by DAVID B. COE
Crossing through the gate, Robin found the lanes of the village crowded with a ragged army of yeomen and peasants of all ages. They were armed and some wore armor, but Robin was certain that few of them had been soldiers a month ago. Many wore haunted expressions, as if they had already witnessed horrors enough to last them a lifetime.
And looking around, he had no doubt that they had. Barnsdale had been ravaged. What hadn't been torn apart had been burned. Almost no home or shop had been spared.
Robin glanced back at Will and the others before dismounting and beginning to walk slowly through the village. His village, where he had passed the earliest days of his childhood. The place looked familiar to him and he tried to get his bearings, to recall where his home had been. He could tell that the others were following, but he didn't look back at them. The place had taken hold of him—the look of it, the smells. His blood seemed to flow through his body and into the very earth on which he walked.
You will find what you are looking for, Sir Walter had said.
Robin was close now. He knew it. The deeper into the village he walked, the more powerful the feeling grew. And so when he turned the corner, he should have been prepared for what he saw. Should have been, but wasn't.
Towering over the ruin that once had been Barns-dale's village center, stark against the blue sky, stood the Celtic cross that he remembered from his youth. The cross his father had built.
Seeing it, Robin felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. He walked toward it, unable to look away, and unable to resist the memories that washed over him once more.
HE IS TOO SMALL. Something is happening at the center of the crowd, but men's backs block his view, so that all he can see is the cross towering above all of them. The men are soldiers, he realizes. They wear chain mail and tabards bearing the Plantagenet leopards. But this doesn't stop him. He wants to see, has to see, and he can't. And so he begins to push his way through, snaking between and around and under when all else fails. He pushes past a forest of legs and swords hanging from belts, and comes at last to the front of the army that has gathered in the center of the village.
His father stands straight and tall before the cross, facing the king's men, dignified and strong, as unmovable as the cross itself. If he is afraid, he shows no sign of it. But Robin is afraid. And he sees fear written on the faces of those who look on.
Thomas Longstride draws his sword slowly, his eyes still on the soldiers. There is no menace in the gesture, no threat. He pulls the weapon free and then turns it so that he can offer the hilt to the nearest of the soldiers. It is an act of goodwill, a peace offering. Any fool can see that.
ROBIN DIDN'T WANT to remember any of this. He knew the ending as well as he did his own name. He had seen it, he had remembered it once. He wanted only to turn away, to leave this place. But still he walked on toward the cross, breathing quickly and hard now. And still the images came, inexorable as the tide.
THE KING'S MEN have grabbed hold of Thomas Longstride. They grip his arms, holding them outstretched so that he is defenseless. Around them, the people shout that he has done nothing wrong. Robin screams for them to let his father go. But the guards won't listen. The man who has taken the stonemason's sword raises it and strikes….
ROBIN STAGGERED AND cried out as if taking the remembered blow himself. He nearly fell, but righted himself, his eyes unseeing….
* * *
HE SCREAMS, SWOONS, collapses to the ground, and for a moment is lost to the darkness. But soon he feels powerful hands lift him. He tries to fight them off, to kick and punch and bite. His father is dead; he will not be taken, too.
But through half-lidded eyes he sees that it is not the king's men who have taken him, but two others. Young men, grim and determined.
And from a distance of too many years, the older Robin, the man walking through the streets of his youth, recognizes these two. Sir Walter, his eyes whole and clear, and William Marshal, his mane of red hair untouched by silver. They spirit him away through the village, away from blood and murder and his father's cross.
ROBIN PAUSED IN the lane, looked back up at the cross. This was where he had watched it happen, where he had fallen. He knelt, touching the ground, trying to slow his heart and catch his breath. Looking up again, he stopped breathing altogether. Thomas Longstride knelt before him, alive, untouched by the sword, his dark eyes boring into Robin's.
Robin felt a sob ripped from his chest. He closed his eyes tight and took several deep breaths to compose himself. When he opened his eyes once more, the vision of his father was gone. He was alone in the street again, watched by the soldiers before him and his friends, who stood just behind. He climbed to his feet, weary, frightened by what was happening to him, and walked the remaining distance to the base of the cross.
Reaching it he knelt again at the place his father had fallen.
“Robin?” Little John's voice. He sounded worried.
“Journey's end,” Robin said without turning.
The stone before him was covered with soot, bloodied, weathered by storms and wind and thirty-five winters. But he could see the chisel work, and he reached out tentatively to brush his fingers against the blocks. Blocks his father had cut and shaped. He pulled his sword free, and pressing it to the base of the flagstone on the stone step, he pried the block loose. There was a scroll there, as he had known there would be and he opened it, revealing the words he remembered from his youth, words he had read on the hilt of a sword not so very long ago and yet seemingly a lifetime.
Then, again using his sword, he lifted a second stone to reveal handprints. One clearly belonged to a boy. It was tiny, the impression in the dried cement shallow, tentative. The one just beside it was that of a man, firmer, deeper. Robin placed his hand over that one. His palm and fingers fit it perfectly.
He stood and looked toward the pavilion where soldiers, townspeople, and nobles had gathered beneath brightly colored banners. There were hundreds of them; perhaps a thousand.
Looking to the far end of the lane, Robin saw riders approaching the pavilion. They were dressed as soldiers, their horses armored, and they rode with precision. It took him a moment to recognize the lead rider and another to convince himself that he wasn't mistaken.
King John had come to Barnsdale.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Marshal had continued to argue with the barons long past the point where he still believed he could turn their minds. He knew he should have given up, but he had served the realm for too long to surrender so easily.
The barons were set on their course, and refused to believe that Godfrey was anything more than just another overzealous servant of the Throne. And how could William, a servant of that Throne himself, convince them otherwise?
“We will not fight to save John's crown,” Baldwin told him with finality. “Let him rather bend the knee to us!”
The barons and their soldiers cheered this. If he had accomplished nothing else, William had at least given the nobles ample opportunity to inspire their men.
A commotion at the back of the pavilion silenced the crowd, and a moment later Marshal heard shouts of “Make way for the king.”
Scarcely believing it possible that John could be here, Marshal tried to see past the men before him, shifting to one side and then the other. Finally, as the last of the men parted to let the newcomers through, he saw that the king had in fact come.
Whatever John's shortcomings as a leader, Marshal could not help thinking in that moment that he did at least look the part. He wore battle garb—chain mail and a brilliant tabard bearing the Plantagenet crest— and he carried his golden battle crown tucked under one arm. He smiled confidently as he walked, his dark curls shining, his eyes sweeping over the mob imperiously.
Stopping before Baldwin, John drew his sword, flipped it over in one quick motion, and caught it deftly by the blade. Then he presented the hilt to Baldwin.
“I'll do more than that, Lord Baldwin,�
�� he said in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “I'll bear my breast for your sword-point.”
Marshal wasn't sure what to make of the king's ostentatious display. He thought it possible that it might impress the barons enough to make them listen to reason. Or it might come across as mocking and arrogant, like so much of what the king did and said, and serve only to anger them further.
Clearly the barons were no less bemused than he. Several bowed reflexively. Some began to kneel, but then straightened quickly, seeming to remember that they were supposed to be in rebellion.
John, not done yet, tossed his crown to the ground so that it rolled to a stop at Baldwin's feet.
“Is this what you want?” John asked. “I'd rather give it to you than have it taken by the French.”
Baldwin glanced down at the crown, but made no move to pick it up. Of all the men in the pavilion, he appeared least impressed with the king's antics.
“You mistake me, Sire,” he said. “I have no right and no ambition to wear this. But,” he went on, raising a finger, “let the rightful wearer beware! From now, we will be subject only to law which we have a hand in making. We are not sheep to be made mutton by your butchers.”
John frowned. “Godfrey set himself to turn you against me.”
“Then he did more than was needed to accomplish that,” Fitzrobert answered.
The other barons had recovered from the initial impact of John's arrival. They shouted angrily in agreement. A few laughed ironically.
“We are men of means,” Fitzrobert said, drawing himself up to his full height, and appearing to take up half the pavilion. “And we control our own lot. But the only law is your law. No longer!”
Shouts of “Aye! Aye!” filled the pavilion. John glanced around, clearly less confident than he had been only moments before.
WHILE JOHN AND the barons argued back and forth, Robin strode through the pavilion, stepping past nobles until he stood directly in front of the king. Few took notice of him, dressed as he was in common garb. A few of the barons scowled at him. William Marshal, on the other hand, couldn't have appeared more pleased. He beamed at Robin, looking like a half-drowned man who had just been thrown a rope. The king, on the other hand, barely spared him a glance. Belatedly, Robin realized that he was a commoner among nobles and knights, a stonemason's son come to address a king.
“I am here to speak on behalf of Sir Walter Loxley,” he said.
John was eyeing Robin closely, his eyes narrowed. Robin wondered if the king recognized him from the dock in London.
“Speak if you must,” he said disdainfully.
“If you are trying to build for the future, your foundation must be strong,” Robin said. “This land enslaves its people to the king, one who demands loyalty, yet offers nothing in return.”
Several of the barons nodded and voiced their agreement.
“I've marched from France to Palestine and back,” Robin told them. “And I know that in tyranny lies only failure. You build a country like a cathedral, from the ground up. Acknowledge the rights of every man and you will gain strength.”
The barons nodded their agreement with this, as well, and then turned as one to John.
The king regarded Robin shrewdly, the way he might an opponent in a knife fight. “Who could object to such reasonable words?” He smiled disarmingly and gave a small shrug. “But my dilemma is this: A king cannot bargain for the loyalty every subject owes him. Without that loyalty, there can be no kingdom.”
Robin considered this for a few seconds. “Then offer justice in the form of a charter, allowing every man to forage for the hearth, hunt for the pot; to be safe from eviction without cause or prison without charge; to work, eat, and live merry as he may on the sweat of his own brow. Then, a king that great and wise will not only receive loyalty from his people, but their love as well.”
For just an instant, it seemed to Robin that he could feel his father's presence there in the pavilion, that he had spoken these words with the stonemason's voice.
John gave a small chuckle in response to what Robin had said. “What would you ask?” the king said. “Every man his own castle?”
“Every Englishman's home is his castle,” Robin answered. “All we ask for is liberty and law. You, Sire, have the chance to unite your subjects both high and low. It is all on your nod.”
As Robin spoke, he saw a man emerge from the crowd, make his way to William Marshal's side, and speak to Marshal in low tones. Marshal's eyes widened at what he heard, and he stepped forward to stand beside Robin.
“Your Majesty!” he said. “My lords! The French fleet is in the Channel!”
Silence fell over the pavilion. The barons stared hard at the king, who looked back at them, perhaps searching their faces for even one ally who might come to his defense. Seeing none, a thin smile crossed his lips. “I have only to nod?” he said. “I can do better than that. I give my word that I will sign this charter. On my mother's life, I swear it.”
A deafening roar went up from the barons, knights, and soldiers. John had clearly been reluctant to agree to the charter, but he smiled at the response he'd evoked, his color rising.
Robin couldn't help but feel proud of what he had unleashed, but he knew that the coming battle would be a difficult one, and that the future of the realm hung in the balance. It seemed though that there was even more at stake than he had guessed.
Marshal stepped closer to him.
“Godfrey makes for Nottingham,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I must stay with the king. I will send Baldwin and Fitzrobert with you, and we will meet at the White Horse when you are done.”
Robin nodded and turned, determined to reach Peper Harrow in time to stop Godfrey's assault.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Marion could not remember a finer day in Nottingham. Yes, Robin was gone, but she believed with all her heart that he would return. And signs of what the man had brought to the hamlet were all around. The village bustled as it hadn't in years.
Everywhere, townspeople went about their chores wearing smiles and greeting one another cheerfully. Farmers sold vegetables and fowl from carts. Older children played marbles and bowling hoops in the lanes, while their younger siblings rode hobbyhorses or followed their mothers from cart to cart.
As Marion made her way through the town market, she thought she heard music playing. A fife and a flute, and at least one drum; more likely two. Itinerant musicians often traveled the countryside this time of year, but it seemed a bit odd to her. Until recently there had been little music of any sort in Nottingham. Now, only a few days after the dance by the bonfire, musicians had come to the hamlet.
Hearing the music, some of the children gave up their games and ran to investigate. Marion watched them go, smiling at the glee she saw in their faces.
And then she heard another kind of drumming. Hoofbeats. Of many horses. Dozens of them, perhaps hundreds.
Lifting her skirts, Marion hurried down the lane toward the village gate to get a better look. What she saw froze her blood. An army of nearly two hundred men was approaching Nottingham through the fields. At least half the men were mounted, and all of them well armed.
Townspeople had gathered around her, and others were coming forward to see for themselves what was happening. The smiles Marion had seen on their faces only moments before were now gone. They looked scared, grim, as if every one of them sensed in the soldiers' appearance a return to the dark times from which the village had so recently emerged.
Marion watched the soldiers for another moment before turning and fighting her way back through the villagers toward the alarm bell in the village center. Reaching it, she pulled the rope, and the bell began to peal, echoing loudly through the lanes. But she knew better than to expect that anyone would come to their aid; Robin and his friends were too far away to help them. The men and women of the village would have to protect themselves.
THE SHERIFF OF Nottingham had just lathered his fac
e to shave when he heard the commotion outside his home. Holding his razor in hand, he walked to his door and stepped outside to see what was happening.
He recognized Godfrey's men right away, saw the king's tax collection force fanning out through the village, and he grinned at the sight. The rabble in this town had ignored him and mocked him in equal measure. They had refused to submit themselves to his authority, and had dismissed him as a man of little consequence. And none had shown him less respect than the troublemakers up in Peper Harrow.