“Does this noble paragon have a name?” Littlejohn scoffed.
“That he once had a noble name, none of us doubt. For reasons of his own, however, he keeps it to himself and prefers to be addressed by a more humble designation. Tuck, is what he goes by. Friar Tuck.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Discovering that Henry de Clare was the elusive King of Sherwood did not come as an earth-shattering revelation to any of the Wardieu men, least of all Robin. It did, however, hasten their footsteps through the forest as Alan a’ Dale led them deeper into the wood, into the very heart of Sherwood where their main camp was located. Few outsiders were permitted to venture so close to the pulse point of the outlaw band, and those who did were usually blindfolded and led on a merry chase before being taken to the actual camp. Since the moon was now gone and it was as black as a cat’s maw, there was little need for such precautions, although every so often, a distinct thwang and whoosh could be heard coming from the trees overhead. When asked about it, Alan merely shrugged and allowed that they had sentries who sat watch, and had Robin’s band been approaching uninvited, they would likely be dead by now or at least questioned sternly about their purpose for being in the woods.
They walked for the better part of the night, through stretches of wood so thick and dense, they could only move in single file along what passed for a path. They used neither torchlight nor lantern to find their way, and on more than one occasion, it was suspected the silent wraiths moving through the trees on either side were as much to provide direction as security.
It was tiring work, for knights do not march well, especially burdened under mail hauberks. At one point, Robin bade the leader of the outlaws halt that they might strip out of their iron link suits and Brenna, who cursed and stumbled at every entanglement of her skirt’s hem, might change into more comfortable clothes for walking.
Alan a’ Dale agreed and it was only then, by chance, that Robin and Griffyn managed to exchange a few private words.
“Eighty men and women against one hundred and forty? Even if these foresters were seasoned fighters, I doubt this villain has the knowledge how to best deploy them against such odds.”
“And you think we would?” Robin asked.
“You are still fresh from the battlefield of Roche-au-Moines, where the odds were no better in your favor.”
“Yes, and though I had experienced knights under my command, we still suffered heavy losses for it. These are like babes in the woods. Pikes against swords, cudgels and hoes against starbursts and mace.” He finished securing his armour to Sir Tristan’s saddle. “Be that as it may, you heard what he said. He does not want our help, nor does he trust us enough to ask for it.”
“In which case, I strongly doubt he will be too eager to let any of us forage off on our own searching for lost princesses.”
“What do you suggest I do? Ask him for help?”
“It would seem to be the logical solution.”
“Logical?” Robin grunted. “What is to say he would not consider a Plantagenet princess to be as much of an enemy as a Plantagenet king?”
Griffyn’s shallow chuckle was laced with irony. “You ask this because he is an outlaw or because he is a Saxon?”
Since Renaud had admitted to being both, Robin took an extra moment to consider his answer—long enough for a six-inch iron bolt to find its mark and f-thunk into the soft earth at his feet.
He bent over quickly to retrieve it and peered into the misty woods around them. “Sparrow?”
“I am here, Lummock,” came a whispered reply. “Rot my nose if I can leave the lot of you alone long enough to piss up an alder bush.”
“You should content yourself with more earth-bound tree stumps and your nose would be where it belonged when we needed it.”
“Faugh! Had it been thus, I would have been caught farting at the moon along with the rest of you who can boast only feathers and dung for brains.”
Robin sighed and bowed his head. “You are absolutely right, of course. We need you more where you are now. Have you any idea in which direction we are bound? North? South? West?”
“North and west, as far as I can determine, led there by the runners sent out on either side. They are good, by Cyril’s toes. Twice I have nearly flown right up their heels.”
“Are you having any trouble keeping apace with us?”
There was a pause while Sparrow plainly considered the extent of Robin’s weariness and decided it was not worth the sympathy. “If I was, Pillock, would I be where I am now?”
“Well … be careful. You may have to show us the way out of this place if the foresters object to our leaving.”
He straightened at the sound of footsteps behind him and tucked the bolt under his tunic.
“Time to move out again,” said Alan a’ Dale, glancing upward into the boughs of the tree. When he looked back, he addressed Griffyn. “The horses have slowed us down and there are still some two or thee hours ahead of us. Would your wife prefer to ride the rest of the way?”
Griffyn barely acknowledged the look on Robin’s face as he replied, “I thank you for asking, but she has a stubborn streak as wide as this forest and I strongly doubt she would ride while the rest of us walk.”
Alan shrugged and moved away.
“Wife?” Robin said through his teeth.
“I thought it best, under the circumstances, if she appeared to be traveling under the protection of a husband as well as several hale brothers.”
Robin’s brows crushed together in an ominous glower. “What circumstances?”
“One woman traveling unchaperoned in the company of nine men? What circumstance would you make of it?”
“It would depend upon what that woman was doing if I found her alone in the woods with one of those men at night.”
Griffyn’s eyes glowed luminously out of the dark.
“When this is over, Renaud … or Locksley”—Robin’s eyes narrowed—“or whatever the devil your name is … there are matters that need resolving between us.”
“I look forward to it,” Griffyn said, blithely touching an ebony forelock. “Providing fate does not resolve them first.”
The camp was come upon suddenly, with no warning of distant fire glow or soft bloom of light bathing the undersides of the boughs overhead. Not until full light of day would they realize why, for the outlaw stronghold was set in the belly of a steep-banked ravine. To reach it from either side required the agility of a mountain goat, and even then, the earth was too soft to support any great weight and would spill the interloper head first onto the piles of jagged stone set deliberately below. To gain entry by the north or the south one had to follow the course of a deep, noisy stream that rushed through the ravine with bristling importance. There was no footpath across this stream, but a log that had to be crossed with care in order to safely approach the mouth of the ravine. Anyone not intimately familiar with the footing could find themselves tipped over rocks and logs and swept several hundred yards downstream before a toehold could be found again. Not that anyone could reach the log or the ravine without being noticed by the guards and sentries peppered strategically throughout the greenwood. The last fifty yards of the approach, arrows zinged by overhead like bits of conversations being passed from tree to tree.
The space between the walls of the ravine was surprisingly extensive, as flat as a meadow and divided in equal halves by the stream. The reason why the fire glow had not been seen through the woods was because the top of the ravine was literally roofed with a tight lacing of boughs and branches, creating an almost cavern-like effect from the bottom looking up. The saplings and ferns that populated the forest floor elsewhere had been stripped away and crude huts erected in the cleared spaces. Some of the trees were ancient, their branches as wide as small roads, and in some of these, enterprising outlaws had built more habitats, linked by rope bridges and a functional system of tough vines.
The biggest tree by far—and likely the oldest in all of
Sherwood—was referred to fondly as the Major Oak, and it was there, under the majestic sweep of its gnarled branches, where the communal meals and meetings were held. Here were tables and benches made from logs, and an enormous fire pit with fully a dozen huge cauldrons strung over tripods, their contents steaming lazily into the night air, readily available to any hungry sentries who might be returning to camp in the small hours of the morning. At one end of the pit there was an oven, built of stones mortared together, and because it was already dawn somewhere up above the canopy of leaves, there were women busy pounding dough into bread, men washing their clothes and themselves in the stream, others chopping wood for the fires or trussing hare and quail onto sticks for cooking. They all looked up or paused in what they were doing as Alan a’ Dale entered the mouth of the ravine leading his weary, footworn guests behind him. But it was obvious they had been alerted well in advance of their approach for the tables were already set with the makings of a meal. Bread, cheese, ewers of ale greeted the weary outlaws, who exchanged a few greetings with fellow fugitives before they started filling the benches and eyeing the platters of food.
As welcome a sight as it was—food and ale after so many hours trekking over uncertain footing in the darkness—it was not the sylvan, cathedral-like setting of their surroundings, or the steaming cauldrons of aromatic food, or even the thought of finally lying down and resting his weary bones that made Robin stop dead in the middle of the broad common.
Brenna, nearly asleep on her feet, stumbled to a halt beside him and followed his frozen stare. Richard and Dag, close again behind, stopped on the other side and looked instantly for some treachery arranged for their welcome.
There was no treachery, however. What brought Robin to a dead, breathless stop was the sight of a slender, plainly dressed woman standing as still as a statue at the wide base of the Major Oak. His eyes, as sleep-deprived eyes will do, had passed over her in the first sweeping appraisal of the ravine, but something had drawn his gaze back. Something had made him hold his breath and brace himself through the thunderous, pounding beats of his heart.
The girl was as pale as candle wax, her face surrounded by a glossy chestnut mane of curls that fell in soft profusion around her shoulders and halfway down her back. Her eyes were impossibly large and dark and round in a face blessed by the angels with such sweet beauty, even Richard and Dag found themselves holding their breaths and growing warm.
“Saints preserve us,” murmured Littlejohn. “ ’Tis the little maid. ’Tis the maid Marienne.”
Robin drew more than one startled look from brothers and a sister who had never seen him look so utterly, helplessly defenseless against the rush of emotions that flooded him. His hands hung limply by his sides. His chest labored to catch and hold a breath. His cheeks flushed every shade of red from pink to crimson, the color ebbing and flowing like tides gone mad.
“Marienne,” he whispered.
She was obviously unable to respond or to move other than to sway slightly, side to side, in disbelief, and it was left to Robin, on legs hardly more steady, to walk across the remaining thirty feet and stop a body length away from touching her.
“Marienne? Is it really you?”
Though she still had not moved so much as a fingertip, her soft doe’s eyes had become flooded with tears, making her lashes so heavy, they drifted shut at the sound of his voice. So absolutely still and pale had she become, and so piously plain the linen of her tunic, that for one terrible instant, Robin feared he was too late. He feared she had grown tired of waiting and resigned herself to taking her vows.
But then the smallest tremor of a smile spread across her mouth and when she opened her eyes again, they were brimming with such joy, he felt the effects of it wash over him like a warm wave of nectar.
“You are … well, my lady?”
She lowered her eyes again and managed a timid nod. “And you … my lord?”
“Better now that I have seen you. And … your mistress?”
“She is well also. Perfectly well,” she emphasized, raising her downcast eyes again. “It was almost as if … she felt your presence for she bade me come here just yesterday.”
Robin swallowed hard but could not dislodge the lump in his throat. “The child?”
“He is here, with me. He is … off hunting for berries … or acorns … or …” Her voice faltered to a whisper and a shimmer of fresh tears welled along her lashes. “Robin. Robin … you came …”
“We made a promise, you and I,” he said, drawing closer, his voice shaking with emotion. “Did you doubt I would keep my part?”
“It was so long ago … I thought you might have changed your mind. I thought you might have found someone else, someone beautiful and wealthy and …”
He raised shaking hands and cupped her face, forcing her to look up and see the emotion burning in his eyes. “You are the most beautiful creature on this earth, Marienne FitzWilliam. As for wealth, if there was but you and I in this world and naught but a wooden cup between us, I would not dare ask God for more happiness.”
With the strength of his love shattering every accepted social convention that separated the nobility from the base-born, the most honoured and celebrated champion in all Europe stunned the gathered assembly by dropping humbly down on one knee before her. He took her ice-cold hands into his, pressing them first to his forehead, then to his lips, holding them there long enough for her fingers to warm under his breath as he repeated the pledge, word for whispered word, that they had made to each other in the midnight shadows of Kirklees so many long years ago.
When he had finished, he pressed a kiss into the palm of each small hand then held his breath and waited—not long, for she sank down onto her knees before him, crumpling in a pool of spread linen and tremulous sobs that could not be stopped, not even when he gathered her into his arms and held her tight against him.
“That was the promise we made, was it not?”
She nodded, her face buried in his neck.
“Then you hold the fate of my heart and my life in your hands, my lady, for I would have your answer now, before I draw another breath.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes …”
Smiling, almost giddy with emotion, he bent his head and, uncaring of the dozens of eyes gawping at them, he kissed her.
The kiss was long enough and passionate enough to stir the outlaws into clapping and hooting. Even the brothers Wardieu, who had never seen their older sibling bestow more than a chaste kiss of peace on the cheek of a woman, put their hands together and grinned ear to ear. Brenna, watching from the common, felt someone beside her and looked up to find Griffyn observing the reunited lovers with something akin to amusement playing about his lips.
“So,” he murmured. “He does have his human failings after all.”
“Do not even think to mock him,” she warned tautly.
“Mock him?” He glanced down at her in surprise. “My lady, I do not mock him. I am merely glad to welcome him to the fold. Indeed, I am even tempted to join him in giving these louts something to buzz about the rest of the day.”
He said this while staring at the ripe fullness of her lips, and Brenna, acutely aware of his penchant for accepting challenges, refrained from having them say “You would not dare.” But only just.
He laughed anyway, for the words were in her eyes, plain as ink on parchment, and despite the precautionary step she took away from him, his arm came out and his hand slipped around her waist. He drew her to his side and held her there long enough and with enough familiarity for Will, who was closest, to notice and send a bristling frown in their direction.
She managed to extricate herself just as Robin brought Marienne across the common to make formal introductions.
“These are the upstarts I have told you about in my letters,” he said as he presented Richard—who bowed gallantly over Marienne’s small hand—and Dagobert, who was still grinning like a mad fool in Bedlam.
“Allow me to be th
e first to truly congratulate you,” the latter said, “for we have never seen Robin brought to his knees before, nor blush half so bright a shade of red as to rival Will’um’s scarlet hair.”
Robin smote him good-naturedly on the shoulder and did indeed turn a most glorious shade of vermilion as he turned to Brenna.
“Our sister Brenna. Bren … my Marienne.”
Up close, Marienne’s sweet oval face fairly radiated her happiness, and it was contagious. She started to offer a curtsy, as was expected from someone of lesser birth, but Brenna stopped her and put her arms around the young woman’s shoulders, bestowing a warm, sisterly hug.
“We have heard so much about you, I already feel as if you are a part of the family.”
“Which she has just agreed to become,” Robin announced proudly. “As soon as we can find a priest to marry us.”
Brenna laughed and hugged her again, then hugged Robin until he begged for mercy. Geoffrey, Will, and Griffyn added their congratulations in a moderately less boisterous fashion, and then there was only Jean de Brevant, standing apart from the others, a pillar of muscle and brawn that wilted down on his knees when the dark-eyed Marienne smiled in his direction.
“Petit Jean,” she whispered. “How truly good it is to see you again.”
“You look well, Little One. The last time I saw you, you were but a child, so thin and gaunt and worried, I felt sure your face would never catch up to the size of your eyes. But now … look at you. A beautiful young woman. I could not be more proud if you were my own daughter.”
Marienne stifled another sob behind trembling fingers and, following Brenna’s example, cast propriety to the wind and hugged the huge captain of the guard so hard he turned nearly as dark a mottlement of red as Robin. He stood to cover his embarrassment and yielded his place to Alan a’ Dale, who had been watching the proceedings with frank astonishment.
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 124