The Last Arrow RH3 (55 page)

"Good." He fitted the helm over his head and hooked the pennyplate camail under his chin. He took his shield in his left hand, sliding his forearm through the grip until it was seated snugly. Alan was dispatched back to take his place with his archers, leaving Robin to take one last pass down the road, Sir Tristan's saddlecloth flowing black and gold with each high, prancing step. It was more for show than any need to check on the men's placements; he hoped if he appeared calm and unworried, the confidence would spread to those crouched on the slopes.

Brenna kept one violet eye on Will, the other on the slow-moving procession of guards and knights who were beginning to plod into range. The ranks of footmen who came first moved in rippling waves, their conical helms bobbing in uneven lines. They walked without any apparent vigor in their step and carried their pikes and crossbows by their side as if the relief of leaving Sherwood in their wake was too much weight to bear at the moment. Lady Gillian had bred an early contempt for crossbows into both Brenna and Will. Where, in the heat of battle, was a man to find the time to set the thing nose down, place a foot in the stirrup, then wind the string back by means of a pulley in order to fit a new quarrel onto the stock? In the same amount of time, a somewhat less than proficient archer could loose four or five arrows—if he took extra care in aiming. To someone like Brenna, who aimed almost by instinct, twice that number was not impossible.

Behind the men-at-arms were the knights, and while there looked to be considerably less than the number they had expected to see, they still seemed to present an unbroken line of flowing colors, armor, crests, and pennons. They rode in a protective, boxlike formation around a wagon that appeared at first to be empty. As it drew closer, however, Brenna could see there was something inside. It looked like a stained pile of canvas sacking, but then her keen eyes picked out bony legs and arms, and she knew it must be Henry de Clare.

Not a blade of grass on either hillside moved. No curious heads poked up out of cover. They had all made their prayers and placed their quivers nearby, adjusting the arrows just so and just so again for ready grasp. The air bristled with so much determination the rain actually stopped, as if whoever was squeezing the clouds had paused to observe the drama unfolding below.

Brenna had a full quiver of arrows resting on her hip and a spare bundle lying at her feet. She was hunkered down in a crouch now, waiting for Will to give the signal. When it came, she was expected to spring to her feet, have the bow raised, and fire within a few seconds.

It will not be like hunting game in the forest, her mother had said. You may find yourself having to fight living breathing men whose only goal is to survive, and you may have to face them so close, you will see the fear in their eyes.

On the road outside of Gaillard, she had not had time to debate what she was doing. Her thoughts had all been on Griffyn Renaud, and she had shot at Malagane's men without any conscious thought. But this was a deliberately planned, cold-blooded assault. In a minute or two, she would see Will stand and loose the first shot, and a man would die, just like that. She would join him in firing more arrows with similar detachment and precision, and more men would die or be horribly wounded before they were fully aware an attack was under way.

It had seemed easy enough to agree with the plan when Robin and Will proposed it using bits of wood and stone around the firepit. But the men winding their way along the road, miserable and cold in the falling drizzle, were flesh and blood. Perhaps they had families. Perhaps one of them was riding with his mind distracted by thoughts of the woman he loved. Perhaps he would not see the danger until it was piercing through his armor, his chest, his heart, ending all thoughts forever.

Brenna's eyes swept the line again, slowly and carefully, her breath jammed in her throat, her heart pounding in her ears. She wiggled her fingers to ease the tension and glanced over at Will again. He had nocked an arrow into his bow and was balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, ready, waiting ...

He stood up.

He drew and fired and a knight two hundred yards away clutched his chest and fell backward off his horse.

Brenna sprang to her feet. She shouted to the rest of her motley band of snipers, who were but a beat slower in jumping up and setting themselves. Immediately they began to shoot, choosing their targets amid the sudden eruption of confusion taking place in the rear of the cavalcade. Knights split from formation and galloped off the road searching out the source of the sudden and terrible destruction that struck down their comrades with swift, almost graceful precision. They raised their shields to ward off the unseen death that fell from the sky and, at the same time, screamed to the crossbowmen to return fire.

Brenna kept up a steady, smooth barrage of arrows, each finding its mark on an unprotected arm or thigh or shoulder. In little over a minute, she was grimly pleased to lead her archers in taking credit for a dozen or more knights who were out of the saddles, writhing in the mud. Will was having similar success—it was almost too easy!—and she paused a moment to observe what was going on in the rest of the panicked escort.

The crossbowmen were firing blindly at the slopes of the hills, but their ideal range was fifty yards and the closest of Alan a' Dale's men was twice that distance. He was in command of his outlaws, and he waited until the first wave of quarrels had fallen harmlessly short in the grass, then gave his men the signal, all of them rising out of the green like a spray of porcupine quills to nock, draw, and fire. A shocking number of Gisbourne's men screamed and fell backward, their feet still in the stirrups of their empty crossbows, their hands winding furiously on the pulleys to reload them. Another wave of arrows sent them scrambling for what cover they could find, many of them abandoning their weapons, flinging them into the mud like so much useless deadweight.

Alan's archers broke from cover and started running down toward the road. At the same time, Robin and his brothers led the mounted foresters out from behind the hill, their silks rippling, hooves pounding, their destriers thundering into the heart of the fray.

Robin set his spurs to Sir Tristan and rode straight for a party of three knights who had turned to make a stand. Their lances were unstrapped, their shields held forward as they put spurs to the flanks of their own beasts and rode out to meet him. One never made it. An arrow caught him high, just beneath the rim of his conical steel helm, and he toppled out of the saddle in a spray of blood. The other two kept coming, however, one a few roaring paces behind the other, and Robin knew he would have mere seconds to aim the point of his lance at the first and swing his shield up to defend against the second. When they came together, he felt the satisfying jolt of a solid strike as his lance shredded through mail and bullhide. He had his shield up, braced for the full brunt of a solid thrust, and managed to retain both his seat and his grip on his weapon while Sir Tristan wheeled about, his turn much quicker, his training taking his master right back into the path of the two knights, leaving one floundering in the mud, the other jogging crookedly away, his arm hanging limp by his side.

Robin saw Richard on his left, standing high in the stirrups as he fought, and Dag on the right, riding gleefully into a crush of Gisbourne's mounted henchmen. Again, the graceful hiss and thunck of an ashwood arrow lowered the odds, and Robin gave silent thanks for the quick eyes and steady hands high on the crests of the hills.

Geoffrey LaFer was in trouble. He had attracted a swarm of four knights to his side and had lost his lance already, shattering it on the first charge. Two of the knights were working in close with swords, bashing and hacking at his head and shoulders; two others stood back and shouted encouragement, waiting to take their turn when arms grew tired and swords heavy. Robin snarled and cast his own lance aside, riding in at full gallop, his sword drawn and slashing down in a mighty arc across the skull of one observer. Richard rode in screaming from the opposite side and drew off the second vulture, whose quick demise sent the others scrambling away to regroup.

"Are you all right?" Robin shouted to Geoffrey.

His helm dented in several places, LaFer nodded his thanks.

Of the mounted foresters, two were down and three more had retreated with bleeding wounds. The rest stayed valiantly in the midst of the fighting, slashing away with a ferocity that opened the way for Robin to reach the wagon that held Henry de Clare. The ground between was slippery, churned to mud and littered with cast off pennons, broken lances, gear, even bodies. Riderless horses screamed and pawed the empty air, and the crossbowmen, who were having no better luck fending off outlaws, began to scatter and run.

Robin plowed through the chaos with a roaring Littlejohn close on his heels. The latter wore a glittering hauberk of jazerant work, rows of flat steel plates attached to a vest of mail and canvas so that each plate overlapped, like the scales of a fish. He carried no ordinary sword, this fearsome behemoth, but a long, axelike glaive with a curved head and wickedly hooked spine, which he wielded with the ease of a starburst, hacking through arms, necks, skulls as easily as chopping the ripe fruit off a tree. Seated snug against the broad armor of his back was Sparrow, who fired his harp-shaped arblaster with the glee of an elfin demon.

Together they reached the wagon and saw Henry slumped against the rope-and-timber sides. The cart was being jostled by the movement of the panic-stricken beasts that drew it, one of which had taken an arrow at the base of its throat and was bucking wildly in an attempt to dislodge it.

There was no sign of life from the badly emaciated prisoner. His face was bloodied beyond recognition, his head lolled on the coarse planking, smearing it red on every twist and turn. Robin might have guessed him to be already dead if not for the flicker of one swollen eyelid and the gasped warning that went all but unheard amid the clash and clatter of battle.

Robin swung out of the saddle and clambered into the wagon. "Henry? Henry! Can you hear me?"

De Clare's bloodied lips moved, but again the warning came with no sound.

Sparrow, meanwhile, had jumped off Littlejohn's horse and taken up the reins, intending to drive the cart off the road and onto the meadow. But the wounded animal only gave a groan in reply to the shrill, snapping command and sagged down onto its knees, collapsing heavily onto its side.

Sparrow cursed and Robin, without missing a beat, turned his attention to Henry's shackles. They were bolted to the bed of the wagon with thick chains, and, although he struck the iron repeatedly with the hilt of his sword, the rings held.

"Heave over," Littlejohn ordered, hardly waiting to see if Robin obeyed before he brought the glaive smashing down like a thunderbolt, shattering the links of chains, the planking of the wagon, even the single axle that ran beneath the bed of the cart.

Sparrow gave a loud squawk as the wagon collapsed and sent him tumbling into the mud. He came up brown and dripping just as Robin and Littlejohn were hoisting Henry's deadweight over the front of Sir Tristan's saddle. Robin mounted behind him and Littlejohn, with a sigh and a dismayed grimace over the state of the muddied seneschal, was in the process of grabbing him up by the scruff of the neck when his eye caught sight of movement from the direction of the forest—the same nearby forest that was intended to be their escape route—and his mouth dropped open in shock.

"Holy sweet Jesus ... Robin!"

It had been part of the original plan for Will and Brenna's archers to join the rest of the foresters when the initial flush of surprise was over. It was agreed they would be of more use, once the bulk of Gisbourne's mounted forces were pared down, driving off the crossbowmen and defending a retreat if one became necessary. At that point, also, Will was to ride to the opposite crest and join forces with Brenna, where it was supposed the two of them, firing with lethal accuracy, could wreak enough havoc to discourage any of Gisbourne's men from following them into the woods.

It was a sound plan and Brenna saw Will give the signal that he was coming to join her. She glanced at the spare bundle of arrows at her feet and estimated she had about three dozen left, plenty if supplemented by a similar number from Will. She still had Timkin by her side, and one of the more clumsy outlaws who could not shoot for saving his own life, but stood back with the warhorses and kept them from answering the call of bloodlust.

Will was down the slope and riding hard. Neither he nor Brenna saw the crossbowman until his horse was past the camouflaging clump of bramble and the man broke from cover, took aim on FitzAthelstan's back, and fired.

At twenty feet, a quarrel carried enough thrust and power to pierce readily through bullhide; Will's leather jerkin (he had loaned his hauberk and chausses to one of the mounted foresters, thinking the armor would better-serve him) presented as much resistance as paper against a knife. It was also a fact, however, that a quarrel shot from a wet crossbow at the same distance is lucky to even reach its mark. While the drizzle may have temporarily let up, the effects on the arbalest had not, and the quarrel flew on a shortened arc, striking Will's upper thigh instead of his back. It still went deep into the muscle and carried enough punch to startle Will sideways in the saddle. He jerked on the reins, sending his horse into a confused stumble, and the next thing he was going down, landing hard enough on the wet grass to temporarily knock him senseless.