Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  Pretty Meggie Scathlocke.

  “Mad,” he muttered aloud. “—’s what they say I am. And maybe I am mad, to wish I could do it again . . . over again, all of it ... again and again—and again—”

  It trailed into nothingness, a futile plea for understanding; for a regeneration of his spirit, shrunk down from good Will Scathlocke into murder-mad Will Scarlet: to a tiny, hardened pellet of an irredeemable rage.

  Elbows dug into bunched thighs, his legs spread to lend him balance. He leaned his weight upon them, and scoured his face, stretching it out of shape with callused and blood-smeared hands.

  Giant’s blood, he knew. Not Norman blood, this time, but that of an Englishman. Spilled in the woman’s defense.

  “No.” He said it aloud. Then, viciously, to ward off even the suggestion of guilt, “Little Norman whore.” Nothing like his Meggie, reaping naught from rape but death.

  Scarlet shut his eyes. Fingers curled around the weapon thrust into the drawstring of his hosen: the Norman whore’s little meat-knife, barely big enough for his hand.

  Meggie. Meggie. Meggie.

  He jerked the knife free of hosen, staring at its blade. With infinite, exquisite precision, he set it against his forearm midway to the elbow, where dark hair, blood, and dungeon filth showed through the rent of his sleeve.

  “What color is mine?” he rasped, and cut into the flesh of his arm.

  Little John frowned fiercely as he carried the sheriff’s woman through the dense tangle of undergrowth. She was an exquisitely tiny thing, and as exquisitely fragile. He was absolutely convinced that if he held her too firmly, or bumped her against a tree, she would break into little bits.

  It wasn’t right, he knew, but the boy would tell the sheriff.

  She was tiny, fragile, and vulnerable, like the smallest of twin-born lambs. I’m sorry, he said inside. I’m sorry, little Norman. He stumbled, cursing in sudden, jolting panic that he might drop and break her, and she cried out against the gag as he clamped his arm more tightly around kirtle- and shift-bundled thighs.

  She was rigid and stiff as wood, bent like a greenwood sapling across his massive shoulder. Her breathing was ragged and noisy, constricted by the wool, but he dared not take it from her. He couldn’t bear to hear the names she would call him, the threats she would hurl, the promises she would make of death by hanging, or worse; of the hands they would chop off, of the tongue they would cut out, of the cautery they would use to keep him from bleeding to death and robbing them of their sport.

  He recalled her expression just as he’d scooped her up. Her eyes were alive in her face, reflecting his own fear as it was magnified in the mirror of a transfixed, weary gaze abruptly empty of hope.

  It had made his spirit quail, the expression in her eyes. Not hatred, though he’d expect it; but an opaque, futile acknowledgment that nothing she had done, and nothing she could do, would win her the slightest freedom.

  Little John strode on again, shredding foliage in his haste. I’m sorry, little Norman.

  But she offered no answer, hearing nothing of his thoughts, and he was glad. He knew how words could cut. He knew how hatred could harm. He knew he deserved it all.

  Little John walked on, feeling the beat of her braid as it slapped the back his knee with every step he took.

  The track was narrow and winding, a skein of umber-brown wool tangled upon the floor. Trees crowded either side in haphazard communion. It was dark in the depths of Sherwood, musty with shadowed dampness. Here spring did not exist, save for the budding and blossoming of flowers scattered through grasses and fern. It was olive and ash and charcoal, and a sullen yellow gone rusty where the sun could not creep through.

  Locksley walked easily, boot soles cushioned from dirt by layers of skeletal leaves and decaying ferns left over from winter, soft in place of brittle, crushed quietly into death with no crackle of protest.

  The air was heavy and damp. He was alone among the shadows, human interloper within the secretive depths. This was England, the heart and blood of the land, so distinctly different from the sand and heat of the Holy Land, where the sun baked a man’s armor so that a new fashion was invented: the brilliantly colored surcoat blazoned with England‘s—and Richard’s—folly, borne forth into senseless battle in the name of Jerusalem.

  Then sound, where there had been none. Unexpected intrusion. Locksley halted abruptly, stiffly, swinging gracelessly to face it.

  —the thunder of mounted Saracens riding out to battle the English. The rumble of massive seige engines rolled up to the walls of a city Richard decided would be his—

  Locksley’s breath ran ragged. He felt the pang in his belly, the clenching of his bowels. A glint of sun on mail sent a shudder through his body. Not here . . . this is England.

  And then memory was gone, banished by comprehension. He stepped aside hastily, relinquishing the track to the horsemen riding by, except instead of continuing on they chose to rein in abruptly, setting horses onto haunches, powerful hocks digging into track as iron-shod hooves plowed barren furrows, spraying dirt, debris, and dampness.

  Six men. All Normans. Blue-clad sheriffs men, boasting Norman livery, Norman equipage, and Norman arrogance.

  He was the son of an earl. His pedigree was impeccable, if anyone cared to inquire. But he was very, very English, Anglo-Saxon to the bone. The Conqueror had altered nearly everything in England, including courtesy, and Locksley was not of the proper blood, Earl’s son though he was.

  He moved aside, forsaking the track, not because he was English, nor that they were Norman, nor sheriffs men who believed themselves superior to a common English peasant, but because the six rode horses; and any man not a fool gave way were he on foot.

  One of the soldiers rode forward, reining his mount close to Locksley, who stood his ground a moment, then moved aside yet again. It was a game he recognized, having seen it played before. He lost nothing at all by giving way easily; if anything, he won much more in the safekeeping of his feet. The Norman’s horse was large, snorting wetly as he stomped. Locksley offered the horse respect, if not the man who rode him.

  The Norman gazed down at him from beneath the curving shelf of his conical helm, his eyes shaded by the nasal vertically bisecting the center of his face. In bad English, he said: “A man, and a woman in red.”

  Locksley shook his head.

  The Norman moved his horse closer yet. “It is necessary to tell the truth.”

  Locksley smiled politely, offering no cause for comment, then said in good Norman French, “I have seen no one since I left Nottingham, neither the man they call Scarlet, nor the woman wearing it.”

  “But you know them!” Only the tiniest flicker of his eyes betrayed the soldier’s surprise at hearing his own language, and fluently, in the mouth of a man so obviously English, and therefore inferior. “How do you know them? Who are you?”

  He hesitated a moment. Then, “Robin,” he said merely.

  A rook flew squawking from the foliage beyond. The Norman scowled. The eyes were not dark after all, but gray, shadowed by the nasal. “You have a pretty tongue, for a peasant.”

  The insult was not lost upon Locksley, who smiled faintly. “It was necessary to learn the language of the Conquest, lest we be mistaken for peasants among those born to the tongue.”

  “But you are ...” The Norman frowned again. The five behind him spoke quietly, murmuring among themselves.

  “I am English,” Locksley said, still speaking in Norman French. “You need know no more than that.”

  “I know you require education,” the soldier snapped. “We are of the sheriffs personal garrison, out of Nottingham Castle. We pursue a man wanted for murdering four of Prince John’s men. He has stolen a woman.”

  “Prince John?”

  “The murderer, you fool!” The Norman edged his mount closer yet, imperiling Locksley’s toes. “She is an English woman. Would you have one of your own harmed?”

  Locksley kept his tone pitched low, to
make the man work to listen. “I would have no English woman harmed, nor an English man. Nor would I harm a Norman, save to keep him from harming me or mine. Perhaps that is what the murderer did, in killing Prince John’s men.”

  The Norman’s face was stiff. He examined Locksley closely, weighing accent, language, and manner against the clothing he wore, which, being simply made, unadorned garb, marked him as a man of no consequence—save for the other things, which marked him as something else.

  “Who are you?” the soldier repeated. “Robin who? Of what village?”

  “Locksley,” he answered easily. “Hard by Huntington Castle.”

  “The earl’s domain.” The tone was less hostile now; the mention of Huntington and its earl changed matters significantly.

  Locksley, who knew it, and why, smiled. “Yes.”

  The Norman glanced briefly back at his five compatriots. Very slightly he shook his head, as if admonishing them to say nothing before a man who understood their language—or a man who lived within the protection of the earl. Then he turned back to Locksley, mail glinting in sunlight.

  The earl’s son squinted; in the shadows it was blinding. Norman mail, not Saracen.

  “It should mean something to you that he has stolen an English woman,” the soldier declared. “One might believe that you wish some harm to her, were you to hide what you know.”

  “I know no more than I have told you.”

  The Norman gritted teeth, muttering to himself. “Then we’ll waste no more time with you. Be on about your business.”

  Six horses thundered away, throwing damp sod into his face. Methodically Locksley wiped his face clean, then pulled damp grass for his hands, and looked across the track at the foliage beyond. “You may come out now.”

  Much froze. He clutched at fern and grass. Should he run? Should he flee?

  The blond man spoke again. “You have no taste for Normans, or you would have joined us. And since you listened to us, you know I have no more fondness for them than you yourself do.”

  Much waited, wishing he could turn invisible and sneak away without the man knowing a thing. But it was too late. He could run, but so could the man. He thought it most unwise to risk yet another beating.

  Much rubbed at his flattened bridge, wishing he could breathe. Then crept out from the foliage and stepped onto the track.

  Eyebrows arched beneath pale hair, expressing mild surprise. Then the man smiled. “One can hardly see you in the shadows. I know the Normans didn’t. I only knew you were there because of the rook.”

  Much stared at him. He knew him. He knew the man, from somewhere. The same brown clothing, the same spill of pale hair.

  He stiffened, remembering. He knew him now.

  The man saw it and crossed the track to catch him by the arm before Much could flee. “Wait.”

  Much struggled, trying to break free. But the man didn’t let him go.

  “I said, wait. I won’t hurt you. If I meant to, I would have given you to the Normans.” The grip increased. “I won’t hurt you, boy. I promise.”

  Much ducked his head, expecting a blow. He hunched one shoulder to protect his left ear. If he said nothing, the man would never know. He’d beat him anyway, but he’d never know for sure.

  “Why are you here?” the man asked.

  He was so fair that he lit the shadows around them. The wash of pale hair, the arch of blond brows, the equally pale lashes. And yet the flesh, for his fairness, was weathered by a sun much harsher than the one looking down upon them now. And the eyes were not so pale, but a clear, perfect hazel: sometimes green, sometimes brown, changeable as summer weather.

  The grim mouth tightened faintly. “Why are you hiding from Normans?”

  Much said nothing. He waited for the blow.

  “Do you live here in Sherwood Forest?”

  Still Much held his silence. He noticed the pinkish scar winding its way along the man’s jawline, like a serpent bound for his mouth to steal the breath from his lungs.

  “I’m looking for someone,” the stranger-who-wasn’t-a-stranger said. “The same two people the Normans seek. A man, and a woman. She was wearing a crimson mantle, though any man with a bit of sense would have stripped it from her by now.” The grip loosened slightly as Much did not answer. “The woman is in some difficulty. I want to find her so I can take her back to Nottingham.”

  Startled, Much lowered his shoulder and stared at the man. Then, as abruptly, he realized what he’d done. Only a blind man would miss his reaction.

  The man wasn’t blind. After a moment’s hesitation, he knelt down on one knee. “My name is Robin. I mean you no harm. I know you’ve seen her, or you know her. Which is it?”

  Much held his tongue.

  “She deserves better,” Robin told him quietly. “She was taken against her will.”

  Much breathed through his mouth, determinedly saying nothing.

  Eventually Robin released him, rising. “All right. Go on. Tend your own business.” He turned, heading down the track in the same direction as the Normans. The threat was abruptly banished.

  He went, taking the light with him, and Much watched him. He thought about Marian. He thought about the giant. He thought about the madman, and the Normans who wanted to find them; Normans who would cut off his hand, given the chance again. For trying to steal the sheriffs purse.

  He stared hard at the back of the man, who walked steadily down the track, not even looking back. The shadows now had deepened. In brown, he was hard to see.

  Robin, Much said inside. And then, “Marian,” loud enough to be heard.

  Robin turned. His expression was obscured by distance, but the tone of his voice was distinct. “Yes. Marian.”

  He wasn’t Norman, the man who called himself Robin. He disliked Normans, as had been proved by his behavior on the road when accosted by the sheriffs men. He wanted to find Marian, to rescue her from the madman, and the giant of Hathersage.

  Much gestured him to come near. Robin answered it, pausing in poised silence. Much pointed. “There.”

  “Why now?” Robin asked. “Why not before?”

  Much lowered his gaze. Then he reached out with nimble fingers and touched the belt from which the man’s purse had depended.

  “Ah,” Robin said, on a note of discovery and comprehension.

  “Marian,” Much said.

  Robin smiled faintly. “Show me the way.”

  Twenty-Six

  Marian felt sick to her stomach. Her position athwart the giant’s shoulder pressed her belly against her backbone, and the continued jouncing as he strode through the forest, beating vines and creepers aside, merely added to her discomfort. Her blood had all rushed to her head, putting pressure on eyes and ears. And with no hands free to balance herself, she was absolutely helpless.

  If I were sick upon his boots, he might put me down. But she didn’t feel like seeing if it worked.

  The giant thrashed his way through one more veil of vines and halted. “Here,” he said harshly. “I’ve brought the girl. But you’d best not harm her. I’ll break you in two, if you try.”

  Marian could see little but the giant’s back. Even when she craned her head around, the effort added nothing to her vision but her own braid and the forest.

  Then the giant clasped her roughly and hoisted her down, swinging her to her feet and turning her deftly so that she stood with her back to his chest. One huge hand imprisoned her shoulder.

  It was the murderer, Will Scarlet. He wasn’t dead at all, not even injured. He stood just before her, staring mutely out of near-black, lifeless eyes, with a jaw hard as stone and an alertness in his posture that put her in mind of an animal just before it bolts.

  A knife was in his hand. Her own knife, Marian saw. And one of his arms was bloody. He means to kill me. She thought instantly of flight, but felt the giant’s hand close more firmly yet. She could not help the throttled moan of protest cut off by the gag.

  “You’ll not harm her,�
�� the giant declared.

  Marian heard the challenge implicit in his tone. For all his roughness, he had treated her kindly enough; she saw now the threat came not so much from the giant as from the man who faced her, in decaying shoes and shabby clothing, with blood upon one arm.

  Scarlet moved away from the stump, stopped rigidly, and pointed. “Put her there. I’ll not touch her.”

  The giant took her to the stump, urging her to sit as she moved stiffly, awkwardly, uncertain of their intent. She sat, wincing inwardly as the wooden “teeth” of the shattered trunk pierced shift and kirtle, biting into flesh. She shifted slightly, not letting the pain show on her face. She’d give nothing to them save whatever calmness she could summon.

  Scarlet, still staring, nodded. The fixity of his gaze unnerved her. Marian looked away briefly; like a submissive dog, she wouldn’t challenge him. But it made her angry not to. When he moved, she found she could not keep from looking at him, to see what he might do.

  What he did do was approach. She smelled him: extremity, ordure, the dungeon. He showed her the knife. “This was yours.” Marian did not so much as nod. “Yours,” he repeated.

  “Here, now,” the giant said uneasily. “I’ll not have you tormenting her.”

  “No,” Scarlet said grimly, then tucked the knife away into the drawstring of his hosen. “You don’t know me at all. No one does, now. What I’ve done is done; what I will do is yet to be done. But don’t judge me by what I’ve done. Judge me by what I do.”

  Marian’s breath scraped against the wool. She could not discern his intent in such a rambling discourse. He was obscure, unintelligible, and very, very dangerous.

  “Here.” The giant again. “What do you want of us?”

  Will Scarlet stood before Marian. The clearing was small, hedged by vine- and creeper-choked trees, with fern lacing the ground. “We’re outlaws,” he said. “D’ye know what that is?”

  She said nothing, because she couldn’t.

  “Outlaws are men who live outside the law,” he continued, “because either they’re men who want to do that, or men who have to do that.” He stared at her fixedly, then dropped down to squat before her. “Do you know aught of that? How men are made to live as beasts in the forest, because it’s their only chance of freedom? Beasts, in the forest—but ’tis better than living as beasts under the yoke of the Norman pigs like you!”