Robin Hood (33 page)

Together they managed to unbar the doors which were now ablaze. Black smoke billowed from the opening and within the barn flaming beams and boards of wood began to fall. Many of those inside had nearly been overcome with smoke. But the trapped villagers poured out into the lane, coughing, their faces smeared with soot. Some needed to be supported, or even carried, but all of them made it out.

S
EEING THAT
M
ARION
was safe, Robin turned his attention back to the battle. Arrows whistled all around him, swords clashed, men shouted.

Robin could see Will and Allan fighting up ahead. They were back-to-back, surrounded by six French swordsmen who were pressing them hard. They
needed help, and he was too far away. He looked for Little John, or another Englishman who might lend them aid, but he saw no one.

Will managed to kill one of his foes, and Allan did the same, but they were in trouble. The Frenchmen's swords were bright blurs in the sun and Will and Allan's parries looked more desperate with every passing moment. Robin didn't know how they would manage to fight their way free. That is, until three of the Frenchmen suddenly fell, arrows jutting from their chests and necks. Will killed the last man and then looked up in time to salute Loop and two of his archers, who had fired down on the French soldiers from a nearby roof. The boys returned the salute, then nocked their bows again and searched for their next targets.

Robin continued forward, with several of the barons' men now with him, and together they waded into battle against a large group of French soldiers. They were skilled fighters, these French. Disciplined, strong, agile. Robin parried blows from all sides and lashed out with his blade. His arms and back burned with fatigue, but still he fought on. Every time he dispatched one of the enemy, another was there to take the previous man's place. Robin ducked under swung blades, parried thrusts aimed at his heart, blocked strokes that would have sliced into his side. One deflected blow opened a cut on his brow, but he wiped the blood from his eyes and killed the man who had wounded him.

On the far side of the French force, which was dwindling quickly, Robin saw Little John fighting his way toward him. The big man had his stave in hand, and Robin would have liked to stop fighting, just so
he could admire his friend's work. The stave seemed to come alive in John's hands. It whirled and whistled and cracked bones with every strike. For all his brawn and bulk, John moved as nimbly as the forest boys. He spun away from sword strokes, sidestepped mounted soldiers, knocked the riders from their saddles, and then leaped forward to finish them. Robin recalled telling Will that Little John might prove himself useful in a fight. He hadn't known the half of it. The man and his stave were like a storm in the midst of the battle.

With the help of the forest boys and the barons and their men, Robin and his friends soon had the remaining French soldiers surrounded in the town center. Seeing that they were outnumbered and defeated, the French laid down their weapons and surrendered.

Robin dismounted and stood before the captured men. “Who is your commanding officer?” he demanded in a loud voice.

None of the French replied.

“Where will Philip's fleet land?”

Again none of the captured men said a word. Robin glanced at Little John, who shrugged.

Robin grabbed one of the French by the scruff of the neck and roughly led him over to a nearby building, one of the few that still stood unscathed.

“Rope!” he called.

It took a moment, but Will found him a piece of rope that Robin then used to lash the man to the door. Stepping back a few paces, Robin pulled out his bow, nocked an arrow to it, and fired it at the man. Or not exactly at him.
Thwap!
The arrow struck the door less than an inch from the French soldier's cheek. The man flinched, his eyes wide with terror.

Robin pulled out a second arrow, nocked it, and fired again, aiming lower this time.
Thwap!
This one struck the door in between the man's leg's, just below his crotch. The soldier began to whimper.

Robin nocked a third arrow and drew back his bow, the tip of the arrow leveled at the man's heart.

“
Attendez!
” the soldier cried. Wait! “
Je vous dirai!
” I will tell you!

Robin lowered his bow.

The man closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed. Opening his eyes again, he took a breath and said. “
Le roi attaquera a Dungeness en deux jours.
” The king will attack at Dungeness in two days.

Robin turned to the barons. “We ride for Dungeness. May the Good Lord grant us speed.”

E
ven as Robin spoke of riding to Dungeness, he spotted from the corner of his eye a figure leading a cart into the village center from the direction of Peper Harrow.

Robin recognized Gaffer Tom immediately. It took him a few seconds, though, to understand what the man carried. When at last the realization hit him, Robin staggered as if struck by an arrow. He looked quickly to Marion and saw that she had frozen where she stood, her eyes fixed on Tom, her cheeks ashen.

Tom's face, ruddy as always, was streaked with tears, and he carried Sir Walter's sword cradled in his arms, as though it was the most precious thing in the world.

The body of the old knight lay in the cart, as still and pale as a stone effigy on a tomb.

Tom stopped in front of Marion, sobbing, his eyes downcast. And even as she took the sword out of his
hands he wouldn't look at her. Robin moved to her side and put his arm around her. She leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder, her legs buckling. If he hadn't been holding her, she might have fallen.

No one in the village center spoke, although a few of the townspeople began to weep.

Robin's grief was nearly too much to bear. He had known the old man only briefly, but in the few days they had shared, their friendship had grown quickly. He could have learned so much more from Walter, if only he'd had the chance. Not just about himself and his father, but about England, about being a knight, about the land on which he now stood.

Slowly, Robin led Marion back up toward Peper Harrow. Tom followed, leading the cart once more, for the last journey of Sir Walter Loxley to his beloved manor.

A
PYRE HAD
been built at the ruined gate of the Loxley manor, to Marion's precise instructions. Walter's hair had been combed, he had been dressed in unbloodied clothes, and then he had been placed in an open coffin of woven osiers. With help from Will, Allan, and Little John, Robin carried the old man to the pyre and set him upon it. Children had picked flowers for the occasion, and these were spread around Walter's body. And Marion, who until this time had not relinquished the old man's sword, now stuck it in the ground in front of the pyre.

As the sun went down, Tuck offered a brief prayer. When the priest had finished, Robin and the others brought torches forward and thrust them into the great pile of wood. Marion stepped forward and
placed a flower within the coffin, before stepping back and watching the fire grow. Wisps of smoke curled upward, the wood began to crackle, and soon the fire was burning brightly, illuminating the faces of those who had gathered to say farewell to the man. Loop and his boys were there. Tuck stood with Marion and Robin. Will, Allan, and Little John stood a short distance off, their heads bowed.

There was little sound, save for the snapping of the flames and the gentle rustle of a light wind that carried smoke out across the fields of Peper Harrow. Robin sensed that the people around him were mourning more than just one man, great though he had been. Too many had died this day, and Godfrey still lived. More would fall before this was over.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
, Robin put on his leather breeches and his riding cloak, strapped Loxley's sword to the side of his belt and his old dagger to the back of it, and went down to the courtyard to saddle his mount. Marion had risen early and was already in the yard, waiting for him. She watched him wordlessly as he cinched his pack, and then walked with him out onto the road, where Will, Allan, and Little John were waiting for him, already sitting their horses.

Robin turned to Marion, not quite knowing what he ought to say. She was wearing a simple green dress and, on her wrist, a pearl bracelet he had given her the night before. Her hair was tied back loosely, and the morning sun shone gently on her face. He had never seen her look more lovely.

“Once before, I said good-bye to a man going to war,” she said, gazing at the bracelet. “He never came back.”

Robin looked at her, a sad smile on his lips. “Ask me nicely.”

Marion came to him. Taking her in his arms, he kissed her. She clung to him, returning the kiss passionately. But then she stepped back and smiled, letting him go. Robin gazed at her for another moment before swinging onto his horse.

“I love you, Marion,” he said.

And wheeling his horse, he led the others away at a gallop, in the same direction the barons' army had gone a short while before.

G
odfrey and his small entourage rode south from Nottingham as if pursued by the devil himself. After fleeing the hamlet, they didn't stop until well after nightfall, and even then, they rested only briefly before continuing on toward Dover Beach. Early in the afternoon of the following day, as they neared London, Godfrey ordered his eight men into a small farming village. There they traded their horses for nine fresh ones. Then they rode on, pushing their new mounts as hard as they had the old ones.

Still, they had miles to go, and Godfrey begrudged every wasted minute. Loxley and the barons would be coming for them, rousing the countryside and alerting every noble they could to the threat of a French invasion. The timing was everything. If Godfrey could signal King Philip early enough so that he and his army could make landfall unmolested and establish a
position at Dover, they had a chance. If Loxley caught up with him too soon, all would be lost.

So he drove his men and their animals without mercy. If the beasts died before they reached the Channel, so be it. He wouldn't ruin everything by coddling a bunch of farm animals.

By the time night fell, they still hadn't reached the coast, though by now he could smell brine in the air. They were close. One of the men approached on behalf of the others to ask if they could rest briefly. The soldier looked scared out of his wits, and with good reason. Godfrey came within a hair's breadth of running him through just for making the request. He restrained himself, though, and merely roared a “
Non!
” They rode on.