They could hear the noise of an unusually large crowd before they reached the main road. They were so accustomed not only to the relative silence of the woods, where loud noises were liable to be wild boars or king’s foresters, but to the sense of being outlaws, that it took them a conscious effort of will to step out and join the throng of holiday-makers and people with wares to sell on the way to the Nottingham Fair.
Little John was noticed at once; in a sky-blue cloak he could hardly be missed. Cecily’s eyes had bulged when he shook it out, last, from the bundle he had carried from Greentree, and swept it on. He grinned at her expression. “We’re supposed to draw attention, remember? And the lad I took this from is on his way to Scotland.” By the time they arrived at the outskirts of the town, where the commons was already thick with little booths and bright-dressed jongleurs and acrobats tumbling between them, Little John had gathered a following.
The first match was barely a match at all. The other man came up to Little John’s collarbone, and Little John, to Cecily’s eyes with some embarrassment, took him gingerly up at his long arms’ length, tied him in 6ne or two knots, and laid him tenderly on the ground. Cecily passed her hat around for coins in something of a daze; the two of them were immediately offered the first of the ale that Humphrey had told them to drink for him; but Little John refused politely and Cecily did the same.
They moved slowly along the commons; Little John stopped once or twice to flatten another would-be wrestler, while Cecily held the sky-blue cape. Her hat was soon sagging from the coins it carried. “I guess you haven’t forgotten how,” said Cecily.
“Mmph,” said Little John. “I don’t know yet whether I have or not; these poor fools are just the strong men from their villages; they are no contest. After they’ve worn me down a little, one of the real wrestlers will appear from somewhere and challenge me.” He looked down at her. “But your hat is already heavy, is it not? We don’t want to attract cut-purses; that’s not what we’re here for.”
“Besides, one of them might recognise us,” said Cecily.
“There’s that,” agreed Little John, and stopped at a horse trough to pour some water over his head. The sun was hot, particularly on faces accustomed to the forest shadows.
“You’ll get your nice cape wet,” suggested Cecily.
“Water will dry,” said Little John. “You watch yourself and leave me to watch myself.”
“Sir,” murmured Cecily.
They did not have to ask many questions for the people who flocked around to watch Little John to give them the current gossip; the two of them were obviously not from Nottingham, and the town was buzzing with the tale of Sir Richard of the Lea, and Robin Hood, and the sheriff’s fury.
“Robin Hood is more than man,” said one goodwife seriously.
Cecily said with real curiosity, “What is he, then?”
The woman lowered her voice. “He’s an elemental, of course, child. I see by your face you’re of good Saxon stock. Robin Hood is one of the old gods come back to save England from the Normans.”
The man lounging outside her stall with acorns under cups for unwary folk to bet on, said, “That’s why he has to come to the archery contest, and the sheriff knows it. Why, you don’t suppose the sheriff wouldn’t have caught him a fortnight ago at Mapperley if he’d been an ordinary man, do you? I’ve just been up there—the folk are all so pleased to have their own master back they are in a mood to spend coin freely—and they all say that Robin came with a handful of men. It’s not canny.”
“The sheriff hung three robbers this week,” the woman said comfortably; Cecily found herself swallowing rather hard. “You can see ’em hanging over the gate to the sheriff’s house.”
“There,” said the man, as if that settled it.
“And what if this Robin Hood does not come to the fair today?” Cecily asked.
“He will,” said the woman.
The man shrugged and moved his acorn from under one cup, consideringly, to another. “If he does not, then the sheriff has won.”
“Won what?” said Cecily, half irritable and half apprehensive, to Little John, as they moved on.
Little John lifted his shoulders briefly. “I’m not sure; but part of why we’ve survived this long is because the foresters themselves half-believe this elemental stuff—and half want to, as it excuses them. Even ordinary outlaws, you know, when found, tend to sell their lives rather dearly to their captors.”
“But to risk your life for a golden arrow? What could any of us do with a golden arrow? It’s silly,” said Cecily.
Little John looked at her as he had the first time she’d tried to block with her staff and he’d knocked her down. “’Twas an arrow made Robin Hood an outlaw. Don’t forget. The sheriff hasn’t. These people have not.”
The archery ground was already filling up; the three-sided tent, with the dais beneath, was set up nearer the mark where the archers would stand than to the targets that would tell who won the prize—as if the sheriff were more eager to see who came than to determine who shot well. There were practise targets set up a little to one side, and a few folk were sighting along their bowstrings and smoothing their arrows. One bored-looking man in the sheriff’s livery was standing by the practise field, but when one of the archers shouted to him to move one of the marks farther down, to make the possibility of practice more like the coming contest, the man slouched over to the nearest straw target with infinite reluctance, dragged it a few feet only, and left. The archer who’d shouted and another man hauled the wooden frame back themselves.
Little John and Cecily drifted over to stand near some of the minstrels and acrobats who were wearing clothing similar to their own, so as to be a little less conspicuous. The proximity of the sheriff’s tent, even empty as it was at present, made them both uncomfortable. One of the wrestlers Little John had defeated came up to him and asked, as if idly, where he was going from Nottingham. Little John gave a vague answer; they’d earned enough today that they would perhaps lie a night or two at the inn here before they moved on.
“I hope you’re as good at wrestling fleas, then,” said the man. He had put a plain green shirt over his wrestler’s garb and looked almost ordinary, except, perhaps, for the easy, alert way he moved—as if he might leap into a back flip at any moment. He might make a good outlaw, thought Cecily. “I hoped perhaps I could interest you in joining us; I am more an acrobat than a wrestler—as you may have noticed—and I would be glad to give it up in your favour. We might,” he added, eyeing Little John with a certain wistfulness, “use you in the acrobatics as well; we had a strong man once, but he left us a year ago to marry a farm girl, and waste himself on ploughing.”
“I thank you for your offer,” said Little John, “but I think not. We—have not had good luck travelling in company.”
“Jealousy?” said the man in green. “I am not surprised. I can tell you we are not like that—we even played our old strong man’s wedding for free—but you may not believe me. Perhaps—” the man hesitated—“perhaps we’ll call on you at the inn tomorrow, after you’ve had a chance to think on it?”
“If we meet you at the inn,” said Little John gravely, “we would be happy to speak to you further.”
Silence began to make its way through the crowd, in a twisty, snake-like manner; Cecily turned to look where the others were looking and saw a man she could guess was the sheriff, from the size of both his girth and the gold chain around his neck, approaching the dais with a grandly dressed party of courtiers. The party included two ladies, whose long brilliant skirts belled out in the breeze. It was a pretty picture, but Cecily remembered what it felt like, and stamped one hose-clad leg in satisfaction.
“The wind will do the archers no good,” said the man in green.
Little John grunted. “I know little of archery; but I have thought before that it is a matter of luck as much as skill; as most contests of arms are.”
“Arms and legs,” said the man, smiling; “it was skill that defeated me, not ill luck. But I think I agree with you here. Arrows are malicious mites, with wills of their own.”
“Aye,” said Little John, and fell silent, frowning; he was looking toward the archers lining up for the first target. There was a goodly number of them; one or two wore the sheriff’s livery, but the most conspicuous group among them were the king’s foresters, who made up nearly half the number of the whole.
“God help any outlaw trying to pull the sheriff’s nose in that group,” said the green man.
“You have heard the rumours that Robin Hood will try?” said Cecily bluntly.
“Aye. Have not we all? And a fool he is, I say, if he falls for so foolish a lure.”
“You speak treason, or near to it,” said Little John gently; “for are we not to hope that the sheriff will succeed?”
“You’re no Norman,” said the green man, “or I would not be here talking to you; even their money smells bad. Why should I hope a Saxon who has found a way to elude the Normans’ hold will fall back into it? And now if I’ve passed the test, will you think of joining our company?” Little John smiled. “I did not mean a test, exactly, but you are right that we are not Norman.”
“And have little cause to love them,” Cecily put in, and Little John turned to look at her quellingly.
The green man grinned. “I like your assistant, but you feed him too well; he would not talk to strangers so easily if he’d had your experience.”
“He has had his own experience,” said Little John; “but it is true that I think about tying his tongue in a knot at least daily.”
The first archers were taking their turns; the foresters all shot well enough to go to the second round; a number of other folk did as well, including at least one lady.
“The only child of Sir Waleran, and it had to be a daughter,” said the green man; “but he is doing what he can with her instead of giving up quietly—or siring a bastard on some woman who can conceive sons.”
Cecily had her mouth open when Little John’s foot descended on hers, and she hissed instead, and bit her tongue as her jaws snapped together. “Rmph,” she said, as the herald bellowed that the second round would begin at once.
About half the original number of archers stood up to shoot; including one ordinary-looking man with an extraordinarily long-handed bow, whose appearance at the mark caused Little John’s hand to drop to Cecily’s shoulder. She was still nursing her crushed foot, but she looked up. There was nothing about this man to draw attention: of medium height, curling brown hair visible under a rough hat—and an excellent shot: the arrow sank into the heart of the target almost before you saw him lift his bow. Something about the way he walked, though—and the long bow … It couldn’t be. Little John’s fingers tightened.
“If that’s Robin,” said the green man, “he could have the sense not to draw quite so well till it was necessary.”
It wasn’t Robin, of course, thought Cecily, because he doesn’t shoot that well. But there was still something—the way the man caught the eye for no reason; the same something that Robin had.
“He seems to be alone,” observed the green man; “perhaps at least he chooses to risk only himself.” He shook his head. “He is a fool, and I’m sorry for it; but then …”
Cecily said, despite Little John’s fingers, “Then—?”
“You like this outlaw, don’t you?” said the green man. “And your master does not approve, which is wise of him. Perhaps yon Robin Hood has heard of what the sheriff has in mind if this contest does not catch him, and decided that this is the easier way for the folk he loves and would spare sharing his fate.”
“Easier?” said Cecily in alarm.
“Have you heard of Guy of Gisbourne?” said the green man.
Little John’s head snapped around. The second round was over; the field of contestants was again cut by half; it still included Sir Waleran’s only daughter, several foresters, and the brown-haired man who drew the eye for no reason.
“Ah, you have heard,” said the green man with satisfaction; “and have heard the right stories too.”
“I have not,” said Cecily. “Tell me.”
“Guy of Gisbourne is a kind of paid assassin,” said the green man, with a certain involuntary relish. “’Tis said he is the younger son of an old lord up north who hated him, and since he had nothing to lose, as he saw it, has gone in for hiring out to cut up other folk’s enemies. He was in Palestine for a while, the stories say, and he was sent home in disgrace for being too bloodthirsty. He’d kill off a Saracen they might have held for ransom, and he threw someone’s child off a battlement in Acre because it annoyed him.”
“The sheriff has hired him to track Robin Hood?” squeaked Cecily.
“Aye. And his band of cutthroats, all of them as charming and civilized as Guy himself, I believe. Even in Sherwood, Guy will find his quarry; the stories say that Guy doesn’t sleep, and he finds his men by smelling the heat of their blood. I don’t know about that, but there’s something uncanny about him nonetheless.”
Uncanny. What the bauble-seller had said of Robin.
The third round went more slowly, for all that there were fewer archers; for each one shot only after carefully lining up the mark and sighting long down the length of the arrow before releasing the string. Several of the foresters missed nonetheless and were disqualified. One of them wanted to argue about it, but the sheriff raised one hand and then made a violent and highly suggestive gesture with the other, and the man subsided.
Sir Waleran’s daughter, two foresters, and the brown-haired man were left. The watching crowd had a curious kind of hush over it, and there was some movement to press in closer, which sheriff’s men immediately appeared from behind the sheriff’s tent to prevent. The crowd became restless, and the fourth round was delayed a little till it quieted; despite the sheriff’s men, who seemed to have received uncharacteristic orders not to be too rough, the crowd had contrived to shift forward by a few yards. Its edges were now even with the sheriff’s tent.
Little John, Cecily, and the green man had not moved. They were all three taller than the average, and even Cecily could see over most of the heads of the crowd; and she felt frozen to her place besides.
“We are not the only ones who think that’s Robin Hood,” said the green man. “There will be trouble if the sheriff tries to take him.”
It’s not Robin, thought Cecily. It’s Marian.
The brown-haired man shot last. The target was now set so far away that Cecily could see the center mark only as a bright blot of colour; but she saw when the two foresters’ arrows went wide, and struck outside the blot. The breeze had picked up, and seemed to be coming from all directions at once; and a particularly fierce gust rushed over the crowd as Sir Waleran’s daughter released her string. The arrow should have gone to the heart of the mark, thought Cecily, as the breeze fanned her right cheek; even so it struck within the left edge of the blot. The crowd sighed.
And the breeze died. In a dead calm the brown-haired man stepped up, sighted tranquilly along his string, and released his arrow. The faintest breath of wind whispered overhead as the arrow struck the center of the target, as if it were in response to the arrow’s flight; as if the archer might be one of the old gods of England come back.
There was a commotion in the sheriff’s tent, and then a tall man leaped over the barrier, and drew his sword, ringing, from the scabbard he held in his other hand. The scabbard he dropped to the ground as he said, “I challenge you, Robin Hood, to single combat. I, Guy of Gisbourne, have come a long way to face you!”
Little John dropped the attention-drawing blue cloak as Cecily was pulling her bright-red tunic over her head. When she reappeared she saw the green man pulling the laces out of his shirt. “Here,” he said to Little John. “You’ll be a bit less noticeable in this.”
The crowd had muttered for a moment as the archer named Robin Hood stood a moment blankly, bow slack in his hand, staring at his challenger; then it rushed forward with a roar.
“Pity he wouldn’t consider just putting an arrow in that man’s black heart and doing England a favour,” said the man who was no longer green. The unlaced shirt barely fit across Little John’s shoulders, but it did make him look less like a wrestler and more like any member of the crowd who happened to be very tall. “Thank you,” said Little John.
“I won’t look for you at the inn,” said the man.
It was hard to make their way through the crowd, even with Little John as a battering ram. But then there was a cry, and the crowd heaved backward; Cecily was almost knocked off her feet, but she hooked a hand into Little John’s waistband and hung on. Little John surged forward and to one side, and Cecily broke free and found herself suddenly at the edge of a little clearing, ringed by shocked and frightened faces.
The archer named Robin Hood was on his knees, his bow on the ground beside him, one hand pressed to his side, where Cecily could see the red drops welling mercilessly between the fingers. The crowd looked from him to the suffused face of Guy of Gisbourne, standing with his sword outstretched, the point of it glazed red. “Stand back!” he cried. “You have this stroke on your heads; would you try for another?”
At that moment, though, Guy of Gisbourne himself staggered to the side as Little John slammed into him. Cecily snarled, “Your belt, man!” to a gaping minstrel with a trailing sash. She pulled it off him and he made no demur, and she darted forward and caught Marian as she slumped to the ground.
“Not quite what I anticipated,” murmured Marian.
“Hold on,” said Cecily, half weeping; “we’re getting you out of here.”
Marian’s eyes flickered open. “Sess? What an odd dream I’m having. Why have you cut your hair? What odd clothes you are wearing—as if you were a boy. That shirt looks like something Robin’s men might wear. Don’t fall in love with an outlaw, Cecily; it makes you lose your common sense.”
Cecily bound the sash as tightly as she could about Marian’s ribs and belly. “Press here,” she said to her. “Can you?”
“My fingers seem so far away,” said Marian. “I will try. Poor child, I am more than an armful for you, aren’t I?”
Cecily pulled Marian’s other arm around her shoulders, hauled her against her own hip and thigh as best she could, and began to draw her upright, as quickly as she dared; Marian’s face was very white, but her fingers pressed dutifully against the spreading red stain upon the minstrel’s sash.
No one from the onlookers stepped forward to help Cecily, but none tried to stop her either. She was dimly aware that Little John and Guy were grappling near at hand, and something narrow and shining slithered past her feet, but she dared not drop Marian to seize it. “You!” she said, catching the eye of a young man too slow to avoid hers. “Take that sword and throw it!”
He stared at her, but Cecily was burning up with fear and sorrow and fury, and after a moment he took three steps forward and picked up the sword. There was a bellow from Guy and a terrible thump as someone hit the ground very close behind Cecily. She let go of Marian’s arm and slid her own under Marian’s knees, and lifted. She had muscles she didn’t know about yet from her quarterstaff work with Little John; and her blood was up, and she lifted her old friend without strain. “Throw it as far as you can!” she cried to the man now uneasily holding the sword. As if compelled by some force other than his own will, he raised his arm stiffly and flung the sword—awkwardly but with some strength—and the crowd beneath its trajectory ducked and swayed away from it like a field of corn under a wind. Cecily started forward with her burden, and the people before her parted to let her through.