Robin Hood and Sir Guy of Gisborne

My interpretation of a medieval English ballad, an early tale of Robin Hood and his meeting with a character now popularly depicted as his nemesis in various tv adaptations and films.

It was a glorious summer day. Sunlight filtered through the tree canopy, casting a soft, green tinged light on the forest. Flowers grew amongst the tree roots, peeking out from beneath the bushes that formed a thick undergrowth.

                Robin Hood and Little John were well known to the area; this forest was their home, their domain and their kingdom, and they both moved through it with ease. They walked casually yet quietly, always aware of their surroundings yet comfortable enough to be without fear. The birds twittered in the trees overhead, the forest floor twitched with the movements of tiny, furry creatures, and the air was warm and light. There was no need for worry.

                They were supposed to be on a hunting trip, but although they were ready for any potential quarry neither man paid much attention to the task. Their company had plenty of supplies.
                “John…” Robin broke the companionable silence, as usual, his elfin features clouded with thought. Which was unusual for him, Little John thought in amusement.
                “I knew something was bothering you,” he teased. “You were silent for far too long.” He earned a wry smile from his friend, yet the troubled expression did not entirely leave Robin’s face.
                “You are observant as you are heavy-footed, John. I have never been on such a poor hunt in all my life,” he shot back. “I was just… I had a dream last night which is haunting me.”
                “It wasn’t about Friar Tuck, was it?” John asked. “Because that would disturb any man.”
                “No,” Robin said impatiently. “I was being killed by two men.”
                That caught John’s attention, and he frowned in concern as Robin’s disquiet passed on to him. “Killed,” he stated, disbelieving. “Who were these two men?”
                “I did not know their faces. They beat me, tied me up and took my bow. One of them broke it in two across his knee!” Robin’s dark eyes were distant, looking upon a half-remembered scene. John could not help but smile a little at the indignation that creased Robin’s brow as he spoke. Even a villain breaking that bow in a dream was offensive to Robin Hood.
                After a moment, Robin sighed and made an effort to shrug the tension from his shoulders. “You don’t think anything of it, do you?” he affected carelessness as he asked.
                “No,” John answered immediately. “Dreams are just dreams. We all have them, and they can make us paranoid, invading the real world by manipulating our actions and our fears. I do not believe that it means anything.” He playfully nudged Robin with an elbow. “Anyway, I thought you said they’d killed you. All I heard was that they broke your bow!”
                “This bow is my life!” Robin exclaimed; he shot John an insulted look, but the humorous sparkle in his eyes gave him away. He was so good at acting, projecting an almost flawless anger that those who did not know him were often horrified and apologetic in response, unaware that Robin was playing with them. It had been a long time since he’d been able to fool Little John.
                “As if you could not make another!”
                “You are right; I don’t suppose it matters too much in the end,” Robin agreed. “After all, it is the man who masters the bow, not the other way around.” He grinned broadly at his friend. “My skill is unsurpassable no matter what bow I use!”
                “Careful,” Little John said. “If your head inflates too much, you will not be able to pass through the trees.”

                They joked and bantered until they came to the edge of a small clearing on the forest, a little way beyond their territory. The clearing looked like it was left over from Paradise �" a single, crooked tree grew in the centre of a lush grassland that was peppered with wild flowers that swayed in the gentle breeze. And a snake had entered the garden.
                Robin and Little John spotted the strange figure immediately, both silently moving to hide within the undergrowth that bordered the clearing.
                Someone was resting against the crooked tree, protected from the hot sun by its shade. Strangers were not to be trusted in this forest; it was well known as the home of Robin Hood and his band of men, and enemies too often tried to search for them here. The Sheriff had placed a healthy bounty on all of their heads.
                This man did not look particularly friendly, in John’s opinion. He and Robin crouched low amongst the bushes, peering through for a good view of this newcomer. The man was large, perhaps even the size of John himself �" massive and bear-like as he was. A thick, black beard covered half of the stranger’s face.
                John could see the stranger’s eyes, black like Robin’s, but ice cold and hollow. They seemed to consume all the warmth around them. A shiver ran up John’s spine. His trained eyes quickly picked up the man’s weaponry; a sword, an ornate dagger at his belt, and a quiver of arrows and a bow slung over his back. He wore thick and battered travelling boots and his tunic was made of some strange hide that John could not identify. It was not cow, boar, wolf or bear pelt. The thick black hair running across the man’s head and down his back gave it away �" John guessed it to be some kind of horse hide. The thought was not a comforting one; he could not think of anyone who would wear such a thing.
                “Any man this deep into the forest and far from any path is not looking for peace or friendship,” John whispered near silently. Robin’s sharp ears still heard him.
                “He looks intimidating enough,” he agreed.
                “Why did the scouts not see him and send the alarm? He is hardly the kind of figure easily missed, no matter how thick the forest has grown.”
                “You know Cotton,” Robin referred to one of their company, assigned to that day’s watch. “He is probably either asleep or hunting for bird’s eggs in the tree tops. Alert watch, my backside,” he muttered darkly as he shook his head. His dark eyes were fixed on the stranger in the clearing. “We should confront this man and ascertain his business here.”
                “And if it is not to our liking?” John looked back at that dark figure and couldn’t help a creeping sense of dread; there was something about the sight of him that disturbed.
                “We politely ask him to leave.”

                “Politely?”
                “Are swords not the instruments of the refined and well mannered?” Robin asked succinctly. He flashed John a wicked smile, his sharp features lighting up with gleeful anticipation; he never looked more like a mischievous forest sprite than at these moments.

                Robin waited through the pause as John pondered; he could see the cogs of the big man’s tactical mind working as John estimated their potential opponent’s strengths and weaknesses in case the day did come to a fight.
                How little he anticipated, that Little John’s answer would mark the beginning of the greatest trial their fellowship had yet faced.
                “You stay here. I’ll go and get the impression of him.”
                Robin’s expression darkened as a storm cloud blocks out the sun. “What exactly are you suggesting, friend?” He asked tersely. “That I should hide here in the bushes like a woman cowering behind her husband?”
                His voice was low, but his tone was black with anger and accusation. The stranger was momentarily forgotten as the air between the two watching him tensed. 
                John’s temper rose to match Robin’s.
                “I was merely suggesting, because of his size, that I should go first to evaluate the potential danger!” he hissed back.
                “And why can we not go together?” Robin’s rage propelled him to his feet, temporarily making him tower over John. It was a testament to Robin’s skill that, despite his anger, he did not make a sound as he moved; not a leaf was disturbed, and their presence remained hidden by the trees around them. “You are calling me a coward!”
                “That word never passed my lips!” John straightened to glare down at the younger man.
                “You implied it! How dare you tell me to hide here whilst you stride out to be the hero! We both know that physical size does not denote bravery or skill,” Robin’s tone was pointed, insulting and impossible to ignore. Both men stepped up, each invading the other’s personal space as they glared in withheld fury. Despite Robin’s shorter height, the intensity of his gaze made up for John’s advantage of size.
                Despite the growing ferocity of the argument, neither man raised his voice above a low murmur. But the strength of feeling was no less potent because of it.

                “You go too far,” John growled softly. His blue eyes were alight, his lip curled with barely contained rage.
                “I only follow your example, sir,” Robin sneered. “Given that you are so far superior to myself, why do I not just lift up my skirts and run away screaming?”
                “I do not consider your safety as I would a woman’s. Only a child’s!”

                Robin’s hand slammed down on the hilt of the sword that hung at his side. “If I did not know you so well, I would split your head in two for how you have insulted me this day.” His voice was low and deadly, and conveyed such a degree of contempt that it pierced through John’s own temper like the strike of a snake. His eyes widened in shock, and he looked at Robin as though seeing him for the first time. No matter how furious they could get with each other when they argued, neither had so much as threatened to draw weapons. Until now.
                Hurt trickled in as the shock faded, turning into anger as he pushed it away. His eyes flashed, and his hand shot out to grab Robin by the collar, pulling him up close. John’s entire body shook as he spoke in a low snarl. “Let me save you the bother and leave you to your fate now. I hope he kills you and beholds your body for all to see.”
                At the last word, John used all of his considerable strength to thrust Robin backwards to the narrow forest path that lead into the clearing. Robin stumbled, barely catching himself as he crashed through the undergrowth and low hanging branches, arms wheeling in panic.
                By the time he recovered his footing and looked up, Little John was gone. He had disappeared without the merest rustle of leaves.

 

                Sometimes, silence can be louder than any noise. Now it range through the air for the one moment that Robin stood there, frozen in shock at the sudden and deafening absence of sound.

                Then he huffed and tried to brush off the confrontation as he straightened his clothes. How dare that upstart, that overgrown oaf, treat him in such a way? Had Robin ever underestimated John’s fighting prowess or capability? Had he never patronised or coddled him in all their years of friendship? John was much older than Robin, already a husband, a father to five children. But Robin was not one of those children, and he refused to be treated as such. John would have thrown a tantrum of giant proportion if Robin had spoken to him as he had just spoken to Robin. Robin would have been looking for his lower jaw amongst the tree roots.
                Still, he couldn’t fume for long. His transgression onto the pathway had alerted the stranger to his presence and Robin’s performance had to begin. He fixed a carefree, cheery smile on his face, stood up straight and set off towards the clearing, whistling a bright tune as he went. In the four steps that it took Robin to pass the treeline, the stranger had already risen to feet. He stood alert and ready beside the crooked tree; he almost dwarfed the poor plant, which had once looked like something from a folktale of magic, and now looked rather pathetic next to such a powerful figure. Those black eyes fixed on Robin, like empty, yawning pits that dominated the man’s face.
                If Robin was perturbed by the stare, or by the man’s size and foreboding bearing, he gave no sign of it. He stopped and squinted against the sunlight, and did not miss that the stranger’s hand was resting on the hilt of his sword. The irony of the move did not escape Robin, who felt a twinge of regret as he made his way forward.
                Perhaps he had been too hasty, going for his sword during the argument with Little John.

 

                Robin grinned and waved excitedly as he approached the stranger. “Hello there!” he called, awkwardly picking his way through the long grass with none of his previous grace. By the time he reached the other man, his apparent clumsiness had disarmed the man’s wariness. Robin’s friendly disposition outshone the sun.
                “Thank the good lord,” Robin gasped as he came to a halt. “I have been wandering around these trees two days past, and you are the first soul I have come across! I am very relieved to see you, sir.” He extended his hand and, with a significant pause, the stranger took it as he gave a cordial nod in return.
                “Are you lost?” he asked Robin, his voice as deep and gravelling as the forester had been expecting. The tone was like those eyes, dead and flat, chilling the air and making Robin’s skin prickle. But he refused to show any sign of fear.
                “Oh not really. This forest can be very unsettling when the trees are your only company. One begins to wonder if there is any end to them. Ah!” Robin peered over the stranger’s shoulder, no easy feat, to see the bow and arrows propped up by the crooked tree. “You are fond of archery, sir?”
                He never resist a chance to show off.
                “I am, although I am still practising my skill.”

                “You are being modest! No man with such a bow can still be in practice,” Robin looked at the stranger with the same innocence that coloured his tone. “Unless your business is an urgent one, may I suggest a brief game? I pride myself on my own skill with a bow, and always enjoy good natured competition.”
                The stranger narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but he did not look entirely opposed to the suggestion. Robin withstood his searching gaze, and took the opportunity to study the large man’s clothing. The short-hair tunic was indeed horse hide, and Robin was curious as to what kind of man would wear such a thing. Horses were for riding, tolling the fields and pulling carts. No sane person would consider clothing themselves in horse hide. “Just a few shots?” Robin added, fearing he was about to lose the man. “I am sure you have been travelling as much as I, and would welcome a respite before going on your way.”
                “I would accept your offer. I have been travelling for many long days,” the stranger admitted. “But I came to this forest with an important purpose in mind, one that cannot delay.”
                Robin could not stop his eyebrows twitching upwards in interest, nor could he stop himself from asking. “Oh? What purpose would that be? If you’ll pardon the intrusion.”
                “I am hunting down a criminal; a thief and a vagabond of the worst kind whom I believe resides in this forest. Robin Hood.”

                Only the strength of Robin’s acting skill enabled him to turn his surprise into an expression of intrigue. At least, he hoped that the whole body sway of interest he used to cover up his twitch and startled look had worked. “Ah!” he gave a slight nod.

                “Surely you have heard of him?” Thankfully, the stranger interpreted Robin’s strange actions as cluelessness. “Everyone around these parts knows his name well, though few have ever seen him. Those who have are not willing to speak much of him.”

                “Yes,” Robin said thoughtfully. “I have heard of him, a slippery figure if ever there was. You must have good luck if you wish to catch him.”

                “Not merely to catch him,” the stranger’s eyes flashed dangerously. “The Sheriff of Nottingham has ordered that I kill him on sight.” The complete lack of malice, of anger or indeed any emotion was what Robin found most unsettling. His death was a simple fact stated, a task that waited completion. He was starting to think that he shouldn’t have fought with Little John.
                “Oh, the Sheriff of Nottingham,” Robin mused on the title of his old adversary �" the man most desperate to see Robin’s head on a pike. “Well sir, if Robin Hood does live in these woods then it is very possible that you may cross paths with him quite by chance,” he smiled. He loved knowing something that others did not. This was a particularly delightful occurrence; here he was, standing before a man who was hunting him down.
                And the man did not know him.

 

                Little John was not silent as he marched back towards the village of Barnesdale, where the company’s camp had been based for the past few month. He swiped overhanging branches out of his way, crunched twigs beneath his feet and wrenched free of grabbing brambles and he stormed by muttering beneath his breath.

                That arrogant horse’s arse. How dare he speak to John in such a way? John had only been thinking of Robin’s safety, his well-being! Oh, how dare he be so loyal to his friend! The audacity �" that stranger’s size and strength would far outweigh Robin’s, who was built more for speed and agility. See if John cared, if that stranger chopped off Robin’s head.
                He began to slow as his fury ran its course, leaving worry in its wake. What if the stranger did kill Robin? What if he was more than one man could handle? Robin was skilled enough to win a fight between them, of that John had no doubt. But what if something happened to make the battle go awry? The stranger would kill or seriously wound Robin, and the rest of their company would want to know why John had left their feckless leader alone against such a potentially dangerous foe.
                Perhaps he should not have left. But then, Robin should not have threatened John; he had spoken to John as a lord speaks to an insolent servant, rather than a friend to a friend. John was no servant to any man; that was the point of Robin’s group in the first place. To be subject to no authority of any kind, corrupt or otherwise. The King of England could command Little John’s loyalty, but no lesser man would ever rule him. John’s loyalty was earned, Robin knew that and he should have known better than to speak to him as a subject. Stupid boy.
                But it was easy to forget, due to what he had done for the people of England, that Robin was a young man. Impulsive and short-tempered.

                John’s conviction in leaving Robin to his own devices was draining away, and his guilt made him feel all the more irate. Although it was progressively more directed at himself than at his often careless and overconfident friend. John was old enough to know better.
                Damn Robin for being so infuriating and pig-headed! John had lost count of the times he had had to rescue their fearless leader from the trouble that Robin’s refusal to take any situation seriously landed him in. That business with the monk; Robin would have been tried and executed by the Sheriff of Nottingham if not for John. He could not be trusted to look after himself. But that was exactly what John had left him to do.
                It suddenly occurred to John that he had long since entered the company’s territory, and he should have heard the bird calls of the sentries he knew to be nearby. Now that he was paying attention to his surroundings, John realised that the forest was too quiet, too still. The real birds weren’t singing either.
                As he neared a narrow gap in the trees, it dawned on Little John that he’d walked into some trouble of his own.
                He came across a bloodbath. John Walter, one of the most experienced of their group, and the younger man William Smith. Both lay dead on the bloodied grass, cut down by swords.

                His troubles with Robin forgotten, John tensed. Alert, he listened closely and scanned through the trees for any movement. He heard voices up ahead; men were shouting a calling to each other in the distance, like bloodhounds as they hunted the fox. It sounded like they were running towards the small hill that rose up out of the trees to the north �" Widow’s Point.

                John looked down at his fallen brethren, and felt a stab of grief for their loss. Walter was a good man, grounded and loyal, and Smith was barely older than John’s eldest son. Despite their age difference, both men had been laughing and joking with one another when John and Robin left them. Walter took Smith under his wing somewhat; the lad had been the only survivor when his village was raided by the Sheriff’s men. It looked like he’d been caught by surprise, cut across the throat before he could draw his weapon. Walter had gone down fighting; his body was covered with deep slashes that bled out to the grass around him.
                John’s anger with Robin was nothing compared to what he felt now. He swallowed a growl as he took the bow from his shoulder and notched an arrow ready on the string. His eyes almost feral with blood thirst, Little John started through the trees, following the voices he could still hear. Someone would pay for this.

 

                The men that John chased did not have the same swift silence that he moved with; after a short while he could follow the sounds of snapping branches and pounding footsteps as they ran. He headed for a small ridge he knew to be up ahead, that would lead him to intercept the group. With the high ground and the element of surprise, John was confident with his chances. He would slaughter every one of the cowards.
                His strategy was as perfect as his knowledge of the land, and he reached the ridge in time to hear the shouts coming up from his left. He stepped behind a tree and watched as a man ran past below him, followed by six others in soldier uniforms �" the Sheriff’s men. The first man was familiar �" Cotton was the fox these hounds were pursuing.
                Never in a million years would John have guessed that Cotton had survived where John Walter had not.

     Taking a deep breath, John readied his bow and arrow. He aimed as Robin had taught him, and fired in the same second.
                The arrow whistled through the air with a deadly accuracy, and the lead soldier fell mid-stride with a harp thump on the ground.
                The soldiers close behind stumbled over the body, and John took the opportunity to pick off a couple more of them in quick succession. The remaining two who had been at the back of the group stopped more successfully than their fallen companions, yet stood there looking dumbfounded at the corpses. A fatal mistake.
                John was ready to fire again, taking aim at the closer of the two soldiers, when a new and all too familiar voice made him stop.
                “What is going on? Why have you stopped the pursuit?” The tone was sharp and petulant, everything John had come to expect from the Sheriff of Nottingham, who joined his two remaining men.
                Hatred and disgust swept through Little John as the Sheriff walked into view. His clothes were far finer than that of his soldiers, despite the fact that he was out in the forest on a hunting trip. Typical of his greed. It made John’s blood boil; he should have expected to see the impatient, whiny-voiced b*****d at the centre of this assault. John doubted that the Sheriff would spare a single thought for his fallen men, whereas the memory of Walter and Smith would linger with the foresters for a long time to come.
                John would usually have relished the chance to put an arrow through the Sheriff’s neck, but the weasel brought a second group of five officers with him, and John didn’t have that many arrows left.
                One of the soldiers looked curiously around, and his eyes landed on John who stood above them on the ridge. “There! My lord! The murderer is up there!”
                ‘Murderer’ rankled John slightly. If anyone here was a ‘murderer’ it was each and every one of them. He stepped fully from his hiding place as the rest of the soldiers turned towards where their fellow was pointing �" a split second before John planted an arrow through the man’s chest. But John’s urgency at being discovered made him pull too hard on the bow string as he fired, and it broke clean in two.
                He was left weaponless. Robin would have unhelpfully pissed himself laughing at John for this, and John was suddenly glad that the man wasn’t with him. Robin was the one who’d commented on John’s lack of sword or dagger �" “I know that you have a sharp wit, my friend. But wit cannot cut through skin. Unless of course you’re trying a new method of hurting people’s feelings.”
                John had time to ready himself for a fight as the soldiers ran around the ridge to get to him. He glared down at the Sheriff, who met John’s gaze and gave him a smug smile. John wondered why the overgrown weasel looked so triumphant with only six men at his disposal, when something hit him hard from behind.
                An arm slammed between John’s shoulder blades, almost pushing him from the ridge before more men grabbed him and pulled him back. He tried to pull free, but each arm was held up at least three men, and John was yanked around to see that another group of soldiers surrounded him. They must have sneaked up from behind as he was distracted by the first group. There must have been at least twelve of them.
                Still, John was strong and he would never be beaten without a struggle. He managed to swing his right arm and throw the three men restraining it to the ground. It came too late.
                Another three replaced them in an instant, and John was kicked in the back of the knee. His leg buckled, and the hilt of a sword cracked across his shoulders.
                He jerked with the pain, gritting his teeth and refusing to scream as he still tried to struggle free. But the first group of soldiers reached him, and a boy no older than poor dead William Smith planted his foot into John’s stomach with no small amount of relish, knocking the wind out of him. The sheer force of the soldier’s number overwhelmed the big man, like ants pulling down a bear, finally disabling him.
                Robin would love this in a way. John had left him to get himself killed, and now John was extremely reliant on Robin not doing so.

 

Robin himself hadn’t yet encountered trouble from the dark stranger, though he now knew that trouble wasn’t far ahead. This man, this killer, was contracted to take his life; but Robin was damned if he wasn’t going to have some fun before revealing his identity. First on the agenda was showing off his archery skill.
                He had let the assassin’s suspicions grow throughout their conversation; he liked to watch realisation slowly dawn on a person’s expression. Robin was concentrating hard to restrain his excitement and anticipation; he could practically hear the other man’s mind whirring as they cleared away some bracken at the far end of the clearing in preparation for their competition.
                Once the area was cleared enough, the stranger stuck a long, thin stick into the ground and tied one of the rings from his satchel on top of it with an impressive ease. Robin breathed deeply, taking his bow from his shoulder and an arrow from the quiver on his back. He notched the narrow onto the string, but kept it pointing at the ground as he waited for his rival to walk back to him. Robin could have shot him right then and there, knowing what danger the man posed. But such a move was a dishonest and cowardly one worthy of the Sheriff of Nottingham, their mutual acquaintance. Robin was not so nefarious, and he would not kill a man whose guard was down.
                So he allowed the stranger to come and stand beside him, their target set. He twitched small glances at Robin, the only evidence of his distrust, and when Robin looked over to meet his gaze, the stranger smiled. It sent a spike of fear through Robin’s mind.
                He didn’t know what it was about the stranger than he found so intimidating. Robin usually refused to be afraid of any threat; was it the unusual clothing? The horse hide and mane of hair would be a fear inducing sight to any man, any lesser man. But Robin had encountered such scare tactics before, and they were meaningless to him. Perhaps it was the similarity he could see between them; the stranger carried similar weapons, though his bow was heavier and less yielding than Robin’s.
                And the arrows were rusted with what looked like blood.
                Robin’s light mood suddenly deserted him along with the enjoyment of his ruse. It was replaced by a steadfast determination that always took him before a fight. No matter what Little John thought, Robin always took danger seriously; he would not have survived this long otherwise. This would be a fight to the death, one that Robin fully intended to win.
                “Would you like to take the first shot, good fellow?” he asked.
                “Oh no, my friend. I am curious as to your skill,” the stranger courteously inclined his head as he replied. “I insist you go first.”
                That was something else that troubled Robin �" this barbaric looking man was well spoken enough for Robin to know that he of good breeding. Landed gentry or even nobility; why would a man of such high birth kill people for money? He could not have needed it.
                But Robin did not allow any of his disquiet to show; he kept his thoughts hidden behind the same sunny façade with which he’d greeted the stranger. He smiled in thanks before the brightness in his dark eyes was banished by a sharp focus as he turned his gaze to the target.
                Robin raised his bow, trained the arrow to his eye line and fired. All in less time than it takes to blink.
                The swiftness of the shot would have deceived any observer into believing that it was an inaccurate one. But Robin always scolded his men for pausing to aim; a true archer found their target without pausing for thought. His arrow arced through the air and passed straight through the ring atop the stick, without so much as brushing the sides. Not only that, but it hit a knot in the oak tree that stood behind it. Right in the centre.
                The fletching of the arrow trembled at the force of the impact in the silence that followed.
                The stranger looked impressed, but it was the disquiet in the man’s eyes that Robin enjoyed. Had word of his skill become so widespread? It would give him away then, he decided.
                The stranger’s shot was also impressive, though it was not as accurate as Robin’s. The arrow rang out against the iron ring as it passed through, and it hit a few inches below Robin’s shot. Robin allowed him to go again, and this time his arrow made it through the ring without marking it.
                Robin’s next shot split the stick in half, neatly cleaving it in two and dislodging the ring which fell into the long grass. 
                He smiled smugly at the stranger’s palpable shock as Robin strolled forwards and pulled his second arrow from the split staff before he retrieved the first. He inspected both for damage before returning them to their quiver. As he walked back, Robin met the stranger’s penetrating gaze, anger and darkness emanating from those hollow eyes. He anticipated the question before it was asked, and stood ready.

     “You have great skill, yeoman,” the stranger said, the lightness of his voice contrasting with the tension that had stretched the air of the clearing. “I realise, I did not ask after your name. Pray, tell me what it is.”

     “I shall tell you who I am, good sir. After you have revealed your name to me.”
                The stranger regarded him for a moment before answering. “I have been the bane of many a good man,” he said. “And I have performed many a cursed deed in my time.”
                His flat black eyes were colder than ever before, soulless. Both men began to circle each other. “I am Sir Guy of Gisborne, yet it is long since I saw my holdings.
                “And you, sir?”

Robin’s smile grew until his dark eyes glittered with mirth; he looked almost wicked, unearthly, as he replied.
                “Why, sir. I am the man whom you have hunted all this way into the forest, which has been my dwelling for many long years. My name… is Robin Hood.”

     It was like a code word spoken to trigger an ambush, as Robin and his company had done many a time before. When his own name passed his lips, both he and his hunter sprang into battle.
                They dropped their bows to the ground and drew forth their swords. Gisborne sprang at him, and the dance began.
                Robin had by no means underestimated Gisborne’s skill. But sometimes an opponent’s skill was so great that the prediction of it made little difference to a fight. He reminded Robin of Little John in his great size, but Gisborne combined it with a speed and agility that matched Robin’s own. It was all Robin could do to meet the blows from Gisborne’s sword, let alone get any time to make any strikes of his own.
                The lordly assassin attacked relentlessly. Robin was given no time or ground to move away and gather his bearings. Too late, he realised that Gisborne had been evaluating Robin’s abilities from the second he’d stepped into the clearing. He hadn’t fooled Gisborne at all; the mercenary had suspected more than Robin had known.
                The peaceful setting paid no mind to the metallic clanging of sword metal as Robin barely defended Gisborne’s attacks. He had to keep spinning away and ducking the swings and swipes aimed at him; to meet them all would have knocked from the sword from his hands.
                Gisborne swung at him from above. Robin stepped aside and twisted elegantly beneath Gisborne’s arm, bringing his own sword around to strike at Gisborne’s neck.
                His blade met his opponent’s, the chiming note ringing in Robin’s ears as he glared into the man’s eyes. Gisborne shoved Robin away, and the dance began again.

     A single mistake made at any moment could have cost Robin’s life. Sweat poured down his face as he had to parry a flurry of blows that Gisborne rained down on him. It was like trying to hold off the rain.
                His arms were afire. Worse still, Gisborne did not seem to be suffering nearly as much; he only had a light sheen of sweat on his brow, and his strength was not waning.
                Either Gisborne was getting stronger, or Robin was getting weaker.
                Little John…
                Robin refused to see that insufferable know-it-all proved right this time.
                He summoned a burst of strength from a source he didn’t know existed. As Gisborne attacked from above again, Robin slammed the hilt of his sword onto his enemy’s fingers. It gained him enough of a pause to hit out at Gisborne’s face.
                The pop of his opponent’s nose breaking was a more beautiful sound than the most gracious bird song.

                 Both men span away from each other, kicking up the grass and dirt. Robin was concentrating too hard to smile at his small victory �" the blood that poured from Gisborne’s nose, over his mouth and chin. He used the second’s break to try to find a weak spot in the man. There was none obvious that Robin could see.
                Gisborne impatiently wiped the blood from his face as Robin would have swatted away a fly. His eyes burned into Robin’s for a fraction of a second before he attacked again.

                They both ran at each other. Gisborne broke his precedent, seeming to realise that Robin had learned and gained advantage from it. He attempted a cut across Robin’s knees that would have separated the forester from his lower legs. Caught off guard, Robin barely deflected the sword away from him.
                The full force of Gisborne’s massive body hit him as he rammed his shoulder into Robin’s stomach, flipping him over as a bull mows down his victim.

                Robin hit the ground hard, landing on his back as his muscles tensed to withstand the impact, which therefore winded him more than it should have. He was annoyed at himself for such an amateurish mistake, but it was one he’d have to dwell on later.
                His burning fingers nearly lost grip of his sword, and he brought it up in time to stop Gisborne’s blade as it cut down at his face.

                Holding his weapon with one hand, Robin almost failed to hold up against Gisborne’s strength. He came close to cutting his own face open as his sword was slammed back. At the same time, he struggled to force air into his bruised lungs.
                Gisborne arrested those efforts by kicking him hard in the side, so hard that Robin flew through the air, and painfully bounced a good ten feet over the ground. The breath was knocked from him again, and his ribs screamed in protest.
                But, the distance gave Robin the chance to get back to his feet in time to meet Gisborne’s attack as the battle began once more.

                 

 

                Meanwhile, Little John wasn’t faring any better. The Sheriff’s men had kicked the love of God out of him before they tied him to a thick oak tree in the centre of their camp.
                One of his eyes was swollen shut, and he was sure that a few ribs were cracked if not broken. But John paid the injuries no heed; it took more than a few bruises to disable him. The forester camp hadn’t been too far from here, and John hoped that the company had had the presence of mind to have moved by now. They would hide well in the forest; they knew it better than the Sheriff and his men ever would. Cotton had escaped, and he was not so useless as to neglect raising the alarm. Perhaps they would attempt a rescue, but John knew that they had trouble organising themselves without either his or Robin’s leadership. And God only knew where Robin was now.
                John wasn’t sure if Robin would bother saving him anyway, after that fight…
                No, that was a ridiculous thought. No matter how many times they had fought in the past, they always came through when one of them found trouble. It didn’t matter how angry Robin was, he would not abandon John to torture and death.
                John groaned slightly as he tried to shift his position. He’d been tied to the oak tree at an awkward height for him; he was neither sitting on the ground nor standing up straight but was held in a half-crouch that was pressing his back hard into the rough bark. His thighs were beginning to burn. He tested the bonds, trying to move his arms to find some wriggle room, but the ropes were too tight to allow him even an inch of leeway.
                It seemed that the Sheriff had learned from past mistakes. The last time he’d taken John prisoner he’d tied the forester to a stake with only one length of rope wrapped around John’s body. It had been easy for John to work his arms free. This time, rope was tied to each of John’s wrist and looped around the tree trunk before another length of rope was wrapped around his body. His hands had already gone numb.
                The soldiers were packing up camp, ready to move on. Where to, John could not guess �" was their business so quickly resolved? No, they would have killed him if so. Something bigger was at play here; John was surprised that the Sheriff of Nottingham had even heard of Barnesdale. The village was out of his jurisdiction.
                As if summoned by John’s thoughts, the man himself swanned into view. “Well, this is a happenstance,” he said, trying to appear nonchalant as he inspected his fingernails. But his glee was palpable, and John almost laughed at the effort. The forester had met many a despicable human being in his lifetime; his family had ended up homeless because of such men. But the Sheriff was one of the few without a redeemable feature. He was corrupt and without a shred of honour, terrorised the people he was appointed to protect, and all of these traits were compounded by a complete lack of bravery. Had John not been tethered, the Sheriff would have thrown any number of men between them to save his own skin. Of all the attempts that the Sheriff had made to kill Robin, Little John and their company, not one had succeeded. John reminded himself of that now, to keep control of his temper.
                “Robin Hood and Little John. Both great thorns in my side that are removed this day,” the Sheriff’s colourless eyes regarded John, who remained silent and stone faced.
                He would not rise to the bait, and was far better at hiding his emotions than his adversary. The Sheriff’s words did worry John, reminding him of the friend he’d left to an uncertain fate. John had a growing suspicion that the man in the clearing was connected to the Sheriff in some way; it could not have been a coincidence, both appearing on the same day. John cursed himself �" he was as stupid as the man who stood before him, leaving Robin to face such a danger alone.
                The thought of Robin never failed to lend John the same short attention span that the man himself displayed. Looking at the Sheriff, John suddenly thought how pathetic his beard was. It was a silly little goatee that wisped around his chin. What’s the point of it? �" John would almost hear Robin saying �" Either grow a full beard or refrain from having one at all! He often joked that a whole host of woodland creatures could be lost within John’s beard, a thick growth that covered half of his face. Looking at the Sheriff’s goatee, John had the urge to pull on the end of it to see if the thing would come off.
                Robin…
                John hoped he would see him alive again.

                A hint of petulant irritation tugged at the corners of the Sheriff’s mouth; he lost interest in his own nails and turned to sneer at John, walking up close and bending to look him in the eyes. “When I get the news I am waiting for, you will be tied to the back of that horse,” he turned to point out the large, chestnut coloured beast that was grazing across the camp. “That horse will drag you, alive, at a speed that will cause you the upmost agony until we reach the hill two miles west of here…”

                Widow’s Point. A tree grew atop that hill.
                “You will then be hanged by the neck until dead, and your body will be left strung up alongside your cursed leader as a warning of what happens to people who cross me!” A soft spray of saliva hit John’s face as the Sheriff hissed as menacingly as his thin voice would allow. It was an effort not to flinch in disgust, but John managed it as he glared in a moment of silence. Then, he kicked the Sheriff hard in the crotch.
                “You think I fear death so much?” his deep voice growled as the man folded up and whimpered at John’s feet. Two men rushed to help their master, getting him to his knees. His watery eyes were filled with hatred when he looked up John, the effect dampened by his tears of pain. “It matters not if you kill me, Robin and every man and woman of our company! People will always rise up against a tyrant, Sheriff. A thousand men wait in the wings to take our place when they tire of your cruelty as we did! You can kill us, but you cannot kill what we represent…” John leaned as far forward as his bonds would allow, to snarl into the Sheriff’s face. “A land freed from the stench of you and your kind!”
                Fear flashed across the Sheriff’s eyes before a soldier shoved John back against the tree and others helped the weasel of a man to his feet. He straightened up, hair ruffled and falling over his forehead as he tried and failed to look unaffected. “We will see how…spirited you are, criminal, when you are brought the news of your beloved Robin Hood’s demise.”

                 

                Had Robin heard the Sheriff’s words, he would have mused on feeling that he’d already died. It felt like he and Gisborne had been fighting for years, and Robin was more exhausted than he’d ever been. At some point, his right forearm was caught by Gisborne’s blade, and blood now soaked the torn sleeve of his green tunic. He could at least take comfort in the fact that Gisborne was finally tiring, his movements becoming ever slower, with more pauses between his attacks.
                Both men panted hard from the exertion, their breaths ragged and sweat dripping from their skin.
                Gisborne swept at Robin’s stomach. Robin nimbly leapt backwards and smacked the sword away. He flitted away, still quick despite his fatigue, as Gisborne circled him.
                Little John always said that that Robin never paid enough attention to his footwork when he was sword fighting. It was almost literally his Achilles heel.
                His left foot landed on a tree root, which slipped away from beneath him. He stumbled, arms whirling as he tried to catch his balance, leaving a gap in his defences.

                Within the second it took for Robin to catch himself, Gisborne swung his blade upwards and landed a blow on Robin’s left side as the forester’s arm lifted. The steel bit through cloth and flesh, through the impact of the strike caused more damage than the cut of the sword.
                Robin was thrown around, landing on his left side with such force that he felt at least two ribs break. His sword fell from his fingers, sliding just out of his reach, though the pain was such that he did not notice. He lay, winded and paralysed with shock, on the sweet smelling grass.
                For the second time that day, Robin noticed the remarkable volume of silence. The absence of noise after such a long fight was deafening.
                His lungs refused to expand, it felt as though they had turned to stone. At least it meant that he couldn’t scream as he edged his right arm beneath his torso to cradle the wound that Gisborne had inflicted. It was not as deep as he’d feared, although a worrying amount of blood poured hot over his fingers, but the strength of the blow had all but immobilised his left side. He would never rise to his feet again.
                He was defeated.
                Unconsciousness threatened, making him hazy. But Robin battled against it, forcing his vision to focus as a sea of green swam before him. He listened to the footsteps as Gisborne calmly walked up behind him.
                A glimmer of sliver flashed against the grass and Robin blinked hard, his fallen sword coming into view. The afternoon sun reflected off the polished metal, almost too bright to look at. He would never reach it fast enough; Gisborne would easily stop him, kill him. But that didn’t stop Robin from trying.
                A strange, whistling noise emitted from his throat as he stretched forward, fingertips only brushing the hilt. Gisborne didn’t try to stop him, proving how little a threat Robin now was to him. How humiliating, Robin thought, his assassin had succeeded.
                Little John. Robin didn’t want their last conversation to have been an argument, the final words he’d ever spoken to his greatest friend. He should have let John’s comment go, laughed it off. Do you have such little faith in me, old man?
                “I was told that you would be a formidable opponent, Robin Hood,” Gisborne had caught some of his breath, exhausted yet victorious as he stood over his fallen victim. “You did not disappoint. You were as worthy an adversary as I have ever encountered.”

                Wonderful, already he was talking of Robin in the past tense. To be gloated over before his murder was not how Robin had envisioned his death.
                John, all of your nagging has come to nothing after all.

                Little John. Robin had to apologise. He could not allow John’s last memory of him to be a fight between them, not after all the battles they had fought side by side.
                God, give him strength. Robin buried his face into the grass, breathing in its scent. The Earth. It had given him life, allowed him to grow, fostered him when his family was lost. The Earth gave him everything he needed to survive, nurtured his determination against the injustices wreaked on his people. Give me strength again now.
                “I may ask the Sheriff to increase my reward, given the trouble you caused to me and how dearly he wished you dead.”

                The Sheriff…
                Of Nottingham?
                Rage filled Robin as that coward’s face rose in his mind. Sending a mercenary to kill him instead of facing Robin himself.
                “He will probably agree, especially as he’ll be so distracted by the task still at hand…” Gisborne’s cool was directly above him now, and Robin felt the cold, sharp point of a blade at the back of his neck. “…Getting rid of the rest of your unlawful band of thieves and murderers,” the assassin crooned. He may as well have shouted in Robin’s ear.
                No…
                The sword left Robin’s neck as it was raised, ready to finish what it had started.
                Murderers…thieves. His brothers and sisters. John and his family…
                The Sheriff, how smug and pleased he would be…
                No!  

                Until the day he was truly to die, Robin would never know where he summoned the strength from. It suddenly galvanised his body, a bolt of energy that launched him forward, his fingers closing around the hilt of his sword.
                He sprang up from the ground, ducking and spinning past Gisborne’s blade just in time. It whistled past Robin’s ear and sank into the ground where his neck had lain a moment before. The sword stuck there, tangling in the grass.

                Robin ended up behind Gisborne, facing away from him and towards the forest. The trees looked back at him, it seemed.
                As Gisborne freed his sword and began to turn around, Robin only had time to throw his arm back in an unconventional move that Little John would certainly disapprove of.
                He didn’t look over his shoulder as his sword sung through the air.

                The unmistakeable sound of flesh yielding to steel rang through the clearing. A heavy thud followed it as Gisborne’s head fell, then an even heavier thud as his body followed.

                Robin stood there for a moment, his body shaking and extended arm trembling. Red light glinted in the corner of his eye, the sunlight reflected in the blood that ran down to drip from Robin’s hand.
                Then he let out the breath he was holding, and he lowered his arm as the burst of energy left him. He was weak, drained, but alive. He swayed, almost giving in to the tired ache of his muscles, but he pulled himself together with sheer force of will. The Sheriff was leading an attack on Robin’s men, there was no time to rest.
                Robin sheathed his bloodied sword and walked past Gisborne’s body to pick up the head, which lay a few feet away. He grabbed it by the mane-like hair, curling his hand into a tight fist as he marched over to the bows that lay across the clearing, discarded a lifetime ago. With what strength remained to him, he painfully bent over, picked up his own bow, and pushed it into the ground, groaning as his ribs were lit on fire. Then, with both hands he stuck Gisborne’s head atop it with no small amount of spite. He allowed a slight feeling of regret as the bow splintered, but brushed it off. He could make another.
                Glaring at the vacant face, its black eyes as empty as they were in life, Robin hoped that the soulless b*****d had felt some pain before the end. His adrenaline rush was fading, and in its wake anger and humiliation flooded Robin’s body. The fury inspired him to withdraw the long knife from his belt before he plunged the blade into Gisborne’s face. Robin was able to vent some of his temper as he savagely sliced through the flesh, twisting and dragging the knife until the head was no longer recognisable. Just a lump of meat without a name. Nothing less than the great Sir Guy of Gisborne deserved.
                The Sheriff of Nottingham had sent this demon into Robin’s domain. He’d attacked Robin’s men without provocation in their own home. This forest had soothed and beguiled Robin with its beauty ever since he’d first walked among its trees. It had sustained him, sheltered him from harm, and made him strong. No one had the right to attack him in such an underhanded way here. Not here. The Sheriff would pay for this; he’d meant to eliminate Robin once and for all. Robin would do the same now.
                So with great difficulty and hindered by his injuries, Robin unpicked the strings of his tunic and shirt, peeling them off with a muffled groan of pain before he walked back to Gisborne’s body. By the time he removed the thick horse-hide tunic, cloth undershirt and leather trousers, put them on and stuffed his own clothes onto the body, the sun was setting below the tree line and dusk rested over the clearing. Insects hovered over the long grass that swayed in the gentle evening breeze, shadows becoming blurred and gloomy as the sunlight dimmed.
                Robin Hood became the tall, dark figure in a peaceful setting. The horse-hide hid him well; it was heavier than he’d expected, and not too badly bloodstained considering the fate of its owner. The back of Robin’s neck itched as he pulled the thick hood up over his face, the smell of it making him feel nauseous. But he tried to ignore it as he took Gisborne’s distinctive knife, Eastern in origin judging by its bejewelled hilt. He also took Gisborne’s bow, slinging it over his shoulder with a wince of discomfort before he picked up the final object.

                It was an olifant, not a weapon at all but a horn. A very well carved one, Robin guessed from some kind of animal bone. What would an assassin need with such an instrument? It was used in hunting parties, and Robin did not believe that Gisborne had been that much of a team player.
                Still, one could never predict what was needed on a journey ahead, so Robin tucked the instrument into his belt as well. If he was to fool the Sheriff, Robin would need all the disguise he could gather here.

                It was getting late, and if Robin wanted to reach Barnesdale before pitch darkness set in he would have to move quickly. He made for the pathway that he and Little John had walked down that morning, and left the resting place of Sir Guy of Gisborne, unmarked but for a faceless head and a body dressed in a forester’s clothes.

               

                The walk took about an hour, and the time did nothing to abate Robin’s anger. Perhaps the burning pain of his injury fuelled it, keeping the fires of his rage strong. He was focused on the road ahead, completely aware of his surroundings. Even the woodland creatures seemed to sense the darkness of Robin’s mood; the forest fell silent as he passed by.
                The light hearted ease of manner that many either marvelled or raged at was nowhere to be seen in Robin now. His cold black gaze was heavy within the depths of the horse hide clothing that smothered him, and he moved like a herald of death through the trees. With each step his resolve hardened and his anger steadied into a cool hatred that dampened the pain of his wound. Robin’s mind was on the Sheriff and the suffering that Robin would return to him tenfold.
                He had nearly reached Barnesdale when an almost imperceptible rustle in the undergrowth to Robin’s right slowed him to a halt.
                Robin listened.
                The whisper of disturbed leaves was not sound that belonged to any summer breeze nor any animal of the forest. It only belonged to the movement of man.
                Robin knew that his prolonged stillness would his watcher to move again; this was the one instance where he was capable of patience. He waited, and he did not have to wait for long.
                The plants to his right shifted, giving his quarry’s position away.
                Without looking, Robin shot out a hand at the speed of a shooting arrow and buried it into the foliage. His fingers found warm cloth, and he bunched it into his fist before he yanked the body out of the trees and threw it to the ground at his feet.

                The man squeaked in fear and pain as he landed and scrambled around to face the towering, monstrous creature that stood over him, sword drawn and ready to take his life.
                Dear God. It was some kind of demon come to invade the forest! Its flesh was of a strange leather, its head dome-shaped and hulking with two eyes burning beneath a heavy brow. The man whimpered in terror and tried to scuttle back from the beast �" he had to get away and warn the others that doom was on its way to claim them all. He clawed at the ground, dirt catching beneath his fingernails as he found his feet and tried to launch himself up the path in an attempt to run.

                The demon shouted his name in a very familiar voice.
                “Cotton!”

 

                Unfortunately, Cotton was far too scared to register Robin’s voice and he still ran from him. But, even whilst injured and wearing a heavy pelt, Robin was able to catch up to him before the man reached full speed. He grabbed the back of Cotton’s collar and pulled him up short.
                “Please, demon! Do not kill me! I am just a simple man!” Cotton’s northern-accented voice rang out between them.
                “Well, I won’t argue with that, Cotton.” Despite his black mood, Robin couldn’t help but smile as Cotton hid his face in his hands. “But I do take exception to being called a demon.”
                This time, the familiarity of Robin’s voice reached Cotton’s sensibilities, and Cotton parted his fingers as he twisted around to peer up into his captor’s face. Robin released his grip, and lowered the horse-hide hood to reveal his face.

                “Robin!” Cotton beamed, his rather rodent-like features lighting up with joy. “Bless you! I thought I was a dead man for sure!” He frowned as he studied Robin’s clothing. “Why are you dressed so funny?”
                Robin rolled his eyes and sheathed his sword. “That is a long story, my friend,” he said with a bitter smile. “But why are you hiding within the trees like a nervous squirrel? Is the Sheriff around these parts?”
                Cotton’s dark green eyes widened in awe. “How did you know that?” he asked in wonderment, looking at Robin as he believed him to have second sight. Robin sighed impatiently �" he couldn’t tolerate Cotton’s absence of thought at the best of times.
                “Cotton!” he barked. “Focus!”
                “Well… We were ambushed, Robin, by the Sheriff’s men,” a shadow passed over Cotton’s features. “Not the camp, the sentry to the west of it. They got the boy, Smith, first. One moment he was laughing along with Walt and I, you know that boy was always messing about, and the next moment…” He swallowed and shook his head, teeth worrying his bottom lip as he always did when confronting a terrible memory.
                Robin had to remember that despite Cotton’s scattered mind and tendency to fall asleep on watch, the man had seen many battles and had witnessed many travesties in his time. He was a loyal forester, always ready to stand at Robin’s side in a fight, and Robin felt guilty for snapping at him. The guilt mixed with his shock at the deaths of two of his men �" Walt and Smith were both loyal foresters too. He barely heard as Cotton spoke again.
                “They came from nowhere, Robin. I don’t suppose we were paying enough attention, but I did not know that soldiers could move that quietly! They were always so blundering and loud before! They cut Smith’s throat, killed him dead right there and then! He just dropped, blood everywhere. Then Walt tried to draw his sword, but more came out at the sides of him and they sank their swords into his back. His back! No honour or nothing in it! I tried to get to him, Robin, I swear it. But it all happened so quickly, before I knew it they were both dead and the soldiers were coming at me. So I ran for it. They would have caught me if not for Little John.”
                Cotton looked at Robin, whose distant and saddened gaze suddenly sharpened as he met Cotton’s gaze. “Little John?” he asked. “He saved you?”
                “Yeah, shot a couple of them down. They stopped to deal with him, gave me time to scarper off and warn the others to abandon camp and take to the trees. Everyone else is safe, Robin,” Cotton assured him earnestly, but there was a nervous edge to his expression. Perhaps he was afraid that Robin would blame him for Walt and Smith, but something he’d said snagged on Robin’s mind.
                “Everyone else,” he repeated, watching as Cotton dropped his gaze and shuffled uncomfortably.

                “He was captured, Little John,” the man mumbled. “I don’t know if they killed him outright or…”
                Cotton trailed off when he looked back up to see that Robin was no longer listening to him. The fearless leader’s dark eyes were distant again, but sharp and glittering as he processed the news. Finally, Robin shook his head. “No,” he said. “They would not have killed him immediately. The Sheriff would have wanted to gloat over him.”

                He looked at Cotton, and an uncertain look crossed the man’s face as he studied Robin’s features and took a step back. A cold, merciless smile stretched Robin’s lips, a thought occurring that brought him joy but no warmth. “Good for us,” he murmured, curling his hands into stony fists as he pictured the Sheriff’s face. When he focused on Cotton again, he was briefly confused by the fear and confusion he saw in his old friend’s eyes. As though Cotton did not recognise him.
                There wasn’t time to address it �" “Alert the others, tell them to get to the Sheriff’s camp. They are needed for Little John’s rescue,” he made to walk past Cotton to continue his journey, but paused before gently laying a hand on Cotton’s bony shoulder. “John Walter and William Smith will be avenged, my friend,” he quietly assured, allowing a moment of affection that was rewarded with a look of gratitude from Cotton, who nodded in reply.
                Cotton started off towards the cover of the trees and away from the beaten path, and before he disappeared into the greenery he stopped and looked back. “Do you not need me to show you where the Sheriff’s camp is, Robin?”

                “I can find it easily enough, Cotton. Be swift!” Robin urged him, quietly watching as the man melted into the foliage and was gone.
                When all was silent again, Robin mused on Cotton’s words as he began to walk again. The Sheriff had planned this carefully, that much Robin could give him. He’d sent Gisborne to kill the leader whilst the Sheriff and his soldiers attacked the company. Divide and conquer the outlaws who had defied his tyranny every day for years to feed and help the people of Nottingham, to give hope to the people of England.
                The Sheriff was an aggressive dog that did not know its proper place in the world. It was up to Robin Hood, Little John and their merry men and women to put him in his place. Robin knew the Sheriff well, and knew that the attack on the foresters would begin in the morning; the man would have assumed them vulnerable without Robin’s guidance. He would never risk attacking them unless he was sure that both Robin and Little John were out of the way. The Sheriff was far too fastidious, he would want confirmation of Robin’s death before launching the eradication of his company.
                Robin knew he’d taken that olifant for a good reason.
                A cruel smirk twisted Robin’s mouth as he lifted the instrument from his belt. If he was wrong about its purpose it would do little harm to his plan; the Sheriff’s insurance had become Robin’s, and the thought was a satisfying one.
                It was much more difficult that it should have been, to work up enough breath to blow a strong note. Robin’s injuries flare back into life, reminding him of their existence as his chest expanded and stung at the effort. He only winced, and kept up the low, clear note that sang throughout the forest, heard for miles around as it seemed to echo within the air.
                The Sheriff of Nottingham would believe that it signalled the death of Robin Hood, when it heralded his arrival.

 

                The muscles in Little John’s legs had long since gone numb, something he was thankful for after hours of aching pain. He knew he would not be able to stand for much longer. Well, he supposed it was better than being suspended by the neck.
                What made John more uneasy was the barely concealed excitement with which the Sheriff was giving order to his soldiers. They were readying for combat, preparing for a task at hand; Little John could guess what that task was. Another one of their murderous raids, usually inflicted on villages that couldn’t pay the Sheriff’s exorbitant taxes, now aimed at the foresters who defied them. John could only hope that his company’s greater skill and knowledge of the area would make up for their lack in number. Yet another party of soldiers had joined the camp as dusk began to settle; from what John could see, the foresters would be outnumbered three men to one.
                They had faced worse odds, hadn’t they?
                No matter what happened, the group would survive as a whole. They were a band of skilled archers, swordsmen �" foresters through the through �" the women of the group could outfight any one of the Sheriff’s men. John’s own wife was a force to be reckoned with, especially when it came to protecting their children, who had been trained by both John and Robin in combat. This was their territory, and John had to believe that the soldiers were at a disadvantage here �" everything he cared about depended on it.
                Besides, Robin would have returned by now; he would rally the company around him. He had a talent for inspiring bravery, and a mind so cunning that he could have taken on the entirety of the Sheriff’s force on his own. No one bested Robin Hood amongst the trees. John had often wondered if the man was created by the forest, he knew it so well. If Robin did turn out to be some kind of forest sprite or spirit, John wouldn’t have been at all surprised.
                If only he wasn’t so useless to them at that moment. Here he was, trussed up like a high-born maiden in distress, unable to give his friends even the slightest aid.

                He was realising why Robin was so insulted at the clearing.
                John tugged at the bonds on his wrists, wincing as the rope scraped against raw skin, when a low and strangely mournful tone rang out through the trees.
                Every man in the camp stopped to listen. The note sent a chill through John’s body, and when it ceased it still rang within his ears. A terrible feeling of dread fell over him and increased when his gaze caught the Sheriff, meeting the savage expression of joy on the man’s sharp features.
                The manic triumph that alighted the Sheriff’s eyes when he looked at John made him look quite mad. His teeth bared into a wolfish impression of a smile and he stalked up to his prisoner, who quickly steeled himself against any reaction to what the Sheriff was going to say. John was determined not to show how unnerved he was, particularly at how much taller the Sheriff seemed when he stood before him.
                “Did you hear that, knave?” The Sheriff’s voice was low and trembling, his nostrils were flared and his teeth gleamed white against his thin lips. John merely glared and kept his silence.
                “That is the sweetest music ever to have graced my ears,” the Sheriff continued regardless. He bent over to stare into John’s eyes. “It was the call of my assassin to tell me that he has succeeded. That Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves, is dead.”

               

 

                Though the Sheriff did not touch him, John felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. The great forester, who had seen much suffering, many battles and endured numerous injuries, softly took a deep breath through his nose as a pain the like of which he had never felt before spread through his mind. He withheld the Sheriff’s gleaming stare as the man watched for any sign of distress. John found himself unable to hide the emotion that gripped him, and the Sheriff snorted at the sight of his grief. He straightened and left his prisoner, satisfied with his victory, to give orders to his soldiers with a new vigour.
                  John barely noticed his absence.
                No.

                It could not be so. No man with that amount of sheer gall and reckless bravery could ever fail or be taken from this life. No, it was not possible.
                A fog encase John’s mind, protecting him from the grief that edged around his shock. Robin Hood was dead. He was dead. And John had left him to his fate.
                He’d failed him. The man in the clearing had been the assassin, and John left Robin to die alone because of a petty fight that would have been forgiven and forgotten in moments.
                Was it worth it? �" The vicious thought stabbed at John �" Was it worth your pride? You practically threw him to his death.
                His legs finally buckled, and Little John hung against his bonds. Desolate and defeated.
                “Worry not, criminal,” the Sheriff’s voice calmly sounded above him. “You will be joining your friend soon enough.”
                John couldn’t find the will to look up. Any anger or care for his fate was beyond him now. He had failed his friend.

 

                The loud voices of clipped commands and the sounds of activity made the Sheriff’s camp easy to find. Robin was surrounded by quiet rustlings and gentle twitching of leaves and branches that moved with him as he left the forest path and moved deep into the trees. He knew who was following him, and their presence was an invisible comfort in the face of what he was walking into. Still, he was mildly annoyed that they were making any kind of sound at all �" had he not taught them how to move noiselessly through the forest? He only hoped that the Sheriff’s soldiers were not as perceptive.
                A new pathway had been flattened through an expanse of bluebells, numerous feet trampling the same line over the delicate flowers. It led Robin to the camp, which he spied through the thick cover of trees as he paused to assess his situation.
                Ahead, two men guarded the camp entrance �" the soldiers had made a small clearing for their camp, rather finding an existing one. Beyond them, judging by what he could see and hear, there must have been over twenty soldiers.
                If Robin carried along the path, he would be identified and escorted to the Sheriff. Many of the soldiers knew Robin’s face, he would have to keep his hood low, find Little John and quickly free him. Skilled fighter as he was, Robin could not win against twenty able men when healthy. He certainly had no hope of doing so now.
                He had to get John to the cover of the trees, there his men had the advantage. If Robin remembered the area correctly, just to the east there was a ridge cut through the forest floor by a stream that ran only in winter. It was the perfect place to ensure a quick getaway and a successful ambush.
                So he subtly gestured to his left, giving the signals to silently tell his men where to go and what his rough plan was. The forest became still, soft whispers moving away to do as Robin asked. Some of the men would stay to disperse around the camp, ready to help if something went wrong.

                The gathering gloom served to Robin’s advantage as he approached the sentries with his face well hidden. Both of the soldiers were so oblivious that he was almost upon them when they noticed him. Robin’s own men would have heard him long before.
                They shot to their feet, drawing their swords at the ready. Their stances betrayed their fear and uncertainty, their only strength coming from their companions in the camp beyond.
                “Halt!” the older of the two bleated in an attempt to sound authoritative, even as his body shrank back. “Identify yourself.”
                Robin lifted his head a little, only exposing his chin and mouth. “I have no need to identify myself to you, knave,” he said roughly, deepening his voice. “I come to converse with your master.”
                The soldiers bristled, with the younger one looking to the older for support. “You need our permission to pass before you set a foot near to our master,” he said, his voice high-pitched and strained. Robin snorted in derision.
                He stepped forward, his stride taking him close enough that both soldiers flinched back. “Stand. Aside.” Robin was quite proud of nervous his snarled command made the two men. They stirred like restless horses, and he half-expected the accompanying whinny and stamping of feet.
                The soldiers were saved from having to make the decision, as the Sheriff noticed the confrontation at the camp entrance and came forward at the sight of the intimidating figure standing there. “Allow him through!” he called, brightening as his soldiers gratefully stood aside and the stranger strode into the dimming light of the clearing.
                Every man in the encampment looked at him with varying degrees of mistrust and curiosity as he passed by. His face was still obscured, but the horse hide tunic, rough manner and cold eyes that gleamed from beneath his hood suited the description of the Sheriff’s infamous assassin.
                The Sheriff himself seemed determined to be friendly; he walked up to Robin and extended a hand of greeting. “My friend,” he said. “Name your price and it will be awarded to you. All of the gold and lands of a great knight if need be; there is no price too great to reward the elimination of the most depraved outlaw of them all.”
                Robin ignored the proffered hand. Not in a thousand years of suffering would he ever have taken it. However, he had already taken a look at the camp, counting twenty five men in total, only a few horses, three carts packed with supplies and a worrying amount of weaponry. It would make things interesting. But they only had swords and spears, cumbersome in the close quarters between the trees. They should have known better.
                Little John was tied at the far end of the clearing to a large oak tree. Thankfully, he was close to the chosen route of escape.
                Blimey. Robin remembered hoping, several times over the years as he watched John mow through their enemies, that John’s death-glare would never be turned upon him. He had been right to fear it. For when John lifted his head and Robin was fixed that that look, he was thankful that the big man had only one functioning eye. Otherwise, Robin would likely have dropped dead on the spot.
                At least he was well enough to give the death glare.
                “I thank you for your generosity, Sheriff,” the rough, disguised voice that he used was enough to fool the Sheriff, but it was not enough to fool John.
                Robin felt a wave of affection for his friend. The only evidence that John had recognised his voice was a slight lessening of that glare and a surprised twitch of his eyebrows. Otherwise, he did not give Robin away.

                “But I ask for nothing more than the honour of ending the life of that man whom you hold prisoner here,” Robin nodded towards John, and was unable to stop his fingers twitching in anticipation when the Sheriff looked incredulous at his request. He knew that he needed to hide his desperation better; his urgency to reach John was making him drift towards the bound man. His fingers flexed in want of the dagger at his belt, and the temptation to draw the blade across the Sheriff’s throat was almost overwhelming. But they would never escape if he did so.
                So, Robin breathed deeply and called on a great amount of self-control to make himself stand still. His revenge would have to wait for another day; today, rescuing John was the priority.
                “You are a fool!” the Sheriff laughed, and after a beat of silence several of his soldiers joined in. Much to Robin’s ire. The disrespect rankled, and his hands tingled with the desire to plant his fist straight on that man’s stupid, weasel face.
                Robin wasn’t a patient man, never had been, nor did he have much self-control, and the ache of his present injuries were doing nothing to help him.

                He had to endure for a little while longer, else all was lost.
                “I offer you great riches and this is all you ask of me?” the Sheriff’s voice was mocking, playing to his audience.
                “I killed Robin Hood,” Robin snarled. The suddenness of his anger made the Sheriff and his soldiers jolt back. “I own the right to kill the rest of his company, starting with that wretch!” He caught Little John’s indignation as he pointed over to him. “That is all I demand of you.”
                He could risk it, could he not? Yes �" Robin decided to rest his hand on the hilt of his sword, his movements gentle but no less threatening because of it.
                The Sheriff was too much of a coward not to be intimidated, but he struggled to maintain his composure in front of his men.
                “Very well, I grant you this wish,” he replied, his tone much colder and laced with tension. Finally, he stood aside to clear Robin’s path to Little John.

                It was all Robin could do to stop himself from rushing over as quickly as he could. He managed to slowly walk up to his friend, whose anticipation was better concealed but still visible to Robin’s sharp eyes. John dropped his head in apparent resignation at his death.
                Robin looked back at the soldiers and the Sheriff, who had followed him closely to watch the execution. “Stand back!” he snapped. “None but I and God Almighty may hear the last words of this condemned man. Unless you defy this divine law and condemn yourselves in his stead?”
                They all paused, the soldiers looking to their commander as the Sheriff’s jaw tightened at Robin’s impudence, as it had so often done in the past. Robin knew what the Sheriff was thinking �" the insult made by a man he had hired, a man who should have been his subject to control. But he did not possess the backbone to defy ‘Sir Guy of Gisborne’ so his nodded his assent and retreated with the rest of his men to watch from a distance.
                Robin turned back to John. “I leave you alone for five minutes…” he murmured.
                “If I didn’t know better, I would say that you and the Sheriff are in this together to teach me a lesson.”
                “Well, you know how fond I am of him. Are you hurt?”
                “Not significantly.”
                “Your face has certainly been much improved.”
                “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
                “What do you take me for?”
                “A dead man.”
                Robin huffed slightly, relieved that John was well enough to tease him. “I assume you have a plan?” John whispered.
                “We will be going to your right, the men are waiting along the ridge there to ensure our escape.”

                “I would rather tear these sons of w****s to pieces.”

                “Well you can if you like, but I will running to fight another day. Can you run?”
                “My legs have gone numb. I may be slow at first but I think I can manage.”
                “Bonds?”
                “Each arm is tied at the wrist beneath all of this.”
                “Alright, will this do?” Robin held out Gisborne’s stolen dagger for John’s inspection, making it look like he was preparing to cut his throat. “I’ll cut through the bonds on your left side, then you take this and cut the rope from your wrist.”

                “Sounds good to me.”
                “Ready?”

                “As always.”
                “On the count of three…” Robin raised the dagger high before he held it underneath John’s chin. “One…two…”
                As always, he didn’t bother with ‘three’.
                Robin moved as fast as a striking snake, moving the dagger to the side and slicing it up through John’s bonds. John span around, his legs holding as he caught the dagger and cut the loose piece of rope from his wrist; he wouldn’t have got far with it trailing behind him.

                In a few seconds, John was standing at Robin’s side, both men with blades drawn.
                Robin shed his hood, face gleaming with triumph and defiance when it was revealed. John took a moment to glance at him, awed by his strength and worried by the bruises that marked Robin’s skin.

                 There was a pause of stunned silence at the vision returned from the dead. Then, the Sheriff’s face twisted into an ugly look of rage and hatred. “Kill them!” he screamed, and twenty-five soldiers sprang towards Robin and Little John with weapons drawn.
                “Should we not be running?” John asked; they were extremely outnumbered and he was armed with not but a dagger against twenty-five swords.
                But Robin’s features were set into that fiery confidence that John knew so well, and he acknowledged it with no small amount of pride and exasperation, his fear banished. That look was always given as a challenge to death. Come and get me then. I will fight you to my last breath and beyond.
                “I forgot to tell you about this part,” Robin smirked, glancing back at John with a twinkle in his eye.
                Robin studied the soldiers as they charged towards him and John, his gaze flickering over each man as though he was preparing to battle every one of them single handed. But he raised his left hand into the air �" John did not miss the wince that the gesture caused �" and clenched it into a fist. When the soldiers were almost upon them, Robin brought his fist down, and a volley of arrows burst from the trees behind him.
                Their enemies were halted and driven back, the first row of soldiers cut down and the rest being picked off one by one. From the onslaught, John guessed that no more than five men were firing, but they were moving fast enough around the clearing to create the impression of a greater number.
                It gave Robin and John the time to run for their planned escape route, diving out of the clearing and cutting through the trees.
                The one man who remained focused as his soldiers panicked and dived to avoid the deadly projectiles was the Sheriff himself. His hatred was too strong to be wavered by surprise, and his voice cut through the disarray.

                “With me! With me!” he shouted, rallying remaining soldiers who fell into place behind him as he gave chase to the fleeing outlaws.
                Both Robin and John quickly realised that they wouldn’t reach the ridge in time; their pursuers were catching up at too great a speed. John was tired and his legs were stiff, and Robin wasn’t faring much better. The younger man’s breath was wheezing, and John glanced worriedly at him to see the light sheen of sweat coating Robin’s ashen complexion.
                Whatever ailed him didn’t stop Robin from whirling around to face the oncoming attack. “What are you doing?” John shouted, pulling up and turning to see Robin make his stand.
                “Go, quickly,” Robin sounded eerily calm as he shrugged the unfamiliar bow and quiver of arrows from his shoulder and threw them back to John, who barely managed to catch both at the same time. “I will delay them.”
                “No! I am not leaving you to face them alone!” John roared. “I left you once this day and I will regret it for the rest of my life! Never again!”
                “John…”

                “No! I have never thought you a coward and I did not mean to imply so earlier! There is no need to kill yourself trying to prove what I already know! I will not abandon you here!”
                “You’re not abandoning me!” Robin bellowed over John’s tirade. “Up on that rise, you can cover me from there until our men reach us.” He nodded to the high ground just behind them; it would take John half a minute to reach it.
                John felt a little foolish for his outburst, and whilst Robin had ignored it John knew that he’d mercilessly bring it up for years to come. And John would do all his could to Robin that opportunity.
                He pushed his protesting legs as fast as they could go then faster still, determine to not leave Robin to face the danger alone.

                John had only just disappeared from sight when the Sheriff and his soldiers caught up to Robin, stopping short when they saw him facing them. The Sheriff stepped forward, breathing hard. His eyes were alight with a manic determination, his sword held at his side. “The assassin may have failed to kill you, but you will still not survive this day!” he spat.
                Robin raised his eyebrows. “Oh, so there’s your backbone!” he said in a false tone of light wonder, unable to resist the chance to mock his enemy. It was worth it, as he watched the Sheriff’s face turn a vivid shade of puce. If Robin was going to die by the man’s hand, he’d get as many hits in as he could.
                He hoped that John or the others would reach him in time. Though he tried to hide it, Robin was weak. The wound in his left side was screaming, and every breath lit a fire within his chest. It leeched the strength from him, draining it from his muscles and making him feel light headed. He was barely able to raise his sword in time to block the Sheriff’s first attack.
                Little John reached the rise in time to witness the strike, worrying jolting through him as he noted Robin’s sluggish and clumsy parry. His friend stumbled backwards at the force of the blow.

                Dear God, he was injured. There was no mistaking it now, as Robin just about deflected the Sheriff’s next strike, one-handed.
                The Sheriff was no great swordsman, but he broke through Robin’s defences in little time. He planted his foot into Robin’s stomach, a vicious kick that threw Robin to the ground. He landed like a dropped sack of potatoes, and he did not get back up.
                John’s hands shook with panic as he notched a heavy, blood-encrusted arrow onto the strong bow. The weapon suited John’s strength, and he trained the arrow point on the Sheriff’s form. The string of this bow would not break under the strain.
                S**t. John only had one eye working, the other still refused to open. It was unlikely that he would hit his target, but Robin’s life depended on it. Don’t panic. Take a deep breath and steady your hand.
                Robin had no more strength to give, and he was helpless as the Sheriff kicked his sword away, pressing the sharp point of his own to Robin’s throat.
                “I have been dreaming of this day for years,” he breathed. He raised his sword high above his head, the blade pointing down like that of Damocles, ready to fall.
                Robin would not close his eyes. He would not flinch or look away. Death came to all in the end, and he would stare it in the eyes. He had defied death too often to fear it now.

                The arrow punched through the Sheriff’s chest, so long that the sharp point exploded from his back as the fletching buried into his ribcage. Straight through his heart.

                 

                 He was dead before he hit the ground, toppling backwards with his sword clattering from limp fingers.
                A heavy silence fell over the forest. Even the birds seemed to hold their song in shock at the sight of the Sheriff’s corpse, its colourless eyes still open, vacant and lifeless as they were.
                The soldiers stirred. Left without their commander, they were uncertain as they looked toward Robin, who lay helpless before them. Then, something behind him made the soldiers start and begin to move backwards. Robin groaned as he twisted around, straining his eyes to their limit to see that the rest of his men had joined Little John on the rise. They had the high ground and stood strong, a line of drawn arrows ready to be loosed �" every one of them would find their target if the soldiers took as much as a step towards their leader.
                The woodsmen stood ready until the soldiers were out of sight and hearing as they made their tense retreat. Only when all was silent did they move.
                John reached Robin first, leaping straight down from his vantage point to crouch at Robin’s side as the rest of their company flocked to surround them. “Fool! Why didn’t you tell me you were injured!” he scolded. “Where are you hurt?”
                “I don’t know,” Robin gasped. “I’m not entirely where my pride is,” he flashed a smile at John, who maintained an unimpressed stare until Robin answered properly. “My left side.”
                John leaned across, spotting a small dark patch of red that seeped through the horse hide. He used the dagger, carefully cutting through the tough fabric a little before he used his hands to rip it the rest of the way.
                He grimaced at the amount of blood that was revealed; it soaked the inside of the tunic and coated Robin’s body. The wound cut through his ribs was still leaking, and through the blood John thought he could see bruising that spread up to Robin’s collarbone. He gently pressed around the area, though not enough to prevent Robin from jolting with a protesting whine.
                Broken ribs, most definitely.

                John swallowed, indulging his fear for just a moment. The wound was serious and a blood fever was taking hold in Robin’s flaming skin.
                “You really need to work on…controlling your expressions,” Robin’s voice pulled John from his glazed stare and he looked up to see Robin’s eyes filled with wicked laughter beneath a haze of pain.

                 “I was just wondering how difficult it is to get bloodstains out of horse hide,” he shrugged, managing a weak smile of his own.
                “A question that has often kept me awake at night,” Robin groaned, his complexion somehow getting paler as he gripped his side, his eyes closed in a grimace of pain.
                Never let your fear control you.
                “Hold on, the friar will be able to heal this without a problem,” John promised. He wondered if Robin could hear him as his friend seemed to slip further towards unconsciousness. There was a sleepiness to Robin’s expression that wrenched at John’s gut. It terrified him that Robin didn’t flinch as John lifted him into his arms.
                As John stood, he turned to the group and Cotton was the first man his burning blue eyes found. “Take us back to the camp.”

                 

                Night had truly fallen by the time they made it to the new forester camp. Experienced woodsmen as they were, even Robin’s company couldn’t see in the dark and John heard several thumps, curses and yelps of pain on the way. He had to be careful not to make the same mistakes; he wasn’t sure Robin would survive being dropped.
                They had chosen a good spot for the camp �" it was so well hidden that a layman could have walked right by it without realising it was there. John and his company almost missed it themselves; he had to credit Cotton’s navigational skill. It was certainly better than his concentration �" no other man would have led them home.

                A few tents were set up and a small fire threw the camp into an eerie play of light and flickering shadows. Only a few had stayed behind from the fight, mostly pregnant women and the children too young to fight. John saw his wife, Sarah, standing alert by the campfire with her dagger drawn at the approaching noise. She relaxed when their eyes met, the others following suit when they recognised their friends and brothers.
                John hadn’t realised how much he’d missed her. The sight of her, the relief in her shining brown eyes and the concern when she saw Robin, was a balm on the day’s events for John. She darted into one of the tents before reappearing with Friar Tuck in tow.
                The good friar was a rotund and heavy man of the cloth who sported more attitude and wit than most mercenaries. As with most of the people here, he’d been recruited by a chance encounter with Robin, impressed by the young man’s humour and strength of character. Tuck was educated in medicine, a valuable asset to the company and a much needed one at that moment. He motioned for John to set Robin down by the fire, crouching over their leader when John did so.
                “No need to ask what happened,” he said, voice steady and light. He spoke a few words to Sarah that John didn’t catch, but she vanished once again into the nearest tent as the friar peeled away Robin’s tunic to get a better look at his wound.
                It was a miracle he’d survived it at all, let alone managed to walk to John’s aid. The deep slice looked more frightening by firelight, it glimmered with fresh blood that refused to cease as Tuck used a cloth to wipe some of it from the wound. The friar’s thick fingers palpated the area around the cut, and John glanced at Robin’s absent features. He did not even flinch. “Broken ribs,” Tuck murmured, moving as Sarah returned with the supplies he needed.
                “Can you help him?” John asked, keeping his voice low. Tuck’s light eyes, the fire flickering in across their surface, lifted to meet his gaze.
                “I will do what I can.”  

 

                Joy, John’s eldest child, joined them as Tuck prepared. She swept down to crouch beside her father, and he turned to see his own light blue eyes looking at him with a mixture of relief and worry. Joy ghosted her fingers over his swollen eye, causing no pain as she studied the bruised flesh in the dim light. John caught her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, glad to see his firstborn after so recently fearing that he never would again. Joy was a woman grown now, tall and strong like John was, clever and brave like her mother.
                Sarah was using a dagger to cut away the last of Robin’s borrowed tunic, easing it from beneath his body and throwing it to the side. “Joy,” she looked up at their daughter. “Find a clean stick, at least this thick…” she motioned with her hand, forming a circle of her finger and thumb. “Quickly now.” Joy nodded and flitted away into the darkness.
                “Is there no other way?” John asked with a desperate look at his unconscious friend. He knew what Tuck planned to do, and the thought chilled his blood. “Can you not stitch the wound?”
                Tuck spared him a glance that told John he was being an irritant, but there was little expectation that the man would pay it any heed. “There’s no time for that now,” he replied. “Cauterising the wound is cleaner, and a better method against infection. He’s lost too much blood.”
                John sighed, reluctantly accepting the answer �" no matter how weak Robin was, what they were about to do would certainly not fail to wake him, and John wished there was another way. The younger man had suffered enough this day, the idea of causing him more pain went against every fibre of John’s being. He met Sarah’s gaze, the expression in his wife’s eyes warm and understanding. John knew his tension wasn’t helping, it contrasted against the calmness of Sarah and the friar who were prepared to do what was needed. No matter how difficult it would be. But then again, they were not at least partially responsible for it, and John could not assuage his guilt.
                Joy returned, crouching at Robin’s head and placing the stick between his teeth. Sarah moved to lie over his legs as Joy leaned all of her weight upon his shoulders.
                Friar Tuck looked at them all in turn �" Joy, Sarah, and finally John who felt his heart steel at the holy man’s gaze before it moved to Cedric Toley, a man of their company who was holding a sword in the fire.
                John leaned over and gripped Robin’s biceps, keeping an eye on the glowing blade as Cedric passed it to the friar. John looked away, staring down into Robin’s features, the firelight reflected from the sheen of sweat over his skin, the wisps of dark brown hair stuck to his forehead. Stay with us, you stubborn pig.  
                “Is everyone ready?” Tuck asked, rather uselessly, John thought. Their answers wouldn’t have made a difference.
                Tuck took a deep breath, bent down, and with the same quick precision that served him well in battle, pressed the scalding blade to Robin’s wound.
                John’s teeth gritted at the sizzling noise, wincing when the smell reached him. He watched, clenching his jaw yet harder as Robin’s eyes flew open, the stricken agony that overtook his face as an unholy shriek escaped around the stick that crunched between his teeth.
                A boy. He was just a boy, really. The thought rarely occurred to John in recent days, so long he had spent fighting by Robin’s side. But comparatively, Robin was young, too young for the legend that had grown around his name. He’d been barely more than twenty when he rescued John and his family from tax-collecting soldiers who threatened to slaughter their village when they were unable to pay. John stood up to them, fought the men as houses burned, as women and children screamed in fear. All would have been lost if not for that solitary boy in the trees, whose arrows spoke louder than the soldier’s threats ever had.
                Perhaps Robin was more aware of his situation than John gave him credit for, as he quickly stopped screaming. His body remained arched up in tension, his fists clenched hard as he tried to remain still.
                It was a lifetime before Tuck took the sword away to reveal a fresh, pink burn in the place of the open wound.

                “Perfect,” he announced happily, though his regret was evident when he watched Robin’s eyes slide shut, their leader succumbing to unconsciousness once more. The others sat back with a collective sigh, but John remained where he was for a moment before he carefully took the stick from Robin’s mouth and frowned at the teeth marks buried deep within it.
                “Now we bind the wound…” John barely heard the friar speak, glancing at the man as he placed some kind of herb against the burn, Sarah and Joy helping him bind them into place. “And we wait.”

                “Wait?” John said sharply. “Wait for what?”
                “His fever to fade,” Tuck smoothed a hand over Robin’s forehead, pushing back his damp hair. “I am hopeful that he will survive the night, if he does then he will survive until the next adventure almost slices him in two. Keep his forehead cool with fresh water, and someone should watch over him. I have done all I can.”
                John had already known that Tuck wasn’t one for optimism �" this was the closest to good news he ever gave �" but at least there was still hope. Robin would survive, the boy was too stubborn to die slowly.

                Some of the men who surrounded them, watching the procedure with breath held in sympathy and concern, stepped forwards. They were ready to carry their leader into one of the tents, but stopped when John gingerly lifted Robin into his own arms. Where it would have taken two or three of them to transport Robin gently, John needed no help. He struggled only a little as he stood, his exhaustion tugging at him, and the others hovered close by in case he lost balance. They knew better than to attempt taking over.
                “Father,” Joy settled a hand on his arm. “Let me watch over him. You must rest.”
                “Yes, you must,” Tuck added, his tone coloured with disapproval as he eyed John’s bruised features.
                John was tired, and there was not a place on his body that didn’t ache or creak painfully as he adjusted Robin’s weight. But he could not, would not, rest until Robin was out of danger. John owed him that much.
                “No,” he shook his head, giving Joy a soft smile. “I can watch him.” Every one present knew better than to argue, and they watched as John slowly made his way to the tent closest to the fire, and painfully ducked down to disappear inside.
                John lay Robin on the makeshift bed in the centre, arranging the blankets over him as Sarah appeared to place a wooden bowl of water and a cloth by his side. She gave John a glowing smile, patting his shoulder as she pressed her warm lips to his temple; silent, unquestioning and always supportive. Then she left him to it, knowing that he did not want company.
                After a long silence, when John was sure that the others had either gone to sleep or were on watch, he finally spoke. “Listen to me,” he murmured. “You cannot die this day, not like this. You did not survive an assassin and a fight with twenty-five men just to die now.
                “You are the most irritating person I have ever known, and that includes the Sheriff,” John wetted the cloth again, squeezing out the excess moisture before he mopped Robin’s burning brow. The tent was lit by a small lantern, something smuggled from Barnesdale no doubt. And the flame was gradually getting smaller as the hours passed by.
                “No matter how angry I was, I should not have left you alone to face such danger. I may have killed you…” John’s voice cracked, and he quickly looked away from Robin to compose himself. “Stupid, headstrong, dramatic child,” he growled tightly. “If you had died out in that clearing, how would I have felt? Did you consider that? You fool! I’m not admitting that I was wrong to tell you stay behind, I have your best interests at heart, no matter how much of an insult that is! We are brothers, Robin, brothers-in-arms. Equals. And if you speak to me as you did back at the clearing, I’ll kill you myself! Don’t you dare die now, and deny me the chance to punch you for trying to draw your sword against me! The Sheriff and that devil he hired do not deserve your life; you dare let them take it now! I reserve the right to kill you! Me! Me and your damned stupidity!”
                John’s breath ran out, and he paused for a moment to catch it, blood pulsing beneath his cheeks as they turned red. He glared down at Robin’s peaceful face, and clenched his fists against anger and pain. John would never forgive himself if this fever claimed the life of his friend.

 

                Despite his resolve not to do so, the day’s exploits caused John to fall asleep whilst sitting up at Robin’s side. That was how he woke, with a surprised snort, looking around to see that dawn was just seeping through the gaps around the tent flap. He blinked hard to banish his grogginess, shifting uncomfortably at the chill in the air and he looked over at Robin to check that he was safely covered against it. The steady rise and fall of Robin’s chest made John smile, relief easing the stiffness of his muscles, those in his back twinged when he leaned forward, wrenching a groan of pain.  

                It took John’s fogged senses quite a few seconds to register that a pair of bright, black eyes were studying him with their old sparkle, watching as he woke.
                “You still snore like an angry bear with a bee stuck up its nose,” Robin commented.
                “You snuffle in your sleep like a nesting field mouse,” John countered after a shocked pause. “I am reliably told that it is rather sweet,” he grinned as Robin’s face fell into an insulted expression.
                “I am not ‘sweet’!”
                “You’re adorable,” John crooned. “Like a chick or a kitten.” He laughed when Robin pouted like a sulking child and muttered something that sounded like �" ‘big oaf’ �" before Robin closed his eyes and settled back onto his pillow.
                “Robin…” John’s mirth faded back to guilt and he inspected his hands. “I feel I must…”
                “Forget it,” Robin said, opening his eyes to give John a forgiving look, mouth twitching up in a gentle smile.
                “I owe you an apology!” John grudgingly persisted.
                “And I owe you one. Thereby, each apology cancels out the other, so we are both saved from having to speak them.” Robin waited as John thought upon that logic, until the older man accepted it with a nod and a look of relief.
                “I owe you thanks, though,” Robin added, closing his eyes again.
                “The same to you, my friend,” John said warmly, watching Robin drift back into sleep.
                “John…” he barely caught the soft murmur, and leaned forwards to better hear it.

                “Yes?”
                “If you ever call me a stupid, headstrong, dramatic child again, I’ll shave your beard off as you sleep.” 

Author's Note

Just constructive criticism, please