Robin Hood (8 page)

Two of the French soldiers started toward Richard's white horse. But as they drew near, the creature stamped, reared, wheeled and bolted, leaping over the downed log.

“Get the crown!” the man shouted to his men. “Kill the horse if you have to!”

Several of his men remounted their horses and gave chase.

A
T FIRST, AFTER
stealing away from the English army, Robin insisted that their small company keep off any established roads or paths. With Richard dead and the siege probably over by now, it wouldn't be long before others from the king's army were crossing through Broceliande Forest to the coast. Robin hoped to avoid all of them. Staying away from the lanes lengthened their journey a little, and slowed them down, but he had been away from England for too long. He wasn't going to risk the stocks again.

Having put a day's walk between themselves and the rest of their countrymen, Robin gave in and allowed them to follow a lane through the forest. Still, he remained watchful, and he set a brisk pace. The others complained. Robin merely walked, and despite their grousing, they kept up with him. Robin and Jimoen walked in front, followed by Will and Allan. Little John, lumbering and huffing like a bear, brought up the rear.

Near midday, as they followed the road through a lonely stretch of wood, a large white horse came dashing around a bend ahead of them. Jimoen jumped back out of the way, but Robin planted himself in the horse's path and raised his arms to stop the beast. It halted just in front of him, although it still looked spooked, its eyes rolling wildly in their sockets, foam at the corners of its mouth.

Slowly, Robin reached for the horse's bridle and took hold of it.

At the same time, two riders came barreling around the bend. One of them swung a rope bolas, clearly intended for the horse. But upon seeing Robin and Jimoen, they didn't hesitate. They bore down on Robin and the lad. The man with the bolas grinned.

Robin pulled his bow free and nocked an arrow. But he didn't have time to loose it before the lead rider threw his bolas hard, directly at Jimoen. The two balled weights wrapped themselves around the lad's throat and jerked him off his feet.

The other rider was almost on Robin now, but Robin managed to fire his arrow before the man reached him. He hit the man just below the chin, just above his chest armor. The rider fell, the point of Robin's arrow jutting from the back of his helmet, the point stained red.

The first rider had wheeled and, having tied the end of the bolas rope to his saddle, was dragging Jimoen roughly over the road back the way he had come.

By now, Will and Allan had their bows ready, and Robin had nocked another arrow. They all fired at the same time, and all three arrows struck true. The rider fell, but the horse kept running, still dragging Jimoen. An instant later, both the horse and the lad disappeared around the bend.

R
obert could feel his life bleeding away. More than anything he wanted to kill these men who had slaughtered his soldiers and left him here with this bloody lance in his belly, pinned to the earth like a bug. But he was helpless, weak, dying. The men around him were ignoring him, as if he were already dead.

The leader was staring down the road, clearly waiting for some sign that his riders had captured Richard's charger. His associate called orders to the other soldiers.

“
Prenez de que vous voulez.
” Take what you will. Like vultures, the men descended on the bodies of the knights lying around Loxley. They rifled through packs and saddlebags, stripped armor and clothing off the bodies, cut purses from around the knights' necks, pulled rings from stiffening fingers. All the while they shouted to one another in French and
laughed raucously. If Loxley could have called down the wrath of God on every one of them he would have done so gladly.

Instead, he looked up at the leader, who was ignoring the scavengers.

“Are you English?” Loxley asked, struggling to make himself heard.

The bald man grinned cruelly and squatted down beside Loxley. “When it serves me,” he said. Loxley said nothing, but spat in his tormentor's face. The man's face contorted with rage, and Loxley thought for certain that he'd deal him a killing blow then and there. But at that moment, the horse of one of the man's riders came charging around the bend, hooves thundering, riderless. A man was being dragged behind the beast, bloodied almost beyond recognition, clearly dead.

The noble and his associate looked at each other, both showing fear for the first time.

Four more men came around the bend on foot. English soldiers! If Loxley had the strength he would have cheered. Three of the men had their bows drawn and they loosed their arrows, nocked new ones, and fired again, all without breaking stride. Several of the French cavalry fell.

One of the men—Loxley recognized him from the camp—fired two arrows in quick succession at the soldiers now standing with the leader. Both men went down, arrows in their throats between the top of the armor and their chins. Either shot would have been remarkable; together they defied logic.

The French soldiers who remained alive ran off the road into the trees. Several fell with arrows in their head and neck. Those who didn't ran into another man
Loxley recognized: the giant who had been fighting the archer just the night before. He carried a stave, which he used to deadly effect, blocking sword strokes, cracking skulls and ribs, the wood a bright blur in the forest shadows.

Within moments, the leader and his associate were the only attackers left standing.

“
Suivez-moi!
” the leader called. Follow me!

Both men leaped onto their horses and sped away down the road.

The archer stopped in the middle of the lane, drew an arrow from his quiver, nocked it and, taking careful aim, let it fly. Loxley knew immediately that the man had found his mark. At the last moment, though, the leader turned to look back over his shoulder. Rather than taking him in the back of the neck, the arrow hit him in the face. He screamed, nearly toppled off his horse. Then he righted himself, grasping his mount around the neck and riding on. A moment later, he and his companion were gone.

R
OBIN WATCHED THE
two riders vanish around a far bend in the road. Then he turned to survey the carnage they'd left behind.

Allan and Little John walked among the dead soldiers. Coins, bottles, jewelry, and other trinkets were scattered all around. At least they had kept the French from their ghoulish harvest.

“They're all dead,” Little John said.

Robin wasn't surprised. “Keep an eye out for the living. They may return.”

Will Scarlet walked up slowly, leading King Richard's charger.

“Robin look.”

Will opened the pannier hanging from the saddle and pulled out the king's war helmet. Gold gleamed in the sunlight that trickled through the branches overhead. In all likelihood that helm was worth more than all the coin any of them would see in their lifetimes.

“Imagine the price we could get!” Scarlet said, his eyes widening. Robin could see that in his mind Will had already started spending his treasure. “It would buy land and a manor. For each of us!”

Robin shared a look with Little John, and wondered how best to rein in Will's ambitions.

At that moment, though, Robin heard a weak call of “Help,” from a man he had assumed was dead.

He strode over to the man, Little John just behind him. He recognized the fallen knight immediately: Robert Loxley, the king's man. A lance protruded from his stomach, and the ground around him was soaked with blood. Robin exchanged another look with John, who gave a small shake of his head. Robin knelt and, while John held the lance steady, he gingerly examined the wound. He then checked the man for other wounds. He had just the one, but that would be enough to kill him.

Blood now flowed slowly from around the lance, but most of the man's life had already bled away.

Loxley seemed to realize this. He grabbed Robin's arm and squeezed. Robin had the sense that the man was gripping him as hard as he could, but there was barely any pressure at all.

“My name is Robert Loxley,” the man said.

Robin nodded.

“My sword,” Loxley said, the word coming out as faint as a breath. He tried to lift his head, clearly intent on finding his weapon.

Robin saw it sticking point down in the earth just a few feet away. He glanced at Allan, who pulled it free and brought it to him. Robin tried to place the hilt of the weapon in Loxley's hands, but the knight wouldn't take it. Instead, he wrapped his hands around Robin's so that they were holding the sword together. The man's fingers were icy cold, as if death already had him in its grip. Robin tried gently to extricate his hands, but the knight held him with all of his remaining strength.

“Its value to me is great,” Loxley said, looking up into Robin's face. “It belongs to my father, Walter Loxley. Of Nottingham. Do you know it?”

Robin nodded. “Aye, I have heard of Nottingham. I was born in Barnsdale, to the south and east.”

A faint smile touched Loxley's lips, which had started to turn blue. “Then fate smiles on me,” he said. “You must take the sword to him.”

The man's hands tightened on Robin's, and the archer felt a stinging pain in his palm. It seemed Loxley would spend his last ounce of strength forcing Robin's hands to grip that blade. He wanted to refuse. God knew he did. But here at the end of Loxley's journey, he couldn't bring himself to say the words.

Robin exhaled heavily. “I will.”

That small smile returned to Loxley's face, and he slumped back, sightless eyes fixed on the sky. His hands fell away, leaving Robin holding the sword. Another man's quest; another man's folly. Robin looked at his palm, the one that had stung before. There in the center was a small speck of blood.

“An oath sworn in blood, Robin,” Allan said in a hushed voice.

Robin wiped the blood away. “No. It's a scratch, Allan. And that's all it is.”

King Richard's charger nickered and stomped a hoof. Will, still standing beside the creature, stroked its nose.

“And how much are you worth, you handsome thing?”

Robin started to stand, then noticed a pouch that Loxley wore around his neck. Curious, he opened it and pulled out a map. Unfolding it, he saw that it showed the coasts of Northern France and Southern England. A spot was marked on the French coast just to the east of Calais.

Surprised and pleased at his discovery, Robin looked up at Will in time to see his friend try on Richard's crown.

“Take it off,” he said.

Will's face fell. But when Robin next looked around at the treasure lying at their feet and said, “And fill it to the brim,” Will's smile returned. Robin felt something stirring in his mind: a plan. He grinned at Will, who didn't look pleased at all. Robin held up the map. “Loxley was making for the coast,” he said, loudly enough for Little John and Allan to hear, too. “To meet a ship! That crown will be our passage home.”