The Outlaws of Sherwood (38 page)

Something flopped heavily onto Tuck's legs some time in the early morning. Tuck did not leap awake as perhaps he should have; he groaned and with deepest reluctance began to sit up, and to grope down toward the obstruction, whatever it was. It was when his fingers touched fur that his eyes snapped open. Brown-eyes lay there, profoundly asleep. The dog, in his turn, groaned in protest as the legs were withdrawn, but when Tuck buried his face in the filthy ruff the tail thumped the ground once or twice, and a very long tongue curled out to loop around an available wrist. The two of them fell asleep again immediately, Tuck snoring gently into Brown-eyes' nearer ear.

Robin had collapsed beside Marian; she shifted toward the edge of her mattress and trailed a hand over his face; he seized it in one of his and tucked it under his chin. The sound of approaching hoofbeats disturbed neither of them.

Little John and Cecily were nearest the sound, and their guardian instincts shoved them awake, but too late.

Sir Richard flung himself off his horse and shouted despairingly into the air of the clearing, empty but for the bodies of several mercenaries and the five outlaws whose bodies their friends had retrieved. “Are any of you alive?”

Robin came to the entrance of the earthwork on his hands and knees before he found the strength to rise to his feet and stagger toward daylight. Brown-eyes gave one disconsolate howl; Tuck sat up and wondered if he could get up any farther. Little John, a brown and green lump in the undergrowth to Sir Richard's eyes, differentiated himself from his surroundings as he hauled himself up a tree; Cecily emerged from the undergrowth by hauling herself up Little John.

Sir Richard and a few of his men stood, stiff with shock, looking around them. Guy's men and Guy himself lay where they had fallen, and the turf was hacked and bloodied in many places. Sir Richard saw Tuck first; the friar was the only one who had not automatically withdrawn a little way into the trees to sleep. Tuck blinked at the man before him, recognising a friend without being able to remember another thing about him. “What of Robin Hood?” said Sir Richard, his voice sharp with fear. “I heard the news only this morning—Alan-a-dale's
wife
brought it to me before dawn, her feet and face bleeding from travelling in haste at night. Why did you not send to me?”

Robin's voice seemed to echo from the ground by Sir Richard's feet, and it was not only the horse that shied. “We were somewhat pressed for time, and for the use of every available pair of arms.”

“Good God, man,” said Sir Richard, peering down as Robin clambered out and stood before him, swaying—Sir Richard reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders. Robin winced, but Sir Richard did not drop his hands. “Did you even consider sending to me?” he said fiercely.

“No,” said Robin, after a pause. “Not, perhaps, for the reason you think, however.”

Sir Richard grunted, and turned to his men. “Don't stand there gaping. You brought shovels, did you not? There are graves to be dug.”

“You came prepared,” said Robin.

“For almost everything,” said Sir Richard; his bow and his sword were slung across the front of his saddle. “Guy of Gisbourne! I did not think to see you standing before me again.”

Robin said, “It was a near thing enough.”

Rafe said, “Too near.”

Robin said, “For all of us.” He beckoned to Cecily. “Here is my saviour,” he said; “or Guy would have had me after all.” But Cecily shook her head and remained where she was. Sir Richard stared, and his brows snapped together, and he stalked over to her as he might toward a villein who had displeased him. Cecily could not square her shoulders, but she raised her head and glowered Cecil's old familiar glower.

“Cecily of Norwell!” said Sir Richard. “You did no honourable thing running from your father's house.”

“My father did no honourable thing in forcing me to accept a life I found hideous,” flared Cecily, though Sir Richard's face swam through her vision like a trout in a sunlit stream.

“They all think you are dead,” said Sir Richard, no whit softened.

“I
am
dead,” said Cecily; “they killed me. I am now Cecil of Nowhere, one of Robin Hood's outlaws.”

“I know your father,” said Sir Richard.

Will said mildly, “You know Marian's father too, as you may recall; I don't see there's more than a farthing's worth between 'em. Or do you wish to call me down too? Again?”

Sir Richard dragged his eyes from Cecily's haggard face and fixed them on Will. “This does not go down well after our last meeting, does it?” A reluctant smile began to pull at the corners of his mouth. “And I stand here before the folk I wish to succour, arguing propriety.

“Forgive me,” he said to Cecily, and he bowed to her; and she inclined her upper body a fraction of an inch or so in return, as her shoulder would let her. “And
now
,” said Sir Richard forcefully, “you will all come back with me to Mapperley, where I can supply you with food and water and clothing—and beds—and even, perhaps, safety, at least for some little time to come.” He folded his arms and looked at Robin.

Robin smiled. “I am too tired to argue, my good friend, so I will merely thank you. I cannot think of anything to do with us, and food and water and clothing—and particularly beds—sound … miraculous. Later we can argue about the safety.”

“You are a sorry lot of ruffians,” said Sir Richard then; and they were, tattered and blood-stained, and not a one of them stood unsupported. The humour left his face and he added, “Is this all there is left of you?”

Robin glanced around. “Nearly. Most have been sent away in the last weeks, as I have expected … something. Not, I admit, something like Guy of Gisbourne, but I am glad my imagination failed me in this case.”

Sir Richard said softly, “For the rescue you made me the sheriff has sworn for your blood, whatever price it may cost him. You had done better to stay in Sherwood and go on rolling fat bishops off their ponies.”

Robin shrugged—gently; he possessed no bone or muscle that did not ache. “I am not sorry for the choice of adventure that gave you back what is yours; I do not know that I will even let you claim that battle as decisive. We would have rolled the wrong bishop sooner or later.” He looked around at his filthy, hollow-eyed companions, and added as if speaking to himself: “But the battle we have now won did perhaps lose us the war. I think that we cannot go back to Greentree, and be as we were.” He shrugged again—and winced; and brought his eyes back to Sir Richard. “And perhaps it is only the bruises which speak this way.”

There was a shout from across the little meadow: two of Sir Richard's men were about to lift the body that in life had been Guy of Gisbourne. Sir Richard recognised the sword that one of the men brought him, and he looked again at Robin; the tale of Guy of Gisbourne was well-known most of the length and breadth of England, and the sword made the tale of Robin's exhausted band suddenly real. Sir Richard took the sword and held it; he seemed also to be holding his breath.

“It was not so noble a fight as one might wish for the minstrel's version,” said Robin.

“That depends on your point of view,” said Will. “I do suspect that ‘Cecily' will prove an awkward rhyme.”

Robin did not answer; it was his own passion to face the man that had hurt Marian which he did not like to remember; but his private thoughts need not appear in the minstrel's version either.

Three more men rode into the meadow; the outlaws looked wearily toward them, but they were only more of Sir Richard's men. “Thank fate,” murmured Robin to no one in particular; “we could not get out of our own way just now.”

One said something to his master in a low voice. “We must get you out of here,” said Sir Richard. “Someone has already brought the tale of your day's work to the sheriff; I had hoped this news might travel less fast. Although I expected it to travel less fast because I did not expect so conclusive an ending so quickly. The sheriff may not yet know that his champion is slain, but he knows that his followers have but put to something that looks much like rout—and this chapel, I fear, will be one of the first places he will look. Friar Tuck, I will ask you to come with us; I would not trust the sheriff's temper now even to a priest and friar.”

“I would not either,” said Tuck sadly. “I thank you for the offer, and I am sorry to say that I accept.”

“Someone got away,” said Much. “I am sorry for that; it would have been better for us and for England—and for our minstrel—if we had made an end of them all.”

I wonder who it was? thought Cecily. And I wonder how he explained having got away?

“How many of you can ride?” said Sir Richard. Several grimaced, but none spoke; many eyes, however, went to the dark half-door that led beneath the knoll behind the chapel.

“Marian,” said Robin.

“Marian?” said Sir Richard quickly. “Is she here?”

Robin turned toward the dark opening. “Have you not heard that Guy of Gisbourne thought he had killed Robin Hood at the Nottingham Fair, two days past?”

“
Killed
?” said Sir Richard.

“She lives,” said Robin. “But—”

Tuck, leaning on his dog, said, “I do not like moving her.”

“Tell me,” said Sir Richard to Robin.

Robin answered, “It is Little John and Cecily's story.”

After a pause Little John began reluctantly: “We went to the fair to listen to what the people met there would be saying about the outlaws of Sherwood. And so we were at hand when the winner of the archery contest was struck by Guy of Gisbourne's sword; Guy called out the name of Robin Hood, and the folk around heard. We knew it would not be he, but …”

“We brought away whoever it was,” said Cecily. “It was Marian.”

Sir Richard said, “If the Lionheart had an army made of folk like the outlaws of Sherwood, Saladin would not stand a chance.” He spoke in a low voice to the man who had brought him the latest news; the man remounted and left at a canter, ducking over the neck of his horse as it entered the trees. “We will have a litter and horses for the rest of you as soon as we may,” Sir Richard said aloud; “and, meanwhile, there are other tasks to attend to.”

Simon and Eva and Harald and Humphrey and Jocelin were buried in individual graves; Beauty and Sweetheart were buried together. The bodies of Guy and his men were heaved into one great common hole—dug by the fresh muscles of Sir Richard's folk—and dirt smoothed over them as quickly as the earth could be shifted. Most of the outlaws made to help them, but they moved slowly and stopped often.

As the day wore on Sir Richard grew more anxious; his men caught his impatience and began to trip over each other and curse. Robin said mildly, “You might consider leaving us to our fate; if it overcomes us quickly enough we shall be too tired to notice or care.”

Sir Richard snorted. “I might almost be tempted, but I do not think our sheriff is in the mood to let you off with any swift fate. And there is Marian.”

When the litter finally arrived, it was a good one, hung on long poles between two horses, and piled with cushions and a feather mattress to ease the jolting as much as possible. It was a slow journey nonetheless. Most of the outlaws were unable to ride faster than a walking pace—most of them would have been unable to ride faster than a walking pace even were they unhurt—nor would Robin have let any of his folk ride on when Marian might need protection from whatever pursued them. And all ears strained toward the possibility of that pursuit.

Several of the outlaws doubled up; the friar, who had the use of all his limbs (not, as he thought to himself, that he knew how to bestow them usefully on horseback), had Much pillion behind him. Both Will and Little John rode with their injured legs across the saddle before them to ease the pressure; Cecily sat sideways behind Little John and gritted her teeth. She could feel every joint of the horse's hind legs and quarters bending and unbending under her; at least it was a broad enough back that she was in little danger of sliding off inadvertently. Little John kept one hand on the reins and the other one over Cecily's hand at his belt.

There was a mournful half-howl, half-whimper from behind them after they had gone a little on their way. Robin, who had no one up with him, looked around. Friar Tuck's face had taken on a look of curious fixity.

“He is hurt in two legs,” said Tuck. “I did fear he might not be able to keep pace.”

“Mm,” said Robin, and turned his horse back. It did not wish to turn back while all its fellows were headed home, and Robin, an inexperienced horseman, had little patience for argument. He dismounted and handed the reins to Tuck. “You mustn't risk—” began the friar, but Robin shook his head.

“Hold this unlovable animal,” he said, and plunged back along the trail. Tuck stopped and looked after him. “We could follow him,” said Much. Tuck's horse was more cooperative, or perhaps it was because there were two of them now to keep each other company. They met Robin with a dismal and sheepish-looking dog in his arms: indeed there was so much dog it was hard to see much of Robin, who was, as Tuck noticed unhappily, limping badly. “Your foot—” he began.

“I'm glad to see you,” Robin panted; “yes, I had rather forgotten about my foot.” He thrust his other foot firmly into a stirrup for a brace and heaved the dog across his saddle. Brown-eyes, confused, began to struggle, but Tuck reached out and took hold of the dog's ruff and pulled, and Brown-eyes decided that if his master was a part of this peculiar situation it must be all right, and permitted himself to be pulled. But the horses decided they did not like whatever was going on and began to sidle apart; Much reached out to grab Robin's horse's bridle, almost lost his seat, wrenched his wounded leg, and made a noise not unlike the one that had sent Robin in search of the dog in the first place. But Brown-eyes was stowed at last. Robin gingerly climbed up behind him, and he only looked up with the damp soulful gaze that had given him his name and thumped his tail once across the horse's shoulder. The horse tried to shy but concluded that it wasn't worth it; the path was too narrow and the trees too close. “I wasn't at all certain he was going to let me pick him up,” said Robin, as they awkwardly turned again and set off in pursuit of the others; “which, after all that, would have been embarrassing.”