by N B Dixon
“Spineless worms,” John muttered. “Are they soldiers or ninnies? Anyone would think they’ve never seen a dead body before.”
“I doubt any of them have seen an actual battle,” Robin said.
Wat made to open the door, but John stopped him.
“Not yet, you fool. They might have posted a guard.”
Several minutes passed. They heard no more sounds from above. Robin was on the point of opening the door and going back into the main chamber, when a new noise close at hand made him freeze.
“It’s all right,” Father Tuck called. “You can come out.”
Robin and the others stepped out of the tiny room, blinking in the light of a flaming torch held aloft in the priest’s hand.
“How did you know we were here?” Edward asked curiously.
“The church and the crypt were empty, and there’s been no sign of you anywhere else in the village. I must say,” he added as Robin, with difficulty, heaved the door closed, “I have been down here a hundred times, and I’ve never noticed that door before.”
“It is almost flush with the wall,” Robin explained. “With all the cobwebs, I’m not surprised you overlooked it.”
“Have the soldiers gone?” John demanded.
“They have, and the villagers have caught the man who turned you in. I fear they will do him serious harm.”
“We need to get up there.” Robin did not wait to see if the others followed him, but hurried up the crypt steps and back through the church. Once outside, it was easy enough to follow the shouting voices of the villagers.
They were congregated on the central green. A cringing man was being held between Alan and George. His wrists had been bound behind him, and his face was bloody.
Robin did not recognise him, but the mood of the villagers was ugly.
“Hang him!” someone shouted. The cry was taken up by several others.
Robin yelled for quiet, but no one heard him over the tumult. Nocking an arrow, he let it fly to land deliberately in the tree just above the prisoner’s head.
The man let out a whimper, and the excitable crowd quieted at once.
“Why are you attacking him?” Robin demanded.
“He’s the one who betrayed you,” Matthew the blacksmith called.
“No!” a woman wailed. Breaking free of the hands restraining her, she flung herself at Robin’s feet.
“Please, Sir, my son is simple. He meant no harm, I swear it.”
“What do you mean, woman?” John snarled.
She flinched, but kept her gaze on Robin. “Edgar came collecting taxes a few days ago. He was surprised when I could pay. He wanted to know where I got the money from. He started hitting me. My boy panicked and told him.”
“They were hurting my mam,” the man agreed. He had a slow, deliberate way of talking as though he weighed every word he spoke.
Robin reached down and helped the woman to her feet. Close to, he could see the fading bruises on her face and arms, and the skin below one eye was puffy.
“Let him go.”
There was a lot of mutinous muttering.
“Would any of you not have done the same if a family member of yours was in danger? Let him go, I say.”
Reluctantly, Alan and George released their grip. George produced a knife and cut the rope binding their victim’s hands.
The man rubbed his wrists and gazed up at Robin through watery eyes. “They were going to hurt my mam.”
“I understand,” Robin said.
“That doesn’t explain how they knew to come here tonight,” someone called.
“The bad man offered me money if I told him,” the man volunteered. “He said he’d hurt my mam if I didn’t.”
There was further muttering at this, but Robin wasn’t surprised. The man would have been an easy bribe.
“There will be no reprisals against this man or his mother. We need to stay united. We have enough enemies without turning on each other.”
“But he could sell you out again,” George pointed out.
“He won’t, I promise,” the woman broke in. “I’ll see that he holds his tongue.”
Robin nodded and signalled to the others to follow him. He could tell from some of their faces that they were unhappy with letting the man go, but he refused to stoop to Gisborne’s level. Still, Edgar was a menace. He would need to be dealt with soon.
Chapter 9
The Abbot of Saint Mary’s rode into the village of Blidworth. He did not often visit. Though it was part of abbey land, he found its people uncouth and often insolent. However, there were occasions such as this when his presence was necessary. His villagers needed to be reminded who their master was and where their duty lay.
He issued a few orders to the men riding with him to gather the people. Within ten minutes, the entire population of Blidworth had been crammed into the church. They faced the abbot with varying degrees of hostility and fear. He let his gaze wander over each of them, enjoying the way some of them squirmed under his scrutiny. He picked out those who remained defiant and focused his first words on them.
“Last week, you failed to hand over the grain that is due to the abbey when my bailiff arrived to collect it.”
There was some shuffling of feet, but nobody spoke.
“You are aware that to refuse to hand over what the Church requires in tithes is against the law. Any failure to do so will result in severe punishment.”
A man—the miller, to judge from the flour on his tunic—stepped forward.
“With Respect, Lord Abbot, we have none to give.”
“Is that so?” The abbot raised his voice. “Enter.”
His escort strode into the church, the bailiff in the lead, all of them with sacks of grain slung on their shoulders. There were groans from the villagers.
“Is that all?” the abbot asked.
The bailiff nodded. “All that was in the barn, Lord Abbot.”
“Search the entire village. These peasants may well have a secret stash hidden away.”
“My Lord Abbot,” the miller protested. “That is all we have. It’s barely enough to live on. Without it, we’ll starve.”
The abbot fixed him with a severe stare. “You interfere with the Lord’s work.”
“Surely God wouldn’t want innocent children to starve to death.”
The abbot struck out, a back-handed blow that caught the miller across the face, causing him to stumble.
“Do not dare to interpret the will of God. Leave it to the Church to divine God’s holy mysteries.”
“I only meant—”
“Enough! You are a peasant. You speak of what you cannot understand.”
The bailiff returned. “There’s no more to be found, Lord Abbot.”
“Very well. Load the sacks onto the cart.”
At this, several women and even a few of the men burst into tears.
The miller threw himself down at the abbot’s feet, hands outstretched in supplication.
“Please, have mercy, My Lord Abbot.”
The abbot retreated before the miller’s floury hands could sully his robe.
“It is for your own good. Perhaps you will think twice before defying the Church again.”
***
Marian gazed resolutely ahead as her horse picked its way along the forest trail. The banter of the soldiers was so much meaningless noise in her ears. She had travelled the road to Nottingham Castle several times before, but always the end of the day had seen her back in her bed at Huntingdon. Not today. Today, she would be sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar chamber. Today, she had left the past behind, and faced an uncertain future.
She had brought only one retainer: her nurse, Agatha. She was going senile in her old age, and it wasn’t safe to leave her behind, even though most days she had no idea who Marian was. Agatha plodded along on a pony that seemed as ancient as herself, a vague smile on her face.
The leader of the soldiers had set a leisurely pace, for whi
ch Marian was grateful. She was in no hurry to reach Nottingham. The death of her father was a fresh wound inside her, and she didn’t feel like making small talk with any important guests who might also be staying at the castle. All she wanted was to be left alone.
Anger rose again—hot, futile anger. What right did Prince John have to turn her from her home? Just because Huntingdon reverted to the Crown was no reason she could not continue to live in the castle.
Marian had met the prince on a previous occasion. He’d struck her as a spoiled, petulant man, which she supposed was natural enough, given that he was a prince who had been used to nothing but the best luxuries of life since birth. Her initial dislike had ripened to outright hatred. To deprive a woman of her home so soon after the loss of her father was beyond selfish and petulant. It was cruel, inhuman. To tell her that she might return once a suitable husband had been found merely added insult to injury.
Ahead of her, the lead soldier cursed. Jerked from her reverie, Marian looked up to see what was causing the hold-up, and saw an enormous tree branch lying right across the road. The small cavalcade came to a halt around her, and the soldier began barking orders to his men to dismount and remove the obstruction.
Several arrows flew, landing in front of the horses so that they started and reared. Marian reined in her own skittish mount, searching for their unseen attackers. As one, the soldiers dropped hands to their swords.
The man appeared without a sound. He was hooded. A longbow and quiver were slung across his back, and a sword hung at his side. His boots and hose were brown, but the tunic he wore was a dark green. A short-sleeved jerkin completed the costume.
“A moment, gentlemen,” he said.
“Out of the way, peasant, or I’ll kill you where you stand,” the lead soldier ordered.
“An unwise move. There are many arrows pointed at you. You would be dead before you could make good on your threat. There is no need for violence. Hand over your purses and you may go on your way.”
“Insolent cur!” The soldier lunged at him. More arrows flew. None struck flesh, but several horses tore free of their owners’ restraints and bolted.
The stranger stood calmly watching the chaos.
“Next time, my men will not be so discerning with their aim.”
The lead soldier had finally succeeded in getting his horse under control. He glared at the hooded stranger, who remained unruffled.
“Surrender your purses.”
“Do as he says,” the soldier snarled at his men. With bad grace, each drew his purse from his belt and threw it down at the stranger’s feet.
A man melted out of cover, a small, wiry individual, who snatched up the purses with lightning-quick fingers and vanished.
“Remove this tree branch,” the lead soldier demanded.
“First, I would like to know what is in your cart.”
This was too much for Marian. Whoever the man was, he had no right to plunder her personal possessions. She urged her horse forward until she had placed herself directly in the man’s way, forcing him to look at her.
“I am Lady Marian Fitzwalter.”
She thought she saw him start a little at the sound of her name, but all he said was, “I should not be too keen to throw your name about if I were you, My Lady. It tells people how valuable you are, and there are many unscrupulous men about.”
She glared at him. “You have my men’s purses, outlaw. There is nothing more you can possibly want. Let us go on our way.”
“Nothing more I could possibly want.” He ran his eyes over her appraisingly, and she felt her cheeks warm. “On the contrary. I believe I would very much like to see the contents of the purse on your belt, and those fine trinkets you are wearing.”
“How dare you!” Marian struck out at him with her riding whip. He ducked, and seized her horse’s bridle.
At a command from their leader, the soldiers surged forward, but another volley of arrows rained down on them, and this time, two men fell, each clutching their legs. One horse bolted, dragging its rider—who had been scrambling back into the saddle—along with it.
“Release my bridle,” Marian commanded, hoping her sharp tone concealed her fear.
“All in good time, My Lady. Give me what I have asked for, and think yourself lucky that you will be allowed to leave unharmed.”
Trembling with fury, Marian detached the purse from her belt and flung it to the ground at his feet. Then, one by one, she yanked off the rings adorning her fingers and the bracelets from her wrists and dropped them into his outstretched hand. His eyes moved to the gold crucifix hanging against her breast. Marian clutched it possessively.
“This was my mother’s. It is all I have to remind me of her. Surely you would not rob me of that as well.”
“Very well. That, you may keep.” To the soldiers, he shouted, “Throw down your weapons and form an orderly line.”
The men did so, supporting their wounded fellows. The outlaw remained by Marian’s horse, still holding the bridle. Her jewellery, he handed over to a boy who darted briefly from cover and then disappeared again.
Two more men appeared and walked to the cart. One of them was a giant with an enormous battleaxe hanging from his belt. The other was slender, his long hair tied back. He also carried a sword.
Marian was forced to watch as they proceeded to search her possessions. Her clothing trunk received only a cursory glance, but when the giant held up her jewel casket, the man holding her bridal nodded. The young man with the long hair also unearthed a small chest bearing some of the Huntingdon silver. Tears of helpless rage welled in Marian’s eyes as this, too, was added to the plunder.
“Are you satisfied?” she spat at the outlaw leader. “You have taken everything from me.”
“You have your life.” His voice was cold.
“It is only a coward who would have hurt a woman.”
He made a sign to the giant, who lifted the tree branch and dragged it to one side, leaving the road clear.
“Where are you bound, My Lady?”
“Nottingham Castle. Not that it is any of your business.”
“I should have thought your father would care more about your welfare. A pitiful escort such as this is no protection for a noblewoman like yourself.”
“My father is dead, and I am under the personal protection of the sheriff. I shall let him know what you did here today.”
She expected this would intimidate the man, but to her fury, he laughed.
“Give him my regards.”
The tree branch obstacle removed, the soldiers were permitted to mount up. The clothing chest was returned to the wagon. The driver took his place once more and they moved off. Marian peered back over her shoulder in an effort to see the outlaw, but he and his men were gone, vanished as if they had never been there at all.
They reached Nottingham Castle without further mishap. A timid maid conducted Marian to her chamber, which was located in one of the castle towers.
The room was comfortably furnished and a decent size. It took Marian very little time to unpack her belongings. She mourned over the loss of her jewellery and the Huntingdon silver. She had hoped to sell it and maybe pay off some of her father’s debts—a forlorn hope, since the castle was now the property of the Crown, but Marian hadn’t been able to resist packing it. At least she still had her mother’s crucifix. She was lucky the outlaw had shown her that much mercy.
After a brief rest from her ride, it was time to go down to dinner. The same serving maid conducted Marian to the great hall. There, she was invited to join the sheriff on the top table, which stood on a raised dais above the rest of the hall. She was greeted by Guy of Gisborne, as well as his sister, Katrina, and her husband.
“We have been hearing about your adventures, Lady Marian,” Katrina said. “It must have been so distressing for you. That Robin Hood is a scoundrel of the worst kind.”
“Robin Hood?” Marian had never heard the name before.
“A dang
erous criminal,” Guy of Gisborne said. “It grieves me that you had such an unpleasant experience, Lady Marian. I blame myself. I should have sent more soldiers to watch over you. Rest assured, those who were with you today shall be punished for their neglect.”
Marian was alarmed. “It wasn’t their fault. This Robin Hood and his men had arrows. They would have killed the soldiers.” As she said it, the question filled her mind. Why hadn’t they? The archers had only shot to wound when they could easily have massacred every man. Stories of outlaws and how they treated their victims were well known. The shire of Nottingham had always been plagued by them. There were horror stories of brutal rapes and atrocities. The outlaws were usually peasants, proficient archers, but no swordsmen among them. This Robin Hood, whoever he was, was no ordinary outlaw. Now the first flush of anger had passed, Marian had to admit that although the man had not been friendly, he hadn’t actually harmed her. He’d treated her with an icy courtesy that she associated more with men of her class than the rough, uncouth peasants who worked her father’s lands.
“Who was this Robin Hood before he was outlawed?”
“No one of importance,” Katrina said disdainfully. “He has rather a high opinion of himself. One day, it will be his downfall.”
Marian eyed the other woman. Katrina’s dislike seemed personal. Had she known Robin Hood at one time? Marian’s lively imagination presented her with a vivid picture of Katrina confessing her undying love to the man, and his cold rejection. She hid a smile. Though she had no reason to like Robin Hood herself, if he had rejected Katrina, she admired his taste.
She turned back to Guy of Gisborne, still anxious on behalf of the soldiers who had escorted her. “You won’t punish them, will you? There was nothing they could have done.”
He patted her hand. “You have a tender heart, Lady Marian, but the fact remains that those men failed in their duties, and they must be disciplined accordingly.” He turned to address Katrina’s husband. “See to it, Hugo. They are your men, after all, and I believe were selected personally by you. I expect to see a better performance in future.”
Hugo reddened. “Yes, My Lord.”
Marian realised all the pleas in the world were not going to change Guy of Gisborne’s mind. His pride had been injured. His men had failed to stop a band of common thieves, and it was not something he would easily live down. Marian wondered if this was the first time Robin Hood and his gang had got the better of the sheriff. Judging from his reaction, she suspected it wasn’t.