by N B Dixon
“The outlaws. He was talking about capturing them single-handed.”
Sir Richard cursed. “The arrogant fool. Some small gift with archery and he thinks he is immortal. He’ll get himself killed.” He began barking orders to those around him. The news spread fast. Lord Locksley came storming over, the sheriff at his heels.
In all the confusion, Guy slipped away. His work was done.
***
Robin had listened with growing apprehension while his father and the other nobles debated the best way for hunting and trapping the outlaws, and with a sick feeling of dread to the various suggestions for how they would meet their deaths. Nobody deserved to be flayed alive—nobody.
Getting out of the castle was easy enough. Though the place was crawling with men at arms, they took little notice of him.
Robin relaxed as he slipped under Sherwood’s welcoming canopy. It was odd how just the sight of the forest calmed him. Its silence wrapped around him, almost as if it knew why he was there.
Robin had no real idea where to look for Gilbert. He reasoned that any outlaw leader worth his salt would have sentries posted. All Robin could do was walk and hope he encountered one, and pray he made it back before he was missed.
He wished he could have brought his bow and quiver, but it would have looked suspicious to the men on duty at the castle gates. Still, walking into Sherwood unarmed when it was crawling with outlaws was not a wise move. Robin had managed to hide a dagger in his tunic, but he wasn’t stupid enough to think that would protect him if the outlaws chose to attack. Gilbert owed him. He would have to trust to that.
He lost track of time. It felt as if he’d been there forever, or maybe that was just his mounting panic. If he didn’t find the outlaws, if he didn’t manage to warn them in time…
Even though he had been on the lookout for them, Robin had no warning when the outlaws emerged. He recognised one of them at once. It was Ralph, the scar-faced man.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “If it isn’t the Locksley whelp. I don’t see your bow and quiver. It’s not safe to be in Sherwood alone without any means of defending yourself.”
“I need to see Gilbert, now!”
Ralph made a show of looking all around. “Funny, I don’t see Gilbert here, do you, lads?” There was some appreciative laughter. Ralph grabbed the front of Robin’s tunic. His voice was menacing. “I have a score to settle with you, Lordling.”
“Then you will have to get past me first,” Gilbert White-hand said calmly.
Ralph let go of Robin’s tunic, as if it had burned him, and took a step back.
Gilbert looked thinner than when Robin had last seen him, and his eyes held the wary look of the hunted.
“What do you want with me, boy?”
“The sheriff intends to come for you tomorrow. He will hunt you with hounds.”
“He’ll never find us,” one of the outlaws scoffed. “We know the forest better than Warci and his lackeys. We can evade them easily.”
“Can you hide if they burn Sherwood to the ground?” Robin snapped.
“Is that what they intend to do?” asked Gilbert.
“The sheriff was reluctant, but if all else fails, they will do it. They are determined to capture you.”
“Why?” one outlaw complained. “We’re no threat to the sheriff. Why would he bother with us?”
“Because we are outlaws,” Gilbert said grimly. “We are outside the law, so the law does not protect us. We are fair game. Besides, it’s a feather in Warci’s cap.” He turned to Robin. “You have my gratitude once again, Robin of Locksley. My spies were not able to learn nearly so much.”
Robin waved this away. He wasn’t interested in the man’s thanks. “What will you do now?”
Gilbert opened his mouth, but Robin never heard his answer. The quiet of the forest was ripped apart by the loud, long note of a hunting horn, followed by the thunder of many men on horseback. As one, the outlaws looked around them like frightened rabbits, but there was no chance of slipping away. The sheriff’s men were already upon them.
Gilbert had time to shoot Robin one look of fury and betrayal.
“I never brought them,” Robin cried. “I swear.”
There was no time for an answer, even if Gilbert had felt like giving him one. Robin could only watch in silent horror as the small band of outlaws drew weapons and turned to fight for their lives. Even Robin could see it was useless. The outlaws were hopelessly outnumbered. Several were cut down in the first few minutes. When the skirmish was over, only six still lived, and every one of them was wounded. Gilbert was bleeding from a deep gash in his thigh. Two men disarmed him while another tied him behind a horse’s saddle. His face was tight with pain and it was obvious he could hardly stand.
“You can’t do this,” Robin cried, shouldering himself in the man’s way. “He is wounded. You cannot expect him to walk all the way to Nottingham.”
“Robin, be silent.”
Robin jumped. He knew that voice. Sir Richard stepped forward and seized him by the shoulder. He was wearing chain mail, and his face was not that of Robin’s kindly tutor. He seemed alien, unfamiliar. Robin flinched away instinctively from his touch, but Sir Richard merely tightened his hold.
Robin watched in helpless fury as the men at arms re-mounted and set off at a brisk canter, forcing their captives to run behind. Gilbert fell and was dragged through the mud. He looked back once, and his and Robin’s gaze’s met briefly.
Sorry, Robin told him with his eyes. I’m so sorry.
How did they follow me? The question resounded through his head. How did they know where to come? Unless… Guy! Guy must have seen him and guessed where he was going. He had wanted revenge on the outlaws ever since their ill-fated excursion into Sherwood. He had seized his opportunity. Robin cursed himself for not disguising his trail. He’d left a clear path for anyone to follow.
He and Sir Richard were alone now. The forest was eerily quiet in the aftermath of the short battle. Robin tried not to look at the sad bundles that a few minutes ago had been living, breathing men. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sir Richard cut him off. He was looking angrier than Robin had ever seen him.
“Mount my horse,” he barked.
Robin hesitated. Sir Richard had never spoken to him like that before. Robin was ashamed to feel tears prick at the backs of his eyes. He wanted to explain, to make Sir Richard understand.
“I had to come,” he began. “I met Gilbert before. We had an archery contest and I lost, but he let me go. His outlaws would have killed me but he stopped them. I had to warn him.”
Sir Richard seized Robin by the shoulders and shook him hard. Robin was startled. A blow he might have expected, but Sir Richard’s attack caught him completely by surprise.
“I don’t want to hear it. Don’t you understand, you stupid boy?”
“Understand what?”
Sir Richard’s gauntleted fingers were biting into his shoulders. Robin could feel them trembling. There was a look of such anguish on his face that it made Robin’s breath catch.
“I will spell it out for you, shall I? You have just been caught red-handed by the sheriff’s men, consorting with outlaws. Not just any outlaws, but the most wanted men in the Shire. Those men are for the gallows, and after tonight, you’ll be lucky if you don’t join them.”
* * * * *
Chapter 7
Robin lay on his bed and prayed for sleep. Perhaps when he woke, he would discover it had all been a bad dream.
His father and Sir Richard were even now closeted with the sheriff, trying to convince him that far from being in league with the outlaws, Robin had merely been a pawn in Gilbert White-hand’s devious game. What if they did hang him, too? Would his neck break, ending his life instantly? Or would he dangle there, twitching for the baying crowd while his lungs struggled to take in a few last breaths? Neither scenario was pleasant, and Robin forced himself to switch off the images in his head.
He had been locke
d in his room and left to await his fate, but not before receiving a sound thrashing.
He’d been beaten before, but never so severely. His body ached, and his back felt as if his skin were on fire. He didn’t care. His suffering was nothing compared to what Gilbert would soon have to endure, and he would go to his death believing Robin had betrayed him.
There came a timid knock at the door. “Robin?”
He sighed as he recognised Katrina’s voice. That was all he needed. Can’t she leave me alone? He stayed silent, hoping she would take the hint and go.
“Robin, I’m so sorry.” There was a quaver in her voice as if she were near tears. “I know Guy broke his promise, but he did what he thought was right. I’m sure he never meant to get you into trouble.”
If she believed that, then she was a fool. Of course Guy had meant to get him into trouble. With Robin out of the way, there would be no one to compete against. But did Guy really want him dead?
“Please don’t be angry, Robin. You won’t hang. Father would never let that happen. He is with the sheriff.”
So, Sir Benedict had joined the debate, too. Well, why not? If Robin died, he would never get his hands on the Locksley estate.
Robin heard Katrina tiptoeing away and wondered when he had grown so cynical.
He had to see Gilbert once more before he died. Robin knew it was his fault the outlaws had been captured. He’d led the sheriff’s men right to them, and because of his carelessness, Gilbert would die. He had to try and make it right, but how? He was locked in, and the window was too high to jump from. He was trapped, helpless.
The key rattled in the lock, and Robin sat up, scrubbing a sleeve across his face.
Fear made his stomach clench, but he relaxed as soon as he saw who his visitor was.
Martha came in, carrying a bowl of broth and a hunk of dry bread. She put them down on a low table and bent to coax the fire back into life. Robin realised then; he was shivering.
Martha crossed the room and took him in her arms, hugging him tightly. Robin squirmed, letting out an involuntary yelp of pain, and she pulled back, alarmed.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
He said nothing—he didn’t need to.
Martha’s lips tightened. She had never approved of his father’s method of discipline. She lifted his tunic and sucked in a sharp breath. “I’ll be back soon.”
She left, locking the door behind her, to Robin’s disappointment. She was back in no time at all, a clay pot of salve in one hand and a bowl of water in the other.
“Let’s have this tunic off,” she said briskly.
Robin didn’t have the energy to feel embarrassed as Martha helped him to undress. Her hands, as she first bathed, then applied salve to his wounds, were gentle. Robin gritted his teeth against the pain, but the salve was soothing.
Martha cradled his head against her shoulder and smoothed a lock of hair away from his cheek.
“Oh, my darling boy. What am I to do with you?”
A lump rose to Robin’s throat.
“Everything will be all right,” Martha crooned, still smoothing his hair. “The sheriff will not hurt you. Your father would never allow it.”
“No,” Robin muttered. “He just hurts me himself.”
“Well now, you have been very naughty, Robin. Not to mention foolish. Whatever were you thinking? You might have been killed.”
Robin didn’t want to hear it. He’d already had the lecture from his father. He pulled away from her and lay down with his face to the wall.
Martha must have realised he wanted to be alone. She gave his hair one last stroke.
“Try to get some sleep. Everything will be all right in the morning, you’ll see.” She left the room, locking the door behind her.
Robin lay still, listening to her fading footsteps. He unclenched his fist and examined the hairpin he had taken from Martha’s headdress. How long before Martha noticed it was missing? Long enough, he hoped. Pulling his tunic back on, he went to work on the lock.
***
Why was it that, in a castle so large, there wasn’t a servant boy to be found? Robin loitered near the kitchens, trying to look as if he had some purpose, and all the while, time ticked by. Someone would be along to check on him sooner or later, and they would find his room empty. He needed to get back, but more than that, he needed to see Gilbert, and he could hardly go dressed as he was.
He received a few cursory glances, but the servants were either too busy or too unobservant to pay him much attention.
He found himself thinking of his friend, Alan a Dale, and wishing he were there. Alan was always up for a bit of adventure, and more importantly, he would do as Robin asked without question.
At long last, Robin spotted what he was looking for. A boy emerged through a door, carrying a tray loaded with an earthenware pitcher of water and a basket containing what looked like hunks of stale bread—or they might have been bricks; Robin wasn’t sure. The boy looked to be his own age and size with a mop of wavy, light-brown hair. He would do.
Robin stepped into the boy’s path.
“Stop a moment.”
The boy halted. Lively blue eyes regarded Robin. “What do you want?”
“I need you to come with me, now.”
“Why? I have to take this food to the dungeons. It’ll mean a beating if I’m caught.”
“It will only take a minute,” Robin said impatiently. “Is there somewhere we can go? A storeroom or something?”
“What do you want a storeroom for?”
Robin resisted the urge to shake the boy. Would he never stop asking questions?
“I need your clothes. I will explain later, I promise.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Half a penny,” Robin said.
The boy’s face lit up. “You’re on.”
He led Robin down a passage that stank of raw meat to a door at the end, and pulled it open. Its hinges let out a protesting creak, and he swore. Robin looked up and down the corridor. There was still no one about. Both boys ducked inside, and Robin pulled the door shut.
He shrugged out of his tunic, wincing, and the boy whistled.
“What happened to you?”
“Never mind.” Robin held out an impatient hand. “Hurry, we haven’t much time.”
“First, tell me what you want my clothes for,” the boy demanded.
“I need to get into the dungeons. There is someone I have to see. I’ll take that tray of yours and go down there. You can wait up here for me.”
A spark of curiosity lit in the boy’s eyes. He set the tray down and began to undress. Robin took the clothes, which were worn and much mended, and scrambled into them. He shoved his own at the boy.
“These are fancy.” The boy smoothed his hand down the brown wool. “I might not give them back.”
Robin picked up the tray. “Tell me how to get to the dungeons.”
***
The dungeons were every bit as unpleasant as Robin had heard. With his cap pulled low and his head bowed, he was the picture of a humble servant and had no difficulty slipping past the jailor.
Prisoners pressed their faces to the bars in their cell doors, as if they were waiting for help. A few torches burned here and there, throwing a meagre light on the miserable scene. Some prisoners groaned, while others wept quietly. Still others lay on the floor, whether dead or sleeping, Robin didn’t want to know.
He busied himself handing out the pitiful rations, sliding them through hatches cut in each cell door. He purposely left Gilbert until last.
Gilbert had a cell to himself. Two burly guards sat outside it, enjoying a cup of ale.
“The jailor wants you,” Robin said, careful to speak in the boy’s coarse accent. “He says it’s urgent.”
“What, both of us?” One of the guards shot a dubious look at the prisoner.
His companion laughed. “He’ll keep for a minute or two. It’s not as if he’s going anywhere.” They left.
> Knowing he had little time, Robin crouched so he was on a level with Gilbert. He saw the outlaw’s eyes widen in recognition. His face was bruised and bloody and his expression was cold.
“What are you doing here?”
For answer, Robin filled a wooden bowl with water and shoved it, together with the last of the bread through the door hatch.
Gilbert ignored the offering.
“I didn’t betray you,” Robin whispered. “I swear it on my life.”
Perhaps the outlaw read the earnestness in his eyes, for his expression softened a touch.
“So it was a coincidence that those men followed you?”
“It was Guy of Gisborne. He has wanted revenge for that night in the forest when your outlaws caught us. He must have seen me leave and alerted the sheriff.”
Gilbert shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t matter now.”
Robin hated to hear the defeat in the man’s voice.
“I will get you out of here,” he vowed. “I could attack the jailor, take his keys.”
Gilbert shook his head. “You’re a brave lad, but it wouldn’t work. This castle is swarming with soldiers, and with this wound of mine, I cannot run.”
It was then Robin remembered the gash in Gilbert’s leg and saw that his face was drawn with pain and exhaustion. Robin’s eyes prickled. “There must be something I can do.”
“You can survive. That is all any of us can do in this excuse for a free country where the rich rule and the poor are ants beneath their feet.”
“How did you become an outlaw?”
Gilbert’s mouth twisted in a humourless smile. “No doubt you have heard the stories. Is that not why you sought me out in the first place?”
Robin nodded. “Why did you kill those men?”
“They killed my wife,” Gilbert said simply.
Robin’s mouth dropped open. Of all the answers he might have expected, that one took him by surprise. He had never thought of the outlaw as a man with a family, which was silly, now he came to think of it.
“They were a group of the sheriff’s tax collectors.” Gilbert’s voice shook with loathing. “They came demanding money. I gave them all I could spare. My wife was expecting our first child. They said it wasn’t enough. When they saw I had no more to give, they collected payment another way.”