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XV. Arrested Development



The Malt Cross near Long Row was the platform, ten steps up to where announcements were read and where, in this instance, prize money was awarded. Climbing up, Little John cast about for Thomas, but the final competition in archery was still ongoing.

At the bottom of the steps, Benedict of the Waits stood, still dripping from his drubbing, but here to share in the celebration nevertheless. It had been a fair fight.

At the top, before the single column, stood the Saxon sheriff in his bright blue cotehardie. He smiled as though he’d personally chosen John the winner—and perhaps he had wagered on him and was truly pleased by the outcome. Little John took the purse and clambered down, still looking for and failing to see Thomas in the crowd.

He strolled over to Benedict, who, still sodden, pointed at the purse. “You’re buying the ale, hey?”

“That I am.” John glanced around. Even as he did, a great roar came from the far end of the wall where the targets stood. Someone had won their match; he could only hope it was Thomas. “Should we wait for him, d’ya think?”

“We might, or we could have his ale poured for him when he gets to The Pilgrim.”

“Now, that’s a fair idea.”

They and the surrounding crowd set off. People clapped John on the back as he passed, and he smiled broadly. He was thinking he should enter more contests. The Woodwose was proving to be a valuable friend.

They passed Geoffrey and Osbert, and had just reached the pond again when, abruptly, they were surrounded by the Norman sheriff’s soldiers, all wearing Passelewe’s surcoat of a yellow cinquefoil on a red background. Behind him, a voice said in French, “Reynold Greenleaf, I arrest your true self, the outlaw known as Little John, accomplice of Robert Hodde, and who has this very week murdered a bishop upon the King’s Great Way in Sherwood.”

Some of those people nearby gasped, and the celebration of him simply melted away, the fair crowd turning before they could be identified with him. Where they fled, Isabella Birkin and her foresters remained. She said, “You are the one called Little John. You know I know you.”

“Aye, an’ that ye speak the same forward as backward. Proves nothing.”

The red sheriff tore the purse from Little John’s grasp. “Your winnings are forfeit.” Two of the guards in mail grabbed him by the arms and a third one placed simple jointed manacles upon his wrists and locked them with a quick twist. Isabella Birkin looked on as if she wanted to strike him herself. The sheriff said, “Now, where is this partner of yours, Hodde?”

“Where you can’t ne’er lay ’ands on him,” he answered defiantly and was cuffed on the ear for it.

Benedict stepped in and tried to object to the rough treatment, but one of the guards jabbed a pike at him and drove him back; he thumped up against someone else, who pushed him forward. “Quiet, pig,” the guard warned, “else you can share his cell.” Benedict lifted a fist to slam the impertinent fellow’s head but John said, “Benedict, don’t.” He could see that the guard was prepared to drive the pike into his friend. Geoffrey and Osbert weren’t far behind, and John shook his head for them to stay back.

Benedict grabbed him by the shoulder and, leaning close, whispered, “I don’t recognize these soldiers, an’ we report to the castle near as often as to Chandler’s Lane. Use caution.”

The guards pulled Little John away, but at a nod from the sheriff, the guard leveling the pike challenged Benedict again. “It’s decided, then. You come wiv us, too.”

“But I’m a member of the Waits!”

The guard seemed to take that as provocation and slapped the side of the pike against Benedict’s head even as John tried to step in and stop him. A second guard leveled his pike. Benedict was hemmed in now, caught along with him. John hoped Geoffrey and Osbert would alert Elias and the others. Maybe they could get him freed, though that woman’s accusation meant “Reynold Greenleaf” wasn’t going to help him here. He fell into place beside Benedict and walked forward.


On the opposite side of the dividing wall, Thomas was still being congratulated for his extraordinary shot. He asked Will Scathelock what happened next.

“Make yer way to the Malt Cross,” was the reply. The blond man pointed to the stepped platform near the opposite end of the wall. “Sheriff will present yer winnings there.”

“Which sheriff?” Thomas asked warily.

Scathelock laughed. “Oh, the Norman snob, Passelewe, he oversees the fair, but it’s our man, Orrels, hands out the purses. I’d guess the quarterstaves purse is already awarded.” He pointed past Thomas. “That’s Passelewe’s red-and-green cap floating along way over by the little bridge, heading for the castle. Good riddance, says I. A most unfriendly bastard.” From this distance it was impossible to discern more than the hat of the Norman sheriff above the crowd, departing now that his official duties were done.

Thomas wondered aloud if Little John had won his contest. After all, he’d dunked Benedict.

“Whether or not he did, my guess is him you’ll find in a tavern. ’Tis where we all go after these matches.”

That sounded about right. John could certainly put away the mugs of ale.

“I thought you might have competed before,” Thomas said.

“I have,” replied Scathelock. “And I’m used to winning.”

Orrels, the Saxon sheriff in bright blue, stood awaiting him at the top of the Malt Cross. Reluctantly, Thomas started up.

The two sheriffs had been engaged in conversation earlier; what were the chances they were both elven, both conveyances? Well, he would listen for an answer—not that he needed more impetus to flee.

He climbed the rest of the way up, prepared to be arrested.

The sheriff smiled as he neared. No one else stood on the platform with him. “A fine showing,” said Orrels. “I could use such marksmanship, should you ever want a job.”

Thomas bowed his head. “As it happens, I joined the Waits yesterday.”

“Did you?” The thin, elegant face beamed at him. “That’s most excellent. I shall look forward to employing your skill, then, master Robyn.”

They clasped hands and the sheriff handed him his purse while raising his other hand to the crowd, which cheered. There came no thrumming hidden voice from within the blue cotehardie, nor even the soft chirr of a glamouring Yvag. Orrels was not one of them. Quite likely he knew nothing about the true nature of his Norman counterpart, then.

At the bottom of the steps, Scathelock and some of the other bowmen remained gathered. “What do you want to do now?” Scathelock asked as Thomas stepped down.

“Should we wait for the Waits? The two of them, Geoffrey and Osbert, are around here somewhere. But perhaps their part is done?”

“It is tradition that the winner—who is now richer than all of us—buys the round at The Pilgrim. As men of Nottingham, they will both know that.”

“Well, then, I expect we must uphold your tradition, hey-o.” He could only hope that Little John was already perched on a one-legged stool and emptying a mug.

Accompanied by more cheering, the group headed off in the direction of the River Leen.


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Framed