by carl ashmore
‘He stole from the rich and gave to the poor?’ Becky said.
Little John smiled. ‘Aye. I suppose there’s truth to that. We all did. But he gave them more than coins or trinkets. Will Shakelock gave them hope. Hope this world could be a better place. He made them believe the Sheriff’s dark ways, his insufferable taxes, his cruelty, could one day come to pass. And that’s why the common folk adored him…’
‘He’s the best,’ Joe said.
‘Aye,’ Little John replied. ‘Ain’t none finer. And the Sheriff’ll be gloating like a cat with a slain pigeon now. He reckons spilling Will’s guts all about Nottingham will show folk there ain’t no point believing one man could change anything. And that’s why he’s forcing the good folk of the villages – men, women and bairns - for miles around to come and witness it all. That’s why he’s making a carnival of the whole affair – affording food and wine and ale for everyone. What he don’t realise is there ain’t no man in England loved more grandly than Will Shakelock. The people won’t be there for merrymaking. They’ll be there to say farewell to their champion, their hero…’
Joe nodded miserably. ‘So what is your plan?’
‘We’ll offer a fight,’ Little John replied without any trace of confidence in his voice. ‘Until every man here has swallowed his last breath. But there ain’t no other way it’ll end. We can’t hope to gain victory ‘gainst the Sheriff’s army. And we can’t save Will. We’ve said farewell to our loved ones and we all thinks this is as good a day to die as any. Don’t we lads?’
Each of the merry men nodded.
Joe thought hard for a few moments. ‘Reckon I’ve got a better plan than that. One that might work. Me and Becks are coming with you.’
‘Nay, lad,’ Little John replied. ‘This ain’t yer day to die. We’ll take you to our encampment in the forest. There are fine people there - my wife, Elisa, will feed and shelter ye.’
‘No,’ Becky and Joe said simultaneously.
‘We’ve come for Uncle Percy and Will,’ Becky said firmly. ‘And we’ll get them back.’
‘But your just young ‘uns,’ Little John said kindly. ‘And –’
‘We may be young,’ Joe interrupted. ‘But we’re different. Becks, show him what you can do.’
Becky nodded. She fixed her gaze on Little John, focusing hard.
In that instant, Little John’s arms locked to his side, as if standing rigidly to attention. ‘Blessed Mary!’ he puffed.
Becky raised her head.
Little John’s body rose steadily upward, his giant frame as stiff as plywood, except for his head, which shook wildly in protest. ‘What’re ye doin’ to me?’
The merry men gave a collective gasp.
Little John was at least four feet in the air when he stopped suddenly, dangling like a marionette. ‘Release me,’ he bellowed.
‘Do it, Becks,’ Joe said calmly.
Becky gave a sharp nod. Little John descended slowly, his feet soon finding solid earth. Becky released him from her control. Stepping back, flustered, he shook his arms to prove he had command of his faculties once more. Then he stared wide-eyed at Becky.
‘What manner of witchery was that?’
‘I’m not a witch,’ Becky replied dully, not wishing to spend time explaining something she didn’t understand herself. ‘It’s just … something I can do.’
‘Now, who’s your best archer?’ Joe asked.
Still in shock, Little John dipped his head toward Aleric Fletcher. ‘Young Fletch…’
Joe scanned the area, before locking on a small hollow moulded in the trunk of a distant tree. Pointing over, he turned to Aleric Fletcher. ‘D’you see that hole in the tree over there?’
‘Aye,’ Fletcher replied.
‘Try and hit it…’
Fletcher raised his bow and drew an arrow from his quiver. Taking his time, he lined up his shot and fired. The arrow flew straight and true, but thumped into the trunk, an inch or so below the hole.
Joe didn’t wait for Fletcher to lower his bow. In a flash, he had raised his Joe-bow, fixed an arrow and fired. The arrow cut the air, before, with a resounding thump, striking the hollow dead centre.
The merry men mumbled their appreciation.
Fletcher gulped. ‘Fine shot.’
‘I had a fine teacher,’ Joe said flatly, glancing at Little John. ‘And I’m gonna get him back. Whether you like it or not.’
A half-smile rounded Little John’s mouth. ‘Perchance we could profit from your aid.’ He turned to the merry men. ‘Mayhap these young ‘uns are the fortune we need, lads? Belike, we may not die of this day!’
Joe looked satisfied. ‘Sorted. Then let’s get going.’
Little John looked up at the sun. ‘Aye, boy. Time is growing short.’
But something concerned Becky. ‘So how do you plan on getting into the market square? Won’t the Sheriff be expecting you?’
‘In faith, that may be so,’ Little John replied. ‘But he’s also demanding upward of two thousand folk from all ‘round the Shire – Worksop, Blidworth, Edwinstowe, Mansfield – be in attendance. The Sheriff’s men’ll find it plenty testing to fix order. And we’ve set a few locals to hold his toadies distracted, just to give us leave to enter the square. Thereafter, only God and Saint Christopher can aid us …’
Within minutes, the group were heading into the forest, which thickened until only the tiniest flecks of grey cloud filtered through the branches above. Mulch and Arthur Berrymead had given Becky and Joe their cloaks and Little John, much to Becky’s displeasure, had smeared their faces, hair and hands with mud. Although Becky didn’t welcome being caked in dirt, she couldn’t deny the result was effective – she and Joe could easily pass for peasants.
Despite the cheery banter of the merry men, Becky couldn’t shake the feeling things would not end well. She wasn’t about to say this to Joe, however, who looked more stone-faced and determined than ever.
‘How big is the forest?’ Joe asked Little John.
‘As long and wide as the sea,’ Little John replied. ‘It covers most of the Shire. Tis why our camp has never been found, despite the Sheriff and King John’s labours. Tis a Royal Forest, you see, ruled by the King’s hand. At least, it were. For years it’s been ours - the people’s forest … as it shud be. We tend her, and she, in turn, tends us … the acorns and bark give us flour to make bread, the birds and animals give us meat, and the River Maun affords us fresh water that’s as sweet as any wine. And furthermost, her trees offer safe haven from them that would see us harmed …’
As they pressed on, Becky could see exactly what Little John meant. Sherwood Forest was enormous - vast, dark and sprawling.
After an hour or so, the forest began to thin, the ceaseless wall of trees morphing into open pastures and rambling fields of wheat. And then, from all around, people were joining the footpaths, dozens of people, their shoulders hunched, wearing joyless expressions as if trailing a funeral procession. Most wore dirty, stained rags, their gaunt, weathered faces grey and leathery from countless hours spent outdoors.
Joining the line, Becky watched the merry men silently acknowledge members of the crowd, before blending in seamlessly, hoods hiding their faces, their bows tucked beneath their cloaks. As one, the procession trudged up a hill.
Reaching the top, Becky’s stomach flipped. In the distance, high atop a sandstone outcrop, an enormous castle overlooked a large market square, already bustling with people like ants in a nest. A stone wall, long and high, enclosed rows of narrow streets, thatched houses, taverns, and several churches and friaries.
Nottingham.
Becky looked down to see a line of villagers were passing through a great portcullis, ushered into the city grounds by armoured guards, clad in black cloaks and wielding large swords. She gulped nervously, before glancing at Joe, who looked as resolute as ever.
‘Here goes nowt,’ he muttered under his breath.
A short while later, Becky and Joe filed into l
ine.
All the time, Becky’s gaze was fixed below, not wishing the guards to glimpse the fear she felt certain flickered in her eyes. It was then she spotted Joe’s trainers poking out from beneath his cloak.
‘Your trainers,’ she whispered, ‘they’re visible.’
‘I know.’ Joe stooped as low as he could without falling forward. ‘But this flippin’ cloak isn’t long enough. If I get any lower I’ll be rolling into Nottingham.’
As the queue diminished, Becky saw that the guards, their faces scornful and ugly, were stopping some of the villagers, patting them down and searching for weapons. Her heart sank. The merry men were heavily armed. Someone was certain to be caught.
Then, from behind, a thundering shout met her ears. Whipping round, she saw a brutal maelstrom of punches and kicks. Eight men she didn’t recognise were slugging it out in a brawl. Knuckles crunched bone. Shrieks of pain echoed out. At once, guards raced from the gate, swords raised. As a guard seized one of the brawlers, an old woman stepped in, her warty, pockmarked face savage with rage.
‘How darest ya slay Will Shakelock!’ she screamed.
‘Shurrup y’reeky hag!’ the guard hollered back, struggling to hold the brawler who was desperate to return to the fight.
‘Ee’s a finer man than ye.’ The woman hacked up a gobbet of phlegm. Then she spat it in the guards face.
The guard released the brawler and grabbed the woman roughly. ‘Ye toxic witch,’ he roared, wiping his face. ‘Yeh’ll gerra thrashin’ fer that.’
‘Gerroff me yer stinkin’ cur,’ the old woman shrieked. ‘Yer a sack o’ goose crap and so’s yer bootlickin’ master…’
Astonished at the woman’s courage, Becky was about to intervene when she felt a powerful hand grasp her arm. She glanced up to see Little John, his face and hair swathed in cloth, leaving only his eyes visible, which gleamed with satisfaction. ‘Come with us,’ he whispered. ‘Old Imelda’ll be all right. And them’s her boys scrapping.’
Becky knew instantly the fight had been staged. She glanced ahead and saw the gates were now unmanned. Like a tidal wave, people rushed through, the merry men amongst them, safe and unchecked.
Becky raced after them, Joe at her side. Entering the city walls, she tailed the crowd, turning right into the market square. She stopped dead in her tracks. At least a thousand people had already gathered, not one of them smiling as they faced a high wooden stage, set upon which was a large set of gallows. Great tables heaving with untouched food and wine adorned the square’s edges. The only ones who seemed to be rejoicing were the wealthy nobles, elegantly dressed and shaded from the elements beneath open marquees of multi-coloured silk.
Becky’s gaze negotiated the marquees, before finding the one closest to the gallows. Inside, standing at a large oak table, was a skinny, bearded man, his face long and pointed like a rat. He wore a velvet surcoat and a dark purple cloak lined with fur, fastened at the shoulder by a silver brooch. He was smirking nastily and raising his goblet to someone on his left.
‘That must be the Sheriff of Nottingham,’ Joe said.
Becky was about to reply when the blood froze in her veins. A colossal man with cropped flaxen hair stood up, accepted the Sheriff’s toast with an emotionless smile, before sitting down again.
Joe had noticed, too. ‘I shudda guessed,’ he mumbled. ‘I knew we’d be running into Otto Kruger sooner or later.’
Chapter 16
The Rescuers
Becky knew she couldn’t afford to think about Kruger. They had come with one thing in mind and one thing only: rescuing Uncle Percy and Will.
‘So what is this great plan of yours?’ Becky asked.
Joe explained it to her. Admittedly, it wasn’t the greatest plan in the world, but it wasn’t the worst either.
‘So what d’you reckon?’ Joe asked, after he’d finished.
‘As it’s the only idea we’ve got,’ Becky replied, ‘we don’t have much choice.’
‘Great,’ Joe replied. ‘I’ll tell Little John.’ He searched the area. Little John was easy to spot. Pushing through the mass of people, Joe pulled Little John close and whispered his plan. After Joe had finished, Little John nodded and left to inform the rest of the merry men.
Joe returned to Becky. ‘We need to get to the front.’
Becky and Joe inched their way through the crowd.
All the while, Becky felt a rising sense of anxiety. The more she thought about it, the more things she knew could go wrong. Very wrong. Would her powers work? Could Joe really fulfil his part of the deal? The one thing she knew was if something did go wrong Will and Uncle Percy were dead for sure.
And that could not happen.
A long wall of the Sheriff’s men stood side by side behind heavy teardrop-shaped shields, six feet from the stage. Heavy nasal helmets pitched their eyes into blackness. Becky and Joe agreed on a spot about thirty feet away from the platform, close enough to do what they had to do, but far enough away for them to be obscured by the rapidly growing crowd.
Becky’s pulse was racing now. She glanced over to see Kruger conferring with three Associates in the marquee. As the minutes passed, the noise of the crowd grew, but it was not the sound of excitement, it was that of despair. Men and women wept openly, reassuring each other with gentle embraces. The mountain of food remained untouched.
A moment later, a loud drubbing sound filled the square. A young boy, his face expressionless, marched on to the stage, a snare drum hanging loosely from his neck by thick rope. Hefty drumsticks pounded skin in a slow rhythm, like a terrible metronome. Each blow muted the crowd further. Then, from the shadows of a dark tower behind the stage, a heavy stone door creaked open. From the gloom, a tall man stepped into daylight, his shoulder length silver hair tangled with dirt, sweat and blood. Uncle Percy looked down, frail and helpless. Will trailed him into the open, colossal guards on all sides, shielding him from clear view. Both men’s hands were bound tightly behind their backs, their faces ravaged with fresh bruises, lacerations and blood.
Becky was in no doubt they’d been tortured.
A fury blazed within her, one that ignited every nerve in her body. She glanced over at the Sheriff, who was clapping wildly, his thin ugly smile extending from ear to ear. She had a sudden impulse to crush his skull like a paper cup. Glancing round, she could see what Little John meant. The square’s flanks were lined with perhaps a hundred guards, each one looking as ferocious as the next. They outnumbered the merry men ten to one at least. It was then she glimpsed Arthur Berrymead, Russell Crowfeet, Aleric Fletcher and Bill Williams shuffling through the crowd, whispering something to some of the villagers, who responded with amazement, before nodding enthusiastically.
The executioner, a bear-like man with a flushed, sweaty face and greasy black hair, met Will and Uncle Percy and led them up the stage steps to the gallows, passing a wooden block and a huge axe, which glistened in the dusky light. Just then, the Sheriff of Nottingham sprang impatiently from his seat and marched to the platform, a euphoric glint in his beady eyes. He climbed the steps and stood at the front of the stage, his arms open wide.
The drumming stopped.
Silence gripped the square.
‘Fair people of the Shire,’ the Sheriff shouted. ‘Tis a jubilant day. The scourge of Nottingham, William Shakelock, hath been captured, and justice shall be acted upon him this day for those he hath aggrieved - your Sheriff, your King, your country and your God. I gather many of ye deem William Shakelock a hero, and not the toad-spotted vermin, the cutpurse he is … A hero? Nay, methinks not. Doth a hero steal? Doth a hero kill? Doth a hero dishonour his Sheriff and his King? Nay, on my soul, today I claim a victory for English law … for the King’s Law. And on this eventide, justice shall be delivered … a sweet, honeyed justice as would chill Judas’ crypt.’ And with a horse laugh, the Sheriff left the stage, where he was met with a scant smattering of applause from the nobles in their marquees. The crowd, on the other hand, made no sound whatso
ever.
The drumming started again.
Becky’s heart echoed its beat.
Uncle Percy was shoved to one of two nooses hanging from the gallows’ highest beam, directly above a trap door set in the floor. The executioner fitted the noose around his neck, before doing the same with Will. A voice in the crowd shouted, ‘God be wit’ thee, Will.’
Another yelled, ‘Yer spirit’ll nay be forgotten.’
‘You ready?’ Joe asked Becky, keeping his Joe-bow low. He squeezed its grip and it lengthened in his hand.
Becky nodded her reply.
The drum sounded again, the tempo slowing like a time bomb ticking down to a catastrophic end.
Joe’s eyes hardened. Still out of sight, he secured an arrow to his bowstring.
Pushing her nerves aside, Becky closed her eyes and focused.
The drummer struck a final, decisive blow of his snare. The sound punctured the silence like a gunshot. Then the executioner pulled the leaver. The trapdoor shot open. Uncle Percy and Will plummeted simultaneously, their bodies falling no more than a few inches, when they came to an abrupt stop, suspended in mid-air, as if landing on an invisible ledge.
Gasps of disbelief echoed all around.
Suddenly, an arrow severed Will’s rope. A second arrow followed almost immediately, slicing Uncle Percy’s rope. In shock, their hands still bound behind their backs, Will and Uncle Percy leapt safely to the wooden platform beneath.
And then a number of things happened simultaneously. An ear-splitting crack rang out as the central pole of the Sheriff’s marquee snapped in two, the heavy canvas collapsing on all those within. At the same time, the executioner scooped up the axe and charged at Will, swinging at his neck. Will ducked the blow. Then he flung himself at his attacker, head-butting him with a bone-splintering crunch. The executioner slumped to the ground, unconscious.