Stone Rising (23 page)

Cold eyes studied him from across the desk, as one might study a rare and interesting bug upon a walk in the forest.

“I know you…”

The Boy kept his mouth tightly shut, but no amount of willpower in the world could have kept the hatred from his eyes. He was sure the Shiriff was picking up on it. And he was sure that it merely amused the man.

“Yes,” the steward of Nottingham’s fingers were steepled before his smiling face as he continued his scrutiny. “I’m sure I’ve seen you before. That face; the lines so noble, the eyes so aristocratic.”

“Right you are, milord,” came the voice of Cooper from behind the Boy. “This one’s a toff an’ no mistake. Don’t get many joining the guard; could sniff him out a mile off.”

The Shiriff raised his eyebrows.

“Yes. Very good, Cooper. That will be all.”

“Milord?”

The Shiriff looked at his chief guard.

“Rest assured, Cooper, I shall be quite safe.”

The burly guard looked down with a sneer to where the Boy sat, not bound yet unarmed, before finally giving a curt nod.

“As you wish, sire. I shall be
waitin’ outside. Gimme a shout if you need a hand.”

With that, the brute turned and stalked from the room, darting one last suspicious look at the prisoner before he closed the heavy door.

The thud of the closing door faded. And then there was silence.

The Boy could hear his heart beating within his chest. He tried to calm himself, to keep his feelings under control, but it was hard. It had always been hard. He snapped.

“You don’t even remember my name, do you, you murderous bastard?” His words came out in a stream of venom as the dam of restraint finally broke.

The Shiriff smiled.

“But of course I do,” replied the steward, his face calm and eyes twinkling with amusement. “I never forget a face, young Sir Loxley…”

A cold shiver descended on the Boy’s face, as the blood flushed away. Loxley? How long had it been since he had been called by that name? He had almost forgotten the sound of it himself.
Who yet lived that knew him by that title? Too few, thanks to the predations of this man. None had called him that in recent years.

Not since that day.

“I’m merely surprised you still live, child,” the Shiriff continued. “How long has it been since your bastard of a father returned from the holy lands and tried to usurp the rightful king’s reign, hmm? Two years? Three?”

“Four.” Cold hatred filled Loxley’s chest, gripping his throat tight and making it hard to force the words out. “Four years since the last time someone stood up to your pathetic schemes.”

The Shiriff smiled again, seemingly not at all threatened by the quivering anger in his prisoner’s voice.

“Four years? My, how time flies. You were but a boy back then. I’m not surprised my lackeys failed to find you; probably holed up in some cupboard, I don’t doubt, or smuggled out beneath a housemaid’s skirts. And where have you been hiding in the years since, pray tell? Your father’s hall must have become a tad draughty of late, what, with the walls having been burned down…” He frowned for a second, thinking, then smiled again. “Ah, yes. The Forest, I imagine. Hiding out with the other outlaws, traitors and tax-dodgers. How romantic. And how fitting that that home, too, shall end in flames, soon enough…”

Loxley balled his hands into fists, knuckles white. Forcing himself to hold back his temper, he glanced about the room without moving his head. To his right, not five paces distant, a pair of crossed swords hanging upon the stone wall. The Shiriff saw the movement of his eyes and nodded.

“Go to it, child.” He gestured with a hand weighed down with lavish rings and jewels. “I wouldn’t blame you. Unleash those skills you’ve no doubt been preparing for this day.”

Could he, thought Loxley? Would he let me? Or would he simply call Cooper and his brutes back into the room to pummel me senseless?

Fuck it, what other chance will I ever get?

Adrenaline surged as he jumped to his feet, so quickly that his chair flew backwards to clatter on the floor. He darted over to the wall, drawing one of the crossed swords with a ringing of steel, before rounding on the object of his hate.

Still the Shiriff sat there, relaxed, eyes full of mocking amusement.

“Do it,” he goaded. “End it. Avenge your father. Did you ever hear the tales of his demise? How he pleaded for his life on bended knee? Renounced his oaths to the Lionheart as he wept at my sleeve?”

With a roar, Loxley lunged forwards, the sharp point of the sword aimed squarely at his tormentor’s heart. But the Shiriff wasn’t there; the sword point jamming fast into the wooden back of his chair. A knee, to Loxley’s midsection, then a bejewelled fist connecting with his jaw that sent him sprawling to his knees.

“It’s that passion that makes you weak, child,” taunted the noble as he drove a knee, now, into Loxley’s exposed face. The nose broke with an audible snap, blood beginning to trickle out in a torrent of crimson to cover the youth’s mouth. “It’s the downfall of all your kind,” he continued, voice measured, controlled. “Living in some kind of fantasy world in the woods, thinking that happy thoughts and rousing songs will change the world. You need to stop and learn to
think
.”

Loxley roared again in hatred and frustration, rising unsteadily to his feet. He lashed out, eager to wreak havoc upon that noble, mocking face, but his eyes were blurred from tears of pain. He missed, staggering past the Shiriff, who side-stepped and tripped him so that he sprawled to the floor, the impact driving the wind from his lungs.

The Shiriff circled him imperiously, as a cat a mouse, taking his time, picking his moment, before driving a hard kick with his fine boots into Loxley’s ribs, doubling the youth up in pain.

“Your father, Loxley senior, had a choice, young sir knight. He had the rank, the position, to be in the favour of his new king from the off. But he squandered that power. Such a mistake! There’s a lesson there; always side with the winning team. Alas, now the sins of the father have returned to haunt the son…”

Even though he lay wincing in pain, the flagstones growing red from the dripping of his lifeblood onto the floor, the boy, Loxley, gave a weak laugh.

“You speak of power,” he gasped, through nostrils filled with blood. “You know nothing of power. The vengeance of the people is coming down upon you, mark my words. A man of power is coming to find you; power the likes of which you have never known…”

He laughed again, but was cut short as the Shiriff drove another booted kick into his ribs.

“Is that so?” The Shiriff’s face was mildly amused. “I look forward to meeting this man. If he arrives soon enough then he shall get a good view of your head atop the city gates. That’s if the crows don’t have at it first…” He turned, calling towards the door. “Cooper! Take this lad back to his cells for some rest.” He glanced down with a look of disappointment to the groaning figure that lay before him. “He’s got a date, tomorrow, with the executioner’s axe…”

***

What could he have done, he thought to himself for the tenth time? What possible aid could he have rendered his friend? After he had erupted, covered in night-soil and stinking to high heaven, from the bottom of the latrine chute, Will had soon realised that the Boy was not follow. He had been half
tempted to dash back round to the barrack gates and barge his way within, but how far would that have gotten him?

That big brute Cooper would have no doubt warned his guards to be on the lookout for the runaway recruit. No, there was no way. Despite his loyalty, despite the camaraderie, the bond, almost, of brotherhood that he had forged with the Boy over the last couple of years of living in the forests, he knew that to attempt a rescue, now, on his own would be nought but suicide and would avail no-one anything.

He’d had no choice but to flee, before Cooper’s city guard could find him and drag him back at the point of a halberd. But such certain knowledge did in no way lessen the shame he’d felt as he’d trudged northwards from the city walls, following the old roads home.

As he had journeyed north, part of him had toyed with the idea of stopping off at Blidworth of an afternoon; how long had it been since he’d set foot in the village of his birth? But no, what would have been the point? Who would have remained that might know him, still? Half the village from his days had been forced from their homes at the point of spear and sword. Most of those that still knew him from then already lived in the Forest.

And those that remained in Blidworth would know him only as outlaw and traitor. Only as a source of bounty and easy coin. Such was the influence of evil men and their greed; driving wedges in families, tearing apart the bonds of friendship. Perhaps some of them, some of the older generation that had escaped the wrath of the tax-collectors, might keep his secret, might welcome him, see him with food and beer for the journey home to the Forest.

But no. No, it was not worth the risk. If this entire venture had taught him anything, perhaps it was that risks were rarely worth the taking. Perhaps the admonishments of John and Iain had been right all along; he and the Boy were nought but reckless youths after all, with plenty of growing up yet to do.

The thought had been a sobering one and one that had caused Will, even as the spire of Blidworth had risen in the distance, to turn off the path, ready to make his way around the outskirts of the village, safe from prying eyes.

That was when he had seen them, approaching down the path, out the corner of his eye.

That was when hope had been rekindled in his chest.

***

The sun glistened off the armour of the two guards to his sides as he was marched out into the street before the castle. Broken-nose and his pugilist friend. They smiled at him in dark amusement, relishing this moment, but he didn’t care, instead lifting his battered face to the warmth of the morning sun. The rays felt soothing on his bruised skin and he closed his eyes for a second, relishing their caress, but then the firm prod of a steel point in his back forced him on, his hands bound tightly behind his back.

             
Strange, he thought, that the sun should feel so nice today. He remembered being told by his father, years before, that the sun in foreign climes beat down with far greater strength than the English sun. He had seen, first hand, his father’s tanned skin upon returning from war. The sun here was never that strong, always struggling to break through the mists. Yet there was a subtle warmth to it today that made him feel good.

             
Made him feel
alive
.

             
The irony made him smile; he knew that it was all an illusion. The sun was no brighter. The wind no more crisp, no more clean than it ever had been. The birds didn’t sing with renewed gusto, their melodies no more clear or sweet than before. All a trick of his mind, he knew, as it sought to distract him from the horror that was the impending end of life.

             
He had felt it before, in battle, staring at certain doom as it had approached. That sense of calm, almost serene peace, a lack of drama as the mind began to accept that things would be as they would be and there was nothing that could be done about it.

             
Even as he thought it, Loxley laughed at the memory of the Shiriff’s lies. No, his father would not have begged, would not have cried. That same blood ran through his own veins; he could feel it. The temper, the recklessness; yet also the stubbornness, the steadfast courage. Though he may never have the chances his father had, to venture out into the world, to serve his king and country as a fighting man, he could at least continue this part of his father’s legacy.

             
He could die with courage in his heart.

             
He stood there, before the block that would be his doom, and gazed out upon the crowd that lined the cobbled square. Faces, a sea of them, ranging from the lowliest peasants, through merchants and all the way up to the local barons and lords. They stretched out, from the stage upon which he stood, all the way down the hill alongside the castle walls, to the Olde Trip to Jerusalem at the bottom, where he had sat drinking with Will but days before. The ending of his young life was no more than entertainment to them. Nothing more than an amusing diversion, a distraction of a morning, from the humdrum monotony of their lives.

             
Part of him raged against them; how dare they judge me? How dare they presume my life, all my hopes and dreams, my memories, the legacy that dies with me, to be nothing more than a macabre entertainment for the masses. If he had gone with that feeling, hurled abuse out at the crowd, even as they did at him, he would have been no less a man than all those that had gone before him. All those whose blood even now, still, stained dark crimson the wood of the platform upon which the waiting block did sit.

             
No, he would have been no less of a man. The baying crowd would have expected nothing less.

             
And yet, something stopped him. Something caused him to hold back. Was it a last attempt at reclaiming the family honour taken from him by the cold, contemptuous Shiriff who sat on his throne, in an ornate box, not twenty feet away? To spite the man by facing his doom with dignity?