Lady of Sherwood

by Jennifer Roberson

  “Richard was still king,” Robin said quietly. “But now he is dead, John is king, and what you plan is treason.”

  “If we lose.”

  Robin looked at him more sharply. “That is twice I have heard such said. Does no one believe in the moral issue of right and wrong? Does only the winning count?”

  “In this case, yes.”

  Belatedly, Robin shifted on the bench and gestured de Mandeville to be seated. Essex accepted the invitation, stretching out booted legs as he settled his spine against the wall. He did not speak again.

  The silence was oddly companionable, for all that what lay between them was an offense that could cost them their heads. But Robin knew there was more.

  De Mandeville offered it. “You said you believed there was another way.”

  Robin nodded. “John may be half a madman, if what they say of his fits is true, but he is not entirely a fool. He needs you, my lord. All of you. His reign is but days old, and there are unruly barons to think about, and Arthur of Brittany, and Arthur’s mother, and even Arthur’s grandmother. Eleanor never favored John. And if she should take Arthur’s part, John may be relieved of his crown by his own relations.”

  De Mandeville’s mouth twitched. “Thereby saving our heads?”

  Robin sighed. “The tales told claim the Devil’s Brood nearly killed one another one hundred times over when the old king still lived. What is to say it will not happen now?”

  “And would you then support Arthur?”

  He shut his eyes. “All I wish is to live in peace. Quietly. Away from court, away from kings, away from battle.”

  De Mandeville said gently, “And captivity.”

  His eyes snapped open. After a moment Robin managed a smile. “My lord, do you refer to the Turks? Or to my father?”

  The earl laughed softly in appreciation. “It is difficult for heirs. Indeed, and I should know: I was one myself.”

  “But you were born to it, my lord. I was not. I was born a third and last son. Had my brothers lived, I might have been bound for the Church.”

  “And instead you served God on the field of battle in the Holy Land. God—and your king.”

  “My king,” Robin agreed, “who named John his successor.”

  “Ah, but not in everything.”

  De Mandeville sounded too certain of himself. Robin went very still. “What do you mean, my lord?”

  “It is true he left England to John. But he left the balance of his lands and all of his money to Arthur.”

  Robin, astounded, stared.

  The earl crossed his arms and offered, “John is king in name only. All monies collected should go to Arthur.”

  He felt a chill of foreboding slip down his spine and sat up abruptly. “But that is sheerest folly!”

  “It seems to be fixed in the blood,” Essex observed mildly. “Old King Henry promised England to each of his sons many times over.”

  “But Richard became king.”

  “Because Richard was strong enough to take and keep her, Robin. Geoffrey was dead. John, too soft, too fickle. But Coeur de Lion was warrior enough to assert his claim. By dint of personality, he conquered England and won her people. Even you, Sir Robert, who rode to battle at his side.”

  “No,” Robin said idly, “Mercardier rode at his side. I was somewhere behind him.”

  “Robert—”

  He slid neatly past the reprimand, returning to the topic. “And now Richard echoes his father by parceling out his kingdom to more than one man.”

  “Arthur is a twelve-year-old boy. He cannot win on his own. But there are the Bretons, led by his mother—and there is Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

  “King in name,” Robin murmured, staring thoughtfully into the distance.

  “You said you believe there might be another way.”

  “Rather than risk treason and execution? I do.”

  “And all monies collected are to be sent to Arthur.”

  “So you have said.”

  “Do you expect John to permit that?”

  Robin laughed. “Likely not! And I suspect the sheriff will be hard-pressed to get the money safely to John, once word goes out.”

  De Mandeville asked lightly, as if he inquired which vintage to drink, “Is it outlawry to take back from a thief that which belongs to another man?”

  After a startled moment of perfect stillness, Robin released a breath of amusement. “John called it so. Richard pardoned it.”

  “Arthur, I daresay—or Arthur’s grandmother, once he is king—would do the same.”

  Robin rose. Walked two paces away. Then turned back. “My lord of Essex, you are the second person who has counseled me to commit a crime for which I could be hanged.”

  Geoffrey de Mandeville, who had crowned a king of England, stretched his legs and made himself more comfortable upon the bench. “And if Arthur loses this family quarrel, the rest of us lose our heads. Dead, I should think, is dead.”

  “My father would disinherit me.”

  “If you are dead, does it matter?”

  Robin cast him a scathing glance.

  De Mandeville, smiling sweet as a babe, bent and plucked a wildflower from the path’s edge, then inspected its blossom with deep consideration. “If you will not serve us by being the Earl of Huntington, serve us another way.”

  “What, by becoming an outlaw?”

  The blue eyes were steady as he looked at Robin. “Judging by what the sheriff’s man accused you of, and by what you yourself confessed to us regarding the missing horse and the theft of our ‘baubles,’ I should say you already are one.”

  “I stole the horses because circumstances demanded it—”

  “Horses?” de Mandeville emphasized in amazement. “There was more than one?”

  “—and I stole your purses and chains of office to convince real outlaws I was one of them—”

  “That is why?”

  “—and I stole the tax shipment because it was meant for Richard’s ransom and John was stealing it for himself,” Robin finished. “There was purpose to all my actions.”

  “So a peasant might say who poaches the king’s deer to feed his family,” Essex argued without heat. “And if you believe there is no good purpose to preserving England, then your father would do well to disinherit you and go to his grave rejoicing that he sired no such son.”

  It took the breath from his body. When he had it back again he said, “You are formidable.”

  “We fight how and as we may,” de Mandeville said simply. “We owe that much to England.”

  “I gave England two years of my life and the blood of my body.”

  “Pittance.”

  “Pittance?”

  “How many years of his life did Hugh FitzWalter give England?”

  Shocked anger boiled up. “Unfair, my lord! Marian’s father has no part in this.”

  “But he might,” de Mandeville said, “had he not died in the name of God, his king, and his country in the land of the Saracen.”

  Robin, who had witnessed that death, who had seen the head struck from the body, who had felt the hot spurt of Sir Hugh FitzWalter’s blood upon his face, could find no answer among the swarm of words in his mouth. There were too many to speak, too many, and all of them offering evidence of his own shame.

  Geoffrey de Mandeville rose, set a hand briefly on his shoulder, then walked away. Robin, shivering beneath the light of a cooler, kinder sun than that of the Holy Land, sank down onto the path and buried his face in his hands.

  Twenty-Four

  Marian studied the hard, dark face before her, looking for anything akin to comprehension, possibly compassion. There was none. Mercardier, formerly Coeur de Lion’s captain of mercenaries, seemed neither appalled nor moved to sympathy by her summary of how she and William deLacey had come to such a pass.

  She had been raised to care about others, to desire fairness in the world, to believe wrongs should be righted. Her own father had commited himself to the ca
use of God and his sovereign, eventually surrendering his life for that commitment. But she was coming to understand that many people believed such things as fairness and righted wrongs were impossible, not worth concern, and certainly not worth any effort. And here was proof before her even in the guise of a man who had gone on Crusade.

  “Do you believe none of it?” she asked.

  “It is not my place to believe or disbelieve.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “To understand what would move you, a woman, to go to war against the sheriff.”

  She eyed him narrowly. “Surely it is my right to do so—even though I am a woman.”

  His tone was touched with only the faintest trace of scorn. “Have you no man to do your fighting for you?”

  “My man,” she said icily, “fought for his king. As you well know.”

  Mercardier held his silence, imperturbable.

  Marian studied him. “Do you care about nothing, then? Nothing save coin, and the employer who pays you?”

  Without irony, he said, “I am a mercenary, madame. What would you have me be other than a hired soldier?”

  “And does that cross on your shoulder mean nothing?”

  A still man always, he became akin to stone.

  Marian prodded. “Well?”

  In cold tones, he said, “I am a mercenary. Some answers must be paid for.”

  She slid off the table, yanking her chemise into order once again. “I begin to understand that you fight your own war, Captain.”

  “I, madame? Do you mean the taxes?”

  “I do not. I mean your opinion of yourself.”

  For the first time Mercardier smiled, albeit it was a slight one. “My conscience is not battlefield.”

  “Have you one? I thought not.” She paused. “Unless that be hired, too, perhaps.”

  He evinced mild surprise as she approached him in the open doorway. “Are you done inspecting, madame?”

  “I am.”

  “You have not read all the rolls.”

  “I think it is impossible to do so. I would wager the roll that once contained my name is not even in this cell.”

  He moved aside, permitting her exit. “Then what shall you do?”

  Marian slipped by him into the dungeon proper. “Find my own weapon.”

  “What weapon, madame?”

  She paused near the cross-hatched grate in the floor before ascending the stairs. “Would I be foolish enough to tell the sheriff’s man what weapon I might choose?”

  It seemed somewhat to irritate. “I am the king’s man, madame. Not the sheriff’s.”

  “In all things?”

  “In the matter of the taxes.”

  “Then you are the king’s man and the sheriff’s man, because deLacey is John’s creature. He uses you, Captain. Be certain of that.”

  Mercardier opened his mouth to answer, but it was another voice entirely that she heard, thin and muffled. “Marian?” And again, from deep in the floor beneath her feet. “Marian—?”

  “My God,” she blurted, dropping to hands and knees beside the grate. “Much!” She peered down through the iron lattice, trying to see him, but the shadows were too deep and the nearest torch illuminated only a narrow portion of the pit. “Much—can you come into the light? Let me see you!”

  She heard a rustle of musty straw, the shuffle of feet. The light was poor, but she made out a shape that was his. He turned his face up, though little was visible save a wan glint of dulled eyes and smears she recognized as blood.

  “They beat—” Marian grabbed the bolt and attempted to wrench it back. The lock held firm, clanking against the iron. “I’ll have you out, Much. I promise!” Still kneeling, thick braid dragging on the floor, she craned her head to look up at Mercardier. She did not plead, but ordered. “Get him out. Now.”

  “I have no key, madame.”

  “Then fetch the key from a guard. At once!”

  Mercardier stolidly made no reply.

  She sat back on her heels, hands befilthed with grime. “This is a boy, Captain! They have beaten him bloody, and for no cause!”

  “ ‘No cause’?” Not Mercardier: the voice was different, the accent. She realized with a start of dismay it was William deLacey speaking as he descended the stairs. “I have every cause, Marian. He is a cutpurse. A poacher. An accomplice in the robbery of tax monies.” Torchlight silvered the gray in his curling brown hair, limned the pleased amusement in his face as he reached the bottom of the staircase. “And he withholds information on other criminals.”

  She scrambled to her feet. “This is a travesty! You don’t care about him—”

  “Quite right.”

  “You only mean to use him!”

  “Again, quite right. But he refuses to tell me what I wish to know.”

  “And so you beat him?”

  “Perhaps you should note that he still has both hands, Marian. A bloodied nose is surely better than the alternative.”

  “He’s a boy!”

  “And thus the wrists are easier to sever.” He still wore mail and spurs. There was a strange glitter in his eyes, an odd febrile tension in his body, as if he had been bested in a battle and badly needed to release the frustration of defeat. “Tell me, Marian, would you buy him?”

  It astounded her. “Buy—?” But she dismissed the reaction because he desired it, because he sought to provoke. “With what?” she demanded. “With the money I lack because I paid my taxes?”

  He struck a thoughtful pose. “Ah, but there is yet something of value you may use to buy this boy.”

  She laughed curtly. “Surely not my body!”

  DeLacey’s brows arched in mild surprise. “Indeed, surely not. Too well used, I fear.” He said musingly, “No, not flesh.”

  And she knew.

  Knew.

  Comprehension sickened her. It took the breath from her lungs. It filled her heart with such wintry emptiness, her soul with such fierce pain, that she thought she might crack into a thousand pieces.

  But a life was a life.

  Marian did not flinch, nor did she hesitate. She knew she had to do it, and why, and that she would do it again and again if it preserved a life. “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “For his life, yes.”

  “How do you know what this price is?”

  “I know.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I am.”

  “Then declare it.”

  She gritted her teeth. “For the release of this boy—with no more violence visited upon him!—I will give you Ravenskeep.”

  DeLacey reached for the keys at his belt and unhooked the ring. “You are certain?”

  “Yes.”

  Smiling calmly, he knelt, inserted the proper key, turned it. The lock fell open. “You are quite certain?”

  “Yes.”

  He removed the lock and slid the bolt back. “Say so,” he commanded.

  With exquisite precision, leaving him no room for prevarication within, for reinterpretation of the terms, she declared, “For the release of this boy, with no more violence visited upon him, I will give you Ravenskeep.”

  DeLacey’s expression was oddly serene. “He is a cutpurse, Marian. You yourself witnessed his attempt to steal my purse.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Release him.”

  “He stole the tax shipment.”

  “Yes.”

  “You admit all this?”

  “I admit also that he was pardoned by the king himself. Release him.”

  DeLacey peeled back the iron grate and paused, holding it upright. “But that king is dead.”

  “Fetch him out, Sheriff.”

  “In exchange for Ravenskeep.”

  “I said so. Yes.”

  “You are certain, Marian. Certain of your course. Certain of its worth.”

  “Yes!”

  The sheriff said gently, “Then perhaps you should join him below.”

  She had expected no s
uch ploy, even from deLacey. “Join him—?”

  He dropped the grate back down with a crash even as Much cried out in incoherent despair. “You have just attempted to bribe an officer of the Crown, Lady Marian.” DeLacey shot the bolt. “Moreover, the bribe offered is property that in a fortnight shall be forfeit to the same Crown.” He locked the bolt and rose, looming over her. “They have completely corrupted you, have they not? Robin Hood and his men. You would do anything for them.”

  “And you would do anything to them!”

  “But I am the king’s man—the living king’s man—and I have the authority.” He smiled. “While you have nothing but a foul reputation as an outlaw’s whore.”

  She understood at last what it was to be impotent, and weaponless, and utterly helpless, in the face of such provocation that would move even a saint to murder.

  Even a woman.

  “In a fortnight,” he said, making certain his voice carried into the pit, “I shall plan a celebration. You may attend, if you wish, though I doubt you will do so. Because in fourteen days you shall forfeit Ravenskeep, and the boy below shall forfeit both hands.”

  Much’s wailing shriek harrowed the soul. All the flesh rose on Marian’s bones. “You cannot.”

  DeLacey made no reply.

  She could not believe him. Not in this. Not Much. Not Much’s hands.

  But she knew this man. He was obdurate. He was vengeful. And his expression victory incarnate.

  From the dark pit below, Much’s sobs were palpable.

  Yet again, Marian dropped to her knees. She locked fingers into the cross-hatched iron. “We’ll have you out, Much,” she said over the sound of his anguish. “I vow it. I promise. Do you hear? I promise.”

  DeLacey clamped a hand around her arm and jerked her to her feet. “Enough,” he said. “My God, you are cruel . . . you feed the boy on false hope!” He steered her roughly toward the staircase even as Much sobbed below, then pushed her up the first three steps. “Go now, or I shall put you with him so you may weep and wail together.”

  She caught her balance upon the stairs as he released her. DeLacey had turned away; all she saw was his back. But she was aware of eyes, of dark, pitiless eyes, and raised her own to meet Mercardier’s.