by DAVID B. COE
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.
CHAPTER
FOUR
As 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 adj
usting 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.
Will Scarlet was by the fire, stirring a pot of stew and eyeing Robin and his companions nervously. Allan sat nearby, tuning his lute. And Robin sat before a low makeshift table, facing a cluster of gamblers. The man sitting directly across from him had placed a meager bunch of carrots on the table next to Robin's onions. The man's eyes were fixed on Robin's hands, as Robin moved three shells around, sliding a hidden pea from shell to shell. He had started slowly, as he always did—if he started too fast, his quarry would object and he would wind up with nothing. But by now his hands were moving so quickly that the man's eyes had begun to glaze.
Allan tinkered with his lute, but he was watching Robin's hands, too, smiling appreciatively. After a few moments, Robin stopped moving the shells and sat back, looking expectantly at the man before him.
The soldier hesitated, then chose the shell on the right. Robin flipped it over revealing … nothing.
The soldier groaned. Some of the other gamblers laughed; others shook their heads. “Next!” Robin called, as another soldier took the place of the man who'd lost.
Robin grinned at this new man, showed him the pea, and began to move the shells. Slowly, to start…
ROBERT LOXLEY SAT with the king outside his pavilion, a map of Northern France and Southern England spread before them, wine glasses at hand. Loxley studied the map for some time, leaning close so as to see better in the candlelight. He glanced up at the king repeatedly, wishing that Richard would show as much interest as he in their planning. But the king seemed far more concerned with his next cup of wine than with the French or the return trip to England.
At last, Robert pointed to a spot on the French coast just to the east of Calais, where the Strait of Dover was most narrow, and where a crossing would offer them easy access to the Thames.
“With a fair wind we'll be in London three days after our business here is finished,” he said.
Richard said nothing. He barely even glanced at the map. Instead, his eyes were drawn once more to the distant flames on the castle. A small group of archers and foot soldiers remained by the castle walls, harassing the French, denying them any opportunity to extinguish the flames or attempt a clandestine assault on the camp.
Eventually, realizing that no response from the king was forthcoming, Loxley rolled up the map. Richard poured himself a glass of wine, drained it, poured himself another. He sat back, sipping this time.
“You will return to Nottingham?” he asked Loxley.
“Yes, Sire. I have a wife who waits for me.”
Richard raised an eyebrow. “After ten years? You're sure of yourself.”
Robert had to smile. “Of her,” he said. He thought of Marion often. It had been so long since he had seen her, held her, and their time together had been so brief. Yet the memory of her still burned as bright as the king's siege fires.
The king studied his wine glass. “I have a mother who won't die, and a brother who wishes me dead. The first thing I'm going to do is lock them up.”
Loxley found himself in the odd position of feeling sorry for his king. It made him uncomfortable. “Your Majesty,” he said gently, “your people will rejoice at your return home.”
Richard took another long drink, nearly draining his cup once again. “That's what I'd like. To be remembered as I was. But my army knows better. The Lionheart is mangy.”
“Every man in this army idolizes you, Your Majesty,” Robert said. Even as he spoke the words, however, he wondered if this was still true. It had been once; that much he knew. There had been a time when every man in the English army would have followed Richard the Lionheart to hell and back if the king had but asked it of them. But these years of crusading had taken a toll on all of them.
Richard turned to look at him. “For God's sake, Robert, don't mollycoddle me. Let's find some ruffians … drink … laugh … and see if we can find an honest man.”
This was hardly the night Loxley had envisioned. He wanted to eat and rest. He wanted to end this siege and go home to Marion. But how could a knight refuse such a suggestion from his king?
“Yes!” Robert said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “Let's do that!”
Richard nodded decisively, stood and stepped from the tent, leaving Loxley with no choice but to follow. They threw cloaks over their shoulders, raised the hoods over their heads, and thus began to move among the men, unrecognized, so that they could enjoy the company of Richard's soldiers without intimidating them.
ANOTHER GAMBLER HAD just sat down opposite Robin at the table, when Little John emerged from the darkness, lifted the man out of the seat, and took his place.
The first soldier eyed John angrily, but seemed to think better of complaining. Robin could hardly blame him. In the flickering light and shadows of the campfire and nearby torches, John looked even larger than he did during the day. Robin wouldn't have thought that possible.
“Back again, little man,” Will said. “Did you bring your purse?”
Little John nodded. “Aye, I brought enough, Wee Orange.”
Will drew himself up to his full height. “My name is Will Scarlet.”
“Is that so?” John said, his eyebrows going up. “You're more orange with a touch of pink to me.” He turned back to Robin. “Enough chatter. Are we going to play?”
The big man placed a large stack of coins on the table. Murmurs ran through the crowd of onlookers.
Allan had been playing his lute quietly, but he stopped now, staring at John's money. “That bet's too big, Robin.”
Robin kept his gaze fixed on Little John. “Now do you understand that if you bet and lose, your money is mine?”
“I'm a very lucky man, Robin Longstride,” John said pointedly. “Always have been. Lucky and sharp.”
“Luck's got nothing to do with this game, Little Man,” Robin said, lowering his voice and leaning in toward the table. “It's the science of memory and a quick hand.”
Little John leaned in, as well, so that he and Robin were nearly nose-to-nose. “I've got a quick eye, archer, and I'll be watching you.” He glowered at Robin, a warning in his eyes.
Robin leaned back and tipped his head in acknowledgment. He showed John the pea, covered it, and began to move the shells, slowly at first, almost hypnotically. Gradually he sped up, shifting the shells from side to center to side, passing the pea from one shell to the next, until his hands were nearly a blur.
At last he stopped and looked up at John.
“You have three choices,” Robin said. “Left, right, middle.”
“I think I'll take a fourth choice.” Another murmur rose from the men around them, this time more ominous. Robin felt a cold fury building in his chest, but he merely glared at the man, saying nothing.
John glared back at him. “There is no pea. That's my choice.”
John reached out a mighty hand and turned over the shell in the middle. He glanced at the crowd, a knowing grin on his lips. But the men around him laughed and pointed. His grin fading, John looked back at the table. There, where the middle shell had been, was the pea.
Behind John, the other gamblers all seemed to exhale at once. Then they began to chatter among themselves. “Knew it was the center one.” “Liar!” “I thought the giant was right for sure.”
John stared at the pea for several seconds, his mouth opening and closing, as if he couldn't think of what to say. He licked his lips, his gaze flicking up to Robin's face before shifting to that pile of coins he had placed on the table. Robin had the feeling that it represented all the money Little John had. Not that he would allow the Scot to welsh on their bet.
John's hand shot out toward the coins. Robin caught him by the wrist with his left hand and threw a punch with the right, catching John full on the bridge of the nose. John's head snapped back, but then he grinned, grabbed Robin by the collar and pulle
d him across the table, spilling the shells, the pea, and the money.
Instead of resisting, Robin grabbed the big man's shoulders and pushed hard off the table with his feet, overbalancing John so that they both tumbled to the ground. The men around them formed a wide circle, cheering, shouting, egging both of them on. Robin and John rolled around in the dirt for several moments, John trying to grab hold of Robin's neck, Robin peppering him with punches to the gut and face. Robin was the quicker of the two, and at first he thought that might be enough. That was probably his biggest mistake. He managed to get himself on top of John briefly, and he grabbed the man's neck and threw another punch.