Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  “They are powerful men, my lord.”

  “Then it is time we clipped their wings.” John flicked a finger. “Go.”

  Gilbert de Pisan went.

  Little John squatted in leaf mold, scraping hair out of his face. He was in a foul, belligerent mood, worsened by the fact he had not slept well, and was disposed to argue no matter what was said. Accordingly, he glared back at Adam Bell. “I told you I wouldn’t. I won’t. I’ll have none of this.”

  Bell, arms folded, shrugged narrow shoulders. “Your choice,” he said, “but ’tis hard to be a shepherd when your belly’s full of arrows.”

  “You’ll not kill me over this!” Little John was peripherally aware of Clym of the Clough and Cloudisley restringing their bows and counting their arrows. Would they? Desperation grew. “You’ve enough men to steal for you—you don’t need my help.”

  William of Cloudisley laughed, warm brown eyes alight. He was a sweet-faced boy, the kind the girls would sigh for, but for all his innocent looks he had killed men before. “ ’Tisn’t your help we want—we’re wanting your coin. But if there’s naught to give us, you’ll borrow from someone else.”

  “Borrow,” Little John spat. “D’ye mean me to give it back, then, once I’ve loaned it to you?”

  Will Scarlet was on his feet, gingerly testing his battered ribs. “Who’s to know you’ve stolen it?” he asked sourly. “D’ye think we’ll say aught?”

  “The man whose coin I steal might! He might go straight to the sheriff, who’ll know at once who did it—”

  Scarlet flapped an arm. “He’ll know what you did with his woman. D’ye think a man’s purse will matter?”

  Little John thrust a hand against the ground and rose to his full height. “I did nothing to the woman. Nothing at all, d’ye hear? I meant to take her back—” He broke it off abruptly, recalling the promise he’d made to fetch the girl back to Scarlet.

  Scarlet’s dark eyes narrowed. “Aye,” he said roughly, “I thought it might be that. A trustworthy soul, you are.”

  “Never mind that,” Adam Bell interposed. “We’ve other business to tend to.” His look was no longer amused. “Which one of you goes first?”

  Scarlet spat, wincing slightly. “I will,” he growled. “Let him see how ’tis done, so he’ll know what’s expected of him.”

  Bell nodded. “You’d best make it worth our while.”

  Little John shook his head. “You’d not kill me for this.”

  Clym of the Clough laughed. It had an ugly sound. “I’ve killed men for less. With you, I’d just use more arrows.”

  Alan dreamed of plump breasts and plumper bottom, and the taste of a clove-scented mouth hovering near his own—

  Someone kicked his foot. “Here, you. I’ll not have a peasant sleeping in my stall. You’ll spoil all the wares.”

  Breasts and bottom dissipated into the wan sun of a misty, malodorous morning. Nottingham stank. Alan cursed the merchant looming over him, fists planted on wide hips; in elaborate French the displaced minstrel muttered a comment about the man’s ancestry, then slowly unwound himself. The merchant was a thick, contentious sort, ill-disposed to hear anything Alan might have to say, no matter how politely couched, which was just as well, he decided, since he felt no urge to use politeness anyway.

  “Get out of my stall!” the man ordered, rolling back a tunic sleeve from a meaty forearm.

  Alan eyed the forearm, the wrist, and the fist, and decided to acquiesce. It was a stroke of brilliance, he thought, that he had tucked under his tunic the purse of silver marks Robert of Locksley had given him, or else the merchant would surely have robbed him before sending him on his way.

  He departed the stall amid additional threats to smash in his pretty face, then stepped into a narrow alley to relieve himself. He recalled his brocaded tunic was in the other direction. Worse, his lute was in Sherwood Forest, in the hands—no, hand—of a man who would not know how gently to treat a lovely instrument.

  Alan glumly rubbed at stubble. Little about him gave away his employment. No one, looking at him, would claim him a minstrel well placed with nobility—well, he had been, before Eleanor had seen to it his new placement was somewhere no man would choose to be.

  Eleanor. God rot her. And Eleanor’s father.

  Alan sighed, scratching vigorously at the flea that had taken up residence in the hair furring his abdomen. There was nothing for it but to go into Sherwood and look for the one-handed man. He had money enough to buy a new lute, but instruments of quality were hard to come by, and there was no certainty Nottingham boasted a luthier at all, let alone a good one. Also, it would be foolish to buy one in Nottingham even if there were a luthier, because the sheriff had undoubtedly warned his men to look for a man with a lute, and his salvation, for the moment, lay in not having one.

  So he would go to Sherwood and get back his own lute, of which he was exceedingly fond, as it was of excellent tone and quality and, beside that, had won him more women than anything else might—excepting his tongue, of course, and the sheen of his golden curls.

  Alan snorted derisively. He was at present too dirty to be golden. “Fool’s errand,” he muttered. “But some would say it fits.” Food and drink first, he decided. Then Sherwood Forest.

  The horse was a fine one, Much knew. From a distance he watched it, waiting for someone to step out of the trees and claim it, but no one did, and after a while Much decided no one was near enough to prevent him from stealing it. And so he made his way very quietly out of the bushes, approached the horse from the front, and put his small, deft hands upon the reins. The horse did not protest.

  Much stroked its nose, liking the warmth of the breath whuffing against his arm. It was a fine, tall horse; a deep-chested, unmarked bay. Much petted the horse, slicking the long, sloping shoulder where it joined the heavy neck. The leather trappings were of excellent quality, and the brown cloak hooked across the saddle bespoke an expert’s hand at the loom. He smiled, content with his prize, and untied the reins. He would lead him down the track, then into the backside of Nottingham Castle, where he knew a man who would pay silver for such a horse.

  Gisbourne heard the door open. Inwardly he cursed; it was the barber, he knew, come to goad him into protest, to complain of discomfort, so the barber could respond that the leg was rotting off.

  God, but he hated the man!

  “Sir Guy.” It was not the barber. He did not speak with such a cool, mellifluous voice in the accents of Gisbourne’s childhood.

  Am I dead? He opened his eyes. No, he wasn’t dead. The voice belonged to Gilbert de Pisan, elegantly attired in a rich blue surcoat of Oriental cut left open to show off the embroidered tunic beneath. Obviously the prince’s service paid better than the sheriffs.

  Gisbourne struggled to right himself, to pull himself straight against the bolsters, even as de Pisan made a gesture meant to stay him. Damply, Gisbourne smiled, wishing he had a cloth to wipe his burning face.

  “Sir Guy. I am commanded to express my lord’s deepest sympathies for your wound.”

  Gisbourne was feverish and flustered, knowing he looked his worst. “I thank him for that. And you,” he added hastily, “for bringing word to me.”

  De Pisan’s smile was cool. “Of course.” He eyed the bloody bandage with some distaste. “You will recover, Sir Guy? There is no threat to your leg?”

  “No threat,” Gisbourne declared. “I will be fully recovered very soon.”

  “I am most pleased to hear it,” de Pisan said tranquilly, “as will my lord be pleased. There is a service you can do him, but of course we must wait until—”

  “A service?” Gisbourne scrubbed his damp face with a sweat-stained tunic sleeve. “What service may I do the prince?”

  De Pisan frowned faintly, stroking his upper lip with a slender finger. “You recall you spoke with him before with regard to rewarding the sheriffs most diligent service.”

  “Of course.” Gisbourne momentarily wondered how de Pisan
knew the nature of the conversation, as he had not been present; he realized, belatedly, the seneschal had been informed after the fact. As to who had done the informing ... Gisbourne swallowed tightly. “I told him the sheriff would be particularly pleased to have his daughter wed to the Earl of Huntington’s son.”

  “Yes. A good match—until two days ago.” The tone was oblique.

  “Two days—?” It confused Gisbourne, who recalled little of two days before save the confrontation with the boar. “I don’t remember ...”

  De Pisan’s brows arched. “The lady was despoiled. Do you not recall? The culprit was discovered even as you were brought into the chamber.”

  Gisbourne remembered none of it.

  De Pisan waved a dismissive hand. “It is no longer important, save to alter the reward my lord had planned to bestow upon the sheriff. It seems now we require more information. And as you know him so well, undoubtedly you are well informed as to what else might please the sheriff.”

  Gisbourne wanted to tell the seneschal to ask the sheriff himself. “I fear I do not know him that well—”

  “Surely you are aware of something, Sir Guy.”

  Gisbourne stared at de Pisan a long moment. His innocence had ended most decidedly, with the death knell sounded during the sheriffs visit the day before. He had actually come to visit Marian; Gisbourne understood that now. He understood quite a lot. If he did not make shift for himself and his future, no one would do it for him.

  Gisbourne cleared his throat. “I have served the sheriff—”

  “My lord is aware of that.”

  Gisbourne gritted his teeth. “May I have water?” he temporized.

  A flash of impatience showed briefly in de Pisan’s eyes, but was banished instantly. Murmuring apologies for his oversight, he poured a cup of water and handed it to Gisbourne.

  Gisbourne waited, watching him wait. He understood all too well that Prince John had not been interested in his abilities, but had only sought information that might be used to manipulate the sheriff. Gisbourne had most willingly told him what he knew. And he would tell de Pisan now, but he would have more in return than the privilege of being ravaged by a wild boar. It was time Sir Guy of Gisbourne laid the groundwork for something better than service in Nottingham.

  He held out the empty cup expectantly, staring fixedly at the seneschal. He had seen agreements reached in perfect silence between the sheriff and other men. De Pisan served Prince John; surely he would understand the complexities of such things.

  A muscle ticked in de Pisan’s cheek, and then he reached for the cup and set it on the table next to the pitcher. He turned back to Gisbourne and folded his slender hands into the wide, banded sleeves of his Oriental surcoat.

  “Yes,” he said clearly, his gaze unwavering.

  Gisbourne smiled. He was beginning to understand how to manipulate a person. “I am a knight,” he said, “of respectable name and family. But there are sons before me—there will be no portion save what I make for myself.”

  “Yes,” de Pisan said; clearly he understood the opening gambit and what would follow.

  “To advance myself, I need to marry well. And there is a woman ...”

  De Pisan’s tone was uninflected. “Yes, Sir Guy. There usually is.”

  Gisbourne told him about her. He told him her name. He told him her holdings. He told him he wanted her. And then he told de Pisan what would most please the sheriff.

  De Pisan nodded. “I will inform my lord.”

  “Soon,” Gisbourne suggested, then closed his eyes and slumped back against the bolster.

  “Soon,” de Pisan said dryly, and the door thumped closed behind him.

  Thirty-Five

  Just after dawn, William deLacey strode out of the castle keep into the inner bailey. Mist still lingered along the top of the curtain-wall, shrouding the castle in transient isolation. Beyond lay Nottingham, only beginning to stir, noise muted by the wall and the dampness. In the east a brassy sphere of light, tarnished by the mist, marked the sun’s new birth.

  Archaumbault and five men prepared to mount as horses were brought to them. The castellan was grim and terse, snapping out curt replies to brief questions from the others. DeLacey stopped behind him and said with deliberate softness, “You will fetch her back, Archaumbault.”

  The man started, bit his lip on a protest, and turned smartly. His eyes searched the sheriff’s face a moment, and then the merest trace of comprehension altered his own expression from military rectitude into human understanding: more than his position was at stake. “Yes, my lord. As soon as possible.”

  The sheriff nodded, satisfied. He could go on to another subject. “What of the minstrel? I received no report on rising.”

  “No, my lord.” Archaumbault’s eyes were bloodshot. “The Watch was unable to catch him, my lord.”

  DeLacey arched a brow. “I believed it as good as done.”

  “As did I, my lord ... but someone must have warned him. He was gone by the time the Watch reached the alehouse—they recovered only his tunic.”

  “His tunic.” The sheriff allowed a trace of contempt to lace his tone for the benefit of the others, whom he did not desire to grow lax in attentiveness merely because he did not shout. He preferred a quieter approach, with no less attention to detail. “I am not interested in tunics.”

  “My lord.” A quick twitch of Archaumbault’s head had the others mounting with alacrity, gathering reins taut. “They are still searching for him.”

  “Good. I want him recovered.” Through not as much as I want Marian recovered. DeLacey flicked a hand. “I expect success in both endeavors.”

  “We will do our best, my lord.”

  It was time the others saw no man was inviolable to the sheriffs displeasure, even Archaumbault. Such knowledge would make them aware that Archaumbault could be replaced if he failed—perhaps by one of them.

  DeLacey raked the castellan with a contemptuous glance. “I have yet to see your best in either matter.” Archaumbault’s mouth tightened. The others exchanged glances. “Go,” deLacey said.

  He watched them do so, then swung on his heel and came face-to-face with his daughter. Brought up short, he frowned. “I told you to stay in your chamber.”

  Eleanor shrugged slightly. “That was yesterday. Today is—today.”

  He eyed her with disfavor, having less reason than ever to countenance her attitude. She had made a fool of him publicly and had destroyed his plans, and she showed absolutely no remorse. “You will return to your chamber at once.”

  “Why?” Her chin rose. She wore yellowed green, which was not her color; the hue deepened the sallowness of her complexion. “I’ll be walled up soon enough, won’t I, once the FitzWalter girl arrives.” Eleanor arched dark brows. “That is—if she arrives ... and if you’ll have the stomach for her once the truth is known.” She smiled slyly. “A night in the forest with outlaws—”

  “Enough!” he snapped.

  Eleanor laughed in delight. She had stirred true passion in him. “Why, my lord, one would think you really do care for her—”

  Will she never shut her mouth? He reached out, closed his hand around her elbow, swung her around smartly and marched her back into the castle. “I am of half a mind to marry you to a Welshman inside of a week and let him have the taming of your tongue ... if he lets you keep it.” He walked her steadily down the corridor. “I care little enough what you think of me—you’ve made your opinion plain enough this past year—but I won’t have you undermining Marian before she even arrives.”

  “If she arrives.” Eleanor tried to jerk free of his grasp, but he held her arm too tightly. “Will you have two despoiled women living in your castle?”

  “One,” he answered grimly. “I’ll pack you up, so help me, and send you out of it.”

  Eleanor scoffed. “No one will have me, now!”

  “On the contrary,” he said silkily, “I think everyone will have you—if they haven’t done it yet!”
>
  A wave of color came and went in her face, leaving it pale and waxen. Her lips trembled with anger even as he manhandled her up the stairs. “If you would stop thinking of yourself and think of me—”

  “I have thought of you many times, Eleanor—too many times; if fact, I weary of thinking of you ... I believe it is time I stopped. I believe it is time I gave up trying to match you advantageously and simply married you off to the first man willing to take you, well used as you are—”

  She was a banshee echoing stridently in the corridors of the castle, where no secrets were wholly secret even when whispered quietly. “I only want to make my own decisions! About my body, about my future—”

  Here, at last. He yanked open the door to her chamber and pushed her into it. Each word was deliberate and distinct. “No woman has enough sense and the wherewithal to make such decisions, Eleanor. Certainly you haven’t.” DeLacey shut the door between them before she could finish.

  Marian walked a step or two behind Locksley only by virtue of shorter legs. His pace was not fast, nor was it particularly deliberate in deference to her gender, but it appeared to be determined wholly by the moment, and by which way seemed easiest. He bent back threatening boughs when he could, but an increasing number escaped his grasping hand as he miscalculated distance and density. Marian warded off the fugitive branches, but one or two slapped her in face and neck, scraping across welts and bruises. It left her a trifle disgruntled, wishing he would or he wouldn’t; halfway measures netted her increasing discomfort.

  Ahead, Locksley stumbled over a creeper, caught his balance awkwardly, almost tentatively, then paused to turn back toward her, as if to warn her of treacherous footing. But by the time he turned Marian was well past the tangling foliage, staring in some consternation at his face.