Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  His generosity had subsequently robbed his only remaining child of father and coin; save for the Ravenskeep lands and rents, Marian had little of the former FitzWalter wealth. With the king out of the country and Prince John instituting his own taxation policies, coupled with ransom demands, England herself was not much better off. Marian could see no advantage to bleeding her villeins and freeholders dry, so she had curtailed demands for regular rents. It reduced her circumstances, but she was willing to live under strict economies. It meant little to her that the main gate sagged, or the cobbles were coming up. Things would improve when England’s king returned.

  “If,” she murmured.

  Meanwhile, there was Robin.

  “Oh God...” Marian shut her eyes tightly. Helen of Troy, was she? With William deLacey desiring to act the part of Helen’s husband, Menelaus of Sparta. Who then was Paris, the Trojan hero who seduced Helen away to the fabled city that later fell?

  The answer seemed implicit. Marian tried to banish the vision, but the only prospect she saw had a fall of sun-whitened hair and wore the face of Robert of Locksley.

  Her smile was bitter. “He would laugh,” she declared.

  William deLacey received Brother Tuck in his private solar, a small second-storey chamber on the west side of Nottingham Castle. It boasted two splayed windows cut deeply into the walls so that the room was illuminated much of the time by natural sunlight; just now, with the storm coming on, the light was a sickly gray that appeared to match the monk’s mood.

  The sheriff himself admitted Tuck, personally offered to pour him wine, which was politely declined, and gestured for Tuck to seat himself upon a padded bench.

  As he pulled out his own chair, the sheriff assessed Tuck’s demeanor. It was obvious to deLacey the fat young man was exceedingly nervous, and he believed it had to do with something more than being invited to the lord high sheriff of Nottingham’s solar.

  He sat down, distributing his weight so as to appear relaxed and unthreatening. There was no need to put Tuck on guard before it was necessary. It might not be required at all. Tuck was a timid man.

  DeLacey smiled warmly. “It gives me the greatest of pleasures to share some good news with you, Brother Tuck. Do you know of the Lady Marian FitzWalter, Sir Hugh FitzWalter’s daughter?”

  Tuck’s cowlike eyes expressed puzzlement. “My lord—I am not of Nottingham. My village is in the south of England.”

  DeLacey nodded. “Permit me, then, to describe her to you as a pious, lovely lady, as kind of heart and sweet of temperament as a young woman could be.”

  Tuck nodded baffled approval.

  DeLacey smiled widely, exuding appropriate pride and pleasure. “She has consented to become my wife.”

  The monk’s thick brown eyebrows shot up. “My lord—my congratulations. If she is as you say, surely you are a fortunate man.”

  “Most fortunate,” deLacey agreed. “I was good friends with her father, Sir Hugh, and have watched the little girl become a woman. It pleases me a great deal to know I shall be the one to care for her well-being.”

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  DeLacey was pleased. Things proceeded as planned. “Particularly in view of the circumstances.”

  “My—lord?”

  The sheriff allowed an expression of sorrow tempered with anger to touch his features. “The Lady Marian was the victim of unfortunate circumstances, Brother Tuck—it was she whom the murderer, Will Scarlet, abducted. He took her to Sherwood Forest and kept her there overnight. She is now safely back at her home—I have just come from there—but is of course understandably upset by what has happened. She is quite concerned with what people will say—people gossip so much, you know—and so it was decided she might best be served if she married me sooner than anticipated.”

  Tuck was, if possible, looking more confused than ever. “Of course, my lord. It must have been a terrible thing.” He paled a little and took a deep breath. “About this Will Scarlet—”

  The sheriff cut him off smoothly. “Naturally, it is my desire to put the lady’s mind at ease, and to silence those overbusy tongues. Therefore I have offered to wed the lady immediately.” DeLacey leaned forward before Tuck could begin again. “This is why I require your service, Brother Tuck. We have a delicate situation made worse by an unforeseen absence, and an illness.”

  “My lord?”

  “You see, Nottingham has two priests... but one is on pilgrimage, and the other is quite ill. In fact, he might die.” The sheriff shook his head. “Pray God he recovers.”

  Tuck crossed himself.

  DeLacey sat back. “You see the difficulty, do you not? Here is a lady whose honor has been besmirched and can only be regained through honest, if hasty, marriage... you understand, of course, there might be—issue—from this unfortunate misadventure.” He sighed deeply and shook his head. “The poor lady... she is understandably distressed, of course—can you blame her for desiring to put to rights whatever she can?”

  “N-no. My lord. But—”

  “Therefore it falls to you.” He leaned forward again, clasping his hands between his knees. “Of course you must understand, Brother Tuck ... this would not be a real marriage, but simply a proxy ceremony. Naturally there would be no consummation, for neither of us wishes to commit adultery.” Consternation crossed his face. “I’m sorry, Brother—I know this must be distressing for you—but think how the lady feels. All she desires right now is to marry at once. Since that cannot be done, I offer a temporary solution: let her believe herself married—and everyone else believe it as well—so that her mind will be at rest. Then once the furor has died down and she feels more comfortable, a proper wedding presided over by a true priest will bind us in the sight of God.”

  Tuck wrung his hands. Dampness sheened his fleshy face. “But—my lord... will she not question my presence?”

  DeLacey smiled faintly. “Not if we tell her you are a priest.”

  “That would be a lie.”

  The sheriff nodded regretfully. “I realize how distasteful that would be to you, Brother—you are a devout and good-hearted man—but what of the lady? She is in an agony of faith, Brother, believing herself defiled. I would save her that distress.”

  Tuck nodded absently. “But—if you didn’t... if there were no ...” He reddened. “My lord Sheriff—”

  DeLacey rescued him. “Many a bridegroom has drunk too much at his wedding feast. Either that—or I will fall conveniently ill. I have no wish to compromise the lady, Brother Tuck—although that has already been done, of course. I want only to relieve her of her great distress. I believed this might be the most painless way, but if you feel it is asking too much of you—”

  “My lord—”

  “—or perhaps of God...” DeLacey sighed heavily and shook his head. “Surely God would not blame us for a small lie, provided nothing more was done.” He appealed to Tuck. “Do you think?”

  Tuck was trembling. “My lord—already I have lied before God by allowing that poor old woman to believe I was a priest—”

  “Precisely,” deLacey agreed. “What more harm in this?”

  “My lord—”

  “The old woman is dead and beyond harm—this poor lady is very young with many years before her in which to castigate herself for being so defiled... would you have her suffer so long for that?”

  Tuck was breathing hard. “But she wouldn’t really be married—”

  “Of course not.” DeLacey paused. “But if she believed it, and she proved to be with child, would it not mitigate the sin of bearing a bastard child?”

  “But it would be a bastard!”

  “Only until a real priest could perform the ceremony. And I assure you, that shall be done in time.”

  Tuck wiped at his sweating face, shutting his eyes tightly. Beneath his breath he murmured a prayer.

  DeLacey waited. He knew better than to press too hard for an answer; the fat monk was the sort of naive innocent who would need to be made to b
elieve the decision was his own.

  “My lord...” Tuck sighed, his massive shoulders drooping. “My lord, this is wrong—”

  “I would not ask such a thing for myself,” deLacey said softly. “This is for the lady, a true and gentle soul who deserves far better than what she has received.”

  Tuck seemed almost to shrink. “Very well,” he whispered. “But I pray you find a priest before the week is out.”

  “I do assure you, Brother, I will write at once to Abbot Martin.” He rose, extending his arm toward the door. “I know you will wish to go to your devotions. Please pray for the lady, Brother Tuck. I know this sits ill with you, but when you ask God for forgiveness mention the lady’s name. I’m sure he will understand.”

  Tuck rose as deLacey opened the door. Much diminished in spirit and posture, he made his way to the door and into the corridor.

  DeLacey dropped a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Light a candle for me.” He watched the monk depart, then shut the door decisively and crossed back to his wine. He drank the cup dry, then contemplated the wan daylight outside the solar. Absently he said, “Easier than I thought. Praise God for fools such as he.” And sketched a cross in the air.

  Robin toiled his way back up the stairs to the upper floor, lingered irresolutely at the open door leading into his borrowed room, then went in search of Marian. He meant to take his leave, though he felt little like it because of the aftereffects of the fever, but he saw no sense in staying on. It was difficult for both of them now, because he had made it that way with his candor.

  He had not intended to be so frank, to tell her, even obliquely, what she could do to a man. But it was the simple truth: she was a Celtic Helen with every bit of the beauty and power the tales ascribed to the Queen of Sparta. That she was unaware of her effect merely made it more compelling. He did not know how he could have ignored it on the dais at Huntington Castle, so attuned to her was he now, except to acknowledge two things: then, he had been a willing victim of his own defiance of nature, his personal rejection of desire in mind and body; now, he was most assuredly an unwilling victim of his longing to be free of that same rejection, to express both physically and emotionally his need of a woman.

  Richard would laugh. Richard would offer—himself. Deep in Robin’s belly self-contempt writhed.

  He found Marian in a small chamber not far from his own, digging through a chest. The door was ajar; he stood in the opening and watched as she dragged clothing forth. A tunic and hosen, dull and faded with time. She held up the tunic, shook it free of dust, then sat back onto her heels and crumpled it in her lap.

  “No,” she said softly. “Hugh was younger, and smaller.”

  He knew then what she did. “There is no need,” he told her. “What I am wearing will do.”

  Startled, she twitched, then stared at him wide-eyed. Lost in the past, he saw; was he so like her dead brother?

  Marian smiled faintly and shook her head. “I thought nothing of it, until only moments ago. But I know how I felt when I was free of the dirt and mud... I thought perhaps you might like to bathe, and put on fresh clothing.” She held up the faded tunic. “You are taller than Hugh. Unless—” Her face brightened. “Yes! There are my father’s things...” She bundled the tunic and hosen back into the trunk, then rose and shook out her skirts. “He was taller and broader, but better too large than too small. Here—come this way.”

  “Marian—” But she was by him, closer than she had ever been, if only briefly. “Marian—” He turned and followed, meaning merely to say her nay, then ask for a horse instead. But she was ahead of him already and opening a door that screeched on rusted hinges. Marian went in and left him in the corridor.

  He followed. The chamber was larger than his own, taking up a corner of the hall. The bed was enormous, curtained by blue-dyed fabric; three chests sat against walls. “Here,” she said. “He would never begrudge you this.”

  He stopped just inside. “What of you? If these are all you have of him—”

  “I have memories,” she said firmly. “Those you cannot take—but clothing does not do well when packed away in the dark.” She knelt, undid the hasp, pushed open the lid. “Finest chainsil,” she said, pulling forth the creamy linen sherte, “and tunic, and hosen. You have boots and wrappings.”

  “Yes,” he answered gravely. “Marian—I only want a horse.”

  It was blunter than he intended. She gripped the edge of the trunk, a pile of cloth in her lap, and stared at him fiercely. Her expression he found infinitely appealing: desperately proud, with an underlying hint of exasperation. “If you please, I have been chatelaine of Ravenskeep since my mother died. My brother and father are dead—will you at least allow me to carry out the duties of a host as they are meant to be?”

  Robin sighed. “I only meant—”

  “I know.” She nodded. “I know.”

  She did not, he knew. She couldn’t.

  She rose, shutting the trunk lid. In her hands were sherte, tunic, and hosen. “This is not Huntington Castle.”

  It nearly struck him dumb. “By God, Marian—I was a prisoner of the Turks!” For him, it was enough; he hoped it was for her. He had not meant to show so much of himself.

  Color ebbed in her face. “I’m sorry.”

  “I am.” He took the things from her hands. “Have the bath drawn, then,” he told her, “but no servant to wash my back. I’ll do it myself.”

  Mutely she nodded and went by him into the corridor, calling quietly for Joan.

  Robin stood there wondering how he could find the words to say a proper farewell. He had no gift with soft language, for he spoke too little; most of the women he had known hadn’t wanted him to speak at all save with his body, which had done its duty by them with eloquence enough. The ladies of his rank he had addressed sparingly, preferring his own company to the exuberance of feasts and celebratory dances, knowing what they portended for an unwed man of his station. He had never been a lecher or a man for dallying; what little charm he might once have possessed was burned out in the Holy Land, and its cinder drowned in blood.

  The day was dying, muted by the wind. “Insh’Allah, he murmured, thinking it nearly time for the muezzin to call evening prayer.

  Then, “No—this is England—” and realized with a start he was still a prisoner; that Richard’s ransoming of him may have bought his body free, but only part of his mind.

  Trembling, he gripped the clothing tightly, wanting to rend it to shreds. “Let me be free of it—let me be free of it!” And in English, very plainly, “There is no God but God—”

  Forty-Six

  Wind was a wolf in Ravenskeep, howling across the hills with a shrill, keening fury. Sim and Hal came into the hall littered with straw and leaves, eyes teary from gritty dust, and told Marian they had seen to securing the horses and the stable buildings, the chicken house, and the rest of the livestock, though the sheep were out on the meadow: Tam and Stephen, they said, were seeing to the sheep. It was a bad storm coming; couldn’t she hear its noise?

  Indeed she could. It whined about the timber roof and lunged through open shutters to flour the hall with rush motes and pungent dust. Marian sighed and nodded, then gathered up the household servants and set them to closing and latching the shutters. Even shut up, the hall was hardly wind-tight, but there were things they could do to prevent accidents and damage. She doled out extra candles to ward off the early, unnatural dark, and cautioned the servants against leaving them lighted in places the wind might reach. With a timber and plaster upper storey, they dared not risk fire.

  “Lady Marian?” It was Joan, come to speak of their guest. “He’s asleep after his bath—all wrung out from the fever—but his shutter’s undone. Even if he sleeps through the storm, he’ll have half of Nottinghamshire in his room before dawn. Shall I go in and close it?”

  “No.” Marian cast a glance around the hall to see that all was in order. “No—I’ll go. See to the kitchen, Joan.” She gathered up
her skirts and climbed the stairs to the second storey, fighting down once again the familiar nervousness when she thought of facing Robin. This must stop, she told herself. You are behaving as a lackwit.

  And it had gotten worse, not better, since he had confused her with his candor, making her think of things she had never thought of at all, save when a drunken, vulgar Prince John had made lewd comments at Huntington. Initially she had been hesitant merely because of Robin’s rank: In Sherwood things had been much different, allowing her to see him in a new light, until he had alarmed her with his unexpected frankness.

  Marian paused outside his door, listened for sound that would mark him awake, then slowly and quietly opened it. She found him as Joan had said: sleeping very soundly, with the wind blowing into the room. It snagged and threw off the coverlet tossed across his legs and stripped the hair from his face.

  She crossed the chamber at once, peeled the shutters off the wall, and set the bar into place. The wind rattled it stubbornly, trying to break the seal.

  Marian meant to leave... but she stopped to look at him, to mark the slackness of his face that but an hour or so before had been tight and pale and old, far older than his years.

  Any man, he had said, would want her in his bed. But he was not any man.

  Humiliation stung her; not that he wouldn’t want her, but that she could think of it. Quickly Marian left the room, shut the door behind her, and went down the stairs to the hall with a word to Joan that she desired privacy; she would go to the oratory to spend time alone with her prayers.

  “In this storm?” Joan asked, amazed.

  Marian smiled a little. “You know I’ve always liked storms.”