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XIV. Contests

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The day broke clear to find foot and cart traffic clogging both the Mansfield and the London Roads, and all headed for the Market Square. Some were contestants for the games, but more brought things to sell such as clothing and furs, jewelry, and perfumes. There were performers of mystery plays, and jugglers and dancers and musicians to accompany, and apiarist monks selling containers of honey, while other folks brought exotic spices, and jugs of wine and mead, kegs of ale, and every manner of pies.

At one opening in the market wall, Osbert and Geoffrey sat, officiating over the combat contests, which were to begin at noon. Of course, any members of the Waits received the benefit of being entered first on the rolls: Benedict, Reynold, and Robyn, whose last name Osbert wrote as “Hoode.”

“Even if it’s that tanner’s family you belong to, don’t want ‘Hodde’ written down ’ere,” explained Osbert. “Sheriffs will be o’erlooking the lists for outlaws, an’ that name’s notorious. Passelewe’d arrest you on the spot.”

Little John went shopping for a shirt on the Norman side of the market. Aware that his green clothing might have labeled him an outlaw, Thomas had already upon awakening glamoured his clothing—his cotehardie now indigo with a red trim, and his leggings ochre. He could maintain that façade all week with no effort.

Ten signed up for the quarterstaves combat, and twenty-one archers. The two Waits used a blind draw to match opponents, with any odd-numbered leftover matched against whoever won the very first contest. As it was random, it was deemed fair. Benedict and Reynold would begin by fighting someone else.

Both sheriffs were on hand. Thomas had already seen the Saxon man, named Orrels, who was again dressed in his bright blue cotehardie, now paired with yellow leggings. The tall Norman sheriff proved to be both red-bearded and florid of complexion. He wore a crimson kirtle and leggings. By coincidence this made him look almost a twin to one of the competing archers, named Will Scathelock, save that the French sheriff sported a bycocket hat, also of red, and with a peregrine feather in the band while the fair-haired Scathelock had on a simple peasant’s coif, the strings tied under his chin, and his tunic displayed some sort of emblem.

Knowing that the Yvags were here, Thomas kept an eye out for the two knights, though he was sure they wouldn’t be disguised as crusading knights now, but as something more likely to blend in with the crowd. Of course, what did that even mean? They could have been anyone wandering through the market square, glamoured and nondescript the same as him. He knew it was a fruitless task, but it was all he had to go on. How many of their kind had stepped through in two haunted Sherwood nights and how many of those would have been directed to the harvest fair in seeking the dights that Little John had stolen?

Shortly before the contests were to begin, a group of four riders arrived on the market square. They were all dressed in matching surcoats of deep green with gold trim, and a circular emblem on the surcoat breast. They all wore a kind of chaperon as well, russet-colored, with a liripipe dangling over their shoulders like a braid. The emblem on their breasts was the same as that worn by the competing archer Scathelock.

Little John, in his freshly purchased white linen shirt, nudged Thomas. “That,” he said, “is Isabella Birkin and her Keepers’a Sherwood.”

The lead rider swung down, and Thomas realized this must be Isabella. She’d ridden her horse like any man might, made possible by her being outfitted with the same leggings as the other three. A short sword hung from her belt. Her expression was less than friendly, fierce he might have said. If John hadn’t identified her, he would have thought he was observing a man with piercing blue eyes and a mouth set permanently in a scowl of displeasure. The belted surcoat disguised her shape, the chaperon her hair, save for a slight hint of gold around her ears.

Abruptly, Thomas realized he had met her, deep in the Barnsdale Wood, a few years before, when she and her foresters were in pursuit of Hodde, or maybe it was another outlaw—he wasn’t certain of that. Her hair had been in a snood off the back of her head. She had scrutinized him, finding nothing but the mad old man of the woods he’d made of himself. The memory roared back in an instant.

He covered his surprise, saying, “She does not look friendly.”

“Then you see her true, friend Robyn. An’ that short blond one behind her, ’e’s her son, Adam D’Everingham. Means to take her place as warden when she’s done. The other’s named Maurin Payne, I think.”

The sourness of her expression reminded him of his own father after the Yvag had possessed him. “Would you say she’s a person of power and influence?”

“She is, aye.” He thought on it for a minute. “Less influence than her ’usband, though. Robert D’Everingham thinks he deserves her posting and all what comes with it.”

“Does he? Deserve it?”

“Forest to him is just someplace to sport with his ladies and boys. He’d get rid’a the rest, reive the occasional deer, and pay himself well to do it.”

“I see. You know a lot, John. Does Isabella know you?”

Little John replied obliquely, “I expect we’ll find that out by and by.”


At noon the contests began. As there were more archers, they went first, “Robyn Hoode” against a bowyer from Mansfield. He deferred to the bowyer, who, judging from his bleary gaze, had perhaps celebrated a bit too much the previous night, and whose shot struck in the third ring. Thomas, nervous as he was, had no trouble besting the shot. Even so, he aimed for the center of the target but pulled to the left, the arrow fishtailing, piercing the first ring circling the bullseye. Afterward, he floated the bow on his palm, seeking and finding the slight imbalance in it. How had he missed that before? He was rusty. Waldroup had taught him everything there was to know about the bow. He must retrieve that knowledge, and compensate.

Then came Benedict, who with his first blow knocked his opponent into the water. The crowd of onlookers cheered, Benedict being a local favorite.

And so it went. Little John won his first match, though not as handily as Benedict had. John watched Benedict’s attack on his second opponent. Benedict worked a particular sidestep, a clever and quick misdirection that guided the opponent to attack where he no longer stood. By the third bout it seemed inevitable that the two of them would face off in the final round.

After the first rounds, there was open betting on both combats, with the two Waits now acting as turf accountants, taking bets—and all of it legal: The two sheriffs stood close by, neither of them objecting. Everyone had gotten a look at the competitors and now made their choices. John in his second round faced another of Isabella’s foresters, who grabbed onto his staff, thinking apparently to rip it out of his grasp. Instead, when he pulled, Little John offered no resistance and simply shot forward, running the fellow right off the bridge. Cheers and boos mixed equally. Thomas observed Isabella and the Norman sheriff conferring afterward.

A blind draw had been instituted due to the odd number of entrants. This meant that one of the shooters had an extra round, an extra opponent to eliminate before the final challenge. That opponent proved to be Will Scathelock. The Keepers cheered him on against his opponent from York. Scathelock bested the man easily, once again hitting the target dead center. The ultimate contest was going to be between Thomas and Scathelock.

By now he had gotten the measure of Hodde’s bow, and had hit the bull’s-eye twice, but he recognized the precision of this young man. He seemed to be the darling of Birkin’s Keepers. The betting was heavily weighted in his favor. If Thomas had held any extra cash, he might have bet on Scathelock himself.

Across the market, shouts and cheers erupted. Little John was facing off against Benedict. In between rounds now, Thomas strolled over to watch.

Little John climbed to the center of the bridge. In his first move, he made the same feint as Benedict’s first opponent had done. When Benedict pivoted aside the same as he’d done with that man, John launched his real attack, thrusting his staff at Benedict’s ankle, denying him the opportunity to balance on that leg. Benedict hopped clumsily onto the other leg, allowing Little John to draw back and aim a straight thrust to the midriff. It shoved him back, only now at an acute angle. He had to step back, but there was no longer a bridge under that foot, and the huge bearlike Benedict, staff held in both hands over his head to deliver a finishing blow, plunged straight into the pond.

A great deal of cheering but also some yelling ensued—a lot of the crowd had bet on the favorite. Osbert and Geoffrey would be paying out substantial winnings to those who’d backed “Reynold.” He watched helplessly as the two sheriffs conferred while looking at John. From their demeanors, he was certain that, new shirt or no, Little John’s identity had been established. But horns were sounding, the call to the archery range. He couldn’t wait to see what happened.

The Norman sheriff, Passelewe, strode past him to officiate, taking his place beside Scathelock, red standing next to red. Thomas hurried to stand with them. With something like an air of indifference, the sheriff looked the two men over, then casually flipped a penny. The result: Scathelock would shoot first. The sheriff handed him his arrow.

Scathelock stepped up to the line, fitted the arrow, drew the bowstring, his form perfect; he let fly. With the precision he had exhibited all afternoon, he hit the mark, dead center. People sent up a cheer as if that were the final shot. However good a marksman the dark-blue-coated stranger might be, he could not best that and should just concede.

Scathelock must have been very pleased with himself; yet he turned and with what seemed genuine camaraderie said, “Good luck to you, good sir.”

Then as Thomas accepted his arrow, he and the Norman sheriff exchanged a glance. The sheriff’s eyes were cold and calculating, sizing him up in such a way that he couldn’t help but wonder if the man was simply merciless or else inhuman. Uncertain, he nodded with stiff courtesy to the sheriff and ignored his unease.

The sheriff nodded back. Thomas crossed over to the line, looking out around him as he did.

The creatures were surely here somewhere, scattered through the crowd, and if he and Little John wanted to get far away, they would need these purses to buy horses and pay for passage across to France. John was likely their quarry already. But Thomas didn’t know them and they knew nothing of him. They certainly didn’t know he’d been an archer longer than anyone here had been alive.

He adjusted his wrist brace, nocked his arrow, and drew back the bowstring. He perceived Scathelock’s bull’s-eye as a feathered black dot in the center of the target now, something on which he could focus, forgetting everything else—the crowd, the sheriffs, the noise. There was him, his breathing, and the smallest of targets calling upon his skill.

He loosed the arrow. The flight couldn’t have lasted more than a moment but it seemed to fly forever. His focus rode as if upon the arrow. The black dot seemed to absorb it, and abruptly grew tiny wings out either side.

No one said anything. It was as if they couldn’t understand what had occurred. His arrow had been swallowed by the arrow already there. It had disappeared within it.

Then the boy on hand to retrieve arrows ran to the target; he turned, an amazed look on his face, and shouted, “He split it!”

People, including Scathelock, the sheriff, and Thomas hurried to the target. There, indeed, his arrow was lodged in the direct center of the target. It had split Scathelock’s down the center and driven the front half of his arrow out the back of the target. “Well,” Scathelock said, “I never.”

The crowd muttered and stared at him, most of them like the boy, in wonder; a few glared. They had lost their wagers. The rest, including Scathelock, began cheering, applauding, pounding him on the back.

“Le vainqueur!” shouted the sheriff, a cry that echoed and was repeated around the market. The sheriff grabbed Thomas’s bare wrist and thrust up his arm. In the instant they touched, Thomas could hear the insectile thrum of a dormant creature’s inner voice, wherever it lay. The sheriff was a skinwalker!

The pale human eyes in that ruddy face went wide with recognition—it sensed that he could hear it. The sheriff, reconsidering him, asked, “Ele vos a envoié?”

Members of the crowd grabbed hold of Thomas. He peeled his arm from the sheriff’s grip. “Merci, Shérif,” he said, and let the crowd haul him safely away, at least for the moment. Did she send you? From that brief connection Sheriff Passelewe believed Thomas was another Yvag, one sent by Nicnevin. How long before he reconsidered that conclusion?

Surrounded by a crowd, Thomas gave the sheriff a single brief nod as if to say “Yes, she sent me.” Then he relaxed and let the crowd pull him across the plaza and toward an opening in the wall, leaving the disconcerted Norman sheriff behind.

The Yvags were here all right, and quite settled in positions of power.


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