Robin Hood (14 page)

Amused by the thought, he swung himself onto the back of his black charger and led the men out of the Tower grounds.

T
HE SUN STOOD
balanced on its edge at the western horizon, huge and orange and ovate. The eastern sky was already growing dark, a few bright stars gleaming faintly in a vast field of indigo. And in between, directly over the man's head, the heavens had taken on hues of pale purple, the color of an uncertain future.

Small breakers rolled in off the channel, lapping at the pink sands of a beach that was deserted save for him. Gulls glided over the shoreline, crying plaintively, searching for one last catch that would tide them over until morning. Cormorants flew low over the channel swells, black as coal against the slate-colored waters.

The man wore a cloak about his shoulders, its hood drawn over his head. From where he watched, half-hidden, he could see the boats as they made their landing on the beach, but the men aboard couldn't see him.

There were at least half a dozen craft, all of them on sweeps, and they carved through the water in near silence. The soldiers on board wore helmets and armor, and carried lances that gleamed as if bloodstained in the dying light of the sun.

The craft scraped up onto the sand, the doors at their front fell open, and the men began to step off onto the shores of England. Two hundred strong, bristling with weaponry, moving quietly and in unison, they responded with alacrity to the barked commands of their leader: commands spoken in French.

In mere moments, it was over. The craft slid back
into the channel and moved away from the shore back toward France. The men formed up and began their march inland.

And the man, who had seen it all, returned to where his horse waited for him. Behind the saddle was a small box that held two carrier pigeons. The man began to compose his message.

R
obin, Will, Allan, and Little John rode into Nottingham just as the sun was going down. After the attack on their camp the night before, they had decided to ride together a bit longer. They had shed their armor, no longer needing to pretend that they were knights. For much of the day, an odd tightness had been building in Robin's chest and his emotions had been roiled in ways he couldn't explain. Entering this town served only to make those feelings more intense.

There wasn't much to the place: low buildings of wood and stone and mortar, many of them with uneven roofs of shingle and thatch; men and women in simple, drab garb, returning home from the fields, some leading old work horses, others carrying buckets of water, or bundles of firewood for a cooking fire. He saw few smiles on their faces. These people were
weary, not merely from a day's work, but from worrying their way through a hard winter.

And yet, despite the grimness of Nottingham, Robin couldn't help but feel that he belonged here, that he had come home in a way. He couldn't decide if this was merely because he carried Loxley's sword, or if there was some deeper connection at work. He looked around the small village, and for the first time since crossing the channel, he felt that he was truly back in England.

“Nottingham,” Will said, as all four of them dismounted in the lane that ran through town. “Is this your people, Robin?”

Robin considered the question. “Maybe.”

Will looked around, a frown on his young face. “They don't look like much, these middle-Englanders.”

Little John grinned. “I hear you Welsh boys live on leeks and cohabit with sheep.” The big man made a sound like a sheep bleating.

“Right!” Scarlet said, his face turning crimson. For a moment Robin thought he would actually take a swing at John.

Before he could, though, a voice that sounded very much like that of a cross parent said, “Hush!”

They all turned and saw a strange figure by the side of the lane. It looked to be a man, a rotund one at that. He was wrapped almost entirely in gauze, and he stood surrounded by small straw hives amidst a cloud of buzzing bees.

“You wouldn't want to annoy a beehive with your noise,” the man said, tending to his skeps.

The four of them approached the man cautiously.

The man paused and looked them over. “Your swords wouldn't help you if you did, gentlemen!”

“You're the town beekeeper?” Robin asked, keeping a wary eye on the swarm.

“Bless you, no!” the man said. “The friar. Tuck is the name.”

“Well, Friar Tuck, would you know where I might find Sir Walter today?”

“If he's not at Peper Harrow …” The friar pointed up a nearby hill at a home that appeared to be larger and sturdier than those in the town.

Robin stared up at the house, feeling once more that his presence here was more than coincidence, more than simply the result of a dying man's last wish.

“How long will your business take?” Will asked him.

Robin shrugged. “If you're gone, you're gone.” He nodded to his companions, and then to the friar as well. “And God go with you.”

Will, Allan, and John exchanged looks, all of them clearly surprised by the abruptness of Robin's farewell. They had journeyed together for miles, fought and killed side by side.

“That's it?” Will said. “After ten years?”

“Something's with him,” Allan said.

“Aye,” Little John agreed. “Changed him.”

The others nodded. Then Allan turned to Tuck.

“Good friar, where can a man get moderately insensible with drink around here?”

“Allan!” Little John said, clearly scandalized. “He's a man of the cloth!”

But Tuck looked at them appraisingly, a sly grin on his face. “Have you tried the honey-liquor we call mead?” he asked. “It gives a man a halo, does mead.”

* * *

W
ITH DAYLIGHT FAILING
and the air turning cold, Robin rode through the gates of Peper Harrow. He had paused halfway between the village and Loxley's house to remove the Loxley family crest and wreath from the tabard he was wearing, the tabard that had belonged to Sir Robert. He was dressed once more in the garb of a simple soldier and he carried Loxley's sword sheathed in its scabbard and wrapped in the knight's belt.

As he passed through the gate, he saw a serving girl standing beside a huge brown and white dray. Her back was to Robin and she was holding one of the horse's hooves under her arm, digging away caked mud. She wore a simple blue dress and over it a sleeveless linen smock that was begrimed and loose-fitting. Still, Robin could tell that she was tall and willowy.

“Girl,” Robin called.

She turned. Her face was dirty, and though she had tied a cloth over her head to keep her hair from her face, several long, auburn strands had fallen loose and hung over her brow. She swiped at them impatiently with a muddy hand.

“Are you the keeper of this house?” he asked.

She stared back at him brazenly, as if trying to decide whether he deserved an answer.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” she said at last, her voice deeper and stronger than he had expected.

He nodded once, looking around the courtyard. It was unkempt—more yard than court. “I wish to see Sir Walter Loxley,” he told her.

“And you are?”

Robin looked at her again. Brazen indeed, for a servant. “Robin Longstride.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Plain Robin Longstride? No ‘Sir’?”

He smiled thinly. “No, ma'am. No ‘Sir.’”

“Are you here about the tax?” she asked.

He held up Loxley's sword. “I return the property of his son Robert, who is dead.”

The woman paled at that, and for a moment she stood utterly still, seemingly at a loss as to what to say. Then, “This way.”

She wiped her hands on the smock and walked away, crossing through the center of the courtyard toward the house. Robin dismounted and led the white charger after her, still taking in his surroundings. Chickens clucked nearby, foraging in the mud and dirt, and dogs scrounged for scraps of food. The serving girl's shoes echoed through the yard, but otherwise she made not a sound, nor did she look back at him. He had questions for her, but all of them died on his tongue. She seemed deeply shaken by word of her master's death, and Robin thought it best to keep silent.

E
VERY BREATH WAS
too shallow and left her gasping for more air. Her heart labored in her breast; her throat felt tight, as if some taloned hand had taken hold of her and refused to let go.

I return the property of his son Robert, who is dead.

Walter had tried to warn her. He had told her that her husband was gone, that Robert himself had told him so. Marion had refused to believe him. But there could be no denying the word of this solemn stranger. Her husband was dead.

She led the man into the large hall of the house, kicked off her shoes just inside the door, and crossed to Margaret, who stood waiting for her holding a
towel and a copper basin of water. Marion sat on the stool and the girl cleaned the mud and muck from her feet. When Margaret had finished, Marion began to towel them off.

“Maggie!” Walter called from another room. “Where is she?”

The maid glanced over at the stranger before looking up at Marion. “Ma'am, Sir Walter calls for you.”

“Yes, Margaret, I hear him.” Her voice sounded shaky to her own ears. “Tell him we have a guest.”

Margaret hurried away. Marion stood and stepped into the braided slippers the girl had left for her. Then she pulled on a house coat that, though old and worn, was a far sight better than the smock she had been wearing. Feeling more herself, her emotions under control at least for the moment, she turned once more to the stranger—this Robin Longstride—who now regarded her with a mix of shock and chagrin that might have been comical under other circumstances.

“I am Marion Loxley, wife of Robert,” she said. “I thank you for taking the time to deliver the news here.”

The man opened and closed his mouth several times before finally managing to say, “M'Lady, I owe you an apology. If I had known—”

“Bad news is bad news,” Marion said. “There's no joy or comfort in how it comes.” She hesitated. “Did you serve alongside my husband?”

“Yes.”

“Did he die proudly?” she asked, surprised at the ease with which she could speak those words.

“Killed in an ambush, ma'am.” He said this as if it were routine, as if he spoke of such things all the time.
For all she knew, he did. “He was the man chosen to return King Richard's crown.”

It took a moment for those words to sink in. King Richard was dead, too. It seemed too high a price, even for a king's crusade. “I am glad for him,” she said at last, feeling that Longstride expected her to say something. The man chosen to return the dead king's crown … Was this how soldiers honored one another?