I. Thieves
There was something off about the prelate. Even Little John sensed it. Clothed in simple sackcloth, the bishop waddled south along the King’s Great Way through Sherwood, the only obvious item of value being the ivory-topped crozier he handled like a walking stick as he approached the huge split-oak tree behind which John and his companions hid. Yet, if he was just a journeying palmer, why was he accompanied by two knights dressed as if fresh from a crusade in red-cross-adorned surcoats? Knights Templar? What did he have worth stealing? Robert Hodde had to be wondering the same thing.
In front of John, lean and scruffy Hodde leaned on his quarterstaff. John and, behind him, the third member of their little band, the rabbity-faced Much the miller’s boy, watched the trio approach over his shoulder; in the depths of the woods, their clothes of green with red trim rendered them nearly invisible.
The knights wore quilted gambesons beneath deep brown brigandines, presumably plated, although at this distance it was hard to tell—they might just be thick leather. Either way, the two layers would probably stop an arrow, certainly at the distance Hodde’s team preferred to work. That meant close fighting if the prelate chose to be feisty, and only Hodde had brought his quarterstaff. John and Much only had their bows. At least the knights didn’t sport fauchards or crossbows, just flat-topped steel-pot helms with gold crosspiece decorations on the front protecting their heads, and arming swords at their hips.
“What you think, John?” Hodde muttered. “Something in that satchel?”
The prelate carried a small satchel on a baldric slung over one shoulder. It might have contained his more elaborate dalmatic or folded cape, but not much more than one of those—still hardly cause for the presence of the knights.
Granted there were other outlaws lurking in the High Forest between the River Aire and Nottingham. Hodde’s band knew them all; John and he only forayed into Sherwood for quick robberies, after which they headed right back to Barnsdale Wood, where the sheriff or the King’s men were less likely to pursue much less find them. Even the occasional deer they slew they carried off to Barnsdale, leaving no trace that they’d trespassed in the King’s preserve. Life was safer that way.
The prelate drew nearer. Little John read Hodde’s profile—he was chewing on the tip of his brown beard. John knew he was reconsidering. Robbing a priest, even an unaccompanied one, could bring all kinds of trouble. The Church simply had no sense of humor. And this was . . . peculiar.
Then the prelate’s sackcloth shawl flapped open and Little John saw two flashes of color beneath it. He remarked, “’E’s got ’im a king’s ransom on that cincture ’round ’is middle. Look at them sparklers, Robbie.” He pointed. The sackcloth obligingly flopped open with his next step, and a dangling section of knotted silk cincture swung into view. It flickered red and green where the sunlight caught it. Small jewels in settings had been worked into the wide rope. Hodde had to appreciate that for all of his pretense of poverty, the prelate had not been able to deny himself one tiny act of vanity. Or maybe it was the only cincture he owned. Of some value, certainly, but it did not explain the need for the company of two knights.
The prelate and his guards were drawing even with the split oak. John said, “Well?” He looked to Robert Hodde for a sign.
Hodde turned his head and started to speak. But he’d barely breathed, “We should—” before naive Much, as he had done successfully a dozen times before, strode swiftly out from behind the tree. Hodde hissed his name and tried to reach around Little John to grab him, but it was too late. Much scrambled right up into the road ahead of the travelers, his bow nocked and, though pointed at no one, an obvious threat.
John muttered, “Come on, Robbie, put down yer staff an’ grab yer bow.”
Much called, “Good sirs,” as he blocked the prelate’s way. “Forgive me, but I am obliged to ask for some charity from the clergy for my friends and me.” He gave a slight nod, and the knights as one turned to behold Robert Hodde and Little John step out from behind the broad tree and circle onto the road behind them, bows likewise nocked though not aimed at anyone in particular yet. Hodde was cursing under his breath that this was a terrible idea.
“Merciful God!” exclaimed the prelate. “How dare you threaten to rob a poor man of the Church such as myself, sirrah.”
“Not so poor as to waddle alone from Wentbridge, secure in the knowing that you carry nothing of interest to the likes of us,” Much replied.
Hodde gave his head a small shake at that. Even Little John recognized that the lad’s phrasing hardly passed muster. Hodde took a step forward to wrest control of this situation. “A quick look in the satchel is all we need,” he called, “and then ye can continue on tha way.”
The prelate turned about. “Show you that, I will not, Robbehode,” he replied. He beamed triumphantly. “Oh, I know your name, cutpurse. It is not a name to be proud of.”
“It is also in fact not my name, good metropolitan, so you may use it as ye like.” He held the bow to the side, one finger hooked over the arrow, and extended the other arm as if in friendly gesture. Worry poured off him like heat. “Surely, a mere neb inside cannot harm.”
The knights said nothing, but one of them and the prelate turned to face Much, while the other continued to stare at Little John and Hodde without moving. A dull ache vibrated in John’s head, and he saw Hodde wince as if the same pain plagued him.
The facing knight drew his arming sword. The blade flashed with sunlight in rainbow colors like that of no steel John had ever beheld.
Hodde withdrew his friendly gesture, and gripped his bow again. Little John was certain now that they should have let this group pass by. The knights were sinister in some way he could not pinpoint. The one facing Much had drawn his blade, too. It glinted with its similar sheen. If he hadn’t been fixated upon it, he wouldn’t have seen what happened next, though it was as if he didn’t see it at all, but only its effect. The length of the blade seemed to strike like a snake, plunging straight through Much. The lad went up on his tiptoes, his mouth opened in a gasp, while the sword was merely an arming sword again, held at the knight’s side although now coated with blood that looked to be . . . vanishing, as if into the blade.
Hodde called out Much’s name, but Much did not seem to hear, instead stumbling forward and back, eyes pleading helplessly with him and John. Then he collapsed.
In that instant Little John reached over, grabbed Hodde by the quiver strap, and yanked him aside just as the second knight’s blade sprang the distance. He wasn’t quite quick enough. The impossible blade slashed straight through Hodde’s side instead of his middle, gone again so fast it all seemed an illusion; the blade extended from the knight’s hand like a normal sword, and now it, too, was soaking up the blood that stained it. Hodde’s blood.
Little John let go of him, aimed and shot the prelate in the back. The jolt flung the miter from the priest’s head, and he staggered in a circle, clutching at the arrow driven through him. Both knights turned to him.
The prelate wheezed, raised an arm as if about to bless or curse Hodde. Then a weird mist of red blood burst through his sackcloth cloak, and his face seemed to ooze from his head. John took this in as he charged the nearest knight before the fellow could direct his magical blade again. He hammered a fist against the crusader’s pot helm hard as he could, and an unusual thing happened: Instead of falling off, the helmet retreated into the brigandine like a snail drawing into its shell, as if it was a soft gardcorps and not solid at all. It revealed a long, spiky, and coarse gray face surrounded by silvery hair. The knight stumbled and went down on one knee. John stepped past him and grabbed the strap of the satchel from the melting, collapsing corpse of the prelate, as the second knight turned from Much’s body, sword arm extended. That was when Hodde’s arrow pierced the knight’s wrist, and the magical sword fell out of his grasp. Otherwise, John would have been skewered.
The spiky-faced knight started to rise, and John clubbed him down again, a blow that should have shattered his neck. Behind him, Hodde cried, “Take it! Run, John!”
Little John needed no further urging. He hurled himself into the woods, through the trees on a path they all knew to use. But when he looked back, Hodde wasn’t behind him. Two other figures were—if they were the knights, they’d transformed into white-haired, greenish-gray faced demons, sheathed now in strange black armor that gleamed like steel but hugged them like full-body hauberks. The one in front carried one of the weirdly gleaming swords; the one in back clutched its wrist. Their running was jerky, as if they’d never done it before.
Dodging ahead, he dared another glance just as the flashing blade shot forward. He leapt, almost kicking his heels together, and the blade stabbed into the ground beside him, then as quickly snapped back.
John picked up his speed and raced away through the forest, into a landscape he knew from a lifetime of thieving and outwitting pursuit.
What were these creatures? Devils they must be, guarding a prelate who’d . . . who’d melted—had he actually witnessed that? He could only hope that Robert Hodde had fled in the other direction and made good his escape, because whatever was in this old satchel he’d snatched, the knights had both come after it. A king’s ransom at the very least, he imagined. It had cost poor Much his life.
What had they all blundered into?