Robin Hood (35 page)

Reining his mount to a halt, King John stared down at the scene before them. “That's a lot of French,” he said. Robin thought he heard a note of doubt in the man's voice. “What's to be done?”

Robin pointed toward the cliffs overlooking the beach. “Archers to the cliffs,” he said.

Marshal nodded, adding, “And cavalry to the beach.”

Robin spurred his mount forward again, calling for the archers to follow him, and heard Marshal call to the cavalry.

“An excellent plan!” King John called, riding after them.

The wind rushing in his ears, Robin knotted the reins in his fist and checked the hang of his sword with his other hand. For the moment, their grievances with the Throne were forgotten. The French had come to England. They would drive the invaders from their shores or die in the attempt. For now, nothing else mattered.

As the English forces reached the headland, Robin split off from Marshal and the rest, signaling to the army's mounted archers—four hundred men strong— that they should follow him onto the top of the cliff. He dug his spurs into the flanks of his horse, keeping the animal at a full run. And the archers followed, riding along the cliff's edge until they were above the French landing area on the beach.

T
HE TIDE WAS
rising. A wave swept over what was left of the bonfire nearest to Godfrey, sending a plume of vapor into the morning air, and tugging the charred logs, a few of them briefly still aflame, out into the Channel.

The French had finally figured out the current. More landing craft scraped up onto the beach, their gates opening to allow men and horses to file off the vessels and onto the sand. There they immediately began to form up with the same quiet efficiency Godfrey had observed in Adhemar's men during their march through the English countryside. And none too soon. Somehow King John had come, leading an army far larger than anything Godfrey had expected. There was supposed to be civil war. John was supposed to
be under attack by his own people. Instead he was here. Godfrey could only assume that Loxley and Marshal were to blame.

P
HILIP HAD HOPED
that his men would have time to establish a position before being challenged by John's army. Clearly that was not to be. The captain of his flagship stood beside him, pointing toward the English cavalry, which had appeared at the far end of the beach. Its riders were arraying themselves for a charge on the French lines.

But Philip's eye was drawn elsewhere. For at that moment, the golden glow of the rising sun struck the cliffs, as if Midas himself had reached down from heaven and touched the stone. And what that light revealed made the king's stomach heave. Hundreds of riders had steered their mounts onto the top of the promontory, all of them bearing longbows. These men quickly arrayed themselves along the cliff's edge directly over his army, while the cavalry started forward.

It would be a slaughter.

“
Mon dieu
…” The king whispered. My God.

T
HE ARCHERS LEAPED
from their mounts and lined themselves along the edge of the crag, their bows held ready. Robin remained on his horse, where the men could see him. Looking down on the French, he saw that they were aware of him and his men, but utterly helpless to do anything about them.

He raised his hand and the English archers nocked arrows, drew back their bowstrings, and aimed skyward, judging the arc of the shot, the distance to the
enemy below. Then he swept his hand down and the men released their arrows as one, the thrumming of their bows making the air around them sing, as if a thousand harps had been plucked at once. Robin rode across the front of his army, watching as the arrows climbed into the pale sky and, reaching their zenith, seemed to pause briefly above the earth, before beginning their steep, deadly plummet toward the French army.

A moment later, screams from below rent the false calm of the morning. Men fell with arrows buried in their chests, their heads, their throats. And already Robin had signaled for his archers to aim and fire again.

The thrum of the bows, the deathly, expectant silence, and then more cries from below. Robin's men shaped a terrible rhythm, a counterpoint to the steady crash of the waves. The song of war.

AT THE BASE of the cliffs, below the archers, all was tumult and carnage. Dead men were sprawled on the beach, their blood staining the sand. Those who yet survived scrambled for cover, holding shields over their heads to protect themselves.

At the same time, the English cavalry at the far end of the strand had started their charge, war cries on their lips, swords held ready.

Godfrey wheeled his horse back and forth, marking the progress of the charge, watching death rain down on the French soldiers, astonished at how quickly all his planning had been undone.

One last volley flew from the archers on the cliff, and then the soldiers there remounted and swept down toward the beach, with Loxley leading them.
The men continued to loose their arrows, until the charging cavalry smashed into the French lines. In moments Loxley's soldiers would join the fight with their compatriots, crushing the French between them. Those of Philip's men who hadn't been killed by the archers would die on the edge of an English sword.

More landing craft continued to wash up onto the beach, but Godfrey didn't think they carried enough soldiers to turn the tide of this battle.

The fight spilled into the surf, men struggling with their footing in the shifting sand as they hacked at one another with swords. Within moments, the tidal sand and the pale foam of the breakers were stained red. Men and horses whirled in confusion and panic, parrying blows, lunging at enemy soldiers, falling at the water's edge with blood blossoming from their wounds.

As waves continued to hammer at the shore, landing craft were tossed forward, crushing men both living and dead. Horses fell, arrows embedded in their necks and flanks. Some men were simply dragged under the water by the weight of their armor, unable to find their footing as the surf surged and retreated.

Seawater mingled with ever more blood. Bodies rolled in the waves and were tossed onto the sand like seashells.

T
HE TWO HALVES
of the English cavalry battered the French army like tidal waves, rolling over the invaders with the sound of summer thunder, leaving death and mayhem in their wake. Before long Robin had fought his way to William Marshal's side. Fitzrobert was there, too, and they were quickly joined by King John. All of their swords were bloodied, but the king
watched the center of the battle avidly, clearly itching to plunge in.

Marshal steered his mount in front of the king's and reined it to a halt, forcing King John to do the same.

“Close enough, Sire!” Marshal said.

But John shook his head defiantly, a fierce look in his dark eyes. “No, by God! It was not close enough for Richard!”

Before Marshal could argue, John spurred his horse past the old knight toward the heart of the fighting. Marshal watched him go, concern etched in his face. A moment later he rode after the king, as Robin had known he would. Marshal had been risking his life for the Plantagenet kings for too long to stop now.

P
HILIP SAW HIS
men fall under a storm of arrows and then watched as the English cavalry crashed through the lines of his army. The army that he had sent to conquer all of England. His force was being wiped out right before his eyes.

He turned to his captain again.

“
Ce pays est-il vraiment ronge par la guerre?
” he demanded. Is this a country at war with itself?

The captain said nothing. Philip turned back to watch the rest, though he already knew how it would end. Damn Godfrey to hell; he knew.

G
ODFREY THOUGHT ABOUT
fleeing, as he had at Nottingham. But on that day he'd still had this battle to fight. The rout of Adhemar's men had been of little consequence in the larger scheme of things. This was different. Even if he managed to get away, even if Loxley or Marshal didn't chase him down, where would he go? There was nothing left for him in
England. He had betrayed the king, and would hang for it. And if he ran now, he would have no future in France, either. Philip would never forgive this failure.

His only hope was that somehow he and the French could still turn this fight and win the day. Failing that, he was a dead man no matter what he did.

And so Godfrey steered his mount into the maelstrom of blood and flesh and steel, and fought as he never had before. His sword rose and fell, slicing through the English lines like the scythe of death. He and his horse moved as one, dancing away from the blur of a sword or the thrust of a lance, and then leaping forward once more to deal a killing blow.

The men around him might have been fighting for England or for France, but he was fighting for his life. No man could stand before him.

T
HE FRENCH WERE
in disarray, but they weren't yet beaten. Those who had survived the fusillades from Robin's archers and the initial onslaught of the cavalry were trying to regroup. And more were still coming ashore in landing craft and pouring out onto the beach.

Robin fought from atop his mount, his sword flashing in the sun. Allan and Will, also still mounted, had their bows in hand, and their aim was lethal. They fired as quickly as they could, nocking and loosing arrow after arrow, dropping French soldiers as they came ashore.

Little John had dismounted and was wielding his stave to devastating effect. The broken bodies of the enemy lay strewn in the sand around him, and yet still the French continued to attack the man. Robin
was surprised to see Friar Tuck fighting near Little John, using a stave of his own and doing a good deal of damage with it.

But he had no time to ask the priest what he was doing here. Men came at him from all sides, trying to unhorse him. He lashed out at the helm of a French soldier with a spurred boot, and hacked at reaching hands with his sword. He wheeled his horse in tight circles, first one way and then the other, fighting, killing, keeping himself alive.

As he turned, glancing up to mark his position and check on his friends, he saw what appeared to be a familiar helmet and coat of mail on a horseman who was riding down toward the beach. In the next instant, he had to give his full attention to a broad-shouldered French soldier with a battle pike, who tried to stab Robin's horse. Robin danced the beast out of reach, then darted back in from the side, hacking at the man's neck. The Frenchman fell, and Robin looked up again.

It took him a moment to locate that soldier he had seen. There, at the fringe of the battle. Yes, that was the armor of Loxley. But it couldn't be, unless … The soldier turned revealing an all too familiar face, far too lovely to be here, amidst these horrors.

Marion. And at her back rode the forest boys on their ponies.

Robin's heart rose in his throat. He shouted to her, screaming that she should get away while she could, that she should pull back to the cliffs. She didn't hear, or she ignored him.

He spurred his mount in her direction, trying to fight through to her. But there were too many
soldiers between them. With every step his horse took, Robin had to fight off another attacker. But at last he reached her.

Before he could tell her to take the boys and leave, though, she glared at him, as if daring him to speak. “Not for you, Robin!” she called to him, sitting straight in her saddle. “For Sir Walter!”

She didn't wait for him to answer, but spurred her mount and rode away, followed by Loop and his boys. Robin nearly screamed aloud in his frustration. Were they mad?

A French soldier grabbed for him, and Robin raised his blade and brought it down with all the power he could muster, as if killing this man could lessen his fury. It didn't.

He searched for her again, saw her riding toward the thick of the fight, the feral boys wheeling around her on their mounts, like hive bees guarding the queen. Robin had to admit that Marion rode well and swung her blade with the grace and precision of a seasoned warrior. But she had no business being here. When she cried out Walter's name, hacking at a French soldier, he rolled his eyes. And was immediately beset by two men. He kicked out, swung his sword.