The Last Arrow RH3 (49 page)

"Where the devil is Fulgrin?"

"Fainted behind a tree, the last I saw him," Littlejohn remarked casually as he passed by.

Robin was coming the other way and clapped Griffyn on the shoulder. "A wonder you ever survived a season in the lists with such a stout fellow as that at your beck and call."

Griffyn cursed and took up the stallion's reins himself.

The outlaw leader, meanwhile, ordered his men to lead the rest of the horses out of the clearing. As they disappeared one by one into the darkness of the forest, they were followed by half the foresters, some of whom spread out on either side and some who ran ahead to insure the way was clear.

"For someone who worries after a few crushed tracks," Robin observed, "you travel in large numbers."

"Necessity breeds unusual circumstances."

"The eminent demise of your leader?" Robin guessed.

Alan of the Dale grimaced and glanced at the cottage. "My uncle has a loose tongue, but aye. He is the reason why we are in the woods in such numbers, and the reason why we will be even stronger in three days when he is to be moved to Lincoln for the hanging."

"They are taking him out of Nottingham?"

The forester nodded. "John Plantagenet is in Lincoln and wishes to be entertained by seeing the King of Sherwood executed."

The Wardieu men stopped what they were doing and listened intently. It came as unpleasant news to them to hear that the English king was so close by, and their concern was reflected on their faces.

" Tis the chance we have been hoping for," the outlaw continued unawares. "The only one Gisbourne has offered thus far. He will be moved under heavy escort, to be sure, and there is every good chance the sheriff is using him as bait, hoping to draw us out of the greenwood. But we have no choice. He has risked all, forsaken everything, taken

immeasurable risks himself to save each of us from certain death. We must try to save him, regardless of the cost in lives."

"How many men do you have?" asked Will FitzAthelstan.

"By tomorrow eve, if our runners have been successful, we should have near four score in the main camp, more if you count the women who are willing to throw stones and wield staves."

"What of Gisbourne? How big of a garrison does he keep at Nottingham?"

"Forty knights, thereabout, and over a hundred men-at-arms."

Will whistled softly under his breath. One hundred forty trained fighting men against eighty foresters and women. It would be a slaughter.

"It would be a lively challenge," Dag said, his eyes gleaming with enthusiasm.

"It would require delicate planning," Richard agreed. "But aye, it would be a worthy contest."

Alan of the Dale was not overwhelmed by their zeal and said as much. "With no further offense intended, my lords, we have only your words that you are not here to aid the French king. And here in the greenwood, we have not survived as long as we have by accepting someone's bond on blind faith alone." "What will it take to convince you we are on the same side?" Robin demanded.

"Perhaps just your amiable company over the next few hours."

"We are not come into these woods to be amiable," Littlejohn growled. "Nor do we have the time," he added with as much sarcasm directed at Robin and the other young hot-bloods, as to the outlaw leader, "to waste helping you save the neck of this Prince of Thieves."

The outlaw stuck out his jaw. "In the first place, we have not asked for your help. In the second, we are none of us thieves. We are merely men who have become weary of the beatings, the maimings, the raping of our women, the blinding, crippling, and starving of our children. We have had our homes burned over our heads and the food stolen from our babes' mouths. Our skin flayed from our bones and our hands, feet, and tongues chopped off for daring to protest the king's greed. We came together in the forest because we had nowhere else to go. And we stay together, we will fight together to the last arrow if need be because of one man's courage and selflessness."

"Does this noble paragon have a name?" Littlejohn scoffed.

"That he once had a noble name, none of us doubt. For reasons of his own, however, he keeps it to himself and prefers to be addressed by a more humble designation. Tuck, is what he goes by. Friar Tuck."

Discovering that Henry de Clare was the elusive King of Sherwood did not come as an earth-shattering revelation to any of the Wardieu men, least of all Robin. It did, however, hasten their footsteps through the forest as Alan a' Dale led them deeper into the wood, into the very heart of Sherwood where their main camp was located. Few outsiders were permitted to venture so close to the pulse point of the outlaw band, and those who did were usually blindfolded and led on a merry chase before being taken to the actual camp. Since the moon was now gone and it was as black as a cat's maw, there was little need for such precautions, although every so often, a distinct thwang and whoosh could be heard coming from the trees overhead. When asked about it, Alan merely shrugged and allowed that they had sentries who sat watch, and had Robin's band been approaching uninvited, they would likely be dead by now or at least questioned sternly about their purpose for being in the woods.

They walked for the better part of the night, through stretches of wood so thick and dense, they could only move in single file along what passed for a path. They used neither torchlight nor lantern to find their way, and on more than one occasion, it was suspected the silent wraiths moving through the trees on either side were as much to provide direction as security.

It was tiring work, for knights do not march well, especially burdened under mail hauberks. At one point, Robin bade the leader of the outlaws halt that they might strip out of their iron link suits and Brenna, who cursed and stumbled at every entanglement of her skirt's hem, might change into more comfortable clothes for walking.

Alan a' Dale agreed and it was only then, by chance, that Robin and Griffyn managed to exchange a few private words.

"Eighty men and women against one hundred and forty? Even if these foresters were seasoned fighters, I doubt this villain has the knowledge how to best deploy them against such odds."

"And you think we would?" Robin asked.

"You are still fresh from the battlefield of Roche-au-Moines, where the odds were no better in your favor."

"Yes, and though I had experienced knights under my command, we still suffered heavy losses for it. These are like babes in the woods. Pikes against swords, cudgels and hoes against starbursts and mace." He finished securing his armor to Sir Tristan's saddle. "Be that as it may, you heard what he said. He does not want our help, nor does he trust us enough to ask for it."

"In which case, I strongly doubt he will be too eager to let any of us forage off on our own searching for lost princesses."

"What do you suggest I do? Ask him for help?"

"It would seem to be the logical solution."

"Logical?" Robin grunted. "What is to say he would not consider a Plantagenet princess to be as much of an enemy as a Plantagenet king?"

Griffyn's shallow chuckle was laced with irony. "You ask this because he is an outlaw or because he is a Saxon?"

Since Renaud had admitted to being both, Robin took an extra moment to consider his answer—long enough for a six-inch iron bolt to find its mark and fthunk into the soft earth at his feet.

He bent over quickly to retrieve it and peered into the misty woods around them. "Sparrow?"

"I am here, Lummock," came a whispered reply. "Rot my nose if I can leave the lot of you alone long enough to piss up an alder bush."

"You should content yourself with more earth-bound tree stumps and your nose would be where it belonged when we needed it."

"Faugh! Had it been thus, I would have been caught farting at the moon along with the rest of you who can boast only feathers and dung for brains."

Robin sighed and bowed his head. "You are absolutely right, of course. We need you more where you are now.

Have you any idea in which direction we are bound? North? South? West?"

"North and west, as far as I can determine, led there by the runners sent out on either side. They are good, by Cyril's toes. Twice I have nearly flown right up their heels."

"Are you having any trouble keeping apace with us?"

There was a pause while Sparrow plainly considered the extent of Robin's weariness and decided it was not worth the sympathy. "If I was, Pillock, would I be where I am now?"

"Well ... be careful. You may have to show us the way out of this place if the foresters object to our leaving."

He straightened at the sound of footsteps behind him and tucked the bolt under his tunic.

"Time to move out again," said Alan a' Dale, glancing upward into the boughs of the tree. When he looked back, he addressed Griffyn. "The horses have slowed us down and there are still some two or thee hours ahead of us. Would your wife prefer to ride the rest of the way?"

Griffyn barely acknowledged the look on Robin's face as he replied, "I thank you for asking, but she has a stubborn streak as wide as this forest and I strongly doubt she would ride while the rest of us walk."

Alan shrugged and moved away.

"Wife?" Robin said through his teeth.

"I thought it best, under the circumstances, if she appeared to be traveling under the protection of a husband as well as several hale brothers."

Robin's brows crushed together in an ominous glower. "What circumstances?"

"One woman traveling unchaperoned in the company of nine men? What circumstance would you make of it?"

"It would depend upon what that woman was doing if I found her alone in the woods with one of those men at night."

Griffyn's eyes glowed luminously out of the dark.

"When this is over, Renaud ... or Locksley"—Robin's eyes narrowed—"or whatever the devil your name is ... there are matters that need resolving between us."

"I look forward to it," Griffyn said, blithely touching an ebony forelock. "Providing fate does not resolve them first."

The camp was come upon suddenly, with no warning of distant fireglow or soft bloom of light bathing the undersides of the boughs overhead. Not until full light of day would they realize why, for the outlaw stronghold was set in the belly of a steep-banked ravine. To reach it from either side required the agility of a mountain goat, and even then, the earth was too soft to support any great weight and would spill the interloper head first onto the piles of jagged stone set deliberately below. To gain entry by the north or the south one had to follow the course of a deep, noisy stream that rushed through the ravine with bristling importance. There was no footpath across this stream, but a log that had to be crossed with care in order to safely approach the mouth of the ravine. Anyone not intimately familiar with the footing could find themselves tipped over rocks and logs and swept several hundred yards downstream before a toehold could be found again. Not that anyone could reach the log or the ravine without being noticed by the guards and sentries peppered strategically throughout the greenwood. The last fifty yards of the approach, arrows zinged by overhead like bits of conversations being passed from tree to tree.

The space between the walls of the ravine was surprisingly extensive, as flat as a meadow and divided in equal halves by the stream. The reason why the fireglow had not been seen through the woods was because the top of the ravine was literally roofed with a tight lacing of boughs and branches, creating an almost cavernlike effect from the bottom looking up. The saplings and ferns that populated the forest floor elsewhere had been stripped away and crude huts erected in the cleared spaces. Some of the trees were ancient, their branches as wide as small roads, and in some of these, enterprising outlaws had built more habitats, linked by rope bridges and a functional system of tough vines.

The biggest tree by far—and likely the oldest in all of Sherwood—was referred to fondly as the Major Oak, and it was there, under the majestic sweep of its gnarled branches, where the communal meals and meetings were held.

Here were tables and benches made from logs, and an enormous firepit with fully a dozen huge cauldrons strung over tripods, their contents steaming lazily into the night air, readily available to any hungry sentries who might be returning to camp in the small hours of the morning. At one end of the pit there was an oven, built of stones mortared together, and because it was already dawn somewhere up above the canopy of leaves, there were women busy pounding dough into bread, men washing their clothes and themselves in the stream, others chopping wood for the fires or trussing hare and quail onto sticks for cooking. They all looked up or paused in what they were doing as Alan a' Dale entered the mouth of the ravine leading his weary, footworn guests behind him. But it was obvious they had been alerted well in advance of their approach for the tables were already set with the makings of a meal. Bread, cheese, ewers of ale greeted the weary outlaws, who exchanged a few greetings with fellow fugitives before they started filling the benches and eyeing the platters of food.