Heir of Locksley

by N B Dixon

  “Sir Richard’s horse.”

  Robin dismounted and led his horse over to Will.

  “I don’t like this,” Will said. He bent to examine the ground for footprints.

  “The grass is trampled like there’s been a struggle, and there’s blood on the ground.”

  “There is more here,” Robin said. “It’s left a trail.”

  They followed it to a small patch of gorse bushes, where Will saw a pair of feet encased in leather riding boots protruding. Dreading what he was about to find, he crouched and forced the prickly foliage aside.

  Sir Richard lay on his side. On the back of his head was a welt the size of a hen’s egg. It had bled copiously.

  Robin knelt and placed two fingers to his neck. “There’s a pulse.”

  Will’s shoulders relaxed. “That’s a nasty wound, though. We must get help.”

  Robin clenched his fists.

  Will could sense his frustration. This was just what Guy had hoped for. Whoever struck that blow probably meant to kill Sir Richard so he couldn’t deliver his warning. How had he known what Sir Richard meant to do? Could there have been someone spying on them in the tavern? Somehow, Will doubted it. More likely Guy had made sure to have men watching the road in case Robin or somebody else he didn’t trust happened along.

  “Help me get him onto his horse,” Robin said. “We’ll take him to Martha.”

  ***

  Edgar met Robin with his customary sneer firmly in place. “What are you doing here?”

  “Where is my father?” Robin demanded.

  Edgar drew himself up. “My Lord is busy. Besides—” his lip curled “—I doubt he would wish to see you.”

  Robin ignored this last remark. “Fetch Martha. We have a wounded man who needs tending.”

  “You don’t give orders here,” Edgar blustered. “I see no wounded man.”

  At that moment, Will appeared, leading Sir Richard’s horse. Sir Richard was draped across his saddle, looking as though he were already dead.

  Edgar’s mouth fell open in shock. At any other time, Robin would have found his resemblance to a fish amusing.

  “This is Sir Richard of Lee, in case you didn’t recognise him. Either you can fetch Martha or you can explain to my father why you let one of his oldest friends die.”

  Edgar scurried off without another word.

  Within a short while, Sir Richard was laid on a pallet in the hall while Martha cleaned and dressed his wound.

  “What manner of villain would do such a cowardly thing to a knight of the realm?” she demanded of nobody in particular as she smeared an evil-smelling salve over Richard’s scalp.

  “Guy of Gisborne,” Robin said through gritted teeth.

  “But why, for God’s sake? What harm has Sir Richard ever done him?”

  Robin hesitated, but there was no point in keeping it secret now.

  “Guy and a bunch of rebels intend to attack the king at Nottingham. Sir Richard was on his way to warn the king when he was ambushed.”

  Martha stared at him aghast. “But why would Guy do such a thing?”

  “Prince John has offered to return Guy’s forfeited lands to the Gisborne family once he is king. That means Locksley.”

  “Oh, the wicked, wicked boy. His father will be turning in his grave. But is there no one to stop him?”

  “I will,” Robin growled.

  Martha nearly dropped her salve. “You can’t. You’ll be killed.”

  “Maybe.” In truth, he didn’t care whether he came through this alive, as long as he took Guy and Katrina to the grave with him. Martha must have read it in his face.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “Katrina murdered Lucy, along with my unborn child. Guy killed Lucy’s brother Peter. I will have justice for their deaths. And I will die before I let Locksley fall into Guy’s hands.”

  Martha threw her arms around his neck. There were tears in her eyes, but Robin saw pride there, too.

  “The little boy I once loved has gone. In his place is a man any parent would be proud of.”

  Robin doubted it. He didn’t think he could ever do anything that would make his father proud, not after throwing over an heiress for a miller’s daughter.

  Martha turned to Will. “Take care of him.”

  Will nodded.

  ***

  Morning was still some way off by the time they reached the town gates. Robin led his horse off the road into a small patch of foliage. From there, he would be the first through the gates as soon as the curfew lifted, and he would be able to keep an eye on traffic coming and going.

  “We need some plan for getting into the castle,” Will said.

  Robin kept his gaze trained on the gates. There was still no one about. He fought down his impatience. Staring at the gates and willing them to open wouldn’t make it happen any faster.

  “Any ideas?” Will pressed.

  Robin turned to him. His conscience gave a painful twinge. He wished he could send Will home, but he knew his friend wouldn’t go. Will had always been so loyal. This time was different though. This time, they might both be killed. Robin didn’t think he could bear to have yet another death laid at his door.

  Will was watching him, his blue eyes serious.

  Robin opened his mouth, but couldn’t find any words.

  Will reached over and touched Robin’s hand where it rested against the pommel of his saddle. “Charging in there blindly won’t work. If you have any suggestions, now would be a good time to mention them.”

  He was right.

  “We need someone who can get us into the castle.”

  “Couldn’t we just knock out a couple of the sheriff’s guards and steal their clothes?”

  Robin grinned in spite of himself. “Honestly, Will, don’t you have any sense of originality? Bodies are evidence. If those soldiers discovered two unconscious guards, they would raise a hue and cry. We’re trying not to draw attention to ourselves.”

  “Some disguise, then? We could go in as servants.”

  “It might work, but we would still need someone to get us in.”

  ***

  They had no trouble entering Nottingham. The moment the gates opened, a surge of humanity descended on the town. Robin and Will joined the throng, just two peasant lads come to see the king.

  It was a while since Robin had visited Nottingham, and at first glance, it appeared the town hadn’t changed at all. The noise, the stench and the sheer volume of people were just as he remembered.

  Unbidden, the face of Gilbert White-hand came to his mind. It was here that Robin had been forced to watch him die. That had been Guy’s fault as well.

  Robin followed close on Will’s heels as Will negotiated them through the thronging crowds, market stalls and the animals that were everywhere underfoot. Twice, Robin nearly tripped headlong over a stray chicken and only Will’s grab at his shoulder steadied him.

  There were plenty of garrison soldiers in evidence, several in light chain mail and all armed. The general atmosphere was one of happy anticipation. Robin wondered how many soldiers were loyal to the king and how many to Prince John.

  Their destination was a certain tavern Will knew. Nottingham seemed to have an infinite number of these, and the one Will eventually made a beeline for looked no different than any others. A tattered twig, the symbol of a tavern, hung over the entrance. Will shouldered open the door, and a gust of raucous laughter drifted out, together with a powerful stink of smoke, urine and unwashed bodies. Robin followed Will inside.

  Two soldiers were in the middle of an arm-wrestling contest while the watching audience egged them on. From the look of them, they’d already consumed a large quantity of ale. As Robin watched, a girl made her way over to a table, clutching a heavy pitcher. One of the customers tried to lift her skirts as she passed. The girl stumbled, slopping some of the drink onto the table and over the man’s lap. He cuffed her ear as she muttered a hasty apology. Robin stiffened but Will gripped his ar
m.

  “That’s standard behaviour for this tavern. Let’s get ourselves a drink. The ale tastes like muddy rainwater, but the cider is better.”

  They were soon ensconced at a table that gave them a good view of the door. Robin sipped his drink without tasting it. He watched as customers came and went.

  His frustration grew. While they loitered here, the king and his retinue were making their way unawares into a trap, Sir Richard may well be at death’s door, and Guy and Katrina were no doubt congratulating each other on having put all their enemies out of action.

  You missed one, Robin thought grimly.

  Across from him, Will straightened. “That’s him.”

  Robin followed his gaze. A small man with a mop of thinning brown hair and a pointed face that put Robin in mind of a rodent sidled up to the counter. There was a distinctly shifty look about him, and all Robin’s warning instincts went on high alert.

  The man had accepted a mug of ale from the landlord and was wending his way through the tables. He narrowly avoided slipping in a puddle of urine as a patron relieved himself on the floor rushes.

  Will half rose from his bench. “Wat, over here.”

  The man turned, and his eyes widened in recognition. “Young Will Scathelock. Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes and no mistake.” The two men clasped forearms. “What brings you back to Nottingham? I heard you went and got yourself apprenticed to some lordling. A spoiled brat, I’ll be bound. Who’s your silent friend?”

  Will smirked. “This would be the spoiled brat in question.”

  Robin inclined his head. “My name is Robin Hood. I need a favour from you.”

  Wat raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t beat about the bush, does he? Can’t a fellow finish his drink first?”

  “I don’t have time for games,” Robin snapped.

  “Ooh, hark at him. Here, you don’t look much like a lordling. Why the peasant clothes?”

  Will hastened to intervene. “We need to get into the castle.”

  Wat stared at them. “This is a jest at my expense, isn’t it?”

  “No jest,” Will promised.

  “Why?”

  “It’s the king’s banquet tonight,” Robin said.

  Wat snorted. “You telling me?”

  Robin looked around to make sure no one else was listening. Fortunately, the arm-wrestling match had developed into a fistfight and customers were cheering them on. Under cover of the noise, Robin leaned across the table so that his and Wat’s faces were inches apart and Robin had an unwanted view of the lumps of gristle sticking between the man’s crooked teeth. Will leaned in close also, keeping one eye on the fight.

  “There will be an attempt on the king’s life,” Robin said.

  Wat’s mouth opened in surprise. “You’re not serious.”

  “I’m deadly serious. We mean to stop it.”

  “What? Just the two of you?” Wat didn’t try to hide his scorn.

  “Many of the most influential nobles in the land will be present. Not all will be on the side of the rebels. Plus, there will be the king’s personal guards and whatever soldiers the sheriff hasn’t bribed or coerced into looking the other way.”

  “The sheriff’s in on the plot, too?”

  “We have no proof, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Nor I,” Wat said with feeling. “He’s a sly devil and no mistake. But what do you plan to do?”

  “The rebels currently have surprise on their side. If we can expose the ringleaders, it might prevent the attack, but to do that, we have to break into the castle. Will thought you might be able to help us.”

  Wat’s expression turned guarded. “Why me?”

  Will shrugged. “You’ve mended enough pots and pans for the castle cooks. I reckon you can swing it so two extra servants are hired.”

  Wat was instantly on the defensive. “I didn’t steal nothing.”

  Will grinned. “Never said you did.”

  “You can’t prove anything, Will Scathelock.”

  “No? Who was it saw you trying to sneak out of the kitchen one time with a set of silver spoons under your tunic? And who distracted the cooks and the soldiers so you could get away? You owe me.”

  Wat didn’t look remotely abashed. “I had a wife and kiddies to feed.”

  “You still live with your mam.”

  Robin had had enough of this verbal horseplay. “Can you help us or not?”

  Wat considered. Robin waited, barely able to contain his impatience. Just as he was about to reach across the table and grab the scrawny man by the throat, Wat nodded.

  “Shouldn’t be that difficult. They’ll be needing extra hands today. Mind, once you’re in, you’ll be on your own. I’m not sticking my neck out any more than I have to.”

  “Just get us past the gates,” Robin said. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt to have a soldier or two on our side,” Will mused. “How about it, Wat? Any soldiers among your contacts?”

  Wat heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I might know someone.”

  ***

  The cook was a red-faced, overweight man. He regarded Wat, Robin and Will through piggy, bloodshot eyes.

  “Who are these lads you brought me, Wat?”

  “They’re friends of mine. You said as how you were looking for extra help.”

  The cook continued to glower. “How do I know they are trustworthy?”

  Wat managed to look wounded. Robin had to admire his acting skills.

  “Would I send you anything but the best?”

  The cook heaved a sigh that set his bushy moustache blowing. “Fine.” He gestured to Robin and Will. “In there, both of you. Someone will find you some spare clothes to wear.”

  “Is John around?” Wat asked.

  “What do you want with him?”

  “I said I’d mend a pot for his aunt.”

  “Aye, he’s about. Go and see him if you must, but don’t steal anything.”

  Wat’s smile could have put an angel to shame. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Go on with you,” the cook said, flapping a pudgy hand at Robin and Will.

  In no time, they were dressed in tunics bearing the sheriff’s insignia. Their hair had also been combed and their faces scrubbed. The first phase of the plan had worked.

  Back in the bustle of the kitchen, they were put to work. People rushed here and there, stirring, chopping and peeling. Men in blood-spattered aprons shouted orders, and the back door constantly banged open and shut as men came in bearing cart-loads of beef, wine and ale.

  Robin went where he was directed and did whatever jobs were assigned to him, all the while searching for his chance to escape. Their plan, such as it was, hinged on a soldier friend of Wat’s. A giant of a man, he’d said, impossible to miss. He would be a good ally if Robin could get him to believe their story. The question was how to escape long enough to find him?

  At last, the opportunity came. One of the cooks sent Robin to a certain store room with instructions to take out the cloths kept there and spread them on the high tables in the great hall. Robin slipped out of the kitchen, after exchanging a brief glance with Will, who was busy turning some meat roasting on a spit over the fire. Will nodded, indicating he would join Robin when he could.

  Robin headed for the outer bailey. That was where the king would make his entrance, and all soldiers would be there to welcome him. However, as he passed one of the numerous small chambers that opened off the passage, a deep, rumbling voice reached his ears.

  “I’m telling you, something’s not right. The prince was with the sheriff an hour and more last week. All those nobles coming into the castle and slipping away at dead of night. It’s common knowledge they’re cronies of the prince.”

  Robin paused, listening.

  “Honestly, John. These are suspicions, nothing more. I can hardly order the sheriff to cancel the banquet on a hunch.”

  “Haven’t you been listening to me? The sheriff’s in
on it.”

  “I haven’t time for this now. The king will be here any minute.”

  The door crashed open. A giant of a man was framed there. He had a mane of shaggy dark hair and a face that was weather-beaten and stern. He matched the description Wat had given. John Little was his name. Robin fought to keep his face straight. There was nothing little about this man.

  Grey eyes fastened on Robin, their gaze penetrating. “What are you doing here, boy?”

  Robin ducked his head. “Got lost, sir.”

  “Well, go on about your work,” the other man—a captain, judging by the insignia on his tabard—ordered.

  Robin bobbed his head and hurried off. He waited until the two men had gone on their way before once more heading for the outer bailey.

  It seemed as though the whole of Nottingham and most of the surrounding villages had turned out to witness the king’s arrival. Robin had no trouble blending into the crowd. The portcullis was up and the flag at full mast. Men at arms were everywhere, all in chain mail and armed.

  Robin’s heart sank. Were all of them loyal to Prince John and the sheriff?

  The soldiers were having difficulty keeping order. Servants scurried here and there, and fathers lifted small children onto their shoulders to give them a better view.

  “Bloody townsfolk,” Robin heard one soldier mutter to his comrades. “Haven’t they got anything better to do?”

  Robin scanned the crowd for Will, but realised at once it was hopeless. Instead, he searched for John Little. The man would hardly be difficult to miss. Sure enough, there he was, standing at attention. He wore a helmet now, the prominent nose guard disguising much of his face. An axe hung from his belt. Robin didn’t doubt he knew how to use it.

  A blast of trumpets sounded, and an expectant hush fell over the watching crowd. The king and his entourage came riding into Nottingham castle.

  The king rode in the lead on a chestnut stallion. Robin’s pulse quickened at the sight of him. The stories about King Henry II were legendary. He had come to the throne on the death of King Stephen. Though his reign had been largely peaceful, it had also been peppered with scandal. First had come the murder of Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, by four of the king’s own knights. It was rumoured that they had acted after a rash outburst from the king. As penance, he had allowed himself to be publicly flogged while his subjects watched. Then had come the rebellion by his sons. Young Henry, aided by his brothers, had made a bid for the throne. Their mother, Queen Elinor had also sided with her sons and been thrown in prison for her treachery. King Henry had managed to crush the rebellion, and there had been peace ever since. It was said he was reconciled with his remaining sons, but it seemed this was an illusion, at least where Prince John was concerned.