Enmity had existed between them for years, but she had never expected this. She had never before witnessed naked hatred in a man’s eyes, never realized how fury and frustration could drive a soul to wanton destruction. She had tasted both herself now, in the aftermath of deLacey’s cruelty, and understood at last how a man might be moved to kill another.
Or at least to try.
Robin had killed men. Saracens, in battle. And Norman soldiers, when he and the others stole the tax shipment that Prince John was stealing for himself so that he might be king in place of his imprisoned brother.
The brother who now was dead. The prince who now was king.
“We have to stop him,” she said.
Robin stirred, shifting within the cocoon of blankets. “What?”
She sat up. “We have to stop him.”
“The sheriff?—oh, be certain of that.” His tone was coldly vicious. “He and I shall have words at the end of swords by nightfall.”
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “I mean King John.”
He was startled. “Stop him?”
“We must.”
He sat up. The blanket slid to his lap, exposing one bare hip and thigh. “Stop him from being king?”
Marian wrapped her portion of blanket more tightly around her shoulders. “Poor Robin. Do you fear I have gone mad?”
His answering smile flickered briefly, was gone as he slumped back again to prop himself on one elbow, finding renewed warmth in rearranged blankets.
“We must stop him,” she repeated. “He will harm England. Harm her people by taxing them to death. He cares only for himself, for his own pleasures. As you loved Richard, you must surely hate John.”
“There is nothing to admire,” he admitted, taking up a lock of her hair to feel its texture.
“Then stop him.”
“Marian—”
“You said the words, Robin. One moment the world is as it is. The next it is upside down.” She touched his face, traced the line of brow, the furrows of baffled concern. “The world is upside down,” she told him sadly. “Richard is dead. John is king. William deLacey intends to hang all of you, and to take Ravenskeep for his own.”
He sat sharply upright, releasing her hair. “He will do no such thing!”
Marian smiled. “You are fiercer in regard to Ravenskeep than to your possible hanging.”
“Richard gave you this manor!”
She nodded. “And John may take it away.”
He got up then and stood in the room without benefit of blankets. With the anger in his eyes and the hair spilling free and the body clad only in blistering righteousness, he put her in mind of an avenging angel.
With precisely measured lightness, Marian asked the question she had dreaded, but now needed answered. “Do you mean to join your father?”
Something within him recoiled, as if she had touched an open wound. He did not match her tone but conjured his own, and it was all of darkness. “I do not.”
She moistened dry lips. “Not even to be earl?”
“I do not.”
“Not even to be a sick father’s son?”
“I do not.” His eyes were steady, as was his tone. “For no reason, Marian.”
A chill passed across her flesh. “But you do not know all the reasons why you should consider it.”
“I do.”
She searched his face. “Do you?”
He turned from her, went to the overturned bed and righted it with effort. Then he sat down upon the edge of the frame, still naked, and said very gently, “You are not a broodmare.”
Her belly clenched into a painful knot. “No. But men may expect children. It is not unreasonable.”
“Are you dead yet?”
“No but—”
“Marian.” He said it with finality. “My decision was made there upon the floor. I did not come to live with you merely to get children.”
“No, but—”
“It is a part of life, yes, and one I might otherwise cherish . . . but not all there is.”
She sought the faintest trace of falsehood, of words said merely to comfort. “But Robin . . . your father—”
“My father is but one parent, and not one I honor.” He smiled faintly. “My mother would understand.”
Within she blossomed, rejoicing, but now there were other issues at stake. “He will arrest you, will he not?”
“My father?”
She did not see how he could find humor in the moment. “DeLacey! King John’s lapdog. He hates you, Robin.” But did not add, As he hates me.
Robin’s mouth compressed. “If he can, he will hang me. When he knows I have broken with my father, he will move to arrest me until he has evidence that supports my hanging. Or he will manufacture it.” He grimaced. “When my father knows I have broken with my father, he may well himself command the sheriff to do so.”
“Tell neither of them. Yet.”
He contemplated her warily. “What are you thinking?”
She shrugged. “That if he will hang you anyway, you should perhaps give him reason.”
He rose again, expression abruptly stilled. She knew the look in his eyes.
“Give deLacey reason,” she said, “but remove from John the means to support his lapdog.”
He gazed down upon her. His tone was peculiar. “Lady, do I take your meaning aright?”
Marian stood up, dragging the blanket with her. She was not so free as he was to be unconcerned with nudity in the middle of the day. “You do, my lord.”
Despite the severity of his tone, a light was kindling in his eyes. “Let me be certain we speak of identical matters, if you please: you, a knight’s daughter, are counseling me, an earl’s son who was knighted by the Lionheart himself, to steal taxes from the sheriff. To steal taxes from the king.”
“But never to keep it,” she pointed out matter-of-factly. “You are not Adam Bell.”
His brows arched up. “Then what would you have me do with the money I steal?”
“What you did five years ago with the money you stole then.” She smiled to see his expression. “Give it back to the people.”
William deLacey was bitter of mood when he arrived at Nottingham Castle, thinking ahead to the letter he meant to write to King John. When he saw Gisbourne coming down the steps to greet him, his mood plunged further.
“My lord,” Gisbourne said, “there is someone waiting to see you.”
The steward likely would never again allow him a moment’s peace with regard to visitors. “Another royal messenger, Gisbourne?”
“Not precisely, my lord. But he is sent from King John.” DeLacey swung down and let the horseboy take the reins. “Sent from King John, but not a messenger?”
“Well,” Gisbourne said, “he is not leaving. He has come to stay. So no, I believe he is not a messenger, even though he carries word from the king.”
The sheriff cast him a withering glance as he climbed the hall steps. “Who is this man? Did you bother to ask?”
As they crossed the threshold and a body loomed up before them, Gisbourne said, “You might ask, my lord.”
DeLacey stopped short. He was unaccustomed to being accosted within his own hall. He was less accustomed to being accosted by large, strange, stubbled men clad in mail, coif, spurs, wearing a massive Norman sword and carrying a helm tucked into the crook of a thick arm. He was, deLacey reflected, the very image of vengeful demon taking on the guise of a soldier. Except the badge bearing a cross stitched into the shoulder of his surcoat gave lie to the image of a dark-eyed, dark-haired, scarred, and lightly pocked demon: he had fought on Crusade.
Richard’s man, then. Perhaps Gisbourne had mistaken which king the man had come from.
But Richard was dead. The sheriff owed no loyalty to a dead king. Therefore he had latitude to dismiss courtesies and discourage strangers. “Later,”he said curtly.
The big soldier spoke to deLacey’s retreating back. “I am sent from King John, my lord.�
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The accent was French, the voice a harsh rumble, the tone without embellishment. DeLacey turned back. “From King John?”
Dark eyes glittered. “It was where my lord Richard asked me to be.”
This was unexpected. “Did he? And when did you see him last?”
The stranger did not answer the challenge implicit in deLacey’s condescending drawl, but merely the question. “The day they entombed him at his father’s feet, at Fontevrault. But I was told by others what he wished for me, where he wished me to be.”
It was astonishing. “He wished you to be here?”
“At his brother’s side. His brother sent me here.”
The sheriff stilled. There was something about the tone, something in the man, that demanded attention. “Then why is King John, so recently gifted with Richard’s loyal man, sending you to me?”
“He is particularly concerned with the security of the tax money,” the soldier replied. “I am here to escort the shipment.”
Of course he was; it should come as no surprise that John wanted to be certain his money was safe, in view of the loss five years before. But once the tax shipment was taken to the Exchequer session, deLacey surrendered his power. He therefore said smoothly, “We are as yet still collecting the taxes. Peasants are slow to pay. Be certain that when we are ready, the king shall have his money.”
Gisbourne said ingenuously, “Despite the outlaws?”
DeLacey, furious, glared, but before he could reprimand his steward, the soldier spoke. “And so the king has sent me, Lord Sheriff. I shall be certain the shipment is unmolested on its journey.”
DeLacey frowned. One man? John sends me one man, believing that to be enough when Sherwood is full of outlaws? But he merely asked, pointedly, “Who are you, that he would expect such capable service?”
“King’s man” was the clipped answer. “Captain, once, of Coeur de Lion’s mercenaries.”
The sheriff stiffened. “Mercardier?”
The man did not smile. “That is my name, my lord.”
DeLacey rejoiced. DeLacey laughed aloud. DeLacey knew this man; Mercardier was infamous. “Then you are well come!”he said jubilantly. “Well come indeed. There is much for you to attend.” He gave the big man his hand in a firm clasp, then clapped one wide shoulder in a friendly buffet. “You are perhaps the greatest boon I might ask of my king.” He glanced aside. “Gisbourne, see to it Mercardier is assigned proper quarters—in the castle, if you please—and then he and I shall share a meal in the hall.”
“My lord,” Gisbourne affirmed, and took himself off.
DeLacey turned the full force of a charming smile on the mercenary. “Come, Mercardier. I have no doubt there are many tales you might tell me of your experiences on Crusade.”
There was no answering charm in the big man’s face, merely stolid acceptance. “My lord.”
A tedious man, no doubt, but useful. And uncommonly competent when it came to killing. Anticipating with pleasure the shock in store for various outlaws, the sheriff escorted the best and bravest of the Lionheart’s personal bodyguard into the hall.
Eighteen
Robin wanted nothing more than to stay with Marian, to aid in efforts to restore Ravenskeep, but Adam Bell had given him a task he must complete if he were to free his friends. Once told, Marian had herself ordered him to go at once, seeking hastily and finding amidst the wreckage the small wash-leather pouch of mixed coins she had set aside. He had already beggared himself and not reached the sum demanded, but he added to it Marian’s coin, and a silver Celtic cloak-brooch his mother had given him twelve years before. Now he rode near dusk into Sherwood, waiting to be found.
It did not require much time. As William of Cloudisley stepped out of deepening shadows not far from the Nottingham road, Robin was of the opinion he likely had been followed to Ravenskeep and watched. “Where is Adam?” he asked.
Cloudisley grinned and made no answer.
Robin flung the pouch. “Let them go.”
The outlaw, catching it, weighed it thoughtfully, then jerked his head toward the foliage. “Come to the fire and have ale with Adam.”
“I have no time for ale. Let them go. I’ve paid their toll.”
“Adam expects you.”
He set his teeth. “Adam may expect what he likes. I expect to leave.”
“You will leave, aye?—after you join us for ale. D’ye not wish to see that your friends are well?”
“I have no time—”
“Then you’d best sort that out with the others.” Cloudisley leaned on his bow. “ ’Tis an invitation you’d do well not to refuse, or Clym will offer you another from the end of an arrow.” The handsome outlaw grinned, indicating with a jerk of his head that Clym of the Clough was quite near; not that closeness was required with an English longbow. “And you’ll do better on foot. ’Tis hard on a horse, trying to come through here. Leave him.”
Robin blessed the foresight that had suggested he leave Charlemagne at home, since he now expected he’d not see this horse again. He dismounted with deliberate slowness so Clym would not be persuaded to loose his arrow, and tied one rein to a limb. It did not surprise him in the least when Cloudisley, moving close, relieved him of meat-knife.
“Where?” Robin asked curtly.
“The track’s through there,” Cloudisley said. “Move along, aye?”
He moved along, aware of the knife at his back and Clym’s presence somewhere nearby, and at last broke out of deer trail and foliage into a compact clearing that served as a camp. A tiny fire smoked fitfully, smelling of oak and resin. Adam Bell was perched idly on a fallen tree, cradling a skin of ale.
Robin halted, sensing trouble. “Where are they?”
Bell shrugged, then tossed the skin across the fire.
He caught it without thought. “Where are they?”
“Where you sent them,” the outlaw replied.
“Locksley?” And then Robin understood. “You never had them!”
“We did. But they paid their toll.” Bell indicated the lute case leaning against the log, then dangled Tuck’s rosary from one hand. “They’ll have them back, once they buy them back.”
Astonishment kindled into anger. “If they are at Locksley they may never be able to buy anything back,” Robin said heatedly. “Did you think I lied about the sheriff? They are in danger. He means to arrest them all. It will cost Scarlet and likely Alan their lives, and Much his hand!”
“Lying?—likely not.” Adam Bell took up another skin and tilted his head back to drink before continuing. “But ’tisn’t our concern what the sheriff does, unless he does it to us.”
Robin hurled the skin back at the outlaw, then turned on his heel. He stopped short, but only because Cloudisley was there with the meat-knife at his throat. Beyond him, leering with broken teeth, stood Clym of the Clough, arrow nocked.
“Earls’ sons,” Adam Bell said lightly, “are worth more than fat friars.”
Anger flared anew, fed by frustration. All manner of protests and oaths tangled themselves in Robin’s mouth, but he made none of them. Nothing he said could convince these men to do anything they wished not to do; they reckoned their actions along such courses as knights and noblemen did not know. It was best to wait, to bide his time, mind his tongue, and watch for opportunity.
Robin eventually turned back to Bell. “A clever trick,”he said tightly, trying to keep self-control from fraying further, “but you know as well as everyone else that my father and I are not in accord. I was disinherited; he will pay you nothing for my safety.”
“Aye, well, we’ll give him the chance to tell us so.” The outlaw flung the skin back yet again. “Now sit down and drink with us.”
Robin caught the skin but did not move otherwise. “I must go to Locksley.”
“If the sheriff has gone hunting them there, he has them already. You can do nothing but be caught and thrown into the dungeon along with them—or so you say.” Bell smiled companionably as Cl
oudisley tied Robin’s wrists at his waist with leather thongs, then shoved him toward the fire. “ ’Twill be dark soon, and we’re not expecting to hear from the earl until tomorrow. You’d best bide with us. Sherwood isn’t safe at night, now, is it?”
The Earl of Huntington put off his bedrobe and coverlet in honor of his guests, and met them all in a room not his bedchamber. There was food in abundance, give thanks to Ralph’s competence, and fine wine. He himself ate little and drank less, not wishing to display his weakness with goblet and meat-knife, and let Alnwick carry the pointless conversation. Eustace de Vesci, a bluff and impetuous man, was good at such things.
But now the meal was done, the table cleared, and they all of them sat loose-limbed and at ease in cushioned, tall-backed chairs and discussed what they had come to discuss: England’s new king, and their role in his rule.
Until they were interrupted.
Ralph was quiet, as always, and certainly aware of the topic, but the earls broke off at once when he came into the room. Huntington, knowing his steward would never consider interrupting without excellent reason, motioned him near immediately.
Ralph bent close. “A caller, my lord. A Benedictine monk. He says he has news of your son.”
It was so baffling he did not keep his voice lowered. “What has a Benedictine monk to say about my son?”
“He spoke of outlaws, my lord.”
The earl was instantly suspicious. “Was there not a monk involved with my son five years ago? Or, rather, involved with the woman?”
“Indeed, my lord. In fact, he accompanied her here.”
De Vesci stirred in his chair, straightening. “I recall that! It was your son’s whore, was it not?”
“Marian FitzWalter.” That was de Mandeville, more circumspect, who had met her father.
Huntington refused to discuss the woman. “He is an outlaw himself, this monk. Why should I see him?”
“For your son’s sake, he says.”
Henry Bohun, Earl of Hereford, gestured. “Tend it, Huntington. Your son’s welfare is vital.”
Lady of Sherwood Page 18