DeLacey wanted to strike each and every one of them. “While we stand here debating your merits,” he said venomously, “that villein is escaping. Go after him and stop him. Now. All I ask is that you do your jobs.” Even as they shifted, he stilled them once more with the virulence in his voice. “If you can’t accomplish this much at my asking, perhaps you would do better to give up your present positions and become Norman villeins.” He paused, contempt inserted delicately like a blade between two ribs. “And wouldn’t the Saxon villeins love to teach you your place?”
It had the anticipated effect. The soldiers moved hastily away to obey his orders in precisely the way he suggested.
“Legs,” deLacey muttered. “Are they blind as well as stupid?”
Locksley retrieved his horse from the stables and mounted, thinking rapidly ahead to Will Scarlet’s intended destination. A few careful questions at the stables had told him Scarlet was a stranger to the city and its immediate environs, which meant it very likely the man would head for the closest shelter he could find. Locksley doubted he would choose any of the dwellings, for fear the sheriff would institute a house-to-house—or hovel-to-hovel—search, as was his right. DeLacey had the authority and manpower to carry through with any kind of search, even if it meant burning down half of Nottingham. It made it more likely the man would leave off looking for conventional shelter and search for something else.
A fox going to ground . . . Locksley set his mount to a noisy long-trot through the streets and stood in the stirrups, letting his legs absorb the pounding rather than buttocks and torso. He will look for ground well sheltered on all sides, obstructing a proper search. He left behind the tattered edges of the poorer district, guiding the horse away from the city. A man of the country, accustomed to close-grown forests, would seek out familiar ground.
Sherwood Forest. It cradled much of Nottingham, and the High Road as well. Remnants of Sherwood even encroached on Huntington lands. It was an old, well-grown forest, known throughout the shire as a haven for poachers and outlaws. Soldiers who went in very often did not come out.
But the same could be said of certain outlaws who sought refuge. Sherwood kept its secrets, along with many lives.
He will look for the shortest route. Undoubtedly he already had, since Locksley was certain Scarlet and his prisoner had preceded him out of the city. It was possible both were already gone, swallowed by the forest, in which case his task was to track them somehow through dense foliage, tangled trees, and the detritus of ancient deadfall.
He sought the most direct route from Nottingham to Sherwood, and dismounted at the forest’s edge. He tied the horse to a tree, draped his dark green cloak across the saddle, and melted into the shadows.
Marian was muffled in layers of wool, arms trapped by constricting folds, face pressed against the weave. There was air, but little. She found herself short of breath, light of head, and very cramped of will. Patience, she counseled herself again. Let him think you are utterly helpless. She reflected with more than a little irony that it should be easy enough. She was helpless.
He was weary, she knew. He staggered, cursed, growled breathless exhortations to himself as he made his way onward. They must be out of the city, because the sound and smells had changed. She did not feel so compressed as she had before, weighed down by close-built dwellings. The day was brighter.
Out of Nottingham, bound for—where? Her ignorance alarmed her. She could understand using her as a shield while in the city, but why now? Why do it once he was free? Why not simply dump her where she was, so he could move faster? Of what use was she to him, save to slow him down?
The answer seemed obvious. Why would any man keep a woman?
The sound of the day altered again. She heard the crackle of twigs beneath him, the rustling of displaced grass and leaves, the harsh alarmed croak of a nearby crow. Sunlight, once tinted crimson, was changed to bloodied purple.
Trees. She frowned. A forest? The answer was implicit as the first bough snagged on her mantle, digging into her back.
Marian bit her tongue to keep from protesting, to keep from shifting her weight in an attempt to avoid the bough. There was no sense in letting him know she was awake and alert. Let him believe she was unconscious. That way she would have the benefit of surprise when he finally put her down.
His grasp on her slackened. Marian held her breath. Don’t move—not a twitch. He stopped. She felt his grasp shift, looking for new purchase. And then he pulled her down, levering her off his shoulder.
She inhaled a soundless breath. Don’t rush—lure him into carelessness. She was down. She felt the ground beneath her. He had put her on her side, trapping one arm. Marian squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Wait until there is room.
It was difficult to lie so still. A part of her mind screamed at her to tear wildly at the mantle, to strip herself from its folds, but she knew better than to give in. If she moved too soon, she gave herself away. Best to wait. When he relaxed, his vigilance would decrease—and she could attempt escape.
He knelt over her, digging his hands into her mantle. She felt the fabric tighten, then slide. A shaft of muted light found the opening. The air was sweet and cool.
She waited. His hands were on her, grasping new folds. He tugged one free of her face. Not enough—not enough yet. God, the waiting would kill her.
He caught hold again of the mantle and yanked it free of her. Tumbled onto her face, Marian gritted teeth. Not yet. Let him think her dead.
He closed a hand on one arm and pulled her over onto her back. Her head lolled to one side. Marian held her breath. If he’ll only give me up as dead and move aside. He knelt beside her. She could hear his breathing, harsh and raspy; she could smell the stink of him. Can’t you see I’m dead?
He touched a strand of her hair, peeling it back from her face with hands that shook. “Don’t be dead,” he begged.
Marian clawed for his eyes even as she lunged, scrambling up, trying to knock him back as she thrust herself up from the ground. She heard his blurt of surprise, felt him fall back a little, saw the astonishment on his face harden into a new and ferocious resolve. If she took time to look for a weapon, he’d be on her again.
Marian yanked at kirtle, undertunic, and mantle, cursing her missing slipper, and dug in her toes as she leaped away from Scarlet.
Two strides, and he had her by the cloak. So easily, too easily; Marian cried out incoherently as the cloak-band tightened abruptly, snugged up against her throat. She tore at it, trying to rip it over her head before he could use it to pull her in like a fish. The tine of cloak brooch bent. Fabric stretched and tore.
Let it go. She bolted, worrying at the cloak, trying to keep her footing against the hardships of too much fabric, too much foliage, too little knowledge of where to go. Branches slapped her face, snagged her arms, rapped her on stocking-clad ankles.
He jerked her off-stride easily, using the cloak, then was on her in a leap. Arms locked around her hips. She fell, as did he, twisting as she went down, trying to snag bough or rock with two clawing, grasping hands. “No—” A stick. She hammered at him with it and saw it break up like pottery. “No—” She clawed now at the hands that caught gouts of kirtle.
“Let be!” he snapped. “Let be—”
She caught up handfuls of crumbled leaves and damp soil, scooping up clots of mold and mud, and hurled it all at his face. “Let me go—”
“Let be!” he shouted.
His hands were on her waist, all tangled in kirtle folds. He was sprawled across her legs, imprisoning her lower body with nothing more than superior weight. Marian dug elbows into the ground and tried to lever herself up, twisting against his grasp.
A rock. A small rock. Not enough to batter him senseless, but something ... She shut it up in one hand, twisted to gain more room, hurled it hard as she could at his exposed face. An eye, she begged. Let it be an eye—
It struck cheekbone, leaving behind a clot of mud. She saw his shock, his warpe
d mouth as he swore; the bristled pallor of his face. She scooped up more dirt and debris and threw it into his eyes and mouth. One knee was partially free: she hooked it upward as hard as she could, hoping to hit something vital.
“Little whore—” he spat.
“I’m not anybody’s whore—”
“Let be!” he hissed. “D’ye want me to kill you?” He ducked the hurled stone, then lunged forward toward her face, coming down atop her hips. His weight nearly crushed her. “Let be, little whore, or I’ll show you what I can do—”
She battered at him with fists, aware of rage, both cold and hot, the wild anger that lent her strength in the place of fear. She acknowledged it and drew upon it, using its power in place of her own.
The flesh beneath her fists was stubbled, dirty, slack. She saw the lips moving, mouthing curses and complaints, but she listened to none of them. The only thing she thought about was breaking free from him, no matter what it took.
His hands now were in her hair. Marian twisted her head and tried to close her teeth in his flesh.
He caught her by her braid and the fabric of her clothing, handfuls of it, dragging her up from the ground as he lurched to his feet. He stood her there, like a rag doll, staring at her in grim fury. A trickle of blood dribbled down his face from the cut on his cheekbone.
Marian kicked and caught a shinbone, bruising bare toes in the process. He caught her up instantly, jerking her into the air completely off her feet, and slammed her full length into the nearest tree trunk. Her head thumped dully on wood.
Marian sucked noisily at the air, wishing her vision would settle.
“Listen here—” he said. “Best do as I say, little whore—” But he didn’t wait for the protest she couldn’t make, still breathless against the tree. He simply yanked her free and dumped her down again, hard, sending arms and legs awry as she landed flat on her back, then sat fully upon her as she sprawled across the ground. His weight was oppressive. “Now,” he said, “I’ll do what I should have done first. . . .”
She thrashed once, weakly. “I’m not who you think I am—”
“Doesn’t matter, does it? You’ll do.” Grimly he jerked the meat-knife from her girdle, then cut strips of wool from her mantle.
“I’m Marian FitzWalt—”
“Doesn’t matter, I said.” One strip for her mouth, tied so tightly it cut into the corners of her mouth even as she tried to tongue it away. Then he lifted from her, flipped her over and sat again, grinding her facedown into the damp, moldy earth. Another length of wool bound her wrists behind her.
Marian thrashed again, wriggling against the ground. He tied off the knots, stood and pulled her up, then spun her to face him, locking one hand into the hip-length weave of her braid.
“I’ve two strong hands,” he rasped. “Don’t make me use them.”
Through gag and nose she wheezed. Don’t let him see you’re afraid. But she was. Reaction made her tremble violently, much as she hated it. She breathed heavily against the gag, trying to fill her heaving lungs, and stared back at the man.
She wanted to scream at him, to shout that he was wrong, he was a fool; couldn’t he listen to her? Couldn’t he believe her? She wasn’t the sheriffs woman. She wasn’t a Norman woman. She was of good, sound English stock, just like his own.
He tore the mantle from her, snapping the band at last. “Too bright,” he muttered.
If I could break free and run—
Dark eyes were malignant. “Walk,” he said only, and began to beat his way through the forest, dragging her by the braid like a balky cow on a rope.
Twenty-Three
Nottingham’s keep was far older than the modern one at Huntington, without ostentation or amenities to soften its angled, sharp-edged harshness. It was utilitarian both in nature and presentation; William deLacey, its latest tenant, wasted neither effort nor expense at making it anything else. It was, he had said, to be a castle boasting strength, impregnability, and something that suggested a powerful, brooding malevolence, so as to remind its visitors—honestly met or captured—exactly what it stood for: justice and retribution.
The hall therefore was nothing more than that: a high-beamed masonry cavern, lacking wall hangings, painted plaster, or tapestries, as well as adequate light. One end was screened to provide a walkway between the adjoining kitchens, pantry, and buttery. The other end boasted a low dais with a massive fixed table and one equally massive chair, meant to inspire awe as the sheriff made decisions and issued pronouncements.
The hall was always a trifle dark, with an overriding chilly dankness that helped to crush the spirits of those fools stupid enough to fall foul of the law. That it was no more hospitable to its inhabitants, including the sheriff himself, was something no one mentioned. Sir Guy of Gisbourne, in his zeal to save money, had decreed a cutting back of household expenditures, a measure which included candles, torches, and lamps.
Eleanor deLacey glanced up as her father entered the main hall, striding through one of the doorways into wan candlelight. She had ensconced herself in his chair in his hall behind his table. She didn’t move as he entered. She simply sat back and waited for his protest. He was a proprietary man who guarded his possessions as well as his pride and his office.
But he made no protest. Grim-faced, he merely shouted for wine at the first servant who appeared, and tore his cloak free of brooches without unpinning them as he strode the length of the trench.
He is out of temper. Eleanor’s smile reflected an odd contentment. “Let me guess,” she said lightly. “Someone called you a bad name.”
The malignant glance DeLacey shot her, which displayed his mood, also informed him that she had usurped his place in the hall. Yet he said nothing. He merely flung the cloak across the table and began to pace before the dais, kicking aside rushes and the remains of an earlier meal. The Sheriff of Nottingham did not countenance dogs, so the rushes were worse than most.
The wine came. DeLacey drank down the goblet’s contents, thrust it out for more, then waved off the hovering servant. The pacing began once more. This time he drank in less haste.
Eleanor smiled more widely, aware of an intense, almost sexual pleasure, and sat back in the massive chair. Quietly she tapped bitten fingernails against the scarred wooden tabletop. It was amusing and intriguing to see her father so discomposed; generally he kept such black moods to himself altogether, or contained them in the privacy of family quarters rather than the hall.
Something has set him off . . . “Someone spat upon you,” she suggested. “Or dumped a nightpot on top of your head.”
He spun, slopping blood-colored wine over the rim of the goblet. His sibilants were harsh in the shadowed hall. “I sent you to your chambers.”
She lifted a single eloquent shoulder, a premeditated gesture she’d learned from him. “You were gone. I came out.” Eleanor displayed a triumphant smile, along with her overbite. “Would you expect anything else?”
He glowered at her, creases deepening around his eyes. The fleshy pouches beneath, she saw, were heavier than they had been the year before. “Do you realize that between your wantonness and the actions of a murderer, my plans are well-nigh ruined?”
Too bad. Eleanor arched eyebrows plucked thin. “Is someone dead?”
“No. Why?”
“You mentioned a murderer.”
“He was due to hang this morning, but the task couldn’t be done because I was at Huntington Castle.” He scowled and drank more wine. His tone was thick. “And now he’s escaped, taking Marian with him.”
“Marian ...” Eleanor’s attention sharpened. She sat rigidly upright in the chair, rapping out her question in thinly disguised alertness. “Do you mean that little black-haired bitch from Ravenskeep?”
DeLacey spoke through his teeth. “That ‘little black-haired bitch,’ as you call her, has more beauty and grace in her smallest toe than you in your whole body.”
It hurt, as he meant it to, but the pain faded becau
se she made it fade. It was a test, a purposeful provocation, and therefore unimportant; they had spent years gibing at one another. No. What was important was that the other implications of his remark.
Eleanor lurched to her feet. “And you want her for yourself. Is that it? You want her in your bed, and he’s stolen her for his.”
“More than that,” he growled.
“More than that?” she echoed, faintly alarmed. “There is no more than that. You want her for your whore, and someone’s taken her from you.”
“I want her for my wife.”
Eleanor gaped. It was worse, far worse than she had anticipated. Shock left her breathless.
“Yes,” he said quietly, seeing her expression, “you may well hold your tongue. But it is what I intended.”
“To marry—her?”
“Yes. You for Robert of Locksley, Marian for me. A fitting dual pairing, wouldn’t you say?—except now you’re ruined.” His glare was baleful. “Not much is left to you, now.”
But for the first time in her life, Eleanor didn’t care about herself. “You wanted FitzWalter’s daughter?”
DeLacey drank wine. The silence between them was loud.
He couldn’t mean it ... this is sheerest folly, designed merely to annoy me . . .
It had to be. There had been no mention of a third wife for as long as she could remember, certainly since she was old enough to understand what a wife was. One by one her sisters had married, leaving only her. Eleanor had long played the part of chatelaine, more recently coexisting intemperately with Sir Guy, and had accustomed herself to doing much as she wished in spite of her unmarried state, even to the point of deciding a husband was unnecessary; that in fact one might prove more than a little difficult in the face of her vigorous and fickle physical tastes.
A new wife would require things, because new wives always did. New wives changed things, to make the old place new. To put their mark upon a man, his hall, his holdings. A new wife would usurp a daughter’s role and much of her freedom, even as the daughter usurped her father’s chair.
Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] Page 25