Sharp commands now rang across the training field. John set his fists on his hips. “Nobody knows how strong we are. And that’s good.”
Weapons clanged everywhere. At short intervals, swarms of arrows hissed and then thumped into the target wall. Running, climbing, over thirty hardened men were training in speed, attack, and defense.
That’s right, Robin, we are not a horde of ruffians. We are your army. John stretched the muscles of his back. Yes, the lazy, lazy days were over. On three marked-out squares at the edge of the compound, the lieutenants instructed the divided troops. In middle of the field, Robin Hood supervised the archers. His orders spurred the men on, accelerating the pace of the firing sequence.
John shielded his eyes from the sunlight. Far away, on the other side of the field where the swordsmen were, he spotted a small brown hood. Marian!
“No, I’m not having that,” he rumbled. With wide strides, the giant took off. He nodded at Gilbert Whitehand, who was practicing close combat with his men with fists and knives.
John paid no attention to Tom Toad, who was loudly counting as his companions, fully armed with bows, quivers, and swords, climbed up into the bare treetops, and then continued counting until they stood in front of him again, panting.
“Hey, giant! Here I am.” Robin Hood ordered the archers to stop. But John paid no notice. He marched on toward Marian. The outlaw blocked his path. “Well? What happened with the spy?”
“He won’t come back.”
“So, talk!”
Menacingly, John pointed to Marian. “Who brought her here?”
“Our little condition?” Robin laughed. “You’re worse than a brood sow with her shoats. Much fetched her. Let her have some fun!”
John trudged on without a word.
“At the next rotation, I’ll send you five men,” his leader shouted after him. “You start with training in staff fighting.” Mockingly, he added: “And, by the Holy Virgin, leave the babysitting to the women!”
“Fine,” mumbled John.
Marian glanced briefly at the bearded face and smiled. When John started to speak to her, she put her finger to her mouth and looked intently at Pete Smiling. Much and three of their companions were facing the experienced fighter, their swords drawn.
Pete threw his weapon into the snow. “Here I am. Come on, give it a go!”
One by one, he told them to bring their swords high above their heads with both hands and strike them down at him in the same movement. Only at the last moment did Pete step aside. The blows went nowhere. Before the broad, sharp blade reached the ground, the lieutenant jumped forward, bounced against his opponent’s body, and knocked him off his legs. “That’s how it’s done. Now show me!”
Pete Smiling picked up his sword and waited impatiently until his companions’ weapons were stuck side by side in the snow. “Remember! You must jump your opponent before he can strike again, or you are lost.” His scar flared red up to his ears. “Don’t be scared! Today I’ll use the flat of my blade. But if you’re not fast enough . . .” Smiling bared his teeth.
When it was Much’s turn, Marian leaned forward. Much dodged, jumped. He was too late. The lieutenant turned only slightly, and the young man fell face down in the snow. Marian wrinkled her nose and laughed silently.
Still on the ground, Much saw her mocking him. He was back on his feet instantly. “Just you wait, little snipe!”
“Let it go, boy,” growled John. His grim glare warned off the miller’s son. Silently, Much lined up again behind the companions.
John put his hand on Marian’s shoulder. “That’s enough, little one. Go to the village. Go to Beth.”
She pushed her hood back and shook her head.
“Listen to me!” the giant demanded. She shrugged at him.
Powerless, John dropped his hand. “All right. I’ll take you back later.” Marian smiled.
A short horn signal. The groups switched their teachers on the double. Robin Hood sent Vincent and the two newcomers to Little John together with two other men.
First, each had to choose a suitable, shoulder-high oak staff from the shed. The giant rammed his fighting staff into the snow. “You can handle using it for hiking, I think.” He smiled. “The rest you’ll learn from me.” The heavy stick whirled around in his right hand.
Marian had followed Much and the others to Gilbert Whitehand. Knife fighting: the straight thrust, the thrust from bottom to top. Standing side by side, the men had to follow the fast movements of the lieutenant. Blades flashed, changing from right hand to left and back to right again.
Marian pressed her hand over her mouth.
“And now, lads, I’ll show you why you have feet.” Gilbert pointed to Much. “Go on. Attack me!”
Crouching, the two watched each other, circling around each other, evading sudden thrusts, tense eyes following the opponent’s dagger tip. Marian gasped.
The lieutenant raised his knife much too high. An opening! Much saw his chance and stabbed toward the man’s middle. Whitehand kicked up his right foot. The tip of his boot hit Much’s wrist. The dagger sprang from his fingers. Gilbert had already grabbed the thrusting arm. He whirled Much around, pressed him against his chest, his left arm looped around the boy’s neck him from behind. “That’s it, Much.”
Laughter.
Grinning, Gilbert raised his white right fist.
Marian’s mouth dropped wide open. He has a dagger! Must help. Must help! The old terror flooded her head again. It filled her up. It broke forth. Must help! Marian screamed. She breathed in, screamed more, screamed herself into silence.
The two fighters and their fellows were frozen in place. Motionless, Gilbert still held the knife high in his white fist. He forgot to let go of Much. In startled, unbelieving amazement, all eyes were on the girl.
With giant strides, John stormed across the field. His roar cleared a path for him, the squads interrupting their exercises. His bellow drew all the freemen along behind him. John reached the fighting arena before any of them. He saw the knife, did not ask questions. Still running, he struck out with both hands. Gilbert and Much fell to the ground simultaneously. “Who did what to her?” He spun around, snorting. The three others immediately threw away their daggers and ducked.
Robin Hood and the others reached the arena. They helped the toppled men up.
Marian tugged at the giant’s doublet. She cursed, silently. Her lips moving soundlessly, she repeated the scolding. A rattle came out of her throat. Some words made it into sound. “. . . Mean! . . . Stupid! That’s what you are!” She put her hands on her hips. Anger flashed in her blue eyes. “Why did you do that?”
“Because you . . .” John trailed off. The big man’s bearded chin trembled. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. He drew his brows. “What?” He bent down toward the girl. “What? Little one?”
“They didn’t do anything to me.”
John gently touched her lips. “You—you’re talking. You’re back.”
“You can hear me?” The blood drained from Marian’s face. “Yes?”
He nodded.
“On your honor?”
“I’m not lying to you, little one.”
She pulled his beard. “I shouted. But you didn’t hear me. Nobody heard me. And then . . .” she clutched at her throat “. . . then everything went quiet. I was always talking to you. But now you hear me.” Marian looked over her shoulder at Robin Hood and the amazed men. “Do you hear me too?”
“Every word.” The leader beckoned with his finger. “Try it again. What did you call him, a moment ago?”
“Stupid,” Marian repeated.
“Plain and clear.” Robin laughed. “I like your voice.”
As grins spread across all their faces, Marian put her mouth to John’s ear. “But that’s not true,” she whispered.
“It’s all right, little one.” John turned to the men he had knocked to the ground. “Gilbert. Much. I am sorry.”
Whitehand ginger
ly touched his jaw and mimicked the giant’s grumbly voice: “Fine, then.”
“If . . . if it gets that . . . result, you can . . . you can beat me again.” The miller’s son beamed at Marian.
She threatened him with her fist. “Just you wait! Snipe, my foot. I could hear you the whole time, you know.”
Tom Toad gleefully leaned over to Smiling. “It’s best you never teach that little dragon how to use a sword.”
Little John drew a breath into his mighty chest. He wanted to roar, release it all. He clenched his fists, opened them again, rubbed his hands together. “I don’t know how to say how I feel. It’s . . . good.”
Marian pulled the hood over her curls. “Take me to the village! I want to tell Beth that I can talk again.”
The brotherhood of outlaws watched John and the girl head off in silence. Although the giant tried to take small steps, Marian had to run beside him. She spoke, laughed, and talked. Her voice sounded bright and firm.
Robin Hood let his fingertips play over his chin. “Our little condition.” He snapped his fingers. “A miracle for the New Year! King Arthur isn’t the only one who gets one. Us, too. It’s going to be a good year.”
YORKSHIRE. DONCASTER.
Sir Roger held back his falconer. “I’ll take him myself today! You bring the pigeons.”
In the stone falconry, right next to the castle’s farm buildings, his hunters sat and waited: six precious hunting birds, trained to obey only his command. Long leather fetters limited their freedom. Out of reach of their neighbor’s claws, each of them sat enthroned on their own high wooden high bar, like a ruler in the middle of his empire.
“My flying bandit knights.” The five mighty peregrine falcons alone were enough to make the gaunt baron the envy of his neighbors: steel-gray backs, the light, black-spotted chest. But it was the sight of the sixth hunter that had left even Prince John breathless last year.
Avoiding sudden movements, Sir Roger of Doncaster slowly approached the center, slightly higher perch. “Mon roi de neige.” He beckoned the bird of prey. “Mon roi de neige.” His pale green eyes glowed in the baron’s hollow-cheeked face. This one was not dark like the others, but had snow-white plumage. What a feast for the eyes! A longer look revealed the needle-sharp claws, the sharp-edged beak, the big burning eyes that missed nothing. Woe to the wild goose, woe to the heron, whenever Sir Roger cast his Snow King into the air during a hunt.
The baron slipped a cuffed glove made of stiff black leather over his left hand, carefully gathered the fetters into short loops, and let the bird of prey cross from the perch to his left fist.
Noise. Voices from outside: “Not now!” “Shut up!” “You’re not allowed past. No! Just wait.”
Irritated, Sir Roger turned toward the commotion. His steward stomped into the birdhouse, pulling a ragged figure of a man behind him by a rope. The falconry master had tried in vain to stop the intruders.
“Diable,” hissed the baron. With great effort at self-control, he calmly stroked the Snow King’s plumage and put the gemstone-encrusted hood over the falcon’s head and eyes. “Par Tous les diables! I forbade any interruption.”
He headed out to the courtyard of the castle, where the steward helped him into his saddle. He trotted on his horse over the drawbridge, carrying his Snow King on his left fist. The ragged man, Charles, trotted beside the mare, closely followed by the steward and falconer.
He reported how he had been sent out to sneak into the outlaws’ camp as a spy. He laced his report with embellishments, described Robin Hood as a wolf accompanied by a wild bear, breathlessly told of hard fights in which he was a bold hero. Sir Roger let him speak.
Not far from the castle, at the edge of an open field, the falconer set down the basket of doves. “Here is the most favorable place, sir! I am ready.”
Questions were put to the spy: Where was the camp? How strong was the outlaw gang? Weapons? Plans? To none of these questions did Charles know the answer.
“So, you were superior to Robin Hood in combat?” The pale green eyes gleamed with scorn. “Why are you standing here in your undergarments?”
“Because . . .” The lad broke off, exhaled a breath. His shoulders sank. “Because . . .” He fell silent.
“I see.” Sir Roger rubbed the falcon’s chest. “You encountered this vagrant. I believe you did, Sergeant. But only because you look so plucked.”
The steward spat in Charles’s face. “And still you dare to steal our time.” He swung the looped end of the rope back and forth with relish as if mimicking a noose. “Lord, may I . . .?”
“Silence! We are not murderers.” Sir Roger pretended outrage. Charles wiped his brow. For a moment, the baron allowed him to feel relief, then he added calmly: “We leave the means of punishment to my friend, Thom de Fitz. We will tie up this great spy as he is and return him to the sheriff.”
Charles fell to his knees. “Do not send me back! No one, no one could have found out anything. Believe me, this Robin Hood and his gang, they are devils!” Charles’ eyes welled up. “They even eat ravens. It’s the truth.”
The steward scowled. The falconer shook his head in disgust. Sir Roger laughed and caressed the chest of his white falcon.
“Let me serve you!” Charles begged. “I would do anything for you. Just do not send me to Nottingham!”
“Enough! Send him to . . .” The baron paused. His bumpy nose flared. “Any service?” he asked. A new thought inspired him. “I am too indulgent, I know. Thom de Fitz will rightly reproach me. Nevertheless: I’ll give you one chance. But if you fail again . . .”
“Never. Believe me! Give me a task, and I will fulfill it!”
Indignant, the steward shook his head. A stern glance from his master stopped him from saying anything further. Sir Roger smiled down at the ragged fellow. “Get up! I take you into my service as a man-at-arms. Once the snow has melted completely, you will have your chance. If you fulfill your task to my satisfaction, I will consider keeping you on. With the rank of sergeant.”
Charles shuffled closer on his knees. “Thank you.” He pressed his lips to the baron’s boot. Sir Roger kicked him away. “Do not dare touch me again!” He waved his free right hand. “Now, leave! Wait for my steward at the castle gate! He will give you a new tunic. And you may choose a good sword from the blacksmith in the city.”
“Thank you.” Charles pulled himself together and stammered, “Th-thank you, sir.” Thank you, I will be one of your finest, most loyal—”
“Get out of here before I change my mind!” Charles ran off in the direction of the castle. The baron looked after him with a sneer. “Idiot.”
“But, sir!” The steward was displeased.
“It is time to hunt, sir,” urged the falconer. “How long must the hunter wait for his meal?”
“You are right.” Sir Roger’s index finger stroked the breast of the white bird of prey as he apologized to the Snow King. “Pardon,” he said nasally. “Pardon.” Turning to the falconer, he said, “Wait until I give you the signal!”
A squeeze of his thighs, and the brown mare trotted off. Over his shoulder, he ordered the steward to follow along.
“Lord, why did you . . . ?”
“Not now.” It was only when they were out of the falconer’s earshot that Sir Roger replied, barely moving his narrow lips. “That fellow showed up just in time.”
He stopped the horse the middle of a wide field and looked down at his breathless steward. “And you of all people should be pleased.” He reminded him of what they had done two years ago. It was only because of that act, that a steward’s high position in the castle had suddenly become available for the previously ordinary officer. He had, literally, stabbed his predecessor in the back in the woods below the town, near the mill.
“It was your wish, sir,” the steward defended himself. “And the miller’s son was to be accused as the murderer, as we had agreed.”
“I don’t recall that.” The hollow-cheeked face froze into a
mask. “There are two more witnesses to your crime. So beware! My hand lifts you, but it can also drop you.”
The steward lowered his head.
“But I appreciate your loyalty. And I will help you. Par la Vierge, this fool was sent to us by heaven.” The pale green eyes shone coldly. The plan was simple: Charles would go to the mill. His mission was to find out the whereabouts of the fugitive son. No mercy would be shown. Charles was allowed to go to extremes to break the silence of the boy’s parents. “You alone will accompany him. And that fool will not return to Doncaster after his work is done.” Sir Roger smiled. “No witnesses, no worries. You see how I care for your welfare?”
The steward sighed. He looked up at his master with gratitude.
“Mon Roi de Neige.” The baron took the cap off the bird of prey. The falcon’s head twitched back and forth—black, shining eyes. Quickly, the baron loosened the bird’s foot strap with his right hand and with a mighty swing of his left arm, Sir Roger hurled the hunter into the air. The white falcon fluttered just for a moment, then it spread its wings, hovered, and then with powerful beats it rose, spiraling higher and higher. Only when it looked like it had reached the sun did it let itself be carried by the air currents, gliding in wide circles high above its master.
Sir Roger raised his hand, the signal. The falconer reached into the basket. A white dove whirled up, oriented itself, and shot away across the field. High above it, the hunter tipped over, accelerated its descent with short flaps of its wings. It pulled its wings in close to its body and plunged down, striking the unsuspecting dove, sharp talons reaching into its heart. Only a short distance above the ground, spread wings halted the rapid fall. The predator landed and crouched over its prey, and the sharp-hooked beak crushed the pigeon’s neck.
“Mon roi de neige!” Sir Roger raised his gloved fist. He spurred the mare on and galloped across the snow-covered field. The bailiff rushed after him.
The falcon waited. Its master did not take the prey. “Eat!” Blood colored the white feathers of the victim. Blood colored the snow.
Sir Roger watched with satisfaction. Finally, he turned to the steward. “Just like this dove, Robin Hood will one day lie before me.” He rubbed his bumpy nose. “A spy. The lord sheriff’s idea was good. Almost good enough to have come from me.” His lips stretched. “Only he should have trained a hawk, not a pigeon.”
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