He swallowed heavily, aware of dryness and sticky pain. It would pass, he knew, along with the dull headache and the last of the fever. For now it made him weak as a boy.
He stirred, anticipating the stiffness in his spine and limbs. As always, he ached, feeling wan and dull and weary, but the worst of it had passed. He was yet among the living, and bound to remain that way. The Crusade was finished. His captivity was ended. He breathed the air of England with the smell of a damp spring morning, in place of the dust and heat and sweat-stink of the march through the Holy Land.
“My lord?” A woman’s voice. “My lord, may I give you water?”
His eyes were dry and gritty. He turned his head to look at her, and found the woman a stranger.
“Here.” She poured a mug full, then came to his bedside. “Drink your fill, my lord. The well is deep and full.”
On one sore elbow he raised himself slightly, and was ashamed to see how his hand shook on the mug. She had to steady it, or spill the water out. He drank, nodded thanks, fell back against the pillows. The water was cool and sweet, not tepid or fouled with acrid dust. The clarity of his memories was replaced with reality, and the knowledge of where he was.
“Marian.”
The woman smiled. “It’s to be hoped she’s asleep. She needs it as much as you.”
Undoubtedly she did, but he discovered himself disappointed.
“I’ll bring you broth.” The woman set the mug upon the floor beside the pitcher, then folded her hands into her skirts. “We’re all grateful,” she declared forthrightly, “for what you did to save her. She’s all we’ve left, the lady... and she’s well loved by us all.”
Robin’s brow arched; it was all the strength he had. His voice was tired, but serviceable. “What I did?”
“Aye. She told us about the boar, and how her horse bolted, and how you came along to rescue her after it threw her into the stream.” She opened the door, smiling. “God bless you, Sir Robert.”
She was gone before he could answer, to tell her she was wrong, that Marian had seen to her own rescue; and his too, if he counted—and he did—having someone pick him up out of the dirt.
Robin’s eyes drifted closed. As he faded back into sleep he resolved to tell the serving-woman the truth when she came back with his broth. He was not a man for living off the lies of a woman told to prop up his pride. There was, after all, so very little left. And no reason at all to mourn it.
Forty-Three
The hanging of the man known in death as Will Scarlet but in life as Edward Carter required little fanfare and less time. Before his legs stopped kicking—the bailey gibbet was makeshift and therefore his neck was not broken—Lincoln-bound Prince John and his retinue wound its way out through the gates into the city proper, and William deLacey was at last able to summon his horse and ride out for Ravenskeep.
He made short shrift of the road between the city and the manor, but slowed his mount to a dignified walk as he turned off the main road onto the manor track, desiring no one to consider his haste as significant; he fostered an opinion of himself as calm and deliberate, so as to convince potential enemies there was nothing they could do that might affect his judgment. It was his belief that fast thinkers were not necessarily fast movers, and that impatience marked a man as lacking a true understanding of complex issues.
Most of all, he did not want to suggest by any actions that he wanted Marian quite so badly as he did.
The track curved up through a lush meadow fringed by an oak wood. From a distance the manor appeared prosperous and attractive, as it always had, but as he rode closer deLacey saw the first signs of neglect. It wasn’t significant, but it told him many things.
The manor residence itself was a large unadorned rectangular hall of plain undressed fieldstone, pierced at regular intervals by tall, narrow windows which were shielded at night by shutters; by day, if temperate, the shutters were left open. The roof was timber, and ivy swarmed the walls to round the sharp-edged corners into clouds of jade and olive. The courtyard wall also was cloaked in ivy, and the shrub roses Sir Hugh’s wife had tended so assiduously had grown completely out of control, draping intrusive thorn-bedecked canes over walls and onto benches, as well as along the path. Other flowers and herbs choked the infrequently tended gardens: lavender, rosemary, violets, and tansy, along with basil, pennyroyal, camomile and sweet fennel. The shrubbery was in full bloom and quite magnificent, but deLacey was an orderly man and found the unchecked growth unappealing.
He halted his horse at the main gate, somewhat surprised to find it shut. Before Sir Hugh went on Crusade the gate was always open during the daytime. He dismounted, frowning slightly; the gate hung askew, sagging precariously.
A rapping eventually caused the wicket to be opened, and a pair of eyes peered out. DeLacey knew those eyes. “Sim,” he said, “I’ve come to see your lady.”
The faded blue eyes blinked. “Now, my lord?”
He hesitated only a moment. “Yesterday, no doubt.” But the irony was lost on the man, as he expected. “Sim, open the gate. I have business with the Lady Marian.”
“She’s resting, my lord.”
“As well she should be, after her experience. But surely she can spare time to see me; I bring her news of her old nurse.”
“Matilda? Aye, my lord—she was meaning to send someone to Nottingham.” The wicket was shut. Sim unlatched the gate, then dragged it open. The bottom corner dug a ditch in the dirt, unseating the border of courtyard cobblestones. “Come in, my lord. I’ll be taking your horse.”
DeLacey scowled at the loosened cobbles. “This is a travesty, Sim. Does no one care for the place?” He led his horse through and cast a glance around the courtyard. “Sir Hugh would never have allowed his home to become so dilapidated.”
“No, sir.” Sim dragged the gate closed and latched it. “And we didn’t mean for it to, my lord. But with Sir Hugh gone now—”
He cut him off sternly. “You can’t mean to say Marian permits this to happen.”
“No, my lord—but the lady is hard-pressed to see to the running of the place. It was her father who did it, my lord—when he went on Crusade some of the villeins ran off, and the freeholders are seeing to their own first before their lady, my lord.”
It was preposterous. “She has said nothing to me of this.”
“No, my lord—she wouldn’t. But she’s softhearted, my lord—when a freeholder says to her he can’t pay his rent because the taxes have been raised, she absolves him of it. And so when she pays her share of the taxes, there’s little left over, my lord.” Sim shrugged. “She does the best she can. She’s a good lady, my lord.”
“Better than you deserve.” He ignored Sim’s wince and cast another critical glance around the courtyard. “She should have come to me. I’d have seen to it those runaway serfs were caught and punished, and I’ll have a personal word with each and every freeholder. By God, what she needs is a man... a woman isn’t capable of enforcing discipline.”
Sim scratched his chest. “No, my lord.”
“Here, then; my horse.” He handed the reins over. “You will tell the other servants I’ll have a word with them before I go.” DeLacey turned on his heel and strode toward the door, resolving to settle the matter of marriage before he left the manor. It was time Marian was made to see she could not go on alone.
Marian stood outside the door to the room in which Robin slept. She wanted very much to go in and see how he fared, but found herself subject to an almost paralyzing self-consciousness. In Sherwood they had shared much in words and adventure, but here she was among people who knew her, and amidst the memories of expectations held by mother and father. One had been dead for a decade, the other for a year, but she was the only one left to carry on the name and attendant responsibilities. They would expect her to conduct herself with decorum and competence, treating the heir to Huntington with the respect due his rank.
But I don’t feel decorous. I don’t feel competent.
I feel giddy and nervous and foolish. She drew in a deep breath and blew it out noisily. There was more to it than that. She was afraid she would show too much of herself to a man who didn’t care. He said as much before, when he made that comment about fathers parading their daughters before him at Huntington Castle—he needs no more women casting covetous eyes upon him.
Marian made up her mind in a rush to treat him as she would any other man, in spite of his rank and her foolishness, and opened the door before she could change her mind.
He slept. She saw at once he was much improved over the night before. His color was less hectic, he no longer perspired, and he slept without restlessness. Even his breathing was better, lacking the heavy thickness she had disliked so much.
She released the breath she didn’t realize she had been holding, immeasurably relieved to find him so recovered. The tenseness was gone from his features, softening sharp angles and loosening the mouth. He looked younger, much less hard, almost vulnerable.
Joan nodded welcome. “Much better,” she whispered. “I brought him broth, but he was asleep.” She indicated the bowl on the floor beside the mug and pitcher.
Marian did not look at Joan or the bowl of broth. She looked instead at Robin. “I’ll see he eats it. You may go.”
“Aye, lady.” Joan gave up the stool and left as Marian moved to the bedside.
Almost at once Robin opened his eyes. They were bright but not overly so, and perfectly clear. “I do not much care for broth.”
Startled, Marian touched a hand to her chest, then pulled it away. What do I say? How do I act? ... He will think I am a fool, which I am, but—And then, somewhat contemptuously, You henwit—you withstood Will Scarlet! Grow a spine, you silly girl!
He lay there looking at her, waiting for her to speak. Marian scowled, ashamed of her hesitancy, and adopted an imperious tone. “How long have you been awake? And what does it matter how much you care for broth? Our aim is to make certain you keep it where it belongs, not how it tastes on your tongue.”
Robin smiled faintly. “A night’s rest has refined yours.”
Marian sniffed elaborately, though inwardly she was pleased to hear him sound so normal, so at ease. “It is a habit of men to hide how bad they feel both before they fall ill, and immediately after. How am I to know you aren’t near to death?”
“Because I am not. I have had this fever before, which is more than you can say.” His tone acquired a dryness. “A gift of the Crusade.”
She nodded gravely. “And will it now conquer England?”
“I pray not,” he said fervently, then hitched himself upward to slump against piled pillows. “Is it cold?”
“What—the broth? I thought you wanted none of it.”
“I said I do not much care for it. I did not say I wouldn’t take it. As it is the only thing I have been offered since I arrived—”
Marian relaxed; he was making it easy for her. “And that with excess clumsiness,” she chided pointedly. “You might have cracked your skull.”
“Did I fall off, then?” He considered it. “Perhaps that is why my shoulder hurts.” He massaged the joint in question.
“Yes, you fell off... Sim and Hal brought you back here to bed.” She sat down on the stool, delighted by the lightness of his tone. The cyncism and moodiness had vanished with the fever, leaving behind another man. She had seen flashes of him before, but now the mask and walls were discarded. “You should be grateful to us, rather than insulting our hospitality.”
“And the bed is lumpy, too... or is that my spine?” He shifted slightly, frowning. “No—it is the bed.”
“Not so bad as the bed you made me,” she retorted. “Even you admitted that.”
Robin smiled ruefully. “Then we’ve suffered equally.”
Marian raised her chin in challenge, working hard to suppress the joyous laughter that filled up her spirit. This is not so hard after all. “It seems—”
A rap at the door interrupted. Joan put her head in. “Lady Marian? I’m sorry to disturb you—but the sheriff is here to see you.”
She was stunned. All the high good humor dissipated instantly. “Now?”
Joan nodded.
“He wastes no time,” Robin murmured.
Inwardly Marian agreed, but would not say so to Robin as her jubilance drained away. She rose, shaking out the folds in her kirtle as Joan departed; she had put on her second best of bright blue linen, bound with a Norman girdle, and washed and combed out her hair. Rebraided for propriety’s sake, the thick, still-damp plait hung to her hips.
“I will come back later to see how you fare.” At the door she stopped and turned back briefly, indicating the reviled broth. “With food I trust will be far more appropriate to your exalted station, my lord.” But the amusement dissolved instantly as she thought about William deLacey.
Tuck was laboring over the last of the sheriffs letters when Walter came into the chamber. He glanced up briefly to acknowledge the man, then raised a delaying finger as he carefully added the final flourish. Deftly he sanded the vellum, then moved it aside to dry. He was satisfied; the work was good.
Tuck turned to Walter with a smile, and found the man’s face ashen. “What is it?” he asked on a rush.
“That man...” Walter swallowed heavily, collapsing against the door. “I know I said he would do it, but—somehow ... I just didn’t believe he would.”
Tuck frowned. “Would what?”
“Hang that man.”
All the breath left Tuck’s lungs as horror possessed his soul. He wanted to ask what hanging, what man, what did Walter mean?—but he knew. He knew. The Sheriff of Nottingham, to whom he personally had given the execution order, had hanged the man after all.
“No,” Tuck whispered.
“Yes,” Walter countered. “Just after dawn.”
“But—he couldn‘t—he said he wouldn’t—when I went to him—when I told him...” Tuck felt a witless fool, unable to form complete sentences or thoughts. “The man is dead?”
Walter nodded. “It took him more time than I care to count, but he died. And then Prince John and the rest of his people rode out toward Lincoln. The sheriff rode out, too, leaving me to see to it the man was taken down.”
Tuck’s staring eyes burned. “An innocent man...”
Walter scrubbed at his face. His tone was more normal now, as if sharing the horror with Tuck had helped him recover. “Not innocent, not truly innocent—why else d’ye suppose he was in the dungeon?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “But not Will Scarlet, either.”
Trembling, Tuck sketched the sign of the cross. “God forgive him ...”
Walter cocked an eyebrow. “Which one? The dead man, or the sheriff?”
Tuck folded his hands and bent his neck, rocking in an unconscious bid for comfort. “Oh Father, oh my gentle Lord—”
Walter sighed. “Never mind. I’ll leave you to your prayers.” He lifted the latch noisily and slipped back out the door.
Unsteadily, Tuck got up from his bench. He trembled all over. In a daze of shock and horror he followed Walter out of the chamber, then made his way shakily down the corridor to the tiny alcove housing his pallet.
The chamber was dim, unlighted, to save the candle for emergencies. Tuck felt around with his foot, found the chamber pot, then was thoroughly and painfully sick.
DeLacey found, to his relief, the interior of Ravenskeep’s hall not so unruly as the courtyard and its surrounding wall. The earthen floor was still beaten hard, with clean rushes mixed with sweet herbs spread overall; the plastered walls remained in good order, except where smoke stained the lime-whitened plaster as smoke always did; and the familiar twin lines of timber posts still marched from front to back, dividing the hall into three separate sections, though only one was screened off to provide housing for the household servants. One shadowed staircase gave entry to the second floor where the family lived: only Marian, now.
Because Sir Hugh had been a knight, not lord or sh
eriff, there was no chair or table upon the dais. In fact, there was nothing upon the dais except a single bench, and that pushed back against the wall. A screened passageway led off from one side to the adjoining kitchen, with additional assorted outbuildings housing pantry, buttery, and other necessities.
He was left alone to wait, which actually he preferred; it gave him time to prepare the proper approach. Marian had proved increasingly subject to fits of independence as well as forthright speech; it was time he regained control and took her in hand.
Her voice was clear and cool, divulging nothing more than simple politeness. “My lord Sheriff—forgive me. I did not mean to keep you waiting.”
He turned hastily, startled into a genuine smile as Marian came down the final two steps into the hall. And then the smile died as he saw her face, so scratched and bruised and welted.
My God—“Marian.” DeLacey lurched forward and grasped her hands, pulling them out of her skirts. He meant to say many things, all of them offering comfort and protection, but he was struck speechless by the magnitude of his realization: another man had put his hands upon the woman he wanted. “Marian—”
She jerked loose and moved a step away, color spilling out of her face. Her eyes took on a hard glitter he found unattractive. “My lord—”
“My God—what do you expect me to do—?” He followed, ignoring the flash of trepidation in her eyes, to catch and cup her jaw. “My God---” In anger was incoherence and a helpless determination: he wanted to find Will Scarlet himself and crush the peasant’s throat. “What that man did—”
Marian clasped his wrists and stripped his hands away. Deliberately, she said, “Please don’t touch me.”
It fanned the flame higher, searing away the shock to bare a hotter, more brilliant fury. Scarlet had done this. Scarlet would pay for this. “I will kill him myself.”
Something glinted in Marian’s eyes: icy self-possession with a hint of contempt. “If you can catch him.”
Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] Page 47