Robin Hood (4 page)

The white charger reared, pawing the air, prancing gracefully. Loxley saw men pointing, awe on their faces, and he had no doubt that from a distance, in that moment, the king looked as regal as he had in years. But none of the men were close enough to see Richard wince again at the pounding of his head, or to hear him growl at the horse, “Don't do that, you whore!”

The Lionheart spurred his horse to a canter, and Robert Loxley rode after him, following his liege to battle once more.

W
HILE HUNDREDS OF
their fellow soldiers watched from beyond crossbow range, cheering and shouting encouragement, Robin, Will, and Allan, and dozens of their fellow archers crept toward the castle, joined by several men carrying leather sacks filled with flammable naphtha. They moved in small companies, each group of men carrying a barn door over their heads, as if they were tortoises bearing a giant shell. It was slow going, and Robin's back and legs ached with the effort of carrying the damn thing. But before long they would be within range of the French bowmen on the castle walls, and he would be thankful for the cover.

Ahead of his group, a battering ram rumbled up the slope toward the castle's portcullis. Overlapping shields covered the ram like dragon scales, protecting the men within as they pushed it forward, the muscles in their arms and necks bulging with the effort. The soldier leading them, a man known simply as Little John, was as powerfully built as any man
Robin had seen in his travels. His arms were as thick as oak limbs, his shoulders as broad as the wings of an eagle. He had the look of a brute and was as strong as any three men in the king's army. Robin had seen him on the battlefield, and so knew that John was a fearsome warrior. He had also sat across from him at a gambler's table and shared more than a little whiskey with him. John was a good sort, but usually had little success at games of chance. Just the kind of man Robin liked.

He saw Little John look up at the castle now, as if gauging the progress he and his company had made with the ram.

“Whoa!” John called. “Close enough!”

The ram slowed, then halted. The men within straightened and tried to catch their breath. All except John, who barely looked winded.

As Robin's company walked past, still under the protection of the barn door, Little John caught Robin's eye.

“Hoy, archer!”

Will and Allan looked over at the man.

“Stay alive!” John said. “I'll see you tonight!”

Robin grinned. “Make sure you bring your money, little man.”

Will gestured obscenely at the man, drawing a smile from Little John.

Moments later, the first crossbow bolt embedded itself in the door with a loud
thwack.
Within a few seconds bolts and arrows were raining down on them. Cheers and war cries went up from the French and were answered by the English soldiers behind Robin and his men. King Richard rode forward on his magnificent white charger, seemingly heedless of the
volleys coming from the enemy fortress. He hefted a spear, snagged an English flag on its point, and spurred his horse to a gallop toward the castle gate.

Robin nearly shouted a warning, wondering what the hell the king could be thinking. But he kept his mouth shut and watched, expecting at any moment to see Richard felled by one of the enemies' darts. But no. Perhaps the king was touched by God after all. He rode to the castle doors, threw his spear so that it stuck in the wood, and wheeled his mount back to safety.

“By God, I'm myself again!” he shouted, drawing new cheers from his men. “We'll put these French to bed with shovels! Charge! For England!”

Robin and his company hurried forward, as did the other companies of archers. Bolts and arrows still hammered into the barn doors; so many that Robin guessed they must now look more like hedgehogs than turtles. The darts that missed the wood dug into the earth, each bolt and arrow whistling like a giant bug so that the air seemed to be alive with them. The company was close to the fortress now. Robin could see that some of his men were beginning to look fearful, including Will and Allan, and young Jimoen.

“Don't worry about them,” Robin said with breezy confidence. “If you ignore them, they won't sting.” They were close enough. “Hup!” Robin shouted.

All four companies of archers halted and tilted up their doors, one end set hard in the ground while the other was lifted and held at an angle, so that the men were still shielded from the French.

Still the bolts carved through the air and struck at the wood. One burst through just in front of Will's face, missing him by a hair's breadth. Scarlet's eyes
widened and his face paled. But he managed to flash a weak smile Robin's way.

The first of the men carrying the sacks of naphtha came forward, crouching behind the barn door and watching as Robin, Will, and Allan nocked arrows to their bows. Robin looked down at the bag carrier, who slung the sack over his shoulder and secured it in place before looking back up at Robin.

“Stay calm,” he told the man. “It's them inside who are having the bad day. Ready lads? Together. Hup!”

The man with the leather sack dashed out from behind the door. At the same time, Robin, Will, and Allan stepped out from the sides, their bows drawn, looking to keep the man covered, and loosing their arrows at the first sign of a threat. Down the line, the same thing happened. Naphtha carriers ran out from behind the other three barn doors as well, all of them covered by archers who fired up at the crossbowmen on the castle ramparts.

Robin's first arrow hit a Frenchman who grunted once, twisted in agony and as he began to fall, discharged his bow into the soldier next to him, who also went down. At the same time, the first of the naphtha runners reached the castle gate and immediately began to scramble up like a monkey, using the metal bracing on the gate for hand- and footholds. In no time he had reached the top, nearly twenty feet off the ground.

As Robin nocked another arrow, two French soldiers with crossbows leaned out over the parapets, trying to get an angle on the naphtha runner. Before they could fire, Will and Allan loosed their arrows, striking both of the enemy.

The naphtha runner pulled an iron hook in the shape of an “S” from his belt, anchored it to the bracing
of the gate and hung the naphtha sack on it. Another French bowman leaned out just above him, and the runner dropped to the ground below, landing deftly and charging back toward the English lines and the safety of the barn door. As this first man returned, a second runner, a leather sack slung over his shoulder, stepped out from behind the door.

“Go, lad!” Robin said, slapping this second man on the back. And the man was off.

Robin fired at another crossbowman, his arrow striking true. Will and Allan fired as well.

The second runner reached the gate, climbed to the top and hung his sack, just as the first man had done. As he started back, a third man stepped out from behind the door. He had only gone a few steps, though, when he stumbled and sprawled to the ground, spilling much of the liquid he carried. He tried to stand, but was struck by a bolt from the castle. As he struggled to his feet once again, a flaming arrow arced high from the castle walls and started dropping toward him.

Robin and the others urged him forward, marking the missile's descent. But Robin could tell the man wouldn't make it. An instant later, the flaming arrow hit the sack he carried. A flash of bright orange flame, a concussive
whoosh,
and the man was incinerated. There wasn't even time for Robin to shield his eyes. He flinched, but then merely stood there and watched the poor soldier burn. A stunned silence settled momentarily over the English lines. Cheers rose from the castle.

But Richard's men rallied quickly. The king waved his sword, crying, “Blood up! Blood up for France! By God, would you ruffians die in your beds!”

Jimoen was the last of the naphtha runners waiting
at Robin's barn door. He looked frightened as he adjusted the sack he carried. But he looked up at Robin and returned the archer's nod. Taking a deep breath, he scrambled out from behind the door and started toward the gate, while Robin, Will, and Allan loosed arrow after arrow.

Robin saw another runner go down with a French arrow in his back, but quickly turned his attention back to Jimoen. The young soldier was at the gate already and halfway up to the top. A French bowman leaned out to get a shot at him, and Jimoen flattened himself against the gate. The enemy's bolt appeared to skim Jimoen's back, but it did no serious damage. And in the next instant, the French soldier toppled off the castle wall, Will's arrow in his chest.

Climbing the rest of the way to the top, Jimoen set his hook, hung the naphtha bag, and after pumping his fist in celebration, leaped from the gate.

At least, that was the plan.

Instead of dropping, though, the young fool just hung there. Somehow, he had managed to hook not only the leather sack, but also his cloak. He flailed his arms and kicked his feet, trying desperately to break free, but to no avail. Seeing this, several of the French archers leaned out over the wall again and tried to finish him.

As Will and Allan fired at the bowmen, Robin dashed toward the castle. Halfway there, he scooped up a discarded shield, practically without breaking stride. When he reached the base of the gate, he shouted Jimoen's name and tossed the shield up to the lad.

Jimoen caught it, and put it over his head, barely in time to block a bolt that would have pierced his skull.

Robin began to climb, hearing cheers behind him.

“Look what they do for the Lionheart!” he heard the king call out.

The French archers were still firing, but as he drew closer to Jimoen, Robin caught the scent of something far worse than arrows and bolts. Boiling oil. The French were preparing to pour it over them. He reached the young soldier and after a moment's struggle managed to unhook him. They dropped to the ground and rolled away just as the oil splashed down the castle walls. Grabbing hold of the shield, Robin and Jimoen sprinted back to safety, bolts and arrows pelting the ground and the shield. More cheers greeted them when at last they ducked behind the barn door.

Jimoen sunk to the ground, gasping for breath. Robin grinned at Will and Allan, who smiled back at him.

They didn't have much time to rest, though. Somewhere in the distance someone barked an order. Robin and the other archers nocked arrows to their bows once more. This time, however, the arrows had been set afire. As one, the bowmen stepped out from behind the barn doors and fired at the hanging sacks of naphtha. A hundred flaming missiles carved across the sky and struck the bags. Naphtha began to wash down the doors, tendrils of flame spreading across the wood and licking at the bags, until suddenly all the bags exploded at once. In seconds, the blaze had engulfed the doors and was blackening the castle stone like dragon's breath.

A
s night fell, dark, acrid smoke from the fires burning on the besieged castle drifted across the camp of the English army, mingling with the smells of cooking fires. King Richard's soldiers were in high spirits, even as they made preparations for the renewal of battle in the morning. Foot soldiers oiled and sharpened blades, bright sparks leaping from steel and stone. Archers restrung their bows, testing and adjusting the tension. Fletchers made new arrows. But all the while men talked and laughed. Some sang war songs.

Robin, as was his wont, had taken to gaming.