of them looking as if they had been kicked in the stomach. This was just as Robin had hoped. In their shock and grief, the men might not think to question the identities of Robin and his men.
“His Majesty was killed in battle,” he went on, pressing his advantage. “We're to take the word home.”
“Long live the king,” the captain and court man said in unison.
The nobleman regarded Robin, gathering himself. “And you are, sir?”
Robin didn't hesitate. “I am Sir Robert Loxley of Nottingham. And you, sir?”
The man blinked. “I am the king's equerry, sir.”
“Come aboard, gentlemen,” the captain said. “Before the tide floats her. It's coming in fast.”
Robin looked back at the others and flashed a quick grin. Their ruse had worked. They were going back to England. They were going home.
He and the lads dismounted and uncinched their horses, the incoming tide swirling around their boots. Then they climbed onto the ship, bearing the king's crown. The ship's crew lowered a gangplank and with some effort brought their horses aboard the vessel.
Once all were on board, the captain ordered the men to raise the covered sail, and soon the ship was moving away from the French coast. But only when they reached the open waters of the channel, did the captain order the men to uncover the sail cloth.
A pair of crewmen scrambled up the mast, crept out on the scaffolding and untied the cover. Down it fell, billowing in the wind and revealing the threePlantagenet leopards, gold on a red field, glowing in the afternoon sun. With the canvas cover gone, wind filled the sail and the ship leaped forward, carving through the surf toward England. Staring up at Richard's crest, Robin's hand strayed to the hilt of Loxley's sword. It was headed home, too.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
I n the fields of Peper Harrow, Marion and Gaffer Tom watched grimly as Old Paul, the farmer who had tended the Loxley crops for a generation, struggled behind the plow. The man was half crippled, the land was none too easy to work, and the brown and white dray pulling the plow stood eighteen hands high and weighed a hundred and thirty stone if it weighed an ounce.
Still, Paul, always in good cheer, glanced over at them and offered a toothless grin as he staggered past.
“Goliath's got the soil turning nicely, but for what? Nettles?”
“Possibly,” Marion said, in a wry tone. “Nettle soup and dandelion salad to keep us alive until …” She trailed off, searching for the right word.
“Until there's a miracle,” Tom finished grimly.
Paul reached the end of the row and tried to turn the dray. He hadn't the strength though, and the horse resisted his efforts. Heedless of her dress and her shoes, Marion hurried to the horse's side and grabbed its harness.
“This way,” she said soothingly to the beast. “Come, Goliath.”
Together, she and Paul got the horse and plow turned around. Paul started down the next row and flashed another grin her way.
“Marion,” Tom called, drawing her gaze.
Marion looked back at the gaffer, who wore a deep frown on his ruddy face. He gave a small jerk of his head, directing her gaze down the lane.
“The sheriff,” he said.
Marion saw him, too. Nottingham's sheriff rode toward them at a leisurely pace, trailed by two of his toughs. His long brown hair was unruly, his beard poorly trimmed, his face too long, too horselike. He wore a brown cloak with thick fur at the collar and shoulders, and studded riding breeches. He rode a fine bay with an elaborate leather bridle. Of the two, rider and mount, the latter was definitely the more attractive. Still the sheriff carried himself with the supreme confidence of a man who passed his days blissfully ignorant of his many shortcomings. He wore a smile that was both cruel and mocking, and that, though distasteful, did seem to fit his features perfectly.
Marion stepped forward to meet him, conscious of the plainness of her brown dress and slate blue smock, and of the old beige cloth
“His Majesty was killed in battle,” he went on, pressing his advantage. “We're to take the word home.”
“Long live the king,” the captain and court man said in unison.
The nobleman regarded Robin, gathering himself. “And you are, sir?”
Robin didn't hesitate. “I am Sir Robert Loxley of Nottingham. And you, sir?”
The man blinked. “I am the king's equerry, sir.”
“Come aboard, gentlemen,” the captain said. “Before the tide floats her. It's coming in fast.”
Robin looked back at the others and flashed a quick grin. Their ruse had worked. They were going back to England. They were going home.
He and the lads dismounted and uncinched their horses, the incoming tide swirling around their boots. Then they climbed onto the ship, bearing the king's crown. The ship's crew lowered a gangplank and with some effort brought their horses aboard the vessel.
Once all were on board, the captain ordered the men to raise the covered sail, and soon the ship was moving away from the French coast. But only when they reached the open waters of the channel, did the captain order the men to uncover the sail cloth.
A pair of crewmen scrambled up the mast, crept out on the scaffolding and untied the cover. Down it fell, billowing in the wind and revealing the threePlantagenet leopards, gold on a red field, glowing in the afternoon sun. With the canvas cover gone, wind filled the sail and the ship leaped forward, carving through the surf toward England. Staring up at Richard's crest, Robin's hand strayed to the hilt of Loxley's sword. It was headed home, too.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
I n the fields of Peper Harrow, Marion and Gaffer Tom watched grimly as Old Paul, the farmer who had tended the Loxley crops for a generation, struggled behind the plow. The man was half crippled, the land was none too easy to work, and the brown and white dray pulling the plow stood eighteen hands high and weighed a hundred and thirty stone if it weighed an ounce.
Still, Paul, always in good cheer, glanced over at them and offered a toothless grin as he staggered past.
“Goliath's got the soil turning nicely, but for what? Nettles?”
“Possibly,” Marion said, in a wry tone. “Nettle soup and dandelion salad to keep us alive until …” She trailed off, searching for the right word.
“Until there's a miracle,” Tom finished grimly.
Paul reached the end of the row and tried to turn the dray. He hadn't the strength though, and the horse resisted his efforts. Heedless of her dress and her shoes, Marion hurried to the horse's side and grabbed its harness.
“This way,” she said soothingly to the beast. “Come, Goliath.”
Together, she and Paul got the horse and plow turned around. Paul started down the next row and flashed another grin her way.
“Marion,” Tom called, drawing her gaze.
Marion looked back at the gaffer, who wore a deep frown on his ruddy face. He gave a small jerk of his head, directing her gaze down the lane.
“The sheriff,” he said.
Marion saw him, too. Nottingham's sheriff rode toward them at a leisurely pace, trailed by two of his toughs. His long brown hair was unruly, his beard poorly trimmed, his face too long, too horselike. He wore a brown cloak with thick fur at the collar and shoulders, and studded riding breeches. He rode a fine bay with an elaborate leather bridle. Of the two, rider and mount, the latter was definitely the more attractive. Still the sheriff carried himself with the supreme confidence of a man who passed his days blissfully ignorant of his many shortcomings. He wore a smile that was both cruel and mocking, and that, though distasteful, did seem to fit his features perfectly.
Marion stepped forward to meet him, conscious of the plainness of her brown dress and slate blue smock, and of the old beige cloth
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