Forbidden Forest (15 page)

But these were skilled men, and after every crushed leaf, after every drowsy songbird struggled higher up its hazel branches, the hunters waited, still and patient, for the quiet to resume.

The dark-armored band of hunters reached the place where, if there had been a sentry, he would have been peering, listening. Here were a sentry's footprints, and here a splash of urine on a mossy tree—a sentry had relieved himself. The damp bark was still warm.

The lead hunter rose from his crouch.

They broke through the forest and dashed into the clearing, the snapping bright fire gleaming on their weapons.

No venison roasted on the spit; no blankets were spread. The ground around was scored by feet, but only the blazing fire gave any sign that a camp of any size had been here, and the top layer of wood on this pinewood fire had just been added—it was barely charred.

The hunters knelt, studying the ground. Soon the signs—spilled wine, shivers of kindling—showed how many had eaten here.

“Fifteen,” said a voice. “Maybe twenty. Not many more.”

The lead hunter slipped the hood from his head, and a flash of a red silk tunic brightened the half-dark. “They are watching us,” he whispered. “Even now. I can smell them!”

“My lord,” said one of the men, “I think they are far away by now.”

“I trusted a Florentine knight,” said Red Roger, “to carry out my orders!”

“There's nothing more we can do, my lord,” said Lord Roger's man, his voice strained with unease.

A whip-crack projectile flashed through the flames. An arrow instantly buried itself in the side of an oak, its head so firmly in the pith of the tree that the shaft did not tremble.

None of the hunters spoke for a long moment.

“Fifteen or twenty,” said Red Roger, his voice taut with feeling. “How many women?”

“My lord,” said the man, “we are only seven men, and tired.”

“It's a hay cutter's weapon, the longbow,” said Lord Roger. “A weapon for cowherders.” He said this last loudly, his words echoing faintly through the woods.

But two of his men were fleeing already, into the growing dark.

They were joined by two others, then by all of the men, until Lord Roger was alone.

The nobleman stepped to the arrow imbedded in the oak, and wrenched at it.

He tugged hard.

Chapter 30

“I shall confess to you before you kill me,” said the knight, in a tone of jaunty resignation. There was the faintest twinkle in his eye—as though he did not expect violence to follow.

It was morning, and the outlaws had established a new camp. It was the usual loose arrangment: hide canopies, sentries already finished with the first watch, new guards taking their place. A fresh deer carcass was laid out, butchered by Edwy, peering with his one good eye. A brief rain filtered down through the leafy canopy, sparkling in the sun as daylight at last defeated cloud.

Sir Marco had outfitted himself with care, polishing the fine leather armor, the
cuir-bouilli
that was much lighter and stronger than most metal armor. “I was paid in gold coins,” said Marco, as though prompted by an inner need to confess. “With more money to follow if we brought back John Little's skin, and Robin Hood's, stretched over a shield.”

Little John said nothing. He had crouched in the dark forest under a rowan tree and watched his former master. The sight of Red Roger had chilled him. The lean, monkish face was thinner than ever, and the eyes were fierce. Surely, thought John, Red Roger will never rest until Robin Hood and I are dead.

“I am from nowhere,” the knight was saying. “I speak with this accent, it's true, but I win my wages now serving English lords. I care nothing for justice. I fight for whomever hires me.”

Robin smiled. “You are a man without law.”

“Like you,” said Marco. “I know that you will take me into the darkest part of the woods to stick a blade between my ribs. I would do the same.”

John did not respond. Robin Hood was waxing his bowstring, and glanced up with a concerned smile. “We treat a guest with honor, man-at-arms.”

“You cannot keep stealing from proud, wealthy men,” said Marco, “and giving the silver to peasants. It shows a spirit of adventure,” said the knight, with an unyielding cheerfulness. “City men dislike it, and true robbers hate it.”

Robin Hood laughed.

“What will keep me,” queried the knight, “from telling every man I see what Robin Hood looks like, how he lives, how many swords he owns? I will tell them Little John is a great big ox.” There was something trusting in his challenging tone, as though in truth he did not fear for his life.

“You tell a worthy story,” said Little John. “The woman with a secret mouth.” John could not suppress his curiosity. “Was it true?”

The knight gave a quiet laugh. “Little John of the woods. Every traveler is afraid of you, and yet you are caught by a little tale around a fire”

John was annoyed for an instant.

“They'll catch you,” said Sir Marco. “The law, or Red Roger and his men—one or the other. As Red Roger will catch me, and bleed me hollow. That is, unless you ask a well-trained man-at-arms to join your band.”

Little John and Robin Hood shared a glance.

“A knight will not find enough work among us,” said Robin Hood at last, “to keep his sword sharp.”

“I will surprise you,” said Marco di Maggi, a strain of hope in his voice.

“I have no doubt,” said Robin Hood, “that you would surprise all of us—with your stories.”

“You will need someone of my fighting craft,” said the knight.

John could hear no voice of caution in the birdsong, no murmur of warning in the rustling chestnut tree.

Grimes Black kept three paces back from the knight, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He was the only one of Robin's men who could take the proper stance when an opponent's sword flashed. Grimes was missing one eyebrow, where a sword tip had evidently scored his face years ago, and yet his history was shadowy. During blade practice, Grimes always knocked the weapon from his opponent's grasp. All the other outlaws made do with zeal and arm strength rather than skill, having never studied the weapon in a castle. John's weapon of choice remained the quarterstaff.

Now Grimes spoke up. “My sword against his, for the right to dine with us each night.”

“A contest!” exclaimed Robin Hood. “What do you think, John?”

“My opponent,” said the Florentine knight, “is not prepared for a joust
à outrance.
” Such a joust was a contest that used weapons of war. Men often died at such sport. “I will kill this dark, brave little man.”

Every man and woman in the kingdom relished a contest. Two roosters fighting or two hounds, two men wrestling for the title of best in the shire—it didn't matter; any fight drew a crowd. Even the king's law acknowledged trial by combat. Heaven strengthened the arm of the just and weakened the sinews of the sinful.

And so Robin Hood's band formed a ring, clearing a wide space as Grimes Black made passes in the sunlight with his sword, and the knight swung his arms the way a woodcutter does getting ready to wield an ax on a cold morning.

In dismounted battle men usually carried a shield: either a small, round buckler, or an even smaller target shield. The sound associated with such a sword fight was the hammer of sword steel against shield, a steady bang-crash that could go on for a long time, until both combatants were exhausted. This morning a shortage of proper armor required the swordsmen to fight exposed, except for Sir Marco's well-crafted boiled-leather piece and a corresponding battered breastplate on Grimes.

The two men circled each other, holding their swords point down, the weapons almost grazing the ground. Their arms were half-cocked, raised in a habit of defense, as though carrying an invisible buckler.

John held his staff, ready to step in if blood began to flow. The sight of the two feinting, hefting their swords, was enough to give the big man cheer. John believed that good, fair combat made the saints smile, while cowardice and lying pained them.

The knight thrust his sword toward Grimes's armored chest, and the black-haired outlaw knocked the point away. The sound of each blow was sharp, the crash of steel on steel making John blink despite himself.

Grimes attacked, striking hard. He forced the Florentine back, each blow striking sparks in the half-sun, half-shadow among the trees.

A sudden sound from the distance.

Hunting-horn music, two notes.

John stepped between the fighting men, staff upraised, and the two combatants fell back, breathing hard. “
Listen!
”

The sound again, the distant signal horn, the two notes:
Come quickly
.

Robin Hood gave a whistle.

“We'll fight again some other hour,” said Grimes Black as Sir Marco gazed about, his lips parted soundlessly.

Men ran off toward the sound of the horn in the distance.

Toward the Trysting Oak.

Chapter 31

The two sheriff's deputies confronted Bridgit, one struggling to hold her from behind, the other responding with a cry to yet another blow she struck, his nose bleeding.

Run!
said Bridgit with her eyes.
Run, my lady
.

But Margaret stayed where she was. She knew these two men by sight: the older man was Nunna, a hedger by trade, skilled at trimming hazelwood and wild roses into property and parish boundaries. The other was Wynbald, son of a shepherd, a lean, sharp-shouldered lad. In the absence of stouter men, most of them fighting in the Holy Land, such deputies were usually all the sheriff could claim.

“Your hands are dirty, both of you,” Bridgit was saying, “and you smell like a stable.”

“Forgive me, then,” Nunna was saying.

Margaret plunged the end of her staff into Wynbald's ribs, and the bleeding youth fell to one knee. He was up quickly, speaking in farmland dialect, explaining to his companion that he did not need any help. “
She nei is yit bot a littel wee leddy
—She's only a little wee lady.”

Good manners and social tradition made Wynbald reluctant to lay a hand on Margaret. But Bridgit was quite another matter. Nunna lifted her off the ground and shook her back and forth, squeezing the air out of her body as she swore by God's teeth and by God's bones.

“Take her down and use your sword,” Nunna was saying.

Wynbald opened his hands in apology. He scrambled forward, knocked Margaret's staff to one side, and embraced her. The wiry youth smelled of horse sweat and man sweat, cheese and ale—a fermented, salty funk that radiated from him as he gave Margaret a rough, almost friendly hug.

Still bleeding from his nose, he had the wit or manners to say what Margaret took to mean “Forgive me, lady” as he threw her to the ground. Then the angle of the hilt gave him trouble, as did the weight of the sword when he fought it free of the scabbard. She could see the calculation in his eyes. How much time would he have if he stood, planted his feet squarely, and struck the blow that would take off her head? Would Margaret stay still for all that?

“I'll give you treasure!” said Margaret, scrambling to her feet.

Wynbald kept his hand where it was, around the hilt of his sword, the sun gleaming on his dark leather armor.

“Rich treasure,” she added, with her hand on her mother's brooch.

“Nay,” argued Nunna, the sweating veteran deputy, his arms locked around Bridgit. He uttered something in country speech that Margaret took to mean “Cut her now.” But his voice had a strained, hoarse quality that betrayed a lingering doubt: perhaps cutting off the head of a lady is not the Christian or even manly thing to do.

“Ah, lady,” said Wynbald sorrowfully, sniffing.

A sword in the hand of a field man is a clumsy weapon. Wynbald unsheathed his blade and swept his sword up, two handed, the heavy weapon carrying his arms back over his head. And the sword held back, hesitant, unsure of its mission.

The young man shifted his feet, took a new sword stance, and drew a deep breath.

“You cannot do this,” said Margaret. “Henry will change his mind and punish you for your stupidity. What does he want with my head? He wants to milk money out of me, week by week.”

“Tie her like a goat,” commanded Nunna.

Wynbald grinned, a gap-toothed smile that folded his face into vulpine wrinkles. And Margaret knew that despite the awkward courtesy of these two men, their poverty and their fear of Henry made them dangerous.

This time when Wynbald took her arm there was no hesitation. He unwound a leather cord from his belt and, working like a shepherd's son, bound her ankles, tied her wrists, and dumped her heavily onto the leaf meal.

A whip-crack sound punctured the daylight. A flash, and a projectile thrust from the side of the Trysting Oak.

A long, gray-feathered arrow.

Nunna released Bridgit and made a worshipful sign of the cross, dropping to one knee. Wynbald dropped his weapon and likewise sank to the wet soil between the massive roots of the tree.

Green-clad figures surrounded them. Margaret breathed a prayer. As dangerous as these sheriff's oafs had been, they had a predictable station in life, and a bribe, or an appeal to their shame, might still have proven weapon enough.

These new men were out of the greenwood.

Just as the pretty imaginings of her wedding day had soured, so now Margaret would learn the truth about outlaws.

Chapter 32

A giant young man with a quarterstaff stood before Wynbald as Margaret looked on. The young deputy was trembling, and the giant gave him a pat on the back.

Nunna spoke. “We beg humbly your forgiveness, my lords,” said the sweating hedger-deputy, resorting to the only high speech he probably knew, the language of city courtesy.

Margaret guessed who this tall young man must be, and she was unwilling to make a sound. She did not even want to shape his name clearly in her mind. She could only watch as the tall man with the sand-yellow hair took Nunna's chin in his hand, the way a man will condescend to a child. Another outlaw cut Margaret's bonds and helped her gently to her feet.