by Wayne Grant
***
“Another month and we’ll have run the tax rolls through to the end, my lord,” said Gilbert Blythe.
“Good,” said de Ferrers with satisfaction. “And the take?”
Gilbert scratched his chin.
“A good deal of the collections still need to be sold off, but I expect we’ll take in over eighty pounds of silver.”
“And none of it goes to the exchequer!” the Earl said with something close to glee. “Though we will need to send something on to Archdeacon Poore.”
Gilbert smiled and fiddled with the lock on the chest where he kept his documents, proudly drawing forth a parchment and handing it to de Ferrers.
“This is for the Archdeacon, my lord. It records that we collected in goods and monies twenty-eight pounds of silver and owe the Prince nine and a quarter pounds.”
De Ferrers slapped the clerk on the shoulder.
“Well done, master clerk! And did I not tell you the people wouldn’t lift a hand to resist? There’ve been no signs of revolt, have there, Gilbert?”
Blythe hesitated to answer. While it was true that there had initially been little more than loud protests to the new round of tax collections ordered by the Earl, there were signs that could be changing. He did not want to correct de Ferrers, but there had been a number of scuffles in the town and just that morning he’d heard a troubling new report. It had come to him second hand from a local lad who’d been with one of the Earl’s patrols collecting in the high country north of Castleton.
The patrol had been ambushed—there was no other word to describe what had occurred. The men were moving up a narrow ravine in the hills when a hail of rocks rained down on them from the steep slopes on either side of the road. The rocks were followed by a half dozen loosened boulders that narrowly missed crushing men and horses. The attack had only resulted in a few bumps and bruises, but it was only through sheer luck that none of the men had been killed. The mercenary leading the patrol was unfamiliar with what lay further up the valley and thought it advisable to turn around and ride back to Castleton.
Blythe was surprised that the Earl had not been informed of this incident by Captain Barca, who surely had received the report hours ago. But if Barca wasn’t going to tell the Earl, Blythe certainly wasn’t.
“You were quite right, my lord,” he said. Collections are higher than I would ever have thought.”
De Ferrers pounded a fist on Blythe’s small desk causing scrolls to jump.
“A firm hand, Gilbert!” he declared. “That’s all these peasants understand!”
***
“We have no weapons,” Sir James said glumly, “save for our two swords and Angus’ axe.”
“We have rocks,” Tuck said, half in jest.
The Sheriff bristled at that, but then allowed himself a small smile. He’d come to realize that this itinerant monk often dealt in dark humour.
“Rocks are plentiful here in the highlands, Tuck, but what shall we use in the lowlands—dirt clods?”
Tuck laughed at Sir James’ clever reply.
“Point taken, my lord.”
“If we don’t stop this madness and soon, there will be starvation in Derbyshire by winter,” the Sheriff said, making no attempt at humour.
Tuck nodded. He well remembered riding with Sir Robin from London up through the Midlands to Nottinghamshire upon their return from Crusade. He’d been shocked as they passed through villages where children with swollen bellies begged in the street. It had driven them to resist John’s grasp at the crown of England and got them outlawed in the process.
As outlaws they had been able to feed at least some of the starving mouths in the Midlands by raiding granaries and tithe barns. He’d prayed that the return of the Earl of Derby would not bring a return to those desperate days, but it had only taken a fortnight to dash that hope. Prayer, it seemed, would not be enough.
“Sir James,” Tuck said. “I know a man who might help us.”
***
Sir Robin of Loxley heard the high-pitched call of the magpie and knew they had visitors. It wasn’t a bird making the sound, but one of the band of men who lived in this patch of the great forest north of Nottingham. Residents of these woods were wary of unexpected guests and kept a close watch on any who ventured into Sherwood forest. Robin was skinning a freshly-killed doe when the signal reached him. He lay down his skinning knife and walked down to the stream to wash the blood from his bare arms.
He’d been back in Sherwood for nearly a month and it had been a pleasant homecoming. He’d grown up near these woods, hunting deer when no wardens were about and snaring small game near forest clearings and streams. After three years of war, he’d come home, not to Loxley, but to the green glades of the royal forest and it had been like a balm to him.
As he finished scrubbing the blood from his arms, the magpie call came again, nearer this time. He moved back toward the small clearing where he shared a campsite with a dozen other men. He saw his old friend, the big Dane, Magnus Rask, gazing off to the west. He’d heard the warning signal as well and had his longbow in hand. The magpie call was not meant to convey danger, but Magnus Rask was a careful man.
Rask was one of the men who’d gone over the wall with Robin before the surrender of Nottingham castle and had been one of his chief lieutenants in the brutal civil war against Prince John and his mercenaries. When Robin chose to join the King’s war in France, Rask stayed behind in the royal forest, content to live in peace as a simple woodsman.
“We don’t get many visitors,” Rask said as Robin joined him in the open ground.
“Maybe it’s just a magpie,” Robin suggested with a sly smile.
Rask snorted at that and kept his eyes fixed on the treeline to the west. He hadn’t long to wait. Down a game path came one of the new men, John Little, oddly named given his towering height. Behind him came Friar Tuck and an older man that neither recognized.
Magnus lowered his bow and Robin gave a whoop of delight.
“Tuck, by God! Have you come to hide out with us here in the forest? Has de Ferrers already driven you out of Derbyshire?”
“No to yer first question and nearly so to yer second!” he proclaimed as he wrapped his meaty arms around the young knight and lifted him off the ground. When he sat Robin down, he grinned at his friend.
“You’ve gained weight off the King’s deer.”
Robin grinned back.
“Well, the King never hunts them and they’ve grown fat and lazy.”
He poked Tuck’s barrel chest with a finger.
“I see you’re as solid as ever.”
Tuck poked him back.
“I eat enough to keep my strength up is all!”
“Ha!”
This came from Magnus Rask.
“If that were true,” the big Dane exclaimed, “you’d have the strength of Samson.”
Tuck reached over and clapped Rask on the shoulder.
“You look fit, Magnus.”
“Running away from trouble keeps me so, Tuck. Have you brought any with you?”
Tuck looked from Rask to Robin, all jesting put aside now.
“I’m afraid I have. This is Sir James Ferguson, Sheriff of Derbyshire,” he said, stepping aside to introduce his companion. “Sir James, may I present Sir Robin of Loxley and Magnus Rask, a latter-day Viking.”
Robin arched an eyebrow.
“If you’ve come to arrest me, my lord, you’re out of your jurisdiction here,” he said with half a smile.
“As a magistrate appointed by the King,” the Sheriff said, eyeing the dead doe hanging from a nearby tree limb, “I can arrest anyone in the realm I find to be in violation of the King’s law.”
Robin’s smile faded.
“But not today, young sir,” the Sheriff hurriedly added. “I’m here on more pressing business.”
Robin frowned now.
“De Ferrers?”
Sir James nodded.
“The Earl brought two score
mercenaries home with him from France. Most are foreigners—Gascons and Flemings and the like. All are cutthroats. They are ravaging Derbyshire, Loxley, and we have no weapons nor nearly enough men to stop them.”
“Why come here?” Robin asked, interrupting the Sheriff’s sombre report. “You should go to London, report this to the King’s Justiciar.”
Sir James sighed.
“I’ve met the Archbishop. He is an able administrator, but thinks only of finance. To keep the King’s favour, he must look to whatever source he can to pay for Richard’s war. De Ferrers has money, we don’t.”
Robin shot Tuck a dark look.
“Have you come here looking for sanctuary, Tuck? If so, you and your Sheriff are welcome to stay. If you expect more, you are welcome to go.”
The Sheriff looked taken aback.
“We’d hoped that with your help,” Sir James began, but Robin cut him off.
“I’m done with fighting,” he said, then turned to the friar.
“I’ve killed enough men for one lifetime, Tuck. I’ve sworn off it.”
Tuck laid a hand on Robin’s shoulder.
“Aye, lad. I know the feeling well. I said the very same thing when we came home from the Holy Land. But of course, I couldn’t keep that pledge, could I? You remember we rode up through Nottinghamshire and saw the hungry children begging by the roadways. We couldn’t stand by and let John steal the crown while children starved in the streets, could we, Rob? And children will starve in the streets of Derbyshire by Christ’s Mass unless de Ferrers is stopped. Will you help us or just hunker down in these woods?”
Robin brushed Tuck’s hand from his shoulder and crossed his arms.
“You could talk a squirrel out of a tree, damn you!” he snarled. “But not today, Tuck. Not today. This isn’t my fight!”
Tuck nodded.
“Then we’ll be on our way. God be with you, Robin.”
With that he turned and headed back toward the game trail that led westward from the clearing. Sir James looked startled at the monk’s sudden departure, but hurried after him.
Robin watched them go and clenched his fists.
“Damn you, Tuck,” he muttered to himself, as he watched the burly monk stride off across the clearing with the Sheriff hurrying to catch up. Then he sighed and shook his head.
“Wait!” he called out.
Tuck turned.
“I have weapons,” Robin said. “Enough to make a fight.”
Tuck nodded.
“Well, that’s a start.”
***
The weapons were concealed in a natural cleft in the rocks. They were stacked on a raised wooden frame to keep off the damp and covered in oil cloth. Their location, on the flanks of a small hill deep in the forest, had been hidden by cleverly planted saplings that concealed the opening in the rocks.
“I put these here after the King’s ransom was secured and our band scattered back to their homes,” Robin said. “They’ve a little rust, but should suit.”
Sir James rummaged through the stacks of swords, shields and lances with a gleam in his eye.
“They will indeed,” he said quietly as he tested the balance on a broadsword. There was some rust on the pommel and the leather grip showed rot, but the blade was good steel and would hold an edge.
“These have a familiar look about them,” Tuck noted.
Robin smiled.
“They should! You brought them here all the way from London hidden in a wagon under a load of shit, if you recall—a gift to the outlaws of Sherwood from Earl William Marshall.”
Tuck nodded.
“Aye, I remember, Rob, and I saw that a few of the men back there in the clearing were from our old band. They were all good lads.”
Robin’s smile faded.
“No, Tuck! No, no, no!” he growled, pointing a finger at the monk’s chest. “I see what you’re doing and I’m not so easily cozened! Take your weapons, but don’t go all sentimental on me about the fine times we had together.”
“They were fine though, weren’t they?” Tuck said, still smiling.
“No! They were wet and cold and miserable, not to mention dangerous.”
Tuck nodded sagely.
“Ah, I’d forgotten about the wet and the cold and the misery. You’ll have to forgive an old fool who thought it was one of the great times of his life.”
Robin snorted.
“Take your weapons, Tuck. Go fight your Earl, and try not to get yourself killed. As for me, I’ll not draw arms against any who leave me be.”
The Resistance
Dora Clive sat on a mound of earth high on the flanks of Mam Tor, the great bare ridge that loomed over Castleton. Local legend held that the strange mounds that enclosed both flanks of the ridge crest had once been the home of giants but her father said they were the walls of a hill fort built by the ancient people who’d lived in the valley long before the coming of the Normans, or the Saxons, or even the Romans. She tried to imagine what a time so far in the past had been like and concluded that it was no different than the times she lived in.
For directly across the valley stood another fortress. Like the hill fort of the ancients, it stood atop a crag with good views of the valley below. The Normans had built Peveril Castle when they’d taken this land with fire and sword, proving, like the ancients, that they knew the value of high ground and stout walls. This was the high country stronghold of the Earls of Derby that stood watch over Castleton, but on this day, Dora kept watch over Peveril Castle.
She’d slipped out of the village long before dawn and made the long hike up the well-worn trail to the summit of Mam Tor, arriving as the sky began to grow light in the east. From her perch on the walls of the old fort she could see the road that ran through Castleton. Patrols from the castle could take the western road that led up through the wind gates then down into the valley where Buxton and other villages lay. Or they could turn east and follow the River Noe until it joined with the Derwent. All along that valley were farmsteads the patrols could prey upon.
On this morning, traps had been set along both roads and men with newly honed weapons were waiting for the patrols. Dora watched to see which roads the patrols would take. She looked down at her feet where two squares of cloth lay folded neatly. One was near white and the other black. If the patrols took the west road, she’d raise the square of white cloth, if they turned east, she’d signal with the black. Then she’d find her way back to the village and deal with whatever punishment her father chose to inflict.
Her father was the proprietor of the Nag’s Head, Castleton’s only inn, and while he was a supporter of the uprising against the Earl, he’d forbidden his only daughter from involving herself in such dangerous business. But one of the men who’d taken up arms against the Earl was the butcher’s son, Will Yardley. Will was a handsome boy and brave and for Will she would defy her father and take the risk. After all, she was thirteen—nearly a full grown woman.
A brisk wind blew along the exposed ridge and she wrapped her heavy shawl tighter around her shoulders. It had been a mild autumn in the valley, but during the night cold air had swept in over the higher mountains to the north and west leaving the ground hoary with frost. She hummed a little tune and thought of Will as she watched the sun peep above the hills behind the castle. Then she saw movement. A column of men rode out of the west gate of the castle and down to the centre of the town. There they headed east.
Dora Clive stood up and waved the black cloth in the cold wind.
***
The lookout saw the flash of black high up on the ridge and clambered down from his perch in the tall oak where he’d sat since dawn. Sir James saw him climbing down and did not need a report to know that one of de Ferrers patrols had chosen to ride into the Derwent valley this day.
“Up!” he ordered, and the farmers and village boys stood, some still sleepy-eyed. They held their weapons awkwardly. A few stretched and swung swords in uncertain arcs before them. Sir James watc
hed this clumsy display, but gave none of his worries away by his expression.
We have to start somewhere, he thought.
But he would not lead these men to a slaughter. He cleared his throat and spoke.
“Remember, if there’s more than four men in the patrol, you stay hidden. Understood?”
There was a ragged chorus of ayes from the dozen men surrounding him.
“And if it’s four or less?” he asked.
“We kill ‘em!”
This produced a more energetic round of ayes.
Sir James nodded.
“Now get to your places,” he ordered. As he watched them fan out on either side of the road and conceal themselves, he had a sinking feeling, but refused to give in to it. The men were green, but eager, and they were all he had.
They had to start somewhere.
***
The patrol came around the bend in the road at an easy trot. Sir James peered through the needles of a spreading juniper and counted seven riders. He cursed under his breath. There would be no ambush this day.
Then the unexpected happened.
One of his dozen men rose from his hiding place on the far side of the road and let loose with a rousing battle cry, charging down toward the trail swinging his short sword. Sir James swore for the second time. He stood up as men to his left and right hesitantly got to their feet. On the road, the riders drew swords and with practiced ease peeled off to either side of the road, ready to meet threats from any direction. The Sheriff did not wait to see what would happen next. He turned to his men and shouted a single command—the only one that made sense now.
“Run!”
***
The ambush party straggled into the clearing. There were nine men left of the original dozen who’d set out in the night to lay a trap for de Ferrers mercenaries. The nine had been quick to heed Sir James’ command and had scrambled uphill into the woods, out of reach of the killers on horseback down at the road. Those who had been too slow were gone.
The Sheriff saw Tuck coming to meet him. The monk had commanded the ambush party on the western road.