Robin Hood (17 page)

S
ir Godfrey walked quietly through the camp, stepping past smoldering cooking fires and small tents and sleeping men bundled in woolen blankets. Sinuous clouds of silver gray smoke drifted among the trees of the forest like wraiths. At the edge of the encampment horses stomped and snorted, their breath steaming in the cold night air.

In one hand, Godfrey carried a leather sack filled with wine that sloshed invitingly within. In the other, he held a lantern that appeared haloed in the fine mist.

They had come a good distance from London; as far as they needed to, though, of course, his men didn't know this. He knew that Adhemar and the others were nearby, that they were watching already, waiting.

Godfrey approached the two sentries standing at the edge of the camp. They were young men; both of them looked cold and tired. They did their best to
stand at attention as he approached, but they shifted from foot to foot, trying to keep warm.

“Sir,” one of the men said as Godfrey drew near.

He handed the man the sack of wine and smiled disarmingly. “Turn in for an hour,” he said. “It's nearly dawn. I will keep the watch.”

The two guards looked at the wine and then at their commander, gratitude written on their faces. They nodded their thanks, and headed back into the center of the camp, eager to be off their feet and to warm themselves with a bit of drink.

Godfrey watched them go until they were out of sight. Then he continued deeper into the forest, away from the camp. After a time, he could no longer hear his men; the only sounds that reached him were the call of a distant owl and a wolf's howl. But he knew he wasn't alone. He halted, held up the lantern and covered its light, uncovered it, covered it again, so that it flashed in the darkness. Lowering it again, he waited. It didn't take long.

Two hundred of them rode toward him, their armor and their horses dark, so that they emerged from the forest shadows as if conjured by magic. Their mounts moved in near silence, their swords and pikes were tied down or wrapped in cloth, so that they didn't rattle and clink. The hooves of their horses, he saw, had been covered in sacking. Like creatures of the night, they came forward and then halted before Godfrey, regarding him with cool indifference. These were hard men, soldiers he would be pleased to command and call his own. They were capable and efficient. One needed only to look at them, to witness their approach, to understand this.

Thinking of the fifty men he had left at his camp, Godfrey remembered what King Philip had said to him back in France.
England under your friend John is a country with no fighting spirit. I can take London with an army of cooks.

The soldiers John had given him were useless— poorly trained, lazy, undisciplined. And these French before him were hardly cooks.

Adhemar rode forward, separating himself from his force. Dismounting, he stood before Godfrey and shook his hand. He was somewhat taller than Godfrey, with dark hair and a matching beard, and he carried himself with the confidence of a commander who had led his men to victory time and again. He would make a formidable ally.

“
Comment allez vous, mon ami?
” he asked. How are you, my friend?

“They have drunk well,” Godfrey told him. “They sleep well, and they await you.”

Adhemar nodded once and turned back to his men. He spoke his orders quietly and in French, and the men in front passed the commands back along their lines, one man whispering to the next. They dismounted, a soft murmur of leather and cloth, and began to untie their weapons.

When they were ready, Godfrey led them back toward the camp where his men slumbered, their bellies filled with wine, their weapons lying uselessly by their sides. Adhemar's men moved with such stealth that Godfrey glanced back over his shoulder repeatedly to make sure they were still with him. They always were.

Reaching the edge of the encampment, he and Adhemar halted and waved fifty of the French
soldiers past them. Their swords in hand, the men spread through the camp, stepping over and around the sleeping Englishmen. A few of the horses grew restless, but none of Godfrey's men stirred. Within a few moments, fifty French legionnaires stood over fifty sleeping English soldiers, their swords held over the men, so that the tips hovered above their chests and necks and backs. The Frenchmen kept their eyes fixed on Godfrey, waiting for his command.

Godfrey raised his hand, thumb pointed down, and made a swift downward gesture.

As one, the legionnaires stabbed downward, the whisper of steel blending with soft grunts and the sudden exhalation of fifty dying breaths.

It occurred to Godfrey that he had never seen so many men killed so quietly. A formidable ally indeed.

H
E HAD FOLLOWED
from the beach, keeping at a safe distance, watching as the French army wended its way through the English countryside and into the forests outside of London. He had kept to the shadows as they crept through this wood, waited with them for the signal that summoned them toward the English camp, and listened as Sir Godfrey, the new king's most trusted man, greeted the French commander as a friend.

And now, his fists clenched, his stomach knotting itself like wet rope, he had watched, helpless, horrified, as they slaughtered fifty English soldiers in their sleep. He wanted to fight them, he wanted to run them through until his sword was stained crimson and dripped blood on the forest floor. Most of all, he
wanted to squeeze the life out of the traitor Godfrey with his bare hands.

Instead, he slipped away, making not a sound, and returned to where he had tethered his horse. The pigeon box was still tied behind his saddle. He had another message to send back to London.

R
OBIN AWOKE THE
following morning to find that Marion was already up and gone from the chamber. She had even taken the dogs. He pulled on his boots, ran a hand through his hair, and left the room in search of Sir Walter and perhaps a bite to eat.

He descended the stairs to the great hall. Sunlight streamed through the windows and a fire burned low in the hearth. Walter sat at the head of the table, eating boiled eggs and ham, and occasionally tossing a scrap of meat to the dog lying beside his chair. He hummed to himself, clearly still enjoying the fine mood that had carried him off to bed the previous night.

Walter turned his head at the sound of Robin's footsteps on the floor of the hall.

“I hear a man's step. Good morning, my son.”

Robin faltered. He understood the need to maintain this pretense for the servants and those outside the Loxley home, but aside from the hound at Walter's feet, they were alone.

“Good morning, Sir Walter,” Robin said.

Walter turned in his chair. “Father,” he corrected.

Robin took a breath. “Father,” he repeated dutifully.

The old man clapped his hands together, looking delighted.

Robin stepped quickly to the table and leaned on it, so that he stood over the old man. “What is it of
my history that you know?” he asked, unable to keep the impatience from his voice. He didn't know how much of this dissembling he could endure. He had no desire to wait days upon days to learn what Walter knew.

But the old man gave a small shake of his head. “Patience. You must show yourself today.” He gestured toward Sir Robert's weapon which lay upon the table. “Wear your sword.” Walter turned toward the stairway again and bellowed “Marion!”

“I am here, Walter,” she said, appearing at the base of the stairs. She wore a linen long-sleeve bodice, a brown riding skirt, and boots. Clearly, she already knew that Walter wanted them to spend the day out in the village. She didn't come join them at the table, or offer any sort of greeting to Robin. She simply pulled on her riding gloves, clearly annoyed, and in a temper as sour as Walter's was sweet.

“Reacquaint your husband with his village and his people,” the old man said.

Marion regarded Robin coolly. He was wearing the clothes he first put on the night before. Robert's clothes—his breeches, the finely embroidered shirt, and an open, collared jacket. Without comment, she walked to the door leading outside.

“I'll see to the horses,” she said.

Robin watched her go. Turning back to Walter, he saw the old man gesture for him to come closer.

“I feel invigorated,” the old man said, sharing a confidence. “I woke this morning with a tumescent glow.” He pointed to himself. “Eighty-four. A miracle.”

Robin straightened, unsure of exactly what he ought to say in response to this.

Marion appeared in the doorway once more, shaking her head and muttering, “I have always wondered at the private conversations of men.” Then, more sharply, “Husband!”

She left the house again, and Robin followed reluctantly, unsure of whether he preferred to spend the day with his “wife” or the old man. Stepping out into the bright sun of Peper Harrow's courtyard, he saw his white charger standing next to a handsome black horse he assumed was Marion's.

Marion mounted smoothly and appeared to be just as comfortable sitting a horse as she had been cleaning a dray's hoof, or hosting a stranger at her supper table. The more Robin saw of Robert Loxley's wife, the more impressed he was. She didn't wait for him, but steered her mount toward the gate and the lane leading down into Nottingham. Robin swung himself onto the charger and rode after her, pulling abreast of her just as they cleared the gate and started down the road. She still said nothing to him, and for the moment Robin held his tongue as well. From the perspective of the hill on which Peper Harrow was perched, the town of Nottingham looked smaller than it had the day before. The fields surrounding the town appeared green enough, as if they should have yielded healthy crops, but several of the plots remained uncultivated.

The town itself looked as though it once had been prosperous—its buildings were well-constructed, the road leading to and from the village gates was relatively broad and well-traveled. But like the fields, the town seemed to have suffered as of late. Prosperity was but a memory now. Hard times had come and stayed.

Robin glanced at Marion and found that she was watching him, as if gauging his responses to what he saw. She faced forward again, maintaining her silence. He looked beyond the fields to the vast forest looming at their edge, its shadows seeming to swallow the morning light.

“What wood is that?” he asked, pointing.

“That is Sherwood Forest.”

“Sherwood,” he repeated in a whisper. The name stirred his memory, though he couldn't say why.

They continued down the hill into Nottingham and steered their horses to the center of the small village.

As they did, Robin spotted three familiar forms in the street, walking gingerly and squinting hard at the morning light. None of them showed any sign of being able to walk a straight line, or, for that matter, to clothe himself properly. Will Scarlet carried his boots and shirt. Allan A'Dayle's shirt was on, barely, but he seemed to be holding up his breeches with one hand and carrying his lute with the other. And Little John seemed to be wearing everything backward, or at least sideways. Taken together, they made quite a sight. A moment later several girls emerged from a nearby building, their clothes nearly as disheveled as those of Robin's friends. As soon as they spotted Marion, however, they retreated back inside.

John made his way over to a horse trough and began to splash water over his head and face. The others paused to wait for him.

Chuckling at the sight, Robin started toward them. “You still here?” he said. “I thought I'd seen the back of you.” He glanced at Marion, who had followed. “My men at arms. This is about as courtly as they get. Will Scarlet, Allan A'Dayle, and Little John.”

John waved at her from the trough. Will and Allan sketched bows.

Marion looked them over. Robin expected her to be scandalized, to refuse even to acknowledge them, but she surprised him.

She nodded to the men, an ironic smile on her lips. “I trust you had … an historic evening.”