The Outlaws of Sherwood (35 page)

They came, reluctantly, muttering in their throats, and sat down around him. But Beauty stood up again almost at once, and paced up and down in front of him, growling and showing her great teeth, her ruff still fully erect.

“That will do,” said Guy of Gisbourne composedly. “They need not love me, but I require civility, from man or beast. I ask you again to tell me what you know of a wounded man who escaped Nottingham yesterday.”

Tuck said, his voice unpleasantly high in his own ears, “I have told you, I do not—”

He barely saw the gesture that Guy made, but the man who had been watching saw, and fitted an arrow in his bow as quickly as Robin's outlaws used their longbows; and Beauty, pacing, dropped suddenly and soundlessly in her tracks, with an arrow buried in her throat. It happened so quickly and neatly that the other two dogs did not understand what had happened, and looked in puzzlement at the slightly twitching body of their sister. But Friar Tuck knew, and it steadied him, and a coldness came over him as icy as the heart of the man he faced.

There was a listening silence in the trees around him; he knew that those who listened paused only for fear of his one small life. He knew too that the men before him outnumbered the outlaws at best two to one, and that only if Much had gotten word quickly to all of them that were left in Sherwood. He was sorry for the first time in many years that he no longer kept a dagger strapped to the calf of his leg, for he was sure his life was shortly to be forfeit, and he would have liked to strike one blow first. He stared at Beauty, knowing that his face reflected the shock and sorrow that he felt, and that the sorrow would be read by Guy and his men as fear.

“Two men came through here late last night,” he said, raising his eyes, “bearing a third man in a litter; this man was sore wounded, by a blade taken a little way in the belly. An inch more and he would have been dead already.” Tuck was watching for it, and so saw the flicker in Guy of Gisbourne's eyes when he said this. “They would not stay. I did what I could for the wounded man, but I would not be surprised if he did not live the night. I do not know if they came from Nottingham, but as they came that way,” and he nodded toward the trail Guy and his men had not taken, “they may well have done so.” He looked down at Beauty again, and tears shadowed his eyes, and when one tipped over the edge of his eyelid and fell down his cheek he did not raise a hand to brush it away.

“That is better, but not good enough,” said Guy of Gisbourne. “Or not if you wish to escape your dog's fate. Did you tell of these men to the sheriff's soldiers?”

Tuck shook his head and tried to look truculent. “No. I did not know if this was the man they sought, and they—did not linger.”

“Did not offer any persuasion, you mean,” said Guy of Gisbourne. “I know that you help the outlaws of Sherwood; perhaps”—and his face closed further as he said this—“you even call their leader friend. How were these three men you saw last night dressed?”

Tuck shut his eyes as if to concentrate, or to shut out the sight of Beauty, sprawled at his feet. “One was very large and wore no shirt; one was just a lad, and wore the remains of what had been an elegant coat. They both looked as if they had been in a brawl; they were bruised and filthy. The wounded man was dressed in plain homespun with a leather tunic over.”

Guy grunted. The man who had shot Beauty stood alertly, another arrow loosely in one hand. Tuck looked around, to see what Guy's men were about, remembering to look small and alone and fearful, which came easy, trying not to display any interest in what might be going on immediately behind any trees beyond the clearing, which was not so easy. Although his brain still functioned calmly, he found that he had some difficulty breathing; from one moment to the next he expected …

He had turned a little as he looked around, and did not at once notice that Sweetheart had left his side; he recalled his dogs when he heard Sweetheart's growl.

He heard it fractionally before anyone else did, and he spun round, yelling, “Sweetheart,
no
!” as the dog, who had been gently nosing Beauty's body, crouched and sprang for Guy's throat. Then a number of things happened at once.

Tuck dived for his dog, and got just the end of his tail; they both fell hard, and Tuck heard one arrow whistle past his ear and one more at a little distance, that he could guess had been meant for Sweetheart. Brown-eyes, catching on at last, leaped for the man who had shot Beauty and missed Tuck, and who was now redrawing hastily—not hastily enough, and he went down with a scream. Guy, briefly startled by Sweetheart's lunge, had taken one step backward—enough to save his life, for an arrow hummed past his nose so nearly that he blinked against a feeling that the feathers would brush his eyes.

At once he shouted to his men, rallying them against the new attack; not that they needed much rallying; they would not be in his command if they were not accustomed to such sport as this, and Guy had been sure that Robin's men would be near the old friar's hovel. Where else could they have gone with their wounded master? Which meant their master was also near at hand.… Guy's teeth gleamed as he drew his sword.

The friar was still rolling inanely upon the forest floor; Guy thought to cut his throat as he walked past, but he stayed his hand against the possibility that some of his band might need the friar's leechcraft when this business was over. A friar would not be tiresome about tending mercenaries, as laymen sometimes were. These outlaws were a bit more challenging than crushing a village; and they had their master's wound to make them angry—and foolhardy. The next hour or so might prove amusing. He had no doubt of the outcome.

Tuck rolled up onto his knees as soon as he had seen Guy's feet pass by; Sweetheart was already gone into the fray, after one briefest glance of reproach at his master: reproach I deserve, thought Tuck; if there was any chance that he might have succeeded in tearing that man's throat out I should be hung from one of these trees.… It may come to that yet, or near enough as makes no difference. He began circumspectly to make his way toward his cottage; for his long-unused dagger was there.

It was hard to see what was going on, or what was to be avoided; there were thumps and crunches echoing from all directions, but the trees absorbed some of the sound, and reflected the rest confusingly, and Tuck could as well hear the faint burble of running water. The occasional arrow flew, but he noticed that the ones he saw were the shorter kind, that belonged to Guy's men—the ones that are missing their marks, he thought hopefully.

He began to realise that much of the crashing he was hearing was of Guy's men searching for their attackers: as he watched, one man of Guy's troop paused, panting and at a loss, at the edge of the clearing, looking wildly around; as he turned to make his way farther back into the concealing shadows, a long slender shaft whistled from nowhere and buried itself in his chest; he fell first to his knees, swayed, and slowly toppled to one side. Tuck abruptly realised that the trees were not such good concealment for men dressed as Guy's men were dressed, with the bright wink of sword-blade and occasional band of colour in a surcoat over the mail-shirts, as for the outlaws. The outlaws wore no mail; but chain did not protect Guy's men from the longbow arrows of Robin's invisible archers.

Tuck picked up the hem of his gown and scurried for his hut. He yanked the door open; one of the leather hinges gave, as it had been threatening to do for some time, under this rough treatment, and the door nearly brained him. He squeezed by it, and felt, with trembling hands, for the dagger in its hiding place: a crack cut into the underside of the table.

There was a shout from outside—a desperate shout. Tuck fumbled his way past the door again with it ringing in his ears.

Guy's men had made an appalling discovery. One of their fellows had died with an arrow in his back, clutching at the underbrush as he fell face down, and carrying it with him as he slid to the ground. The underbrush he held happened to be that disguising the entrance to Marian's haven.

There were two men clearing the earthwork when Tuck heard the cry; one of them was falling with an arrow in his throat, and the other was turning to look where the cry—and the arrow—had come from. Tuck saw Cecil—Cecily—leap out from behind a tree just ahead of an arrow from another of Guy's men, who now rushed up through the trees behind her. Tuck had his mouth open to give a shout of his own, when she turned, dagger in hand, ducked—mostly—under his sword-stroke, and slashed him across the thigh. He was the worse hampered by the branches because of the length of his blade; but both were wounded and each staggered back from the other's blow.

The man by the earthwork was fitting an arrow to his string when Tuck's dagger caught him under the ear; he had not thought to pay attention to the stumbling approach of the fat little friar. Cecily's opponent paused, perhaps astonished at the sight of the terrified friar of a few minutes ago waving a dagger wet with his companion's blood, and Cecily reeled forward for the final blow. Her left arm was red from the shoulder, and hung limp.

The man fell where he stood when she struck him. She stood swaying on her feet, looking down at the man who would have killed her if he had got his second blow in first; and behind her the leaves erupted and another of Guy's men appeared. Tuck lurched forward, weeping; but from just by where Cecily stood helpless, a large man in a shirt that did not fit him appeared as silently as a ghost; his arrow passed clear through the throat of the running man and hung quivering in the bole of a tree some little distance away, almost before the dead man had finished falling.

Little John caught Cecily as her knees buckled, and Tuck came up to them. Little John was staring into her face with a haunted, hungry expression, as if most of Guy's men were not still seeking them, and liable to find anyone who stayed in one place for more than a moment. Tuck tore Cecily's shirt a little clear of her shoulder and said, “It is not mortal.”

Little John said, “It is likely to prove so yet if we cannot hide her.” But he said it looking at Cecily, not at Tuck, and he moved not a foot.

Tuck looked frantically around; perhaps they could put her in with Marian. The entrance must be covered up again in all events, and Cecily's shoulder must be tied up or she could bleed to death. And Little John stood like a stone.

Cecily stirred a little in his arms, and her eyes flickered open. Tuck saw the colour rush into her face as she saw who held her. “If we—stand here, they will pick us off—with those foolish little excuses—they have for—bows,” she said. “Put me down—
ow
,” as she tried to straighten up, and she was quiet a fraction of a minute, and a little blood appeared on her lip where she had bitten it as she tried not to think about her shoulder. Gently, Little John set her feet upon the ground, and she leaned against him, panting. She looked toward the earthwork. “Must—cover that,” she said.

“We'll put you in first,” said Little John, but Cecily shook her head. “Tie up my arm, Tuck,” she said. “If someone will give me a back to step on, I can get up in a tree and at least cry warning.”

“And get shot for your trouble,” began Little John; and then Will materialized at his elbow. “Cecily—”

“Just—my shoulder,” she said, and made an attempt at a smile. “Why are you—standing there?”

Will shook his head. “We've killed ten—fifteen,” he said, looking around him. “Maybe one or two more; the rest of them are skittish, and not so easy as they were. Robin's regrouping—I was to find you. We did not expect—” He was looking at the earthwork.

“Sit down,” said Cecily, and did so, dropping so suddenly out of Little John's grasp that he missed easing her down and she hit the ground with a thump that made her give a little cry. “I didn't know,” she said, her voice wobbly, “that little things like shoulders could hurt so much.”

“Not little,” said Tuck, kneeling beside her. “This should be stitched.” He looked at Will. “May I risk fetching needle and thread?”

Will said, “Robin's been drawing them deeper into the forest—farther from Marian—and you too, Tuck. Perhaps—”

Little John said, “We'll move back a little way, where we'll not be as easily seen. Will—you could move some brush back over that entrance.”

Will opened his mouth to protest; he was, after all, her brother. But he noticed the protective way Little John's arm cradled her good side, and closed his mouth again, looking thoughtful. “Give her some of this, then,” he said, dropping a small leather flask at their feet. “The last of the sheriff's brandy. It was not his best, I fear, but 'twill do for the need, and 'twas all Greentree's stores had to offer.”

He and Tuck left and returned without incident. “This will hurt,” said Tuck.

“It can't hurt more,” said Cecily.

“Yes, it can,” said Little John.

She looked up at him. “Then I hope I faint,” she said. “Because if I do not, I will scream.”

She fainted. Little John's forehead was wet by the time Tuck was finished, but Tuck's hand was steady and quick, and of this Cecily would take no harm. “How are the rest of us?” Little John asked Will.

“Two more flesh wounds,” said Will; “but this is the worst I've seen. You might still bring your trussing gear, Tuck.”

“I shall,” said the friar, and began to roll the tiny satchel together again. The three of them heard the shout, not too far distant; and Cecily opened her eyes.

“Up that tree,” said Little John sharply; Cecily came to her feet as best she could, ignoring his hand. Tuck hung the brandy flask around her neck. “If you feel faint, sip a little—just a little.”

Cecily managed a smile. “I shall try not to fall out of my tree from either faintness or drunkenness,” she said. And then, as Little John knelt for her foot, she said, “Wait—” They had come some little distance from the second mercenary she had killed, and her dagger had fallen beside him. She went back, picked it up, carefully not looking at him, wiped the blade on the leaves without ever quite looking at it either, and stuffed it back down her boot-top. Then she stepped on Will's and Little John's cupped hands, and was raised over their heads so that she could step directly on a branch and grab with her one good hand. They left her climbing slowly higher and turned toward the noise of renewed fighting.