SEVEN
“This doesn’t look good,” Will said, shading his eyes and peering down at the melee in the valley below.
Robin dropped two bundles of arrows next to him. “Which ones are the good guys?” he asked.
“We are, remember?” Will said.
Behind them, John finished stringing the last of the tall English longbows and tossed it to Robin. “Does that mean we’re supposed to kill them all?”
Maria stood on the other side of Will, scanning the valley below, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The silver wagons were scattered, and the field was littered with bodies, all wearing a number of different colors and emblems. Many of the dead appeared to be imperial guard, but there were a number wearing blue and white as well. She spotted a smaller group wearing long white surcoats over coats of maille. Their surcoats were emblazoned with a red rose.
Her heart beat quickly, both thrilled and saddened at what she saw. There were Shield-Brethren dead on the field. But there were more of them still standing. She wasn’t too late.
“The men in white with the red emblems on their chests,” she said quickly.
“They’ll make for easy targets,” Will said.
“No,” she countered. “Those are my friends.”
Robin laid an arrow across his bow and performed the still-odd motion of drawing the string back. “And the others?” he asked, peering down at the melee.
“Not friends,” she said firmly.
Robin released his first arrow.
Somehow Feronantus wound up shoulder to shoulder with Rutger. They had a wagon at their back, and Rutger’s left arm hung useless at his side. Feronantus was having trouble maintaining his grip on his own sword. No matter how hard he squeezed, it kept twisting in his grasp. The pommel was red with blood, and he could feel more of his life running down his arm.
Three of the mercenaries stood opposite them, armed with swords and shields. They were gauging the Shield-Brethren pair, deciding how best to kill them. Two of their companions lay nearby; they had been overly eager and had taken steel to the throats as a result. The remaining three were a bit warier.
Feronantus leaned against the wagon, and he could feel Rutger resting his weight, too. They were both tired and injured. He had lost track of how many men he had engaged, nor could he remember if they had all died. The battle was a blur, almost like a dream, but his muscles quivered and ached with all the exertion.
“This is it, I suppose,” Rutger said in a hoarse voice. “I can probably take care of the one on the left. Can you get the one on the right?”
“Aye,” Feronantus whispered.
“That one in the middle, though, he’s going to be a problem,” Rutger said. “Do you think he knows it yet?”
“Not yet,” Feronantus said.
As soon as the trio realized one or more of them was going to live, they would rush the pair of Shield-Brethren. They would take their chances.
The man in the middle suddenly threw up his hands. He still had his sword and his shield, and it was such an odd motion that everyone stared. Gradually, he dropped his arms, letting go of his sword and lowering his shield, too. Only then did Feronantus notice the bloody arrowhead protruding from his chest.
The other two mercenaries turned and looked behind them, trying to spot the archer. Feronantus pushed off from the wagon, intending on taking the fight to the mercenaries, but before he could close the distance, the man in front of him was knocked off his feet. He slid across the ground, nearly tripping Feronantus.
The third man grunted as he collapsed, too.
All three had been brought down by long arrows that had gone through maille, leather, and flesh as if all three were nothing more than thin cloth.
“The Virgin watches over us,” Rutger said.
Feronantus looked up at the nearby bluff, spotting the line of men along the edge. “She brought English longbowmen,” he said.
With the arrival of the bowmen, the mercenaries who had come out of the forest realized they were losing, and they scattered. There was no point in pursuing them into the forest. It would take too long to hunt down individuals, and there was the more pressing concern of securing the wagons.
Most of the imperials were dead, and the few who survived were wounded and would have to be left behind at the nearest city where doctors could be found. Some of the drovers were unharmed, having lain down flat beneath their wagons, pretending to be dead. The French ambushers were dead or gone, and a handful of the mercenaries were still alive. Some had surrendered; a few had been forcibly taken.
Geoffrey and six other Shield-Brethren knights were dead. Most of the rest had been wounded in one fashion or another, but most of their injuries were superficial—they were used to gathering scars.
One of the mercenaries was a dark-haired man with a knotted scar across his throat. Feronantus gauged the way the other prisoners were maintaining their distance from him, and suspected this man was one of their commanders.
“What is your name?” he asked, and the man replied by spitting at him.
Rutger backhanded him with a mailled fist, and when the man spat at Feronantus again, there was blood in his spittle.
Feronantus turned his attention to one of the other prisoners. “What is his name?” he asked the cowering man.
The man shivered and stuttered. “Berth…Bertholdus,” he said.
“Is he your commander?” Feronantus asked.
“Yes,” the man said. “No,” he amended.
“Who paid you?” Feronantus asked.
The man looked past Feronantus, his eyes drawn to the silver still lying in the road, glittering in the late-afternoon sun. He muttered something that Feronantus could not make out.
Bertholdus glared defiantly at Feronantus, and Feronantus was glad the man was bound. Otherwise, he suspected Bertholdus would attack him bare-handed.
“They were promised a piece of treasure,” Rutger said. “Weren’t you?” he asked the prisoner who had been talking.
Bertholdus laughed harshly, and the other prisoner flinched. “Shut up,” the cowering man screamed.
“It doesn’t matter,” Bertholdus growled, fixing his hate-filled gaze on Feronantus. “The man who bought their services is dead. They were promised a pittance of what is in those wagons, and only now do they realize what fools they were.” He looked at the other prisoners. “You were stealing from your emperor. Do you understand now how worthless your lives are? If these men don’t kill you, the emperor will put such a price on your heads—”
“We aren’t going to tell the emperor,” a voice intruded. It was a woman’s voice, and the sound surprised Bertholdus enough that he shut his mouth.
Feronantus looked over his shoulder and saw Maria. Trailing behind her were three scruffy-looking men—one broad, one fair-haired, and one with long hair and a piercing gaze. “Maria,” he said, finding himself pleased to see her again.
She smiled at him, and he felt suddenly awkward at the sight of her equal delight at seeing him. Behind her, the long-haired man scowled.
Maria stood beside Feronantus and regarded the prisoners. “We have been charged by the king of England himself to ensure that this caravan reach the imperial court. We do not care who you are or what your grievance is with the emperor. The Shield-Brethren are merciful, but they are not fools. Try their patience, and no one will say a word if they slit all of your throats and leave your bodies for the wolves.”
Rutger glanced at Feronantus with a raised eyebrow.
The prisoner who had spoken earlier whimpered and Bertholdus glared at Maria, but when she held his gaze, he deflated. His shoulders drooped and he lowered his head.
Maria turned to Feronantus. “We should gather those who can travel and disperse the silver from the damaged wagons among those who can ride. We need to be gone from here by nightfall.” She touched his arm briefly and then turned away, walking toward the trio of Englishmen nearby.
“Who put her in charge?” Rutger asked quietly.
“She did,” Feronantus replied.
“Who is she?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Feronantus admitted.
John nudged Robin. “I think she likes him,” he said, nodding toward Maria and the pair of knights.
“Shut up,” Robin snapped, and Will laughed gently.
Robin ignored his fair-haired friend. “Are all these wagons filled with silver?” he asked Maria as she rejoined them. “I thought you said we were saving the king of England.” He glanced around. “He’s not here.”
“He’s being held captive by the Holy Roman Emperor. These wagons are the first portion of the ransom that is to be paid for his release.”
“Ransom?” Robin growled. “What ransom? Where did it come from?”
Maria hesitated before replying. “I do not know,” she said, “but I assume it was raised by England.”
“By who in England?” John asked.
Maria glanced up at him and said nothing.
“Wait a minute,” Robin said. “We just attacked a bunch of imperials, French, and German marauders—in Germany—so that a shipment of silver, taken from English citizens, could be delivered to the Holy Roman Emperor? So that King Richard could be freed?”
“Oh, shit.” Will sighed. “Here we go.”
“The same King Richard who abandoned us in the Holy Land?” Robin continued. “He left all of us behind. His entire army. Many of us died for him. Died so that he could negotiate a dismal peace treaty with Saladin. We got nothing. We were coming home with nothing. And our leader—our king—had offended so many of our Christian allies that he had to sneak back home. He left us on the beach at Acre. Do you know what we had to do to get back to Italy?”
“No,” Maria said softly, “I do not.”
“And you think that we’re just going to stand here and let you give this treasure to the Holy Roman Empire?”
“I do,” she said. She stood still, gazing at Robin, waiting for his response.
Robin sputtered, unable to form words.
“Let it go, Robin,” Will said gently. “She”—he shook his head—“it doesn’t matter. Just let it go.”
“You’re not the only ones who have been maligned by the king,” Maria said. “I serve Queen Berengaria, his wife, whom he also abandoned in the Holy Land. I know well of the betrayal that you speak. Richard may be an arrogant and foolish man who thinks much too highly of himself, but he is the king of England, and England stands by him.” She gestured at the wagons behind them. “There is all the evidence you need.”
“You lied to us,” Robin ground out.
“I told you the truth,” she countered. “As much as you needed to know.”
“I don’t like being lied to,” Robin snapped.
“I won’t do it again,” she said, meeting his gaze, and he was somewhat taken aback to realize she meant it.
“Go home, Robin,” she said, her voice becoming gentler. “As you said, you’ve attacked Germans and French while on German soil. Don’t do something foolish and make England hate you, too. Go home; be with your kin.”
“She’s right, Robin,” John sighed. He laid his large hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Let’s just go home.”
“Fine,” Robin said. “We’ll go.” He shrugged off John’s hand and pointed at the scattered coins in the road. “But we’re taking some of that with us.”
“Take as much as you each can carry,” Maria said. “I’m sure your king will understand.”
Robin smiled grimly at her. “If he doesn’t, he can come collect it. Personally.”