Orders rose from the camp, horn calls. Creaking and groaning, the catapults began to move. Their long arms loomed menacingly high. They reached the valley. There were cheering shouts. The horns set the rhythm. Mercenaries pulled and pushed the ponderous machines up the hill one by one. They had almost reached the line of outlaws.
The city gates opened. A good twenty armed men charged the attackers on horseback, lances ready in their fists. And the outlaws left their cover. Standing in the open, they shot the iron men from their saddles. But some city soldiers made it to throwing range. A lance struck Whitehand. The tip stuck out from his back. He fell without a sound.
John roared, dropped his bow, tore the shield from his bearer, and charged toward the horsemen. He knocked one lance aside, fended off the next, lunged among the horses. John howled and knocked a man out of the saddle with the edge of his shield, then hit a second. The shield crashed against the iron armor of the third man-at-arms. The struck soldiers rolled in pain on the ground. John raged on. The iron men screamed in horror, turning their horses around. Only five of them reached the city. The gate slammed shut.
New archers popped up between the battlements, firing arrows and bolts. At the catapults, three mercenaries slumped forward. The noise of battle grew.
“Shoot! Shoot!” The outlaw army ceaselessly sent death up to the battlements.
“Where is Gilbert?” roared John, not taking his eyes off the city wall.
“He’s dead. Leave him!” Robin stepped from behind the shield, fired, stepped back. “We’ll get Gilbert later.”
John breathed heavily. Impotent rage burned in his eyes.
The barrage from the wall eased. The archers ducked behind the stone parapets again.
“Forward!” Thirty, forty paces closer toward Nottingham. “In a line!”
Behind the outlaws, the catapults groaned and crunched. “Position reached!” reported a sergeant. “Pull down the beams. Bring the stone balls!”
More arrows from above, scattered but well-aimed shots. Mercenaries on the winches screamed, died.
“By Dunstan!” cursed John. There was not an archer to be seen on the battlements.
“Bill!” Robin roared. “Where are they coming from? Where are those archers?”
“There are three embrasures! In each gate tower!”
John peered through the viewing slit in his shield. For a moment, iron arrowheads flashed in the dark embrasures before the arrows themselves whizzed out. “There you have it,” he growled, calling to Robin. “I’ll try to get the one on the right.”
“We’re the best, my friend!” Robin laughed. “Good luck!”
They peered around the edges of the shields, a flash marked the target, they took a step to the side. Their arrows flew, slamming through the narrow openings in the wall. Simultaneously, arrows flew out of the other embrasures, missing John and Robin by a full foot’s breadth.
“Not bad!” Robin sneered. “But not good enough for us.”
Another flash.
At the same time, the two men stepped out of cover. Both hit their target.
More arrows came in return.
One whizzed past the giant’s head. Robin groaned and dove behind cover.
“What is it?” John shouted. “What’s happened? Say something! Talk to me!”
“It’s fine,” came the strained reply. “A scratch.”
Bill Threefinger was closer. “Robin!” he exclaimed. He called to John. “The arrow! It’s in his leg!”
“Shut up!” Robin ordered, his voice firm again. “No one is to know. Shut up!”
The giant’s throat tightened. “I’m coming over there!” he shouted.
“Stop! There are two more rats in those holes. Show me your best, my friend!”
Again, arrow tips flashed. John stepped to the side. Robin hopped out of cover on his left leg. Both fired. John reached for the next arrow, aiming into the embrasure of the left gate tower. No one returned his shot.
“Nice!” Robin gasped from behind his shield.
Muffled thuds resounded. Stone catapult balls howled their way away from the ten throwing arms, over the ramparts, crashing down inside the fortress. Shouts rose from Nottingham.
The jeering howls of the royal soldiers answered them, and a second volley. The shouting beyond the walls grew louder.
The king’s trumpeters blew, ordering the retreat. Soldiers rushed down the slope, each with his shield on his back. They dragged with them the three wounded men John had knocked from their horses.
“Walk backward!” Robin ordered his men. “Slowly. Don’t let that wall out of your sight. Bring our dead with you!”
Tom Toad found Gilbert. He broke off the spear shaft and put the lifeless body over his shoulders. The others brought the second fallen man.
John called out to Much.
“I . . . I . . .” Much tried.
“It’s all right, lad,” he soothed. The giant pushed himself and his shield-bearer closer to Robin. He saw a feathered shaft still sticking from Robin’s right thigh. The arrow had pierced through the leg, the bloodstained, triangular tip protruding from the other side. Robin dragged himself backward, limping, barely daring to put weight on his right foot.
John wanted to help. But the twitching at the corners of his friend’s mouth held him back. Robin watched him from a pale face. “By the kind Holy Maiden. You learned archery quite well from me. You and I could keep Nottingham at bay all on our own. Well, what do you say?”
“Almost,” growled the giant, “only almost.” He pointed to the leg. “As soon as we get out of range, I’ll—”
“Not another word!” Robin set his jaw. “When it’s all over, you’ll take me to Kirklees. Aunt Mathilda will be pleased to see me.”
“You can’t wait that long.”
“Quiet now!”
Down in the valley, Robin was at last willing to unstring his longbow and use it as a walking stick.
“Nos compliments, mon ami!” There was undisguised admiration in King Richard’s gray eyes. “Tu es vraiment le seigneur des arcs.”
Robin looked questioningly at his king. “We are in England, my lord. Forgive me if I do not understand the Norman language.”
The sergeant next to Lionheart gritted his teeth but dared not speak up.
Richard stroked his red beard. “Bien. I think we understood you. And you are right. If We rule the land, then We should also make an effort to speak our subjects’ language. Alors: We appreciate you and your men. We express our gratitude to you.” Only then did he notice the arrow. “You are wounded.”
“Not even worth mentioning, My Lord.”
“He needs help.” Courageously, John stared down at the king.
Richard smirked. Without raising his head, he wagged his fingers at John. “Step back a bit so We can see your face!” John obeyed.
Serious again, the king made a decision. “Bien. Take Robin Hood to his quarters! We will send him our medicus.”
“My lord,” Robin cried out. “What of Nottingham?”
“Don’t worry, mon ami! You and your men have given the lord sheriff much to think about. One more little demonstration, and by evening, the fortress will be delivered to me.”
Richard nodded to John. “Take care of your friend! Later, We will call on you again.”
The doctor cut off the arrowhead, shoved a piece of wood between Robin’s teeth, and pulled the shaft out of his thigh. Blood welled, but it didn’t gush and splatter. “You’re lucky.” The doctor dribbled a pungent-smelling oil on the wound. “No veins seem damaged,” he said, pressing ribwort and shepherd’s purse over it. He wrapped on a bandage.
“Will I be able to walk?” Beads of sweat stood on Robin’s forehead.
John wiped them off. “If you can’t, I’ll carry you.”
The medicus looked from one to the other and shrugged. “With enough rest, even such a wound as this will heal quickly in men as vital as yourselves. I’ve been watching you out there.” Pensively
, he said, “During the Crusade, I was constantly at our king’s side. I saw Christian knights and Muslim soldiers fighting. But men like you? No, I’ve never met such fighters.”
“Thank you! That’s what all the fresh forest air will do for you.” Robin laughed. John joined in. Shaking his head, the doctor took his leave.
Ten catapults stood menacingly in front of Nottingham. Their throwing arms rose rigidly to the sky. Down in the valley, three gallows had been erected. Loud blasts of horns called to the sentries on the battlements. They were to be witnesses.
Robin could no longer stand stay in his tent. “Help me go see!” John carried his friend out to the cleared field, to Tom Toad, Friar Tuck and the others.
There was no trial. One by one, the sergeant pushed the three injured castle guards off the gallows. They kicked, twitched, hung still.
The soldiers waited. The cloud cover over the fortress had broken. Now and then, a ray of sunlight grazed the dead on the gallows.
The city gate opened. Two horsemen with white flags galloped past the catapults, down into the valley, and reached the encampment. A little later, they hurried their horses back.
“I would love to know what that was about,” Robin pleaded impatiently, “Please, John. Go over and find out. I need to know!”
The giant grinned. “I’m not letting you out of my sight today.”
“That’s an order!”
John growled, “Have patience!” As Much pushed his way through the others, John added, “We have people for these errands.”
Before the boy had even reached him, Robin called out, “So?”
“They . . . they just came and looked at the king. Wanted to know if it was really . . . really him.”
“Calmly, Much! What did Richard say?”
The boy tried to imitate the voice: “Well? What do you see? Am I Lionheart?” He swallowed. “They fell to their knees. And mounted their horses and went right back again.”
Robin straightened himself as best he could. He tried to imitate the voice as well: “Well, what do you see? Am I Lionheart?” He clapped. “Oh, John! That’s our king.”
The flag with the three leopards was raised above the fortress tower. White flags fluttered on the battlements. Both halves of the city gate swung back. The lord sheriff rode out in a flowing cloak. And behind him, in orderly rows, men-at-arms and castle guards exited the gate. Not a sword, not a lance point flashed. The garrison marched helmetless down to the gallows.
A fanfare sounded through the camp. King Richard trotted forth slowly on his white stallion. Accompanying him on a black horse was the Chancellor of England, Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury. At a suitable distance followed the sergeant and his captains.
“Ah, I’d like to be there.” Robin sighed.
“It’s all right.” John rubbed the scar in his beard. All at once, he felt empty. The fight was over. Now what? He breathed in deeply. He didn’t want to think about it. Later, maybe. Not now.
Tom Toad grabbed the giant’s arm. “We dug a hole up in the hills.” Sadness was in his eyes. “Friar Tuck thinks now is the best time.”
While down in the valley Richard the Lionheart had the lord sheriff kneel and surrender the fortress, Friar Tuck prayed at the graves of two of the brotherhood. “Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.”
Heralds raced off in all directions. They had royal orders to summon all barons and abbots, all dignitaries and officials of the counties of Nottingham, Derby, and York to the fortress by noon the following day. Richard the Lionheart was in a hurry. No one was allowed to be absent, unless they were confined to their bed by illness.
Pack animals brought the king’s robes, weapons, and luggage from the camp up to the city.
Early in the evening, King Richard and his chancellor strode through the rows of tents. Before they entered Robin Hood’s makeshift quarters, Lionheart addressed the brotherhood in the small clearing. “It has pleased Us, how you have fought. From this hour, all the shackles of the past are taken from you. You are free men. Freedmen!”
The companions looked at each other sheepishly. As Tom Toad and Friar Tuck bent their knee, the others followed their example.
“Freedmen?” whispered Threefinger. “We already were, weren’t we?”
“But now we really are, I think,” murmured Much. “Well, let’s wait and see!”
With a curt gesture, Lionheart yielded the space to his chancellor. The broad-shouldered Archbishop of Canterbury smiled. “You have done England a great service. For that, my thanks! Tomorrow you are to stand ready. My clerk will enter your names and give each of you your charter.”
“A letter, too?” Threefinger sighed. “I can’t read.”
“Don’t be so silly!” hissed Much. “All we have to do is show anyone this . . . parchment, then . . . then everybody knows what it means.”
Sternly, the chancellor pointed to Friar Tuck. “Now, as for you!”
The monk lowered his head.
“Your shameful offense, your assault on His Majesty the King, must be atoned for. The law demands death by hanging.”
Friar Tuck staggered on his knees. Beside him, Tom Toad clutched the hilt of his sword, “By Willick! I won’t let you touch him! I’d rather—”
“Silence!” Hubert Walter took a step forward. Unmoved, he continued, “But, given yesterday’s circumstances, the following sentence is passed on the Cistercian, Father Jerome: banishment from the monastic community. This will still be submitted to the superior of his order. Furthermore, Father Jerome must serve the inhabitants of the remote region of Barnsdale as a priest for the rest of his life.”
First disbelief, then beaming smiles. Friar Tuck folded his hands in front of his robe. “With humility, I—”
“Don’t thank me, my son. Thank the benevolence of your king!”
Impatiently, Hubert Walter ordered the men of the brotherhood to retreat to the edge of the clearing. The king wanted to speak to Robin Hood and his best captain alone.
“Remain seated, mon ami!” Richard settled himself on a log. “And you, giant, relax!”
John grinned sheepishly, standing at attention beside the chancellor of England.
“Bien. Alors.” The king’s gray eyes coolly regarded the leader’s pale, pain-stricken face. “Without further delay, all the promises I made to you yesterday are confirmed.” He gave a questioning look to the chancellor. Hubert Walter nodded in agreement. “Bien. But that’s not all. I expect you to present yourself at the fortress tomorrow to receive another favor from me. In the presence of the noble assembly, I will elevate you.” He paused for a moment. “Tomorrow, you will leave the hall as Sir Robert of Loxley.”
John took in a startled breath. Ah, my friend. He expelled the breath. You will be a lord now.
Robin bowed his head. “My lord.” His voice barely obeyed him.
“No, look at me!” the king commanded. “It was not gratitude alone that drove the Archbishop of Canterbury and me to this decision.” Quietly he smiled. “Mon ami. You gave me a taste of your manners. Alors, now learn from me: Yesterday I promised you land that you had already appropriated anyway. A war against you would only cost money and is hardly likely to be won. So, I give it to you in fief.”
“My lord—”
“Do not interrupt me! Alors: Tomorrow you will be made my liege. I know you have always been loyal to your king. But as Sir Robert of Loxley, you also have duties to the crown. In the future, you can only buy your way out of sword duty with gold. My officials will be counting on your annual tax payments in the future.” He paused, stroking his red beard. “So not only gratitude, mon ami, but as a ruler, I have to consider the benefits my gratitude brings to the kingdom.”
“Forgive me, My Lord.” The bright gray eyes sought the king’s gaze. “You’re giving me more than you know.” Robin pointed to John. “You give us freedom. We fought against injustice and oppression, and now I firmly believe—”
“Pardon, sire!” Hubert Walter took a ste
p forward. “We are expected in Nottingham.” Immediately the king rose.
“Please, my lord!” cried Robin quickly. “Do not go yet! I must warn you—”
“Warn?” Lionheart arched his brows, signaled the chancellor to wait. “I’m listening. But be brief!”
“You have enemies up here in the north. Allies of your brother. Dangerous traitors.” Robin spoke quickly, drawing a terrifying portrait of the lord sheriff, reporting on Sir Roger of Doncaster. “All the threads of the conspiracy tie together at this scoundrel!” Out of breath, Robin fell silent. Little John pressed his lips together. Baron of Doncaster. At last, you bastard, you’re losing your head.
“Merci, mon ami.” A flick of the finger to the chancellor. “Are we acquainted with these gentlemen?”
“We knew of Lord Sheriff Walter de Monte. Also, of his predecessor. Mais pardon, sire, that Sir Roger of Doncaster is also among the conspirators was unknown to us. We will consider this allegation.”
“Consider it?” Robin blurted out. “I beg your pardon, my lord—consider it? That man deserves to die a hundred times over. The lord sheriff, too.”
Richard looked down at Robin in wonder. “Why so agitated? Death? If I acted like this against all my secret adversaries, a third of England’s castles would be depopulated. No, mon ami. Your information was very valuable to Us. But enough.”
Robin pounded his fist against his forehead. “But, my lord, what good is it if I know the wolf that tears apart my sheep, but I don’t kill him?”
The chancellor pressed the king to move along. But Richard took his time. “That may be the right course from your point of view. And in my heart, I feel the same. But I am the king. This is a matter of politics. I will not even have the lord sheriff beheaded. I’ll even let him out of jail! For that he will pay a ransom, so much that he will not dare to rise against me again any time soon. And Sir Roger of Doncaster? Most assuredly, he will remain my enemy.” Richard smiled coldly. “But he will soon know that I know. And he will support my next war in France with much gold.”
Robin fingered the bandage on his leg. “Then our fight was pointless after all.” His voice became rough. “Forgive me, my lord, but then nothing changes for the poor.”
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