Lady of Sherwood

by Jennifer Roberson

  In exasperation he pulled up and listened. The noise of his passage had startled birds and small animals away; he thought surely it should have brought outlaws to him by now. But nothing seemed amiss.

  Robin sighed, mentioned briefly to God that He might take pity on a poor foolish knight for inviting trouble to attend him when he wore no mail and carried neither sword nor bow, and shouted a name loudly. The forest rang with it.

  “They will believe me a madman,” he muttered, “or someone setting a trap.”

  But if that were the case, they had only to pin him with arrows and the trap sprung without result.

  He shouted again, and this time the arrows flew.

  None touched his flesh. He felt them plucking at his tunic, and one hummed through his hair, which froze the marrow of his bones, but none drew blood. They buried themselves in tree trunks and quivered there.

  When he found his voice, Robin raised it once more. “If you are not Adam Bell, I have no need of your assistance.”

  A man shouted back, “Assistance to take your coin?”

  He smiled crookedly. “Clym of the Clough, you have mine already!”

  “What do you want with Adam?”

  “I’ll tell Adam.”

  “Tell me, aye? I’m the one with the bow.”

  “Who is with you?”

  “Friends,” Clym called.

  “I have need of friends,” Robin said. “I have need of friends to assist other friends.”

  “Do you, now?”

  He thought of insisting they show themselves, as he found it somewhat frustrating to hold a conversation with a forest, but decided not to press the issue. “I have friends bound for Locksley Village. But so is the sheriff. They would do better to go elsewhere.”

  “Outlawed friends, are they? Would it be the Hathersage Giant?”

  “It would.”

  “Would it be Will Scarlet?”

  “It would.”

  “Would it be a minstrel and a fat friar and a cutpurse?”

  “It would.”

  “And would it be the son of an earl?”

  Robin sighed. “Not as yet.”

  “Ah! Then what should we do with him?”

  “Let him ride on to Ravenskeep,” he suggested.

  “Why should we do that, earl’s son?”

  “Because you already have his coin, his ring, and his brooch!”

  Clym hooted. “But not his horse!”

  “Oh, Jesu,” Robin muttered in sheer disgust.

  The foliage beside the track rustled. A man stood there in the shadows, hands wrapped around a bow. Adam Bell grinned. “ ’Tis a fine horse, that one.”

  Robin scowled down at him “You’ve already left me afoot once.”

  “But the horse took himself off that time.”

  “And I would like to take myself off—on horseback—as soon as I know you will get word to the others.”

  “Are they truly outlawed again?”

  “The sheriff says so.”

  “Why are they bound for Locksley?”

  “We hoped it would be a bolt-hole if the pardon were revoked.”

  “But now the sheriff’s after all of them.”

  “And me as well,” Robin said grimly, “when he can find his way around my father.”

  “Ah.” Adam Bell leaned and spat. “So for the moment ’tis the earl’s son.”

  The barb went home. Robin retorted grimly, “You use what tools are at hand.”

  The outlaw grinned. “So you do.”

  “Will you help them? For their sakes, if not for mine?”

  Bell arched a dark brow. “Help them yourself.”

  Robin shook his head. “You can reach Locksley sooner, and in secret.”

  “And you? He’d be wanting you as well, our sheriff?”

  “Oh, indeed. He is accusing me of detaining the royal messenger, which I did not do—” The outlaw grinned. “And accusing me of stealing a merchant’s horse, which I did do. He’s already promised to fling me into his dungeon.”

  “Then why didn’t he arrest you already?”

  “The earl’s son,” Robin said briefly. “For now, he dare not cross my father.”

  “‘You use the tools at hand,’” Adam Bell quoted, his peculiarly light-brown eyes bright with amusement. “And a powerful tool it is, being Huntington’s heir.”

  “Huntington’s sometime heir.”

  Bell feigned astonishment. “What’s this, then? You and the earl are not always in accord?”

  “I and the earl are almost never in accord,” Robin answered with pronounced irony. “Any more than I and Clym of the Clough.”

  The outlaw laughed and tamped the heel of his bow against the ground. “So, you’ll have us find the others and fetch them away from Locksley.”

  “Before the sheriff arrives there, yes.”

  “And you will go on to Ravenskeep?”

  “To Marian, yes.”

  “While your friends stay—where? Here?” Bell smiled. “In Sherwood?”

  “Better here in Sherwood,” Robin said pointedly, “than lodged in the sheriff’s dungeon.”

  “And will you give us your horse for it?”

  “No, I will not give you my horse for it. You lost him once before!”

  “Then what? There’s a toll to be paid, to pass through Sherwood.”

  “Defer it,” Robin suggested. “I have coin elsewhere, and can fetch it back to you another day.”

  Bell’s expression was smug. “At Huntington Castle?”

  Robin exploded. “In Christ’s Holy Name, if I do not bring hard coin back, I swear you may have the horse! Now, will you do as I’ve asked? I should like my friends warned before they meet the sheriff, not as they do.”

  “Done,” Bell agreed promptly. “Of course, we’ve got them with us already, so you may as well just bring the coin back here right away.”

  Robin nearly bellowed it. “They’re here?”

  “Well, not just here, perhaps. Back in the brush a ways, with Cloudisley and Wat One-Hand.” Bell hitched his head. “Clym’s out there keeping an eye—and an arrow—on you.”

  “Where are they?”

  The outlaw grinned. “Bring the coin, and you’ll see them soon enough.”

  “You are holding my friends for ransom!”

  “Ah, well . . . we took the idea from what German Henry did to King Richard.” Bell shrugged. “If kings can do it, why not outlaws?”

  “And have you proof you are holding my friends?”

  In silence Adam Bell disappeared into foliage a moment, then returned bearing a lute case and a rosary Robin recognized. He sighed. “What would you have done had I not come looking for you?”

  “Looked for you,” Adam Bell said matter-of-factly. “And I daresay ’twould be easier for us to find you than for you to find us. Unless we mean to be found, of course.”

  “Of course.” Robin eyed the foliage, wondering just where Clym of the Clough was with his nocked arrow. “You will keep them safe from harm?”

  “Come back with the money, and they’ll live to be old.”

  Robin scowled down at him. “You are ransoming fellow outlaws, Adam.”

  “Aye, well . . . only because you’re willing to pay for them.” Bell smiled. “Now, why not be on your way? Sooner there, sooner back. And the toll will be paid, and your friends released.”

  Glumly, Robin turned Charlemagne around. As he rode back the way he had come, an arrow whisked by his head in an outlaw’s mocking farewell, tattering leaves and very nearly his nerves.

  Seventeen

  William deLacey strode out of the hall of Huntington Castle, down the steps, and into the bailey. He paused there where his men waited quietly with their horses, examined the bailey and sentry-walk, and took note of the fortifications. The earl had done a proper job of having the castle built; it would require siege warfare to get in if Huntington desired no visitors. He supposed John could do it if necessary, though the new king was not par
ticularly known for his military prowess.

  Immensely displeased with the way the meeting had gone, the sheriff shook his head. So long as Robert of Locksley remained in accord with his father, there was little deLacey could do. Despite his threats, he knew very well he could not arrest Locksley and throw him in the dungeon while he and his father were in rapprochement. It would likely be the end of his office. Of course, if he had evidence that Locksley had turned outlaw again, and the king supported him, then even the earl might have to give ground; and if he had evidence the earl plotted treason, he could kill both birds. But only if he flushed them first.

  DeLacey took the reins to his horse and swung up, holding his scabbarded sword out of the way as he settled into the saddle. His men no doubt anticipated riding back to Nottingham with him, but he had other plans.

  “Locksley Village,” he said curtly. “Locksley Hall. Find them, bring them, and toss them all—without benefit of a ladder—into the dungeons. Until that is accomplished, none of you shall go home.”

  He saw the startled expressions that altered quickly to consternation, then to studied blankness. They had wives, children, and lovers in the castle, and plans undoubtedly made, but deLacey had no time for such things. His own plans came first.

  “When you have them,” he said, “come and tell me. I expect to see none of you otherwise.” He gathered reins into his gloved hands. “Now,” he commanded, and they bestirred themselves at last.

  Outside the castle the road split. DeLacey took the turn to Nottingham. His men, setting spurs to flanks, went the other way.

  Robin, thinking of Marian, of outlaws, of friends held for ransom, of money needed to free them, of his father’s proposition, of the potential for rebellion against the new king, of William deLacey’s threats, rode with a clatter into the courtyard of Ravenskeep and jumped down beside the hall steps, thrusting reins at the boy who came up. He ignored the boy’s hesitant beginnings of speech and went directly into the hall, seeking Marian, seeking answers.

  There he encountered devastation.

  He stopped dead in the doorway, astounded. The trestle table was overturned, its planks ripped apart; stones from the floor were pulled up and scattered, leaving holes like missing teeth to mark their absence; the lath-and-plaster walls were cracked and crumbling, as if a battering ram had been used. Or possibly back hooves, were a horse set to kick. Through an oddly attenuated distance descending upon his ears he heard the mutters and murmured lamentations of servants and the crisply angry voice of Joan, who came out from behind a kitchen screen that bore signs of damage as well.

  She saw him, hands awkwardly gathering apron folds filled with shattered crockery, and stopped short. “My lord!”

  One of the broken cups fell, shattering to bits. Tears abruptly welled up in the older woman’s eyes.

  He found his voice and used it, though he did not recognize it. “What has happened? Where is Marian?”

  “The sheriff happened,” Joan said viciously. “As for my lady, she is down at the butts.”

  It was astonishing in incongruity. “The butts?”

  Tears spilled over, carving runnels in the dust coating her face. “You’d best go.” Joan suggested, and Robin went at a dead run.

  He found her in the meadow behind the barn, pulling arrows from one of the straw-stuffed men. His eyes delivered so many images at once that he was unable to decipher them all, merely marked what he saw for sorting out later: arrows clutched in her hands; bow set upon the ground; the glint of discarded fillet lying in grass; the red of her once-fine chemise stained dark and bestuck with feathers; the dishevelment of her hair, stuffed down the back of her dress; the stark pallor of her face counterbalanced by brilliant patches of color blazing in her cheeks as she turned from the butts and saw him.

  He could not move. But she could.

  She came up from the target, holding arrows he had made. There was grime on her face, and tendrils of hair hung loose by the right cheek, torn free of one braid by the action of the bowstring. She was unaccountably barefoot; slippers, too, had been discarded to rest in the grass. The hem of her chemise was freighted with dirt. He saw other stains upon the fabric he knew as blood; he had seen its like before. A crude bandage was wrapped around her left hand.

  “In God’s name . . . Marian—” She was mute as he went trembling to her and clamped hands on to her arms. “Marian?”

  Still she said nothing. His hands framed her face, cradled it, stripped the loosened hair away so he could read her eyes. The fine bones stood out like ribs of stone beneath skin pulled taut as a drumhead. He felt the tension against his fingers, the coldness of her flesh. Then he gathered her skull in his palms, cupped it, pulled her close, enfolded her. He smelled blood, a fading tracery of roses and cloves, the hint of fear-sweat, now drying, and cold fury. She was stiff in his arms, a woman made of wood.

  He said nothing more, merely held her. He recognized this, knew this, understood its moods and its needs, the blackness of its face, the poison in its heart. It grieved him to know Marian had made its acquaintanceship. He had, on Crusade. He had, in battle. He had, in captivity. In the depths of darkness and desperation.

  Finally she let go of the arrows. He heard them rattle upon the ground as she lifted her arms to return his embrace, to wrap and grip his neck. She pressed against him. Hung on.

  He found he was speaking now, though he did not comprehend what he said, merely that he spoke, that he soothed, that he gentled, that he reached through the anger and grief and bewilderment to touch the aching heart within.

  When she began at last to cry, cursing herself for it, claiming now that the man, the monster, had won, he told her no man, no monster, had defeated her; and he lifted her into his arms and carried her into the hall past the broken table, the debris of what had been home, past Joan who sharply ordered everyone out of the hall; carried her up the stairs and across the threshold into the room under the eaves. It, too, had suffered its share of offense, of destruction, but it was their room still, and would be so again.

  There he unfastened and unwrapped the doubled girdle, unlaced and divested her of the soiled chemise, stripped off the tattered underdress, washed the dirt and tears from her face, loosed the braids from confinement, heaped blankets upon the floor and lay down with her, avoiding the overturned bed; to entwine his legs with hers and tangle hands and arms in the mass of her hair as he shaped himself around the unexpected strength of a smaller body wracked by grief and outrage. He asked nothing of her but that she remain in his arms as she wept again, cursing deLacey and deLacey’s soldiers and deLacey’s soldiers’ horses, describing atrocities, enumerating losses. But he was peculiarly dull to that beyond distant disbelief, cut off to the pain and anger, aware only of gratitude that she was unharmed, who was far more vital than a hall, than chickens, than crockery, than furniture, even than Charlemagne’s foal. His true world was not comprised of such transient things, only of her.

  He could be angry later, when he had time. For now reconstruction of what had been broken began with her bruised and angry spirit, and when at last she kissed instead of cried, when at last her hands began to strip him of his clothing as he had stripped her of hers, he knew the darkness would not warp her, nor the hate, nor the grief.

  He would be angry later, when he had the time. For now there was only the need for restoration, for the reaffirmation of life, of the overwhelming completeness found always in one another.

  Upon the road deLacey met three men, and gave them good day with all good grace, showing them no sign of consternation or apprehension. He knew them: Alnwick, Hereford, and Essex, powerful men all and more than somewhat engaged with the ordering of the realm. That they had come again together to Huntington as they had five years before told the sheriff all he needed to know, though he was not privy to their thoughts. They granted him the brief pleasure of their company, their rote courtesies, though nothing of value was said, then rode on.

  He waited in the road, watchi
ng them go, weighing the worth of information, extrapolating plans undivulged, writing letters in his head. King John was not yet in England: the crown was claimed from a distance through the offices of such men as William deLacey, of sheriffs who held, in their castles, in their keeps, the tax money collected for the imminent session. For this moment, he and men like him, not earls such as Huntington, controlled England, for without money the realm would fall.

  Let Eustace de Vesci, Henry Bohun, Geoffrey de Mandeville, and Huntington himself believe themselves inviolate, safe from discovery, safe from repercussions. He held John’s money. He held John’s soul. He held John’s power.

  Now he need only determine how best to use it.

  Afterward, Robin had wrapped them in blankets against the chill of drying bodies. She luxuriated there, using the heat of his flesh to warm her own. His face was buried in the crook of her neck, hidden in her hair; his own, so pale where hers was so dark, fell in a tangled curtain across one shoulder. Her hand, upon his back, felt the old weals, the scars left of captivity and Norman punishment, levied by men jealous of the king’s favor, believing tales that were not true. There were other nicks and blemishes worn in the flesh as keepsakes of Crusade, the scar along the brow at the root of his hairline, and also the serpent crawling upon the underside of his jaw. Both forearms and wrists were ridged with sinew trained to strength by swordwork; beneath the pale frieze of the fine hair were traceries of old cuts and slices, reminders of battles in the name of God and king.

  He had come home from his. Her father had not.

  She felt oddly emptied, and yet oddly full. In the storm of fury and weeping, in the recounting of what had been done, she had purged herself of what she now considered a childish trust in the world’s ability to right itself, the certainty that men would, when put to it, comprehend follies and transgressions, to apologize for them. William deLacey had altered that certainty, that trust, forever. He had killed the child in her, and given birth to the adult.