by N B Dixon
“When you’re ready, John,” Wat said.
John resisted the urge to punch him. He cracked open the barn door and peered out. The coast seemed to be clear.
As with many villages in the area, Hathersage bordered Sherwood Forest. The trees were within sight of the barn—a few yards’ dash. John seized Daphne in a quick embrace, and then he and Wat left the barn and slipped among the welcoming cover of the foliage.
***
Daphne waited until her lover was out of sight before making her way to the tavern. The room was crowded with nearly every male in the village, plus the unwelcome addition of the soldiers. The only woman there was the landlord’s wife. She stood with her hands over her mouth, eyes wide with fear.
Joel, the sheriff’s steward, was in the midst of interrogating Daphne’s da. There was another man with him, finely dressed. His gaze settled on Daphne with unmistakable interest. Daphne thought she knew him. He was steward of Locksley, a manor owned by the sheriff, which made him another of Gisborne’s lackeys.
Daphne pushed through the watching crowd to her da’s side, wishing to offer her support. With her mam dead, she was all the family he had.
“Where are they?” Joel was demanding in his pompous, slightly nasal voice.
“Where are who?” Da said calmly.
“Don’t be insolent. You know perfectly well I’m looking for John Little of Hathersage.”
“He doesn’t live here anymore. John Little left Hathersage several years ago to become a soldier.”
Joel’s face was turning red with anger. “He helped that thieving bastard escape, I know it.”
His companion elbowed him aside. “A moment. Perhaps another approach is needed. You, lovely one.” He was looking at Daphne. “You seem to know a lot about this affair.”
His eyes travelled up and down the length of Daphne’s body. Her skin crawled as though he were physically touching her and it took every ounce of restraint not to step back.
“My name is Edgar, Steward of Locksley. I am assisting this man in his enquiries. It occurs to me that you might have a particular reason for wishing to protect John Little. Perhaps he was dear to you at one time. A woman as beautiful as you cannot want for admirers.”
Daphne almost laughed. Did he think her a simple village girl whose head would be turned by a little flattery?
“That was before he murdered a man in front of me. If he were hiding in this village, I would not hesitate to hand him over to the authorities, but he isn’t here.”
Edgar was still eyeing her as if she were a choice piece of meat. “You are very convincing, my dear, but I think I will ask my men to search this village anyway, in case he slipped in without you noticing.” He turned to the silently watching soldiers. “Leave no corner of this miserable place unexplored. Search every home and shop. Turn everyone out into the street and question them all.”
Joel looked irritated at having his thunder stolen, but he made no effort to contradict Edgar.
“There’s no need for that,” Daphne’s da protested. “We’ve already told you, he’s not here.”
Edgar’s hand shot out, his gloved fingers gripping Daphne’s chin and forcing her to look at him. “You have a comely daughter, Headman. I shudder to think what might befall her if it turns out you are lying.”
Da flinched. It was a tiny movement, but the steward saw it. A spark of triumph lit his eyes as, with a gesture, he sent his men about their task.
Daphne was forced to stand and watch as her village was ransacked. People were driven from their homes. The air was filled with the screams of women and the frightened wails of children. The people’s possessions were hurled out into the street and trampled. Livestock was set loose to rampage through the village.
Daphne’s anger was a molten furnace inside her chest. She longed to go to her friends, to help them, but every time she tried to pull away, Edgar’s grip on her tightened. His fingers pressed into her soft skin until she was certain the feel of them would be branded on her flesh forever. Her da stood watching, stony-faced, while a soldier held a knife at his throat. Joel, by contrast, smirked at every fresh sound of misery. Daphne longed to kill him. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She would not give these odious men that satisfaction.
After many agonising minutes, the soldiers returned to report that the fugitives were not in the village.
A look of vexation flashed across Edgar’s face. He turned his steely gaze on Da. “Very well. It seems you were telling the truth this time. As for you, my dear,” he pulled Daphne closer to him. “I hope to see you again soon.” He released her.
Daphne resisted the urge to spit in his face. She joined the rest of her people as they stood watching the men ride away. Several muttered resentfully and one or two even shook their fists after the vanishing riders.
“It’s all Little’s fault,” one man said. “He brings trouble wherever he goes.”
“He had nowhere else to run,” Daphne objected.
“Aye, we all know you’re soft on him, lass. You’ll never see him again, that’s for sure. He’s an outlaw now.”
The villagers dispersed, still grumbling amongst themselves, to begin the task of clearing up. Daphne did not blame them. They’d been lucky to escape so lightly. It was that thief’s fault. Why had John helped him? But Daphne knew the answer. Her lover had a good heart, despite his gruff nature, and he was unfailingly loyal to his friends.
You’ll never see him again. The words resounded in her head and made her chest hurt.
Their own cottage had not escaped the soldiers’ attentions. Daphne groped through the mess of clothes and crockery on the floor, searching for anything that could be salvaged.
Da watched her. “Where are they?”
“Sherwood.”
“Well, let’s hope to God they stay there and leave us be.”
He put an arm around her, reaching up a finger to wipe away the tear that trickled down her cheek. Her jaw ached where the steward had gripped it. The skin would be bruised by evening.
“I fear that steward of Locksley has taken a fancy to you.”
“More fool him. I’m a free woman. He can’t force me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. A man will go to any lengths to possess a woman if he wants her badly enough. You take care of yourself, my girl, and you have nothing more to do with that John Little.”
***
Between them, Robin and Will carried Martha’s coffin the short distance from the mill to the church graveyard. The snow of the night before had largely melted, leaving a muddy slush behind. Though the morning air was still cold and crisp, a weak winter sun was shining down on the assembled villagers. Robin tried not to notice how their eyes focused on him. He couldn’t ignore the whispers, however.
As Father Tuck began the funeral rites, Robin’s eyes wandered around the assembled mourners. Most of Locksley’s people were gathered in the graveyard. Every one of them was thin, their clothes insufficient for the bitter winter weather. What Gisborne had done to the villagers was nothing short of criminal. His quarrel lay with Robin and his family, not with them.
Somewhere among these graves, Robin’s own father was buried. He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. He and his father had never been close. Robin could still remember the bitter words they had hurled at each other the day Lord Locksley ordered him to leave the manor. Later, his father had attempted to heal the breach, but Robin, still raw from Lucy’s death, had rebuffed him. They hadn’t seen each other since, and Robin was sorry for that. Lord Locksley had died believing his son hated him, not knowing if he even lived. However, his grief for Martha far eclipsed what he felt for his father.
She had been a mother to him. He’d loved her, and he’d abandoned her.
It had never occurred to him that Gisborne would take Locksley—foolish, he realised now.
The Gisborne family had long coveted the Locksley land. The two estates had once been joined, and the Gisbornes h
ad done everything to recover the land taken from them, including arranging a marriage between Robin and Katrina of Gisborne, and siding with Prince John on the condition that he would reward them with the Locksley estate once he was king. Robin had thwarted that ambition four years earlier, but Gisborne had triumphed in the end. Robin gritted his teeth. Gisborne had made one mistake. Robin was alive, and he wouldn’t rest until Gisborne was in his grave and his people were free.
Will’s gaze wandered around the mourners. “Still no sign of him,” he muttered.
“He’ll come. Have patience.”
“You’re very calm, considering he’ll likely arrest us if he doesn’t kill us outright.”
“I don’t intend to be arrested or killed.”
Father Tuck was wrapping up the short ceremony. Robin joined the men at the graveside, shovel in hand. The others made way for him, allowing him to go first. The shovel bit into the hard earth. Winter had frozen the ground, and it took considerable effort for Robin to dig up enough to sprinkle over Martha’s coffin. Will took his turn, then Much, and then Harry. Gradually, the grave was filled in. Several people were crying. Tears streamed down Lara’s face, and Jane put an arm around her.
Robin hadn’t realised so many others cared for Martha, and his own eyes prickled. He wondered where Richard of Lee was. He should have been here to say goodbye.
“At least she got to see you one last time,” Much said as he and Robin stepped away from the fresh grave.
“Thank you for looking after her.”
“We couldn’t leave her in the street. She was good to us, particularly when old Molly died. A lot of Martha’s remedies helped the sick and dying, and she never charged anything for her services.”
So old Molly was dead as well. That was one person whose passing Robin was not sorry about. It had been poison made by old Molly that had brought about Lucy’s death. Old Molly had given some to Katrina, though she claimed she had no idea what Katrina intended to use it for. Perhaps that was true, but she had shown no remorse over what her evil potion had done.
Will joined them. He forced a grin as he turned to Much. “So, you’re courting the fair Lara.”
Much blushed. “We are to be married.”
Robin opened his mouth to say that they were far too young, but checked himself. If he was right, Much was sixteen years old. With many paupers not living much beyond their thirties, it was important to marry young.
The sudden sound of approaching horses cut through the quiet murmur of the villagers. Robin’s hand jumped to his sword at once and he exchanged glances with Will. Many people were drawing back with looks of fear on their faces. Some, however, stood their ground, including Harry, Alan, George, and George’s young son, Edward. Robin could see the indecision in Much’s face. He was torn between backing Robin and protecting Lara.
The horses were getting nearer. Robin spoke out quickly. “Do not interfere, any of you.”
Will had moved to stand back to back with him, his sword in his hand.
Guy of Gisborne rode at the head of a small squad of soldiers. His mantle, Robin saw, was of the finest quality, as were his tunic and the sword sheathed at his hip. His hair was longer than Robin remembered. Looking at that haughty, arrogant face, Robin found nothing remaining of the boy he’d sparred with, the boy he had once called friend. This was a stranger.
Robin had watched the transformation begin during their teens. Guy of Gisborne had revealed himself then as someone with a lust for power, a murderer. Whatever was left of Guy—if there had been anything to begin with—was crushed beneath the veneer of the Sheriff of Nottingham. It was then that Robin dropped Guy’s Christian name in his mind. Guy, the embittered boy, was gone. Gisborne remained.
Gisborne reined in his horse, its hooves flinging up a spray of mud. Behind him, the others also halted. Robin ran his eyes over them. Edgar was in the group. Another man, a captain, Robin thought, judging from the black tabard he wore over light chain mail, flanked Gisborne. So, this must be Hugo Beaumont, Robin thought, the man who had the dubious fortune of being married to Katrina. He wore no helmet. His dark hair was severely cropped, and his hawk-like eyes and beaky nose put Robin in mind of some bird of prey, cruel and pitiless.
Katrina herself was at the rear. She was as richly dressed as her brother. She wore a gown and mantle of the same blue as her eyes. A linen coif covered her braided hair.
Rage, hot and deadly, rose up in Robin. His two greatest enemies were there, ripe for the taking.
“Easy,” Will muttered in his ear. Robin relaxed his grip on his sword with an effort.
Gisborne’s eyes were fixed on him, and they expressed equal hatred and contempt. “So it’s true. You have returned.”
“You don’t seem pleased to see me, Gisborne. I daresay you were hoping your assassin would finish me off. He left you a parting gift, by the way.” Robin stripped the Gisborne ring from his finger and threw it. It spun, glinting through the air, to land at the hooves of Gisborne’s horse. The animal shied, but Gisborne controlled it easily.
It struck Robin how at home Gisborne looked in the saddle. He was every inch the sheriff, the powerful lord, safe in the certainty that none could do him any harm. His arrogance enraged Robin.
“So,” Gisborne said, “how was the Holy Land? I understand our king is losing. Is that why you came home?”
“Why I returned is my own business. It seems you have been overstepping your authority, Gisborne.”
“I am the Sheriff of Nottingham, The king’s representative in this shire.”
“Only The king can appoint a sheriff.”
“Richard himself granted his brother the county of Nottinghamshire. It is up to the prince whom he appoints to oversee his lands. We must keep the kingdom in good order for Richard’s return—assuming he does return.”
That was treason, pure and simple.
Gisborne’s remark was too much for Will. “You’re as bad as that prince you love so much. Vultures, the pair of you, stealing the land that isn’t your own.”
The leader of the men at arms brought up his crossbow. “You will hold your tongue.”
In one swift movement, Robin had nocked an arrow to his own bow and fired. It struck the crossbow, knocking it clean out of the man’s hand and forcing it to discharge its bolt into the ground. Several watching villagers gasped.
The man was rubbing his hand. Robin’s arrow had caught it in passing, and a trickle of blood ran down his wrist.
“I don’t like people who threaten my friends,” Robin said conversationally. “We haven’t been introduced.”
“My name is Hugo Beaumont, captain of the sheriff’s guard. You are trespassing.”
“I am not the trespasser here. I am Robin, rightful Lord of Locksley. These are my lands. I believe it is you who are here unlawfully.”
“The Locksley estate was granted to my brother by Prince John,” Katrina said, speaking for the first time.
“Was that before or after he did for Lord Locksley?” Will asked.
For the first time, Robin saw Gisborne’s composure slip. Evidently, he had hoped Robin would not have learned the truth about his father.
Robin fitted another arrow to his bow and aimed it directly at Gisborne’s heart. “I should kill you where you sit.”
“But you won’t.” Katrina’s face twisted in a sneer. “If you harm my brother, Prince John will unleash such suffering on this village that they will rue the day you ever returned. You have no power here, Robin of Locksley. Even that title is not yours. The old Lord Locksley disinherited you four years ago. You have nothing.”
Angry murmurs rose from the villagers, but at a signal from Hugo Beaumont, the men at arms all drew their swords, pointing them at the crowd. This had the effect of hushing them instantly.
“It seems war has cost you your sanity, Locksley,” Gisborne observed. “You are clearly a danger to both our prince and this country. I have no hesitation, therefore, in arresting you.”
; Father Tuck stepped forward. “My Lord, I urge you to reconsider. This man has committed no crime.”
“Hold your tongue, Priest,” Hugo ordered. He made a sign to his men. As one, they rode forward.
There were shouts and screams among the villagers as they scattered before the soldiers. Alan tried to go to Robin, but was seized and thrown to the ground. Jane rushed to help him, but was sent sprawling herself.
A soldier rode at a group of women and children, who scrambled desperately to avoid him. One little boy tripped, his hand torn loose from his mother’s. Without pausing, the soldier rode him down. His mother’s scream was lost amid the tumult.
Will engaged another soldier, fending off his clumsy attack with ease. The man was startled that one he had taken for a mere peasant knew how to use a sword, and the momentary distraction cost him his life.
Robin loosed his arrow. The soldier who had attacked Alan fell. Robin loosed a second and the man on the horse who had ridden at the crowd toppled to the ground with a garbled cry.
“Stop!” Hugo Beaumont shouted.
Everyone froze. A stunned silence replaced the chaos as all eyes fell on the three men lying in the mud. The mother of the boy who had been ridden down cradled him in her arms, her quiet sobs the only sound to be heard.
Robin nocked yet another arrow and trained it on the captain. “I can kill every man of yours, Gisborne, including your captain. Lower your weapons, all of you!”
Hugo spurred his horse towards him, but Katrina screamed, “No!”
“Listen to her, Captain. Order your men to drop their weapons.”
Hugo glared at Robin, but he had no choice, and he knew it. He made a sign to his men, and as one, they let their weapons fall.
“Very good, now, stay there, nice and quiet, until I have gone on my way.”
While Gisborne looked on with impotent fury, Will grabbed the bridle of one of the riderless horses. The animal pranced, but a calming word from Will soothed it. When the horse was quiet, Will mounted and held down an arm to Robin.
