by N B Dixon
The tavern door banged open, and several soldiers marched in. In their midst was the sheriff’s bailiff. Cedric ground his teeth in impotent fury. It was this man who had ordered his goods destroyed.
“Cedric Potter?” the leader of the soldiers called. His eyes roved around the silent tavern. They lighted on Cedric where he sat in his corner. “You are under arrest. You will come with us to Nottingham Castle.”
Cedric growled. “You’ve already taken everything I had. My wife and children will starve without me.”
“Save your whining.” The leader nodded to two of his soldiers, who each seized Cedric by an arm and dragged him off his bench. Several patrons cast him looks of fear and sympathy. Cedric hoped that at least one of them would have some pity for his family. He had the feeling he would never see them again.
Cedric was dragged in chains before Guy of Gisborne in the great hall of Nottingham Castle, where his captors threw him down at the sheriff’s feet.
“You are Cedric Potter?”
“I am.”
“I understand my bailiff paid you a visit three days ago. From what I hear, it seems he was a little…overzealous in carrying out the law.”
Cedric gazed up at him, suspicious and surprised. “He was following your orders, My Lord.”
One of the soldiers raised a fist, but the sheriff shook his head minutely. “It is true that I ordered him to collect taxes from the Nottingham townsfolk, but I did not order him to ransack your home and destroy your wares. I would like to make it up to you.”
Cedric’s confusion mounted. He’d been told he was under arrest, yet it seemed the sheriff disapproved of his bailiff’s actions. What was he doing here, then?
“In light of this little misunderstanding, I will give you enough money to keep you and your family fed and clothed until your business is back on its feet.”
Cedric was certain he had misheard. If his hands hadn’t been chained, he would have pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Still, better to tread carefully. There had to be a catch.
“Why would you do that, My Lord?”
“I am the sheriff. It is my job to look after those under my care, especially those who have been mistreated. My bailiff will be disciplined, you have my word. I will, of course, require you to do me a favour in return for my generosity. What do you say?”
Here it was. “What kind of favour?”
“Not far from here, at Kirklees Abbey, a man lies close to death. He is a dangerous outlaw. You have most probably heard of him. The people know him as Robin Hood. I cannot take the risk that he will recover and live to terrorise travellers once again. He must be removed while he is unable to fight back.”
It felt as though a heavy weight were pressing on Cedric’s chest. He understood all too well what the sheriff was asking him to do. His business would be saved, his wife and children fed, but first, the sheriff wanted him to kill Robin Hood.
“You needn’t look so worried,” the sheriff went on. “As I said, the man is wounded. He will not put up a struggle, and you will be able to claim the bounty on his head. It will keep you and your family in comfort for many months to come.”
“Why don’t you send your own soldiers to kill him?” Cedric croaked.
“The outlaw is closely protected. As soon as his men get an inkling that there are soldiers on their way, they will spirit him elsewhere. A lone assassin could get in and out without arousing suspicion. Why do you hesitate? Robin Hood is nothing to you. It cannot matter to you one way or the other whether he lives or dies.”
Cedric felt as though the world were closing in on him. He’d never murdered anyone in his life. Robin Hood had done nothing to him. He was a good man—everyone said so. How could he take his life? What would happen to those he protected? But if he was dying anyway…
Cedric heard again the quiet weeping of his wife when she thought he was asleep, the wails of his children, their pleas for food which did not come.
The sheriff’s voice broke in on his thoughts. “It is a simple question, Cedric. Yes, or no? Which is it to be?”
“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
The sheriff’s smile was appreciative. “You are a clever man, Cedric. I will give you half the money on faith. You will get the rest in a week’s time.”
“A week?”
“It is more than generous. One week to kill Robin Hood. If you fail, I will hang you and your entire family.”
Cedric stared at him, mouth dry with terror. “Not my wife, my children. Please, spare them. Hang me instead.”
“My dear Cedric, this is what we call an incentive. It ensures you will give the task your utmost. My patience is wearing thin. What is your decision?”
Cedric bowed his head. He had no choice. At least with the outlaw’s death, he might save his family. Their lives were worth more than a stranger’s.
“I’ll do it.”
Chapter 22
Marian dipped a cloth into the bowl of water. The liquid was growing tepid. She would need to fetch some more soon. Robin stirred restlessly, eyelids flickering as though he dreamed.
Their worst fears had been confirmed. In spite of all the nuns and Tuck’s efforts, infection had set in. For three days, Robin had been in the grip of a high fever. His skin burned to the touch as if he were on fire from the inside out. She wondered if it was possible for a body to contain so much heat and survive. His shoulder wound was swollen and angry red. Despite all the remedies the nuns had tried, he was showing no signs of improvement.
Marian had helped to nurse him, as had Ursula, when they could get near him. The wives of the outlaws guarded him like a mother with her newborn child, and gave Marian hostile looks whenever she approached.
Sister Agnes helped as little as possible. She had other patients to care for. Will had also been a constant presence. He scarcely left Robin’s side, except to snatch an hour or two of sleep. Marian had the feeling Will would have slept on the floor by Robin’s bed if the nuns had let him.
One of the outlaws was always on guard at the door. They, too, let Marian in reluctantly. Marian could not fault their genuine devotion to Robin. Sometimes the minstrel, Alan, would play his lute to calm him, and even the giant, John Little, displayed a tenderness Marian would not have believed him capable of. Nothing worked, though. Robin remained locked in his fever.
Marian wiped the cloth over Robin’s face again. Sweat had matted his hair and drenched the neck of his tunic and the pillow on which he lay. His head rolled from side to side, one hand coming up to push hers away.
“Please don’t hurt them. They are innocent. Please don’t hurt them.”
“Hush,” Marian soothed. “You are safe. Everyone is all right.”
“No. He’ll kill them all. He said so.”
He had spoken like this before. At first, Marian had thought he meant Guy of Gisborne, that he was worrying about his men. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
Robin’s face twisted, with pain or fear, Marian wasn’t certain. His fingers plucked at the blanket covering him. Marian reached out automatically and took his hand, trying to still the movement. He jerked away.
“They are coming!”
“No one’s coming,” Marian told him.
“They’re coming for me. I can’t… I can’t…”
Marian reached for a pitcher that stood by Robin’s bed, and poured water into a wooden cup. Sister Agnes had told her that Robin must drink as much as possible, but getting fluid into him was always a battle. Marian attempted to lift his head, bringing the cup to his lips. He fought her weakly, one flailing hand knocking the cup. Water splashed on Marian and on the bed. Her breath caught on a sob. Maybe it was her imagination, but it seemed to her that Robin resisted her efforts to help him more than anyone else’s. He didn’t appear to recognise her or any of them, but perhaps he was aware of her on some level, and did not want her near him.
She refilled the cup. “You have to drink. Robin, please.”
The d
oor to the infirmary opened. Marian felt something like relief as Will hurried to the bedside. He looked as drawn and exhausted as she felt.
“How is he?”
“The same.” Marian replaced the cup. “I’ve tried to get him to drink, but he won’t. This is the fourth day, and there is still no change.” Marian rubbed a sleeve across her eyes.
“You’re tired, lass. You need some sleep. You will be no good to him otherwise.”
Marian wanted to argue, but her retort was drowned out by an enormous yawn.
Will took no more notice of her. He approached the bed.
Robin had become even more agitated. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice raw with some powerful emotion—pain? Grief? “Will, I’m so sorry. Now it’s too late.”
Marian turned to Will, puzzled, but he ignored her. It was as if he had forgotten she was in the room. He dipped the cloth once more in the bowl of water and laid it across Robin’s brow, stroking the hair back from his face with gentle fingers as he did so.
“There. Rest easy. I’m here.”
At the sound of his voice, Robin quieted at once. He stopped flailing about. His breath expelled out in a long sigh.
“You’ve worn yourself out.” Will’s voice was a low croon, as though he were calming a frightened child. All the while, he continued to cool Robin’s face. “Lie still.”
Marian watched with a mixture of awe and suspicion. She had heard the nuns whisper about it in the refectory, about how Will seemed to be the only one able to calm Robin when he was in the grip of whatever dreams were tormenting him, but she had never seen it firsthand. She crossed herself. It was almost like sorcery. Surely no one would quieten just like that, from a simple touch and a few gentle words.
Will must have heard her soft intake of breath. He looked up, and she saw irritation flash briefly across his face before he schooled his features. “Go on with you, lass. You look dead on your feet. You will do no good to him or anyone else if you faint.”
Robin called out again. “Will? Will, where are you? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Shh. I’m still here. Drink some of this.” He supported Robin’s head, bringing the cup to his lips and tipping it so that a few drops of water moistened them. Robin’s lips parted. He sipped, swallowed, sipped again.
Marian turned and hurried from the room. Once she was back in her own chamber, she let the tears come. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t natural. All her care meant nothing. Robin never responded to her like that. He didn’t even know she was there. How was it that a man could look at another with such naked love in his eyes? It was wrong. The Church said it was wrong. Marian did not know what to think. She was losing Robin in more ways than one.
***
The hours crawled by. Will continued to sponge Robin down and get water into him whenever possible. Jane came with a fresh dose of feverfew, and between them, they got Robin to swallow it. With John’s help, they turned Robin onto his side so that Tuck could examine his shoulder. He removed the bandages. The wound looked no different. He held the palm of his hand above it, not quite touching the skin. His face said it all.
Will did the same. The heat coming from the wound was palpable, along with the smell of infection. Will saw his own despair in the priest’s face.
Sister Agnes bustled over. She glowered down at Robin, as if he were cluttering up her infirmary on purpose. “We could try bleeding him,” she suggested. “That would release the bad humours.”
“Over my dead body,” Will snarled. “He’s lost too much blood as it is.”
Sister Agnes tutted and muttered under her breath, but she covered the wound in a foul-smelling poultice and dressed it. “That’s all I can do. Frankly, I am amazed he has held on this long. He should have been dead days ago.”
Will wondered if he would be sent to hell for striking a nun. He decided it wasn’t worth the battle. Tuck must have sensed his thoughts because he laid a gentle, restraining hand on his shoulder.
Once Sister Agnes had bustled off to attend to another of her patients, Will exploded. “If the hag had her way, she’d bleed him dry or leave him to die.”
Tuck lightly squeezed Will’s shoulder. “We need to face facts. He’s not getting any better.”
Will shook him off. “He’s had a fever before and he came through it.”
Tuck’s voice was gentle. “He hadn’t been shot with a crossbow bolt then, Will. There’s not much more we can do for him. It might be kinder to…”
“To what? Let him die? You think he would do that if it was one of us? If you’re tired of being here, go back to Sherwood.”
Jane took his hand, tightening her grip when he made to tug free. “Will, you’re exhausted. Why not let Alan have a turn? I could fetch—”
Will’s glare silenced her. One by one, they left the room.
Will was alone again with Robin. He had been sleeping, but he began to moan as yet another nightmare took hold. Only Will knew what Robin was reliving. The others had not been in the Holy Land. As for the rape, Robin had gone through that alone because Will had not been at his side as he should have been. That was the duty of a squire, after all. He had failed Robin.
“Will!”
“I’m here.”
Robin moaned, but he said nothing else intelligible. Tuck came in and prayed for a while, but there was no change. Lara brought more medicine, and a bowl of broth for Will, which he could not eat.
As evening fell outside, Will reached for Robin’s hand, holding it in both his own. The skin was dry as parchment under his fingers and still burned with fever. There was no one else there. Sister Agnes had moved the rest of her patients to another room. Tuck had gone, and Marian had not returned. John was on guard outside the door. He had been talking in whispers with someone, but now all was quiet.
“Damn you, Robin, fight this. I know you’re in there somewhere. The people need you. I need you.” Will’s voice broke on the last three words. Still holding Robin’s hand, he let his head fall against the mattress and closed his eyes.
***
“You can’t do this, Cedric.”
“I have no choice. He’ll kill you and the children if I don’t.”
Cedric had returned to his home feeling as if he were in a walking nightmare. Luckily, the children were in bed, and he had wasted no time in telling his wife Joan about his interview with the sheriff. He had expected her to support his decision, but he’d been mistaken.
“You are not a murderer, Cedric, and you will not become one for a man like the Sheriff of Nottingham. I didn’t marry a coward.”
“Don’t you see? He’s offering us a fresh start. As long as we stay here in Nottingham, we are ruined. It would take me months to build up the business again. In the meantime, the children will starve, and we will be turned out of our home.”
“Robin Hood would help us. I told you to speak to him before, but you were too pigheaded to listen.”
“From what the sheriff says, he’s not helping anyone at the moment. One of his own men betrayed him to Gisborne. The sheriff sent soldiers to invade the camp, and Robin was shot with a crossbow. He’s at Kirklees Abbey—at least, that’s where Gisborne thinks he is—gravely wounded.”
“And you would go and kill an innocent man? A sick man? Shame on you, Cedric.”
Cedric hung his head, his cheeks burning. The trouble was, he agreed with her. But the image of his children dangling from a gallows kept rising up to haunt him.
“What would you have me do?”
“You say the sheriff gave you half the money already? We could run tonight.”
“He would hunt us down.”
“We’ll go far away, somewhere he’ll never find us. Please, my love, don’t do this.”
Cedric could feel his resolve wavering. They could run. Hire a cart and go a long way from Nottingham. He could make a fresh start.
A sudden pounding on the door, accompanied by loud shouts made both of them jump. Joan peered out of the single window slit
. Her face drained of colour.
“Soldiers!” she whispered.
Cedric hastened to open the door before the sound could rouse his children.
“What do you want at this time of night?” he demanded as fearlessly as he could.
“We have come for your wife and children.”
Cedric stared at the speaker, sick with terror. The man’s face was hidden behind the visor of his helmet, as were all their faces.
“The sheriff gave me his word that they would not be harmed,” he croaked.
“They’ll be treated well enough. The sheriff wants them at the castle in case you take it into your head to run with his money. Do the task he set you and you’ll see them again.” Turning to Joan, he barked, “Fetch your children, woman, or we’ll come in and get them ourselves.”
Joan did as she was told. She shepherded the children outside. At sight of the soldiers, the youngest began to cry. The sound tore at Cedric’s heart. Joan caught his eye for a fleeting second as she and the children were led away.
“Do the right thing, husband,” she mouthed.
***
Their faces swam out of the darkness. Sometimes it was King Richard—Lionheart, his soldiers called him. Stone heart might have been closer to the truth. His voice was as pitiless as his eyes when he spoke the sentence. A public flogging for the man who had dared to defy him. What difference had it made? Those prisoners had still been executed. He’d still been forced to watch. His back had been laid open for nothing. Will had calmed his helpless rage, soothed his injured pride.
They rained down blows on his unprotected body. He didn’t have the strength to resist. All he could do was cover his head with his arms and wait for it to end. Then, when he’d thought he could take no more, he had learned what real pain and humiliation meant.
They called his name in the streets. They reached out, jostling in an effort to touch some part of him. They said he was a saint, an angel, their Knight of Sherwood. What had he actually achieved? For every mouth he fed, another went hungry. For every victim he saved, another went to the gallows.
Now it was Gisborne’s mocking smile he saw. “Give up, Locksley. You fought a good fight, but it’s over. You cannot win.”
