VII. Little John’s Night
With night coming on, Little John returned to the split oak tree. He’d led the two knights a chase all the way to Bilhaugh Wood, evidently losing them there. The only bodies on the road belonged to the foolish Much and to the prelate, who had indeed melted. The evidence lay there for anyone to see. Magic was afoot. The less John knew about it, the better.
Apparently, Robert had escaped. Little John identified the place where he’d fallen; and blood on the ground and crushed ferns indicated that he’d made it back to the oak and retrieved his staff before continuing on—in any case, the staff was gone. Little John followed.
He anticipated at every turn in the path that he was going to come upon Hodde’s body. The sky grew ever darker, the telltale spatterings of blood becoming harder to see, but by now he had an idea of where his friend was headed—to The Saylis, where he might hide out and be looked after. But Pontefract was an absurdly long walk for someone with so awful a wound as had been inflicted upon Robbie.
Instead, the trail into Barnsdale ended at the hut of the Woodwose. That queer old man couldn’t possibly help, could he? But maybe Robert had reached the end of his tether here.
The door to the hut hung open. The interior was dark as a cave. Little John grabbed some dry grass and sticks, then ducked into the hut. Inside, he sparked a flint until he’d lit a small fire.
The corpse of Robert Hodde lay pale in death on a blood-drenched wool-covered bed tick, stripped of his clothing. The terrible wound in his side was a jagged blackness. He’d simply bled out. Yet, someone had taken his clothes, his staff, and his bow. Maybe the knights had come, and they’d captured the crazy Woodwose as well. They weren’t human. More like demons who’d snatched their victim and Robert’s soul back to hell. Terrible to contemplate. Robert and Much dead because the lad had been too impetuous. He should have listened to Robert and let the prelate and his men pass. Even that bishop he’d killed had been something unnatural.
John sat with the body awhile; at first he contemplated staying with it, but feared the killers would come back. They would kill him, too, despite that he had no idea what he’d stolen. The prelate’s satchel contained three squat pyramids of four sides each, reminding him of the bodkin heads of certain crossbow arrows. Unreadable markings covered them—nothing to tell him what they were, what they did, why they were important. But the knights had come after him, abandoning the body of the bishop, so whatever the things were, they mattered to the fiends, and he had no idea what to do with them.
The longer he sat beside his dwindling fire, the more uncomfortable he became remaining there. He should head for Nottingham, put as much distance as possible between himself and those demons. If they could change shape once, they could easily do so again. Best also to travel in the night. He knew Sherwood better than almost anyone, well enough to navigate it in darkness. Doubtful the knights could match him.
For a minute, he stood and said his farewells to the spirit of Robert Hodde. Then he kicked ashes and dirt over the small fire and walked out. Taking a moment to orient himself, he identified a small path to the south, and set out.
Little John had barely walked half a mile back into Sherwood when the darkness lit up in the distance, a weird unsteady glow. He changed his course to creep up on the fire, thinking it must be someone’s encampment, but the light vanished before he could reach the source. A will-o’-the-wisp, had it been? Those usually bloomed over a marsh, and there was wet marshland past the trees here. He glanced up at the moon. Bats flitted about, tiny forms crisscrossing the bright white disc. Seeing them made him uneasy. The Devil was about. Everybody knew that bats carried messages between witches and the Devil. Even as he thought this, another spark ignited, this time out of the trees and among the heather-clad heath, and he raced to see it before it vanished again, only to dive to safety in the heather.
The light came from a spitting green ring that hovered in the air. Two mounted knights sitting jet-black steeds flanked it. They might be the same two who had chased him—he could not see if they carried those swords—except their surcoats were different, presenting alternating red and black panels. Underneath those, however, their armor was black like the armor of the two who’d given chase that morning. The presence of these two suggested there could be even more of them about.
The light from the flickering ring played upon their shiny black helms. The fire made them look green and dazzling. However, they and their horses remained as still as statues while tiny things pouring from the hole flitted about them. He thought the flying objects were more bats—evidence of the Devil’s work—but these darted and wheeled about, not at all the way bats flew. More like a small murmuration of starlings above and around the opening. Something else then, but he couldn’t say just what.
The center of the ring seemed to be empty, like a well that had been tipped on its side, when suddenly a new figure emerged out of it. This was a woman, golden-eyed and flame-haired. She wore a deep green sideless surcoat and a tall, filigreed gold crown. Her features were unnaturally extended. It was as if someone had stretched her virescent face, tilting and enlarging her eyes in the bargain. Her hands, resting upon the shining silver bridle, appeared to have extra joints. He could not say why, but everything about her exuded a threat. Could the Devil be a woman?
The tiny imps flocked about her. Queen of the Faeries, he thought.
Two more figures followed her—more mounted knights, these without surcoats at all over their black armor. Their jaws, visible beneath the helmets, were long like hers, but sharp-chinned and spiky. And their fire-eyed mounts were no horses at all. Demons, he was certain. This was what they looked like, wasn’t it? A convocation of demons.
Then the one he thought of as the Queen spoke to the demons—at least he assumed she was speaking. The sound of their conversation reached him as a strange chirring, as if they had filled their mouths with beetles. The Queen gestured about herself, pointing to various directions. When she pointed at Little John, he ducked even lower, startled and ready to flee. But, no, the Queen was turning about and riding back into the circle. Some of the flying imps dove in after her, but others continued to flit about.
One of the mounted soldiers then swung down, and faced the hole, knelt and slashed one hand from the ground up. The hoop of fire collapsed and disappeared. It was all magic. How it worked, John did not know, but he’d no desire to investigate it further, else they capture him and drag him to hell.
Before the knight had regained his mount, Little John was away, on a path too small for a horse. He knew all such paths and that no one would come riding after him. Soon he branched off, and then did so again, to make sure that no one could follow as he headed for Nottingham.