Robin Hood (5 page)

Will Scarlet was by the fire, stirring a pot of stew and eyeing Robin and his companions nervously. Allan sat nearby, tuning his lute. And Robin sat before a low makeshift table, facing a cluster of gamblers. The man sitting directly across from him had placed a meager bunch of carrots on the table next to Robin's
onions. The man's eyes were fixed on Robin's hands, as Robin moved three shells around, sliding a hidden pea from shell to shell. He had started slowly, as he always did—if he started too fast, his quarry would object and he would wind up with nothing. But by now his hands were moving so quickly that the man's eyes had begun to glaze.

Allan tinkered with his lute, but he was watching Robin's hands, too, smiling appreciatively. After a few moments, Robin stopped moving the shells and sat back, looking expectantly at the man before him.

The soldier hesitated, then chose the shell on the right. Robin flipped it over revealing … nothing.

The soldier groaned. Some of the other gamblers laughed; others shook their heads. “Next!” Robin called, as another soldier took the place of the man who'd lost.

Robin grinned at this new man, showed him the pea, and began to move the shells. Slowly, to start…

R
OBERT
L
OXLEY
SAT
with the king outside his pavilion, a map of Northern France and Southern England spread before them, wine glasses at hand. Loxley studied the map for some time, leaning close so as to see better in the candlelight. He glanced up at the king repeatedly, wishing that Richard would show as much interest as he in their planning. But the king seemed far more concerned with his next cup of wine than with the French or the return trip to England.

At last, Robert pointed to a spot on the French coast just to the east of Calais, where the Strait of Dover was most narrow, and where a crossing would offer them easy access to the Thames.

“With a fair wind we'll be in London three days after our business here is finished,” he said.

Richard said nothing. He barely even glanced at the map. Instead, his eyes were drawn once more to the distant flames on the castle. A small group of archers and foot soldiers remained by the castle walls, harassing the French, denying them any opportunity to extinguish the flames or attempt a clandestine assault on the camp.

Eventually, realizing that no response from the king was forthcoming, Loxley rolled up the map. Richard poured himself a glass of wine, drained it, poured himself another. He sat back, sipping this time.

“You will return to Nottingham?” he asked Loxley.

“Yes, Sire. I have a wife who waits for me.”

Richard raised an eyebrow. “After ten years? You're sure of yourself.”

Robert had to smile. “Of her,” he said. He thought of Marion often. It had been so long since he had seen her, held her, and their time together had been so brief. Yet the memory of her still burned as bright as the king's siege fires.

The king studied his wine glass. “I have a mother who won't die, and a brother who wishes me dead. The first thing I'm going to do is lock them up.”

Loxley found himself in the odd position of feeling sorry for his king. It made him uncomfortable. “Your Majesty,” he said gently, “your people will rejoice at your return home.”

Richard took another long drink, nearly draining his cup once again. “That's what I'd like. To be remembered as I was. But my army knows better. The Lionheart is mangy.”

“Every man in this army idolizes you, Your Majesty,” Robert said. Even as he spoke the words,
however, he wondered if this was still true. It had been once; that much he knew. There had been a time when every man in the English army would have followed Richard the Lionheart to hell and back if the king had but asked it of them. But these years of crusading had taken a toll on all of them.

Richard turned to look at him. “For God's sake, Robert, don't mollycoddle me. Let's find some ruffians … drink … laugh … and see if we can find an honest man.”

This was hardly the night Loxley had envisioned. He wanted to eat and rest. He wanted to end this siege and go home to Marion. But how could a knight refuse such a suggestion from his king?

“Yes!” Robert said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “Let's do that!”

Richard nodded decisively, stood and stepped from the tent, leaving Loxley with no choice but to follow. They threw cloaks over their shoulders, raised the hoods over their heads, and thus began to move among the men, unrecognized, so that they could enjoy the company of Richard's soldiers without intimidating them.

A
NOTHER
GAMBLER HAD
just sat down opposite Robin at the table, when Little John emerged from the darkness, lifted the man out of the seat, and took his place.

The first soldier eyed John angrily, but seemed to think better of complaining. Robin could hardly blame him. In the flickering light and shadows of the campfire and nearby torches, John looked even larger than he did during the day. Robin wouldn't have thought that possible.

“Back again, little man,” Will said. “Did you bring your purse?”

Little John nodded. “Aye, I brought enough, Wee Orange.”

Will drew himself up to his full height. “My name is Will Scarlet.”

“Is that so?” John said, his eyebrows going up. “You're more orange with a touch of pink to me.” He turned back to Robin. “Enough chatter. Are we going to play?”

The big man placed a large stack of coins on the table. Murmurs ran through the crowd of onlookers.

Allan had been playing his lute quietly, but he stopped now, staring at John's money. “That bet's too big, Robin.”

Robin kept his gaze fixed on Little John. “Now do you understand that if you bet and lose, your money is mine?”

“I'm a very lucky man, Robin Longstride,” John said pointedly. “Always have been. Lucky and sharp.”

“Luck's got nothing to do with this game, Little Man,” Robin said, lowering his voice and leaning in toward the table. “It's the science of memory and a quick hand.”

Little John leaned in, as well, so that he and Robin were nearly nose-to-nose. “I've got a quick eye, archer, and I'll be watching you.” He glowered at Robin, a warning in his eyes.

Robin leaned back and tipped his head in acknowledgment. He showed John the pea, covered it, and began to move the shells, slowly at first, almost hypnotically. Gradually he sped up, shifting the shells from side to center to side, passing the pea from one shell to the next, until his hands were nearly a blur.

At last he stopped and looked up at John.

“You have three choices,” Robin said. “Left, right, middle.”

“I think I'll take a fourth choice.” Another murmur rose from the men around them, this time more ominous. Robin felt a cold fury building in his chest, but he merely glared at the man, saying nothing.

John glared back at him. “There is no pea. That's my choice.”

John reached out a mighty hand and turned over the shell in the middle. He glanced at the crowd, a knowing grin on his lips. But the men around him laughed and pointed. His grin fading, John looked back at the table. There, where the middle shell had been, was the pea.

Behind John, the other gamblers all seemed to exhale at once. Then they began to chatter among themselves. “Knew it was the center one.” “Liar!” “I thought the giant was right for sure.”

John stared at the pea for several seconds, his mouth opening and closing, as if he couldn't think of what to say. He licked his lips, his gaze flicking up to Robin's face before shifting to that pile of coins he had placed on the table. Robin had the feeling that it represented all the money Little John had. Not that he would allow the Scot to welsh on their bet.

John's hand shot out toward the coins. Robin caught him by the wrist with his left hand and threw a punch with the right, catching John full on the bridge of the nose. John's head snapped back, but then he grinned, grabbed Robin by the collar and pulled him across the table, spilling the shells, the pea, and the money.

Instead of resisting, Robin grabbed the big man's shoulders and pushed hard off the table with his
feet, overbalancing John so that they both tumbled to the ground. The men around them formed a wide circle, cheering, shouting, egging both of them on. Robin and John rolled around in the dirt for several moments, John trying to grab hold of Robin's neck, Robin peppering him with punches to the gut and face. Robin was the quicker of the two, and at first he thought that might be enough. That was probably his biggest mistake. He managed to get himself on top of John briefly, and he grabbed the man's neck and threw another punch.

John caught Robin's fist in one of his mammoth paws and began to grind the bones in Robin's hand. He wrapped his other hand around Robin's throat and squeezed, rolling them over so that he had Robin pinned to the ground. With his free hand, Robin clawed at the fingers that were strangling him, but it did him no good. Straining for air now, frantic, he looked around for help.

Seeing none, Robin flailed at Little John, battering him with his free hand. John released Robin's fist and tried to block the blows. And in doing so, he also loosened his grip on Robin's throat.

Robin punched John in the jaw, in the nose, in one eye and then the other. John rolled off, clutching his face and Robin dove back onto him, throwing more punches. The first couple got through, but John blocked the rest, grabbed Robin's wrists in his viselike fingers and head-butted Robin's brow.

Dazed, Robin toppled over onto the ground. John slowly climbed to his feet and kicked Robin hard in the ribs. Robin flew several feet and landed in a crumpled mass. John followed and kicked him a second time and then a third. Walking to where Robin lay
sprawled in the dirt, John bent over, lifted Robin, and threw him into the crowd of soldiers who were still shouting. Several of the men exchanged coins, some wager fulfilled.

Robin tried to get up, but couldn't, at least not until he felt himself hoisted to his feet by both arms. Will and Allan.

“You're ahead, Robin,” Scarlet told him.

Allan nodded encouragement. “Very impressive.”

And they shoved him back into the circle. Robin stumbled, but caught himself and used his momentum to tackle John, slamming into his midsection, wrapping his arms around him, and driving the big man to the ground. Robin managed to land another punch or two, but John connected with one of his own, and Robin flopped onto his back. John got up, lifted Robin again, and threw him a second time. His arms pinwheeling, Robin flew toward a pair of cloaked, hooded men standing slightly apart from the others. Robin glimpsed their surprised faces, had time to realize that they looked familiar, and then hit. All three of them went down in a heap. Will and Allan rushed to Robin's side to help him up again, but by now Robin's mind was racing. He knew those two faces!

But it wasn't until he saw one of the men scramble to his feet and heard him bellow, “Kneel you insolent bastards! Kneel before your king!” that he realized how much trouble they were in. All of them.

The rest of the soldiers shuffled back, still on their knees, separating themselves from Robin, John, Will, and Allan.

“No, no, Loxley,” the king said beneficently. “These men are soldiers at play.” He grinned and looked
around at his men. Always Richard had been the fighting man's king, a leader who basked in the good will of his soldiers. Loxley might have been furious at the lapse in discipline, but Robin could see that the king had enjoyed what he saw of the fight. He chanced a look at Little John and saw that the big man was already watching him. They nodded to one another. John even managed a small smile.

“They are sinners after my own heart,” the king went on. “Who started the fight? Come on, own up.”

John's face fell, his smile giving way to a look of terror.

Robin looked up at the king. “I did, Sire. I threw the first punch.” He felt Little John gaping at him, but he didn't look away from Richard.

“Ah,” the king said, looking at Robin with an appraising eye. “An honest man. And who were you fighting?”