Robin Hood (10 page)

He leaned forward a bit, allowing the candlelight to fall more fully on the sword. The grip had a tear in it, and Robin could see that there was writing engraved on the hilt beneath it. He unwound the copper and pushed the leather aside, trying to read more of the inscription. He uncovered a single word: Lions.

Lions. Something stirred in the deepest recesses of his memory, like a bear waking after a long winter's slumber. He pulled off more of the wire and stripped away the leather grip until he could see the entire inscription.

“
Rise and rise again
” it said, “
until lambs become lions.
”

He stared at the candle burning before him, and he repeated the words to himself over and over.
Rise and rise again, until lambs become lions.
Yes, he had heard this before. But where, and when? And why would a sword owned by a dead knight, a man to whom he had never spoken before the events of the past few days, bear words that should remind him so strongly of … of what?

There were gaps in his memories, dark periods from his childhood that he had never been able to recall. These words seemed to take him back to those lost years. Like a small flame on a murky night, they hinted at something beyond his seeing, casting shadows upon shadows. The harder Robin tried to summon the images, the more elusive they became. Still, he knew of them now.
Rise and rise again…
Perhaps with time, the phrase would shine brighter in the recesses of his mind, and those shadows would be revealed.

And still he gazed at the candle flame, Loxley's sword lying across his lap. Robin rubbed his palm, thinking once more of the oath he swore to the knight, and of Allan's words.
An oath sworn in blood …
Perhaps there had been more to the day's events after all. What were the chances that they would take precisely that route through Broceliande Forest, that they should happen upon the forest road just when they did? Had it been fate that led Robin to kneel at the side of a dying knight, that led that man to place his sword in Robin's palm, that led Robin back to a memory so remote he hadn't considered it in years? What other explanation could there be?

Robin considered this as he unwound what was left
of the wire and removed the rest of that leather grip. Nearby, Allan still played his lute, singing softly. Little John and Will were playing a drinking game that Will was destined to lose.

“How do we get off this ride?” John asked eventually, his words running together slightly.

Robin looked over at him. “This boat docks first at Gravesend on its way to London. We'll leave the honor of delivering the crown to them, and we'll be gone.”

Little John raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

“North,” Robin said.

The big man nodded once. “Suits me.” He took another drink and handed the bottle to Will. It seemed even the drinking game had grown too complicated for them. Best simply to drink.

Robin grinned, joined them. No sense in letting them drink all the good stuff.

R
OBIN AWOKE BELOWDECKS
with a pounding headache and a mouth so dry that his tongue felt like wood and his teeth seemed to be covered with fur. His stomach felt sour and tight.

The boat moved steadily. Robin could hear the sweeps cutting rhythmically through the water.
The sweeps.

His mind stumbled on that thought and he sat bolt upright in his small pallet. Not a good idea. His head spinning, he forced himself to his feet, stumbled out of their cramped quarters and made his way over to the ladder leading up out of the hold. With some effort he managed to climb out onto the deck.

Shielding his eyes from the too-bright sun, Robin
refused to believe what he saw. It couldn't be. They were headed to Gravesend. That was where he and the boys were going to make their escape. That couldn't be the Thames in front of them, winding toward the port of London. Although that looked suspiciously like the famed Tower in the distance.

Seeing him, the captain raised a hand in greeting. “Make ready, Sir Robert. We will dock in twenty minutes.”

“Gravesend?” Robin asked weakly, hoping that he was mistaking some other port for the royal city. As if he could mistake the White Tower for anything else in England.

The captain frowned at Robin, as if he thought him simple, or still drunk. “No, M'Lord, the Palace Dock. The Tower of London.”

Robin turned quickly and lurched back to the hatch. He practically fell down the ladder and scurried back to the quarters where the others still slept.

“Wake up!” Robin shouted at them.

Little John stirred but didn't open his eyes. “Right!” he said sleepily. “I think I'll breakfast on twelve oysters and a quart of ale.”

Robin shook Will and Allan.

“Where are we?” Allan asked, rubbing his eyes.

Robin shook Will again. “London!”

Will's eyes flew open. “Holy Christ!” Robin and the others washed and tried make themselves look the part. As they did, though, Robin wondered how they had ever managed to fool the captain and the king's man, and how they could possibly hope to deceive Lady Eleanor of Aquataine, Richard's mother. They didn't look like knights; they looked like ruffians, road thieves.

“Be ready to ride as soon as it's done,” Robin said, crossing to his pack.

“What if Loxley was known to the king's mother, or brother, or
any
of them?” Will asked.

Robin glanced up at him. “Then we'll be riding for our lives.”

O
ver the last ten years, Robin had faced the Saracens and the French in battle. He had endured hardships most men could hardly imagine, and had found courage within his heart he hadn't known he possessed. But he could not recall ever being as nervous about anything as he was about telling Eleanor of Aquitaine that her son was dead.

It wasn't that he feared for his life, though Will, Allan, and Little John seemed fairly certain that they would all end their day as prisoners in the White Tower. Rather, he was awed by the mere fact that he was about to meet the great lady. Eleanor had been Queen Consort of England for as long as Robin had been alive. Longer, actually. She was the most famous, powerful, notorious woman in all the world. She was also said to be the most beautiful, even now, well into her seventies.

And so it was that he stood at the prow of the ship, staring toward the dock, watching as people gathered to greet the vessel. All around him, the ship's crew rushed to and fro, preparing to dock. Will and Allan stood with their feet planted, their faces pale, their hands on the hilts of their swords. The ship bumped into the dock and two men jumped onto the quay to tie her in.

Robin had thought that he would have trouble spotting the queen consort; he should have known better. As bells pealed from the towers of the palace, the royal entourage emerged from the palace gate. The crowd parted. An older woman led the royal procession down toward the dock. She was tall, regal. The sun lit her handsome face. Surely this had to be Eleanor. She was accompanied by a knight, also tall, with a mane of red and silver hair. Behind them came a younger pair, the man with dark curls and a trim beard, and on his arm a young woman of surpassing beauty. Was this Prince John then?

No sooner had Robin asked himself the question than the thought came to him unbidden and as unforgiving as stone. No, not prince. This was the new king.

G
ODFREY
AND
B
ELVEDERE
steered their mounts through the filthy lanes of London toward the walls of the great White Tower. They had crossed the channel in the dark of night and had ridden hard to the city. Godfrey's face still ached where the arrow had hit him, but he would be damned if he was going to let a simple wound disrupt his plans.

As they neared the tower, church bells began to toll throughout the city. Belvedere shot Godfrey a puzzled
look. Godfrey shrugged. The two men rode into the stable yard and dismounted, leaving their horses to the White Tower's grooms. Within the tower walls, men and women rushed in every direction, as if preparing for a wedding or a feast.

“What is this?” Godfrey asked one of the grooms.

“M'Lord! King Richard returns from France, M'Lord.”

Godfrey looked at Belvedere again, his mind reeling. Richard was dead. That was what Loxley had told them, practically with his dying breath. They hurried toward the water gate, pushing their way past a growing throng. Still unable to see, they climbed the saddling stones to get a better view.

There on the Thames, already at the dock, was the king's ship.

“Did Loxley deceive us?” Belvedere asked, keeping his voice low.

Godfrey shrugged, his eyes fixed on the vessel.

T
HE SHIP HAD
been secured, the gangplank swung out and positioned so that Robin could disembark. One of the servants who had accompanied the king's equerry handed Robin the box that held Richard's crown. The equerry himself then stepped forward and draped over the box a cloth bearing the Plantagenet leopards. Robin stepped onto the plank, feeling hundreds of pairs of eyes upon him, and walked down to the dock.

For Robin, though, this was no longer an act. He could see Eleanor clearly now. Her face was lined, but her eyes remained clear and brilliant, like blue gems. They were fixed on him. While others in the crowd continued to search for Richard, she did not.
She marked Robin's approach, saw what he carried, and already she grieved. For an instant, it seemed that her knees buckled. The color had drained from her cheeks and she briefly closed her eyes and appeared to whisper a prayer.

Then she was watching him again, composed somehow. Robin couldn't help but admire her strength.

He stopped just in front of her, holding the box before him. Eleanor pulled the cloth from the box, opened it, and removed the crown, which gleamed in the sunlight. Her hands were steady, her expression impassive, save for the mournful look in her eyes.

She turned to John and said, “Kneel.”

Shock registered on the young man's face as he finally seemed to understand what had happened and what it meant for him. He slowly lowered himself to one knee.

Eleanor placed the crown on his head. “I wish you long life, my son,” she said.

She then knelt in turn and every person on the dock followed her example, kneeling with rustles of silk and brocade that made the air around them hum, as if charged.

“The king is dead!” Eleanor announced, her voice as clear and loud as a church bell. “Long live the king!”

All around them the crowd repeated the words. “Long live the king!” They said it a second time, their voices growing louder. The third time, they shouted it, the sound building to a crescendo that threatened to topple the White Tower itself.

John looked around him, still pale, but seeming already to warm to his new office. “Rise!” he commanded, his voice carrying over the dock.

The people stood once more, murmured conversations
sweeping through the assembled masses. The Lionheart was dead; John was their king.