by Simon Hawke
"They would have had to travel through Sherwood," Bobby said. "You don't think maybe-"
"No chance," said Finn. "If our guys had anything to do with it, I'd know about it."
Bobby smiled. "You really like them, don't you?"
"Like them? Yes, I suppose I do, at that. They're a good bunch. They work hard and they play hard. In a way, they sort of remind me of Eric's men."
"Eric?"
Finn chuckled. "Eric the Red. Nastiest son of a bitch it was ever my pleasure to serve under. You think this is a heavy gig? I'll tell you what a rough gig is. Try heading out to open sea in a longboat. Seventy-five feet from bow to stern, about ten feet in the beam, rigged with a Nordic square sail. God, those men were really something. Vikings. Greatest sailors ever lived, except maybe the Polynesians. I'll tell you something, we've got us a rough and ready bunch here, but they wouldn't last five minutes in a set-to with the Vikings."
"You know something, Finn? I think you were born too late."
"No way. I was born right smack on time. I wouldn't trade my life for anything. You and I, we're the ultimate soldiers. We can fight with anyone, anytime, anywhere. We've got all of human history to play with. I'll tell you one soldier who would've given his eyeteeth for living in our time and serving in the Temporal Corps. Fella by the name of Patton. Now there's a guy who was born too late, but not late enough."
"You're a romantic, Finn," said Bobby, softly.
"I guess I am, kid."
"I'm not." Bobby sighed. "I'm a realist. I can appreciate the way you feel, but what we're doing is dangerous, damned dangerous. Man never should have traveled back through time, Finn. It's wrong. It's crazy. Worse than that, it's stupid.
They're afraid to travel to the future because no one knows just what the future is. Is there a future? I mean, how many possibilities are there? Who knows what kind of bends and twists the timestream takes up ahead? Maybe someday some lunatic will actually try it, but they're scared of that right now and so long as they remain scared, I think there's still a chance that they'll come to their senses and stop the time wars. I don't know what it would take. Maybe something like this, maybe something worse, I just don't know, but I wish to hell they'd stop."
He stared at the embers silently as the sun came up.
"I want to go home," he said.
10
Andre was exhausted. She was grateful to drop Cedric off at Nottingham Castle. Blindfolding him had not been enough, it had finally been necessary to gag him, as well. She had had more than she could stand of his defiant epithets, Athelstane's ceaseless grumbling and Rowena's whining. She had finally ordered them all gagged, although she had to call one of the men over with a hand signal and whisper the command, since she could not imitate De Bracy's voice. The blindfolds served a dual purpose, protecting her masquerade as well as preventing the prisoners from seeing that they were being taken to Nottingham, rather than Torquilstone. Had the prisoners been able to see, they might have realized that she was not De Bracy; something might have given it away.
Taking them had been simple enough. The attack had been a complete surprise and every member of their party save for the three of them had been killed. It was a shame about the palmer who had been traveling with them. A simple pilgrim who had only desired safe passage through the wood, he was an innocent bystander. He had not even been armed. Still, she had her orders. She consoled herself that she had not hit him all that hard; perhaps there was a chance that the blow had not been fatal. It was a small consolation, but it was something.
Her stay at Nottingham had been extremely brief. She had remained there only long enough to see the prisoners turned over to the sheriff's men at arms and to pick up Marcel and change back into her own clothing and armor. Now, with Marcel riding at her side, she was once again the red knight, on her way to Torquilstone. De Bracy would welcome Andre de la Croix, never suspecting that he would be admitting his own murderer to his castle.
She was growing tired of playing ceaseless games of charade. Her breasts were hurting from the cloth that they were tightly swaddled in and she was badly in need of sleep. How long would it go on? How long could it go on? With all the constant intrigue, the pressure was increasing. Her greatest fear was not that she would die, but that she would somehow make a mistake and be caught, that her true sex would be discovered. All things considered, it was remarkable that she had been able to get away with it for so long.
What would they do, she wondered, if they were to find out? Kill her? It was certainly possible. Imprison her? More than likely. On the other hand, it was much more than a case of a peasant passing for a knight. She was a woman passing for a knight and she did not think that the men whom she had deceived would settle for any of the more traditional punishments. No, without doubt, for her they would devise something a bit more imaginative. Men such as Maurice De Bracy and Brian de Bois-Guilbert would never be able to accept that a woman had been able to hold her own with them, to prevail where they could not. There was no question of her ever being allowed to go free so that others might find out. Yes, they might very well kill her in some extremely unpleasant manner, but men had other ways of getting revenge. She thought that death would be preferable.
Most of all, she was concerned about Marcel. Without her, what would become of him? To minimize the risk of discovery, she and Marcel had never stayed very long in any one place, had never accepted service for an extended period of time. It was past time for them to move on, her every instinct told her so. However, there would be no moving on so long as the black knight knew her secret and could expose her at will. The smart thing to do would be to kill him. Only… how?
He claimed to be Coeur de Lion, but she no longer believed him. She did not know exactly why she did not believe him, but she was certain that he wasn't Richard any more than she was. Obviously, he was the very image of the departed king, since Sir Guy accepted him as such and the sheriff had known Richard well, and had at one time been among his men at arms. She had never seen Richard Plantagenet, so she had no way of knowing in what ways he had "changed" since returning from the Third Crusade. Whoever this was, he had thus far kept her secret. Certainly, Sir Guy did not suspect she was a woman. He treated her as an equal and they had spent many nights together, drinking and talking. She wasn't sure who repelled her more, Sir Guy or "Richard."
"He's returned a different man," the sheriff had said to her one night, while they sat before the fireplace drinking ale.
"Different in what ways?" she had said.
"In some ways, he seems more patient," said the sheriff. "And yet, the demons seem to drive him more than ever. I am the older man, and yet at times he seems to speak to me as if I were a child. Indeed, he acts like an older man now." He nodded slowly. "War can age a man like that. War can make men old before their time, or it can turn them into mewling infants. He does not speak of it, you know."
"The Crusade?"
Guy nodded. "I have asked him once or twice what it was like. Each time, he turned the talk to something else. He will not speak of Saladin, of Philip, or of his captivity. He speaks only of winning back his throne and of John's treachery."
"Why does he choose to array himself in black, I wonder?" Andre said.
The sheriff chuckled. "Perhaps to match his thoughts."
"He thinks black thoughts and is driven by demons," Andre said. "You make the king sound like a warlock."
Guy laughed. "A warlock he is, by God, in battle! He fights with the strength of ten!"
"Perhaps he has gained secret knowledge in his travels."
"Secret knowledge? Black arts, you mean? Absurd! The king has no need to learn the art of making lead into gold or of consorting with demons. The demons driving Richard are all of his own making. They exist within his mind and heart. Now if it's witches you want, I'll show you one, soon as I lay my hands upon the treacherous bitch!"
"You know a witch?"
"I married one, God spurn her!"
"I did not kn
ow you had a wife, Sir Guy."
"There's the malady, I do not have her. She ran off to join the forest brigands, damn her eyes."
"The outlaws? Surely, you jest! Why would a lady go-"
"Because she is no lady, that's why! It's why I married her, too. Perhaps, de la Croix, you can understand, being a knight errant. I serve my king, but being sheriff of Nottingham shire is a soft job for a soft man. I am a fighting man. I have always been a fighting man. I have fought for everything I've won in life and I fought for my women, too. There is pleasure in a hard won victory. I have little use for pampered willows who will bend before the slightest wind. By God, give me a woman who will fight and scratch and kick! I took Marion from her father and he was glad to be rid of a troublesome wench, but I liked her spirit! Oh, how she fought me on our wedding night! Damn near took my eyes out and wrecked my manhood! I beat her black and blue and still she would not submit. By God, there was a woman, I thought!"
"Indeed," said Andre, dryly.
"Within the first week of our marriage, three times she tried to kill me," the sheriff said. "Once, she tried to stab me in my sleep. I still bear the scar upon my shoulder. After that, I tied her up when I was through with her and gagged her, so that I might sleep undisturbed. The second time, she tried poisoning my food. It was my good fortune that I had no appetite that day and but drank and ate some fruit. Still her effort cost me my best hound. I stripped some skin from off her shoulders with my lash and thereafter made her taste my meals first. The third time she involved the outlaws. She had often heard me speak of cleaning out these vermin from the forest and, before the king's return, I often led patrols into the wood myself. Well, she managed to get word to the outlaws through one of the stableboys and they arranged an ambush for me. Fortunately, they are as inept as they are unprincipled and I escaped, killing a good number of them and capturing several. My good wife, doubtless fearing that her part in the plot would be discovered by myself, freed the prisoners from my dungeons and escaped with them in the dead of night, little suspecting that I already knew of it and made the escape possible, hoping to trail them back to their hidden camp."
"And did you?"
"No. I lost them in the woods, worse luck."
"And your wife?"
"She has been with them ever since."
"I should think that you would be glad to be rid of her," said Andre.
"It might seem so, but I miss the bloodthirsty bitch. She made life interesting in these placid times. But I'll get her back one day, mark my word. She's a peculiar woman, de la Croix. Truth be told, I don't think she ever forgave God for making her a woman. Perhaps such an overabundance of spirit is misplaced in one of her sex." Guy chuckled. "She should have been a man."
"Indeed," said Andre, "it is hard to imagine a woman who would not be satisfied with so passionate a husband as yourself."
"I thought you would understand," the sheriff said. "You're a man after my own heart, de la Croix. What say the two of us go wenching some night?"
"Perhaps we will," said Andre, "when our present duties have been done."
"Yes, one must always think of duty first. Still, a man must have time in which to be a man, eh?"
"True," said Andre. "Else women will forget their role in life."
"The sheriff laughed. "We can't have that, now, can we?"
"No, indeed. What kind of world would it be if women were to forget their place?"
"Perhaps they would even take to wearing spurs and entering the lists," said Guy, laughing. "That would be a sight, eh?"
"I think perhaps the ale has overstimulated your imagination."
"No doubt. God made woman to serve man and that is how it should be."
"Maybe someday you will find one who will serve you properly," said Andre, smiling.
"I'll drink to that," the sheriff said.
"So will I, Sir Guy."
"Why so quiet, Andre?" said Marcel.
"I was thinking of the sheriff, little brother."
Marcel frowned. "I don't like him. He frightens me."
"I don't like him either, Marcel. He's an animal, not a man.
But then, the difference is a small one, is it not? We serve strange masters these days."
"Andre, why must we ride to Torquilstone? I'm afraid. I feel that no good will come of it."
Andre reined up her horse. "I have learned to trust your feelings, little brother. Have you a premonition?"
"The closer we get to Torquilstone, the stronger my fear becomes," Marcel said. "Let us not go there. Our horses are fresh, the day is young, we can put many miles between us and our troubles before the day is out."
Andre sat astride her horse silently for a moment, listening to the birds sing.
"Andre?"
"I am sorely tempted, Marcel. But I, too, am afraid. This black knight is some sort of sorcerer. One moment, there is nothing there, the next, he is standing at my shoulder. He is the devil's own, Marcel."
"Then we must fight him."
"I fear we lack the proper weapons. How does one fight a warlock?"
"I do not know."
"Nor do I. Perhaps we will find a way. Until then, we must bide our time and do his bidding."
"And what if we run out of time?"
"Yes, time always was our enemy, Marcel. But then, one cannot master time."
"So we ride on to Torquilstone?"
"Yes, little brother. We ride on."
His bonds were almost loose.
I looker had tensed the muscles in his arms and wrists when they had tied him and now, as he walked ahead of his mule and behind the two Norman knights, he was making the best of the slight amount of slack by trying to work his hands free. The trail was narrow. If he could free his hands, he stood a good chance of being able to make a break for it. Perhaps he would be able to lose the men in the forest, but his progress would be drastically impeded with his hands tied behind his back. He had to get them free first. Fortunately, his position in the column made it possible for him to try. De Bracy and Bois-Guilbert rode their horses at a slow walk just ahead of him. Behind him was the mule with the nysteel armor lashed to it and behind the mule was Isaac, who was followed closely by the men at arms. Every time he had voiced a protest, one of them had cuffed him, so he was now reduced to mumbling incoherently under his breath. Hooker could not make out what he was saying, but he thought he caught a word or two of Hebrew. The old man was praying.
Hooker was flanked by two men at arms. The one on his right was left handed and he wore his sword on the right side of his body. The one on his left was right handed and wore his sword on his left side. That effectively put both swords out of his reach in the event that he could free himself and make a quick grab. It did, however, leave both their daggers within his reach. It was a weapon he was far more comfortable with.
His wrists were wet. He guessed that he had rubbed right through the skin so deeply that he didn't even feel the pain. The danger in that was that the blood would soak his bonds and make them more difficult to work loose. He struggled feverishly, keeping a careful watch with his peripheral vision on the men at arms to either side of him. They looked bored and tired, but if they noticed his efforts, they would quickly come alert.
Hooker was close to abject panic. He was sweating profusely. He didn't want to die. From time to time, in his brief career as a soldier, he had tried to imagine what it would be like to die. It was a morbid preoccupation, but he had not been able to resist it. He thought that getting shot would not be too bad, though there were ways one get could shot that would result in a slow and painful death. He had once made a list, mentally, in an idle moment, of ways in which he would prefer to go. He never told anyone about it for fear of being ridiculed. He had listed all possible ways of meeting his Maker in order of preference. At the top of the list were all the most immediate ways of dying-in a bomb blast; from a sonic weapon or a laser; a fatal bullet wound that would kill him before he knew what hit him. Following that, he considered
more primitive methods such as decapitation, either by a guillotine or a headsman's axe; a sword thrust through the heart; an arrow wound, a slit throat… He had also dwelled upon the more terrifying ways of dying. Drowning was said to be an easy death, but the prospect of it horrified him. There was death by slow torture; death by burning; death by irradiation or disease; death by chemical poisoning… There was one method of execution that made Hooker's guts crawl. He was possessed of a lively imagination and, in this regard, he was his own worst enemy. He knew there was no rational logic to fear. What petrified one man would hardly give pause to another. Hooker was obsessed with his fear of death and one manner of demise horrified him more than any other. Hanging.
He had nightmares about being hanged. He had even researched it. There was a mythology concerning hanging that held that in most cases, strangulation did not truly occur. If placed upon a gallows, on an elevation, or if sat astride a horse preparatory to the dirty deed, it was said that the noose would often break the neck and death would be instantaneous, especially if a weight were used. Hooker knew that such was not the case. It was the exception rather than the rule. The image of men dancing at the end of a rope did not spring from nothing. Depending on the type of knot used, it could take a man as long as fifteen minutes to die.
When Hooker had seen his own corpse, he had been violently sick. Now he could not push the sight from his mind. He imagined the garotte slowly cutting into his throat, the blood running in rivulets down his neck, his tongue protruding from his mouth, his fingers madly scrabbling for the wire and failing to catch hold of it, fighting for breath with every fiber of his being and not succeeding…
His head had been practically severed from his neck by the monofilament garotte. A weapon from the future. A weapon such as the one hidden in one of Lucas' gauntlets, just at the inside of the wrist. There was a small metal button there. One quick pull and the deadly wire could be brought into play. The nysteel gear was right behind him, lashed to the mule. It was all there, the mail, the armor, the shield, the gauntlets… How long would it be before one of the Norman knights riding just ahead of him would discover the secrets of the armor? Hooker felt a moistness on his face that he first thought was sweat running down from his forehead, but he was astonished to discover that he was weeping silently. His wrists were growing numb. It felt very slippery back there. If only he could work his hands free! If only no one would notice-