Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  De Vesci swore. “Especially if John becomes king.”

  “He will not,” de Mandeville declared. “Do you think the barons will accept him? Do you think the people will?”

  Bohun shook his head. “The people will do as they’re told. They are sheep, nothing more... if John makes himself the bellwether, they’ll follow quickly enough.”

  “But we will not,” de Vesci said. “By God, we will not.”

  The earl smoothed his robe. “Ralph will bring him to us.”

  Marian dismounted and handed off her mount in the bailey of Nottingham Castle, waiting impatiently as Joan did the same. The serving-woman was swathed in folds of wool, her older face concerned. She had spoken of rain repeatedly on the road from Ravenskeep, but Marian—convinced if she did not confront the sheriff now she would never find the courage to do it again—refused to consider turning back.

  Wind curled into the bailey, snatching at her draped hood. Marian caught at the fabric, slid it back into place over hair brushed and braided, then ran over again in her mind the things she wanted to say, and how she intended to say them.

  Marian led the way inside the hall, digging rigid fingers into the weave of her woolen mantle. She felt oddly hollow and fragile, like a bubble made of glass, tense with nerves and imaginings: she would prove weak, and give in; she would be unable to explain how she felt; she would play into his hands. But then she thought of how he had attempted to assume control of her future, and cold anger replenished her conviction.

  Marian halted just inside and slipped her hood, telling a servant they desired to see the sheriff. “This won’t take long,” she told Joan firmly as the servant left, to convince herself as much as the woman, who understood none of it.

  DeLacey came swiftly into the hall, holding out both hands in warm, disarming welcome. “Marian!” He came forward smoothly, glancing briefly at Joan, then back to Marian. His tone was perfectly normal. “I cannot tell you what a great pleasure this gives me. When I left Ravenskeep, I expected you to take much more time before arriving at your decision.”

  He believes he’s won. Astonished, Marian gazed at him; she thought she’d been clear at Ravenskeep. He does--he simply assumes he’s won, because he always wins. The knowledge appalled her. The audacity of William deLacey shattered her fear completely, leaving anger in its place. It pleased her to be angry. She could rely upon it.

  “My lord, I fear you misunderstand.” She decided to say it all at once instead of dancing around it. “This is not intended as a social call, nor to bring you the answer you appear to believe was a foregone conclusion.”

  “Marian.” His hands dropped. He glanced again at Joan. “Welcome to Nottingham Castle,” he said. “The kitchens lie there, behind the screen—I will send for you when your lady and I are done with our business.”

  It was an abrupt dismissal. Marian opened her mouth to protest, but Joan merely nodded and turned away. Don’t let him begin first. “My lord—”

  “Now.” DeLacey caught her hand and hooked it over his elbow, turning her toward the dais on which his chair and table sat. “You are out of temper, I see... forgive me, then, for being abrupt. Our meeting yesterday was upsetting, of course, and for that I am sorry. It has not been much beyond a year since your father died—”

  Marian stopped short and jerked her arm free. Don’t let him see you angry ... he’ll use it as a weapon. She knew him well now, well enough to seek out her own weapons in his eyes and posture. “This call has nothing to do with that.”

  He swung toward her, cutting her off as he did so often, standing very close, too close, as if his nearness might intimidate her. “But of course it does. You know very well your father would have wanted us to marry—it merely upsets you that you appear to have no say in the matter.” He linked hands behind his back in an easy, unperturbed manner that did not fool her one bit. She was beginning to learn the signs of consternation: a tension in spine and shoulders, an intensity in his eyes, the faint, cool smile that betokened displeasure.

  Don’t delay---“My lord—”

  He turned as if to walk away in idle reflection, then arrested the motion and swung back. “But Marian, when does a woman have say in the matter? And I say, why should she?” He gestured to dilute the brutal words. “I don’t mean to distress you, but women are fanciful creatures much given to unrealistic dreams... it is part of what makes men desire to protect them.” He was ineffably gentle. “I beg you, look at my daughter, if you will. Eleanor is well-nigh ungovernable, a spoiled, undisciplined woman who seeks only to gratify the dictates of her body.” He lifted his shoulders in a slight dismissive shrug; he had given up on shielding his daughter against the onslaughts of loose tongues. “Look what it has brought her,” he said evenly. “She is disgraced. Despoiled. No decent man will have her to wife.”

  Marian wanted to laugh. It rang so false; for how long had she been deaf? With subtle derision, she suggested, “Except Gisbourne, of course.”

  She saw a flicker of displeasure in his gaze. “Gisbourne does as I tell him.”

  “Then he has no more freedom than Eleanor, or I.” She wet dry lips, feeling more certain of her course. He had given her the arrows; now she had only to aim and loose. “I think you depend too much upon your own designs, my lord. I think you dismiss even the idea that a woman might have her own feelings and preferences about such things as marriage—”

  “Undoubtedly she does,” he interrupted, “but that is beside the point. The issue at hand is whether a woman can possibly understand that other things influence the decision to marry than merely the tender heart.” He gestured briefly, indicating a door leading out of the open hall. “Come with me. We will adjourn to my solar. This is best discussed in private.”

  Marian did not move. “We will discuss it here.”

  He turned back after a slight hesitation, lowering his arm. His displeasure intensified, but it did not touch his manner in obvious ways, only in the small ones she had learned to recognize. “Very well. Then let me be quite frank.” His smile was cool, his gaze intense. “For the moment we will make it a given: you may consider yourself a fair judge of whom you should marry.”

  “Generous.” She wished she could swear like a man.

  “Your situation echoes Eleanor’s to an alarming degree,” he told her bluntly. “Forgive my candor, but what man in England would choose to marry a despoiled daughter of a dead knight whose manor has fallen into disarray?”

  He did not attack her personally. She had expected that, prepared to let his insinuation do no damage. But he had aimed at another target, and his skill at placing the arrow stung her sharply. “Ravenskeep has nothing to do with this!”

  The passion of her response pleased him, which infuriated her. “But it does. You see?” He laughed softly. “Already you dismiss, womanlike, a very important aspect of marriage.” The laughter dropped away. His tone now was icy, promising no quarter in the battle for which she had begged. “Men of rank concern themselves with everything, Lady Marian. With a woman’s name, her rank, her family, her person, her holdings, her dowry. What have you to offer?”

  She had lost ground by replying with heat to his mention of Ravenskeep. Give him nothing—be a mirror—Reflect what he offers. Marian smiled as coolly, displaying what she had learned. “What little I have to offer—despoiled as I am, shabby as Ravenskeep is—still appears to be more than enough to interest you.”

  She saw the blow go home, but did not rejoice. She would be a good mirror: glass, not polished steel, with chipped and ragged edges so as to trap an unwary hand.

  He marshaled his offense swiftly, attempting another direction. “I cared very much for your father—”

  “Oh, don’t!” she snapped, annoyed with herself that she had ever been such a fool as to believe in anything he said; equally annoyed with the man himself, who believed her so malleable. “This has nothing whatsoever to do with my father. This has to do with me.” Marian no longer cared who might hear. “And y
ou, my lord.”

  “Marian—”

  It was her turn to cut him off. “Despoiled, am I? Very well, my lord—let me put it plainly: a despoiled woman may have lost her virtue, but she loses none of her sense. I am not a fool, despite your conviction otherwise, and you do not convince me to surrender my will to you. I know what you want. I know also it has very little to do with Ravenskeep, or my name.” Decisively, Marian shook her head. “I was ignorant for too long, blinded by innocence—did you count on that, my lord?—but no longer. I know what you want—I know precisely what you want”—she weighted her words with care—“and I refuse absolutely to give you any of it.”

  Finally she had reached him. DeLacey’s face took flame. “By God—”

  “No,” she said, “by me. This is my decision, not yours. I base it not on rank and name and holdings, but on one simple fact”—she leaned close, as he had, speaking with careful clarity so there would be no misunderstanding—“I have no desire—nor even the slightest intention—to bed with you.”

  Marian waited unflinchingly, expecting perhaps to be struck, or shouted at, or otherwise abused. But the sheriff did none of those things. He turned slightly and raised his voice. “Walter!”

  A man appeared hastily. “My lord?”

  “Fetch Tuck,” deLacey commanded crisply. “Fetch my daughter. Fetch six men for guard duty.”

  Walter was clearly baffled. “My lord—where?”

  “Here,” deLacey declared. “At once, if you please. The Lady Marian and I have an issue to be settled.”

  “Aye. Aye, my lord.” Walter disappeared.

  “What issue?” she asked suspiciously. “I have settled my issue. And why men for guard duty?”

  The sheriff sighed. “There are outlaws in Sherwood Forest. I would be a poor friend of your father if I did not see you safely home again.”

  “See me home--” It was not at all what she expected.

  “Of course,” he said quietly. “I am not a monster, Marian, no matter what you may believe. I leave the decision to you—” he smiled sadly, “—to prove my faith in you. You may stay the night, if you like, so you and your woman are not caught in the rain... or leave as soon as the guard arrives.”

  Marian stared at him. “Did what I said mean nothing to you?”

  “Indeed, yes. It meant everything.” His expression was oddly tranquil. “As you will see in a moment.”

  Robin clattered into Huntington’s bailey, swung off the horse, then handed the reins over as a horseboy came running. “He’s warm,” Robin warned him. “Walk him first, then put him in deep bedding. I’ll not have him going home sore.”

  The boy bobbed his head. “Aye, my lord.”

  Robin briefly pressed the boy’s shoulder, then strode beyond him toward the keep. His mind was full of Marian and what he would say to his father.

  “My lord.” It was Ralph, coming out of the shadowed door. “My lord, your father desires to see you.”

  Robin stopped. “I imagine he does.” He smiled at the quiet man he’d known for all of his life. “I imagine he intends to chide me for disappearing as I did.”

  Ralph reproached him gently. “My lord, you must admit you left him with no word.”

  “I am not a boy anymore.”

  “He knows that.”

  “Does he?” Robin’s faint smile was dry. “Are you very certain, Ralph? Methinks he considers me not much older than six or seven.”

  “Ten or twelve, my lord.” Ralph was unsmiling. “He places great faith in you.”

  “Indeed.” Robin sighed. “Very well—where is he?”

  Ralph indicated the earl’s direction. “There, on the wall.”

  Robin looked. He squinted slightly: his father and three others were silhouetted against the ashen sky. “Who are those men with him?”

  “I believe he would wish to tell you himself.”

  “Ah. Of course.” Irritated, Robin was tempted to ignore the summons. He was full of Marian still, wanting nothing more than to tell his father about her. But to anger his father now would win him nothing. “Ralph—”He turned back, aware of rising tension and bitterness. “How do I get up there?” It was galling to admit he did not know.

  Ralph pointed. “The steps are there, my lord.”

  He looked. So they were: a diagonal slash rising from cobbles to sentry-walk set obliquely from the gate. Grimly he nodded, then crossed the bailey to the steps.

  He reached the sentry-walk and paused a moment, reassembling wits and courtesy, for to confront his father in anger in front of witnesses would shatter his intentions—and destroy the possibility of their success—before he had the chance to explain anything to the earl.

  In war, it was easier. There was neither the time nor inclination for so much diplomacy—one killed, or one was killed.

  He walked to the four men quietly, trying to assess the earl’s temper. He knew the other men slightly. He knew their proper titles. He knew without a doubt that none of them had come merely to bid him welcome home.

  Robin halted as he reached them and inclined his head. “My lords.” And lastly to his father, with a cool correctness that did not in any way reflect what he was thinking, “My lord Earl.”

  “Robert!” It was de Vesci, very bluff, striding forward to clasp his shoulder. “What great news it was, that you had escaped the clutches of the Saracen to come home again to England!”

  “Indeed,” de Mandeville agreed more quietly, “and a hero to boot.”

  “Our liege honored me greatly.” They were all Richard’s men, he knew. De Mandeville, the Earl of Essex and Justiciar of England, had taken part in Richard’s coronation. “My lord father, perhaps I would do well to excuse myself. Obviously this meeting is of great significance, and would do better with my absence.”

  “No, no.” De Vesci again. “It involves you, Robert.”

  Bohun nodded. “And the Count of Mortain.”

  Robin looked at each of them a very long moment. Rising wind ruffled their hair and lifted the corners of the mantles thrown over their shoulders. Four men: four extremely wealthy and influential lords. They could plot the course of England.

  Which no doubt is what they do. He saw no reason to prevaricate; he had spent too much of his life doing so. Robin turned to his father. “Is this treason, my lord?”

  Rather than being appalled by the audacity, the earl smiled. “The man we seek to displace is not the king, Robert ... but the man who wants to be king. There is something of a difference.”

  “So.” It was worse than he’d feared. Robin drew in a slow breath, then released it. “And you want me to join you.” He nodded. “Perhaps Ralph was right. Perhaps you do consider me a man at last—or else still merely a boy who can be pushed this way and that.”

  “Robert!” The earl’s color deepened.

  Robin glanced briefly at the others and noted their consternation. Had they counted him in already? Did they fear he might betray them? “Forgive me, my lords,” he said smoothly. “War does hone a tongue into curtness. If I speak too plainly, it is because the king desired it.” He evoked Richard purposely; it would make these men think. “Did my father promise me to you? Did he swear to my willingness?” Their silence and exchanged glances was confirmation. Robin nodded, glancing sidelong at his father. “So. What is it I am to be? A figurehead hero? The king’s sworn knight? A man to hail to others whose allegiance may flag?”

  The earl was coldly furious. “Don’t you see? We do this for England! Look at Geoffrey de Mandeville, of one of the oldest and finest families in all of Britain—do you think he would countenance this if there were no reason for it?”

  “Perhaps not,” Robin conceded. “Perhaps I misjudge the cause; I have been too long away.” He swept each of them with a glance, then turned to his father. “What do you want me for?”

  The earl’s tone was inflexible. “To misdirect John.”

  “How?”

  “By marrying his daughter.”

  Odd
ly, Robin felt no anger. It was very clear to him: this was the easiest and most effective of ways. It was done all the time, regardless of the ages of those deemed marriageable, regardless of their wishes. They were simply chattel to be used to the benefit of whatever design the parents deemed most valuable.

  He was in that moment completely detached, looking at the problem as his father undoubtedly did, weighing possibilities and other repercussions. There is no other way. This solves everything.

  Robin smiled grimly, though he offered no reply. The words on his tongue were neither proper nor flattering, but packed with the passion of a man who saw his future reshaped by the hands of another who did not understand him.

  De Vesci stirred, reaching up to pull back into place a wind-tangled mantle. “She has been offered, has she not? Joanna?”

  The breeze lifted hair away from Robin’s face, baring the scar at his hairline. He saw their eyes upon it; saw them consider it, recalling where he had been, what he had done, and with whom he had been as he did it. To them he was, unexpectedly, Sir Robert of Locksley, knighted by the king.

  Robin’s detachment abruptly shattered. He felt cold, too cold; his jaw moved stiffly. He realized that what he felt was anger, a deep abiding anger that could, if it took flame, blister all of them. “Forgive me. This is a new thought.” He found the mask within and slipped it on again. It was easy. It was familiar. It was immensely comfortable.

  “Of course it is,” de Vesci said, laughing. “It is not every day a man is faced with the possibility of marrying into royalty!”

  Robin favored him with a steadfast gaze. “Indeed.”

  “Misdirection,” the earl said tightly. “If you wed his daughter, John will think us fairly caught, victims of his plotting.”

  “But you will take care to insure that he is a victim of yours. ”

  Geoffrey de Mandeville’s eyes narrowed. He was not a fool, Robin knew; de Vesci might be too quick to assume Huntington’s heir was on their side, but the Earl of Essex was not.