She turned to Sim, waiting in case she needed the stranger taken away. “Bring me a horse, if you please.”
Sim disapproved. Clearly. But he nodded and went off to the barn.
“We shall take a ride,” she told Ralph, “and if we are fortunate, perhaps we shall be found where the birds are most active. But I promise nothing.”
It utterly baffled the steward. “Please, Lady Marian . . . he must come home. There must be a final chance for each of them to forgive the other. For reconciliation.”
There was equal truth in that. But, Am I doing the right thing? “Wait here,” she told him curtly, “there is something I must do.”
While Ralph waited with his mettlesome horse, as Sim grudgingly brought up a mount for her, Marian went into the hall to retrieve her bundle and her bow, and to say farewell to Joan and the others. Temporarily.
She hoped. She prayed.
Robin allowed Charlemagne to crash through vegetation, then put him over a downed tree. The horse answered gamely, landed easily. Robin whistled. He heard bird calls echoing in answer and smiled grimly; they had learned the lessons. But the smile faded quickly. As he burst into the clearing on the snorting horse, he swung down out of the saddle, gave the reins over to a startled Much, and reached to scoop up a flask of ale. Drinking would delay the explanation and allow him to regain some self-control.
Little John had been supervising an ungainly mock sword battle between Will Scarlet and Alan. But weapons clutched in rigid and untrained hands were tossed aside as they gathered to face Robin, alarmed by his demeanor.
“What is it?” Tuck asked.
Four swallows of ale had not made him feel more in control. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then pushed the words out past the swelling anger in his throat. “He sold it.”
“Sold it?” Tuck echoed.
“The manor. The lands. For the tax-debt. So he told Abraham.” Robin abruptly hurled the flask into the trees. “He sold it to my father!”
His sword was half drawn; Little John caught him before he could do more violence. “Robin—Robin, wait. Hold.”
“Let me go—” He struggled briefly, but John was unforgiving. And it was this man who had at first meeting beaten him at quarterstaffs and knocked him into the river.
“Hold,” the giant repeated, containing him easily. “You’ll harm yourself—or one of us, aye?”
He released the sword hilt. “Do you understand?” He did not believe they could, nor would. It was too painful, too excruciatingly infuriating. “He sold Ravenskeep to my father.”
Scarlet shook his head. “Bastard.”
“Whoreson,” Alan muttered, exchanging shocked glances with Tuck.
Much stood there clinging to Charlemagne’s reins. “Gone?” he asked. “Our home?”
“John, let me go—” This time Robin jerked free, because Little John allowed it. He turned to the boy, still half blind with rage, viciously tugging his tunic back into order. “Gone,” he affirmed bitterly. “Oh, the manor is still there . . . but it belongs to the Earl of Huntington.”
And then he sat down all of a sudden, collapsing onto a stump. He bent over crossed arms, hugging himself, breathing through clenched teeth—and rocking slightly at the waist because he could not sit still, not at all, not for one moment. He had never, not once in all of his life, been so angry. When Abraham had told him, the shock had stunned him into frozen silence. But the ride back gave him time, time to think about the ramifications, the magnitude of the betrayal.
And to think about Marian, whose home was lost.
“How?” Alan asked.
Tuck crossed himself, murmured a prayer. “The tax-debt,” he said. “If the taxes are not paid, the sheriff may sell the property to whomever will pay the debt.”
“She had fourteen days,” Alan declared.
Tuck shrugged. “Do you believe anything deLacey says?”
Scarlet frowned. “Wouldn’t the king want it? The manor?”
“He gets the money,” Tuck explained. “That is what matters to John.”
Little John shook his head, frowning. “But Marian already paid her taxes.”
The monk nodded. “I’ll wager—though not really, because ’tis a sin—that our sheriff kept the earl’s money for himself.”
“You won’t wager because ’tis a sin,” Scarlet said in disbelief, “but you’ll rob people?”
“Never mind.” Robin stopped rocking. “Insh’Allah, I could kill him. Send him directly to hell.”
Alan arched brows. “Your father?”
Robin cast him a scorching glance. “Oh, he will go to hell, that I promise. But I meant the sheriff. The bloody whoreson bastard—”And the anger welled up again, swamped him, spilled over, demanding release. He proceeded to fill the air with invective couched in a polyglot of three tongues. Tuck, who understood two of them, blushed in mortification, while the others marveled at his facility with languages.
“What talk is that?” Little John asked with interest.
Alan grinned. “French.”
“No, that other one. Not the French one.”
“Likely Infidel,” Scarlet ventured, then blinked. “Spits a lot with it, aye?”
A new target. Robin broke off his maledictions. “Do you find this amusing?”
“No,” Alan answered before volatile Scarlet could reply in kind, and possibly start a fight. “I think we are all of us willing to kill the sheriff. We’re waiting for you to tell us when and how.”
“Christ,” Robin said, stripping hair back from his face with two doubled fists. “Oh, good Christ—how do I tell Marian?”
Much, staring past them, abruptly thrust the reins of Robin’s horse into Tuck’s hands. He disappeared into the trees before anyone could ask him what he was doing.
“Was that a duck call?” Scarlet inquired.
A moment later they heard Much shout a name. And it was none of theirs.
“Well,” Little John said to Robin with genuine regret, “you’ll be telling her now, aye?”
Robin shut his eyes a moment, then stood and stared blankly into the trees where Much had gone. The road lay beyond, shielded from view by vegetation. He felt ill, and old, and entirely, utterly helpless. Not since the Saracens captured him had he felt such dread and despair. “I think this shall be the hardest thing I have ever done.”
And then Much was back, followed by Marian crashing through on horseback. He was startled to see she was dressed for working in the hall, not for traveling; and her kirtle showed the effects of her ride through trees and underbrush. Sherwood was a vigorous forest, unkind and occasionally hostile to those not prepared for its encroachments. Marian’s hair had been pulled loose of its braids to straggle over her shoulders. He marked again the contrast between white skin and black hair, the richness of blue eyes. And wanted more than ever for the nightmare to end.
Tightness filled his throat. How do I tell her?
Behind him, Charlemagne nickered a greeting. Marian’s horse answered. And then Robin saw the second rider coming through after Marian. His mind registered astonishment—why would Marian bring anyone to their camp?—before recognizing the man. And then he knew him.
Ralph flung himself out of his saddle. “My lord!” He let go of the reins and forced his way through a tangle of blackberry bush, unmindful of obstruction. “Robin!”
Ralph only rarely lapsed into familiarity.
And then the steward was there before him, eyes frantic, breathing hard and helplessly, opening and closing his mouth as if there were too many words to choose from.
Robin saw the pallor of shock, the trembling of great emotion, the taut impatience of anxiety. The steward drew breath to speak. “Come home,” Ralph said; it was command, not suggestion, as if in that moment he had banished a lifetime of servitude and the courtesies of his calling. “Your father is dying.”
He felt rather than heard the stirring of shock among the others.
Illogically he thought, D
id I not just promise my father would go to hell?
Ralph reached out and gripped his arm. “I beg you. Come home. Let him die with his son at his side.”
There was nothing in him but emptiness. An absence of emotion. He felt cold and old and bespelled into silence.
Then Marian broke it. “Could it be a trap?”
But he had seen Ralph’s face and eyes. Heard the ravages of grief in the shaking voice. Ralph had served his father for more than twenty years. Had helped raise the third son, the fey, fanciful, rebellious son, seeing to it he was fed even when the earl said he should have no meal; salving the wounds and bruises of the earl’s punishments. Ralph was his father by default, and both of them knew it.
No, it was not a trap.
And then he was gathering Charlemagne’s reins and a handful of mane, one foot in the stirrup, his mind ranging far ahead, gone from the clearing in the forest to a room in a castle where an old man resided, a bitter bastard of a man whose only inclination was to control those around him. To kill a wife’s soul with indifference, to wrack a young son with self-doubts, to put a king off his throne because the earl preferred another.
Robin pulled himself up, swung a leg over, settled into the saddle, hooked the other stirrup with his right foot. He looked at Marian. There was a great and terrible grief building inside his soul to couple with the anger, but it had nothing to do with his father.
Tuck of them all was the one who understood. “Go,” he said. “I will tell her.”
For that, too, he cursed his father. Robin let the anger carry him. He dug heels into Charlemagne’s flanks and departed in a flurry of leaves and soil.
Marian was absently aware of Ralph leaping to his horse, of swinging up and reining the horse’s head around sharply. She neither rode after Robin nor dismounted. She knew him; he desired no one to be with him. Ralph would see that.
“Tell me what?” she asked Tuck.
Behind her Ralph went crashing after Robin.
“Tell me what?” she repeated.
“If his father’s not dead already,” Scarlet drawled, “Robin’ll likely kill him.”
They all knew something. Something she did not. Something that had moved Robin to speak of business with his father when his father was dying. Something that had moved Will Scarlet to speak in jest of a man’s murder when that man was already dying.
And abruptly she knew: Robin’s grief had been for her.
“The money-lender went to see the sheriff about your tax-debt,” Tuck explained quietly. “We had enough, you see. But the sheriff told him the debt was already paid.” His eyes were compassionate. “By the earl.”
“The earl! Paid my tax-debt?” It was inconceivable. “But why? He has no love for me; quite the opposite! And he disinherited Robin. Why would he do such a thing?”
Scarlet said bluntly, “To take your home from you.”
Forty-Two
Tuck was shocked by Will’s comment, telling him sharply to hold his tongue. Little John cuffed him over one ear, cursing him casually. But Marian merely sat upon the horse, slack in the saddle. She was aware that her mind registered a cluster of granite boulders, a small campsite with belongings set out, a fire laid but not lit, longbows, swords, and full quivers leaning against trees. And faces. Their faces. Expectant, worried faces, waiting to hear what she would say.
She listened again to the words in her mind. ‘To take your home from you.’
Alan was at her stirrup. “Come down.”
Marian stared at him.
He reached out a hand. “Come down, Marian. Come sit by the fire—Much is lighting it now—and have some ale, a bit of bread, some salted meat.”
Why should she be thirsty? Why should she be hungry?
She made as if to turn the horse away, toward the road—perhaps she should go after Robin—but Alan’s hand was on the reins. “No,” he said. “Let Robin say what must be said to the earl. You did not see him when he returned from Nottingham—there is nothing you might say to the earl that could possibly be more devastating than whatever Robin will tell him.”
Scarlet grunted. “Oh, I daresay ’twill be hot in that room!”
And then Little John was there, clasping her waist in his big freckled hands. There was no choice anymore; he lifted her down, steadied her on her feet, then guided her to the fire as if she were an errant child. Tuck hastily tossed a folded blanket over a boulder as John urged her to sit.
“We’ll get it back, aye?” Little John said. “We’ll pay the taxes again. You won’t lose Ravenskeep, lady. We’ll see to it.”
The words meant nothing. She heard them, but they made no sense. She realized she was shaking uncontrollably. She wanted to scream, weep, shout, shriek, howl. But all her body would do was sit there like a lump of suet. Trembling.
“My home,” she said numbly; her mouth was sluggish at forming words. “My father—my father was given Ravenskeep by Old King Henry more than thirty years ago. I was born there. My brother died there. My mother died there. And my father’s sword—all that came home from Crusade—is with them both, down in the crypt.” She looked up into the red-bearded, sorrowful face. “How can he take my home?”
Little John shook his head.
“Robin will get it back,” Tuck said with certainty.
She wanted to be angry, but all she could feel spreading within her was a cold, quivering hollowness. Her bones had all gone brittle, fragile as glass.
And then something within her broke. The glass shattered to pieces. Marian began to weep.
It was Alan who came to her and knelt, who placed graceful hands on either side of her head and gently cradled her skull. He said nothing, merely offered comfort. She reached up, caught his wrists, clung, then bent forward. He took her weight against him, guided her brow against his shoulder, and let her cry herself out even as Tuck prayed for her.
When she was done she pulled away from Alan with a watery smile and a grateful pat on his shoulder. She was aware of their eyes watching her as she straightened upon the boulder, wondering what next she would do. Scream? Shriek?
But Marian felt strangely calm now. Strong. The shock, the storm, had passed. There were things to do.
She shook her head. “I should have killed deLacey instead of his poor horse.”
“Ah,” Scarlet said with comfortable affection, “there’s our lass!”
Much brought her ale in a mug. Marian thanked him, drank half of it down—she was thirsty after all—and wiped the residue from her upper lip. She was clear-headed now, certain of her course.
“I brought some things,” she said. “The pack is on the horse. Would someone get it down?” As Little John turned to do so, she looked at the others. “We shall wait for Robin. When he is back, we will decide what to do.”
“What do you want to do?” Alan asked with some trepidation.
“I want to punish William deLacey,” she said grimly. “I want him to be dismissed, as we discussed. And I want to be a part of it.” She stopped short. “Did you steal the tax shipment yesterday?”
They looked blank. Tuck shook his head.
“We had guests,” Alan said. “A parcel of lords.” He smiled, taking a seat upon a thick log. “And none too pleased to be here.”
“’Tis how we had enough to pay your taxes,” Scarlet explained, then had the grace to look abashed for bringing it up again.
Little John brought back her bundle as Much began to unsaddle her horse. “Robin took the money in to Abraham the Jew,” the giant said as he set her bundle down beside the boulder. “ ’Twas to go for your taxes, for Arthur of Brittany, and the poor.”
Marian leaned down and began to untie her bundle, peeling back layers so she could rummage through it. “Mercardier came and said he’d been robbed . . . that you had stolen the taxes.”
“No,” Tuck said firmly. “We did no such thing.”
She frowned. “Someone stole the taxes. They bashed him over the head. The soldiers went off after the ou
tlaws and left Mercardier lying in the road.”
Scarlet smirked. “Likely he deserved it.”
“Could it have been Adam Bell?”
Little John was frowning as he sat down beside the fire, fetching an ale flask from the motley collection near the rocks. “Does it matter?”
“It might,” Marian answered. “Mercardier believes you did it. I’m sure he’s told the sheriff so by now.”
Alan released a long, low whistle. “He’ll be harrying the countryside for us.”
“Nor will he stop till he finds us,” she said. “We must be ready for him.” She began dragging clothing out of the pack.
“What are you doing?” Little John asked.
She paused, one hand full of hosen. “Changing clothes,” she replied. “I cannot very well live in Sherwood dressed like this.”
“Live in Sherwood?” Scarlet echoed.
Marian draped hosen, tunic, and belt over one arm as she rose. “Where else am I to go?”
They exchanged startled glances. But no one offered an answer.
She grabbed up the blanket as well, intending to hang a privacy screen upon an appropriate—and appropriately distant—tree. “When I come back,” she said, “I want someone to teach me how to hold a sword.”
Tuck was astonished. “Why?”
Alan’s expression was oddly blank, as if he feared to offend her. “Do you believe you could handle a sword?”
Marian remembered the weight of Mercardier’s in her hands. “No,” she replied truthfully. “But I need to know how a man handles a sword, so I may learn how to disarm him.”
“See?” Will Scarlet gleefully nudged Little John’s rump with a booted toe. “Didn’t I say she was our lass?”
DeLacey and his men had spent the afternoon gathered in the room across the corridor from the earl’s bedchamber. Plans were in place. What was required to set them in motion was the mouse to step into the trap. So when Gisbourne finally came up to say Locksley and the steward had just ridden into the castle courtyard, deLacey heaved a sigh of relief coupled with a spurt of anticipation. He shot a glance at Philip de la Barre, who nodded back; the castellan moved smoothly to the wall beside the closed door, gripping an iron fireplace poker. Other men had swords unsheathed and at the ready, waiting quietly with the look of avid predators on their faces. DeLacey himself did not draw his sword, nor take up anything that might be used as a weapon. He merely waited beside the door, which he had left slightly ajar. From here he could see the earl’s closed door directly across the hall; if he extended his head beyond the jamb he could also see the end of the corridor where the staircase began. But he did not extend his head. It was a simple matter to hear the footsteps and voices as two men hurried up the stairs; he did not need to see them.
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