Prologue Legends

Summer 1180

In the Reign of King Henry II

The Forest

S HE LOVED TO COME to the forest. It was beautiful here. Nowhere else was the world so radiantly colored. There were the deep brown and black hues of the earth and the various shades of green—the kelly-green of the grasses that grew from the rich turf; the lighter bursts of color from the brush; the deep, cool, secretive, enchanting dark green of the copses, where tall branches shadowed the sun and made a realm of fantasy and wonder. And when the boughs of the trees did give way, there was the sky. Sometimes shimmering with sunlight, a splash of blue. Sometimes shaded over with iron-gray storm clouds. And on those days, the wind would howl and moan, and the branches would lie low, as if they bowed to that greater, godlike power.

Then there were days when fog rolled in, soft, gray, swirling, adding to the mystery and magic to be found there. She loved to come.

Perhaps it was her father who first gave her the magic.

For she was a child of privilege through him, and when he was home, resting from his duty, his fealty to the King, he brought her here.

She hadn't known at first that she could come because she was a child of privilege. She only knew that her father was wonderful and good. He had sea-green eyes and platinum-blond hair, and he was tall and shining and wonderful. The King thought so, too, and that was why he was so often called away. But when he came back home, he brought her here, to the King's forest.

She rode a horse today: no little pony, but a full-sized mare. Her father said she could because she had become so fine a horsewoman. It was a special day. She was dressed in a very adult fashion, her hair neatly braided and coiled into loops on each side of her head, her mode of dress exquisite. She wore an underdress of deep rich green, to rival the forest, with long, sweeping sleeves that came to an elegant point below her wrist Her ivory tunic offset the very deep color of the green.

And she carried a quiver of arrows on her back, her bow slung over her shoulder. She had never told her father that she really had no desire to aim at something as beautiful as a deer. She was too happy to be able to come hunting with him. And though a deer might be beautiful, she knew full well that it would help to feed their household of so very many in the long winter months to come.

Aye, it began as such a wonderful day! There were no other barons with them. They came, she and her father, with her cousin Little Rob and two of her father's pages, since they would need help bringing back a kill. Rob was thirteen, five years her elder, but he still liked to tease and taunt her, and he did so mightily that day. He bowed and laughed, and called her the Lady Greensleeves, and she warned him that he was sounding very much like a little devil. He still teased her mercilessly. She didn't mind. She was able to retort to him quickly, no matter what his taunt, and she could see her father, riding ahead, smiling as she and Rob chatted their way through the forest. It was really no way to come upon a deer. But her father didn't mind. They had all day. And it was beautiful, and cool. There was a light breeze. The trees rustled. Birds chirped and cried, and the radiant heat of the sun could just be felt beneath the canopy of green.

Curiously, she felt that she knew something was going to happen, long before it did. There was just something … some sudden stillness in the air, something that warned her, almost as if she were a special princess, and there really were forest gods at her beck and call.

Magical, fantastic, charming …

Nay, what seized her was none of these. It was fear, swift and horrible. Something awful was going to happen. She wanted to go no farther into the woods.

Before she could cry out, before she could warn any one, they burst upon the tragic scene.

They were not alone in the forest. Just ahead of them was a party of noblemen. Three men, riding huge, well-groomed horses, dressed in the finest wools and linens and fur-trimmed cloaks. Their horses, too, were decked in finery, the colors of the one man, yellow and deep blue, blazoned on the blanket beneath his saddle.

The riders were attended by several squires, less splendid than the nobles, in simpler garb, but clearly one with them.

Nobles and squires were all circled around a tree. A doe lay near death at the base of that tree. Her huge brown eyes remained open. The blood pulsed swiftly from her chest, where an arrow shaft protruded.

Death would come to the doe swiftly. It had been a good, clean kill.

It wasn't the sight of the doe that disturbed her, even though she felt sad to see such a beautiful creature die.

What frightened her was the way the party of noblemen encircled the men who stood by the doe.

There were just two of them. And they were certainly not noble. They were both dressed in coarse brown tunics. One did not even have hose to warm his very skinny calves. Their faces were both smudged, as if they slept in dirt, or as close as they could to the ashes from a fire. Their brown hair was long, in the Saxon fashion. The older man wore a beard, while the younger man was just growing whiskers.

Both looked terrified.

"What is this? What happens here?" her father began to ask.

But even as her father rode forward, trying to break into their circle, she saw, in a flash of sunlight, the rise and fall of a small hunting axe.

And she heard a scream. An awful, agonized scream.

The circle of men had parted somewhat. She saw the younger man raising the stump of his arm. She saw his hand, disengaged from that arm, lying useless on a rock, blood spurting from it.

"Be glad 'tis nothing more for you, that I have shown mercy!" the nobleman on the horse in the fancy colors called out. "And as for you—" He turned to the older man who was being dragged up to stand upon the rock, as a noose was produced to be slipped about his neck. "You will hang for your thievery!" The nobleman who seemed to be the leader had an evil face.

So did one of his companions, the lad at his side. They appeared to be father and son, like the father and son Saxon pair they seemed so determined to cripple and kill.

The Saxon father didn't say a word in his behalf, but looked in horror at his son lying on the ground, bleeding. There was something helpless in his look. Helpless and fatalistic and far beyond despair.

God in heaven, she was going to be sick. The younger man was in the dirt. Blood gushed from his wound.

And now the noble was ordering his men to throw a rope over the tree.

She heard the roar of her father's voice. "Nay, ye'll not do this—"

"They've broken the law. These Saxon pigs, taking the King's good game from the forest!" the leader of the noblemen told her father. He seemed to know him.

"The King would not have this! Ever!" her father shouted, and he pulled his sword. "Jesu—let them go! Can't you see? They are starving to death. What is one doe?"

"My God, Father!" she cried out. There were so many of them, and only one of her father.

But behind her father, Rob was pulling out his small sword, too.

"Count de Montrain!" the nobleman addressed her father. "Would you die over this offal? Aye, but then you would. You've that Saxon whelp at your heels again, eh? So be it! Die then!"

The nobleman drew his own sword and yelled out to his companions to do the same. At his side, his son instantly drew his weapon, a leer upon his face. Cruelty touched his young eyes. He was eager for the fray.

"Run!" her father commanded, quickly turning to her and Rob.

But Rob would not run. She knew it. And neither would she. If her father would die here, then so would they.

But they were not destined to die.

Even as the massive party bore down on them, the leader suddenly screamed out. His horse reared, and he nearly fell from it, for there was an arrow shaft protruding from his thigh.

Another arrow flew, and another. Two more men were hit. They ceased their assault, and their horses pranced about in confusion.

"Where the hell—?" the leader shouted.

"There must be an army of bandits!" his son cried.

"Jesu, I'll not die here!" said a third man.

"De Montrain!" the leader warned her father, pointing his sword. "You will pay for this!"

"Nay, de la Ville, I will not!" her father responded. "For the King will hear my side of it!"

The horsemen were suddenly gone, racing from the hail of arrows that rained down upon them.

The older man, with a rope still about his neck, stood on the rock, shivering. The younger man lay on the ground, moaning, holding the stump of his arm.

"Father, the arrows!" she warned in alarm, watching as her father hurried his horse forward, anxious to reach the poor peasants.

"We are safe. I know it," he said softly. And he dismounted from his horse, rushing to remove the rope from around the peasant's neck. The man fell to his knees, shaking, trying to kiss her father's booted feet. "Nay, nay, good fellow," her father protested. He looked almost helplessly at his daughter. "Your sleeve, my love. Rip up some of your sleeve. If the lad continues to bleed, he will die."

She hadn't realized that she had just sat there through it all, horrified, on the verge of tears and probably far worse. Her teeth were chattering. She could scarcely move at first.

Then she found life. She ripped the length of her sleeve from her underdress and managed to dismount from her horse on shaky little legs. She pushed aside Robin and her father when they would have helped her.

Alone, she went to the young man. His blood spilled over her, and she feared that she would swoon.

She didn't. She managed to bind up his arm. His blood stained the beautiful green material to a dark and rusty red. She met the lad's eyes. "Thank you, my lady, thank you!"

The older man, his father, was behind him then, trying to lift him to his feet. "Bring the deer," her father commanded his pages. "The lad will need the food if he is to live. Is there someone to cauterize that wound?" He asked the older man, using the Saxon's language he had learned from his wife.

"Aye, his mother," said the man.

"Good."

"But my lord," one of the pages said. "It is against the law—"

"These people are starving. King Henry, our lawgiver, might well be known as the justice giver. He would not condemn me. Now the deer is dead. We are alone."

"Alone. Except for someone shooting arrows," Robin reminded his uncle with wide eyes.

"We are safe," her father insisted. "Go! Hurry, now!" he warned the peasants and his pages.

The men were quickly gone. The deer disappeared. Robin opted to ride with the Saxons and the pages, insisting that the injured youth ride before him on his horse.

She was left with her father, alone with him.

And she burst into tears, throwing herself into his arms. "Father, Father, how could those awful men do such a thing!"

Her father sighed deeply, holding her against him. "Well, in truth, there are laws, you see. Laws against hunting here."

"Laws are awful then!"

"Nay, my love. Most laws are good. They protect men. Even the way that we live is good. You see, the peasants and the villeins, people such as this, they work for us, as well as tilling their own little pieces of tenant land. And we protect them within our castle walls. We settle their disputes. We hold court over our serfs, and over our freemen. They serve us. And we—"

"We serve the King," she whispered. "Father, they called these people Saxon pigs. And Rob—they called him a Saxon whelp, and they said it so hatefully!" She began to shiver anew.

Her father sighed deeply. "Well, my love, it has been well over a hundred years since Duke William of Normandy came here to conquer England and become King William. He won his crown well. But in all this time, we still have his people, the Normans, and we still have the English people who were here, the Saxons. Now, in a way, Duke William won. In a way, he did not. His people never ceased to fear the Saxons, and so some of them hate the very people who they vanquished. Some of the Saxons vanquished the Normans in turn." He offered her a tender smile, touching her cheek. "Your mother conquered me, she did. Stole my heart away!"

She tried to smile in turn.

"Laws are not bad things, my dear. Henry has tried to make all the laws for all of the people. He is a good king. A strong king."

She knew the King. He was a handsome man with endless energy. He fought all the time with his wife and sons. He was opinionated and arrogant. He could be determined.

But she had never, never seen him cruel.

Not like the noblemen she'd just encountered.

Hot tears welled in her eyes. She blinked hard.

She looked at her father. "So, the laws are good, as long as we have a good king."

"And good nobles to combat bad nobles."

"What shall happen if we have a king who is not good? And many nobles who are bad?"

Her father, watching her, shuddered suddenly. He held her close. "Then evil will rule the land," he told her starkly. "But my love, bear this in mind—a good strong king keeps a firm hand upon his nobles. Men like those you saw today are not allowed to become too powerful. And there will always be good men. And it will not matter what language they speak, or how they clothe themselves, or from where they come." He looked around himself suddenly, remembering the hidden archer who had saved them all.

The pages rode up once again with Rob, who quickly dismounted from his horse and came to his cousin, for they were very close. He swept his arms around her. "It will be all right, my fair Lady Greensleeves," he told her solemnly. She tried to smile for him. He was looking at her father.

"I will learn to let fly my arrows like that, my lord!"

"I'm sure you will, my young sir!" he agreed. He stood. It was time to take the children from the forest.

"You ride on now, my love. Robin take her. Roc, Reginald, see to their safety. I will catch up with you." He needed a moment alone.

The children mounted their horses. "Go!" he told them, and they rode on.

He stood in the forest, and listened. The wind rustled around him. The air was soft. Still. Yet he was certain that he was still being watched.

"Thank you, my friend, wherever you are!" he called out softly.

There was a sudden burst of sound in the forest. He looked up.

One of de la Ville's men was bearing down on him on horseback. Bursting through the trees, ready to do murder.

His sword was raised high. Aimed at de Montrain's throat.

And there was no time. De Montrain could not reach for his own sword. He could not defend himself. He could scarcely rail against fate.

He could only stand there, bleed, and die.

"Move over, my lord!" he was suddenly commanded. There was a man with him. A man who shoved him when he could not manage to move out of the way of the thundering steed himself.

The man was armed with a sword of his own. A silver sword that gleamed wickedly in the shimmering green light of the day.

The ground thundered. The horseman, with his sword raised high, was smiling.

And oddly enough, he was still smiling as he died.

For though he came upon the young defender with his arm wickedly high and his weapon sharp, his blade was quickly parried. And as the horse rushed forward, de la Ville's man was impaled on the defender's own sword.

Only his eyes showed his surprise and horror as he died.

De Montrain stared at the fallen enemy who would have slain him, then at the man who had saved him.

Nay, not a man fully grown, but a youth, nearing his full maturity perhaps.

He was dark. Aye, hair dark as ebony. He was tall, with proud, handsome features. And he was vaguely familiar.

De Montrain smiled slowly. "You!" he said, surprised.

The youth colored, uneasy at having been discovered. "I know the law," he said quickly. "I couldn't let them hang the old man; I just couldn't let them do it. They were starving, you could see it in their eyes, it was just one doe—"

"My son, you needn't tell me!"

"And then, of course, well, I couldn't let that knave slay you!"

"And rightly grateful I am. But you needn't fear. I will tell Henry the truth—"

"Nay, please! Say nothing."

De Montrain hesitated a moment, then agreed. "Aye, lad, your secret is safe with me. I swear it! However, if you would run around the forest so, I would suggest a disguise of some sort."

The handsome youth bowed gravely, only a slight smile curving his lip. "I shall give it the gravest thought, my lord."

There was a rustling in the bush. The youth stepped back, ready to wield his sword again. Then he eased. "It is your family, returning. God go with you, my lord."

"And with you!" De Montrain called quickly. The lad was already gone, disappeared into the forest.

De Montrain stepped past de la Ville's fallen henchman. He wouldn't have the children see the body, or know that any more danger had come his way. He hurriedly walked forward, eager to greet them.

His saw his daughter, her beautiful eyes lustrous, even in the shadowy green forest, as they touched his. She would not easily forget this day, he thought. Nay, she would not easily forget it.

He tried to smile, and to bow very gallantly to her. "Ah, 'tis my lovely Lady Greensleeves, is it not?" He turned and bowed to his nephew in kind. "Master Robin!"

They both tried to smile in turn.

All three smiles faded.

"Come. Let's go home," he said softly. "This day is over. We must go home."

He mounted his horse, and wearily they started from the forest, a somber party.

Rob paused suddenly, turning back. "I thought I saw you with someone, Uncle."

"Did you?"

"And I thought I knew …"

"What?"

"Nothing," Rob said. But his hazel eyes were curiously alight. And he smiled suddenly, a grim, determined smile. "I will learn to shoot my arrows like that! Nay, my lord uncle, I will do better!"

"So shall I!" his daughter vowed. "Oh, Father, so shall I!"

He was uneasy, watching the two earnest young faces.

And most uneasy watching his nephew, for somehow the lad knew. The lad knew exactly what had occurred. Just as he knew the identity of their secret savior.

"The day is over," he said firmly. "We'll talk no more of it. It is done."

In silence, they rode on. Darkness was shrouding the trees. Indeed, the day was over.

But the legends had just begun.