Free Revenge by David Pilling

towards the stables. “Come, brother of mine,” Richard said cheerfully to Henry, who was looking uncertain. “All will come right. We have planned this for many weeks.”
    True to his word, John Deeping returned at noon the following day with six soldiers at his back. During his absence Heydon Court had been turned into an armed camp. Neat lines of white tents occupied the large meadow west of the house, and groups of armed men were sparring and drilling in the fields.
    Richard watched Deeping’s approach, and went out to meet the little band of horsemen when they reached the gates. He had donned his father’s harness, full plate and mail, and his father’s broadsword was strapped to his hip. He rode a white destrier, Gwen, recently purchased from a Stafford horse-dealer to replace the horse killed at Blore Heath.
    Deeping was not easily cowed. “What is this, Bolton?” he shouted. “Why are these men gathered in arms?”
    “They are my friends,” Richard replied quietly. “The purpose of their assembly is none of your concern.”
    Deeping studied him through narrowed eyes before speaking again. “Where is Mauley? Will you hand him over?”
    “Let me see the writ,” Richard replied.
    Deeping produced the writ and held it up. “The King’s seal,” he said solemnly.
    Richard snatched the square of parchment from Deeping’s hand. “Mauley!” he shouted.
    A group of archers, including Mauley, appeared on the parapet above his head. At a word from him, they notched arrows to their bows and took aim at Deeping.
    “Now you are covered by enough shafts to send you to your graves three times over,” Richard said pleasantly, delighted by the look of cold, trembling fury on Deeping’s face. “But before I decide your fate, let me respond to this summons.”
    He dropped the writ into the mud and, encouraged by cheers and laughter from the men on the parapet, hawked up a gobbet of phlegm and spat on it.
    “Now, Master Deeping,” he said with a grin, “you will eat the writ, seal and all. Get off your horse.”
    Deeping looked to be on the verge of a seizure. “Traitor,” he said in a strangled voice. “Your brigands may shoot me down, but I will die before I allow you to humiliate me.”
    “Traitor, is it?” Richard snarled, his good humour vanished. “You are far too free with that word, though there are traitors in this county. Their day of judgment has come. You shall be both instrument and witness to their punishment.”
    In spite of Deeping’s brave words, he and his men were obliged to dismount, or else be shot down. Mauley and his archers stripped them of armour and clothing until they stood shivering in their drawers. Richard decided against forcing the envoy to eat his writ.
    “It must be sixty square inches,” he laughed, grinding the parchment with his heel. “The seal by itself would prove an indigestible morsel. We can’t have the Sheriff’s envoy collapsing with belly cramps before we reach Lichfield.”
    “Lichfield?” Deeping cried as his hands were roughly seized and bound behind him. “What do you mean?”
    Richard chuckled and wagged his head, offering no explanation, but ordered the envoy and his men to be placed at the head of the procession that now set out for the town, some six miles to the south-east. The white hawk banner was brought out of the gate and, with pennons flying and trumpets blowing, Richard and his little army rode at a sedate pace along the King’s road to Lichfield.
    The peasants labouring in the fields along the route stopped and gaped at the outlandish spectacle. Some laughed at the cluster of semi-naked men stumbling along in front, while others were inspired to abandon their back-breaking toil and swell the numbers of Richard’s host. These marched in shambolic order behind the horsemen, cheering and waving scythes, reaping hooks and pitchforks.
    “We are Robyn Hode’s men!” they sang . “War, war, war!”
    Richard turned to Henry as Lichfield