Heart of Sherwood Page 24

  Robyn's heart swelled, but she insisted there would be no tears this morning. "You never cease to amaze me," she confessed in wonderment. She slid from the bed and began putting on her own garments.

  "It will take some creativity on my part to continue amazing you for the next forty years or so," Marian chirped with coy light dancing in her eyes.

  I am indeed the most fortunate woman in the world! Robyn thought. Prithee, God, let this day go well.

  *~*~*

  The tournament grounds outside Nottingham Castle

  Sheriff Giffard, wearing his best silks over a thick leather jerkin for protection, stood near the nobles' stands which overlooked the tournament field an hour before the event was to begin. A razor sharp broadsword hung in its scabbard from his belt. A scattering of spectators had begun to trickle in while his watchful eyes passed over the scene. It was a perfect sunny day on which to conclude the festival, and a boon to catching thieves, finally to be rid of their annoyance. Sirs Raoul de Clar and Hugh Diggory were milling about chatting with some of the other barons before claiming their preferential cushioned seats under the covered canopy set up with a royal seat for Prince John, who would of course be the last to arrive as a signal for the contest to commence. Sir Guy, his daughter, and Maid Marian were winding their way through the crowd, politely wishing all a good morrow, when Sir Lambelin Bondeville and Deputy Blanchard, outfitted for the competition, stepped up to Giffard.

  "Sheriff," addressed the smiling sandy haired Lambelin. "I fear I shall spoil your premise for identifying Hood as the winner of this tournament for, on top of my extraordinary skill, I am feeling quite lucky today."

  Godfrey snorted, crossing his arms as he regarded the Baron of Somerset. "Is that so?" he inquired dubiously. "What have you to offer, Deputy?"

  "Milord, I suspect our honored guest Sir Lambelin had a bit too much to drink last eve, as clearly I am favored to win this day," he returned with a rare smile. "But you can be assured I shall keep all my wits about myself when spying out the other contestants, as one of them is no doubt the outlaw we seek."

  "I know you will, Blanchard," Godfrey answered with less chill than before. "Sir Lambelin, I wish you nothing but success," he added with a curt nod. Then he spotted his man at arms, Emory, and waved him over.

  "Yes, milord?" The sturdy veteran reported to the Sheriff with a snap to attention.

  "Gather half of the guards, take them back to the castle, and give them the instructions of which we spoke, making certs a dozen of your best are waiting in my office. And no one dressed as a soldier is to be allowed in without the password, is that clear?"

  "Aye," Emory answered and strode off to gather guards.

  Bondeville and Blanchard looked puzzled, and the deputy inquired, "Sheriff, what is this about? I thought the plan was to trap Hood here at the tournament, yet you send away half the guard?"

  The imposing Sheriff stared down Lambelin with a hard gaze. "I'll just go get ready for my big win today," he responded and excused himself from the two lawmen.

  Once they were alone, Godfrey stated, "There is a traitor in our midst, and the fewer who know of it the better. It may well be him," he said as his eyes trailed Lambelin walking away. "Alas, I have not been able to ascertain who it is, but someone has been singing to the Queen. I also found out Hood's whole gang will be at the castle to steal Prince John's hoard, but you need not concern yourself with that; it is covered. Your part is what it has always been–discover which of the other contestants is the outlaw and capture him."

  Blanchard nodded. "That I shall do, have no doubt."

  Sheriff Giffard slapped his deputy on the back and grinned. "And I don't even mind if you further humiliate him by proving you are the better archer first!"

  A broad grin crossed the deputy's face. "I should enjoy that very much."

  *~*~*

  Robyn walked along the path from castle to tournament field without drawing a single glance from the merrymakers. She appeared to be a tall, stout man with a full beard and mustache on his way to compete with dozens of others, both noble and commoner, in the open archery contest. A bow and quiver rested on his shoulders and he ambled with a limp, his left leg stiff, no doubt, from a mill injury, or mayhap from being kicked by a horse. In fact, Robyn had locked that knee to keep it taut as her sword hung hidden inside the leg of her outer set of trousers.

  She paid close attention to every detail, knowing that at any moment she may have to fight or flee. Food carts were set up along the way offering a variety of sumptuous smelling dishes at a reasonable price. There were jugglers and fortune tellers, with a troupe performing a mystery play to one side of the path and a minstrel playing his mandolin and singing a popular Goliard song on the other. She switched her attention as she heard a great commotion and stepped around a vendor's cart to investigate. There was a lodge-pole planted firmly in the ground and chained to it by a ring and collar was a black bear being taunted by youths with sticks and barking dogs. While bear-baiting was a common distraction at fairs, Robyn found it cruel and pointless. Nonetheless, there stood a dozen fellows cheering and laying bets while the dogs darted in and out trying to nip the beast with their teeth without being mauled in the process. She shook her head and turned away.

  A jester in colorful patchwork silks, a hat with jingling bells on his head, hopped in front of her. "Are you a man or a mouse?" he asked whimsically. "And where would I find the privy house?" Then just as randomly, he skipped away. She passed a group of masked and costumed mummers and a pardoner calling fair goers to receive forgiveness, for a small fee, before at last arriving at the check in station for archery contestants.

  "Name," the scribe pronounced in a bored monotone without even glancing up from his ledger.

  "William Smith," she replied using a common name.

  "We have two William Smith's entered; which are you?"

  "From Lincolnshire," she added in a husky, deep voice.

  "Ah, here," he said and spared her a glance. He shoved the binder toward her and held out a quill. "Make your mark." It was not an insult considering that most Englishmen, even the nobility, were illiterate. Robyn drew an "X" where the scribe pointed. "Very well," he grunted as he retrieved paper and quill. "See the other participants over there?" He pointed at a group of fellows with bows and arrows standing together. "Go wait with them and you'll get your chance."

  "Gramercy," she replied and ambled stiff-legged over to the others. Men of all ages, sizes, and walks of life had gathered for a shot to win the prize of a golden arrow to be awarded by the beauteous Maid Marian. For nobles it meant bragging rights and for commoners, food for the whole winter. She recognized a few of the contestants–Deputy Blanchard, and some local barons. Amid the tall and short, young and old, noble and common, she blended unremarkably.

  *~*~*

  Downhill from the festivities, the castle overlooking the River Trent was quiet and void of celebrators, if not overstocked with armed guards. An old priest and his youthful acolyte strolled up to the main gate.

  The stalwart soldier on duty stopped them.

  "Who goes there?" he asked in an irritated tone as he stretched to peer up at the cheering horde only three hundred yards away. In disappointment, he returned his gaze to the clergymen.

  The younger guard at the other side of the entrance barely glanced at them as he leaned on his pike and kicked at the dirt.

  "I am Father Gilbert and this is David, a ward of my abbey," he answered with a cheerful smile. "I was invited to perform the noonday mass and we are here to make preparations."

  The disgruntled sentinel sighed and waved a gloved hand. "Go on, then." He dismissed the frail looking cleric and his youthful counterpart, never suspecting how lethal both could be.

  Gilbert was grateful to Friar Tuck's brothers of the cloth who had given him the robes for priest and acolyte. They had also graciously supplied a full nun's garb which lay hidden in the brush behind a certain Scots Pine. He noted that there were more guar
ds than he had expected to see, but pushed down any inclination to panic; this was not his first mission.

  When they reached the chapel, a sleepy, scruffy lad in mail that hung too large over his shoulders offered a polite bow and opened the door for them. Gilbert breathed a sigh of relief when he looked around to find them alone inside.

  "David, you look about for the bread and wine while I arrange the Bible and candles on the altar."

  He gave Gilbert a questioning gaze, but Whitehand just made a shooing motion at him while he began to examine every inch of the dais.

  A few minutes passed and the guards at the gate swore when another cheer rang out from the crowd up the hill. "Shite duty, that's what we gets," the one with week old stubble on his chin complained.

  "Aye, and I ain't never got to watch a proper archery contest in my life," added the younger of the two. "Ain't fair, I says."

  While they grumbled over their unfavorable task, a party of men in soldier's attire approached the gate. A handsome, green eyed chap in the front of the group announced, "Sheriff Giffard sent us down here to reinforce the castle."

  "What's the password?" muttered the stubbled elder guard with an obvious lack of enthusiasm.

  Suddenly Alan A Dale's face went blank and a hint of panic ran through him. "Password?" he inquired, acting as though he knew it, but it had just slipped his mind.

  "Aye, password. Old Emory says everyone's got to say the password."

  "Oh, that password!" Alan announced in triumph, still clueless. Behind him, Little John gripped his sword hilt, ready to fight if necessary. Will, Arthur, Much, along with Isaac, Roger, and Fawkes, refugees who had volunteered and trained for this mission, stood motionless waiting to ascertain if the charismatic Alan could talk their way in. "Fear not, my fine fellow; the Sheriff told us right before we started down here. Now let me see... truly isn't fair, is it? Us having to sit around this empty castle whilst all the excitement is happenin' up on the hill? A cryin' shame, it is."

  Just then a real soldier sped right through their ranks and skidded to a halt beside Alan. "Whew, I thought I was late. Had to, you know, spend a little longer in the privy than I had planned. Glad I caught up to the rest of you."

  "Password," repeated the guard impatiently.

  "Falconer," said the actual guard.

  "That's right," Alan agreed. "'Tis falconer," and he added a confident nod.

  "Very well, come on in. Geez, how many more guards does this empty castle need?"

  "You're tellin' me," Alan exclaimed with a shake of his head as they all proceeded through the gate.

  After they had taken a few steps, the late soldier considered Alan. "Do I know you?"

  "Oh, we're new," he answered smoothly.

  "That explains it. My group's off to guard the Sheriff's office; what about you fellows?"

  "We were told to watch the chapel," Alan said. "Guess he wants this place really guarded well in case that Robin Hood shows up."

  "Indeed! Good morrow." The soldier waved and trotted off toward the keep while Alan and his comrades sauntered over to stand around outside the chantry.

  *~*~*

  Will Scarlet took a few steps away from the others and leaned in shadow against the chapel's outer stone wall with his arms crossed over his chest keeping his head bowed. He wasn't sure which he was more terrified of: his mother being killed, being killed himself, or his friends finding out what he had done. He was convinced all three would transpire this day.

  His brooding darkened to the point he was unaware of anything or anyone around him, trapped in a labyrinth of misery. He hoped that his tightrope act would work. He had told the Sheriff enough to satisfy him and buy time for his mum, but changed or omitted key facts. Would having the soldiers guard the wrong room be sufficient to save his friends? But, if they left the castle without his mother, she would be as good as dead.

  Why hadn't he just told Robin what was going on? The longer he had waited, the guiltier of betrayal he had become until it was impossible to tell the gang. My only chance is to make haste for the dungeon once the fighting begins, he thought. Free Mum, get her to safety, and then rush back to die with my mates. It was a dismal prospect, but the best outcome for which he could pray.

  He felt as if the very stones of the chapel burned his spine with righteous fire, paving the way to purgatory for his ignoble actions. He turned deeper into himself, wrestling with his own soul. They could all die, King Richard lose his crown; Queen Eleanor and Maid Marian banished or locked away, and Robin? The friend I had called a brother? He would face a public execution, likely a drawn out and painful one, all because of me. There is no hope, no hope for my soul! I could tell Little John… I could tell him now, not that I had spilled the plan, but that I overheard the guards talking… that somehow they found out we would be here. I could warn them and we could get out safely… but then what about me mum?

  Will shivered despite the pleasant day, his eyes fixed on a spot in the dirt.

  It took Much three times speaking to him and a shake of his shoulders before Will noticed he was no longer alone. "Wake up, Will!" he insisted. "We have to keep alert."

  "Aye," he snapped with a nod while sweat streamed down his face.

  "Don't worry, mate," Much tried to assure him. "All is well."

  Nervously, Will lifted his eyes and nodded again to his friend. But all was not well, and he bloody well knew it. If ever there was a time to act, to warn the others, this was it. But no, it was too late now. "I'll be fine," was all he said before closing dull blue eyes from which the light had already been extinguished.

  *~*~*

  Maid Marian, attired in a fashionable back-laced, fitted gown of deep autumn blue wool with narrow sleeves flaring out dramatically at cuffs that plunged almost to the platform and encompassed by a double wrapped belt, sat on a cushioned chair between Sir Guy and Maid Faye. In proper modesty, her sunny strands were gathered up in looped braids and all but covered by her white fine-linen coif. On her lap rested a pale blue silk pillow bearing the prize golden arrow. Marian's eyes lit when she spotted Robyn walking forward with the other archers for the first round. She was quite proud of how her work turned out; even Robyn had exclaimed that she did not recognize herself. Anyone who had ever caught a glimpse of the outlaw Hood would never suspect this stocky bearded chap with the halt.

  "Ah, look, Maid Marian," Guy said pointing to a contestant in noble dress. "There is my old friend Roland de Lacy, second son of the Baron of Leeds. He and I used to ride the circuit, competing in all the tournaments. While he excelled in archery, I always bested him with the sword." Guy seemed to swell with pride, raising his red-bearded chin as he waved out toward Roland. Marian wondered just how many championships Sir Guy had actually won in the past, and if any were attained honestly. "That's the thing about shooting a bow," he continued, having failed to catch his supposed friend's attention. "Age does not figure so much as it does in swords and the joust."

  Marian studied the distinguished looking marksman wearing a thin moustache and goatee on an otherwise smooth face as he stepped up to the line. He bore good posture and a more robust stature than the baron seated to her left. "Do you favor Roland to win?" she asked, trying to seem interested in her would be courtier.

  Sir Guy's belly jiggled with a short laugh. "Nay. I fear his eye is not as sharp as it once was, but he should fare well. I laid my wager on Sir Lambelin. You remember him from our dinner with Prince John at Michaelmas," he said sweeping his gaze over her.

  "Ah, yes, the handsome young baron who had too much to drink, if I recall." Guy's face darkened at her use of the word 'handsome' to describe one he immediately realized could be a rival for her hand.

  He snapped his attention back to the field as the opening shots were fired toward painted bulls-eyes. "Then again, Deputy Blanchard is a fine shot as well; and there is Robin Hood, should he actually dare appear."

  "That is the plan, is it not?"

  "Indeed." The competitors were divid
ed in half as those whose shots landed on or nearest the center moved to the next round where the targets would be placed farther away, while those whose arrows strayed were directed to the rear. Then Guy turned a warm smile toward Marian. "My dearest, I have been thinking… there is nothing to be gained by waiting upon your father's return for us to wed. I have all confidence that he would not object to our union as both of our houses hold high reputation. We know not how long it could take to raise the ransom, how many times that greedy Emperor Henry will increase the amount, or even if he has any intention of releasing the King at all. If your father chooses to remain in Germany awaiting his release…" Guy trailed off, shaking his head sadly.

  Marian shot him an irritated glance. "My father is loyal to King Richard. He will wait and bring the Lionheart back to England. Then upon his return, the King shall reward all who remained faithful in his absence." Unlike, she added to herself, those of you who plot with the Prince to steal his throne.

  Guy sighed and placed a hand over hers, an expression of deep concern on his face. "It is such a shame that our valiant King Richard did not simply appoint his brother John ruler by proxy while he is detained instead of a committee of regents. Our country needs a strong, decisive monarch to keep us safe and vibrant, not a bickering circle of old men and a woman whose heart is burdened with worry for her son. Would it be so bad if John were king?"

  A cold shiver ran down Marian's spine. Though she knew he held them, this was the first time Sir Guy had voiced his opinions on the matter. That meant he was confident something would happen soon. He must be thinking of the tax money paying the mercenaries to support Prince John as he usurps the crown. But he doesn't know we are about to bear that money straight to Queen Eleanor and across the sea. His cockiness could lead him to make a critical mistake.

  She waved a hand dismissively and giggled, playing the role of clueless female. "Certs John may be king one day if His Highness cannot manage to take to his wife long enough to secure an heir; but verily our Richard will return soon. We should not worry about such heavy things on this last day of Martinmas. Let us be light and gay, Sir Guy. My father shall come home and you may speak with him about acquiring my hand in marriage."