fletcher’s own warm arms, weeping hysterically.
“But, how?”she mumbled half delirious, pointing to the two arrows that protruded from Geoffrey’s corpse. “You were too far away!”
Will Fletcher smiled as he kissed Alice’s forehead and lifted her into his arms. “Our Robin has been known to split another arrow already lodged in a bull’s–eye at well over 300 yards. At just over 400, I believe he regarded this fellow’s Adam’s apple as rather an easy shot.”
Will Scarlett walked back to where Geoffrey’s body lay, and carefully removed the crimson cape and matching gauntlets. Both items were without stain, he explained later, and a perfect fit.
* * * * *
They carried Arthur back to the empty house, which belonged as it turned out to a local tax collector who had offered the use of the dwelling when he threw his fortunes in with Geoffrey’s, and then thought better of the decision. His body was later discovered in a drainage ditch behind his own exquisite home.
Arthur’s wound, while deep, was both clean and through an area of his side containing no vital organs. When they had cleaned and bound the injury as best they could, Arthur fell asleep on the great bed in the tax–collector’s own bedchamber. It was decided that Alice and Will Fletcher would remain at the house with him until he was fit to ride, while Robin, Little John, and Will Scarlett would return to Sherwood at once. Isobel would need tending to, of course, but that might take some time to arrange, and Robin wished to confer with Henry Burden as to the best method.
Arthur was sleeping peacefully upstairs in the tax collector’s bed two days later, and Alice rummaging through the tax–collector’s goods for something worthwhile to steal when Will came into the great hall carrying a longbow and quiver. At first glance, she assumed that he was going out hunting.
But Will Fletcher had already found the prey he was looking for.
Alice watched for a moment, curious as he stopped in the doorway to stand the bow against the wall and drop the quiver onto the table. He took an arrow from the quiver, held the deadly tip at the table’s edge and neatly snapped it off, then tossed the barbed head into the fireplace.
“But...” she began, bewildered by the senseless damage, “you have ruined the arrow.”
“Not at all,” he said grimly, slapping the disarmed arrow against his palm. “The shaft alone will suit my purpose quite well, I think. Arthur will be fit to travel in the morning, but before we leave, there is a matter between us that must be dealt with.”
With its tip removed, the arrow’s sleek shaft was still two flexible feet in length, crafted of sturdy English birch down to its delicate fletching. When she realized his intent, Alice knew at once that the finely polished and deceptively light arrow, even lacking its wickedly barbed warhead, would still prove a formidable weapon in Will’s strong, capable hand.
Before she could assemble these observations into coherent and actionable thought, however, Fletcher had crossed the hall and pulled Alice roughly over his hip. The accompanying lecture was brief, having to do with what she could expect should she do something “like this” again.
“No, Will!” she cried. “Please! My intention was never to deceive you! If you will but listen to… NO! Ow–OW! O–O–O–W!”
Ignoring her shrieks of complaint, Fletcher had thrown Alice’s skirts over her head with one swift movement, baring her from waist to knee. A mere second or so afterward, the slender shaft of the disarmed arrow landed with a hard, dull thwack across the breadth of her squirming buttocks, leaving a perfect, bright red, raised welt in its wake. As might be expected, Alice began to howl and continued to do so lustily and for what seemed to her, at least, a very long time.
In years to come, Alice would remember her first (and gratefully, her last) caning in excruciating detail, from the first scalding blow to the last. There were not many blows – many being a subjective number, of course. The exact count was fourteen – an even dozen to her soft buttocks, but the dozen was applied with unusual vigor, as even Fletcher would have conceded. The number was not in doubt, because the strokes were discovered later to have left in their fiery wake uniformly shaped, elongated welts that extended across both cheeks of Alice’s bottom. When Alice investigated, she discovered that each new stroke had descended lower than the last, in remarkably well–defined steps – one half of an inch between stripes – a reflection of Will Fletcher’s excellent marksmanship. Her upper thighs bore two additional welts each, at the same well–defined intervals, but hurt measurably less – possibly because Alice’s buttocks were softer – and a good deal plumper.
Young Arthur Postelwaite slept soundly throughout the caning, oblivious to both the noise of the dreadful birch on his beloved lady’s tender bottom and to her wails of agony. His restful sleep through this event was taken as a sure sign of his imminent recovery. Within two or three days, Fletcher decided, they would be able to start back to Sherwood when both Arthur and perhaps even Alice, could sit their horses with some degree of comfort.
Chapter the Tenth
Robin Hood’s Camp in Sherwood, on The Twenty–Fifth Day of April in The Year of Our Lord 1193. God Save King Richard!
The trip back to Robin Hood’s camp in Sherwood was a long and unpleasant one for the three weary travelers. Young Arthur Postelwaite suffered still from the sword wound he had sustained at the hands of Geoffrey de Reynaud (Who had turned out, in the end, to be plain Gilbert Henchley, son of Alice’s step–mother, the despised Isobel.) Alice Johnstone’s discomfort was of a different sort, of course, her injuries having been inflicted by the strong hand of Will Fletcher. The painful sting of the whipping he had administered in payment for her assorted misdeeds would stay with her for the duration of the trip and the marks of it for some days thereafter. Indeed, Alice’s otherwise ivory buttocks were striped red and rippled with welts for three days before she was able to sit without a noticeable flinch. During this time, and for many days thereafter, she refused to speak to the man who had punished her so firmly, and spent many hours devising an assortment of dreadful and gruesome revenges. It would be a bit longer before Alice came to realize, grudgingly at first, that what had happened was probably deserved, and of her own doing.
Will Fletcher had a great deal on his mind, also, much of it to do with Alice and what to do with her, and about her. Throughout his thirty–six years, Fletcher had known a number of women, and as a young man, had even thought himself in love with several of them. All of these women had been charming and pretty, and each in her way, endearing. Alice was pretty, though by no means beautiful, but the words charming and endearing were not ones he would have used in describing the lady. Alice had wit and humor, and spirit and determination – all attractive traits, no doubt, but at this point in time, having just rescued her from a perilous situation entirely of her own making, he was in no frame of mind to see those attributes as anything other than infuriating. Neither Alice nor her effect on him could be ignored. He was in love with her – a woman like no other he had ever known, and one who was making it quite clear that she never wished to see or speak to him again.
In retrospect, Will Fletcher suspected his own motives in thrashing the lady so energetically and so often. He was forced to admit to himself that he had not relished anything in recent memory as much as he had those few moments of watching the repentant Alice squirm and wail beneath what he regarded as a well–deserved welting with a broken arrow. Yet the suspicion remained with hi
m that his anger that day had been engendered more by pure revenge than of righteous anger.
And even these thoughts troubled him. He could not recall having ever wasted so much time worrying about something so manifestly unimportant as a woman’s opinion of him.
As they approached Sherwood, Robin and Little John rode out to greet them.
“Arthur!” Robin cried. “It is good to see you in a saddle, though I wager you’ll welcome a good week’s rest. I’ve sent word to your family of your safety and of your heroism.”
Arthur blushed. “No hero, but a buffoon. I was taken in by the lying words of a scoundrel. I know you’ll have Bri’n thrash me for my stupidity, Robin, and I well deserve every….”
Robin took the boy’s hand in his, and placed his other over it. “We do not thrash men in this camp, Arthur, nor especially heroes. You are as brave a man and courageous as any I’ve known. I welcome you back and will see you treated from this day forward as a comrade, not a boy. Go and rest now, for your rest will be brief. There will be work to do in the next days – men’s work, I’m afraid. The Sheriff has apparently grown restive and bored. An attack is rumored.”
While Little John helped Arthur to the hut of the camp physician, Robin rode the rest of the way with them into camp and told them what had happened in their absence.
“Only this morning, we received the unpleasant news that the Sheriff is preparing to accuse Alice of Gilbert Henchley’s murder, although I should have thought such an accusation would have been difficult,” Robin chuckled grimly, “since all that remains of Master Henchley lies naked and unmemorialized beneath the tax collector’s chicken house.”
At his words Alice went pale and Robin apologized for his insensitivity.
“Forgive my cruelty, Alice. I had forgotten the damned wretch once meant something to you.”
Alice laughed bitterly. “It isn’t that,” she explained coldly. “I would have hoped that his… his remains were hidden more…more….”
“Well,” Robin sighed. “You will forgive me again, my dear, for the lack of originality, but we were in a rush to leave, if you’ll recall. It was the quickest solution for a… ”
“I meant in more pieces… smaller ones!” Alice snapped. She dismounted and strode off toward her own hut.
As she left, Robin raised an eyebrow and turned to Will with a word of caution. “Were I you, my friend, I would try not to irritate that lady overmuch. The sort of wench who wishes to see her first true love dismembered and strewn about the landscape is not one I would cross lightly.”
Will nodded. The thought had occurred to him, as well. “What of these charges, Robin? Will the Sheriff act on them? Can we expect an attack soon?”
“Well, Isobel Henchley is said to be at the Sheriff’s constantly, but with no proof that the son has actually met his demise and with the questions a previously unknown son’s sudden appearance might bring… even the Sheriff cannot trump up a believable case. The word is that he’ll use the theft of the Bishop’s trinkets as reason to come here looking for Alice. Should the girl die during her capture, it would be a very good thing for Isobel and solve quite a few problems. Still, we do have a few of our own irons in the fire. We’ve done what we can to spread the suggestion that Isobel is something less than the grieving widow she paints herself. There is an apothecary in a nearby village who tells us that just prior to the onset of Squire Edgar’s lengthy illness, the Squire’s new wife came to his shop seeking help in eradicating lice, and that he prepared a certain mixture of the widow’s own recipe – in a quantity sufficient to kill all the vermin in England, Wales, Scotland, and the Isles combined.”
“Will this apothecary testify?”
“Ah, yes, well, he did hesitate at first, but he was finally convinced when we discovered, with Tuck’s aid, that although the chemist in question is listed as unmarried in church records, he appears to dwell in what amounts to wedded bliss with a quite pretty lady, who – as luck would have it – is actually a gentleman. Sometimes the happy couple entertains numbers of other gentlemen, all given to female dress in their private moments. Very attractive, actually. One of them is an extremely winsome creature with blond curls to her… his… Well, in any case, in return for our consideration in not bringing the young fellow’s untraditional marital arrangements to his father’s attention – it is the father who owns this apothecary establishment, you see – the grateful chap has consented to go before the magistrate on Alice’s behalf.
“Also, as we speak, our own Alan a’ Dale journeys to London to find and retrieve the bereaved widow’s very undead first husband, who, according to our information, has waxed increasingly displeased with the paltry sums he’s received all these years for remaining quietly dead. Henry Burden would have accompanied Alan, but he, also, is under arrest as an accomplice in these false charges made against Alice.”
“But Robin,” Will groaned, “as you know well – perhaps better than I – the charges are not false. Alice did burglarize the Abbey, and she did take the damned Bishop’s jewels.”
Robin laughed. “Yes, and for that trespass, she should be soundly spanked – twice, in the interest of justice. I will leave that duty to you, my friend, since you appear to have a feel for it. Meanwhile, after the late, unlamented Geoffrey’s – excuse me, Gilbert’s death – we reclaimed the pilfered jewelry. It wasn’t until then that we learned just how many of the baubles she had made off with! I would give the lady a truly excellent hiding for her extravagant greediness, Will. A very unattractive habit in women – stealing, even from such a deserving victim. In any case, with the stolen goods in our hands, it seemed the proper thing to return them to their rightful owner.”
“Return them!” Will shouted. “They’re worth a bloody fortune, and….”
Robin winked.
“Wat O’ the Crabstaff has returned to his occupation, and gone a tinkering this very week, and will make a stop at the Johnstone household, where he appears to have made the acquaintance of yet another buxom, willing chamber maid. Who would have thought, at Wat’s age, that he could keep up the pace? The enamored chambermaid has agreed to place several of the Bishop’s trinkets and coins among the Widow Johnstone’s personal belongings, so as to suggest purposeful concealment. At the same time, two of the more valuable ecclesiastical pieces Alice made off with have been placed in the hands of a not far distant pawnbroker, who will swear that Isobel herself offered the items for sale. You remember the man. His daughter is the young woman tried as a witch two years ago, whom we plucked from the stake moments before the burning faggots engulfed her?”
Will nodded. It never failed to amaze him how many friends – and how many potential blackmailers – Robin had acquired.
The camp was still asleep the following morning when the Sheriff of Nottingham attacked. Alice was wakened by the pounding of running footsteps and the frightened cries of children. She flew from her bed and outside her door, found an oddly well–organized bedlam. Already, the trees overhead were alive with armed men, with others climbing the crude rope ladders and pulling the ladders up after them, their spears, longbows and filled quivers slung across their backs. Across from where she stood, she saw Will Fletcher leaping from one platform to the next, directing the overhead archers’ placement. Below, in the center of the clearing, Robin and Will Scarlett had assembled the camp’s main band of defenders into two separate groups. Their purpose would be to flank the intruders, should the camp’s first line of defense be breached. This first line included dozens of excellent and well–camouflaged marksmen, arrows nocked and ready that had stealthily infiltrated the trees and brush where the camp was most vulnerable. Just behind the first line of archers, Little John and a superb swordsman called Gilbert with the White Hand stood equipped with broadswords, spears, and John’s ever–present quarterstaff. An attacker fortunate enough to escape the first hail of arrows would be hacked to pieces, or his brains cudgeled to pulp.
With their backs to the caves at Creswell Crag,
and each side of the camp only reachable through the thickest parts of the forest, only the approach from the Nottingham road was truly vulnerable to attack by a small force. Should either the King’s Foresters or the Sheriff’s men attempt an assault from right or left, the plan was that the camp would simply disband and melt away into Sherwood, to reassemble later, at some designated spot. A simple plan, perhaps, but one that had worked well in the past.
“Only a major mounted force can equal us here,” Will had explained to her weeks earlier. “We know the forest far better than they do, and the hiding places are abundant for hotly pursued prey who know where to look. Should an enemy approach from the forest itself, our posted sentries can usually be counted upon to give us ample time to disperse and flee. Without horses, of course, we are considerably fleeter of foot than they are – after many painful years of practice. Moreover, a mounted force makes a great deal of noise traipsing through the woods. None of these measures are foolproof, of course, and we have been bested in the past – not often, but our failures are sufficient to keep us humble.”
On the morning of the attack, though, Alice witnessed neither humbleness, nor any member of the camp fleeing into the forest. Aside from the few highly pregnant women and the smallest children, who were immediately bundled into the caves for protection, almost every man, woman, and even child did what he could to repel the Sheriff’s force. From her assigned spot behind the second wave of archers, relaying fresh ammunition as needed, Alice saw several of the camp’s children scurrying up the rope ladders with small pots of boiling liquid – liquid to be added to the larger vats poised on the overhead platforms – a precaution in case the invaders managed to reach the inner camp. In their haste up the ladders, Alice could only guess at the number of scalded fingers and burned legs at the day’s end, yet not one child hesitated in his duty, nor cried when the hot fluids splashed his or her small hands.
