by N B Dixon
Robin mounted behind him and turned to his enemy. “You haven’t heard the last of this, Gisborne. You will wish you’d stayed in exile by the time I’m through.”
Will set heels to the horse’s sides and kicked it to a gallop.
***
Hugo unfroze. “After them!”
There was a mad scramble as the men retrieved their weapons. Those who were already on horseback set off in pursuit, while another soldier sent a crossbow bolt winging after the fleeing fugitives—a symbolic gesture, since crossbows had a short range. A longbow would certainly have succeeded, but there were no archers among the group. Hugo made a mental note to find someone to train his men as soon as possible. His remaining men were now mounted. They sped off, those with crossbows holding them ready in case of a lucky shot. Soon, only Hugo, Katrina, the steward Edgar, and Gisborne were left.
Hugo turned to his master. “You should ride back to Nottingham, My Lord. I’ll join the search for Locksley. He won’t get far.”
“In a moment.” Gisborne turned to the silently watching villagers. “Let it be known that from this day forward, the man formerly known as Robin of Locksley is outlawed. Anyone giving him aid or protection will also be declared outside the law. The punishment will be death.”
There was an instant outcry. Several women burst into tears. Men grumbled, but there was nothing they could do. Without another word, Guy beckoned to Edgar to join him and Katrina, and turned his horse for Nottingham. Hugo kicked his own horse into a gallop. He needed to find Locksley soon, before Sherwood swallowed him completely.
***
The people of Locksley watched until their unwelcome guests were out of sight. Meg went to comfort the still-weeping mother, whose son was undoubtedly dead.
“We haven’t heard the last of this,” Mathew the blacksmith said. “Gisborne will be back, mark my words.”
“What right does Robin have to drag us into his games with the sheriff?” someone else asked. “He should never have come back.”
“He did nothing wrong,” Alan said. “Gisborne is a murderer and a traitor.”
“And is Robin any better?” the same villager countered. “You saw him murder those men.” He indicated the corpses lying in the mud.
“What was he supposed to do, let them kill him?” Edward demanded.
“What should we do with them?” Mathew asked.
“We give them a Christian burial,” Father Tuck said.
“Why?” Edward asked. “They’re evil.”
“They are still God’s creatures.”
“If Robin comes back, what shall we do?” a woman asked. “You heard what Gisborne said.” There was a murmur of agreement. No one wanted to bring the wrath of the sheriff down on their loved ones.
“Have you forgotten who he is?” Much’s voice cut through the anxious babble. “Robin is one of us—he always has been. He won’t let us down.”
“He’s a wolf’s head, Much,” George said gently. And, like the wolf, he could be hunted and killed at leisure with no fear of reprisal, a bounty claimed for his head if it was brought to the sheriff.
“Robin may be outlawed, but he’ll fight for us,” Jane said. “If anyone can rid us of the sheriff, it’s him. We owe it to him to give him all the help we can.”
“If he survives,” Harry added with a worried look in the direction Robin and the soldiers had taken.
***
Robin locked his arms firmly around Will’s waist as Will gave the horse its head. Once they were deep into Sherwood, they would be harder to track, but here in the open, it was another matter. As if in answer to his thought, Robin heard the high-pitched whine of a crossbow bolt. Will swore.
Robin twisted, trying to peer over his shoulder. His own bow hung across his back, but balanced precariously on the back of a galloping horse, he could do nothing.
“Are you hit?”
“Missed,” Will grunted.
They were nearly at the trees. Robin could almost feel Sherwood reaching out to him, welcoming him home.
Will dug his heels into the horse’s sides and it put on an extra spurt of speed. Robin could hear the sound of hooves fast approaching, accompanied by the shouts of soldiers. He was also aware of Will, his body heat reaching Robin even through his clothing. They were both still alive, but for how much longer, Robin didn’t know. And then the horse went down.
One moment they were almost to safety, the next, both were sprawling in the mud and leaves.
The horse let out an agonised squeal. Getting to his hands and knees, Robin saw what had been its downfall. It had caught its leg in what looked like a badger’s hole.
Will coaxed the animal to its feet but it favoured its right foreleg.
“He’ll not take us any further.”
Robin cursed. Without the horse, they were at a serious disadvantage. “Come on,” he said, “we know Sherwood. If we can make it under cover, we can lose them easily enough.” He turned and plunged into the trees, Will close on his heels.
They ran for several minutes. Robin remained in the lead, ducking down various paths and turnings in an effort to throw off their pursuers. The soldiers crashed along after them, shouting to one another. Their shouts drew no closer, but neither did they get any further away. At last, he found himself in a dense thicket of hawthorn trees and allowed himself to stop. Sinking to the ground, he crouched, panting. Will was beside him, breathing hard.
“I don’t think they like us.”
Robin put a finger to his lips. The shouting was definitely getting nearer. He cast about for a hiding place. Ahead of them, a huge log lay across the forest path, the ground beneath it dipping down into a shallow depression. Robin slithered into the tight space and lay flat on his stomach. Will dropped next to him. In the confined space, their bodies were pressed close together. Robin could feel Will’s muscles tensed for fight or flight. The sound of shouting grew nearer still as the soldiers tried to beat apart the foliage. Robin lay absolutely still, one hand clenched on his sword. He raised his head a fraction of an inch, attempting to see their pursuers, but Sherwood was as much a shield for them as it was against them. Several tense minutes passed, and then, abruptly, the soldiers seemed to give up. The sound of their footsteps and voices faded.
Slowly, Robin got to his knees. Will did the same. Their faces were inches apart. Robin could feel the warmth of Will’s breath against his cheek.
“Close shave,” Will murmured.
Robin nodded. They’d looked death in the face before. This wasn’t the Crusade, and it wasn’t Saracens chasing them, but the outcome if they were caught would be the same.
Snow began to fall. Will cursed. A trickle of blood was running from the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, Robin reached out and wiped it away with his sleeve. He berated himself a second later and got to his feet, putting some distance between them.
Will stared at him a moment, but seemed to decide not to comment.
“What do we do? Gisborne’s not going to give up. He’ll hunt you until one of you is dead.”
“We’ll go deeper into Sherwood. Tomorrow, we can make some sort of plan.”
“You want us to spend the night in Sherwood in the middle of winter?”
“What other choice is there? In case you had forgotten, Sherwood is our only safe refuge. There are some caves we can use for shelter. They are some way off, so we’d best get walking.”
“And Gisborne? His men will be back at first light.”
“I’m counting on it. This is war between Gisborne and me. I don’t intend to simply hide in Sherwood. The people of Locksley will need us.”
“Assuming one of them doesn’t take it into their head to hand us in.”
“I trust them,” Robin said. He melted into the forest, making scarcely any noise. He did not need to look back to know Will was following him.
Chapter 4
The Abbey of Saint Mary’s was one of the richest in England. It owned several acres of farmland, as well a
s the village and manor of Blidworth. Unlike many monastic houses, The Abbey of Saint Mary’s had not been touched by King Richard’s Crusade. Several abbeys had been forced to part with their silver and other valuable artefacts in order to pay for the Holy War, but the Abbot had friends in high places and had avoided any inconvenience of that nature. While other monks struggled on the verge of starvation, those of the Abbey grew fat on the tithes of their farmers and villagers.
Sir Richard of Lee rode through the village of Blidworth, his threadbare mantle clutched around him in an effort to keep out the biting cold. His horse’s coat was mangy and uncared for and the animal’s ribs showed through. It looked ready to collapse under its rider any second.
At Sir Richard’s belt hung a pouch bulging with coins. It was a fortune by any poor villager’s standards. Sir Richard had made many sacrifices to save it, and still he knew it wasn’t enough.
He drew his horse to a halt before the abbey gatehouse. Drawing his sword, he pounded it against the stout oak. He finally succeeded in gaining the attention of the ancient porter. A tiny hatch opened, and the man’s wizened face peered out.
“State your name and business.”
“My name is Sir Richard of Lee. I am here to see your abbot.”
The gates swung inward with a protesting squeal of hinges. The man gestured Sir Richard inside, casting a disparaging gaze over his shabby appearance.
Sir Richard followed the porter, ignoring the curious stares directed at him by monks and lay brothers alike.
The abbot received him in his chamber. It was an opulent room, more suited to the lord of a castle than the leader of a monastic establishment.
The abbot wasted no time on pleasantries. “You have the money?”
Sir Richard untied the pouch from his belt and threw it down. The abbot weighed it in his hands before spilling the contents out onto the table. He counted it, his expectant smile fading as he did so.
“I’m afraid this is not nearly enough, Sir Richard.”
“It is all I have.”
“The deadline is tomorrow,” the abbot reminded him with no small amount of relish. “You know what will happen to your nephew if you cannot pay.”
Sir Richard forced down his rising anger with an effort. “I need more time.”
“If I granted more time to every unfortunate who owed money to this abbey, I would never see any of it. You have had a year to pay.”
Sir Richard’s anger broke through in spite of his efforts. “My nephew is innocent, as you well know.”
“On the contrary. He murdered a man in cold blood.”
“It was a fair fight. A trial by combat.”
“The family of the murdered man demand compensation. You came to me a year ago to ask for the money to pay for your nephew’s bail. I granted your request on the condition that you paid the debt in a year’s time. Otherwise your lands are forfeit and your nephew is for the gallows.”
“Have you no compassion at all? You are a man of God. Or is wealth the only God you worship?”
“Be careful, Sir Richard. I find your behaviour offensive. I would guard that tongue if I were you. You have twenty-four hours to come up with the rest of the money.”
“You know that’s impossible. I have nothing!”
“Then you know the outcome. I shall send my bailiff over tomorrow. You will sign the deed making over your lands to this abbey. A messenger will then be sent to notify the sheriff, and your nephew will hang. I must say, I thought you would have tried harder to save this boy you claim to love so much. His death will be on your conscience.”
Sir Richard resisted the urge to run the man through with his sword. He’d been brought up to revere men of the cloth, but this repulsive specimen of humanity was no Christian. Still, his ingrained sense of chivalry stayed his hand.
“If I were you, Abbot, I would worry about your own soul. God remembers all things, they say. Come the day of judgement, there will be a reckoning.”
“You are not a man of the cloth, Sir Richard. Do not speak of things you cannot possibly hope to understand. Now, if that is all, I am a busy man.” He rang a bell and a servant stuck his head around the door.
“Please show Sir Richard out.”
Once clear of the abbey and its surrounding lands, Sir Richard brought his weary horse to a halt. Tomorrow, he would lose everything, and the day after, his nephew would hang. He knew the sheriff would take a great deal of pleasure in carrying out this particular execution. It still amazed Sir Richard that the boy he had tutored had grown into a man who was a complete stranger.
Sir Richard well remembered the day when the news of Lord Locksley’s death had reached him. He had ridden to the village as fast as he could and spoken with the manor servants, many of whom had already been removed. It was widely suspected that Guy of Gisborne had murdered Lord Locksley in order to get his hands on the estate.
Sir Richard’s thoughts turned to Lord Locksley’s son. He wondered where Robin was now. He would have an unpleasant surprise waiting for him when he returned to England—if he ever returned. So many men never made it home. His life would be worth nothing if he fell into the sheriff’s hands. Though Sir Richard wanted to believe that Guy of Gisborne would spare the man who had once been his closest friend, he knew better. Guy could not afford to let Robin live. If his right to the Locksley estate was challenged and it went before the king’s justices, Robin would almost certainly win.
“Wherever you are, Robin,” Sir Richard murmured, “stay there. England is not the same as when you left it.”
If King Richard remained absent, it was all too likely John would seize the throne, and his favourites would be given even more power. England was in dire straits. Was there anyone who could help its people?
Sir Richard urged his horse into motion once more. He had a long ride before him.
***
Margaret was at her front door waiting for him. Sir Richard dismounted and held out his arms. She ran into his embrace, holding him tightly.
“Is there any news? What did the abbot say?”
“Come inside.” He urged her back into the warmth of the house. A servant was dispatched and returned a minute later, bearing wine and assorted pastries.
Sir Richard guided his sister into a chair before seating himself. Despite the roaring fire, the solar was still draughty. He pulled his chair as close to the flames as he could, luxuriating in the heat as it permeated his chilled bones.
“So, what did he say?” Margaret pressed. She had accepted the cup of wine he had poured for her, but made no attempt to drink it. The pastries likewise sat forgotten on the table between them.
“The abbot refused to give me an extension.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that tomorrow I shall be forced to sign over my lands to the abbey. As for Matthew…I’m sorry, Margaret.”
She blanched. Her hands trembled so violently that she was in danger of dropping her wine. Sir Richard reached over and took the cup from her, setting it on the table.
“How could a man of God be so wicked?”
“Where is Matthew? He must leave as soon as possible. His only hope is to be well away from Nottingham when the sheriff’s men come calling.”
“He’s gone hunting. He should be back soon.”
“I’ll wait until he returns and explain the matter. He should leave tonight.”
A single tear slid down her cheek. “But where can he go?”
“I would recommend travelling to Portsmouth. The sailing season is over for the winter, but if he can hide out there for a month or two, he should be able to take a ship to France.”
***
Guy of Gisborne glared at his captain. “Well?”
It was late evening. Gisborne had wasted no time in riding back to Nottingham Castle, where there had been nothing to do but cool his heels, drink several goblets of wine, and await Beaumont’s return.
Beaumont looked uncomfortable. “We lost him, My Lord
. He has gone to ground in Sherwood.”
Gisborne slammed his fist on the table hard enough to make his goblet jump. He knew what the likelihood was of finding any outlaw in Sherwood, and Robin knew that accursed forest better than anyone alive.
“All is not lost, My Lord,” Beaumont said. “My men will resume the search at first light. He cannot hide in there forever.”
“Really, Beaumont?” Gisborne’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “That forest is home to one of the largest populations of deer in the kingdom. A man could live like a king in Sherwood if he chose.”
“You forget, brother, that Robin is not your average outlaw.”
Gisborne hadn’t heard his sister enter. He glowered at her. “What do you mean by that?”
“Unlike many of his kind, our dear Robin has principles. He will not allow his former villagers to suffer if he can prevent it. Make an example of some of them, and he will come running. It will also teach them a valuable lesson. I am certain some of them will know where he can be found. Show them what disloyalty to the sheriff means. One way or another, we will have him.”
***
Will jolted awake. For a moment, he was disorientated. He and Robin had taken shelter in one of Sherwood’s many natural caves. The crude bed of leaves and bracken Will lay on was uncomfortable, but it wasn’t that which had disturbed him. Beside him, Robin cried out in his sleep. The sound was unnaturally loud in the silence of the cave.
Will sat up, reaching out a hand. “Robin, wake up.”
Robin didn’t respond. He had begun to flail his arms, his face twisted as though he were in pain. Another cry broke from him, and one hand narrowly missed Will.
Will seized him by both shoulders and shook him. “Robin, for God’s sake, wake up!”
Robin’s return to consciousness was abrupt and violent. He shot upright, flinging Will backwards with surprising strength. His sword was half drawn before Will could move. His breath came in short gasps as though he had been running.
Will flung up both hands defensively. “Easy, it’s me.”
Robin’s eyes darted around the cave before finally focusing on Will. He slid his sword back into its sheath. His tensed muscles relaxed a little and he ran a hand through his hair. He was shivering, and Will didn’t think it had anything to do with the cold.
