Ya Allah—He broke that off laggardly as a chill washed his flesh. He cannot mean ... Robin stared at the earl in disbelief. “Latitude ...” he echoed, understanding too well. The latitude to love another. “Is that what my mother did?”
The earl’s pale face stiffened into immobility. “We will not discuss your mother.”
Everything else, of a sudden, was insignificant. “By God, we will—”
“No.” The earl rose, stuffing the letter back into his sleeve. “Your mother was—and is—my concern, Robert. We will not speak of her again.”
“Why not?” Robin lurched up from the bed. “Why not? Is it too painful for you?” He stared at the old man, seeing utter inflexibility and a cold arrogance that surpassed even the king’s. “Or is it that there is no pain at all, my lord ... no pain because you are incapable of feeling any emotion beyond that pleasure taken in controlling the lives of others?”
“Enough, Robert.” The earl made a slashing gesture demanding silence. “I have given you the means by which you might be happy in company with this woman—”
He shouted with laughter. “You tell me to make her my leman! What means are those, my lord? I want to marry her. I want her to bear my children, and to raise up an heir in my place one day.”
The earl’s face congested. “By God, Robert—don’t you see? If you marry that woman, no son of yours can ever be heir to my title!”
The silence was loud. It filled up his ears and set his head to ringing. He was tired, so very tired. There was no anger at all, no heat or fury, no contempt. Merely a certainty of ending. “So.” He shivered with cold. “Geoffrey de Mandeville’s words bear no weight after all.” He nodded. His lips felt numb. “Have it as you will. This will be a mutual forfeiture—”
“Robert!”
“—because I will not claim as father a man who cannot see beyond the ignorance of his own bias.”
“Robert—”
“I will take nothing from this hall—this castle—that is not mine to take.”
“Don’t do this!” the earl cried. “Can you not see my side?”
Robin took from his bed the packed saddle wallets. He felt sluggish and painfully slow, as if some perverse part of him wanted to make the moment last. “All I have ever been made to see is your side, my lord. But never once have you tried to see mine.” He slung the wallets over one shoulder and took two steps toward the door, which brought him very close to his father. He looked into the aging face, marking sags and lines and old bones, and saw nothing of himself there. “Tell me the truth, as a parting gift: did I ever even approach being the son you wanted?”
The earl stood perfectly straight. His face was a mask of indifferent civility. “Not once.”
Robin nodded; it did not hurt. It was merely confirmation.
“It was your mother’s doing,” the earl declared bitterly. “She ruined you with softness. I tried to put you to rights, but she had already filled your head up with too much fey nonsense.”
“Yes, my lord. So she had.” Robin walked out of the chamber in which he had slept but six nights of his life.
When his son was gone, the earl sat down again. He felt sick and old and weary, weary enough to die. He took from his sleeve the folded parchment again, and stared at it bitterly. “John offers the FitzWalter girl to me ... has he no sense of what he is doing?” No, of course not; John did whatever he liked for reasons of his own. He meant her as a reward, as a favor, to curry the earl’s approval, to add to a proud house the honor of Ravenskeep—“Save there is little enough of it left!” Anger seethed briefly. “To expect me to be persuaded to support John in exchange for a pittance and a dishonored woman ...”
Although, to be fair, it was possible John did not know of Marian’s abduction. It was probable, in fact; John believed what he offered whole and worth consideration.
Once, it might have been. Ravenskeep and Huntington, with Nottingham in between.
But now, it was insult. Unless one looked at it another way, seeking another value.
The earl’s mouth crimped. He saw his son’s face before him, stark and bleak and white. “Should I marry her myself, just to keep her from marrying you? I could send her away, lock her away, make everyone forget her ...” The words died quickly, replaced by surging hope. If the sheriff is successful ... But the thought also died. He was too weary even to think.
“Damn you.” The Earl of Huntington crumpled the letter in palsied, age-spotted hands. “Damn you for being a stubborn fool.”
But he was not certain, even then, if he damned John, or himself, or his son.
Sixty-Three
Marian sighed wearily as she raked out of the hall the last pile of old rushes. I just did this, every bit of it, at Ravenskeep. She sidestepped her way toward the door, yanking rushes along with vigorous exasperation. Tines scratched beaten earth floor, leaving shallow scars behind.
She paused a moment, scrubbing her damp forehead against a forearm. Sweat trickled stickily down her ribs and the sides of her neck; she had kilted up kirtle and hair in an attempt to reduce her discomfort, but the hall admitted little air through its few narrow windows. The day was bright after the storm, and close, warmed by a spring sun.
Marian was not alone. The reeve, James, had sent her the promised village women, and they had shyly come in with rakes and brooms to help her clear the hall. They spoke quietly among themselves, snatching glances at her as she worked, but only rarely did any of them speak directly to her. It was for Marian to give them orders, which they executed with care.
She knew they believed her Sir Robert’s wife. They were subservient and respectful, never failing to call her Lady Marian, never suggesting by word or action they believed her other than legal wife. It would not cross their minds that the daughter of a knight might cohabit with an earl’s son without benefit of marriage, because that was an aspect of peasant life when priests were hard to come by. They often handfasted for a year while waiting for a mendicant priest to come to their village, and the children born from such bonds were as legitimate as others. But the nobility did not lack for priests, and so of course the Lady Marian and Sir Robert had married quietly. Lords did not tell villeins private, personal matters such as the dates of weddings.
Marian raked her rush pile out of the door, where another woman took it up to carry off to the refuse pile as directed. She knew some of the peasants might prefer to take it for their own dwellings, but she did not desire to add any more vermin to the homes of villagers than were already present, and insisted it be burned.
Now the women came with armloads of fresh-cut rushes and baskets of herbs. One of them brought a cat as Marian had requested, a half-grown young gray tom, to begin work on the mice in the walls.
“There’s more kittens,” the woman said.
Marian grinned. “One will do for now. Besides, he’ll find a lady soon enough to bring home to the hall.”
The young woman colored. “Aye, Lady. Like Sir Robert did.” She thrust the cat into Marian’s arms and hastened away to help with the laying of rushes.
Marian sighed, tucking the tom into her elbow. She did not know what to tell them. No one but Tuck could quibble if she let them assume what they would, but that was too close to lying for her to feel comfortable.
The thought was sudden and unbidden. What will they say when I go back to Ravenskeep?
A hollowness cramped her stomach. She had not come to live, she had come to escape first the sheriff and then the earl’s displeasure. There had been no word of her staying, any more than there had been word of Robin staying; he had gone to make peace with the earl. She could not expect him to live at Locksley when he would inherit a castle, any more than she could expect to live there herself as a leman. She had her own manor and attendant responsibilities. Rents were due her, but she also owed her own share to the king. She could not let Ravenskeep go for the sake of wanting to share Robin’s company.
A part of her asked, Why not? I want to be with
him. I want it so much it hurts. And it did, with a strange, discomfiting pain that lingered on the threshold between joy and futility. The pleasure she took in his presence was full and unobstructed, but now that he was gone she could look at things more clearly, she could see the truth of the moment. If I were a man, I could do my own choosing. Make my own life. Decide where I would live, and with whom. And yet Marian knew better. Even Robin could not choose.
The cat squirmed in her arms. Marian bent and set him down and watched him inspect the nearest rush before bounding off to look for mice. “I can’t just stay,” she murmured, “no matter how much I want to.”
“Lady Marian?” It was James in the doorway. “We’ve thatching cut for the roof.”
“Good.” It was something else to distract her. “Cut out any old thatching that seems too thin, or too brittle, and replace it with new. And make certain the vent is clear of debris. I want the smoke to be drawn out instead of floating throughout the hall.”
“Aye, Lady Marian.”
She nodded absently, thinking about screening. Locksley Hall boasted no separate rooms, no second storey. It was a simple rectangular building without refinement or adornment. I’ll have a reed screen woven to block off part of the hall, just a corner, for us ... and one of the other corners for a kitchen ... I abhor outdoor kitchens in the winter. She looked up at the peaked roof. I should have more windows cut, and shutters. Marian took up the longest broom she could find and began to tear down the webs. I will make this hall bearable yet.
DeLacey leaned forward in his chair as the castellan made his way forward. “Archaumbault! It pleases me well you have recovered so quickly.” He smiled warmly and sat back again, relaxing. “I have need of your expertise.”
“My lord?” The older man, in mail again after several days of rest, carried his left arm gingerly but did not otherwise appear to be much hindered by his wound.
“Yes.” DeLacey nodded, frowning slightly. “I find myself involved in a delicate situation, Archaumbault. It calls for extreme care. It is not at all the sort of thing I can trust to any man, especially”—here he smiled indulgently—“especially one as young and eager as Philip de la Barre.”
Archaumbault’s eyes did not flinch, but there was a flexing of muscle in his jaws. “No, my lord. De la Barre is often overeager. But there is promise in him.”
Too much, to your way of thinking; you see your position threatened. “Therefore I would request that you attend to it personally, Archaumbault—we can afford no whisper of this getting out. It would be most distressing to me, and could certainly damage someone I care about a great deal.” He waited.
Archaumbault stood erect, as always. “My lord, you know I will do my best.”
As you did in rescuing Marian? But deLacey did not speak of that. There would be time for censure later. “There has come to my ears a whisper of witchcraft, Archaumbault. A rumor only, but these things must be dealt with carefully, as you know, lest we cause a panic among the peasants.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Archaumbault’s tone, as always, was a bland neutrality that occasionally irked the sheriff, who preferred to goad his men into displaying something more. It was how he learned to control them.
“It is peasant superstition, of course ... but it must be investigated. I want you to ride to Ravenskeep and bring the villein here, so I may question him.” DeLacey tapped his fingertips against the arm of his chair. “His name is Roger, I’m told. He says he has proofs of devil worship at Ravenskeep.”
Archaumbault nodded, seemingly oblivious to the possibility. “Do you want the hall searched, my lord?”
He considered it thoughtfully, cradling jaw in hand as he propped an elbow against the chair. “For now there is only suspicion ... I would dislike suggesting there is truth in it by searching the hall yet—” He sighed. “Then again, we dare not let this go on if there is truth in it.” He pulled himself upright. “A cursory search only. Do not upset the villeins any more than is necessary.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Archaumbault—” It cut off the man’s withdrawal sharply. “Do bring me word if the Lady Marian is present. If she is not, you might ask where she is.”
The castellan bowed his head. “Of course, my lord.”
DeLacey watched him depart. With the earl’s own blessing, I will do what I have to do.
Robin reined in his horse precisely at the place he had been stopped before by Adam Bell’s men. He waited mutely, at ease in the saddle, keeping his horse to the center of the road with an occasional heel tap or twitch of reins. He did not doubt the others were there, watching from the foliage, and when he heard the low-toned bird call he answered in kind.
“Here, now.” It was Adam Bell, leaving behind the leafy screen. “What use is the whistle to us if you can mimic it?”
Robin grinned. “Of great use, perhaps. It may be necessary for you to answer to mine.”
Bell stopped at the roadside as the others came out of the trees. “Answer to yours? What for?”
Clym of the Clough nodded. “So you can lure us to the sheriff?”
Robin laughed, reining in his restive horse, who pawed at the muddy track. “So I can lure you to profit, more like.” Then he dropped the bantering tone. “I’ve business to discuss. Will you listen?”
Adam Bell considered it. “No knight has business with us.”
Clym’s tone was belligerent. “The boy says nothing but ‘Lionheart.’ What’s the king to do with us?”
Robin studied them in silence. He blamed none of them for wariness or disbelief, nor did he think they would all welcome his words. He was hindered by his knighthood, though he could not say if they knew more of him; it would be difficult to convince them to look beyond his rank.
“What the king has to do with you,” he began, “is better explained in comfort.”
Will Scarlet murmured a derisive oath. Adam Bell arched an eyebrow. “Then come into my hall, Sir Knight. Come sit upon my throne.”
“King of Sherwood?” Robin smiled. “Then let me bestow proper gifts.” He pulled his right foot free of the stirrup and bent his knee upward, sliding three curved staffs free of their fastenings. One by one he tossed them out: to Will Scarlet, Little John, and Alan. “Gifts,” Robin repeated, digging coiled bowstrings out of a wallet. “Can you shoot?”
Will Scarlet scowled. “Not like you.”
“Nor I!” agreed Little John. “The staffs my weapon, when one’s needed.”
Robin nodded. “My head remembers that.” He tossed out the bowstrings. “But there are times when a man prefers to be at distance from the enemy—a bow’s the thing for that.”
Alan of the Dales laughed. “Gift or no, I’m useless for this. I’ve shot a bow before, but my hands are too valuable—”
“Your hands are already strong and callused,” Robin interposed. “I need you to shoot a bow.”
“Here,” growled Clym. “What’s this for?”
But Robin looked at Much, seeing the boy’s tensed alertness, the keen desire for a bow. He smiled and shook his head. “Quickness is your weapon, Much. I need that, and your deftness. Will you give me both?”
The tenseness faded. Smile growing, Much nodded.
“Good.” Robin looked down at the others, then hooked a leg over the saddle and dropped off his horse. “If you’ll do me the honor, my lord”—he gestured at Adam Bell—“I will be pleased to share with you a certain knowledge that will be of great value.”
Clym swore. “He’s mad. What’s a knight want with us?”
Robin, pulling quivers and bundled arrows from the saddle, cast a sidelong glance at the minstrel. Alan of the Dales merely smiled and shrugged slightly: it remained for Robin to tell them, if he chose to do so, that he was far more than a knight.
Adam Bell remained where he was. “Let me see the arrows, Sir Knight.”
Robin tossed him a quiver. Bell drew one of the arrows and studied it, marking the preciseness of the fletching, the fit of th
e arrowhead, the straightness of the shaft. He pulled another and examined it as carefully, then pursed his lips and slid both back into the quiver. He passed it to Alan. “A man who knows his fletching made those.”
Robin tossed the other two quivers at Little John and Will Scarlet. “You’ve seen his handiwork. The man who taught me to shoot is the man who made those arrows, as well as the bows.”
Bell’s eyes narrowed. “I have a professional interest, Sir Knight.”
“Edward Fuller,” Robin said.
“Ned!” Bell very nearly gaped. “Old Ned Fuller makes the finest bows in England ... or he did, before he stopped shooting at fairs and took service with the Earl of Huntington. By God, boy, how did you come by them? He doesn’t sell one cheaply, and you’ve got three—”
“Four.” Robin smiled inoffensively. “I’ve one of my own, as well.”
Bell’s gaze was steady. “Four,” he said quietly. “Four Ned Fuller bows ... even a knight might find it hard to afford so many.”
“I didn’t buy them,” Robin said. “He wouldn’t take my money. Ned told me if they were meant to help bring King Richard home, he’d give them and the arrows.”
Clym swore. “Old Ned Fuller gives nothing—”
“Wait.” Bell cut him off with a raised hand. “He does if he believes the man will do as he says.” Slowly he lowered the hand. “Come say what there is to say.”
Sixty-Four
Alan found himself a stump on which to sit and settled himself comfortably, hooking the belly of his lute against his right thigh as the neck nestled into his left hand. He found the tableau inspiring and longed to make a song of it, wondering in the back of his mind if he could create a legend merely by singing the truth.
An earl’s son hunting coin with the vilest outlaws in Sherwood Forest. Alan pursed his lips. There might be something in it ... something to lure the ear ... God knows he’s fodder enough: a noble, a knight, king’s confidant, Crusader. He grinned to himself, thanking his Muse, and bent his head over the lute as he toyed with a verse. He did nothing aloud, merely play acted the minstrel’s part to help himself think.
Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] Page 67