Outlaw, page 8
part #1 of Robyn Hood Series
He was a middle-aged man, dark-haired but with a ready smile; he patted her on the shoulder as she took the money. “You’ve certainly ruffled some feathers today, young lady.” He looked grim for just a moment but then grinned and sent her off with a hearty congratulations and the winner’s purse that would change her family’s fortune. Perhaps she had been wrong to judge him so harshly?
The light was starting to change; it was still only August but the evenings were already closing in and she was a little worried it would be dark before she reached home. No doubt her mother would be fretting and working the household into a state of delirium but then Robyn imagined her face when she emptied the purse of silver on the table: all worries would be gone in an instant.
She couldn’t wait to tell Marian. She still had the impaled popinjay; she intended to give it to Marian when she related her tale. She would tell her how she’d been sure she would be disqualified for piercing the little wooden bird; how there had been such fierce and noble competition; how that braggart Theobald had learned his lesson; how her bowstring had snapped at the last moment and Edward Colswain of all people had leapt to her aid. She’d had to part with the borrowed bow after the tournament, of course, but not before rushing to the bowsmith and having her own weapon fixed. She’d almost splurged on that beautiful bracer with the white hart, but her prize money would be no good if she spent it all before she’d even left Nottingham.
She played with the weight of the purse again, and squeezed the bag, hearing the coins push against one another. She could not have imagined herself more satisfied at a day’s work.
Robyn listened. She was sure she could hear hooves heading towards her along the King’s Road. She moved off the path and walked along beside the road, giving plenty of room for the riders to pass. As a sudden precaution, she lifted her hood and pulled up her scarf. A lone woman might be in danger from young men willing to press their advantage, but a lone forester patrolling the woodland path was nothing to even be noticed.
She clutched her bag of silver close, feeling exposed. There would be nothing out of the ordinary to make them stop, and as the hooves drew closer towards her, she told herself she wasn’t worried.
Until they began to slow.
Robyn resisted the urge to turn and look. She kept her head down and her focus on the path ahead. Like an unassuming peasant picking through the undergrowth. But she was acutely aware that there must have been at least four horses and their riders just over her right shoulder.
Nerves began to twist in her belly: why were they so close to her?
Why weren’t they moving on?
“Milksop?” It was a familiar voice.
The voice of the spoiled blond man she had beaten.
It was Theobald de Lacy.
Her stomach clenched but her feet didn’t slow. She didn’t acknowledge him.
“Oi.” His horse trotted alongside her. She could feel the heat from the beast’s body, see the outline of his leg in her peripheral vision; she kept her head down and kept walking. “I’m talking to you!” Suddenly he leaned down and grabbed her; she twisted out of his grasp as he pulled her hood back. “Loxley!”
She didn’t think, she ran.
She scuttled through the undergrowth, diving this way and that through the trees, wishing to God that she had brought her horse. Cursing herself for revealing her face. Why had she been so foolish? Why had she been so prideful? He knew her now, he knew who she was: where she lived, who she loved, and how to find her.
She had to keep running.
She would escape.
Hide in the woods.
But then Theo was in front of her, rearing his steed. She turned but there was another, the angry noble who’d thrown his bow to the ground in the tournament, in his dark green tunic. There were others, too; she didn’t recognise them, but they were all like Theo, barely more than boys, richly dressed and delighting in their chase. They laughed and taunted her as they circled.
“Is it not polite to acknowledge your betters when they address you, little Loxley?” Theobald asked, with a sneering laugh.
Robyn turned on her heel to face him, anger and fear coursing through her. “I believe,” she spoke her words through gritted teeth, almost spitting them at him, determined that he wouldn’t see her fear, “we established today that you are not my better.”
The group of lads laughed but Theobald snarled and slid from his horse. “Say that again, bitch.”
“I said...” Robyn felt her mouth drying up. She couldn’t run, but she couldn’t just stand and wait for him to do as he pleased either. She let her little wooden popinjay drop to the forest floor as she reached for her bow. “You are not my better.”
Theobald walked right up to her until she could feel his breath against her face. He made good use of all of his extra two inches of height to peer down at her as he whispered, “I am better than you in every way.”
He reached for the purse of silver, but she pushed him away hard then struck him across the face with the end of her newly repaired bow. He staggered backwards, clutching his cheek and staring at her with mild surprise. He clearly wasn’t used to women putting up a fight.
“You’ll regret that, you whore.” He drew his sword.
But Robyn was fast; she had an arrow ready and pointing to his head before his blade was even raised to strike. She watched his eyes nervously look first to her and then to the arrow tip.
He laughed, but his voice was tainted with uncertainty. “There are six of us and only one of you, maggot.”
“But you shall die first.” She was surprised at the confident sound of her voice, the fear was giving her a strength she didn’t know she had. But her feet were fastened to the ground; she didn’t think she could have run even if she had wanted to.
He lowered his sword but laughed again with forced confidence. “Just hand me my silver and you can run back to your mummy alive.”
He held out his hand. But Robyn kept her bow steady. It took everything she had not to let it shake with her nervous anger. “The King shall hear of this.”
He snarled at her. “There is no king!”
Suddenly he raised his sword to lunge and she released.
There was a scream as the arrow plunged deep into his shoulder, and a deeper shade of red began to stain his scarlet tunic. Robyn stared at him, her mouth agape as he howled like a wild animal and clutched the arrow shaft. She had never intended to shoot. He’d made her jump. She’d panicked. Wild reasoning flooded her mind in burning white flashes of regret. But it was too late. She had done it. She had shot a man. A boy. She had shot him.
Suddenly, he ripped the arrow back out of his flesh as he wailed in furious agony. “Get that harlot!”
Robyn could only turn and run.
She darted into the trees, the horses hot on her trail. She stumbled as one dashed out in front of her. She turned to see another behind her, and another to her left. There was nowhere she could go.
“Please,” she held up a hand, “I didn’t mean to...”
“Looks like you need a good teaching to, then.”
One of the riders leapt from his saddle and tackled Robyn to the ground. She hit the earth with a hard thud and a scream escaped her lungs as the thug held her down. Piercing her flesh with his bony fingers. Pressing his weight upon her until she couldn’t breathe. Another was upon her, pinning her arms. She struggled, twisting this way and that. Desperate to break their grip. A knee jabbed hard into her chest, and she could feel one of the rogues scrabbling around trying to loosen her belt.
Robyn watched the boy laugh as he pulled the fat purse free, then curse as it tore open. It wasn’t as free as he’d thought. Silver coins spilled into the leaf matter and the boys began to swear and curse one another as they fought over the precious puddles.
As they were distracted Robyn fought to get free. They had what they’d come for now. But if they wouldn’t let her go she could only assume with horror that they wanted more. She was too warm and struggling for breath: fear pulled at her stomach and tears pricked at her eyes.
In that moment Robyn didn’t want to live through whatever they were about to do to her.
There was a hard thud.
The boy sitting on her collapsed and landed heavily on her chest. The boy pinning her arms shouted but was silenced almost instantly and fell to her side moaning and crying like an infant. She was free of their grasp but could barely breathe. The sound of a struggle surrounded her and she fought to throw the stunned boy off her so she could look about.
Suddenly she was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and hauled to her feet. Her two attackers were now moaning and writhing on the ground, but the rest of the boys had drawn their swords and were ready for a fight. Robyn turned to her rescuer and nearly screamed.
The Green Man. He had somehow followed her there and was fighting them to take her for himself.
“Gerroff with thee!” He pushed her with his free hand as he fought off a sword parry with his sturdy stave. He waved at her again, indicating the woods. “Go on, lass, scarper!”
She didn’t need telling twice.
She didn’t understand where the man had come from or what he wanted but when she looked back he was fending off the four remaining armed boys with little problem. She wasn’t going to wait around to see if they bested him.
Chapter Thirteen
A Promise Made in Blood
The silence of the summer night was broken as five riders galloped through the gates of Nottingham Castle shouting for aid.
It was only by the light of torches that the guards could see a sixth man slung over one of the horses: he was moaning weakly but alive.
There was a commotion. Voices called out, a bell rang, and the young man was heaved from the horse and carried by four of his friends into the castle, while the fifth was sent with guards to awaken the young man’s aunt.
A trail of blood led the way from the courtyard to the chamber where he was laid down and the order went out for a doctor.
“Quickly! He’s bad!”
Almost as soon as the man was on the bed, his aunt was there. Maud burst through the door, her skirts flailing, her face white.
“Theo!” she screamed, ignoring any protocol and climbing right onto the bed with him. Cradling his head in her hands. Blood was everywhere. His ripped-open tunic, his linen shirt. It leaked onto the bed, it stained the woman’s hands. “My dear, sweet darling boy, what happened?” He couldn’t speak. His mouth opened and closed but the words had no sound. Maud looked to his companions. Like naughty children, they huddled together with their heads looking to the floor. “What happened?” she demanded.
“Bandits,” one said and quickly the others agreed. “A whole band of them.” There was nodding and furious consensus but Maud was no longer interested.
“You’ll have the best doctor, my doctor.” She stroked the boy’s bloodstained face and rocked him. “You are so brave, my darling, so brave.”
THE SHERIFF OF NOTTINGHAM was awoken from his slumber by a commotion out in the courtyard. He turned over, ignoring the noise, but when it grew only louder he angrily rose from his bed. Candle in hand he went to the guard at his door. There was no one there. In the distance, he was sure he could hear a woman shouting... No, not just any woman: Maud.
Hurriedly, he put on what clothes he could find and ran across the castle to the sound. He accosted a guard on the way. “What has occurred?”
“Lord Theobald, sire, he is wounded.”
William de Wendenal felt sick. He nodded and took off at a run towards the boy’s chamber, but as he came up the winding steps, he heard the hollow animal cry of a mother who had lost a pup.
He stumbled but kept climbing. Almost afraid of what he knew he would find.
The scene was the worst kind of painting of hell. Five young men, boys, stood with their heads down and their backs to the wall. Pale, beaten and bloody, each had a look of such guilt it was as if they had laid the fatal blow themselves.
A black-clothed man, his hands and instruments stained with red, was calmly repacking his case as he tutted and shook his head.
But it was the scene in the centre of the room that looked as though it might have been torn from the nightmares of Lucifer himself.
The sheets were dishevelled and stained: a boy was spreadeagled on the bed staring open-eyed at the ceiling, his clothes torn open, his chest stained and his flesh ripped at the shoulder and sewn back together as if he were a rag doll that had merely needed a needle and thread to repair.
Maud held him.
She wailed and rocked, clutching her boy. He was her boy. She may not have carried him into the world but she had carried him through it and now she carried him beyond.
William swallowed hard.
It was too much for a half-sleeping man to take in; as the doctor went to pass him William clutched his arm and pulled him back. “What–what happened?”
The doctor sighed as if it had all been an awful inconvenience for him. “An arrow wound. The boy pulled it free then bled to death.” He shook his head then glanced back. “If only he had left it in...” The doctor looked back at William and then patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll send you the bill in the morning.”
“Of course.” William was barely listening. “Thank you.”
There was nothing else for him to do. He shook his head once again at the pity of it all, then left the family and friends to mourn.
Maud’s cries continued, a constant wailing sob that shook through her.
William was helpless. He didn’t know what to do so he climbed onto the bed. Hesitant at first, then he clutched her and she leaned into him, struggling for breath as she held the boy.
“She died for him,” Maud managed through half-sobs. “They ripped him from her and she bled while he cried for her.”
“I know.” William clutched her tighter as his wife mourned a second time for her sister.
“She was too young... too young to bear a child, but she did it, she did it.” Maud was choking on her own breaths. “I promised her, you know...”
“I know.”
“I said I would take care of him, he was like mine. He was mine. He was the one we couldn’t have.”
Theobald had been boorish, stupid, and spoiled but Maud was right: he had been theirs. As William looked down at the boy’s open eyes, he fought back the tears that threatened him. “We’ll get him,” he whispered, “don’t you worry, my love.” He gripped Maud’s exhausted frame, holding her upright as her rattling breaths slowed. “We’ll get the bastard that did this.”
Chapter Fourteen
Civil Hands Unclean
Robyn clambered up the exposed wattle as plaster and dried mud crumbled from the high wall. She hoisted herself up and over the top, then made use of the branches of the fruit trees clamped to the far side to lower herself softly inside the manor grounds. Delicately picking her way across the gardens towards the manor, silent in the cool night air. She made her way to the house and prowled around to the back window.
It was open, it was always open in summer.
Glancing around to ensure she remained unobserved, she removed her boots and slid through. Robyn landed with a soft thump on the flagstone floor and stood still in the dark, ensuring she had not been heard before trotting up the stairs and into a small bedroom near the back of the house.
As soon as she closed the door behind her she hurriedly tore the ill-fitting clothes from her body. A seam had been ripped and a scrap of her prize-winning purse hung like a dead mouse from her belt. Her fingers were numb, and in her blindness she fumbled to remove the tunic and hose.
She left a pile where she stood and in nothing but her undershirt, she crept across the wooden floorboards. She hesitated at the familiar creak of wood and studied the sleeping figure for a moment before she carefully lifted the blankets and slid between the warm sheets, reaching out for Marian.
As soon as Robyn’s cold hand touched her, Marian sat bolt upright in bed. “Who’s there?” Her voice was assertive and fierce, but Robyn knew better.
“It’s only me,” Robyn whispered back.
“Me?”
Robyn shuffled forward and pulled the still unconscious Marian back down. “It’s Robyn.”
“I didn’t know you were here.” Marian sounded much more like her sleepy self as she turned and snuggled into Robyn’s arms.
She didn’t know why she had travelled to Leaford rather than her own estate. Nor did she fully understand why she didn’t wish to wake Marian to tell her everything that had happened. To relay her ordeal. But all she wanted now that she was here was the silent calm of her friend’s embrace.
Robyn thought she would never get to sleep. She thought she would lie awake all night replaying those moments over and over again in her mind. The fear of the gang of thugs, the tackle to the ground, the anger of those boys and the anger she had towards them... the blood seeping into Theobald’s shirt, the Green Man coming to her rescue.
Robyn could feel the beat of Marian’s heart against her own and hear her soft, rhythmic breathing, so calm and steady.
Within a few moments, the fraught young archer had finally succumbed and together they slipped into their dreams.
“ROBYN! I DIDN’T HEAR you come in.”
Robyn was in a daze and still thick with sleep. She turned over in her bed only to realise it wasn’t her bed: she was in Marian’s bed, in Marian’s house, with Marian sitting up staring at her open-mouthed.
“My word, Robyn! What happened to you?” Marian reached out to touch her face, but Robyn swatted her hand away.
“Nothing.”
“But your face, it... it’s all bruised, and where were you yesterday? Your mother was worried sick. You didn’t go to Nottingham Fayre, did you?”
The memories came crashing back. The tournament, the return through the forest, the attack, the theft of the winnings, the Green Man... and the blood.
