Robin Hood (25 page)

He turned and saw his man standing a short distance off, tending to the pigeons, the ones Marshal kept, as well as the ones this man had sent to him from the north, after learning of Godfrey's perfidy. Marshal beckoned to the man.

“Saddle up with a spare horse. I leave immediately.”

The man nodded to him.

Marshal stared off in the direction John had ridden. “I want to know where to find Godfrey.”

The man nodded a second time and went to ready the horses.

T
he sheriff leaned back in his chair outside the town building in the center of Nottingham, watching the rabble go about their business. They complained about taxes, about the Crown and the Church taking too much, but he saw these people every day. He knew how little they worked, how much time they spent in idle pursuits. The farmers among them could easily have worked their fields more and with greater efficiency; the smiths and wheelwrights and woodcrafters could have produced more and chattered less. With a bit more industry, these people would have had more to eat, and he would have had more to send to London, to the benefit of all. But they groused endlessly, and so they suffered.

From the north edge of town, one of his roundsmen approached leading a second man who kept his head covered with a hood. The sheriff sat forward and
cast a questioning look at his rider, as the two stopped before him.

“Won't give his name,” the roundsman said. “Demands audience with the sheriff.”

The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Demands.” He turned to the hooded stranger, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Long live the king,” the stranger said smoothly. From within his cloak, the man produced a sealed letter. The sheriff stood and took it from him. He broke the seal and read. Before he was halfway through it, he looked up at his man and nodded, dismissing him.

The roundsman glanced once more at the hooded rider and then left. The sheriff finished reading the letter, and as he did, the stranger pushed back his hood, revealing a shaved head, small, widely spaced eyes, and a trim beard.

“Long live the king,” the sheriff said when he finished reading. He looked the man in the eye. “You ride with Sir Godfrey?”

The stranger nodded. “Tax collection proceeds apace. Nottingham's turn is coming.”

“Good,” the sheriff said. At last he would have some help in putting the rabble in their place. “Tell Sir Godfrey the Sheriff of Nottingham is his man, may he put his stamp on my authority. I see trouble coming from Loxley of Peper Harrow.”

The stranger laughed. “Sir Walter? A blind old man gives you trouble?”

The sheriff scowled at the man. “Aye. And his son will give more. The crusader, Robert Loxley, is returned. A week ago.”

At these tidings, the man's entire bearing changed. Clearly he knew Sir Robert, or at least of him. But more than that, he appeared deeply surprised to hear of the knight's return. When the sheriff asked him what he knew of Loxley, however, the man demurred, apologized for needing to leave so soon, and rode away. Watching him go, the sheriff had the distinct impression that the stranger believed Sir Godfrey would be just as interested to hear of Sir Robert's return as he had been.

R
OBIN CREPT THROUGH
the most remote of Peper Harrow's fields, dew dampening his boots and breeches. He kept low and stepped carefully, creeping forward as silently as a fox, his bow held ready, an arrow already nocked. Perhaps twenty paces ahead of him, two pheasants—a brilliantly colored cock and a plump hen—foraged in the grass. Robin watched the birds for any sign that they were aware of his approach. Whenever the male stopped eating to look around, he froze.

When he was close enough, he straightened slowly, drew back his bow and loosed the arrow. Without waiting to see if the first dart struck true, he grabbed a second arrow, drew it back and fired, all in one smooth, blurringly fast motion. His first arrow struck the male in the neck; the second hit the hen's breast as she took off, knocking her back to the ground.

Robin strode to where they lay, fresh blood staining their feathers, as red as the Plantagenet crest and steaming in the cool morning air. He tied them together with a thin strand of leather, and hung them on his shoulder. Marion and he would eat well this evening.

He started back toward the house, taking the long way around the fields so that he could check on those he and his friends had sown the past two nights. They hadn't sprouted yet, of course, but still Robin took great pride in seeing the grain in its furrows. As he walked up and down the rows, he spotted a few stray seeds, and he nudged these back into the earth.

Robin had never thought of himself as anything more or less than a soldier, a man whose bow was for hire. He had surely never entertained the idea that he might tie himself to the land as a farmer. But planting this grain had changed something inside him. He hadn't given much thought to remaining in Peper Harrow for long, but a part of him wouldn't feel satisfied until he saw green shoots emerging from this rich brown soil. And another part of him wouldn't be happy until he saw this crop of grain harvested. It was an odd feeling for him.

Looking up from the grain, Robin spotted Marion in the distance. She wore a simple brown dress, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair was unbound and she carried a broad basket, as if prepared for a picnic. Robin started to raise a hand in greeting, but realized that she wasn't walking toward him or the fields. She was headed into Sherwood Forest.

Pausing near the edge of the wood, she looked about, seeming to make certain that no one watched her. A moment later, she stepped into the shadows of the trees and disappeared from view.

This was her home and had been for more than ten years. She was entitled to come and go as she pleased. Robin knew this. But he couldn't help being puzzled by her behavior, nor could he resist the pull of his own curiosity. He hurried across the fields, and upon
reaching Sherwood's fringe, hesitated but a moment before plunging into the forest.

He had tracked more wary game in his time, and so found Marion's trail with ease. He followed, quickly at first, more carefully as her path took him deeper and deeper into the wood. When at last he spotted her, he slowed to match her pace, taking great care to keep out of sight, his puzzlement growing with every step. This was no idle walk she was on. Marion made her way through the wood with purpose, following what looked to be a path she had taken before. Through a shallow hollow over a series of low hills, briefly along the banks of a stream and then into a second hollow—it would have been easy for someone less experienced with woodland travel to lose his way. But Marion never hesitated.

At one point Robin lost sight of her and paused, peering through the trees, trying to spot her again. As he searched, he heard a strange high-pitched whistling sound. It was coming at him fast and he looked up expecting to see some kind of bird.

Crack!

A throwing stick struck him hard on the side of the head, staggering him for just a moment. Before he could recover, something crashed into his side. He staggered again, but managed to stay upright. A creature—a badger at first glance. At least it had a badger head and fur on its back. But it was a boy. He had no time to see more than that. A second creature smashed into him from behind. He turned, managed to see a wolf's head and fur.

And then four more of them were on him, all boys, all dressed in fur as well, a couple of them sporting animal heads like the first two. They carried sticks,
and they weren't afraid to use them. While some of his attackers pummeled him with their weapons, others grabbed at his arms and head and face with their hands, and still others punched and bit and scratched.

He had no desire to hurt children, but in mere seconds he'd had enough of these monsters. He swatted one off his leg, grabbed another from his back and threw him into the brush, shoved another one off his arm. But every time he got rid of one, two more seemed to attack. Their blows grew ever more vicious and Robin had no choice but to fight back harder, smacking one hard across the cheek with an open hand and kicking another in the stomach. And still they came. He didn't wish to use his bow or blade, but he was growing more desperate by the moment. They got him down to one knee, but Robin rallied, threw them off in quick succession, and had nearly won his way free.

But then they were on him once more, all fists and teeth and small, sharp elbows. He felt like a bear that has disturbed a beehive. He had might on his side, but these little ones could sting. He threw them off two at a time now, not caring how rough he was. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw an actual bear. It took him a moment to realize that this was another boy, wearing dark fur and a bear's head. By the time he understood the danger, it was too late. The others had latched onto his arms and legs again. He could only watch as the cudgel rose and came down hard on his head.

And everything went dark.

* * *

W
HEN
R
OBIN CAME
around again he was still on the forest floor surrounded by the “animals.” He couldn't have been out for long. The “badger” and a “fox” had started to tie his wrists and ankles with long vines. Rather than alerting them to the fact that he was awake, Robin played at still being unconscious. Through half-closed eyes, he watched the others as they gathered more vines and prepared a long pole. More boys milled all around them and from what he could see, Robin didn't think that any of them was more than ten or eleven years old.

Which wasn't to say that they couldn't do some damage. His head throbbed, and the rest of his body was covered with cuts and bruises and bite marks. Still the question remained, what were children doing in the middle of Sherwood Forest, living like the creatures whose skins they wore?

With as much care as possible, Robin tensed his wrists and ankles, so that as the boys tied him, he left himself a bit of maneuvering room. Whenever one of the boys looked his way, he closed his eyes completely, so by the time they took the pole and passed it through the spaces between his bound ankles and wrists and his body, they remained convinced that he was still out cold.

When they had the pole in position, six of the boys—three by Robin's head and three by his feet— lifted the pole onto their shoulders so that Robin hung like a trussed deer ready for cooking.

They started walking slowly through the forest, Robin swinging from the pole, his eyes closed now as much to keep from getting dizzy as to convince the boys he was unconscious. He hoped that his
captors had remembered to retrieve his bow, quiver, and sword, not to mention the pheasant he had killed earlier.

Their walk through the wood seemed to take forever. Robin's wrists and ankles ached, his neck was growing stiff, and his stomach felt as though he had been at sea for too long. As they moved deeper into the forest, the number of boys walking along with the six who carried him continued to grow, until it seemed that there were dozens around him, all dressed in furs, all far too young to be living on their own in the wild.

Still viewing the world through half-closed eyes, Robin saw that the forest had thickened. The trees were taller here, more massive. Robin felt that he was being carried back in time to a primeval wood that existed before the royals had claimed these lands for their own.

The boys walked on and came at long last to a camp. Small fires burned before primitive, cavelike shelters with roofs made of branches and leaves. There were a few larger, sturdier structures as well, with walls made of animal skins. Still more boys were busy throughout the encampment. Some stood around fires stirring food in banged up pots, others worked to shore up the various shelters, and still others busied themselves with making or repairing tools and clothing and weapons. The boys he saw here looked to be older and larger than those who had attacked him, and many of them did double takes as they took note of what the smaller boys were carrying. This didn't go unnoticed by Robin's captors, who were clearly quite proud of themselves.