Robin Hood (6 page)

“My own impatience, Sire,” Robin told him.

“Ha!” Richard nodded, clearly pleased with Robin's answer. “We have common ground, you and I.”

“He was fighting me, Your Majesty,” John said. “I mistook him for a lesser man and he was showing me different.”

The king regarded the man, nodding again, slowly this time. He glanced back at Loxley, as if to say, You see what good can come of a little fun?

“An enemy that pays you respect,” the king said, turning back to Robin. “Stand, the pair of you.”

Robin and Little John climbed to their feet. When Richard saw how big John was, his mouth fell open.

“What in God's name possessed you to take on this?” the king asked Robin, unable to take his eyes off of John. “You must be brave, as well as honest.”
He looked back at Loxley again, his eyebrows up.

Facing Robin once more, he narrowed his eyes. “Are you brave enough to tell your king something he doesn't want to hear? What is your opinion on my crusade? Will God be pleased with my sacrifice?”

Loxley, who was standing behind the king, stared hard at Robin and gave a small shake of his head, clearly warning him not to engage in this game. But Robin didn't need the knight to tell him that Richard's mood had taken a swift and dangerous turn. He had heard whispers of the darkness that had crept into Richard's heart in recent months, but this was the first he himself had seen of it.

Robin hesitated. No one else made a sound. Even the wind seemed to have died away. The only noise came from the castle, where the fires still burned and men still loosed their arrows fighting Richard's war. Robin knew better than to think that there was a right answer to the king's question. The truth might well earn him a rope around his neck; a lie would ring false to all who listened. And lying to one's liege was also a hanging offense. Better, at the last, to be true to himself.

“No,” Robin said. “He won't.”

Loxley shook his head again. Richard's eyes glittered lethally in the firelight.

“Why would you say that?” the king asked, his voice like a blade.

“The massacre at Acra, Sire,” Robin said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Speak up!” Richard roared.

Robin looked at him, remembering that day in the Holy Land: the cries of frightened women and children echoing through the streets of the city, the
dust hanging in the air, the hard flat light cast by a scorching sun.

When he spoke again it was in a stronger voice. “When you had us herd two and a half thousand Muslim men, women, and children together and stand over them. The young woman who knelt before me, hands bound, looked up at me, and in her eyes there wasn't fear, there wasn't anger. There was only pity. For she knew that when the order came and our glinting blades would descend on their necks, in that moment we would all be Godless. All of us, Godless.”

Robin still stared at the king, and Richard stared back. Around them, quietly, many of the men muttered in agreement, perhaps remembering the faces of those they killed, perhaps feeling once more the same guilt that plagued Robin each night as he lay down to sleep. Richard glanced around, marking the response of the others. A black veil seemed to have fallen over his eyes, as if he had retreated into his own memories of that day and whatever emotions they carried with them.

“Honest, brave, and naive,” the king said, his voice so low Robin wasn't sure that any of the others heard. “There is your Englishman, right there.” He shook himself slightly, as if rousing himself from a dream. He regarded Robin coldly, looked briefly at the others. “Snap all four of them in the stocks,” he ordered, his voice now crisp. “I will decide their fate in due course.” He paused, then started to say more. But that distant look had come into his eyes again.

Without another word he stepped out of the firelight. The crowd of soldiers parted to let the king through, and then, slowly, the men began to disperse.

W
ham!

The impact of the battering ram against the blackened gate of the French castle reverberated across the English camp. Part of the ram's roof was burning, and arrows and bolts jutted from it at all angles. But the ram looked a far sight better than did the castle doors. With each blow, the gate shuddered, splinters and black dust flew from the charred wood. It wouldn't be long before the gate gave way. Counting their rhythm the men heaved the ram back once more and hammered at the gate yet again.
Wham!

Several of the burned timbers cracked and several French soldiers within the castle rushed forward to block the opening and keep Richard's men from swarming into the fortress.

Robin would have cheered along with the rest of the English army, but though the stocks offered a fine
view of the siege, they also took some of the fun out of it. Along with Allan, Will, and Little John, Robin had been locked in the stocks since well before dawn. His muscles had long since started to cramp, and his head still hurt from where John had hit him.

“Well done, Robin,” Allan said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You showed him,” Will chimed in.

They had been saying things like this throughout the morning, and Robin had little hope that they would stop anytime soon. He merely glared at them.

King Richard rode toward the shattered French gate, his sword in hand, drawing another cheer from his men. The king advanced on the gate and his soldiers followed.

“The whipping will be the worst of it,” Will said, sounding forlorn.

Robin rolled his eyes. He had heard this already, too.

Allan shook his head gloomily. “The branding iron. That'll be the worst.”

“Unless they hang us,” John said.

“This will be the worst of it, and this will be the end of it,” Robin told them. “As soon as I get out of here, I'm gone. I don't owe God or any other man here another minute of service.”

He strained against the stocks, gritting his teeth. But the blocks held him fast.

G
ERARD
DIDN'T
LIKE
being up on the battlements, with the English dogs below firing their crossbows and long bows. He wasn't a soldier, and had never wanted to be. Until the Coeur de Lion came with his army and his fires and his battering rams, he had never been anywhere near a war, and he would
have been perfectly happy to live out the rest of his life that way. He was a cook; he belonged in the kitchens.

But with the gates giving way, and the soldiers— all of them—needed on the castle walls to keep the attackers at bay, he had no choice. The men needed to be fed, and he was of far more use to his lord with a ladle than with a blade.

So he followed the two boys carrying the vat of what could only most generously be called “stew,” and he spooned it into bowls or helmets so that the men could fill their bellies.

As he moved among the soldiers, he felt his fears giving way to something else, something unexpected. Perhaps there was more soldier in him than he had thought.

After serving a few more of the men, he stepped to the outer edge of the battlement and looked down upon the fighting. Almost as soon as he did, an arrow soared past him, whistling like some bird from hell.

Gerard jumped back, more startled than frightened. And instead of cowering in fear, he felt himself growing angry. A soldier had fallen nearby, and the cook reached down and lifted the dead man's crossbow. It already had a bolt in place, and the bowstring was already drawn back. All it needed was someone to pull the trigger.

Gerard stepped to the parapet again and, looking down, picked out his target. More soldier in him, indeed. Taking careful aim, he fired.

To his amazement, the bolt found its mark. He turned to the nearest of the soldiers, giddy with surprised and pride. “
J'ai tué le roi!
” he said. “
J'ai tué le roi!
” I killed the king!

* * *

O
NE
LAST BLOW
from the battering ram, and the burning doors finally gave way, sagging in the middle and then collapsing entirely. A huge billow of black smoke rose into the air, and gleaming sparks of yellow swam upward through the cloud. Robert Loxley heard the men behind them cheer, and he saw a smile light Richard's face.

The king turned to look at Loxley, triumphant, the cares and the years and the festering guilt dropping away momentarily to make Richard look young again. For just an instant he was the Lionheart once more: dashing and confident; indomitable. The king drew his sword and raised it over his head. More cheers echoed from behind. The battering ram rolled forward, clearing the way for the king and his army.

“For England!” Richard cried, his voice ringing like a church bell as he steered his white mount toward the breach in the gates.

And then, seemingly from nowhere, the crossbow bolt struck. At first Loxley didn't understand what had happened. As quickly as the king had started forward he halted again. Something dark appeared on the back of his neck. That's what Robert could see: something jutting from his neck. Crimson. Blood dripping from the tip, and spreading from the wound down the king's back.

Loxley rode forward, wanting to call the king's name, but unable to make a sound. Pulling even with Richard, he saw the tail of the bolt sticking out of the front of the king's throat. His Majesty sat utterly still, his back straight, his chin tucked, as if he was trying to get a better look at the shaft of the dart.

Then Richard started to fall, unsettling his charger
so that the creature reared awkwardly. Both horse and rider toppled over, the animal rolling over the man.

The horse scrabbled back up, its eyes wide and wild, its head thrashing from side to side. And then it was off, galloping back away from the castle.

Loxley leaped off his horse and sprinted to where the king had fallen. His heart ached, as though it too had been pierced by a bolt. He called frantically to the nearest English soldiers, and with their help, pulled the king back beyond the reach of the French archers.

Richard's hands were up around his neck, and Loxley tried to move them away, gently first, then more firmly when the king resisted. Seeing the wound, Loxley suppressed a sob. Blood pumped from around the bolt with each beat of the Lion's heart. And with each beat, the flow grew weaker. It was all Robert could do to keep from bawling like a child.

He raised the king's hands again, allowing Richard to cover the wound once more.

“I need a physician here!” Loxley cried, his voice hoarse, his throat raw.

“Why, Loxley?” Richard asked, the words barely carrying. He smiled weakly. Then he whispered “Wine.”

A soldier hurried forward with a wine skin. He put it to the king's lips and poured. Most of the wine poured over Richard's chin, but a bit of it found its way into his mouth. The king swallowed. Then his eyes glazed, his breath stilled, and the flow of blood from his wound ceased. Richard, King of England, was dead.

Loxley bent his head and whispered a prayer.

All around them, men continued to fight and die. English soldiers surged toward the growing breach in the castle gate. French defenders battled desperately to hold them back. No one seemed to have noticed that England's king had fallen.