by N B Dixon
“I’m here. Where else are you hurt?”
“Not hurt. Just a whack on the head.” Will tried to sit up, but fell against Robin.
Robin gathered Will close, cradling his head against his shoulder. With his free hand, he untied his water skin and brought it to Will’s lips.
Will drank the few remaining mouthfuls, and managed a weak smile.
“That’s better. Are you all right?”
“Nothing serious.”
Will leaned more heavily against Robin, his eyes half closing. He jumped a little as Robin’s probing fingers touched the deep laceration on his scalp.
“Ow, that hurts.”
“Sorry. It will need stitches, but you’ll live to fight another day.” As he said it, a wave of love, so powerful it left him breathless, swamped him. For years, he’d fought his attraction to Will, telling himself that friendship was good enough. He’d been convinced he’d lost him forever, but Will was alive; he was well, he was safe.
Robin didn’t even think about what he did next. Turning his face, he covered Will’s mouth with his. He felt Will start a little, and then his lips parted under Robin’s. The kiss was fleeting, a brief pressure, but it stirred something deep inside Robin’s chest. His entire body resounded with the need for Will. He no longer cared what the Church said. Something as pure and strong as this could not be evil. Robin’s arms tightened around Will, and then distant shouts shattered the battlefield silence.
Robin broke the kiss, his heart racing. It took him a moment or two to register the fact that the voices were shouting in English—soldiers come to retrieve the dead or check for any survivors.
Will was still gazing at him, a look of amazed wonder on his face.
“Can you stand?” Robin managed. “We need to get you back to camp.”
“Still a bit dizzy yet, but I think so.”
“Hold on to me. I won’t let you fall.”
***
Robin jerked back to the present. The memory was still as painful as a knife slash, as sweet as the first taste of water after going too long without. That brief kiss he and Will had shared had lasted no more than a few seconds, yet it had changed his life.
Private moments had been few, in a camp surrounded by other men, and only a tent flap between them and the outside world. Mostly, they had been too exhausted after the rigors of battle, forced marches and poor nourishment to do more than sleep, but waking in Will’s arms had been an experience Robin had never thought to have.
A single month of heaven, followed by an eternity of hell. The priests had been right. Those who dared to love a man were despised by God, only he hadn’t waited until judgement day to dish out Robin’s punishment.
Robin could bear anything, except the knowledge that Will was suffering, too. He had tried to distance himself, spurning all Will’s attempts at intimacy, pretending not to see the hurt in Will’s eyes, but he could not bring himself to break the bond entirely. He’d never given Will an explanation. Will was a constant temptation, but if he gave in, he would have to tell Will the truth, and he knew he’d never be able to look him in the eye again. He could only hope Will would grow tired of waiting and leave of his own accord, but he was showing no sign of doing so.
As outlaws, they were stuck with one another. Robin had a purpose—revenge on Gisborne and justice for his people, but he and Will were only two men.
As if in response to his thoughts, the silence of Sherwood was abruptly shattered by the unmistakable sounds of battle. Robin paused, screened from view by the foliage, and listened. His first thought was that some luckless fellow had run into one of the patrols sent to Sherwood to root him out. Robin strung his bow and, taking care to remain under cover, crept closer.
***
“Nice shot,” Wat called.
“It was more good luck than anything.” John stepped out from behind his bush and approached the fallen stag. “By God, he’s a beauty.”
Wat also emerged. Together, they gazed down at their prize. The stag was a young one with an impressive set of spreading antlers. John’s arrow had struck it in the neck, killing it instantly. It had been years since he’d fired a longbow, but since their exile into Sherwood, he’d been forced to relearn his old skill.
His father had taught him how to make a bow when he was a boy. His would certainly not win any contests, but it was serviceable. This animal would keep him and Wat fed for several days, provided they could get it back to camp unseen. There were foresters aplenty in Sherwood. Poaching the king’s deer was punishable by death. It would be ironic, John thought, if, after avoiding the attempts of Gisborne’s men to capture him, he would end his days dangling from a rope for killing a deer.
Wat rubbed his belly, already anticipating their breakfast.
“Help me lift him,” John ordered. “It will take two of us to carry him back to camp.”
As they struggled to lift the carcass, they were both arrested mid-movement by a rumbling sound growing rapidly louder.
Wat glanced skywards. “Is it thunder?”
John’s heart sank. He’d recognised the sound. It was the approach of riders—many of them. He dropped his end of the stag, causing Wat to loosen his grip as well.
“Take cover!”
But it was already too late. The riders were upon them, bursting through the dense thicket into the clearing. At a sharp command from the leader, they reined in their mounts.
John did a quick headcount. There were fifteen of them, too many for him to take on alone. He had no more arrows left and only his axe and quarterstaff. Wat had a knife in his belt, which would be next to useless.
“Well, well,” the leader mused. “We came into Sherwood in search of the wolf’s head, Robin Hood, yet it seems we have found two more miscreants. Are you aware that to kill the king’s deer is an offence punishable by death?”
“I’m an outlaw,” John said. “What did you expect me to live on, grass?”
“Mind your tongue, or I shall have it cut out.”
Though the men’s faces were obscured by the nose guards on their helmets, John thought he recognised the leader’s voice.
“Martin, you know me.”
“So I do, John Little. Your friend there is a wanted thief, and you helped him evade the law. Even if I wanted to help you, there’s nothing I can do. You’d best come quietly.”
“You’ll not take me alive,” John growled. He threw his quarterstaff to Wat, who caught it with a yelp. Then in one movement, he snatched the axe from his belt.
John knew it was a losing battle before he even began. Wat swung the quarterstaff wildly, hitting nothing except a nearby tree. He was hemmed in and quickly disarmed.
Martin and three of his men dismounted, swords drawn. John slipped under one man’s guard and landed a blow on his neck. The man fell, coughing his lifeblood into the snow.
John felt a pang of guilt. These men had once been his companions. They were only doing their duty. He ducked a swing from Martin, but he was outnumbered. It would only be a matter of time before he was overwhelmed. Better to die fighting than on the gallows. His axe whirled, sending another man lurching away, the sword falling from his hand as he clutched at his arm. The axe blade had gone almost completely through it.
“Stop this, John,” Martin urged. “Come quietly. You know there can only be one outcome.”
Before John could answer, he heard a surprised grunt behind him. All action froze. John turned to see a man crumpling to the ground, an arrow in his chest. He stared around for the archer, as did the soldiers, but there was no one to see. The arrow had apparently come from thin air.
“Who’s there?” Martin shouted. “Show yourself.”
The reply was a second arrow. It stuck in the ground between Martin’s boots. He took an automatic step back.
“Let them go,” a voice commanded. It was young and cultured, and seemed oddly familiar.
“This is the sheriff’s business,” Martin called. “You have no right to interfer
e.”
“Is this the sheriff’s forest?” The voice called back. “The last I heard, it belonged to the king.”
“Who are you?” Martin demanded.
“My name is not important. The only thing you need to know is that I will shoot anyone who attempts to take these men. Go on your way.”
At a sign from Martin, the men holding Wat began dragging him towards one of the horses. Instantly, they both fell, arrows sprouting from their bodies.
John marvelled. The archer’s speed was incredible.
“Do you care to test me any further?” the voice asked. “I have no wish for further bloodshed, but neither can I permit you to take these men from my forest.”
“Your forest?” Martin spluttered.
“I tend it in the king’s absence. Go on your way, and give a message to the sheriff. Tell him these men are under my protection. There is a new law in Sherwood—mine.”
“It’s Robin Hood,” one of the remaining soldiers whispered. “It must be.”
Martin knew when he was beaten. He nodded to his men. “Let them go.”
The bodies of the dead soldiers were lifted across their horses, and the remaining soldiers mounted. Within seconds, the clearing was empty.
There was the faintest rustle. A young man stepped into view. He wore a sword and carried a longbow, an arrow ready on the string. John knew him, though it had been four years since they had last met.
“Robin of Locksley.”
“John Little. What brings you to Sherwood?”
***
Will looked up from the fire he was tending. Those were definitely voices. Drawing his sword, he rose in a single fluid movement, but before he could attack, he heard the trill of a blackbird. He relaxed. As a child, Robin had roamed Sherwood, and had learned to imitate several bird calls with uncommon skill.
He emerged, carrying one end of a stag. The other was supported by a giant of a man with a blood-stained axe thrust through his belt and a mane of wild red hair. Bringing up the rear was a small man, whose rat-like face and shifty expression were also very familiar.
***
“I stayed on at Nottingham Castle after Raymond Warci was killed.” John tore off a chunk of freshly roasted venison with his teeth and wiped the juice away with a sleeve. “We went through a succession of sheriffs, none of them lasting long. Imagine my surprise when Guy of Gisborne turned up at the castle with a warrant supposedly signed by Prince John, declaring him the new sheriff. I thought he was dead or at least in exile. Since he came to power, the shire’s gone from bad to worse. Every day, Gisborne hangs someone for one petty crime or another. If he is feeling generous, he might chop off a hand or have a tongue ripped out.”
“Why did you stay on?” Will asked.
“We all of us have to earn a living. I’m a soldier. What else am I good for?”
“What happened?” Robin asked.
“I helped this fool.” John speared a fresh piece of meat on the tip of his dagger and waved it at Wat.
“I robbed the sheriff’s steward,” Wat announced with unmistakable pride.
“And got caught,” John reminded him. “It was I who saved your sorry neck, and I got outlawed for my trouble.”
Wat turned to Robin. “What about you? How did you rile his high and mightiness?”
“He’s Robin of Locksley,” Will said. “Gisborne doesn’t need any other reason.”
John threw another stick or two onto the fire.
“We should join forces,” Robin said. “I know Sherwood. You’ll be safe with me, and I can give your lives a purpose again. You don’t need to skulk like animals in a burrow.”
“What do you mean?” Wat asked.
“I have a score to settle with Gisborne. He is terrorising the people of Locksley. I don’t intend to let him get away with it.”
“You’re mad! You can’t challenge the sheriff. There’s more than just your life on the line.”
“Do either of you have families in these parts?”
John nodded. “I’m from the village of Hathersage. I’ve friends and a woman waiting for me there.”
“Do you intend to sit idly by while Gisborne taxes them to the point of starvation?”
“What other choice is there?”
“We can rob those who can afford it and give the money to those who can’t.”
So simple, Will thought, and so completely Robin. He felt a grin break across his face. John and Wat did not share his amusement.
“And when the sheriff sends men after us?” Wat wanted to know.
Will answered before Robin could. “We can’t kill Gisborne personally, but we can make his life hell for him. How long do you think our dear prince will let him remain sheriff if his taxes keep going missing?”
A slow smile spread over John’s weathered face. “There’s something in that.”
“I’ve never heard of a thief giving back to people,” Wat grumbled.
“There is a first time for everything.” Robin held out a hand to each of them. “Are you with me?”
***
Robin was careful to stay under cover as they neared Locksley. He had no doubt soldiers were still patrolling the area, searching for him. Will and John flanked him, while Wat brought up the rear.
“There’s some sort of commotion going on there,” Will murmured.
Robin paused to listen. Distant shouts reached him, punctuated by the sound of wailing women. Robin nocked an arrow and crept forward.
He’d expected some sort of reprisal after the present he’d left for Edgar. At the time, he had been furious in the wake of Harry’s death, but in the cold light of day, he knew it had been a rash move, and possibly fatal for the people of Locksley. Edgar and Gisborne would be looking for someone to blame. He’d decided to risk a quick stop to check on them, though he intended showing himself only if there was trouble. From the sound of things, it seemed his worst fears had been confirmed.
He crouched behind a bush, his position giving him a clear view of the central green. The others took up their own positions, weapons ready. Robin signalled to them to wait, before turning his gaze on the scene.
Two soldiers held a struggling figure between them. Robin recognised him as Edward, son of George the carpenter. The boy’s eyes were blazing with fury, and he was fighting with every bit of strength he possessed. He was no match, however, for his captors. One man struck him hard on the temple. Edward stumbled, falling to his knees. Someone screamed. Robin saw Lara being restrained by Much and Jane, as she struggled to reach her brother. Mathew and Alan held George between them.
Edgar stepped forward. His voice carried clearly to Robin’s hiding place. “This boy has been caught poaching. As punishment, your master, Guy of Gisborne, has declared he shall hang.”
“Please!” George begged. “He’s just a boy. He was only trying to feed his family. Have mercy.”
Gisborne rode into sight then, astride a black stallion. He looked down on Edward and there was no pity in his gaze. “The law is the law. None but the king can take deer from Sherwood.”
The soldiers holding Edward began dragging him towards the nearest tree.
“It seems you peasants are in need of an example,” Gisborne said. “Watch and learn what happens to those who break the king’s law.”
Lara screamed her brother’s name. George renewed his struggles as the voices of the villagers rose in fear and anger.
Robin drew back the bowstring, his forearm trembling with the tension. Will caught his eye, but Robin shook his head at him. There were too many men. If Will and the others attacked, they would likely be killed. They needed to even the odds.
Robin loosed his arrow. A soldier fell. Two more arrows followed, each finding their man. The soldiers holding Edward released him, hands leaping to swords. A hush fell over the green. Soldiers and villagers alike looked around for the archer.
“Come out, Locksley,” Gisborne called.
“Tell me, Gisborne, if you keep taxing your
people to death, how can you then blame them for poaching? Perhaps if you allowed them to feed their families, you wouldn’t have this problem.”
“Show yourself.”
“I’m perfectly happy where I am. Let the boy go.”
“Find him!” Gisborne snarled.
Robin did not give the soldiers a chance to obey. He loosed three arrows in quick succession. Three men fell dead, pierced through their chests.
“I can take out all your men, Gisborne.”
Edgar whispered frantically in his master’s ear. Gisborne snapped something at him that Robin couldn’t hear. His face was twisted with rage, but he had no choice and he knew it.
Gisborne turned to his remaining men. “Leave the boy. We ride for Nottingham.” He peered in the direction from which the arrows had come. “Locksley, I will hunt you down if it is the last thing I do.”
Robin went to Edward, who was in danger of being suffocated by the combined embrace of his father and sister.
“You cannot stay here in Locksley. You had better come into Sherwood with us.”
Edward nodded. Lara’s cheeks were wet, but she was holding back her remaining tears. George looked older than Robin had ever seen him.
“I’ll come and visit you when I can,” Edward promised. He looked pleadingly at Robin, and Robin was reminded how young he still was.
“We’ll see,” he said gently. “Edgar will return soon, and you mustn’t be here when he does.”
“Look after my boy,” George murmured so only Robin could hear.
“I will.”
As Much comforted Lara, Alan drew Robin aside.
“Edgar was terrified when he found that wolf’s head outside his door. He believes you’re after him personally.”
“He’s not wrong.”
“Be careful, Robin. Edgar has powerful friends.”
“Don’t worry, Alan,” Will said. “I’ll see he comes to no harm.”
“We should go,” Robin said.
The five of them left the village behind them, slipping back into the welcome cover of the forest. Robin saw Edward look back several times at his home, but he said nothing. This battle had been won, but it remained to be seen whether or not they would win the war.
