Robin Hood

by DAVID B. COE

  Well, their time of reckoning had arrived at last. The sheriff was a loyal servant of His Majesty, King John. Few others in Nottingham could claim as much. He would enjoy watching them get their comeuppance.

  He watched as Belvedere walked through the village, directing his men, and shouting to the villagers.

  “Tax collection! Valuations free! No exceptions!”

  Belvedere seemed to be enjoying himself. He grinned broadly, and nodded his approval as the soldiers moved from house to house, taking what they could.

  The sheriff leaned against the door frame and grinned as well. Yes, he would enjoy watching this.

  TUCK COULD HEAR the tax collectors' cries from within the Church of Saint Edmund, and he hurried around his small nave hiding what he could from King John's men. He had little time, and with Loxley and his friends gone for the time being, it fell to him to protect the people of his parish as best he could.

  He went to the church door and peered outside. A group of soldiers marched his way. Tuck barely had time to close the door again and sit down in the nave. He tried to look nonchalant, but when the soldiers kicked in his door, he started and jumped to his feet.

  The men swarmed into his church and quickly discovered his stash of mead. They began to help themselves. Tuck mourned the loss of his golden drink, and he feared what the men would do to the chapel. But he also recognized an opportunity when it presented itself. As the soldiers drank, he slipped out of his church.

  GODFREY HAD TAKEN thirty of Adhemar's men and led them up the lane to the manor on the hill. Loxley's home. The fading scar on his cheek itched as they approached the stone gates of the house. He was looking forward to avenging the wound.

  Entering the courtyard, which was little more than a dusty feeding ground for pigs and chickens, Godfrey swung himself off his mount, sword in hand.

  “Loxley!” he shouted. “Show your lying face.”

  His men spread out and advanced across the yard, weapons drawn, searching for the impostor shamelessly claiming to be the man Godfrey himself had killed. Apparently he wasn't done killing Loxleys. He was fine with that.

  ONE OF THE leaders had set up a long table, using broad wooden boards set on barrels. This man was now overseeing the collection of what seemed to be every piece of property the people of Nottingham owned. And Marion, caught in a collection line with the others, could do nothing about it. She had a small blade in her belt; she always did. But these men were armed with lances and swords. Any attempt she made to fight them off would end in her own death.

  So she watched and grieved as the people of her village—all of them of modest means—stepped up to the table one by one and handed over spoons and knives, tools and silver needles, mementos and heirlooms that could never be replaced and which never should have been taken in the first place.

  After some time, Marion couldn't even bring herself to watch. She couldn't remember feeling so helpless. And yet, moments later matters turned far worse.

  She reached the table and the soldier there didn't even look up at her.

  “Name?” he demanded.

  “Loxley,” she said, refusing to give in to the feelings of humiliation she read on the faces of her friends and neighbors.

  “Christian name?”

  “Marion.”

  “Land?”

  “Five thousand acres.”

  Upon overhearing this, a man sitting at the end of the table stood and approached her. He was her height, with a clean-shaven head, a trim beard, and small, widely-spaced eyes. She hadn't seen him before this day, but she had heard others calling him Belvedere, and she had watched him as he oversaw this brutal “tax collection.”

  He came around the table and took her by the arm none too gently.

  “Lady Marion,” he said with an unctuous smile, “this is no place for you.”

  She tried to pull her arm out of his grasp, but he tightened his grip.

  “Let go of me!” she said.

  Belvedere ignored her and beckoned to one of his men; a rough-looking sort who bore more resemblance to a highway thief than to a soldier. The ruffian strode over and the tax collector whispered something to him. Marion heard little of what he said, though she did make out the word “barn.”

  The ruffian leered at her and then dragged her away from the village center, his hand viselike on her arm. Marion shouted at the man to let go of her, but he might as well have been deaf. The villagers stared after her, but none of them came to her defense. Nor could she blame them. They were as helpless against these hooligans as she.

  The ruffian pulled her down a deserted lane to an empty barn. He thrust her inside, and for an instant Marion feared that he meant to force himself on her. But the man merely leered again and then shut the barn door. She rushed to the door and tried to push it open, but he had already barred it. She searched frantically for another way out, but found none. She was trapped.

  AT FIRST NO ONE responded to Godfrey's challenge. He and his men stood in the courtyard of the manor, waiting, until Godfrey began to wonder if all the Loxleys had abandoned the place.

  But at last a door opened and a man stepped into the daylight. It wasn't the man Godfrey had expected. Rather it was an ancient knight, his face deeply lined. Godfrey did notice though, that the man wore a sword on his belt. He also appeared to be blind. He didn't look directly at any of them, but instead held his head high and said, “Who calls here?”

  Godfrey took a step to the side, so that he was far from the area where the old man was looking. His soldiers laughed.

  “You mean here?” Godfrey asked, in a mocking tone. He sobered quickly. He had a man to kill. “I call for Robert Loxley.”

  “My son is not here to answer you,” the old man said.

  “That's the truth. Your son is dead in a French ditch.”

  The old man's hand flew to the hilt of his sword. “And who are you to say so, sir?” he demanded, steel in his voice.

  Godfrey had started to move as the codger spoke, and made his way behind the man. As he finished his question, Godfrey shoved him to the ground.

  “I, sir?” he said. “I am the man who killed him.”

  The absence of Sir Robert, or whoever the man really was, disappointed Godfrey, but at least he had the old man for a bit of sport. And it seemed that the ancient knight had no intention of being dispatched without a fight. He climbed to his feet and, amazingly, drew his sword.

  “Fight me, who dares!” he roared.

  Godfrey glanced at his men. “Lord have mercy upon us,” he said, feigning abject terror. This earned him another laugh from the soldiers.

  “Amen to that!” said the old knight.

  Godfrey raised his sword and stepped toward old Loxley from the left, attacking the knight's off hand. He swung hard, intending to end this fight with a single stroke.

  Somehow though, whether because he wasn't as blind as he made out, or because he heard Godfrey's approach, Loxley managed to parry the blow at the last moment. He moved deftly, swinging his sword with the ease and grace of a younger man.

  Surprised, Godfrey stepped back. Perhaps this wouldn't be the easy kill he'd imagined. All the better. He turned his sword and slapped at the old man with the flat of the blade, toying with him. Loxley lunged for him, stumbled. He swung his sword so hard that he nearly spun himself off his feet, but Godfrey stepped away nimbly. The legionnaires laughed uproariously.

  Godfrey stepped back out of the man's reach and sketched a small bow for the men. But this small movement seemed to be all Loxley needed to fix his position. Suddenly the old man launched himself at Godfrey, swinging his weapon with both hands. Godfrey blocked the strike, but only just. He backed away quickly, forced off balance by the power of the old man's assault.

  But Loxley wasn't done. He swung his sword a second time and a third. Having located Godfrey, he fought with the skill and determination of a seasoned warrior. Godfrey parried desperately, but even so, he was unable to block one strike that caught him
in the side. Only his chain mail saved him from being cleaved in two. The rings of his coat were torn open, and Godfrey stumbled down and to the side.

  Which proved to be Loxley's undoing. With Godfrey no longer just in front of him, the old man blundered on straight ahead. Godfrey rolled to his side, and was up on his feet an instant later. But Loxley was past him.

  After taking a step or two, Loxley halted, seeming to realize that Godfrey was no longer in front of him. Godfrey strode toward him, gripping his sword. They had wasted too much time on one old man. He pulled back his blade, and stabbed Loxley through the back. The old man's back arched; his sword clattered to the ground. Then he collapsed to his knees, toppled over, and was still.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  The sheriff had finished shaving and had put on his finest day clothes. He opened the door of his house intending to greet the tax collectors properly and to demonstrate to all in the village that he was the Crown's chosen representative here in Nottingham. Perhaps that would earn him the sort of deference he deserved.

  Upon looking out at the town, though, he couldn't help but notice that the king's men seemed to have gone a bit far in their collection of taxes. Throughout the village, bedlam reigned. People were screaming, not in outrage, but in terror. Houses burned, men and women lay dead and wounded in the street. Yes, these people needed discipline, but this struck him as too much.

  Several of the French soldiers stood just in front of his house along with the bald, bearded man who had come to the town days before. The sheriff thought his name was Belvedere.

  He greeted this man as if they were old friends.

  “Excusez-moi!” he said. Excuse me.

  Belvedere turned to look at him.

  “I'm French on my mother's side,” the sheriff went on in a confidential tone.

  “Ah, ouí!” said the bald man.

  The sheriff's smile broadened and he winked at the man. “Ah, ouí.”

  Another group of men hurried past, also carrying brands. Belvedere barked an order to one of them, and the man threw one of the burning brands through the window of the sheriff's house.

  In moments, flames were crackling within and dark smoke began to pour from the window.

  The sheriff's first thought was to rush inside and try to put out the fire. But Belvedere was watching him, and the sheriff thought better of it. If all went as planned, he would have plenty of gold to build himself a new one. Or he would take Peper Harrow as his own.

  ALONE IN THE barn, Marion began to wonder if she had been singled out in recognition of her status as a landowner and the wife of a knight, or if she was being held in preparation for special ill treatment. Belvedere's comment about her not belonging in line with the others seemed to suggest the former. But everything about his manner and that of his henchman made her fear the latter.

  She had been alone in her dusty prison for perhaps a quarter of an hour, when she heard someone unlocking the door. She moved quickly to the far wall, and stood with her back pressed against it. Sunlight filtered in between the boards of the walls, slanting through the barn unevenly, in broad, hazy planes. She pulled her knife free, hid it in her sleeve, and placed her hands behind her against the wall.

  The door opened, and Belvedere walked in. He paused, looking her up and down and smiling in a way that made her skin crawl. After a moment, he closed the door and secured it from within. He crossed to her, regarded her once more, and then removed his belt and sword.

  Marion watched him, certain now that he intended to rape her. He stepped so close to her that his chest was nearly pressed against her breasts. Looking down at the laces of her bodice, he grinned and began to untie them.

  Marion turned her head to the side, as if shamed. But she allowed the blade to slip down from her sleeve into the palm of her hand. Still, she didn't move, and Belvedere pressed even closer, his breath hot on her face and neck.

  She brought her arms out from behind her and as he moved to kiss her, she plunged her dagger into his back. He gasped, his mouth opening, his eyes going wide. He grabbed for her throat, but Marion leaned back against the wall and kicked at him with all her strength.

  He fell hard onto his back, driving her blade deeper into his heart. His body convulsed and then was still. His eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling.

  NOTTINGHAM WAS BEING destroyed before Tuck's very eyes. Houses burned, the streets were littered with the dead; those who still lived were in flight, desperate to get away from the king's men. Tuck had done what he could to fight off the invaders, but he was but one man against so many. Still he didn't give up.

  First he crept back to his church, where French soldiers still drank his mead. He carefully picked up one of his bee skeps, carried it back to the church entrance, and before the men could stop him, threw the hive inside. He slammed the door shut and secured it.

  He heard shouts from within, then yelps of pain. Grinning with satisfaction, he turned away from the chapel and started back toward village center.

  Seeing one of the French ruffians climb onto a thatch roof with a burning brand, Tuck followed him up, moving as stealthily as his bulk allowed.

  Before the man could light the house on fire, Tuck swung his stave, catapulting the man off the roof. The Frenchman landed hard on the ground and lay still.

  Tuck smiled grimly and looked around for more of the enemy to attack. Instead, he saw something from his vantage point on the house that nearly stopped his heart. The soldiers were herding villagers into the tithe barn near the church, shoving some inside, literally throwing others. At the same time, others in the tax force were splashing something onto the sides of the building. Tuck would have bet all the gold in the realm that it wasn't water or even his beloved mead. It was naphtha, or something worse. They were going to burn those poor souls alive.

  ROBIN AND THE barons rode hard, thundering toward Nottingham. Robin could see smoke rising from the town and he prayed that Marion was safe. Fitzrobert and Baldwin rode alongside him; Will, Allan, and Little John were just behind. As they neared the village, Robin turned to the barons.

  “Take the southern flank!” he said. “Circle them, and then to the west!”

  Other men of their rank might have chafed at being ordered about so by a common soldier, but Fitzrobert and Baldwin understood what was at stake and were as eager to find and defeat Godfrey as Robin. They both nodded to him and led their men to the south. Robin and his friends went to the north.

  WITH THE OLD man dead, Godfrey led his men back down the lane toward Nottingham. He would help Adhemar and Belvedere finish their work here, and then they would go on to the next village. But as they rode through the manor gate, Godfrey spotted a contingent of men emerging from the forest that bordered the Loxley fields.

  He reined his horse to a halt and stared hard at the men. They were well armed, and there had to be more than a hundred of them—nearly a match for his own force. At the center of the company rode a man he recognized, from the wood in France, and from the dock in London.

  As he watched them, the riders spotted him and his soldiers. A great cry went up from the approaching company, and the lead rider pointed directly at him, his finger like an arrow aimed at Godfrey's heart. An instant later, the full company was thundering their way.

  Instinctively, Godfrey raised a hand to his scar. Then, with a shout to his men, he spurred his mount to a gallop and made for the road leading away from Nottingham. He could hear that the riders were gaining on them. Moments later, arrows began to rain down on his men. One of his riders fell, and then another, and a third.

  Just a few minutes before he had been ready to count Nottingham as another victory in his march across England. Now, suddenly, he was riding for his life.

  EVEN WITH so many soldiers trapped in the church and beset by bees, Friar Tuck could see that the situation in the village was deteriorating quickly. Cries of outrage and despair, screams of panic and pain— they came from every direction. Children baw
led in the lanes, clinging to their mothers and fathers, or desperate to find them. Livestock ran wild through the streets, only to be slaughtered at random by the soldiers. The sounds of shattering glass and rending wood filled the air. Houses were being ransacked; people were losing what little earthly property they had. An old man trying to get off the lanes was ridden down by a soldier—nay, a thug—on a horse.

  Tuck had seen quite enough. He still carried his stave, and now he hefted it like a club and waded into the middle of the chaos, swinging it at the ruffians with all the might the Good Lord had given him. He knocked one man unconscious and unhorsed another. He might have been a man of the cloth, but he wasn't above fighting for the lambs he had been sent here to shepherd. He lifted his stave again and started toward two more tax soldiers who were harassing some poor woman. The men backed away at the sight of him. Tuck grinned fiercely and advanced on them, laying them out with two might swipes of his weapon.