Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  The old woman arched her brow. “What plan were you hatching?”

  Marian sighed, slumping back against the wall. “There was a thing I wanted to ask him.”

  “Ah, well.” Matilda patted her knee. “Another time, my girl.”

  Marian barely heard her. She gazed blindly into the hall and thought about the message her father had sent with Locksley. I have to convince him to say nothing to the Sheriff. I can’t have the sheriff knowing anything about it. Vision swam back into clarity. I have to explain that I can’t marry a man who would cut off another man’s tongue.

  Mutinously, Eleanor deLacey glared back at her father. That he was sincerely angry, she knew, because only rarely did he let so much of his guard down.

  He scooped up her mantle and threw it at her. “Put it on now. We’re going immediately.”

  The mantle puddled briefly over a shoulder, then slid off to land on the ground. She made no attempt to pick it up.

  Her father inclined his head. “Very well.” He reached out to catch her wrist. The pressure was intense as he dragged her toward him. “Did you pay them with coin? Or pay them with your body?”

  She was startled by the virulence in his tone. He was a passionate man capable of high good humor as well as black moodiness, but most did not realize it. He was a consummate diplomat within the bounds of his service, cognizant of how to play man against man, and how to control the balance of emotions. For himself, he was as controlled—except when very angry.

  “I don’t know what—” she began.

  “Don’t lie to me! Not now!” His breath ruffled the fine strands of hair hanging limply about her face. “Did you spread your legs for guardsmen as well as for the minstrel?”

  “I did noth—”

  “Don’t lie to me!” He released her wrist and instead closed his hand on her throat, fingertips resting on the bruise Alan’s mouth had left. “You press me, Eleanor. This time, you’ve gone too far. I have overlooked much in your past, but this time you’ve gone too far. I’ll be lucky to find any man at all willing to take you.”

  “The minstrel would take me!” Even as she said it, she knew it foolhardy, born solely of defiance. It only made him go white instead of red, and the fingers on throat-flesh tighten.

  “By God, I should sell you into whoredom,” he rasped. “I should play procurer for you, and make a little profit. By God, Eleanor—have you no wits? You might have had an earl’s son!”

  She bared teeth at him. “And you an earldom?”

  He released her roughly. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  Eleanor laughed at him. “I’ll tell you nothing.”

  Slowly, he shook his head. “You try me, my girl. A saint is better prepared to deal with the likes of you.”

  She put up her chin. “Then send me to a nunnery. Be rid of me altogether!”

  He smiled thinly, with no amusement. “Ah, no, not that. I know what nunneries are, my girl—you would have too much enjoyment of it, when the young men came to call. No, what’s best for you is to take you home with me, and lock you up in the castle. Perhaps a chastity belt might cool your ardor a bit.”

  She blanched. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “I’ll dare anything, if you give me reason enough. And you very nearly have.” He made a sharp gesture. “Pick up your mantle, Eleanor.”

  She challenged him automatically. “And if I said no?”

  He caught her elbow in his hand and escorted her roughly out of the chamber into the corridor, forsaking the mantle entirely. She attempted once to twist free of his grasp, but he simply tightened it until she cried out in pain. It didn’t move him in the slightest. He simply moved her, without the faintest hint of compunction.

  She thought about what her father had said: Alan was free. Vaguely she thought she ought to be glad for him. He was, after all, innocent, though she dared say nothing of it. And if anyone asked her, she’d swear he had raped her. What else could she do?

  Except now they’d probably kill him, instead of merely cutting off his tongue. If he were foolish enough to be caught.

  Alan had not struck her as a foolish man, but then neither was her father. Much as she hated him, she had to give him that.

  Fifteen

  DeLacey’s party was more than his daughter, himself, Marian, and Matilda. As befitted his duties and office, he rode with six men armed with swords and crossbows, wearing mail and Norman helms with dehumanizing nasals. The guard was meant not only to stave off attack from outlaws, but also to imprint upon the minds of surly peasants that no matter how much they believed themselves wronged—though such an assumption was of course ludicrous—they lacked the power to do anything about it. Norman justice was powerful and ever-present, as proved by the sheriffs men.

  Marian rode wrapped in a dark mantle and darker thoughts, withdrawing as best she could from the sheriff’s company. He had initially tried to open a friendly conversation, but she refused to be drawn into it. Her answers were clipped and to the point, leaving no room for discussion or speculation; eventually he gave way and broke off further attempts.

  Eleanor also was icily silent, although she shot Marian venomous looks. Marian briefly considered declaring yet again that she had said nothing to the sheriff regarding his daughter’s dalliance with Alan, but decided against involving herself any further. It would do no good. Whatever Eleanor wanted to believe was what she would believe.

  Morning bled into midday as warmth dried dew and dampness. The track they rode to Nottingham was wide and well-traveled, inviolate to outlaws as Marian had told the earl’s man. Trees and foliage fringed the track, thick with cart and foot traffic, powdered into softness by countless thousands of hooves. Busier than usual, she thought, until the sheriff reminded them all it was the first day of Nottingham Fair. In the midst of the earl’s festivities, all of them had forgotten.

  “We shall have to go,” DeLacey remarked, slanting a warm glance and smile at Marian.

  She knew the tone now, and was moved to protest. “Matilda and I must go straight on to Ravenskeep.”

  “Nonsense.” He was irritatingly tranquil. “We are nearly to Nottingham now; you may as well see the day out. You will be my guests at the castle.”

  “I think not, my lord.” She wished she had the courage to speak more forthrightly, instead of with the kind of meek courtesy men with stronger wills overrode easily. But it was difficult to do so in the face of civility. Only when she was angry could she speak bluntly and effectively; it was one of her weaknesses which she disliked more and more. “I think it best we go on.”

  DeLacey, riding a pace ahead with his silent, stiff-limbed daughter, looked beyond Marian. “I think it best you give your woman time to rest.”

  Marian glanced back across a shoulder to the old woman, whose mount had fallen behind. “Matilda!” She pulled up sharply, reaching out to catch a dangling rein and bring Matilda’s horse close to her own. The old woman rode slack and slump-shouldered, pressing her right hand against her breast.

  As Marian halted her horse, the old woman roused. “What—? Oh no, no need—”

  Marian was thoroughly frightened by the grayish cast to the woman’s face. “What is it? Are you ill?”

  The old nurse shook her head, blotting weakly at a sweat-shiny face. “No—no ... only a little tired. It will pass, I promise.”

  DeLacey came back to Marian’s side. Eleanor waited beyond, sallow of face and attitude, against a backdrop of men and mail. “She’s ill,” Marian said tightly. “We need to stop immediately.”

  “No, no.” Matilda waved a limp hand. “It’s passing, I say—no need to wait for me.”

  “But of course we must.” The sheriff was at his most solicitous. “As I have said, you are welcome at the castle. You will stay the night, and rest. In the morning I well send men with you to escort you safely to Ravenskeep.”

  Matilda looked wistful a moment, then drew herself up. “My lord, I thank you—but I am already better. ’Twas but a mom
entary weakness.”

  The decision was rapidly made, albeit against Marian’s preferences. There simply was no other choice. “No, Matilda . . . listen to me, now, instead of giving me orders.” She softened it with a smile, trying not to let the old woman know how worried she was. “We will indeed go on to the castle and stay the night.” It was difficult to say it, after refusing the sheriffs invitation, but she saw no help for it.

  “Here.” DeLacey drew up his waterskin, unstoppered it, and leaned out to offer it. “Drink, old friend. Refresh yourself. You are my guest, now, and in my care.”

  Shakily, the woman took the skin and drank. Her color was improving by the moment; Marian wondered briefly if she could go on, but dismissed it almost at once, chiding herself for the thought. It would do no harm to stay the night with the sheriff. She would simply remain in her chamber with Matilda and avoid him entirely.

  Murmuring courtesies, deLacey took the waterskin back when Matilda was done drinking. Watching him, Marian had to admit he was kindness itself when the moment required it and did not go against his wishes. But she recalled all too clearly how unwilling he had been to give an innocent man his freedom.

  She gritted her teeth. How could my father have suggested a match between us? Surely he knows—knew—this man, and what he is capable of!

  And yet perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps William deLacey had conducted himself with perfect fairness and decorum in Hugh FitzWalter’s company.

  Or perhaps it was merely the cost of holding the sheriffs office.

  She shivered. The last thought suggested a man who did things he didn’t want to do, in the name of rank and office. And she didn’t want to acknowledge that perhaps it was the way of life itself. But my father could never have condoned what the sheriff did. He would never agree to cut out an innocent man’s tongue. And yet a nagging thought remained: what if it had been she? What if, to her own father’s mind, the only way of retrieving a portion of dignity for a publicly despoiled daughter was to punish an offender who had, in truth, offended nothing except propriety?

  As Matilda resettled her mantle, murmuring assurances of her readiness to continue, Marian looked ahead to Eleanor deLacey. She didn’t like the woman. She believed her to be entirely selfish and utterly heedless of other people’s needs. But Eleanor had spoken sincerely of a woman having needs equal to a man’s, with no means of expressing them. What more had she done but satisfied those needs in the arms of a man who had known such freedom lifelong?

  But they would have mutilated him—And yet Alan was free. Someone had freed him.

  Cold struck Marian to the bone. She sat stiffly upright in the saddle, clutching the reins spasmodically, and stared wide-eyed at William deLacey. She was painfully aware of a new and discomfiting thought.

  What if it was—? No. It couldn’t be. And yet the question came back again. What if the sheriff did it? What if he played the part of a man concerned with duty only in public—?

  He might have told her, when she went to see him to plead for Alan’s release. He might have divulged his plan. But a careful man wouldn’t. A shrewd, meticulous man wouldn’t tell a soul but one who had to know, and she wasn’t one of them.

  “Marian?” It was deLacey, of course, quietly curious.

  Mortified, Marian looked away, gathering up the reins. She couldn’t apologize. He had told her nothing for a reason. If he had wanted her to know, he would have said something. She thought it likely he wanted his secret to remain a secret, even now.

  It was easier simply to think of Alan’s freedom without considering means and methods. Easier by far than reconciling new possibilities with older convictions.

  The lute hung heavy on Alan’s back. The instrument itself was no different, he knew, but the knowledge of what he risked by coming to Nottingham made him nervous. Worse, he knew very well the lute made him more conspicuous; though a fair drew more than one itinerant musician and it was ordinarily unlikely anyone would mark him out as different from any other lute player, he was no longer ordinary. Eleanor deLacey had seen to that.

  He needed money; it was that simple. He had been told to go to Nottingham, to a small, quiet alehouse very far from the castle, where he would be met and given coin. When Alan questioned the necessity of going into the sheriffs own city, he had been told deLacey would not return immediately. There was Prince John to entertain and the earl to impress—William deLacey would wait a day or two before returning to Nottingham.

  He knelt by the roadside, screened by foliage. The walls of Nottingham loomed up before him, fluttering colorful banners to celebrate the fair. For the past half hour he had watched the road traffic closely, marking fair-goers and city-dwellers going about their concerns. There were no soldiers on the road. He knew very well the gates were routinely manned, but the soldiers there would have no knowledge of what had occurred. His danger lay in a messenger sent from the sheriff, but instincts told him none would be forthcoming, as he doubted the sheriff would believe a wanted man would purposely go to Nottingham. That certainly was one reason he had been told to go there.

  Alan scrubbed his face with both hands, stretching flesh out of shape, knowing himself grimy and soiled from the dungeon cell. His fingernails were black-rimmed, his bliaut and hosen damp and stained with grass. But at least his crimson brocaded tunic, with his lute, had been returned. That lent him a little splendor and restored his spirits.

  But the hair: he combed it with his fingers, trying to put order to the tumbled golden ringlets so appealing to the ladies, and scratched glumly at his stubbled, bruised jaw. He needed a bath and shave, as well as food, but all that required coin, and he had none to his name. All he could do was go into Nottingham and find a suitable corner for exhibiting his talent, with his hat conveniently placed where listeners might donate a silver penny, or two—better than that, he hoped, but anything would do. He needed to leave Nottingham before the sheriff returned.

  A cart rattled by, pulled by a lop-eared mule. Following it was a cluster of adolescent peasant boys giggling among themselves. Likely predicting success with the girls they might meet, Alan thought, as he did the same himself.

  He tugged his tunic into place, ridding it of as many creases as possible, then stood up. The lute lay athwart his spine, reminding him of his talent. Reminding him of Eleanor and the darkness of Huntington’s dungeon.

  DeLacey was relieved when at last they entered the city and proceeded to Nottingham Castle. He felt somewhat battered by events of the past two days: Prince John’s unexpected arrival, Eleanor’s costly behavior, and Marian FitzWalter’s adamant challenge to release an innocent man or, at the very least, to offer that man more humane treatment. Then of course there was Gisbourne’s injury, which would deprive the sheriff of his steward, thereby causing him to deal with the tedious day-to-day concerns he preferred to leave to Sir Guy.

  Stupid fool, he reflected. What did he think he was about, charging a boar on foot? He’s hardly a true knight. Such behavior was uncalled-for.

  Indeed, Gisbourne’s absence would cause all manner of inconveniences in certain matters of household and office administration. He would have to summon Gisbourne’s mousy little assistant to sort out what needed tending. There was the murderer—something Scathlocke?—Prince John had come to see hanged, for instance, as well as more ordinary complaints and lax enforcement of Forest Law and the like, requiring his attention.

  DeLacey followed his contingent of soldiers through city streets to the castle proper, where he and his small party rode under the raised portcullis into the outer bailey. It struck him anew that the Earl of Huntington had effectively reestablished himself as a premier peer of the realm, with a brand-new castle. His was far larger and far more impressive than Nottingham Castle, which lacked some of the modern masonry techniques deLacey had seen in Huntington’s defenses. Of the two, he believed Huntington’s more likely to withstand a true siege. And yet he wondered if it were entirely necessary. Who would lay siege to a castle inside England
, while the Normans—and their Plantagenet descendents—held the English Crown?

  John, his conscience told him as he dismounted his horse. God knows. what John means to do in his quest to make himself king. DeLacey gave his mount over to the horseboy and turned at once to Marian, moving to help her down as she untangled her skirts and mantle from the saddle. Then, knowing instinctively his care would impress the girl, he turned away to the fat old woman who had no business riding out when clearly her heart was weak. He helped Matilda dismount, murmuring meaningless assurances of her welcome, then solicitously shepherded her into the keep with Marian following closely. Eleanor, he knew, would fend quite well for herself.

  Locksley passed unobtrusively through the crowds thronging Nottingham’s narrow thoroughfares, many choked off by too many bodies, coughing up stragglers into alleys, or into tiny “squares” where dwellings, stalls, and businesses rubbed wooden elbows and shoulders. He was near Market Square, where several wider streets came together, forming an open space; it was there the heart of the crowd gathered to watch games of skill, to gossip, or to buy a trinket or two at the flimsy lath stalls and cloth booths leaning haphazardly against one another. He wanted to do none of those things, but it was there he went regardless.

  He wanted to hear and smell England again, trading too-vivid memories of foreign things for those he had known all his life. It was here, in the midst of a fair, that he could begin again to understand who and what his people were.

  The sky was clear of clouds and the temperature mild, promising a good day. Locksley moved slowly, impeded by others, begging pardon quietly if he stepped upon a toe or was jostled against another. He had clothed himself without ostentation in a plain brown tunic, leather belt, hosen, and aging boots; not so different, on first glance, from what a peasant might wear on a fair day in Nottingham. But cut, cloth, and workmanship was of far superior quality, as was his manner, unassuming though it was. He mistakenly believed he could fit in, thereby experiencing the fair as any peasant might.