Forbidden Forest (22 page)

Authors: Michael Cadnum

She would live like this, she counseled herself. She would learn to be happy. All manner of things were fair, and each of Margaret's prayers had been answered.

Except for the return of the brooch.

Soon, she trusted, one of the outlaws would bring it back to her. And there was one other private prayer that went unfulfilledâshe wished she could look into Little John's eyes.

Ralf the pie man had a stall near the wall. Tom Finch, the baker, had made special cakes for the occasion, half-moon shapes flavored with honey and cloves. The cakes were delicious, and Margaret enjoyed two of them. But she felt that she did not need to learn a lesson from any sinner's punishment on this cool, sunny day. The streets were thronged with field men and their wives, with purses heavy with farthings. The air was rich with flavor like the inside of a mill, the faint perfume of wheat and barley in each breath.

The lord sheriff and his young assistant, Hugh, were on horseback, showing the law's authority in their expensive dark armor. The chief lawman gave a nod to her father, and William wished the sheriff good day. The lawman gazed down at Margaret and smiled. “It is good to see you well, Margaret.”

“And you, Lord Sheriff,” said Margaret. She was grateful to the sheriff for his gentleness, but she knew, too, that he represented all that the outlaws did not.

This is how she would live now, bound by high manners. It would be wellâshe would not suffer. But the great oaks of the woodland beyond were turning autumn russet, the first few leaves drifting, then lofting upward with a breeze. A band of royal foresters guarded the verge of the timberland, and here in full daylight it was clear how richly dressed they were, their green tunics freshly brushed, their leggings soft-cured, knife pommels gleaming.

Margaret did not like to set eyes on her husband's killer. Despite all her prayers, she could not bring herself to forgive such a crime. Nor did she take pious satisfaction at the thought of his punishment. She pitied Sir Gilbert for having had such an untrustworthy shield bearer, and silently prayed for the repose of her husband's soul.

Henry Ploughman was deadâmany citizens had seen the cart that brought his body to the city gates. The entire town was quietly joyful at his demise.

And now the crowd hushed. The wheelers were at their duty, the huge stone wheel rolling silently across the field. The wheel was rolled into place near the tethered man. The bearded Lionel was weeping, asking for Nottingham's mercy. The throng stirred, murmuring, displeased at this poor beginning to Lionel's penance. The dark-clad man went silently about his duties, tightening leather thongs, eyeing his work, hands on his hips. He held out a hand, asking the wheelers to waitâall was not right.

Her father shook his head. “Margaret, I cannot watch,” he said in an apologetic whisper, and made his way toward the edge of the crowd.

The executioner plucked a few blades of grass out of the likely path of the wheel and stepped on the turf to make sure it was firm, intent on further minute adjustments of the wooden frame and the knots. Lionel was crying out, and the crowd did not approve, murmuring. The wheel had not yet begun its service, and Lionel Ogbert was bawling.

Margaret closed her eyes. It was punishing to hear this broad-shouldered criminal begging, “If you will do itâhurry.”

The executioner did not like the way the wheel had been polished and took a long moment to wipe the rim with his own hands, using an oiled cloth, his assistants rolling the huge disk with effort. At last the iron rim gleamed under Nottingham's careful attention.

He folded the cloth. He gave a nod, and the priest began to read the Latin prayers, lifting his voice over Lionel's sobs. The crowd's silence took on a special weight. Women held up infants so that even the very young could take in God's justice.

The wheel descended the gentle slope, and approached the tethered sinner.

A touch at her sleeve.

She turned, and a familiar smile met her.

“Osric!”

The juggler put a finger to his lips. “There are more king's men than ever in the woods,” said Osric. When the hood slipped back, she could see the neat scar along his scalp, healing well. “New men, with new-made crossbows.”

It was not far between the field of worshipful folk and the greenwood. Just a few long strides. But she had to be quick, lest the band of royal foresters spy them. The forest cool closed in around her, the sudden dark so complete after the bright sun that at first she could not see.

Rubies and sapphires reflected the shadowy light descending from the trees.

Little John held the brooch in his outstretched hand.

Chapter 49

She had forgotten so soon how tall John was, and how his eyes took on the green glow of the canopy of early autumn trees. She ran her gaze over his new-cut staff, and the horn at his belt. Margaret wanted to stay where she was, never see another wheeling or another blackened skeleton on a gibbet as long as she lived.

“I'll not be happy,” said Little John, “until you pin the jewel to your mantle.”

“Then you will not be happy, John.”

The tall outlaw blinkedâhe did not understand. Will Scathlock leaned on a longbow, a splash of sunlight falling across his hopeful features.

“You forget, John,” Margaret continued, “that each visitor is asked to leave a bit of treasure in the greenwood.”

John gave a gentle laugh but shook his head.

“Each guest,” added Margaret, “leaves a toll.”

“But you are not a guest,” said Little John.

“Am I an outlaw, John?”

The big outlaw lifted his chin, eyes alive to the distant murmur of a forester. And again Margaret felt how town-bound she had become in just a few days as a thrill, something like joy, swept over her. And something like fear too. The woods were heavy with secrets.

A long cry reached her from Lazarfield, Lionel baying under the punishment that, now begun, could endure for hours.

Robin Hood stepped from the shadows and gave a low whistle. Will Scathlock shrank behind a berry bush and was gone, and for an instant Margaret did not realize what was happening. Robin Hood vanished, too, only to reappear nearby.

A royal forester knelt in the trail, the bright cockade in his cap catching the light. He crept forward, step by step, following Margaret's footprints. Three more men joined him, and one of the king's men shrugged the crossbow from his back.

“
There they are.
”

A forester's whisper. The crossbow was lifted and aimed in the direction of the three outlaws. But a branch snagged the weapon. A long, golden-leafed oak clung to the bow as the king's man cursed.

The great oaks arched overhead as Margaret ran, Little John at her side, following Robin Hood into the forest.

About the Author

Michael Cadnum is the author of thirty-five books for adults and young adults. His workâwhich includes thrillers, suspense novels, historical fiction, and books about myths and legendsâhas been nominated for the National Book Award (
The Book of the Lion
), the Edgar Award (
Calling Home
and
Breaking the Fall
), and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize (
In a Dark Wood
). A former National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellow, he is also the author of award-winning poetry.
Seize the Storm
(2012) is his most recent novel.

Michael Cadnum lives in Albany, California, with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

A NOTE ON SPELLING

The early Robin Hood tales were recorded before English spelling became standardized. The famous outlaw's name itself is spelled variously in early stories:
Robin Whood, Robyn hood, Robyn Hod
. There are many other even more surprising variations. Place names, too, are rendered in many ways.
Kirkslee
is spelled
Kirklees
and
Church Lees
. Sometimes the spelling of a proper name changes in the middle of a given text, like the outlaw himself eluding a reader's eye. My authority of the early tales is R.B. Dobson and J. Taylor's
Rymes of Robyn Hood
(London: Heineman, 1976). Basing my fiction on these venerable ballads, I have chosen the spellings that seem most familiar, or most acceptable, to my eye, remembering all the while that the
grene wode
of legend is a place full of life, forever forbidden, in which literature dwells.