

**'SHERWOOD'  
** (Robin & Marian)

BOOK ONE

'The Early Days'

An alternate historical romance   
by

W.Wm.Mee

Dedicated to my son, Jason Christopher,

who wandered with me in our own Sherwood.

Copyright 2013 W.Wm.Mee

Smashwords Edition

Author's Introduction

Welcome, Gentles all,

to the beginning of our tale on a subject

that you probably think that you know quite well.

All we can humbly say is that --- you are wrong.

We hope to please you with our tale of Bold Robin.

To entertain you, to thrill you, and to bring you joy.

But most of all we desire to simply tell you the truth.

Not sugar coated or fancily fabricated.

Not blunt edged nor prettily played on a lute.

But bare, brutal and often bloody;

As were the times and the people that lived in them.

In that way, Robin's tale is much like your own,

and wants Love's tinted glass to shine warmly on things

that should have been \--- but never really were.

So if it's fancy songs and fairness that you crave,

look not for them in these pages.

Honour and Love, Beauty and Goodness there is,

but they are dispersed with a hesitant hand;

and are shot through with Fate's cruel twists.

While fire and sword, war and famine

are found here in abundance.

Sadly, much as they are in our own world.

So come along, Gentles all,

and list to our true tale of Bold Robin!

For I was there with him from the start,

And stood with him at the end,

And pray to a god that oft times seems deaf,

that I'll be with him once again!

Told by W. Scarlet / Copied by F. Tuck

1225 A.D. --- Sherwood

***

Prologue: 'A Bastard is Born'

1137 A.D.

Mid November,

Nottingham Castle

Northern England

A high pitched scream rent the night, cutting through the raging storm like an arrow through poorly made chainmail. The rain, the color of old blood, ran glistening down the side of the ancient castle. The wind howled and moaned, searching out the cracks and crannies of both the stone fortress itself and those that huddled inside. Great blue-black storm clouds, heavy with moisture and crackling with God's holy fire, moved raggedly across the bleak, autumn night. What little light there was came from a fitful moon peeping out now and then from between the scudding clouds. Bare limbs of trees, silver and black in the dappled light, thrust ghostlike fingers up into a cold, uncaring sky. November in the north can be bleak and dreary indeed and a good roof, a warm fire and a stiff drink are often the best that anyone can hope for.

The maiden in the canopied bed arched her naked back and screamed yet again. Three others were in the pain wracked room. A robed form who moved furtively in the shadows; a soldier in armour and holding a bared sword who stood by the door; and an old crone, bent with the years, peered down through greasy hair at the maiden's swollen belly. The crone's gnarled hand suddenly reached out and gently stroked the moving bulge.

"See, my lord! See how the child rides high?" she cackled. "And kicks too it does! Ahhh, a boy for sure!" The old woman sat on the sweat-stained bed and mopped the maiden's brow with a once clean rag. "Push now, child, push! Your son is anxious to enter the world and no doubt hungry for the tit!"

The girl giving birth was just fifteen years old; not an unusual age in a time of arranged marriages and child brides. The fact that the maiden wasn't married and that her soon to be born son would be a bastard was also not uncommon, for in the harsh, brutal world of the twelfth century, fighting and fornicating were the two major pastimes of both the high born and the low, and maidens barley past their 'flowering time' regularly dropped their unwanted and often unloved by-blows hither and yon.

What was unusual was that the fifteen year old maiden was a princess, or, to be more precise, the Duchess of Aquitaine and the Countess of Poitiers. She was the rich and much sought after Éléonore de Guyenne, and, just as soon as she rid herself of this 'minor inconvenience', (the unexpected love child from a brief liaison with a lowly but oh so very handsome stable boy), she would rush back to Paris, marry seventeen year old, pimpled faced Henry VII --- and become the Queen of France.

In the coming years Eleanor would continue to carve out her place in history. She would take part in the unsuccessful Second Crusade to free the Holy Land, divorce Henry VII of France and marry Henry II of England ; bear Henry Plantagenet eight children, three of whom would later plot with her to overthrow their father. The revolt would be put down and Eleanor would be locked away in the Tower of London for sixteen long years, trotted out like the silver plate for funerals, weddings and Yuletide. After her husband's death she would be released by her newly crowned son, Richard the Lionheart to rule England as regent while her loving son Richard was away on the Third Crusade drinking, fornicating and killing non-Christians. She would outlive two husbands and all her children save her youngest, John 'Lackland', the notorious 'Prince John' mentioned in the many tales and ballads of 'brave, bold Robin and his Merry Men of Sherwood'.

But back on that cold, stormy, mid November night in the year of our lord 1137, she was just a frightened, pain-wracked little girl calling for her dead mother and giving birth to the first of her many children.

This one was indeed a boy, just as the old crone had predicted, and though a bastard, he was soon whisked away northward to be raised by an English lord. Eleanor of Aquitaine meanwhile, her belly now flat and firm and her maidenhood once again 'miraculously' intact, was rushed back southwards across the channel into the waiting arms of her betrothed, young, naive Henry VII of France.

***

Sir Reginald Locksley, the sixth lord of Locksley Hall and his barren wife, Lady Margaret, had been the ones chosen to raise the cast off child. Being both of noble, yet Saxon blood, and living in northern England, they were considered far enough removed both socially and geographically for any word of the soon-to-be queen's 'indiscretion' to ever reach the French court. They soon came to love the young babe, had him christened Robert and raised him up as their only son. As the years passed young Robert Locksley grew into a strapping, virile young man, won his knightly spurs and, upon the death of his elderly parents, became the seventh lord and master of Locksley Hall. Skilled with sword and lance, the handsome Sir Robert was well known at tournaments both in England and France and so, met and became fast friends with the war-like Henry Plantagenet, the newly crowned young king of England.

Henry, the second English monarch by that name, had recently married a stunning French woman. Though nine years Henry's senior, the lady in question was still beautiful, charming, charismatic and witty --- not to mention extremely flirtatious. It was rumoured that she had a long list of lovers stretching back over the years and that Henry, content with his own whores, hounds and frequent wars, could care less one way or the other.

By the spring of the following year, Sir Robert, the seventh lord of Locksley Hall, found himself at the top of that long list. His fiery affair with the Queen of England lasted through the summer, but, with the coming of autumn, the lady's passion, like the leaves themselves, began to wither. By All Hollow's Eve the affair was over. By Yuletide Sir Robert was once again back in Locksley Hall, King Henry had a new war in France and his 'beautiful queen' had a new lover --- and Sir Robert's child growing in her still flat and firm belly.

The lady's name, as I'm sure, Gentle Reader, you have guessed by now, was Eleanor of Aquitaine, the former Queen of France, who had, on a cold, stormy November's eve some twenty odd years earlier, given birth in Nottingham castle to a bastard boy --- a boy that had been whisked away northward to be brought up by an English knight and who had later become Sir Robert Locksley, the eighth lord of Locksley Hall!

Unwittingly these two star-crossed lovers, Eleanor of Aquitaine and Robert Locksley, her long ago cast off child, had committed incest --- the result of which was yet another healthy baby boy. Like his father however, the child was neither loved and nor wanted --- just another 'inconvenience' in a long line of them.

In their own defence however, neither the frivolous mother nor the foolish father had any idea of just what they had actually done.

A year later a priest arrived at Locksley Hall with an unsigned note and un-named baby boy.

Dearest R.

I'm sending you this present

as a reminder of what we once shared.

Though brief, it was memorably sweet.

Do with him as you will.

He has your eyes.

And your temper!

E.

Unable to look at the child without longing for its mother, Sir Robert sent the babe off to his chief forester, Thomas Bowman of Sherwood. There, in the great forest close by Locksley Hall, the lad would learn a trade and grow to be an archer and bowmaker like his adopted father --- and would one day come to be known as the legendary Robin Hood.

***
ACT ONE

'A Time of Innocence'

1185-1190

Sherwood Forest

Chapter 1:'The Greenwood'

'Robin Hood is here again

& all his merry thieves.  
Hear a ghostly bugle-note

shivering through the leaves,  
Calling as he used to call,

faint and far away,  
In Sherwood, in Sherwood,

### about the break of day.   
(Alfred Noyes)

1225 A.D.

(90 years later)

The Green Branch Inn

On the edge of Sherwood

The forest has always been there. Deep, dark and deadly. A refuge for the poor, the homeless and the hungry --- and a safe place for outlaws!

I should know --- I've been one for most of my bloody life!

I'm an old man now of sixty-six winters, bent and twisted like an old tree, but there was a time, nearly half a century ago now, when I was quick, fast and nimble!

Hell, we all were! Aint none of us left now, 'cept me and Tuck here. Him and me we travel about from town to town, telling the old tales about life in Sherwood with Robin and the lads. Alan used to come with us and strum that damned lute of his, but he up and died three or four years ago. He was a good mate and a fine singer, but he couldn't play worth a damn!

It's getting tougher though, what with my bad back and Tuck's gimpy leg! Besides, most folks don't want to hear how it really was anyway! They'd rather listen to that made up romantic shite about saving fair maidens and helping the bloody poor! Hell, back then we were the bloody poor and there weren't no-one helping us but ourselves!

Anyways, Tuck and me figure we should get it put down on paper right and proper like, so that those that follow will know the truth --- at least as much of it as us two old farts can remember! Tuck here is church taught and writes better than a bishop! The words will probably sound a bit flowery now and then, as Tuck is mighty book learned and loves to use ten words when two would do. There will also be parts every now and then that neither Tuck nor me actually heard what the people said, but we know what happened, so we're going to just make up the conversation to keep the story rolling along. Those parts will be mostly made up by Tuck, as he's got all the book-learning.

From time to time he might also 'insert' his own particular comments, if only to 'set straight the record on my ramblings' --- these he informs me will be in something called 'parentheses' --- (whatever the hell they are?!)

But for the most part all the thoughts and the tales will be mostly mine, for though Tuck was with us back then in the early days, he was ten or twelve years older than the rest of us --- a vast gulf between us recently weaned fools and him who had already been a soldier, a sailor and a sergeant of arms. Back then when the world and we in it were young; when both winter and war were far in the future; when love was a red headed lass with sea-blue eyes and a dirty face --- and we were all quick, fast and nimble!

***

My name is Scarlet, Will Scarlet and I was born in 1170.

My father was a drunken sailor and my mother was a Nottingham whore.

I never knew the old man's name and I doubt my mother did either.

Besides, the bastard sailed away long before I was even born.

They called my mother 'Scarlet', because of her long, red hair --- or maybe because of her trade. Me, I was just her boy, Will. I'm surprised she didn't leave me on the church steps, for she bloody well threatened to do so often enough! When I got older me and her walked the muddy streets of Nottingham together; she plying her age-old trade and me scrambling about for what I could find. Most of the time it was scraps in a back alley. When I got older it was drunks I could roll or purses I could cut.

By the time I was ten my mother's hair was more grey than red, but I was cocky, quick and good with a knife. By the time I was fifteen my mother was dead, I'd killed a man over a handful of coppers, and had a price on my head.

I fled Nottingham and hid in the forest.

Sherwood Forest.

Back then, in the year of our lord 1185, I sure as hell weren't no woodsman! A city lad I was, and being new born to the greenwood, I damn near starved till Robin and his mates found me. All tore up and skinny I was; cut from the brambles, wet and cold assed from sleeping under a bush \--- but I still had my knife!

And I was still cocky and quick!

1185 A.D.

(40 years earlier)

Sherwood Forest

"Here now," said an overly tall lad with a thick chest, a wisp of a beard and big ears. "What piece o' shite is this?!" He was leaning on a staff that was as tall as he was. To me it looked like a bloody tree trunk!

"A better piece than you, ya great bloody sheep shagger!" I replied.

With that his small eyes scrunched up and the big ears reddened. "Is that so, Little Man?! Well, perhaps you'd like to prove that fact with a friendly competition?!"

The giant then twirled the tree-trunk he was holding so that the bloody thing was a blur just in front of my nose! At that point a shorter and considerably thinner lad butted in. "John, don't be bullying our new friend!" he scolded the giant, yet even back then I noticed the mischievous lilt in his voice and the twinkle in his eye. "Can't you see he's just a wee lad, hungry and cold --- and a very long way from home! How about you come home with me, friend? You look like you could use a hot meal!"

"But Robin," the tall lad complained. "He's a scrawny, shifty eyed little bastard from the city! Don't know bugger all about living in the forest!"

The shorter youth turned to the taller one and bathed him with a winning smile. "You were none too woods-wise yourself, Little John, when your family first came to Sherwood!"

"Aye, but I grew up on a farm and I'm big n' strong and I love to fight! This scrawny little deer turd looks like a sneak-thief cut-purse to me!"

The one called Robin leaned on his long, amber coloured longbow and smiled. "Is that what you are, lad? A city-born cut-purse?"

I put my hand on the hilt of my knife and glared back. "City born and city raised! I'm quick and fast with both me hands me knife!" Foolishly I brandished my small blade back and forth in a glittering arc --- and received the butt of the giant's quarter-staff in my gut as a reward.

"OOOOFFFF!!" The air whooshed out of me and I sank to my knees. A large, muddy boot on the back of my neck pushed me all the way down into the forest floor. Gasping for breath, the scent of, pine needles and rotting leaves filled my nose.

"Ho there!" Robin grinned, bending down and offering me his hand. He and the one called John were both older than me by three or four years --- an immense gap when you've just turned fifteen. "City born you were, lad, but its newborn to the greenwood you are now! What did they call you back there besides thief?"

"Scarlet!" I managed to grunt out. "Will Scarlet."

"Well then Will Scarlet," Robin said, pulling me to my feet. "Welcome to Sherwood!"

Suddenly the bushes parted and out came what at first I took to be a dwarf or a forest troll! About my height he was, but with a barrel chest, thick arms and spindly little legs. Straw-like hair sprouted from beneath a shapeless cap. He was hunched over so that his knuckles almost dragged on the ground. Like the other two, he was dressed all in greens and browns and fairly bristled with weapons. A large knife hung from one side of his belt and a cloth quiver full of arrows on the other. He had a longbow in his thick, grimy hand and a twisted smile on his twisted face --- but it was his eyes that drew me. Pale green they were, all shot through with golden flecks like you see in some cats --- and more crammed full of dancing mischief than a barrel overflowing with kittens!

"Much!" the one called Robin sang out, his winning smile bursting forth like the sun from behind a cloud. "This likely young lad here is Will Scarlet, a thief and cut-purse fresh from Nottingham!"

The troll leaned forwards and sniffed. "He doesn't smell too fresh to me! As for being a thief, by the looks of him he should steel some food! He's more like a walking scarecrow --- and a skinny one at that!"

"I was just about to take him home for a good meal", Robin put in before I could show this misshapen gnome just what a skinny scarecrow could do! "My mother will have a roast of venison on the spit, along with and greens, fried spuds, Yorkshire pudding and a honeycomb for desert!"

My mouth was already watering before he had finished the description. It had been days since my last hot meal and my stomach thought my throat had been cut!

"You actually eat meat?!" I asked. The last time I had eaten meat it had been grey, greasy and of a questionable parentage --- and far too small a portion! I had tasted apples before, but never in a real pie. As for honey, it had never touched my lips!

"Meat? Almost daily!" Robin grinned.

"But aint that against the law?" I stammered. "I mean, to shoot the king's deer?"

The three of them smiled among themselves as though I had said something funny.

"What?!" I demanded, my hand going once again to the hilt of my small knife.

"Robin's father, Thomas Bowman," the giant rumbled, "is Lord Locksley's chief forester --- the one in charge of catching poachers! As long as we don't take too many or be seen doing it, meat can be on our tables just about whenever we want it!"

"And this Lord Locksley don't hang you for poaching?!" I asked, unable to fathom the contradiction of a kind hearted noble, be they Norman or Saxon.

"He doesn't mind as long as were are discreet," Robin said.

"Dis-what?" I asked.

"It means being careful," Much the Troll said.

"Then why the hell didn't he say that?!" I shot back, embarrassed at seeming the fool.

The troll shrugged his misshapen shoulders. "Robin's being tutored by Lady Marian Fitzwalter, Lord Locksley's ward. She's teaching him the 'high speech'."

"What' s a ward?" I asked. "Something like a whore?"

The giant's staff struck again, this time across the back of my shoulders. Knocked to the ground, I once again felt the weight of John's boot on the back of my neck. "Mind your tongue, Cut-Purse!" he hissed. "When you speak of the Lady Marian, do so politely! If not, I might just have to cut out that foul tongue of yours and shove it up your arse!"

Struggling to my feet, I glared up at the towering mountain. "That's twice you've knocked me down, sheep- shagger! There'll not be a third!"

The seven foot staff twirled again in a glittering arc, through which John's mocking smile glared down at me. "Will there not, Cut Purse? Perhaps sometime soon we'll have to see about that."

"Why wait?!" I said boldly, my dirty hand already on the hilt of my small knife.

The twirling staff stopped abruptly and large, horse-like teeth gleamed down at me. "Why indeed?!"

"I`", put in the troll; "can think of at least three reasons why you two fierce gladiators should hold off your match," the hunchbacked troll casually put in.

The giant lifted his shaggy head. "Can you, Much? And just what might they be?"

Those dancing eyes with the golden flecks sparkled even in the dappled shadows of Sherwood. "They are, friend John, simply this," he said, ticking off the reasons on his grimy fingers. "The meat is cooking, the pie is baking and my stomach is rumbling! You two can kill each other after dinner!" He then leaned forward, poked me with the end of his longbow; the golden flecks in his cat-like eyes seemed to be dancing a merry jig.

"Perhaps the pair of you, the Giant and the Scarecrow, can provide a little after dinner entertainment while Robin and I sample some of his father's excellent mead?!"

Little John's brow creased into a hurtful frown. "You mock me, twisted man, and though I should be used to it by now, it still hurts the heart."

The troll called Much stiffened, then bowed graciously. "That, my large friend, was never my intent. If my jesting words have grated, I most humbly beg thy pardon."

The giant made a rumbling noise that was intended to be a laugh. "Much is always forgiven." He then extended me his calloused paw and pulled me to my feet. "Come my little cut-purse! Robin's mother does indeed set a fine table, though you'll need to sluice off some of that dirt you're wearing in the river before she'll let you in her door! And mind your bloody manners at the table! And no bloody swearing!"

And that's how I came to met Robin, Little John and Much the Miller's Son.

***
Chapter 2: 'Lady Marian Fitzwalter'

1190 A.D.

(5 years later)

Sherwood Forest

Robin was as good as his word, for not only did his mother feed me but his father gave me a job and a place to live as well! For the first time in my life I had a real home! Little John and I became fast friends, though we still 'butted heads' now and then. Much, the misshapen miller's son took some getting used to, what with his strange looks and stranger ways, but as time passed I came to count him as one of my dearest friends. Robin and his family I took to right off. His mother was a round, warm woman with a big smile and a bigger heart. His father, Thomas Bowman, was tall, lean and strong like the beautiful longbows he made and his character was as straight and true as the flight of one of his arrows. Stern but fair, honest and honourable, Thomas Bowman was more of a father to me than any man I had ever met. As for Robin, he was the elder brother I never had. He took me under his wing and guided me towards a more honest manhood than I had ever dreamed of. Though he had his father's straightforward ways, he also had his mother's ready smile and warm heart, and over time became much more than a caring elder brother. But it was to the Lady Marian Fitzwalter that I gave my own young heart to utterly and completely.

Lady Marian was the daughter of Sir Donald Fitzwalter, and the godchild of Sir Robert of Locksley. The two men had been friends for years and had gone off on the ill-fated Second Crusade together. Only Sir Robert had returned. While there the two knights had made a pact, that if one should fall, the other would see to the fallen man's family. Sir Robert had been looking after Marian, her older brother Hugh and her invalid mother ever since.

I think that I fell in love with Marian the moment I saw her. She was dressed in men's clothing, covered with mud and holding a newly born squealing piglet, but she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen! I'd just started staying with Robin's family and he took me around to meet his friends. We'd gone to a few small farms and a charcoal burner's hut where I'd met several tousled haired youths roughly my age, then he brought me to Locksley Hall.

"Who do you know that lives in such a grand place?" I asked him. "A stableboy? Or perhaps a willing milkmaid!" I teased, for, coming from the slums of Nottingham and having a whore for a mother, I was well aware of the baser sides of people's instincts.

"More like an unwilling stablegirl!" he quipped back, then vaulted the wooden fence, squelched through the mud and kissed the red headed angel's dirty cheek.

"Greetings, fair maiden!" Robin grinned, sweeping off his cap and making a theatrical bow. "I bring you a poor, humble lad who wants only to worship at your feat and bask in the warming gaze of your sea green eyes!"

Marian handed him the dripping piglet and stomped over to me. "Don't be an ass, Robin! Who's your friend? Another one of your foundlings? She came up to the fence, fixed me with those sea green eyes of hers --- then punched me on the shoulder. "Ha! Skinny little bugger, isn't he?! Looks like he could use a few good meals! Where's you find him? Stealing one of you mother's pies?"

"He found us --- sort of." Robin replied. "His name is Will Scarlet and he's a cut-purse from Nottingham. John wants to fight him but Much thinks he's special."

She turned and took the struggling piglet from Robin and set it down in the mud. "John wants to fight everyone and Much --- well, Much is Much. He see's things the rest of us don't. This one looks like the runt of a poor litter to me!"

"I think he's got promise," Robin said. It took a moment to realize he meant me, not the piglet!

"Why?" Marian demanded, stomping off through the mud like a queen. Like two piglets ourselves, we followed in her wake.

"Well, because he has something that we don't."

"What's that? Fleas?"

"No," Robin replied. "Street savvy! He knows all about towns and people. All I ever see are trees, wild animals and mud covered girls with pigs! John and much aint no, er, aren't any better!" he corrected himself.

(I learned later that Marian was teaching Robin how to read, write and 'talk' proper English and he was teaching her hunting, tracking and how to shoot a bow. I also learned that she was learning much more and much faster than he was.)

Marian stopped in mid stride and faced us. We both wilted a bit under her burning gaze. "I've been to towns. Nottingham. York. Even London once. I didn't like any of them. Shit everywhere --- and not just from animals! Now, come along you two! The mare is just about to have her foal and we'll need someone to help pull. Skinny here can help clean up the afterbirth. "

And that was how I met, and fell in love with, Marian Fitzwalter.

She was Robin's girl, even way back then. Everyone knew it except them. All through those five magical years, from1185 to 1190, the five of us were inseparable. Little John, Much, Robin, Marian and me! When not doing chores or helping Robin's father with either his forestry work or his bowmaking, we were always together. Hunting, fishing, exploring the vast and wonderful green world that was Sherwood Forest. Closer to home there was always archery, mock battles with wooden swords and quarterstaffs, playing games, swimming in the millpond out behind Much's father's mill and helping with the horses in the stables of Locksley Hall.

And laughter. Always laughter!

We were young and naive and thought those times would never end.

But of course they did.

But not as it does for most people; a slow, almost unperceivable daily sliding from late childhood into young adulthood. Our change was sudden, swift and brutal. Like a kick to the guts and an even more painful wrenching of the heart.

Murder had come to our magical land; spilling innocence, hopes and dreams along with blood and brains. A daughter of one of Sir Robert's farmers had been kidnapped. Her ripped and bloody dress had been found out behind the chicken coop.

Two days later the girl's naked body was dumped on the front steps of Locksley Hall. She'd been beaten, raped and had her throat cut. There was a message under a rock beside her. It was written in blood and was frightening simple:

Take the offer & sell!

***
Chapter 3: 'Sir Guy of Gisbourn'

1190

Thee days after the

dead girl had been found.

A hunting party on the

edge of Sherwood

Sir Guy quickly undid the leather tresses that held the falcon to his gloved hand, pulled off the plumed hood and set the bird free. Up, up it soared, like an arrow shot directly at the sun.

"A silver stag says that your Sultan misses!" Sir Gaston, Sir Guy's younger cousin, exclaimed in French, the language of the Norman conquerors of England for over a hundred years. Ever since the Norman duke, William the Conqueror had beaten Alfred, the Saxon king of England at the Battle of Hastings back in 1066, speaking French and being Norman was much preferable to speaking English and being Saxon in most of the upper class families in that ancient land of the Brittan's.

Sir Guy had just recently appointed young Gaston as the new Sheriff of Nottingham, the old one having proven himself to be annoyingly honest and unwilling to follow Sir Guy's rather questionable but very lucrative suggestions. So far Sir Gaston had shown neither any of his predecessor's annoying scruples or other shortcomings --- just a rather irritating penchant to prattle on and on, most especially on the subject of predators. His elder cousin Sir Guy, the Baron of Nottingham and Lord of the Northern Marches, was himself a most dangerous predator and merely considered Gaston a fool --- but, for now at least, a useful one.

Leaning forward in the saddle, Sir Gaston continued in the tongue of the Franks. "God's teeth, cousin, you're too lucky by half! Your bird has already made three strikes to my one! He'll not make a fourth!" As though in agreement, the magnificent peregrine on the new Sheriff's arm flapped its cream colored wings.

"A golden crown says that he does!" Sir Guy replied with a knowing smirk. Gaston was a skilled swordsman and useful enough for collecting taxes and breaking bones, but when it came to actually thinking he was as far too emotional to make rational decisions. 'Besides,' Sir Guy said to himself. 'My Sultan, much like myself, always gets what he goes after!'

Hurcule Beaumont, a heavy set, knight in Sir Guys employ, uncorked a silver flask and handed it to the baron. As Sir Guy took the flask, Sir Hurcule turned to the younger Gisbourn. "Sir Gaston, as the newly appointed Sheriff of Nottingham, do you not have trainers for your birds?"

Frowning, Sir Gaston replied curtly. He neither liked the fat, pompous Sir Hurcule, nor cared who knew it --- even his older and very powerful cousin.

"I do indeed have trainers, Beaumont!" the younger man replied hotly. "Several in fact! Why do you ask?!"

The large knight shrugged his thick shoulders. None of the men there that day were wearing mail, just fashionable hunting clothes with the odd bit of leather here and studs there. Sir Hurcule however, being an untrusting individual, had a thick leather cuirass under his fashionable clothes. That and his considerable girth made him look as though he were wearing plate armour, a fact his poor horse would heartily agree with!

"Oh, no reason at all," smiled the knight-for-hire. "It's just that your small mouser there has missed her last two tries. I thought that perhaps the poor thing is not well?"

The recently appointed Sheriff reddened as he tried to contain his anger. "Cleo is a peregrine falcon, not an everyday 'mouser' hawk --- as you well know! And she is neither small nor unwell! She's merely fine boned and like all high bred females, a tad contrary now and then --- aren't you my sweet?"

This last was spoken to the hooded winged killer sitting calmly on his wrist.

"Enough bloody chatter!" Sir Guy said crossly in English.

It was a language the baron enjoyed using whenever he was angry' 'The Saxons swear so much more colourfully than we Normans do!' he often said, especially to the looser ladies at court. 'Their words are all about genitailia, fornication and excrement, while we oh-so polite Francais only whisper words against the church and pray fervently for absolution!'

Sir Guy proved his point by growling at the sheriff and the knight. "You two sound like a pair of fucking old whores! If you both dislike the other so god-damned much, draw your swords and have at it! But for Christ's sake leave go your endless war of words, or I swear by Mary's sagging tits that I'll have you both shipped out to Outramere with the rest of the god-damned fools going on their stupid bloody Crusade!"

The two men in question stayed sullenly silent, the younger one glaring daggers at the smirking older one.

"La!" Sir Guy exclaimed a few tense moments later, dropping back into French. "Sultan just took his fourth pheasant of the day! You owe me a golden crown, Gaston, and I'll have it from you now, so that you don't conveniently 'forget' it like the last time!"

Red faced, the sheriff reluctantly dug out the large coin and sullenly handed it over. Stamped with Henry II's head on one side and his wife's, Eleanor of Aquitaine, on the other, the ounce of pure gold was more than most peasants made during a lifetime of back breaking labour. The baron took it with a smile and tossed it to Sir Hurcule.

"There you go, Beaumont. Payment for your men entertaining our newest 'guest' back at the lodge. Do you think they've had time enough to prepare this second merry message for Locksley?"

Sir Hurcule tucked the coin away as a cruel smile to spread across his face. "More than enough time, Sir Guy. After all, how long does it take to cut off a few fingers?"

"The way they were beating on the poor bugger when we left," Sir Gaston put in with a cruel smile of his own; "I wouldn't be a bit surprised if the filthy villain isn't dead when we get back!"

"Oh I doubt that, sheriff," Sir Hurcule smirked. "My man Terrill and his lads know their business quite well. 'Beaten, broken and his two bowfingers off' was what Sir Guy ordered --- but not dead. A live, bleeding man makes a much deeper impression than a dead one, and the baron wants Locksley to get the message loud and clear this time."

"Which is?" the sheriff asked, the tone of his voice showing clearly his distaste for Sir Hurcule and his 'lads'.

"Which is that Lord Fucking Locksley needs to change his bloody mind and sell Sir Guy Locksley Hall!"

The sheriff bristled. "And if, God forbid, you and your 'likely lads' fail and Lord 'Fucking' Locksley refuses to respond in a way that you and my esteemed cousin would like, what then, prey tell? An all out siege on Locksley Hall?! I'm sure our much loved monarch, Henry II, on his deathbed as he is rumoured to be, would be absolutely thrilled to hear that his barons in the north were hacking each other to pieces!"

The smile that Sir Hurcule turned on the younger Gisbourn would have turned even his own mother's stomach. "Why then, Lord Sheriff, my lads and myself will be forced to take more drastic measures. Not a 'siege' exactly. But perhaps another kidnapping? Only this time instead of taking Locksley's forester, perhaps we'll nab that red headed ward of his. Marian I believe she's called --- a right nice juicy piece of twat to be savoured and passed around to be sure!"

"You will NOT touch Marian!" Sir Gaston suddenly shouted. "Do what you will with Locksley and his followers, but do NOT even THINK of touching a hair on the head of that innocent child!"

Sir Hurcule snorted out a laugh and took a long pull on the flask that the baron had handed back earlier. Both older men met each other's gaze and smiled knowingly. Sir Guy, usually content to let his minions wield the 'grace de dieu', sat back and gloated as Sir Hurcule used his tongue instead of his sword.

"Fancy her for yourself, do you, sheriff? I would have though the bitch a bit young for your taste --- but then some men like them fresh out of their swaddling clothes. A tender rump of lamb instead of a tough old hump of sheep, eh? Baaaaa!"

Sir Gaston, enraged by the fat knight's crude insolence, raised his gauntleted right hand and launched his falcon directly into Sir Hurcule's leering face. "Strike, Cleo! Rip the bastard's eyes out!"

Cleo was only half successful, her razor sharp talons plucking out only one of the startled knight's eyes. Still attached to Gaston's gauntleted hand by a yard long tether, Cleo continued to flutter and beat against Sir Hurcule's blood smeared face, her razor sharp talons raking across his cheek while her hooked beak sliced Hurcule's left eye and plucked the juicy orb out of its socket.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Sir Guy cursed in English, doing his best to curb his own startled mount. All three animals had begun to snort and stomp at the smell of blood. "Gaston! Call off your bitch, NOW!"

The Sheriff pivoted his mount and hauled in his falcon. Its cream colored wings, now flecked with blood, were still outstretched; its hooked beak glistening redly. Sir Hurcule, one hand clamped to his bleeding face, the other yanking back on the reins, cursed and turned his one good eye on his employer.

"Look what your asslicking cousin has done?! The little prick has blinded me! I'll have his guts out slowly, cut off his fucking head and shit down the fucking hole!"

Sir Guy, with both himself and his mount now under control, spoke calmly and firmly to the large knight with the ravaged face. "Perhaps you will, Hurcule --- but not today! Right now you are going follow me back to the hunting lodge. There your wounds will be treated. The sheriff here is going back to Nottingham and bring back a physician to the lodge to further tend to your wounds. Is that clear?"

Hurcule was still glaring with his one good eye at Sir Gaston, who was calmly sitting his mount a few yards away. The sheriff's free hand kept gently stoking the falcon.

"I said, is that clear?!" the baron repeated his question.

Begrudgingly, Sir Hurcule nodded, then added in a growled whisper. "But one day soon I will kill him!"

Sir Guy shrugged, then turned to his cousin and raised an eyebrow. "Still here, Gaston? You won't 'forget' to bring back the physician, will you? I would be very displeased."

The sheriff looked up at the westering sun. Already the afternoon shadows were lengthening. "I'll send a barber-surgeon in the morning, Guy, for it will be dark or near it by the time I make Nottingham."

Sir Guy used his knees to guide his mount swiftly over to where his cousin sat smoothing his bird's ruffled feathers and preparing to slip the leather hood back on. Without a word of warning the baron suddenly reached over with his gloved hand, grasped the red beaked bird by the throat and, like one does with a chicken bound for the pot, swiftly wrung the startled creature's neck. There was an audible 'snap' and the cream colored killer went limp. Sir Guy opened his hand and the body fell, swinging inwards, still tethered to its shocked owner.

The baron then reached out again and had his cousin in the same death grip he had just used on the falcon. Instead of twisting however, he leaned in and whispered.

"You will bring back a physician tonight, NOT send out a bloody barber-surgeon in the morning after you have diddled the milk maid and butt-fucked her cow! And if you do NOT do this for me, then, cousin or no, you will go the way of your pathetic little bird! Now, turn and ride! I'll expect the two of you back before midnight!"

As the well chastised sheriff began his long ride back to Nottingham, the baron tossed the one-eyed knight a makeshift bandage and then whistled his own by now well fed falcon back onto his wrist. When Sultan was hooded and again under his thumb, Sir Guy then gathered the reins of Beaumont's horse and led them out of the rolling fields and down a twisting forest path. A quarter of a mile in they came to a large hunting lodge that had been in the Gisbourn family since William the Conqueror had first given it as a gift to Sir Guy's great great grandfather well over a hundred years ago for his ruthless loyalty. The place was aptly named the Hawk's Nest --- the forest was simply called Sherwood.

***
Chapter 4: 'Murder Most Foul'

Earlier that day at

The Hawk's Nest,

Sir Guy's hunting lodge

On the edge of Sherwood.

Terrill St. Jean had been a soldier for over half his life. He'd been a cold blooded killer even longer. He wasn't a high mucky-muck knight, or an ass kissing squire. Not a sergeant or a pikeman or a well trained man-at-arms. He'd started out as a common grunt with a boiled leather vest, bit of stolen mail, a rusty iron knife and a spear with a poorly forged head.

'And just look at me now!' he said to himself as he looked around at the bodies.

He had the best chainmail, steel breastplate, padded helmet and sword the baron's money could buy! Not only that, but he had silver in his pouch, good red meat in his belly, better red wine than a priest and more whores than the Pope! And all he had to do for all this bounty was whatever Sir Guy or that fat fuck Sir 'Crazy' Beaumont said to do!

Rob someone? Not a problem.

Beat up some asshole? Not a problem!

Kill some loose-lipped bastard? Not a problem!

Burn a farm? Not a fucking problem!

With the farmer's family still inside? Still not a fucking problem!

So what then was so bloody hard about roughing up some gray haired bastard of a forester and chopping off his two fucking bowfingers?!

Not a problem, right?!

Fucking wrong!

First off, the old bastard had heard them coming and put arrows into two of his men before the rest had tackled him and beat him unconscious.

Baron Gisbourn had NOT been pleased! He'd frowned at Terrill and fixed him with those bloody hawk-like eyes of his ---then turned and rode away for day's hunting. Sir Crazy and that snake of a sheriff had followed him.

NOW, by Christ, the old man had managed to stab another one of his men in the leg and break the arm of yet another stupid bastard!

'Four fucking men down and we've hardly laid a hand on the bastard!' Terrill though to himself. 'Well, if you don't count the two beatings.'

Terrill and the three men still standing had beaten the old bugger pretty bad --- so bad in fact that Terrill feared that the old archer might die on them --- and that fat fuck 'Sir Crazy' had made it perfectly clear that the baron wanted the old fart to be alive when they dumped him off like the girl outside of Locksley Hall. 'Beaten, broken but alive' had been the orders \--- oh ya, and 'sans les deux doits pour l'arc' \--- minus his two bowfingers!

It was touch and go there for a while, but the grey haired forester was a tough old bird. 'He must have been damn near fifty!' Terrill thought to himself. He'd heard that some thirty odd years ago the gray haired forester had gone on the Second Crusade as an archer. 'Probably where the old bastard had learned to fight so bloody well!'

Things had looked better when the tough old bugger came around in mid afternoon--- but then one of his remaining men had gotten too fucking close and the old soldier had grabbed the man's knife, slit his throat, cut his own bonds and headed straight for Terrill. 'The fucker might have got me too, if Bruno didn't have his crossbow ready! God's bones, the bloody quarrel was buried to the feathers in the old fucker's chest!'

The forester had died instantly and the bloody knife had fallen at Terrill's feet.

'So now we are really fucked!' Terrill said to himself, looking around at the bodies.

Most of his men were either dead or wounded. He only had two healthy men left and a ten fingered corpse instead of an eight fingered prisoner to show the baron --- who, along with that madman Sir Crazy Fucking Hurcule and that stuck-up afterbirth of a sheriff, were due back any time now!

"Hey, Terrill, what do ya wanna do with all these fuckers?" The taller of his two remaining men asked. Bruno, the shorter, darker haired one that killed the forester with his crossbow, shook his shaggy head. "Gilles, what the Christ do ya think?"

"Aint sure, Bruno That's why I asked." Gilles turned towards Terrill and continued "A couple of the lads aint too bad hurt, cap'n. Serge there's got his arm bound up a 'n Pierre's only limping a little."

"Saints be fucking praised!" Terrill said sarcastically. "Drag the dead out front, then strip them of anything useful. Coin, amour, weapons. We'll tie the archer's body in a chair so that the baron can see that at least the old fucker didn't get away!" Terrill sucked in a lungful of air and looked anxiously down the forest path. He wasn't looking forward to his next meeting with the cold eyed Baron of Fucking Nottingham. "Maybe, just maybe, if we show Sir Guy the old fuck's body, he'll not have the rest of us killed --- or worse yet, shipped out on the next fucking crusade!"

***

Early Spring 1190

(The same day)

The chapel at

Locksley Hall

I was watching Marian all during the mass. The folk of Locksley Hall had gathered in the stone chapel to pay our respects to the grieving parents, bury the murdered girl and sing her soul heavenward. Like the rest of us, the young girl's rape and murder had shaken Marian badly, though by now the tears had been replaced by something else --- anger. She and the dead girl had been friends and Marian wanted the murderer found and punished --- one way or the other!

Back then I had already known Marian for nearly five years and had realized very early that she was not only beautiful on the outside, but on the inside as well. She was kind, generous, fierce, loyal and brave, \---all the things that a young man --- and an older one for that matter --- might hope to find in a woman. But perhaps the one word that that best described her was that she was so dammed determined. Robin called her 'hard headed' or worse, but it's the same dam thing. Once Marian Fitzwalter had set her mind to something, she was like a hound on a hot sent! Nothing could make her turn aside till the problem was run to ground, faced squarely and then put right! The rape and murder of the girl however was far bigger problem than any of us had faced in our young lives, and, though we didn't know it back then, it was about to get much bigger still!

I saw Marian look at the worried, concerned faces of the people crowded into the small chapel and her fierce, sea-green eyes finally come to rest on the newest one, the man that was leading the mass.

(The very same man that is now, some forty years later, writing these words that are coming out of my mouth and that you are now reading --- my good friend and boon companion for these last four decades --- the marvellous, mysterious, mercurial man known simply as Friar Tuck.)

Marian's guardian, the kindly knight, Robert Locksley, had recently taken on the rather strange friar to administer to the religious lives of the many souls that lived and worked in and around Locksley Hall. To my young eyes ---back then I was still two years shy of twenty --- Tuck looked much older than any of us, though in fact he was just in his early thirties. He seemed to me a 'stormy' sort of man, able to blow hot or cold at the drop of a hat and, by the look of him, he had not always lived a safe, pious life. He was heavy set, battered and scared, but had dancing, often mocking eyes, an easy laugh and a ready smile --- yet he seemed just as ready to bash a head as to bless a soul, and he had already done so more than once in the few weeks he had been at Locksley Hall!

Marian had told us earlier all about Tuck's rather unorthodoxed interview with Sir Robert and herself a few weeks before.

It had gone something like this:

When asked what he had done before becoming a wandering friar, Tuck had admitted that he'd been a sergeant and master-of-arms for a rather 'unscrupulous knight somewhere off in the west country' and that he'd been 'a great sinner and done all sorts of terrible things', but that he was now 'doing his level best to make amends.'

'How's that coming along?' Sir Robert had asked, with more than a hint of a twinkle in his eye.

"Slowly, my lord, very slowly" Tuck had smiled back at the aging knight. "God, in His infinite wisdom, gave me a poet's heart and a painter's eye but very few priestly virtues! He also gave me a soldier's temper and a drunkard's thirst --- and set the whole bloody mess in the lumbering bear of a man that now stands before you!"

Sir Robert's eyebrow had raised at that. "Tell me friar, why do you think God treated you so?"

"Oh, its not just me, Sir Robert," Tuck replied. "He does it to most of us. It's His wicked sense of humour you see. He gives us one thing and makes us want another. It's all that 'He works in mysterious ways' sort of thing."

"And why do you think He does that?"

Tuck sighed. "Because it's better to smile than to frown; to laugh than to cry, and in this wicked world, Sir Robert, God has very little to laugh about.

'Isn't that the Devil's fault? To tempt man into sin so that he burns in everlasting fire?" Sir Robert asked, though inwardly his own views were much in line with those of this wandering friar.

Tuck laughed at that. "Sir Robert, the only devil I believe in is the one that dwells in most men's heart."

"Explain please."

"Sir Robert, you've been on crusade?

"I have," the knight replied.

"You've been in battle?"

"I have."

"Killed men with your sword?"

"I --- have." This came a little slower with another raised eyebrow.

"Then, Sir Robert, you've been to Hell and met the Devil --- and you know full well what 'devils' most men can turn into --- what atrocities we can do in the name of religion, be they Christian, Muslim or other!"

"I have indeed," replied the knight quietly, his mind's eye once again seeing a hot, treeless plain, his sword arm rising and falling, rising and falling, and each time the sword more bloody than the last. "But I don't see what that has --- ?"

"To do with the Devil?" Tuck finished the question for the older man, then leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "But I think that you do see, Sir Robert. You are a good person who has lost his faith in both man and God. I'm simply saying that the evil that men do comes not from outside demons or devils, but from within ourselves. Good and the evil are the result of the choices we make, and Heaven and Hell are here on earth, and reached only by those choices, not by our petty prayers or large donations to a greedy bishop."

"You speak heresy, friar," Sir Robert said slowly, inwardly agreeing with this strange unholy holy man. "People have been burnt at the stake for much less than you just said."

"Ahhhh, the stake. The cleansing by fire. How very Christian! And do you think, Sir Robert, as most high churchmen do, that the flames, the screams and the smell of burnt flesh are pleasing to God? Or do you, as I believe you do, think that they make Him weep, and set Him to pondering floods, famine and pestilance?"

Sir Robert was silent for several heartbeats. When he did speak there was an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before "How do you know that I won't summon the sheriff and have you arrested."

Tuck's smile widened. "Because, Sir Robert, you are too good a man. I saw that in your eyes right off"

Sir Robert frowned. "My eyes?"

"That's right," Tuck replied casually. "The eyes are the windows of the soul. They show our emotions, our personality, who or what we really are. All one has to do is look deeply."

"And you can see all that by looking in a person's eyes?" There was a hesitancy in Sir Robert's voice.

"Now I can, most of the time. I couldn't before --- back when I was a great sinner. Yours is very bright by the way."

"My soul?"

"Yes. Its almost as bright as hers."

"Marian's?" Sir Robert asked.

Tuck grinned. "I almost have to squint to look at her. Quite remarkable really!"

"You know of course," Sir Robert said cautiously, thinking that he might be dealing with a madman. "that most people would have some difficulty believing you."

"Oh I know," Tuck said matter-of-factly. "Most people would think I'm daft. 'Whacked on the helmet one time too many', they'd say. I thought I had been too for a while. But then I came to realize that what I saw and what people really were was the same bloody thing!"

Marian, unable to contain herself any longer, stepped up to the large friar: "So, you're saying that you can tell if a perfect stranger is good person or not just by looking at them?"

"In their eyes, my lady, yes. Or most times."

"Most times. Not every time?" she demanded.

Tuck shrugged his thick swordsman's shoulders. "Some men are better liars than others."

"And what about women?"

"Oh, women are much better liars than men!"

"And why's that d you think?" Marian asked, though there was an edge to her voice.

"Because they must do so in order to survive in a man's world run by brute strength, cruelty and cunning."

She was silent for a time, then asked: "And when you looked into Sir Robert's eyes, what do you see?"

Tuck answer came quick and sure. "A kind man, though deeply troubled. His pilgrimage to the Holy Land was a bloody one that scared his heart far more than it did his body."

Marian, always the practical sceptic, smiled back. "Anyone who knows my uncle could have told you that ----especially in the mead hall."

Another shrug of the thick shoulders. "Well, I can see that he's worried about you."

"Me?" Marian said. "Why?"

"Oh, I can't see that, my lady; just that he's concerned about you. Perhaps he thinks that you are in love."

THAT shook her! "In love?! Me?!"

The shrug again, followed by a show surprising white teeth. "What lass of seventeen isn't in love with someone?"

She flushed as red as a rose. "Well, I'm nearly nineteen and I'm most certainly am NOT in love with anyone!"

His smile widened. "Perhaps, my lady, you are and don't yet know it. As I just said, women are usually much better liars than men --- even to themselves."

After that comment Sir Robert, having left his faith in the Holy Land but not his wit, hired Tuck on the spot.

***

As I sat with Marian and the others in the stone chapel listening to the new man Tuck do his best to comfort the parents of the dead girl, I thought on Tucks predecessor.

Father Ignatius was a self-serving, mean spirited little man that whose idea of comfort was to threaten with the everlasting fires of Hell, and if he ever did have an ounce of Christian charity in him, it had long ago dried up and blown away, leaving only bile and bitterness behind! We had all been overjoyed when he had announced that he had 'heard God's glorious call' and that he was leaving Sir Robert's employ to go and 'take up the Crusaders cross and help kill the godless heathen 'Muslim-men'!'

I wondered what the new friar would have seen had he looked deeply into the eyes of Father Ignatius.

As the mass for the murdered girl neared its end, I saw Marian turn from the blunt but compassionate new friar to the other worried and drawn faces all around her and finally come to rest on us, the four rough and tumble local lads that she had come to think of as her adopted brothers. There was large and lovable John; witty and weird Much; and myself, quick and fast Will Scarlet, though Marian, like the others, often still called me Cut Purse

And there was Robin.

It was clear to John, Much and myself that Marian was developing something 'other' than mere brotherly feelings towards Robin , as he was towards her \--- and it was also clear to us that that fact frightened her almost as much as the dead girl's body being found on her doorstep!

And now this new twist in the growing tangle that was our lives had come along --- Robin's father was missing!

Well, not really 'missing' --- after all, the man was a forester and his job took him all over Sherwood --- but he was 'late'. He'd told Robin's mother that he'd be gone three days. That was now five days ago! And it was NOT like Thomas Bowman to be either late or to break his word.

Something serious had happened to keep him away so long, and Robin had asked us to help him find his father.

"He could be injured. Fallen or have been gored by a boar!" Robin said worriedly to us after the chapel had emptied of mourners.

"Or fallen afoul of poachers or worse," Much said quietly, for we all knew that lately there had been more and more reports of armed outlaws waylaying travelers along the many roads that criss-crossed the vast forest.

We planned to set out first thing in the morning--- but Thomas Bowman's body was found later that night --- dumped, as had been the body of the young girl, on the steps of Locksley Hall. He'd been battered and beaten, the crossbow bolt that had killed him was still in his chest and two fingers on his right hand had been cut off.

Again there was the same note, only with a little extra this time:

'Take the offer and sell !

Or the next time it will be

the red head!'

When Robin's father was laid out in the chapel and his mother was with her sister and her kin, Robin, Marian and myself went to see Sir Robert. The older knight was waiting for us in his library. Despite the warmth of the spring evening, there was a fire going in the hearth. Sir Robert, looking older than his fifty-one years, sat stroking a wolfhound at his feet and staring into the dancing flames.

Robin put the latest note on the table beside the knight. For several heartbeats it seemed like he hadn't noticed --- then he spoke, still watching the flames.

"It's Gisbourn. He wants Locksley Hall --- and he won't stop until he gets it."

Marian's eyes went wide and she was about to speak, but Robin beat her to it.

"He killed the girl?"

Sir Robert nodded. "Probably not himself, but it's his work."

"And my father as well?"

Another nod.

Robin's nostrils flared. "I'll kill him! I swear, I'll kill the bastard!"

"How, Robin?" Sir Robert asked gently. "With your bow? From ambush? You'd be branded a murderer and outlaw. Hunted down and hung within a week's time."

"I'll fight him man to man!" Robin growled.

"Then he'll kill you, Robin, for he's skilled with sword and shield and you are not."

"I can fight!" Robin hurled back.

"Yes, with your fists and your bow. Even, I've heard tales, with a knife; but those are not knightly weapons, and if you challenge Sir Guy Gisbourn, the Baron of Nottingham, he will choose either the sword or the lance, neither of which you know the first thing."

Marian spoke into the sullen silence that now surrounded Robin. "Why didn't you tell me uncle?"

"What would it have served, my dear? Gisbourn is a very powerful man. He runs not only Nottingham, but the whole shire and the sheriff is his younger cousin."

"You could go to the king," Marian said, grasping at straws.

Her adopted uncle actually smiled. "London is a very long way off, child and Henry has larger things on his mind."

"Larger than the murder of two innocent people?!" she now demanded, her temper starting to flair.

The knight, looking at the three outraged youth before him, sighed deeply, recalling similar days, long ago now, of glorious youthful outrage. "The king, my dear, is planning for the new crusade --- death, depravation and mass murder on a scale unimaginable to anyone who has not experienced it. What are two more deaths when compared with that?"

"Then what can you do?" she asked quietly, though her green eyes still flashed fire.

"The only thing that I can do is to challenge Sir Guy to a duel. The winner take all."

"But uncle," Marian said slowly, "he is at least a half dozen years your junior!"

Sir Robert smiled, doing his best to put a brave front on a dire situation. "Over a dozen, child --- but I still train daily and, like my old hound here, I still have most my teeth."

"You could sell, uncle." Marian's voice was surprisingly soft.

"And leave Locksley Hall? I was born here, child. As was my father and his father and his before him. Saxons all! We came over with Hengist and Horsa in the fifth century, took King Vortigen's British gold to fight the painted Picts and the bloody Scots, then we took his land for ourselves. Been here ever since!"

Sir Robert gazed off for a moment into those by-gone centuries of Germanic/Viking legend, then came abruptly back to the pressing present. "And also, my dear, there is the somewhat prickly fact that he wants more than just Locksley Hall."

"More?" she repeated. 'What 'more' is there?"

The greying knight stiffened. "You."

"Me?! You mean that he \--- "

"I'm afraid so." He glanced at Robin and myself. "He wants both Locksley Hall and you."

"Well, the lecherous old bastard will have neither!" Marian spit out. The wolfhound rose up at the harsh tone of her voice.

"I intend to do my best to see that he doesn't," Sir Robert smiled. He then turned to Robin. "I know, my boy, that you have just lost your father, but I have a boon to ask you just the same."

Robin, his emotions still raging, nodded slightly. "If I can, Sir Robert, I will."

The older knight managed a smile, inwardly proud of the young man that he had sired in his foolish youth and even more foolishly had denied ever since. He knew, however, that the time was fast approaching where he would have to do something about that denial, and he planned to see it done this very day! "Robin, I want you to take Marian away from here --- till after this sad affair is settled --- one way of the other."

"And just what does that mean, uncle? "Marian asked pointedly. "Robin's to hide me in the woods till you either kill Sir Guy or he kills you? Never!"

"Marian," Sir Robert said. 'All will be well in the end --- and if it is not, at least you will be out of his clutches."

"Will I, uncle? You said yourself that Sir Guy is a very powerful man! With you dead and Locksley Hall his, what's to stop him from sending his two legged hounds to hunt me down?! No! I'll stay by your side and gut the greedy bastard myself the first time he comes near me!"

***

"It's done," Sir Robert said later that night. "I wrote out a challenge to Sir Guy and sent copies to all the other lords and barons. Gisbourn will have no choice but to honour my challenge. All would call him a craven coward if he refused!"

"But uncle," Marian said, "could not he name a champion as in days of old, a youthful killer, well schooled in the knightly arts?"

Sir Robert's response was to hand Marian a copy of the challenge.

To Sir Guy of Gisbourn

Baron of Nottingham

You, sirah, are an abomination in the eyes of all Christian men!

You and your minions have caused the death of two members of my household at Locksley Hall and I demand satisfaction!

I therefore challenge you to mortal combat and let God in His infinite wisdom decide which of us is the lesser sinner deserving of mercy!

I shall await you with drawn sword at high noon on the grounds of the Old Kirkland Abbey in two days time.

No substitutes or paid lackeys may honourably take your place!

No 'champion' or paid carrion may stand in your stead!

You alone must pay the price for your dastardly deeds --- as I alone shall pay for mine!

High noon at Old Kirkland Abbey, two days hence!

Sir Robert of Locksley

Chapter 5: 'Dastardly Deeds!'

High Noon,

Two days later

Old Kirkland Abby

"I see the bastards!" John growled, pointing with his quarter staff at the riders fast approaching down the muddy track.

It had rained all night and only stopped late in the morning. The road was a muddy quagmire, but the church yard grass was green and glistening, and would provide solid yet slippery footing for the two swordsmen.

I looked around me at the others. Besides two of Sir Robert's aging men-at-arms, there was only Hobs, his elderly squire and man-servant for over thirty years; John, who was all frowns and scowls; and Marian, swaddled in wet wool and desperation. Her sea-green eyes were fierce as fire and the sharp dirk she had under the folds of her cloak was held in trembling anticipation. Sir Robert was off to one side having his breastplate adjusted by Hobs. Tuck was with him, giving the knight both the last rites and probably some last minute advice on how to kill the greasy bastard. Me, I had my knife in my belt and another in my boot and was determined to kill anyone that came near Marian.

Robin and Much were there as well, though not down front on the Abbey's wet lawn, but hidden up on it's flat slate roof where they could best use their longbows if needed and not be easily attacked. As the Baron of Nottingham and his party road up the muddy road, I prayed to a god that I doubted existed that the two on the roof would NOT have to use their bows!

Sir Guy dismounted and handed the reins to one of his servants. Several hulking men-at-arms rode with him, as did his cousin, the new sheriff and that big, bearded knight, Sir Hurcule that everyone said was crazy and who now wore a black patch over his left eye. Part of me wondered if Little John would be strong enough to take him, and another part of me didn't want to find out.

"Locksley!" Sir Guy called out, his manner friendly, even warm, as though he and Sir Guy were old friend that had met for an afternoon hunt. "A fine day to finally settle this little dispute between us! A friendly match and the winner takes all! How very sporting of you!" Though he was smiling, I saw his cold gaze sweep over Marian like a hungry man looking at a juicy piece of meat --- and I hated the bastard for it!

"Your invitation failed to mention any details about the type of weapons to be used, so I took the liberty of choosing sword and buckler. Of course the choice of armour is up to you. I see you're wearing a rather long mail shirt. You old crusaders do fancy the heavier styles, don't you? For myself, this light mail vest and leather cuirass will do nicely."

Sir Robert pulled on his leather gauntlets. "Did you come here to fight me, Gisbourn, or to talk me to death?!"

Sir Guy leaned in and his smile widened into something closer to a grimace. "Why Locksley, I came here to kill you."

"Well then," the older knight said, pulling on his helmet and settling his large shield on his heft arm; "You are certainly welcome to try."

And try the baron did.

He came at Sir Robert fast and hard, beating the older knight backwards over the rain slick grass. The swift, hammer-like blows were blocked first on the older knight's sword blade and the next on the iron rim of his shield, with the shield soon ending up hacked, notched and hanging low from Sir Robert's semi-numbed arm. After a good half dozen solid swings Sir Guy suddenly backed away and breathed deeply.

"Come now, Sir Robert! I expected you to have some fire left in your belly! "You're pretty little ward there will think you overly timid if you don't at least try and fight back!"

"Marian knows me well enough," the knight said calmly, his voice sounding hollow through his metal helmet. "She knows you for what you are as well, Gisbourn."

"Really?" Sir Guy asked, his handsome face bisected by his half-helm's nose guard. "And what, pray tell, does the fair maiden think I am?"

Marian answered for herself, taking a quick step forward. Her words came out like barbed arrows from a bow. "You are a rapist and a murderer! You are a molester of innocent young girls and a torturer of decent men! And you are the lowest, vilest thing in all God's green earth! And when my uncle kills you I shall spit on your corpse and think of you no more!"

Sir Guy looked around at his men watching and smiled. "Brave, bold words from such a pretty package. I wonder what you will say after I unwrap you?"

That rather un-knightly comment brought the results that Sir Guy was looking for: his men laughed and sneered, making their own lewd comments about Marian --- and Sir Robert charged.

Like a raging bull he came. Even me, who back then was unskilled at any kind of sword-work, thought that Sir Guy would merely sidestep to his right and strike the charging knight as he passed --- which is exactly what the baron did --- or tried to do. Sir Robert must have expected that and shifted his onrushing weight accordingly, so that as Gisbourn stepped to his right, Locksley followed and the two men slammed into each other. Sir Robert's hacked shield was already swinging round and caught the baron's helmet just above his right ear. The helmet went one way and Sir Guy another and both men went down in the wet grass in a tangle of arms and legs.

Sir Robert however, was up first. His dented shield now discarded, he had his sword in a two handed grip that he raised over his head as he advanced on the still rising baron. Now it was Sir Robert who rained down blows on the surprised Gisbourn. Vicious, quick, two-handed blows that the younger man was hard press to block as he attempted to regain his feet.

Then, as Sir Robert shifted closer to the crowd to come at the baron from his unshielded side, a large form suddenly stepped out of the crowd, grabbed Sir Robert from behind with one hand and thrust a dagger deep into his side with the other. Once, twice and then he was gone, melted back into the cheering crowd. Most didn't even notice the cowardly deed. Not John or Marian. Certainly not Robin or Much hiding back up on the roof --- but I did! It was the large, crazy knight with the patch over his left eye --- Sir Hurcule Beaumont!

Sir Robert meanwhile had gone stiff, almost frozen in place. His legs wide, his sword held aloft ready for a two handed killing bow --- a blow that never came. For Sir Guy, still kneeling at the older knight's feet, thrust up with his own longsword into Locksley's exposed stomach. The sharpened point of the baron's blade pierced the long mail shirt that Sir Robert had worn on the Second Crusade twenty some years ago; sliced through the sweat stained padded doublet, the leather backing, the multi layered gambleson and on into his guts.

Suddenly to my youthful eyes everything seemed embedded in amber. All about me was a tableau of death, frozen in time, space and memory. Marian screamed. The crowd yelled. Sir Robert looked wide-eyed down at the yard of steel in his stomach and Sir Guy slowly rose to his feet, slowly pulling the sword out as he stood. Sir Robert's legs gave out and now it was him, not Gisbourn, on his knees in the wet grass. The baron's already red blade swept up, down and into Sir Robert's left shoulder whit a meaty 'thud', followed by the 'snap' of breaking bone. This time the mail shirt held, but the force of the blow had crushed the shoulder and broke the older knight's neck instantly.

Sir Robert Locksley, born over half a century earlier to an unknown father and a young, unwed princess who gave him away at birth, was dead. Twenty years after his birth, that same princess, by then the new wife of Richard I of England, had unwittingly taken her cast off child, now a handsome young northern lord, as a lover. From that brief, ill-fated union of Sir Robert of Locksley and Eleanor of Aquitaine had come a yet another unwanted babe; a boy child born of incest, innocence and foolish folly --- a child soon handed over by Sir Robert to his bowmaker and forester, Thomas Bowman and his good wife, to raise as their own son in a small cottage on the edge of Sherwood Forest.

Sir Robert, the seventh Lord of Locksley Hall, was now dead, but his unclaimed, unaware bastard son still lived. Robin now stood on the abbey roof, longbow in hand, looking down on the man that had already killed Thomas Bowman, the only father he knew and had now just slain Sir Robert, his real father that he still was unaware of.

And so the tangle that was our lives

took on yet another twist as the following tragedy unfolded.

Sir Guy yanked his sword free of Sir Robert's neck, booted the body aside, pointed the blood slick blade at Marian and yelled: "Kill them all, but bring me the girl NOW!"

The sheriff was the only one who did not surge forward. Instead Sir Gaston followed his uncle to their horses. Once mounted, both men watched Hurcule Beaumont set about to earn his pay.

Sir Hurcule, his dagger now replaced by his gleaming sword, led the men-at-arms directly at Little John, Marian and myself. She and I both had our knives out and John his staff ready when the fist two arrows struck. The first one hit Sir Hurcule squarely in his breastplate and bounced off while the second arrow took a man-of- arms in the mouth. High pitched screaming began then and everywhere was movement and flashing blades. More arrows zipped by, close enough to feel their breeze as they passed. John had cracked open one skull and was beating down a second soldier. Marian had blood on her face and dagger! I saw the burly Sir Hurcule still striding directly towards her, his cheek and nose scared from where the sheriff's falcon had scratched just before taking out his eye. Scared and one-eyed as he was, the huge knight steadily advanced on us, brushing the aged squire Hobs away as though he were a pesky fly. Beaumont's paw-like hand reached out for Marian and I stabbed upwards with my knife. It was a good thrust, hard and quick, but the point grated off the man's steel breastplate just as Robin's arrow had done. Then, as though I were Hobs' twin, the large knight battered me aside as well.

Landing in a heap in the muddy road, I heard Marian scream. Scrambling to my feet I drew my second dagger and prepared to launch myself at her attacker --- but good old Tuck had already beat me to it! Using a iron mace that had magically appeared from the fold's of his friarly robes, he began to bash and batter Sir Hurcule about the helmet and chest.

More arrows flew; more blades flashed; more men screamed and more men fell. Glancing towards the two mounted men, I saw that Sir Guy had an arrow in his left thigh and as I watched a second one suddenly sprouted from the mail shirt covering his upper right arm. His hand must have jerked with the pain for his sword fell to the muddy road. He just managed to raise his shield in time to stop a third arrow from hitting him in the face.

"Gaston!" Sir Guy yelled. "Get the girl and bring her to me!"

As he spoke a fourth arrow once again glanced off his breastplate and a fifth one sank into the flank of his mount. The horse had been draped with a thick quilt bearing the baron's colors and so was not a mortal wound, but more than enough to cause the frightened animal to bolt back down the road, with its arrow-shot rider clinging tightly to the saddle. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Tuck and Sir Hurcule down in the mud grappling like two wrestling bears. The one eyed knight managed to shove the friar away and get to his horse. Leaving his dead and dying men behind, he fled back down the muddy road after his employer. An arrow sped after the fleeing knight, striking him high in the left back shoulder. The arrow did not bounce off, though the armour may have stopped any deep penetration.

'Robin!' I thought with a smile. 'Or Much. Or both!' The pair of them were by far the best shots in Sherwood; far better than either John or myself. Marian though, when she stayed calm and unfrazled, was an even better shot than both of them! But neither Marian nor I had any time to archery just then, for the sheriff, Sir Gaston, his visor down and his sword draw, was spurring his mount directly at us! Two more arrows flashed out to meet him, however one struck his raised shield and another merely grazed his helm.

Then John was suddenly standing in front of us; tall as a tree he looked, though not as tall as the sheriff sitting atop his fancy charger. Up swept John's thick staff; down swept the sheriff's gleaming sword, 'crack' went the hard wood against harder steel, and John found himself holding a two foot stick instead of an eight foot pole. The next instant the tall youth was bowled over by Sir Gaston's horse, which came skidding to a muddy halt between Marian and myself.

The sheriff, in a move that would have won him first prize in any tournament in the land, leaned down to the left and scooped Marian off her feet and flung her over the front of his saddle like a freshly killed doe; then, as he spun his wide-eyed mount around in the mud, he backhanded me with the hilt of his sword just as I went to hamstring his horse in an effort to bring the beast to its knees. The pommel of his sword struck me in the pit of my stomach and I both felt and heard the wind 'whoosh' out of me. As I fell retching to the ground I saw the sheriff's terrified mount lash out with its hind leg and catch John a glancing blow on his hip --- which sent him sprawling in the mud only a yard or so away from where I lay gasping for breath. Through tears born of frustration I saw Sir Gaston's mount carry a kicking and screaming Marian down the road that Sir Guy had just taken.

A moment later I was aware that Much beside me with a strange look on his already strange face. Though he never actually said it, I later realized that it was worry, for he thought that John and I might have been killed. Robin however stood in the muddy road watching the sheriff's horse until it faded from sight. He then turned to us and frowned. "Well, are you coming or not?!"

He spoke with a voice that I had never heard him use before. So dark and deadly was it that I was suddenly very glad that I was not Sir Guy of Gisbourn, the Baron of Nottingham or any of his kith, kin, or hired help, for the look in Robin's eyes spoke volumes, though his next words made it all crystol clear.

"We're going to get Marian back --- and we're going to kill everyone and everything that stands in our way!"

***
Chapter 6: 'Beyond the Pale'

That night in

the stables of

Castle Gisbourn

"Are you sure she's in there?" John asked as he absently rubbing the bruised spot on his leg where the sheriff's mount had kicked him.

"For Christ sake, John! We tracked the bastards back here didn't we?!" I snarled, more angry with the situation than my large friend's thick headedness.

"I know that, Cut Purse!" he growled back. "What I mean is how the hell do we get her out of there. After all, it is a bloody castle!"

"We need a distraction," Much said from the stable doorway 'A big one."

Robin walked over and took down the softly glowing oil lantern from a beam. "Gather as many of these as you can find. We're going to burn the place down."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Robin!" Tuck exclaimed. "Marian's will be trapped inside with the rest of them!"

"Not if I get her out first," he replied coldly, using that same dead voice he had used earlier. "I'll meet you by the stone bridge over the river as soon as I can. Set fire to all these out-buildings. Use fire arrows to reach the thatched roofs. Start with the soldier's barracks and work your way back outwards to the river. Make sure you fire the barn, corn-crib, hayloft, even these stables."

"Jesus Christ, Robin!" John exclaimed. "The animals!"

Robin frowned. "The bloody animals will be the first thing the bastards try to save --- each one of them costs a chest or two of silver. Gisbourn's charger alone is worth a king's ransom! Besides, what's a few horses compared to Marian's life?!"

Into the stunned silence he spoke again. "Will, you're coming with me. Bring a lantern and your knife. We'll have need of both."

"Me?" I stammered. "Go inside with you? Wouldn't John or Much or Tuck ---?"

"Aren't you the one who is always saying how bloody 'quick, fast and nimble' you are? Well, here's you chance to prove it! Besides, the others are needed out here to start the fires and John has to get the horses ready."

"Horses?" John repeated.

"Yes, John! Bloody horses!" Robin shot back. "Or would you rather saunter down the bloody road whistling a merry tune?!"

John hung his head. "Sorry, Rob, I didn't think it through."

"Well it's about time that you bloody well did! All of us have to --- or we'll end up dead like that poor girl or Sir Robert or my father --- for mark my words, all of you --- after tonight we'll be branded outlaws! Murderers with a price on our heads! Everyman's hand will be turned against us, and the only way we'll not end of twisting in the wind is if we use our bloody heads! So, Will, get that lantern lit and come with me! Tuck, John and Much gather you lanterns and go. Much, Marian and I will meet you by the river bridge as soon as we can --- and remember, kill anyone that tries to stop you."

Tuck held back as the rest went off to gather lanterns "How long should we wait by the bridge, Robin.? Once the fire gets going people will start to gather. The bridge might get a bit crowded."

Robin thought for a moment, then nodded. "I'm glad, friar, that someone's thinking straight! What about meeting at Gallows Oak?"

"Where's that?" Tuck asked.

" Just inside Sherwood behind Much's father's old mill."

Tuck nodded. "There'll be no 'crowds' there?"

"Not till there's a hanging," Much grinned from the doorway, the golden flecks in his pale green eyes were dancing in the lantern's light. "Then people gather like flies on shit."

Despite himself, a ghost of a smile flitted across Robin's face. "So its Gallows Oak, not the bridge."

"Again, Robin --- how long do we wait." Tuck asked

"If we're not there by dawn, the three of you make your way to the old bear's cave up on the Barnsdale side of Sherwood. Stay there for a few days, then Tuck, you go into town alone for news. But don't worry, friar --- well meet you before dawn."

Tucks face formed a broad smile. "Oh, I'm not worried, Robin. In fact, I'm having the time of my life!"

***

The baron, stripped gown to his bloody shift, was sitting in a throne-like chair surrounded by candles and fawning servants. He was doing his best to ignore the pain while his house physician stitched up the arrow wound in his left thigh. At the same time the physician's assistant slowly teased the arrow out of the baron's upper right arm. "God's Teeth, man, get on with it, for Christ's sake!"

The assistant, sweating, and not from the heat in the room, mopped his brow with his filthy sleeve, then went back to gently pulling at the protruding arrow. "I fear, my lord, that the head is lodged in the upper muscle. I think it best if it is gently cut out."

Sir Guy emptied his cup, tossed it aside, pushed the startled man away and grabbed the base of the shaft with his left hand. "And I think it best if the goddamned thing is pulled out NOW!"

With a grunt, followed closely by a wet sucking sound, the arrow came free, the 'bodkin' or needle like point glistened in the candlelight. Sir Guy tossed it to the assistant. "Here, put that on that table over there with the other weapons and then get out."

The sheriff had delivered Marian as his uncle had ordered and she was now gagged and tied to a chair in Sir Guy's bedroom one floor above. The sheriff, his mood as black as the moonless night outside, now sat drinking one cup of wine after another.

Beaumont, holding a wet towel to his ear where Tuck had hit him, looked at the assortment of weapons on the table where the assistant had placed the arrow. On each knife, sword and spearhead there was dried blood. "Jesus Christ, my lord, you keep trophies of each time you were nearly killed?!"

The baron nodded, then winced as the physician tied a knot in the catgut, bit it off with his rotting teeth, stuck the bone needle in the bloody sleeve of his bloody robe and poured vinegar over the baron's wounded thigh.

"AAAHHHHH! Christ on His bloody Cross but that stings!"

Sir Guy sucked in air while the vinegar fizzed and bubbled away. After several deep breaths he slipped his arms carefully into a brocaded robe held out by yet another silent servant, then turned to Sir Hurcule. "I keep them, Beaumont, as a reminder of the mortality of the flesh. That sooner or later all that we have and hold dear, will one day be gone. Ashes to ashes and all that shit."

"Do you smell smoke?!" the sheriff asked, putting down his glass of wine and heading for the arrow slit that doubled as a window All three men were in Sir Guys 'special room' on the second highest level of Falcon's Rest, the ancestral home of the Gisbourns for five generations. The walls and floor were covered with rare and exotic rugs, paintings, masks, tapestries , maps and weapons from all over the known and not-so-well-know world.

"What I'd like to see burning was that fucking friar that hit me with that bloody mace!" Sir Hurcule growled, downing his cup of wine and pouring another. The right side of his face was all bloody and the lower part of his ear was missing. Blood dripped off it and stained the huge white skin of a Siberian wolf that he was standing on with his muddy boots.

"No! It really is afire!" Sir Gaston cried from over by the arrow slit. "Down there! The barn's all ablaze!"

Just then the castle alarm bell started to ring. Within moments servants, retainers and men-at-arms were milling madly about like ants. Voices were shouting and more bells began to ringing. A horse whinnied in fear, then another.

"The stables!" Sir Guy suddenly yelled. "My Christ, the stables! Save my horses!"

The three men rushed out of the room and down the circular stairs, passing within a sword's length of two crouching forms hidden in the shadows. Robin stepped out into the light, followed closely by myself. I had my best dagger in my hand and Robin had Sir Guy's sword that he had dropped when Robin placed his arrow in the baron's shoulder.

"Quick Will , search in the room they just left! "I'll check the one up above!" With that he was gone up the circular stone steps. I quickly saw that Marian wasn't in the large trophy room and was helping myself to my second gulped cup of wine when the two of them stood in the doorway.

"We can celebrate later, Cut Purse," Marian scolded me. "Right now we'd best be going!"

The two of them started back down the stair. I quickly followed, but not before I slipped a fancy silver dagger into my belt and grabbed the bottle.

***

The others were all waiting at Gallows Oak; John had horses saddled and ready for all of us and had though to bring both fodder for the animals and several sacks of food he'd quickly stolen from the kitchen in all the confusion caused by the fires. I vowed then and there never to tease him about being 'a bid dumb oaf' again --- well, almost never.

Two days later we had made our way to Bear's Cave on the northern side of Sherwood and there we stayed for another long, tedious week. Robin had sent Tuck and myself into Barnsdale to hear what news may have reached the northern part of the shire of the event to the south in Nottingham. The news we came back with shocked all of us to the core! Not only were we wanted for fire and theft, but the murder of Sir Richard Locksley of Locksley Hall! Parchments like the one below had been nailed up all over the shire!

### Here ye, Hear ye!

100 Silver Marks Reward!

Murder Most Foul has been done to

Sir Robert of Locksley Hall

and others in his employ.

Let it be known that the following felons are wanted for

arson, rape, kidnapping & murder.

Robin Bowman of Sherwood & John Little of Barnsdale,

Much Miller & Friar Tuck of Locksley Hall

Will Scarlet of Nottingham

100 silver marks for the capture dead or alive, of any of the above.

Marian Fitzwalter, Sir Robert's ward,

is missing & presumed either taken or dead.

By order of the Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham

Sir Gaston Gisbourn

***

We were at a loss about what to do next. Robin had warned us that we'd be probably be blamed for some of this mess, but we all believed that once the truth came out about the young girl's rape and murder, the cowardly killing of Sir Robert and Marian's abduction, it would be Sir Guy that would be brought to justice, not us!

What great fools we all were to expect that the rich and the powerful Sir Guy of Gisbourn, Baron of Nottingham and High Lord Constable of the Northern Shires, would ever be held accountable for anything!

Sitting here now all these years later, with old Tuck writing down my ramblings, I still see us as we were back then: young, hopeful and innocent of the wicked ways of the world. What glorious, naive young idiots we all were!

Marian wanted to go back to Locksley Hall, burry her uncle and charge Sir Guy and the others with murder.

Both Robin and Much wanted to stay in Sherwood and live off the land till things calmed down.

John surprised us when he suggested that we all head north up to Scotland. It seems he had an uncle up in some place called Inverness somewhere that he'd never seen but that 'might' take them all in. We quickly ruled Scotland out, or at least his never-before-seen uncle.

As for me, I just wanted to use my shiny new dagger on Sir Guy and whoever else Marian wanted dead.

Tuck alone among us strongly believed that both the laws of the land and the harsh, often unfair way the world actually worked were against us. Reluctantly the good friar suggested that we not only leave Locksley Hall and Sherwood behind, but England as well.

So after much debate we finally decided that the only safe thing to do was to follow Tuck'sadvice and leave England completely, at least for a year or two, until things had moved on. The only problem now was where should we go? None of us except for Marian and Tuck had ever been twenty miles away from Sherwood in our lives!

"Well I'm not going to bloody Scotland!" Much had said stubbornly. "All the men there wear dresses and the only thing they eat is seaweed and boiled bloody oats!"

"And just how would you be knowing that, my misshapen little man?" John had demanded, put off that his Scottish heritage had been so ungraciously maligned.

(See, Gentle Reader, I told you that Tuck was highly book-learned,

and rarely uses a simple word when a fancy one can be employed!)

"Because", Much had replied, "my mother's sister was married to a great hairy Scot for many a year before the kilted fool was hanged stealing cattle from some English lord. The old woman was destitute so my mother, saint that she was, took her in. --- and a meaner, nastier sharp-tongue old hag you'd have to search hard to find! Sucked on seaweed night and day, when she wasn't swatting us kids with her cane or boiling her bloody oats!"

So Scotland was out, as were most other countries. In 1188 England was at war with most of the kingdoms in Europe, though there had been talk of a treaty between Henry of England and Philip of France so that they could sail off to the Holy Land together and kill Muslims.

"We could," Tuck quietly suggest one day, "join the crusade. Both the Pope and the king have sworn to absolve all that willingly take the cross from any crimes that they may have committed. That way, when we return, guilty or not, the law can't touch us!"

"And you believe that, Tuck?" Robin had demanded. That cold, hard tone was in his voice again --- as it was most the time since the murder of his father.

"I believe, Robin," Tuck had replied," that having sworn to do so publically, neither man, the pope or the king, can change his mind and still hope t be taken seriously ever again. So yes, if we go on crusade, when we return the slate will be wiped clean, in the eyes of the church, the state, and more importantly, in the eyes of the Lord Himself."

"You surprise me, friar," I remember Much commenting.

"How so, Master Much?" Tuck had asked.

"I would have though that, given you often stated rather unorthodox 'religious affiliations'," Much had grinned, the lights in his eyes all adance; "You would have been more on the cynical side with regards to God's Sacred Call to free the Holy Land. For, I must admit, good friar, that your last remark sounds as though it came from the lips of your predecessor, the rather narrow minded Father Ignatius."

(Much was our 'deep thinker' in the group, and though a very down to earth and practical man in most respects, he was still prone to ponder the many philosophies of mankind.)

Tuck had smiled at the hunchbacked lad with the razor-sharp mind. "Never having met this priest, I cannot honestly say how my thoughts and beliefs align with his, however if you are asking me do I think that God, the Creator of All Life, either wants these ridiculous crusades or enjoys it when men kill each other in His name, then my answer is most emphatically no I do not! Do I think that we, in our present situation can USE the crusade as a means of escaping the cruel and unfair clutches of Sir Guy and his ilk, then I emphatically agree."

"So," John said, scratching the mop of tangled hair on his large head and summing up most of our thoughts. "If you two 'philosophers' are finished shovelling shit, are we off to the bloody Holy Land or not?"

Laughter suddenly broke out in that shadow filled cave, and for a brief, bright moment, we all were happy again.

***
ACT TWO  
'Watts' Company of Archers'

1190-1191

England, France & Italy

Painting by N.C. Wyeth
Chapter 7: 'Band of Bastards'

1190

Early Spring

A tavern outside

Lincoln, England

"So you lot want to join Watt's Company, do you?"

"We do, sergeant," Robin replied.

"Want to free the bloody Holy Land from the godless infidel do you?"

"We want to eat, sergeant, and we want to fight."

"Why?" the hard looking man demanded.

Robin shrugged, doing his best to look 'worldly'. "It beats shovelling shit."

The hard man laughed, as did the other two hard men sitting with him. They were in a tavern on the outskirts of Lincoln, recruiting likely looking lads for the newly crowned King Richard's Third Crusade. Richard's father, Henry II, had recently died and his eldest son had wasted little time in donning the crown. Richard's first act as 'king' was to free his mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, from the Tower of London where his father had held her prisoner for the last sixteen years. Richard's second act was to drastically raise taxes to pay for his holy war. Watt's Company was just one of hundreds that were out scowering the land looking for archers and fighting men to swell the growing ranks of the Lionheart's army.

"You here that, Nate? This pretty boy here is tired of shovelling shit and shagging Mary the Milk-Maid, so him and his friends here want a free trip to the Holy Land!"

"Is that it, Pretty Boy?" the one called Nat asked with a mocking smile. "You and your sheep-shaggers want a free boat ride to far off exotic shores? Maybe shag a dusky skinned princess or two on the way? Come back a hero with a chest full of gold and a bag full of lies to tell the other sheep- shaggers down at the pub? Is that what you want, Pretty Boy?!"

Robin's smile never left his face, but his voice became the low, cold one I had heard the day Sir Robert was killed and Marian was kidnapped. "What I want, Fuck-Face, is for you to call me by my name, which is Robert Wood, not Pretty Boy --- though I thank you kindly for the comment."

The three hard men at the table and the several other hard men sitting close by all went silent. I glanced over at Much leaning casually on his longbow and saw that the twisted hunchback was trying not to laugh. John was frowning at everyone and gripping his staff like it was a chicken that needed its neck wrung. Tuck, still in his friar's robes, but now sporting a swordbelt, breastplate and a staff almost as long as John's, stood back smiling, though his eyes never stopped watching the room. Marian, now disguised as a boy named Mark, frowned fiercely from beneath her short cropped hair and floppy felt hat. She was dressed the same as the rest of us; in dirty wool and leathers, bits and pieces of mail and armour we had 'picked up' in our travels along with a collection of knives, daggers, swords and bows. Wrapped in rags to hide both their beauty and value were two finely crafted swords, each one worth more than the sergeant and his entire company made in a year of selling their own poorly made blades. One was Sir Guy's sword that he had dropped when Robin's arrow hit his shoulder Robin and the other was Sir Robert's sword, a family heirloom that had been passed down from one Lord of Locksley Hall to another.

After several heartbeats, the one called Nate started to rise --- but the sergeant waved him back down. "Brave words, lad; and bravely spoke as well! Not in childish anger nor drunken bravado --- but calm and cool like a real fighting man." The sergeant took a drink from his tankard and wiped the beer's foam from his beard with the back of his hand. "What I'm wondering is, lad --- do you have the balls to back them up?"

Robin, knowing there was only one way he could go, leaned closer and smiled. "Lets step outside and find out."

'Shit!' I thought. 'Here we go again!'

In the two months since leaving our cave in Sherwood we had traveled southwards in a roundabout path towards London --- for London was where the ships for the Holy Land would be leaving from. On the long way there Robin had come up with the idea that the former master-of-arms, should teach all four of us, including the short haired red-headed lad named 'Mark', all he could about hand to hand combat. Tuck readily agreed.

At the start it had sounded like a great idea. It would help pass the weary miles and liven up our camps --- but as the lumps, bumps and bruises piled up and the sore ribs, muscles and pride continued to take a daily beating, I for one was not so bloody sure! Probably because I was still the smallest of the lot. Even Marian was taller than I was and had taken to the use of a light shortsword and small buckler like a seasoned trooper! Much, for all his misshapen form was still larger, stronger and better skilled with a staff and sword than me. My one saving grace was with knives. Before I had bragged about being 'quick, fast and nimble', but under Tuck's tutelage I truly became so! He showed me how to use my small size as an advantage to slip in close under a swordsman's reach and gut the bastard! Showed me the vulnerable spots in mail and armour and gave me a confidence that I had never had before. Also, the good friar taught me how to throw the buggers! So good did I get and in such a short time that I took to wearing four of them at once --- two for throwing and two for hand to hand fighting. Still being young and foolish however, I'm sure my newfound 'confidence' seemed like puffed up arrogance to the others.

"Well corporal?" the sergeant asked the glowering man beside him. "Are you up to taking this likely lad outside and teaching him to respect his elders, or do you need another drink first?"

"Sod off, sergeant!" Nate growled, rising to his feet. "Let's go, Pretty Boy! When I'm through with you the girls will run away in fear!"

"Like they do with you?" Robin shot back.

Nate growled and headed for the tavern door. Most of the tavern emptied out into the muddy street to see the fight, all the rest of our merry band as well!

"Now there's to be no bloodletting!" the sergeant warned the two combatants. "This is to be a friendly match of strength and skill. Hands and feet only. And no bloody biting! Either man draws a blade will have to deal with me! Clear?!"

"As mud, sergeant", Robin quipped back. It was a trait of his that I'd marked many times over the years --- he developed a teasing tongue whenever facing an opponent. Tuck told me it was a good way to rouse your opponent and causing him to make a foolish move in anger. I just thought Robin enjoyed being a smart-ass.

Now if this was a ballad made up by those wandering minstrels like Alan had been before we set him straight, the story of the fight would have probably gone something like this, accompanied by lute, flute and a pain-in-the-ass tambourine!

Bold Robin & the Archery Sergeant

Bold Robin & his men so merry,

Strode in-to Lincoln town.

And with John the Giant & Much the Troll,

In a tavern they did sit down.

Marian, now 'Mark', with her red hair cropped,

Into the tavern went.

And with Tuck the Friar and Cut-Purse Will,

Met a sergeant whose anger did vent.

'Pretty Lad', says the sergeant to fair Robin.

'Come join my fine bowmen all!

But first we must see, if it's you or it's me

Whose arrow the closest will fall!'

The sergeant's shaft flew truly,

And he missed by less than a hand.

But Robin's, Bold Robin's struck closer!

For he's the best damned shot in the land!

'I doft my cap to thee, Robin,

And will challenge you never again!

For tis you and not me, the leader should be,

Of these archers, your bold merry men!'  
***

What really happened of course was that 'Bold Robin' got the shit kicked out of him.

Oh, he gave almost as good as he got, and the two men were muddy, bloody and bruised when it was over, but Nate, a corporal not a sergeant, and with ten years more experienced and outweighing Robin by a stone, cracked the lads rib and gave him a scar over his right eye that he carried for the rest of his days. Nate had a broken nose and lost a tooth to a vicious elbow strike that Tuck had taught us all, but in the end it was the corporal standing and not the young archer from Sherwood.

"Stay down lad," Nate said after he had knocked Robin down for the third time. "For I'll admit that you're a game young cock and well worthy of joining our merry band of bastard! But for Christ's sake, lad, stay the fuck down!"

"Enough, the pair of you!" the sergeant bellowed, stepping forward and offering Robin his hand. "You'll do, Robert Wood, you'll do just fine. Come, have a drink and then we'll see who can pull a sting and who can lift a blade ,but if the rest of your bunch is half as game as you, then they'll bloody well do as well!"

So we all traipsed back into the tavern, sloshed down several pints of bitter beer, then went back outside for the rest out our initiation into Watt's Company of Archers.

First came a shooting contest, with Much and Marian shooting against two of the company. The target was a shoemaker's sign about fifty yards down the muddy road. The sign was swinging lightly in the breeze above the shop's door, with a red boot painted on a dirty white background. All four shooters hit the sign, but it was Marian's arrow that hit the boot dead center.

"God's great dick, lad! But that was a well placed shaft!" the sergeant, Thaddeus Tully by name, exclaimed, whacking Marian on her back hard enough to rattle her teeth and win the sergeant an angry, green-eyed frown. "And you a thin wisp of a thing no stronger looking than a blushing maiden! Do it again lad and I'll buy the next bloody round!"

THWACK! Marian's second arrow landed alongside her first!

"Jesus Christ on his crutch, lad, but you are a marvel!" Sergeant Tully roared. "Who in God's green earth taught you to shoot like that?!"

Marian, keeping her voice low, nodded at Robin sitting off to the side with a bloody face and all covered with mud. "My older brother Rob – the one your man kept knocking down."

Nate Summers, the corporal that had done all the 'knocking down', rinsed his mouth out with beer and tapped Robin on his shoulder: "Your brother's good up close, but how is he at distance shots?"

Robin shrugged. "Name the target and let's see."

Nate looked around for something far away to shoot at. "How about that barn door out there in that field? Must be a good hundred yards or so."

"More like one thirty," Robin said, wincing from the sore rib he got when Nate had kicked him.

"You brother against one of ours? Three arrows apiece. The most hits wins?"

Robin looked over at Marian. "What do you say, little brother? Can you hit that wee door way out there?"

"Probably," Marian replied, eyeing the door and checking the direction of the wind. "Once at least. Maybe twice."

"Twice is it, lad?!" Sergeant Tully grinned. I noticed then that he was missing a few teeth of his own. "By Christ lad, I'll tell you true! Even I would be hard pressed to hit that bloody door once at that distance! You sink two shafts in yonder port and I'll sign you up here and now for three years at pay and a half and I'll make you a bloody corporal to boot!"

"I'll take the money," Marian replied, "but give the promotion to my big brother Rob."

"Care to make a little wager on this, big brother?' Nate asked Robin.

Robin shrugged again. "Don't have any coin, friend."

Nate looked over at the six mounts the rag-tag strangers had rode in on. "You got six mounts. They look about done in, but I'll put up five silver stags against that big black that your baby brother can't put two shafts in that door. What do you say?"

Robin smiled. "Make it ten and you've got a deal."

Nate frowned and spit more blood. "I'll go seven."

Robin's gin widened. "How about nine?"

"How about eight?" the large corporal said, matching Robin's grin.

"Done!" the muddy youth said, shaking the big man's hand.

"Mind if I get in on this?" Much asked.

Sergeant Tully looked sideways at the odd looking hunch back "You want to bet or shoot?"

Much's strange eyes were all atwinkle. "Both."

"Shit!" Tully replied. "You going to bet your horse too?"

Much reached into the folds of his tunic and brought out a fancy looking dagger he'd taken off a thief that had been foolish enough to try and rob us a week or so ago. Everyone there strained to see the fine workmanship. It was a 'rondel', a wicked piece of French work with a triangular blade meant not for cutting, but for piercing. The idea was to place the point in a joint between the enemy's armour and hammer your fist or palm down on the overlarge pommel. A truly nasty little beauty indeed --- and every mother's son there wanted it!

"What do you want for it?" Tully asked.

"Pay and a half for all of us, just like you offered young Mark here."

"You want to be a corporal too?" the sergeant asked, a hint of laughter in his rough voice.

"Hell no!" Much quipped back. "I want to be a sergeant like you!"

This time Tully laughed out loud. "I'll go for the first part, lad, but as for the second, you'll have to work your way up to that!"

"Fair enough," Much said. "But you pay for dinner as well as the beer.

"Christ on his crutch, but the lot of you are a cheeky bunch! Done and done again!"

"Here then, you hold the stakes." Much flipped the dagger over, caught it by the its silver-blue blade and handed it to the sergeant. "Now, let's get to it."

The four archers prepared to shoot at the far off target.

Their first flight produced three hits on the barn and only one in the door --- Marian's.

After two more flights the score was all tied up with one arrow from each in the door, though both Marian's and Much's were closer to the center.

One arrow each still to go.

The first company man shot first and missed, but not by much, having hit the wall just beside the door. Swearing he turned away.

Marian was up next. She drew, held and loosed as Robin had taught her. We all watched as her last arrow arced up through the spring sunshine and landed close to the company man's, but on the inside, and so hit the edge of the door and was counted a hit. The men watching mumbled and grumbled, but Sergeant Tully frowned at them and all went quiet.

The second company man stepped up to shoot. He was of average size, except for his shoulders. Years of pulling a bow had broadened him considerably. His shaft hit low and to one side, but clearly in the door. The watching crowd let out a yell and stepped forward to congratulate the shooter.

"Back off, you bastards!" the sergeant bellowed. 'The hunchback still has to shoot!"

Muttering, they gave Much room.

The twisted little man glanced around, wet his finger to test the wind, smiled and drew. It was a smooth, almost effortless draw, all the way back to his misshapen ear. There was no real 'aiming', just the 'feel' of the bow and the 'willing' of the arrow to go where you looked. After all these years I have never really leaned that knack --- but Much seemed to have been born with it, for what he lacked in looks he more than made up for in skill.

He let his gnarled fingers slip off the string. There flowed a 'wooshing' sound as the arrow, moving like a snake through the air, swam towards the distant door. While still in flight Much turned to the sergeant and took back his dagger --- already knowing his prize was well won.

THWACK.

His clothyard shaft struck the door dead center --- just as he knew it would.

There followed a moment of stunned silence --- then the shouting began. Most of it, I must say, was those rough and ready men happy to have witnessed such a fine shot --- despite the fact that over half of them had lost their wagers. Much and Marian were congratulated, backslapped and bought drinks for some time to come. All contests were declared over for now and the feasting was to begin, for though they were hard and brutal men of war, they were also a true band of brothers and boon companions for us weary travelers so long on the road.

Finally, we had found a safe haven --- at least for a while --- for we were all on our way to bloody war.

***

Painting by NC Wyeth

What about the good friar's testing and that of myself? Well, that came soon enough, but in a rather offhand way. Over the next few days as we settled into Watt's Company of Archers, we were given a 'uniform' of sorts ---- a thick, quilted jacket called a gambleson made of many layers of linen to absorb any blows. Next came a short sleeved coat of mail that was surprisingly light and well made and came to mid thigh on everyone but Tuck, John and myself. With them it stopped just below the belt and with me it reached down to my knees. Over the mail we were given an off-white surcoat that we slipped over our head and it hung down front and back. It was emblazoned with a gaudy reddish-orange prancing lion --- the new symbol that our newly crowned king had adopted as his own --- and since it was Richard the Lionheart who was paying all the bills, we gladly ---and proudly, wore his colors. The surcoat was belted and a serviceable shortsword and dagger were hung from it.

Oh yes, and arrows of all kinds. There was target points, broadheads and hundreds and hundreds of bodkins, the narrow hardened metal needle points for punching through mail and plate and killing knights. Around steel helm topped off our gear and each day for a week we marched in formation, spared with sword and dagger, and shot at various targets --- all this between lengthy, noisy and rowdy bouts of eating and drinking!

I never had so much fun in my life!

The fun, of course, was short-lived, for soon Sergeant Tully informed us all that on the morrow we were heading south to London, where we would soon board ship and head for Outramere, the fashionable French word for the bloody Holy Land where we would get the chance to kill godless Muslims for king, country and a ticket straight to heaven.

***
Chapter 8: 'A Little Business on the Side'

1190

Springtime

The road to London

The march down to London had been one long half-drunken party, complete with a knife fight with a local in Witting and an irate father and his deflowered daughter in Newcomb. Sergeant Tully did have us stop and do a little 'business on the side' for one of the local lords as well. As it turned out, Captain Watts, our as yet absent leader, was not above 'renting out' the services of half a hundred bowmen to various lords and nobles --- providing of course, that the price was right. It seemed that a certain Lord Percy Smyth had both a grudge to settle and more than enough coin to meet Watts' price.

"What do you mean there shouldn't be too much killing?!" Marian demanded.

Robin held up his hands and searched for the right words to calm her. So far the ones he'd found seemed to be having the opposite effect. "Probably none at all. Just a few warning shots. Maybe a flesh wound or two. Nothing serious."

"Nothing serious?!" Marian demanded. "What the hell do you call serious then?! Cold blooded murder as well as theft?!"

"Sergeant Tully would never let it go that far!" Robin said, inwardly feeling uneasy about the whole thing himself. "You remember how he fined Wilt for taking a villager's pig last week and not paying for it? Besides, he tells me that there will only be a few guards on the wagon and that they'll probably either give up or run away as soon as they see us."

"Probably!" she repeated, her sea-green eyes flashing. "And what if they don't just give up or run away?! What if they fight?!"

Robin frowned. "Then we take them, one way or the other."

Marian returned his frown, then turned and walked away. John and I pretended not to have been listening, but when she was gone, we walked over to Robin.

"Tell me again, Robin" John asked; "Why we are stealing this wagon?"

"I've told you twice already, John!" the irritation was clear in his voice. "Sergeant Tully got a letter from Captain Watts. We're to capture a wagon of tax money and take it to Sir Percy Smyth's castle."

John and I looked at each other. Robin was our leader. He was brave, honest and loyal. He was quick with a laugh or a joke and could read and write and use big words (thanks to Marian), but he was way too damn trusting of people! Now me, being dragged up in the slums of Nottingham, with a whore for a mother and thieves and pick-pockets for friends, a fella learns real fast that talk is the one thing in life that's cheap. Everyone lies and everyone breaks their word --- even if they meant to when they gave it.

With Robin it was different. He didn't lie and he didn't break his word. Never. I believe he got that from his father, a man you could count on no matter what. Good men the pair of them --- the problem that was they expected other men to be the same. And you and I both know, Gentle Reader, that there's many a man that would lie to your face and stab you in the back for a few copper pennies!

"Robin, you're just too damn trusting!" I said. Out of the corner of my eye I saw John nodding agreement. "Who the hell is this Sir Percy character?! And why would Captain Watts, who, by the way, we aint never even seen! Why would he send Tully a letter to capture some tax wagon full of the King's coin and have us take it to some fella's castle we aint ever heard of?!"

"Cut-Purse's right on this one, Rob," John put in. "Don't smell too good to me."

Robin was silent for several heartbeats, then he turned to Much who had been sitting on a log sharpening that fancy French dagger of his. "Well, Much, I've heard from the other three. Might as well hear your take on things as well. You think that this little wagon capturing adventure smells rotten?"

Much took his time answering, cleaning the triangular blade on his already muddy surcoat . "Looks to me, Rob, that we have two choices. Either we go along with the rest and help take this wagon, or we leave the company."

"Leave?" said John. "But we're heading to the Holy Land to save --- something. Anyway, were getting the hell out of England for a spell. If we quit the company, how we going to get on board that ship?!"

"We could find another company. Find another ship," I put in.

Much shook his head. "Jesus Christ, Will, face the facts. We were lucky that these tough bunch of misfits took us in --- six odd looking 'lads on the run'! With our names and descriptions on wanted posters nailed up on every signpost and church door in the country!? I mean, just look at us!" A giant, a hunchback dwarf, a skinny thief, a scarred bear of a friar, a tall 'boy' that any half blind fool can see is a girl and you, Robin --- probably the most 'normal' looking one --- and the most well known!"

"Me?!" Robin said. 'What makes you say that I'm well known?"

Much shook his shaggy head. "Christ on His cross, but you can be as thick as John sometimes! Didn't you win the archery contests the last two years running at Nottingham, Lincoln and Barnsdale? Hell, Rob, you face is better known in these parts than the king's."

John scratched his head, unsure if he had just received a compliment or not. "I aint never seen the king nor his face, but lots of folks know Robin's and that's a fact!"

"What did you mean that any half blind fool can tell that Marian's a girl?" I demanded, ignoring all the talk about wanted posters and archery contests. "We all call her 'Mark' and she dresses like the rest of us!"

Much shook his head again. "I swear, the three of you are as thick as posts! It's a bloody wonder that we aren't all twisting in the wind by now! She may dress like us, but she walks, talks and even smells like a girl! When the rest of us need to take a piss we just stop and water the bloody roses, but 'Mark' heads off into the woods."

"Well," I said, 'everyone will just think he's taking a dump?!"

"Who do you know that shits six or seven times a day?" Much turned to Tuck who had just joined us.

"What's wrong with Marian" he asked. "I just passed her and she looked madder than a hive of kicked hornets."

I ignored his question and shot out one of my own. "Tuck, do you think that Marian looks like a girl?! I mean, can you see that she's a girl in disguise?"

Tuck stroked his considerable beard. "Well now, that depends. From a distance, when she's marching along with the rest of the company she fits right in."

"But what about up close?!" I demanded." What about the rest of these lads?! Are any of them suspicious?!"

Tuck's toothy smile showed through his thick beard. "Why, by now I imagine the entire company knows that she a girl --- and what's more, I also imagine that about half of them are already in love with her."

That got us going for sure! I think it even took Much by surprise!

"Who's in love with Marian?!" both Robin and myself demanded at the same time. We looked at each other and frowned, then turned back to Tuck.

The large friar shrugged. "Nate Summers for one. Wilt Williams for another."

"The fella that stole the pig the other day?" I asked.

"Who do you think he stole it for?" Tuck asked. "We all ate it, but Wilt made sure that Marian was served first and that she got as much as she wanted."

"I thought he was acting a little funny around her," I grumbled, "but I just figured the bastard was being friendly!"

"Who else?" Robin asked quietly. His voice had gone all low and quiet like --- not a good sign.

"A number of the younger lads have been moping around, but they're all afraid of Sergeant Tully."

"Tully knows?!" Robin growled.

"Of course Tully knows," Tuck smiled. "Why do you think no-one's said anything? Tully's told everyone that he'd beat anyone bloody that said a word and that he'd cut off the hand of any man that touched her."

"How do you KNOW all this?!" I demanded. I was feeling like an ignorant fool and more than a little jealous. It was one thing to 'share' my love for Marian with Robin, but it was quite a different thing to have her ogled and drooled over by a bunch of smelly, pig stealing, murdering cut-throats!

"I know because Tully told me." Tuck said. "Confessed it actually. It seems that our hard boiled tough as nails sergeant has a tender side after all. He used to be a forester up near Lincoln way. His wife and daughter both died during a plague some twenty years ago. The daughter was fifteen and the apple of his eye. I guess Marian reminds him of her."

"Well if that don't beat all!" John beamed, scratching his shaggy head.

***

And so the fifty of us, all pretending that Marian was a 'delicate looking lad with fine bones', went off to steal King Richard's tax money and take it to this Sir Percy character. We did this because Sergeant Tully told us to and because we had no where else to hide.

"Orders be orders, lads!" Tully had said with that lopsided half grin half snarl of his, pointing to a dirty piece of ink-stained parchment. "Cap'n Watts says that every man jack of you will get his fair share of coin, food, drink and quim! A month's pay for a day's work! You can't make that less you're a priest or a whore!"

There was plenty of laughter at that, and more than a few eyes glanced in Marian's direction. Tully shot a quick look her way as well and shrugged as if to say 'it's a wild and wicked world lass, but I'll do my best to shield you from the worst of it', and then he continued. "Cap'n Watts will be waiting for us at Sir Percy's castle, and you all know it don't pay to keep the cap'n waiting! So let's get moving! We spring the ambush tomorrow around noon and by evening we'll all have coin in our pockets and be drunk as lords!"

Well, most of what Tully said came true, though it took a little longer and cost a lot more than expected, but we did end up bringing the bloody wagon to Percy's castle --- if you could call a giant pile of ancient stones and several falling down towers in a sheep pasture a castle! But more on that later; right now Tuck and I have to tell you how we got the bloody wagon to begin with!

***

Now a crossbow is a terrible thing! It's the devil's own contraption if there ever was one! Next to a chastity belt, and the collection plate, the crossbow has to be the bane of man's existence! All gears, wheels and levers it is! Heavy, slow to load and ten times more expensive to make that a good English longbow!

Why even have the buggers then you may ask?

And a bloody good question it would be! The answer however is painfully simple.

It takes years and years of constant practice to make a proper English longbowman. Countless hours spent in rain, snow or shine; a slow building up of the neck and back muscles and an even slower learning how to 'aim without aiming' so that your arrow swims true and fast --- the first one still in the air while you loose your third!

A true English yeoman! God bless them all!

Now with a God cursed crossbow you were lucky to get off one bolt for every five or six longbow arrows! The one redeeming factor that made the damned things so popular --- especially with the lazy bastard French --- was that you could train any halfwit duck-fucker to use one in two or there hours! Give the dumb bastard a week and he'll be knocking pigeons out of trees and the Pope's hat off at a hundred yards!

The skill is all in the making, not the shooting!

So even though they are slow to load, heavy to carry and terribly expensive to make --- give the bloody things to a hundred ignorant whoresons and in a week they'll be punching those damnable metal tipped blots through the finest English armour in the land!

Why, you might also ask, am I going on about the bloody crossbow?

Because most of the two dozen foot soldiers guarding the three tax wagons \--- that's right, three, not one \--- had a crossbow --- and bloody well knew how to use it too! They also had the best weapons and armour the king's tax money could by and were backed up by a half dozen mounted knights as well!

So out little 'surprise ambush' was more of a surprise on us than them!

Oh, we hit the much smaller advance party without a problem. Moved in on them as they came down the forest road as slick as greasy meat through a goose! Even the two knights with the advanced group gave up without a fight, but while we were all checking out the chests of copper pennies, the other two wagons with all the silver and gold came around the bend --- and a hell ova lot more manpower as well!

Before we knew it those goddamned crossbow bolts were flying around thicker than bees around honey --- only their stings were a foot long and metal tipped and could put a fella down permanently! Reg Watterson, a surly bugger that I never really liked, took a crossbow bolt in his right eye. I head it wiz by my head, them the meaty 'thunk' sound as it found its steel tipped way into Reg's brain. The lucky bugger was dead before he hit the ground. I say 'lucky' because at least he went out fast. Bill Somes took one in the gut and didn't die till three days later. We buried him and several others out back of Sir Percy's tumbling down towers. There were four others that were dead long before we got to Percy's. At the time I thought that most of us wouldn't make it out alive!

Most of us had scattered off the road when the second larger party came along. The knights were charging down the track, their war horses kicking up great clods of mud, their nostrils flaring out and the bloody weight of them shook the ground and made my bowels turn to water!

That was my first real honest to God battle and I sure as hell am not proud of the way I handled myself!

Tuck is frowning at me now and probably would like to put a more 'heroic' spin on things, but there was very little that was heroic about that brief, bloody fight. Even after all these years I can still hear the screams, the yells and the clanging of steel. I still feel the terror that washed through me and smell the piss and shit from both man and beast as their innards were opened by a blade or their chest punctured by an arrow orone of those bastardly crossbow bolts!

I've been in many a scrap since then; some bigger and some smaller. Some even more bloody! But the first time is the one that stays with you till the last, and like your first love or your first best friend, we take the bitter-sweet memory of it with us to the grave.

The Battle of the Tax Wagon will be that one for me. Even the fight outside Jerusalem pales in comparison. \--- but then I was still a green kid, and though by then not quite so cocky, I was still quick, fast and nimble.

***

We didn't know how many we had killed, at least I didn't. Much, John and Robin went around pulling arrows out of bodies and giving the ones in pain and clearly dying the 'mercy stoke'. Tuck and I stayed with Marian. She had gone all quiet since the battle. Her face was covered with spattered blood, but it wasn't hers. I'd seen her use her bow to bring down several men. I'd also seen her use her shortsword to chop at anyone who came close to either her or Robin. Her and me had placed ourselves on either side of Robin and let him shoot while we hacked at anyone that came near us. I had my damned sword knocked out of my blood slick hand and would have died then and there if Marian hadn't took the bugger in the throat just before he chopped me. I used my knives after that, one in each hand and things went a whole lot better. From that day on I gave up trying to use a sword or even carrying one. But with knives I was \--- well, I've already told you that a number of times --- but back then, with a good knife, I really was damned nimble!

***
Chapter 9: 'Bitterroot Castle'

"I am in blood stepped in so far that,

Should I wade no more,

Returning were as tedious as going on."  
(Macbeth)

There had been fifty of us before the ambush; there were thirty-seven of us after --- and several of those were bandaged and bleeding. Sergeant Tully and his second in command, Corporal Nate Summers, had come through the fight with only a few scrapes and bruises, as did all six of us --- except for John who had someone take a bite out of his ear.

It had happened when three guards had tackled the big man and dragged him to the ground. By the time Tuck and Much got to him, two of the attackers already had broken bones, but the third one was hanging on John's back and chewing on his ear! Much used his fancy French pig sticker and the ear-chewer jumped off and headed for the underbrush, dragging his leg where Much had stuck him.

We got to this Sir Percy's castle late afternoon the next day. The going was slow because several of the horses that had been pulling the wagons were killed by wayward arrows and those damned crossbows bolts! The ones that were left had to do double duty carrying both the bootie and the bodies of the wounded; also the going was uphill most of the way, flowing a winding coastal road. The morning after the so called 'ambush' we had buried Reg Watterson and four others in unmarked graves. Bill Somes and the three other wounded we took with us, which only slowed the bloody wagons down even more! It didn't help matters any that it started to rain as well.

I remember first seeing the castle from the top of a hill. All gray and brooding it looked, its ancient stones beak and bare and stained black with time and a dirty white with seagull shit. Giant storm clouds boiled above it and the slate gray North Sea moved behind it like a restless monster waiting for new victims to devourer. We had come at last to Castle Bitterroot, the ancestral home of the Smyth's, a family that had been old in Britain long before the coming of that Norman bastard, William the Conquer. Sir Percy told us later that the square central keep had existed before another bastard named Julius Caesar brought his legions all the way across the sea --- whoever the hell he was!

We were met at the outer gate-tower by a number of armed men wearing the livery of Bitterroot castle, which was a dark, leafless tree on a blood red surcoat. The tree's roots were as large and twisted as its branches and so seemed to be showing at a glance the very mind of the lord himself – for Sir Percy, though all warm smiles and gentle touches on the outside, turned out to be a calculating bugger that would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. And what he wanted was revenge against our newly crowned king, Richard the First --- later to be called the 'Lionheart', though there were times over the next nine years that I thought 'Heartless Bastard' would have been far closer to the mark!

There now, Tuck is frowning at me again. It seems I've pissed him off once more! Oh well, like my old whore of a mother used to say: 'Willy lad, ya can't make an omelette without breaking some eggs' \--- not that we ever had any eggs in the slums where I grew up!

Where the hell was I? Oh yes, Sir Percy's hunger for revenge on 'Richard Coeur de Lion'. It had started years ago with Richard's father, Henry II. Though I never met the man, if the father was anything like his eldest son, which I'm told he was, then dear old dad was a mean fisted, word breaking son-of-a-bitch.

To put it plainly, Henry had needed money for his endless wars, mostly with Phillip of France and he had raised that money by several unscrupulous ways: selling 'lordships and knighthoods' to the highest bidder; confiscating estates from any lords, knights or bishops, Saxon or Norman, that 'displeased' him and by selling off various royal lands and charters to anyone with enough coin. The one method that really hurt however was the king's constantly raising taxes --- especially on the Saxon nobles. Richard, when he came to power in 1190, if anything, was twice as money hungry as his father and thrice as ruthless. It was rumoured that the Lionheart, to raise money for his 'glorious Third Crusade', had openly bragged that he would 'sell London town if he could find a buyer!' It was also said that Richard had even taxed his mother, Queen Eleanor, for the coffin he'd just sold her in preparation for her eventual death, and then stuck her with the bill for grave digger and the hot meats as well!

But it was the taxes more than anything else that chewed away at Sir Percy --- chewed away at his piece of mind like a rat chewing on a sack of grain in granary. A little here, a little there, constantly nibbling away, day after day, month after month, year after year. And though there might have once been a great many sacs of grain and very few rats, with the passage of time that situation sadly reversed itself, so that now the Lord of Bitterroot Castle's granary and his treasure room were both nearly bare, while the royal rats had continued to fatten and multiply!

It was this last taxing however that had been the straw that broke the camel's back \--- and Sir Percy's patience. Richard's men had come and stripped the hall of most its silver and plate, its rugs and tapestries, and had even taken the gem encrusted silver cross from the Smyth chapel. Sir Percy had finally decided that the time had come for him to act, while he still could --- and so questions were asked, answers were whispered, letters were written and orders were issued \--- orders that Sergeant Tully had received and dutifully passed on to the Archers of Watts Company.

Hence the coming of the king's tax carts to Bitterroot castle.

The Lord of Bitterroot Hall was a thin man of average height and average build. The only thing that wasn't 'average' about him was his interests in just about everything a normal 'average' person wouldn't be. He was a collector of all things weird and wonderful --- from books and ancient parchments from Greece and Rome; of statues and paintings; of carvings from heathen lands and jewellery from exotic places. He collected, animal skins and skulls, beetles and butterflies, maps and musical instruments --- but his real love seemed to be in collecting the artefacts of war. Weapons and armour of all kinds from all lands and time periods adorned the cold, damp walls of Bitterroot castle. The main or 'Great' hall, though lit by three huge fireplaces and numerous candles, was still a dark, drafty vast cavern of damp stone hung with mildewed tapestries.

I recall the second evening we were there. After a large feast, when, with a full belly and my third ale mug in my hand, while others danced to the drum, pipe and lute or drank and told lies in the shadows, Much and I strolled around the loud, shadow filled room and gazed up in wonder at the weapons of war that we saw on display.

I'll not bore you with all that was there, but they were objects that were a marvel to the eye and often a boggle to the mind. Some we recognized right off, and others we could only guess at their use.

As was usual for me, it was the knives and daggers that drew me the most.

Needless to say, before we left, I stole a couple of them.

***

Sir Percy, as I have already said, was a fine host, and both treated us like conquering heroes and did what he could for our wounded. With all of his tax money returned to him and a great deal more besides, he was inclined to be generous. With our numbers lessened due to this little 'side adventure', he found us a dozen new archers from his shire that were more than happy to drop the plough and pick up their bow and join us --- especially since they also picked up a considerable bag of coin Sir Percy gave them for doing so. I swear, the man gave away more than half of the wagon full of copper pennies we had brought him, though the gold and silver he mostly kept for himself. He came round himself with a sac and told us to each take a handful. Most of us pulled out over a year's wages each or more! John, since he's such a big bastard, got enough for two!

Lord Percy, for all his wealth, power and pedigree, turned out to be a right generous sod after all.

Captain Virgil Watts however, was a horse of a different color.

Watts was more like a force of nature than a mere man. Though only a little above average height, he just 'seemed 'bigger. Both men and women watched him as he strode by, their eyes drawn to him like a loadstone is drawn to a metal blade. Back then, still being of tender years, the only other person I knew with that type of 'magic' about them was Robin, though his was a gentler, less developed kind that grew in magnitude over time. Later, when I met him, I felt the Lionheart's power as well, though his was a darker, more bloody type. Watts however seemed to possess both kinds: Richard's fierceness and easy ability for violence and Robin's equally violent yet compassionate nature. Virgil Watts was a man in his prime and power oozed out of him like cool, clear water from a rocky mountainside --- water that we all hastened to eagerly drink. Watts somehow made those around him fell 'safe', as though the cares of a cruel world could be held at bay by the presence of the man's shadow. Tully, Summers and most of the company would have gladly followed him into hell.

So when Nate Summers called the six of us to a meeting with Sir Percy and the as yet unmet Captain Watts, we were uncertain as to the reason. We met in the lord's library, a circular room high up in the castle's largest tower. Despite it being a bright spring morning, there was a fire going in an iron brazier. As we walked in I saw the gray North Sea through a larger than usual opening in the stone wall. The shutters were open and the view was fiercely beautiful, with the sunlight glinting off the restless waves. The sound of the unseen surf striking the rocky shore far below drifted up to me like a rumble of distant thunder --- an omen for sure, but for good or bad? With the foolish brashness of youth I shrugged it off, confident that we friends could stand against whatever Fate --- or the men in this room --- had woven for us.

Ahhhh, the vain follies of youth!

***

"Sergeant Tully tells me that you're all from the Barnsdale area." Watts said as soon as we entered the tower and stopped gawking about. His dark eyes took us all in at a glance, like a hawk surveying a field for scurrying mice. To escape that predatory gaze, this little mouse went back to looking around the room. The circular walls were almost entirely covered with shelves stuffed full of parchments, books and tomes of leather bound wisdom and mustiness. It looked to me, who had hardly ever held a book and couldn't read nor write my own name, that every bloody book in the world was in that room!

"Is that right son? Is that where you come from? Barnsdale?"

It took a moment for me to realize that the captain was talking to me. While I'd been gaping about, he'd moved over to me and now stood like a great cat waiting to strike. His dark gray eyes, cold like the restless sea striking the shore down below, washed over me like a cold wave.

"Well, what is it boy? Barnsdale or no?!"

"No, sir!" I shot back loudly, for no other reason than a sudden desire to be contrary. "Nottingham, sir. I moved to Barnsdale when my mother died."

"And this mother of yours? She was a what? A seamstress?"

"A whore, sir. A five penny whore --- but she loved me, sir, and I loved her --- I still do."

He fixed me with those cold eyes of his for some time, then he smiled --- and it was as though the sun had suddenly come out. "As you should, son --- as you should."

He then moved on to John. "Barnsdale as well?"

"Born and bred, sir. On a farm though, not the town itself" John was the only one of us actually from Barnsdale.

"So you're a farmer?" Watts asked, though he didn't wait for the answer. "Where did you learn to fight so well, lad? Sergeant Tully tells me you're damned near the next Sampson!" The captain turned and smiled in Sir Percy's direction. "I half expected to see you carrying the jawbone of an ass, not a bloody great quarterstaff!"

Sir Percy smiled at the biblical reference that had flown high over the heads of all of us except for Marian and the friar --- though I still didn't find it all that dammed funny even when Tuck explained it to us later!

"I've known a few asses in my time, sir,' John said honestly, "but I don't know any Sampson. As for using a jawbone, seems to me a stout sapling would be a whole lot easier to come by."

Captain Watts blinked at John's literal interpretation, frowned, then moved on to Much. "Barnsdale as well?"

Much met the question and the cold gray stare with those dancing eyes of his and a crooked smile. "I've found that one place is as good or bad as another, captain. People are people wherever you go."

Watts frowned again, taking in Much's twisted form and bent back, ending with his gold flecked eyes. "You're a philosopher as well as an archer?"

Much shrugged. The gesture looked strangely graceful from one so misshapen --- but then Much could always move like a cat, though people expected him to waddle like a duck. Much, as I had found out years earlier and the captain was about to find out now, was definitely NOT what he seemed at first glance.

"An archer yes," the hunchback replied "As for being a philosopher --- that is still undecided."

Watts's eyebrow rose. "A wit?! Or perhaps just a court jester? Are your broadheads as sharp as your tongue, archer? Do your shafts fly as straight and true as your words?!"

"My shafts, captain," Much smiled sweetly, "be they verbal, wooden or fleshy, always strike their intended mark."

"The Barnsdale maids must be all aquiver when you stroll down the lane, then," Watts quipped back, seemingly to enjoy the verbal jousting.

"Oh not just in Barnsdale, sir, I can assure you!" Much struck a pose and replied with a saucy grin,

"All the maids near and far, all squeal with delight,

Whenever my handsome form, did hove into sight.

Though at first some might frown, and some turn away,

I soon give them joy, and a smile for the day"

Sir Percy, who had been sitting silently behind a table littered with books, papers and inkpots, suddenly rose to his feet. "Ahhhh, a fellow poet! How wonderful! Who would have suspected a wordsmith to be found in such a ---"

"Twisted fellow?" Much put in sweetly. "Sir Percy, I've found that many folk are twisted, though, unlike myself, most wear theirs on the inside."

Sir Percy came round the table and stood smiling down at the odd little man with the broad shoulders and dancing eyes. "You have a rare find here, Captain Watts." He said over his shoulder. "A man that actually 'thinks'! Most of us go through this world merely reacting to life, but here you have found yourself a real jewel, albeit a 'diamond in the rough'!" Sir Percy turned to back Much. "But perhaps, my good man, I can entice you to give up this 'holy quest' you're on and stay here at Bitterroot with me?"

"As what, my lord?" Much asked. "Your pet puppy? Or perhaps you have need of a court jester, as the captain here earlier remarked?"

"What I have need of, my haughty fellow," Sir Percy replied with a twinkle of his own; "is someone who is not afraid to give me a truthful opinion when I ask for it. Everyone here would agree with me even if I said the moon was a bloody piece of cheese!"

"Is it not?" Much asked, pretending surprise. "And here I always thought is was a wheel of good old English cheddar!"

Sir Percy's smile widened. "You must meet my minstrel Blondel!"

"Must I? Why?"

"Because the two of you are so much alike!" Sir Percy beamed.

"He's a hunchback as well?"

"What? Oh, God no! It's your sharp minds that you have in common, that and he too has heard God's holy call and now burns to see Jerusalem!"

Much suddenly leaned close to Sir Percy and smiled, though the fiery dance had left his eyes. "Does he know, my lord, that we'll all probably die long before we even see the sainted city?"

"Young man," Sir Percy replied quietly. "I don't think that he really cares."

"And what about you, priest?!" Captain Watts demanded of Tuck. Having grown impatient with Sir Percy and his poetry, the archery commander continued questioning his latest recruits. "Tully tells me you were a holy terror with an iron mace back at the ambush. Was God on your side back there telling you to bash heads?"

"I'm only a humble friar, my lord, not a properly ordained priest," Tuck replied softly, "As to where God was or wasn't, sadly I saw now hint of his presence on either side."

Captain Watts barked out a laugh. "By Jesus, we've another bloody wit! Must be something in the water up there in Barnsdale! Or are you from the Nottingham slums like the little lad there?!"

"I'm from a small hamlet far to the west, captain, though I believe that Our Lord judges a man by the condition of his soul and what he caries in his heart, not where he was born or raised or even what he looks like." Tuck's smile widened through the bushy beard. "But then I could be wrong, since I'm only a --- "

"Humble friar; yes, I know," Watts barked. "A friar that cracks heads with a mace! Well, I've little enough need for a holy man or a philosopher, but your mace wielding I can use. Also Tully tells me that you have some knowledge of herbs and doctoring? That too will come in useful as well."

Watts then moved on to Robin.

"You look familiar, lad. Are you also from this fabled Barnsdale?"

"There abouts. My father was a bowmaker up near Lincoln way."

"Was, not is?"

Robin stiffened visibly. "He's dead. Murdered just last month."

"Murdered? By who? Why?"

Robin's gaze went from the captain to Sir Percy and back to the captain. "By powerful men who own castles like this."

The two powerful men in the room stood a little straighter at that. Their bodies straightened and their smiles vanished. "And just why did these powerful men murder you father?" The question had come from Captain Watts, but it was Sir Percy who seemed the more anxious to hear the answer.

Robin's tone was somewhat less than gentle. "Its' always the same reason, captain. My father stood in the way of what they wanted --- so they killed him."

Into the ringing silence Sir Percy asked the question that was on both men's lips. "And what did they want?"

Robin's chin jutted out. "What do powerful men always want? More power. Land, money, position \--- its all the same in the end. More power to feed the whole in their empty souls."

"Sweet Jesus Christ!" Watts swore. "Another bloody 'philosopher'! Is this a company of archers or of cloistered bum-shagging monks?!"

It was Sir Percy however who stepped forward and spoke directly to Robin. "I'm sorry about your father, lad. He must have been a fine man for you to respect him so. And by the sound of it, he raised you up to be one as well." Sir Percy turned to the frowning captain. 'Watts, I know you brought these six here so we could confront them about those two warrants you showed me, but after talking with them, I'm inclined to hear their side of the story before we take any further action."

I wasn't too sure just what the hell he was talking about, but I had a strong feeling that, whatever it was, it wasn't good. As it turned out I was half-way right.

Captain Watts took a deep breath and then picked up two parchments off the table. He held them both up for us to see. I couldn't read worth a damn back then, but I sure as hell recognized the Sheriff of Nottingham's red seal at the bottom!

"Have you lads seen either one of these before?" he asked.

Nobody said anything. In fact the second warrant was a new one, stating all the facts that the first one had and adding a description of each of us \--- including Marion! Captain Watts cleared his throat and read them.

Wanted for Murder!

Robin Bowman of Sherwood

Tall, slim, long black hair.

John Little of Barnsdale

Very tall & strong, not too bright.

Much Miller of Locksley Hall

Deformed hunchback, very cunning.

Will Scarlet of Nottingham

Straw-like hair, small, skinny & fast.

Friar Tuck of Locksley Hall

Bear-like, bushy beard, fierce

Marian Fitzwalter of Locksley Hall

Pretty, long red hair, green eyes, bad tempered

###   
FIVE HUNDRED

silver marks for the capture

dead or alive of any of the above

By order of the

Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham

Sir Gaston Gisbourn

When the captain had finished reading the warrant there was another long silence. Finally it was Tuck that spoke up. "It's true, my lords, that we are those people mentioned there, and it is also true that we are wanted fugitives. What is NOT true however, are the charges! Sir Robert Locksley was indeed foully murdered --- as was Robin here's father --- and an innocent young girl as well!"

"Then this Marian Locksley was murdered?" Sir Percy put in. "The first warrant says that she had been taken, yet the second includes her with the murderers?!"

"She was neither murdered nor taken, my lord!" said the sixth and until now, the only silent member of our party.

"And you know this how, lad?" Captain Watts asked.

"I know it, sir, because I am Marian Fitzwalter." She stepped forward, took off her wide brimmed hat and shook out her cropped red locks, then boldly raised her dirt smeared face and glared at the two men with her fierce sea-green eyes.

More silence followed, eventually broken by Captain Watts. "But if not these fine fellows here, Lady Marian, who then did commit these murders?"

Her head raised even higher, the delicate nostrils flared, as did the fire in her eyes. Her voice, when it came, was like the clear ringing of a bell. "The murderer, sir, or at least the man behind the murders, is Sir Guy of Gisbourn"

"You know of course, my lady," Watts frowned, "that the man you just named murderer is the Baron of Nottingham, Lord High Constable of the Northern Marches and a close personal friend of Richard Plantagenet, the recently crowned King of England?!"

"I do."

"And you still claim that Sir Guy of Gisbourn is the man responsible for the deaths of three people?"

"I do indeed, sir!"

Sir Percy leaned forward over his cluttered desk, the concern on his face clear for all to see. "Lady Marian, have you any proof of what you say?"

Those sea-green eyes flashed again. "None but my word! And as the daughter of a knight that died serving both his church and his king, I swear to you that with my own eyes I saw one of Gisbourn's men stab my uncle in the back --- and then --- when he was down --- I saw Guy of Gisbourn stand over my uncle and murder him! And I also swear to you both here and now that one day I will see him hang for it!"

I had loved her before --- from the very moment that I first laid eyes on her --- and I love her still, though death now separates us --- but in all the time between then and now, I never loved her more than I did at that particular moment. She was magnificent!

"And these others saw that as well?" Watts asked.

"We all did, captain," Tuck said. "As god is my witness, everything that Marian said is true!"

More stunned silence filled the round room, broken eventually by a smiling Sir Percy. "Epic, my dear! Absolutely Epic! Homer himself could not have devised a more devious plot! I shall start a rough draft this very night! The world shall know of your plight!"

"Perhaps, Sir Putney," the captain said with more than a touch of impatience, "we should hear the rest of her tale before you set off to write your own version?"

The Lord of Bitterroot Hall flushed as red as his velvet doublet and sat back down. He waved his hand and a young page suddenly darted out of the shadows. "Some refreshments are needed, Percival. Wine, bread and cheese. The sharp cheddar --- and some of those sweet little cakes. Off you go now!"

While Percival ran to the kitchen, Marian summarized the events as quickly as she could. "Sir Guy of Gisbourn had been pressing my uncle to sell him Locksley Hall. My uncle had refused repeatedly. The last time the two had argued. Sir Guy warned my uncle that he would soon come begging to sell. A few days later a girl's naked body was found at our door. She was my friend, Jane Goodall. She'd been raped, beaten and strangled. There was also an unsigned note."

"Which said?" the captain prompted.

"Take the offer and sell!"

"But your uncle didn't take the offer, did he?" Watts said coldly.

"No, captain, he did not!"

"And this lad here's father was the next to die?" Watts asked.

Marian nodded. "Two days later Robin's father was tortured, murdered and 'delivered' to Locksley Hall the same way --- along with another unsigned note."

"And it said the same thing? Take the offer and sell?"

"It did --- with another warning added."

Captain Watts breathed deeply through his oft broken nose. "And that was?"

Sea-green eyes flashed. "Next time we take the red head."

"The cold hearted bastard!" Sir Percy hissed, a piece of cheese forgotten in his hand.

"What did Sir Robert do next, my lady?" the captain quietly asked.

"My uncle sent a challenge to Sir Guy. Very formal and very 'public', so that the craven could not dare to refuse! There was a duel with swords --- during the fighting, as I have already told you, one of Sir Guys minions stabbed my uncle in the back!"

"During the fight?!" Sir Percy growled.

"Yes. When my uncle's back was turned!"

"What happened then, my lady?" Watts asked his voice strangely soft.

Marian's nostrils flared, as did her temper. "Then my uncle fell to his knees and Gisbourn cut him down like a hog to slaughter \--- and laughed while he did it!"

The cowardly cur!" Sir Percy hissed. "My dear, you, like fair Helen of Troy, shall not go unavenged!"

"Christ!" I whispered to Much. "The daft bugger can't even get her name right!"

Much just looked at me, shook his shaggy head and reached for the wine.

***
Chapter 10: 'Blondel'

'Give me a bowel of wine.

In this I bury all unkindness!'  
('Julius Caesar')

"So what now?" I asked.

"We go with the company to London, just as we planned," Robin said.

It was later that day and we were back in the archer's camp that had been set up in a field behind the castle. All around us Watts company went about the business of preparing an evening meal, looking to their gear and talking eagerly about how they were going spend their share of the tax money that Sir Percy had given us all earlier in the afternoon.

"You think they believed us?" I asked.

"I think they believed Marian," Robin replied. "The rest doesn't really matter. Sir Percy made it clear that he has no great fondness for Sir Guy or the king, and so I doubt he'd turn us in even if he didn't believe her."

"Sir Percy," put in Tuck as he spitted a chicken and placed it over our fire, "is a strange man, but not an unsympathetic one. He really meant what he said about helping Marian and, by implication, us as well."

"Well," John grinned. "He kept his word about sharing the tax money. And he's found over a dozen new archers to join our group. He's even sending his minstrel along to sing us songs and tell stories along the way!"

"He's not 'sending' him, John," Tuck corrected with a smile. "Blondel is coming with us because he wants to experience what a crusade is like and write songs and stories about it for the rest of the world to hear."

"Well, he's a queer duck and no mistake," I grumbled. I had taken an instant dislike to the handsome, blond headed minstrel the moment I saw him, for he was singing a love song and looking right at Marian at the time! Later he'd come over an acted all friendly like, but I still didn't trust the bugger.

"What if he's a spy?!" I blurted out.

"Whose a spy?" John asked.

"The bloody minstrel!" I said loudly.

John scratched his mop of hair. "Whose he spying on? Sir Percy?"

"No, you dolt!" I growled. "Sir Percy could have sent him to spy on us! Or maybe on the king! He hates King Richard something fierce!"

"Who, the minstrel?"

"Not the minstrel! Sir Percy!"

John scratched some more. "Sir Percy hates King Richard?"

"Yes!"

"And he sent the minstrel to spy on the king?"

"You got it!"

"Why?" John asked me. "I mean, what's he going to tell Sir Percy that everyone else won't already see and be talking about?"

Suddenly confronted with John's rare burst of logic, I turned away and took my frustration out on chopping more wood for the fire.

"What about the captain?" John asked Robin as he carefully placed more wood on the fire and adjusting the bird so as not to burn. "I mean, now that he knows Marian's a girl, can she still be a boy?"

"Ya?!" I demanded from my woodpile. "Will she have to wear a dress and act like a lady now?!"

Just then Marian herself came up and smiled at me and ruffled my unruly mop of hair. "I'll not be wearing a dress, skirt or an apron, if that's what you mean, Will. I'll continue to dress and act like 'Mark' and the captain said he'll order the men to treat me just as they had before."

Much had laughed at that. "Men, being what they are, Marian, especially a rough lot like this, will probably treat you one of three ways."

"Is that so, merry Much?" Marian smiled. "And just what three ways might they be?"

Much took out a ball of beeswax and began rubbing it into his bowstring. "Like their little sister; like a great lady or like a whore. Most will pick either the first or the second; however there there'll always be a few that with think of you as the third --- especially some of the new men that just joined." He placed his bow aside and started working on Robin's. "It'll be even worse when we join the larger army. Once word gets round they'll be after you like flies on shite."

Marian's eyes had widened at Much's words and all of us had frowned and glanced quickly around. "I'd like to see one try!" Marian had said defiantly, her hand going to the dagger in her belt.

Once again Much had laughed. "Oh I know that you can take care of yourself, Marian. We all know that. A man would have to be a fool to try to molest you on his own, but that's just the problem --- men that would do such a thing are basically cowards and always travel in a pack, like wild dogs."

We all saw that Much, though he had smiled, was deadly serious. I learned a long time later that it was because of the way these same type of people had treated him as a weak and twisted child, taunting him about his deformity, even beating him and driving him away. Marian however, being both smarter and more sympathetic than I, saw Much's pain immediately, and had placed a gentle hand on his bulging back.

"I know you are right, sweet Much, and I will take care --- but I will not live my life in fear." There was a brief pause, and then she continued, once again all confident sunshine. "Besides, I'll always have my own brave pack of brothers to watch over me!"

I recall, like the young fool I was, that I had sat with my hand on my knife and glared at any man that came near us for the rest of the night.

Much was right of course, on all counts. Most of the men, even most of the new ones, treated Marian with the greatest of respect and, now that it was out in the open that 'Young Mark' was actually a beautiful young woman, soon became foolishly attentive and at the same time very protective of her --- and for a long while I hated every one of them! For now, instead of just having to share her with a few friends, I hade to share her with the whole bloody company!

But there were a few, just as Much had warned, who thought differently. Mostly it was only the odd sniggering comment or rude gesture --- nothing a good cursing or a kick in the ass didn't solve.

But then there was Harrow and his pack of two legged animals.

Harrow and several of his 'friends' had joined up back at Bitterroot Castle. Sir Percy had sent his steward out to recruit archers for our depleted company and the man had hired any and all that could decently send a shaft downrange, no other requirements needed ---and Harrow and his boisterous lads were indeed fine archers. If they hadn't been, Captain Watts never would have let them stay. They were also, however, ill-mannered bastards prone to drinking, fighting and bullying anyone they could.

They called Harrow 'Bull', due both to his heavy, squat but powerful form and his rough, straight ahead personality. Harrow was a true bully and had, like all bullies, a group of lesser creatures that followed along in his wake. Our trouble with him and his lot did not occur on the road to London however, but after we got there. Perhaps Harrow, being new to the company, was just laying low and seeing who he could bully and who he couldn't --- or perhaps he was just waiting for the right opportunity to catch Marian alone.

***

"You alright, mate?"

I looked up and saw a golden head of blond curls silhouetted by the noonday sun.

"I mean, the rest of your gang are over by the cook fire and here you are sitting all by yourself down by the river."

"Leave me alone," I said, turning back to watch the water ripple over the streambed.

"Mind if I sit?" the silhouette asked, then sat down before I could tell him I did. "Ahh, that's better," the minstrel said, sliding his lute around from his back and sitting down beside me. "I haven't walked so much since I ran away from home! Why, in the last three days I bet we've walked almost a hundred miles!"

"More like seventy five," I grunted. "Sergeant Tully tries for twenty-five a day. Leaves us some time to make camp before sundown. We should make London the day after tomorrow."

Suddenly a hand was held out in front of me. "My name's Alan. Alan Adale. Sir Percy called me Blondel for some reason. He was odd that way. Always going on about people from the old tales. Ulysses, Beowulf, King Arthur, that sort of thing. I think he wishes that he lived in those ancient times. 'Back then, Blondel', he'd often say to me; 'the world still had some magic in it! Not like now! All prayers, priests and politicians! And bloody taxes!' he'd yell. That man surely hated to pay his taxes. 'Thieves and robbers' Blondel!' he'd say over and over --- especially in his cups. 'And the king and his pups are the biggest thieves of the lot! Even bigger than the bloody bishops!'

It was amazing how he could make his voice sound like Sir Putney. "How long were you his minstrel?" I asked. It was hard to stay angry at Alan, for he was always an easy going, light hearted kind of fellow. And besides, though Marian loved to hear him sing, it was now clear to all that it was the music and not the man that she was interested in. After I saw that I felt free to like the talkative bastard --- and I truly did, right up to his death nearly forty years later.

"I stayed with Lord Percy for a year and a bit," he replied to my question. "I'd been wandering around from town to town, stopping in at different inns and castles to sing for my supper and a place to lay my head. But when Sir Percy heard me sing the Beowulf saga, he tossed me a purse of silver and offered me a job right there."

"Who the hell's this Bay-wolf fella?"

Alan smiled that angelic smile of his. "Some Viking that lived a long time ago and killed a monster."

"What kind of monster?!" I demanded, my hand going to my knife.

Alan's smile washed over me. "The kind you find in most stories, Will. A big ugly bastard. This one was called Grendel."

"What was he like, this Grendel?" I asked, for I dearly loved stories, especially about brave men slaying dragons, killing monsters and saving pretty girls. My mother used to tell me tales that her mother told her long ago when she was a girl back in Whales. All about banshees and snarks and litches they were, and the brave lads that fought them. Tristan and Insult, Deirdre of the Sorrows, but King Arthur was my favourite. I always pictured Gwynevear as looking just like Marian. Shit! After all these years I still do!

Alan looked at me sideways for some time before he answered my question about the monster. "Besides being big and ugly, he was also lonely --- and quite sad."

I wasn't sure I had heard him right. "What the Christ do you mean that he was 'sad'? How can a bloody monster be sad?! It's a goddamned 'monster'!"

Alan looked at me with those big blue eyes of his and smiled. "Everyone feels lonely or sad sometime, Will. Even some monsters. Not most, I'll grant you \--- but then Grendel was special. That's why his story still lives on hundreds of years after it was first sung."

"Ya?! What's so bloody 'sad' about this Grendel bugger?!"

Again the long, sideways look. "Because, Will, though he was big and ugly and had a taste for human flesh, deep inside;" I remember him leaning forward then and tapping me on my chest. "Inside here where we 'feel' things instead of 'think' about them, Grendel was just like you and me. Just like most of us in fact. Scared, lonely and forced by events that we can't control to do terrible things."

Now it was my tern to look at him hard and long. His words, though strange, somehow stirred something deep inside me. They also got me all confused the way that Much often did when he spoke of the weird things he read and thought about. Down deep it kind of frightened me, but in a way that I really didn't mind.

"Alan, would you sing me some of it? About that Bay-wolf fella and the sad monster?"

Alan's smile flashed and he struck deep rich chord on his lute the began the sad, ancient tale.

Over the wind tossed waves they sailed,

Down the shining Whale's Road.

With fire in their eyes & murder in their hearts,

For t'was Grendel they wanted, not gold!

To Hrothgar's land and Herot's door,

Came bold Beowulf and his band.

With actions brave and iron blades,

Beowulf took the monster's hand!

They nailed the limb above the door,

And it made a grizzly site.

For monsters, like men, both cry and bleed,

And feel Fear's cold, sharp bite.

But if a man be true inside,

and to all doth keep his word,

Then no worries nor doubts should there be.

For he lives & dies by his sword.

For in the end, we're all alike,

both man and monsters be.

We laugh, we cry; we love, we die.

We all long just to be free.

We laugh, we cry; we love, we die.

We all long just to be free.

"Wow," I whispered when the last clear note had faded away. My head hurt, but in a good way. "That was something --- I don't know what! Powerful maybe. Maybe even magical."

"That's what Lord Percy used to say--- just before he tossed me a bag of coins."

"Alan, tell me true. If he paid you for singing songs like that one, why did you leave? Why do you even want to go on this bloody 'crusade'? Hell, they say more than half that go will never return!"

Alan shrugged, then began to pick out a light air on his lute. "There are things happening in the world, Will, that need to be recorded; that need someone to write it all down and pass it on."

"Like what?" I asked.

"The way the world itself changes. The coming and going of great men and events. The crusades are a good example, Will." He then pitched his voice and sounded completely different --- all deep and comically serious. "Mankind's attempt to bring light into a world of darkness. To save souls doomed to the fiery pits of hell!"

"You'd have made a damn good priest." I scoffed.

"Christ no!" he replied, setting his lute aside and taking a leather wineskin from his bag. "That was my mother's dream for me, not mine! My father's was that I become a copy of him --- a worn out man following the ass-end of a plough-horse through a stony field, each step bringing him closer to his own stony grave."

"Shit, I can see why Sir Percy liked you. Everything you say sounds like it came from a story or play --- hey, that rhymes!" I beamed, suddenly proud of my own newly discovered talent.

Will beamed back at me and offered me the flask.

"Let us drink to the muses, my newfound friend,

And prey that they whisper true lies,

For when the weird sisters weave,

Our fate's in their hands.

Who wins; who looses, who dies!"

"Who the hell said that? Your Bay-Wolf fella?" I asked, accepting both the wine and his friendship.

"What, those few lines?"

"Ya! That shit about 'fate' and who wins and who looses, who dies."

"Oh, I just made that up now."

"Damn!" I said, taking a long pull on the wine "You are bloody good!"

***

We got to London three days later in the middle of a rainstorm. Wet, hungry and exhausted from slogging through the muddy roads, we made camp in a field north of the town. Our three supply wagons with our food and tents were still miles behind us, so we all crowded into a large old barn used for storing winter hay. This being mid spring, the barn was three quarters empty and large enough for the fifty of us. John and several other lads got a roaring fire going just inside the barn's open double doors while others caught, killed and prepared two lambs for the spit. Marian organized the female 'camp followers' from Bitterroot Castle that had attached themselves to the company and an impromptu feast was soon under way. Nate Summers passed the hat and collected enough coins for a cask of ale and hogshead of wine. Big Ben Cummings lifted the heavy cask himself and placed it on a trestle table made out of planks ripped from the back wall and presided over the distribution of spirits like a priest passing out holy water.

Soon the sun was setting, the fire was roaring, the meat was sizzling and the wine and beer were flowing. Alan Adale brought out his lute and began to play country dances and jigs. Several wooden flutes joined in and a small tambourine appeared and soon the shadows in the old barn were leaping and cavorting about like dancers at a Maypole Festival.

After all the eating and drinking and dancing came the singing. By moonrise half the company were asleep on the straw strewn floor and the other half, warmed by the crackling fire without and the liquid fire within, sat back and listened to Alan spin his magic as he slowly sang one of the old tales of war and heroes of long, long ago.

After draining his ale horn and tossing it in my lap, Alan slowly sat on a milking stool in front of the fire and cradled his lute. He was framed by the open doors and the climbing moon hung high over his head. Several candle lanterns in front of him lit up his flushed face and his golden curls. Suddenly he struck a rich chord and introduced his story poem. "This, gentle friends, tells of the Battle of Brunanburh; a great English victory in the year of Our Lord, 937 byÆthelstan, king of this our fair isle!"

There were several murmurs and hoots at this, for though some words that were far above a poor intellect like mine, there was no mistaking the richness of Alan's voice or the love he had for his craft. He continued to introduce the song-poem to an attentive audience.

"Fair AEthelstan, with his brother and his brave Britains,

Was victorious over the three armies of the frightful foe!

The haughty Olaf Guthfrithson, the Norse King of Dublin;

The old warrior Constantine, King of Scots,

And Owen, King of Strathclyde in distant Whales!"

With the mention of each enemy king's name, the barn had erupted with boos and cat-calls, waking the sleepers. When all was silent, Alan slowly began to weave his spell.

Five bodies lay still on that cold, bloody field.

Young kings by swords put to sleep.

Seven of Olaf's earls also lay dead,

Round their bodies the Harpies did creep!

Along with countless of his army,

Of sailors and of painted Pic.

Put to flight was the Northmen's chief,

For of battle he was suddenly quite sick!

Driven by fear to his great ship,

The king disappeared on the flood.

And left the fair isle they called Britain,

Though her shores were awash in red blood.

Constantine, the old the warrior-king,

In the end his teeth he did grind;

For at this meeting of swords he had lost his young son;

Whose body was left far behind.

Shorn of his kith and deprived of his kin,

He took the wide Whales Road back home.

And there he did sit and brood on the son.

No longer this world to roam.

And there he did sit, and brood on the son.

No longer, this world, to roam.

The last clear low note of Alan's voice faded like a child's prayer winging towards heaven --- soft, naive and full of wonder. And, like a child's prayer, all too soon gone.

But for that brief, shining moment, when we were all still young and full of our own sense of wonder, we saw again the epic struggle of our ancestors \--- at least until the wine wore off. Ah, but it was a grand time while it lasted!

***
PART THREE

'The Long & Winding Road'

1190- 1191 AD

Chapter 11: 'Stairway to Heaven'

The march from London to Dover was done at double time, for Richard was already there and anxious to set sail --- so we left all our extra gear on the wagons and set out hot-foot for the southern coast. Two and a half days later we arrived at Dover. Footsore, hungry and exhausted; we slept, dead to the bloody world, wrapped in our cloaks in a swampy field. But if we thought that the march to Dover had been hard, the boat ride from Dover to Calais was a bloody nightmare!

We were roused from our few hours sleep in the early dawn's light to be herded like cattle onto a leaky tub of a ship that looked like it was built by Noah or shortly thereafter! I puked my guts out all the way across the bloody English Channel and only stopped heaving when we rowed into the French piss-pot harbour of Calais. Well over half of the lads were in as bad a shape as I was, except of course for our thrice blessed leader Robin and his right hand of a vengeful God, Friar Bloody Tuck! Those two grinning buggers sailed across the channel as though they were a pair of bloody-minded Vikings!

The only compensation I had on that puke-filled voyage was that Bull Harrow and his unlikely lads seemed to fare even worse than I did! I'd been watching Harrow and his lot ever since they joined the company at Bitterroot. He was a loud mouthed, foul minded bully of a man who had sneered at Marian several times but never came right out and said anything to her face --- but I could tell what he was thinking. Like Tuck said, it's all there in a man's eyes and all you have to do is look. So I bloody well stared daggers at the bastard every time our path's crossed.

I guess it was my constant staring at him that caused the trouble once we got ashore.

***

Over seven hundred of us had made camp in a stony field outside Calais. We were mostly archers and regular soldiers. Most of the nobles, knights, squires and their men-at-arms had stayed on the larger ships with Richard, along with hundred of terrified horses. Richard was going to continue on down the coast and meet us at several ports in the Mediterranean in two months time --- at least that was the latest plan. Originally the entire army was going to sail all the way to the Holy Land together, but Richard had suddenly decided that would cost too much, so he only took the nobility by water. The rest of us common fools could walk --- after all, walking was free.

There was no way the entire army could simply march down one road, for in all we were near ten thousand strong, and that's a lot of eating and shitting for any one place at a time! We'd have been seen as two legged locus and shunned by every farmer, merchant and father with a daughter!

So we went in smaller groups by different routs at different times, so as to spread the army of locus out to be less damaging to man, beast and the land itself. Watts Company, now numbering over sixty souls, counting the dozen or more women camp-followers, was considered large enough to go on its own. Captain Watts had declined sailing off with Richard's fleet and chose to 'walk with his lads' as he put it instead. So he, Sergeant Tully and Corporal Nate Summers got us organized and we prepared to head south.

Richard and his 'noble fleet' would stop in at Marseilles and then again in Genoa, Italy. I hadn't a bloody clue where either one of those places were, but Tuck saved us all on that front. He had done a pilgrimage to Rome a few years before coming to Locksley Hall and as a young man he had also fought in France for Richard's father, Henry II. When Captain Watts learned of Tuck's travels he put the far-roaming friar in charge of finding the best route. Tuck asked Marian's help and the two of them poured over the captain's maps and came up with a plan.

"I think it best, captain," Marian told Watts and his 'officers', one of which was now a recently promoted Robin as 'Corporal Bowman', "that we go to Genoa instead of Marseilles. It's a shorter walk than to Marseilles and less sailing time to the Holy Land. " She used a long dagger to trace the proposed rout on one of the maps. "We leave Normandy by this road here, staying well east of Paris, pass into France and take this road between Vezelay and Cluny. Down into Burgundy, again staying east of Lyon and Clermont. From there it's up through the southern alps, staying well west of the snows of Mount Blanc, then head due south along the Po River into Italy. We'll end up here at Genoa, where, God and the weather willing, we'll meet up with King Richard and his fleet."

"Very impressive Marian," Watts smiled. Ever since leaving Bitterroot Castle, the captain had treated Marian more like a beloved niece than 'one of his lads', and though she still dressed and trained like all the other archers, he often had her, Tuck and Robin eat with him and his other officers. Alan was asked to join them now and then and play a song or two, but most of the times he either stayed with Much, John and me or wandered around the different camps and sang for his supper --- along with a mug of ale and now and then a kiss and a cuddle from one of the prettier camp followers.

I was a bit put off at first that the captain didn't invite John, Much or myself, but John and Much were both happy that he didn't.

"I'm content to sit right here by our own fire," Much had mumbled, his nose buried in one of his bloody books that he read whenever he got a free moment.

"Me too!" John had agreed. "I can eat with my fingers, fart when I want and don't have to handle those bloody 'forks' the fancy folk are all using now."

After I thought about it, I had to agree with them. Marian was a real lady and should sit at a real table now and then and eat with one of those fancy new two prong 'fork-things'. As for Robin, he was a corporal now and one of the captain's officers. Also he was our leader and, well, he and Marian sort of 'fit' together. Besides, John was right about being more comfortable here at our own fire. He was right as well about being able to fart whenever you felt like it.

"Also, captain," Tuck put in, leaning over the map and explaining the plan for meeting up with Richard. "Most of the other groups will probably go to Marseilles instead of Genoa, so food and other supplies should be easier for us to find."

"If Marseilles is so much further, why would the other groups go that way?" Watts asked.

Tuck pointed at one of the maps spread out in the folding table. "The Alps are a lot colder and tougher on the feet and back than the flat sunny fields of southern France. But we'll be crossing the mountain passes in June, so there should be very little snow."

"Snow in bloody June?!" Nate Summers exclaimed. "I've fought with the old king in Normandy and it rained like a bastard more than half the time, but it never bloody well snowed! Oh, pardon my rough soldier's tongue, my lady!"

Nate was blushing crimson and Marian smiled and touched his wrist. "I've heard much worse, Nate, and from some in this very tent."

Now all the men felt somewhat ashamed of their poor manners, including Robin. Captain Watts clapped his hands and smiled. "Genoa it is then, snow or no bloody snow! So we rest here for a few more days and let some of the other groups start on their different routes. Nate, you and Robin take this bag of coin and buy us a couple of farm carts and two sound horses to pull them. Better make that three horses, just in case one dies on us or goes lame. Better get an extra wheel too. I've got a load of supplies coming in and I want to take as much food with us as we can, along with cooking utensils and such. Marian, will you see that the other women gather what they need? One cart will be for the gear and one for food."

"And drink, captain?" Sergeant Tully put in with a twinkle in his eye. "Nothing like a good shot of honey mead when a fella's bones start to ache."

The captain smiled back. "In all the years that I've known you, Thaddeus, that sore back of yours has never healed! God knows you drink enough 'medicine' that it should!'

Tully grinned back. "A soldier's life is hell indeed, cap'n, but we all do our duty!"

Captain Watts tossed Robin a second small pouch of coin. "Better make that three carts and four horse, lads --- and fill the third one up with as much spirits as that pouch will buy."

"God love ya, cap'n," Tully beamed. "I feel my old back getting better already!"

***

1190 Mid April

Three weeks later

East of Lyon, France

Much and I had been setting up the small tent that we'd brought for Marian so that she could have some privacy when I looked up and saw Harrow and three of his followers coming our way. I stood up slowly and glared at him, the wooden mallet I'd been using to pound in the tent stakes still in my hand.

"What the fuck are you looking at, runt?!" Harrow demanded of me

"Shit walking," I said, hefting the mallet.

It took a moment or two for that to sink in. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer was our man Harrow. "You better watch that smart mouth, runt!"

"Or what? You and your three lady friends will make me?"

"Damn right we will!" one of Harrow's 'ladies' growled. "And when we've finished with you and the hunchback, we'll have a dance or two with that high-born whore you boys keep all to yourselves!"

"Will you now, little man?" John asked with a smile as he strode up with his tree trunk of a staff in his hand. "But not today I think. No, today you and your foul mouthed friends are going to turn around and walk away \--- quickly now, while I'm still in a good mood."

"And if we don't?!" Harrow demanded, his cold eyes going to my mallet, John's staff and the arrow Much already had on his bow."

John's smile grew wider and the staff was suddenly a twirling blur in his hand. "Then I've just found me four new heads to crack."

Harrow and the three with him glared back, each one weighing the odds. The one that had spoke made to move forward, but Harrow grabbed his arm. "Not now, Gilly. The time aint right. But later, we'll be back!"

Gilly frowned at Harrow, then turned and gave me a black toothed smile. "That's right, runt! We'll be back! Then we'll see whose head gets cracked!"

"I can't wait," I said, all cocky and confident now that the threat was passed and Harrow and his followers were already moving off.

"Save your breath, Will," Much said quietly to me. "Men like that aren't worth the trouble."

"But you heard what that bastard called Marian!" I shot back. "Stood right there and called her a whore for the whole damned world to hear!"

"Calling someone a name doesn't make it true, Will," Much replied. "Look at me. People have been calling me an ugly cripple all my life, and you and I both know that I really a handsome prince in disguise."

I looked sideways at Much, not sure what the hell he was talking about --- then I saw his dancing eyes. "Shit Much, you might be a prince in disguise, but you sure as hell aint handsome!"

***

Our next bit of trouble didn't come from Harrow and his 'ladies'. It was over bloody 'taxes' again! Not the king's this time, but some French border lord's.

We had been heading up a wide valley towards the distant Alps for three or four days now. The land was more wooded and hilly than back down below and the road was growing steeper. As usual, the captain had sent out a squad of four advance guards a quarter mile or more in front and other squads a hundred yards or so off on both sides and a rear guard tagged along behind --- just in case someone decided to be a bit unfriendly.

Now one of the four out front came running back, shouting something about knights on horseback up ahead blocking the road. Captain Watts had the warning horn blown and everyone got suddenly real serious and looked to their weapons. A lot of us had taken off our mail shirts and piled them and any other armour we had in the cart along with the pots and pans. There was now a sudden scramble to get to them and pull the heavy things back on! I seldom wore mine, as it slowed me down, and we all know that I had a reputation to keep up about being quick and fast!

"What is it?" Marian asked. She's been back tending to the few sick ones riding in one of carts. We'd passed through a swampy marsh a few days ago and a good number of us had the shits and vomits. Marian and some of the other women were passing out some cold tea of different herbs they'd made earlier. It smelt like a dead skunk and tasted even worse, but it settled the stomach right quick!

"Some knights blocking the road," I told her. "The cap'n's gone up to see why."

"Who went with him?!"

I knew she meant from our little group. "Robin and Tuck. But the captain took a dozen other lads as well."

She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked up the road. All there was to see however was a heavily treed finger of the forest jutting out into the grass covered valley. "Rob will be fine, Marian," I said to her back. "Besides, Tuck's there to see that he stays out of trouble."

She turned and fixed me with those sea-green eyes of hers and frowned. "Tuck's a good man and a wise one, but he's got a devil of a temper himself --- and we all know that Robin's no damn better!"

Knowing that she was right, I smiled like a fool and went and stood beside her, both of us looking up the now empty road.

***

Captain Watts stood looking up at the leader of the five knights blocking the road. Another half dozen mounted men-at-arms sat their mounts further back. Not exactly knights, but damned close to it. They came from families with little or no real power or wealth but they loved war more than farming and they were damned good at it! Each one was in mail from head to toe and was holding a long spear in his gloved hand, the butt of which rested in the stirrup of his mount. Further up the road there was a dozen mounted crossbowmen.

Besides Robin and Tuck, there were another dozen of the company spread out behind the captain. Both sides nervously eyed the other. "Let me see if I have this right." Captain Watts said to the knight out front. "You're the high lord mucky-muck in these parts, right?"

"I talk for Lord Hubert De Chamedy" the man replied in heavily accented English. "Dis is his lands and dat is his castle up on da hills."

"And is this his bloody road?!" Watts demanded.

The man nodded. "Road, castle, land. All belong to Lord Hubert!"

"And he wants me to pay him for using the bloody road?" Watts said, already knowing the answer.

The Frenchman shrugged. "You pay or you go back. Simple, yes?"

Watts hawked and spit. "How much?"

The knight shrugged again. "Many Anglais come up the road of Lord Hubert. Too many! Make trouble. Steal food. Fight, Drink. Not good!"

"How bloody much?"

"Bloody much? Oh, money! Yes, money. I piece of silver for each soldier."

"One piece each?!" Watts exploded. "Are you out of your goddamned mind?!"

The knight frowned and his mount danced about, disturbed by the captain's sudden outburst. Suddenly one of the other knights behind him moved up and spoke in the leader's ear, then backed away.

"Each soldier, one silver. Womans and childs free."

Captain Watts frowned. He eyed the knights, the men at arms and the dozen crossbowmen. "I've over sixty souls in all. I'll give you FIVE silver coins for the lot. Take it of fucking leave it!" Over his shoulder his ordered: "Archers! Make ready!"

Behind him the dozen company bowmen turned sideways, widened their stances slightly and a dozen arrows suddenly appeared on as many longbows, their needle-like bodkin points glittering in the sunlight.

Tuck leaned over to Robin and whispered. "Move up beside the lead horseman! Be ready when he hits the ground. Don't kill him! Prisoner only!" Then he was moving forward, passing the captain and moving to the right side of the leading knight. Robin, still unsure of what was happening, moved quickly up to the left side.

Tuck was smiling, his two hands held up and empty --- and he was speaking French! "I am a priest, a man of God --- and I am unarmed."

The leading knight's horse started to dance away from the two men moving up on both sides of it, but Tuck's right hand caught the bridle and held on. "God made the earth for man to walk on," he continued in French, his smile widening. "It seems your lord has forgotten that. Perhaps he should be reminded!" Still holding the horse's reins in his right hand, Tuck grabbed the knight's metal covered boot with his left hand, pulled it out of the stirrup and heaved upwards.

The startled knight, suddenly off balance, fell like a sack of potatoes at Robin's feet. His bow tossed to one side, Robin had his long dagger out and pressed to the fallen knight's throat, his other hand pulled the wide eyed man back to him as they both knelt in the road. "Got the bastard, Tuck! Now what?!" Robin yelled.

"Now we see just how badly this Lord Hubert wants our silver!" Tuck grinned back at him. "Captain, I believe its your move."

Watts held up his hand and the dozen bows behind him were drawn to the ear. He then raised his voice and spoke to the other knights in front of him "My lads are damned good, but if one finger slips, all the shafts will fly. So, do we pass? Or do we fight?!"

The knight that had whispered to the front one now moved his mount up to Watts. He raised his visor, revealing a lined face in his late fifties and a close-cropped gray beard. "Your priest has rather rough manners," the man said in perfect English.

"We English are a rough race," Watts replied."

A hint of a smile flitted across the older knight's features. "That has been my experience as well. You have fought for your dead King Henry?"

"Yes, many times."

"He was a hard man."

Watts replied. "His son is even harder. I go now to fight with him in the Holy Land."

The older knight snorted. "My king also has been bitten by the God bug and wishes to buy his way into heaven by killing unbelievers. Very foolish."

"It sounds like you yourself are an 'unbeliever'," Tuck smiled sweetly, now standing beside the knight, his bear like hand close to the mounted man's stirrup.

"I most certainly am, sir monk! For I think that any that take this path you all now travel are fools indeed, be they prince, peasant or king!" The man shifted in his expensive saddle and patted the neck of his expensive mount. "But alas, my sovereign calls and I must obey --- so, though I believe it to be utter folly, I too shall soon be taking this very same road towards the infamous Holy Lands!"

"Ay, excuse me gentlemen," Robin called out. "But my hand's starting to shake down here and I might accidentally cut this bugger's throat!"

"At ease, corporal," Watts grinned. "Let the bugger up, but keep your knife handy!"

As Robin pulled the first knight to his feet, the older one leaned forward and smiled. "You look like a reasonable man, captain. Perhaps we can settle this little problem with a wager?"

"A what?"

The older knight's smile vanished for a moment, then just as quickly returned. "A wager? Is that not the right word in you colourful but rather barbaric tongue?"

"You want to make a bet?!"

"Exactly!" the knight replied. "A 'gentleman's agreement' I believe you Anglais call it."

"What are we betting on?"

The older knight, clearly the 'real' Lord Hubert, smiled. "Life and death, naturally. Is there anything more important?"

"Honour?" Watts said.

"God?" Tuck put in.

"Ah," Lord Hubert sighed. "An idealist and a believer! I know not which is the worst. The first one brings so much disappointment --- the second so much pain."

"Speak clearly, Hubert!" Watts snarled. "For I begin to tire of this game!"

"Ahhh! Un homme d'action! Tres bien! I will then, as you say, speak clearly." He turned and pointed his leather riding crop at Tuck. "Your priest here has laid hands on one of my vassal knights!" He then turned and pointed the leather bound stick at Robin. "This cretin has held a blade to my vassal's throat!" The man's helmed head came suddenly erect like a falcon about to fly. " I now demand satisfaction!"

Watts laughed coldly. "You can 'demand' whatever the fuck you want, your lordship. But I'm still the one that has over a dozen bodkins aimed at your black heart! And, with the snap of my fingers, you and all around you will die!"

Hubert shrugged. "All men die, captain. As the years pass, I find that the way we 'live' is far more important. You have laid hands on one of my knights. It is only fitting that the offender face the offended, yes?"

"Why should I?" Watts asked.

"Why should you not? If one of your men was shamed and under the knife of one of mine, would you not seek restitution?"

Watts sucked in a lungful of air. "I would."

"La! Of course you would. Honour would demand it!"

"You doubt the existence of God?" Tuck put in. "But you'd die for honour?"

Lord Hubert shrugged. "Each of us, Priest, finds his own way to heaven."

"Or hell," Tuck replied.

The knight bowed from the saddle. "Touchey, mon ami! And now, captain, both Sir Reginald, whom you have dishonoured, and myself, demand satisfaction! Mano a mano as the ancient Romans used to say." Hubert suddenly leaned forward, his thin face taking on a predatory look. "Your man against mine, captain! Free passage through my lands if you win, one hundred silver marks for me if you loose! Do we have a deal, Analgise?!"

Watts looked at Tuck. "It's up to you friar. I'll not order a man of God to fight."

"Oh, it's not your bear of a priest that will fight Sir Reginald," Lord Hubert said. "But the dark haired lad that even now holds a knife to his throat." When he saw Watts hesitate, Hubert smiled, sure that he had already won. "Either Sir Reginald and the boy fight ---" Hubert leaned down and thrust his face close to Watts' --- nose to nose, eye to eye --- and the captain saw the madness that lived deep within --- a madness barely kept in check. "Or, we all draw swords and let the bloody minded Fates decide!"

Watts looked from Hubert, to Robin, to Tuck, and then back to Robin. "It rests with you, lad. Will you fight the bastard or no?"

Robin's answer was the one you'd expect, but then he added a twist. "But not to the death, only the drawing of first blood!"

Hubert frowned. "Am I a simpering female that I'd faint away at the sight of crimson?! No, lad! You drew death when you drew a blade on my man --- and Death is a cold hearted bitch that will not long be denied!"

And so they fought to the death, or at least that was the plan.

"Swords and shield, or swords alone?" Hubert said to his vassal. "As the aggrieved you have the right to choose."

Though his English was nowhere near as fluent as his lord's, Sir Hubert stood straight and replied. "Swords alone! For dis piece of sheet will not hides behind anythings but a bare blade!"

Sir Hubert grinned. "Well spoken, Sir Reginald! And now, gentlemen --- shall we about it?"

***

"I can fight him with a sword!"

"Yes, you can, Robin," Tuck said calmly. "And you will loose".

Robin frowned and turned away. Tuck drew a breath and continued. "You have good instincts, Robin, and you learn quickly, but you've only been training an hour or so a day for what? A month? Two months at most? Sir Reginald has been training day and night, every day since he was old enough to walk!"

The large man went to Robin and placed a reassuring hand on the younger man's stiff shoulders. "I jest you not, Robin! He's a noble. Probably a foul mouthed and foul minded piece of God's carrion as well, but a noble still! All knights are, or they'd be merely men-at-arms like I was And as a knight he has had the best trainers, the best food and the best equipment for decades now! More importantly he has been allowed to forgo all 'real work' and replace that with almost constant training. Day after day, month after month, and year after year." He stopped and drew a breath. "You are good with a sword, Robin. And with further training and experience you might even one day be great --- but Sir Reginald there, with his ferret like chin, his beady eyes and his overlarge chest and shoulders from years of sword work, will gut you like a fish in a matter of seconds! Sooooo my young friend, I tell you again, do NOT go against him with a sword!"

Robin, clearly shaken, looked up at the large friar. "But he has already chosen the sword!"

Tuck's smile was anything but ecclesiastical. "That doesn't mean that you have to! Aside from a bow and a knife, what weapon are you most comfortable with?"

Robin's answer was quick in coming. "A quarterstaff. John and I have been sparing with them all our lives!"

"Then use a staff!" Tuck beamed. "Better yet, use a spear --- which is a staff with a metal point on one end!"

"I can do that?"

Tuck sighed and made the sign of the cross over Robin. "You may not use a shield --- or your bow. Other than that, the choice of weapon your use is yours."

Robin smiled. "Then a spear it is! And a long one at that!"

***

"You're going to what?!" Marian demanded. She stood there with her hands on her hips, a smudge of dirt on her cheek and her green eyes flashing.

"It's not like I have a bloody choice, Marian!" Robin said, as he worked his way through the several sizes and weights of spears the company head. He finally chose one with a stout oak staff with a long metal boar-head point on it. "Ah now! That's got some heft to it!"

She smacked him alongside his head.

"Oww! What'd you do that for?!"

"You know damned well why I did it! I'm afraid you'll get yourself killed! And if you do, Robin Bowman, I'll never forgive you!"

He reached out and gently touched that cheek that I had so often dreamed of touching. "I'll be fine, Marian. I've used a staff almost as much as a bow \--- the bloody bugger won't even get near me."

She hit him again --- then he took her in his arms.

I turned away after that --- both happy and sad at the same time.

***

"Don't let the bastard get in close, Robin!" John shouted. "Use that reverse move and back off!"

But Sir Reginald the Ferret just kept on coming, swinging his great bloody sword and hacking away at Robin's boar spear as though it was a bloody piece of kindling! The long, leaf shaped head with its metal crosspiece was already gone, lopped off in Sir Reginald's first furious attack. The metal butt piece on the other end had also been cut away, along with a foot or more of the pole, so that Robin's 'great advantage' in length and reach, was all to swiftly being whittled down!

SMACK!

Robin landed a solid blow on Sir Reginald's kettle helmet that rang like a bloody church bell!

"Yes!" I shouted, along with all the other members of the company that had gathered to see the fight. "Brain the bastard, Rob!"

He tried, but the Ferret was too well armoured for Robin's blows to have much effect. The two slowly circled each other; one all in metal and mail and the other in wool and leather. Robin, in order to move fast, had stripped off his heavy mail shirt and round helmet. Sir Ferret however was in even better form than Tuck had warned about. He moved like a cat even though weighed down in armour and suddenly came at Robin like a whirlwind. The long hand and a half bastard sword he used scythed through the air in a figure eight motion; a blur of sharp edged death needing only the slightest of touches to draw blood.

Instinctively Robin backed up, his headless spear now held of in front of him.

Cut! Cut! Cut!

The six foot stave was now down to five!

Sir Ferret shouted out a war cry and brought his sword around, up, over and down like a woodchopper splitting a log --- the 'log' being Robin's head. The sunlight caught the blade at its apex and followed it down its glittering arc; towards the sweat-stained locks of the young archer \---and bit deeply into the green sod of the field!

Robin had moved just in time. Stepping sideways, not back, he'd squatted. Sweeping his five foot pole in front of him, from right to left across his body, he struck the knight behind his knees. Leather straps, not metal back there, and Sir Reginald cried out again, only this time in pain!

Up again now, Robin moved in close and rained down blows on the startled knight. Head, shoulder, arm, ribs! Over and over, using both ends of the pole, putting his anger and youth and determination into each swing.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

The stout ash staff was indeed only wood, but heavy, solid wood, wielded by a determined hand, one well used to chopping, striking and the feel of a weapon in his hand!

Down on one knee now, the battered and dented Sir Ferret tried to bring his blade to bare \--- but Robin battered it aside. He then brought the hardwood staff down in a two handed blow of his own and broke the damn thing as it struck the edge of the knights kettle helmet.

CRACK!

Sir Reginald collapsed unconscious and Robin, now holding a shattered stick, turned and walked over to Marian. Breathing hard, he handed her what was left of his staff and smiled. For a moment I thought she might hit him with it, but then she tossed it away and folded like a flower into his waiting arms.

***

"A deal is a deal, Anglais!", Lord Hubert said as the company began to march southward down the dusty road. "Your man won the first round 'fair and square' I believe you say. Such a colourful language for such a backward people."

Captain Watts squinted up at the knight all aglitter in his black enamelled scale mail atop a mount that cost more than to feed a family of ten for a year. "What the hell do you mean for the 'first round'?! This is over, Hubert! Your man lost and that puts an end to it! He's damn lucky my lad let him live!"

"Ahhh, but to live in shame, captain, is not really living! Non, mon capitain, neither I nor Sir Reginald shall rest till honour is served!"

"And when will that be? After one of them dies?" Watts asked.

The fierce gaze that barely hid the madness lurking just behind it burned its way into the captain. "Exactement, mon ami!"

"Then it's a bloody good thing that we are leaving you and Sir Reginald behind!" Watts snarled.

"Oh but you are not, mon chere!" Hubert grinned back. "My King Philip, like your King Richard, has an enormous desire to reach heaven! What's the quaint phrase you English have? Ah yes, a 'hard-on'! Philip burns shove his sword, fleshy and otherwise, into as many heathens as he can, paving the way to heaven's door with murdered Moors and newly saved souls!"

The captain shook his head. Not a highly religious man himself, he was none-the-less a 'believer' of sorts, and to hear Hubert mocking the holy church, the crusade and all that he 'half way' believe in was hard to take. It also made him angry as hell!

"If you think it such folly, monsieur, why then bestir yourself from your fine castle? Would you not be more content to stay here and rob us poor, foolish travelers that trudge tardily towards a cause you yourself do not believe in?"

Lord Hubert's aristocratic features contorted into a devilish smile. "Since when has 'believing in what we do' ever come before 'doing our duty' to our oath bound lord? No, capitain, for men such as you and I, honour and duty will always come before all else. Before family, before country and certainly before some vague notion about a non-existent god!"

Watts frowned. "Just because you don't believe in something, Hubert, doesn't mean that it doesn't exist."

"Ah, capitain, I can see now that our sojourn southwards together will be one of scintillating conversation and enlightening discussions!" Hubert said mockingly.

"Fuck off!" was Watts' rather salty reply.

"Ah, well said indeed, mon cher! A witty repost to be sure! And good advice as well, for I've so much to do to prepare for my coming departure. But be of good cheer, mon ami, I and my small army will no doubt catch up with you and you sluggards along the way. Then, perhaps Sir Reginald and your young archer may --- what is that other amusing phrase you Anglais have? Ah, 'pick things up where they left off'. No?!"

Suddenly Watts was at Hubert's side. Not being overtall, he had to look up at the mounted knight, yet there was no mistaking either the fierceness of his words or the dagger he had pressed against Hubert's thigh. "I like that lad, mon ami! I like all my lads, but that one in particular is special! He reminds me of myself a long time ago!" Watts moved the blade a bit to the right so that it slid under the mail skirt and pricked the man's skin ever so slightly. "There's an artery right about there that, if only nicked, would see you bleed out like a butchered pig."

Hubert leaned down and smiled. "There is a point to this tale, captain? Besides the one on your dagger?"

"My point, Hubert, is that if anything happens to that lad --- anything at all, then you and I shall have more than words. Is that clear enough for you?!" He pressed the blade till blood flowed lightly, then withdrew it and bowed. "Till next we meet, my lord."

Heedless of the blood that trickled down his leg, Hubert grabbed the captain's left arm and pulled him close. The devilish smile was still there. "Captain Watts, I would know your first name, if you'd be so kind."

"Why?" the captain demanded.

"I would know the Christian name of the man that I now must kill --- for you have drawn my blood, and I must do likewise."

The captain stared back coldly. "You are welcome to try."

The knight laughed. "Bold words, captain. Words I will hold you to. But in the matter of names, since you are reluctant to share, I shall tell you mine. My first name is Dorian. Dorian Gilles Hubert of Burgundy. And now yours, captain?"

"Virgil. Virgil Watts from York"

"Virgil? As in the Roman poet Vergilius? You've read his Aeneid, of course?" Without waiting for a reply, Lord Hubert launched into the opening two stanzas of the ancient poem.

Of arms I sing and of a man, who, forced by fate,

And a haughty god's unrelenting hate,

Was expelled and exiled from the Trojan shore.

'O ye gods!' cried the man

'I'll have my revenge, for this I know.

I'll never stop, till thy red blood doth flow!'

"All rather fitting, wouldn't you say, captain?" Hubert went on, obviously very pleased with himself. "I mean, the main theme of the Aeneid is 'revenge' and, since you share the poet's name, it seems only right that you share his main characters fate as well."

Watts frowned, never having heard of the poet or the poem and not really caring about either. "And what fate would that be?"

Hubert leaned down once again and his mad smile widened. "Death, Virgil. The gods wanted him dead --- just as Sir Reginald does your man, young Robin \--- and I now you."

Watts shrugged and looked at the blood on the end of his knife. "Sooner or later, Dorian, death comes to us all."

"Yes, Virgil, it does, but for some men it comes earlier than for others! For you and your 'likely lad' it will be much sooner than later!" Hubert then set his silver spurs to his mount's flank and the animal surged ahead, nearly knocking the captain aside as he galloped passed. "Till next we meet, Virgil!" floated back over the departing knight's shoulder.

Watts watch him go, then looked down at the bloody dagger in his hand. "I'll look forward to it," he said softly. He then sheathed the blade and called for his officers. It was past time to get moving, for the bloody Holy Land sure as hell wasn't going to come to us!

***

It took almost three more weeks of walking to get to Genoa. It was tough going in the higher passes, for Tuck had been right about the snow! It hadn't all melted yet and the road was thick mud in many places. We followed the Po River down from the heights and entered northern Italy in the second week of July, 1190.

Richard and his fleet had already been there several days and we wasted little time in boarding and setting sail. I'd forgotten about the bloody seasickness, but it all came rushing back to me --- and 'out' of me \--- soon after we cast off.

Chapter 12: 'Sicily'

1190 Summer

Messina, Sicily

Mediterranean

Richard wanted to stop off at the island of Sicily to see his sister Joan. Her husband, William II of Sicily, had died the previous year and been replaced by his nephew, Tancred. The brash new 'king' had promptly taken over his uncle's throne and placed his grieving Aunt Joan in prison.

When he heard the news, Richard was a little 'put out' to say the least. After landing with the entire fleet of two hundred ships and twenty thousand men, he demanded that his sister be released and that the large dowry paid the dead William for Joan's hand be returned to him. The aunt was released but not the money, so Richard put the entire island under siege! Philip of France had little choice but to go along --- at least for a while.

***

"It's a bloody riot!" John said, pointing at the mob of people in the market. "How the hell are we supposed to turn back that lot?!"

Watts Company had been given the job of patrolling the Messina market. Feelings between the townsfolk and the Crusaders had been strained ever since Richard's and King Philips combined armies had swarmed ashore a month ago and things had been getting steadily worse every day.

"Well, we could fire into the bastards," Big Ben Cummings said half seriously. "That would make them stop and think."

"We're not firing into a bloody mob of women, children and old men!" Sergeant Tully growled, "so shut your gob Ben and keep it shut!"

"Well, we have to do something, sergeant," Nate Williams said. "If not, the captain will chew us out for not doing our bloody job!"

Tully rounded on the big corporal. "Nate, the captain aint no bloody saint, but he'd not have us fire on women and old men! Goddamn it we're archers, not butchers!"

"What about that lot?" Much asked casually.

We all looked to where he was pointing and saw a large group of mounted knights charging into the far end of the market. The red crosses were clearly visible on the front of their long surcoats. They were all Richard's men --- and Richard was leading them!

People screamed, turned and ran in terror. Horses, pressed together by the narrow streets and peasant stalls in the market square, trampled anything and anyone that got in their way. Lance points glittered in the summer sun, only to turn red with blood from those not fast enough to get away. Swords rose and fell, cut and slashed and the ancient cobblestones ran red.

"Jesus, Joseph and Mary!" John muttered. I just turned away and heaved up what little breakfast I had eaten. Marian, her face suddenly gone white as a sheet, clutched Robin's arm and stared at the carnage before her.

"Why?!" she whispered to the empty air. "They were only complaining about not being paid for what the soldiers take! Is that any reason to slaughter them?!"

"The captain tells me that the king is in a foul mood over the money that this Tancred bugger owes him," Sergeant Tully put in lamely.

"The king is always in a foul mood!" Marian shot back. "The only time he seems happy is when he's killing someone!"

She wasn't too far wrong. Richard had argued with everyone from the moment he set foot on the island: the French king, Phillip II; his bishops and advisors and most especially the newly crowned king of Sicily, Tancred. Richard had put not only the town of Massena under siege, but several other coastal towns as well. Smoke from the various burnings drifted far out to sea and at night the flames lit up the palm treed coastline

Tuck ushered us all down a side street and away from the slaughter back in the market, shoved open the door to a small tavern and led Marian and the rest of us inside. Sergeant Tully posted John and Big Ben Cummins at the door with orders not to let anyone inside.

"It's all because of them two women!" Wilt Williams, the infamous pig stealer, put in.

"What are you talking about, Wilt?!" Marian demanded, taking out her anger and frustration on poor, love-sick Wilt. The hog thief snatched off his felt hat and began wringing it like a chicken's neck --- something he did whenever Marian looked his way or, God forbid, actually 'spoke' to him. "Them two he's supposed to marry! You know, the two French ladies!"

"You mean Lady Alys, King Philip's sister and the other one that Richard's mother just arrived with?", Marian asked, gratefully taking a sip of Robin's beer and passing it back.

"That's right!" Wilt beamed, the strangled hat once again on his head. "Imagine that! Getting married to two women at the same time!"

Much sighed and put down his tankard. "Wilt, I though John was the dullest knife in the drawer, but he's razor sharp compared to you!"

Wilt, thinking that he'd just been complimented, smiled back. "Thank ye, Much. I'm right fond of you too!"

"Wilt," Marian said with a smile." A Christian man can't have two wives at the same time. King Richard has been betrothed to King Phillip's sister, Alys, for years now. Since they were children. But he has fallen in love with this other young women, Berengaria of Navarre. Richard's mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, has brought Berengaria here to Sicily so that Richard and Lady Berengaria can be married. You understand?"

I could tell by the look on Wilt's face that it was all as clear as mud, but then Marian could have been speaking Turkish or German for all the attention Wilt paid her actual words --- all poor Wilt saw was that thick red hair, now starting to grow back from its earlier rough cropping, and those sea green eyes that a man could willingly drown in. What she actually said mattered not, just as long as she was speaking to him.

And God help me, I was jealous of the big dumb bugger!

Nate Summers, a good man but a course one, nudged me and winked. "Can't say I blame the king about Alys, what with his father, old Horny Henry, having kept her as his bed warmer for years! I sure as hell wouldn't want my old man's leavings!"

"Mind your tongue, Nate!" I growled, my hand going to the hilt of one of my several knives. "Less you want it shortened some!"

Nate stared at me and shook his head. "Jesus Christ, Will! I'm half again your size and weight! Do you really think you could take me in a fair fight?"

My knife was out and already at his throat when I smiled and whispered: "Who says it would be fair?"

We held each other's gaze for several heartbeats, then I pulled the knife away and laughed. Nate, blinking, suddenly did the same. We both had a drink and tried not to think about what had happened back at the market.

Robin, who had seen the little exchange between Nate and myself, smiled and raised his mug in our direction, then turned to Sergeant Tully. "I hear King Phillip's not staying around for the wedding, but is heading off for the Holy Land in a few days."

Tully wiped the foam from his moustache and set his tankard down. "That he is, and he's none too happy with our Richard either. The captain tells me that they had an awful row! Nearly came to blows!"

"Ha!" Nate snorted. "Richard would have beaten the French snail-sucker bloody!"

"And wouldn't that have looked just fine?!" Marian rounded on him, eager to vent her anger on a more deserving source than poor, dumb Wilt. "Two Christian kings, come to 'free the Holy Land from the cruel heathens', and here they are beating each other bloody over who marries who! Honestly, you men are more trouble than you're worth!" With that she stomped off back to camp, where she would no doubt continue to complain about the male race to the growing group of female camp followers that she had been collecting.

Ever since leaving Bitterroot castle, Marian had been talking to the various 'unattached females' that had somehow attached themselves to our growing company. My mother being a whore, I was, from a very tender age, quite away that certain women and most men seemed to find a strange pleasure in rolling around naked together. In fact, my mother and my various 'aunts' made quite a good living from it --- at least 'while the bloom is still on the rose' as they used to laugh and say after a long nights work and we all were sharing a bottle of wine and hot bread for breakfast. That line was invariably followed up by 'that and your tits don't sag too much and you still got some teeth!'

Not that Marian was at all interested in following the camp followers 'trade'! On the contrary, it was them that seemed interested in following hers, that of an archer and soldier! She's already recruited several likely candidates that she and Much were teaching how to shoot and more of the women were showing interest every day. She got John to show them some basic moves with the quarterstaff and she asked me to teach them some knife fighting. At first John and I were hesitant, especially John, who gets tongue tied whenever a female other than Marian even looks at him! But the girls seemed so keen and eager to learn that we both soon came to look forward to our daily lessons.

One of the girls, a big, buxom blonde called Helga, seemed to be sweet on John. She had a heavy accent that he told me later was Swedish and she had eyes as blue as a summers day. Of course, she had a horsey kind of face, long with big white square teeth, but she was tough and strong and almost as tall as John. He didn't want anyone else to know, but he eventually told me that he thought he was in love. I remember that, like the young fool I was, I had laughed and told him that he was not in love but in 'lust'. At first he wasn't sure what I meant, then, when he found out the stupid bugger picked me up and threw me in the river!

There was another girl, called Wee Meg due to her small, boyish size, who, strangely enough, seemed to like Much! She was a fiery little thing, as thin as a beanpole, and though she claimed to be 'almost sixteen' she looked about twelve. She was much shorter than him, had thick, frizzy blonde hair, an easy smile and a temper even hotter than Marian's! She also had a deformed left foot that she dragged around and walked like she'd just stepped on a nail. But she could move right quick when she wanted to and picked up knife fighting faster than any of them --- but it was with a bow that she really shined! Much taught her every chance he got and within a few weeks Meg was as good as most of the company and a hell of a lot better than some --- including me! Of course she wasn't pulling a heavy war bow and didn't have the strength or endurance to punch a bodkin through steel plate, but with a lighter hunting bow she could bring down a deer or a pheasant on a fence as well as place a shaft anywhere she wanted on a life-size target from a good fifty yards away --- and in a fight most the time your target is a hell of a lot closer than that!

I don't know if it was their love of the bow that drew them together or the fact that she was a cripple like him, but Much and Meg began to spend all their free time together, and unlike John and Helga, who remained shy and timid about showing their affections, Meg soon made it clear to all that she considered Much to be 'her man'. Much seemed both flattered and flustered by the young girl's attention, but soon got used to it and treated her like an over attentive younger sister. He even began to teach Meg how to read and write, and she would sit by his side at our fire and listen to him read stories from those damnable books of his.

I guess, when you come right down to it, I was feeling kind of jealous and left out!

I mean, it seemed like during that hot, sticky summer, while the king was off burning villages and slaughtering shopkeepers and peasants, everyone but me had someone to care for! John had his Swedish giantess, Much had his club-footed young goddess of the hunt, Robin had his green-eyed Marian and even the bloody king had two wives to choose from! And what did I have? A longing for my best friend's woman and an ach in my heart because of it!

The solution of course was easy ---not a permanent one of course, but at least it would give me some kind of respite from the pangs of lost love and self pity.

I went out and got pissed drunk.

***

The seal of

Eleanor of Aquitaine,

by the Grace of God,

Queen of the English,

Duchess of the Normans

Eleanor of Aquitaine, regal, self-assured and still a very fetching woman for all her sixty-eight years, strode into the main hall of King Tancred's castle like the dowager queen that she was. Eleanor --- Duchess of Aquitaine, Countess of Poitiers, wife of Louis VII of France and, two years later, after a special Papal annulment, wife of the newly crowned Henry II of England.

Eleanor, who you first met, Gentle Reader, at the beginning of this tome. She was the fifteen year old princess about to give birth to the unwanted love child? The cast of bastard that would one day be Sir Robert Locksley, the seventh Lord of Locksley Hall? The same man that, years later, made Marian Fitzwater his ward and then adopted her as his niece; the same man that was recently murdered by Sir Guy of Gisbourn and the very same man who was both uncle and father, though never acknowledged, to the young man that would one day be known as Robin Hood.

Eleanor, daughter, wife and mother of kings, now stood before Marian and her brood of female camp followers and looked them over much the way a farmer's good-wife would a flock of laying hens. After an uncomfortably long period of silence, the mother of the king spoke.

"Which one of you is the Lady Marian Fitzwalter?"

"That would be me, your grace," Marian said, taking a step forward and making a slight curtsey. In her dirty wools, rough leather and scraggly red hair she looked anything but a fine 'lady'.

Eleanor's piercing gray gaze all but pinned Marian to the floor. Again the long, uncomfortable silence. Then the queen mother motioned Marian forward. "Come closer, child and let me see you in the light."

Marian stepped into the slanting rays of sunlight pouring down like liquid honey through an arrow slit high up on the wall. Her roughly cropped red hair, now growing out in an unruly mop, caught the rays and sent them back heavenward, rivalled only by the fiery look in her sea green eyes.

Eleanor walked slowly around her, examining Marian as though she was a prize race horse or stag hound. 'I'm surprised that she doesn't want to count my teeth!' Marian thought to herself.

"What was your father's name, child?"

"He was Sir Donald Fitzwalter, your grace. Killed in the Second Crusade."

The dowager queen stopped in front of Marian and looked her in the eye. "Was he a tall fellow? With hair like yours and the same, saucy upturned nose?"

"I wasn't quite two when he went away, your grace, but I'm told that he had red hair. As for his 'saucy nose', I can not say."

Eleanor's thin eyebrow rose at Marian's last remark. Clearly Richard's mother was not used to anyone daring to banter back with her. A hint of a frown flashed across the carefully made-up face, and then just as quickly was gone.

'Strange', Marian thought to herself. 'She has the same piercing grey eyes that Robin has.'

Eleanor walked around Marian once more, then said softly. "I knew you father briefly but not very well. James and I had a huge tent set up for a banquet while on crusade. I do recall his beautiful red hair and those sea-green eyes. It seems you've inherited both, child."

Not knowing what to say, Marian wisely said nothing.

"He was a handsome enough man," the one-time-queen continued. "with an easy smile. A good dancer as I recall. Not as handsome as your late 'uncle', Robert Locksley though. Now there was a man that a woman could really fall in love with!"

Marian was caught off guard, but only for a moment. She, like everyone else in the realm, had heard the tales of Eleanor's rather promiscuous younger days and her weakness for handsome young men, be they noble or base-born.

"Uncle Rob was a very kind and generous man, your grace. He took my mother, my brother Hugh and myself in after the death of my father. He truly was a good and gracious man."

"Oh I'm sure he was, my dear, but you knew him as an older, mature man, the steadfast and true 'Lord of Locksley Hall', in love with his land, his animals and the distorted memories of his sainted and long dead wife. I ask you, how can any woman compete with that?! But I knew Sir Robert long before he was married to either his wife or his land! I knew him in his wayward, lusty youth!" She paused and looked off in the distance, back to a long ago time of youth and stolen kisses. Then abruptly she was back; frowning, fierce and then sweetly smiling.

"I first met your late uncle during the Second Crusade when I was Weak Louis of France's wife --- and then again a few years later when I was Strong Henry of England's! In those days your quiet and steadfast 'Uncle Rob' was all fire, poetry and passion!" Eleanor cocked her head sideways and smiled at Marian. "But I shock you, child, with all this talk of lustful youth and wayward passion! But then, at my age and with my 'history', what can you expect? My husband locked me in a bloody tower for sixteen long, dreary years, only letting me out at funerals, weddings and Yuletide! I was like the old suit of clothes that men lock away, only to be worn at sombre, special and boring occasions!"

Eleanor took a deep breath, fanned herself with a pearl covered fan worth a king's ransom, then smiled sweetly. Marian noticed that she still had most of her teeth. "But I am a poor hostess indeed, child! An old woman reminiscing about past lovers, I have neglected your friends shamefully! Pray be so kind as to introduce your charming companions."

Marian did so, going through the seven other women that she had brought with her. 'Marian's Maids' they had laughingly begun to call themselves as they practiced archery, staff and knife craft between their more 'earthly' duties of satisfying the carnal appetites of the men that slogged their weary way towards the Holy Land, which for most of them was an almost mythical place located somewhere between Heaven and Hell.

"And what's this I hear about you training these beauties of yours to be fierce Amazons?" Eleanor asked. "Women warriors of the knife and bow my ladies are saying! Why, half of them have asked if they can volunteer to join your merry band!"

Marian frowned. "I have no 'band', your grace."

"Have you not?" Eleanor asked pointedly, that strangely familiar gaze like Robin's penetrating deep and seeing much. "And what would you call these belle fames here? Your court? Your entourage?" She leaned in and touched Marian lightly on the wrist. "Believe me, child, I know all about being the fire that others look to for warmth. Its flattering for a decade or two, but it begins to wear on the nerves in time."

"It's not just Lady Marian that teaches us, your majesty," Wee Meg put in. "But Will and Little John and my man Much! Friar Tuck as well!"

"A friar?" Eleanor repeated. "You have a man of god teaching these women warcraft?!"

"Defensive moves, mostly, your grace," Marian said. "And he wasn't always a friar."

"Obviously," the older lady said dryly. "But these women look to you as their leader, the one they follow. Yes?"

Marian almost blushed. "I do what I can for them, your grace. They live very hard, dangerous lives. I only want them to know how to protect themselves."

Eleanor picked up a silver bell and rang it. Instantly a half dozen well dressed young woman came through various doors, followed by servants with trays of cheeses, fruit, cakes and wine. "I hope you don't mind, Marian, but I thought a little refreshment might go nice while my ladies get to know yours."

Marian smiled, but decided to ask the question that had been bothering her all along. "Lady Eleanor, may I ask you what you really want from me?"

The dowager queen's head came around and she fixed Marian once again with that piecing gazed that reminded her of Robin. "Beautiful, brave and direct as well! I like that! Very well, child, since you asked, I'll gladly tell. I believe that my son's young fiancé, Berengaria of Navarre, in is grave danger and I want you and your ladies to protect her."

"And what makes you think she is in danger, your grace?" Marian asked.

Eleanor's smile held a deadly seriousness to it. "They've tried to kill her once already. There is no reason to think that there will not be another attempt."

"Who would do such a thing?"

This time Eleanor's smile was genuine. "Marian dear, the list is far too long to even speculate. My own guess however would be Philip."

"The King of France?!" Marian gasped.

Eleanor shrugged. "He and Richard argued about the marriage. It seems Phillip wanted his half sister Alys to be the next queen of England and is rather put out that such is not going to be the case."

"A king would do such a thing?! Have a woman murdered just fro spite?!" Marian demanded.

"Oh my dear, kings, and queens, would, could and have done such foul deeds as to shake the very foundations of heaven! Now my dear, shall we have some wine? And do try the cakes! They are absolutely delicious!"

***

"She wants you to what?!"

"Protect Berengaria!" Marian repeated. "Really Robin, you never listen to me!"

"I'm listening now! You're telling me that the queen mother asked you and your girls to protect King Richard's fiancé?!"

"Well," Marian beamed. "I guess you were listening after all!"

It was the next morning after the meeting with Eleanor and her 'court', and Marian and the rest of her girls were more than a little hung over from all the wine and 'delicious' little cakes. The queen mother it seemed, despite her advancing years, still enjoyed a good time. As the afternoon had worn on into the evening, the wine had continued to flow, as did the food, music and dancing. It wasn't till well past moonrise that a rather unsteady group of women made their noisy way back to the camp.

Robin continued to cook their breakfast over a small fire --- crust of bread toasted on his dagger point and a slab of cheese. "And just how was this murder attempted?"

"Poison," Marian replied quickly. "Eleanor says it's the post common way to kill a king."

"Eleanor says?"

"Yes."

"The most common way?"

"Yes.

"To kill a king?"

"Yes! Are you going to repeat everything I say?"

Robin took the hot bread away from the fire and put a piece of cheese on top, then handed it to Marian. "Not everything, just the fantastic parts."

"You don't believe me?!" Marian demanded.

"Oh, I believe you. It's just Richard's mother I'm not so sure about."

"But why would she lie?"

Robin shrugged. "Who knows why the high and mighty do anything? Look at what her son did the other day in the market? Look at all the burnings and murders he's done in the few weeks we've been here! The mother may be just as bloody sadistic as the son!"

Marian looked quickly looked around, afraid that Robin's treasonous words might have been overheard, but aside from John and myself, no-one else was close by. "People have been hung for talk like that!" She whispered fiercely.

Robin flashed her a smile. "Does that not prove my point?"

"I believe Eleanor --- and Berengaria! And the girls and I will help protect her!"

"How?!" Robin suddenly demanded, his smile and easy manner now gone, replaced by anger fuelled by concern. "By tasting everything this princess eats? By standing at the foot of her bed while she sleeps. How, Marian?! How will you protect her from one of the high and mighty? Think back on your uncle, Sir Robert! Neither you nor I could protect him from Gisbourn! And who got blamed for that in the end? We did! No, you will NOT do this!"

Ahhhh Robin, Robin, Robin. And you were doing so well until that last part. The bit about her uncle was a tad harsh, but truthful, however that last shouted command was where you made your mistake. If you had asked her, Marian might have taken your advice, but since you made the great folly of ordering her not to, why then, she just had to do the contrary! Gentle Reader, do you not agree? In your own world, have you not found that seldom, if ever, can us mere men 'order' a woman to do anything --- not without, sooner or later, sadly regretting our own great folly!

And so Marian and her 'Maids' took on the task of protecting King Richard's new fiancé, Berengaria of Navarre. Working in pairs, they did indeed supervise the cooking and tasting and sleeping of their beautiful young charge --- and seemed well pleased with their lot as well, for it freed them from the drudgery of camp life and the need to earn their wages on their back as they had been doing. They also got to wear fine clothes, eat the best foods and drink the best wines. What poor country girl, used to hard, dangerous and demeaning work, would not gladly jump at such an opportunity?

This idyllic situation however suddenly took on the harsh aspect of nightmare when Ruth, one of Marian's girls, had her throat cut one night by a figure that came at her out of the shadows. Ruth and another girl, Mary, had been patrolling the hall outside Berengaria's room when the assassin had struck. Apparently he had stepped up behind the two women, killed Ruth with a single slash and gone on to attack Mary. Luckily the girl was also quick, nimble and fast, and managed to not only avoid her attackers savage slash, but land one of her own as well, A cut on his wrist cause the killer to drop his knife and flee into the shadows. Mary turned to help her friend, but Ruth was already gone, her fine white silk blouse that she had been so proud of now stained crimson with her life's blood.

After that, everyone, including Robin, took the situation much more seriously. The queen mother came herself to the archer's camp and attended the short mass that Tuck had for poor Ruth, and even tossed a red rose into the unfortunate young woman's grave.

It was shortly after the foiled assassination that Richard ordered all eight thousand of us back aboard his large fleet and we set sail eastwards. Marian and her Maids were ordered to go with Richard's recently widowed sister Joan and his bride-to-be Berengaria while Eleanor and her court took ship back to England. Richard, in the larger flagship, led the way eastward. He had ordered Watts Company to board the same ship that held his sister and fiancé; our job being to not only to guard the two women, but, and probably more importantly to him, the vast amount of gold and silver that he was bringing to the Holy Land. After all, Gentle Reader, soldiers, then as now, need to be paid --- for man does not live on honour alone.

***
Chapter 13: 'Shipwrecked'

1191 April

The coast of Cyprus

The storm struck us about a week after leaving Sicily. It came on with such a driving fury that several of or boats were capsized and the rest scattered. A number of ships, including the one we were on, ran aground on the northern beaches of Cyprus. Caught on an outcropping of rock, our ship was battered and broken, but remained intact enough for us to get the women into one of the small boats and through the surf to the beach. Of the two hundred souls on board well over three quarters made it safely to shore. Most of Watt's Company landed safely, including Marian and her 'Maids', the king's sister Joan and his bride-to-be, Berengaria.

"Get those bloody women further up on the beach!" Captain Watts yelled, though the pounding of the surf made his orders hard to hear. "You there, Will, see that they get high and dry, there's a good lad! And get a bloody fire going if you can!"

The captain turned to bellow other unheard orders and I trudged my way across a beach littered with the various bits and pieces tossed up by the relentless waves, including several bodies that rolled back and forth in the surf like beckoning corpses.

Much, John and the minstrel Alan Adale were already helping Marian get the rest of the women up to higher ground. "Where's Robin and Tuck?!" I yelled. Overhead the gathering gulls screamed, eager to begin the feast.

"Him and some others went back out to the ship!" John yelled.

"Why the Christ did they do that?!" I demanded. The last thing I wanted was to wade through that treacherous surf again, with its jagged coral and its hungry undertow!

"To look for survivors and to bring back some gear!" Marian said with that impatient frown that I had leaned to stay well clear of whenever possible. "The bloody man feels naked without his bloody bow in his hand, pig-headed fool that he is!"

True, most of us had come ashore with little more than the clothes on out back, which, luckily, did NOT include our chain mail shirts and other war gear that would have weighed us down like an anchor! Most of it was safely locked away in chests lashed to the deck. It was these chests that Rob, Tuck and a score or more of the company now brought ashore, along with food, water and some dry clothes and blankets.

Painting by NC Wyeth

By sundown they had managed a half dozen trips back and forth while the rest of us had made a fairly snug camp well up above the high tide mark. A rough shelter had been set up for the women, Captain Watts and several of the other officers had organized us into our various companies and men had gone inland and up the beach in both directions looking for local assistance. Apart from a few local fishermen, no-one appeared until just past noon the next day.

Then however, they came in force!

***

"Who the hell is that lot?!" Wee Meg demanded. She was one of the few of us that had actually brought a bow. Just like Much, Wee Meg was seldom seen without her bow in one hand and a book in the other.

"Looks like the local sheriff come to collect docking fees," Alan jested. The handsome singer was standing there dripping wet trying to get the water out of his precious lute

"About two score of the buggers," Much said, stinging his bow and choosing a broadhead point instead of a bodkin. When he saw me looking he smiled wickedly. "Better to bring the horse down first, Cut Purse. The rider will surely follow!"

"There'll be no bringing anything down! Horse or rider!" Marian said firmly. "At least not until they make plain their business. See there! The captain even now goes to meet them!"

"Then he'll need a little back up --- just in case," Much grinned at Marian, then turned to Wee Meg. "Come my nimble footed dove, let us take a quiet stroll among the dunes!" She smiled warmly and took his gnarled hand. The two of them looked quite comical: the one thick, hunched backed and twisted, the other rail thin, half his size and dragging her left leg through the sand, yet we all know that looks can be deceiving, and the two deformed lovers toiling up the beach were also two of the best archers in Richard's army.

"Come on Will!" John grinned at me. "We can't let Much have all the fun. Let's go!"

Muttering under my breath, I followed the giant idiot. Helga, John's blonde headed amazon and several other of Marian's maids followed us. Fools on a fool's errand, each and every one of us!

"Don't worry about the ladies!" Alan called after us. "Marian and I will look after them! Besides, Robin will be back any moment now!"

***

"Who commands here?" an exotically dressed knight demanded, his heavily accented English very hard to follow.

"Who wants to know?!" Captain Watts shot back. Watts, being the senior officer of the other three archer groups on the ship, spoke for them all.

The swarthy skinned knight showed surprisingly white teeth, a rarity in a man rich enough to afford fine armour, a fine horse and all the sweets he wanted. |

"I am Generalissimo Nicoli Phakaw, commander and chief of His Greatness, Emperor Isaac Comnenus the First! And I demand to know what you Eeenglish are doing on my emperor's beach!"

"Taking a bloody swim, what the Christ does it look like?!" This came from newly promoted Captain William Gladstone, a younger, more hot headed junior officer, who now found himself in command, since his senior captain was one of the bodies rolling in the surf.

"There is no need to blaspheme, young man," General Phakaw remarked. "And if you do so again, I will have you shot." From his prancing charger the haughty general looked down at the four Englishmen standing before him. "A ask again; who commands here? Come! Speak up!"

Watts took a step forward. "That would be me, general, and I'll thank you not to threaten my men."

"You and your men are in no position to dictate terms, sir!" the general shot back. "Is there no man of station here? No high ranking officer? No gentlemen?!"

"We're all part of Richard of England's army that he's taking to the Holy Land. As you can see, a storm has driven our ship onto your coast. We'd be grateful for any assistance you and your men can give us."

"Reechard of Eeengland is known to me." General Phakaw replied with a sneer. "A great keeler of Frenchmens and a buggerer of boys!"

One or two of the general's younger knights behind him sniggered at that. When quickly translated, others joined in. Captain Watts hawked up a wad of phlegm and spit it at the charger's feet. "I don't know about him being a buggerer of boys, General Fawk-Awp, --- but I know for damned sure that he's a bloody killer of Frenchmen, assholes and general fuck-ups like you."

The general, far from as proficient in English as he liked to let on, had some difficulty deciding whether he had just been insulted or not. He decided that he had. He leaned down and slashed his leather quirt across Watt's face.

Swack!

Blood flowed.

Tempers flared.

Hands reached for weapons.

"Kill that piece of shit!" newly promoted Captain William Gladstone yelled, reaching for his rather plain shortsword. The pitted blade was only half way clear of a cracked and split scabbard when a crossbow bolt took the young hot head in the throat.

More blood flew.

Men yelled.

Horses stamped.

General Phakaw and his twenty knights had their swords drawn and their shields raised. Watts and the other four officers also had their blades drawn and now back to back in the sand, grimly preparing to sell their lives as dearly as possible.

Just then an arrow slammed into the general's horse. The startled beast jumped sideways, then went down on its knees, spilling Phakaw onto the sand. Several other arrows struck home as Much, Wee Meg and the other archers fired into the knights milling about their fallen leader.

Swords were swung, arrows were released, metal met metal and sharp blades drew blood. Red Death had suddenly come to the sun-soaked sands of Cyprus.

***

"What the Christ is happening up there?!" Robin yelled as his boat, laden with trunks of armour, gear and food, ground into the pebbled shore and was pushed sideways by the following surf.

Tuck, his friar's robes soaked to the waist, followed Robin's gaze. Recognizing the strange armour immediately as the kind favoured in the much hotter Mediterranean, Tuck knew that local forces and their own had clashed. "Looks like the captain could use some help." he grinned.

Leaping into the surf, Robin grasped the laden boat and pulled it up on shore. The other men in the boat joined him, as did those in the other three boats. All grabbed bows and bags of arrows and within moments two dozen archers were following Robin up the beach.

***

Marian saw Captain Watts and the strange knights fighting from her position further up the beach. Several of her 'maids' were around her, doing their best to calm King Richard's sister, Joan, who seemed close to hysterics. The younger woman, Berengaria, however, was oddly calm.

"Have you a weapon you could give me?" she asked Marian.

"What?"

"A knife or a dagger! Berengaria said. "I lost mine while coming ashore!"

Marian looked at the tall, young woman. That she was beautiful was obvious, with her high, aristocratic cheekbones; fair, pale skin; dark, lustrous hair that now flowed about here like outspread raven's wings.

"I'm sure that won't be necessary, my lady," Marian said, trying to force a smile.

Berengaria turned her long neck towards the distant fighting. "Really? It looks like it may be very necessary! Women do not fair well as prisoners of war I believe, and I have no great desire to be raped repeatedly."

Marian took one of the two knives she had with her and handed it to the princess from Navarre. "Do you know how to use one of these?"

Dark eyes flashed. Not with fear but something else. "Hold it by the handle and stick in the pointed end?"

"There a bit more to it that that," Marian said. "I'll teach you once we get things settled here."

"You are the leader of these women, are you not?"

"I am."

Berengaria nodded. "Good! Then you and I shall be friends --- if we are not killed here on this beach."

"Marian!" a male voice yelled out. "What the bloody hell is going on up there?!

Marian turned to see Robin running towards her. Tuck and over a dozen archers were close behind him. "Captain Watts went to talk to those strangers."

"It looks like the talking part is over! Ben, take six men off to the right! Wilt, take another six off to the left. Pick your targets well, for the captain's up there!" As the two men gathered their archers, Robin tuned to Tuck. "Straight at them?!"

The large cleric grinned devilishly. "Is there any other way?!"

"Christ!! The bloody fools!" Marian swore, pulling out her second knife, then called to her maids. "Let's go ladies! It looks like the men need some help!"

Screaming and yelling, Marian and her maids followed Robin up the beach!

***

General Nicoli Phakaw spit sand out of his mouth and managed to rise up on his knees. His crested helmet was gone and so was his sword. All around him was noise and movement. Horses, wreathing bodies and fighting clusters of men were all around him. A number of his men were already dead; most with one or two arrows in them. Half of those still alive were already captured by these bloody English! The rest had fled, at least out of arrow range, for they now sat their nervous mounts a long bowshot down the beech --- nervously waiting for the main body of troops that followed to arrive.

When Phakaw had heard this morning that a ship had ran aground, he had gathered his household troops and rode out immediately, leaving orders with his Second to bring the larger body off troops as soon as they were organized.

Suddenly the arrogant English captain was standing beside him, a dagger in one hand and Phakaw's own sword in the other!

"I believe you dropped this, General Fawk-Awf. Perhaps it's best that I hold on to it till you have regained your senses."

"That sword has been in my family for generations! Be very careful with it, capitain, it is priceless!"

"This old thing?" Watts asked, deliberately bending the blade almost to its breaking point. The general turned white as a ghost and reached up for the precious heirloom. Watts rapped the back of the general's hands with the flat of his dagger. "Now now, General Fawk-Awf, didn't you mother ever teach you that it's not polite to grab?"

Suddenly Robin was beside them. "Half the buggers are under guard, captain. The rest are either dead or saw turned tail and ran!"

"And our men, corporal?" Watts asked, still watching Phakaw as he slowly regained his feet.

Robin frowned. "Captain Gladstone and three others are dead, sir. Twice that many wounded but should recover. One of the dead was Betty, sir, one of Marian's girls."

"Christ on his cross!" Watts swore. "How did she die?"

"Sword cut to her head, captain. Probably from above. One of these buggers on a horse!"

"But Marian's fine?" Watts asked, the concern in his voice plain to hear. "And what of Richard's sister and the other one?!"

"The 'other one' is right here, captain," said Berengaria, breathing hard and with blood on both her hand and Marian's knife. "I'm quite fine, but the punto who tried to grab me is not!"

Neither men knew what a punto was, but they could easily have hazarded a guess. "My lady," Watts said with a slight bow, "you should not be here."

"Where then should I be, captain?" Berengaria said haughtily. "Back with my fiancé's sister, cowering in a hole I dug in the sand? Or perhaps you think that I should be on my knees praying for God, in all his infinite yet seldom seen mercy, to deliver us poor, helpless females from the hot and lustful hands of the infidel?!"

Watts stepped forward and, with a flourish, reversed general Phakaw's sword and offered the jewelled hilt to the dark haired princess. "Such a fierce heart, my lady, deserves a bold blade to defend it. Please accept this poor one till a proper substitute can be found."

Berengaria eyed the blade, the giver and the red faced former owner, then, with a little smile flitting across her high boned features, she thrust Marian's bloody blade in her belt and accepted Phakaw's much coveted sword with a nod and a slight curtsey. "A gallant gift from a gallant gentleman, Captain Watts. I shall be sure to inform my future husband about both your bravery and you generosity."

Watts bowed more deeply and the princess, with one last defiant look at Phakaw, turned and, her new sword resting casually over her shoulder, she walked over to where Marian and her maids were tending to Betty's body.

***

The rest of General Phakaw's troops, all two hundred of them arrived by mid afternoon. Unlike the first 'parley' however, there was no fighting involved. Captain Martino, though junior in rank and younger in age than Phakaw, was quite obviously more intelligent. He offered not only a 'truce' but the hospitality of Castle Limassol, one of the many 'seats of power' of the newly crowned king of Cyprus, Isaac Comnenus the First.

"I'm sure King Isaac will be more than pleased to know that both the sister and fiancé of the famous Richard of England has landed safe and sound on our shores," Captain Martino said in only slightly accented English. He followed up his words with a dazzling smile and a deep bow to both the women.

Joan, having recovered surprisingly well from her earlier hysterics, returned the handsome young captain's smile with a promising one of her own.

Martino moved suddenly forward and took Joan's hand in his own. "And may I offer you both my lord's and my own condolences dear lady, concerning the loss of your late husband, the King of Sicily?".

More bows, more smiles, ending with a rather long kissing of her hand.

"And will your lord be as gracious about the loss of a half dozen of his own men, captain?" Watts asked pointedly. "For I'm damn-well not feeling too bloody gracious about the loss of three of mine!"

"My king, I'm sure captain, will grieve for those lost on both sides of this rather unfortunate misunderstanding." Martino beamed.

The rest of us were watching from just up the beach and I heard Marian mutter something about wanting to 'smash those gleaming white teeth down the bastard's lying throat!' Robin and I both shook our head and set about gathering what gear he and the others had brought ashore from the grounded ship. A short time later we were all marching back along the coast road to Castle Limassol to meet this King Isaac.

***

"All I'm saying" Marian repeated as we walked along, "is that I don't trust either one of them! The general is an empty headed idiot and that smiling snake of a captain is far too clever by half!"

"But he has such a charming smile, don't you think?" Robin teased. "Lady Joan certainly seems to think so. She's hardly left his side since he arrived."

"The dark haired one doesn't seem to have fallen under his spell," Alan said as we trudged along. "In fact, she seems quite an independent spirit. Very queen-like" He slid his lute around and played a soft chord.

Dark of hair and dark of mood, is the Lady from Navarre.

With piercing gaze and watchful eye, the lady doth see far.

But doth she see or can she tell, what waits around the bend?

Will it be fair or will it be fowl, when this road comes to its end?

Caught up in the dark beauty of Alan's words, I uttered my own 'poetic compliment'. "Damn, that's good! How do you do that shit?!"

***
Chapter 14: 'Lost & Found'

The next day

Castle Limassol

"Greetings. I trust you all slept well? King Isaac will see you very soon." Captain Martino, smiling as usual, came forward and once again gently took Lady Joan's hand. "A special greeting to you, dear lady, for you have been through so much of late. The loss of your dear husband, being imprisoned by that brute of a nephew; then, after being rescued by your valiant brother, you had to endure the oceans cruel temper , a shipwreck and a bloody clash of arms right before your eyes!" The young captain raised Joan's hand to his lips and kissed it gently. "How brave you are, madam! You are my inspiration!"

"Oh please!" Marian hissed to no one of us in particular. "She's old enough to be his bloody mother! Any fool can see that he's just after her title and position!"

"Any fool but her," Robin put in with a smirk.

Marian punched him on the shoulder.

"And you, Lady Berengaria?" Martino said to the younger woman beside Joan. "I trust you are rested after your long ordeal?"

"Trust is a thing not easily won, captain, but all too easily lost." The dark haired beauty replied coldly. "I, however, trust that you and your men have salvaged my property from the ship?"

Your 'property', my lady?" Martino repeated. "Your chests of clothes and other things?"

Berengaria smiled and moved closer. "My chests of gold, captain. Or, to be more precise, my fiancé's gold. Richard of England --- also and island, by the way \--- though one a hundred times larger that yours."

That dazzling smile flashed again. "Surely not a hundred times as large, my lady. Perhaps only ten?"

Martino's attempt to put Berengaria in her place was countered like a falcon brushing aside a finch. "I was but attempting to be polite, dear fellow. What I should have said was that Richard's England is a hundred times more powerful than you sun-swept little isle."

Even I, unskilled in the way a woman's words can strip a man bare in a matter of moments, felt the lash of Berengaria's tongue and the implied threat in her honey-sweet tone. Martino however took it all in with hardly a bat of his baby blue eyes. A cool bastard to be sure was the good captain --- if good at being a two faced liar counts! The well dressed gob-shite smiled his gleaming smile and sketched a dancer's bow. "The ship's contents were indeed salvaged, my lady, and brought to the castle. As to their exact contents I have no knowledge. These chests of gold you mention, if indeed they were there, will be with all your other things."

"Will they indeed?" Berengaria's smile matched Martino's. "Richard will be so pleased to hear that. He should be here any day now. There were six of them as I recall. Large things, all bound in iron and fixed with the Royal Seal of England. Perhaps you could have them moved to my rooms so that all will be ready for his arrival?"

"Ahh, yes, perhaps I can," Martino said. There was just the hint of a stammer in his speech. "But now ladies, it is time to prepare you for your audience with King Isaac."

***

Of course we all didn't go to see this newly crowned king. Most of us stayed outside the castle and set up our usual archer's camp. Captain Watts took Robin and Sergeant Tully with him, Marian and some of her 'maids' to look after Joan and Berengaria and Tuck of course, to represent the church.

What follows is Tuck describing that rather 'interesting' meeting.

***

We waited for over three hours for the 'grand audience' to begin. We were treated well enough during the wait; placed in a tall white stone tower overlooking the sea. We were given food and drink, in the corner several musicians played strange music on strange instruments and we were allowed to gaze out at the endless rolling waves. What we were not given was any reason why we had to wait so long!

Finally the thick heavy iron-bound door opened and we were met by a smiling Captain Martino. "Greetings ladies and good gentles. I trust you have been enjoying the Emperor's hospitality? The view is magnificent, is it not?"

"There he goes with that bloody 'trust' thing again!" Marian whispered to me. "He's far too slippery for my liking!"

"He does act a bit reptilian," I smiled back at her. "But we are in god's hands here, Marian, not his."

"Does scripture not say, good friar, that God helps those who help themselves?"

"It does indeed, Marian. Wise words I try to live by."

"Please, dear ladies and kind gentlemen, follow me to my lords greeting hall."

Martino, now dressed in flowing lime green robes instead of his earlier light armour, led us up a winding stone path to a large marble terrace overlooking the sea. The sight that greeted us there was like something out of a child's storybook. There were all kinds of strange and exotic birds and animals about. A chained tiger near the entrance watched us with uninterested eyes, colourful parrots fluttered back and forth on flowering trees in large earthen pots while monkeys of several sizes and colours swung from branch, chandelier and wall sconce. One looked like a tall goat with a very long neck. Several other odd looking beasts strutted about, like a large goose in size but with a multicoloured fan for a tail, that, when spread, showed glistening greens, blues and golds.

From a raised balcony jutting out from the back wall of the castle, another group of musicians played more of that strange music on their strange instruments. Yet the eye was eventually drawn to the center of the large marble terrace, where sat a raised throne, draped will all manners of silks, rich cloths of all textures and colours. Scantily clad females with skin as varied in hue as the silks they wore, bustled about the high back chair, fanning, feeding and fawning over the rather plump man that sat in it --- King Isaac Comnenus, ruler of the Isle of Cyprus and self proclaimed Emperor of the Middle Sea.

Suddenly one of the musicians stood, raised a large seashell to his lips and blew a blast that would have brought down, had they still been standing, the walls of Jericho! As the bleating blast died away, a huge black man, wearing only baggy silk orange trousers and a comically small red leather vest, rose up and banged what looked like a large bronze shield suspended in a gilded frame. The ear splitting 'BONG' rivalled the earlier blast from the shell. The huge black man, his shaven head and upper body glistening with oil, began to chant something in a guttural language. I learned later that these were the rather lengthy titles of our host, King Isaac. When the various echoes had faded away, Captain Martino once more graced us with his slippery smile.

"As the Emperor speaks only our local tongue, I have the privilege of translating for him. Please be so kind as to step forward three paces and kneel."

"Kneel?!" Berengaria repeated. "Did you just say 'kneel'?!"

Even more teeth showed than before. "But of course, dear lady. Everyone kneels in the presence of the Emperor of the Middle Sea."

Berengaria's dark eyes flashed. "Not everyone, sirah! The daughter of King Sancho of Navarre kneels to no-one! Neither will Joan, the sister of the King of England and former queen of Sicily!"

"But my dear ladies, you must kneel. The Emperor can become very, ah, 'erratic' if things do not go his way!"

"Does he now?" Berengaria remarked. "Is that why the poor man needs all those naked nymphs about him? To sooth his shattered soul? Or perhaps he has simply lost his mind?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Marian. "What do you think, Lady Marian? As a proud Englishwoman, will you kneel before this fat little lump of a man?"

"I will not! And neither will any of us!"

"Well said, Marian!" Berengaria beamed. "Just what I thought you'd say!" She then turned to Watts. "Captain, we're leaving!"

"But my lady! You can't!" Martino almost yelled, reaching out for Marian's arm. He almost had her when Robin's grip tightened on his outstretched wrist. Martino was suddenly twisted around and facing a very determined young man. "Touch her and you'll be the one on his knees." The words came out soft and all the more menacing because of it.

"Robin, leave him. We're going ---now!" Watts turned and started leading them all back the way they had came when a dozen men suddenly filed out onto the large terrace, each one with a loaded crossbow pointing directly at them. A tall, thin middle aged man came out from behind them. He was dressed in flowing dark blue robes and wore a turban of gold cloth, as was the sash that wound round his narrow waist.

"I'm afraid, captain, that I am not quite ready to let you go just yet," the man said in perfect yet heavily accented English."

"No?!" Watts said forcefully. "And just who the hell are you?!"

The thin man smiled, his pointed goatee making his face even longer. "I am Isaac Comnenus, the ruler of this isle."

Watts recovered quickly and jerked a thumb in the direction of the short, fat man on the throne. "Then who's that one then?!"

The tall thin man shrugged. "A mere actor playing his part. I wished to see your true natures, so I prepared a little ruse. That is the correct words, is it not? Ruse?"

"Then you really don't expect us all to grovel at your feet?" Berengaria asked, stepping up beside Watts.

Isaac matched the fierce young woman's gaze with one of his own. "Grovel, no my dear. But you will all kneel before me --- one way or the other."

"You wouldn't dare lay a finger on me or the Lady Joan!" Berengaria said. "Richard would tear you limb from limb!"

The thin man shrugged again. "For all you know, my lady, your Richard may be at the bottom of the sea. That was a very bad storm that blew you here. Ships have be lost in far less. At the very least, your Richard is not here now, nor likely to be here soon." The tall man turned and looked out over the ocean. "You see, my dear, the only ships out there are mine. And as for me not daring to lay a finger on either you or the Lady Joan, I most certainly do NOT intend to do so. However," He then raised his right hand and pointed at Sergeant Tully. Instantly one of the dozen crossbowmen fired a bolt into the sergeants left leg.

Tully went down with a groan, bloody pooling on the white marble floor. Joan screamed Berengaria hissed out a curse and Marian and another woman, Rose, went to the fallen soldier and tried to stop the bleeding. Captain Watts, Robin, and the rest of Marian's maids all drew their daggers and I hefted my staff.

"Stop right there!" the thin man said firmly. "I have but to say the word and all of you will die instantly! Your sergeant will recover. The next ones will not!"

I looked over and saw that Robin seemed about to attack anyway, so I grabbed his shoulder and hissed in his ear. "We'd not make it out alive, Rob. There's too many of the bastards and we've the women to think of!"

"Tuck's right, Rob! It's cool heads we need now, not brave hearts!" Watts growled. Then, sheathing his dagger, he turned back to the so called king of the island. "What do you want from us?! If it's a hostage you need, take me and let the rest go!"

Isaac's mirthless smirk showed again. "What I want, captain, I already have! Two princesses and half a dozen chests of gold! You and your men are free to go. Captain Martino will arrange passage to Turkey for you and your archers on one of my vessels." The smirk widened. "Who knows? Perhaps you will find your famous Richard of England there waiting for you?"

"I'll not walk away and leave the two ladies in your hands!" Watts said, his hand once again on his dagger.

"Oh, it's not just the two of them, captain. All of the women will stay. I give you my word that they will be well cared for here --- waiting patiently till twelve more chests of gold arrive to pay for their passage back home."

Robin stepped forward, and several crossbows aimed directly at him. "Just where the hell will we find twelve chests of gold?!"

Once again that elegant shrug. "Family? Friends? The one with the fiery eyes said her father was a king? Or perhaps your Richard has another boatload of gold? If he's still alive, that is."

"Bastard!" Marian hissed, rising up from Tully's still form. "The arrow missed the main artery, but he may still loose the leg or even die from the infection!"

The elegant shrug came again. "A necessary casualty in order for me to make my point."

Marian's sea-green yes washed over the thin man with a burning hatred. "And what 'point' would that be?! That you are a pathetic little despot that rules by murder and cruelty?! That you hold women against their will for money?!"

The thin king frowned then turned to Martino. "I'd rather not shoot a woman or the priest, so who shall it be? The captain or the young archer?"

Martino's teeth showed, but not as a smile. He nodded at Robin.

The thin king's cruel eyes flicked towards Robin and the waiting guards' crossbows.

"NOOOO!!" Marian screamed and suddenly through herself forward, placing herself in front of the shafts pointing towards Robin.

"Marian!" Robin yelled. "Get out of the way!"

"NO!" she hissed. "There's been enough blood shed already. "GO NOW, Robin! LEAVE --- while you still can!" She turned pleading eyes on Captain Watts. "Go, captain, please! We'll manage till you get back. Find Richard, Find him and tell him what happened. Please! But go now, quickly!"

Watts glanced form Marian to the two princesses, the other half dozen frightened women and came to rest on Sergeant Tully, his wounded friend.

Marian's voice cut through the host of memories the two old friends had shared. "We'll see the sergeant, captain. And we'll see justice done as well when you return! But you must go now!"

Berengaria stepped up and put a steady hand on the captain's shoulders. "Marian is right, captain. We will be fine here until you and Richard return for us. Go now and find the king. Tell him what this 'little man' demands, what he has done and ask him to act accordingly."

That seemed to have reached him. Watts bowed to the princess, nodded to Marian, then turned to Robin and myself. "The ladies are right, lads. We can do no more here. Let's get back to the company."

"You're not going to just leave them here?!" Robin demanded.

"I've no real choice, lad --- and neither do you! Now, let's away and bloody well go find Richard!"

***

When Tuck, Robin and Captain Watts came back and told us what had happened, a large number of the company were for storing the white stone castle then and there and doing to the skinny bastard of a king what he had done to poor old Tully! Watts however pointed out that archers alone could never take such a well fortified castle and that the women would surely suffer if we tried.

"No lads, our best chance is to find Richard and tell him what's happened. In a day or so we'll take passage to the mainland. From there we'll walk the rest of the way if we have to, but we'll find Richard and then we'll come back here and tear that bloody place down stone by bloody stone! "

We'd all cheered at that and then got stinking drunk --- or at least I did. It was hard to think of Marian and the other women in the hands of those slimy tongued bastards, but then Robin told us how she had stepped in front of the crossbows and I knew that her fierce heart would see her through --- and I loved her all the more for it!

***

Finding Richard proved to be a hell of a lot easier than expected --- for, in truth, he found us two days later!

Scattered by the storm that had driven us ashore over a week ago, Richard had finally rounded up most of the fleet and sailed back to Cyprus for water and repairs. Over the next few days eighty ships limped into Limassol harbour and dropped anchor within sight of King Isaac's bloody white castle! The troops poured out and swarmed over the beach and adjoining fields and soon a large military camp had sprung up.

That fat bugger General Phakaw and a dozen or so other high ranking fools tried to stop Richard from landing his army, but once Watts told him what had happened to his sister, his fiancé and his gold, God Himself would have been hard pressed to have held the Lionheart back!

Over eight thousand men boiled ashore like two legged wolves hungry for blood! Needless to say Robin, Much, John, Tuck and myself were leading the pack! Even Alan Adale, who usually just sings about war, put his beloved lute aside and took up a sword --- though the silly bugger hardly knew which end to hold the thing by! John took it away from him and gave him a spear instead --- a long one!

***
Chapter 15: 'Knock the Bugger Down!'

1191 mid May

Two weeks after

Richard landed.

"You don't like the man?" Richard asked

"I'd not piss on him if he was on fire ---your grace," Robin growled, still in a foul mood because the siege was taking so bloody long and King Isaac was once again threatening to harm the hostages if Richard didn't retreat.

We all knew that Richard would never leave, regardless of what happened to the women. The 'good side' of that was that Isaac knew it as well so that his threats to harm them were empty formalities, something he did to save face with his men. It still worried me though and I could see it was driving Robin crazy!

"Well," Richard said, looking at the large gathering of his officers, "you are not alone in your dislike, lad! The skinny bastard has made enemies of just about everyone in the Mediterranean, and declaring himself 'Emperor of the Middle Sea' didn't help! But we've got the gold-stealing son-of-a-whore now! My engineers have finished the largest trebuchet ever made, and now we'll soon knock the bugger down!"

Richard turned to a middle aged knight that had surprisingly sea-green eyes --- not too surprising though, since he was Marian's older brother Hugh! He lacked the flowing red locks, but the eyes were the same, as were the high cheekbones and slim stature. "Sir Hugh Fitzwalter will be in charge of the new monster of a rock tosser and he'll explain how it differs from earlier models --- but pray be brief, Sir Hugh, for my dogs of war here are creatures of action, not words!"

There was a shout of approval at, just as the king knew there would be. Richard Plantagenet, for all his faults, was, above all else, a 'constant soldier'; always attacking, always pushing forward and always leading from the front. Never once did he direct an attack from the rear like so many of his fellow rulers were want to do --- and his men loved him for it!

Sir Hugh had arrived on a small ship a few days earlier. He'd been sent out from the besieged Saracen city of Acre looking for Richard and his much needed fleet from England. Phillip of France had arrived at Acre several weeks earlier, but the attacking crusaders were still greatly outnumbered and unable to crack one of Saladin's strongest walled towns. Richard's twenty thousand men and his own fiery leadership were sorely needed. The reunion between Marian and her brother had been emotional, for though Hugh was much older than Marian, and had been away soldiering for years, they truly did care for each other.

After Richard sat down, Sir Hugh stepped forward and address the group of officers.

"As our liege lord just said, it is truly a monster of a rock tosser! But what makes this one different is not just its massive size, which nearly twice as large as other trebuchets, but that it can hit the same spot on a wall time after time! This soon weakens the wall and eventually makes a breach or whole. Continued hits makes the whole wider and the fallen rubble builds a ramp that bloody minded bastards like you can charge up!"

There was a chorus of yells, cheers and hoots at that.

"What makes it always hit the same bloody spot on the wall?" a captain of artillery yelled out? "Most times the chunks of rock we hurl at the whoresons hit all over the bloody place!"

Sir Hugh smiled and completed the artilleryman's unsaid thought. "IF they bloody well hit at all, right?!"

Smiles, nods and a few shouts greeted Hugh's last remark. Like Richard, it seemed that Hugh had also learned well both warcraft and dealing with warriors.

"They can hit the same spot repeatedly because they use the exact same size stone ball every time. The same weight throws the same distance, time and time again!"

"That means some poor bastards have to spend hours turning a stone block into a round ball?" someone called out.

"Indeed it does, sir knight!" Hugh replied with Marian's easy smile; 'but Richard has nearly twenty thousand 'poor bastards' out there! Several hundred of them are chipping away even now as we speak!" Hugh leaned forward and I say a familiar twinkle in his sea-green eyes. "For never let it be said, gentleman, that Richard's army lacked enough balls!"

More ribald laughter and other genital jests followed as the men slowly filed out of the tent to see the 'giant rock tosser' at work.

SMACK!!

Yet another direct hit!

The breach widened and the rubble fell down to further raise the natural 'ramp' that the eager crusaders would soon be charging up. Meanwhile Richard had us archers firing up at the battlements, into the arrow slits any anywhere else one of King Isaac's men showed themselves.

SMACK!!

Another direct hit by the 'monster', almost at the exact same spot as the last two dozen! It took about fifteen minutes to raise the huge counterweight back up and load another fifty pound stone ball into the long sling. Marian's brother, Sir Hugh Fitzwalter, had kept the giant trebuchet catapult firing at an average of four shots per hour for the last six hours! He had done this by rotating his crews often and always kept two men walking side by side in each of the two giant tread-wheels that slowly raised the rick filled wooden bin of a counterweight that, once released, caused the long arm with it's sling to hurl the round fifty pound stone 'bullet' up and out in a great arc towards the same distant spot on the castle wall! Scientific magic right before our very eyes!

A hole or 'breach' had opened up after the ninth shot. Since then the breach had been getting wider and wider with every stone missile sent crashing into it. Men could be seen scurrying around in behind the gap, trying as best they could to fill up the it with timber and fallen blocks, yet whatever they repaired, the next stone ball demolished and then some! Inside the breach someone must have been counting because just before the next ball was fired the workers vanished, only to reappear after the latest stone 'bullet' had done its damage.

"How much longer do you think, captain?" Robin asked Watts. The two men were standing behind a portable wall made of logs. The wall blocked any arrows, rocks or spears thrown down from the castle and could be manoeuvred about by four strong men. Captain Watts shifted the thick leather covering away from a small 'window' in the wall and carefully peered out.

"Could be any time now. The bloody hole is big enough, but the ramp is still fairly steep. I tell you lad, I wouldn't want to be the poor bastards going through there first!"

"Do you know who it'll be?" Robin asked.

"Either Sir Charles or Sir Malcolm,' the captain replied. "Both are experienced knights with large followings. Why? You're not thinking of bloody well volunteering, are you?!"

Robin looked at me, then at the steep, rubble-filled 'ramp' that the first attackers would have to climb. "Maybe. Marian's in their waiting."

"Christ on His Crutch, lad!" Watts swore. "Over half the buggers that go up that slope won't be coming back! Not alive, anyway!"

"Still," Rob in quietly; "it needs to be done and why should I hang back when others don't?"

"Because you're not a bloody knight, that's why!" Watts snarled. "Or even a half-assed man-at-arms!" He looked at me then and said: "For Jesus' sake, Will talk to the damn fool!"

When I started to toe the earth with my boot and fidget with my hands instead of doing as he said, the captain suddenly took a deep breath and sighed. "The both of you want to go in, don't you?! Jesus Christ almighty! I should have known it right off! Whenever one of you does something bravely stupid the other has to join in! Always together, always trying to top the other! Brainless bloody fools both of you!"

He stopped, scrubbed at his beard, turned away, swore again, then turned back. "It's because of her, isn't it?! Marian! You're both in live with her! I saw that right off. Hell, a blind man could see that! Shit! Most the men in the company are! And why the hell not?!" he suddenly demanded, more to the air around him than to either of us. "She's everything a woman should be. A sister to some, a daughter to others and a mother to most! Sweet Jesus but if I was twenty years younger I'd be in love with her myself!"

"Are you sure you're not?" Robin asked quietly. "Just a little?"

Watts glared fiercely back at us, then snorted and swore. "God's teeth but you two are a pair of idiots! Brave idiots, but idiots just the same! You don't have the right training, weapons or experience! And more importantly, you don't have the proper bloody armour! This lightweight padding shit and thin mail we wear might stop a spent shaft or a knife slash, but up close a crossbow bolt would go through it like a bishop through a whore house! And it won't be just crossbows you'll have to face, but pikemen, spearmen and bloody big black bastards with those goddamned big curved swords! Why, one of those buggers could take a man's head clean off with one swing, bloody helmet and all!"

"Will here would be with me," Robin beamed, "and we all know that he's fast quick and \---".

"And bloody 'nimble'!" the captain growled, finishing Robin's sentence. "We'll, he better be!" He took another deep breath followed by another sigh. "You know, Rob, Marian wouldn't want either one of you to risk it!"

"Probably not, but what kind of man would either of us be if we let other men step in harms way for something that we should be doing?!"

Captain Watts was silent for several heartbeats, clearly weighting whether he should say what was on the tip of his tongue or not. Finally he went on. "She's not your wife, Robin. And even if she were, there are others far better qualified to go through that hell hole than you two!"

"The better qualified part I'll agree with, but as for the rest, I'm not so sure." Robin looked long at the older man that he respected as much as he did his own father. "Marian's been a part of my life for as far back as I can remember. It's true that she's not my wife; not in the churches eyesn or in the physical sense, not yet at least --- but we're linked together just the same. All of us are. Will, John, Much, even Tuck. We're linked the way the old gods of fen and forest joined the first people. When one bleeds, we all feel it! Marian and I are two sides of the same coin, now and forever. Nothing will change that, not even death!"

Watts looked like he was about to argue, then merely sighed and turned to me. "Will, are you sure that this is what you want to do?"

I shrugged and ran my thumb along the edge of one of my knives. "I can't say that I 'want' to do it, but it needs doing, and like Rob says, we're all linked together. Besides, Marian will kill me if I let him go alone!"

"Shit!" Watts swore. "All right then, I'll see what I can do! I'll talk to whoever is leading the charge and I'll see if I can find you both some better armour. A rusty breastplate and a thickly padded gambleson instead of that thin shit you're wearing now! And some proper boots, by God! It's no walk in the woods you're about up there, but jagged stone and broken mortar, with dark skinned buggers chopping at your feet and trying to stab you in the balls!"

Robin stretched out his hand and placed it on the older man's shoulder. "Thank you, captain. I'll not forget this."

"You're bloody right you won't, for I won't let you! When the pair of you get back with Marian and her maids, I intend to work your arses off! As of right now you've both been promoted! Will, you are now Corporal Scarlet! And since Tully's not here I'm short a sergeant. Robin, you're it! Now, go scrounge some better armour! And don't forget the damned boots!"

***

Sir Charles had won the dubious honour of leading the 'forlorn hope' --- the first group to charge up that bloody ramp of rubble. Sir Malcolm, a fiery tempered Scotsman, having lost the coin toss, would lead the second group once the first was through the breach --- or were stalled at the opening and needed reinforcements.

Robin and I were assigned to the second group.

Robin spoke to both leaders trying to get us in the first rush, but both just shook their head and said that our bows would be of more use in the second section; that they were needed to help keep the enemy pinned down while the heavier armed knights charged through the opening.

So that's what we prepared ourselves to do. We'd managed to find bits and pieces of heavier armour, better helms and even better boots, though mine were too big so I traded them for one of those small metal shields called bucklers. It was about as big as a small plate with an embossed half dome to cover my fist. I could hold it and a dagger in my left hand and both cut, parry and punch, while slashing and stabbing with my right.

Fast, nimble and quick, that's me! Or at least it was back then!

***

The screams of the burning men cut through the other war sounds and reached us all the way back to our second group. The smell of burnt flesh soon followed

"Jesus, look at that!" I hissed, loosing yet another arrow at the tiny heads popping up briefly along the battlements. I hadn't hit one of the bastards yet! Not many of us had, but we still kept up the arrow storm --- which hadn't stopped the sons-of-bitches up there from dropping down rocks, pouring down boiling water or, like this last lot, hot pitch then following it with a flaming bloody torch!

At least three of the bodies were still burning when we got the word to move forward.

Each group was made up of about a hundred men. The first group, led by Sir Charles, was mostly heavily armoured knights and men-at-arms. No archers. We were all in the second group --- all thirty of us! The rest were a few knights under Sir Malcolm, men-at-arms and pikemen. We moved forward as soon as the first group reached the top of the ramp and began to fight their way through the breach, but it was under those battered wall that most of the killing took place.

"Archers!" Sir Malcolm bellowed. "Move off to the sides and keep firing as you advance! The rest of you lads at the trot! Follow me!"

The brave fool of a Scot drew his sword, set his kite shape shield on his left arm and began to move forward over the shattered stone and broken bodies. Both stone and bodies piled higher the further up the ramp he went \--- and we, like unslipped hounds, went howling after him!

The plan had been for us thirty archers to stay back and keep firing up at the walls, trying to lessen the arrows, stones and boiling oil that rained down on the attackers, but we soon saw that our efforts were having little effect and so about half of us slung our bows on our backs, drew what weapons we had and followed Robin up the treacherous slope --- for of course, that had been his plan all along!

Being less heavily armoured than the first attackers, we soon caught up with them, passing the dead and the dying in our mad rush up and over the rubble. While others stopped to engage the enemy, Robin kept right on going, determined to get inside the city in the hopes of finding Marian. Naturally I followed. Luckily we were not alone, as most of the knights had the same idea --- not to find Marian as much as to be the first one to rescue Richard's family and so gain a fame that would last forever. Of course some of the buggers were just after a little rape and pillage.

Sir Charles was still back at the breach, directing the fighting and sending wave after wave of our knights, men-at-arms and common soldiers through the opening. Sir Malcolm the Mad Scot however was leading the vanguard into the heart of the walled town. Once we got into the city proper, resistance was very light as most people were either running away in panic or hiding behind bolted doors. Sir Malcolm headed directly for the central keep where he was sure the women would be kept. Robin had picked up a large discarded shield and the two of us followed along behind Sir Malcolm and a dozen of his knights.

Before long we came to the large double doors of the keep. A knot of King Isaac's soldiers were drawn up on the wide front steps, intent on baring the way. I recognized two of them: Captain Martino of the slippery smile, and the red faced General Nicoli Phakaw, the blow-hard that Captain Watts had faced down when we first ran aground on the beach.

A number of the men blocking the way had crossbows and they shot them point blank into us as we charged. I saw several bolts glance off the thick steel helmets or breastplates, but one unlucky knight took a bolt in his eye. The man-at-arms to my left, wearing only chainmail, had the bolt punch its way into his chest. He stood dazed for a moment, looking at the leather veined dart that had sprouted from his breast, then collapsed forward in a gout of his own blood.

"Will! Here, quickly!" Robin shouted.

I ducked down with Robin who was crouched behind the large kit shaped shield favoured by the crusaders. There came a scraping sound as one heavy bolt ricocheted off the round metal surface and a moment later a solid 'THWACK' as another penetrated half way through, the steel point cutting a groove through the top of Robin's forearm.

Then Sir Malcolm suddenly launched himself forward screaming 'CHARGE!' and a whole lot of that throat-clearing Gaelic! Like gosling ducks following their mother, the knights, men-at-arms and Robin and I ran in the wake of the Scottish madman!

One bugger came right for me, swinging his great curved sword and ramming his bloody shield in my face! I ducked and rolled, avoiding both the blade and the shield and came to my feet behind him.

STAB! SLASH! SLASH! And the bastard was down!

I turned to see Robin trading blows with Martino --- and getting the worst of it from what I saw! For despite his mincing ways and his simpering smile, the goddamn bugger was a damned swordsman! Too damned good, for Robin was getting the shite kicked out of him and, like his already battered shield, couldn't last much longer! I had to do something!

Fast, nimble and quick, I ducked and dodged my way behind Martino and was about to stab him in the neck when the sly bastard turned and backhanded he with the pommel of his sword! I managed to get my small buckler up just in time to deflect most of the blow that would have easily caved in my skull. Robin saw the opening and landed a blow on the top of Martino's fancy helm that knocked the bastard senseless! I kicked him in the balls but nearly broke my bloody toe, for the cagy bastard was armoured down there as well! I was about to kneel down and cut his throat when Rob pulled me away.

"Come on, Will!" he shouted over the screams, moans and clash of arms all around us. "Marian will be waiting for us!"

Grinning like two demented fools, we sprinted up the stairs and into the now open doors to the keep, stepping over the still twitching body of General Fuck-Off as we went! Apparently the fat fool had tried to stop Sir Malcolm from entering the keep --- and had died for his pains.

***

"What is it, Marian? What do you see?!"

Marian turned away from the arrow slit and smiled at Berengaria. "It looks like the English have broken through the walls and are taking the town! Some soldiers are fighting right below us!"

"Here, at the keep? Let me see!" the soon to be wife of Richard of England moved up to where Marian and several of her 'maids' were watching the fighting on the steps below.

"Look, Marian!" shouted a small, feisty young girl named Rose. "I see your Robin! And look, there's my Will! Oh isn't he grand! Now Robin's fighting that Martino bugger, and getting the worst of it or I'm blind! But see there?! My Will's moving round behind him!"

Marian got there just in time to see the smiling bastard nearly brain me with his backhand and Robin knock him senseless! I won't bore you with more gory details of fighting, save to say that we soon found our way up the room where the women were kept and as Marian rushed into Robin's arms I was pleasantly surprised to receive a warm, wet kiss from little Rose! I'd seen her making googly eyes at me for some time now, but like a fool with a tooth ache, I was too concerned with past hurt over Marian to think of future pleasure with another. I know that there was talking and laughing all around me as Marian gathered everyone together and Sir Malcolm gallantly led Lady Joan and Berengaria down to the king, but right then and there all I could smell, touch, feel and taste was my little Rose!

The End of Book One

**Prologue**

1225 A.D. fall

The Green Branch Inn

On the edge of Sherwood

Tuck and me are still here; still sitting here at the Green Branch and writing down what really happened thirty some years ago. Well, Tuck's doing the actual writing and me, I'm doing most the remembering. We're both doing equal parts of the drinking though, thanks to some rich bugger that's been paying for all the ale! Seems he was only a lad when his noble father joined Richard's army heading for the bloody holy land. Like almost half of us that joined that decade long dance of death, he never came back. The son tells us that our old tales somehow seem to bring him closer to this father he never really knew. Sounds like a bunch of bullocks to me, but then he's paying so what the hell?!

Me, I don't much care much for those 'desert tales', myself. Those were hot, dry, deadly times! Death walked among us daily, either following along close behind like your own bloody shadow or grinning up ahead like a bleached skull seen through a shimmering pool of water --- both of which vanished when you got there, leaving only faded hopes, crushed dreams and sand, sand, god-damned sand! In those sun filled dark days the Grim Reaper was everywhere, though, if truth be told, he seemed to ride on the wind as often as he rode on a damned horse, because a sudden sandstorm could kill you just about as quick as a bloody sword!

But now, gentles all, if you'll excuse me, I need to talk a walk out back. Nature is calling, and at my age one ignores the call at his own peril!

***

AHHHH! That's better! Young fella, there's nothing like a good bowel movement! At least, not for many a year now. When I was a much younger man, still nimble and quick, and my Rosie was still alive, I'd have wagered one of her kisses against a good movement any day of the week! But she's long gone now for many a year. Two score and ten empty years of brief memories and long regrets. A steep payment for the one brief year of bliss that we shared, if bliss could be found amidst war, drought, famine and rivers of blood! Each day I rise with the memory of her kiss on my lips, and each night I curse God for taking her from me!

Ohhh, but now I've gone and shocked you good sir and made old Tuck all stormy browed and squinty-eyed. Him being a friar and all, he doesn't take too kindly to my blaspheming ways. He says I'm too sharp with people in general and God in particular; that I'm too dammed --- what's that fancy word he likes to use for me? Ah yes! 'Abrupt!' Yes, that's it! I'm too damned 'abrupt' with people \--- or so he says. But my Rosie used to think I was just right!

'Don't take no shit from nobody, William!' she used to tell me. (She always called me William. Not Will or Willie, but William ---just like I was a proper born gentleman!) 'Be they highborn or low, man or woman , or God Almighty Himself!. You're as good a man as any and a damn site better than most! So don't take no shit from nobody!'

Of course we were both green as peas back then, and, even though she was younger than me, she was a fire-eyed, two-legged force of nature! But I loved her dearly and I'm proud to say that she felt the same towards me!

Now, I believe I'll take another glass of that excellent wine you so graciously bought for us. Dictation is thirsty work, and now and them a rather touching memory is dredged up along with all the bitter-sweet ones. The passing of my Rosie still cuts me deeply, though this next All Saints Day it will be three score and four years since it happened.

It was that bloody desert that did her in! Dried her up from the inside out! So damn hot that you stopped sweating and it hurt like hell to piss! Dried her up something awful! The heat killed our baby too! First it took the unborn child, then it too the mother!

Bastard desert killed me too! Oh it left me walking around, cursing the sun, the sand and the wind! Cursing too the god that made all three and let my Rosie dry up like an unwatered flower! I tried to help her, but near the end she was like a shrivelled leaf waiting for the wind to carry her away. When it finally did I whished that it would take me as well, but it seemed the old bastard upstairs had other plans! Turned me right 'abrupt' it did!

Excuse me again! I need another drink and I got something in my damn eye! Don't go away now. I'll be right back and then Tuck and me will tell you all about what happened when we finally go to the goddamned 'Holy Land'.

***
Book Two

1191-1193

The Lion Arrives

1191

June, Acre

Richard sat astride his black charger and looked down at the besieged, walled city of Acre. A group of his knights and men-at-arms were around him. Robin and I were there as well, along with the rest of Watts Company of Archers. We'd only gotten off the bloody ships the day before and already Richard had taken over from King Philip and the other leaders.

"You've sat here outside the bloody walls for six long months and what have you achieved?!" he had demanded of the other king sat last nights welcome banquet. "Bugger all, that's what! I'll have the walls down in six days! Just stay the hell out of my way!"

Richard was many great things, but humble he was not.

One of the things that he was surrounded, or at least caught between a rock and a hell of a hard place! Let me explain.

Think of the game of chess when no matter where the king moves, he's under attack.

The walled city of Acre was on a small peninsula sticking out into the sea and was strongly defended by a large city garrison of Muslim soldiers.

The Christians camp of ten thousand men was on the sandy plain east of the city, spread out in an arc from one side of the narrow finger of land to the other. Acre was cut off both by land and blockaded by the Christian ships in the bay.

However the Muslim leader Saladin was not inside Acre, but outside with an army twice as large as the Christians and they had form a longer arc behind Richard and the other kings.

Every time Richard's siege machines opened up a breach and the Christians made ready to rush in as they had on Cyprus, Saladin launched a counter attack on the Christians and diverted them away from the city, giving time for the breach in the wall to be repaired.

The solution was in the hold of Richard's largest ship.

Dismantled and brought from Cyprus was the 'monster' trebuchet that Marian's brother, Sir Hugh Fitzwalter had used to knock down the castle walls. Two days of back breaking labour had the monster hurling its fifty pound stone balls at the same spot on Acres' wall time after time after time.

After a day and a night the wall suddenly caved in. Two thousand knights and men at arms rushed up the rubble slope while four thousand of us archers blotted out the sun with an arrow storm.

Then once again Saladin launched an all out attack to the city.

***

"The bastards won't stop coming!" someone yelled.

"Keep bloody well shooting!" Sergeant Tully yelled back as he limped along behind Watt's Company of Archers. Having been wounded in the leg on Cyprus, he needed a cane to get around --- a knobby black-thorn cane that he vigorously used on any and all archers not loosing their shafts as quickly as the good sergeant deemed proper.

"That's it, Tom! All the way back to the bloody ear!" he growled. "Each shaft sends a Muslim-man straight to hell!"

"More arrows over here!" another voice yelled.

"Me too! I've gone through three bags already!"

"And you'll go through three more if needed!" Tully bellowed. "Now shoot, you beautiful bastards, shoot!"

My shoulders were on fire and my left arm started to shake, so that the arrow jumped about like a living thing. Little Rose was there beside me, handing me shaft after shaft; dirty faced, covered in mud and dark eyes shining! God, how I loved her! Skinny, over-large eyes and a fierce temper, in those brief few months since rescuing Marian on Cyprus she had come to mean the world to me Oh, I still loved Miamian, but I finally saw that 'love' for what it truly was --- longing for something that I had never really had, a safe, secure home where when I lay my head down at night I needn't fear some drunken 'customer; of my mother's in the next room wouldn't beat the living shit out of her and me just because he bloody well felt like it!

Marian had been my 'safe haven'; my 'warm, soft place' where 'nothing could hurt me' and the big bad bastard in the other room pounding away at my mother for a few filthy coppers was something that never really happened and that as long as I loved her I was safe!

Rose made that all go away.

Rose gave me peace.

Rose became my life.

"What the fuck are your doing, Will?!" Sergeant Tully screamed at me. "This is no bloody time for holding hands! Loose those fucking arrows, lad! Loose the bastards! And you, Rose, see that he keeps at it!"

"I will, sergeant!' Rose grinned, handing me yet another bloody arrow.

***

General Abu Bakar leaned into the rhythm of his mount, and felt the mass of the large stallion move beneath him! Like the living will of Allah, he surged forward! A blinding light of Islam, he would carry the fiery sword and death to the godless infidels!

"Allah akba!" he screamed over and over; and the chant was taken up by the galloping hoard all around him, magnified several hundred times. 'God wills it!' A mantra used by both sides of this holy war to illicit the dubious aid of an 'all seeing, all knowing Creator' that rarely, if ever, revealed himself in a way that was half way close to being believable!

As his mount moved beneath him in a way that his several wives had never been able to do, General Abu Bakar, Caliph of the Northern Oasis of Salahazajar, drew the ancient heirloom that was the breath and soul of his being. 'Caleasiphran', the bejewelled hilted scimitar that had been in his family for five generations! The blade, forged in the far off alcaimic bowels of Damascus, was rippled like the waves washing over the bronze thighs of one of the forty nubile young virgins waiting for him in Paradise. The sword of his father's father's father seemed to call out for blood! A chance to cleave flesh and cut through bone, and cleans the world of pork eating infidels that bent not their knee to Allah!
That's all for now, folks.

The rest is waiting for you at

Smashwords.

Sleep ye gentle, Rest ye sound.

***
