On the Nottingham road, Gisburne and an escort of thirty armed men rode alongside the King's train. Their numbers were concentrated towards the middle where the treasury wagons rode, loaded with taxes and John's personal wealth. The day had dawned clear, although a sharp wind blew through the trees stinging Guy's face.
A shout from further up the train attracted his attention. Ducking his head to avoid a tree that had branched out low over the worn track he kicked Fury into a trot. Several other guards on both sides of the wagon train followed him and the wagons ground to a halt.
By the side of the track two robed monks carried a third, whose head lolled back against his companions shoulder. One of the men threw back his hood, to reveal a young face, earnest and sallow looking.
"My brother fell, back there in the woods. Please help us," he said.
Gisburne let the other men pass him to help the monks and rose in his stirrups to swing his head up and down the line, his eyes studying the undergrowth intently. Something didn't feel right. His eyes turned back along the way he had come, to the overhanging branches. Something moved, a dark blurwithin the greenery. A sudden gust of wind made his eyes water and he blinked rapidly to clear them. There; a second black shape.
Suddenly the woods erupted and black cowled monks poured out of the trees. They carried only wooden staffs and used them to deadly effect. He saw a horse go down screaming in pain as a staff made snapping contact with its leg.
"Ambush!" he shouted. "Back down the line." This last he directed at the men who'd deserted their posts to investigate the wounded monk.
Turning his back on the chaos as the soldiers struggled to remount and turn their horses in the confines of the track, he kicked Fury into a fast trot, drawing his sword as they rode. More monks spilled out of the trees, lashing out with their staffs, others swarming over one of the wagons, black ants against the white cover.
A monk charged up the track towards him, staff angled to knock him from his horse. He dodged and sliced his blade down, scarlet misting the air in fine droplets. Two more monks appeared, one falling beneath Fury's hooves, causing the horse to stumble, and his blade sheared the top of the second man's skull. The monks were inside the wagon now; he could see them, frantically heaving out bags and chests, throwing them to others on the ground to pull apart. Gold and silver, crosses and plate and chalices spilled onto the mud.
He was almost there, when a line of monks closed on him, their staffs upended, hammering against him and the horse. A sharp blow caused Fury to rise and flail his front legs, catching one man a crushing blow to the skull and splitting another's face apart. The horse twisted and was forced back and down into the mud. Gisburne kicked his boot out of the stirrup to keep from being trapped. Pushing up with his other foot he leapt out of the saddle and ducked away from the deadly staffs.
Where were the guard, he thought furiously. A staff cleaved the air above his head narrowly missing him. Keeping his head low he charged and caught the man in the stomach, winding him. He was up against the wagon now. Nearby one of the monk's rummaged through a saddlebag - his and Arthur's saddlebag- and gave a shout of triumph. The monks threw themselves off the wagon, a man each side of the saddlebag, heading back into the trees, the others in close formation behind, brandishing their staffs.
Guy flung himself further down the track and entered the trees keeping abreast of them but out of sight. Over the sound of his own panting, he could hear them labour to drag the saddlebag through the trees and laughed. How far did they expect to get lugging that great weight with a hundred of the King's guard behind them he wondered?
There were sounds of fighting and death and he guessed that the first of the guard had caught up with the monks. He kept running. There were no more sounds of pursuit and he caught sight of the group through the trees, smaller now, but still strong, a cordon of eighteen men around the two who dragged the leather bag. Where were the guard!
There, flashes of red, some distance behind the group. The cowards were holding back, pissing scared of a group of monks with sticks.
"Come on, you bastards," he roared at them and headed through the trees towards the group of black habits. His blade slashed and cut, slashed and cut. Three soldiers pushed through the undergrowth and he turned his head to scream at them to fight, when the butt of a staff cracked him under the chin and he hit the dirt floor of the forest.
As he went down the monks fled further into the trees, but the one who'd hit him kept his feet planted firmly on the ground, raising his staff up over his head to bring down a crushing blow. Gisburne twisted his body at the last second, caught the end of the staff in both hands and jerked down, yanking the young monk from his feet. The three soldiers were beside him and one planted his knee firmly in the monk's back pinning him to the ground. Gisburne struggled up. He pushed the soldier aside and gripped the monk by his cassock to pull him around.
The young lad looked at him, his face contorted with fury, then struggled to free himself. Gisburne raised his fist and bought it down, smashing the monk's nose and making him yowl in pain. He stopped struggling, spitting blood and mucus. A wild grin stretched his face.
"It is too late," he said. "We have what we came for."
Gisburne glanced up. There was no sign of the monks or the saddlebag. Angrily he jerked his prisoner to his feet and set off back towards the main road.