Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  Much nodded at once; probably the boy knew everyone.

  Robin showed him the purse. “Take this to him. Tell him I sent you; that it’s for the Lionheart.”

  Much bent his head toward a hunched shoulder: eloquent reluctance.

  “He won’t hurt you, Much. I promise. He’ll send the money to London, to buy back the Lionheart.”

  The boy remained uncertain. He stared sidelong at the purse, then edged toward the square.

  I need something to convince him. Robin chewed at a lip a moment, then smiled. Without regard for his hosen he went down on his knees and rested both hands on Much’s narrow shoulders. Solemnly he decreed, “I swear to you by my oath as a Crusader and a knight, sworn before King Richard himself, that what you do to serve him can never be used against you. That if any man harms you, he also strikes at me.” He saw the worship in the boy’s eyes and made his tone stern. “But you must be wary, Much. You must take no unnecessary risks.”

  Much nodded. He snatched the purse from Robin’s hand and darted away.

  The duly sworn knight watched him go, then got up and regarded his hosen soberly. The knees were caked with a thick, malodorous muck that had worked its way through the nubby weave to drip slime down each of his shins.

  “For God and King Richard,” he murmured. Then Robin grinned. “And Much.”

  Fifty-Six

  Marian’s pride kept her from shouting through the door at the guard. He would refuse to heed her furious demand to be let out no matter what she said or how explicitly she phrased it, and she preferred not to demean herself to no good purpose. If he entered, she would hit him with whatever loose object was close at hand. Until then, there was nothing for it but to sit quietly and patiently, which she could not do, or to pace rapidly from one side of the room to the other.

  The first moment of realization had nearly driven her mad. The soldiers had taken her unceremoniously to the chamber and locked her in before she could fashion a properly coherent protest. The instant the door closed she had broken every nail trying to claw it open again, trying to lift the latch, because the high-handed treatment reminded her all too clearly of Will Scarlet, and in that moment of panicked disbelief she reacted accordingly.

  Now she had time to think. She no longer asked herself how or why, as she had the first few outraged moments of her imprisonment. She knew why; William deLacey had told her. She knew how because she had come to believe him incapable of denying himself anything, regardless of the seemingly insurmountable obstacles lying in his path.

  This meant the sheriff was doubly dangerous, because he saw no impediment to marrying her even without her consent. Had the mock priest not refused to carry out the sham ceremony, she would now be in bed with William deLacey believing herself legally married as he took her against her will.

  Marian shuddered. Legality had nothing to do with it. What she felt for him was not hatred, not even rage, for that had passed. What deLacey engendered now was a sick apprehension augmented by futility: short of killing the man, there was nothing she could undertake to stop him from doing whatever he liked with her, or to her, from torture to brutal rape. His power was absolute.

  A royal ward is protected by the King’s grace. Marian laughed bitterly. Only we both of us are imprisoned. King Richard in Germany, and his ward in Nottingham Castle!

  She froze as the latch was rattled. For a tiny moment of renewed panic she was unable to move or think. Then it passed, and she reached as planned for the first loose object at hand: a wooden candlestick. The candle on it fell over and was extinguished as she snatched up the fat stick, but light poured in from corridor torches as the door swung open.

  Sir Guy of Gisbourne, on crutches, stood—no, tilted—in the narrow doorway. He wore a knee-length cambric bliaut; his saturnine Norman face was stubbled and hollowed. “Lady Marian,” he said gravely, “there is little time to waste.”

  Lady Marian set down the candlestick and went by him into the corridor, wasting none of the little time.

  Well-pleased with matters on the whole, considering their delicate and very nearly tragic nature, William deLacey walked leisurely out of doors to the guardhouse tucked against the bailey wall, and had a liveried man brought forth. “Your name?”

  He was young, of russet hair and dark brown eyes, with a wide mouth and firm chin. “Philip de la Barre.”

  DeLacey smiled briefly. “A good French name, de la Barre.”

  In view of the cordial comment, the soldier permitted himself the familiarity of an answering smile. “Yes, my lord... my family is quite old.”

  DeLacey’s was not. He forbore to pursue the topic, lest it become apparent to de la Barre that he took orders from a more recent addition to the lengthy roll of proud names. In fact, much of his heritage was not even French. “You are to ride escort to Ravenskeep, the FitzWalter manor.” He put a small pouch into de la Barre’s hand. “There is a villein there called Roger. After you have seen the serving-woman safely delivered, find this Roger and question him. I want to know how disaffected he is, and if he has wit enough to be of use. Give him the coin, but tell him nothing. We must whet his appetite first.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Good. I’ll expect you back before sundown.”

  Robin lingered in Nottingham briefly, seriously considering riding on to Ravenskeep. He owed no time to his father in view of the circumstances, and did not particularly care what the earl’s guests might think of his behavior. He supported the king in all things, but it was hardly politic to contemplate overthrowing a man who merely desired to be crowned king before the present monarch’s unhappy situation had been resolved. His father, he felt, was premature, and following the wrong scent. If the noblemen of England looked to freeing Richard instead of fighting John, the civil difficulties might be resolved without shedding a drop of blood.

  He squinted thoughtfully as he mounted his horse, settling into the saddle gingerly in deference to sodden, muck-weighted hosen. But there is Geoffrey de Mandeville.

  It was worth consideration. The Earl of Essex was not an alarmist and was unlikely to commit himself to anything as significant as a plot against John unless he truly believed there was need. As Justiciar, de Mandeville was privy to the kind of information few other men were given leave to know. It did nothing to support Robin’s contention that John’s threat to his brother was as yet undefined. If de Mandeville had involved himself, the implications were far more serious.

  He gazed longingly in the direction of Ravenskeep. It would not take so much time... But he had promised Marian he would speak to his father first. He owed her that much.

  Gisbourne regretted intensely his haggard appearance and lack of proper attire. The bliaut was clean and certainly decent enough, but was hardly the apparel he would select to wear before her, were the circumstances different.

  Marian halted in the dim corridor outside the chamber in which she had been imprisoned, turning sharply to face him. Her face was bruised, he saw, and deeply scratched in places, which prompted a response of nearly overwhelming proportions: he wanted very badly to make certain no one ever abused her again.

  I want—Gisbourne swallowed heavily, denying body and mind the admission both longed to make. “You had best not tarry.”

  “What about you?” she asked. “He knows nothing about this, of course.”

  He wanted to laugh. The “of course” gave her away; she had learned the truth of the sheriff. “No. I will see to it he remains ignorant of the truth.”

  “Sir Guy—” Marian smiled tightly, poised to flee; clearly she did not underestimate deLacey. “Your aid is much appreciated.”

  He wanted more than that, but it was all she could give him now. “Go to the southern gatehouse,” he told her. “The monk is waiting for you.”

  She nodded, yet hesitated. “I came here with a woman.”

  “The sheriff dismissed her without raising her suspicions; he is expert at that, so expect no alarm from her.” He glanced beyo
nd her urgently. The guard would return soon. “You had better go, Lady Marian.” He hitched his crutches more tightly beneath his arms. “Think kindly of me tonight when you give your thanks to God.”

  “And tomorrow,” she declared fervently. “For all the days of my life!”

  “Go,” he said curtly, unable to bear the look in her eye while knowing what he did was for his sake, not for hers.

  Marian went. Gisbourne waited, then swung around on his crutches and hobbled his way back into the chamber. With care he swung the door shut halfway, then gritted his teeth on a curse as he levered himself to the ground. He tossed the crutches away from his body, then doubled up his fist and smacked himself squarely on wounded thigh. Fresh blood stained his bandage and soaked through to bliaut. Sweat broke out anew. He collapsed against the floor in an unfeigned half-swoon of weakness, gasping audibly.

  Raggedly he muttered, “You owe me more than prayers.”

  Much made his way into the Jewish Quarter, darting from alley to alley with the purse tucked inside the sleeve of his soiled tunic. He found Abraham’s dwelling and slouched against a wall nearby, making himself small, less than nothing—“not much,” as his mother had called him—and watched those in the street laboring to clean away the stormwrack. He let his presence be marked, commented upon, then forgotten in the press of duties: he was a boy, nothing more, not much; a stranger to them all.

  When certain of their disinterest, Much made his way idly across the street and kicked at a loose stone. Twice more he kicked, until the stone skittered against Abraham’s door. Much approached, bent down as if to study the stone, then snatched open the door and darted inside.

  The old Jew was startled as the purse was plopped onto the table in front of his twisted hands. “Lionheart,” Much declared purposefully, consumed with righteous fire. Then, as the old man gazed at him in wonder, he explained with more diffidence. “From Robin.”

  After careful consideration, Abraham slowly upended the purse and dumped out the coins in chiming clumps.

  He looked at Much and smiled as his fingers counted coin. “And why not?” he asked. “He is sovereign to us all, Christian and Jew alike, nobleman or serf. England’s interests will be served despite Prince John and the sheriff.” He nodded at Much. “Tell Robin I agree.”

  “More,” Much suggested.

  “More,” the Jew agreed; this contract, unlike most, was implicit.

  After attiring himself in a new tunic of rich blue samite trimmed with Eastern-style golden braid—a touch of clove to sweeten his breath—deLacey went to the tiny castle chapel. It was empty, of course; Brother Tuck had been dismissed.

  He genuflected out of habit, not conviction, then slid onto a bench at the back of the small chamber. It was damp and cool, redolent of mice; he supposed he should set someone to cleaning it. Marian might prove devout.

  DeLacey smiled, schooling himself into a quietude at odds with his inner self. Anticipation was sweet, with the slightest undertaste of illicit perversity adding a fillip. She would protest, of course, because Marian had proved only too willing of late to challenge him in every conversation, but he was in general unconcerned.

  She has only herself to blame.

  He did not intend rape, of course; he was a man who had bedded many women, including cold ones such as his wives, and knew precisely what it took to rouse a woman’s ardor. Marian was passionate—that was proved already by her sudden infatuation with Robert of Locksley—and would warm to his attentions even as others had without recourse to force. In fact, he required it to be so. His tastes lay not in physical domination, but in manipulation. Physical gratification satisfied a simple animal urge, but a well-laid strategy was an aphrodisiac for the mind.

  He gazed upon the alter, regarding the crucifix. “Hugh, old friend,” he said, “we would neither of us desire this, but what is left to do? She has proved a willful and disobedient daughter, much too headstrong to be left to rule herself. The manor is a travesty, and her deportment highly suspect ... if there is to remain any honor attached to your name, I must tend to it myself.”

  The chapel was full of silence.

  The sheriff nodded. “Eleanor to Gisbourne, Marian for me. Both women redeemed from defilement and dishonor, so that no one may suffer for it. Not I, for Eleanor’s; not you for Marian’s.” He touched the high collar of his tunic, liking the texture of the braid. “A father’s task is difficult, but this will ease my mind, and your memory.”

  Sir Hugh of course made no comment. For the moment transfixed by memories, deLacey stared hard at the crucifix and conjured before him his old friend’s face. There was nothing of Marian in it, save a stubborn set to the chin.

  “If I lie with her,” he said, “she will have to marry me.”

  Guilt was unexpected. DeLacey stood up swiftly, upsetting the wooden bench, and strode out of the tiny chapel.

  Marian, who had not dared breathe as she walked steadily and without haste from the keep to the southern gate, at last sucked in a much-needed breath as she passed through into the city. There was no difficulty with the soldiers. She hid all of her hair and most of her face in the draped hood, but did not allow herself to behave furtively for fear the guards would suspect.

  She walked through in silence. The gate was shut behind her; Marian looked urgently for the monk, and saw him with two horses waiting not far from the gate. She walked quickly to him and peeled back the hood. “Brother?”

  “Tuck,” he supplied morosely. His heavy face was strained. “Lady Marian, I pray you forgive me.”

  She touched his arm briefly. “Whatever you have done—and whatever you may do in the future—is forgiven ten times over.” She cast a sharp glance over her shoulder, then assessed the horses attached to Tuck by virtue of reins. “Are you coming with me?”

  He nodded. “It is best, Sir Guy said... but—I’ve never ridden a horse. Only a mule—and now I am too fat for that. I walked here from Croxden.”

  Marian pitied the monk—she knew it cost him to admit that—but they could not afford to walk. “I’m sorry, Brother... perhaps when we are away from Nottingham, but until then we must ride. The horses are much faster, and I promise you we have no time to waste. A good man has put himself into difficult circumstances.” She thought of Gisbourne as she took from Tuck one set of reins and looped them over the bay mare’s head, kilting up kirtle and mantle as she stretched a foot toward the stirrup. “Brother Tuck, I beg you—give me the loan of your hands!”

  He did, if clumsily, aiding her to clamber up into the saddle. Marian arranged kirtle skirts as best she could and depended upon the mantle to provide a measure of modesty.

  Tuck stood square on the ground, legs planted widely, his face a study of despair.

  “Please,” she said urgently, “you know what he means to do; would you have me taken now after all you’ve done to prevent it?”

  Distressed, he shook his head. “No, Lady—”

  “A horse is not so different from a mule.” Though inwardly she rebuked herself for lying to a monk. “I’ll lead, Brother—but I beg you, please make haste. I want to get to Huntington as soon as possible.”

  Tuck paused in the act of lifting the reins over the chestnut’s head. “Huntington? I thought we were bound for Ravenskeep. Sir Guy told me so.”

  “Sir Guy was mistaken.” Marian looked again at the gate. “Ravenskeep is the first place the sheriff will go.”

  With effort, Tuck stuffed a sandaled foot into the stirrup, caught great handfuls of mane and rein, and dragged himself upward as the gelding first staggered, then spread his legs and grunted. “Lady—”

  “Hurry, Brother Tuck.” She did not feel it wise to tell him she feared if he lingered longer between the saddle and the ground, he would pull the chestnut over.

  “Aye—” He heaved himself up into the saddle, grasping uncertainly at a cassock that, stretched across saddle, bared an alarming expanse of thick ankles and thicker, hairier legs. His face burned red from exerti
on or embarrassment; she could not predict which. Perhaps it was both. In a muffled tone he asked, “How far is Huntington, Lady Marian?”

  “Not so far.” Yet another lie; to him, it would take forever and cause much discomfort. “Come,” she said guiltily, “Huntington is this way.”

  Gisbourne roused as hands clasped his shoulders and levered him into a sitting position. The pain was excruciating. He opened his mouth to yell, but forbore as he focused upon the sheriff’s rigid face.

  “Well?” deLacey asked. He stood in the doorway while the guard knelt on the floor and hoisted Sir Guy upright.

  Gisbourne knew that tone: ice-cold and oddly flat, curiously lifeless, as if the only emotion in the man was utter indifference. It was a deadly assumption Gisbourne knew better than to make. Such miscalculation had cost other men their lives.

  In a pain-drugged bewilderment not entirely feigned, he passed a trembling hand across his face. “My lord—”

  “Well, Gisbourne?”

  “My lord—I—” He licked his lips. “She tripped me, my lord... she knocked my crutches aside!”

  DeLacey did not spare the crutches so much as a glance. “I see that, Gisbourne. I have no doubt it was incredibly painful. What I do doubt is your reason for being here at all.”

  Gisbourne breathed heavily. His wound was afire. “I came to thank her, my lord—”

  “Thank her!”

  “—and to pay my respects... she was kind to me at Huntington after the boar hunt.”

  DeLacey’s face was taut as a drumhead, the bones of his nose cutting flesh. White indentations bracketed the corners of his mouth. “Surely it might have waited, Gisbourne ... until your wound was less painful, certainly. It distresses me to see you in so much discomfort.”