by DAVID B. COE
Sipping the latest selection the girls had brought to him, the friar smacked his lips and nodded toward his cup.
“Home brew,” he said. “If I wasn't the village priest I'd try for village drunkard.”
ON THE OTHER side of the inn, Allan and Will had positioned themselves at the edge of the stage. The rest of the musicians were off drinking, and so Will and Allan were drinking, too. It seemed only fair. Allan continued to play his lute, but Will was surveying the room, eyeing the women, several of whom stood in a cluster nearby, eyeing Will and Allan.
LITTLE JOHN HAD lost interest in their conversation and was trading looks with a large woman who stood nearby, sipping an ale and regarding the big man coyly over the rim of her cup.
“Right,” John said. “She looks like my size. I'll put a smile on her face.”
Tuck frowned, discomfited by the turn the evening seemed to be taking. He was, after all, a man of the cloth.
“So,” he began, hoping to change the subject, “Why do they call you Little John?”
The man swiveled sharply in his chair, his eyebrows furrowing menacingly. “What are you getting at?” he demanded.
Tuck's eyes widened. “What?” he asked innocently.
John stood, nearly toppling his chair, walked over to the girl, and danced her away.
WILL AND ALLAN were still watching the girls who had been watching them, but they hadn't made much progress in actually speaking to them. It should have been easy—they were practically the only men in the Bait and Trap. But somehow they had yet to get up their nerve.
Will tried to give Allan some pointers, though he was slow to follow his own advice.
“The secret of success,” he said, “is never go for the prettiest one. Start with the homely one on the left.”
Allan looked up from his lute again, nodding sagely. “Right,” he said. “Which one is that?”
Will frowned at him, and they continued to stand there, watching the girls watch them. The group of girls was smaller now, though. Several of them had given up on these two and moved on.
“The main thing is,” Allan said, now dispensing advice himself, “you mustn't frighten them off. Village maidens are shy …”
ROBIN SAT NEAR the fireplace in the Loxley home, enjoying its warmth, watching as serving girls cleared the plates and what was left of the evening meal from the table. Sir Walter had long since bade Robin good night and, with Marion leading him back to his chamber, had gone off to bed. The dogs still lay on the floor nearby, as if unwilling to let him out of their sight.
It had been a strange night, and he stared into the fire burning in the hearth, puzzling over the bargain he had made with Loxley's father. Of course, Robin understood that the old man didn't wish to see the Crown or its agents taking this house away from Marion when he died. And he supposed that would be reason enough for Sir Walter to chance this charade he had proposed. But Robin sensed that there was more at work here than that. Walter had recognized his name, though Robin didn't know how that was possible. The old man had appeared genuinely frightened of him at first. What was it he had asked? Are you here to exact revenge?
Later, once Walter had convinced himself that Robin meant him no harm, he had hinted again at knowing more about Robin's past than the archer did himself. He had offered to teach Robin something of his own history.
And Loxley seemed to take great pleasure in teasing Marion with suggestions of romance between her and Robin. Were these merely the eccentricities of an old man, or confused emotions brought on by grief and the shock of bad tidings? Or was there more to Walter's teasing and riddles?
Loxley might have looked old, but his mind seemed sharp enough. There was purpose in all of this, though what it was Robin couldn't fathom.
Marion reentered the hall, hesitating briefly at the sight of him sitting in his chair, and then continuing over to the table. The dogs raised their heads and followed her with their dark eyes. She examined the table, appeared satisfied that it had been tended properly, and wandered back toward where Robin sat, now watching her.
He wasn't sure he understood her, either. Sir Robert had been dead for days, but as far as Marion was concerned, she had lost him this very afternoon. Robin could see the sadness in her eyes; he recalled how deeply she had been moved by news of the knight's death earlier in the day, though he hadn't known then who she was.
Yet the only tears he had seen in her eyes, she had shed not for her own loss, but for Sir Walter's. It almost seemed that she cared more for her husband's father, than for her husband. Perhaps that was what happened when a knight left his home and love for ten years.
He couldn't deny that she was an attractive woman. Not merely pretty like a barmaid or a country maiden; hers was an unconventional beauty. High cheekbones, waves of auburn hair, eyes that were strikingly blue and that seemed to miss nothing of what happened around her. There was both grace and strength in her body. She appeared to be as comfortable cleaning the muck from a dray's hoof as she was hosting dinner for a stranger.
And though she clearly hadn't been happy about the deal Walter had made with Robin, she hadn't refused, either. Was she merely pragmatic, or did she have her own purpose in playing along?
Too many mysteries. Robin wondered if he wouldn't be better off leaving Peper Harrow now, while he still had the chance. But he didn't rise from the chair. Curiosity held him there; the promise of learning more about his past, about his family, about the odd twists and hints of fate that had led him from King Richard's army to the warm glow of this fire, and the company of this mysterious and handsome woman.
“Walter says we're to share my chambers,” she said, after a lengthy silence.
The fire popped, startling the dog nearest the hearth.
Robin didn't answer her.
“It is merely a ruse to convince the servants,” she added, her tone businesslike.
Robin allowed himself a small smile. “If the aim is deception, you should address me as ‘husband,’ or ‘my dear.’”
She scowled at him. “Don't be ridiculous.” She turned, starting toward the stairs. “Let us retire now.”
He didn't move. “Ask me nicely.”
Without turning or pausing, Marion started up the stairs. Robin thought she would ignore him entirely, but as she climbed the steps she said in a low voice, “Please, husband, will you join me in our chambers?”
Robin pushed himself out of the chair, crossed to the stairway, and started up after her. The dogs loped along with him.
Reaching the top of the stairway, Robin and the dogs followed Marion down a narrow corridor and into her bedchamber. It was a modest room but it felt warm and comfortable. A fire had been lit in the small hearth, and a few candles burned beside the bed.
Marion closed the door and turned to face him, her expression severe. “I sleep with a dagger,” she said, glowering at him. “If you so much as move to touch me I will sever your manhood. Understood?”
Robin's eyebrows went up. “Thanks for the warning.”
She gestured toward a large cushion next to the hearth. Clearly this was usually intended for the dogs, but there could be no mistaking her intent. For tonight—and no doubt all the nights to follow—this was to be his bed.
Without so much as a “goodnight” she pulled closed the curtains that surrounded her bed. Robin stood where he was, watching her. She blew out the candles around her one by one, until the only light in the chamber came from the fire in the hearth.
With the candles out, Robin couldn't see past the curtains, but he heard a rustle of cloth, and imagined that Marion must be removing her dress. A thought came unbidden: It had been a long, long time since last he had lain with a woman.
Robin stepped to the hearth, sat down on the bedding and started to pull off his boots. One of the dogs trotted over to him and lay down beside him, taking up more than its fair share of the cushion. Robin couldn't help laughing. It surely wasn't the companionship he would have preferred, but it would have
to do for this night.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Sir Godfrey walked quietly through the camp, stepping past smoldering cooking fires and small tents and sleeping men bundled in woolen blankets. Sinuous clouds of silver gray smoke drifted among the trees of the forest like wraiths. At the edge of the encampment horses stomped and snorted, their breath steaming in the cold night air.
In one hand, Godfrey carried a leather sack filled with wine that sloshed invitingly within. In the other, he held a lantern that appeared haloed in the fine mist.
They had come a good distance from London; as far as they needed to, though, of course, his men didn't know this. He knew that Adhemar and the others were nearby, that they were watching already, waiting.
Godfrey approached the two sentries standing at the edge of the camp. They were young men; both of them looked cold and tired. They did their best to stand at attention as he approached, but they shifted from foot to foot, trying to keep warm.
“Sir,” one of the men said as Godfrey drew near.
He handed the man the sack of wine and smiled disarmingly. “Turn in for an hour,” he said. “It's nearly dawn. I will keep the watch.”
The two guards looked at the wine and then at their commander, gratitude written on their faces. They nodded their thanks, and headed back into the center of the camp, eager to be off their feet and to warm themselves with a bit of drink.
Godfrey watched them go until they were out of sight. Then he continued deeper into the forest, away from the camp. After a time, he could no longer hear his men; the only sounds that reached him were the call of a distant owl and a wolf's howl. But he knew he wasn't alone. He halted, held up the lantern and covered its light, uncovered it, covered it again, so that it flashed in the darkness. Lowering it again, he waited. It didn't take long.
Two hundred of them rode toward him, their armor and their horses dark, so that they emerged from the forest shadows as if conjured by magic. Their mounts moved in near silence, their swords and pikes were tied down or wrapped in cloth, so that they didn't rattle and clink. The hooves of their horses, he saw, had been covered in sacking. Like creatures of the night, they came forward and then halted before Godfrey, regarding him with cool indifference. These were hard men, soldiers he would be pleased to command and call his own. They were capable and efficient. One needed only to look at them, to witness their approach, to understand this.
Thinking of the fifty men he had left at his camp, Godfrey remembered what King Philip had said to him back in France. England under your friend John is a country with no fighting spirit. I can take London with an army of cooks.
The soldiers John had given him were useless— poorly trained, lazy, undisciplined. And these French before him were hardly cooks.
Adhemar rode forward, separating himself from his force. Dismounting, he stood before Godfrey and shook his hand. He was somewhat taller than Godfrey, with dark hair and a matching beard, and he carried himself with the confidence of a commander who had led his men to victory time and again. He would make a formidable ally.
“Comment allez vous, mon ami?” he asked. How are you, my friend?
“They have drunk well,” Godfrey told him. “They sleep well, and they await you.”
Adhemar nodded once and turned back to his men. He spoke his orders quietly and in French, and the men in front passed the commands back along their lines, one man whispering to the next. They dismounted, a soft murmur of leather and cloth, and began to untie their weapons.
When they were ready, Godfrey led them back toward the camp where his men slumbered, their bellies filled with wine, their weapons lying uselessly by their sides. Adhemar's men moved with such stealth that Godfrey glanced back over his shoulder repeatedly to make sure they were still with him. They always were.
Reaching the edge of the encampment, he and Adhemar halted and waved fifty of the French soldiers past them. Their swords in hand, the men spread through the camp, stepping over and around the sleeping Englishmen. A few of the horses grew restless, but none of Godfrey's men stirred. Within a few moments, fifty French legionnaires stood over fifty sleeping English soldiers, their swords held over the men, so that the tips hovered above their chests and necks and backs. The Frenchmen kept their eyes fixed on Godfrey, waiting for his command.
Godfrey raised his hand, thumb pointed down, and made a swift downward gesture.
As one, the legionnaires stabbed downward, the whisper of steel blending with soft grunts and the sudden exhalation of fifty dying breaths.
It occurred to Godfrey that he had never seen so many men killed so quietly. A formidable ally indeed.
HE HAD FOLLOWED from the beach, keeping at a safe distance, watching as the French army wended its way through the English countryside and into the forests outside of London. He had kept to the shadows as they crept through this wood, waited with them for the signal that summoned them toward the English camp, and listened as Sir Godfrey, the new king's most trusted man, greeted the French commander as a friend.
And now, his fists clenched, his stomach knotting itself like wet rope, he had watched, helpless, horrified, as they slaughtered fifty English soldiers in their sleep. He wanted to fight them, he wanted to run them through until his sword was stained crimson and dripped blood on the forest floor. Most of all, he wanted to squeeze the life out of the traitor Godfrey with his bare hands.
Instead, he slipped away, making not a sound, and returned to where he had tethered his horse. The pigeon box was still tied behind his saddle. He had another message to send back to London.
ROBIN AWOKE THE following morning to find that Marion was already up and gone from the chamber. She had even taken the dogs. He pulled on his boots, ran a hand through his hair, and left the room in search of Sir Walter and perhaps a bite to eat.
He descended the stairs to the great hall. Sunlight streamed through the windows and a fire burned low in the hearth. Walter sat at the head of the table, eating boiled eggs and ham, and occasionally tossing a scrap of meat to the dog lying beside his chair. He hummed to himself, clearly still enjoying the fine mood that had carried him off to bed the previous night.
Walter turned his head at the sound of Robin's footsteps on the floor of the hall.
“I hear a man's step. Good morning, my son.”
Robin faltered. He understood the need to maintain this pretense for the servants and those outside the Loxley home, but aside from the hound at Walter's feet, they were alone.
“Good morning, Sir Walter,” Robin said.
Walter turned in his chair. “Father,” he corrected.
Robin took a breath. “Father,” he repeated dutifully.
The old man clapped his hands together, looking delighted.
Robin stepped quickly to the table and leaned on it, so that he stood over the old man. “What is it of my history that you know?” he asked, unable to keep the impatience from his voice. He didn't know how much of this dissembling he could endure. He had no desire to wait days upon days to learn what Walter knew.
But the old man gave a small shake of his head. “Patience. You must show yourself today.” He gestured toward Sir Robert's weapon which lay upon the table. “Wear your sword.” Walter turned toward the stairway again and bellowed “Marion!”
“I am here, Walter,” she said, appearing at the base of the stairs. She wore a linen long-sleeve bodice, a brown riding skirt, and boots. Clearly, she already knew that Walter wanted them to spend the day out in the village. She didn't come join them at the table, or offer any sort of greeting to Robin. She simply pulled on her riding gloves, clearly annoyed, and in a temper as sour as Walter's was sweet.
“Reacquaint your husband with his village and his people,” the old man said.
Marion regarded Robin coolly. He was wearing the clothes he first put on the night before. Robert's clothes—his breeches, the finely embroidered shirt, and an open, collared jacket. Without comment, she walked to the door leading outside
.
“I'll see to the horses,” she said.
Robin watched her go. Turning back to Walter, he saw the old man gesture for him to come closer.
“I feel invigorated,” the old man said, sharing a confidence. “I woke this morning with a tumescent glow.” He pointed to himself. “Eighty-four. A miracle.”
Robin straightened, unsure of exactly what he ought to say in response to this.
Marion appeared in the doorway once more, shaking her head and muttering, “I have always wondered at the private conversations of men.” Then, more sharply, “Husband!”
She left the house again, and Robin followed reluctantly, unsure of whether he preferred to spend the day with his “wife” or the old man. Stepping out into the bright sun of Peper Harrow's courtyard, he saw his white charger standing next to a handsome black horse he assumed was Marion's.