Even as he thought it, Loxley laughed at the memory of the Shiriff’s lies. No, his father would not have begged, would not have cried. That same blood ran through his own veins; he could feel it. The temper, the recklessness; yet also the stubbornness, the steadfast courage. Though he may never have the chances his father had, to venture out into the world, to serve his king and country as a fighting man, he could at least continue this part of his father’s legacy.
He could die with courage in his heart.
He stood there, before the block that would be his doom, and gazed out upon the crowd that lined the cobbled square. Faces, a sea of them, ranging from the lowliest peasants, through merchants and all the way up to the local barons and lords. They stretched out, from the stage upon which he stood, all the way down the hill alongside the castle walls, to the Olde Trip to Jerusalem at the bottom, where he had sat drinking with Will but days before. The ending of his young life was no more than entertainment to them. Nothing more than an amusing diversion, a distraction of a morning, from the humdrum monotony of their lives.
Part of him raged against them; how dare they judge me? How dare they presume my life, all my hopes and dreams, my memories, the legacy that dies with me, to be nothing more than a macabre entertainment for the masses. If he had gone with that feeling, hurled abuse out at the crowd, even as they did at him, he would have been no less a man than all those that had gone before him. All those whose blood even now, still, stained dark crimson the wood of the platform upon which the waiting block did sit.
No, he would have been no less of a man. The baying crowd would have expected nothing less.
And yet, something stopped him. Something caused him to hold back. Was it a last attempt at reclaiming the family honour taken from him by the cold, contemptuous Shiriff who sat on his throne, in an ornate box, not twenty feet away? To spite the man by facing his doom with dignity?
No. No it wasn’t just that. He smiled as calm words of wisdom replayed through his mind.
You will learn, my young friend, that it’s not the common man that’s your enemy, but rather those he fears.
He looked out upon the crowd once more. Small children clad in rags, tired women, poor working men. Then he looked across to the Shiriff who sat, regal, surrounded by his armed guards. Yes. He could see it now. What could these men and women do in the face of such a ruler? If they did not cheer, jeer, hurl abuse and take part in this grand spectacle, then the powers that be might think them sympathisers. Thief-lovers. Rebel-helpers.
Traitors.
But as long as the people did nothing, accepted that things would remain how they are, then nothing would ever change. Yet how could they rise up, make a difference? Their lives were as nothing to the man that sat there, his cold smile on his face. With but a gesture of his ringed hand, he could have them, too, up on the block.
They needed a hero. They needed someone to encourage them, to let them know that the world need not be ruled by merciless tyrants and gold-hoarding tax-collectors. They needed someone on their side. Yet how many of those that thought that way ended up here, facing the block? Who could fight for justice, for the rights of the common man, when lives could be taken, snuffed out with such ease by those in power?
Not Loxley. Not now.
A prod from behind, and he was forced forwards by hands on his shoulders to kneel before the block.
He’d had his chance. Played the short-game, rather than the long-game, aiming to come here, to end the struggle with a single blow rather than staying where it was safer, recruiting more people to their cause.
And now he was to pay the ultimate price.
He closed his eyes and calmed his heart, determined to face the end with grace.
A bellowing voice rang out above the din of the jeering crowd, calling for silence. Cooper.
Loxley opened his eyes, looking over to the raised box wherein sat the Shiriff. The ruler waited for the crowd to fall quiet, before rising, his bright robes gleaming in the mid-morning sun. He gazed out upon the crowd before him, his face friendly, encouraging, every inch the benevolent ruler.
Every inch a lie.
“My friends,” his voice called out clear, cultured. Practiced. “We are here this morn to witness the inevitable end that awaits all traitors to our king. This man, Loxley, is such a traitor. A traitor and a son, too, of a traitor; a conspirator to assassination and a dweller among thieves and brigands.” The crowd jeered and booed at his words, hurling abuse at the stage in support of their ruler. The Shiriff smiled as he fixed the accused with his cold eyes. “Loxley, how do you plead to these charges?”
Loxley stared out, meeting the gaze of his accuser.
“I will not give you the satisfaction of pleading anything, for it will not alter my fate.” His voice held, despite the butterflies in his chest, sounding out clear and strong in the morning air. “I will do you the service, however, of delivering to you this final warning; though I die this day, there are others out there that will take my place. Others that fear not your evil. Others that will avenge not only me, but every other life taken and ruined by your greed and thirst for power. Mark my words, Shiriff… your days are as numbered as mine.”
The crowd, as one, looked to their ruler, who merely smiled.
“Ah yes,” he replied, his tone light, indulgent, mocking. “This man of power of whom you have spoken. Fear not, young man; the block before you accepts all comers. He, too, will find it more than accommodating.”
He gave a curt nod to Cooper.
“Executioner,” bellowed the giant brute. “Ready your axe!”
With a smirk of vengeance, the two guards to his sides let go of his shoulders, backing away a few steps to witness his demise without being covered in his lifeblood. From the steps at the side of the platform, a black-hooded figure began to ascend. No gargantuan brute of an axe man this, instead, being of normal proportions; though his measured steps and the way with which he held the instrument of death, with such ease and familiarity, spoke of great strength.
His shadow fell over Loxley as he moved to position, then stopped, awaiting the final command.
Cooper fixed the accused with a grin, giving a mocking little bow, before calling out once more.
“Executioner… commence your task!”
The black-hooded figure bent down to his victim, close, that he might whisper in his ear. What final words might Loxley hear? What final whispered viciousness to take with him into oblivion?
“Be ready…”
Loxley frowned, then, with a gasp from the crowd, the hooded figure whirled about, axe moving with a strength and precision that should belong to no man. It was Broken-Nose that took the brunt of it, the heavy weapon cleaving his head from his shoulders in a single clean sweep, the startled globe hurling off through the air in a spray of arterial red.
His pugilist comrade stood stunned, for a moment, unable to comprehend what had happened, then saw that the executioner moved now to him with menace in his step. In panic, he swept his halberd before him in an attempt to ward off his foe, but his opponent smashed the weapon to splinters with a single blow of his axe, before the return swing cleaved the guard in twain from waist to shoulder.
“Treachery!”
The Shiriff’s cry of outrage was all but drowned out by the roar of the confused crowd and the urgent cries of the guards that clustered about him in protection. As the great, looming form of Cooper began to stride over towards them, drawing his sword with a growl of bloodlust, the executioner turned his attention, now, to Loxley, parting the cords that bound his wrists with but a single slice of that keen-edged blade.
“Fie, you do get yourself into some predicaments, Boy…”
Loxley jumped up, rubbing his freed wrists as he grinned in fear and exhilaration.
“It’s Loxley, Alann. My name is Loxley.”
The Woodsman removed his mask, one raised eyebrow on his usually stoic face, betraying some slight amusement mixed with something else.
/>
“Aye,” he nodded. “So it would appear.”
They shared a smile, a moment of relief, before Loxley’s eyes widened in alarm.
“Move!”
He pushed Alann aside, just as the charging bulk of Cooper lunged towards them. The sword flashed out, point first, and Loxley tried to dodge, but his aching limbs betrayed him, the sharp steel slicing deep into his side before retreating.
“Not getting away so easy, toff,” spat the giant, as Loxley crumpled to his knees, hands pressed hard against his side as crimson lifeblood began to spread outward from the wound.
A shape rose up from where it had been pushed aside and Cooper turned his attention to the figure, ready to mock his smaller opponent. But as he took in those merciless eyes, his blood ran cold.
“That was a bad move, my friend,” spoke the Woodsman in a voice even, controlled, sure. “That was a very bad move.”
The huge guard lashed out with his sword, his expert blow aimed for his foe’s neck, but the axe handle whipped up, the wood catching the sword and holding it fast. Alann kicked out, catching the guard in the groin and doubling him over in pain, before lashing out with a head-butt that sent the big man to his knees, face a ruined mess of blood.
The last sight that Cooper would ever see was the tear-blurred flash of the Woodsman’s axe as it whistled towards his face.
Tugging his weapon free from the corpse of his foe, Alann turned, wrapping one arm about his fallen friend, hauling him to his feet. Loxley groaned in pain as he clutched his side, face pale from loss of blood.
“Come on, lad. Now’s not the time or the place to be dying on me.”
A fresh surge of excitement from the crowd, now, as hoof-beats signalled the arrival of horses into the square, speeding along at a canter, iron-shod hooves sparking on the cobbled streets as the crowd parted in fear.
One horse, with a rider, with another horse being led behind by rope. It was John that rode the lead horse, charging towards the stage. He had his mighty quarter-staff, but it was strapped to his back. Guards charged towards him, ready to take him down, to stop his flight, but a hail of arrows launched from nowhere, scything through the air to cut them down.
Through blurry eyes that threatened to fade to black, Loxley watched this all unfold. The thundering charge of the horses as they drew closer. The distant forms of Will, Luis, Iain and Nial atop distant horses of their own, covering John with accurate and deadly fire from their bows.
But most of all, he could see the Shiriff, face calm yet eyes dark as thunderclouds, as he was escorted, protected by a ring of guards as they made to take him back to the keep, back to the safety of the impenetrable stone walls. A moment of anger cut through Loxley’s pain.
“Kill him,” he hissed to the Woodsman. “Throw your axe – take him out before it’s too late.”
Alann looked up, spying the tyrant being escorted away by his guards. He could do it. He knew he could. One mighty swing and he could send the axe hurling, end over end, to split that noble face like a melon. Hell, if he wished, he could even have the axe take out his guards too, then return to his hand on the rebound.
It would be so simple. So easy.
“No lad,” he told his wounded friend. “That’s not my destiny. That honour belongs to someone else.”
The horses arrived before them, the bellowing voice of John calling for them to jump aboard the second mount, even as he unslung his staff and swung it about to keep the guards at bay. Within moments, archers began to appear upon the high walls of the castle, ready to unleash death upon the rebels from the vantage point of their fortress.
But by then, the foe had disappeared, hoof-beats receding in the distance as they made their way north away from the town.
Made their way north, back home.
***
The fire burned brightly in the hearth, but he derived no comfort from it. Every crackle, every snap of twig sounding like mocking laughter to his ears.
This would not do. No, it would not do at all.
He took a sip of the wine, a rich, deep red, his face impassive as he thought. Then, with no warning, he turned, launching the goblet with all his force to smash against the wall of his chamber, the red liquid staining beyond repair the expensive tapestry that hung there.
The figure that chose that precise moment to enter the room paused, turning to look at the spreading stain and fragments of goblet, before continuing to walk, coming to a halt before the Shiriff’s table.
“Sire.”
The Shiriff looked up with weary eyes to the newcomer. So, this was Cooper’s second-in-command? The man had the lean, predatory look of a ferret about him, one eye ruined by an age old scar of battle.
“And what is your name, pray tell?”
“Gisborne, milord. Guy of Gisborne.” His voice was filled with a dark menace, a smile playing his lips as he continued. “I now captain your guard after Cooper’s, ahem, unfortunate incident. Our scouts have returned, having trailed our quarry to the forests in the north. I’m here to enquire as to your orders…”
The Shiriff nodded, but he was no longer looking at the man, instead, gazing deep into the crackling orange flames in the stone hearth.
“Burn it,” he told the man. “Burn it all.”
The man named Gisborne grinned as he turned, striding from the room, leaving his lord to stare into the flames.
Chapter Eleven:
She stood, staring down at the lifeless, smoking and blackened corpse, the low wind playing with her long, sandy hair as she examined with fierce, brown eyes. Perhaps she should feel sad. Perhaps, indeed, she should feel shocked, stunned, weeping at what she had wrought. But the memory of the touch of that glowing blade was still fresh in her thoughts.
And more than that, the cackling, malicious hunger of the spirits of fire still surged through her veins.
Even as she remembered the touch of the burning blade, she looked down, the livid scars already healing themselves as the spirits of earth lent her strength, absorbing her wounds into themselves. How could this be, she thought to herself? She was no shaman. She knew nothing of spirit-craft, save what little Gwenna had taught her in these last few, fleeting weeks.
But no; she knew that something had changed. Something of Gwenna had rubbed off on her this night. Something had awoken within her, some latent talent that perhaps Gwenna had suspected had been there all along.
And perhaps Virginie had suspected it too.
The spirits clamoured about her; those of the air, the earth, the fire, the water. All desperate to help, eager to lend her their strengths. The surge of power was exhilarating. It was a torrent, rushing through her unbidden, scary, yet she didn’t want it to stop. Couldn’t make it stop. People that could see and commune with the spirits were few and far between in this land, in this time, thanks to the persecution of l’eglise. Now, after the awakening brought on by her bond with Gwenna, the spirits clustered about her, swarming, like moths about a flame.
There would be a price for this, she knew. She had learned that much, at least, from Gwenna these last weeks. There was always a price. And she knew that she was nowhere near strong enough to give the spirits back what they would want from her when this was all over.
But images of her friends, of Gwenna, being carted away by the Malleus just kept flickering through her mind. She could not allow them to come to harm. She had given them a promise that she would see them safely out of the country, out of harm’s way, to wait for the return of their lord.
No. Whilst this power flowed through her veins, she would do what she could to aid them.
Come what may.
She stalked from the clearing, leaving the flaming tree, the melted sword and the charred and smouldering corpse behind her, her eyes full of a simmering rage and hunger that wasn’t entirely her own.
***
The sun was beginning to rise up over the horizon, its rays turning the sky a burning orange, just as they came into a village. Voices, as the Mall
eus men woke an innkeeper and commandeered his lodgings.
They had travelled throughout the night. But now they were to stop for rest, it seemed.
All about the wagons, the villagers had begun their morning duties; making their way to market, collecting water from the well. All their usual errands. The black wagons in the centre of the village must have stood out like sore thumbs. The dark iron bars to the rear of the vehicles, spaced far enough part that any villager might easily see through them to the prisoners within.
Yet not a single person dared look within. Not a single soul out of all the French villagers showed even the slightest bit of interest. They went on their way, studiously avoiding glancing even once in their direction.
Gwenna closed her eyes. This was what fear brought; the fear of damnation, of persecution, would cause even the kindest hearted of people to overlook the misery and suffering of others for the sake of their own comfort.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Time passed. It seemed as though the Malleus men were the only ones to have proper lodgings within the building; the prisoners being left outside in the wagons. But then voices, the jangling of keys.
A Malleus man, then another, the duo garbed in that menacing, long black overcoat and wide-brimmed hat of the witch-hunter. One man raised the keys, opening the barred door to the wagon for the first time since leaving the village in the south.
Like a shot, Pol darted towards the exit, an angry hound that had been held back and now let loose. Barging past his fellow captives, he threw himself at the closest Malleus man, hoping to overwhelm the duo by sheer surprise and ferocity.
But these men were veterans of a hundred such raids. Even as Pol lunged, the keymaster sidestepped, Pol running into the gloved fist of the second man. The impact smashed into his face with a crack, the youth falling backwards into the wagon to sprawl on the floor, blood trickling from his bust lip. With a snarl, he made to rise again, but the click of a crossbow being levelled cause him to pause.
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