by N B Dixon
Outlaw’s Legacy
Book 2
Knight of Sherwood
by
N.B. Dixon
Beaten Track
www.beatentrackpublishing.com
Robin returns to England after four years fighting in the Holy Land. On arriving at Locksley, he discovers that Guy of Gisborne, his most hated enemy, has been made Sheriff of Nottingham. Forced to flee into Sherwood, Robin sets himself up as champion of the poor.
But Robin has a secret. His feelings for his friend Will Scathelock have deepened, but to acknowledge the truth would mean facing up to his past. Meanwhile, Lady Marian Fitzwalter, heiress to the vast Huntingdon estate, is determined to claim Robin for her own.
***
This novel is a work of fiction and the characters and events in it exist only in its pages and in the author’s imagination.
Knight of Sherwood
SMASHWORDS EDITION
First published 2017 by Beaten Track Publishing
Copyright © 2017 N.B. Dixon at Smashwords
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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All Rights Reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
ISBN: 978 1 78645 159 0
Cover Design: Natasha Snow
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Beaten Track Publishing,
Burscough. Lancashire.
www.beatentrackpublishing.com
Table of Contents
Prologue On the Road to Jerusalem June 1192
Part 1 Nottingham England December 1192
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part 2 1193
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Part 3 March 1194
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Author’s Note
Coming Soon
About the Author
By the Author
Beaten Track Publishing
Prologue
On the Road to Jerusalem
June 1192
The assassin made his way through the British army camp as if he belonged there. The once-pristine white cloth of his Crusaders surcoat was a dirty greyish brown, courtesy of the desert. The red cross emblazoned on the chest identified him as one of them—a Christian doing God’s sacred work in ridding the Holy Land of the infidel. It was all so easy. They were complacent, these English.
He had over fifty successful kills to his credit. He relished the hunt, the closing in on his unsuspecting prey. The harder the challenge, the more he liked it. Man or woman, young or old, Christian or Saracen, it made no difference to him.
His employer had promised him a considerable sum for the despatching of his enemy, a nobleman by the name of Robin of Locksley. With such a fee, he might be able to retire. He had begun wondering if it was time to settle down. Of course, the thrill of the chase would call to him again. However, he could be more selective about the commissions he undertook.
Though night had fallen, the camp was still bustling. A few sentries challenged him, but he produced his token: a piece of parchment bearing the royal seal. He was a humble messenger on an errand. They were fools. It wouldn’t occur to them that he could be other than what he seemed.
At length, he came to a large tent, the flaps of which had been pulled back in an effort to let in the sultry night air, revealing several soldiers engaged in an energetic game of dice. The assassin paused in the tent entrance, his head bent, the picture of a humble servant; it took several minutes before anyone noticed him.
“Who are you after?” a bearded soldier demanded during a brief lull in the game.
The assassin bowed. “I have an urgent message for Robin of Locksley. I was told to deliver it into his own hands.” Reaching inside his tunic, he withdrew several rolls of parchment. Sorting through them, he produced one bearing the Locksley seal and held it up for examination, but the soldier barely glanced at it. Few in King Richard’s army could read, and this soldier’s mind was more on the game than the conversation.
“His tent’s over that way.” The soldier gestured. “Wolf’s head insignia. Can’t miss it.”
The assassin nodded his thanks and hurried away in the direction the soldier had indicated.
In the distance, a jackal cried, the melancholy sound a testimony to the sorrow that had seeped into the ravaged land. This region was torn apart by war. There had been tremendous losses on both sides. At least Locksley’s death would be merciful; the assassin did not believe in prolonging the suffering of his victims. Why give them time to get off a cry and perhaps summon help? He struck as swift and silent as a snake. Often his victims never even knew what happened.
The assassin spotted the tent he was looking for. It was set apart from the others, with no elaborate decoration, no guards seated outside. He’d been told Robin of Locksley was a nobleman. If so, he either wished to hide the fact or he had fallen on hard times. The assassin found himself wondering again why he had been sent to kill him. He pushed the thought away. It was not his concern. Another few hours, and he would be on a ship, bound for France, and away from this scorpion-infested land. The first thing he would do on his arrival would be to take a bath and wash every ounce of sand from his body. It got into his clothes and hair and coated his skin so that it itched constantly. If there was one thing the assassin hated, it was not being clean.
Drawing a dagger from his belt, he slit the tent flap. Once the opening was wide enough, he slipped inside.
***
Will Scathelock wandered back from the latrines towards the gaming tent. Tonight had been lucrative. He’d already won a considerable amount, and he intended to win a bit more before calling it a night. As he ducked inside the tent, one of the soldiers peered up at him, his eyes bleary from the amount of wine he had drunk.
“There was a messenger here earlier, asking for your master.”
Will paused. “What would a messenger be wanting with Robin?”
“Said it was urgent,” another soldier volunteered.
Will’s confusion grew, tinged with a thrill of apprehension. There were two people he could think of who might try to contact Robin. One of them was his old tutor, Sir Richard of Lee, but Sir Richard had no idea where Robin was. The other was Lord Locksley, Robin’s father, but they had barely been on speaking terms when Robin left England. In fact, his father had disinherited him. Will turned to duck back outside.
“Where are you going?” a soldier called. “Stay and play another game.”
Will barely heard him.
***
The assassin waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The tent was small and cramped. A rough pallet took up nearly all the space, with one corner devoted to weapons and mail. Somewhat to his surprise, the assassin saw a
longbow leaning against one side of the tent, a quiver of arrows beside it—the weapons of a common archer.
The assassin’s interest increased. Archers were not of noble stock. What was a knight doing with a peasant’s weapon?
Robin of Locksley was deeply asleep, his body motionless and relaxed, his breathing slow and even. He would never feel a thing.
Raised voices reached the assassin’s ears. He tensed, but they faded quickly. Enough waiting around. He should do what he’d come for and get out. As he bent over his victim, Robin of Locksley spoke.
“I wouldn’t if I were you.”
The assassin was taken completely by surprise. He was given no time to think as Locksley attacked.
***
He lay face down; a weight pinned him in position, and he no longer had the strength to fight it. Sand invaded his nose and mouth, making every breath an effort. He choked, struggled feebly, but still, the pressure bearing him to the ground would not let up. In his ear, a voice laughed.
Robin erupted into wakefulness with a gasp. The dream fog lifted instantly. Two years of war had trained him to wake from the deepest sleep into immediate action. A sound reached his ears, a tearing noise, soft but distinct. Will had not raised the alarm, so evidently, he was off somewhere. Whoever his nocturnal visitor was, they were taking every precaution not to be heard. Only Robin’s ears, attuned for just such an attempt as this, picked up the gentle sound.
He groped for the dagger he always slept with, but his searching fingers met nothing. He didn’t dare rummage more in case the sound alerted his visitor. They thought they had the element of surprise.
The blood pounded through Robin’s veins. It was happening again. He longed to strike first, but he squashed the impulse and rolled onto his side, shutting his eyes. He forced his body to go slack, his breathing to calm, and waited. Someone entered the tent. Robin heard his rapid breathing, followed by some rustling and then silence. Robin kept still with an effort. He heard a breath close to his ear—no doubt this unknown attacker was checking to see that he slept.
Memories seeped into his head, as foul as poison. Men sneaking into his tent at dead of night, being ripped from sleep and dragged outside. There was only one, Robin was fairly sure, and this time, he’d get more than he bargained for. More faint rustling sounds. Robin opened his eyes and spoke. He couldn’t make out the man’s face clearly, but he heard his startled hiss of breath and honed in on the sound.
Robin reared up. His would-be attacker cried out, the noise cutting off as Robin’s hand clamped over his mouth. The man recovered at once and, with an agility Robin wasn’t prepared for, he twisted free. Before Robin could pin him, he was sent sprawling with a brutal punch to the stomach, which momentarily winded him, and a knee pressed into his chest.
Fury lent him strength; he’d be damned if he’d let the horson have him. He bucked, managing to dislodge the knee crushing his lungs, and brought both his feet up in a scissoring motion, connecting hard with his attacker’s face. The man reeled back, letting out an oath in a foreign language. This wasn’t what Robin had been expecting. The unknown attacker took full advantage of his moment of distraction. He drew a knife and swiped at Robin, but Robin rolled aside, and the slash merely ripped his tunic, leaving the flesh beneath unharmed.
Both men were panting, though neither spoke. Robin could make out little about his attacker other than the Crusaders’ cross on his surcoat. Whoever this was, the attack was personal, yet the man was not English.
Robin thought fleetingly of his dagger, out of reach for the moment. He barely avoided a second slash and threw himself on his attacker’s knife hand. The blade fell loose, and Robin lunged for it, but the man was on top of him again, knocking him flat on his back with one arm across his throat, cutting off his air. Robin choked, seeing again the vision of his nightmare, lying pressed into sand, while voices of men he could no longer see mocked and taunted him. Robin got one hand free and clawed for the assassin’s fallen weapon, his fingers closing around the handle. As the assassin bore down on his throat, Robin thrust the knife with all his failing strength into the man’s side.
The man gave a strangled cry and his grip loosened. Gasping, Robin rolled out from under the inert body and flipped the man over onto his back, looking down into eyes that were already beginning to film over.
“Who are you?” Robin panted. His throat was raw as though he’d inhaled a bucket of sand.
The assassin stared up at him, his face twisted with pain and hate. One hand was pressed to the wound in his side, attempting to hold in the blood.
Robin’s voice was a fierce rasp. “You haven’t got long to live. You might as well tell me who you are and who sent you.”
The assassin managed to form a sentence. “I’ll tell you nothing.”
Then he shuddered once and was still.
Will burst into the tent, his gaze darting from the assassin’s body to Robin’s face.
“What the devil happened? One of the soldiers said a messenger had come asking to see you.”
Will reached out as though to touch Robin’s neck. Robin could well imagine how it looked. He could still feel the imprint of the assassin’s fingers on his skin. He recoiled, shaking his head.
“I’m all right.” Just saying those three words hurt.
“Who was he? Why the hell did he want to kill you?”
With the blade he still held, Robin slashed open the front of the assassin’s tunic. Something caught his eye—something that gleamed up at him. Reaching down, Robin withdrew a ring on a fine chain. He raised it to his eyes. What he saw chilled the blood in his veins. The ring was a simple band of gold, plain but for a device cut into the metal. It was the head of a falcon. He held it up so Will could see it.
Will swore. “That’s the Gisborne emblem. But how did he know you were here? He’s supposed to be in exile.”
It was true that Guy of Gisborne, Robin’s most bitter enemy, had fled into exile a few years ago when Robin had foiled his attempt—along with several others—to topple King Henry from his throne and set Prince John in his place. Guy had lost everything—his title, his lands, and his liberty. He’d been forced to flee for his life. If he was able to pay a killer to seek Robin out, that suggested he had resources.
Will thrust a water skin into Robin’s hands. The liquid was warm, but welcome in his damaged throat. The fiery pain eased a little.
Will nudged the assassin’s body with the toe of his boot. “What do we do with this?”
“I must see the king. He needs to know someone managed to infiltrate the camp.”
Will groaned. “I know that look. You’re going after Gisborne, aren’t you?”
“You don’t seriously expect me to sit and wait for him to try again.”
“You don’t know that he’s even in England,” Will pointed out. “He could be anywhere. Didn’t his family flee to France after your father and Lady Gisborne were caught together? He could just as easily be there. We can’t go gallivanting all over the world looking for him.”
“I have to start somewhere. I’ve been thinking about returning home in any case. I’ve had enough of war.”
Robin rummaged again inside the assassin’s clothing, pulling out several blood-stained rolls of parchment. One of them bore the Locksley coat of arms.
He tore it open, but it was just a blank piece of parchment. He opened the others with the same result.
“I don’t know if you should go to the king,” Will said. “You’re not exactly his favourite person at the moment.”
Robin laughed, even though it hurt. There was no humour in it. “I imagine he’ll be glad to be rid of me.”
“Will you go back to Locksley?” The name hung between them, laden with memories.
Four years had not been enough to banish Robin’s childhood village from his mind, and the ever-present guilt. He had hoped never to see it again, but fate, it seemed, had other ideas.
“It’s as good a place to start as any.”<
br />
Will rested a hand on Robin’s shoulder, a wordless gesture of support. Of course Will would go with him. Once that would have been a comfort. Once, their friendship had been true and uncomplicated, but so much had changed. Robin was no longer the boy who had fled first Locksley and then England to escape his demons. And despite all his running, they’d caught up with him anyway.
Robin shrugged Will off, ignoring the way his face tightened. “I’ll see you later.”
***
Two hours after his initial request, Robin was shown into the king’s tent. Richard was enjoying a cup of wine. Though thin from lack of food, he was still as vital as on the day Robin had first met him four years earlier.
A golden-haired minstrel was quietly plucking at his lute as Robin entered. At a nod from Richard, he bowed and withdrew. Robin knew the man by reputation: he was said to be Richard’s lover.
There was no smile on Richard’s face as he greeted Robin. “Well, Locksley, I understand someone broke into your tent and tried to kill you in your sleep.”
The king spoke in Norman French, the language of the aristocracy since the days of William the Conqueror.
Robin bowed and answered in the same tongue. “Yes, Sire. The assassin is dead. I believe he was sent personally to kill me.”
“Where is your proof? The man could have been anyone. Some knight you managed to get on the wrong side of. Why bring this to my attention?”
Robin kept his temper with difficulty. Things had been strained between him and Richard for some time. Robin knew he was fortunate to be alive after he had openly defied Richard. He had spoken out against the king’s desire to kill nearly three thousand Saracen prisoners after the fall of Acre. His public disobedience should have resulted in a death sentence, but for reasons best known to himself, the king had decided on a public flogging instead. It had been brutal. The wounds had become infected, leading to a fever Robin was lucky to have recovered from. Without Will’s care, things would have ended differently.
“The man entered the camp disguised as a messenger. He carried several rolls of parchment, though all were blank. One bore my insignia as a token to offer if he were challenged. It was carefully planned.”
