by N B Dixon
“You should not provoke Guy.”
“He asked for it,” Robin mumbled. “You must have seen him recently. He’s changed. Someone needs to put him in his place.”
“And you think that’s your job?”
“No one else will.”
“He’s your friend, Robin,” Sir Richard said sternly. “You should help him, before it is too late.”
Too late for what? What did his tutor expect him to do? How could he help someone who didn’t want to be helped? Perhaps it was just as well Guy was going to Nottingham. At least Robin wouldn’t have to see him anymore. But the injustice stung. He could run rings around Guy in a fight, and everyone knew it.
“I am my father’s son, the Heir of Locksley. I should be the one going to Nottingham.”
“You are needed here.” Sir Richard’s calm response infuriated Robin even more.
“It’s not fair. I’m just supposed to hang around here?” Robin knew he sounded childish but he didn’t care.
“Your time will come, Robin, and then, you’ll make me proud.”
Robin thought about his tutor’s words as he went to put away the swords. Everyone seemed to have expectations of him. Even Sir Richard was joining in. What about his own feelings? Didn’t they matter?
***
“This family owes a month’s rent. As you can see from this column here—” Edgar, Steward of Locksley, ran a fingernail down the column of figures marked in red. Robin struggled to pay attention. “—they also owe a certain amount in grain which they have failed to deliver.”
Edgar indicated the amount outstanding.
As Steward, it was Edgar’s job to manage the running of the manor. This included organising the manor court, supervising the delivery of food and household supplies, and collecting rents and taxes from the villagers.
Hardly anyone outside the clergy could read or write and left such things as account keeping to their stewards and clerks, thus, it was rare to find anyone Robin’s age with the skill. But Lord Locksley had insisted that Robin not only learn to read English, French and Latin but that he should also have a working knowledge of account keeping. It was hard to say whether Robin or Edgar was less enthusiastic.
Lord Locksley strode into the hall. “I need you elsewhere, Edgar. The cook informs me there are mice in the grain store. See to it, will you?”
Edgar was only too eager to leave.
Robin fidgeted as his father speared him with his gaze.
“How are your lessons progressing?”
“They’re boring. I don’t see why I have to learn this when I’ll have a steward to do it for me.”
“You are learning this because I wish you to. Being a knight is not only about knowing how to wield a sword.”
Robin said nothing.
“So, Sir Richard was right. You are sulking because Guy is to go to Nottingham and you are not.”
Robin was surprised. Sir Richard had spoken to his father? The hurt and resentment he had been carrying around inside him for the last twenty-four hours burst out.
“Why did you recommend Guy and not me? I am better with both sword and bow. It isn’t fair. Learning to be a knight has to be more fun than this.” Robin shoved the accounts and tally sticks away from him.
Lord Locksley raised an eyebrow. “And you think that petulant little outburst will make me change my mind?”
There was a moment of frosty silence.
“As it happens, you are to go to Nottingham—we both are. The sheriff has invited us as his personal guests.”
Robin’s face lit up. “Really?”
“Though after your little performance just now, I am inclined to refuse, at least on your account.”
Robin leant forward, gripping the table. “Oh, please, Father, I want to go so much.”
Was it Robin’s imagination, or had his father’s face softened the minutest bit? It happened so rarely, he couldn’t be sure.
“We shall see. We leave in three days. If you behave yourself, I shall take you with me. But remember, you will be representing both me and our family while you are there. You will conduct yourself in a seemly fashion or you will be severely punished. Is that understood?”
Robin could be meek when he chose. He looked down. “Yes, Father. Will we be staying at the castle?”
“Yes. The Gisbornes will be there as well, since it will be Guy’s home from now on.”
Robin’s elation dwindled a little. A few days spent in the same house as Guy, Katrina and Lady Gisborne would be irritating, but his spirits rose again when he thought how easy it would be to get lost in the town. His father was bound to be busy and wouldn’t bother too much about him. He could explore to his heart’s content, and maybe even take a walk through Sherwood. There was no way Guy or Katrina would follow him there, not after their experience with the outlaws.
“Why has the sheriff invited you?”
His father, who was on the point of leaving the hall, paused. “Gilbert White-hand and his band of outlaws were spotted near Nottingham. We hope to root them out and destroy them once and for all.”
Robin’s heart skipped a beat. His outlaw friend was in danger. It was even more important that he get to Nottingham.
***
Despite living a short distance from Nottingham, Robin had visited the town only a handful of times. The village of Locksley was remote and tucked away with Sherwood virtually on its doorstep. There was also the fact that the area had been plagued by outlaws throughout the majority of King Henry’s reign. Gilbert White-hand and his band were just the latest in a long line of ne’er-do-wells.
As they approached the town gates, Robin saw that the portcullis was raised. The warden came out to greet them. Recognising the wolf’s head coat of arms emblazoned on Lord Locksley’s surcoat, he allowed them through with a jovial wave.
Robin half hoped he would not recognise the Gisborne coat of arms and demand to know who they were, just for the pleasure of watching Guy fume, but they passed through, too.
The noise was the first thing to assault Robin’s senses, followed seconds later by the smell.
The day was hot and humid. Flies buzzed in black clouds, alighting on food stalls and people’s faces. Robin swatted at them, but it did little good and he soon gave up.
Sir Richard dismounted from his horse and seized both his own and Robin’s bridles. Men at arms did the same for Lady Gisborne and her children.
“To the castle,” Lord Locksley ordered. He had to raise his voice to make himself heard.
The air was full of shouts as vendors competed with each other and customers haggled over prices. They passed a blacksmith’s forge, from which a terrific hammering and crashing was emerging through the half-open door.
Barefoot children ran everywhere, more than once narrowly avoiding getting trampled, their filthy hands stretched out for coins. They were so thin as to be almost skeletal, and their faces had a pinched, hungry look, all wide eyes and hollow cheeks.
Robin saw one beggar boy pluck at the skirts of a grandly dressed lady as she passed. She let out a shriek, and the child was kicked brutally aside by her male escort. He fell sprawling in the mud of the street but picked himself up again and ran away. The man didn’t even break stride. As they passed, Robin thought he heard him mutter, “Filthy vermin.”
“Did you see that?” he demanded of Sir Richard.
“I saw. We must keep moving.”
“I don’t know what you’re so upset about,” Guy said. “That brat was probably about to steal her purse. The man was quite right to interfere. It’s what a gentleman would do.”
Robin shot him a withering look but didn’t answer.
It was difficult to move in the tightly packed streets. The ground underfoot was more mud than road in places and there were rats a-plenty. As they passed one house, a woman leant out of an upper-floor window and tipped the contents of a chamber pot into the street.
Katrina wrinkled her nose in disgust.
People o
n foot and horseback struggled against others driving laden carts and wagons, and farmers herding livestock. Robin and his party were often forced to stop and give way. Robin wasn’t sorry for their slow progress. It gave him plenty of time to watch what was going on around him.
Some street musicians were playing on flute and drum to a growing crowd. Robin saw a man toss a coin into the grubby cap at the flute player’s feet.
A tavern door burst open, letting out a gust of sound and smoke. Two men emerged, leaning heavily on each other so that it was difficult to tell who was supporting whom.
Next, they passed a tannery. The stench of the soaking hides made Robin gag.
They reached the main square. Men at arms were everywhere, marching or just standing around. Robin’s eyes were drawn up to the gallows, and he shuddered. It was possible to make out a body swinging there, though from this distance, it could have been mistaken for a bundle of rags blowing in the breeze.
Robin heard laughter—mean, childish laughter. The stocks also had an occupant: a woman, trapped like a fly in a spider’s web. The slimy remains of whatever had been thrown at her coated her hands and face and ran down her neck onto her dirty dress. As Robin watched, one of the children threw what looked like a mouldy turnip at the woman before running off, giggling. The turnip burst on impact and its remains slid down the woman’s face. As they rode past, Robin was able to see the tears that had carved tracks through the muck on her cheeks.
Robin’s eyes lingered on the woman, an ache of sympathy under his ribs. What had she done to deserve such humiliation? Lord Locksley looked back at him.
“Mind you behave yourself, Robin, unless you wish to share her fate or worse.”
Robin looked away. The woman in the stocks had shaken him. He knew such things happened, of course. Hangings and people being put in the stocks were regular occurrences. The laws were harsh. However, there was a world of difference between hearing about such things and witnessing them firsthand.
He shuddered as it dawned on him that he would be called on to make such judgements as Lord of Locksley. Could he send someone to their death? He supposed it would depend on what they had done.
“Oh, will this crowd never end?” Lady Gisborne complained. “I swear this town gets filthier every time we visit.”
It seemed to take forever, but finally, Nottingham Castle loomed before them. Cliffs surrounded it on two sides. It had been built in 1068—so Sir Richard had told Robin—by William the Conqueror. It stood on a natural promontory, known by the locals as Castle Rock, and its walls presented an uninterrupted view of the town huddled in its shadow. It was a fortress in every sense of the word, not a home, despite the sheriff and his family, the men at arms and the servants who lived there.
The gates to the outer bailey stood open, and Sir Richard led Robin’s palfrey through. Robin had the distinct feeling he was stepping into a prison. Looking up, he counted no less than five watch towers set at intervals along the stone walls.
Robin slid to the ground, glad for a chance to stretch his stiff legs. Sir Benedict helped first his wife, then his daughter to dismount. The sheriff had already hurried over to greet Lord Locksley.
Martha took charge of Robin and the others. He was glad she had been one of the retainers chosen to accompany them.
Castle servants escorted them past the stables and kitchens, through a room lined with rough benches and tables known as the Constable’s hall, and finally, to the great hall itself. This was an impressive room, where both council meetings and feasts were held. The floor here was not hard-packed earth but stone. A huge central fire pit dominated the room, and trestle tables capable of seating several diners lined the walls. Stuffed heads of stag and boar hung above them—trophies of King Henry, who, one servant informed them, was an enthusiastic hunter. Finally, they ascended a staircase to the upper bailey where the living accommodations were.
The castle was every bit as cheerless inside as it was out, It emphasised the fact that this was, first and foremost, a military fortress. The rooms were cold and draughty, the corridors an endless maze easy to get lost in. There were some decorations on the walls but little beauty.
Robin thought of the stories about this place he had heard growing up. People spoke of Nottingham Castle with fear and awe. The stories of the dungeons were whispered with almost as much fear as the tales of Sherwood. It was said prisoners went in, never to come out again, that they were often forgotten and left to rot while the walls echoed with the screams of the tortured. Robin was determined Gilbert White-hand would never end up there—not if he could help it.
“The feast will begin shortly,” Martha reminded them. “Mind you are ready in a timely fashion, and if you must explore, try not to get under anyone’s feet.” She gave Robin a pointed look.
At the reminder of the coming feast, Robin groaned inwardly, but his spirits rose as it occurred to him that the banquet would provide ample cover for him to slip away. His father and the rest of the nobles would be busy discussing the outlaw problem. Robin had to warn Gilbert as soon as possible. His pulse quickened at the idea of once more roaming among Sherwood’s mighty oaks.
“So, Robin,” Guy said as soon as they were alone. “Are you quite recovered from our trip through town? You looked upset when we saw that woman in the stocks. I can send for a glass of water if you wish.”
“I will smash it in your face if you do,” Robin snarled.
Guy feigned a look of outrage. “I was only concerned for your welfare. I must say, though, I never would have thought the bold and daring Robin of Locksley could be so squeamish. You can face down a band of outlaws but turn faint at the sight of a woman with turnips in her hair. Who would have thought it?”
Robin made a lunge towards Guy, but Bryan restrained him.
“Leave it,” he said with a disgusted look at his cousin.
“Guy is right, Robin.” Katrina said, laying a hand on his arm. “You should not distress yourself. She was probably just some peasant or perhaps a servant caught thieving from her betters. It is hardly worth our concern.”
Robin shook her off. “You don’t know that.”
“You don’t know that she wasn’t,” Guy countered.
Just then a servant called, “Master Guy, Miss Katrina, your mother bids you to come and get ready. You, too, Master Bryan.”
“You should not mind him,” Bryan murmured as the others hurried away.
Robin glared after Guy’s retreating figure. “One of these days, I shall ram his clever remarks back down his throat.”
***
“We could burn the forest, I suppose, smoke them out,” Sir Benedict suggested.
“No.” Raymond Warci, Sheriff of Nottingham, poured himself a fresh cup of wine, splashing some on the tablecloth in his irritation. “The king would not be at all happy if any of his precious deer were killed. Only he is allowed to do that. Still, we may have no choice in the end. The king wishes Sherwood to be made free and safe for travellers.”
Lord Locksley snorted. “I say we take hounds and hunt them down like the animals they are.”
“But they can hide very effectively,” Warci argued. “You forget, it is possible to travel for miles through that accursed forest without breaking cover, and a baying pack of dogs is the very thing likely to send them into hiding. No, we need a clever approach.”
“Any idea what you’ll do when you have them?” Oliver d’Ambray, Lord of Mansfield enquired. “Hanging’s too good for them, I say.”
“He’s right,” Giles Runeville, Lord of Barnsdale said. “They robbed one of my men at arms last week and left him for dead. He is a good man. Flay the bastards alive, Sheriff. That should set the right example to any tempted to take up the free life in Sherwood.” There was laughter around the table at this.
Guy listened to the conversation with keen attention. He could tell Robin was listening, too, from the rapt look on his face.
For his part, Guy was anxious to see the outlaws captured. They
had terrorised and humiliated him, and he wanted them to pay, but he knew Robin was far from agreeing with him.
Guy had made a promise to himself that all those who crossed him would live to regret it. If he could find a way to capture the outlaws, it would be a nice bit of revenge, as well as a chance to improve his standing among the nobles, and it would hurt Robin into the bargain. But how? There was no way he would ever venture into Sherwood alone.
Some of the men at arms, already well into their cups, had begun an arm-wrestling contest at a nearby table to enthusiastic cheering. Many of the nobles turned to watch.
Guy also turned to follow the match, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robin leave his seat and, unnoticed by anyone, slip out of the great hall.
“Now where is he going?” Guy murmured to himself. Then it came to him. Of course! Robin was off to warn the outlaws. The plan slid into Guy’s mind as if it had been waiting there all along. He would have to pick his moment carefully. He needed to give Robin a decent head start.
The arm-wrestling went on a long time. Several men tried their luck against the one who appeared to be the reigning champion. Guy waited in mounting impatience while around him, men took bets on the outcome of each match and money changed hands.
Finally, the champion’s last challenger was defeated, and Guy, judging that enough time had passed, set off in search of his tutor.
He found Sir Richard in conversation with a group of other knights. They were discussing the match and a few last coins were being exchanged. Guy hitched a look of concern onto his face and shyly approached.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Richard.”
The knight looked up, a little startled. “What is it, Guy?”
“It’s Robin. He’s gone.”
Sir Richard frowned. “What are you talking about?” He scanned the hall, eyes searching in vain for his missing pupil. “Where has he gone?”
“I think…” Guy stammered. “I think he has gone to Sherwood.”
“Sherwood?” There was a definite note of anxiety in Sir Richard’s voice now. “Why on Earth would he go there alone?”