Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  Eleanor collapsed into that chair, clutching the edge of the table. “But—she’s ruined, too. Don’t you see? You can’t have her. You can’t have her—”

  “Enough,” he said.

  “Don’t you see?” Eleanor laughed out loud. “If some man’s carried her off, she’s as ruined as I am!”

  DeLacey’s tone was deadly. “You forget yourself,” he said softly. “A man may accept whatever affronts to his pride, honor, and name he decides to accept. In your case, neither the earl nor Locksley would have you . . . but I would have her. By God, I’d still have her . . . so long as she’ll have me.” His expression was grim. “If she will have me, in spite of what has happened.”

  Desperation made her strident. “But if he’s raped her—”

  “As the minstrel raped you?” DeLacey arched one brow. “Ah, but I forget myself . . . it was the other way around, was it not? You were the aggressor, not Alan of the Dales.”

  Heat stung her face. “I told you what happened—”

  “You told me what you wanted to tell me, before all those others, to save whatever shred of dignity still clings to your name.” His contempt was plain. “I should send you to a nunnery. Or marry you off to a wild Welshman, to teach you humility.”

  Eleanor bared her overbite. “I hope he rapes her so many times she’ll not let a man touch her—”

  “Be silent!” he roared. “By God, I wonder if you’re mine! I wonder if your mother didn’t lie beneath the sheets with a common, lowborn herdsman . . . your manners are no better.”

  Eleanor glared back, hating herself for the film of tears in her eyes. “I am what you have made me.”

  “But your mother had no taste for bedding at all, be it human or animal.” He slammed the goblet down on the table, splashing wine. “I will have her,” he declared. “Be certain of that, Eleanor. Jab at me all you like, but I will have the woman.”

  She swallowed painfully. “What will I have, then? What is left to me?”

  He eyed her with undisguised disgust. “Nothing of virginity. To that I will attest.”

  It was easier to be angry than to show him vulnerability. “Neither will she!” she spat. “Neither will she have any!”

  DeLacey laughed. “Ah, but you forget. Provided she survives, by the time he is done with her—or if we rescue her beforehand—she will be properly grateful. Her disgrace will be mitigated by my willingness to marry a woman who’s lost her virginity. She will be widely pitied, and I as widely admired.”

  Eleanor gritted her teeth. “If she doesn’t kill herself from shame.”

  Her father smiled faintly. “Not Marian. Too much of her father in her for that. As for you, well . . .” He shrugged. “One can always hope.”

  The mantle was a puddle of blood on the ground: bright, brilliant, new blood, welling up through leaves and deadfall. Frowning consternation, Little John knelt and touched it almost hesitantly, marking shredded cloak-band and a hole torn in the weaving. Something glittery fell as he pulled a crimson fold from the ground. He scooped it up and cradled it in his palm: a round, elaborate silver brooch in the knotted Celtic pattern.

  For a long moment he stared at it, transfixed not so much by the brooch as by what it suggested of its wearer’s fate. Less than an hour before she had been watching the wrestling match with everyone else. And now, but a short time later, she was being dragged into Sherwood Forest by a killer already sentenced to hang.

  Little John’s generous mouth became a grim, flat line in the midst of his fiery beard.

  He shut his hand over the brooch, warming the raised pattern of elaborate knotwork against his palm. Wiry russet hairs bristled from beneath the sleeve of his soiled tunic to the big knuckles on his massive hands. They were very soft, his hands, from dealing with the wool. It made them sensitive to textures, in fabric and in metal.

  “She’ll be wanting this,” he murmured, and tucked the brooch into the pouch that swung from his hosen drawstring.

  He heard it then, in the distance, moving away from him. Going deeper into the trees. The sound of grass, leaves, and foliage, as well as deadfall and detritus, all being disturbed by the hasty passing of two people.

  Once, it had been easy to ignore the plight of others, turning his face away from the abuses heaped upon serfs and lowborn wretches like himself. But now his sheer size could make a difference. All he had to do was summon the courage to do it, then stand by his convictions. As he had before the sheriff.

  He knelt there listening, puzzling out their direction. When he was very certain, he set off in soft pursuit. He took great pains to be quiet. For a man his size, he was very quiet indeed.

  Scarlet broke a passage as best he could through the foliage. The task was difficult. Sherwood was no park tamed by verderers, but a forest in full glory, deep and dark and tangled about with fern and vines and creepers. The thick-boled, spreading trees themselves were no friendlier, closing ranks against interlopers.

  He slapped aside branches, broke through limbs that threatened to snag his clothing, or worse, to snag hers. He at least wore tunic and hosen, while she was wholly encumbered by layers of kirtle and undertunic.

  The thick braid gripped in one hand proved a superior rope, exerting control with the faintest snap of a wrist. It forced her to walk with her head at an awkward angle, but he found it appropriate. That she made no protest as he jerked her this way and that, pulling her through the forest, was a function of the gag. He knew very well that if he took it off, she would curdle his blood with her screams.

  Though she hadn’t screamed before. All she’d done was call him names, hurl dirt and rocks, and try to batter him blue.

  Like Meggie did with them—He cut the thought off abruptly.

  Not that he blamed this woman for it. She wanted free of him as much as he wanted free of them; the difference was, he intended no real harm to her. They would hang him.

  If they didn’t do worse first.

  It was enough to harden his resolve, no matter how sorry her state. She was the sheriffs woman; she was, therefore, valuable. He could use her to buy his way free, be it from the sheriff’s men, the sheriff himself, or even Sherwood Forest. They said outlaws lived here, hidden among the trees, footpads and brigands who worked the forest tracks stealing goods—and lives.

  She tripped often, stumbling over rocks and logs and deadfall, because she couldn’t hold up her skirts. It was obvious that she was weary, exhausted by her labor to go where he bid her to go, but he dared not cut her hands free. She’d proven her mettle already. Likely she’d look for the first full-blown limb to batter my head to bits.

  Scarlet stopped short, breaking through high bracken onto the grassy bank of a fast-running stream. Spring rains had thickened it, giving weight to its usual presence, so that it splashed out of its course onto the rags and strips of leather masquerading as his shoes.

  The woman stopped next to him as he guided her by the braid, and tottered briefly a moment, on the verge of falling in. He jerked her back with a curse, which made her stagger against him, then lurch away awkwardly.

  He glared at her. She glared back from angry eyes between strands of raven hair. Meggie’s had been fair.

  No. No more Meggie.

  “Time to get your pretty skirts wet,” he growled at her, and stepped out into the stream as the woman slipped and slid behind him.

  His thoughts went back to the sheriff. Fair trial, indeed. Scarlet had known from the start, from the instant he’d been captured, they’d no more treat him fairly than give him the Lionheart’s crown.

  Or Richard’s brother’s throat, that he would crush in his bare hands.

  The woman went down behind him, crying out against the gag. He tottered himself a moment on stream-worn, unseen rocks, then steadied himself. Somehow he’d dropped the braid.

  She realized it even as he did, and she scrambled up clumsily in clothing drenched to her waist. She staggered, braced legs awkwardly against the current, then lurched away from
him.

  Cursing, Scarlet lunged. The footing was poor, and painful; rocks rolled beneath his feet even as he snagged her braid. He jerked her back with a snarl, wrapping her soaked hair around his fist.

  She was down again, sprawling in the stream. She spat against the gag, furious and desperate words he couldn’t understand. Calling him names, again.

  Scarlet grinned. “Mite bedraggled, are you? Not so fine anymore ...” He dragged her up, steadied her, then took the final three strides to the other side of the stream. Sopping wet, she was, and her skirts ran heavy with water, like Meggie’s in the rain.

  Not now, he raged.

  It wasn’t fair. He tried very hard not to think of her, not to remember what she said, or how she’d meant to be brave, trying so desperately not to cry from the pain and the shame. But they’d damaged her too much, in mind as well as body. There’d been little left to do save dig her a shallow grave.

  And make her a promise to kill the Norman beasts who had, in their sport, killed Margaret Scathlocke.

  Locksley followed the track. It was narrow and barely discernable, little more than an animal trail. It was unlikely that Scarlet would use even this primitive track, preferring to hide himself, but for his pursuer this was a faster, quieter way.

  He was aware of a rising urgency. Sherwood was legendary as an impassible tract of sprawling woodland, save for one or two roads and a handful of forester tracks. That other tracks existed, he and others knew, but those they left to the brigands who lived among the foliage no better than field warren. It was possible that in the vast woodland he could lose Will Scathlocke, and Marian as well. If he went the wrong way, or if they turned back on him . . .

  Desperation pricked his conscience. He wanted it not to happen. He wanted very much not to lose FitzWalter’s daughter as he had lost FitzWalter himself.

  I will do what I can do ... But what if it wasn’t enough? Locksley clenched his teeth. Have I been so wretched a man that God would punish me more?

  It was entirely possible. God could be capricious.

  “Insh’Allah,” Locksley muttered, forgetting his English again.

  It was worse. Not better. Worse.

  What have I done, Marian wondered, for God to punish me so?

  Her mouth was cut and bleeding. Her bloodless hands were numb. The remaining slipper was in the stream, and her stockings had worn through. Bare and bruised of feet, battered in body and spirit, she wanted nothing more than to simply stop moving so that she could recover her breath. So that she could wring out her skirts, before their sodden, clinging weight tripped her and broke her neck.

  The anger had died. It had come back, briefly, at the stream, when she had believed she might escape. But he had caught her, and the anger died away, replaced with a deliberate calmness she recognized from before, when she’d been carried over his shoulder all swaddled in Eleanor deLacey’s crimson mantle.

  The foliage beside them rustled. A huge body crashed through, shredding vines and flowered creepers. From the tangle of broken foliage a tousled red head appeared, followed by a hand that clamped down on Scarlet’s shoulder.

  “Let her go!” a deep voice boomed. “You’ve no cause to hurt a woman!”

  Twenty-Four

  Much knelt by the edge of the swollen stream in the shadows of Sherwood Forest, staring fixedly at the footprints. One set was smudged with every step, almost indistinguishable as human, but Much looked very closely and saw the faint but regularly spaced impressions of poorly woven cloth pressed into mud, indicative of the rags a man might wrap around decaying shoes. Will Scarlet, he knew: the man all set to hang, till he’d stolen Marian.

  Marian.

  Much extended one long finger and touched another print tentatively, gently exploring the shape. Hers, he knew, mixed helter-skelter amidst Scarlet’s rag-blotted prints. Her passing fixed in mud, like an insect in hardening sap.

  Much shaped her name mutely. She wore no shoes, nor boots, and her stockings now were nonexistent. The prints she left behind were clearly those of bare feet: small, rounded heels; the fan-spread of the balls; five graduated indentations representative of toes.

  His Marian wore no shoes.

  Much looked at his own feet, shod in clumsily made but serviceable shoes tied on at the ankles with leather strips.

  A princess did not go barefoot.

  Marian’s footprints disappeared into the water, as did Will Scarlet’s. Deftly, Much undid the leather knots, tucked the thongs into the shoes, then slid them beneath his tunic. The toes he thrust beneath the drawstring of his hosen. Then he picked his way across the stream, undeterred by its coldness or treacherous footing, and found as he had expected the telltale prints of bare feet on the other bank.

  Much nodded. He patted the bulge of unseen shoes hidden beneath his tunic.

  He would find her yet. And he would give her his shoes.

  Scarlet nearly swallowed his tongue when the giant grabbed him. Then anger replaced astonishment. “Give over!” he cried indignantly, trying unsuccessfully to wrench his shoulder free. “What’s she to you, this whore?”

  The giant’s bearded face loomed through leaves and boughs. “A woman,” he growled. “Worth better than you’ve shown her, whore or no.” One hand closed over Scarlet’s wrist and clamped down hard until his fingers spasmed in protest. The braid fell free of his grasp. “I told you to let her go.”

  “You fool—” Scarlet writhed in the grip, straining to twist toward the woman. “She’s the sheriffs whore—or maybe the sheriffs daughter ... she’s worth our freedom, you fool!”

  “Not a fool, now, am I?” The giant bared big teeth. “Smart enough to track you. D’ye think the sheriff won’t be?”

  But Scarlet ignored the question. Frantically he tried to catch the retreating woman with his other hand. “You don’t understand—”

  The giant’s laugh rumbled. “I understand well enough.”

  Scarlet swore as the woman lurched and stumbled away, well out of his reach, her wrists still tied, her mouth still gagged. Breathing noisily through the wool, she backed hastily away from them both, then turned and bolted into the shadows, ducking the dense foliage.

  “No!” Scarlet shouted, his tone throttled by frustration. “By God, you fool, d’ye know what you’ve done?”

  The giant grabbed a huge handful of soiled tunic and yanked Scarlet up onto his toes. The beard loomed close. “Who’s the bigger fool—a man who murders others? Or the man who saves a life?”

  The tunic, near to throttling him entirely, also cut into Scarlet’s armpits. He thrashed, trying to regain control. “I won’t hurt her—”

  The huge man shook him: terrier with a rat. “By God, I say you won’t!”

  No help for it. He’ll choke the life from me. Concentrating what little power remained, Will Scarlet brought his free arm up and battered the giant beneath the nose with a doubled fist. Blood broke and spilled freely as the big man roared in outrage.

  Scarlet’s captor did not drop his victim to tend his battered nose; instead, he clasped Scarlet more tightly yet, lifted him off his feet entirely, and slammed him into the nearest tree, much as Will himself had tamed the woman before him, but with greater force.

  He hung there rigidly, held fast by massive hands. “Wait—”

  Blood painted the giant’s mouth, but he paid it no mind. “Your quarrel is with the sheriff. Not with his woman.”

  Scarlet tried to breathe through an aching chest. Had the benighted fool cracked any ribs? Or maybe even his spine? “Listen . . .” he gasped hoarsely. “Listen to me—”

  “You’ll leave the woman be.”

  The shout was desperate. “They’ll hang us both, you fool!” Pressure increased. Scarlet clawed ineffectually, aware of the ache spreading down to touch his kidneys. “No—no ... not a fool. But listen—” He drew in an unsteady breath and tried to sound as reasonable as a man could while pinned against a tree. “They’ll hang us both.”

  The giant spat
blood from his mouth. Teeth were smeared pinkish red. “I’ve done nothing to warrant hanging.”

  “They won’t see it that way.”

  “They will when I tell them.”

  “You’re a peasant,” Scarlet hissed. “That’s all the excuse they’ll need.”

  The grip slackened, but only slightly. “The sheriff knows who I am. John Naylor, called Little John. Shepherd, not woman-stealer!”

  “John Naylor . . .” Scarlet gasped. “Listen to me, now. I don’t want to harm the woman. I just want to sell the woman.”

  “Sell her!”

  “For my freedom. For our freedom.” Scarlet twitched in the grasp. “Put me down, and I’ll tell you how it will be.”

  “Tell me now. As you are.” Pale blue eyes were steady. “I like to hear a liar dance his way around the truth.”

  The woman was gone, Scarlet knew. If he didn’t find her soon . . . “She’ll die,” he said flatly. “Outlaws live in Sherwood. They’ll find her, and they’ll kill her.”

  Pale eyes flickered.

  “She’ll die,” Scarlet repeated. “I only wanted to sell her. They’ll want to do worse than that.”

  Free. Marian crashed through dense foliage, cursing inwardly the helplessness of a woman bound and gagged, thrashing her way clumsily past soaked, heavy skirts that fouled every step.

  Free. Her bare feet kicked at shift and kirtle, scraping bruised toes against wet fabric, then digging beyond the ashy scattering of dead leaves to the cool soil beneath.

  Free. Her weight fell more heavily into her shoulders and breasts because her hands were tied behind her back. She tripped, staggered, stubbed a toe against a stone, caught the slackening weave of her braid on one twisted bough, and nearly put out an eye on another. Angrily she ducked, tearing her hair free, and stumbled into another tree, banging her shoulder against the trunk before she stopped short and leaned, breathing noisily through the gag.