Knight of Sherwood

by N B Dixon

Tomorrow, Robin thought, we might very well be dead.

  Robin and Will sat with the rest of their small band, somewhat removed from the main army. None of them spoke much as they ate the meagre rations they had been given and attempted to drown their anxieties in ale.

  “It’s a shame you don’t have your lute, Alan,” Will remarked. “A little music would be welcome about now.”

  Alan heaved a sigh.

  Jane patted his arm. “Just think of all the ballads you’ll be able to write on our return.”

  Alan brightened. “True. I shall compose an epic story in many verses of how Robin Hood led us to victory against the evil Prince John and Guy of Gisborne.”

  “I’m not sure Richard will approve,” Robin said.

  “What of you, Lady Marian?” Much asked.

  “My future depends on others.” There was bitterness in Marian’s voice. “I don’t have the luxury of roaming the forest as I please.”

  “There’s always the abbey,” Daphne said.

  Marian shot her a filthy look, but said nothing.

  “What of those in the town and the surrounding villages?” John asked. “They should have been evacuated.”

  “No chance with Nottingham locked as tight as a dungeon,” Will said. “Besides, where would they go?”

  John took Daphne’s hand. “Still, when this is over, we should pay a visit to Hathersage, make sure everyone’s all right.”

  “Do you think the king will pardon us?” Edward asked.

  Robin shrugged. “If he feels like it. I wouldn’t raise your hopes too much if I were you.”

  “I just want to kill Gisborne,” Edward said. “I don’t care what happens after.”

  “That’s enough,” Lara snapped. “You should leave Gisborne to those with more experience.”

  “I’ve more experience than you,” Edward shot back.

  “It’s getting late,” Much said.

  “He’s right.” Robin got to his feet and stretched. “Get what rest you can.”

  “Any last minute instructions for tomorrow?” Alan asked.

  Robin nodded. “Marian, you, Daphne, Jane and Lara will join the archers. You, too, Much and Edward. Our best bet will be to pick off as many of their archers as we can. They’ll be using crossbows, which will give us the advantage, as we can nock and loose quicker than they can. Other than that…” A smile touched Robin’s lips. “Stay alive. God willing, we’ll all be celebrating in Sherwood soon.”

  “Amen,” Tuck murmured, crossing himself.

  ***

  Robin sat awake as around him, the camp settled down for the night. He should rest, but his mind was too busy.

  He imagined his friends. Tuck would be praying, asking God for last-minute guidance. Marian and Edward…were they alone, nursing their anger and hoping for a brighter tomorrow? John, Alan and Much would be with their wives, making the most of what could be their last night together. The thought brought with it an unexpected surge of longing.

  He and Will had not touched since that all-too-brief moment outside the inn. The night they’d spent in the stable had been uncomfortable in more ways than one. It had been torture to have Will so close, and yet be unable to touch him, what with the stable lad sleeping in the end stall. Privacy had been non-existent on the return journey to Nottingham and here, in a public camp with no tent to retreat to, where men slept on the ground, it was no better. John and the others were lucky. Women often serviced soldiers. It was said that disease and whores followed an army.

  As if Robin’s thoughts had conjured him, Will appeared out of the darkness and sat beside him.

  “I thought you’d still be awake.”

  His proximity was enough to set every one of Robin’s senses tingling. Will took Robin’s hand, lacing their fingers together. The touch was both a welcome and a torment.

  Will smiled. “Over two bloody years you’ve kept me waiting. Now it’s your turn to suffer.”

  “What about David?”

  “I never said I was a saint.”

  Robin’s face broke into a reluctant grin. “Have you considered what you will do once this is over?”

  “I was thinking about Sir Richard’s hunting lodge. We could live there easily enough. Or we could stay at Locksley Manor when the village is rebuilt. You’ll be wanting a steward now Edgar’s dead.”

  A tightness constricted Robin’s throat. He started to lean towards Will, but a distant shout made him pull back hurriedly.

  Will chuckled. “Best get some sleep.”

  They lay down where they were, their cloaks thrown over them. Beneath the cloaks, their hands stayed entwined. It was the best night’s sleep Robin could remember having in a long time.

  ***

  Martin surveyed the small group of soldiers, whose expressions ranged from anxious to defiant.

  “It’s now or never. Tomorrow, Richard will attack this castle. Every one of you must decide where your loyalties lie.”

  “It’s John who pays our wages,” one soldier said. “If he wins, it will be the gallows for all of us.”

  “Richard is our king,” Martin pointed out. “What John is doing is treason, and we all know it. That’s why we’re gathered here. Our loyalty is to the true King of England.”

  There was nodding and even scattered applause.

  “John can hold out for a while,” someone else said. “This castle is a formidable fortress, and we’ll be trapped inside with him. How can we help the king?”

  Martin was ready for this. When it became clear that John intended to fight rather than return both castle and kingdom to their rightful lord, Martin had realised the time had come. He had to make a decision, just as Robin Hood had once predicted. He’d chosen his followers with care: those who were disaffected with Prince John and Gisborne and his new captain, Philip Mark. Any one of them could have betrayed him at any time, but he was a shrewd judge of character. All the men with him were loyal, whatever scruples they had. They waited for his answer.

  It was simply given. “We let him in.”

  ***

  It was a fine day in early March when Richard and his forces rode into Nottingham. His army flooded the streets, causing ordinary folk to barricade themselves inside their shops and houses. For the first time in Robin’s memory, there was no street market, no music, no livestock getting underfoot. The town was shrouded in eerie silence, broken only by the merciless tramp, tramp of booted feet. Even the birds seem to have realised the importance of this occasion; not a single trill was heard to welcome in the new day—a day that would decide the future of the country.

  Nottingham Castle rose frowning before them, its gates shut, the portcullis firmly in place. Archers took up their positions behind hastily erected wooden barricades. Crossbowmen swarmed atop the castle walls. Behind the archers on the ground were a group of Richard’s personal guard, holding a battering ram. They would attack the gate when the archers had cleared the way. Last came row upon row of swordsmen and pikemen. They made an awesome sight.

  From his place at the forefront of the archers, Robin watched as Richard rode forward in full armour. At his side hung a massive broadsword, a weapon which had already hewn down countless Saracen souls. Now, it would be used against his own people. With him came his standard bearer with the banner bearing three red lions. More of his personal guards spread out to flank him, their shields forming a protective wall.

  Robin searched for Will among the swordsmen. He stood with Tuck, Alan and John. Their gazes met, and Robin sent him a silent message. Fight well.

  ***

  Richard lifted up his voice to reach those thronging the walls and in the castle watchtowers.

  “Open in the name of your king. I would talk with my brother the prince. Lay down your weapons, and there will be no reprisals.”

  For answer, a volley of crossbow bolts came raining down on Richard and his guards. Many bolts bounced harmlessly off the protective wall of shields, but some got through.

  Richard was
quickly hustled to safety. Robin shouted, “Archers, return fire.”

  Robin loosed arrow after arrow up at the swarming defenders, while around him men fell and died. The defences Richard’s army had erected helped to minimise the casualties, but for those few brief minutes, both sides were caught in a deadly crossfire. Their screams mingled with the whining hum of projectiles and the impacts as they struck flesh and stone.

  Robin glimpsed Marian, loosing arrows as if she had done nothing else all her life. Her face was a pale mask, but her aim never wavered. Daphne, Jane, Lara, Edward and Much sent their arrows flying. In this place and time, all differences were forgotten. They worked as a seamless team.

  A group of Richard’s soldiers advanced, bearing the battering ram. Robin and his archers attempted to cover them, but some fell. For each man who dropped, another took his place. Progress was slow, but at last they reached the stout timber gates and the ram swung, striking with a hollow boom.

  The arrow storm intensified as the bulk of Richard’s army pressed forward, shields raised defensively. Robin saw a crossbow bolt lodge quivering in Will’s shield. He fired, dispatching the archer, who tumbled from the wall, screaming.

  Then, incredibly, the portcullis began to lift. Everyone froze as it rose ponderously. From somewhere inside came Prince John’s frantic cry.

  “What in God’s name are you doing? Lower the portcullis.”

  But it kept rising. Some of the soldiers on the walls levelled their crossbows at the men who had betrayed them, but no order was given to shoot. Everyone was frozen into temporary immobility. The gates to the outer bailey opened revealing a small contingent of soldiers—twenty at the most. They wore Nottingham livery, but on their arms, each wore a band with the three red lions. At their head was Martin.

  King Richard spurred his horse. “Forward!”

  The army surged through the breach, however, the element of surprise did not last long. Robin heard Philip Mark bellowing orders at his men, who came swarming down from the walls to engage the enemy. The inner defences still remained intact. The archers, their job done, retreated. Robin drew his sword and plunged into the fray.

  He was gripped by a strong sense of déjà vu. This was not England in early spring, but Acre under the blazing heat of a desert sun. Those were not English men dying around him, but Saracens.

  Robin yanked his sword from the body of a knight and turned to deal with his next opponent. Alan was momentarily at his side, only to vanish in the tumult. Robin soon lost count of how many men he had dispatched; his body had gone into a well-remembered pattern. Fight, kill, move on. But Robin had one goal in mind, one particular individual. Even as he slashed, stabbed, blocked and parried, he was looking out for him.

  Once, he saw Will reel by, locked in combat with two knights. The next moment, he was fighting side by side with John, whose axe cut a bloody path through his attackers. Tuck deflected one knight’s sword before bringing his own blade smashing down on the man’s helmet. Blood spattered Robin’s clothing. The ground was becoming slick with it. He ducked a mace that came whizzing past his head, whirled, and rammed his sword into the chest of a man who had been sneaking up behind him. Everything was chaos—savage, brutal chaos. There was no way of telling whose force had the upper hand. Robin caught a brief glimpse of the king in the thick of the fighting, his mighty broadsword dealing death with every stroke.

  Then Robin saw him. Guy of Gisborne was hacking down with his sword at a smaller opponent. The man parried the blow, but he was clearly over-matched. One bewildered second later, Robin realised it was Edward. Cursing, Robin began fighting his way towards him. He was aware of John and Will beside him.

  “We have to reach him,” he shouted.

  Robin stabbed his blade through a man at arms. John severed the hand of another. Then it happened. Edward stumbled. There was one man between him and Robin, but as Robin’s sword cleaved through his neck, Gisborne buried his sword deep in Edward’s chest.

  Robin let out a yell of rage and grief as Edward crumpled. “No!” he roared as Will and John advanced with him. “Get back. He’s mine.”

  The two men stood face-to-face, an island in a sea of chaos. Around them the battle still raged, but Robin felt distant from it somehow, as though nothing mattered but the man in front of him.

  Gisborne’s face was twisted in its familiar sneer. “So it’s true. Robin Hood has returned from the dead.”

  “I never was easy to kill. You should know that by now.”

  “Yes, I remember that about you. Your father took a surprisingly long time to die. Brave to the last. It must run in the family.”

  “Don’t you mean our father?”

  Gisborne blinked, his face registering shock.

  “That’s right. I know your little secret.”

  “How did you…” Gisborne shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll kill you just like that peasant boy of yours, and then the Locksley taint will be gone forever. The land is mine by right.”

  “I hate to contradict you, but only a legitimate heir may inherit his father’s title and lands.”

  “If our father had acknowledged me, everything would have been mine. You would have been left with nothing. But he favoured you. He despised your mother, but he favoured you because you were his legitimate son. You have taken everything I ever wanted.”

  “You could have told me, Gisborne. We could have come to some kind of agreement. You know the life of a noble was never for me. But instead, you had to murder and pillage.”

  “So noble. Locksley, the people’s champion. You’re nothing but an outlaw and a thief. You don’t even have a name except that which the rabble chose for you.”

  “Then why,” Robin said quietly, “do you still call me ‘Locksley’?”

  Gisborne’s mouth opened, but no words emerged. In that brief moment of distraction, Robin attacked.

  Gisborne got his sword up in time, and the two blades met with a shriek of metal.

  “Very good,” Robin said. “I see you’ve been practising. How many boys did you murder to get this skilled?”

  “It was always your face I saw.”

  “How flattering.”

  Gisborne lunged. Robin parried a wild slash, and aimed a strike at Gisborne’s head. Gisborne blocked it, and cut at Robin’s legs. Robin danced aside. They exchanged a rapid series of blows. This was no longer the clumsy boy Robin had once sparred with.

  He noticed people turning to watch them, and paid for his momentary lapse in concentration as Gisborne’s blade snaked beneath his parry, gashing his arm. Warm blood trickled through Robin’s fingers, and Gisborne laughed.

  “First blood to me.”

  Robin launched a savage counterattack, driving Gisborne back several steps. Gisborne struggled to regain the advantage, but Robin refused to give ground. Gisborne was forced back another few steps, his face twisting in frustration. Back and forth they moved, almost dancing with each other. Gisborne might know how to handle a blade, but years of good living and comparatively little exercise were beginning to take their toll. Robin was also tiring. He’d switched hands the moment he was wounded, but his arm throbbed, and blood loss was weakening him. Still, he refused to succumb. Gisborne would die this day.

  The tip of Robin’s sword sliced down Gisborne’s thigh. Cloth and flesh tore.

  Gisborne let out a yell of pain. He stumbled, and Robin’s sword darted in, slashing across his ribs. Gisborne turned and the blow glanced off his mail, but the impact drove a grunt from him.

  Both men were panting and bleeding, Gisborne’s eyes blazing with fury.

  Again, he attacked, and again, Robin blocked each killing blow.

  Then Gisborne stumbled over Edward’s outstretched feet. He lost his footing on the uneven cobbles of the bailey and went down, landing flat on his back beside Edward’s prone body.

  Robin stood over him, sword raised. Gisborne’s sword was gone. He was defenceless.

  “Would you really kill your own brother?”
Gisborne asked.

  Robin was breathing hard. Unwanted memories assailed him—climbing trees with Gisborne, seeing who could get the highest. Learning to ride together. Stealing food from the kitchens when the servants weren’t looking. Lastly, watching Gisborne change before his eyes until he was someone barely recognisable.

  “You killed Edward, you killed our father, and God knows how many others. Your life is forfeit.”

  The blade came down, swift and hard. Robin felt it sink through mail, clothing and flesh, felt it penetrate the heart. He expected to feel satisfaction, but all he felt as he removed his blade and knelt beside Gisborne, was an overwhelming weariness.

  He watched the life fade from Gisborne’s eyes—his friend, his enemy, his brother. They had been many things to each other. Gisborne kept his eyes on him to the last. Then his gaze became fixed and he moved no more.

  Robin turned from Gisborne’s body to Edward. He looked so young in death. His sightless eyes stared upwards, the spark that had once animated them snuffed out forever.

  Guilt sliced into Robin, as keen as a sword blade. He’d known Edward meant to kill Gisborne if he could. Why had he let him come? He should have found a way to stop him.

  His thoughts flashed to the others. He began casting about for a sight of them, but all was confusion.

  Will appeared next to him, a hand on his shoulder. His gaze travelled over Edward, and then Gisborne. He urged Robin to his feet.

  “You killed Edward’s murderer. You avenged him. We should look after the living.”

  Robin nodded. He retrieved his sword and wiped it free of Gisborne’s blood.

  Chapter 27

  The battle did not last long after Gisborne’s death. When Philip Mark was also slain at Will’s hands, the heart seemed to go out of Prince John’s forces. They retreated behind the castle’s inner defences. King Richard ordered the gatehouse set on fire so the castle could not be secured against him. There, in the outer bailey, he ordered a number of captured prisoners hanged. When they saw this, John’s followers surrendered.

  Robin searched among the dead and wounded, desperate to account for his friends. He saw Martin, a crossbow bolt through his throat. The man had made his choice in the end, and paid the ultimate price for it.