The Outlaws of Sherwood

by Robin McKinley

  “But, Marian,” said her father. “You cannot go—alone—” His voice wavered, for as they both knew she went alone where she would, and he had long since learnt he could not stop her. But Nigel need not know these things, and it was fitting that a father should disapprove of so indelicate and unfeminine an errand. His eyes slid away from hers, as they usually did, but they both knew they were playing a father and daughter role for their guest—so why, thought Marian at him irritably, can you not keep your voice steady?

  “I thought to ask you to accompany me,” said Marian silkily. Her father’s gaze jerked up at that, and they looked at each other with no great affection on either side. Then, as if unified by a single thought—which I guess we are, Marian said to herself: that of fear that Nigel won’t play this game with us—they looked to their visitor. “Perhaps our guest would care to make another of this party?” Marian’s father said feebly.

  “I should be glad to offer my support,” said Nigel, and now he cast his eyes down in no good humour. I think I can rely on your clinging to my shadow, thought Marian, and shedding the light of your dreadful respectability upon the proceedings. All the proceedings.

  Cerdic entered then and Marian said, “What news of Sir Richard?” and everyone turned quickly, Reda perhaps quickest of all.

  Cerdic shook his head. “Sir Richard has locked himself up, and will speak to no one; nor does he eat and, they think, sleep. He is returned from the city but a few days past, with nothing to tell, and the cloud upon him as dark as ever. His candle is seen shining from his high window at all hours of the night, and they see a shadow of a man pacing.”

  “His people—?” began Marian, not sure exactly how to phrase the question.

  Cerdic, who knew of his mistress’s absences if not of a certainty that the company she kept when she was from home might have a dangerous interest in his answer, said calmly, “Sir Richard did issue orders that no one shall attempt to bar the lawful execution of Blaise of Beautement’s visit tomorrow.”

  Marian was wondering if she dared ask if they would obey, when her father, who was quick enough to notice anything that might rub his timidity too near, said nervously, “They will obey, will they not?”

  “I am sure they will not disregard the last orders of so good a master,” said Cerdic gravely, and a taut silence followed, broken just before it became panicky by Marian, suggesting that perhaps Nigel would gratify her by playing a game of chess.

  “You will come tomorrow?” Marian said, pleadingly, to Reda. She had tucked her hand into her cousin’s elbow that she might speak quietly enough that Beatrix, close behind them, might not hear. Beatrix had deplorably quick ears.

  Nigel was staying overnight; he often did anyway, as it was a longish journey to his home for a man who had no taste for the usual forms of travel. But in this case he stayed because they would set out early on the morrow for Sir Richard’s Mapperley; and as he obviously viewed this eventuality with less and less pleasure as the evening hours had passed, dinner had been something of a trial. It was not Nigel’s place to protest what he had agreed to, once Marian’s father had given it his permission; and Marian had taxed her skill at conversation to its utmost and beyond in the last few hours, for she could see the thoughts slipping like fishes behind her father’s watery eyes, and knew that if she once let him say what he opened his mouth to say several times, she could yet lose what she had gained.

  Reda had followed where Marian led, and had made her own inconsequential observations when Marian had paused for breath or for inspiration. But her eyes were blank, and Marian did not know what she thought of the plan for tomorrow; nor, as her friend, would Marian try the tricks on her that she had used upon her father and her suitor. And so she only asked: “You will come tomorrow?”

  Reda pressed Marian’s hand to her side briefly and said, “I will come,” but her voice was flat.

  After a minute, and half a flight of stairs, Constance twittering away at Beatrix behind them, Marian said, “You do not care for it.”

  Reda was silent for so long that Marian thought she would get no answer. She and Reda shared a bedroom, but the other women were supposed to attend to their needs before they retired to their own bedchamber, and when she was in the mood Marian enjoyed making the attentions difficult for Beatrix, who so hated the idea that she should have to attend anyone but herself. On this evening Marian asked the merest token from her women, and Reda nothing at all; Marian dismissed them quickly.

  Reda sat, hands folded, on her bed. Marian looked at her and then went to the window, which she had not allowed Hawise to close, and leaned out over the sill. The stars were bright tonight, and the air tasted better in her throat than the wine at dinner had. She closed her eyes and thought that it was not her voice that was hoarse from the strain of the evening past, but her mind; and wished that the breeze could blow behind her eyes.… Blow away thoughts of Robin. She opened her eyes. Even if Robin had not existed, she could never have married Nigel. But if Robin had not existed, she might have gone already to a convent, where she might look at the stars every night without her heart’s hurting for someone who looked at the same stars and might not be thinking of her as he did so.

  She heard footfalls behind her. She turned as, without looking at her friend, Reda sat down on the sill beside her, and looked out over the quiet garden and the wall and trees beyond. The square plot where the herbs grew was a paler green against the shadows, as if it glowed faintly in its own light. When Reda had first come to live with them she had been horrified at Marian’s fondness for the night air, which everyone knew was poisonous; perhaps it was Marian’s own obvious health that changed her mind, or merely the realization that Marian was as stubborn as earth or stone or fire when she chose. But Reda did not shudder now when Marian shoved at the curtains as though she would like to open the entire wall to the out-of-doors, and had even learnt to like the cool herb-scented draught that wandered through their window. She still sniffed at it cautiously, though, as if she might notice poison in the air in time to duck back and slam the shutters closed against it.

  “It does not matter if I approve or not, does it?” said Reda. “You have chosen your line and mean to keep it, as you have done this long time. past. If there was a time when I, or your father, might have changed you, I missed it.”

  Marian was silent.

  “Perhaps,” said Reda, “were I as you are, I would do the same. I do not know.”

  “I will be grateful for your presence tomorrow,” said Marian humbly.

  “Yes, I believe you,” Reda said thoughtfully. “Sometimes I envy you knowing so clearly what you want. It is why Beatrix hates you, you know, for she does not know, and can only see that she must wait on you because you are the lord’s daughter. It would comfort her to believe that it is being the lord’s daughter that gives you that surety, but it is her misfortune not to be stupid, and so her hatred is difficult for her. It twists in her hands, and bites her.”

  “I suppose I do know what I want,” said Marian sadly, “but I do not see much hope that I shall get it. There is not much in that to be envious of.”

  “I know that too,” said Reda gently.

  Marian made a face, and rubbed her hand over her aching eyes. “Then what is the use of knowing?” she said. “For you or for me.”

  Reda looked into her friend’s face as if she would read her fortune there. Marian’s heart beat suddenly faster, as if she would, and that Reda’s next words would tell it to her. But what Reda said was: “I do not know you, for all the years I have spent daily in your company. We are not much alike. I would have married Nigel. Come; we must go to bed. You will need your wits about you tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  If they decide to obey Sir Richard after all, our bright career is reaching a swift and brutal end,” said Robin lightly.

  Much said, “These folk have no illusions about what kind of master Beautement would be, with the sheriff standing behind him and telling him when
to breathe and what clothes to put on. For love they might obey Sir Richard, had they less to lose—or nothing to hope for. Those whose hearts hurt the worst will remember that they do their good master a service by disobeying him now.”

  “I believe you,” said Robin; “but I have a mastery of the art of worrying that is a burden to me if I may not use it.” He looked up at the clear blue sky, which hurt his eyes; he wished for green.

  A small hunch-backed old man materialized from behind a hedgerow. “Sir,” he said, looking around at them. His eye fell on Little John, and his face brightened. “I bring you the news you look for,” he said. “The sheriff has come, and his men are placed as Robin Hood said they would be; but we have two men for each of his, and three for the biggest ones.” He grinned, showing more gaps than teeth. “None so big as you; we’d need four for you.”

  “And Sir Richard?” said Robin.

  The man’s smile vanished. “He’s up in his hall, with the sheriff, and Beautement, and a few of Beautement’s greasy hangers-on, and the sheriff’s men that aren’t standing around stiff as pokers and looking like fools outside; and there are some visitors for Sir Richard who came today too.”

  “Visitors?” said Robin sharply.

  The man’s shoulders rose and fell. “Aye. That’s what I know. A lady and an old man and a young one; and another lady, and maybe a few folk with ’em. Friends of Sir Richard’s, who want to bear him away with ’em when all’s done. A kind thought: Sir Richard might have leprosy for all his great friends have stood beside him these last weeks. And these visitors have put the sheriff off his stride, for which alone they’re welcome to us. He can’t gloat as much as he wanted; ’twould be impolite with ladies present.” The man grinned again, and spat.

  Robin was amused, despite the suspicion that had immediately presented itself to him. “The sheriff standing on the wrong foot is always good news to me,” he said.

  “You’ll be Robin Hood himself, sir?” said the old man.

  “I am,” said Robin. “And you are?”

  “William,” he said. “Old William. I was a clerk till I got too old and my hand knotted up; but Sir Richard has kept me this eight years for nothing. I know what would come to me, did Beautement become my lord.”

  It was curiously quiet as they approached Mapperley. There were cattle and sheep grazing in some of the fields, and corn ripening in others, and turnip tops visible in one near the way they took; perhaps it was only that Robin and his band knew what they approached, but to them the silence pressed in upon them as the clear blue sky had done since they stepped out from under Sherwood’s green leaves. Even the short streets of the little village that huddled under the castle walls were deserted; they saw one or two skinny dogs, who slunk away from them.

  When they crossed into the outer bailey they at last saw some folk: sheriff’s men, who stared as Robin and those with him entered the unguarded gate. They did not try to stop them, but they did not look as comfortable as the minions of a conquering and unconquerable force should look. As the Sherwood outlaws came further into the bailey grounds, one or two of the sheriff’s men began to drift around behind them, toward the gate; whereupon three or four of Sir Richard’s folk began to drift in a like manner. Robin’s careful eye tallied up as Old William had predicted; the sheriff’s men were outnumbered here by slightly better than two to one, and while the sheriff’s men were better dressed and armed, Sir Richard’s men looked the more earnest of purpose.

  A few of the local men were unconvincingly posed as shepherds to a few of Sir Richard’s beasts grouped for the purpose; several were engaged in horse-breaking, which to any accustomed eye was confusing the well-broken horse being worked. But the watchfulness of the scene was so plain that the thud of the horse’s hoofs, and the occasional voice, were startling.

  It was worse inside the main court. A porter hailed them half-heartedly at the gate; but when Robin said, “We have business with Sir Richard and Blaise de Beautement,” he made no further question, and the outlaws walked on. Here were more sheriff’s men standing around looking utterly ill at ease, as if perhaps they were suddenly possessed of a few more arms and legs than they were accustomed to, and did not know how to dispose them. And here were thicker and more watchful clots of Sir Richard’s peasantry. The blacksmith was banging away at a simple horse-shoe, so the size of his audience was surprising; but his audience was paying poor attention, and most were looking over their shoulders. Indeed, the blacksmith was not well attending either, for the iron under his hammer was becoming brittle with the long and needless working. All the horses in Sir Richard’s stable seemed to need hand-walking today; and all the hawks in his hawk house were individually carried out to take the sun.

  When the Sherwood folk came to the inner ward, the same atmosphere prevailed; and not a one of the sheriff’s horses was tied, for each was held by a grim-faced peasant—several of whom looked as if they’d never been so close to a horse before.

  Not all the horses belonged to the sheriff or to Beautement; there was another little group slightly to one side, their trappings less gaudy, and perhaps even a little well-worn for fashion, but aristocratic nonetheless. “Marian,” said Will, under his breath. “What will she be at?”

  Rafe said quietly, “Whatever it is, she will do it handsomely.”

  Will, thinking of the girl who had climbed trees and torn her skirts like his own little sister, said, “I hope so.”

  No one here asked their business; no one asked what name should be announced; but when they reached the Great Hall they were obviously anticipated, and the tableau opened out a little to let them in.

  Sir Richard, drawn and haggard and looking twice his years, stood with his head bowed and his hands cupped with a curious desolate emptiness, as if they would never hold anything again. He wore a green tunic very similar to the ones favoured by the outlaws of Sherwood; but his, while of a better cloth, hung less well upon his stooped shoulders than upon any of Robin’s folk. The sheriff was standing behind the great table, where Sir Richard was wont to sit; and Robin’s fists closed involuntarily at the sight, for at the table itself, in Sir Richard’s very chair, was a thin, pink-eyed man in a long dingy robe trimmed in fur: this would be Beautement.

  The sheriff’s expression as he looked at the new arrivals was mixed of lust and fear and uncertainty; and Robin remembered that Old William had spoken of other visitors whose unexpected arrival had put the sheriff out already—whose identity he had guessed even before he saw the horses outside and recognised the blaze-faced bay. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on the sheriff but they would not obey him; against his will they slid to the other end of the table.

  Marian sat there, with her hands crossed gracefully in her lap, and her curly hair smoothed back under a riband; he could only see the top of her head, and the beautiful slope of her neck.… He could not remember when last he had seen her in a dress; this one was the colour of dark amber, with embroidered cuffs, and a yoke of some fancy needlework across the breasts; the skirt fell in long thick folds, hiding her feet. He wondered if she was beautiful, or if only in his eyes she gleamed in the sunlight.

  With her was her father, who sat staring like one stricken at the girlhood friends of his daughter; for Much stood at Robin’s elbow on the one hand, and Will moved up and stood beside Little John at the other. The man’s face was bloodless, and in his slow and fearful mind the truth of his daughter’s absences was inexorably emerging from the shadows where he had banished it.

  Beside him sat a sad-faced woman a little older than Marian; and over Marian’s chair, half-crouched like a dog protecting a bone, stood a young man Robin guessed must be Nigel. He, too, looked at the outlaws as if his worst suspicions were being confirmed, but Robin feared any outburst he might make less than anything Marian’s father might say, for he could call too many of them by name.

  “A merry meeting,” said Robin; and Sir Richard stirred, as if a long-forgotten voice were disturbing a bitter dream. “I am
glad we came not too late.”

  The sheriff opened his mouth, and his men, who had been ranged around the walls of the room, took a long step forward. But the sheriff said nothing after all, and they paused again, leaning on their lances and looking silly; committed to leaving their lounging against the walls but having no command to follow.

  “For we have come in time, have we not?” said Robin; and he unhooked the purse at his belt. Little John did the same. “We are here to buy back the mortgages on Sir Richard’s lands, which I understand are otherwise forfeit. We would have come to you sooner—sir—” said Robin to the sheriff, who stared over his head, “but we have a quaint dislike for Nottingham town, where the streets are narrow and we cannot catch our breath.” And at Robin’s words there was some clinking of hauberks against sword-hilts and lance-butts against flagstones.

  Sir Richard moved now; his hands clasped, and his head rose and turned toward Robin. Robin’s name had already shaped itself on his lips when some spark of his native wit returned to him, and instead he said formally, “Sir, I know not what you mean by this; but these debts are my own, and I ask no aid; my lands are forfeit.”

  “I think not,” said Robin. “You may call them mine, if you wish, rather than yours, but they are no longer Beautement’s; and I hire you now and forever as my administrator. I have no wish to oversee this holding, which would be too great a responsibility to a—yeoman—like myself.”

  “And if I choose not to accept?” said Beautement, querulously. “For the worth of the lands I know, and I mislike the look of your purses.”

  “And the hands that hold them!” cried the sheriff at last. “Seize them!” But he was too late; for there was an arrow at the throat of every one of his men before he finished saying the words; and there were Much and Will and Little John and Robin left over, smiling faintly, their hands loose at their sides.

  “How unkind,” said Robin mournfully. “But see! All is not lost; our gold is good.” And he and Little John upended their purses on the table; and a lovely bright heap of gold and jewels spilled twinkling out. A bar of sunlight from a high window lay diagonally across the table, and the outlaws’ ransom fell across it, as if the table were divided per saltire, and Sir Richard should gain a new coat of arms by the day’s business.