Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  His tone was odd, a mixture of restraint and subtle conviction. He did not make light of the question, nor did he attempt to couch his words in chivalrous courtesy. “He wants you, Marian.”

  She sighed. “So he says, when it is the lands he wants—”

  “No.” He cut her off. “DeLacey wants you.”

  She grimaced. “Because of what I have—”

  “Because of what you are.”

  She scowled at him. “What am I, then? Sir Hugh FitzWalter’s daughter, ward to King Richard—”

  “Marian.” His face was stripped free of the mask. What she saw now was blazing, naked emotion. “What you are is a woman he wants very badly in bed. And I think he would do anything to make sure he gets you there.”

  Her shocked denial was instantaneous. “Oh no—”

  “Oh yes.”

  She stared at him, undone by his conviction. This was nothing she had anticipated, this brutal, male truth. “I—don’t understand ...” And she didn’t, not really, not fully. She was only beginning to, and it frightened her very badly.

  His smile was wintry. “I am not the one to explain in elaborate detail why a man, any man, might feel as deLacey does.”

  “Why not?”

  Robin sighed. “Helen of Troy.”

  It baffled her utterly. “What?”

  “Helen of Troy. Have you no knowledge of the classics?”

  “Of course I do; I was told all the stories. Helen was married to Menelaus of Sparta, until Paris of Troy cast his eyes upon her and fell in love with her at once. He stole her and took her to Troy. Agamemnon and Menelaus followed to get her back, and Troy was destroyed.”

  Robin nodded. “For the love of a beautiful woman.”

  “Yes, but—” She stopped. “Oh no--”

  “Yes.”

  “But—I’m not—”

  “Ask any man,” he said.

  Her heart beat very hard. She could barely breathe around it. “I am not Helen... and William deLacey is not Menelaus.”

  “Given leave, he will be. He most certainly plans to be.”

  Marian felt cold. She shivered. “This is too much. Matilda—now this—” She touched a trembling fingertip to a welt on her cheek. Softly, she said, “I could never be Helen.”

  “And I would rather not be Cassandra, crying doom throughout the land.” Robin rolled his head against the post. “What will you tell him, then?”

  Marian smiled grimly. “That I will not be his Helen.”

  “There may be no choice.”

  “I am the king’s ward, not his. Not Prince John’s. There is no one to tell me what I must do.”

  “Propriety,” he said. “Society, as well. Eleanor marries Gisbourne. DeLacey will marry you.”

  “You listened,” she accused.

  He did not deny it.

  Marian scraped the hair back from her face. “But there is no need—Will Scarlet did nothing!”

  “It will be his excuse. That—and your father’s wishes.”

  Marian shut her eyes. “You should never have told me.”

  Robin did not answer.

  She looked at him. His face was stark and pale. Bleakness crowded his eyes. “You’re ill,” she said suddenly, thrusting to her feet. “I’ll have Sim and Hal—”

  “No.” He did not move. “I am not ill.”

  “Men will often say—”

  “Let it be,” he told her. “I am not ill.”

  Marian looked at his unshod feet and found it incongruous. “Where are your boots?”

  “Where you—or someone—put them.”

  Irresolute, she wavered. “I can’t leave you here.”

  He quirked a single eyebrow. “Why not? I am comfortable.”

  “You are the Earl of Huntington’s son—one day you will be the earl ... and you are sitting in a dusty hall amidst rushes that need changing.” Inconsequentially she added, “And wearing no shoes.”

  He smiled. “I am comfortable.”

  Rushes littered her kirtle. She knew she had to go, to leave him here, or anywhere, just to regain her composure, to consider the things he had told her. But she lingered a moment more, stiff and awkward and wretched, thinking of repercussions. Unlike Paris, or Helen of Troy. “You said—any man.”

  The light died out of his eyes. “I am not any man.”

  She was suddenly ashamed she had asked, that she had implied. She had not meant him precisely, but men in general; she was only awed by the idea that he believed her akin to Helen.

  “I didn’t mean—” she began, but broke it off raggedly. No—perhaps I did. And perhaps he recognized it.

  Marian turned gracelessly and walked toward the stairs.

  William deLacey did not like the look of the sky, or the feel of the air. He sensed an understated power, as if lightning threatened to strike. A cool wind blew out of the oak wood and across the open meadow to buffet the track, gathering dirt and debris as a child gathers a handful of pebbles to throw at the first unwitting soul who crosses his path.

  He disliked the taste of the day, but he disliked more the taste in his mouth: bitter gall. Marian had begun to mimic Eleanor to an alarming degree; clearly she expected her own desires to play a role in the decision of her marriage. It was utter nonsense that a woman would be allowed to say him yea or nay; he was a good match for her, and his able administration would soon set the manor to rights. Ravenskeep had fallen into disrepair because she had no husband; serfs had run away, freeholders denied her the rents, those who remained to help were a lazy, unskilled lot who could not even manage to hang a gate properly.

  And a year without a father had eroded her self-discipline. She required a firm hand if she were to be the kind of wife he deserved.

  DeLacey’s mount shied sideways as a cluster of leaves blew by. The wind grew stronger, snatching at his cloak. He steadied the horse, squinted to study the sky, and considered perhaps it might be best if he went back to Ravenskeep to wait out the storm.

  He discarded the idea at once. Marian needed time to see he intended only the best for her. If he returned to her now, he would only be adding fuel to the fire. Better to let her calm down. He had other plans to put into motion.

  DeLacey sighed wearily. “Grant me patience to deal with women.”

  Sir Guy of Gisbourne was nonplussed to learn he could not have the loan of a cart and driver to return to Nottingham just yet—a storm, he was told; wait until morning. It left him considerably out of sorts. He wanted very badly to return to Nottingham. Aside from his normal duties, to which Walter would not attend quite so assiduously as he, Gisbourne desired very much to place himself back in deLacey’s confidence. He needed to know what the sheriff intended to do, so he could be in position to tell Prince John what he needed to know about the state of the sheriffs conscience and the limits of his ambition.

  “There are no limits,” Gisbourne muttered. “He’d want the throne, were there a chance to take it.”

  There was not, of course. Unless the Lionheart proved also a lion in bed and got a son on Berengaria, John would inherit; precisely as John intended... although Gisbourne believed the Count of Mortain might do whatever was required to expedite the succession. And if John were not named heir—he and his brother did not always agree—there was always dead Geoffrey’s son, Arthur of Brittany.

  Gisbourne slumped against the pillows. Such thoughts were new to him, who had never wasted his time on intrigue past that which the sheriff employed in the day-to-day administration of his office. Gisbourne was not an innocent; he fully understood that intrigue was required. He simply had avoided it himself.

  That time now was finished. He had involved himself. He would involve himself further. The reward would be worth it.

  William of Cloudisley had gone to the fringe of the forest, where sparse skirts met meadow and track. Sherwood Forest thinned near Ravenskeep, offering considerably less cover, but Adam Bell had brought Clym of the Clough and Cloudisley—as well as his newfound followers
—to try for better prey.

  “They won’t expect us here,” he’d said, “and it’s not near Nottingham.”

  Little John, very glum, sat against a tree trunk. “It’s madness,” he muttered.

  Will Scarlet turned on him. “When will you understand? This is our sort of life, now. You can’t go back to your sheep. You can’t go back to your fairs.”

  Much, squatting mutely, watched the giant with avid eyes, as if waiting for Little John to say what he should do.

  Clym of the Clough laughed harshly. “Give it up, Scarlet—he’s a boy in a man’s body. The simpleton is more of a man than him—I saw how he defended that horse.”

  “My horse,” Scarlet muttered.

  Alan of the Dales, perched upon a stump, merely shook his head. “And none of you a horseman.”

  “And you are?” Scarlet challenged. “I don’t see you on horseback.”

  “Because you stole my mount.” Alan struck a muted chord on his lute. “You see—”

  “Quiet,” Bell snapped. “Hold your noise, minstrel.”

  One-handed Wat laughed softly. “I’ll break it, if you like.”

  Bell shook his head as Alan thrust his lute behind his back. “We’ve no need for a musician... he can go on his way.”

  “I’m as wanted as you are,” Alan retorted. “None of you lay with the sheriffs daughter.”

  Will Scarlet grunted. “Was she worth being outlawed over?”

  “Hush,” Bell said as a bird call sounded. “It’s Cloudisley.”

  It was. The handsome young man made his way back through the trees and squatted down before them to drink from a waterskin. He shook his head as they waited, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “A rich man, I’ll wager, but not for the likes of us.”

  “One man—” Clym began.

  Bell lifted a silencing hand. “We’ve bows. We outnumber him. Why do you say so, William?”

  Cloudisley smiled crookedly. “He’s the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

  Scarlet swore even as Little John shut his eyes. “Let me have him, then.”

  “No.” Bell’s tone was level. “He may be one man, and easy enough to kill—but it would bring down Prince John upon us. Killing his personal sheriff would make us too dangerous—they’d want us taken at once.”

  “We’re wanted now,” Scarlet said.

  Little John shook his head. “Fools, all of you.”

  The others ignored him. Clym rubbed his jaw. “We could just rob him—leave him alive—”

  “And make him angry,” Wat said. “Angrier than he is. He’ll set all his pet Normans on us. He’d just as soon take us now, but if we did that—” He shook his head. “They’d never stop looking. Why make it harder?”

  Adam Bell nodded. “We’ve learned not to press our lord high sheriff ... he can’t stop all thievery, but if he took it into his head to concentrate on us, he’d catch us for sure. No—we’ll let him be. Sometimes the largest fish can pull in the unwary fisherman. And I’m not a man who can swim.”

  Alan’s expression was serious. “He’s not a man who tolerates slights and insults. Bell’s right—we’d do best to let him go.”

  Scarlet laughed harshly. “Speaks a man born to the life!”

  “Were you?” Alan countered. “They’re hanging you for murder, not banditry.”

  “Enough,” Bell said. “It’s decided, then: we let the man ride on.”

  “I’d do it,” Scarlet muttered.

  Clym set the end of his bow against Scarlet’s shoulder. “We might just as well kill you.”

  Bell stood up and gestured for Cloudisley to gather the waterskins. “We go on. There will be others to rob.”

  Much jumped up and melted into the trees before anyone could speak. Bell stared after him.

  Little John, rising, nodded at the man. “You’ll not tell the boy what to do. He’s wiser than the rest of us—he comes and goes with no one knowing.”

  “He could kill the sheriff,” Scarlet muttered.

  “But he won’t,” Little John said.

  “Off with you,” Bell suggested. “We’ve other fish to catch.”

  Robin sat against the post as Marian left the hall. He felt no inclination to rise and follow her, or to rise and go out of the door, or to do anything save sit there while he battled the demon again. It reared up before him, then struck low and hard into his loins, as if to castrate him.

  They had done that to him already.

  He drew his legs in tightly, warding loins and belly, then locked his arms around knees and pressed his brow very hard into the weave of the hosen.

  He was whole in body. No knife had been used on him because the threat had been enough: how would Malik Ric like to receive as a gift the manhood parts of his most beloved companion? And so he had shut off everything, building walls and masks and facades, castrating himself in his mind until he was dead and empty and neuter, unable to look at a woman, unable to think of a woman, unable to see a woman when she stood directly before him.

  For nearly two years he had not lain with a woman. He had not even dreamed of it.

  Until the night in Sherwood Forest he had not believed it possible he could ever respond again. He had done his work too well.

  He lifted his head, sweating. The pain was exquisite. Harshly, he repeated, “I am not any man.”

  Forty-Five

  Tuck knelt before the altar in Nottingham Castle’s damp chapel, trying to muster the courage to face the sheriff and tell him what he felt. He was not a priest and could hardly consider himself anyone’s conscience; nevertheless he was quite convinced that William deLacey had seriously miscarried his duties in the hanging of a man who wasn’t Will Scarlet.

  That his own execution order had been the instrument by which the deed was done troubled Tuck deeply, but that sin was for him to confess before God and a real priest. Right now he wanted to stand before deLacey and find out precisely what had occurred, but that took courage, and Tuck knew he lacked the kind of confidence required to brace a man as strong-willed and authoritarian as the sheriff.

  Behind him, the narrow wooden door scraped open. A shaft of corridor torchlight crept into the chapel. “He’s back,” Walter said, “and he’s asking for you.”

  Tuck’s belly clenched. He heaved himself up from his knees and turned to face Walter. “Where am I to go?”

  “His solar,” Walter told him. “He wants this kept private, which means you might need to spend even more time on your knees. He doesn’t do things in private unless the servants aren’t to know about them, and that means—”

  “I know,” Tuck said hollowly. “Like letting the wrong man hang.”

  Walter sighed. “You’ll have to decide how important this is to your future, Brother Tuck. There is no man in the sheriffs service who hasn’t had to examine his conscience more than once—unless it’s Sir Guy, and he has no imagination at all. He just carries out his duties and thinks only of saving coin.” Walter stepped aside and held the door open wider. “Come, Brother Tuck—you’ll know what you must do when he tells you what he wants. You’ll do it, or you won’t—and that’s between you and your God.”

  “And Abbot Martin,” Tuck murmured glumly.

  Walter smiled a little. “Church politics, I’ve heard, are far worse than administrative ones.”

  “I ignored them.” Tuck squeezed between Walter and the doorjamb. “But I can’t ignore this.”

  Briefly Walter touched his shoulder. “You’re a good man, Brother. You’ll do what’s right.”

  Will I? Tuck wondered. Or don’t I just do what everyone else tells me to do, because it’s easier?

  Ravenskeep was a plain manor house, not a castle. Its second storey was little more than a shell: timber framing mixed with plaster and some brickwork, providing walls considerably less permanent than the thick masonry in castles such as Nottingham and Huntington. But it did allow the members of the FitzWalter household a measure of privacy, for instead of relying on thin screen partitions to
delineate specific areas such as one end of the hall for Sir Hugh’s family and the other end for the servants with little more than habit dividing the two areas, as was the case in other households, the upper storey provided proper rooms.

  Marian retreated to her own room as she fled the brutal intensity in Robin’s eyes, and stayed there for some while trying to sort out her thoughts. There was a myriad of emotions to deal with, each deserving of its own time: grief over Matilda’s death; the anger and trepidation caused by William deLacey; the residue of Scarlet’s actions, which she time and again pushed to the back of her mind because her vulnerability frightened her; and lastly Robin himself, who had managed without apparent intention to plunge her into a vast, abiding confusion.

  The king’s continuing absence placed her in a precarious position, because it would be simple enough for a man of deLacey’s authority and willingness to circumvent the constraints of her wardship. With her reputation in shreds, regardless of the truth, society would demand she do something to repair it. Two possibilities therefore presented themselves: she could marry a man willing to claim the bastard she knew could not exist, or she could give up her worldly holdings and retreat to a nunnery.

  Neither alternative appealed to Marian, who sat upon her bed with her spine against the wall and hugged her knees. “There is a third,” she muttered. “I wait for the king to be released, and plead my case to him.”

  But she placed little hope in that. She sincerely doubted that Richard, upon his return to England after a year of imprisonment and a year on Crusade, would be much interested in the plight of a simple knight’s daughter.

  It is unfortunate I am not wealthy, she thought. The king sold off enough titles and knighthoods to pay for his Crusade, so I doubt he would cavil at money offered to buy a woman’s freedom.

  Once, she had been wealthy, at least her family had; but on the heels of Richard’s coronation in 1189, the new king had declared himself eager to recapture Jerusalem from the hands of the Infidel Turks, and had called for donations—as well as instituting new taxation policies and the sale of titles and knighthoods—to support the Third Crusade. Sir Hugh FitzWalter had sworn on the deaths of his wife and only son to go on Crusade if one was ever undertaken, and he had robbed his own coffers to provide his new king with the wherewithal to go.