Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  Tears ran down her face as she bit into her lip.

  “You are very like your father. You don’t know—you can’t know—what it was like... to see you standing before me, all ignorant of the message—to see you, and not see you, but to see him instead, that moment before they killed him.”

  Marian shut her eyes.

  It was entirely unexpected. “He said to tell you he loved you.”

  Now she stared, uncomprehending.

  “I couldn’t say it,” he declared. “I was meant to—I was charged to ... but—” He scraped his rigid hands through his hair. His spirit seemed very weary. “There has been much of late I have been unable to say. To my father, to the others—” He sighed. “To anyone at all.” “But mostly to yourself.”

  He looked at her. His face was stark in the moonlight, white where it touched, black where it did not. Then he turned his head, shutting himself away, and she knew, without knowing why, he was building his wall again, bit by desperate bit, trying to ward away the accuracy of her vision.

  Marian stared up at the stars, very certain of herself. Then I’ll have to tear it down.

  “It’s not right,” Little John’s disembodied voice announced from out of the darkness. Unlike Scarlet he did not feign sleep, but sat against a tree a pace or two away. Even in dim light, his huddled form loomed hugely.

  Scarlet didn’t answer. What else am I to do? Let Adam Bell and the others shoot me full of arrows?

  “Not right,” Little John repeated. “I’m a shepherd, not a thief.”

  Shame renewed itself. The knowledge made Scarlet angry, because while he tried to come to terms with a new and unlawful future fraught with hardship and danger, the giant remained stolidly convinced he was not involved. Peasant he might be, but as certain of his place as the sheriff was of his.

  It was frustrating. Adam Bell and his two men were only paces away themselves, talking quietly in the darkness, but undoubtedly aware of the giant’s intransigence, which might, Scarlet felt, reflect poorly on his own intentions. Therefore he spoke for their benefit as much as for his own. “What is it to you, if you take for yourself what another has gained unfairly?”

  Little John’s contempt was plain. “And if it was me, then? Would you steal the coin from me?”

  Scarlet laughed mutely, ignoring the pain of his nose and battered face. “What man alive would dare to steal from you?”

  Little John’s tone was sharp. “I’m not meaning that. What I mean is, what if the man you mean to steal from is no richer than you are? What if he’s a peasant owing taxes to the sheriff—”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Scarlet cut in, disliking the giant’s direction. It made him think. It made him aware that although he had suffered, others might suffer yet from what he would do.

  “It should,” Little John growled. “ ’Tis hard enough to scrape together the coin to pay the taxes, and then you want to be stealing it from us. Better to steal from the sheriff.”

  Will Scarlet scoffed. “Who could manage that? You? Even you’d stand no chance against a crossbow.”

  Little John broke in two the stick he held. “Then steal it from Norman lords.”

  Adam Bell’s voice came clearly through the darkness. “Merchants are easier.”

  “And Jews,” Cloudisley added.

  Clym of the Clough laughed. “There are the priests, too.”

  Little John sounded horrified. “You rob priests?”

  “Why not?” Bell asked. “They steal from us, don’t they? They make themselves rich off of us.”

  Scarlet felt at his nose. “Doesn’t matter, does it? We’ll be robbing no one tonight.”

  The giant scrubbed his bearded face with two huge hands. “I’m a shepherd. I’ll go home to Hathersage. I’ll not be stealing a penny, come morning or no.”

  “I will,” Scarlet snapped, angry at himself for wishing he, like Little John, still had a life to lead. “Go home to your sheep. Go home to Hathersage. Prove yourself a better man, till the sheriff comes to fetch you. Then you’ll be the piece of meat hanging at the end of Nottingham’s rope instead of Will Scathlocke!”

  The giant’s voice was low. “He said he’d speak for me.”

  “Who—that peasant?” Scarlet laughed thickly. “D’ye think the high sheriff of Nottingham would listen to a peasant about another peasant—”

  “He isn’t a peasant,” Little John declared. “If you’d taken the time to look and listen, you’d have seen it for yourself.”

  “What, then... a lord? A lord will speak for you?”

  “He’s not a Norman,” Little John said. “He’s English, like all of us ... who’s to say what he will or won’t do?”

  “What he won’t do is speak for you,” Scarlet declared. “Why would he? English he may be, but if it’s true he’s a lord, then he’s in the lap of the Normans.”

  The giant shook his head. “I’ll bide my time.”

  How could he be so blindly trusting? “Stubborn fool,” Scarlet muttered. “Can’t you see the truth? Don’t you see what our lives are, now?”

  “Better than this,” Little John declared. “By God, better than this. Maybe there’s nothing left for you, but there is yet for me.”

  “Sheeρ.” Scarlet freighted it with contempt, because he had to. He was aware of envy and emptiness, that Little John could yet be so secure in his future when his own had been destroyed.

  “Sheep,” Little John agreed, unoffended by the contempt. “ ’Tis a safer lot than yours.”

  Scarlet waved a hand, staving off desperation. “Agh, go to sleep. I weary of your chatter.”

  The giant’s laughter rumbled. “Think I’m a fool, do you? Can’t see it, can you?” He laughed again, almost gleefully. “No one knows I’ve come. No one knows I’m here.” He looked pointedly at Scarlet. “No one’s hunting me. ”

  “Until tomorrow,” Scarlet retorted, grasping at rejoinders.

  “Tomorrow I’m going home.”

  “Are you, then?” Adam Bell’s tone was soft. “After you pay your fee.”

  Little John was belligerent. “I’ll pay no ‘fee’ gotten off an honest man.”

  Scarlet barked a laugh. “Then rob a dishonest one.”

  The giant was unamused. “I go where I will and do as I will—”

  “Aye,” Scarlet agreed. “Until the sheriff says differently.”

  “Two days,” Adam Bell said. “In two days, we’ll know.”

  “Know what?” Little John asked suspiciously.

  “Whether you’ll be going home to your sheep, or staying here with us.”

  “Staying with you—”

  “Or with some other merry band of men living outside the law.” Bell’s tone was quiet, dry, but very sure. “I have means of finding out what’s on the sheriffs mind. In two days, we’ll know.”

  “And me?” Scarlet asked roughly. “What about me?”

  Bell didn’t answer at once. When he did, the tone was negligent, as if the answer were implicit and not worth putting into words. “A man like you is welcome to do as we do, and to do it among our number. We can always use a man who likes to kill Normans.”

  Scarlet grunted assent, not knowing how else to answer. But even as he agreed, the worm of shame writhed.

  ’Tisn’t what we wanted. ’Tisn’t what we planned.

  But his Maggie didn’t answer, to chide him or say him nay.

  William deLacey sat in a private chamber, sprawled slackly in a chair. That he had not yet gone to bed was attributable to Prince John, who had ordered him most specifically to gather additional taxes and take them to Lincoln, where John intended to personally see to it the money was sent to Germany as ransom to free King Richard.

  John, of course, would do no such thing, because it served two purposes not to: it filled his own coffers, and kept Richard out of England.

  John in power meant, eventually, John as king; the people wouldn’t stand for a proxy regent any longer than they had to, and besides, there was Willi
am Longchamp, the Bishop of Ely, whom Richard had left in charge. Longchamp was chancellor, but had managed to do much of John’s more unpopular work for him without intending to, simply by levying the taxes needed to raise Richard’s ransom. Now the people hated Longchamp and wanted him removed, which benefited John for the moment; but would they tolerate John himself any better? At least Longchamp worked honestly if too zealously in the king’s interest, no matter how imperious he was. John would work merely to further his own place, to seal forever his grip upon England’s throne.

  John as king. William deLacey laughed bitterly. He’ll bankrupt the realm.

  And what of himself? Would there be improved rank, as John promised? Would he rise in John’s service, leaving behind Nottingham to rise ever higher, one of John’s handpicked men, trusted to serve the new king?

  Not likely. If John were smart, he would trust no one.

  As I trust no one. DeLacey drank wine from a silver goblet. If Richard comes home, I must work for my living; I’ve bought all I can buy. But if John becomes king, he’ll have to offer a reward for good and faithful service ... for seeing to it, almost singlehandedly, that part of Richard’s ransom goes nowhere near Germany.

  A knock on the door interrupted his reverie. “Lord Sheriff?”

  DeLacey sighed. “I’ve gone to bed.”

  “My lord, I have news. It has to do with the man you ordered taken.”

  “William Scathlocke?” DeLacey thrust himself out of the chair and strode across to the door, unlatching and jerking it open. “Have you found him after all? And the Lady Marian?”

  Archaumbault stood in the corridor. “My lord, no—not that man, my lord. The other one you wanted.”

  DeLacey scowled. “What other one?”

  “The minstrel, my lord. You gave orders for him to be taken.”

  DeLacey was displeased, though he didn’t show it to Archaumbault. It wouldn’t do to inform the garrison commander he was no longer particularly interested in the man accused of despoiling his already-despoiled daughter. He saw no sense in wasting extra effort, although now he’d have to give the matter some attention for the sake of propriety. “Very well. What news have you?”

  “He was seen in an alehouse, my lord. The Watch was sent after him. I cannot say yet if they have been successful.”

  “Very well. Apprise me when—and if—they are.” DeLacey paused. “In the morning, Archaumbault.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The man bowed, then swung on his heel to stride down the corridor.

  The sheriff shut the door and lingered, tapping fingertips against it. “The minstrel,” he murmured. “Alan of the Dales... a fitting wedding gift, perhaps, for the woman who argued most eloquently that I preserve his tongue.” He nodded. “And just in time. Tomorrow, perhaps—or the next day.” He walked to the table and picked up the shining goblet, lifting it high into the air. “To Marian FitzWalter—soon to be deLacey.” He smiled with anticipation. “Very, very soon.”

  Thirty-Two

  The forest was cool, damp, dark, filled with the sounds of night. Much knelt in silence, shrouded by foliage, and stared fixedly at the woman who was his princess. She lay on the heaped pile of woven boughs, leaves, and deadfall, hands folded into her kirtle, much like a corpse laid out for burial. Corpselike, she lay mutely, tensely, as if afraid to breathe.

  Was she asleep? He thought not. No more than Robin was, sitting against a tree. His posture was stiff, incredibly rigid, as if he expected to break.

  But why would the prince break? And why would the princess not sleep?

  Much clutched his shoes. He had never understood such things. He knew only what he felt, and he sensed what others felt by attending their voices, postures, and expressions. He had come too late to hear them speak at any length. He had heard nothing more from either of them than their last few sentences, and he could understand nothing of the content save the underlying emotions that blazed so brilliantly, illuminating the dullness that fogged much of his brain.

  Fighting? No. Not as his mother and father. Not as Norman and Saxon. Not as peasant and peasant.

  Was it because they were prince and princess?

  Much rubbed at his flattened nose. His body as yet only fitfully gave way to vague yearnings, urges he didn’t speak of, because there was no one to whom he could speak and no words to describe what he felt.

  Did they feel yearnings, too, his prince and his princess? Or were they above such things, set apart from his world, made of different flesh?

  Much stared at them. People were alien. Animals he knew, because their needs were simple, very much like his own.

  Much clutched the shoes. He wanted to give them to her, to make his way quietly to her and give them to her, so her feet would no longer be bare. But courage failed him. The king’s fool was too low to speak to the princess.

  Eventually, they would sleep. Then he would creep to her side and put the shoes there, where she would find them when she woke.

  The Earl of Huntington was sound asleep when the servant woke him. Blearily the earl clawed his way into awareness, intending to vilify the servant for daring to awaken him in the midst of a good night’s sleep, but one look at Ralph’s expression drove all thought of chastisement away.

  He sat up, reaching for the robe cast across the foot of his bed. “What is it?”

  “My lord.” Ralph’s face was pinched and colorless. “My lord, Alnwick is here.”

  Robe sleeve hooked over a stiffened elbow. “Alnwick ... Eustace de Vesci is here? Now?”

  “Yes, my lord. What should I tell him?”

  “My God,” the earl breathed. He finished tugging on the robe, but only because he had begun, not because he gave it any thought. Indeed, his thoughts were far away from such mundane things as apparel. “Tell him?” The earl scraped a gnarled hand through thinning hair. “Tell him I will join him presently. At once!”

  “My lord.” Ralph bowed and hastened toward the door.

  “And Ralph ...” The earl climbed out of bed. “By God, Ralph, tell him the Count of Mortain is here!”

  Ralph nodded once. “My lord, I will.”

  He was gone, thumping the door closed. The earl slowly sat down on the edge of his bed, trying to put order to his robe. “De Vesci,” he breathed, “here. With John here as well.” He felt old, weak, apprehensive. “This is a nightmare come true.”

  The alehouse was lighted only with smudgy candlelight that stank of poor rendering. The walls were wattle-and-daub, the roof thatching brittle and balding like an old man’s head. Alan of the Dales was used to considerably better, but he felt under the circumstances this alehouse would do as well as another, since it was unlikely the sheriff or his men would frequent such a place.

  He had finished half his ale when the hand came down on the mug and smacked it back to the table. “Friend,” the man declared, “you’d best be on your way.”

  Belligerence was alien to Alan, who had perfected diplomacy and a delicate way with an insult, but this was too much. “No,” he said flatly, and tried to pick up his mug again.

  The man once more slammed it down, slopping ale over the rim. “Friend,” he said more tightly, “I do this for your life. The Watch has been called on you.”

  It sent a frisson of fear through Alan. “How do you know? Who are you? Why should I believe you?” Belatedly, he considered the sort of things he should have considered before.

  The man smiled humorlessly. He was dark, slight, one-handed. “I know because I know; because I’m paid to know. Who I am doesn’t matter. As to why you should believe me—don’t, then, friend minstrel ... but you’ll pay the price, I promise.”

  Alan could not avoid looking at the half-healed stump of the man’s right arm, which was thrust under his nose. He was meant not to avoid it; a telling argument for trusting the stranger’s warning.

  But as much an argument for believing it might be a trap. Alan was no fool. He knew very well there were tricks meant to trap the unwary individual,
especially pretty ones very like himself. His golden curls and languid ways attracted men as well as women. And men, he had learned early, were often more dangerous than women when rebuffed, because so much more was at stake.

  “I’ve paid my price,” he said coolly. “Take your dungeon stink somewhere else.”

  “You know the smell of it, then?” The one-handed man grinned. “Well then, you have only the sheriff to blame—d’ye think I cut off this hand myself?”

  “It really isn’t my concern who cut off your hand. No doubt you deserved it.” Alan wrested the mug away and deliberately raised it to his mouth.

  The man shrugged. “As you like, my pretty lad. But you’ll be singing no songs at all when the sheriff is through with you, nor will you play that lute with only a stump for a hand.”