Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) (37 page)

But panic had her in its grasp, and she felt like she could not breathe. With a sob, Robin buried her head in her knees.
God, I am not ready to die.

Something skittered through the silence—a pebble kicked across one of the puddles in the dungeon tunnel. Robin looked up. Torchlight flickered against the ceiling, and the faint patter of footsteps grew into echoing drumbeats as several guards drew near. This was no gawking foe—this was an escort. The Sheriff must have changed his mind and decided to have her executed at dawn. Or perhaps he wished to continue his earlier interrogation . . . the thought made Robin shudder.

What if I just refuse to get out?
she pondered as the guards tossed a rope ladder over the side of the pit. But when it came down to it, she would rather stand on the castle wall with a noose around her neck and have one more moment in the light—and be able to glimpse the distant trees of her Sherwood home one last time—than to spend her remaining hours moldering away in this abyss.

Robin stood with aching slowness and wrapped her good arm through a rung on the hempen ladder, grasping its side firmly with one hand. “Pull me up,” she called, not quite able to keep her voice steady.

She expected a taunt or a challenge, but none came as the ladder gave a sharp jerk and began to rise. The motion sent a wave of nausea and pain coursing through her, and it took all of Robin’s strength and resolve to maintain her grip on the rope and not fall. The pit was wider at the bottom than at the top, and the ladder swung back and forth like a pendulum, threatening to dislodge her; it nearly succeeded, too, when her feet slipped off their rung and she went into a dizzying spin, her boots scrabbling for purchase against the slimy walls. The soldiers dragged Robin over the lip of the pit not a moment too soon; her good hand seized spasmodically and let go of the ladder, its strength gone.

With nary a moment’s respite, Robin was pulled to her feet and herded through the tunnel, her escort as silent now as it had been before. The only sound she heard was the pounding of her heartbeat—like time, it was speeding up, speeding towards the end . . . .

“Stop,” came the leader’s imperious command. He handed his torch to another guard and cracked opened the prison door, peering outside. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because he opened the door just wide enough to slip through and then closed it firmly behind him. The low murmur of voices seeped through the stone, and a minute later the guard returned, tucking a weighty bundle inside his tunic; as it settled against his chest, Robin thought she heard the dull chink of shifting coins.

At his curt signal, Robin was thrust forward and out the door. Pain blinded her—one of the soldiers had unwittingly shoved against her shoulder—and for a moment, Robin’s world went black. With a burst of sheer will, she shoved the darkness away. Only then did she notice that none of the guards had followed her through the doorway and into the castle corridor; the door’s solid bulk was closed against her back.

Just then, someone stepped forward from the opposite wall, and Robin forgot all about the guards.

“John!” she cried in disbelief, her knees growing weak. Only the presence behind Little John kept Robin from flinging herself into his arms. Instead, she reached out with her good hand and clasped his forearm as tightly as he did hers, trying to convey with her fingertips what it meant to see him again.

“I brought Will Stutley,” Little John said in a strangled voice. “He knows the castle layout; he knew that we could bribe the guards. The others wanted to come, too, but we thought—I thought—that the less the better. Just in case we could not get out of here alive.”

“You should not have come,” she whispered, unable to keep tears of relief from spilling down her cheeks.

“A simple ‘thank ye’ will suffice,” Will Stutley grinned. “But ye can say it later. Fer now, I would rather ye focus on gettin’ us out o’ ’ere alive.”

“I thought that was
your
job,” Robin replied with a ghost of her old smile, sniffing back her tears.

Will’s grin widened, and with a short bow, he gestured for them to follow.

* * * * *

The passageways that wended from the bowels of the castle up to the main level were completely deserted; even the servants were gone, released from their obligations these twelve days of Christmas to be with their families. No one was around to see the trio sneak their way through the large tower that formed the castle keep.

At first, Robin was grateful for the complete absence of people, but soon the lack began to worry her. They should have run into
someone
by now. What if the guards had only pretended to accept the bribe, and she and her friends were walking into a trap?

To her surprise, when Robin ventured this concern to her companions, they both began to snicker.

“The Sheriff called a castle-wide feast to celebrate your capture,” Little John explained. “Last we saw, he and everyone else were dead asleep in the Great Hall, clutching empty tankards in their palms.”

Will gave a snort. “’ow I wish I could ’ear ’im rage when ’e wakes up t’ find ye gone!”

“Believe me, you are better off not having that wish come true. His rage is a pretty terrible thing,” Robin said softly.

Will reached out then and opened an exit in the side of the keep, exposing the yard of the surrounding bailey. Sunlight blazed in through the open doorway, its brilliance magnified by the reflective snow. Robin tilted her face up toward the sky, rejoicing in the blinding glow she had thought to face only from the other side of Heaven. For the first time, Little John and Will Stutley got a good look at their companion.

“Dear God!” Little John exclaimed, halting abruptly and reaching a hand towards her face. “What did he do to you?”

Robin blushed under his scrutiny, conscious of what he must see. Based on the way her face ached, the left side was bruised a solid purple sheen from when the Sheriff had struck her, and her lip was swollen and split down the middle from her fall. Her clothes were covered with muck and decay, and there was clearly something wrong with her arm—she was holding it against her body at an odd angle, and her shoulder was unnaturally square.

“I am fine,” Robin declared firmly, stepping away from Little John’s touch. “We should be going.”

“What is wrong with your shoulder?” Little John persisted.

“It is only out of joint,” Robin informed him, glancing self-consciously behind them down the corridor. “Really, people are going to start waking up, and we had better not be here when they do.”

“If I get my hands on that Sheriff—” Little John fumed.

“Would ye like me t’ fix it?” Will Stutley interrupted.

Robin looked at her friend in amazement. “You can do that?”

Will smiled wryly. “I ’ave ’ad some experience.”

Robin glanced nervously once more back down the corridor. As much as she wanted the pain to abate, they could not afford to linger. “Not right now—I would rather have a disjointed shoulder than the disjointed neck we will receive if we get caught.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned and plodded down the steps of the keep, forcing her friends to follow her across the bailey yard. She ignored the worried looks that Little John cast in her direction as they walked, all her senses on the alert for a witness to their presence or a foe . . . but the bailey was as empty as the castle had been, and they reached the gatehouse without incident. The stone building was dark; Little John squinted around for the porter.

“He said he would be here,” Little John murmured anxiously. “Twenty pounds he took, and twenty more to let us back out again . . . .”

“Money cannot help a man who is dead,” a cold voice suddenly cut in.

It was Gisborne, standing in front of a corpse in the corner, a bloody sword blade in his hand.

“Beautiful craftsmanship, this sword.” Gisborne gloated, angling the blade so that Robin could see the familiar line of etchings underneath the red sheen. “It was wasted in your hands, but it will serve me well in my new capacity as the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

“You are mad,” Robin snapped. She felt Little John step behind her, using her body to shield his motions as he loosened his sword from his waist.

“Am I?” Gisborne asked carelessly. “The King already feels that Darniel is losing his grip after letting you roam the countryside free for so long. Just imagine what he will say when he finds out that the Sheriff caught you at last, only to let you escape! He will need a new sheriff, and who better than the man who slew Robin Hood and two of his Merry Men?”

“But I am defenseless,” Robin said, spreading her arms in an open gesture to further shield the movements of Will and John. “You would be committing cold-blooded murder.”

“It would not be the first time,” he remarked with a wicked smile. “Even my son will forgive me my killing his friend—” he indicated Will with a nod of his chin “—when he reaps the rewards that will follow.”

“Then ye know little about friendship,” Will retorted hotly.

“Friends are for the weak,” Gisborne snapped. “Power—and what one is willing to do to get it—is the strength of true import. I will rise after this night in power and glory both, whereas the lot of you will descend into nothingness.”

“Mighty imaginings,” Little John snarled, speaking up for the first time. His naked blade shimmered in his hand as he stepped in front of Robin. “But even a dastard like yourself should be able to count high enough to grasp that there are three of us, and only one of you. Your so-called strength will not avail you.”

Guy of Gisborne laughed. “The archer is unarmed and injured; Will Stutley I could beat blindfolded, and you—you do not even know the proper way to hold the sword you brandish.”

Robin winced. Her cousin had only just begun to teach Little John how to use a broadsword. Clearly, he was not as quick to master that weapon as he had been to master the bow. She saw Little John hastily readjust his grip, his face flushing at his error.

Gisborne saw it, too. His bloodthirsty grin widened. “Brave as well as stupid. This should be fun.”

Without another word, Gisborne swung his sword in a cutting arc and lunged into attack.

Robin backed away, pressing herself against the gatehouse wall as Little John and Guy of Gisborne hewed at each other. Will attempted to join the fight, but Gisborne’s back was to the opposite wall and Little John was standing between them, so all Will could do was dance around behind his friend, too afraid of striking Little John to risk attacking Gisborne himself.

“Get away from there!” Robin hissed. “You are just getting in his way!”

Hastily, Will backed away and joined Robin against the wall. “They are going t’ kill each other!” he cried.

Memory flashed unbidden through Robin’s mind, of the time she had revealed to Little John the deep depression that had overtaken her after killing the Sheriff’s nephew. “Life is our most precious gift,” Little John had told her, gazing into the distance with the expression of a man who has given the subject much thought. “Only as a last recourse should we ever consider taking a life, and then only to preserve another. I am glad that you preserved mine, Robin, but gladder still that you grieved for the one you took. The day we can kill without sorrow is the day we cease to be human.”

“John will not kill him—not if he can help it,” Robin told her friend without tearing her eyes from the battle. She felt utterly, maddeningly helpless. Nothing in her existence had prepared Robin to stand idly by and watch the man she loved fighting for his life!

There was no question in Robin’s mind as to who was the better swordsman. Only Little John’s swift reflexes and brute strength saved him time and again as Gisborne lashed out at him. Little John’s hasty blocks and frantic attacks left large openings in his guard—openings that Guy of Gisborne intentionally ignored.

He is toying with him
, Robin realized. She began to grow angry.

“Give me that,” she said, snatching the two-handed broadsword out of Will’s grasp. She almost dropped it—it was thrice as heavy as her own lighter sword, and she could not use her injured arm to help hold it aloft; her shoulder was already screaming at the strain.

“Robin, no!” Will gasped. He snatched at her, his fingers just missing her tunic as she managed to hoist the weapon with one hand and dashed forward.

Rather than joining the fight, Robin hovered just out of reach of the whipping blades. As Gisborne sneaked in a cunning blow that Little John only half-managed to block, leaving the collar of his tunic rife with blood, Robin seized her chance. With all of her might, she heaved the heavy sword past Little John and into Gisborne’s legs, causing him to stumble and careen into Little John. The two opponents tumbled together to the ground.

Gisborne struggled to get up, but Little John rolled over on top of him, his long form pinning Gisborne’s to the floor. Robin kicked her sword out of Gisborne’s hand and picked it up, leveling it at his throat. Will snatched up the brand she had hurled at Gisborne and did the same. Guy held very still as Little John clambered to his feet.

“That was a dirty trick,” Gisborne glared.

Robin shrugged. “I cannot say that I am bothered. Get the key from the porter,” she commanded Will, who reluctantly lowered his sword and began to search the slain man for the key.

Gisborne laughed, the contemptuous motion of his throat making the tip of Robin’s sword jostle slightly against his skin. “There is nowhere for you to go. I ordered my soldiers placed all around the outside of the castle to keep the crowd from making a scene at your execution. You will be caught before you can get ten paces down the road.”

“Is this true?” Robin asked Little John.

His brow creased with concern. “We slipped up here when they were changing the watch. There were only a couple of men then, but they could have brought out more.”

Gisborne let out a low, vicious laugh. “You are all dead.”

“There is another way out,” Will spoke up suddenly. Robin, Little John, and Gisborne all turned to look at him. He flushed at their attention. “Nella—the Sheriff’s daughter—she told me about it. There is a ’idden tunnel in one o’ the guardhouses. It lets out into the caves at the base o’ the castle.”