XLIV. The Death of
Robyn Hoode
With the knights heading for him, Thomas ducked inside the mill and immediately barred the door. He hobbled across the room, gave the grinding wheels a last look. He’d done this before; he knew how it ended.
The knights began battering the door as he opened and retreated out the back. The bar wasn’t thick. It wouldn’t hold for long.
Thomas gathered his bow, quiver and bag. At the lever, he pushed to release it. The wheel rocked free on its spindle. He charged clumsily along the walkway. The leg was improving with each passing moment.
Reaching the end of the walkway, he drew up the sluice gate and the water poured through. The main millwheel began to turn.
Inside, the five Yvag knights broke through the door. The split wooden bar clattered to the floor. Two hobs zoomed in and whirled about the space. Robyn Hoode had gone. Then the vertical interior wheel began to rotate on its axis, driving the mechanism that turned the millstones. They bombinated fiercely in increasing panic. Where were the dights?
The millstones gave out a terrible crack. One knight bounded up the steps to the wheels and glanced down into the hole in their center. The tip of a single dight pointed out of the heaped half-ground grain. The soldier dove for it, reaching frantically into the hole. Got its fingers on it just as the stone caught a different corner and snapped the pyramid between the wheels. Fingers became caught between it and something else hidden in the grain. The Yvag screeched. The hand was pulled in and relentlessly crushed. A second knight tried to assist. Another crack, and a streak of blue lightning shot out of the hole and right through that knight. Its glamour vanished in an instant. Smoke curled out of its chest, and it toppled from the platform into the flour bin below. More lightning, green and yellow this time, stabbed the air, and crackled up the second knight, whose trapped arm pulled it relentlessly down.
A keening rose out of the hole, mechanical and yet the wail of something in agony, of a soul released from captivity.
The one who’d led them in buzzed: “Ördstones in the bottom, too late now, get out get out!” That knight charged for the rear door and out onto the walkway, to be met with an arrow in the chest and another in the neck. The two following backpedaled and turned to retreat out the smashed door, led by their flying, terrified hobs.
More green flashes erupted as the twisted dight ruptured. As if doused in flammable oil like a torch, the trapped Yvag knight burst into green flame and a moment later was yanked over the turning stone and straight into the center hole. The last two made it out as green and blue streaks connected and spread, sheathing the whole mill in an aquamarine glow. Luminescent, the mill burst like a bubble in a flash as bright as a miniature sun. In its wake it left nothing.
The structure was gone. The remaining stone floor smoldered like the floor of an oven.
Little John was standing on the ridge on the far side of the river when the mill exploded. The force knocked him down the embankment. He got to his feet and ran back up the slope, calling out “Woodwose!” and “Robyn!” again and again. The last John had seen, Robyn had been standing right beside the main wheel when he shot that demon knight—far too close when all the colored lightning struck. The millwheel had been sheared straight across with the top half gone. The squat miller was screaming at him in outrage.
There was no trace of Robyn Hoode on the narrow walkway, now cracked and strewn with rubble. Little John sat down on the ridge and put his head in his hands.
Downriver, Thomas crawled up onto the opposite bank with his bow and quiver, the latter full now of both arrows and river water. Dazed, he sat in the mud and poured the water out of the leather quiver and out of his mason’s bag, and stared back the way he’d come.
The river had carried him farther than he’d intended, but he could still make out what had happened after he’d jumped. The mill simply wasn’t there any longer—not surprising, given he’d used two ördstones and a dight. He was somewhat amazed that the rest of Parva was still standing.
It looked like two of the elven knights had survived. One fired his crossbow at someone across the bridge that Thomas couldn’t see from there, one of their archers no doubt. Beside the bridge, Will Scathelock and two companions jumped up and fired back. As arrows fell, the knight who’d led them ran back the way it had come, in the direction of the hall. Thomas expected, by the time someone pursued the knight, they would find the hall empty. The knights had lost and they knew it.
Unsteadily, Thomas stood, and winced. The leap from the walkway had done his wound no favors.
He sloshed on up to the road. He was back among the birch trees, back the way they had come, halfway to The Saylis. The archers would be in the woods somewhere, and he began looking for them, heard shouting from deeper in and followed it. He soon came upon two archers, one dead and the other alive but just barely. It looked like those impossible swords had done their work, straight through one and into the side of the other. He took a legging from the dead man and gave it to the other to press against his wound. It did not look lethal and he told the archer as much.
As he went on, he encountered more bodies—mostly fallen Yvags—one here, one there, and he suspected these represented places where gates had opened and the archers had been ready and waiting. Ahead, someone yelled, and he limped along as fast as he could, nocking an arrow, which proved fortuitous as he came up a draw to find two remaining archers rushing to aid a wounded third and fourth against yet another glamoured knight. They didn’t need his help; nevertheless, as the Yvag knight directed its blade, he fired. His arrow impaled its arm and the magic sword spun out of the Yvag’s grasp before it could span the distance to another archer. The Yvag fell back through the open portal and, on the other side, a figure hurried forward and sealed the gate. A second arrow struck the closing circle and fell as if it had hit a wall.
The archers cheered. From behind him a familiar voice said, “Well done, Robyn,” and something stung his right shoulder through the glamoured Yvag armor. He twisted about. Sir Richard was backing away from him, smiling.
“Bragrender,” Thomas said, and reached out to grab the false knight, but his legs gave way and he fell face-first into the leaves.
The first of the archers reached him. “What happened?”
Thomas stared and tried to answer. Nothing came out. The potion, whatever it was, had paralyzed him.
Sir Richard said, “I know not. I came forward to congratulate him on his shot and he collapsed. Here, see, he is wounded.”
“His leg, oh—”
“He must have been in another skirmish. Can there be more of these treacherous demons in the woods?” Sir Richard asked and glanced about.
“Someone go tell the others!”
“I’ll stay with him,” Sir Richard promised.
“We will also,” one of the archers replied, indicating he and his friend would remain there with their wounded company as well. Another bowman ran off toward the road. One of the remaining bowmen said, “He came to our aid despite his wound.”
Sir Richard shrugged. “As you like.”
Thomas, helpless, tried desperately to move, but could not even shift his gaze to focus.
Shortly, Little John and Will arrived, followed by Elias and Calum down from The Saylis. “His eyes are open,” said Elias. “We have to seek aid for him and the other wounded here and at the vill. What do we do?”
Keeping his distance from the body, Sir Richard suggested, “I know the prioress at Kirklees, Sister Amille. A hospice there she runs, with nuns quite sanative. Had we a cart or wagon, we could bring him and the others there. It’s not terribly far.”
“What do you think?” Elias asked of John.
“There are wagons in the vill,” John said, but his final, suspicious glance was at Sir Richard, who strode farther off away from Thomas. John remained at his side.
Will and Elias returned with a wagon drawn by two horses. They already had the miller, shot through the shoulder with a crossbow, lying in it. They added Thomas, the two wounded archers, and two other outlaws who’d defended the vill in the wicker-sided wagon bed, one of whom had a broken leg. Sir Richard offered to ride along to show them the way. Little John replied, “Oh, ah know way to Kirklees well enough. You can walk along wi’ the others.”
Smiling, Sir Richard said, “Of course,” and joined those on foot, including Geoffrey and Will. The family Fouke and two of Will’s men opted to remain behind and help in the vill. But most accompanied the wagon on the off chance that more circles would blossom along the way.
Beyond a gatehouse, the Priory of Kirklees was three sides of a square, with a wide, open courtyard in the center surrounding a garden where various medicinal plants were growing. As the wagon passed the gatehouse, the prioress came out from the center of the larger structure and stood watching their arrival. Sister Amille was a small, compact woman with dark hair. To Little John as they neared, she seemed self-possessed and still, not in the least shaken by the arrival of so many. She seemed to count the outlaws accompanying the wagon as they passed by. Following after her was a monk in a brown frock, the hood up. His shadowed face was pale, and mostly what could be seen was his red beard. He was perhaps the local prelate here to interfere in matters at the priory.
John jumped down and led the sister to the back of the wagon, telling her, “We ’ave wounded from battle this day who need your ministrations.” He wanted her to know that no one here intended her any harm.
She walked after, giving each of the wounded a cursory examination until the wagon drew up. “Bring them in to the south wing of the priory,” she told him. “That’s our infirmary. We have pallets enough in there to accommodate all of these. Come.” Those who’d followed along on foot helped the wounded down, save for the Woodwose himself, who didn’t move. At some point along the way his eyes had closed. John directed her attention to him. The rest had superficial wounds. There was something truly wrong with him. “Bring him inside,” she said. John obediently dragged the Woodwose out of the wagon and picked him up.
Sister Amille darted a glance at the quiet monk, who remained on the opposite side of the wagon, provoking Will Scathelock, beside John, to ask her who he was.
“Why, he’s the abbot of St. Mary’s,” she said. “Sir Roger Doncaster.”
“That’s ‘Red Roger’?” Will said to John, but too softly for the abbot’s ears. They both kept an eye on him.
The abbot continued to watch the men helped past him but did not make a move to assist with them. He seemed more interested in observing Sister Amille than in attending to the wounded. Everyone had been helped past him before he turned and followed after them all.
At the door Sir Richard disentangled from a slightly wounded archer and let the man hobble inside alone. The tall knight remained by the entrance. John stared daggers at him while carrying Robyn in last of all, but Sir Richard appeared to take no notice.
The infirmary space was long and narrow, like a converted cloister. They had left a pallet in the front for Robyn.
John placed him on it alongside the others. Robyn’s head lolled. He didn’t even seem to be breathing. “Oh, Woodwose, don’t tha die on me now, and leave me ta face that angry miller alone.”
Sister Amille entered last and closed the door after her, but not before John glimpsed the abbot and Sir Richard chatting outside. That made no sense at all. Robyn had told him the story of Sir Richard and how he’d been done out of his lands by that very abbot. So why wasn’t he drawing his blade and stabbing the bastard eighteen times? It’s what he would have done. Instead, they behaved like old chums.
Sister Amille knelt beside the body of Robyn Hoode.
Little John asked, “Where are the rest’a your nuns?”
“They were . . . all afraid of your small army.” She smiled. “You’re all quite terrifying, you know. Like men who’ve just barely survived a battle. We don’t see much of that here.”
“Us? We’re no threat to no one.” He exchanged a doubtful look with Scathelock. “No other sisters?”
Will stood a moment longer, then began working his way to the back of the cloister while pretending to look closely at the other wounded men on their pallets. He came to where Elias, Geoffrey, and Calum stood chatting. He leaned close and said something to the three Waits. Then he walked on, continuing to observe the wounded.
The Waits turned and ambled toward the main door, raising their voices as they went. Calum said, “I’ll bet my mother’s salve would fix old Robyn’s wound!”
Geoffrey all but leapt backward. “Your mother? She’s a notorious witch!”
“What’s that?” asked Elias. “You’d have us dabble in witchcraft? They’ll burn us at the stake for your mother’s concoction.”
Geoffrey addressed Sister Amille. “What say you, Sister? Is such a liniment nought but witchery?”
“What’s she put in it?” Elias asked.
“I—” said the sister.
“Aconite and belladonna,” Calum replied.
“Monkshood, the very devil’s helmet, and you dare suggest it’s not a witch’s brew?” Geoffrey rose to his full and incensed height.
Calum insisted, “It ain’t witchcraft. I’ll show it you. In the wagon. You come and see. That’s where I keep it.” He jabbed Geoffrey. “I’ll rub some on you and maybe cure your temper.” The three continued their loud squabbling as they threw open the door and went past Sir Richard and the abbot as if oblivious of them. The abbot and the knight watched them for a moment, then came inside. No one other than Little John noticed that Will Scathelock had absented himself from the infirmary altogether.
With things calmed down, Sister Amille told John, “I’ve little hope for your friend. My recommendation is that we bleed him awhile, hope to balance his humors.”
John scratched his head. “Been wounded in leg, ’e has. Surely he’s already lost all the blood he can afford.”
The prioress glanced past John. He knew the chummy Red Roger and Sir Richard stood where she looked. He felt more than heard an odd susurrus in his head. To John, Sister Amille made a perturbed face. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I feel you should go with your friends outside and let me work with these poor men. The abbot can assist me, and that is enough.”
“I don’t mean to leave his side,” insisted John.
Sir Richard called, “Now, now, we must let the sister do her work. She knows more of healing than any of us could.”
Under his breath, John muttered, “Then, when’s she gunna start using it?”
The prioress didn’t hear—she had walked to the back of the infirmary, to return with a dull metal bowl and two sharpened blood irons. She shooed Little John. “Go on,” she said, “it will all be better after this.”
Sir Richard opened the double doors. The few other archers and outlaws filed out until only John remained. Robyn seemed as still as death.
The prioress was humming something quietly under her breath. Little John barely noticed before his thoughts became confused, and she whispered to him, “Go outside, and all will be well.” Sir Richard followed all the others, stepping outside as well, and making of himself an example. He gestured to John to follow.
John found himself on his feet and plodding up the aisle. The red-haired abbot stood at the door. John knew he should not go outside, but seemed to have no control over his actions. Sister Amille’s humming led him along as if she walked before him. He stared at Red Roger, thinking, if Doncaster was like the prelate on the road, then what was the prioress? What was Sir Richard? Then he was out the doors and shuffling toward the wagon, where everyone else was gathered in the dull late-afternoon light.
Halfway there, he was met by Will Scathelock, who emerged from the north wing of the priory. “John,” he said, and his name seemed to draw Little John out of his spell. They reached the wagon together.
Geoffrey said, “Well?”
Will asked, “John, are you all right?”
“I . . . No, she spelled me.”
“Who?” asked Calum.
“Sister Amille.”
Will declared, “She isn’t Sister Amille.”
They all stared at him.
Elias said, “What?”
“Sister Amille is dead, along with all the nuns of the priory, stripped of her tunic and veil.” He gestured back the way he’d come.
“Then who is she? What is she?”
Little John said, “She’s one’a them things like we met in Orrels’s gaol.” He picked up his bow. “Likewise Sir Richard and the abbot.”
Elias replied, “Is every prelate in the land turned into one of these creatures?”
“Would not surprise me,” said Geoffrey.
“But Robyn, he vouched for Sir Richard, right?”
“Vouched for who he used to be. Not who he is.” He turned to face the doors. Sir Richard had quietly gone back inside. “Come on!” he yelled.
Will drew and nocked his bow. The others drew theirs.
They marched for the infirmary door and were almost upon it when Calum cried, “Look!” and pointed to one of the quarrel-paned windows. A reflection of green fire flickered in the panes. John broke into a run.