Robin Hood: The King’s Pardon

David Pilling

© David Pilling 2015.

David Pilling has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published in 2015.

This edition published in 2020 by Sharpe Books.

Contents

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

End Note.

By Him who in that Sepulchre

Was laid in Death's cold keeping

By Her who bore, who reared him. Her

Who by that Cross sat weeping

By those, whose blood so oft has cried

Revenge for souls unshriven!

- The Crusader’s Song

1.

1242, Woodstock Palace, Oxfordshire

One day in late summer, a knight of Cornwall came to Woodstock and demanded to see the King.

It was a cold, brisk afternoon, of the sort that makes the spirits soar and the blood pump faster. King Henry, pleasantly tired after hunting in the forest, agreed to admit the knight to his presence.

“I would counsel putting him off until tomorrow, sire,” advised his chamberlain, bowing low before the royal dais, “he is a dangerous-looking man, with an insolent edge to his tongue.”

Henry was intrigued. “This rustic knight is no danger to me,” he said airily, “I am surrounded by guards. Does he carry a sword?”

The chamberlain bobbed nervously. “Yes, sire, and a dagger.”

“Then confiscate his weapons and bring him before me.”

His orders were carried out, and before long the great double doors to the feasting hall swung open to admit the visitor.

Henry was sipping moodily at his wine, only half-listening to the conversation at table. It was late, and most of his knights and barons had gone to bed. Those that remained were playing dice for small wagers or chatting idly of matters unlikely to offend the king. They were careful to avoid the subject of France, where Henry had recently suffered a humiliating military reverse at the hands of his rival, King Louis.

The murmur of conversation ceased as all eyes were drawn to the figure in the doorway.

“Sir James de Kemyel,” announced the chamberlain, “knight of Cornwall.”

 He scuttled out of the path of Sir James, who was already advancing on the dais.

Henry saw a tall, well-built man with cropped black hair, deep-sunk eyes under beetling brows and a swarthy complexion, so dark he might have been a Saracen, or at any rate a halfbreed. He was dressed plainly, in a shabby black tunic and grey hose, with no device or insignia on his breast.

The knight’s long legs carried him swiftly towards Henry’s dais, almost too swiftly for the pair of spearmen in Plantagenet livery who left their post by the doors and hurried after him.

“Your Highness,” said Sir James in a thick West Country burr, only halting to make his bow when the spearmen blocked his way, “I have travelled far to claim my rights.”

Henry drained his wine before responding. The chamberlain was right. Sir James did sound insolent, and there was something threatening about him. Even though the man was disarmed, Henry was glad of the soldiers between him and his strange guest, as well as the sharp-eyed crossbowmen in the gallery above his head.

“You are blunt, sir knight,” said the king, contriving to sound stern, “and we are not used to having demands made of us, particularly at this hour. What rights do you speak of? Could the matter not wait until morning?”

Sir James gave a crooked little smile. He gave the impression of being a man who smiled only on occasion, and even then at some obscure private joke.

“Treason can never wait, sire,” he replied, “the matter I have to speak of concerns the future of England.”

Henry stiffened. Like all kings, he lived in constant fear of treason and rebellion, and thought himself surrounded by enemies, all waiting for the right moment to slip a knife between his ribs.

“What treason?” he demanded as he leaned forward, fists clenched on the arms of his chair, “well? Spit it out! Is it the French - do they intend to make a landing on the coast of Cornwall? Or have you heard of fresh rebellion brewing in Ireland?”

“I wager it’s the Welsh,” remarked Sir Richard de Montfichet, one of the barons playing at dice and a keen gambler, “those barefoot rascals can never stay quiet for long.”

Henry silenced him with a glance. “Fear not,” said Sir James in the same easy, drawling manner, not at all how a subject should address his king, “I did not come bearing tales of war and invasion. The treason I must speak of is being committed here, inside this palace, even as I speak.”

He pointed at the king. “You have reigned over the English since you were a child, Henry Plantagenet,” he went on, his voice now severe and full of judgement, “far too long, since you are not the rightful king. You must resign to me the kingdom which you have unjustly usurped and wrongfully detained for so many years.”

While Henry gaped in astonishment, and his barons rose angrily from their seats, Sir James tugged aside the collar of his tunic.

“See,” he cried, jabbing his finger at a series of marks on his breast, just above his left nipple, “the proof of my royal blood!”

To Henry’s disbelief, the marks were in the shape of three pards - his own insignia, the arms of the royal house of Plantagenet. They looked to have been tattooed in red ink on the knight’s skin.

Even as the king drew breath to speak, his soldiers hurled themselves at Sir James. One hit him in the stomach with the butt of a spear, making him double over, while the other seized the knight’s arms and twisted them behind his back.

More soldiers rushed from the corners of the hall, while the mob of outraged barons crowded around the dais.

“Say the word, Majesty,” said the captain of the guard, clapping a hand to his dagger, “and I’ll cut the dog’s throat.”

“No!” Henry cried, shuddering at the thought of the dead man’s blood pooling at his feet, “lift his head.”

One of the soldiers roughly grasped Sir James’ chin and forced him to look up at the king. Henry studied him for a moment. The knight - assuming he was a knight - had a mazed look to his eyes, as though he struggled to focus.

“I am the rightful heir,” he mumbled, “the rightful heir to England.”

“He is mad,” said Henry, “or perhaps bewitched. Either way, he deserves our pity.”

“Drunk, more like,” grunted Sir Richard Montfichet, “and I don’t envy him the hangover.”

“Either way,” Henry repeated, giving Montfichet a hard look, “I say he deserves our pity. We will let him alone in his madness. Take him outside and let him go.”

“But, sire...” said the captain of the guard, looking dismayed. Henry held up a hand to silence him.

“Not another word,” the king said firmly, “there will be no blood shed in my hall tonight.”

Some of his barons remonstrated, arguing it was folly to release Sir James without at least some form of punishment, but Henry was adamant. He suspected his father, old King John of infamous memory, would have had the man’s eyes put out. Henry, a far gentler soul than his father, was determined not to acquire a similar reputation for cruelty. 

Sir James was dragged outside by four soldiers, supervised by their captain. After they were gone, an uncomfortable quiet settled over the hall. Henry drank down another cup of wine to settle his nerves, while his barons talked in whispers and occasionally cast puzzled looks at their master.

He was aware of their scrutiny, and the unspoken questions behind it. Even after a quarter of a century on the throne, Henry remained something of an enigma. His father had been the last of the self-proclaimed Devil’s Brood, the hot-tempered Angevin kings who managed to build and lose a mighty empire inside two generations. The shadow of their failure still hung over Henry, whose efforts to claw back his family’s forfeited territories in France had so far met with little success.

At thirty-four, he was still young enough to mend the damage. He knew many of his barons thought he lacked the strength and resolve to defeat the French. In his secret heart, Henry agreed with them. All he really wanted was peace, and the leisure to devote himself to religious works. 

Showing mercy to the likes of Sir James de Kemyel didn’t help matters. Henry briefly considered sending men after him, so he could be fetched back and punished. A quick hanging might gain Henry a little more respect in the eyes of his barons.

Curse the barons, he thought angrily, revolting against the idea, I’ll not pander to the men who brought my father low, and made his name a curse.

When he had finished his wine, Henry rose and announced he was retiring for the night. He was followed out by his chamberlain, who mumbled apologies for admitting Sir James to the royal presence, and six guards.

Henry paused when they were halfway to his bedchamber. “I have changed my mind,” he said, “tonight I shall stay with the queen.”

His queen, Eleanor of Provence, had her own chambers in another part of the palace. Henry, who usually slept alone, felt the need for company tonight, and the reassurance of her warm body next to his.

He found her seated beside the cowled fireplace in her bedchamber, squinting at a letter by candlelight. Eleanor rose as he entered, and the smile of welcome froze on her lips when she saw how pale and shaken he was.

“My dear, what is it?” she asked, taking his hands. Henry waited for his servants to depart and pulled the door shut before telling her what had passed.

Eleanor was all concern, as he knew she would be. His fears sloughed away under her gentle words and caresses, and he once again thanked God for sending him this dark-haired Provencal beauty to share his life and ease the burden of kingship.

Later, they lay entwined in the great bed. About to drift off to sleep, Henry was jerked awake by the sound of raised voices and a pounding at the door.

In his weary and befuddled state, he panicked. “Treason!” he whimpered, “they’ve come to murder us at last!”

He fumbled for the dagger he kept under his pillow. Eleanor, who tended to keep her head in a crisis, calmly got out of bed and reached for her night-shirt.

“Nonsense,” she said, “there has been some alarm, that’s all. Listen, that’s Godfrey’s voice.”

“Your Majesties!” bellowed the familiar voice of Godfrey, the Brabant captain of Henry’s personal guard, from outside, “awake, and open the door, I beg you!”

Muttering angrily, Henry stuffed the dagger back under his pillow and dressed hurriedly. When they were both decent, he lifted the bar on the heavy cross-timbered door.

“Enter!” he cried, attempting to look as dignified as a king could in his nightgown.

The door swung open and the burly figure of Godfrey stepped inside with four guardsmen at his back.

Godfrey held a naked sword in one hand, and a torch in the other. His thick black hair was dishevelled, and he wore a plain russet tunic with nothing on his feet. Henry, who had never seen the man out of his armour before, was alarmed.

“What’s this, captain?” he demanded, “is the palace under attack?”

“No, Highness,” Godfrey replied, looking grim, “but it has been invaded. Not half an hour gone, that Cornish knight you spoke with earlier climbed into your bedchamber. He had a knife, and doubtless meant to kill you. By the providence of God, Your Majesty chose to spend the night with the Queen. Otherwise...”

Henry swayed a little. The shock of this news was like a blow, and for a moment he couldn’t speak.

He was comforted by the touch of Eleanor’s hand on his. “How did this madman get past the guards?” she asked.

Godfrey shrugged. “God knows, Your Majesty, but I have a suspicion one or two of my men fell asleep at their posts. If true, I’ll have the rascals flogged. We were alerted to the Cornishman’s presence by one of your maids, who was on duty in the king’s chamber. She was reciting her psalter when Sir James entered through the window and started to search every corner of the room, declaring that he had come to slay the usurper. She screamed, and more servants came running to aid her.”

Henry passed a hand across his brow. He was sweating. “Where is Sir James now?” he croaked.

“My men overpowered him,” Godfrey replied, “took away his knife and bound him in chains. Then the chamberlain came to wake me, and I had him moved to a guardroom below stairs. I thought Your Majesty might want to question him.”

There was a dangerous light in the Brabant’s eyes. Henry knew what he wanted, and for once was inclined to grant it. The king was naturally inclined to be merciful, but there were limits. Sir James de Kemyel had forfeited any right to mercy.

“Take him down to one of the cellars,” he ordered, “and put him to the torture. I want answers. If he is simply a madman, then he will have none, and you may kill him and dispose of the body. If he starts babbling information, make a note of what he says and come back to me.”

The corners of the Brabant’s little mouth twitched in a cruel little smile. He was a brutal man, with a talent for breaking other men down, a piece at a time.

“Yes, sire,” he replied with a bow, and led his men off to their work.

Henry remained in his wife’s chamber. A servant built up the fire again, and the royal couple sat side by side, gazing into the flames and saying little. Both were frightened, though Eleanor made a brave show of hiding it. Henry, who thought he knew his wife well after six years of marriage, could sense her fear, and feel the rapid knocking of her heart as he held her close. 

“Oh, to be humble woodcutters,” he murmured, stroking her hair. She gave a mirthless little laugh and leaned her head against his shoulder.

Godfrey returned within the hour. The Brabant had found a pair of shoes, and pulled on a studded leather jerkin over his tunic. There was an air of excitement about him, and his face was plastered in a thin sheen of sweat.

It was past midnight now, but the palace was wide awake, full of excited whispers and bodies rushing to and fro. Henry almost smiled as he imagined the wild rumours sweeping through the halls and corridors.

“Success, sire,” Godfrey reported, “Sir James was stubborn at first, so we broke his arms and put his feet to the fire. He sang like a little bird after that. Whatever drink, drug or witchcraft had influenced him, the pain soon snapped him out of it.”

 Eleanor shuddered. “In God’s name, spare us the details,” Henry rasped, “what did he tell you?”

“That he is indeed from Cornwall, and his last clear memory is of leading an assault on Saint Michael’s Mount.”

Henry’s mouth dropped open. “An assault on the Mount?” he bleated, “what fresh madness is this?”

Saint Michael’s Mount was an isolated Benedictine priory in the far west of Cornwall, built upon a small tidal island just off the coast. Henry, a sincerely devout man whose respect and adoration for the church was limitless, could barely comprehend the notion of anyone attacking the place.

“He claims the Mount has been seized by pirates,” said Godfrey “and the monks taken prisoner. Sir James says he raised a force of local men when he heard of it, and led them to the Mount to rescue the monks and kill or drive off the pirates. Beyond that, he has no memory.”

“If these are lies,” remarked Eleanor, “then Sir James should be commended for his imagination, if nothing else.”

“The pirates,” said Henry, gathering himself, “did he give any names? Who is their captain?”

Godfrey nodded. “I think he speaks the truth, sire, for their captain’s name is known to you. He is Sir Robert Marsh, one-time rebel and baron of Ireland, now calling himself King of the Narrow Sea and Lord of the Mount. Marsh has made Saint Michael’s Mount his fortress, and from there sets Your Majesty at defiance.”

2.

North Yorkshire, Autumn 1242

It was known as the Field of the Damned, a patch of unconsecrated ground where the unshriven were buried. Most were infants, torn from life before they could be baptised, their fledgling souls lost in the void.

There were also a few adults buried under the flat, wet enclosure, located on some bleak moorland a few miles from Fountains Abbey. These were the truly damned, excommunicates and suicides who by their own actions had lost the right to salvation.

The abbey servants trembled as they neared the place, which was fenced off from the surrounding moorland and marked by a plain stone cross. Out here in the barren waste, deserted save for a few sheep, the mortal remains of those doomed to eternal torment could be safely buried away from the sight of decent Christian folk.

There were six servants, five on foot while one drove a cart drawn by a couple of oxen. Five served as porters at the abbey, while their chief was the steward.

They approached the field in silence, broken only by the creak of the cart wheels and the rush of wind across the moor. It was late afternoon, and the great arch of the North Yorkshire sky was bruised by ragged purple clouds. Darker clouds massed on the horizon and promised a deluge later.

“Let’s have this business done with, and quickly,” said Ralph the steward, his broad red face pinched with cold and fear, “look sharp with that coffin.”

He watched as the porters carefully heaved the coffin, made of the cheapest pine, off the back of the cart. Ralph broke out in a light sweat as he pictured them dropping it, and the grisly contents rolling out onto the heather.

“Careful, now!” he barked. Cursing and puffing under the weight, four of his men levered the coffin onto their shoulders, while the fifth opened the gate.

Ralph had known the man condemned to lie here. His name was Michael Tuck, a renegade monk who had left Fountains to run with outlaws in the wilds of Barnsdale and Sherwood. Wounded in the head, he had returned to Fountains to spend his last years in relative comfort.

The comfort of prison, thought the steward. Tuck’s wound made him unstable, and the abbot was obliged to keep him under lock and key. The former renegade suffered from terrible rages, during which he was liable to lash out and cause terrible damage to anyone within reach.

Still, Ralph had fond memories of him. Tuck reserved his ire for fellow monks, and was always civil to the abbey servants.

One day he was found lying on the cold flagstones of his little cell with a knife sticking in his chest. His fingers were still wrapped round the hilt, and there was little doubt it was an act of self-destruction. How Tuck got the weapon, a broad-bladed kitchen knife, into his cell was a mystery, and one neither the abbot or the steward had come close to solving.

Spots of rain started to fall. Ralph cursed as he wiped moisture off his cheek. They still had to dig the grave, and it would likely be pouring down before the task was done.

He didn’t want to be caught out in a storm. Not on the open moor. Ralph had a lifelong terror of thunder and lightning, and preferred to hide under the stairs in the abbey kitchens whenever they threatened. Out here, there was no such refuge.

Something cold and sharp jabbed into the small of his back. “Put your hands up,” said a quiet female voice, “slowly, or I’ll put an arrow in your liver.”

Ralph almost jumped out of his skin. His heart thumped as he obeyed.

He felt an unseen hand whip away the dagger at his belt, and the arrowhead press into his flesh a little further.   

“Now then, fat man,” continued the voice, which had a terrible matter-of-fact quality to it, “tell your men to put down the coffin, and stand away from it.”

The steward moistened his suddenly dry lips. For a moment words failed to come. “Lads,” he croaked eventually, “put the coffin down - do you hear me, put it down!”

He had to shout to make his voice heard above the rising wind. The porters knew better than to disobey his commands, and gently set the coffin down. 

 Hooded men suddenly emerged like wraiths from the barren moor. There was little cover, and Ralph guessed they must have lain flat in the damp heather. He counted a dozen, all dressed like foresters in dark greens and browns. Most carried swords and bows, and well-stocked leather quivers attached to their belts.

Ralph had forgotten to order his men to stand away from the coffin. There was little need, since the porters scattered when five of the hooded men advanced on them.

He felt the need to offer some token resistance, at least so he could tell Abbot John he had made the effort.

“Who are you?” he demanded, “why do you seek to rob the dead? We are servants of Fountains Abbey. Your souls will stand in grave peril for this outrage.”

Now the woman’s voice was like a caress. “Our souls are in peril every day of our lives, fat man,” she whispered, “we are outlaws. That poor soul you were about to dump inside unconsecrated ground was our friend. We’ve come to claim him.”

Her warm breath made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Ralph swallowed, and his feeble show of courage withered and died. These were Tuck’s old comrades. Notorious thieves and cut-throats, with no fear of God or man. In the past they had plundered church property, firing barns and storehouses and giving the stolen grain to the poor.

Their captain was the legendary Hooded Man. Ralph had often argued with his mates in the alehouse at Ripon, or the cook at Fountains, about the identity of this mysterious outlaw.

The legend was almost twenty years old now, and in Ralph’s opinion the original Hooded Man, otherwise called Robin Hood, was long dead.

“Mark me,” he would declare, belching ale fumes, “there is no Hooded Man any more. Some hedge-robber is pretending to be him. Or maybe several. It’s just a title, under which any man may hide.”

One of the tallest of the archers approached Ralph, who caught a glimpse of a face under the hood: a reddish beard, sprinkled with grey, and a long, narrow face, much lined and weather-beaten.

“You look to be in charge of these rogues,” this one said, jerking his thumb at the porters, “go and join them. We’re taking your cart.”

The woman standing behind Ralph gave him a little push. He didn’t expect it, and almost fell over as he staggered forwards. 

Outraged by the loss of dignity, a little spark of defiance flamed inside his craven soul. “Tell me your name, you hooded villain,” he cried, “if you dare. I’ll tell it to the abbot, who shall curse its owner bell, book and candle!”

The tall archer folded his arms. “In that case, a more prudent man would refuse to tell you his name” he said carelessly, “but I care nothing for the mumblings of your foolish abbot. My soul is in the care of Christ, not some plump shaveling who spends his days robbing the poor and calling it piety.”

Ralph gasped at this blasphemy. He was about to utter a furious response, but fell silent when the archer pushed back his hood.

A pair of large, almost opaque green eyes stared down at him, full of amused intelligence. They raked the steward up and down, while Ralph’s natural timidity swiftly reasserted itself.

“I am Robin Hood,” the archer said quietly, “the Hooded Man. Tell your master that I have taken the body of Michael Tuck. Tuck was my dear friend, and shall be laid to rest in the good earth of Sherwood, not out on this blasted moor.”

“The abbot will see you hanged,” stammered Ralph, “and all your followers with you.”

Robin laughed, a cheerful, ringing sound, out of place in that dismal landscape. “You sing an old tune, Master Steward,” he said with a grin, “far greater men than Abbot John of Kent have threatened me with a short walk and a long drop, and yet I live.”

“Enough chat,” he added, “Matilda, bind his hands and put him with the others. We must be off.”

Matilda, otherwise known as Maud the Knife. Robin Hood’s forest-wife in the ballads. Ralph quailed at her name, and the knowledge that the most dangerous woman in England had held a knife to his back.

Dazed and frightened, he allowed her to bind his wrists. Then she took his arm and led him towards his men. They had already been disarmed and bound and made to sit on the damp grass in a circle.

He risked a sideways glance. Matilda was lithe and slender, a head shorter than her mate, and dressed in the same drab, practical forester’s clothing. He could see nothing of her face under the hood, but the fingers around his arm were like steel wires.

Four of the outlaws loaded Tuck’s coffin onto the cart. Ralph obediently sat on the grass and watched in silence as they lashed the oxen into life and drove the cart away, south across the moor. The rest of the outlaws jogged alongside it, with Robin and Matilda in the lead.

When they were safely out of earshot, one of the porters leaned over to Ralph. “What are we going to tell the abbot, master?” he asked in a frightened voice, “he will be furious.”

“We’ll tell him the truth,” the other man replied grimly, “Robin Hood is alive.”

3.

Sherwood Forest

The outlaws buried Tuck in the heart of Sherwood, near the Major Oak where they once had their camp during the summer months.

Those days were long in the past, and only a handful of the old band were at Tuck’s graveside. Besides Robin himself, there was Matilda, Littiljon, Much and Will Scarlet, though the latter made it clear he would much rather be somewhere else.

The other seven were Scarlet’s mercenaries, hired to rescue Robin from the Sheriff. Scarlet was a successful wool merchant now, with a fine house and young family at Blidworth. He had risked all to save an old comrade he hadn’t seen for fourteen years. Robin appreciated that, and knew he could never repay him.

There was another at the graveside. Robin’s son, Thomas, until recently a Cistercian novice at Fountains. Just fifteen years old, he offered to read the elegy over Tuck’s grave. Robin asked him to dispense with the usual rites in Latin and recite a version in English, more in keeping with the rebellious spirit of the departed. 

“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God in his mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear friend, Michael Tuck, we therefore commit his body to the ground, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ...”

Thomas wore his white cowl and habit, the garb of the Cistercian novice he had once been. Robin would much rather he wore simple forester’s clothing, but didn’t press the point. As yet none knew of his conversion to the heresy of the Cathars, and for now he preferred to keep it secret.

The mourners wept. Thomas, for whom Tuck had been a surrogate father, struggled to force out the words as tears poured down his smooth cheeks.

Robin stood with his head bowed, overwhelmed by a flood of emotion. He still hadn’t recovered from the shock of discovering he had a son. For reasons she had yet to explain, Matilda had failed to reveal the existence of Thomas to him.

Over a week had passed since father and son first met. In that short time Robin dealt with the situation by thrusting it to one side.

He had led his followers north, out of Sherwood, to liberate Tuck from Fountains. Soon after the outlaws crossed the border into Yorkshire, they started to encounter rumours of a suicide at the abbey.

Thomas was first to voice their fears. “It must be Tuck,” he said, “he sometimes spoke of doing away with himself, once his purpose on earth was finished. Hellfire and damnation held no fears for him.”

He smiled ruefully, and made the sign of the cross. “He also used to say that after fourteen years locked away with a pack of monks, he welcomed the prospect of Satan’s company.”

The boy was right. A great surge of anger and resentment passed through Robin when he first beheld Tuck’s lifeless features, shortly after they took the body from the abbey servants at the Field of the Damned.

“Why didn’t you wait, you fool?” he cried, “a few days, and I would have plucked you from that God-cursed dungeon of an abbey! Now you are lost to us - lost forever!”

It was no use berating the dead. Tuck had wanted to go, and chosen his moment. Robin doubted God would permit him the same luxury. His end, when it came, was likely to be bloody and painful. No man who defied the might of England’s church and state could expect otherwise.

A gentle wind drifted through the glade where Tuck was buried. It rustled the thick green leaves of the Major Oak. Robin lifted his head to savour the breeze as it passed over his face, and the earthy scent of the forest.

“His soul has flown,” murmured Littiljon. The giant was a picture of misery, his massive shoulders slumped, eyes red-rimmed and wet with tears, his usually ruddy features drawn and haggard.

Robin blinked. The weight of sorrow in his heart lifted a little. 

Not flown, he thought, Tuck sacrificed himself for us. His spirit lives on within us. His strength.

Thomas finished the elegy, and a gloomy silence fell over the glade. “Enough of this,” Robin said sternly, “Tuck would not want his death to break us. We must honour his memory by carrying on the fight.”

“What fight?” exclaimed Scarlet, “God help us, is there no end to your selfishness? Our friend lies dead. Let that be an end to it. Here and now is our last assembly. I will not come to the Major Oak again.”

Robin smiled. He could feel new life coursing through him, and knew it stemmed from Tuck. “Turn and run away, Will?” he sneered, “is that what you propose, that we split up again and crawl back to our hidey-holes?”

The others watched them in silence. Much, the youngest of the outlaws, had a look of eagerness on his face, while Littiljon was pensive.

Matilda’s expression was unreadable. She had become a stranger to Robin during his years of exile, and full of secrets. He doubted they would ever truly know each other again.

“We’re no longer young!” Scarlet almost shouted, his face crimson, “I have a wife and children - would you have me place them in danger? Or should I sell my house and bring them to the forest, so you can teach them to be outlaws?”

“I understand your fears,” said Robin, “but it’s too late, Will. Your family is already at risk. The Sheriff will suspect it was you who saved me from his troops at Grimston.”

The other man hesitated. “My men wore hoods and masks,” he replied, “I was very careful about that. The Sheriff isn’t a witch. He can’t guess my identity.”

“He knows you were once an outlaw. Have you not heard the ballads? They are spreading all over the country, from York to London. Your name is mentioned frequently in them. Will Scarlet of Blidworth, bold companion to Robin Hood!”

“More bald, these days,” sniggered Much. Scarlet shot a furious glare at him, and got a wink in return.

It was true: the years had rubbed much of the hair from his crown, as well as diluting its flaming red colour to a faded auburn.

Scarlet ran a hand over his bald pate. “I’ve made my decision,” he puffed, “and refuse to take any further part in this folly. God be with you all.”

Without another word he turned away from the freshly-dug grave and walked away. All but one of his mercenaries followed. Their captain, the big Basque mercenary named Aritzo whom Robin had narrowly defeated at archery, remained at the graveside. 

“I stay,” he said in heavily accented English look. “life should be an adventure, and I am bored of guarding woolsacks, Master Scarlet.”

Scarlet shrugged and went on his way, which left just six in the glade.

“Well,” Matilda said quietly, “what are your plans now, Robin?”

“We have unfinished business,” he replied, “I was gone from England so long the people turned me into a ballad. A fairy tale character, meant for the entertainment of children or bored drunks.”

He patted the hilt of his sword. “It’s time we reminded them of the reality.”

4.

Nottingham Castle

“What do you propose, my lord Sheriff? How will I be compensated for this...this outrage?”

The forester waved his mutilated arm at the High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, Baldwin de Paunton.

Unlike his predecessor, recently retired on the grounds of ill-health, de Paunton wanted to be seen as a more open Sheriff, rather than one who closeted himself away in Nottingham Castle and delegated most of his work to subordinates.

He already had cause to regret it. De Paunton chose a spectacularly awful time to make himself available. Promoted from deputy, he had been in office for just over a month, and was already deluged with complaints and demands.

Most of them were centred on the Hooded Man, the accursed ghost of Sherwood Forest. After the fiasco at Grimston, where de Paunton failed to prevent the outlaws breaking through his siege lines, a stream of robberies, assaults and homicides had been committed in and around the great royal forest.      

“Well, my lord?” the forester cried, “I await your answer!”

His insolent tone could be excused. Two days ago Robin Hood and his band had interrupted him and his mates in the act of flogging a poacher.  Robin shot an arrow through the forester’s whip hand and liberated the poacher, who had been stripped and tied to a tree to receive his punishment.

The other foresters fled, leaving their injured comrade to stagger back to Nottingham as best he could. It was a miracle he hadn’t bled to death. The wound had turned bad, and the Sheriff’s own physician sawed off the dreadfully swollen hand before the rest of his body could be infected with gangrene.

“Peace,” said the Sheriff, “let me think a while.”

“Think?” screamed the other man, brandishing his stump again, “it were better to act, my lord! I received this wound in your service, carrying out your orders!”

He spoke the truth. Since the issuing of the Great Charter in King John’s reign, the harsh forest laws had been relaxed a little. Poachers in the royal forest could still be punished, however, and de Paunton had ordered his foresters and verderers to show little mercy to those caught red-handed, regardless of the letter of the law.

The fruits of his ambition now stood before him. Three other foresters, the men who had fled when Robin interrupted their sport, stood behind their crippled mate. They looked ashamed, as well they might.

De Paunton decided to play for time.“How many of these outlaws were there?” he asked.

“Six, my lord,” replied one of the others, “it was as though they had stepped out of legend. Besides the Hooded Man himself, there was his forest-wife Maud, the giant Littiljon, Much the Miller’s Son, and two others I didn’t recognise. A young priest and a big brute I took to be an ex-soldier.”

The Sheriff kneaded his brow. He recalled his public humiliation at Derby, where Robin Hood had arrived in the guise of a beggar and stolen three condemned youths from the gallows, right under de Paunton’s nose.

He hadn’t forgotten that embarrassment, or his own craven behaviour, begging for his life at the outlaw’s feet before being allowed to depart, slung over the back of a horse like a piece of baggage.

De Paunton’s less than impressive performance that day almost cost him the shrievalty, and only a hefty bribe paid to certain corrupt scribes at the Exchequer had officially cleared the stain from his reputation.

Now this accursed bandit was on the loose again. Three of de Paunton’s foresters had been slain in the past few weeks, picked off by arrows from unseen archers in the woods, and a tax gatherer robbed of forty marks while travelling along the Great North Road to York. The money had been extracted from villages inside Sherwood, and more than likely found its way back to the the villagers. Robin Hood’s famous generosity to the poor was a clever strategy, a way of buying the goodwill of the people and making him even more of a hero in their eyes.

De Paunton was an educated man, and no fool. He bent his intellect to the problem of destroying the Hooded Man, once and for all.

He turned to look at one of the high, arched windows of the hall. “A bad summer,” he remarked, “and promises a worse winter.”

Outside the skies were grey, with masses of charcoal-coloured clouds gathered to the north. It had rained incessantly for a fortnight.

De Paunton thought aloud. “Where do outlaws shelter in the winter months?” he said, “I have heard of caves, deep inside Sherwood, where they were wont to hide.”

“I know those caves, my lord,” the mutilated forester replied, “we use them as refuge in rough weather. No outlaws have ventured near them for years. If Robin Hood and his men had returned to their old haunt, we’d know about it.”

The Sheriff nodded, fingering his neat little beard. He pondered for a moment, while the foresters shuffled their feet and looked impatient.

A few lines from the one of the increasingly popular rhymes of Robin Hood ran through his mind. There was no escaping the wretched things: they were on the lips of every wandering minstrel and alehouse bully in Nottinghamshire:

“Robin stood in Barnsdale,

And leaned him to a tree,

By him stood Little John,

A good yeoman was he,

And also did good Scarlet,

And Much, the Miller’s son...”

De Paunton snapped his fingers, and the sentry by the door stood to attention. “Fetch me the captain of the garrison,” the Sheriff ordered, “I have a little task for him.” 

The captain was duly despatched with eight men, and returned at dusk with four prisoners in tow.

Their prisoners were Will Scarlet, wool merchant of Blidworth, his wife Alison, and their two young children. All four were brought into the great hall, though Scarlet had to be dragged.

“He put up a fight, my lord,” said the captain, “so we bound him in chains.

De Paunton said nothing. He sat at ease in his chair beside the fire, and tapped his cheek as he studied the prisoners. Scarlet appeared to be something of an oaf, plump and balding, his left eye swelling beautifully, doubtless from a blow one of the Sheriff’s soldiers had given him.

He was dressed like a typical wealthy merchant in purple doublet, black hose and a costly fur-lined blue cloak. A belt made of delicate silver links bound his straining gut. De Paunton found it hard to believe this was the same Will Scarlet as the outlaw in the ballads.

His wife was far more pleasant to behold. Slender and dark-haired, she looked to be considerably younger than her husband. Their children, a small boy and girl, both red-haired like her father, clustered around her skirts like a couple of frightened lambs.

De Paunton sighed. He took no pleasure in harming innocents, but the situation demanded it.

“Master Scarlet,” he said, folding one elegantly turned leg over the other, “you are a wealthy man, and have built up your trade from almost nothing. I judge you to be intelligent. Someone I can work with.”

Scarlet glared at the Sheriff through his good eye, and spat on the floor. This gross expression of contempt made the Sheriff weary. He had hoped the man would co-operate.

“I shall be blunt,” he went on, “you were once an outlaw, and ran with the Hooded Man in Barnsdale and Sherwood.”

“That was years ago!” cried Alison, “King Henry pardoned him!”

De Paunton waved her into silence. “Yes, yes,” he said testily, “I know that. I didn’t drag your husband here to stand trial for former crimes. The point is this. Robin Hood has returned. He and his followers - your old comrades-in-arms, Scarlet - are terrorising my servants, and making a mockery of justice. He must be stopped. He will be stopped.”

The Sheriff paused to give the other man a chance to respond. Scarlet said nothing. He was pale as a sheet, hands clenched by his sides. De Paunton judged him to be terrified, possibly on the verge of a seizure.

De Paunton snapped his fingers. “Wine for the prisoner,” he ordered, and a page boy ran to fetch a cup of wine. Scarlet’s hand shook as he drained the cup in one swallow. Much of the wine spilled down his front. 

“Now,” said de Paunton, making an arch of his fingers, “we must speak of the method. Robin Hood is nothing if not a survivor. He has flirted with death for twenty years, and yet the reaper cannot lay a finger on him. Still, no man can defy the odds forever.”

“Treachery, Master Scarlet, will be his undoing. Your treachery.”

He paused again to allow that to sink in. During the silence that followed two of his soldiers carried an iron brazier into the hall. A long iron poker was stuck into the red-hot coals, which hissed and crackled as the brazier was set down on the flagstones.

The eyes of all four captives widened in dread. “It will be cold in Sherwood,” de Paunton went on, “cold and wet. No man in his right mind would live in the open in this weather. Where will the Hooded Man find shelter? Tell me.”

Scarlet blinked, and swallowed violently. “No,” he rasped, “make all the threats you like. Burn my flesh. I won’t turn informer.”

The Sheriff frowned, “I’m not a fool, Master Scarlet. I know your history. Under all those fine clothes and layers of fat, you’re still a rebel and an outlaw, with a sense of obligation towards your old chief. I knew you wouldn’t betray him of your own accord. That’s why I brought your family here.”

“Captain,” he added, with an offhand nod at the children, “take the little girl and brand her face.”

The captain, a hard-faced veteran of many wars with a taste for rough work, grabbed a handful of the girl’s hair. She shrieked and clung to her mother, who struck out wildly. The captain caught her wrist in an iron grip and squeezed until she cried in agony.

Scarlet, his wrists still chained behind his back, echoed her cry and struggled in vain against the two brawny soldiers holding his arms.

“No!” he shouted, “don’t harm them - please, my lord, I’ll do what you want!”

De Paunton nodded happily, “Much better,” he said, “captain, leave that poor woman alone”

Frowning, the man reluctantly did as he was told and released Alison. She sobbed in pain and fear, her slender white wrist marked by a livid bruise.

Scarlet went limp, and might have fallen but for the soldiers holding him. “I don’t like making threats,” said the Sheriff in a reasonable tone, “this little scene could have been avoided if only you agreed to work with me. Come, don’t look so grave. Once Robin Hood has gone to the gallows, you will be suitably rewarded.”

“So tell me,” he added, “tell me where I might find your old master.”

Scarlet exchanged glances with his wife, who gave a little shake of her head. For a moment he hesitated, staring at the floor, clearly torn between his conscience and the safety of his family.

De Paunton rather enjoyed watching the struggle inside him. This was how men were truly broken. Not in the torture chamber, but inside their own heads.

After a few seconds Scarlet began to speak. The Sheriff listened carefully, while his doomed prisoner’s words seemed to fill the hall.

5.

Sherwood Forest

Rufford Abbey, founded in the dying days of King Stephen’s reign, was one of the largest and wealthiest religious houses in the kingdom. It lay inside Sherwood, just West of the Great North Road leading from Nottingham to York. The Cistercians who resided there, known as the White Monks after their plain robes of undyed wool, grew fat off the profits of the huge tracts of forestry and arable land granted to them by the crown.

They lived like little kings, lording it over the local villages, who paid them tax and a hefty tithe of all their produce. Rufford owned so many holdings it was necessary to divide them into granges, semi-independent farms where the abbot’s servants could ensure not a penny was lost or a single stook of corn gone to waste.

In the century or so since the abbey was founded, a couple of the smaller and more unprofitable granges had fallen out of use. One of these, called Roehagh, a handful of crumbling sheds buried deep inside Sherwood, had become a nest of outlaws.

Robin disliked the place, thinking it stank of monkish corruption and greed, but at least the buildings provided shelter. There was nowhere else. The caves his men had once occupied were now a den for royal foresters, and it was too dangerous to take refuge in the local villages.

“The peasants might sing ballads of the Hooded Man,” he explained to his followers, “hail us as heroes, and offer us food and refuge if we asked for it. They can’t be trusted. All it takes is one traitor among them, one Judas to go bleating to the Sheriff in return for a handful of gold, and we will end up as crow-bait.”

“The crows must strop their beaks,” said Matilda with typical gallows humour, “their dinner is merely delayed. How much longer can we keep them hungry?”

“Less of that,” Robin said irritably, “we have survived this long, and will go on surviving. The new Sheriff is a coward and a buffoon. Look how he hides inside his castle while we kill his foresters and rob his tax collectors. I don’t walk in fear of him, and nor should you.”

Matilda said nothing. She was more of an enigma than ever, and he still hadn’t screwed up the courage to demand explanations from her. All they talked of was practical matters: the next ambush or hunting expedition, where best to camp, whether or not to light a fire at night. For the time being they were comrades rather than lovers. The gulf of fourteen years was too wide to bridge.

Not once had they discussed their son. Robin spoke to the boy often. He wanted to gauge his character, to find whether he harboured any grudges against his parents.

Thomas was reticent, and far more inclined to talk of Tuck. He had lived a sheltered life, virtually a prisoner inside Fountains Abbey, where Tuck had been his only link with the world beyond its dreary confines.

“We must start your true education,” Robin said to him when they arrived at the tumbledown grange, “every man - every outlaw - should know how to shoot and use sword, stave and dagger, if he wishes to live long.”

By training his son to fight, Robin thought he might at least forge some connection with him. To his delight, Thomas proved an eager student, though it would be months before he achieved any sort of competence.

The presence of Aritzo helped. An expert archer, Robin was at best a crude swordsman, and had only ever fought in earnest. Beyond the basics, and any number of dirty tricks, he had little to teach his son about the art of swordplay. The Basque, on the other hand, was a superb fencer, equally skilled with dagger and broadsword, and happy to give Thomas lessons in the little courtyard.

Littiljon offered to teach the boy how to fight with a stave. “He’s a good lad,” said the giant as they watched Thomas and Aritzo spar with wooden swords, “the son of us all, in a way. I never had wife nor child.”

Robin looked at the giant in surprise. “Come, what’s this?” he said, “it isn’t like you to complain.”

“I gave the best years of my strength and youth to you, Robin,” Littiljon replied solemnly, “you must never abandon us again.”

The bitter edge to his voice reminded Robin of the time, years past, when he and Littiljon were rivals for leadership of the band. They had become fast friends since, but his long absence had weakened the old ties. The outlaws, even Much, looked at him with doubt in their eyes, whereas before there was nothing but trust and devotion.

Perhaps they think me an imposter, he thought uneasily, that the real Robin died long ago, and I am some clever play-actor. 

He intended to prove himself, all over again, by leading them against their old enemies: the Sheriff and his cronies, corrupt local officials, greedy monks and prelates. None of his followers knew Robin’s burning hatred of the church was now fuelled by his heretical beliefs. He hoped to keep it a secret for as long as possible. The outlaws were all pious in their own way, and would be horrified to learn their master had turned to Catharism.

Robin’s low estimation of the Sheriff, whom he had last seen slung over a horse in Derby marketplace, was a mistake. One damp and miserable night in late October, soon after midnight, de Paunton struck.

The outlaws slept in the largest of the crumbling sheds, once used as a storehouse for grain. They huddled together for warmth in a corner, grateful for the shelter of the roof, which they had patched and mended with fresh timber cut from the forest.  

Much was first on watch. The former shepherd, always eager to make himself useful, had volunteered for the cheerless duty of sitting halfway up a tall beech tree near the grange, straining his eyes and ears in the dark.

“Wake me at midnight,” said Robin, wagging his finger at Much, “don’t stay out there a moment longer. It’s a foul night, and I can’t have you coming down with a chill.”

Much grinned at the paternal tone. Next to Littiljon, he was the biggest and strongest of the outlaws, and had the constitution of an ox. “Never fear, master,” he replied happily, “I spent many a winter’s night out on the dale with my flock, watching out for wolves.”

“No doubt you kept the sheep warm,” remarked Matilda, to some laughter. Robin grinned at her. Perhaps she was starting to thaw, and the old spirit of the band could be restored.

When Much had gone, he settled down on his filthy cloak next to her. The outlaws had risked a small fire for the evening, allowing the smoke to escape through the open doorway and some cracks they had missed in the roof.

Matilda made no objection to his presence. This was the closest they had slept together for years, though he kept his distance, and dared not touch her.

She turned her back to him, and soon the darkened shed fell silent, broken only by the low rumble of Littiljon’s snore. Robin was used to the noise, and quickly fell asleep.

The Sheriff’s men attacked, not in the old blundering style, which Robin’s battle-honed instincts would have detected even as he slept, but with a measure of caution and guile.

Later, when all was over, he pieced together events. The soldiers must have crept through the woods, guided by foresters who knew the way in the dark, and stealthily thrown a noose of steel around the grange. They wore black cloaks over their mail, hiding the gleam of steel, and were armed with staves instead of bladed weapons.

Much, whose senses weren’t as sharp as he claimed, was knocked from his perch by a stone, hurled from a sling by one of the foresters. The thump of his unconscious body landing on the forest floor was enough to wake Robin and Aritzo, though by then de Paunton’s soldiers were pouring through the doorway.

“Surrender!” they shouted, “surrender, wolfsheads, and you shall have mercy!”

Still mazed with sleep, Robin reached for his broadsword, which always lay by his side as he slept. He was too slow to avoid a blow from one of the soldiers, and yelled in pain as a stave cracked against his shoulder and pitched him into the remains of the fire.

Ash and burned timbers scattered across the dirt floor. Robin rolled aside and seized the hilt of his sword. The cramped shed was full of shouts and struggling bodies. He heard Aritzo cursing in his own language, and saw a flash of steel: the Basque had drawn his dagger, and was backed into the corner, fighting like a madman against three soldiers. 

The gigantic form of Littiljohn erupted into life. Bellowing like an enraged bull, he threw himself at the Sheriff’s men, gripped one by the neck and hurled him against the wall. The soldier hit the stonework with a sickening crunch and slid bonelessly to the floor.

“Bring that brute down!” Robin heard a man shout. He spied a tall figure in the doorway, silhouetted by the pale light of the moon.

Robin suddenly remembered Thomas. Where was his son? He looked around in alarm, and saw the boy already subdued. A burly soldier had forced him to the floor and knelt on his chest, dagger raised over his eyes.

“Surrender!” cried the soldier, “or I’ll blind this whelp!”

A hand caught at Robin’s arm. He whirled around, sword raised.

He stopped. It was Matilda. “Put your sword down, Robin,” she said urgently, “put it down. For Thomas’ sake. We can’t fight our way out of this.”

The chaotic struggle petered out as Robin slowly lowered his sword. With a sigh, he let it drop to the floor. Two soldiers rushed to pin his arms.

“You were right,” he said to Matilda, “the crows won’t go hungry for long.”

6.

Westminster, London

“Spare them?” yelled the king, “have you run mad? Why, in God’s name, should I spare the lives of these rogues and evildoers?”

He stared lividly at his brother Richard, the Earl of Cornwall. “I merely sought to advise,” said Cornwall in his typically mild, agreeable way, “as always, I think only of your best interests.”

Henry bared his teeth. “Robin Hood is an oathbreaker! A vile apostate! Only a few months ago, he stood before me in the nave of the Abbey of Saint André and swore on holy relics never to break the peace again. On a reliquary containing the finger-bone of Saint Dunstan!”

“Deplorable,” said Cornwall, “and he didn’t mean a word of it.”

“Not a word! As soon as he returned to England, he immediately resumed his old ways. Plundered my parks and forests, assaulted my verderers, stole tax money, robbed defenceless priests. He even snatched the body of a suicide! Well, he has made a mockery of justice for too long. He and all his followers will be dragged on hurdles from here to the Tower of London, and there subjected to the full penalties of the law!”

Cornwall winced. He knew what his brother meant by that. Henry had devised a gruesome new form of punishment for those convicted of treason. After being tied to the back of hurdles and dragged through the streets to the placer of execution, their fate was to be hanged almost to the point of death, castrated, disembowelled and finally beheaded. Their privy parts would be tossed onto a fire by the executioners while they yet lived, and the parts of their eviscerated bodies stuffed into sacks and sent to different parts of England, to be displayed as a warning to others.

The earl, who was of a sensitive disposition, occasionally had nightmares in which he suffered these ghastly torments. “Hood cannot be charged with treason,” he pointed out, “blasphemy, yes, assault and homicide, poaching and highway robbery. But he has never, so far as we know, joined with your enemies or planned an assault against your person. Indeed, he did good service in the recent French wars.”

Henry waved that away. “His past service is of no consequence,” he said stubbornly, “he forfeited any right to claim that when he broke his oath.”

The two men were in a solar chamber in the palace, high in a tower overlooking the muddy flow of the Thames. Physically alike, both stocky, of average height and inclined to plumpness, they were of very different minds.

“Far worse men have served you in the past,” said Cornwall, “your armies would lack for soldiers if we didn’t empty the prisons from time to time.”

“God’s teeth!” shouted Henry, “what is on your mind? You admit that this outlaw has committed all manner of crimes, and yet you still plead for his life!”

Cornwall waited for his brother to calm a little. “I am put in mind of an old saying,” he said, “set thieves to catch thieves. We have a pirate holed up on Saint Michael’s Mount. A sea-going version of Robin Hood, who rides out to plunder the land and defies all our efforts to dislodge him.”

He referred to Robert Marsh, the Irish knight-turned-renegade who had seized the priory on the Mount. His continued presence there was an embarrassment to the crown, and the lives of many loyal Cornish subjects had been lost trying to drive him and his pirates from their island stronghold.

A dim light of understanding flickered in Henry’s eyes. “Set the dogs on each other, you mean?” he said, “I see. That would mean setting Robin Hood at liberty. How could we be certain he won’t simply flee back to his northern forests?”

The famous outlaw and his followers were currently languishing in a dungeon at the Tower. At the end of October Henry had received a boastful letter from the High Sheriff in Nottingham, informing His Majesty that the Hooded Man was safely under lock and key.

Cornwell had seen the letter, and thought it made for distasteful reading. Baldwin de Paunton claimed all the credit for Hood’s capture, detailing how he had persuaded one Will Scarlet, a former outlaw himself, to betray the location of his old comrades.

 Scarlet was dead. De Paunton had ordered his clerks to look through the man’s ledgers, where they ‘found’ evidence that Scarlet was guilty of debasing the currency by clipping the King’s coin, a capital offence. With frightening speed, he was accused, convicted and hanged, and his body now hung rotting in an iron cage in Nottingham market. All his property was seized, his chattels sold off, and his family turned out to starve.

Cornwall suspected that Scarlet was guilty of nothing more than being a one-time member of Robin Hood’s band. It seemed the Sheriff wanted all the outlaws dead, even those who had since become respectable pillars of society. He was a vindictive man, as well as capable and arrogant. 

King Henry had ordered the others brought to London. “Tell the Sheriff that Robin Hood must meet his end here, in the capital,” he ordered the messenger despatched to Nottingham, “so he may die in front of thousands, and his portions be displayed in every major town in the kingdom. That way all shall know he is truly dead.”

The prisoners were duly sent to London under heavy guard, held inside a cage mounted on the back of a cart. Unless Cornwall could change his brother’s mind, they would suffer the full penalties of the new treason laws.

“We can ensure Robin’s good faith by taking hostages,” said the earl, “five others were captured with him. Pick out the one he loves most, and hold that person in London as surety for his good behaviour.”

King Henry, whose flashes of temper never lasted long, slowly walked over to the window. “Six men,” he mused as he looked across the river towards Southwark, “how can such a paltry handful of brigands cause so much trouble?”

“Five men,” Cornwall corrected him, “and one of those little more than a boy. The sixth is said to be Hood’s wife. She’s lethal with a dagger, apparently.”

Henry puffed out his cheeks and passed a hand across his brow. “Have them brought from the Tower, then,” he said wearily, “it’s time we spoke with the Hooded Man.”

The king and his brother received the outlaws in the vast cavern of Westminster Hall, where Henry usually dispensed justice. He sat on his carved wooden chair on a dais at one end, while the earl and a gaggle of barons flanked the steps.

Cornwall had only seen the prisoners from a distance, when they were first brought into the city in a cage. He was intrigued to meet this Robin Hood, of whom so many popular tales and rhymes were told. The common folk seemed to regard the man as their greatest hero since Hereward, the Saxon rebel who defied the Conqueror for a time from the fens of Lincolnshire.

Hereward had died, or at any rate vanished, long before his legend became known. The Hooded Man, on the other hand, had achieved legendary status in his own lifetime. Cornwall, who held no illusions about heroes or heroism, wondered what it was like to live under that kind of expectation.

Hellish, I suspect, he thought as the prisoners were escorted down the length of the hall by a double file of spearmen in royal livery.

Some of the barons laughed. The noise filled the hammerbeam roof high above their heads with ghostly echoes. “Is that him?” exclaimed one, pointing at the tall, stooped figure at the head of the prisoners, “that wretch? He looks half-starved!”

“And in need of a bath,” said another with a smirk, “perhaps we should dip him in the Thames.”

Cornwall said nothing. The outlaws were a pitiable sight, pale and underfed and foul from their time in the dungeons, but he had expected no less. He was impressed by the giant, who made the guards looked like children beside him.

Littiljon. And that is Much, no doubt, and the yellow-haired woman with the dead eyes is Matilda.

He couldn’t guess the name of the slender auburn-haired boy, though noted his resemblance to Robin. There was also a beefy, dark-haired man who looked to be a foreigner, judging by his swarthy looks. This one, like Littiljon, had an air of brooding menace about him.

“That’s far enough,” said the king, holding up his hand. The outlaws halted, the heavy chains on their wrists and ankles clanking, while the spearmen took up position around them.

Cornwall looked for any signs of fear, or even anxiety, in Robin. There were none. Instead the master outlaw’s green eyes betrayed only detached amusement as they looked at the barons, lingered on Cornwall for a moment, and then up at the king.

He was painfully thin, and stank of prison, and the manacles had rubbed his wrists and ankles so raw they bled. Yet he held himself as proudly as any nobleman, and didn’t flinch under the king’s scrutiny.

“Wolfshead,” snarled Henry, pointing an accusing finger at him, “we last met in Bordeaux. There you swore an oath, on the holiest of relics, never to stray outside the law again.”

“You knowingly broke that oath,” he continued, his voice rising, “broke it, time and again! You have offended against us, and against Almighty God. By rights, your body ought to be broken into four pieces and given to the mob!”

At times like this Henry reminded Cornwall of their father. The king’s round face, normally so placid, had turned white, with blotches of red, and his body shook. There was a hint of spittle at one corner of his mouth.

Cornwall decided to intervene before his brother’s temper ran out of control. “In spite of your grievous crimes,” he said, stepping forward, “the king in his gracious mercy has decided to grant you one last opportunity to redeem yourself, and save your soul into the bargain.”

Robin looked at him without much interest. “My soul is not in His Majesty’s care,” he replied, “or yours, or even the Pope’s. God is my judge, and He does not heed the counsel of earthly kings.”

The barons cursed his insolence, and Henry made a choking noise. Cornwall, who was rather amused by the outlaw’s flat, careless contempt for them all, waited for the noise to die down.

“You seem determined to hang,” he said, “what of your followers? Do their lives mean so little to you?”

That struck home. “For myself, I care nothing,” Robin replied woodenly, “tear me to pieces if you wish. My flesh is only dust and dirt, mixed with a little water. However, I would happily beg for the lives of my friends, if you wish it. Their sins lie on my conscience, and only I should be punished for them.”

There was a pleasing logic to that. Cornwall was intrigued, though not surprised, to discover Robin Hood was more than some rough forest brigand.

“For the sake of your friends, then,” he said, casting a sly glance at the boy he suspected to be Robin’s kin, “we make you this offer. Enter the King’s service, as you did before, and go to Cornwall to help rid our land of a most notorious pirate and renegade, Robert Marsh. He has seized a religious house in the far south-west, and already made one attempt on His Majesty’s life.”

“His assassin lies in our deepest dungeon,” snarled Henry, who had composed himself, “where he shall stay, among the rats and the shadows, until his day of execution.”

Robin’s chains clinked as he lifted a hand to scratch his greasy beard. “I am rotten with lice,” he explained with a quick grin, “and Your Majesty is wise as well as merciful. You would send me into the lion’s den - unpaid, no doubt - to drag out this pirate and deliver him to justice.”

“The deal is simple enough,” said Cornwall, “either Marsh hangs, or you.”

Robin twisted his head to look at Matilda. Some unspoken message passed between them, though the earl could guess at the content.

“Naturally, we shall take a hostage as surety for your behaviour,” he added, “choose one you can afford to leave behind. If you play His Majesty false again, the hostage shall die. Slowly.”

The choice was obvious, yet Robin didn’t make it. Before he could speak again, the auburn-haired lad stepped forward.

“Take me,” he said fearlessly, “I will stand as surety for my father.” 

7.

Cornwall

Robert Marsh, one-time knight of Ireland, known as Black Hobbe to the merchants and sailors of the English Channel, or El Noche Halcón - The Night Hawk - to the mariners of Spain and Portugal, looked down over the high walls of Saint Michael’s Mount.

It was late afternoon, when high tide separated the island from the mainland. To the north was the broad yellow sweep of the beach, where a ragtag army of local Cornish knights and landowners was encamped.

He smiled at the lines of tents scattered haphazardly over the beach. Grand pavilions for the nobles, of course, while everyone else had to make do with crude shelters, barely adequate to keep out the November rains and high winds sweeping in from the ocean. 

“I have been away from this land for ten years,” Marsh remarked, leaning against the parapet, “yet nothing has changed. The strong still rule the weak, and the weak suffer in silence.”

His companion, a tall, hawk-faced Berber Muslim named Muhammad Al-Nasir, said nothing. This was to be expected. Muhammad rarely said anything at all, save in dire emergency, though Marsh had learned to interpret his moods. An instinctive understanding had grown up between them, forged over a decade of bloody adventures in Spain and North Africa.

Muhammad was fiercely proud, and claimed distant kinship with the Almohad caliphs of Morocco. Marsh knew he was fortunate to have such a man, born to leadership, for his second-in-command, and valued his loyalty. After all, Muhammad had agreed to follow him here, to the extremity of this cold northern island, where the sun never shined and the oppressive skies never seemed to lift.

The Berber held a raven in his sinewy brown hands. She knew better than to struggle in his grip, and had meekly consented to having a tiny roll of parchment tied about her left leg.

“Ready the bird,” said Marsh, “and let us see if those fools on the beach take the bait.”

Muhammad’s long face creased into a more than usually solemn frown as he lifted the raven onto the battlements. She blinked, and cocked her head to one side, but otherwise remained still.

The bird was part of a strategy Marsh had in mind, one of his little tricks designed to frighten and disorientate his enemies. On the parchment he had written a brief rhyme:

“When upon the yellow sand,

Sir Henry shall die by human hand.”

The subject of the rhyme was Sir Henry Pomeroy, High Sheriff of Cornwall. He was in command of the small army camped on the beach, where his pavilion could be seen near the middle of the cluster of tents.

As Sheriff, it was his duty to recapture the Mount and kill or capture the pirates infesting it, but he had been slow to muster the men of Cornwall and lay siege to the island. Only after a certain Cornish knight, Sir James de Kemyel, led his retainers in a failed assault on the Mount, was Sir Henry shamed into action.

“This is a waste of a fine bird,” said Muhammad in his deep, precise voice. The raven was one of a stock of birds the pirates always took with them. Intelligent and hardy, Marsh liked to use them as messengers. 

“She lives to serve a purpose,” replied Marsh, “release her.”

Muhammad obediently lifted the raven and opened his hands. She immediately dived, spread her wings and wheeled away over the grey waters.

Marsh watched her circle the ocean, and then veer towards the beach. “Gods be praised,” he muttered, “she knows her duty.”

The Sheriff had posted scouts on the edge of the beach, little groups of crossbowmen huddled miserably in their cloaks against the searing wind. Marsh grinned when a few of them pointed at the dark shape flying over their heads, and started to fumble with their heavy crossbows.

“Aye, you fools, she carries a message,” he said, “but for whom?”

Two of the soldiers took pot-shots at the raven. Marsh cursed when their bolts flew miserably wide, and then a third took aim.

This man was more careful than his comrades, and tracked the flight of the bird across the sky before loosing.

“Gods be thanked!” cried Marsh as the bolt hit home and neatly skewered his raven through the breast. She dropped like a stone onto the wet sand, where half a dozen soldiers converged on her, rain-sodden cloaks flapping as they ran.

“Forgive me, my friend,” said Marsh, bowing to Muhammad, “I meant no blasphemy.”

The tall Berber scowled. Marsh knew he was wrong to call on the gods, especially in front of a devout Muslim. He had long since abandoned the Christian faith of his youth and replaced it with cynicism. To him, all religions were a clever sham, though he took care not to say as much in front of his followers.

These were a diverse collection of sea-scum from many countries and faiths: Christians, Muslims, a Jewish physician, two or three Zoroastrians, and one squat, tattooed barbarian whose speech no-one understood, and whose origins were a mystery. Marsh cared little what gods his followers choose to worship, so long as they lived in harmony with each other, fought like tigers and fulfilled his orders.

“They will take my note to the Sheriff,” he said, watching the soldiers stoop to examine the dead raven, “and he will tremble when he reads it. These Englishmen are slaves to superstition. Sir Henry’s courage shall melt away.”

Marsh drew himself up. He was a tall, bony man, and moved with catlike grace, balanced on the balls of his feet. About forty years old, ten years prowling the coasts of North Africa had burned his skin nut-brown, and led him to acquire a taste for foreign dress: he wore a long flowing robe of grey silk, and under it an ankle-length tunic of light steel scales, forged especially for him by a master smith in Marrakesh. The scales seemed to ripple when he moved, and despite their lightness were proof against the fiercest sword-blows.

To look at, Marsh was far more Saracen than Christian, and only his blue eyes and the reddish tint to his hair betrayed his true origin. At his belt hung a curved scimitar in a jewelled sheath, plucked from the corpse of a Turkish sea-captain he had slain in single combat.

“Ready our men,” he commanded, turning away from the rampart, “tomorrow we shall ride out in force, and give Sir Henry another reason to fear.”

Early the next morning, when the tide started to recede, Marsh made his way down from the little grey priory to the cluster of fisherman’s cottages at the foot of the island. The fishermen and their families had wisely fled for the mainland when the approach of the pirate fleet was spotted, and their dwellings were now used as stables for Marsh’s horses.

He had brought fifty of the beasts to England, all that could be safely carried in his galleys. These were sleek vessels with red sails and single banks of oars, large enough to carry twenty crewmen and an equal number of slaves to man the oar-benches. When the tide was out they either rode at anchor, braving the rough weather that buffeted the Cornish coast, or prowled the Channel to the west, plundering and sinking English merchant ships.

Muhammad was waiting for him, shivering in the grey dawn, along with his other captains and forty riders. The capture of the Mount was long in the planning, and Marsh had deliberately recruited men who could ride and fight on land, as well as being skilled mariners.

He took the reins of his horse, a glossy black Spanish gelding, from Muhammad, and squinted north. The enemy camp, a miserable collection of tents and rickety wooden huts, was just visible in the gloomy half-light of morning.

“The causeway is open,” said Marsh, swinging gracefully aboard the saddle, “let us wake those fools yonder.”

The tide was fast receding, and the crooked causeway that connected the island to the beach wide enough for three horsemen to ride abreast.

Marsh spurred his gelding into a gallop. His fierce soul thrilled to the boom of the sea, the cry of gulls far above, the salt tang of spray in his mouth, and the rising thunder of the riders surging in his wake.

“El Noche Hálcon!” they roared, “the Night Hawk is upon you, you northern pigs! Fly, fly for your lives!

The Sheriff’s pickets, dozing and half-frozen beside their steaming braziers, were shocked into life by the sight of the long line of horsemen tearing across the causeway. They stumbled across the beach towards their camp, shouting warnings. 

Too late. The pirates were upon them. Marsh’s lance impaled one man and snapped in half as the bloodied tip burst through his victim’s chest.

The other pickets ran like rabbits as Marsh threw away the broken lance and ripped out the gleaming curve of his scimitar.

Riding over the body of the man he had just killed, he led his followers on to the camp. Chaos ensued. The pirates cut the guy-ropes of the knightly pavilions, hacked down terrified servants and footmen as the latter ran to and fro. The chill dawn air was filled with frenzied war-cries, the neigh of horses and the screams of wounded and dying men.

Marsh picked out the Sheriff’s pavilion and rode straight for it, leaped a collapsed tent and slashed apart the face of an esquire who tried to stand in his way.

A bearded and dishevelled man ran out of the pavilion, still in his night-shirt, sword in hand. He looked around, open-mouthed, at the slaughter and destruction.

“Sir Henry!” roared Marsh. The man swung to face him. Stark terror danced in his eyes as they drank in the sight of the tall, grey-cloaked horseman with the bloodied scimitar.

“You shall die upon these sands, as the verse promised!” Marsh cried, and drove in his spurs.

To his credit, the Sheriff made no effort to flee or dodge aside. Scimitar met broadsword with a clash, and then de Pomeroy was knocked off-balance as Marsh slid a foot from the crupper and kicked him in the face. 

The Sheriff staggered and had no defence as the scimitar flashed down again. It carved through the flesh of his thick neck like butter. With one vicious stroke Marsh decapitated his opponent, and the severed head bounced and rolled away across the sand.

Marsh vaulted off his gelding’s back and plucked the head from the sand. He crowed in triumph and held it aloft for his followers to see. They cheered and roared his name, while the Cornishmen wailed in dismay. 

The pirates pressed home their attack. A few of the enemy nobles bravely stood their ground - Marsh witnessed one knight seize a lance from its stand and skewer an Egyptian named Jawhar, who had come a long way to die - but the rest scattered and fled in all directions. The Sheriff’s death had shattered their morale, and now they were easy pickings for the horsemen, who pursued them relentlessly across the beach, turning the yellow sands red with Cornish blood.

Marsh gestured at one of his nearest riders, a Sicilian wearing an old Norman-style hauberk and a helmet with a face-mask.

“Your spear, Roger!” he shouted, and the Sicilian trotted closer and threw Marsh his spear. Grinning, the pirate captain impaled de Pomeroy’s head on the iron tip. Then he remounted his horse and brandished the dripping trophy at his men.

“Back to the Mount, you hounds of the sea!” he cried, “our work is done!”

It was tempting to let his men kill until they were sated, but Marsh was ever cautious. They were outnumbered four or five to one, and the Cornishmen might yet rally. A few of the knights were making a stand around their banners, yelling at their squires and men-at-arms to stand fast.

Marsh wheeled his horse and spurred her back towards the causeway. Seeing him depart, his men followed, leaving the bloody wreckage of the camp behind them. Thanks to the speed and surprise of their attack, their casualties were light, and only a handful of riderless horses were taken back to the island.

The Night Hawk had won his first victory on English soil.

8.

Westminster

Robin and his followers departed from London on a grey autumn morning. King Henry gave them horses and arms, and placed them under the command of John FitzAlan, a fierce knight of Sussex. Henry charged FitzAlan with retaking Saint Michael’s Mount, and gave him five lesser knights and their squires, fifteen men-at-arms and twenty mounted crossbowmen for the task, as well as the outlaws. 

Having volunteered to act as surety, Thomas was left behind in the care of the Earl of Cornwall. Robin and Matilda were reluctant to abandon him, but he insisted.

“I would be useless at fighting pirates,” he said before they left, “and you can’t afford the distraction of worrying for my safety. The King and his brother will treat me honourably until you return.”

Thomas sounded more certain than he felt. He half-expected to be taken back to the stinking dungeon in the Tower, and was surprised as well as relieved when Cornwall revealed other plans for him.

First Thomas was escorted by two burly archers to the earl’s private quarters. These were rather less grand than he expected, a small but comfortable suite of rooms at the end of a series of narrow lanes and darkened corridors. Westminster Palace was a rambling maze, and by the time Thomas was ushered into Cornwall’s study he no longer had any idea what part of the enormous building they were in.

The study was warmed by a fire inside a hooded fireplace inscribed with the Plantagenet arms. Cornwall sat in a comfortable chair behind a desk of solid oak, idly leafing through some letters. Heavy rain beat against the glass of the single latticed window.

Thomas stood meekly before the desk and waited to be noticed. He was reminded of the time he stood before the desk of Abbot John at Fountains. Then he had thought the abbot the most powerful man on earth, ruling with absolute authority over the monks and novices of the abbey.

He gulped. This plump, sheep-faced man sitting before him now wielded far greater power than some country abbot. Richard Plantagenet, brother to the King of England, Earl of Cornwall and Count of Poitou, could spare or destroy no-marks like Thomas as the whim took him.

“Thank you,” the earl said at last, smiling up at the archers, “you may go.”

He was clearly used to being obeyed. They left without hesitation, and quietly closed the heavy door shut behind them.

Cornwall pushed aside the letters and rubbed his weary eyes. “I should leave this work to my scribes,” he said, blinking, “but some things are best kept private. Even the most trusted servants can have their tongues loosened.”

Thomas wondered why this immensely wealthy and important man had chosen to toy with him. Outside the rain continued to lash at the glass, and from some distant corridor he could hear the echo of marching feet.

Cornwall steepled his fingers. “How does it feel,” he asked, “to be the offspring of a legend? My own father achieved a high degree of notoriety in his lifetime, but few would describe him as a popular hero, beloved of the common man.”

Thomas cudgelled his wits for an answer that might please the earl. “I only learned Robin Hood was my father a few weeks ago, my lord,” he said, settling for the truth instead, “before that the church was mother and father to me. I was given to Fountains Abbey as a baby and raised there as a novice.”

Cornwall squinted at him. “Until you grew tired of the cloister, and decided to run wild in the forest with a pack of outlaws led by your roguish parent. He is no common man. I suspect he sired no common son.”

He appeared to change the subject. “Two years ago I went on Crusade to the Holy Land,” he said, gazing at the window, “where I fought no battles, sacked no towns, slaughtered no heathens. Instead I made peace with the Saracens and liberated a number of Christian prisoners. For my regrettable failure to lose entire armies through incompetence, or put thousands of my fellow creatures to the sword, I was severely criticised. Not least by the church.”

To Thomas’ alarm, the earl winked at him. “I don’t blame you for quitting Fountains Abbey. What young man with a spark of life in him would want to spend his best years locked up behind grey walls, isolated from the pleasures of the world?”

“My brother would say I blaspheme. He has always been devout. Myself,  I inherited some of our father’s dislike for monks.”

He looked hard at Thomas again. “At least your time at Fountains served a purpose. You must have been educated there.”

Thomas nodded. “I can read and write passing well, my lord, and have some Latin and Greek.”

“Excellent. What did Robin Hood teach you?”

Somewhat thrown by the question, the young man groped for an answer. “Ah...a little swordplay, my lord, as well as bow and dagger. How to defend myself. I’m not much of a fighter.”

Cornwell smiled happily. “But you can learn. You are malleable clay, Thomas Hood, and might yet be shaped into something useful.”

He abruptly changed the subject again. “I wish to marry, you know. It’s not right, a man over thirty remaining a bachelor. I have in mind a lady named Sanchia of Provence. She is sister to my brother’s wife, Queen Eleanor, and an even greater beauty. Rich and beautiful and available. What more could a man ask for?”

“There are opponents to the match. Most of Queen Eleanor’s relatives are in favour of it. Why should they not be? Once I have married her sister, hordes of their Savoyard kinsmen will come to England, hungry for money and land. Yet one or two are being troublesome about it.”

Richard folded his plump white hands on the desk. “There is a certain Reginald of Savoy. A distant cousin to the queen. He wanted Sanchia for himself, and thought he might get her, along with all her wealth. His lands in Provence are much impoverished, so he needs to marry well.”

Thomas listened in blank confusion. He had only vaguely heard of the Savoyards, and these high doings meant little to him.

“Reginald makes no secret of his opposition,” Cornwell went on, “he has insulted me to my face, more than once, and gone unpunished. My brother fears offending the Savoyards.”

His smooth, urbane voice hardened. “I won’t tolerate his jibes any longer. Am I, the son and brother of kings, to take such insolence from a penniless foreign baron? He needs a lesson in respect.”

Thomas went cold as Cornwall’s placid blue eyes drilled into him. “You are my instrument, Thomas Hood. Do not imagine you have a choice in the matter. The king has given you into my custody, and you will follow my instructions. Do you understand?”

“What must I do, my lord?” Thomas asked after a short silence. He was ashamed at being so easily broken, but at the same time under no illusions of Cornwall’s ruthless nature.

The earl smiled agreeably and told him.

9.

Cornwall

The twin burdens of grief and guilt lay heavy on Robin’s mind as he rode into the west country. He was haunted by the necessity of leaving his son in London, mixed with nightmarish images of the last time he saw Will Scarlet’s corpse, hung up in an iron cage over the scaffold in Nottingham market. This was a sadistic torture devised by the Sheriff, Baldwin de Paunton, to taunt the outlaws with the sight of their dead comrade. Matilda had cried out when she saw him, while Much and Littiljon cursed and swore oaths of vengeance.

A strange heaviness fell over Robin when he beheld Scarlet’s remains. This second loss, coming so soon after the death of Tuck, was like a sword-wound in the heat of battle: at first he was numbed by it, until gradually the dreadful, unbearable pain spread throughout his entire being.

“What of his family?” Matilda said when she had recovered from the shock, “his poor wife, and their little ones. De Paunton will turn out them to beg.”

“Alison has kin in Lincoln,” Robin said dully, “perhaps she can find refuge with them. God knows.”

He had rarely felt so helpless, and for the next few days allowed the tide of fate to sweep him along, to London and the Tower and finally Westminster Hall.

At any moment he expected to join Scarlet in death. To end as crow-bait on the scaffold, as Matilda predicted. Robin’s soul was fully braced for death when the King offered an unexpected reprieve.

The captain of the expedition to Cornwall, John FitzAlan, gave the outlaws a clear warning before they set out. “Give me the slightest excuse, you wretches,” he snarled, “and I’ll slit all your throats and leave your bodies by the roadside.”

“I’ve heard the ballads,” he added, his hot breath gusting in Robin’s face, “the people think you’re a hero. To me you’re a common hedge-thief, a filthy bandit whose rightful place is on the end of a rope. So now we understand each other.”

Robin calmly met his glare. He had served under men like Fitzalan before - squat, foul-tempered bullies with scarred faces and empty souls. It was best to obey them in all things, and treat their insults and curses like the meaningless yelps of a mad dog.

“Perfectly, sir,” he replied. Still growling, Fitzalan turned away, and Robin exchanged knowing looks with Matilda and Littiljon.

The journey to the distant south-west, a country Robin had never seen before, was uneventful. Fitzalan’s soldiers were a mixture of Basque, Welsh and Gascon mercenaries, hard-faced veterans of France and the Marches. Knowing their trade, they gave their commander little trouble, and behaved with the brisk, quiet efficiency of professional fighting men.

“We have good reason to be confident, with this lot at our side,” said Robin one night as the little army lay camped by the roadside, not far from Exeter, “look at them. Proper soldiers, with good gear and horses. They’ll make short work of these pirates in Cornwall, and then we can go home.”

His half-hearted effort to raise spirits fell flat. “Home,” grunted Littiljon, tossing another bit of kindling onto the fire, “where’s that? I had a home once, and a trade. In Derbyshire. All gone now.”

“As did I,” said Much.

“You chose to follow me again of your own free will,” snapped Robin, who was tired of guilt, “I didn’t force you. Nor did I force Scarlet to ignore my warnings and put his head in the noose.”

An uneasy silence fell. For a time the outlaws stared into the fire, lost in the past. They always sat apart from the soldiers, who could be heard talking and laughing around their own campfires nearby. One of the Welshmen fancied himself as a troubadour, and was singing verses of The Song of Roland while butchering the melody on a lute.

“When I saw you at the scaffold in Derby market,” Littiljon said slowly, “alive, after so many years, and setting de Paunton and his hangmen at defiance...you are wrong to say we had a choice. I could no more stay away from you than force back the tide.”

Embarrassed, Robin turned to Aritzo. “What of you, sellsword?” he asked brusquely, “where is your home?”

The swarthy Basque was gnawing at a bit of dried meat, and swallowed before replying. “Home is where I lay my head at night,” he replied happily, “always, ever since I ran away from my uncle’s farm.”

“How old were you then?” asked Matilda.

“Ten, maybe eleven,” he replied with a shrug, “something like that. Still a child. I killed my first man a few weeks later, in a tavern in Burgos. He tried to touch me.”

He snapped his fingers. “After that, no longer a child.”

Aritzo told them more of his adventures in Spain and France, his service against the Cathars in the Languedoc - Robin looked away at this - and how he finally took ship for England, wishing to see the strange northern island he had heard so much about.

“I ended in Nottinghamshire, guarding baggage wagons for Master Scarlet,” he said, “it was a comfortable life. Too comfortable. I had no wish to grow fat and idle before I tasted my share of the world.”

Silence fell again at the mention of Scarlet. “Whatever happens in Cornwall,” said Robin after a while, “we have a duty to survive. I’ll not rest until I know Scarlet’s family are safe. I owe him that much.”

Much and Littiljon murmured in agreement. Robin locked eyes with Matilda and struggled to gauge her thoughts. She was as inscrutable as ever. Even the prospect of losing Thomas failed to cause her much obvious grief.

“I gave him away once,” she had said in London, “to the monks of Fountains. Now I must give him to the King. God doesn’t want me to know my son.”

They had barely spoken since. Robin found her too forbidding to approach, and she seemed lost in her own thoughts, barely conscious of the long road and the unfamiliar landscape.

Robin’s oppressed spirits lifted a little as they rode further into the west, and crossed through Devon into Cornwall. The bleak wildness of the country appealed to him, as did the lack of people. They passed a few towns, the largest of which might have fitted into one corner of Nottingham, and were met outside the last by a company of armed horsemen.

Their leader rode forward to greet FitzAlan. “I’m the deputy Sheriff,” he said, “I heard of your coming, and so gathered all the men I could find who wished to serve.”

His accent was so thick Robin could barely understand it, and Fitzalan had to ask the man to repeat himself.

“Wished to serve?” the knight growled when he finally got the message, “it isn’t a question of their wish. Every knight and baron in Cornwall is obliged to come and assist the King’s servants in ejecting these God-cursed pirates from the Mount.”

The deputy reddened. He had barely eighty men at his back, and the gates of the walled town behind them were closed. A few suspicious faces peered over the battlements.

“True, Sir John,” he replied awkwardly, “but we have been disheartened of late. The late High Sheriff, Sir Henry de Pomeroy, attempted to lay siege to the island, and was badly beaten. These men were all I could rally from the defeat.”

“Late?” exclaimed FitzAlan, raising his bushy eyebrows, “is Sir Henry slain, then?”

“It grieves me to say so. Marsh killed him personally, and set his head up on the wall of the priory.”

FitzAlan cursed, and spat on the ground between them. “Then you were honour-bound to retrieve it!” he screamed, “instead of which you cowered behind these walls and waited for reinforcements!”

He twisted in the saddle and signalled at his men. “On!” he cried, “I will get no rest until I see this den of pirates for myself, and laid plains to scour them out.”

The woods and fields echoed to the thunder of hoofs as the long column of horsemen galloped in the wake of their captain. They followed the road that snaked through the deep hill country into the far west.  

Somewhere beyond lay the distant gleam of the sea, and Saint Michael’s Mount.

10.

FitzAlan gnawed at his thumbnail. “Only a fool would attempt to take that place by storm,” he said, “even at low tide. Sir James must have been a great fool.”

He spoke of Sir James de Kemyel, the man who had attempted to assassinate the King. The Cornish deputy was baffled by this news, insisting that Sir James was a loyal subject of the crown.

“He was well known in the county,” he said, “and well liked, too. A brave knight who loved his king and had no fear of death in his heart. When the pirates first seized the Mount, he rode out with his men-at-arms and tried to retake it without waiting for aid from the High Sheriff or any of his neighbours.”

The deputy glanced fearfully at the Mount, looming on its isolated rock to the south. “Sir James was defeated and taken prisoner. I knew nothing of what happened to him after that. Perhaps Marsh and his devils tortured him so badly he went mad, and then released him. I can think of no other reason for his behaviour in London.”

“Whatever the reason,” FitzAlan said gruffly, “he shall hang for it, by and by, and those vermin inside the Mount with him. His Majesty wants at least a few of them taken alive, so they can be made an example of.”

He shaded his eyes to peer out to sea and the distant collection of red sails. “The pirates have seven...no, eight ships. Foreign-built, by the look of them. Fast, no doubt, but fragile.”

“They prey on shipping in the Channel,” said the deputy, “no English or French merchant vessel is safe while those galleys remain at large”

“Is that Marsh’s purpose, then?” growled Fitzalan, “to grow rich by plundering our merchants? Not while I live, by the Saints.”

He rubbed his big, callused hands. “There’s our answer. We’ll gather a fleet and sink his God-cursed boats, leaving him and his rogues stranded on the island. They will have to come to terms then.”

 Robin stood nearby and listened to all this with a sense of dread. Neither FitzAlan or the deputy would care to hear his advice, but to him the Mount was a daunting prospect. 

At high tide the island was surrounded on all sides by water, and the priory itself a miniature fortress. The Benedictines had built their church of local stone, and surrounded it with thick walls and a watchtower. From the beach Robin could see only one approach, a narrow path that wound up the flank of the hill to a narrow gateway.

There were said to be a hundred pirates inside the priory. So long they as they were kept supplied by sea, they could hold it against an army.

To Robin, who had long experience of sieges and castle-taking from his time as a soldier, the best course was to lay siege to the Mount by land and blockade it by sea. That way Marsh would be forced to try and break out eventually, or sit and starve on his lonely rock.

“FitzAlan wants a quick victory,” he said a while later to the outlaws, “to impress the King, no doubt. I fear he will blunder, and lead a lot of men to their deaths.”

“Not me,” Littiljon said firmly, “I’m not dying for that fat swine. He can use someone else’s corpse as a step to glory.”

“You won’t have a choice,” Robin answered, “we were both soldiers once, Jon. You know how it works. Men are herded like sheep into battle, and their shepherds take the credit.”

The shepherd worked fast. FitzAlan despatched riders to all the nearest ports with orders to requisition as many ships as possible, in the name of the King.

“The ships will assemble here,” he told his captains at a council of war, pointing at a rough map of the area provided by the deputy, “the port of Alverton.”

Robin peered at the map, and saw Alverton lay barely two miles west of the Mount. “It’s too close,” he said, “Marsh will know what we’re doing, and have time to prepare.”

FitzAlan shot him a venomous look. “No-one bade you speak, wolfshead,” he hissed between clenched teeth, “I only summoned you here as the chief of that pack of villains His Majesty saw fit to burden me with. I want none of your advice.”

Robin shrugged and took a step back, ignoring the sneers and contemptuous looks of the knights around him. If FitzAlan wanted to rush headlong into disaster, that was his affair.

“We’ll leave some of the Cornish militia here, to guard against any sallies from the Mount,” said the knight, “while the bulk of our force marches west to Alverton. When all is ready, our troops shall embark on the ships and sail to engage the pirate fleet.”

“None of our men are sailors, lord, or have any experience of war at sea, ” muttered one of the knights King Henry had placed under FitzAlan’s command, “I cannot answer for how they fight aboard a rolling deck.”

The other man glared lividly at him. “I can!” he shouted, “they will fight well, Sir William, or we shall answer for it to the King. Our men are veterans, paid handsomely for their services, while Marsh leads a ragged band of sea-vermin. If we cannot clear the Mount of their foul presence inside the week, then we should strike off our spurs and no longer called ourselves knighted men.”

A few more weak protests were swiftly dismissed by FitzAlan, and so the battle-plan was laid. Robin was ordered to take his followers to Alverton with the main body of royal troops.

“Find lodgings wherever you can,” said FitzAlan, “and don’t even think of deserting, wolfshead. Remember, the King holds your son hostage. The slightest hint of treachery from you, and the whelp’s life is forfeit.”

Robin needed little reminding. Thomas was rarely from his thoughts, nor the two old friends he had recently lost. He gravely accepted his orders, and rode west in the company of FitzAlan’s knights and men-at-arms.

Alverton was a grey little port town, reasonably prosperous, with enough space in the harbour for a number of medium-sized cogs and fishing vessels. From the docks Robin could see clearly Saint Michael’s Mount, and the red sails of the pirate fleet about half a mile out to sea. They put him in mind of a shoal of sharks, circling lazily as they waited for their prey.

The little army stayed in port for five days, while the merchants and sea-captains of Cornwall slowly responded to FitzAlan’s call to arms.

“Why doesn’t Marsh attack?” said Robin on the third day as he watched two fat-bottomed merchant galleys crawl into the harbour, “Marsh could swoop on this port like a falcon on a dove, and send all our vessels to the bottom in a single morning.”

“Perhaps he lacks the courage,” said Littiljon, leaning on his stave, “pirates are cowards, when all is said and done. Scavengers, preying on the weak and unwary.”

“You sound like FitzAlan,” Robin replied sourly, “he seems to think all we have to do is wave our swords at Marsh’s rovers, and they’ll quit the Mount and sail away in terror.”

He shaded his eyes to gaze at the Mount. Seen from the west, its defences seemed no less formidable. During the night the pirates had set up a banner on the watchtower. It was a long streamer of black silk, with no insignia, attached to a lance.

Mounted on the top of the lance was the head of Sir Henry de Pomeroy, late High Sheriff of Cornwall. His skull was almost picked clean of flesh by hungry gulls, and his empty eye-sockets gazed sightlessly at land.

Displaying the Sheriff’s head was a crude act of intimidation, yet it worked. Robin often saw the people of Alverton glance fearfully at the gruesome trophy, and make the sign of the cross. It inspired anger rather than fear in the Cornish knights, who swore endless oaths of bloody vengeance on de Pomeroy’s killer. 

On the fifth day FitzAlan decided enough ships had gathered in the harbour, and gave the order to embark. “I’m splitting up your little band,” he said to Robin, “I don’t like the way you stick together all the time, shunning the company of decent folk. It could be you mean to betray us during the battle, and go over to the pirates.”

No such notion had entered Robin’s head, but he could see it was useless to argue. FitzAlan’s suspicions flared almost as hot as his temper.

Robin agreed to go aboard one of the single-mast galleys, skippered by a Cornish tin merchant and his sons, with a company of crossbowmen. He disliked the crossbow, a heavy and cumbersome weapon, slow to reload, and so carried the bow and arrows he had obtained from the master-of-arms at the Tower.

The rest of the outlaws were spread about the fleet. Robin spotted Much aboard a cog, and waved with a cheerfulness he didn’t feel. Much, already sickly pale even though the ships had yet to leave the harbour, gave him a clenched-fist salute in response.

FitzAlan was aboard the largest of the cogs, accompanied by the knights and squires he brought from London. Trumpets blew aboard the cog when he gave the order to sail, and the makeshift fleet slowly wallowed out of the harbour into the waters of the bay.

Besides himself, there were twenty men aboard Robin’s galley. Twelve were crossbowmen, mostly Welsh, and clearly uncomfortable aboard ship. They clung to the side or the ratlines, while Robin stayed close to the mast, feet spread wide as he tried to get used to the gentle pitch and roll of the deck.

“Be thankful it’s calm weather,” remarked one of the Cornish sailors with a sly grin, “the slightest puff of wind, and all you silly soldiers would be flat on your faces, puking your guts out.”

Robin kept his eyes fixed on the sails of the pirate galleys north of the Mount. There were seventeen vessels of varying sizes in the royal fleet, so they outnumbered the enemy over two to one. Even so, he prayed silently for the galleys to turn and flee, back to whatever hell-pit they had come from, and leave their master to his fate.

At first he thought his prayers were answered. The red sails started to furl, which he naively hoped was a gesture of surrender. Then he saw each of the galleys had a single deck of oars, and used them to turn about into the wind.

Marsh’s captains knew their business. The steady thump-thump-thump of drums drifted across the water as the galleys rowed into a V-shaped formation, like the head of a spear. They moved with deceptive grace and speed, while too many of the royalist ships were poorly handled.

The captain of Robin’s galley shook his fist at one of the other merchant ships. “Look at that tub!” he shouted, “she wallows like a blind turtle - turn about, you fool, else you’ll be on the rocks!”

FitzAlan had arranged his fleet like an army, with the largest and most well-manned vessels in the middle, the rest on the flanks. Whether through fear or clumsiness, a few of the smaller ships had started to drift away, either towards the dangerous shoals near the Mount, or back to Alverton.

The bulk of the fleet pressed on regardless, with the flagship to the fore, and straight straight for the largest of the pirate galleys.

“God help us,” muttered Robin. He clung for support to the mast as a surge of wind filled the sail above his head. It occured to him that FitzAlan treated naval warfare like a kind of tournament, where both sides galloped head-on at each other. 

His galley picked up speed and made the deck rock alarmingly. Robin cursed as he slipped and almost fell. More curses sliced through the air around him as the Welsh mercenaries feverishly loaded their crossbows. The ship gave a sudden lurch and bowled several off their feet. Crossbows and loose bolts scattered over the deck.

The pirates streaked towards them. The vessels slid through the water at speed. Robin’s heart pounded as he saw the armed men crammed aboard, and was almost blinded by the reflection of sunlight off their brightly polished armour.

“You!” he yelled at the sailor who had sneered at him earlier, “I can’t shoot straight with this God-cursed crate rolling under me. Lash me to the mast.”

The sailor gaped at him. “Lash me to the mast!” Robin repeated, and pointed frantically at a length of rope, “quickly!”

His sharp bark of command - Robin had developed it to perfection during his time as a soldier - goaded the other man into action. While Robin stood braced against the roll of the ship, his back pressed against the mast, the sailor snatched up the rope and swiftly wound it three times around his body.

“My thanks,” Robin gasped as the ship gave another lurch and the rope bit into his chest. The bonds were tight, but he could still breathe and draw his bow.

He had tucked the sheaf of arrows into his belt. While the sailor hurried away, summoned by his captain, Robin selected an arrow and notched it to the string. The rope held him steady, as though he was back on dry land, taking careful aim at a deer or one of the Sheriff’s foresters.

The galleys closed fast. They were equipped with steel rams, and plunged straight at the royalist ships, driven by the smooth rise and fall of their oars. The thunder of war-drums rose to a storm, mingled with the screech of trumpets and clash of cymbals.

They were close enough for Robin to pick out faces. Robin beheld Turks as well as Christians among the pirates, lean, brown-skinned men wielding curved swords, clad in outlandish spiked helmets, long double-breasted coats or hauberks of shimmering scales. A few carried short bows, fearsome weapons Robin had heard of from ex-Crusaders in France. These men spoke of their ability to puncture mail, cloth and flesh from impossibly long range.

One of the galleys plunged straight at Robin’s ship. He narrowed his eyes and took aim, picking out one particularly ugly villain, squat and round-eyed and naked save for a loincloth, his body covered in blue tattoos.

Robin drew the arrow back to his chest. The ships were set on a collision course. The Cornish captain could do little to avoid the impact, and howled at his men to stand fast.

“Shoot!” he yelled, waving his hatchet at the mercenaries, “why do you hang back? Do your duty, you cowards!”

The bravest of the crossbowmen staggered onto the foredeck, while the fainter hearts stayed back, terrified by the sight of the ram ploughing through the waves towards them.

Even as they took aim, the air was darkened by a cloud of arrows from the Turkish short bows. Screams and Welsh curses erupted on the foredeck as the deadly, red-fletched arrows hit home. They punched through mail with ease, pierced limbs and throats and eyeballs.

Robin saw one of the Welshmen topple onto the lower deck. He clutched feebly at an arrow in his neck. Those mercenaries still on their feet bravely shot back, felling a couple of pirates, and then ducked and scattered to avoid another lethal hail of arrows.

Baring his teeth in a silent snarl, Robin let fly. His shaft hit the tattooed pirate in the face, silenced his war-cries and knocked him onto his back.

Robin swiftly picked another arrow, drew and shot. This one slammed into a Turk’s stomach. The Turk coughed blood and folded into a heap, the length of iron and wood buried firmly in his gut. 

Robin shot with smooth, unerring accuracy. As always, he was at his best with a bow in his hand. His third arrow felled another of pirate, as did the fourth, and the fifth.

A few of the Turks, seeing the bowman lashed to the mast, took aim at him. Robin made a perfect target, but God sent their arrows wide of the mark. Cold sweat dripped off his skin as they ghosted past his face.

The ram smashed into the hull of his ship. Timbers split and parted, and the deck shuddered violently under Robin’s feet. The entire vessel seemed to rear backwards, like a wounded horse thrown onto her haunches. Sailors and mercenaries tumbled past him, shrieking, before the vessel righted herself and tilted sideways, impaled by the ram.

Robin fumbled for another arrow. He expected the pirates to swarm aboard and make short work of the crew. Instead they heaved three large wooden casks, hogsheads normally used as ballast aboard ships, onto the foredeck of their galley, and levered off the lids with crowbars.

The casks were balanced on the prow of their galley, which now loomed over the foredeck of Robin’s ship. One of the Turks, an enormous man stripped to the waist, white teeth gleaming in his black hedge of beard, jeered and shook his fist.

“Shaitan sends you greetings, Nasrani pigs!” he bawled as his comrades  tilted the mouth of the cask downwards, “and bids you drink of his sweet nectar!”

The wind had changed, and was now against the King’s men. A torrent of grey powder poured out of the cask and blew the length of the ship, straight into their faces. 

It was powdered lime. Robin closed his eyes and groped for his sword as fresh screams broke out all around him. The lime seared flesh on impact, and would blind a man for life if it got into his eyes. 

He bit back a yell as some of the powder whipped across his cheek. It stung like fire, and his hand shook as he sawed desperately at the rope that fixed him to the mast.

After a few seconds the rope parted. No longer suspended against the angle of the deck, Robin tumbled sideways and landed heavily on his shoulder. Wincing at the pain, one hand clapped over his eyes, he struggled to his feet, slipped, and fell on his backside.

“My eyes!” he heard one of the Cornish sailors wail, “my eyes are gone - God help me, God help me!”

Terrified of such a fate, Robin twisted onto his front and crawled away, towards the reardeck. He could feel the powder sear across his back, and hear the piteous screams of the men around him, burned and blinded by the evil stuff.

The trumpets aboard the pirate galley screamed again, cymbals clashed, and a terrific war-yell split the skies. Robin heard a few futile pleas for mercy, and the laughter of the pirates as they leaped aboard and set about butchering all they found.

Robin knew he wouldn’t reach the reardeck in time. He rose and swung around, one hand held protectively before his face.

He witnessed a scene of utter carnage. A few of the mercenaries tried to fight, but stood no chance. The Welshmen were pulled down and stabbed to death, their bodies plundered and thrown into the sea. Blinded sailors tried to plead for their lives, only to have their throats slit or their skulls crushed with clubs and flails. 

Robin saw the captain and his sons make a stand on the foredeck. Their  hatchets were of little use against the curved blades of the Turks, and within moments they were chopped down. One of the pirates cut off the captain’s ear and held the ghastly object up as a trophy, to bays of approval from his comrades.

Sick with fear and horror, Robin raised his sword as two of the pirates rushed at him. One was a Turkish sailor, clad in dirty woollens and armed with a scimitar and a little round shield, the other a tall Westerner in a long mail hauberk and a helmet with a visor over his eyes.

The lime had scorched Robin’s hands. He gritted his teeth against the pain, set his left foot on the lowest rung of the ladder, and parried a vicious thrust from the scimitar. With a curse, the Westerner swung his heavy iron-shod mace at Robin’s head.

Robin dodged aside, took one desperate cut at his assailant, and scrambled up the ladder. A shout of rage broke out behind him. When he reached the top, he twisted around to see the Westerner yelling and clutching his hand. By sheer good fortune Robin’s blade had gashed his knuckles and made him drop his mace.

The Turk leaped up the steps. His eyes shone with hate. Robin hurled his sword at him and made a dash for the side. A javelin skipped across the deck to his left and stuck fast in the timber.

With a final prayer, Robin leaped.

11.

Southwark, London

Though busy by day, at night Southwark came truly alive. When the bustle and noise of the market in the High Street died down, trade of a very different kind opened in the maze of alleys and back streets.

Here, under cover of darkness, some of the most popular and notorious fleshpots in London were to be found. Almost every depraved taste known to man was on offer in the brothels and bawdy houses, dependent on the size of his purse. Nobles and high churchmen, even bishops, were rumoured to visit the more costly establishments, though the latter paid extra to keep their identities a well-guarded secret.

One man at least struggled to understand the appeal of this melting pot of vice and sin. He kept a scented cloth pressed over his face as he crept down one of the side-streets, gagging at the fug of sex and venereal disease, sour ale and unwashed bodies that hung over Southwark.

Thomas Hood had never set foot in the area before, and was following memorised directions to a tavern called The Pilgrim. The tavern, according to information supplied to him by his new master’s clerks, was a front for a brothel offering unusual delights for wealthy patrons.

Unusual, and officially forbidden. “Boys,” one of the clerks, a pinch-faced fellow named Bagot told him, “young and fresh, with sweet faces and good singing voices. The younger the better.”

Bagot tapped the side of his large nose. “The place should be closed down, of course, and the owner hanged, but our master persuaded His Majesty to keep it open. A fair few courtiers and foreign dignitaries like to visit The Pilgrim, and its useful to know the vices of such folk. Useful in all sorts of ways.”

He sniggered, while Thomas felt sick at the mere existence of such depravities. His life at Fountains had been sheltered indeed, and kept him ignorant of a great many things.  

I’m learning fast, he thought as he sidled further down the alley. His soft leather shoes sank into the wet mud. An entire day of rain had turned the ground between the houses into a bog. The houses themselves were poor, ramshackle affairs of wattle and daub, and the alley so narrow their upper storeys almost touched.

The ground was strewn with rubbish, some of it human: a beggar lay slumped against a wall, his face hidden under a battered felt hat, gently snoring. His hands had relaxed as he slept, allowing the ale-pot in his lap to tip over and spill the dregs over his already filthy smock.

Thomas soft-footed past the man and picked his way through the piles of refuse. The benighted denizens of Southwark simply dumped their dung and rubbish in the street, leaving it to decay or, if edible, be gobbled up by roving bands of stray dogs. A few stringy pigs also rooted through the mess, and fought with the dogs for choice morsels. 

It was near the small hours, a brief lull between the close of the brothels and the start of trade in the market. A few houses of ill-repute stayed open all day and night, making their employees work in shifts to satisfy the endless flow of customers. The Pilgrim, Thomas had been assured, was not one of these, but regularly closed for business two hours before cock-crow.

He raised his small iron lantern, to light his way through the darkened streets, and spotted a ragged piece of canvas hanging from a pole at the far end of the alley. The canvas was painted with the image of a grossly fat man in a monkish habit, holding a tankard.

This was the sign of The Pilgrim. Thomas carefully put down his lantern and squatted in the shadows, keeping his back pressed against the wall. He intended to wait here for his quarry, as his father had taught him to wait for deer in Sherwood.

The chill of early morning cut like a knife through his woollen cloak and padded tunic. He thought it dangerous to show any light, so snuffed out the candle inside his lantern. It was a minor miracle he hadn’t encountered any other night prowlers on his journey through Southwark, and he didn’t want to attract undue attention.

At midnight The Pilgrim closed its doors to all save a few privileged customers. This fortunate few were able to enjoy their clandestine pleasures in peace for a few hours, though to anyone outside the tavern appeared to be shut up for the night. Both sets of timbered and nailed doors were locked, and not a glimmer of light could be seen through the heavy wooden shutters on the upper-storey windows. 

Thomas couldn’t help wondering at the sins of the flesh being committed inside. The silence and darkness of the tavern somehow made it worse. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to will away the lurid images that danced through his mind. Sickening carnal horrors, of the kind that Abbot John regularly denounced in his fiery sermons. Sodomy and pederasty. The Pilgrim was a very pit of Hell, and everyone inside was condemned to burn, burn for all eternity for their unspeakable crimes...

His eyes snapped open. The scrape of a bar being lifted had reached his ears, and the whisper of voices.

He rose a little on his haunches. The nearest door glided open a few inches, and three cloaked and hooded figures stepped out into the street.

Thomas shrank back against the wall as they looked around them. There was no light from inside The Pilgrim, and the skies were just starting to lighten. Otherwise all was darkness.

Some instinct compelled him to sidle back down the alley, to a building set a little further back than the others. He hid behind the corner and peered around the side to keep an eye on the mysterious trio. 

They split up. One vanished down another side-street opposite the tavern, while another flitted away around a corner. The third, shorter and stockier than his companions, headed straight for Thomas.

He walked with a slightly unsteady, rolling gait, as though he was drunk. Thomas had been informed of this trait, along with a great many others, none of them pleasant.

“Don’t be fooled,” Bagot told him, “Father Guido is never drunk, and never off his guard. Remember, he may be a priest, but he comes from a knightly family, and knows how to defend himself.”

Thomas wasn’t sure to thank or curse God for sending Guido in his direction. His heart started to race, much too fast, as he listened to the heavy, uneven steps of the man he had been sent to kill.

They were coming closer. He gripped the hilt of his dagger. Another five seconds. He chewed his lower lip and started to count.

Four...three...

The blade of his dagger was oiled, and made not the faintest sound as he drew it from the sheath.

Two...one...

Thomas sprang from his hiding place. He held the dagger by his side, pointed upwards at an angle to punch through his victim’s guts into the heart. His father had taught him this method. Only fools and amateurs attempted to stab someone overarm with the blade raised high. They would more than likely miss, and leave themselves wide open for a counter-strike.

Father Guido was neither a fool or an amateur. As the silent assassin leaped at him from the shadows, he spun away and threw up his right arm to block the thrust. Thomas’ blade sank into his sleeve instead of his belly, sank deep into the flesh of his upper arm and drew a thin red bead of blood.

“Whoreson!” Guido cried as he stumbled away. His sudden movement almost wrenched the blade from Thomas’ grasp, but he managed to keep hold of it and close for another attempt.

He ran into the priest’s meaty fist. The punch was wild, and caught Thomas above the left eye, hard enough to knock him sideways. He shook his head to clear the pain, unable to dodge aside in time as Guido ran at him like a maddened bull.

The priest’s thick arms wrapped around Thomas’ waist and crushed all the breath from his lungs. His sheer weight drove the boy back against a wall, which sagged and nearly collapsed under the impact of their bodies. 

Thomas kept his wits and stabbed the back of Guido’s neck. His blade got entangled in thick cloth. As he struggled to extricate it, the priest stepped back and threw another punch. Thomas ducked, stabbed again, and opened a cut down the other man’s cheek.

“You Devil-sent little turd,” hissed Guido in heavily accented English as he reached for his own knife, “I’m going to carve you like a pie and scatter your innards all over this alley.”

Thomas recalled another of his father’s rough lessons in close-quarter fighting. He lashed out with his right knee, bringing it up sharply into Guido’s crotch. The priest grunted, dropped his knife and clapped both hands to his bruised balls.

A strange sense of calm descended over Thomas. The shock and excitement of the brawl drained away, replaced by a dead-eyed sense of purpose. Now was his chance. He stabbed again, this time at Guido’s throat.

The blade thrust deep into his white flesh. Choking, eyes weeping with pain, Guido buckled to the ground. Thomas seized the back of his head and struck one last time, firmly and finally, through his eyeball into the brain.

He let him go, watching as Guido’s body went into spasm, bleeding and writhing in the dirt.

Thomas had never seen a man die before, and was surprised at how indifferent he felt. The life he had just snuffed out was worthless, belonging as it did to a sinner and a pervert whose soul was destined for the fire.

When he was certain Guido was dead, he took a bit of cloth from his purse and knelt beside the corpse. The cloth was a badge in the shape of a tiny shield, made of red silk and emblazoned with the Plantagenet arms.

Guido’s mouth hung open, his dead eyes staring blindly at the night sky. Thomas carefully laid the badge on his tongue and snapped his jaw shut.

It started to rain again, and there was a rumble of distant thunder in the east. Thomas gave his victim a last pat on the cheek and scuttled away, wrapping his cloak tight around him.

He made his way through the rookery of streets and alleyways, back over the Bridge, already with a few heavily laden wagons plodding across it, and hence to the Tower.

A muttered password gained him access through a postern gate to the Inmost Ward, where he was searched by two men-at-arms before being allowed into the keep. The soldiers kept his dagger, still stained with the blood of Father Guido.

The Earl of Cornwall had his quarters on the upper floor of one of the towers, adjacent to the sumptuous royal apartments used by his brother and Queen Eleanor. As at Westminster, his study was relatively small and sparsely furnished, though warmed by a permanent fire.

Cornwall was seated beside the fireplace, fingers laced across his ample belly, gazing into the flames. The room was uncomfortably hot, and Thomas started to perspire almost as soon as he was shown inside by a page. 

As in their previous meeting, Cornwall waited for the door to swing shut before deigning to notice his visitor.

“Is it done?” he asked, without looking away from the fire.

“Yes, my lord,” Thomas replied, “Father Guido is dead. I left the badge on him, as you commanded.”

Cornwall didn’t even nod. For a long time he was silent, his face unreadable. Thomas thought he could almost hear the wheels turning in his cold mind.

While he patiently waited for a response, Thomas wondered at his fate. Father Guido had been confessor and advisor to Reginald of Savoy, the French baron who was Cornwall’s rival for the hand of Sanchia, sister to Queen Eleanor.

It was thought Guido, a far more intelligent and formidable character than his master, had inspired Reginald to oppose the match, and insult Cornwall in public. Making Guido a target, and having him assassinated as he returned from his grubby nocturnal pleasures in Southwark, was Cornwall’s way of dealing with the threat.

“It was crude,” he said, breaking the silence, “and I regret having to order such a thing. But that fool Reginald needed to learn that I am not my brother. I do not stand for being defied and mocked.”

Only now did he look up at Thomas. “Where did you put the badge?” he asked sharply.

“In his mouth, lord,” came the reply. Cornwall barked with laughter and clapped his hands together.

“In his mouth!” he crowed, “very good, lad. They cannot fail to find it there. Reginald will hear, and know who ordered his servant’s death. If he has any sense at all, he will be on his way back to Provence by this evening.”

Still chuckling, the earl rose and crossed to a long table, where a silver flagon of wine and two cups were set. He poured a generous measure for himself and tossed it back.

“From Bordeaux,” he said, smacking his lips, “my father may have lost most of our lands in France, but thank God he held onto Bordeaux and Gascony. Home to the best vineyards in the world.”

“Here,” he added jovially, filling the other cup to the brim and holding it out, “tip that down your throat. I suppose the abbot at Fountains allowed you nothing but small beer and watered ale, eh? This should make for a pleasant contrast.”

Thomas accepted the cup and took a wary sip. He didn’t care to say as much, but it tasted much like the wine his father had liberated from a retinue of monks travelling through Sherwood. The outlaws made merry that night around the campfire, and drank mocking toasts to the Sheriff and King Henry.

“Incredible,” he murmured, “I have never tasted the like.”

Cornwall grinned, and took back the cup before Thomas could drink any more. “You have drunk of my wine,” he said, “and shall be paid well for this night’s work. None of my servants have cause to complain in that regard.”

Thomas was alarmed by the description of him as a servant. “M-my lord,” he stammered, “I agreed to perform this task for you, but...”

“But you imagined that would be the end of it?” Cornwall laughed again, a hollow sound without a trace of real humour, “my boy, you still have a great deal to learn. Tonight you slew a man for the first time. There may be others, depending on my will.”

His eyes drilled into Thomas, pinning him to the spot. “Your freedom ended the moment your knife sank into Father Guido’s flesh. You are mine now. My agent. My servant. I will use you as I like, and cast you adrift when I am done.”

Faced with this bleak prospect, Thomas groped for a response. “My father...” he began.

Cornwall interrupted him. “As yes, your father. The legendary outlaw. You care for him, don’t you?”

“I...I hardly know him,” Thomas replied.

“It matters little. He is still your sire, and that yellow-haired bitch he runs with is, I suspect, your mother. Don’t trouble to deny it.”

“It’s only natural you should care for them. Love them.”

He lifted his right hand, palm upwards, fingers slightly curled. “Their lives sit in the bowl of my hand, Thomas. Not the King’s. Mine. So long as you serve me faithfully and well, no harm shall come to them. If you should ever think of deserting my service...”

The earl closed his fingers into a fist. “Take heed of this warning,” he said, “for I am not in the habit of repeating himself.”

Realising he was trapped, doomed to spend his days acting on the whim of this man as a blunt weapon, a mere tool of the state, Thomas could do naught but lower his head.

“Yes, my lord,” he said.

12.

Saint Michael’s Mount

The Night Hawk liked to hold court in the church of the priory, where he had set up a magnificent carved wooden chair in place of the altar. Here, feeling like a god himself, he sat and passed judgement on the procession of wretched prisoners brought before him.

These were survivors of the royal fleet his galleys had smashed in battle the previous day. Marsh had watched the brief fight from the battlements, and laughed to watch his enemies lumbering to their doom.

The Crimson Sails, as his ships were known along the coasts of Spain and North Africa, had made short work of the pathetic collection of cogs and fishing vessels that sailed from Alverton to engage them. Their rams crippled or sank over half the enemy fleet, while the rest turned and fled back to port, panicked by the savagery of the pirates and the powdered lime they deployed as a secret weapon.

Marsh ordered most of the prisoners executed, so their heads might decorate the priory walls, alongside that of the late Sheriff. Some begged for mercy as they were dragged out to face the headsman’s blade, others went with dignity, tight-lipped and silent. It mattered little. Cowardly or brave, they all went the same way.

One man, almost the last to be brought in, caught his interest. A tall, broad-shouldered fellow, some kind of foreign mercenary judging by his bearing and olive skin. There was dried blood on his face and neck, and he was still wet from his ducking in the sea.

He swaggered down the nave, hands chained behind his back, looking around the church with mild interest. At no point did he even glance at the figure seated in the high chair. 

“Halt, pig,” snarled Muhammad, standing to the right of Marsh’s chair, “and kneel before your judge.”

The other man looked at them indifferently. “I kneel before no-one save God,” he replied, “and only if He asks politely.”

Muhammad stiffened. “You,” he rasped at the pair of Sicilians standing behind the prisoner, “beat this one to his knees, so he might learn some proper respect for our master.”

“No,” said Marsh, raising his hand, “this one has courage. Since when did we punish men for showing courage? Let him be.”

The Sicilians, who had waited for his order before acting, didn’t move. Marsh hunched forward in his chair, resting his chin on his fist as he looked the prisoner up and down. This was the sort of rogue he liked to employ.

“You’re a Basque, I think,” he said, “I have a few of your countrymen in my crew. Good fighters, and quick to obey. Your name?”

“Aritzo,” the other replied with a shrug, “and yes, I am a native of the Lordship of Biscay. It saddens me to learn that men of my blood choose to dirty their souls in your service.”

Marsh laid a hand on Muhammad’s arm. “Peace,” he murmured, “I have borne far worse insults. He speaks out of bravado, to show us what a devil-may-care fellow he is.”

“The cur should have the skin whipped from his back,” said the Berber through gritted teeth. Gradually he subsided, though still trembling with outrage, strong brown hands clenching and unclenching. Aritzo merely smirked at him.

“I know you,” the Basque said unexpectedly, nodding at Marsh, “there was great talk of you in my country, before I left. El Noche Halcón, captain of the Crimson Sails, terror of all the seas between Portugal and Sicily. Back then I considered seeking you out, to pledge my sword in your service.”

He shrugged again. “I thought better of it. There was no honour in serving one who butchered women and children, and took the heads of his enemies as trophies like some pagan of old.”

Marsh could only smile at his careless insolence. Yes, he definitely wanted this man on his side. “The wheel has turned full circle,” he said, “and given you the chance to redeem your former mistake. Join me.”

Aritzo chuckled, and shook his head. “No. Even if I wished it, I could not. I am already pledged to another.”

“Who?” demanded Marsh, “King Henry of England, that crowned buffoon? Renounce your allegiance to him. He is not worthy of it.”

“Not the King. Yesterday you may have seen an archer strap himself to a mast and shoot down a number of your men.”

“I saw him,” exclaimed Muhammad, “Shaitan must have been protecting the villain, for he escaped our arrows and leaped into the sea.”

“He is my master,” said Aritzo, “his name is Robin Hood. The English sing songs about him. Robin, the Hooded Man, the champion of the poor and downtrodden.”

Marsh fingered the tuft of beard on his pointed chin. “I have been away for ten years,” he said, “and know nothing of this Robin Hood. However, I also witnessed his extraordinary behaviour yesterday.”

The deed of a man aware of his legend, and how he must live up to it, he added silently. Marsh understood, all too well. His own men looked to him to be first in every boarding action, and bring them glory and riches on every voyage. No less was expected of the Night Hawk.

“The Hooded Man versus the Night Hawk,” he mused, “a ballad in the making, perhaps. Alas, bold Robin is not among my prisoners, else I might offer him a place in my crew.”

Aritzo threw back his head and laughed. “He would die rather than follow you!” the Basque cried, “as I will. Slay me, sea-carrion, and have done.”

He threw out the words like a challenge, yet Marsh was set on one last attempt. “You have asked me nothing, Aritzo,” he said, “except to grant you death. Do you not wish to know where I have come from, and why I chose to abandon the warmth of the southern seas for this wind-blasted rock?”

For the first time Aritzo looked disconcerted. “You were a Christian knight, once,” he replied, “before choosing to abandon Christ and throw in your lot with heathen men. That is all I know.”

“Then you know almost nothing. My father was an Irish baron of mixed Norman and native stock. He had a blood-claim to the High Kingship of Ireland, going all the way back to Lóegaire mac Néill. It was his desire to throw off the Plantagenet yoke, and rule Ireland as his own fiefdom.”

Marsh’s brow furrowed. Even now, after so many years, the memory of his family’s downfall was painful to him. “He secretly formed an alliance of knights and barons. All the nobles he could attract to his banner. The rebellion was years in the planning. Myself and my brothers were mere boys when he conceived the idea. We were grown men when all was ready.”

“Years in the planning, I said, and days to ruin. A certain knight of Ross, whom my father trusted like his own brother, fled to England and revealed all to the King. For once Henry acted with resolution, and sent troops to waste my father’s lands, fire his castles and put us all to the sword.”

“It was done. My father was taken and hanged in Dublin marketplace, along with my brothers and his chief supporters. I alone escaped, having bribed my way aboard a leaking cog bound for Lisbon, and swore revenge.”

He clapped his hands, banishing the ghosts of his past. “So,” he said, smiling at Aritzo, “the young knight who fled Ireland became a pirate and a sea-captain of renown. Once I had gathered enough ships and men, I came back.”

“You have missed your target, captain,” said Aritzo, “even I, a foreigner, know Ireland lies some miles to the west of here.”

“Ships and men,” replied Marsh, “and treasure. My galleys are loaded with gold, taken from rich towns and treasure-ships over the past ten years. My intention in seizing Saint Michael’s Mount was to humiliate King Henry. To show that I can strike at him, whenever and wherever I please, and defeat anything he cares to throw at me. Once I have killed enough of his soldiers and sunk enough of his ships, I will sail for Ireland.”

“There,” he added, leaning back in his chair, “I will finish the work my father started. The Irish barons are always chafing under English rule, and look for any opportunity to throw their oppressors back into the sea. Those who prefer to stay loyal to the crown will soon change their minds, once they see the gleam of gold. All men can bought, for the right price.”

“Not all,” Aritzo replied stoutly, “not me, or Robin Hood.”

“Maybe,” sighed Marsh, “such a pity. Well, we must make the best of it. Bring him.”

His silken robes rustled as he flowed to his feet and beckoned at the Sicilians, who took hold of Aritzo’s arms. Marsh strode to a narrow doorway half-hidden behind a purple curtain to the rear of the dais.

“Allah knows I would follow you to the gates of Hell, lord captain,” said Muhammad, who remained standing by the chair, “but no further. I will have no part in your sorcery.”

“No matter,” replied Marsh, who knew better than to force men to act against their conscience. He ducked through the doorway, followed by the Sicilians and their captive.

Beyond lay a short corridor, leading to another door. This was locked, and Marsh carried the only key, hanging from a slender chain at his belt.

He fitted the key into the well-oiled lock, turned it and pushed gently at the door, which glided open without a sound.

“This was the prior’s chamber,” Marsh said conversationally as he stepped inside and rubbed his hands beside the fire burning merrily in the grate, “a little cramped, as you can see, but comfortable. The monks of the Mount lived well.”

“Until you murdered them, no doubt,” said Aritzo, who made no resistance as the Sicilians escorted him to a stool, one of the few pieces of furniture in the room.

“Murdered them?” repeated Marsh, looking pained. “You have listened to too many dark stories of the Night Hawk, my friend. I’m not in the habit of murdering priests. When I came here, I found the prior and three monks living in comfort. Just four men, living like kings in their holy island fortress, keeping the local peasants in a state of terror.”

“The prior was a feeble old man, so I found a new home for him in the cellars under the priory. He sits there still, in the cold and darkness, meditating on his worthless life. I took his monks and had them chained to the oar-decks of one of my galleys. Soft, pampered creatures. They will either toughen up quickly under the lash, or perish.”

He snorted. “Priests. Churchmen. They’re all the same, whatever god they profess to worship. Muhammad would shudder to hear me say it, but I think they are mostly hypocrites, petty tyrants who have seen a way of leading an easy life and lording it over their fellow men.”

“However,” he added, smiling warmly at Aritzo, “I didn’t bring you here to listen to a sermon. My point is, I don’t believe in gods. Does that disgust you, Aritzo?”

The Basque said nothing. He sat rigidly upright, since one of the Sicilians had drawn a knife and was holding the edge of the blade hard against his throat.

“Godless,” said Marsh, slowly drawing his own dagger, “yet the rejection of God served to open my mind. The world is full of mysteries, Aritzo. Mysteries any man can harness, if he has the will and the intellect.”

He moved closer to Aritzo, the folds of his robe pooling around him. “You may have heard of the Cornish knight, Sir James de Kemyel,” he continued, holding the blade up so it caught the light pouring through the room’s single narrow arched window, “how I captured him, splintered his mind, and sent him off to London to murder King Henry. I tattooed the three pards on his skin, and convinced him he was the rightful king.”

“Not for a moment did I think Sir James would succeed. I wanted to frighten Henry, to demonstrate I had weapons he couldn’t even dream of.”

“Anyone can be broken through torture,” mumbled Aritzo, trying and failing to tear his eyes away from Marsh’s knife, “you drove Sir James mad with pain. An evil trick, worthy of evil men.”

Marsh smiled mirthlessly. “No torture was necessary. I broke his will in seconds. Seconds.”

He advanced on Aritzo, holding the knife at arm’s length. “In the slums of Marrakesh,” he said, dropping his voice to a croon, “I found an old man, a fakir, though you might call him a soothsayer. Or a magician. In exchange for food and a little money, he taught me a few of his secrets.”

Aritzo was mesmerised, his mouth hanging open, eyes misting over as they fixed on the shimmering blade.  

“Among them,” Marsh intoned, “was the art of hypnotism.”

13.

Robin sat hugging his knees by the fire, teeth chattering, willing himself to get warm. He had changed his clothes, and Matilda had found a spare cloak to drape over him, yet still he shivered.              

“Of all the deaths I imagined for myself,” he stammered, shifting closer to the fire, “being carried off by a chill in the arse-end of Cornwall was never one of them.”

“If you will go swimming,” Matilda said tartly, passing him a cup of steaming wine heated over the flames, “what do you expect?”

He gratefully swallowed the wine, closing his eyes in ecstasy as it scorched down his throat. Soon the convulsive shivering abated a little.

“I can always rely on you,” he said, looking fondly at his wife, “never to cosset me.”

“That’s the last thing you need,” she replied, looking away and making herself busy with the evening meal. Sir John FitzAlan had supplied his troops with plenty of oatmeal and bacon, and she was cooking rashers and flat oatcakes baked on a piece of rusted iron over the flames.

Robin gloried in the smell of the bacon. Every time he survived a brush with death, his senses were heightened, as though his body realised how fortunate it was to still have them. 

His escape from the disastrous sea-battle had tested his good fortune to the limit. Having abandoned his doomed ship and leaped into the sea, he was forced to swim desperately for the distant beach with missiles hissing into the water around him.

The storm of javelins and arrows eventually petered out, by which time he was spent, and had to turn on his back and drift, trusting to the tide and the favour of God to carry him ashore.

He crawled through the surf, and lay on the wet sand for a while, gasping for air while pains shot through his joints and purple spots wheeled before his eyes. When he was able, he struggled to his feet and turned to observe the ruin of FitzAlan’s fleet.

Few of the royalist ships escaped back to Alverton. Far more were sunk, or captured and towed away by the pirates. FitzAlan had suffered a terrible and humiliating defeat, and lost far more than his pride. When the roll-call was taken that evening, the exhausted and miserable survivors of his little army drawn up in ragged lines on the beach, it turned out forty-seven men were dead or missing, almost a third of his force.

FitzAlan himself survived, having struggled out of his mail hauberk and swam to safety even as his flagship was being overrun by screaming Turks. He cut a dejected figure as he stood before his men, all his bluster and pomposity expended, like air from a squashed bladder.

Robin, who cared nothing for the knight’s discomfort, was overjoyed to find Matilda and Littiljon had survived. Both were aboard ships that extricated themselves from the disaster and beat a retreat back to Alverton.

Much, however, was missing, and absent from the roll-call. As the shadows of dusk lengthened into evening, Robin started to fear the worst.

“His ship was rammed,” said Littiljon, “I saw heavy fighting on deck from my own vessel, but nothing of Much.”

“Poor lad,” he added quietly, gazing north, where the mauve arch of the sky was sprinkled with a few early stars, “he was just a serf, when all’s said and done. Should have stayed in the north country. We all should.”

“Fate dragged us here,” Matilda said quickly, “nobody is to blame.”

Robin looked at her with gratitude. He was tired of defending himself, and it was good to know she was willing to help ease his burden of guilt.

As it turned out, his conscience was spared further punishment. Much returned later that night, as hale and cheerful as ever, though exhausted, and soaked to the skin.

“I jumped ship,” he said when the cries of greeting had died down, and he had recovered from Littiljon’s fierce hug, “you’re not the only one who can swim, Robin.”

He winked at his leader,and hunkered down by the fire, eagerly accepting the food and wine that was pressed on him. “For a time I clung to a spar,” he said between mouthfuls of porridge, “hoping it would carry me to land. Instead I started to drift towards the rocks near the Mount, so I abandoned my bit of wood and struck out on my own. By the time I reached the beach, I was so tired I decided to take some rest in a cave.”

“Rest!” exclaimed Littiljon, “so all this time we’ve been worrying about you, you’ve been nice and snug in a warm cave, snoring your fool head off?”

“I wouldn’t say it was warm,” grinned Much, avoiding a good-natured cuff from the big man’s huge paw, “a chill wind blew in from the sea, and the floor was damp and slimy, but I was too tired to care.”

His mood changed suddenly. “I saw Aritzo taken,” he said, “he and I managed to sneak aboard the same ship. He refused to run when the pirates boarded, and charged the lot of them, single-handed. God’s teeth, you should have seen him fight! He cut down three Turks before they overpowered him.”

“They didn’t kill him?” asked Robin.

“I don’t think so,” replied Much, picking a bit of bacon from between his teeth, “they seemed more interested in taking prisoners than killing. Aritzo was clubbed on the back of the head, and his wrists bound as he lay unconscious. That’s all I saw before I took my salt bath.”

Robin turned to look at the silhouette of the Mount, which looked more grim and impregnable than ever in the gathering darkness.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Matilda said in a harsh voice, leaning over to touch his arm, “and you can put it out of your mind. Do you hear me, Robin?”

After some hesitation, Robin laid his hand over hers. She didn’t pull away. It was the first hint of intimacy to pass between them for over fourteen years.

“I’m still the man you married,” he answered gently, “long ago, when the world was young. What would I be, if I abandoned a comrade-in-arms to his fate?”

“You hardly know him!” she protested, “he only joined us a few weeks ago. Where is the sense in risking your neck for a stranger?”

 He slowly shook his head. “You don’t understand, Matilda. I know Aritzo well enough. He was brave enough to throw in his lot with us, and step outside the law for our sake. My sake.”

“I couldn’t save Tuck and Scarlet,” he added finally, “a third death on my soul would be too much to bear.”

Refusing to argue it further, Robin left the outlaws and went in search of FitzAlan. The knight’s pavilion wasn’t hard to find, since it was the largest in the camp, and illuminated by a couple of braziers kept burning all night outside its entrance. FitzAlan had no intention of being caught unawares, like the unfortunate Sir Henry de Pomeroy, by a sudden assault from the Mount.

Two men-at-arms in Plantagenet livery stood guard. “Tell Sir John I wish to speak with him,” said Robin, ignoring the expressions of disgust and contempt they didn’t bother to conceal.

“He has no business with you, wolfshead,” grunted one. Suppressing an urge to remove the soldier’s sneer with his dagger, Robin tried again.

“Tell him I have thought of a way of gaining access to the Mount,” he said patiently, “at considerable risk to myself, and none to him or his men.”

The guards exchanged wary glances, and then one shrugged and ducked inside the pavilion. He shortly re-appeared, crooking his finger at Robin.

“All right,” he said, “Sir John will speak with you. But make it quick, wolfshead, and show the respect due to your betters.”

Taking a deep breath, Robin followed him inside. FitzAlan was lying on his camp bed, half-dressed in his tunic and hose, his mail hauberk lying in a crumpled heap in one corner. His helmet and shield had also been tossed aside, and he lay with his sword drawn and held over his stomach, resembling the effigy of a knightly tomb.

Robin halted at the bizzare sight. FitzAlan appeared to have taken leave of his dignity as well as his pride, and was clearly drunk: two large empty flagons lay beside his bed, and he was singing quietly to himself, eyes half-closed.

“Master outlaw,” he slurred when the guard, looking embarrassed, left them alone, “I hear you have come with an offer of salvation.”

Robin composed himself before answering. He had thought the recent defeat would demoralise FitzAlan, but not to this extent. King Henry, as often, had proved a poor judge of character in choosing this strangely fragile Sussex knight to deal with the Night Hawk.

“A chance of success, nothing more,” he said, “give me leave to swim across to the Mount under cover of darkness, when the sea is at high tide. Stand your men ready. I will try and enter the priory and open the gates from inside. If I succeed, you will hear me wind my horn three times when the tide recedes. On that signal, attack.”

“I’ve studied the priory,” he went on, “it’s too small to house more than twenty, maybe thirty men at a time. The rest must be aboard Marsh’s galleys. At low tide they will be far out to sea, unable to help their comrades on the Mount.”

FitzAlan blinked, and looked at Robin with new eyes, devoid of their usual haughty arrogance. “I’ve never heard such folly,” he grunted, “if you are so intent on dying, Robin Hood, it would be far easier to simply fall on your sword. Unless you want your head to join those already mounted on the priory walls.”

“My offer stands,” said Robin, as brusquely as he dared, “I care little what the pirates do with my head once I am slain.”

“And,” he added slyly, “If I was to perish, you will have at least succeeded in ridding England of one dangerous criminal.”

FitzAlan rubbed his head, groaned, and sat up, swinging his legs over the bed.

“You’re a difficult man,” he said, squinting at Robin from under bushy brows, “and I still think you’re gallows-bait. One day the hangman will grip you by the neck, outlaw.”

“One day, perhaps,” Robin replied lightly, “but he needs to quicken his step.”

The knight glared at him for a long moment. “It’s not my way to argue with peasants,” he said, “nor will I send one to his doom for no good reason. You can swim to the Mount in the company of fifteen of our best men. Take your outlaws, if they are minded to go. Odds of two to one are far better than one against thirty.”

14.

“I’m coming with you,” Matilda said firmly, holding up her hand to forestall any arguments.

Robin opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. “I can’t stop you following me into danger,” he replied, “all I would ask is why? Why risk your life? You owe me nothing. I was the one who abandoned you, all those years ago.”

“Because we are husband and wife, and should face dangers together. Besides, you cannot do this thing on your own.”

 She spoke simply, and with heartfelt conviction. In the months since Robin miraculously returned from the dead, Matilda had watched him carefully, wondering what was left of the man she once knew and loved. At first she had even wondered if he was the same man, or just a clever imposter masquerading under her husband’s name.

Her doubts were soon erased. Robin was the same man he had always been, at times worryingly so, as if the intervention of fourteen years had done little to teach him maturity or wisdom. Beneath the creeping physical signs of age - his greying hair, the gauntness of his face, the deep lines chiselled into the corners of his eyes - he still thought like the young firebrand who defied the might of Sheriffs and Kings, even the Pope, and inspired a legend.

Only Robin, she knew, would have cooked up such a hare-brained scheme for retaking the Mount. “I believe you want to die,” she said bitterly, “and this is the kind of death you dream of. The minstrels will never stop singing of the man who led a futile assault on Saint Michael’s Mount against a band of heathen pirates, for the sake of God and King.”

Robin pointed at the shadow of the Mount. “Our comrade is in there,” he said, “I have to try and get him out. Can’t you understand? I have to. This plan was the only way I could persuade FitzAlan to let me go. If I had simply deserted, he would have sent men to drag me back and stretch my neck from the nearest tree. He’s been itching to hang me ever since we left London.”

“Aritzo might be dead by now,” she retorted, knowing she fought a losing battle, “the pirates have no reason to keep him alive.”

“Unless he joins them,” said Littiljon.

“He’s a mercenary,” the giant added, “so was I, once. It’s in the nature of such men to lend their services to the highest bidder. That’s how they live.”

“Whatever the truth,” Robin said grimly, “I’m going to climb the walls of the priory, and find out for myself.”

“With us at your side,” said Matilda, to a murmur of agreement from Much and Littiljon. Robin glared at them, then laughed and threw up his hands.

“Together, then,” he said hopelessly, “God grant Tuck and Scarlet are smiling down at us.”

To FitzAlan’s credit, he recovered enough energy to hone the details of Robin’s plan. He held another council of warm, where the deputy Sheriff of Cornwall advised them to wait until mid-week, when the causeway to the Mount would be cut off from land until an hour or two after dawn.

“Cross shortly before cock-crow, when it’s still dark,” he said, “and you will have the best chance of approaching the priory unseen. You’ll have to overpower the men inside and hold the place for two, maybe three hours before any reinforcements can aid you from land.”

“We still have a few ships,” said FitzAlan, “as soon as Robin signals he has taken the gate, we can sail across to the Mount, tide or no tide.”

Matilda shuddered at the thought of putting to sea again, as did some of the men around her. “Not another battle at sea,” moaned a Cornish knight, “Marsh’s scouts will be watching us like hawks. If they see another fleet being prepared, his galleys will pounce as soon as we leave harbour.”

“Longboats,” said Robin, “much swifter than those lumbering cogs, and small enough to go unseen in the dark. Pack your men aboard some of those and row across.”

To Matilda’s surprise, FitzAlan and the other nobles present agreed. He seemed to have grown in stature in their eyes - still a filthy wolfshead, ripe for a good hanging, but useful, and worth listening to on occasion. His willingness to lead such a foolhardy assault on the Mount showed he at least had courage, and Normans always respected courage.

Besides the outlaws, Robin was allowed to pick the rest of his assault party. He chose two of FitzAlan’s knights and their squires, four of his best men-at-arms and four Cornish knights. These men were all willing, and eager to avenge their embarrassing defeat at the hands of Marsh’s pirate rabble.

Acting on the deputy’s advice, they waited until Wednesday, when the tides were most suitable. Two hours before dawn, Robin’s band left the camp and made their way to a cove at the eastern end of the beach, where three small boats waited to carry them a little way out to sea. Their only light came from a couple of small lanterns, one carried by Robin, the other by Littiljon.

The boats were also Robin’s idea. “It’s too far to swim without expending all our strength,” he had explained to FitzAlan, “as I know all too well.”

A group of Cornish fishermen were waiting to row them out. Three of them had carried a barrel down to the sands, and their leader beckoned Robin over to it.

“What’s this?” he asked, wrinkling his noise at the foul smell rising from the interior.

“Whale blubber,” grinned the Cornishman, dipping his hand inside and lifting out a lump of greasy white stuff, “stinks like the Devil’s arse, but it’ll save you from freezing to death in the water. The sea is cold at night. Cold enough to stop a man’s heart.”

He reached out and smeared the blubber on Robin’s cheek. “You have to cover yourself in it,” he said, “rub it in well, all over your body.”

Matilda struggled to overcome her disgust at the thought of rubbing this evil-smelling muck into her flesh. “If I must, I must,” she sighed, accepting a pot filled with blubber from one of the fishermen, “but I’ll do it somewhere private, away from prying eyes.”

Robin’s grin made her blush. “My cave is just over there,” said Much, pointing at a narrow fissure in the wall of cliffs looming overhead. Nodding her thanks, Matilda picked her way over the slimy, barnacle-encrusted rocks and carefully peeled off her clothes in the darkness of the cave. 

Swearing at the chill wind knifing through the cave, she hurriedly rubbed the blubber into as much of her skin as she cared to before tugging her clothes back on. Then she returned to the boats, where her comrades were still in a state of undress, gasping with cold as they daubed blubber over their pale skins. 

When all was done, and every member of the assault party stank like rotting fish, they climbed into the boats and were quietly sculled out to sea. They were approaching the north-east corner of the island, where there were no huts or outbuildings. Local men who knew the Mount had assured Robin that the slope could be climbed up to the foot of the eastern wall, which was defended by a rampart.

“We scale the wall,” Robin whispered to Matilda as their boat glided over the dark waters, “and overpower the sentries before they can raise the alarm. Then we break into the church, kill all the pirates we find, and rescue Aritzo.”

“As easy as that?” she whispered back with heavy sarcasm. He ignored it and sat up on his haunches to get a better view of the priory. There were lights in two of the upper-storey windows, and a few torches lit on the battlements. Otherwise all was pitch black, with a faint line of greyish-blue on the eastern horizon.

Dawn is still a long way off, she thought anxiously, we’ll have to fight like cornered rats if we hope to see it.

Their biggest fear was Marsh’s galleys. While the light had lasted, four of the sleek vessels could be seen about a mile to the north of the Mount, riding gently at anchor. The rest were gone, doubtless to prey on more hapless merchant ships in the Channel.

When the boats were still some two hundred yards from the island, the fishermen stowed their oars. “Close enough,” one of them hissed to Robin, “you’ll have to swim it from here.”

Robin shaded his eyes for a moment, staring at the grey bulk of the Mount. “Matilda, Littiljon, come with me,” he said, “everyone else will stay on the boats.”

He pointed at the east wall of the priory. “When you see a torch waving on the battlements yonder, swim ashore and climb the slope. If you see or hear nothing from us inside the hour, row back to shore and tell FitzAlan we failed.”

There was no argument from anyone save Much, who protested at being left behind. “You’re the last of my friends on earth,” he said miserably, “if you die, I’ll be all alone.”

“Why, Much,” Robin said with good-natured mockery, “you have such confidence in us. Don’t worry. One day we’ll be old men together, sitting outside an ale-house in Nottingham and telling the locals shameless lies of our exploits.”

With that, he clambered over the side and lowered himself into the water. Matilda did likewise, and the hulking figure of Littiljon, who gave Much a last pat on the arm before following the others.

The three outlaws set off slowly towards the island, keeping their heads above water. They were barefoot, and wore only light tunics and hose. For weapons Matilda carried only her dagger - a sword would have dragged her down - while Littiljon was strong enough to bear the weight of his stave, strapped across his massive back. Robin carried knife, bow and six arrows, the bowstring coiled up safely inside an oilskin packet tied to his belt.

Matilda was a strong swimmer, and the first to reach the shallows near the eastern flank of the island. She waited for the others to catch up, crouching on all fours in the surf and keeping a wary eye on the eastern wall, rearing some two hundred feet above her head. The blubber had done its work, and she felt strangely warm and insulated against the freezing touch of the water.

The red glow of a brazier was visible on the battlements. She made out a pair of dark shapes near it. Sentries, huddling close to the flames for warmth.

Robin emerged next to her, wet and dripping, his greying locks plastered to his skull. He had also glimpsed the sentries, and started to fumble with the packet containing his bowstring.

“No,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “if you shoot one, the other will sound the alarm.”

He chewed his bottom lip, and nodded. Climb the wall and slay the guards. It was the only way.

The three of them crawled swiftly across the narrow belt of sand at the foot of the Mount, trusting to stealth and darkness to shield them from the eyes of the sentries.

They reached the edge of the hill, which gradually sloped upwards, growing ever steeper, until it met the walls of the priory. There were some bushes and spindly trees scattered about, so the outlaws split up, using every piece of available cover as they climbed. They were used to this work, having learned to hide and move without being seen in Sherwood. Even Littiljon, who by rights should have crashed through the undergrowth with the delicacy of a bear, made little noise as he swarmed upwards.

Soon they were clambering over bare rock. In places the rough granite wall was almost vertical, and the lean muscles in Matilda’s arms screamed as she groped for handholds. Being heavier, Robin and Littiljon lagged behind her, though she could hear their grunts and curses as they struggled with the incline. Above her gulls wheeled and screeched in the dim, cloud-heavy sky, and the constant boom and churn of the sea formed an ominous backdrop to her thoughts.

At any moment she expected the sentries to look down and spot the three tiny figures labouring up the hill. There was no cover left, since the monks had thoughtfully cleared away all the brush and undergrowth immediately below the priory, and the outlaws would make perfect targets.

Heart thudding, the sweat of terror mingling with seawater and the cloying film of whale blubber, Matilda found the strength to claw herself up the last few feet. She crouched in the shadows at the base of the priory wall, trying to catch her breath and anxiously watching the progress of her comrades.

When Robin was close enough, she leaned down and grasped his wrist. “Where’s Littiljon?” she hissed. The big man had vanished. 

Robin waited until he knelt beside her before replying. They had climbed up to the extreme left of the wall, as far as possible from the sentries.

“I told the great lump to wait below, among the trees,” he mouthed, whispering into her ear, “there’s no way he could climb the rock without being seen.”

Matilda saw the sense in that. “Just the two of us, then,” she said, gently stroking his cheek.

His eyes widened, and the next instant she was gone, swarming up the wall with the agility of a cat.

Matilda had learned the art of climbing seemingly impossible surfaces during her years as an assassin and blade-for-hire. The craggy wall of the priory presented few problems, though her muscles still ached with exertion, and her heart raced dangerously fast.

She cursed her arrogant desire to surprise Robin, to show how little he truly knew her. Biting her lip against the fire in her sinews, she flung her right hand up to grip the edge of the parapet above her head.

The sound she dreaded cut through the night. A man’s voice, raised in alarm. Mustering all her strength, Matilda swung herself bodily over the wall and rolled as she landed on the walkway.

Her knife glittered into being as she rose lithely on the balls of her feet. A man was running straight towards her, long coat flapping about him, face hidden in the shadows of his spiked helmet. He carried a halberd, lifting the blade high to chop her clean in half.

She waited for the blade to fall before moving. The moment he swung, she twisted aside, and for one terrible half-second teetered on the edge of the walkway. There was no rail to her left, nothing to prevent her falling with bone-shattering impact onto the flagstones, some twenty feet below. 

The half-moon blade whipped harmlessly past. Matilda regained her balance and leaped, stabbing at the sentry’s face.

To her relief, he didn’t scream. She had always been good at finding a mark - the minstrels didn’t call her Maud the Knife for nothing - and a tremor shot up her arm as the blade plunged through the man’s eye into his brain.

The impetus of the halberd had carried him forward. A choking noise escaped his lips, and he toppled over, almost falling on top of Matilda.

She caught him in her arms, not wishing the noise of his fall to wake the priory. His weight almost knocked her backwards, and she was unable to prevent his halberd hitting the walkway with a loud clatter.

A voice pierced the chasm to her left. Matilda swore, and pitched the dying man’s body over the walkway. There was no point in secrecy now.

Another shout, this time laced with pain, caught her attention. The other sentry was visible by the light of the brazier. He staggered, clawing at an arrow in his throat. Robin had ignored Matilda’s warning and shot the man from below.

The sentry flopped forwards, upsetting the brazier and scattering hot coals all over the walkway. Moments later Robin appeared, heaving himself over the parapet, his bow slung over his neck.

“Matilda!” he hissed, beckoning to her. She scrambled over to him, even as doors banged and a light flared to her left.

“No time,” said Robin, “here, take this.”

He unslung his hunting horn from the baldric over his shoulder and thrust it into her hands. Then he drew his knife, hacked off a piece of the dying sentry’s thick woollen cloak, and plunged it into the brazier. When the rag caught light, he speared it on the end of his knife and sprang onto the parapet, brandishing it above his head.

“The others should come now,” he gulped breathlessly, dropping back onto the walkway, “find the gate and signal FitzAlan. Three blasts, remember.”

“What...” she started to ask. Robin placed his finger to her lips. His face was a mask of sweat, yet his green eyes blazed with vital fires. At times like this, on the cusp of violent death, he came truly alive.  

“I’m away to find Aritzo,” he said, “God grant we see each other again - in the next world, if not this one.”

He gave her one of his devil-may-care grins, before turning to pull the sentry’s sword from its scabbard.

“A heathen weapon,” he remarked, weighing the light, curved blade in his hand, “but it will have to suffice. Farewell!”

With that he ran to the gaping doorway at the northern end of the wall, and vanished into shadow.

15.

Marsh was alone in his quarters, thinking about the past, when there was a respectful knock at the door.

“Lord captain,” said a rough voice from outside, “you must come. We are attacked!”

He needed no telling. The panicked cries from the battlements had alerted him, along with the ring of steel and the clang of the church bells.

“One moment,” he said, rising from his comfortable chair by the fire.

His scimitar lay in its sheath on the bed. Marsh reached for it, and hesitated, his fingers hovering over the jewelled hilt.

“No,” he murmured, smiling to himself. Belting his robe about him, he left the sword and opened the door.

One of his men, an Aragonese wanted for multiple rapes and homicides in his own country, stood on the threshold. “Master,” he said, bowing slightly, “there is fighting on the eastern wall. Boats have been spotted approaching from that direction, full of armed men.”

Marsh narrowed his eyes. He had expected the Englishmen to try another assault on the Mount, but hadn’t credited them with such boldness. “How many?” he snapped.

“I’m not certain, master. Both our sentries on the wall have been slain. I have ordered the garrison to arms.”

“Have you? Then what are you standing here for, gaping at me? To the wall, man!”

He gave the Spaniard a shove, who almost fell over in his haste to get away. Marsh stayed where he was, running some hasty calculations through his head.

Including himself, there were just twenty-three pirates on the Mount. It was too small to house many more, and another fifty men had sailed away with Mohammad to plunder shipping in the Channel.

He stretched out his long arms, bracing himself against the doorway. Two of his men were already killed, reducing the garrison to twenty-one. The remainder of his galleys to the north must have heard the clanging of the bell, and even now be racing to the aid of their comrades.

It would be a near thing. If the Englishmen attacked in force before his reinforcements arrived....

Marsh gave a little laugh. The sinister sound echoed down the corridor. Perhaps there were gods after all, and this was their punishment for his apostasy.

Should he fetch his sword? Stride out onto the battlements and lay about him until the bitter end? The Night Hawk would never cower inside while his men fought and died.

He was sick of playing the hero. Of living up to the ideal. For once he would play against type, and see what occurred.

While the sound of fighting grew louder, Marsh padded down the corridor leading to the church. He stepped through the narrow door and twitched aside the purple curtain behind the altar.

The nave was deserted save for one man, a tall figure sitting motionless on the steps below Marsh’s chair.

“Aritzo,” said Marsh, snapping his fingers, “attend.”

The Basque’s head snapped around. His dull eyes focused on Marsh as he slowly rose to his feet.

“Move away from the dais,” ordered Marsh. Aritzo obediently walked away and stood in the middle of the nave.

Marsh climbed the steps and lowered himself into the chair. He would wait on events here, in the heart of his little fortress.

“Some instinct tells me your master is behind this,” he said conversationally “the Hooded Man leads a daring night-time raid on the pirate’s nest. I like him. He thinks like a poet. Let us hope he sees sense. A man like that could be very useful.”

Aritzo didn’t respond. His head lolled, hands hanging listlessly by his sides, like a puppet whose strings had gone slack.

Marsh waited, listening to the sounds of fighting and dying from outside. In the distance a trumpet sounded. His heart beat a little faster. Had his reinforcements arrived?

The clatter of steel echoed through the corridor adjoining the western end of the church, along with shouts and curses. Marsh sat upright, willing himself to be calm.

He would show no fear. Whatever happened, the Night Hawk never showed fear.

A man burst into the nave. Marsh opened his eyes wide to take him in. He was barefoot, his thin hose and tunic soaked through and clinging to his long, lean-shanked body. Straggling reddish hair, liberally painted with grey, framed a hawkish face. He carried a scimitar - taken from one of Marsh’s followers, no doubt - and the blade was heavy with blood.

The man was breathing hard, and put out a hand to steady himself against the wall. He looked around, spotted Aritzo, and took a step towards him. Drops of blood fell from his stolen blade and spattered on the tiled floor.

“Robin Hood,” said Marsh. The newcomer’s head snapped up, green eyes flashing as they beheld the figure in the chair.

Marsh folded his hands. “Of course. A man who knows he has become a legend, cannot help trying to act like one. It’s a difficult habit to break. Believe me, I understand.”

“Robert Marsh,” said Robin, eyeing the pirate carefully, “the King sent me to kill or capture you. Choose.”

“No, no,” Marsh replied with a low chuckle, shaking his head, “you have our roles reversed. It is for me to offer life. Or death. I make you this offer, Robin, because by all accounts you are a worthy man, and I would have you by my side.”

He stretched out his arm, palm downwards. “Put down your sword, and we shall discuss the terms of your contract. I am a generous employer. Serve me will, and in time you may rise to command a ship and crew of your own.”

Robin grinned, tightening the harsh lines of his face. “You’re a bold one,” he said, “I should have expected no less. Alas, I’m no sailor. The slightest rocking of a boat makes my guts heave, and I have no desire to spend my days robbing innocents and slitting throats. You know little of me, Marsh, otherwise you would not have asked.”

He dropped back into a fighting crouch, levelling his blade at Marsh’s throat. “Aritzo,” he barked, “why are you just standing there, man? Seize that pirate, and bring him down here.”

The Basque didn’t seem to hear him. Robin’s face darkened. Not a man used to having his orders disobeyed, thought Marsh. I like him even more. What a shame.

Marsh snapped his fingers, and Aritzo immediately straightened up.

“This one chose the course of wisdom,” said Marsh, “eventually. Some persuasion was needed. I’m afraid he obeys you no longer.”

Robin fell back a step, his eyes full of confusion. “Sorceror!” he shouted, “you’ve bewitched him, as you bewitched Sir James.”

“Bewitched,” Marsh said with contempt, “what superstitious fools men are. A mere trick of the mind, nothing more.”

The din of battle was rising to a storm. There was fighting inside the priory now, and Marsh could picture his men fighting desperately against hard odds, waiting for their master to come and save them.

He was running out of time. “Lay down your sword,” he said to Robin, “or use it on my behalf. The choice is yours. The only other course is death.”

The outlaw’s patience was also at an end. “Choose death, then,” he cried, striding towards the dais, “and I’ll take your body to the King.”

“Aritzo, kill him,” Marsh snapped.

His puppet sprang to life. Aritzo ripped out his broadsword and moved to block Robin’s path.

The shining length of steel flamed like a silver candle. Robin stopped dead. His eyes flickered between the sword and its owner.

“Aritzo,” he said softly, persuasively, “you know me. Throw off this enchantment. We’re friends. Comrades.”

A sliver of fear rippled through Marsh as the Basque seemed to hesitate. Then, with a wordless roar, he unleashed a terrific cut at Robin. The outlaw only just caught the blow on his hilt and reeled backwards. Aritzo lunged again at him, chopping down at Robin’s head and shoulders.

Relieved, Marsh settled back to watch the contest. Two things quickly became apparent. Aritzo was by far the better swordsman, younger and stronger and more skilled, bent on slaying his opponent. His opponent, by contrast, was already tired, and lacked the reach and aggression to do his opponent any harm. He wasn’t used to wielding a scimitar, and could only retreat, barely able to fend off the relentless storm of blows.

“You are no longer young,” said Marsh, raising his voice to be heard above the clash and scrape of metal, “the weight of years presses down on you. Age is like a millstone, hanging about your neck. With each passing moment, the stone grows heavier. You are tired, and have suffered much. Why die like this, in the service of Henry Plantagenet? A futile death. The king cares nothing for men like us. He hanged my father, and he will hang you.”

Robin was forced back against one of the thick granite pillars supporting the roof. Aritzo hacked downwards, a slanting blow, forcing Robin to drop to one knee. The broadsword raised sparks as it scraped down the length of the stone.

Marsh laughed as he watched Robin scramble away. “Give it up, you fool,” he shouted, “this is undignified. Think of your reputation!”

Almost bent double with fatigue, Robin turned and stood his ground. Aritzo advanced slowly on him. The Basque showed no signs of weariness. He moved lightly, sword glittering in the semi-darkness of the nave.

The silence was shattered by the shrill blast of a hunting horn.

16.

The first rising note died away, almost immediately replaced by a second. Aritzo paused, his head cocked to one side, apparently mesmerised by the sound.

“Kill him!” Marsh’s voice echoed through the nave. “Kill the Hooded Man!”

Robin took to his heels. He couldn’t hope to beat Aritzo in the open, and had spied another doorway to his right, leading to a spiral stair.

Turning his back on such a dangerous opponent was a huge risk. Robin reached the doorway a stride ahead of Aritzo, and spun around just in time to deflect a vicious blow that would have carved him from skull to pelvis.

The second blast faded, and was revived by the third. Matilda - and presumably Littiljon - had taken the gate, and given the signal for FitzAlan to attack. Robin drew encouragement from this as he gave ground, retreating into the darkness of the stairwell.

The steps wound up and down. He chose down, trusting in the old soldier’s trick of forcing the other man to fight with his swing blocked by the wall of the stair. Robin, on the other hand, was unconstrained by the narrow space, and could freely jab and hack at his foe.

Aritzo was alive to the danger, and drew his long knife. With the knife in his left hand, he pressed his attack with furious abandon, forcing Robin down, down to the inky-black depths of the stair.

“God’s blood!” Robin shouted, almost tripping down the last few steps, “I don’t want to kill you!”

Aritzo’s response was another sweeping overhead cut. Robin gasped as he blocked it. Sweat rolled down his brow, threatening to blind him, and the grinding pain in his wrist was almost unbearable. Aritzo was not only one of the best swordsmen he had ever fought, but probably the strongest. Even Gui de Gisburne, whom a far more youthful Robin had barely overcome, hadn’t possessed such awful, tireless strength.

He stumbled backwards through an archway, into a large, stuffily warm chamber full of cooking smells. The priory kitchens.

Robin couldn’t risk looking around. Pain shot up his spine as he backed into a table’s edge. Aritzo strode purposefully towards him. The Basque’s eyes were robbed of their usual lustre, the irises contracted to mere dots.

There could be no reasoning with this ghoul. Aritzo’s mind was overthrown.

“I’m sorry,” said Robin, panting, “it isn’t your fault. I have to live, you see. For my son.”

Aritzo’s broadsword chopped at him. Robin was already twisting away, and the sharp steel sliced into the table, making the board shudder.

The tables in the kitchen were arranged in an L-shape and piled with jugs of ale, fresh white loaves, wheels of cheese, bowls full of pottage and bean stew. It seemed Marsh’s cooks had been interrupted while preparing the evening meal. They were nowhere to be seen, having most likely fled when the fighting started.

Robin fled around the edge of the table, towards the enormous fireplace taking up the whole of the opposite wall. There was space inside the hearth for two iron spits, set up over the crackling fire. One of the spits was loaded with the truncated body of a pig, the underside of which was rapidly blackening with no-one to turn it.

To the right of the hearth lay an overturned stool and an old straw target. The target was soaked with water, so the spit-boy could shelter behind it from the roasting heat when he turned the spit.

Robin grabbed the stool and hurled it at Aritzo, who was still struggling to tear his embedded sword free of the table. He ducked aside, too late, and the stool glanced off his brow and rebounded off the wall.

Stunned, he released his sword and staggered backwards. Robin hurled himself to the ground and slid across the flagstones under the table.

He kicked out and struck Aritzo below the knee. The Basque screamed and collapsed as his leg gave way under him.

Robin twisted onto his back and held his scimitar upright. Aritzo’s entire weight fell onto the blade. It sank deep into his chest and impaled his heart, killing him instantly.

Not quite instantly. His eyes, now just inches from Robin’s, widened in agony. Their irises expanded, and for the last few heartbeats of his life Aritzo was his own man again. The shock of death had broken Marsh’s enchantment.

A gobbet of bloody foam dropped from his mouth onto Robin’s face. Grimacing, Robin heaved the body off him and lay on his back for a few seconds, sucking in air and praying for the fire in his muscles to die down.

The din of battle still raged through the priory. It was impossible to tell who was winning, though Robin heard more English voices than otherwise.

When he felt able, he struggled to his feet, using the table as a support. He swayed for a moment, stars wheeling and flashing before his eyes.

“God help me,” he muttered, rubbing the foul residue of sweat and blubber from his cheek, “I’m as weak as a lamb.”

He picked up one of the jugs on the board and upended it, relishing the taste of the thick, gravy-like ale pouring down his throat. A roughly equal amount spilled down his front, but Robin cared little for that.

When the jug was drained, he tossed it away and gorged on bread and cheese, stuffing handfuls of food into himself until he felt sick.

The hasty meal helped him to revive a little. Brushing crumbs from his beard, he turned to look sadly at Aritzo. The dead man lay on his side, blood oozing from his mouth and nostrils, the fingers of his right hand clasped stiffly around the curved blade that had spitted him.

Robin made the sign of the cross. He had meant to save Aritzo’s life, not take it. The fault was not entirely his, yet still it gnawed at him. Another weight on his conscience.

Sighing, he picked up the fallen broadsword and limped to the stairwell. There was still a battle to be fought, and a comrade to avenge. Before dawn, he vowed, either he or the Night Hawk would join Aritzo in death.

He painfully climbed the steps, and emerged to find Littiljon in the church, dashing out a pirate’s brains against one of the pillars. Two more men lay dead in the adjoining corridor.

“Robin,” cried Littiljon, letting his mangled victim drop to the floor, “you live! We feared -”

Robin raised his hand. “Peace,” he said wearily, “is the priory secured? Where is Marsh, is he taken?”

The giant shook his shaggy head. “He fled. A few of his men are still fighting. We slew the rest, save a few who surrendered. We need not have worried about their ships - instead of helping their comrades here, the cowards turned and ran! They will be halfway to the French coast by now.”

“The honour of thieves,” said Robin, mustering a wry smile. A wave of nausea suddenly washed over him, and he had to lean against the wall for a moment with his eyes closed, fighting it.

“What ails you,” rumbled Littiljon, his deep voice full of concern, “are you sick?”

Robin waved him away “I’m fine,” he replied sharply, cursing the tremor in his voice, “come. We must find Marsh. If he escapes, all our efforts here will be in vain.”

They left the church and followed a short flight of steps leading to a passage, which in turn led down to a guardroom. The door of the guardroom hung open, and opened onto a stone-flagged outside court ending in a terrace.

Beyond the terrace was the high watchtower. A few of FitzAlan’s soldiers stood in the court, their attention fixed on the dark figure standing on the summit of the tower.

Marsh had climbed onto the battlements, and stood balanced between two merlons, his long grey robes billowing in the wind. His arms were held wide, his head flung back, as though inviting the elements to take him. 

“Shall we shoot him down?” Robin heard one of the crossbowmen say, “I could hit him from here, easy.”

“Best not,” grunted one of the others, “the King will be more grateful if we take the whoreson alive back to London. Wants to make him suffer on the gibbet, see?”

The decision was taken out of their hands. “Robin Hood!” Marsh shouted when he spotted the outlaws, “watch, Robin - watch how a hero can die!”

He launched himself off the wall. As he fell, his robes spread out around him like the wings of a great bird. For a second or two it seemed the wind really would carry the Night Hawk to safety across grey morning seas.

It was a brief illusion. Marsh streaked down towards the rocky ground at the foot of the tower, turned once in the air, and hit the rocks with a sickening crack.

His robes settled over the ruined body, shielding it from view.

17.

London

Thomas forced himself to go to Smithfield and watch the executions. The Earl of Cornwall had ordered him to attend, and the earl’s word was law.

“You can accompany your father,” Cornwall said with one of his twinkling smiles, “and remind the old man how fortunate he is to be there as a witness.”

This was the earl’s crude way of reminding Thomas that his life, and the lives of his parents, hung by the slenderest of threads. One slip, and it would be their turn to suffer the agonies of King Henry’s new form of public execution.

First the prisoners were dragged through the streets to Smithfield, a broad space of green outside the old city walls. It was usually the scene of a busy livestock market, but not today.

Thomas had used Cornwall’s money to hire a room in the upper storey of an inn, offering good views of the green to the south. And the gibbet.

“My lord advised us to come here,” he said, “we can see clearly from here, above the jostling of the mob.”

His father said nothing. The rest of the outlaws had refused to attend, and remained behind in the Tower. King Henry had insisted on lodging them there, in the grim keep overlooking the Thames, since their return from Cornwall. The outlaws weren’t prisoners, exactly, yet neither were they permitted to go out into the streets without an armed escort.

Below them, the vast open space around the gibbet was packed. The citizens of London were fond of a good execution, and today was rumoured to be something special. Tales of the battle with pirates in distant Cornwall had swept the city in recent days. The people’s hunger for new stories was insatiable, and the alehouses were already ringing with ballads of the evil Night Hawk and his crew of blood-drinking heathens.

Robin’s face was inscrutable as the babble of voices below rose to a deafening cheer. The prisoners had arrived.

There was only seven of them, the only survivors of Robert Marsh’s garrison at Saint Michael’s Mount. These were the men who had surrendered rather than fight to the death. None were English, or guilty of high treason to the English crown - by rights they should have been tried and hanged for piracy, nothing more - but Henry had decided to make an example of them regardless.

Sir James de Kemyel was not one of them. Originally destined for execution, his life was spared thanks to Robin and FitzAlan’s pleas for mercy. The enchantment Robert Marsh had placed on him was explained to the King, who understood and pardoned the knight immediately. Whether de Kemyel would ever recover from his ordeal, and the physical effects of the torture inflicted by Henry’s bodyguards, was another matter.

The broken body of Robert Marsh himself, the famed Night Hawk, had been brought to London in a cart. Henry ordered the head to be set up on a pike over Tower Bridge, while the rest of him was thrown into a cesspit. Thus ended, after an interval of ten years, his family’s rebellion against Plantagenet rule in Ireland. 

They were foolish to surrender, thought Thomas, far better to die clean, sword in hand.

He gave an involuntary shudder. A lane had opened in the crowd to allow the big horses through. There were seven of the beasts, each ridden by a man-at-arms and dragging a prisoner. The unhappy victims had been forced to lie flat on the ground, and their feet attached by chains to the collars of the horses. Then they were pulled through the cobbled streets from the Tower to Smithfield, all the while pelted with rubbish and insults from the jeering crowds turned out to watch them pass.

“God preserve us,” whispered Thomas, crossing himself. He had caught a glimpse of the condemned men, their smocks torn to shreds by the rough passage through the streets. Their backs were scraped raw, and left bloody trails on the grass.

Seven executioners waited on the platform of the gibbet, one for each prisoner. They were stripped to the waist, their heads covered by black masks. Beside each was a trestle table, and a neat row of instruments.

The executioners shamelessly played to the crowd as the prisoners drew closer, making obscene gestures and making slitting gestures across their bellies and crotches. They whipped up the excitement of the crowd to fever pitch, and the line of soldiers guarding the gibbet could barely hold back the press of bodies as the feebly writhing prisoners were cut loose from their chains.

What happened next lived forever in Thomas’ nightmares. He couldn’t watch most of it, and spent much of the ordeal crouched by the bed, retching into a chamber-pot. He could hear, though: the inhuman screams of the condemned as they were made to suffer, rising above the ecstatic groans and sighs of the London mob.

Robin didn’t move from the window. When all was done, he turned away and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. Thomas noticed how stiffly he moved, and the extra grey hairs he had acquired in Cornwall.

“The pirates were hanged,” he said in a dull, emotionless voice, “cut down while still alive, their privy members cut off and thrown into the fire. Even then they didn’t die. The executioners are skilled men. Only when their hearts were drawn from their bodies, and held up, still beating, before the people, did they find rest.”

He winced, and ran a hand through his beard. “Now the bodies are being chopped up and stuffed into sacks. I expect the King means to have them sent to all corners of England, to be displayed as a warning. The executioners are making a nice profit, selling fingernails and bits of hair to the citizens.”

Thomas retched again. His stomach was empty, and failed to bring anything up.

“It might have been us,” he panted, resting his back against the wall. His hand trembled as he wiped his mouth.

“Not us,” said Robin, “we have the King’s pardon.”

He twisted his head to look at Thomas. “Did you know His gracious Majesty offered me a manor? Not a very large or profitable one, of course. Some farmstead in Leicestershire, near Charnwood Forest. I’m told there’s good hunting in Charnwood.”

Thomas held his tongue. He did know of the offer, since Cornwall had informed him of it. “My brother is learning at last!” the earl said merrily, “we shall take the Hooded Man, the champion of the people, and draw his teeth. Weigh him down with land and property. Turn him into just another minor yeoman, and call on his services when needed.”

Cornwall was in such high spirits he poured Thomas a cup of his cherished Bordeaux wine. “Your father has some strong notions of the law,” he laughed, “who knows, perhaps one day he will serve as a justice, fining petty felons and sending outlaws to the gallows. This is how you control men, Thomas - how you bend and break them to your will!”

“Will you accept it?” asked Thomas, back in the present. He was genuinely uncertain of the answer. As so often, his father’s thoughts were impossible to gauge.

Robin gazed at the window. The noise had died down outside, though there was still an excited murmur of voices, mingled with a few snatches of song. Thomas wondered what manner of creature could find it in him to sing after witnessing such an obscenity.

“King Henry thinks he is clever,” he said, “and he must rate me very low. Very low indeed.”

His voice curdled. “To try and buy me off, with a few acres of dirt and the promise of growing rich and fat, on condition I behave myself. How can a man rule a kingdom for twenty years, and still be such a fool?”

“Does he think I can be turned into a petty lordling, with servants to pamper me, and serfs to till my fields? Matilda would slit my throat before I came to such a pass - no, I would slit it myself!”

He was standing now, his lean face flushed with anger. “I’ll take his pardon, yes, since it is only the way of escaping this rat’s nest. But nothing more. Not a penny, not a single sod of turf, will I accept from Henry Plantagenet.”

Thomas waited for his father to calm a little. “What now, then?” he ventured after a moment, “where will you go? Not back to Sherwood, that is certain.”

“Is it?” Robin’s eyes glinted as he turned on his son. “Who dares to command me, and say what I can or cannot do? Nobody save God!”

What a child he is, thought Thomas, a hopeless dreamer, who rushes into danger with no thought for the consequences.

Ignoring the gripes in his belly, Thomas stood up to face the older man. They were of roughly equal height, though he had otherwise taken after his mother in appearance.

“I do,” he said simply, “or rather, the Earl of Cornwall does.”

Robin’s lean face creased into a frown. “The King’s brother? What has that sheep-faced schemer to do with anything?”

Thomas took a deep breath. This would be hard. “Cornwall has taken me into his household. Bound me to him, with ties that cannot be broken. I have no choice in the matter.”

“Bound you?” Robin exclaimed, “how can you be forced to serve him against your will?”

“Quite easily, father. He won’t let me leave London. My presence here will act as surety for your continued good behaviour. If you go back into the forest, my neck is forfeit.”

“One way or another,” he added with quiet emphasis, “they will control you.”

Robin stared at him in horror. “If that is their desire,” he cried, “then why not simply keep me in prison, or hang me? Why grant me the illusion of freedom?”

Thomas shrugged. “You did the King good service at the Mount. The King must be seen to do justice. To reward those who serve him well. He bears in mind the example of his father, who trusted none and could not make men love him.”

“You and the others will be permitted to leave the Tower,” he went on, taking refuge in a businesslike tone, “the earl authorised me to tell you that. He has taken a particular interest in you, and has much influence with his brother.”

“Tell him I am grateful,” Robin replied acidly, “grateful to be cut loose and cast adrift, loaded down with invisible chains.”

“Think on the alternative,” said Thomas, nodding at the window.

His father turned away, staring out at the clean morning air, marred by wisps of black smoke from the execution fires.

Like a trapped bird, Thomas thought sadly, before dismissing the notion as naive. The Hooded Man might be restrained for a while, but never trapped. Somehow he would cast off his chains.

“Where will you go?” he asked, “the world is open, father. You could find a trade. Become a soldier again. Or quit England altogether, and look for new adventures in some foreign land.”

“Like Robert Marsh, you mean,” said Robin, “that mad pirate, who thought he would conquer Ireland with a pile of stolen gold and a handful of ships crewed by the scum of a dozen countries.”

Thomas smiled. “Not what I had in mind, but the role of sea-captain might suit you well enough.”

“We shall see,” replied the other, resting his brow against the lattice, “I have one last obligation to fulfil, in the north, and then...”

“And then?”

His father gave one of his old careless grins. “Then I - and, if she’s willing, your mother - will go somewhere they’ll never find us.”

18.

Lincoln, Nottinghamshire

John Scriven’s house was situated between the cathedral and the castle, near the Jewish quarter. It was a fine, solid-looking place made of weathered stone, with a tiled and gabled roof and a porch.

“Another rich merchant,” remarked Littiljon, “the Scarlet family not only made money, they married into it as well.”

Robin rapped his knuckles on the imposing green-painted door. “Will’s father was said to be a shrewd one,” he said, stepping back, “though he beggared himself buying his son a pardon. Poor Will had to build the business up again almost from nothing.”

He waited impatiently for a response from within. Robin felt uncomfortable and out of place here, in the most respectable part of London, surrounded by an almost tangible aura of wealth. The street was widely spaced, the cobbles relatively clean, and the houses all competed with each other in size and grandeur. Well-to-do merchants and their families strolled past, glancing with disapproval at the ragged band of former outlaws lurking outside Scriven’s dwelling.

If they knew who I was, Robin thought, willing himself to ignore the high-nosed stares and snorts of muffled laughter, every one of them would run screaming for the Sheriff.

His hunting horn was slung over his shoulder. Robin was sorely tempted to snatch it, sound a long, piercing blast, and demand the nearest merchant’s purse at sword-point. Then he would go down to the poor quarter, where the people lived in evil squalor and their wretched houses only stood upright because they leaned upon each other, and give the money to beggars. If the Sheriff came after them, the outlaws would send him and his hired bullies yelping back to the castle like whipped dogs.

He shook away the idle fantasy. Enough daydreams, fool. Those days are gone.

At last the heavy, cross-grained door swung open a few inches, and a suspicious slice of face peered through the gap.

“Yes?” grunted a voice from within. A jaundiced eye squinted at the outlaws, clearly unimpressed by what it saw.

“We’ve come to see Alison,” Robin said curtly, “your master’s daughter. We were friends of her late husband.”

The eye widened. “I know who you are,” its owner muttered thickly, “my master warned against your coming. You cannot see his daughter under any circumstances. Be off, before I call the wa-”

Before he could finish, Littiljon had jammed his foot in the gap and put his massive shoulder to the door. It flew backwards, throwing the servant back against the wall inside.

“My apologies,” said Robin, stepping briskly inside, “but this cannot wait.”

The servant groaned, trapped between the door and the wall, and made no effort to prevent the outlaws marching down the short passage. Inside another doorway led to a spacious hall, with oak panelling on the walls, coloured tiles on the floor and a timber staircase leading to a galleried upper storey.

Another serving-man stood in the middle of the floor, holding a bowl of rosewater. This one was elderly, and his toothless jaws gaped at the rabble of sturdy beggars who had just forced their way into his master’s house.

“Have no fear, greybeard,” said Matilda in her kindest tone, “we mean no harm. Could your summon your master for us, please?”

There was no need. A door in the opposite wall banged open, and John Scriven stalked from his lair. He was a lean, white-haired man lost somewhere in his fifties, rather shabbily dressed for one of the richest cloth merchants in Lincoln.

His face was thin and raddled, a broken-veined testament to a lifetime of hard drinking, and purple with outrage.

“What’s this?” he stammered, clapping a hand to his jewelled dagger, “what’s this? Do you villains mean to rob me? In broad daylight, by God! Leave this house at once - at once, do you hear, or I’ll see every one of you hanged by sundown!”

Robin held up his hands. “Your person and property are safe from us, Master Scriven,” he said soothingly, “we have merely come to pay our respects to your niece, Alison. Her late husband was our friend.”

Scriven’s tongue darted across his lips, his gooseberry eyes full of calculation as they took in Robin and his companions.

“Friend?” he rasped, “accomplice, is more like it. Oh yes, I know all about Scarlet’s criminal past. It caught up with him in the end, and now his body hangs rotting in an iron cage in Nottingham market. A fit son-in-law for my niece! Now he’s dead, and I have his widow and her brats to take care of. The damned Sheriff seized all Scarlet’s property and chattels, so who else will clothe and feed and shelter them? The children eat like hogs, you know.”

He wrung his skinny hands. “Unless I marry the bitch off quick - and what respectable man would consent to wed the mate of a former wolfshead? - they will ruin me. Ruin me!”

Robin exchanged glances with Matilda. “Your charity becomes you, Master Scriven,” he said drily, “but I think we can relieve your suffering.”

Scriven’s eyes fastened on him. “How?” he demanded, “how? Why should I accept help from you - from the Hooded Man!”

He gasped, as though suddenly realising his predicament, and backed away. “Out,” he gabbled, fumbling with his dagger again, “out of my house, Robin Hood, and take your evildoers with you, or I’ll-”

“Call for the Sheriff,” Robin interrupted, “yes, we know. Your servant made the same threat.”

He suddenly lost patience, and was about to order Littiljon to shake some sense into the old pinch-penny, when the stair creaked.

Robin looked up and saw a slender young woman standing at the top of the steps, with two young children clinging to her skirts. She was pretty, dark-haired and dark-eyed, clearly exhausted. Her face was pale and thin, and bore the familiar marks of fatigue.

He recognised the children from his ill-fated visit to Will Scarlet’s home in Blidworth. They has both inherited Scarlet’s bright red hair, though otherwise they were as pale and elfin as their mother.

“Alison,” said Matilda, beckoning at her to come down, “it’s all right. You have nothing to fear from us.”

Alison hugged her children closer as all three slowly descended. “I know you,” she murmured, her sad eyes fixed on Robin, “my husband sacrificed himself for you. The Sheriff’s men came to our house and took him away. When I saw him next, he was...”

Her voice trailed away. Robin flinched at the desolation in her voice. Anger he might have coped with, but not sorrow.

“He chose to come back to us,” rumbled Littiljon, “we warned him he couldn’t go back. That it was too dangerous.”

Robin laid a hand on the big man’s arm. Alison’s eyes were gleaming with tears.

“Peace, Littiljon,” he said quietly. He glanced at Scriven, who was watching the scene with a look of incomprehension on his sly, rat-like features. His two servants hovered nearby, the old one still clutching a bowl of rosewater.

“What are their names?” asked Robin in a desperate effort to lighten the mood, nodding at the children. They stared up at with huge eyes, round and saucer-like in their wan faces.

Their father’s eyes.

“Anne,” replied Alison, wiping away her tears, “and William.”

“Young Will, eh?” Robin said with forced cheerfulness, ruffling the boy’s hair, “your father lives again in you, lad.”

Will stared up at him fearlessly. “I know who killed my father,” he piped, “one day, when I am grown, I will avenge him.”

He spoke fiercely, with something more than childish conviction. “Don’t say such things,” Alison reproved him, “revenge is a sin, and God will punish you for thinking of it.”

What seeds have been planted here? Robin thought with dismay, studying the boy.

He silently cursed Scarlet. If only the fool had listened to them at Tuck’s graveside, and stayed in Sherwood until the danger had blown over. Now his death was on their shared conscience, and would act as a worm inside his son’s mind, eating him up with hatred and anger as the years passed. What kind of man would young Will become?

“Well?” barked Scriven, “is this why you foul my house with your presence, Hood? To exchange pleasantries with my daughter’s children?”

The merchant’s nasally, insinuating voice annoyed Robin. “No,” he said, “that’s not all.”

He put a hand to the fat purse dangling from his belt. “King Henry offered me land,” he went on, looking at Alison, “I refused it, but took my share of the pirate’s gold recovered from the cellars of Saint Michael’s Mount. Not for myself. For you, and your children.”

Feeling awkward, he untied the laces of the purse and held it out on the flat of his hand. “I know nothing can replace your husband,” he said hollowly, “but this can help you live. There’s enough to buy a house, hire a tutor for the children, maybe keep a servant or two.”

Alison stared at the purse. “Pirate gold,” she murmured, “gold stolen from others.”

“And now stolen by us,” said Robin, risking a grin. It met with cold apathy.

“Take his cursed money,” growled Scriven, “it’s the only charity you can hope for, unless you wish to beg on the street. I won’t keep you another week. Do you hear me, my dear niece - not another week!”

Alison bowed her head. For a moment Robin wondered if she would refuse the money, and felt almost ashamed at offering it. She was an honest woman, and he was making her choose between pride and survival.

In the end she accepted his gift, and thanked him with a credible show of gratitude. Despite her play-acting, Robin could see the torment it caused her.

He made a hasty farewell and left, feeling the sting of Scriven’s glare on his back as he went. Once in the open air, Robin leaned his back against the wall of the porch and puffed out his cheeks.

“I came here to ease my burden of guilt,” he said, “instead it feels heavier than ever.”

He held out his hand, hoping Matilda would take it. She didn’t seem to notice. Ever since the outlaws were allowed to depart from London, leaving Thomas behind as an eternal hostage, she had grown distant from him again.

“We’ve done right by Will,” said Much, “now what? Split up, and go back to our old homes? My shepherd’s hut will have fallen down by now. Or else someone else will be living in it.”

“No-one but sheep or madmen would dwell in your sty,” said Littiljon, with a sly wink at Robin, “as for me, I could always go back to the smithy in Hathersage. There is no end to work for smiths.”

All three of them looked expectantly at Robin, who felt a stab of resentment. Once again they looked to him for guidance, when they might have been better off making their own decisions.

All I do is lead good people into danger, he thought irritably, and everything I touch turns to mud. Yet the glamour refuses to fade.

“Fools,” he said, “blind, thick-headed fools. The king may have pardoned us, but that isn’t the same as forgiveness. To him we’ll always be wolfsheads. Sooner or later, when his conscience allows, Henry will send his dogs after us.”

“But he pardoned us!” wailed Much, “in Westminster Hall, before all his lords and churchmen. He set his seal to it!”

Robin withdrew the precious roll of parchment from inside his tunic. The king’s seal, a circle of red wax stamped with the Plantagenet arms on one side, dangled from it.

“What’s a pardon, even a royal pardon?” he said, weighing the parchment in his hand, “nothing but a scrap of wax and cured sheepskin. It can burn, or be torn up. As the king wills.”

Littiljon’s shoulders slumped. “Where, then,” he said dejectedly, “if this pardon is a fraud, where can we go? Where is safe for us?”

Nowhere in England, thought Robin.

His mind raced. England may not be safe, but there was no need to go back into exile again, and cross the sea to hide his head under a French sun. There were many places within the British Isles where King Henry’s writ barely ran - in some, not at all.

“West,” he said finally, “if you still care to follow me, we ride west.”

End Note.

Robin Hood is one of the most famous and enduring of medieval legends, but this work is based on history: a man named Robert Hode or Hood, nicknamed 'Hobbehod', really did fall foul of the law in Yorkshire in 1225. At the same time another outlaw, a notorious criminal named Robert of Wetherby, was at large in the same county. I have made these basic facts the building blocks of my tale.      

Please do get in touch if you have enjoyed my Robin Hood series. For those interested in the real history behind the tale I would recommend Robin Hood by J.C. Holt and The Outlaws of Medieval Legend by Maurice Keen.

Follow David at his website:

davidpillingauthor.weebly.com

Or contact him direct at:

Davidpilling56@hotmail.com