Robin Hood (22 page)

Robin laughed. He couldn't remember the last time his spirits were this high. He didn't know if his father would have approved of what he had done, or if this was what Sir Walter had in mind. But at the moment he didn't care. He and his companions had struck a blow against the wealthy and powerful on behalf of those who had neither riches nor influence. All in all, it seemed a good day's work.

As they continued down the road, Allan began to strum his lute and Will began to sing, his voice loud and merry, if slightly off key.

As he started the verse again, the others joined in, their voices echoing through the trees. Thus they made their way back to Nottingham, growing quiet as night fell and they drew closer to the town.

By the time they steered the cart into the planting fields, they were taking every care to make no sound at all. Not that the people of the town would have minded—though Robin wondered what the ill-mannered sheriff would have thought of what they had done. But despite their singing and joking, all of them
knew how great a risk they were taking. They had no wish to give the Church or the sheriff any excuse to punish others for their mischief.

Working quickly and in silence, they halted the carts, filled slings with as much grain as they could carry, and began to scatter the seed in the furrows Farmer Paul had made with his plow and dray. Several times they had to refill their slings, but they planted all the grain from the first of the carts they had stolen. It took hours—Robin was weary and sore by the time they finished—but again, he couldn't help thinking that he had done God's work this evening and night.

They hid the carts and horses in a barn at the far end of the field, where no one was likely to find them.

Then Robin made his way back to Peper Harrow. The house was dark and still as he crept through the courtyard and into the great hall. A fire still burned low in the hearth, and the hall was warm and smelled of stew. Robin's stomach growled loudly and he realized that he hadn't eaten anything for hours. Still, his fatigue was more powerful than his hunger.

Rather than chance disturbing Marion, he found a blanket by the chair near the fireplace. He sat, wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, and within moments had fallen asleep.

Some time later, he awoke to the soft padding of footsteps on the stone. Looking up, he saw Marion standing beside the chair looking down at him. He shifted in the chair, tried to stretch his back a bit. The fire had burned down to nothing but glowing orange embers, and the ubiquitous dogs sat around his chair.

“I thought you had left,” Marion said. It was hard to read her expression in the dim light, and she spoke softly, so he couldn't say for sure what emotion he
heard in her voice. But it almost seemed to Robin that she was relieved to find him here.

“Spring planting began tonight,” he told her. “The north field is sown. The south tomorrow night. I returned late and didn't want to wake you.”

She quirked her head in surprise, and a half-smile touched her lips. “How did you get the seeds for sowing?”

“If you need to ask, it is not a gift,” Robin said.

Her smile warmed. “If that is what it is, then thank you.”

Marion regarded him a moment longer, as if she saw something in his face and his bearing that she hadn't noticed before. She turned and left him there, but he could see that she smiled still.

T
he Baron of York had long prided himself on his close ties to the royal house of the realm. Decades before, Baldwin's father had joined Henry the Second in his campaigns against the Irish, and Baldwin himself had fought under Henry's banner in the north to repel Scottish invaders. He had been too old to join Richard on his crusade, but as baron he had done all he could to give support to the Lionheart's march on the Holy Land. He paid his taxes to the Crown, gave grain to the bishops of York.

In every way, he had served his realm honorably and courageously. Never in his life had he uttered a seditious word, or given comfort to those who did. He considered himself a friend of the Plantagenets and had long assumed that they looked upon him as a loyal subject and a dependable ally.

Apparently, he had been mistaken all these years. Or he had been a fool. How else could he explain the army that had gathered outside his gate, demanding what remained of his treasure and threatening to sack his village and home should he refuse?

It was John's doing, he knew. Richard might have squandered England's treasure and the blood of her young men in pursuit of his wars, but he had never been a despot. He had never sacrificed the well-being of his people simply because it pleased him to fill his coffers with gold.

This new king, though, was a different matter. He would happily destroy the realm to satisfy his greed. Richard's leopards were gone, banished. Wolves now controlled England. And they were at his gates.

Baldwin was headed for the ramparts of the Barnsdale tower, the better to see just what his people faced. He tried to cinch his sword belt as he took the tower stairs two at a time, but his hands shook with fury, making it difficult for him to do much of anything. His grandson climbed the stairs behind him, trying to keep up with him, breathing heavily with the effort, and probably with fear as well. It was no small matter to face the king's army.

“This Robber King is no king of mine!” Baldwin said bravely, hoping for the lad's sake that he sounded more confident than he felt.

He reached the top of the winding stairs a moment later and stepped out onto the battlements of the town walls. There were townspeople up there already, many of them dressed in rags, looking half-starved. And these men had come for gold? Baldwin would have laughed if he hadn't been so enraged. He pushed
past his people so that he could get a view of what was happening below.

The force was smaller than he had been led to believe. His grandson, panicked and inexperienced in such things had spoken as if the entire English army was at the Barnsdale gate. There couldn't have been more than two hundred men massed before the walls.

Still, Barnsdale couldn't stand long against any force, not even one half this size. His people were farmers, not warriors. His gates were intended to keep out road thieves and ruffians from the wood, not English regulars.

One of the king's men had stepped forward to the town gate and was now nailing up a notice, which, of course, Baldwin couldn't read. Not that he needed to. He could imagine well enough what it said.

“Are you Baldwin?”

The baron shifted his gaze to the man who had spoken. He wore a fine coat of mail, and, over it, a black tabard marked with a brightly colored crest Baldwin did not recognize. A black cape was draped around his shoulders, fastened at the neck with a silver chain. His head was clean-shaven, his eyes deep-set and dark, and he bore an angry scar on one cheek. He sat an impressive black stallion that seemed to complement perfectly his clothing and appearance.

“Open the gates,” the man said. He spoke the words forcefully enough, but there was an insouciant quality to his voice, as if it made little difference to him whether or not Baldwin complied.

“In whose name do you come against us like Vandals and Vikings?” the baron demanded.

The man pointed to the notice his soldier had posted. “In the name of King John. Pay or burn.”

Baldwin felt his face going red with anger. “We have paid in money and men for King Richard's wars, and we have no more to give!”

The bald man looked to the soldier next to him, a dark-haired, bearded man who sat tall on his mount. The two eyed each other for a moment. Then the second man gave a small shrug of his shoulders and the bald man looked up at Baldwin again.

“Burn then,” he said, as if it was nothing to him.

The man turned in his saddle and nodded to the soldiers behind them. Instantly, several dozen of the men stepped forward carrying grappling hooks that dangled from the ends of thick rope. They swung them expertly and almost in unison, and sent them soaring up to the top of the wall. People fell back from the iron talons, the baron included, and then watched in horror as the soldiers pulled the ropes taut, allowing the hooks to grip the wall. The men began to climb toward the ramparts.

They climbed quickly—they were as well-trained as any English warriors the baron had ever seen. Baldwin leaped forward, drawing his sword, and began to hack at the ropes, desperate to cut them before the soldiers reached the top of the wall. Many of the townspeople fled the walls in a blind panic, but some of Baldwin's men joined him in attacking the ropes. The baron cut through one, and then another, sending the climbers tumbling back to earth, and, he hoped, to hell. Another man reached the top of the wall only to be stabbed by one of Barnsdale's guards. But farther down the wall, a soldier made it to the top, jumped onto the battlements, and began swinging his sword savagely at anyone who got in his way. A second soldier joined him, and then two more.
Within seconds, the wall was swarming with soldiers. Innocent men and women were wounded and killed before they could flee to safety. Baldwin's men tried to fight the invaders off, but they hadn't the skill to do battle with soldiers like these.

Baldwin had little choice but to call for his men to fall back and for his people to save themselves. He glanced back over the edge of the wall and saw that the bald man was still looking up at him, a smug smile on his lips.

I
T DIDN'T TAKE
long for Adhemar's men to gain control of the town walls, but Godfrey had never been a patient man, and even waiting those few minutes put him in a foul temper. He could hear screams rising from the ramparts and from beyond walls in the village, and he hoped that this time their work would be rewarded with more coin and treasure than it had been in Peterborough.

At last, as the screams continued, the gates to the town began slowly to swing open. Godfrey didn't wait for Adhemar's men to open them all the way. As soon as he could, he spurred his mount forward and rode into Barnsdale, wrinkling his nose at the smell of pig shit. Sheep bleated and chickens ran for safety, wings nailing, feathers flying. Another useless country village, probably with barely enough gold to make all this effort worthwhile.

The lane that carved through the village was littered with bodies. Those who were merely wounded crawled for safety, leaving trails of blood in the dirt. Others lay motionless. Soldiers moved from house to house, killing whoever got in their way, taking all that
they could find. Godfrey looked back at Adhemar and nodded a second time. The Frenchman looked back at one of his men in turn and made a small gesture. Moments later, several men entered the village bearing torches and made their way toward the nearest of the thatched roofs.

Godfrey looked up at the walls, knowing that he would find Baldwin watching him, watching it all. Godfrey smiled and offered a slight shrug. He had given the baron a choice, and Baldwin had chosen poorly.