Heart of Sherwood Read online

  When hell freezes over.

  *~*~*

  Refracted sunbeams spilled in from the clerestory, a set of three massive stained-glass windows arched around the wall constructed with large stones that encircled the rostrum, easing Gilbert's task as he ran dexterous fingers over the walnut pulpit and beneath the green silk drape which signified common time on the liturgical calendar. Nothing. The ornately carved pulpit with Norman reliefs hid no secret levers. He stepped to the communion table, which held the center focus of the platform, and examined every edge and corner, moving meticulously to the less flashy lectern at the other end. I wish I knew what to look for. Gilbert glanced up to see David playing with the flames of the candles lit at St. Mary's station.

  "Stop that," he scowled. The lad gave him an innocent shrug, but left the tapers alone.

  Then Gilbert focused his attention along the wall behind the altar. On either side of the set of large windows was affixed an iron sconce. That's odd, Gilbert thought. The sconces were designed to hold torches but sat empty. Only beeswax is used in churches, he considered, not messy, smoke producing torches that would soot up the place. The observation that they did not belong drew him in enthusiastically. He tugged on the one behind him, but nothing happened. Then he scooted over to the one behind the pulpit. When he pulled it there was first a click followed by a scraping sound. Turning, he watched as the walnut podium slid forward revealing a hole that had been hidden underneath. Something shiny glittered in the sunlight.

  Hearing the sound, David ran over and joined his elder as they peered into the hollowed out space. An automatic light shone on their countenances as they beheld bag upon bag of riches. We found it! It is really here! It was almost too good to be true, but while David oohed and aahed in amazement, Gilbert knew their mission was far from over.

  "Go give Alan the signal," he directed. "And try to hide some of that glow on your face."

  "Aye," he said straightening, but had to take one more peek. "That there is more gold and silver than I thought was in the whole world."

  "'Tis enough to buy a kingdom," Gilbert affirmed. "And that is precisely what it was collected to do. Run on, now."

  The youth scampered to the chapel door, composing himself before he stepped through. He raked his gaze over his friends who stood about trying to seem like castle guards until it came to rest on Alan. When he cleared his throat to get his attention, all of their eyes turned to him. Unable to contain a joyous grin, he gave the signal by making the sign of the cross, then re-closed the door.

  Alan could feel the energy in the air radiating from his comrades as he dealt with his own overload of emotion. This was big–so big and life changing... or life ending; that remained to be seen. Per the plan, he pulled an apple out of his pouch and strolled as nonchalantly as he could muster toward the castle wall bordering Nottingham town. He took a bite and looked around as he took unhurried steps. The two guards at the gate appeared as bored and disgruntled as ever. A handful of soldiers were patrolling the grounds, and he was aware that an undisclosed number of others were inside the keep. Once he reached a specific spot along the wall, Alan leaned up against it and took another nibble of the fruit. He peered to the left and right; satisfied that no one was watching, he tossed the half eaten fruit over his shoulder and over the rampart.

  *~*~*

  Friar Tuck sat on the driver's seat of a small wagon loaded with kegs waiting anxiously for the sign. Knowing it could take quite a while to discover the hoard did not make the wait any easier. "Good morrow, Friar!" greeted a jovial commoner in a throng of others making their way to the fairgrounds.

  "God bless," he returned with a wave. It was not long until he heard a distant cheer on the breeze and surmised that the tournament had begun. He began to recite silent prayers with one hand cradling the reins and his other holding to the small cross that hung over his heart.

  After some span of time between moments and hours, his meditation was interrupted when the sturdy dun draught cob lurched forward. Snapping to attention, Tuck scanned empty streets as all were enjoying the fair. His gaze fell to the horse itself.

  Forgetting his command to stand, the horse stretched out his neck, adorned by a dark mane falling to both sides of his distinctive dun back-line stripe, and strained against the reins with velvety lips reaching toward the ground in front of him. Tuck gave the cart horse some slack, and he took one step ahead to obtain his prize–the treat of a half-eaten apple!

  "Well bless my soul!" Tuck let out in glee. "Saints be praised!" He beamed as the gelding rolled the fruit into his mouth and munched down upon it. He slapped the reins across his back. "Up now," he called with glee. "To the castle gate we go!"

  Still chewing, the cob complied by pulling onward in an ambling walk.

  "Good morrow to my fine friends," Tuck greeted upon reaching Nottingham Castle's main entrance.

  The two guards on duty perked up at the sight of the kegs in his wagon. The older man hesitated before replying, "The festival is up the hill, Friar," and the younger one's hopeful expression began to fade.

  "Ah, but that is why I am here instead!" he exclaimed, with a genuine grin. Then the pretense began. "The Sheriff may have banished you all to sentinel duty, but the ever benevolent Prince John does not wish you to miss out on all the merriment. He asked me to bring over these barrels of mead as a token of his appreciation for all that you do. The Prince wants you to know that you have not been forgotten."

  "Then come right on in, blessed Friar!" the elder guard commanded with enthusiasm. "Warin, go fetch the others," he instructed the younger man, "while I help the good Friar."

  "Aye!" he exclaimed in delight and he dashed across the courtyard. "Hey fellows!" he called waving to Little John and Arthur who stood just outside the chapel door. "The mead wagon is here for us. Come, have a draught." Then he scurried through a doorway into the keep.

  *~*~*

  No sooner than young David had given the signal, Little John and all the band save Alan began to meander toward the chapel. It took great restraint to act nonchalant and unenthused as the big man forced slow steps and a bland expression, but nothing could slow his racing heartbeat. With Robyn off at the tournament, he was in charge. To be fair, he had led the outlaw gang before Robyn joined them, but they had never embarked on an undertaking so bold. He glanced around and caught sight of Alan tossing the apple as he spanned the threshold into the sanctuary. Out of habit, he crossed himself as he entered.

  "Quick, over here," Gilbert called in a hushed tone while gesturing with one hand. Little John hastened to the platform, the others right behind him. "Here," the old archer in priest robes said as he shoved a heavy sack laden with coins into his hands. "Put these under your mail in the pouches the women sewed into your tunics. Quickly, now," he admonished while he and David lifted out bag after bag and the outlaws stowed away the treasure.

  "Won't someone notice?" asked Much as he looked down at himself. "I appear fatter than when I came in here."

  "Their attention is on the mead," John assured him.

  "That's right," Alan chimed in as he was the last through the chapel door. "It's not like there are fair maidens out yonder sizin' you up for a husband."

  Much lifted his brows at Alan's joke then acknowledged John with a nod. "All will be well, Much; just follow my lead," John said. "Not all at once, and half of you go around the other side like you've been patrolin'." At that moment he noticed Will standing apart, his chin dragging toward the floor. "Will?" The boy's head popped up, his eyes raising to meet Little John's. "Ready?"

  He sighed, then nodded. "As I'll ever be."

  "Now let's do this, just as we practiced and we are all home free." With that last encouragement, the big man led the way. He and Arthur were the first ones to amble out to the inner path around from the chapel door toward the front gate.

  "Hey fellows!" called a diminutive guard as he waved to them. "The mead wagon is here for us. Come, have a draught."

  "Don't m
ind if I do," Little John answered. "Gramercy, mate!" Then he watched the man scurry through a doorway into the keep.

  "Good morrow, brave and loyal soldiers of the castle," Tuck greeted jovially. "Come, have refreshment compliments of His Highness Prince John."

  "Just what I need to wet my whistle," Little John replied as he sauntered over to the cart, careful not to shift his hidden coinage about. However, the beauty of this plan allowed for any jingling sounds to be explained away by the natural clink of the chain mail. John beamed with appreciation for Robyn's genius. Everything had been carefully calculated, rehearsed, and adjusted as needed. Robyn had even insisted that they wear the mail twelve hours a day for a fortnight leading up to the heist so that each member of the team would look and feel comfortable under its weight.

  Catching the senior gate guard's attention, Little John lifted a tankard, now filled with sweet amber liquid. "A toast, my good man, to the Prince–may God bless his soul!"

  The guard, who had been the first to fill a cup, raised his and met gazes with the brawny giant. "To His Royal Highness–long life to him!" Then they both threw back their heads and downed a hearty quantity of fermented honey. What the sentry was totally unaware of was the scrawny black haired urchin, no longer in acolyte robes, who just slipped beneath the wagon while his mug was upturned.

  Then Friar Tuck took his turn to engage the guard in conversation, recounting some exciting tale and asking for a story in return. Meanwhile Little John, followed by each of the others, inconspicuously slid treasure bags out from under their mail over-shirts and into David's waiting hands. He stacked them behind a wheel without creating a sound.

  "Thank you, kind Friar," Will said handing Tuck his empty tankard. "But we must be getting back on duty now."

  "There is plenty if you need another round," Tuck answered smiling.

  While the others filed out following Will, Little John once again engaged the guard's attention. "Who do you think will win the archery contest?"

  He looked over the man's shoulder toward the tournament field where another cheer arose. The guard followed his gaze and began to speculate while Tuck lifted coin bags and placed them into the hollowed out side of the barrels. He had just secured the last one by the time the gate guard turned back around.

  "Aye," Little John agreed with the soldier. "But if I had been allowed, I swear by all that is holy, I would have trounced all comers with the mace."

  The guard laughed heartily, relaxed and warmed by his drink. "Indeed you would have!"

  Little John gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and started back on the way to the chapel passing a group of six castle soldiers eagerly striding toward the mead. That worked well, he told himself. But it will require many trips to empty the cache. We may have to do something with that gate guard lest he become too suspicious. Yet if I bash him over the head and take his place, the others who all saw him there may think something amiss. He scratched his head as he was bumped by Much who went rushing past him.

  "What?" he inquired of the others.

  "Says he must run to the privy this very moment," Arthur replied.

  "Nerves," Gilbert confirmed. "Here, fill your pouch," he said and handed Little John another bag of silver.

  "That's it!" he declared in triumph. Then he explained to the puzzled faces before him. "That gate guard will wonder why we keep coming back, and if we get rid of him the other soldiers will be alarmed–unless one of us takes his place temporarily while he visits the privy. With all that mead, certs he shall have to go."

  "That will at least give us enough time to unload another batch," Arthur confirmed. "You have talked to him the most. Why not take a lap around the grounds then volunteer to watch the gate while he takes a piss?"

  "I think it will work," John concurred, "but we should wait until that group of guards leaves."

  *~*~*

  Sheriff Giffard leaned forward in his seat stroking his beard, intense dark eyes bearing down on the contest below. The remaining eight contestants let loose their shots and the judges made their decisions.

  The herald announced in a loud voice, "Advancing to the semi-final round are Sir Lambelin Bondeville, Baron of Somerset…" but he was interrupted by cheers and applause. The Herald waited for the crowd to quiet, then continued. "Sir Roland de Lacy of Leeds." More clapping ensued. "Peter the woodcutter of Kirton, Nottinghamshire." A huge ovation erupted from the commoner's section. "And Deputy Edward Blanchard, of Nottingham Castle." Shouts and approbation rose into the air from all over the fairgrounds as the disappointed quartet who did not advance trudged to the back.

  "Something is wrong," Godfrey noted in a low, ominous tone. "Something is very, very wrong."

  Chapter Twenty

  Prince's John's ginger brows knit together as he turned toward the Sheriff. "Whatever do you mean?"

  "I recognize three of those men and the fourth, this Peter the woodsman or whoever, could not possibly be Robin Hood."

  "Are you certain?" asked Sir Guy. "We know the outlaw is adept at deception."

  "Look at him!" Godfrey bellowed, his temper rising to the surface. "He is too short. Hood is almost my height, which means he is taller than Sir Lambelin, and see there," he said pointing. "The peasant barely reaches his shoulder. I dare say Maid Marian has a greater stature than he. Age and weight be damned, that is the one thing the scoundrel cannot alter."

  "So," Prince John began as he tilted his head. "What does that do to your plan of catching Hood? If he is not a top contender as you supposed he would be—"

  Godfrey's face flushed red with anger and he forgot his manners by interrupting the Prince. "Then he must be amongst those who were eliminated." Fury rose to a boil as the Sheriff leapt to his feet. "I know he is here; he has to be here! God's teeth, he is the best shot I've ever seen or heard of, yet he did not advance!"

  "Calm yourself, Godfrey," Gisborne said in a soothing tone. "Mayhap he took ill."

  "No!" he thundered again. "He is here, by the saints, I know it!" He hastily scanned the tournament field checking where guards were positioned and where the eliminated contestants stood off to the side. "We must seize all the archers while I examine each and every one." Giffard could feel himself shaking and recognized the rise in his voice that was paramount to panic. Rein it in, he told himself. Control… He took a deep breath and placed a hand on the railing to steady himself.

  "But," Sir Guy peered up at him sheepishly. "The contest? It isn't over… Marian has to award the prize to the winner."

  Godfrey passed a lethal glare over Gisborne before bowing his head to Prince John. "Sire, what say you? Shall we give the churl a chance to escape so that Sir Guy may attempt to court a maiden who shall never accept his proposal, or do we act now?"

  Prince John met the Sheriff's gaze, knowing full well what was at stake. "Have your soldiers move in. The people came to see something spectacular and, if your outlaw is in the mix, they will not be disappointed."

  Sir Guy pouted, but Godfrey's eyes shone like polished onyx as he nodded. Turning to face the field he shouted, "Halt the contest! Guards, surround those archers," he commanded pointing to the assembly of eliminated contestants. "Arrest them all!" He dashed from the platform, down a short span of stairs, and paced toward them with determination.

  *~*~*

  Sir Lambelin lifted wide eyes to Deputy Blanchard. "What is the meaning of this? I was about to win!"

  Edward groaned and spared only a few words for the baron. "It means Hood is playing games with us."

  He brushed past Lambelin and took swift strides toward the other participants. Most seemed confused and stood around docilely with their hands raised while pike wielding soldiers encircled them, however a few panicked and endeavored to run. A young man in fine clothes tried to climb into the stands, but was thwarted when a strapping guard grabbed his leg and pulled him down. An older fellow in more modest attire dashed in the direction of the forest, but he, too, was caught. A third, who appeared to be no more than a
beggar, bolted wide-eyed and pale faced right into Blanchard, who seized him in one big hand.

  "You there," he scowled peering at the scrawny runt. "Why are you running?"

  The peasant wilted before him, his terrified visage turning up into the mighty deputy's stern expression. "I don't want to die!" he wailed as his knees failed him. Edward had to tighten his muscles just to hold the man on his feet.

  "Who said anyone was going to kill you?" This is not Hood, he determined as he held the slight fellow like a rag doll. He is lanky, yes, but not this scrawny, and his youthful face bore none of this fellow's marks and wrinkles.

  "But, but, the Sheriff ordered us arrested! I didn't do anything wrong!"

  "Then you have nothing to fear. For God's sake, man–try to stand under your own power, will you? I have to find the outlaw; he is the one the Sheriff wants, not you." The pitiful specimen dropped to his knees the instant Edward released him. Now where did he go?

  The keen eyed deputy was disturbed by the fact that Hood had evaded his detection throughout the morning. I should have spotted him on the tournament field, he thought in frustration. Could it be he did not compete? But Giffard had been convinced he would. Mayhap that was part of the plan young Will Scarlet relayed to the Sheriff. Or did the informant lie?

  Blanchard studied the huddle of archers who stood surrounded by guards. Too tall, too short, too old, too ugly, he thought as he scanned the collection. Wait! He suddenly noticed that one of the men was missing. Where is that stout fellow with the brown beard and faded red tunic? He sped around the circle peering in and pushed a guard aside to get a better look. Then he caught sight of Sheriff Giffard marching toward them with a granite jaw and searing eyes. He lowered his head and ducked away. I've got to be the one who finds Hood.