“Oh, God,” Paget sobbed. An arrow protruded from his rounded belly, so at odds with his spindly frame. It resembled a banner staked upon a hilltop. “Oh, God.”
“Grab his foot,” Padraig said to Lucan as he took hold of the boot nearest him. “Pull!”
Padraig and Lucan began dragging Adolphus Paget toward the nearest tree when two swift thunks to either side of them caused them to stop. An identical pair of arrows quivered in close proximity of Lord Paget’s narrow form.
“Stay right where you are,” a man’s voice warned from the shadows just out of Padraig’s sight. The crunching of many footfalls could be heard advancing toward them, and suddenly it seemed as though the forest itself had come alive as shapes emerged from the gloomy shadows to ring the small clearing.
They were dressed in the colors of the bark, the dead leaves; the myriad shades of stone and earthen bank that rimmed the clearing, disguising them as well as any game Padraig had set out to chase. There must have been at least a score of them, all bearing bows with arrows knocked. Some wore leather hoods, concealing the entirety of their features save their eyes.
“Bloody bandits,” Padraig heard Lord Hood growl behind him.
“Back away from his lordship,” the voice said again, and this time Padraig could see that it came from a tall man who continued stepping forward. No hood concealed his red hair and beard, but the face of his slighter companion was fully masked. “Slowly,” he added. “Any sudden movements and I’ll be pleased to put one in the both of you. That’s far enough,” he advised.
Padraig and Lucan stood with their palms raised, halfway between the groaning Lord Paget and the trees where Beryl and Lord Hood crouched.
“What do you want from us?” Padraig demanded. “This is an allowed hunt on Darlyrede land.”
“I know very well what you’re about, mate,” the man said with a chuckle. He carefully released the tension from his bowstring and laid the weapon on the ground as he knelt at Lord Paget’s side and reached for the man’s tooled leather purse. “Tsk-tsk. My, but that looks painful.” He cut the straps holding the purse with a knife Padraig hadn’t even seen emerge and opened the pouch as he rose.
He held it toward the smaller, masked villain. “Perhaps fifty,” he said. “Not enough for what we’ve likely stirred up.”
“It’s more than enough,” his companion rasped.
“You must release us,” Beryl said from behind, and Padraig turned his head slightly to look at her. He hoped she could read the expression on his face. “Should he not receive attention immediately, he’ll die. I demand you let us go.”
The bandits paid her no heed at all, the masked thief gesturing to those remaining in the circle with a wave of the dangerous end of the bow.
A short, plump man with straight, dark hair worn in the old style cut around his forehead slung his bow over his shoulder and stepped from the perimeter. He opened the flap of the leather satchel he wore across his considerable girth, his long robe flapping with each step of his approach. His face appeared jolly and flushed as he drew near Padraig, not at all like the countenance of a bloodthirsty brigand.
“Good day, fine sir,” the man said, beaming up at Padraig. He held the open satchel toward him. “Alms for the poor?”
Padraig frowned down at the strange man. It appeared as though he had shaved off his eyebrows.
“We’re building a children’s home,” he confided with a wink and a proud grin.
“You are not!” Lord Hood shouted in disgust.
The man turned an offended expression toward Edwin Hood. “I say we are!”
“Thieves, the lot of you,” the nobleman rejoined.
The robber looked back at Padraig and shook the bag for emphasis. “It’s to have a cockhorse. I built it myself.” He waggled the skin where his eyebrows should have been. “Real horse hair.”
“I’ve nae coin,” Padraig said. “And even if I did, I’d nae give it to you.”
“No need to be ashamed of your poverty, my Scottish friend,” the robber assured him. “I’ll take your sword, in lieu. The poor little orphans need playthings as well, you know.”
“That sword is property of the king’s army,” Lucan objected.
The masked bandit had aimed and fired the bow before Lucan could finish, the arrow striking through his boot, pinning his foot to the forest floor. Lucan let out a cry of agony and bent to clutch at the arrow, while Padraig knelt to his aid.
The round man swept in and pulled Padraig’s sword from its sheath. “Stinginess is definitely not next to godliness,” he sniffed in disapproval as he moved on to Lucan, cutting his fine black leather purse from his belt even as the knight grasped at the arrow piercing his foot.
Padraig quickly snapped the shaft of the arrow—it was thin and finely made and broke cleanly, thank God—and then grasped Lucan’s calf just above the ankle and yanked his foot upward, dislodging it from its anchor as Lucan gave a guttural shout.
The faux friar bowed. “I thank you, sir. And the children thank you.” He moved out of the periphery of Padraig’s vision toward the trees behind them. “Alms for the poor, gentle sir? We’re building a children’s home. Ah, thank you. So generous.”
“Help me,” Lord Paget gasped, reaching up his hand toward the apparent leader of the group and his masked underling. But he could not support the weight of it, and so his arm fell back to the leaves as the man began to sob silently, descending into choking coughs. Blood speckled his lips and chin.
Padraig looked over his shoulder toward Beryl. He knew she had nothing to give the thief, and his anger increased as he watched her undo the pretty ribbon holding back her coils
