Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

DeLacey nodded, smiling. “You will become my son, Sir Guy, in the sight of God and the law... any benefits accruing to me in the future shall also accrue to you, so long as you remain in my service.” He laughed briefly. “Of course, we know the service shall be long, and your position secure. I have no intention of dismissing the man who tends my business so well.”

  Gisbourne’s smile was a frozen rictus. Why doesn’t he just bury me now?

  DeLacey assessed his expression, his own assuming a more benevolent cast. “But you would do best to rest. I won’t tire you with conversation now. If you are feeling better tomorrow, I’ll have Eleanor visit. I know she will be quite pleased to talk of future plans.”

  Gisbourne nodded stiffly as deLacey turned and went out of the chamber, pulling the door closed. As it thumped shut, Gisbourne heard the lid of his coffin being pegged down.

  He dragged the pillow out from beneath his head and dropped it over his face. I wish I had the wherewithal to smother myself.

  Will Scarlet’s face assumed a peculiar ashen hue. “Is it true?” he rasped. “The king knighted you?”

  “At Acre.” Robin left it at that.

  Alan nodded, smiling. “Where the Lionheart broke down the Saracen walls along with Saracen hearts.”

  “You,” Clym said; as much a challenge as a comment. “A pretty boy like you?”

  “Leave it,” Adam Bell said, though his gaze was fixed on Robin. “If ’tis true—”

  “It is,” Alan interposed.

  Heedless, Bell went on. “—and you are a knight, what were you doing in the depths of Sherwood Forest?”

  “The woman,” Scarlet growled. “You came for her, didn’t you?”

  Robin smiled. “I believed it a proper response for a knight to make: to rescue the maiden in distress.”

  Much stirred. “Marian.”

  Scarlet looked at Robin sidelong: a dog who has met his match, yet still wary of surrender. “I only took her to get away. I thought she was a Norman. I thought she was the sheriffs leman.”

  “I told you she wasn’t!” Little John grated. “And even if she was, she wasn’t deserving of that—”

  “Normans,” Scarlet declared, “deserve whatever we can give them—”

  “So you kill them!” The giant was angry. “Four of them, they said—’twas why they meant to hang you.”

  “Aye,” Scarlet snapped. “It’s in the Bible, the priests say: an eye for an eye. They killed my Meggie, giant! Four of the bloody Normans killed my wife!”

  No one answered that. Robin was aware of an odd thrumming tension, like a bowstring strung too tight. Clym was red-faced, with a glitter in his eyes; William of Cloudisley merely looked thoughtful; Adam Bell was chewing absently at a thumbnail. Robin wondered if each of them recalled the crimes for which they’d been outlawed.

  He looked at Cloudisley, likely no older than he. Poacher? Perhaps. Wat One-Hand, yes. He paid the price for it. And possibly Bell as well, though he’d been a yeoman, and probably in service to a wealthy lord. A man that skilled with a longbow is worth keeping on. Then again, maybe not poaching. “Who did you kill?” Robin asked.

  Bell’s eyes narrowed. Then he hitched a shoulder. “Alehouse brawl,” he answered. “A man in my company. No loss; he was a Saxon. They meant to maim me, like Wat, but a friend set me free. I’ve been free ever since, living among the shadows.”

  Robin nodded. “The Normans have only themselves to blame for the men of Sherwood Forest.” He looked then at Clym, who glared balefully. He still wants to fight. Robin leaned forward. Without heat, he said, “If you will come to Huntington, I will see to it you’re given a sword.”

  “Into the earl’s clutches?” Clym bared yellowed teeth. “I’m not that much a fool.”

  “Into the earl’s clutches?—no.” Robin relaxed, gathering reins; Clym was no longer an issue. “He’d never foul his hands. As for me, well—” He shrugged. “A man soaked in the blood of Saracens is already dirty enough.”

  Something flickered in Clym’s hard eyes. “I’ll not kill the king’s own knight.” He released the reins. Grudgingly, he muttered, “I’d have gone on Crusade myself, but I was already outlawed.”

  Robin shook his head. “The king could have used you. He could have used all of you.” He looked at each man in the group. “There are ways of buying pardons.”

  Scarlet laughed bitterly. “What good does that do, then? The king’s in Germany!”

  Robin pressed bootheels into the horse’s flanks. “There are ways of buying kings.”

  He didn’t bother to gallop. Clym, Cloudisley, or Bell, regardless of speed, could stop his departure with a single well-placed arrow.

  “Nottingham?” he asked.

  Much shifted closer. “Nott-ham.”

  Called before her father so he could explain his plans for her future, Eleanor managed first to close her mouth, which took an extra effort, only to open it again immediately and snap out a succinct refusal. “Marry that fool? You must be mad.”

  He drank again. “I’ve told Gisbourne. He was delighted, of course; how better to secure a place with an employer on the verge of rising much higher than even he anticipated?”

  That caught her attention. He was plotting something again. Undoubtedly Prince John would want to be told of it.

  Eleanor curbed her anger. She softened her tone. “How much higher?”

  “Very high indeed.” Her father smiled. “I thought it might interest you.”

  “It does.” She smiled guilelessly. “What do you mean to do?”

  Blandly, he said, “Serve my king.”

  Which one? Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. The present king, or the man who wants to be king? Inwardly, she chafed. Why can’t he speak more plainly? I dare not ask him—he will tumble to my game. “So,” she prevaricated, “you are in line for something better than the office you hold now.”

  “I never planned to be sheriff forever,” he told her. “You know me well enough, Eleanor... in my position, you would be no more satisfied with Nottinghamshire than I, when there is better in the offing.”

  “Indeed,” she agreed.

  “But naturally there are family responsibilities I must tend to first, such as arranging the marriage of my last daughter.” He sipped again. “I had hoped for better, of course, but your folly with the minstrel has changed my plans. You will marry Gisbourne. It should suit you both, I think.”

  Eleanor managed to keep her tone light. “I do not wish to marry Gisbourne.” And I won’t. I’ll find some way to stop it.

  “Your wishes are no longer my concern. Leave me, Eleanor. I have things to consider.”

  “Gisbourne,” she muttered, in direst contempt.

  Her father, amused, had the last word as she tugged open the door. “So well suited.”

  She thumped it shut behind her.

  The streets of Nottingham were muddy and clogged with refuse, redolent of waste. Robin reined in the horse at Market Square amidst the normal bustle. People slipped and slid, skirts and hosen stiff with mud.

  Much scrambled down nimbly from the horse. There was no doubt in Robin’s mind the boy could disappear easily enough, but it still concerned him that Much might be caught by the sheriffs men. “Be wary of Normans.”

  Much gazed up at him. “Lionheart.”

  Robin smiled, reaching to pat the boot where he’d tucked his recovered purse. “Lionheart,” he agreed.

  Much grinned gloriously, then darted away. He was lost to sight instantly.

  Robin stared after him. He understood Much well enough: the boy wanted him to use the returned coin toward the Lionheart’s ransom, something he was willing to do. But there was more in the boy’s words, more in the boy’s eyes. What else did Much expect him to do?

  Steal? he wondered. Robin smiled wryly. Ransom Richard with coin stolen from others... wouldn’t that amuse the sing!

  It would also buy him back.

  Robin’s smile disappeared. Scowling fiercely, he reined the horse around a
nd headed out of Nottingham toward his father’s lands.

  Tuck sweated nervously, shifting from foot to foot as Walter knocked on the door before them. The sheriff had upset him with scurrilous talk and innuendo, but he wasn’t certain telling Sir Guy of Gisbourne all about it was the best thing to do. Perhaps if nothing were said, it would simply go away.

  A testy voice called to them to enter. Walter, nodding satisfaction, undid the latch and pushed the door open. The monk followed hesitantly, moving aside as Walter waited impatiently to close the door. Privacy was necessary, but it made Tuck feel more guilty than ever before. He stuck his hands into his sleeves and waited mutely.

  Sir Guy of Gisbourne, in bliaut and soiled hosen—one fabric leg was entirely cut off—was slumped against pillows, scowling at them both. He was a dark-hued man gone pale, face drawn and stubbled, with one bare, bandaged leg propped up on a bolster. “What is it?” he asked wearily.

  “This is Brother Tuck.” Walter’s gesture was quick and perfunctory. “Do you remember? We wrote Abbot Martin when Brother Hubert died ... this is his replacement.”

  Gisbourne grunted. “So I see.” He shifted slightly, wincing.

  Walter looked expectantly at Tuck. “Tell him, Brother. Tell him everything.”

  “But—I—”

  “Everything. ”

  Tuck told Gisbourne everything.

  Eleanor halted outside the door. It was a distasteful and wildly inappropriate thing she proposed to do, but she was past being disposed to conduct her affairs with regard to propriety. The issue was serious. If she did not take pains to settle it, her entire life could be ruined.

  She drew in a deep breath, arranged her expression into a suitably pleasant one, then rapped on the door. After a moment it was opened. “Sir Guy—” she began, then broke it off in surprise. The face staring back at her was not Gisbourne’s. “Walter,” she said, “what are you doing here?”

  Almost at once she regretted the question, since it reflected poorly on her good sense; Walter was, after all, Gisbourne’s assistant, and had more reason to be in his chamber than anyone else, most particularly herself.

  But Walter seemed disinclined to remark upon it. “Lady Eleanor?”

  “I’ve come to see Sir Guy.”

  Walter nodded. “Aye, he’s here. And Brother Tuck.”

  “Who?”

  “Brother Tuck.” Walter swung the door open more widely. “Brother Hubert’s replacement.”

  The monk was immensely fat, brown of hair and eyes, and obviously deeply concerned about something. He appeared to be on the verge of tears. Eleanor scowled at him briefly; her business was much more important, and she resented his presence.

  She transferred her gaze from monk to seneschal. “Sir Guy. There is something we must address.”

  Eleanor had never so much as approached him in the hall. That she approached him now in his chamber was unusual in the extreme; it put her at a decided disadvantage. She saw the bafflement, then comprehension. She had never considered Gisbourne capable of much thought beyond plaguing castle inhabitants with countless economies designed, she was quite certain, for the sole purpose of inconveniencing them. She distrusted his expression. She distrusted the glint in his eyes.

  “Lady Eleanor,” he said. “Pray, do come in.”

  She drew herself up rigidly. “This is a private matter.”

  “I know.” He seemed to savor the moment. “Walter, I thank you for bringing Brother Tuck. I assure you, I’ll think upon your words.”

  Eleanor stood aside as Walter and the fat monk departed, then moved into the room. She considered leaving the door open, then shrugged inwardly—what did it really matter?—and swung the door shut.

  Gisbourne lay propped against pillows with his bandaged leg raised. She spared it an uninterested glance, then concentrated on the matter at hand. “Has my father approached you with regard to me?”

  His dark face was wan, but the light in his eyes was bright. “Indeed he has.”

  Eleanor folded her hands primly. “We would not be well matched.”

  Gisbourne startled her by smiling widely. “No, we would not.”

  It took her off stride. She dropped courtesy entirely, speaking bluntly. “I think it’s a perfectly despicable idea.”

  “So do I.”

  She frowned. This attitude was not at all what she had anticipated from him. “Why?”

  “Because we do not suit.”

  “No,” she agreed uncertainly. “I have told my father so—”

  “You can tell your father nothing.” He shifted slightly, grimacing, then smiled faintly at her. “He would no more listen to me than listen to you. He has decided; therefore, it shall be so.”

  She nodded. “We must see that it’s stopped.”

  “I intend to.”

  Suspicion bloomed. “How?”

  “I have just come into some information that may prove valuable.”

  “What did Walter tell you?” And then, more sharply, “What has that fat monk to do with anything?”

  Gisbourne folded his hands across his belly. Save for the propped up leg and his disarray, he exuded the attitude of a man well contented with his lot—and his special knowledge. It infuriated her. “Your father,” he began simply, “has seen to it a man was hanged.”

  She allowed her contempt to show. “He hangs men all the time, Gisbourne. He’s the sheriff.”

  His stubbled face flushed dully. “He hanged the wrong man. Purposely. Merely to suit Prince John, so the prince would not learn that Scarlet had escaped.”

  Eleanor laughed. “Wise man, my father—the prince could relieve him of his office for losing a man who killed four of his men.” Amusement died. “So, you’re suggesting you’ll inform Prince John of this?”

  “No. I’m suggesting we inform your father we know all about it. There is no need to bring the prince into it. That might result in further difficulties.”

  Eleanor nodded slowly. Your own, no doubt. “I see.” She spoke with clear preciseness. “You are willing to do this—you share all of this with me—simply because you want so badly not to marry me.”

  He went very still. She was secretly amused to see his realization of how the truth might sound to her, whom he did not desire to marry. It was a damning admission to a woman who had the wit to use it to her advantage. He had destroyed himself, if she chose to pursue it.

  Eleanor laughed. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I want you even less than you want me.” She eyed him pointedly, underscoring her distaste. “But there is something more. We must also prevent my father from marrying the FitzWalter girl.”

  Color suffused his face. His dark eyes glittered. “Indeed,” he said quietly.

  Abruptly, Eleanor knew. It filled her with helpless rage and envy—did every man alive want to take that woman to bed?—but she did not show it to him. “I won’t have it,” she said curtly. “I won’t have her here.”

  “You won’t have to have her here.” Gisbourne resettled his leg. “I’ve spoken to the monk.”

  Eleanor frowned. “What has the monk to do with this?”

  Gisbourne laughed. “Everything.”

  DeLacey lifted his goblet in tribute as his furious daughter departed. The solution was ideal. He should have thought of it before, except then he’d hoped for better in the Earl of Huntington’s son. Now that hope was gone, but she was here, and Gisbourne was here; the perfect solution was to give them to one another.

  He grinned. He drank wine. Then his reverie was interrupted by a knock upon the door.

  DeLacey swore frightfully—would they never leave him alone?—then waved a hand at the door that no one on the other side could see. “Come,” he called.

  The door creaked. A hesitant voice told him he had a visitor.

  Delacey sighed. “I have visitors all the time. I’m the sheriff.” He turned his head. “Who is it this time?”

  “Lady Marian FitzWalter.”

  “Marian...” He slamme
d down the goblet, heedless of spilled wine. “Send the monk to me at once.”

  The servant was baffled. “My lord?”

  “The monk, the monk--the fat man, Brother Tuck!”

  “Aye, my lord.” The servant bowed himself out and tugged the door shut.

  DeLacey stared fixedly into the distance. Then he pulled himself from the chair to thrust a victorious arm into the air. “Marian!” he exulted.

  Fifty-Three

  Thunderheads massed in the distance. The air tasted thick and cool: a mantle of steel and slate draped over the battlements of Huntington Castle.

  The earl himself walked the walls proudly with Eustace de Vesci, Henry Bohun, and Geoffrey de Mandeville, pointing out certain modern refinements worked upon older fashions in parados and parapets in addition to machicolations, when Ralph brought him good news: the man who had just ridden so noisily into the inner bailey was his absent son, home at last.

  The earl, who had maintained a calm facade regarding his son’s absence, thanked Ralph politely, sent him to direct his son to them, then turned quietly to the others. “Our plans may now proceed.”

  De Vesci grunted. “So. Will he throw in his lot with us?”

  The earl’s wispy white hair was ruffled in the breeze pregnant with incipient rain. “He is my son.”

  “Sons do not always accede to their father’s wishes.” De Mandeville’s tone was dry. He stood at the square crenel notch between two upright merlons and surveyed the bailey below as Huntington’s heir dismounted. “The Old King might have lost his crown because of his sons... can you afford to be so certain yours will cooperate?”

  “Henry’s sons fought among themselves because of overweening ambition and Angevin bad temper,” the earl retorted. “They were the Devil’s Brood, after all; each one feared the other might supplant him in matters of precedence—this situation is quite different.”

  Henry Bohun, arms crossed, leaned idly against a merlon with the sky a glaucous tapestry behind him. “It would seem more realistic to expect your son to cooperate... after all, there is no telling how high he might rise as son-in-law to John.”