"Gisborne, no!"
Guy ignored Robin, fastening his jacket clasps.
"I'm finishing it this time." He picked up his sword belt, buckling it on; the weapon followed.
"Didn't you hear me, man?" said Little John. "He's surrounded by an army. You won't get near him."
"Got a better idea?" snarled Guy, facing Robin.
"Probably ten, if you'd all be quiet and let me think."
Guy checked himself, waiting; Robin paced away. He lifted an arm, holding one of the poles; smacking it, he turned round to face them.
"John – were they the Prince's men?"asked Robin.
"No. I didn't see his colours."
"Prince John appointed Isabella," added Guy. "It would make no sense for him to send an army against her."
Robin leaned back, arms crossed.
"We need to find out what he's up to, where he's been. I say we go have a look. How far from Nottingham were they John?"
"They'll be there within the hour, I'd say."
"Then so will we; Kate, your turn to stay with Meg."
"I don't need....."
"Yes you do, young lady," put in Tuck.
"Let me come with you Robin..."
"We're just going for a look. Kate – we'll be fine. The rest of you, let's go."
-----------------------------------------------------
Meg stayed in bed as long as she could. Despite the boredom, it was better than tolerating the other woman's needling. It was only when Kate left, mumbling over her shoulder that she'd be back soon, that Meg got up to tend the fire. But even bending down to pick up the wood hurt; she wanted to mend quickly, so she gave up and sat poking the edges with a stick, gazing moodily at the flames.
A clatter behind made her jump; she hadn't heard Kate return.
"Is that all you can do? Here, scrub some carrots, and peel those." She tossed down a handful of withered parsnips.
Meg held her tongue, and did as she was told. Kate rattled around behind her for a while, finally coming to crouch opposite, tucking her skirt away from the fire.
"I don't understand you," she said at last. Meg could feel her scrutiny, but she kept her eyes fixed on the vegetables. "He's evil. I don't know how you can feel anything for him."
"Well I do," she said simply, looking up. "But I'm sorry about your brother. Truly I am."
"So everyone keeps saying," Kate replied bitterly. "Everyone except him; he doesn't care."
"How can you judge him?" Meg flared. "You can't know what he might regret."
"If he had a shred of decency..."
"I'm not listening to you." Meg threw the half-done vegetables into the pot and rose.
"Well you should. It's pathetic, the way you hang off him."
"And you don't do that with Robin?"
Kate's cheeks flushed.
"At least he doesn't pity me. He's with me because he wants to be. Gisborne's got no choice, he's stuck with you. Neither of you have anywhere else to go. Maybe you deserve each other."
With that Kate stood and stomped away. Meg battled back tears, but the cruel words had hit home. She wanted to run, or hide, but with her half-healed wound could do neither. Instead she sat gazing out at the forest, the ugliness of doubt creeping through her mind and like spreading dye staining everything she saw.
---------------------------------------------------------
From up in the trees, Guy scanned the forces camped outside Nottingham, seeking one man; until he saw it with his own eyes, Guy wouldn't believe Vaisey was alive. As he watched, the gates of the town opened and a lone figure rode out. He recognised the Moor. The rider approached the troops and there, moving out to greet him - Guy would know him anywhere – rode Vaisey on a black charger. Guy's grip on the branch slipped, he clutched another to avoid falling. He tried to calm his breathing. Once the first shock passed, resolution set in. He'd be damned if Vaisey would unman him. He'd freed himself once of this demon and would do so again.
The outlaws held their positions in the surrounding trees. He looked back at the army, and saw one of the trebuchets being prepared. The lumbering arm was drawn back and then released, flinging a substance over the walls that upon impact scattered fires like stars, flames shooting high enough to be seen above the ramparts.
The others were scrambling down; Guy joined them on the ground.
"What was that?" asked John. "I've never seen anything like it."
"Me neither," Tuck replied, "but I've heard of it. Byzantine Fire – it's a terrible thing, a compound that clings to everything, very hard to put out. If they bombard Nottingham with it, there'll be nothing left."
"Then we can't let that happen. We'll take out the trebuchets, tonight," said Robin.
"So where did he get this army?"
"That's what I'd like to know Much. It can't be mercenaries, without taxes he'd have no way of paying this many men."
"Shall we move closer, find out?"
"Not you Gisborne."
"I've seen the way you keep looking over there, as if you expect him to appear at your shoulder any minute," said Much. "Though can't say I blame you, I feel a bit that way myself. Worse for you, I suppose, thinking you'd killed him. But I don't think you should go anywhere near him. You and him, it reminds me of those cobras we saw in the Holy Land. Remember Robin, in the marketplace? Weaving up out of their baskets like they were under some weird spell..."
"Much!"
"Shut up Much!"
Guy looked thunderous.
"Allan, Much, go a bit closer and see if you can pick up anything useful."
While they were gone Guy waited apart; if he heard another word out of that fool's mouth....though it was never comfortable to hear the truth. Vaisey did have that effect upon him. Bitter as the knowledge was, Vaisey had understood him better than anyone, had used every bit of that knowledge to manipulate him. The things he'd done for that man, without question, spurred by loyalty and ambition...until Marian had come along, forcing him to question. Guy stared bleakly at the high grasses bordering the fields. And there he was, back to where that thought led.
Even now, he wondered, would he be strong enough to withstand Vaisey's cunning? Well, he did know the answer to that: he'd tasted a world without Vaisey, and would die rather than forfeit that freedom.
Then the grasses shifted vigorously, and Much and Allan bundled into view.
"We heard their accents," puffed Much, brushing down his jerkin, "they're from the north."
"William's men?" Robin thought a moment. "That makes sense..."
"Perfect for Vaisey," put in Guy. "Hide across the border, drum up support while everyone thinks him dead."
"It would explain the lack of emblems. If William's currying favour with Prince John he wouldn't want to flaunt it. He bought the Scots' independence from Richard before he left."
"Then what would he be after?"
"More land, more power, John - the same as all the rest."
"Northumbria," said Guy succinctly.
Robin gave him a thoughtful look.
"I'd like to know for sure. Right lads – make yourselves comfy, we're waiting here till dark."
-------------------------------------------------------
The die rattled in the leather cup and fell against him again. Archer's opponent, short-cropped and sturdy, scratched his grey stubble. The win didn't budge his frown. In search of more congenial company, or perhaps preferring his own, Archer counted over his coins and stood.
"Need a piss," he said. Someone moved in to take his place.
Having made good his excuse, Archer stayed in the shadows. It was a moonless night, the vast quiet of the forest behind accentuating the muted bustle of a camp preparing for the night. He gazed at the walls of Nottingham, and tried to recall what leaps of judgement found him out here killing time until a midnight watch, instead of in there, pleasantly whiling away the hours in a convivial tavern in the arms of a willing maid. The winning side, he reminded himself dully. That's what it was all about, even if this meant following a madman and raining fire down upon innocents...
...then, of a sudden there was movement...there, he was sure of it, behind one of the carts. He almost shouted a warning to his dicing comrades but checked himself, watching. Dark figures scrambling low along the ground, heading for the trebuchets.
And in one of those mercurial shifts of which he knew he was capable, Archer made a decision. He sidled along the edge of the camp to where the horses were tethered. There was a single guard – were they asking for them to be stolen? – who he dealt with silently and efficiently. Stepping over the man, he heard Vaisey striding into the weapons' field, shouting at Blamire to rouse the troops for immediate attack. Archer worked furiously, saddling Vaisey's charger and as he fastened the last strap he heard the command "Release!" and then the creak of the trebuchet arms as they flung clumps of simmering flame straight up into the sky. Swiftly he released the tethers on the remaining horses, swung up onto his mount and grinned as Vaisey's Byzantine Fire came hurtling right back down in their midst, scattering men and blasting the trebuchets to pieces. Behind him, the animals bolted.
Archer cantered into the field as Vaisey, recovering, roared at the Scots to give chase. Blamire followed. Attention fixed on the saboteurs, Vaisey didn't hear him coming. Archer gave a shout; Vaisey turned and for many reasons – the dead eyes of a poacher, his rescue from a York cell, slaughter without even the pretence of a cause, and simply because, with his own actions, he could choose which was the winning side - Archer released an arrow. Vaisey dropped. The charger, spooked by the explosions, needed handling; Archer made it step closer, looking down at the sprawled figure. Blood seeped from the tip of the arrow where it lodged in Vaisey's forehead.
Archer dismounted. He grabbed the key that hung about Vaisey's neck, and wrenched out his jewelled tooth. Hearing shouts, he flung himself back into the saddle and with the surge of battle in his blood rode out into the field to where his brothers – he had no doubt who was behind the attack – were surrounded. Now he could see them, in the eerie light of the spreading fires. Charging out of the smoke, the instincts of a Crusader flooded back, taking over: the grip and pressure of his thighs guiding the horse, the fluid ease with which each arrow went from quiver to bow and then flew to find its mark.
"Run Robin! Go!"
The small group peeled away, running for the forest. Judging the moment, Archer whirled his mount and followed. But there was one thing more to do, a risk, but with the chaos in the camp he might just get away with it. He turned the charger and circled back round the perimeter until he was near Vaisey's tent. Tying the animal to a branch, he ran in a crouch to the rear wall which he slit with a dagger. Once inside, within moments he'd located a small, iron-banded chest. He unlocked this with Vaisey's key and began tossing through the contents. Outside there were voices, running footsteps...there, a slim oblong pouch. He undid the clasps, glimpsed the seal on the documents, and shoved them back into the pouch which he then tucked inside his shirt.
The steps outside paused. Sweat prickling his neck, Archer spun to face the flaps, dagger poised. He backed carefully out the way he'd come in, straight into a burly figure relieving himself and whistling a quiet tune.
"Oi, whaddya think you're doing?"
The man swayed; Archer caught the whiff of ale. He gave him a hefty shove and the man toppled, cursing. Archer swiftly untied his mount, swung into the saddle and spurred in the direction taken by the outlaws. He thundered into the shelter of the forest, glancing behind to see if he was pursued. The pounding of his horses' hooves came back to him as a muffled echo in the night. Archer slowed; he didn't know the road, it was too dark to avoid overhanging branches and his recklessness didn't extend to a mount lamed by a tree root or a hidden dip. That was the last thing he needed.
The second last, he thought, as someone leapt on him from a bank, knocking him from his horse. Winded by the impact, arms pinned by two men, as he struggled to free himself Archer saw several more surrounding him.
"Robin – is that you?"
Someone pushed forward.
"Just hold him still...who are you?"
He recognised the speaker.
"I'm Archer. Your brother, remember?"
"How could we forget?" said a wry voice behind him: Gisborne. "What are you doing here? And where's my horse?"
"That was you, wasn't it? " said Robin. "Thank you. But what were you doing there with Vaisey?"
"Can I get up?"
Released, Archer scrambled to his feet.
"Look, I'm not being funny, but couldn't we talk about this somewhere else? Before he comes looking for us?"
"He won't," said Archer. "He's dead."
"We've heard that before," someone else scoffed.
"How do you know?" Gisborne asked, voice low and urgent. "Did you see him die?"
Now that his vision had adjusted, Archer saw his brother's eyes glint in the dark.
"Put an arrow through his skull. Took this from round his neck..." Archer held up the key. "I've more to tell, but..."
"Yes, we need somewhere else to talk. The cave is near here, let's go."
They followed Robin, Archer leading his mount. Gisborne flanked him, not willing to risk that he disappear again along with the answers to their questions. The cave, when they reached it, was clearly kept ready in case of need. A neat stack of firewood lay against one wall; there were casks of water and oil, and some rudimentary bedding. Dumping weapons, they all found a task. When the fire was lit, and they had gathered in a circle around it, Archer withdrew the oblong pouch.
"Here," he said, tossing it to Robin. "I'm guessing this will tell you all you need to know."
Robin picked it up and slid out the parchment.
"The lion of Scotland..." he murmured, "as we thought."
He split the seal with his thumb and unrolled the vellum. The cave was quiet as he read, twigs crackling in the flames, the creak of leather as Gisborne shifted. Robin shook his head, and let the parchment roll closed.
"There's more going on than we thought," he said. "William's troops are on their way to Prince John, but with the offer of a future marriage alliance. Nottingham was a sop to Vaisey, not William's objective."
"Who's to marry?" asked the big man with the staff.
"He suggests that his infant daughter, Margaret, should one day wed the prince's son..."
"....his bastard you mean?" The one with the skull cap spoke up. "What's the point of that?"
"It's not about the succession, although he knows John has designs on the throne. This is a throw of the dice in case Richard doesn't make it home."
Hearing this, Archer leaned forward.
"What have you heard about the King?" he asked casually.
"That he's been captured by Leopold of Austria and held for ransom. But little else, since John's attempt to fake Richard's death and claim the crown. What do you know?"
Archer laced his fingers.
"He's alive," he confirmed. "Henry has him, in Germany. Richard's sent someone back here to take charge of collecting the ransom, the new Archbishop of Canterbury. You might know him, he's been in the Holy Land. Hubert Walter?"
"I do know Hubert," said Robin thoughtfully.
"This is all very interesting," interrupted Gisborne, "but don't we have some more immediate problems? Like what Blamire is likely to do with an army of Scots sitting right outside Nottingham?"
"He was Vaisey's man – will the Scots follow him?" Robin asked.
"Probably not," Archer replied. "He's only been with them a day whereas their captain, Ferenac, acted as Vaisey's second-in-command."
"Will he try to take Nottingham anyway?"
"I doubt it, without the trebuchets. Byzantine Fire was to be their advantage."
"Which they will take to Prince John," pointed out the warrior-monk, "unless we stop them."
"Then let's do that," said Robin. "Much, you head back and let Kate know what's going on. We'll keep a look-out, see if they plan to besiege Nottingham, or break camp and move on. If they do, that's our best chance of getting hold of the carts. How much of this stuff do they have Archer?"
"Enough," he said quietly.
Robin eyed him shrewdly.
"You?"
Archer drew himself up, meeting Robin look for look.
"We'll get it back. I'm with you now."
The question hovered, unasked; Gisborne, too, eyed him intently.
"Wait," – it was the cocky one who challenged him, "so you're Robin's brother, and Guy's. They rescue you from York, and then you bugger off to Vaisey and sell him all this stuff? And now we're supposed to believe you're with us? How does that work? How do we know you're not working for someone else?"
"You're asking?"
"Leave it out Much, it's gettin' old. I'd just like to know, wouldn't you?"
"The transaction," Archer said coldly, "was some time ago. And I guess you don't know if you can trust me. Maybe I'll slit your throats while you sleep..."
Much spluttered.
"...or maybe, remembering I put an arrow through your old sheriff, you'll...."
"We only have your word for that," muttered Allan.
"If you need more proof...." Archer opened his palm, revealing a red inlaid tooth. "A small trophy I took."
"Where did you go after York?" Robin asked quietly.
Archer faced him; Robin he would answer sensibly.
"To our dear sister," his mouth twisted.
"Let me guess – she threw you out," crowed Gisborne. "Priceless!"
"She saw me as a slur on our mother's name."
"She would, of course."
"So why are you here?" Robin asked.
Archer stared into the flames, with no easy answer. He lived for adventure and for profit, attachments were fleeting and incidental. Loyalty had been burned out of him in the Holy Land. There were too many shades of good and evil in men, whatever their race, and too many pitfalls in blind obedience.
"To see if my brothers will disappoint." It was as good an answer as any.
"So far it's been the other way round," Gisborne snapped.
"Satisfied Much, Allan?" said Robin. He grinned at Archer, who already knew not to mistake his levity for lack of grit. "Let's see if we pass the test then."