Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  Locksley reined in his restive horse. “She is the king’s ward, not yours.”

  Which king is that? The one in prison, or the one in Lincoln? DeLacey smiled. “But kings die in battle. Hugh had to be certain someone he trusted would see to his daughter’s welfare. That was what I intended: to ward her welfare utterly.” He shrugged. “But what is a simple sheriff when compared to Huntington’s son?” He let that sink in; it would mean something to Locksley, who would know very well that high rank was an elegant bait even when it tasted bad. His own father strikes at it. “In my desire and ambition, I overstepped my bounds.” He softened his tone. “But I did not reckon on falling in love with her.”

  Locksley’s horse pawed noisily, ringing shod hoof against cobblestone. He checked it with reins and a single murmured word. He said nothing at all to deLacey, though his eyes burned bright as coals.

  He’s learned to hide himself . . . the earl—or the Crusade—has taught him well. DeLacey inclined his head in a graceful admission of defeat. “I wish you well of her.” For as long as you may have her.

  Locksley drew aside. He sat easily in his saddle as deLacey rode by with his Normans.

  Longbow? deLacey wondered. But he was through the gatehouse. None of it mattered now; there was the plan to be put into motion.

  “Insh’Allah,” Robin muttered, reining his horse toward the inner bailey, “the day I believe that man is the day I am dead—Ya Allah, boy, watch out!”

  But it was Much. He knew it at once without knowing why; he recognized the swift dart beneath the horse’s head, the deft grasp of the reins, the pert face peering around the muzzle.

  “Much?” He swung down off the horse. The boy hadn’t known his rank, merely his nickname. Someone told him. “Much, what is it?”

  “Lionheart,” Much said.

  Robin cupped the horse’s muzzle and guided him back from the boy’s bare feet. The thought was inconsequential: Marian has his shoes. “Is it Abraham? Something about the money?”

  Much nodded urgently. He pointed out of the gate. “Took it.”

  “Who took—he took? The sheriff?” Robin bit out a curse.

  Much nodded. “Abraham said, ‘tell Robin all the money.’ ”

  “That whoreson bastard . . .” Robin considered it rapidly. They would have to retrieve it, of course, one way or another. But there was one consolation—“—at least the jewels were sent; Abraham said so. And a little money.” Robin glanced past Much to the keep, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “Too much to do ...” He let it go, dropping the hand to Much’s shoulder. “My oath to you,” he said. “We serve the Lionheart.”

  Much nodded vigorously.

  “But there is another promise I made, and it also must be honored. Do you understand?”

  Yet another nod.

  Robin smiled. “We’ve a journey ahead of us, and a difficult task to do. I’ll need your help, Much. Will you aid the Lionheart?”

  Much plucked a thin purse from his tunic sleeve and pushed it into Robin’s hand.

  Robin sighed. “Before God, Richard will owe you his kingdom.” He grinned. “Hold on to it for me.” The purse disappeared. “Much. Can you find me the Hathersage Giant? Will Scarlet? Adam Bell?”

  Much nodded at once. “Sherwood.”

  Robin laughed; oddly, he felt lighthearted. Because I have made my decision. Because I will be what I must, regardless of my father. “Do you know where in Sherwood?”

  Much nodded again.

  “Good. I want you to go there and find them, tell them I desire to speak with them—tell them, too, there is money in it”—he grinned as Much’s face brightened—“and that I will ride out to the place where Adam Bell and I practiced archery.”

  “Abraham?” Much asked worriedly.

  Robin nodded. “After I meet the others. We need them, Much. I cannot do this alone.” Then, at the boy’s anguished expression, he amended it instantly. “We cannot do this alone.”

  Much was satisfied.

  Sixty-Two

  Gisbourne wrote his name laboriously at the bottom of the page, blew at the ink to dry it—the boy had brought no sand—then carefully folded up the letter and squeezed the creases tightly. He wanted to seal it closed, but the boy had also brought no wax.

  I should be grateful he brought me this much. Besides, few in the castle could read; he was in no real danger of discovery. Gisbourne motioned the boy over. He disliked having to depend on him for this, but his leg still was not able to support him for long periods of time. It was improving, but he knew better than to press himself too hard. “Take this out to the guardhouse and find one of the off-duty soldiers to deliver it for me. He is to ride to Lincoln, to Prince John. This is royal business.”

  He waited for the boy’s big-eyed nod of acknowledgment, then dismissed him and slumped back against the pillows. “There,” he murmured. “So he knows I have not forgotten.”

  Eleanor waited until the door to Gisbourne’s chamber was shut, then called the boy to her at the end of the corridor. “Give it to me.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the boy complied.

  “What did Sir Guy say to you?”

  He stood stiffly, arms at his sides. “That I was to take it to a soldier.”

  “And?”

  “That he was to take it to Prince John, at Lincoln.”

  “Ah. Good. Here.” Knowing a shrewd boy would return at once to Gisbourne with news of the interception, she gave him a penny bearing old King Henry’s countenance. “You have the day free. Go spend that in the city.”

  The boy’s face lighted. He stammered his thanks, then hurried off down the corridor to the hall beyond.

  Eleanor looked at the writing on the outside of the parchment. It meant nothing to her, just marks upon the page. But she had seen the boy, clutching parchment, quill, and ink, go running to Gisbourne’s chamber, and knew Sir Guy planned something. “To Lincoln,” she murmured thoughtfully. “What have you to say to Prince John?”

  For that matter, what did she? John had said he expected reports. Perhaps it was time she told him what her father had attempted to do with Marian FitzWalter before Gisbourne could, since Gisbourne wanted her for himself.

  “No doubt he explains it all in his favor, in this letter.” She tapped the folded parchment against one palm. “I need to hire a clerk.” She could not afford for Prince John to decide that Gisbourne could have the FitzWalter woman. The whole point was to be rid of Marian entirely.

  “A royal ward,” Eleanor mused. “She’s meant for better than Gisbourne . . . for someone who can afford to pay the king for her hand.” It was done all the time. Ambitious men bought rich heiresses to increase their own holdings, which in turn increased their power. “I need to remind John that she’s worth more than Gisbourne can pay.”

  There were clerks for hire in Nottingham. All she need do was find one who knew how to keep his tongue still.

  “Money,” she muttered tightly. “All it requires is money.”

  As deLacey dismounted in the bailey of Nottingham Castle, Philip de la Barre appeared with alacrity. He held himself very stiffly upright with the helm at rest in the crook of his elbow, but the glint in his eyes was pronounced. “My lord. I have come to report success.”

  “Good.” DeLacey handed off his mount. “Come report it in my chamber; I want to change my clothing.” And as soon as possible, since much of what he wore was covered with mud. “Come, de la Barre ... He turned swiftly and strode off, unpinning his cloak and tossing it off to a waiting servant as he moved. “Have it brushed clean,” he ordered, then went on his way with de la Barre hastening in his wake. “The road is disgustingly foul after the storm ... one forgets the misery of rain when spring first appears.” DeLacey unlatched the chamber door and swung it open one-handed. “Precede me, de la Barre.” He followed the young Norman in after shouting for a body servant to attend him. “Now, if you please.”

  De la Barre sighed a little and gave his report. “There was
more than you expected, my lord. Much more. The Jew had hidden some in another room, locked away in a wooden casket.”

  “Ah?” DeLacey sat down on his bed as the servant entered and thrust out his foot so the man might divest him of his boots. “Pray do not twist my ankles.”

  “He would have said nothing about it. He was willing enough for us to take the money for taxes, but he protested when my men found the casket.”

  “Coin is precious to Jews. They prefer it to food.” DeLacey hung on to the bed as the servant tugged off his boot. “What did the old man say?”

  “That it was not for you, my lord. That it was no part of the new tax.”

  “That is to be expected.” One foot bared, he extended the other boot. “You have brought it all back.”

  “Yes, my lord. Under lock and key.”

  “Good.” DeLacey swore as his ankle twinged. “Not so hard, villein!” He clapped a hand against the man’s ears. “Did the Jew speak of anything more? If he hoards coin apart from others, it may be for some greater purpose.”

  “He said little, my lord.”

  DeLacey nodded thoughtfully. “But one cannot trust them. They lie to protect their own, and they worship coin.” He frowned. What purpose do they serve? The king’s? Could the money be meant for Richard?

  De la Barre shifted. “My lord—”

  The sheriff cut him off. “I have another task for you. Do you recall Roger, the villein at Ravenskeep?”

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  “You recall also his willingness to aid us.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The other boot came off. DeLacey bent and massaged his ankle, then gestured for the servant to begin undoing his hosen wrappings. “Philip.” He used the Christian name purposely, and saw the answering fire in de la Barre’s eyes. “Over time, a sheriff has occasion to collect certain things gathered from miscreants.”

  “One would think so, my lord; yes.”

  Such an eager soul, my Philip. “We have had occasion to do part of the Church’s work here as well ... those suspected of witchcraft are brought to me, of course, for examination and, if necessary, execution. We have acquired any number of strange oddments since I came to Nottingham.” He glanced sidelong at earnest de la Barre. “You are ambitious, yes?”

  “My lord—”

  “It is not a sin, Philip. I prefer ambitious men. They serve better than those too satisfied.” He removed his own tunic and dropped it to the floor, then extended his arms so the servant could untie his sherte sleeves. “How does Archaumbault fare?”

  De la Barre was taken off-stride by the change in topic. “He fares much better, my lord. In fact, he has resumed some minor duties.”

  “Good.” DeLacey stood and stripped out of sherte and hosen, motioning impatiently for fresh clothing. “If you desire to prosper here, you will do me the following service.”

  De la Barre nodded eagerly. “As you will, my lord.”

  DeLacey smiled satisfaction as he was handed fresh sherte and hosen. So accommodating, Philip. You may indeed rise—or fall, as it suits me.

  Something unseen and unheard alerted him. Robin glanced up sharply with a hand to his meat-knife, and found no more than his father in the doorway, watching him pack his things. “So,” the earl said, “she has won after all.”

  “It wasn’t a battle, my lord. This is the natural order of things.” The earl entered slowly, moving like an old man. He sat down wearily on the bench next to the door. “Indeed, it is the natural order of things ... as it is natural for a father to desire the best for his son.”

  The earl’s ascetic face was stretched too tightly over sharp bones. How much do I resemble him? And will I look like this when I age? Robin sat down on the edge of his bed, packing forgotten. “A father may desire things for his son, but he must also admit that son has a mind of his own.”

  “Do you?” Huntington smiled wearily. “Yes, perhaps you do—and perhaps I have not been cognizant of it for too long.” He set his spine against the wall, stretching fallen shoulders. Frowning vaguely, he asked, “Why are you wearing such clothing? You look like a yeoman instead of an earl’s son.”

  Robin smiled wryly. He was wearing yeoman’s clothing: plain brown hosen, cross-wrapped to his knees; a simple dark green tunic with sleeves cut off at elbows; a collared leather hood slipped to lie flat across shoulders and spine; and dark leather bracers over wrists and half of his forearms. In his saddle wallets there was also a plain leather jerkin for cooler days. All of it was borrowed, save boots, belt, and meat-knife, from his father’s finest archer, who had trained the earl’s son without the earl’s knowledge.

  Robin shrugged, offering no answer; in a moment his father, attention distracted, returned again to the topic that occupied his mind. “I admit freely, Robert, that Sir Hugh FitzWalter was a decent man, a good knight—”

  “Then why—”

  The earl lifted a hand and his son fell silent. “A moment, pray you—then I will listen to your side.” He smiled faintly. “Had the other boys lived, you would have been a third son. Even the Earl of Huntington might find it sufficiently difficult to parcel out his holdings among three sons, although I daresay at least one of you—you, perhaps?—would have gone into the Church.”

  His eyes creased in faint amusement, puckering fragile flesh into a netting of silken wrinkles as his son looked skeptical. “You doubt me? Well, perhaps not you—no man can predict where a religious vocation might grow.” He sighed. “Had the others lived, I would have no objection to you marrying Hugh FitzWalter’s daughter”—and now the tone altered—“had she not been despoiled by outlaws.” His eyes were steady, unflinching, intolerant of protest. “Do you understand? I could not have countenanced it that way; do you believe I can permit it now, when you are the only living seed of my loins?”

  Fascinated in spite of himself, Robin stared at the man. It was the first real conversation they had ever had, although as yet he had not had his say. It moved him to hear the man speak simply about how he felt instead of merely announcing orders.

  “My lord—” he checked himself. “Father.” He appealed to flesh and blood in hopes the earl would weigh things by a different measure. “Permit me to say very frankly that I find your feelings old-fashioned.”

  “Old-fashioned?” White eyebrows shot up. “I have said nothing at all of your behavior, Robert, which was reprehensible. In my day decent men did not bed unmarried women—”

  “Perhaps you did not—”

  “Of course I did not!” some of the earl’s ascetic querulousness returned.

  He laughed. “Did you bed married ones?”

  “Robert!”

  Robin sighed, laughter checked. It was an aberration, the reasonable tone. I should have known what to expect.

  “What I am trying to tell you,” the earl said on a note of immense patience, “is that I understand the nature of her appeal. She is surpassing beautiful—but I cannot allow you to marry a woman who has been publicly despoiled.”

  Ya Allah, what a refrain. “She has not been despoiled, my lord ... unless you name me as the despoiler.” He shook his head. “Will Scarlet did not violate her, nor did anyone else. She was a maiden when I took her.” He did not allow emotion to enter his tone; that more than anything would slam shut his father’s mind. “I will swear it before any altar you desire, my lord, on any Bible, on any relic—”

  “No.” The earl sat rigidly on the bench. “It doesn’t matter, Robert—don’t you see? You may swear before the king himself, but they will always wonder. It is the woman’s lot to be blamed when a man steals her virtue.”

  “Why?”

  “Because women seduce men,” the earl declared simply. “Eve seduced Adam—”

  “The Serpent had something to do with that,” Robin said dryly. “And if Eve hadn’t, we would not be here.”

  “That is beside the point.” The earl did not appreciate levity or irony. “The point is, Robert, that people will believe she
is despoiled.”

  Just as Marian said herself. Robin sighed and hung on to waning patience. If he lost his temper, nothing would be accomplished. “A more generous man might say I would remove the taint from her if I married her.”

  “The taint would extend to you. If a child were born to you within nine months of the wedding, there would be questions of its parentage.” The earl shook his head. “Robert, I speak of your future. You are my heir. I cannot permit you to destroy your life with this.”

  Anger flickered. It took effort to remain civil. “You destroy my life by denying me the right to marry.”

  “You may marry,” the earl said tightly, “and very well indeed! One need only be patient.”

  “Insh’Allah, not John’s daughter again!”

  “Robert! I do wish you would forbear to use the Infidel’s language! this is a Christian land.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, then shut it tightly. It was habit, nothing more, formed by an eye toward self-preservation while among the Saracens. He had not realized it was so prevalent in his speech. “I have no intention of marrying John’s bastard.”

  “Then perhaps you should go to Lincoln and tell the prince himself.” The earl produced the folded letter from his sleeve and held it up. “This arrived today. He expects you in Lincoln no later than the day after tomorrow.”

  Robin did not hesitate. “Then he will be disappointed.”

  “Robert. You will go.” The earl leaned forward. “It isn’t a certainty, this marriage—and even if it is—”

  “No.”

  “Before God, Robert ...” The earl sat back against the wall again, as if his strength had run out. “This man may be King of England.”

  “Not if you undermine him with de Vesci and the others.”

  “They leave at midday tomorrow. For now our discussions are done.” The earl closed his hand around the letter. The parchment collapsed from the pressure of his grip. “Robert—if you must have her, then you may ... but do not marry her. Take to wife a woman who will give you the latitude to love another, if you will—but reserve the name for one of more proper aspect.”