“Ouch,” William reacted. “Now you sound just like Richard. Those are his words in your mouth there. Is that a familiar place for him to be putting things?”
Robin made to kick his friend’s shin, and instantly regretted trying. A sharp pain ripped through his calf and he felt the scabs over his wound break open. William laughed himself silly, joining Robin’s leg in mockery of his current life. They stopped the horses, and William helped him down to a nearby boulder where he could redress the wound. His breeches were sticky with blood, but it was a relief to have his boot off.
“I knew it would open up on me again.”
“Well you got what you deserved.”
“We can keep riding, I’ll make do.”
“Don’t bother. We’re right by the river here, and we’re low on water. I’ll go. Perhaps I’ll find something that’s both thirsty and tasty while I’m at it.” William fastened his quiver across his back, picked up his longbow, and pulled his hood over his head, flashing his eyebrows wildly. He hopped off the path, deliberately reminding Robin of how incapable he was of hopping himself.
Robin tended to the joyous task of cleaning out his wound. A quick scouring of the dried blood caused him to invent a few colorful new curses he hoped to remember for later. He chewed out a chunk of a bitter salve he had purchased in Grimsby, and covered the raw area of his skin with it. The strappings he wrapped tighter than normal, but he wanted the wound to set. The pain was bearable, but he knew to keep off it as much as he could.
Returning the remaining tar to the saddlebags, he eyed their letters from King Richard. Sealed with his royal signet, they specified with little flexibility that Robin and William had the authority of the King himself on any matter concerning the transport of war supplies. He wondered if such a letter would buy any praise from his father. Practical omnipotence granted by the King of England—no, somehow even this would be unacceptable to Lord Walter.
A rustle to his left, and Robin’s breathing slowed.
He carefully repositioned his arm to keep his bag from shifting, and twisted his head. There, not a dozen paces away, was a surprising visitor. A beautiful stag, its heavy crown of antlers rising proudly from the golden underbrush. Though it was more meat than they could possibly need, and definitely illegal, Robin savored the thought of sitting by the stag’s body when William returned from his hunt empty-handed.
His own longbow and quiver were within reach, and a few seconds later he stood and quietly nocked an arrow. He had to reposition himself awkwardly to favor his good leg. The stag’s head dropped to graze as the arrow flew, but Robin’s aim was high regardless. The animal didn’t dart away, but looked casually at Robin as if he acknowledged the attempt and disapproved.
It would seem my father’s influence has extended this far, Robin thought, and moved cautiously toward his quarry.
The stag descended the slope away from the main road, down toward the river that had been their sometimes companion throughout the day’s journey. Robin slid his hood over his head to keep the sunlight from his eyes, and stalked as best he could with only one boot. This was a pleasure he had not enjoyed in quite some time, and knowing his brother-in-arms William was out there hunting as well instantly brought back a competition he had forged with his real brother in these very woods.
They would steal away, the two of them, shirking responsibilities at the manor to see who could bring back the greater game. Edmond was sloppy but unusually lucky, while Robin had both patience and skill. Even then there were signs that Edmond was touched, as his mother described it. She’d died when Robin was only twelve. Nothing but snippets of memories remained—her cold hands, dry, clasped over his own. “Watch over Edmond. He’s touched, but he’s your brother.” He hadn’t understood then. Robin would bring home two rabbits, clean kills, and Edmond would bring three—bloodied and beaten beyond recognition, guts ripped apart and useless for anything but flavoring stew.
“I ran out of arrows, so I had to use rocks!” He’d chortle, and it seemed innocent at the time.
The memory brought a pit to his stomach. He had a sudden longing to be elsewhere, back on the Haligast, back in Acre, rather than here, alone, in the woods and in the past.
But the forest drew him deeper.
Age had brought confidence for Edmond. He was by all accounts the more handsome of the two, once they reached an age where it mattered. Both boys and girls were drawn to Edmond, his reckless nature mistaken for charisma. He had a way of getting others into no end of mischief, mostly harmless, but occasionally going too far. Theft of a chicken one day, loosing horses the next, then shooting an arrow at Lord Stannington’s dog. There was no excuse Edmond gave aside from just having fun. Lord Walter had beaten them both—Edmond for having done it and Robin for not being there to stop it.
There was only so much Robin could do, as a brother. Whenever he gave Edmond a lecture about his wilder side, his brother would apologize and occasionally cry, thanking him for caring. Days or weeks or months would pass and Edmond would be a perfect son and brother. Until something happened, and the cycle would repeat.
Until Marion and Vivian.
The stag was long gone, and Robin blinked away wetness in his eyes. A cloud had obscured the sun, the river water was black, the air cold. The Sherwood was just a collection of trees, and he had work to do. Retracing his steps was a simple thing, and they were best to be on their way as soon as possible. Upon arrival, he eased the weight off his leg and sat on the boulder again, letting his quiver and bow down by the saddlebags.
There was another noise in the woods. William re-emerged, trudging his way back down the path, at exactly the same moment Robin realized the horses were missing.
ELEVEN
WILLIAM DE WENDENAL
SHERWOOD FOREST
THE SCENE BEFORE WILLIAM looked very unlike the one he expected. Robin was there, but where once there had been two useful horses was now an emptiness that could only be described as horseless. Robin mimicked his baffled reaction, as if this sudden change in horse quantity was equally perplexing to him.
“Here’s the thing…”
“Oh the thing!” William moved closer. “I’m dying to hear the thing.”
“The thing is, those horses were wrongfully subjugated by the King.”
“Oh they were, were they?”
“Most certainly.” Robin presented the empty space proudly. “They hadn’t paid their taxes, you see, and the King took them into servitude as payment. I couldn’t bear the sight of their slavery. So I set them free, their families are quite happy about it, and I have been anointed the Horse Lord of England.”
“I don’t believe you. Not because it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard—which it is—but because a real Horse Lord of England would have horses. Whilst you have just lost yours.”
“I didn’t lose the horses…”
“Well I certainly didn’t lose them!” William stuck his arrow in the ground, the small lizard he had skewered flopping down its shaft into the grass. He walked to the spot where, once upon a time, the horses had been. Their rope’s knot must have slipped, and the well-traveled road offered no help. He would have to pick a single direction to search, as Robin was in no condition to run after them.
Robin resigned himself. “We’ll get new horses in Clipstone.”
“You’ll get new horses in Clipstone.”
“I’ll get new horses in Clipstone. We could hike there in a few hours.”
Or longer, William thought, eyeing Robin’s leg. Locksley Castle was also only half a day’s travel away by foot, and the comforts of a family estate seemed a welcome alternative to begging for help in Clipstone. But that was Robin’s call to make. He’d undoubtedly prefer to avoid the embarrassment of a wounded and horseless homecoming.
“Clipstone it is.”
“And then we’ll get on to Nottingham.”
“And then we’ll get drunk.”
“Agreed, King William.” They bowed to each othe
r.
“Agreed, King Robin.”
“Did you hear that, Alan?” came a sharp new voice from the woods. “We’re amongst royalty!”
A shape that a second ago had been a tree moved silently sideways in a decidedly untreelike manner. William’s hand twitched for the sword that was not on his belt. The shape was a boy, or a man, a short boy-man dressed in browns and high black boots, with a cloud of arrogant golden hair, a thick belt, and an offensive grin. Robin’s back was to the stranger, but his eyes locked onto something else behind William.
“I didn’t realize we had more than one king,” said the something else behind William, whose name was very likely Alan. The manboy was unarmed and all smiles, but his eyes were shrewd. It was easy to forget that dangerous men were found all the world over, and William kicked himself for letting his guard down. Undoubtedly a third man had their horses.
“Oh, didn’t I mention that I’m a king?” asked the manboy, talking to Alan but slowly circling the rock Robin sat upon.
“You know, you may have, but I couldn’t hear you over my own kingliness.”
Alan’s voice was traveling as well, balancing the blond’s movements. They knew what they were doing.
William adjusted as they moved. “I would advise against sneaking up on members of the king’s personal guard unannounced.”
“Unless you have a reason for this interruption,” Robin casually picked up his boot, “I’d suggest you move along, gentlemen.”
A chortle came from Alan, still unseen. “The king’s personal guard?”
“Which king?”
“Me or him?”
“King Richard the Lionheart.” William’s tone was all steel, but these two boys didn’t seem to be intimidated by authority.
“Lionhard? Never heard of him,” the manboy scoffed.
“I thought the king’s name was Henry?” Could be they were simply a couple lads having fun with some travelers. Or could be they meant to take everything William and Robin had, which included letters from King Richard granting immunity to its bearer.
They had made a half circle around now, enough that William and Robin traded which one they watched. Alan had a lean, long face and darker olive skin, a young man but without his friend’s boylike charm. A brown surcoat over a dirty ivory woolen smock, its hood still draped over his head, the color of the birch trees behind him. A heavy broadsword rode unsheathed in his belt, too heavy for a man of his stature.
“Henry, yes that sounds right! He’s the one with his face on all those pretty little pieces of gold we’ve been finding, isn’t it?”
Their circle had tightened, but they were still too far away to make a surprise rush.
Robin smiled and laughed. “Pretty little pieces of gold you’ve been finding? Why, we must have missed that part of the forest. Your luck is extraordinary!”
“It is! Thank you! You see, whenever we come across a couple of kings like yourself, which seems to happen all the time these days…”
“All the time,” Alan agreed.
“… we find more and more gold! Sometime on the ground, sometime in their pockets. Sometime in their hands.” The manboy’s voice turned grim. “Which we have to pry open.”
Alan cocked his head smugly. “Which is why we prefer it to be on the ground.”
“And we’d prefer this to happen quickly.”
“If you don’t mind.”
“If you don’t mind.”
The two were overlapping each other, which might have kept their regular victims disoriented. William and Robin had no trouble tracking the target in front of them.
“Gentlemen,” William bluffed, “we are expected at Nottingham Castle by Baron Roger de Lacy.” But this name also failed to impress the strangers, who simply cooed and laughed. “This is not a fight you should be picking.”
“Woah, now!” Alan stopped moving, a hand to his chest as though deeply offended. “Who said anything about a fight? Will, did you suggest a fight?”
“I never said that word.”
William briefly startled to think they knew his name, then realized the manboy was also a Will.
“We were, in fact, downright civil!”
“Until the good king with his boot in his hand…” the new Will was on the edge of William’s vision again, so once again he and Robin changed targets, “… started issuing threats.”
“I don’t want to get in a fight, maybe they’re right,” whined Alan.
“Frankly, I’d prefer not to fight as well.” Will’s circle widened and he bowed deeply. “We sincerely apologize for getting in your way, your royal highnesses.”
“Highness … es…” Alan tried the word.
“Oh wait!”
“Highnessies?”
“I just remembered!” Will danced in a little spin. As he turned, William got a glimpse of his backside—two wide guardless short knives sheathed on his belt, handles protruding in opposite directions. “I actually have a friend who would downright love to get in a fight! He’s always talking about how much he loves them, isn’t he, Alan?”
“There’s no need to bother him.”
“Now, normally I would agree with you, but these two good gentlemen—”
“Kings,” Alan corrected.
“—pardon me, these two good kings seem to be begging for a fight! I can’t stand them myself, you know. I’ve always thought simple people should put aside their differences with words, but these kings come from a different lot than we, Alan.”
“He has a point.”
“He does,” Robin agreed with a bemused smirk.
“Then we are all in agreement!”
Will stepped a few paces into the forest and whistled sharply between his fingers, then cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hullo, John!”
Alan winked. “He’ll just be a moment.”
That was enough. The two young men were looking for coin, and a little bit of it might easily send them on their way. But William barely moved toward his bag before Alan’s sword was suddenly close, its point kissing William’s chest. He nearly reacted on instinct—he could have disarmed the young man in any of four ways without even thinking about it—but that was a line best not crossed. Whoever John was, he’d be on them soon, and he might have friends. There’s a peaceful way out of this, William reminded himself, easing away from the steel.
“Maybe you ought to sit down with your friend.” Alan’s whine was not a suggestion. “After all, there’s no need to stand for John. He’s not royalty.”
“As we are,” reminded Will from behind the trees.
“As we are.”
William eased down next to Robin, exchanging a quick but knowing glance. “That’s an interesting make of blade you have there,” Robin said, though it was clearly for William’s ears.
William noticed it now, too. Alan held the sword too far away from his own body, he had no leverage to make a thrust if he wanted to attack. His hands were clasped over each other on the hilt, betraying his poor form as well as the signature flared cross pounded into the pommel of the weapon, a design reserved for a Crusader.
Alan smiled. “Family heirloom.”
“That blade, along with many just like it, was due to be delivered to King Richard’s army not so long ago.”
Alan nodded smugly. “I’ve a large family.”
His boots were new, not the beaten footwear of a thief. The white smock underneath the brown surcoat bore the red tips of a Templar cross peeking from its edges. How bizarrely convenient. William wondered how many shipments of missing supplies might lie just beyond the treeline.
“Here’s my friend now,” Will returned, flicking his tongue about needlessly. “Goes by the name of John Little. Don’t let his name fool you.”
There was indeed no fooling when it came to the size of the man who lumbered out of the woods. He had clearly been left for last intentionally. He stood two full heads taller than little Will, though that wasn’t saying much. A pair of great trunks of legs
carried him closer, and his heavy barrel of a chest heaved from side to side with each step. Grey fleeced the slope from his chest to chin. In his hands he carried a quarterstaff as impressive in size as he was, more of a small tree than a staff at all, wrapped in dark leather and studded with knobs and cracks.
“Hullo, boys.” When he smiled, the prickly grey needles that littered his cheeks stood at attention. “What a beautiful morning, wouldn’t you agree? Well enough with the small talk. Why don’t you hand over your belongings before I break open your skulls?”
He snapped his hands tight around the quarterstaff, and William swore he heard the wood creak under the pressure. Beside him, Robin did not look nearly as confident as he had a moment ago. They both lowered themselves humbly to the ground, disrobed their belts, and very obviously unbuckled the saddlebags.
The thieves, at least, gave them a wide berth, and William rustled his bag loudly to mask his whisper. “I don’t suppose you can run?”
Robin gave a terse shake of his head. “We could fight? Where do you put our chances?”
“They’re just trying to scare us. These are bandits, not murderers.” If these men had any interest in killing them, it would have happened already. But if they were attacked, that attitude might change.
Still, there were more important things at stake. William eyed Robin and exposed the letters from Richard. “We can’t lose these.” A couple of thieves with letters of immunity from the king seemed like an epic disaster.
Robin’s face turned serious. “Agreed. We’ll have to split up.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Nor I, but you have to get those out of here. I’ll distract them, you run.”
“Hurry up with it,” groaned the mighty John Little. “And be sure there aren’t any surprises waiting in those bags.”
William’s mind reeled to think of an alternative. “I won’t go far. I’ll wait for you down by the river.”
Nottingham Page 10