Robin Hood (23 page)

F
ROM
B
ARNSDALE
, G
ODFREY
led his army toward the city of York, where he knew that their take would be far greater than it had been in the smaller villages of the northern baronies. The Church had spent the last several months gathering grain from its parishes. Now Godfrey, in the king's name, of course, would gather grain and gold from them. It wouldn't be long before John had lost not only the support of his nobles, but also of the bishops. The land would be rife with civil conflict and ripe for conquest.

They made their way through the streets of the city to York Minster. Godfrey was not much given to religiosity, but even he could not help but be impressed by the cathedral, with its Norman-style spires and enormous colored glass windows. He had seen the great cathedral at Canterbury, and thought that this one compared not unfavorably. But he wasn't here to admire architecture, and he definitely hadn't come to pray.

He sent in some of his men—on horseback—to deal with the curate Father Tancred and his monks.
He could hear the commotion from out on the street: pews being thrown over, glass shattering, men dying. When at last the sound abated, Godfrey spurred his own mount up the stairs and into the abbey, his sword in hand.

Monks still ran for cover, arms thrown over their heads as they were chased by soldiers. The interior of the church was a mess. Altars had been shattered, blood stained the floors, several fires burned, blackening the stone walls.

And at the center of it all stood Tancred, his robes singed, his begrimed cheeks streaked with tears, his eyes wide and wild with disbelief and outrage and terror. He clutched a golden chalice to his chest with shaking hands, looking like a mother guarding her babe. He looked around him, desperate to stop the destruction of his church, but helpless to do more than watch. How hard that must have been for him, Godfrey thought, enjoying the moment. A man in his position couldn't have been used to feeling powerless; before this day, he had probably never feared for his life. How the mighty had fallen.

Seeing Godfrey, Tancred took a step back, gripping his chalice even tighter.

“
Why?
” the abbot demanded, his forlorn voice echoing off the walls and ceiling.
Why? Why? Why?
“Tell me why!”
Why! Why!…

Godfrey didn't answer him. He hefted his sword and advanced on the man slowly, a smile on his lips. Catching the eyes of two of his horsemen, he signaled them to help. They rode toward the abbot as well, the hooves of their mounts clicking loudly on the stone floor and resounding through the chapel.

They herded the man, driving him back toward the great altar. Tancred stumbled once, but righted himself. He tripped a second time and went down hard on his back. Still Godfrey and the other two riders advanced. Tancred scrabbled backward, climbed clumsily to his feet, and continued to back away. At last the abbot reached the steps leading up to the altar. Once more he fell, but he crawled up the stairs, his wide, terrified eyes never leaving Godfrey's face.

“Is God not watching?” Tancred asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Godfrey spied a rope tied to a cleat on the wall. Following it, he saw that it led to a massive iron chandelier.

“I don't know,” he said, raising his blade. “Go and ask him.”

He sliced through the rope, so that the chandelier smashed down upon the abbot, the crash of iron on stone and Tancred's dying cry reverberating through every corner of the abbey.

Sheathing his weapon, Godfrey looked at the French soldier nearest to him and nodded toward the abbot's body. The legionnaire dismounted, stepped over the wreckage and plucked the golden chalice from Tancred's fingers. Godfrey motioned for it impatiently and the man brought it to him.

Godfrey turned his horse and rode back outside to the lane. The tax wagon sat in front of York Minster, guarded by several men, not that anyone would have dared come near it. He was pleased to see that it was loaded high with Church grain. Godfrey considered the chalice for a moment, and then threw it in with the rest of what they had collected.

* * *

B
LOODIED, GRIM, MORE
angry and determined than he had been in all his days, Baldwin led the survivors of King John's assault toward the crossroads at Northumbria. Only fifty or so had been fit enough to make the journey with him. A few were soldiers. Most were farmers, humble craftsmen, even house servants. They were old and gray, they were too young to shave, they were fathers, husbands, sons. But they had come this far with him; after what they had all been through, he knew that they would follow him anywhere. Most of them wore bandages, others bore bruises and burns, several had limped all the way from Barnsdale. And every one of them carried a weapon of one sort or another: a sword or a battle pike, a hammer or an axe, a pitchfork or a hoe.

They had passed others like them on the road. Driven from their homes, robbed of whatever meager wealth they once could claim, hell-bent on exacting a measure of revenge.

They saw more and more of them the closer they drew to Northumbria, and as the crossroads came into view, Baldwin realized that refugees were converging on the place from every direction. The king's tax collectors had been busy; now John would reap what they had sown in his name. As Baldwin and his followers neared the meeting place, one man in particular caught the baron's eye. He was broad in the shoulders and chest, and the years had given him an ample gut as well, so that he cut quite an imposing figure on his charger.

Baldwin and Baron Fitzrobert had never been friends, nor had they been enemies. They were rivals of a sort, in the way that all nobles were rivals for
their king's favor. But they also shared a certain respect for each other. At least Baldwin respected Fitzrobert; he assumed the large man felt the same way about him. Fitzrobert had fought the Scottish invaders as well, and had been a fearsome warrior, swinging his two-handed bastard sword as if it were a weapon half that size.

But the two of them were here now, a long way from the battlefields of the north and years removed from Henry's reign. They had been driven to it— Baldwin didn't see that they had any choice. Still, the fact remained that they had come to the crossroads to plot treason.

“Fitzrobert!” Baldwin called when he was close enough to make himself heard.

The big man raised a hand in greeting, but his expression was wary. “Baldwin!”

Baldwin halted his horse in front of Fitzrobert and for several moments the two barons eyed one another, as if each was trying to determine if the other could be trusted.

At last, Fitzrobert nodded once, seeming to come to a decision. “We'll make an army of the north to march on London,” he said, loudly enough for all to hear.

The men who had accompanied Baldwin let out a ragged cheer, as did the other refugees around them. The sound gladdened Baldwin's heart, though his expression remained grim. Avenging the attack on his town would be sweet, but there could be no mistaking the gravity of this endeavor. He saw his own misgivings mirrored in Fitzrobert's pale eyes.

“Send word through your shires,” Baldwin said. “We'll rally on the road to London.”

“Where?” Fitzrobert asked.

He didn't need to consider; the answer came to him immediately. “There is only one place for this meeting.”

At that, the big man grinned. “Yes!”

Another cheer went up from the men around them, at least those old enough to remember. Baldwin had to smile as well. Treason or no, they had waited many years for this.

Baldwin and Fitzrobert quickly set to work scribbling messages to the lords in their baronies, as well as to other barons. Once their missives were written, they chose the best riders from among their small bands of followers to carry their messages forth from the crossroads. If they were to do this, it would have to be arranged quickly and quietly. If word of their intentions reached the White Tower, all was lost, and Baldwin and Fitzrobert would likely wind up with nooses around their necks.

Yet, as Baldwin watched their messengers ride off, scattering in all directions like silken seeds carried on a late summer breeze, he did not feel fear, but rather something that King John's henchmen could never steal from the heart of an Englishman: Hope.

E
LEANOR OF
A
QUITAINE
stood on the lush grounds of the White Tower, the battlements of the fortress at her back, the royal forests spreading over the countryside before her. She wore a black velvet gown and a heavy cloak about her shoulders. Her head was uncovered, her hair bound back in a single long plait.

The morning had dawned clear and cool, and Eleanor had wanted nothing so much as to leave the confines of the castle. Henry and Richard were gone,
and though the years had been kinder to her than they were to most, she felt old. Each day it took her longer to work the cold of night out of her ancient bones. Each day she felt herself being shunted to the periphery of all that happened within the Tower walls.

She came here because the forest still called to her, because she took far more pleasure in flying her owl, in watching as the great bird glided through the wood on silent, still wings, than she did in watching her son rule England.

She heard footsteps behind her and knew without turning who had come. Word of William Marshal's dismissal had reached her the day it happened. At the time, Eleanor had still felt the sting of her own confrontation with John too acutely to give much thought to Marshal. Only later did she realize that in a single day, her son had severed ties to the only two people left in the White Tower who had served not only Richard, but Henry as well. Who would he turn to now? Sir Godfrey? His little French princess? She feared for her son; she grieved for England.

Marshal halted beside her and bowed. He followed the direction of her gaze and watched the Eagle Owl for a moment or two before facing her once more.

The years had been kind to Marshal as well. There were lines around his mouth and eyes, and there was now as much white as red in the leonine mane that framed his face, but he still looked as though he could win a sword tournament or lead an army into battle.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I have lost the confidence of King John, but he may still listen to you.”

Eleanor smiled bitterly. “Allow me to know better, Sir William.”

“Then you are wiser than your owl.”

She laughed at that. “I dare say. I have lived longer.”

He inclined his head, acknowledging her point. She and Marshal had known each other for more years than she cared to count. They had not always been friends, or even allies in the ever-shifting politics of England's royal house. But she considered him both friend and ally now; there was no one in the realm she trusted more. And she knew the man well enough to understand that he cared not a whit for his own standing in the king's court.

Marshal took a long breath now, looking out toward the forest again. “Alas, Richard was no Henry, and John
not
Richard, Your Majesty. But it is the Throne I serve, and this must endure.”

“Speak plainly, Marshal. What is troubling you?”

His brow furrowed, and there was an expression of real pain in his eyes. “The Crown is in peril.” He met her gaze. “Godfrey has been plotting with Philip of France. French troops have already landed on our shores, and they are murdering Englishmen in the name of King John. The northern barons will make civil war against the Throne. They are assembled to march on London, leaving our coast defenseless against the invasion which is certainly coming.”

Eleanor's first instinct was to question Marshal's information, but she quickly dismissed whatever doubts she harbored. Marshal would not have been here, saying such things to her, if he hadn't been certain. She knew little about this man Godfrey, but she had mistrusted him from the start. And Philip, the French king, had repeatedly shown himself capable of the most insidious deceptions. She put nothing past him.

She felt weary. Not too many years ago, she might have seen an opportunity in such circumstance, a chance to reclaim her influence. But she no longer cared to fight battles like these. It seemed, though, that God had his own plan for her.