Knight of Sherwood

by N B Dixon

  Robin’s throat closed. He couldn’t make such a promise because he knew he would break it. But then, what harm in lying, if it brought her comfort?

  “I’ll keep safe,” he said.

  The words calmed her. She smiled and her eyes drifted shut.

  “Where is Will? Is he well?”

  “He’s fine. He is waiting below to see you.”

  “He always was a good boy, and he loves you so.”

  Another blow, this one making Robin suck in his breath. “I’ll call him for you,” he managed. He released her and stumbled back down the ladder.

  Will took one look at his face and hurried forward. “Is she…?”

  “She wants to see you.”

  Will brushed his arm briefly as he passed and climbed the ladder. Unwilling to be away from Martha, Robin started to follow, but a pounding on the mill door brought him up short.

  Robin’s hand dropped to his sword. Meg made a frantic gesture towards the loft ladder.

  “You can hide up there.”

  Robin ignored her. The mood he was in, he’d happily kill Gisborne or anyone else who had come calling. Thrusting Meg behind him, he shot back the heavy bolt and flung the mill door open, sword raised.

  He was confronted, not by Gisborne or one of his men, but a boy who looked to be in his mid-teens. He was thin, and dressed in little better than rags. Quick as a flash, he whipped a knife from his belt. It was no match for the sword in Robin’s hand, but the boy squared up to him, clearly ready for a fight.

  “Who the hell are you?” he growled

  There was something familiar about the boy, but Robin couldn’t place it.

  Before he could say anything, Lara appeared, looking flustered. “Edward, this is Robin.”

  Edward! Lara’s brother. Memory returned. The last time Robin had seen Edward, he’d been a mischievous boy of ten. He lowered his sword as Edward put away his knife.

  “I didn’t recognise you, Master Robin.”

  Robin waved this off. “Do you want to tell us why you were pounding on this door fit to break it down?”

  “Gisborne’s here with Edgar and some of his men. They’re searching the village for someone. I suppose it’s you.”

  “Where is my husband?” Meg asked.

  “He’s safe. We bagged two rabbits in the forest. He’s hiding them.”

  Robin stood back to let Edward pass and bolted the door securely. “I should tell Will what is happening. I think Martha is in need of a priest.”

  “I’ll go,” Lara offered. “I can leave the back way. No one will see me.”

  Both Much and Edward opened their mouths to argue, but Lara didn’t wait to listen.

  Robin found Will standing over Martha, dagger in hand. She appeared to be sleeping.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Gisborne,” Robin said curtly.

  Below, Robin heard a murmur of voices and the soft opening and closing of a door.

  “I reckon that’s George,” Will said.

  Robin nodded. “Harry, too, I think.”

  Martha stirred and called his name. Robin knelt beside her and took her hand.

  “It’s all right, you’re safe.”

  “I heard voices.”

  “It’s nothing to worry about, I promise.”

  Martha began to cough, and Robin supported her as the terrible spasms racked her skeletal frame. Will looked on in silent sympathy.

  “You…should go,” she gasped. “He…mustn’t find you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Robin laid her down again. The fit of coughing had exhausted her. She closed her eyes with a sigh. For a moment, Robin feared she was gone, but then her fingers tightened on his once more.

  Steps drew closer, climbing the loft ladder. Harry’s grizzled head appeared, grinning at them.

  “It’s good to see you both.”

  “I seem to be causing you trouble once again, Harry,” Robin began, but Harry shook his head.

  “We’ll send them packing soon enough. Lara’s just arrived with Father Tuck.” The rest of his words were drowned by a renewed hammering on the door. Harry’s head bobbed out of sight again.

  “We should kill the swine,” Will hissed.

  “Not while the women are here. When I meet Gisborne, I want it to be on my terms.”

  A voice floated up to them. Every one of Robin’s nerves tingled in recognition. His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. He could make out Will across from him, poised to strike. Robin meant what he’d said about wanting to confront Gisborne in his own time, but if he got even the slightest hint that the people below were in trouble, he would act.

  “I am looking for Robin of Locksley,” the hated voice announced.

  “Robin of Locksley, My Lord?” Harry sounded genuinely bewildered. “He’s in the Holy Land.”

  “Silence, churl. I know full well Locksley has returned. He was seen by my steward not an hour since. I also know that after his father disinherited him, you were kind enough to give him shelter. It seems logical that he would come to you.”

  “There’s no one here but us, My Lord,” Harry said.

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for that.”

  “If I might speak, Sheriff.”

  Robin recognised the gentle tones of Father Tuck.

  “These good people are indeed sheltering someone.”

  Robin drew in a startled breath. Was the priest about to betray them?

  “Who is it, Father?”

  “An old woman, My Lord. I believe she was once a retainer for the old Lord Locksley. She is close to death, and these good people have been caring for her. I have been coming to visit her these past few days, but I fear her time is near.”

  “An old woman?” The disbelief was evident in Gisborne’s voice.

  “Martha, My Lord,” Harry supplied helpfully.

  There was a silence. Robin knew the name would mean something to Gisborne. He had known Martha well as a child. Robin did not delude himself into thinking Gisborne would feel any guilt at the news of her imminent death, but when he spoke, his tone was altered.

  “You say she is dying?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Father Tuck said. “Her illness has been sudden, and I fear this building is not yet safe from contagion, despite my efforts to rid it of the evil vapours.”

  Beside him, Robin heard Will chuckle under his breath. He could not hold back a grin of his own. This priest, it seemed, had more humanity than the rest of his kind.

  “It would be inadvisable to search the building and expose yourself further, My Lord,” Father Tuck went on, “particularly for no reason.”

  “What you say could be true,” Gisborne conceded, “or this could simply be a ruse.”

  To Robin’s surprise, Much spoke up. “I heard Robin say he was planning to leave Locksley tonight. He’d hardly stay around and run the risk of putting his friends in danger.”

  “Where did he say he was going?”

  “Nottingham, My Lord.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Very well. This time, I shall take your word for it. But if I find out you have lied to me, it will go badly for all of you.”

  There was the sound of a door slamming. Robin felt himself relax and only realised then how tightly he had been gripping his sword. He made himself let go. Martha was gazing up at him, her eyes wide, fear etched on her wasted face.

  “You must go!”

  Before Robin could answer, there were steps yet again on the loft ladder and this time, Father Tuck’s tonsured head came into view.

  “It seems you are quite famous around here, Robin Hood.”

  “Thank you for getting rid of him,” Robin said.

  “You are welcome. How is the patient?”

  “Fading fast.”

  “I’ll wait downstairs,” Will murmured.

  Father Tuck came to kneel on Martha’s other side.

  “Robin?” she murmured.

  “I’m here. Fa
ther Tuck is here, too.”

  “Rest easy, my daughter,” Father Tuck said gently. He made the sign of the cross over Martha and began intoning the Latin words of the last rites. Martha sighed and closed her eyes. Before he had finished, she was gone.

  A ball of grief lodged itself in Robin’s throat, making speech impossible. Father Tuck patted his arm.

  “She is at peace.”

  Robin managed a jerky nod. He descended the ladder.

  “Is she…?” Much began.

  “Dead,” Robin finished. He stepped outside, letting the mill door slam behind him.

  Snow was falling. The flakes caressed his cheeks like chilled fingers. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, freezing when they met his skin.

  More powerful than his grief, was his rage. Once before he had vowed vengeance on the Gisborne family. They had escaped that time—they wouldn’t again.

  “Robin?”

  He’d known Will would find him. Four years ago, when he’d sat on the doorstep of this very building, racked with grief and guilt over Lucy’s death, Will had come to him. He’d held Robin as he sobbed, and sworn to stand by him in his vengeance.

  “What now?” Will asked, just as he had then.

  “We can do nothing tonight. Tomorrow, we shall pay Gisborne a visit.”

  Chapter 3

  Father Tuck was surprised, and not altogether pleased to find the sheriff waiting for him in the small church that was his domain. He was still weighed down with sadness at Martha’s passing, and he did not think he would soon forget the grief and pain in Robin of Locksley’s eyes. Now, there was an interesting young man, and one Father Tuck would very much like to know better.

  “This is an unexpected pleasure, My Lord Sheriff. What can I do for you?”

  “Is the old woman dead?”

  Father Tuck suppressed a wince at the callous remark. “She has passed on, yes. She will be sorely missed.”

  “The funeral will be tomorrow, I suppose?”

  “Yes, My Lord. I hope you will do us the honour of attending.”

  “Oh, I shall be there, Priest, never fear. I hope to meet an old friend of mine.”

  “My Lord?”

  “Robin of Locksley, or Robin Hood, as I believe he is known in these parts.”

  An alarm bell rang in the back of Father Tuck’s head. He strove to keep his voice neutral. “Did the miller’s son not say he was in Nottingham?”

  “You are naïve in the ways of the world, Father. Take it from one who knows. That story was false.”

  Father Tuck’s alarm increased. “If you believed it to be a lie, why did you not search the mill and arrest those inside?”

  Gisborne smiled, though his eyes remained cold and cruel as ever. “A needless bother, Father. Why scour the village when Locksley will come to me? If the old woman really is dead, Locksley will certainly attend the funeral. I happen to know she was dear to him, and I am certain he would wish to pay his last respects. Locksley will walk straight into my hands.”

  He took a few steps forward until he and Father Tuck were nose to nose. “If Locksley should be hiding somewhere in this village, not that I’m saying he is, you understand, but if anyone were to get word to him that I intend to arrest him at the funeral, well, it would go ill for them. I do not even believe the protection of the Church would help them.”

  Father Tuck kept his composure with difficulty. “I understand you perfectly, My Lord.”

  ***

  A single ray of sunlight filtering through gaps in the thatch of the barn roof woke John. He opened his eyes, and wondered for a moment where he was. Then memory returned. Daphne lay nestled against him, curled up like a contented cat. John smoothed the hair away from her cheek. Memories of the night before floated back to him, and a smile split his craggy face.

  It was here, in this barn, that he and Daphne had first lain together, what felt like a lifetime ago. It was here where, as a boy, he and his friends had played hide-and-seek among the stacked bales of hay. Those had been happy times—innocent times.

  Other recollections intruded, full of guilt and horror and fury. Once upon a time, John Little had been a happy, easy-going lad. His da had been a shepherd, and John had been set to follow in his footsteps. He was to marry Daphne, the headman’s daughter and the prettiest girl in the village. Then, in one night, his entire world had been turned upside down.

  It had begun, as many incidents often do, in the tavern. It was the wedding feast of one of John’s friends. Music was playing and everyone was dancing, many of them well into their cups.

  Then, without warning, Frederick Prescott, Lord of Hathersage, had burst into the festivities. He claimed that, as the bride was technically his property, he would invoke the ancient right of the lord of the manor to sleep with her on her wedding night before allowing her to go to her new husband.

  This was greeted with outrage among the villagers. They were aware of this so-called right. It was practised by many lords who saw their female serfs as nothing but chattel to do with as they wished.

  Alfred had planted himself in Frederick’s way. “Over my dead body,” he’d snarled, before lunging at Frederick. But he’d already had a great deal to drink, and Frederick felled him without any effort. He then grabbed Alfred’s new wife Rose and started dragging her, screaming and struggling towards the door.

  This was too much for John. He, too, had been drinking, but he had a better head for ale than most. He swung a punch. His massive fist connected with Frederick’s face. Blood flowed.

  With a roar, Frederick loosened his grip on Rose and attacked John. The fight was fast and furious. Frederick got in a few punches, but he was no match for John’s superior strength, and drunk besides. Another mighty blow from John sent him sprawling. Frederick struck his head on the stones of the hearth. There was a sickening crunch and an ominous silence.

  John had seen death since then, and even dealt it out himself, but he didn’t think he would ever forget that crack, or the blood that pooled beneath Frederick’s head. He’d been a bastard right enough, but John hadn’t meant to kill him. His da had always said he didn’t know his own strength.

  He’d been forced to flee the village, taking refuge in Sherwood, where he’d waited for the law to catch up with him. But weeks passed, and no warrant was issued for his arrest.

  It was while buying supplies in Nottingham that he learned the truth. Lord Frederick Prescott of Hathersage was dead, killed in a drunken brawl. The bailiff, whose job it was to take the culprit before the sheriff, claimed not to know who was responsible. The bailiff’s own daughter had been assaulted by Sir Frederick, and he had taken his revenge.

  The verdict was that Lord Prescott had been drunk. He’d fallen and hit his head. It was a tragic accident. The law was forced to be content. Prescott had been a minor noble with no influential friends who might have taken the matter further. Plus, he was known to be an enemy of the sheriff, Raymond Warci. No one was very sorry he was dead.

  John had put his strength to good use by applying to join the castle guard. He could have returned to Hathersage, but his bad memories prevented him, coupled with the fear that the law would catch up with him one day and he would bring harm to his neighbours. As he may well have done by bringing Wat here, he thought. There had been no choice at the time. They needed supplies before running off to hide in Sherwood—hunting arrows from the fletcher. But they would need to leave as soon as possible.

  Daphne stirred, opening her eyes. “Why are you frowning like that?”

  “I was wondering what happened to Alfred and Rose? I didn’t see them anywhere last night.”

  “They left shortly after you did. Alfred was accused of helping you get away. They had to run.”

  John groaned inwardly. It was bad enough that his impulsive act had ruined his own life, but it had upset Alfred and Rose’s lives as well.

  “I waited for you,” Daphne said. “I waited for years, but you never came back.”

  John opened his
mouth, but she forestalled him.

  “None of your excuses, John Little. You could have returned if you’d wanted to.”

  “I couldn’t face you,” John admitted. “I killed a man in front of you.”

  “You were protecting your friends. If that’s all, then you’re a bigger fool than you look.”

  A surge of hope rose in John, but he fought it down ruthlessly. He and Wat were on the run. They were marked men, and there was only one future left to them. Sherwood was the safest place to hide when one wanted to avoid the iron hand of the law. He could hardly ask Daphne to leave her home and family to live wild in the forest.

  He cursed Wat, and cursed the impulse that had led him to help. It was his recklessness that had got him into trouble all those years ago, but it seemed he was incapable of learning from the past.

  Reluctantly, John disengaged himself from Daphne’s arms and reached for his discarded clothes. She lay frowning up at him for a moment, then did the same. She was a clever woman. She knew what he could not bring himself to say—that he was leaving her.

  The two of them were barely decent when the barn door flew open and Wat stumbled inside.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, man?” John demanded, pushing Daphne behind him even though she was fully dressed.

  “Soldiers!” Wat panted.

  A trickle of ice slid down into John’s stomach. He’d hoped to be away before the sheriff’s men came calling.

  “Where?” he demanded.

  “They’re in the tavern.” Wat nodded at Daphne. “Your da’s keeping them busy.”

  “How many?”

  Wat shrugged. “A dozen, maybe. That stuck-up steward from Nottingham is with them.”

  “You should get out of here while you can,” Daphne said.

  John was outraged. “Damn it, woman, I’m not leaving you here to face those soldiers.”

  Daphne rounded on him, matching his glare. “I warned you this would happen. It’s you men they’ve come to find. Get yourselves gone and hide in the forest, and I’ll bring you some supplies later.”

  John hesitated. All his soldier’s instincts rebelled against leaving a woman to face armed men, but Daphne would not be alone, and she was right. The villagers could hardly be punished if the fugitives were gone, unless it was proved they’d been sheltering them.