Orphan of Destiny by Michael Spradlin Page A

past, her daggers gleaming.
    “Maryam, NO!” I yelled, and just managed to snatch her tunic as she ran by. She stopped short in my grasp and spun, eyes blazing, ready to fight me if necessary.
    “What . . . Let me go!” she yelled, pulling me along as she wiggled her way toward the center of the bridge.
    “Everyone stop!” I shouted. Maryam’s eyes were full of confusion, and John stared at me with rapt concentration. Only Robard fought on, still squirming beneath the foot and staff of the giant.
    I quickly drew my short sword and held it out hilt first toward the blacksmith. “John Little? You are a friend of Sir Thomas Leux. You made this sword for me, last spring, in Dover.” I raised it higher so he could get a better view of it. “My name is Tristan, of St. Alban’s. . . . I am . . . was Sir Thomas’ squire. Remember? I brought his stallion Dauntless for you to reshoe and those two ruffians attacked me?”
    “Yes. I remember you,” he said quietly. John stepped back and released Robard, who remained on his back for the moment.
    “Little John. You told me everyone calls you Little John,” I went on.
    Robard rolled to his feet. “You know this scoundrel?” he asked.
    Before I or anyone could answer, Robard suddenly went flying through the air and landed with a resounding smack in the stream.
    Little John had stepped forward, catlike, and with his staff as a lever lifted Robard off the ground, flipping him into the water. He had moved so quickly, I wondered if my eyes had deceived me. Robard came up sputtering and grabbed the bridge for support. He was cursing, and Maryam, who had grown calm as suddenly as she had been ready to fight, had to stifle a laugh.
    Little John shook his head. “No need for name calling,” he said quietly.
    “Fine, you’ve made your point. We’ll cross elsewhere,” Robard said. “Will you help me up or will that cost two crosslets as well?” He held his left hand out to the giant.
    “As long as you’ve learned your lesson,” John said, grasping Robard’s hand. He pulled and Robard braced his feet against the bridge timbers, letting John raise him out of the water. But when he was nearly halfway up, Robard’s other hand shot out, grabbing John behind his right knee. Robard pulled hard, and as the big man’s knee collapsed, his weight pulled him forward. Before any of us knew it, Robard had thrown the giant over his shoulder and into the water. It was John’s turn to come up sputtering.
    “Know this, Big John or Giant Man or Little Tiny Lad or whatever you call yourself. I am Robard Hode of Sherwood and no one to be trifled with. I’ll not pay your toll and I’ll not be thrown into a stream by the likes of you without getting my satisfaction, are we clear?”
    Little John roared, and with frightening speed he lifted himself onto the bridge and retrieved his fallen staff. I rushed across the bridge and, without thinking, put myself between the two dripping wet combatants.
    “Stop this now!” I commanded. “Robard, cease! Little John is a friend. This is a huge misunderstanding!” Trying to keep them apart was like standing between two prancing bulls, and I feared all three of us would tumble off the bridge. Eventually the steam went out of them and they stood quiet, if not quite placid.
    “Little John,” I said, shaking his hand, “it is good to see you!”
    “And you, Tristan. Tell me, why are you not with Sir Thomas?” he asked.
    With as little detail as possible, I told him what had happened to us since he and I had last met in Dover. When I related what I feared of Sir Thomas’ fate, he bowed his head and went still a moment.
    “A good man, that one,” he said. “I pray God watches over his soul.”
    “John, why are you here? What happened to your smithy in Dover?” I asked him.
    “Hmph. My smithy? The Lionheart’s brother John took care of that. Come. I’ve a camp not far from here. There isn’t much but I’ll share it with you. Even you,