Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  Tuck’s face flamed, but he would not look away. They deserved the truth from him. “My abbot will dismiss me.”

  Robin’s mouth thinned. “For refusing to do the bidding of a perverse, selfish fool?”

  “Yes.” Inwardly he cringed. “Yes, my lord, he will—because my abbot is that and worse.” He heaved a massive sigh. “I disbelieved the sheriff—I wanted to disbelieve him . . . but I am not so great a fool as all that. I see what I want to see and justify it later . . .” He shrugged again. “I am a weak man. Surely you can see that.”

  “There is nothing weak about you.” Robin’s voice was steady. “She told me what you did. Few others would have done it.”

  Tuck smiled sadly, less innocent than before. “The sheriff is a powerful man. He will inform my abbot, to whom he will know just what to say, and I will be dismissed. Better I come with you now.” He glanced sidelong at Marian, hoping not to offend them. “I will provide the proper escort so no false assumptions are made.”

  After a stunned moment, Marian laughed. Robin, eyes bright, managed a grave word of thanks.

  Tuck’s spirits lightened. God hears, he reflected buoyantly. God hears Everything. How can one question it? It is proved again and again.

  Much stood at the roadside waiting for the carter. He reckoned as best he could when the man might actually see him, then turned his back on the approaching cart and limped along the road. As the cart drew nearer yet, he essayed a profound misstep and sprawled face-first into the mud.

  “Here, now!” The carter drew rein. “Here, now, boy—are ye hurt?” The man jumped down as Much struggled to get up. “By our sweet lady, you’ve made a mess of things . . .” The man squished through the mud. “Here—come up from there.” The carter clutched at a hand and hauled Much upright. “Are ye hurt?”

  Much smeared the back of his hand against his dirty face. He shook his head mutely, squared his narrow shoulders, and turned to limp away.

  “Here, now.” A hand closed on his shoulder. “Where are you bound for, boy?”

  Much gazed longingly at the cart. “Castle,” he whispered.

  “Huntington Castle?” The carter brightened. “Hop up, boy—’tis where I’m bound.” Then, more seriously, “Here—I’ll set you up there myself. Here, boy—wait—”

  Much suffered himself to be lifted into the cart. He slumped against the side and examined one muddy bare foot.

  The carter was concerned. “Not hurt bad, is it?”

  Much shook his head, gazing forlornly from under a mud-freighted forelock.

  The man’s relief was obvious. “Well, then, that’s all right. We’ll go on, then, won’t we?” The carter climbed up onto his seat, grasped the lines, and clucked to the horse. “Hold on, boy—mud’s bogging the wheels.”

  Sly grin blossoming, Much held on tightly as the cart jerked into motion.

  As he did every morning, the Earl of Huntington went out to walk the wall surrounding his massive keep. He paused at every fifth crenel to gaze across the vista, assessing weather and wind, then continued on his way.

  But half of the way around there was life stirring in the bailey; he glanced down curiously and saw first the woman, then the monk with her.

  The earl clutched the crenel. Let her go back to Ravenskeep and entertain other lovers. He looked more eagerly, marking provisioned horses. He nodded, intensely pleased. My son will soon forget her.

  But his self-satisfaction was extinguished as Robert crossed the bailey leading a third horse. On the saddle was hooked a common yeoman’s longbow and a quiver of white-fletched arrows, as well as bulging wallets; in his left hand he carried a sheathed Norman sword, its massive pommel winking briefly an eye of purest steel.

  No. He took a single step toward the closest stairs but four paces away. Aloud he announced, “I will not permit this. No,” though no one could hear him. The earl descended swiftly. “Robert! Wait!”

  Three faces turned to him: the woman’s, the monk’s, his son’s. His son’s was all that mattered.

  By God, show no haste . . . give her no chance to gloat. He slowed perceptibly as he reached the bailey cobbles, moving with a solemn dignity that would not, he was convinced, betray the burgeoning fear so alien to him.

  “Robert.” He halted before his son and linked hands behind his back in seeming idleness. The earl forced a smile, though it barely crimped his mouth. “The chase is lush with game. Which are you hunting today?”

  Robert shook his head.

  Desperation augmented fear. “Robert—Robert wait—” No, not like that. He intensely disliked his tone and schooled it accordingly into the crispness he favored. “When may I expect you back?”

  Robert turned and hooked the sheathed sword by its belt over the saddle, then led his horse to Marian, whom he assisted to mount. “When I am back, my lord.”

  “Robert—” The earl lowered his hand quickly so as not to betray too much. “Robert, you will return.”

  He watched as his heir tugged free Marian’s tangled mantle and murmured something quietly, letting a hand linger on her knee in an intimacy the earl found as infuriating as embarrassing. Robert glanced toward his father as he turned to mount his horse. “There are things I must attend.”

  “But you will return!”

  Adroitly avoiding longbow, quiver, and sword, Robert tossed his mantle clear and mounted easily with the fluid grace of youth, swinging a hosen-clad leg across the horse’s broad rump. “I will return, yes. When I have settled my business.”

  “Robert.” He moved the two steps and grasped at the tightened reins. “By God, listen to me—”

  “No.” The tone was the earl’s own; he saw what Ralph meant, now. “I listened to you last night. I have no desire to hear more of the same now.”

  “You’ve only just come back!” It was a cry from the heart which he regretted instantly. And yet it served his purpose.

  His son’s expression altered. “Father,” he said quietly, “I will come back again.”

  It was the first time in many years, too many years to count, that his son had called him anything less formal than “my lord.”

  The earl loosed the rein. “Then go,” he said harshly, so as not to sound too soft.

  He watched them ride through the gate, then swung and strode to the steps to remount the castle wall. The day he altered his habits would be the day he died.

  Sixty

  Marian understood why Robin had said Locksley was the hem of Sherwood’s skirts, rather than its heart. In fact, Locksley was not so much a part of Sherwood as Sherwood was its windbreak; from Huntington Castle one saw only trees, but as Robin led them beyond the wood she discovered its density was sparse and its depth negligible. The ragged hem of Sherwood’s skirts hung down in a sweeping curve, and in the hollow of the curve was cradled the village and manor of Locksley.

  The village was neither large nor small, but somewhere in between. Spring crops were being sowed: peas and beans in the furrows, oats and barley on the ridges between, so standing water would not drown the grain. Each team of oxen required two men: one to drive the oxen by voice and goad, the other on the plow handles, the stilts, to make certain the coulter, share, and moldboard dug the furrows properly, piling up even ridges. Behind came the women and elders who performed the actual sowing.

  She stared again at the tree line, at the edge of infamous Sherwood. Earlier that morning, as they rode from Huntington Castle, Robin had committed himself to the future that lay before them. His father’s jewels, duly stolen, were sent with a trusted yeoman to someone known as Abraham—a Jew, then, surely—who would dispatch them to another, who would in turn send them along again, until at last they arrived in Germany. A matter of days, Robin promised.

  Is it enough? Marian wondered. How much to buy a king?

  Robin dropped back to ride abreast of her horse, so closely their knees touched. He reached out once to stroke back a strand of hair that troubled her eyes, let his knuckle linger at her cheek as they
smiled at one another, then lowered his arm reluctantly. His expression was more relaxed than Marian had seen since she’d told him of deLacey’s unsuccessful trick to lure her into marriage.

  She grinned. “Locksley agrees with Locksley.”

  It was a poor jest, but he laughed anyway. “I’ve always preferred the forest to halls and castles. This part of Sherwood was mine long before my father gave it to me.”

  A sprig of hope blossomed. “Then perhaps you should stay here, rather than at Huntington.”

  He shrugged, smile fading. “I may have no choice.”

  The intensity of her response was unexpected and overwhelming. It had nothing to do with his comment, merely with the comprehension of what they now shared. Their world had been remade in a reflection of their desire, yet others still attempted to shape it to fit their own designs.

  In that instant Marian was swept up by the need to touch him, to reach out and press flesh to flesh, finger to finger; to close her hand on his arm so she could feel the warmth and vigor beneath the tunic sleeve. She wanted to know without question he was living, breathing, and hers.

  But Tuck was just behind them, miserable on his horse; she did not consider it seemly or necessary to increase his concern by behaving inappropriately. Such behavior would reflect on him in his self-imposed role of chaperone.

  Unevenly she said, “You must make peace with your father.” For yourself, if not for me; I want your world set right again, so there need be no more nightmares.

  But he was not thinking of the nightmare that had visited him the night before, frightening her half to death as he called out desperately in a foreign language. He was thinking of a man who dominated his life as powerfully as his memories of the Crusade. “No one may make peace with my father, because he will not permit a war. One does as he expects, or one is discarded.” He shrugged dismissively; she knew it meant more than that. “He gave in last night because of Geoffrey de Mandeville, not because he truly desired to admit he could be wrong—”

  “You cannot know that,” she protested. “I was present, Robin ... he was truly distraught at the thought of losing you.” “No.” He blocked a low-hanging limb, then twisted to warn Tuck of it. “No, not at the thought of losing me—the ‘me’ I truly am, whom he cannot fully acknowledge—but the thought of having no one of his blood to whom he could leave that castle.”

  Inwardly she sighed, knowing he was wrong; knowing also he was as stubborn as his father, and would never admit it. Dealing with a man’s pride is as difficult as planting a crop in rocky ground: everywhere you dig, another stone appears.

  He glanced at her sidelong. “The hall is just ahead, through the trees. There—do you see it?”

  She did. It was a daub-and-wattle rectangular hall of willow- and oak-wand walls mixed with clay and chopped straw, supported by oak cruck trusses and beams, so that the thatched roof stood high and peaked.

  No stone, no chimney . . . it will be an open hearth. Marian gazed up at the thatched roof. Chimneys were easier, venting smoke out one exit. Open hearths fanned smoke mostly into the hall, though some escaped through the roof vent cut in the thatching for that purpose.

  Marian smiled wryly. Part of her longed for Ravenskeep and the luxuries she was used to, such as a chimney, stone walls, and courtyard. The other part of her longed to stay and make Locksley hers and Robin’s. But she was not a knight’s daughter for nothing. She understood the aristocracy, the demands of nobility, the requirements of rank. He was heir to vast estates and an ancient English title. If a woman’s future was too often prescribed merely by gender and dowry, Robin’s was by blood.

  Much roused as the carter called a greeting to the guards at Huntington Castle’s main gatehouse, and scrabbled up to peer over the side. He saw the stables, the vegetable garden, the guardhouse, then the carter was down from his seat and offering to lift him down, so he could be on his way. Much scrambled out of the cart himself, then stood with one foot cocked up so the man wouldn’t tumble to his trick.

  “Shall I fetch someone for you?” the carter asked. “Spit-boy, are you? Or horseboy?”

  Much shook his head; there was no one to fetch.

  The carter scratched his head, mussing wiry red hair. “Well, then, you’re here. Don’t put too much weight on that foot.”

  Much shook his head again.

  The carter squeezed Much’s slender shoulder and walked back around to his horse. “Off with you, then; I’ve work.”

  Much hobbled off until the carter had gone around to the other side of the keep, then walked normally, if swiftly, toward the stable block. First he would look at the horses to see if Robin’s was present.

  If not, he’d think of something.

  “Lionheart,” he muttered.

  Tuck sent thanks to God as the horses were halted at last. It mattered little to him that they had reached Locksley Hall; he wanted to reach anywhere at all so long as he could get off his horse.

  What is wrong with two good feet? he wondered forlornly. They carry me well enough at a pace I much prefer, and they do not require feeding.

  Tuck sighed heavily, grateful at last to dismount, and clambered down clumsily as he dragged at voluminous cassock. A questioning glance at Marian and her skirts underscored the problem with excess material as purely his own. Marian’s face was radiant, her expression exalted; she did not appear to notice any difficulty with skirts, but then she was noticing nothing but the man who lifted her down from the saddle into his arms, where she remained without protest.

  Tuck smiled ruefully, no longer quite so embarrassed. They can look at nothing else save one another. I doubt they would notice rain if it fell right on their heads.

  With infinite care he pulled his cassock into good order, fussed with his belt and rosary, then cleared his throat loudly; he could not condone too many such displays—or an inordinate length in this one—or he would be a failure in his role as chaperone. It was one thing to presume they had shared a bed; quite another to see the prelude.

  He cleared his throat again. His tone was a little more strident than he intended. “Is there water to drink in your hall?”

  Robin’s single outstretched arm indicated the nearby well while his mouth made use of hers without recourse to speech.

  Ah well, Tuck sighed as he walked somewhat stiffly toward the well, it is theirs to confess, not mine.

  Robin’s horse was not present. Much chewed at a ragged thumbnail, slipping back out of the stable into the bailey. He needed to ask someone, but who was he to ask? A mud-caked Nottingham cutpurse with no business at the castle—

  Hooves rang on cobbles and someone shouted out that the sheriff was coming in. For an instant Much froze, then skittered back inside the stable to duck down in the nearest shadow.

  More horses. More shouting. Norman French, and English. He peered through a crack between two timbers and saw the sheriff himself swinging down from his horse. He was cloaked and booted for the road, with thunder in his eyes.

  Much bit into his thumb. How could he find Robin while the sheriff was in the castle?

  He couldn’t be a horseboy; he might give himself away.

  Much removed his thumb. The word was in his mind. Spit-boy, then, just as the carter had asked.

  Robin paused in the doorway, then proceeded two more steps before halting again to watch her. Marian stood in the bleak, empty hall and surveyed its disrepair. Spiders had spun thick webs, generations of mice lived in the walls, and old rushes were mildewed and rank.

  She knew he was there, already tuned to his step. She did not bother to look back. “How long has it been since you came?”

  Hair had come loose of its coif and cloak hood to tumble down over her shoulders. The shadows are kind to her.... Robin, distracted, did not answer at once. He was less concerned with the hall than with the woman in it, whom he could not put out of his mind for more than a single moment until he thought of William deLacey, who wanted her as well.

  She glanced back a
cross a shoulder. “Well? Has it been that long?”

  He recalled her question at last. “Here?” Robin shrugged. “Never here. I came for the woods, not the hall.” He felt a little embarrassed; he had not considered the condition of a hall too manv vears left empty. “I’ve spoken to the reeve just now. He’ll bring villeins in at once to help you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Back?” She swung sharply to face him. “Where are you going?”

  “I promised you once before I would speak to my father.”

  “Yes, but . . .” Marian’s mouth tightened. “He will never consider it. Not now. I shamed him, Robin. I shamed him before his peers.”

  It stung him to quick retort. “You shamed no one! Ya Allah, Marian, he is a stubborn old fool with no blood left in his veins. You heard Geoffrey de Mandeville and Henry Bohun—they were more than prepared to pay you respect and honor—”

  “But he wasn’t,” she said. “Nor will he ever be.” Marian swallowed tightly, pressing the flat of her hands hard against her kirtle skirts. “Robin, go if you must—I will never hinder you—but go to make peace. I can wait. Let him come to know his son without the impediment of a woman who offends his sense of morals.”

  It infuriated him. “I care little enough what part of him is offended—”

  “Robin.” She smiled and put up her chin. “You sound very like your father.”

  It silenced him at once, as he knew she intended. But he could not help wondering if there were truth in her statement. He disliked the idea there might be. “Marian—”

  She cut him off. “You intended this all along. I see it now . . . you meant to bring me here, then leave me.”

  He nodded; he could not lie to her. “I knew you would not stay beneath my father’s roof another moment, after what he had said. I resolved last night to bring you here even before I knew of deLacey’s plot. . . .” He shrugged self-consciously. “I wanted you to myself. At Ravenskeep, there are servants—”