Marian sagged slightly, winded and exhausted. One knee ached abominably whenever she put weight on it. The soles of her feet hurt, and one ankle bone twinged as she rolled the foot to test for damage.
But she was free.
Free, was she? To do what? To go where? The wool at wrists and mouth made it impossible even to call for help, if there were help to be had.
The cut corners of her mouth hurt. Marian tucked her chin toward her chest, trying to take the pressure off the strip of wool tied so tightly around her head. She thought briefly of attempting to snag the back of the gag on a tree limb, then working it off, but dismissed it as unfeasible. Likely she’d catch naught but hair, and yank it free of her scalp.
She peered into the shadows. Where am I?
The hems of her shift and kirtle, water- and mud-weighted, had come loose from stitches set in by a maidservant’s skilled hand. A step forward now would result in a foot planted on fabric, rooting her to the spot; annoyed, Marian kicked out violently and felt the cold wet slither of shift against her ankle, clinging stickily. She shook the foot free and twisted back the way she had come.
What do I do now? She hadn’t gone far. She could hear voices, male voices, muffled and indistinct, but harsh with tension. It was the murderer, she knew, and the giant who had freed her.
Marian frowned. Why would the giant take pains to set her free, then enter into conversation with the man who’d stolen her? Why not simply bind him, gag him, and call out that she could approach without fear of recapture?
Marian cast a sharp glance around the immediate area, then quietly edged her way to a vine and bracken-choked fallen tree. Awkwardly she hunkered down behind the massive trunk, kicking aside her wet skirts.
Stay here, for now . . . don’t assume anything, yet. She craned her head back and peered up through towering trees to the limb-scraped sky overhead. How long—? The sky was blue, for the moment, and full of brilliant sunlight. But within a few hours the world would be swallowed by night.
Marian painfully gulped an unsteady breath through the gag, then blew it out noisily. She tried to ignore the twinge of fear in her belly. I’ll find my own tracks, and follow them back out. It shouldn’t be difficult.
But the fear inside increased.
Much breathed through his mouth as he paused in the midst of a step, listening raptly. When the seasons changed his head felt stuffed with rags most of the time, sometimes making the inside of his forehead ache dully, and he couldn’t breathe as well through his nose as he could at other times.
He shut one hand over the bulge of shoes, clutching them tightly through the threadbare warding of his tunic. They were still there.
His breathing stilled. He waited, stricken into immobility.
Sound.
Where was—? Ah. Ahead. To the side, a little. Men’s voices. Quarreling. A deep, rumbling voice and a lighter, more urgent tone. He heard none of the words, merely the sound and the nuances: urgency, desperation. The fraying of self-control. Much knew all of those things.
Marian. And shoes.
Mutely, with a meticulous wariness, Much crept toward the voices.
Little John tightened his doubled-up fistfuls of Will Scarlet’s tunic beneath the man’s jaw as he pressed him against the tree. “No more of such nonsense, now. I’ve not heard such blather ever in my life.”
Scarlet hung there slackly. Steadily, he said, “It’s true. All of it. Every bit of it.”
Little John shook his head. Blood still flowed sluggishly from the nose Scarlet had battered, but he ignored it for the moment. “No.”
Bleak, dark eyes stared back. The flesh beneath one twitched. “I may be a murderer, but why would I lie to you? You could choke me to death right now.”
Little John allowed more of his weight to threaten tunic and throat. “Aye, so I could.”
Scarlet’s eyes were steady, curiously opaque. His tone was empty of passion. “Do it, then. Save them the pleasure.”
Little John glared. Doubt niggled at him mercilessly, even as he tried to push it away.
“They won’t thank you for it,” Scarlet told him. “You’re a Saxon dog. I’m a Saxon dog. No pleasure in it for Normans if the Saxons kill each other.”
Little John bared gritted teeth, then with an exclamation of disgust mixed with frustration, he unknotted his hands from the tunic and let Scarlet go. Pressing the sleeve of his soiled tunic against his bleeding nose, he spoke through the fabric. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? She’s gone.”
Scarlet slowly unpinned himself from the tree, watching Little John closely. “She wouldn’t be hard to catch.” He pulled at the rucked-up tunic, tugging it back into place. “You know them, John Naylor. All of them. Meet a single man, and you know them all. Norman pigs, every one.”
Little John offered no answer.
The murderer was relentless. “How many times have they mocked you? How many times have they used you? Beat you? Made you kneel in filth and slime, bowing your head and pulling at your forelock?” Scarlet yanked at his own hair, mocking the subservient gesture. “How many times has any Norman pig allowed you even to speak? To say a single word of protest, or offer explanation, or stand up to them as a man?” The saturnine face twisted malignantly. “To them, we’re the pigs! We’re naught but beasts, to be used at pleasure, to work the land until it’s barren, like an old woman, then give over the last bit of grain to them so our families starve in the winter!”
Little John stared balefully at the blood-spotted sleeve, avoiding the man’s eyes. He’s twisting me all around.
“Think about it!” Scarlet snapped. “Aye, I killed four Normans ... four Norman beasts who saw a Saxon woman and—” He stopped short, convulsed, rubbing one grimy hand across an even grimier face. For a moment Little John thought he would break. He was mad, they said. But Scarlet did not break. And when he spoke again, he had mastered self-control. “What are you to them but a brute to be collared and yoked, naught but an English ox, to be set to the Norman plow?”
Little John gritted his teeth, fastening upon the overriding thing that had driven him to interfere in the first place. “She’s naught but a woman—”
Scarlet spat the single word as if it were an epithet. “Norman.”
Little John lost his temper. “And what is the difference? You speak of Norman beasts and a Saxon woman—what is this, then?”
Scarlet allowed the bellow to subside, then answered quietly. “She’s the coin to buy our way free.” The tone thickened almost imperceptibly. “No matter what they tell you, I’m not a madman. I had a woman, a good woman . . . I’d not harm even a Norman one, but to save myself.”
Slowly, Little John shook his head. “I’m a shepherd. Not an outlaw.”
Dull color mottled Will Scarlet’s face. Something simmered near the surface, lending a tightness to his tone. “He’ll have us killed for this. If we let her go, they’ll hunt us down and kill us.”
The giant slapped a massive hand against his chest. The sound was audible. “I’ve done nothing—”
“You have!” Scarlet shouted. “You’ve put hands on a Norman woman, defiled a Norman woman—d’ye think he’ll not use that? D’ye think he’ll thank you for this, and invite you in to supper?” Bitterly, Scarlet shook his head. “You’re a fool, John Naylor, to expect good of the man. He’s Norman. He’s the sheriff. She’s his daughter, or his wife, or his woman—does it matter? D’ye think he’ll let you go when he can make an example of you?”
“If she told him the truth—”
“She won’t. She’s a Norman.” Again Scarlet shook his head. “She’ll tell him we both abused her, just to see us hang.”
Desperation was painful. “She’s naught but a woman.”
Scarlet’s tone was deadly. “So was my wife. They killed her anyway.”
Little John scraped rigid hands through the fiery bush of his hair, tugging at trapped locks as if the violence might ease his mind. He turned away, staring blindly into the forest
as he paced away from the man, trying to ward off the words Will Scarlet had used. It was much easier to ignore them. He had learned to ignore so many, from Normans and Saxon alike.
He shut his eyes tightly. I should have stayed in Nottingham—I shouldn’t have come out here . . . But his conscience told him he’d had to. The look on the woman’s face as Scarlet had captured her—
Little John swung back, glaring balefully. “I’m naught but a shepherd. I wrestle at the fairs.”
Will Scarlet shook his head. “Not anymore.”
“I can tell them the truth. I came here to help the woman.”
“We’ll sell her back to them in exchange for our freedom.”
“Then I will be an outlaw!”
“And what will you say when accused of helping me escape?”
Little John nearly gaped. “I had naught to do with that!”
“They’ll think you did. They’ll think we planned it; that even now we conspire in the forest.” Will Scarlet’s mouth was hard. “They’ll say what it pleases them to say.”
The blood had stopped. Little John felt his sore nose gingerly. “Why d’ye tell me this? So there will be two of us hunted?” He leaned and spat, clearing his mouth of blood. “Seems to me you’ve more to lose than I.”
“I can’t stop you,” Scarlet said. “Go back, then, and tell them. Say to them you took the woman back from me. Take me back, if you can, along with the woman. Give the Normans what they want.”
The realization came swift and sharp. “You’ll tell them, won’t you?” Little John challenged. “That we planned it, you and me. You’ll see to it I suffer the same fate as you.”
Will Scarlet did not so much as flick an eyelash. “No man wants to die alone.”
Futility seized him. Big hands curled into fists. “I came here for the woman, not for you!”
Scarlet hitched one shoulder. “Too late, now. I’m here, and she isn’t. I’m as good as hanged.”
Little John wanted to smash his fist through Will Scarlet’s grimy face. But that would do nothing to change the truth Scarlet himself had stated so plainly.
Or the falsehood to which he would swear.
This is wrong. This is wrong. But doubt waxed like the moon. He knew what Normans were. He knew what Normans did. Little John fixed Scarlet with a scowl. “I’ll not have her harmed.”
Will Scarlet folded his arms. “Then bring her back yourself. I’ll wait here for you.”
Little John eyed him. “And what if I find her, and take her back to them after all?”
He shrugged. “I’ll be a free man, safe in Sherwood Forest. You’ll be an honest one, rewarded with Norman justice.” Scarlet’s voice was steady. “Which of those fates offers a Saxon peasant a chance?”
The arguing had ceased. Marian sat rigidly behind the felled tree, listening intently. But there was nothing more. Whatever they had argued about no longer was in contention.
She’d heard no outcry, no blurted exclamation. She supposed a man could die in silence, but it seemed unlikely. Surely a man, nearing death, would fight with all his strength, even if he lost.
Her doubled-up legs were nearly asleep, numbed by dampness and tension. Marian rolled onto one hip, slowly straightening out her limbs. Everything ached. In the morning, it will be worse—But she cut off the thought. She didn’t like the idea of not knowing where she might be, when night gave way to dawn.
She wiggled her fingers. They felt thick, swollen, useless. The wool cut into her wrists even as it cut into her mouth, chafing the tender skin. Her braid, already littered with debris, picked up more as it dragged the ground, and something had found its way into her left eye. Marian closed it, trying to work the irritant away, but the discomfort worsened. She sat helplessly, letting the tears fill that eye, wondering angrily if she would succumb to womanish weakness. She did not cry easily. She saw no good in it. Swooning would earn her nothing, nor would crying. The only thing that might save her was her own determination.
The eye teared. Marian sniffed, blinking rapidly, trying to see clearly again. She longed to rub her eye, but had no hands with which to do it.
Sound. The faintest hiss and rustle of a body sliding by leaves.
Marian spun, tumbling backward, hitching herself against the bulwark of a fallen tree. A muted wail of fear combined with denial ended at the gag.
The body stepped out of the shadows. Marian blurted a name, but the gag made it indistinguishable.
Much. The relief was overwhelming. She scrabbled up, lurching forward on her knees, angling her shoulders away from him so he could see her bound wrists.
Much came forward slowly, wary as field warren. Marian waggled her hands and encouraged him with emphatic noises warped by her woolen gag.
His touch was light and hesitant. She felt him work at the knots. His fingers were long, slender, deft, the hands of a talented cutpurse, but the wool was wet and snugged taut. It would take time.
Marian tried to remain still, but she felt herself trembling. Hurry. His hands stopped moving. She expected them to fall away, as would the binding. She expected herself to be freed. She intended to rip the gag from her mouth, spitting its foulness away. But her wrists were still tied.
She made a sound of urgent appeal, but Much, transfixed, waited. When the giant came noisily out of the shadows the boy scrambled up and ran.
The giant’s fiery hair stood up in a wild halo around his head. Blood marred his freckled face, as well as his tunic. His nose, already prominent, appeared to be swollen.
His astonishment was plain. “Boy!” he shouted. “No, boy—come back!”
There was nothing to mark Much’s passing save the twitch of a sapling tree.
“Boy—” the giant rasped, reaching out a huge hand. Anguish twisted big features as he looked at Marian.
She stared, transfixed. He killed Will Scarlet after all ... And now he wanted Much.
“He’ll tell,” the giant whispered. “D’ye see? I’ve no more choice, do I? No choice at all, now.” He bared teeth, flexing his massive hands. “That boy will tell them ’twas me, and what Will Scarlet said will come true!”
Marian scrambled up. Something in his eyes was wild with grief and anguish.
The giant looked at her. “I meant to let you go. I did mean to. But now there’s the boy, and what Scarlet said—” He shook his head in a slow, desperate sorrow. “Now I’ve no choice at all but to do as he wants to do.”
It was all she needed to hear. Marian spun on bare heels and lunged toward the shadows where Much had disappeared. He was huge, the giant ... if she could get through, get ahead of him, surely she would be swifter.
But in one stride he had her. Her left shoulder disappeared into the massive hand. Marian tried to wrench free, but he merely hooked a hand under one arm and swung her around.
“I’m sorry.” He touched her briefly with his free hand, tentatively, as if afraid she could burn him. “I’m sorry, lass, I am.” Pale blue eyes were sad as he studied her face. “Poorly used, I know—” And then he cut it off, as if he’d given too much away. The grasp on her arm tightened. “Best come with me,” he told her. “ ‘Twas naught of my idea, but there’s no going back, now. We’ll trade you to the sheriff to buy our way free.”
He was too big, too strong.
The hand tightened again, its tentativeness gone now. “Come along now, lass.”
Marian glared at him, very close to tears. She was wet, weary, bruised, and battered, aching in every bone. I was so close. Her fear was abruptly replaced by a furious, desperate anger. With all the strength she could summon, she lowered her head and butted it hard into his belly.
It rocked him but briefly, and that from astonishment alone. Marian meant to twist free as he staggered back, but the giant didn’t stagger. He merely scooped her up easily and hung her over his shoulder.
Marian wanted to scream. A sack of flour. Again.
Twenty-Five
Much squatted behind the tree in an agony of
indecision. He clutched the shoes in both hands, his traitorous fingers knotting themselves into the flaccid leather.
The opportunity was gone now, and Marian still tied. Still gagged like a common peasant poacher hauled away to forfeit a hand.
He squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip so hard he felt the teeth cut through and the blood welling into his mouth—punishment for failure.
He leaned toward the tree, pressed his brow into the bark, and he beat his head against it, grunting in despair, battering at skin until the flesh was raw and damp.
His giant had stolen his princess.
What next, then? He was too small to stop him. He was a simpleton: everybody said so. The very best he could hope for was to find someone to help. Someone bigger. Someone friendly. Someone who understood.
Should he tell? Should he tell?
But who was there to tell?
Not the sheriff. Or his Normans.
Who, then, was left?
His giant had stolen his princess. The fragile perfection of his self-built world was broken.
Much hugged the tree, like a baby clutching a breast discovered unaccountably empty.
He hugged, and rocked, and whimpered.
He’d forgotten to give her the shoes.
Will Scarlet, once called Scathlocke, hunched upon the stump. The ringlike, spiked corrugations of what once had been a tree but now was merely a pediment did not dispel the tension, did nor serve in any way to distract him from the acknowledgment of the events he’d set into motion.
“Meggie,” he whispered tightly, then ground the heels of his hands into burning, dust-scoured eyes, red-rimmed and gritty from lack of sleep; from lack of tears, as well.
But Meggie couldn’t help him. Meggie was the reason. He had only to think of Meggie, to see her again before him, sprawled upon the ground like a rag doll with shredded limbs, all slack and empty and lifeless.
Trouble was, she’d lived. For a night, and half a day.
Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] Page 27