the hilt as he had before, when Loxley had put it in his hands. Yes, that was the spot.
He leaned forward a bit, allowing the candlelight to fall more fully on the sword. The grip had a tear in it, and Robin could see that there was writing engraved on the hilt beneath it. He unwound the copper and pushed the leather aside, trying to read more of the inscription. He uncovered a single word: Lions.
Lions. Something stirred in the deepest recesses of his memory, like a bear waking after a long winter's slumber. He pulled off more of the wire and stripped away the leather grip until he could see the entire inscription.
“ Rise and rise again ” it said, “ until lambs become lions. ”
He stared at the candle burning before him, and he repeated the words to himself over and over. Rise and rise again, until lambs become lions. Yes, he had heard this before. But where, and when? And why would a sword owned by a dead knight, a man to whom he had never spoken before the events of the past few days, bear words that should remind him so strongly of … of what?
There were gaps in his memories, dark periods from his childhood that he had never been able to recall. These words seemed to take him back to those lost years. Like a small flame on a murky night, they hinted at something beyond his seeing, casting shadows upon shadows. The harder Robin tried to summon the images, the more elusive they became. Still, he knew of them now. Rise and rise again… Perhaps with time, the phrase would shine brighter in the recesses of his mind, and those shadows would be revealed.
And still he gazed at the candle flame, Loxley's sword lying across his lap. Robin rubbed his palm, thinking once more of the oath he swore to the knight, and of Allan's words. An oath sworn in blood … Perhaps there had been more to the day's events after all. What were the chances that they would take precisely that route through Broceliande Forest, that they should happen upon the forest road just when they did? Had it been fate that led Robin to kneel at the side of a dying knight, that led that man to place his sword in Robin's palm, that led Robin back to a memory so remote he hadn't considered it in years? What other explanation could there be?
Robin considered this as he unwound what was leftof the wire and removed the rest of that leather grip. Nearby, Allan still played his lute, singing softly. Little John and Will were playing a drinking game that Will was destined to lose.
“How do we get off this ride?” John asked eventually, his words running together slightly.
Robin looked over at him. “This boat docks first at Gravesend on its way to London. We'll leave the honor of delivering the crown to them, and we'll be gone.”
Little John raised an eyebrow. “Where?”
“North,” Robin said.
The big man nodded once. “Suits me.” He took another drink and handed the bottle to Will. It seemed even the drinking game had grown too complicated for them. Best simply to drink.
Robin grinned, joined them. No sense in letting them drink all the good stuff.
R OBIN AWOKE BELOWDECKS with a pounding headache and a mouth so dry that his tongue felt like wood and his teeth seemed to be covered with fur. His stomach felt sour and tight.
The boat moved steadily. Robin could hear the sweeps cutting rhythmically through the water. The sweeps.
His mind stumbled on that thought and he sat bolt upright in his small pallet. Not a good idea. His head spinning, he forced himself to his feet, stumbled out of their cramped quarters and made his way over to the ladder leading up out of the hold. With some effort he managed to climb out onto the deck.
Shielding his eyes from the too-bright sun, Robinrefused to believe what he saw. It couldn't be. They were headed to Gravesend. That was where he and the boys were going to make their escape. That couldn't be the Thames in front of them, winding toward the port of London. Although that looked suspiciously like the famed Tower in
He leaned forward a bit, allowing the candlelight to fall more fully on the sword. The grip had a tear in it, and Robin could see that there was writing engraved on the hilt beneath it. He unwound the copper and pushed the leather aside, trying to read more of the inscription. He uncovered a single word: Lions.
Lions. Something stirred in the deepest recesses of his memory, like a bear waking after a long winter's slumber. He pulled off more of the wire and stripped away the leather grip until he could see the entire inscription.
“ Rise and rise again ” it said, “ until lambs become lions. ”
He stared at the candle burning before him, and he repeated the words to himself over and over. Rise and rise again, until lambs become lions. Yes, he had heard this before. But where, and when? And why would a sword owned by a dead knight, a man to whom he had never spoken before the events of the past few days, bear words that should remind him so strongly of … of what?
There were gaps in his memories, dark periods from his childhood that he had never been able to recall. These words seemed to take him back to those lost years. Like a small flame on a murky night, they hinted at something beyond his seeing, casting shadows upon shadows. The harder Robin tried to summon the images, the more elusive they became. Still, he knew of them now. Rise and rise again… Perhaps with time, the phrase would shine brighter in the recesses of his mind, and those shadows would be revealed.
And still he gazed at the candle flame, Loxley's sword lying across his lap. Robin rubbed his palm, thinking once more of the oath he swore to the knight, and of Allan's words. An oath sworn in blood … Perhaps there had been more to the day's events after all. What were the chances that they would take precisely that route through Broceliande Forest, that they should happen upon the forest road just when they did? Had it been fate that led Robin to kneel at the side of a dying knight, that led that man to place his sword in Robin's palm, that led Robin back to a memory so remote he hadn't considered it in years? What other explanation could there be?
Robin considered this as he unwound what was leftof the wire and removed the rest of that leather grip. Nearby, Allan still played his lute, singing softly. Little John and Will were playing a drinking game that Will was destined to lose.
“How do we get off this ride?” John asked eventually, his words running together slightly.
Robin looked over at him. “This boat docks first at Gravesend on its way to London. We'll leave the honor of delivering the crown to them, and we'll be gone.”
Little John raised an eyebrow. “Where?”
“North,” Robin said.
The big man nodded once. “Suits me.” He took another drink and handed the bottle to Will. It seemed even the drinking game had grown too complicated for them. Best simply to drink.
Robin grinned, joined them. No sense in letting them drink all the good stuff.
R OBIN AWOKE BELOWDECKS with a pounding headache and a mouth so dry that his tongue felt like wood and his teeth seemed to be covered with fur. His stomach felt sour and tight.
The boat moved steadily. Robin could hear the sweeps cutting rhythmically through the water. The sweeps.
His mind stumbled on that thought and he sat bolt upright in his small pallet. Not a good idea. His head spinning, he forced himself to his feet, stumbled out of their cramped quarters and made his way over to the ladder leading up out of the hold. With some effort he managed to climb out onto the deck.
Shielding his eyes from the too-bright sun, Robinrefused to believe what he saw. It couldn't be. They were headed to Gravesend. That was where he and the boys were going to make their escape. That couldn't be the Thames in front of them, winding toward the port of London. Although that looked suspiciously like the famed Tower in
Similar Books
