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Gil gasped for breath as he leaned against a three-trunked tree. Beyond its roots, rocks formed a circle. Beeches towered behind the rocks. The thick grass grew tall inside the circle. The wind blew cold as winter across his face. And his breath frosted.
He crossed himself. Angels protect me in this place.
Aubrette, still glamoured as the old veteran, stood beside him, her hands outstretched to the Faerie circle. Her magic rippled over the grass, like lake water stirred by a breeze. As she wielded the eldritch power, the white-haired Clive Eldwood shimmered away, replaced by a lady with amber hair and moss green eyes. Green leathers clung to her slender form. Her bow transformed into a blazing sword.
Gil scrubbed his eyes when the magic ended. He examined her closely, trying to see the remnants of the veteran archer, but Eldwood had vanished too completely. This was the Faerie that had run with him after the archery competition, a beautiful woman that he had never expected to see again.
She slipped her cool hand into his. “You run too slowly, Gil of the White Hand.”
“You’ve not got some Faerie magic to speed me along?”
Her laughter was still that lovely trill that shimmered through him, much as the magic had shimmered over her. “Not that kind of Faerie magic.” Then she sobered, and her green eyes turned flat and solemn. “You must trust me, friend Gil.”
“I do trust you.”
“Trust me with your life.”
He nodded then repeated himself.
“Do not startle at what you see. Do not release my hand.”
The warnings set up a cold alarm. “What?”
Then the world darkened.
He felt himself tugged down, felt the ground close around him. He struggled—then remembered her words and gripped tightly to her slender fingers. Her clasp remained strong, but Gil felt himself slipping, slipping, like he fell a long, long way and would continue falling even with her grip clinging to him.
Then the smothering closeness fell away. He blinked, but all was dark. Never had he experienced such a dark. No lights twinkled in the arch overhead. No sparks flicked on and off in his eyes.
The air was cold, so cold, colder than the frigid wind above.
With fearful clarity, Gil knew that Aubrette had brought him to Underhill, realm of the Faeries. A land from which mortals never escaped. His heart lunged in his chest.
She drew him onward. He followed, stumbling. He blinked, trying to see more.
“You should not try to see, friend Gil. You do not need to see. I have shadowed the realm for you. Did you not say that you trusted me?”
“I did. I do.” But fear still clawed up his throat and froze the blood in his body.
They moved faster, faster, then he felt a lightness. He still walked, but it seemed they skimmed along rather than connected to the ground. His blood pulsed faster, faster.
Aubrette’s laugh came again. “I think you do not like this place.”
The smothering closeness came again. It suffocated him, pressed against him on all sides, tried to enter his mouth and stop his breath, stop his heart from pumping, stop his mind from working.
When they broke into the upper world, the light blinded him. He winced and squeezed his eyes shut. He dragged in breath after breath. He didn’t believe he was free until she drew him into warmth.
Gil opened his eyes and saw the forest around them, leafed trees and tangled underbrush, solid ground beneath them, a green canopy above moving with a gentle breeze and revealing snatches of blue.
He grabbed a trunk and leaned his head against the scraping bark. “Holy Mother of God!” He shuddered and finally managed to slow his breathing. “Sweet Mother Mary, save me.”
“You did not trust me,” Aubrette complained.
“I did. I kept hold of you, didn’t I? That place, though—.” He dug his nails into the tree bark and fought the fear still clawing his throat. She waited for him to cast off the fear. Eventually, he pushed away from the tree—although he gave the bark a pat before he dropped his hands. Good tree, solid tree, a nice oak. He squinted up. “How much time did I cost us?”
“Not long.”
“Are they near?”
“Near enough.”
He heard her deepened voice and looked around. Aubrette had restored the glamour. Clive Eldwood was back with him.
Although her magic scared him cold, he missed the beautiful Faerie.
He bit the shallow wish and gnawed it, determined to chew it to nothing. A Faerie of great magic walked beside him, and his fancy was an appearance!
Gil swallowed “We better get to them.”
She pointed the way but waited until he started walking. Then she fell into step beside him. “I heard no plans against this Sir Richard when I was with Lord Polleone’s guards. How does Robin Hood know what they will do?”
“Because he knows what corrupt men will do. Why were you with Polleone’s guards?”
“I came on them dicing, long after the banquet, with the bard Alan. I ensured that he won,” she added smugly.
“Remind me never to gamble with a Faerie. Luck falls for you, does it?”
She stood still. “Listen!”
Gil stopped.
“Stop the cart!” came a gruff order.
Aubrette crept forward, Gil a half-step behind her. His fingers touched an arrow, and he drew it out of the quiver.
The tangle thinned, and they could see the wide King’s Road with two men seated on a cart drawn by a mule. The two had twisted around on the cart bench and looked behind them. The vine-covered bushes cleared more to reveal three men ahorse, stopped behind the cart, swords out. The men were dressed in the common padded cloth and leathers of guards.
Gil straightened, notching arrow to his bowstring. The tree shadowed him, and vine-covered bushes gave cover. He aimed for the man riding up beside the knight. The Faerie stepped cautiously through the last of the tangling underbrush
“What do you want?” the white-haired man called. Beside him, Alan had fitted a bolt to his crossbow although he kept it before him, his body blocking a view of it.
Another guard rode forward, on the other side of the cart. Alan’s crossbow would not be hidden much longer.
“What do you want?” Sir Richard asked again. “Did Lord Polleone send you as escort?”
“Now, that’s a dire thing, that you know we’re Polleone’s men. He has an eye on that casket at your feet.”
Sir Richard looked down, at his feet. The man raised his sword, ready for a chop-down ... and Alan lifted the crossbow. Thwheep! The bolt shot across the knight, into the guard.
The bolt thunked. The knight flinched. The horse shied toward the road verge as the gelding reacted to the bolt’s entry into the guard’s torso. The sword came down, missing Sir Richard.
Aubrette moved, a flashing light as she drew her sword, a swift rush as she leaped onto the road. Her sword clashed with the guard’s, knocking it aside with such force that it spun from his hand.
Gil shifted and loosed his arrow. It sped past the knight and Alan, straight into the chest of the other guard. The man toppled backward. The sword slid from his hand. He dropped from the horse. Spooked, the animal ran several feet.
The third guard wheeled his horse. Alan fumbled as he cocked his crossbow. Aubrette grabbed the wounded knight’s reins, stripping them as she reached for his padded tunic.
One deep breath, then Gil lined his arrow with the third guard’s back. He lifted his fingers from the bowstring. The arrow sang from cover, flying swift and straight, into the man. He slumped forward. His horse jolted forward a step then stopped, and the man slid down, down, to the road.
The first guard was on the ground, bleeding out. Straightening, Aubrette swiped fingers down her silver-flashing blade, removing blood.
Seconds. Three men dead in seconds.
Gil inhaled deeply. It wasn’t the count of men who died in mere seconds on the battlefield that disturbed him. It was the battle rush sweeping over him, leaving him taut, ready, even with the danger past.
He came out of cover.
Alan stood in the cart, the crossbow ready, aimed at the first guard. The old knight had gripped his sword, too late to draw it for his defense. Both of them, though, gaped at Aubrette, tall and slender in her green leathers, Faerie shine a halo around her.
“Sweet Jesus,” the knight breathed.
Alan gave a shaky laugh and lowered his crossbow. “Yon sweet lady of Faer should be getting your thanks, Sir Richard. As I thank you, great lady.” He bowed, the sight incongruous with the mean cart of weathered and splintered boards.
The white-nosed mule flicked his ears forward and back then snorted.
“Head on to town,” Gil said.
Alan and Sir Richard gave a start. Neither had seen him emerge from the trees, their entire focus on the Faerie.
“Go on. That French lord will be coming. You don’t want him to find you on the road with his men missing.”
“But,” the knight protested, “these men are dead. We’ve killed them.”
“No we to it, Sir Richard. You and Alan committed no murder.”
“I would not call it murder,” Aubrette said, sheathing her sword, “when they tried to kill this good knight.”
“Aye, he was ready to take your head, Sir Richard. Head on to Nottingham. Pay that ransom to the sheriff and get your son out of his clutches.”
The old man had steadied, logic throwing off his shock. Years of peace had cloaked his training, smothering whatever battles he’d seen in younger years, when the practicality of living asserted itself over finer morals. “You could only have discovered that information from Robert of Locksley. I must thank you and the Faer lady here. I am in your debt.”
Reckless, that, saying it around a Faerie. “Give thanks to Locksley then, for he sent us.” He walked to the guard that Aubrette had felled. The padded jerkin was too heavily stained to wash out. Pity that. Maybe he could wear it inside-out. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and began tugging the dead weight.
“What will you do with the bodies?”
Gil paused. “Best you not know. You have to keep a straight face around the sheriff. You’re bound to meet Polleone when you least expect it. Don’t even mention this event. Nothing happened to you.”
“If ever you have need of me—.”
Gil cut him off before Sir Richard offered what he might regret later, when untroubled days made him forget necessities. “Keep it for Locksley, Sir Richard.”
The old knight wanted to say more, but Aubrette stepped up and slapped the mule’s haunch. Magic sparkled with her tap, and the white-nosed mule jolted forward, spurred to a pace it hadn’t matched all morning.
She came to Gil and grabbed the guard’s other shoulder, helping him haul that corpse and the other two off the road, far into the trees. When she saw him sprinkling dirt over the bloody patches on the road, she cast magic over the red stains. They sank beneath the surface.
“And the horses?”
“I’ll take them to Robin’s camp. We can’t be seen with them in Nottingham until Polleone and his guards leave.”
“Are you uneasy in your soul, Gil of the White Hand?”
“No, it’s a rough justice that they deserved.”
“Even so, you are disquieted.”
“Been a while since I shed a man’s blood.” He shrugged, not willing to say more. Those days were gone. He’d not have them return. “We’ll get the horses to camp. Then I have to get back to Nottingham. I’ve been away from the Tinker’s Wife Tavern too long.”
“And I must return to Underhill, to tell my duchess what has occurred in the mortal realm. We will ride, a journey on horse that you will prefer to our flight through Underhill.”
“I would go there again,” he said bravely, “as long as I’m with you.”
Aubrette smiled. Then she studied the tangle of undergrowth that shielded the bodies from view. “Those three will not be missed, I think.”
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Quarterstaff gripped in both meaty hands, Little John stood athwart the King’s Road.
Stationed at the curve of the road, Diggory gave the call of a blackcap bird. Riders coming. He faded back into the trees to let the riders pass before he followed on foot.
The riders came into view, the vivid blue tabard that identified Lord Polleone, the brown cassock of his friar, and two guards.
Walking their horses. That was a boon.
Four men to their five. Three of the four had swords. The friar, as a man of peace, would be unarmed. Robin and his men had only bows and arrows and knives. And Little John’s quarterstaff.
Will and Jack were in the trees. Robin stood beside a tree, using the great trunk to hide him from the riders. Diggory was coming behind. Polleone and his men were surrounded, above, before, and behind, but this was the dangerous part. The men could charge Little John. He and Will, Jack and Diggory would shoot their arrows, but they might miss. John would be knocked to the ground, probably trampled.
The riders spotted Little John.
Robin gave a bird whistle to Will, lurking across the road. Will’s bright head moved, and he brought his bow up, arrow notched.
They waited.
The riders came closer, closer. Five yards from Little John, Polleone threw up a hand, and the riders stopped.
The guard riding beside Polleone advanced his horse a few steps. “Out of the road,” he shouted.
Polleone spoke. From his station by the tree, Robin didn’t catch his words. The guard said, “Outlaw, my lord. Thinking to rob us.”
John grinned and gave a heft to his staff. “It’s a toll you must pay for passage.”
“You think wrong, fool.” The guard reached for his sword.
Before it cleared the scabbard, an arrow whooshed from Will’s tree. The barbed broadhead struck deep into the dirt of the road, imbedding a foot in front of the horse. The horse shied sideways, and the guard loosed his swordhilt to haul back on the reins.
“Hey, you friar,” Diggory shouted, “take your hand away from that knife!”
Friar Hackton returned his hands to the reins. He grimaced. “May you rot in hell for this thievery.”
John laughed. “It will take more than a curse to fell me, good man friar. A simple toll I would have charged. Now you’ve upped the cost. It’s the whole purse I’ll be wanting, my lord. You can thank your man of peace for that.”
“Brule en l’enfere! A robber! He has stick only.”
“The archer, my lord,” the guard protested.
“Two men only. Ride through him.”
Robin didn’t have to give a signal. Will shot another arrow. Jack’s shot came a mere blink behind his. Diggory’s arrow flew from behind the men. They turned to see the outlaw on the road, notching another arrow to his string.
He waited until the four men turned around then stepped from behind his tree and let fly. His arrow struck off to the side. Aim didn’t matter, though. What mattered was that Polleone and his men knew that four arrows could strike them simultaneously.
Polleone rose in his stirrups. “Salaud! Step from the cover, all of you.”
Before Robin could take a step, the rustle and jerk of leaves from the tree opposite distracted him, distracted them all. Will dropped down from his branch onto the road. A hood covered his head, but his bright hair showed at the front. “Now, now, my lord, you don’t want to meet all of us, do you? It’s not like you will be sharing a banquet table with us.”
The French count jerked. He peered at Will’s shadowed face.
Ensuring his hood was in place, Robin stepped from behind his tree. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jack step onto the road.
John walked up beside Robin. “Now, my lord. We’re not afraid to show ourselves. Time for you to show your purse.”
“Maldeville will hang you!”
“Has to catch us first,” Will taunted. “He’s been trying for months and still hasn’t caught us. For now, your coins, my lord Polleone. Those will pay for our dinner and several jugs of wine.” He lifted the bow with its notched arrow. “Or you can taste a bit of good English iron and wood. My black feathers are for you.”
The friar said something.
Polleone cursed, loud and long, but he ripped his purse from beneath his tabard. Tearing it open, he poured the coins onto the ground. “Take them from the dirt!” He flung down the empty pouch. “We pay your toll. We pass now.”
“Aye, you’ve paid your toll.” John chuckled. “Good French coin for good English outlaws. Good day to you, my lord.” Resting the staff on one shoulder and a hand on the long knife belted at his side, he waited for the riders to pass them.
Polleone wheeled his horse around. The friar rode with him. The guards let them pass then turned their horses to follow. They urged their horses to a trot.
Diggory stood at the roadside as they passed, heading back the way they had come. Then the outlaw jogged up and began picking up the coins. Jack joined him.
Will and John came to Robin. “He’ll have a high old tale for the sheriff.”
“Who is that friar?” John frowned. “Looks familiar. He’s a false man of peace. He reached for his knife immediately. Tuck wouldn’t have, and he’s been around us a lot.”
“A false friar,” Robin murmured. “Disguised.”
“He knows the steward of d’Airsey Manor,” Will added. “I saw them talking at the banquet on May Day.”
And Robin remembered that the friar and the steward had talked last evening at the manor. “So, he’s from this district.”
“Aye, but who is he?”
Jack brought the torn-open purse. “All good English coin. Ain’t that something? Not a single French denier. Something in this pouch, Robin. Looks like a letter.” He tossed it over.
Robin took the leather pouch. It was stiff with something, and when he peered inside, he saw a folded parchment. He wiggled it out and opened it. Two sheets of parchment, filled with closely written words.
“What does it say?”
Robin handed the documents over to Will. “You read it. It’s mostly fine phrases and colorful words. Signed by a man named Haughton.”
“Haughton?” John asked. “You certain?”
“Why? Should I know that name?”
“You wouldn’t know it. He was gone before you came, his manor and lands taken from him by King Richard in the Holy Lands. The king gave everything of his to Baron d’Airsey. D’Airsey Manor used to be Haughton Hall. Baron Haughton used to rule here.” John spat in the dirt. “Evil man. Most of us celebrated when he lost his lands. Thought we’d never see him again. That’s where I’ve seen him.”
“What? What are you saying?”
“That’s who the friar is. Yon friar is actually Baron Haughton.”
“Friar Hackton is Baron Haughton?”
“Aye, and I doubt he’s left off his evil to take holy orders.”
“No wonder he reached for his knife,” Jack mused. “He’s truly a false friar.”
“You should have read the other letter.” Will bit out the words. Anger had flushed his face. He refolded the letter and tucked it into his jerkin. “We need to keep this safe. It’s from Prince John to our angry Lord Polleone. He is in dire need, and only the count can perform a special commission for the prince. For that, our prince will be forever in a French lord’s debt.”
