Robin Hood (37 page)

“
Godfrey!
” he yelled, though he knew the men on the beach couldn't hear him. “
Qu'il soil maudit! Tue-le, quelqu'un!
” Godfrey, damn him! Kill him, somebody!

R
OBIN STRODE OUT
of the surf back onto the beach, watching Godfrey ride away and knowing he would have only one chance to stop him.

He grabbed his bow, nocked an arrow, and set his feet in the sand. Taking a long, steadying breath, he drew back the bowstring, aimed, and let the arrow fly. It soared high into the blue, and began its long descent. When it was halfway there, Robin knew that he had aimed true.

The arrow seemed to hone in on the man, as if guided by God's hand. Or perhaps by the hands of the dead: Robert Loxley, Sir Walter, and all the others who had perished by Godfrey's sword. It glided down toward Godfrey with deadly grace and hit him in the back of the neck, burying itself all the way to the fletching.

* * *

“
F
AITES DEMI-TOUR
!
” the king ordered. “
Reculez! Nous nous battrons encore un autre jour!
” Turn around! Go back! We'll fight another day!

The ship began to turn, and Philip braced himself for the rock and pitch of the voyage back to France.

R
OBIN RAN BACK
through the shallow water to where Marion still lay in the surf. Blood oozed from the wound on her neck, and her eyes were still closed. He dropped to his knees beside her and lifted her into his arms, convinced he had lost her forever.

But then—it seemed a miracle—he saw that she was breathing, and that there was a faint blush in her cheeks.

He staggered to his feet still holding her, exhausted, but unwilling to let any other man carry her. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open. He smiled down at her, too relieved to speak. But he kissed her deeply, savoring the warmth of her lips. And then he carried her onto dry land. Around them, English soldiers subdued the last of the French. Robin hardly noticed.

K
ING
J
OHN WAS
still on his horse, shouting orders to his men, imploring them to fight, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the battle was over and won.

William Marshal rode to the king. “Your Majesty,” he called. “The battle has ended. The French have surrendered.”

John regarded him, looking incredulous. But then, as he looked around, he appeared to recognize the truth of what Marshal had said.

“To whom?” he asked, clearly offended that the French would surrender to anyone but him.

By way of answer, Marshal nodded toward the archer, Robin Longstride, who was bearing Marion of Loxley from the surf.

“To him,” the knight said.

John glowered at Longstride.

T
hey gathered in the courtyard of the White Tower in London two days later. Nearly two dozen barons waited for King John to make his appearance. William Marshal had greeted Baldwin, Fitzrobert, and the rest earlier in the day and had noticed that they seemed quite pleased with themselves. The French had been defeated, and this day, they expected, would long be remembered in song and lore. For the first time in the history of the realm, a king would sign a document recognizing the rights of those he ruled.

That was what the barons expected, anyway. Marshal had his doubts.

A table stood in the middle of the courtyard, the charter upon it, along with the royal seal, a large silver ink pot, and a quill.

John had kept the barons waiting for some time. Now, though, he emerged from his chambers and
made his way down to the courtyard, where Princess Isabella of Angouleme, looking pale and lovely in a satin gown of sky blue, sat beside an empty throne. Marshal awaited John by the entrance to the courtyard, and as the king swept past, Marshal fell in just behind him.

Two chairs had been set before the table: a thronelike chair for the king, and the simpler one in which the princess sat. Marshal noticed that the king's mother had not accompanied him to this ceremony. He took that as an ill omen. He also noticed that the captain of the king's guard stood nearby, directly in John's line of sight. That didn't bode well, either.

John sat, and Marshal handed him the charter.

For a long time, the king studied it, saying nothing. The barons waited.

“Your Majesty?” Marshal said, hoping to prod him gently.

John ignored him. The barons started to grow restless. Baldwin and Fitzrobert glared at the king, their expressions hardening. It seemed to have dawned on them at last that the king had no intention of signing their document. For his part, John appeared agitated, as if he was gathering himself to say something. The hand gripping the charter had begun to tremble.

At last he spoke, his voice imperious. “I did not make myself king! God did!”

The barons muttered among themselves. Isabella, who seemed to understand the danger in what the king was doing better than John himself, glanced at His Majesty and gave a small shake of her head.

“King by divine right!” John went on, heedless of them all. “And now you come to me with this worthless
document which seeks to limit the authority /
received from God!
No!”

Baldwin started to say something.

“Did I command you to speak, sir?” John demanded, his voice like a war hammer.

“My lord …” Isabella said softly, as if trying to reason with him.

John held the charter over the flame of the oil lamp that had been placed on the table to melt wax for the royal seal.

He glared at Isabella as the paper in his grasp began to burn. “Or you, madam?” he asked icily.

The princess clamped her mouth shut.

John nodded to the captain of the guard. The captain, in turn, banged the butt end of his pike on the stone of the courtyard three times.

Immediately, at least three hundred guards appeared on the parapets above them, armed with long bows and crossbows. The barons were surrounded, beaten. At a word from John, they would all be dead.

They shouted angrily at the king, all at once— Marshal couldn't make out much of what they said, though he heard the words “betrayal” and “lies” and “tyrant.”

“Sire, we looked to you!” Baldwin said, overriding the rest.

“Instead go home and look to your estates,” John told him. He smiled thinly, knowing that he had beaten them. “You are fortunate that I am in a merciful mood.” The smile vanished, leaving him looking stern, his dark eyes burning. “But as for Robin Longstride, son of that mason; for the crimes of theft and incitement to cause unrest, who pretended to be a
knight of the realm—a crime punishable by death—I declare him as of this day forth, to be an outlaw, to be hunted all the days of his life, until his corpse unburied is carrion for foxes and crows.”

Marshal winced at the words, as if they were a physical assault.

Baldwin and Fitzrobert glared at the king for another moment. Then, with the rest of the barons in tow, they stormed out of the courtyard past more of John's armed guards.

T
HE
S
HERIFF OF
Nottingham stood at the gate of Peper Harrow, enjoying the feel of the new clothes he wore, his hand straying to the hilt of his new sword, his eyes fixed on his new home. With Sir Walter and the real Sir Robert dead, the Loxley manor house was his now. He was the king's man here in Nottingham; it only seemed right that he should live in a home befitting that status.

But pleased as he was to claim Peper Harrow for himself, that was not the best part of this day. He read the royal proclamation one last time, rolled it up, grinned with satisfaction, and mounted his horse.

With a phalanx of his men behind him, he rode down the lane into the village. The people there had started to rebuild their homes. Farmers displayed vegetables for sale in the marketplace, though the buildings around them were blackened and in ruin. Men and boys hauled planks of wood toward the site of the old tithe barn, so that they could build a new one.

The sheriff and his men steered their mounts into the village center, the people scattering before them to keep from being run down. He halted and climbed off his horse, and as the villagers watched him, he
unrolled the proclamation and looked around for a suitable place to post it: somewhere it would be seen by all, including those who might object to what it said. Especially them. He turned a slow circle and finally saw the perfect spot.

He walked over to the wall of one of the few buildings still standing, his men around him like an honor guard. Reaching the wall, he turned, cleared his throat, and began to read in a loud, ringing voice.

“Hear me! Hear me! By royal decree, Robin Longstride, known as Robin Hood, and all who aid him or shelter him, are declared outlaws of this realm! Their property is forfeit and their lives are to be taken by any Englishman, on sight.”

The townspeople stirred at this, looking gratifyingly impressed and intimidated.

The sheriff slapped the decree against the wall with one hand and held out the other, palm open. “A nail, please, and a hammer!”

No one came forward.

The sheriff regarded the townspeople darkly. “A nail!” he said again. “And—”

Thwack!

An arrow whistled past the sheriff's head, grazing his cheek, piercing the royal decree, and burying itself in the wood precisely between the sheriff's forefinger and thumb.

The crowd around him buzzed. The sheriff and his men looked around frantically for the bowman, whoever he was. They saw no one. But the sheriff thought he heard in the distance the fading hoofbeats of a galloping horse.

I
t is a new life—for me, for Robin, for all of us. We are building it ourselves, with our own hands, taming a small corner of Sherwood Forest, turning the wild into a village, and allowing our village to embrace elements of the wild.

It is strange for me, and wondrous, and also perfectly natural. For so long I have been Lady Marion, Marion of Loxley, the mistress of Peper Harrow. Here I am just Marion, which is as it should be.