Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  In summer, when the woods be bright,

  And leaves be large and long,

  It is full merry in fair forest

  To hear the small birds’ song.

  “Now,” Adam Bell said quietly, “let’s hear what you have to say.”

  In various postures the others sat, or hunched, or leaned; in the dull colors of their clothing they blended into the foliage and trees, melding into shadows. Only Robin stood, at ease, one hand wrapped around his bow. In the light of a late afternoon, brass-bright after three gloomy days, his hair glowed like needfire.

  “I have a plan,” he said quietly, “to help you, and me, and all England.”

  Alan’s smile grew. The verse begat another:

  Come listen to me, you gallants so free,

  All you that love mirth for to hear,

  And I will tell you of a bold outlaw

  That lived in Nottinghamshire.

  Robin’s tone was pitched conversationally, but with a casual note of camaraderie, as if he counted himself among them. “You know as well as I the Forest Laws are too binding, robbing all but the king and nobility of the chance to eat venison.”

  “You want to change the law?” Will Scarlet was clearly contemptuous. “D’ye mean to make yourself king, then?”

  Robin grinned. “No. I mean to bring home the king, so he may do something about it.”

  Clym swore. “D’ye mean to march us to Germany then—maybe walk across the water!—and beg King Henry oh so prettily to give us our Richard back?”

  “I mean to pay the ransom,” Robin told him. “And you can help me do it.”

  Ah, Alan thought, what a ballad there is in this!

  “We’ve no money,” Scarlet declared. “How are we to pay?”

  Robin arched a quizzical eyebrow. “Then what do you do with the coin you steal? Eat it in place of deer?”

  Clym laughed. Cloudisley smiled. Bell merely looked thoughtful.

  “Here,” Little John said. “You mean to steal it, then? For the king?”

  Robin nodded. “The chancellor, William Longchamp, has taxed everything in England. Men like the Sheriff of Nottingham see that all of us pay the tax. But it’s never enough, is it? More and more is demanded, until even the Jews claim poverty—”

  “Jews,” Clym muttered. “They eat Christian babies.”

  “No,” Robin said patiently. “It is true they eat no pork, but they do not eat babies in its place.”

  Clym was unconvinced. He swore softly, then spat. “That for your Jews.”

  The minstrel marked how Robin weighed expressions, looking at each of the outlaws. He’s been in the army—with his name, he likely commanded. He knows how to win men.

  Alan’s smile widened again as Robin continued easily, showing no impatience with Clym’s foul temper, or contempt for the man. “There are those who escape paying as much as they should—”

  “Rich men,” Scarlet said sourly. “Rich men like Normans.”

  “Rich men like nobles,” said Wat One-Hand.

  “And bishops, and abbots, and archbishops.” Robin nodded. “There are those men who speak of God while robbing the poor to adorn themselves with jewels and cloth of gold, and altars with silver plate.”

  Alan laughed to himself, exulting inwardly:

  These bishops and these archbishops,

  Ye shall them beat and bind;

  The High Sheriff of Nottingham,

  Him hold ye in your mind.

  “And knights,” Clym said pointedly. “What do knights pay?”

  “Knights pay what they can in service, if not in coin,” Robin answered patiently, unoffended by the implication. “It isn’t the rich on Crusade, because the Crusade has made all men poor.”

  Fascinated, Alan watched him in silence, offering no comment or question. Robin’s words made sense, but his matter-of-fact approach misdirected the others into believing what he suggested was a perfectly normal thing for a man such as himself.

  An earl’s son telling outlaws they should rob the clergy? Even in the king’s name, it is not so simple a thing. His fingers twitched. My God, what fodder he is! All it wants is a woman.

  Adam Bell nodded, pulling idly at his bottom lip. “So, you want us to rob rich men and give the coin to you, so you can ransom the king.” He nodded again. “We’re not mad, Sir Knight. Nor are we simpletons—except the boy, there.”

  Much’s face colored. He glared blackly at Bell.

  “No,” Robin said, “not simple. Much has a special gift. There is no boy—or man!—who is quicker with his hands or more loyal to a cause.”

  “Lionheart,” Much said stoutly.

  “Agh, God—d’ye think we’re so foolish as all that?” Clym asked. “You come here to Sherwood and tell us we’re to rob priests and noblemen, then give it all to you—”

  “Not to me.” The camaraderie faded. Robin’s tone was level, with no hint of amusement in it. He was deadly serious, with the look of a man who would not tolerate obstruction if there were no grounds for it. “We will set it all aside, then send it to Longchamp in London.”

  “Longchamp!” Bell shook his head. “You said it yourself: he’s taxing England to death.”

  Robin tapped the foot of his bow into the earth, watching intently as leaf mold was ground into motes of fine powder. “There is a difference,” he said quietly, “between a tax levied to buy back the king”—he looked at them now, and Alan caught his breath at the fixed determination that transfigured the hazel eyes—“and one levied to have him killed.”

  “What?” Little John’s tone was sharp. “Who wants him killed?”

  Robin stopped tapping. “Prince John desires the throne. He will do whatever he must to make certain his brother remains imprisoned forever—which is impractical, because the threat of escape is too great—or that he dies unexpectedly of means no one quite understands.” He stood very still, looking at each man. The fading bruises on his face underscored his intensity.

  ’Tis the eyes, Alan decided. He knows how to master his face, but the eyes give him away. When they’re cold and dead and steady is when he’s most intent on his quarry.

  “And I suppose you know all this because you’re a knight.” Cloudisley was less belligerent than Clym, and less deliberate than Bell, but his skepticism was plain.

  Coolly, Robin said, “Among other things.”

  Alan grinned. Here it is ... will he tell them now, or wait?

  “This latest ‘tax,’ ” Robin went on, divulging nothing more, “is nothing but Prince John’s vanity demanding coin for his debts. It is not Longchamp’s doing.”

  “But—” Cloudisley was astonished. It was preposterous even to outlaws that a prince would do such a thing. “Then the money isn’t going for the king at all.”

  “No.”

  Adam Bell nodded musingly. “Into Prince John’s coffers.”

  Robin nodded. “I’d rather send it to German Henry than put it in John’s hands.”

  Bell glanced at Clym, then at Cloudisley. His smile ran crooked. “Tell me,” he said, “why we should aid the king.”

  It startled even Clym. “But he’s the king—”

  Bell thrust out a silencing hand, staring hard at Robin. “I want him to answer. I want a pretty knight—and more than that, perhaps?—to tell us why we should steal to buy back a king who’s as Norman as any of them.”

  They had none of them thought of it. Not even Alan, whose fingers stilled the strings. Norman as any of them—aye, so he is ... but Richard was born to be king—He looked at Robin. Let him answer the riddle.

  Robin nodded. “A fair question, Adam—but one for him to answer.”

  Bell scoffed. “So I thought. So, then, why should you aid him? He’s a Norman. You’re Saxon.” His eyes were veiled behind lashes. “Or so you’d have us think.”

  “We’ve lost England,” Robin said. “We lost her long ago when the Conqueror took her from us. And certainly we have suffered, all of us, though some more than
others—”

  “Some less,” Clym muttered.

  “And some less.” He did not shirk the admission. “They are here, Adam. We cannot send them home again. But we can reclaim our country by teaching the invaders how to live as Englishmen.”

  Adam grunted. “And King Richard can do that?”

  “I believe he is a man who trusts another man regardless of his birth, so long as that man puts his faith in the king.”

  Cloudisley stirred. “And what does that gain us?”

  “Consideration,” Robin declared. “He will treat you as men, not beasts. He understands the wealth of a land lies in what folk produce, not in crushing them down.”

  Clym was troubled. “He’s a warrior, they say—”

  “So he is. I have seen him in battle.”

  “A strong man, then?”

  “The strongest I have met, in all the ways a man is measured.” Robin slanted a smile at Little John. “He might subdue the Hathersage Giant.”

  Alan struck a chord. “Robin has the right of it. We’ll not rid our shores of the Normans ... what serves us now is to retain as much of England in the rearing up of her kings.”

  “Bring Richard home,” Robin said, “and I promise you better days. Far better than John does; would you rather have him as king?”

  The silence was loud. Then Scarlet stirred. “If all of England is so poor, there’s no more coin to be had. How can we help?”

  Robin’s answer was flat and measured, empty of emotion. “There are three lords riding out of Huntington tomorrow, at midday. They are wealthy, powerful men. I intend to waylay them on the road and demand their purses of them—and anything else of worth that can be put toward the ransom.”

  “Do you?” Adam Bell grinned. “This is your information?”

  “It is.”

  A subtle, contradictory man. Alan cradled his lute. And to think I believed him tedious back at Huntington Castle.

  Bell, Clym, and Cloudisley exchanged eloquent glances. Clym grinned hugely, though he directed it at the ground; Cloudisley proved intent on the wrap of his longbow’s handgrip; Bell was the one who answered. “And who is to say we will not kill you now and rob them ourselves, without your assistance?”

  Robin said merely, “Because none of you can kill me.”

  Gisbourne, who had succeeded in changing from bliaut to tunic, also struggled into baggy hosen. He sat on the edge of his bed and gathered his strength, determined to rejoin the world from which his injury had cut him off. He could do nothing in bed in his chamber, could conduct no affairs nor see to running the castle; and if Prince John did send word in response to his letter, he might never receive it. But if he were up and about, taking an interest in his responsibilities, his lot would no doubt improve.

  He hooked the crutches beneath his arms and hitched himself up, putting as little weight as possible on the injured leg. It itched abominably as the swelling went down. Laboriously Gisbourne made his way to the door, unlatched it, and crutched out of the way as he tugged it open.

  In the corridor, prepared to knock, stood the sheriff. “Gisbourne!” He smiled delighted surprise. “I have come to put you to work.”

  Taken aback, Gisbourne leaned on his crutches. “Oh?” he inquired weakly. He had hoped to avoid the sheriff for as long as possible.

  “Yes.” DeLacey waved a hand, shooing Gisbourne back toward the bed. “Go on, go on—this can be done from over there.”

  “But I wanted—”

  “No, Sir Guy. I understand your feelings of unworthiness, but I assure you I have no intention of allowing you to return to work too soon. There are some small tasks which can be done here, such as this letter.” He displayed parchment, sand, and wax. “Come, Sir Guy, I have no time to waste.” DeLacey’s gesture suggested Gisbourne sit down at once. “This is an important letter.”

  Gisbourne sat down unsteadily, grimacing absently. “But—you have a clerk for this.”

  “Had a clerk for this. He has been dismissed.”

  Gisbourne opened his mouth to feign ignorance of the reason, saw the expression in deLacey’s eyes, and forbore to say anything. Tuck had done his work in freeing Marian from a forced marriage, but he had paid the price. Now both of them were gone, and it was Gisbourne’s turn to deal with deLacey.

  He took the proffered parchment, wax, and sand, set all aside, then pulled the piece of wood he’d used as a table onto his lap. “Yes, my lord?”

  “To Abbot Martin,” deLacey directed. “He is commended for his godliness and wisdom in all things, and praised for his attentiveness to ridding the world of evil.”

  Writing, Gisbourne frowned. He wanted very badly to ask the sheriff what the letter concerned, but he was being used as clerk, not confidant. He began the salutation, which in itself would take up much of the parchment.

  DeLacey’s tone was relentless. “He is commanded to make his way here to Nottingham as soon as possible, for the examination of a woman suspected of being a witch.”

  Frowning, Gisbourne sketched out the bare bones of the message. He would flesh it out fully later.

  “Say to him I am in great fear for her soul, for she has always led me to believe she is a good and godly woman, conducting herself with decorum in all things. But articles have been found ... a suspicion has been raised—” deLacey waved a hand. “You know what to write, Gisbourne. You’ve seen these letters before.”

  Indeed he had. He had not been required to write them—that had been Brother Hubert’s responsibility—but he had seen the letters themselves, and the results. When deLacey sent such letters, people often died. The Church was unforgiving. “My lord—”

  “I want it sent without delay.”

  “Yes, my lord, but—” He glanced up at deLacey, intending to ask something, but the question left his mind. “It’s she,” he said, understanding. “It’s Marian—”

  “Of course it is,” deLacey agreed. “Whom did you think I meant?”

  Which one? Robin wondered. Who will be the first?

  It was Scarlet. “None of us can kill you?” he echoed in disbelief. “None of us can, say you?”

  But it was Clym who moved, and quickly, lunging up from his rock.

  Robin threw the longbow to distract and foul the outlaw, then jerked nearly five hissing feet of Norman steel out of its sheath. As Clym, swearing angrily, knocked aside the bow, his throat was kissed by swordblade.

  “Down,” Robin said, and walked him back a single step.

  Clym went down hard, tripping over the stone, and sprawled on his back. The sword remained at his throat. “Here, now—”

  “I challenged you once,” Robin said, “you forbore to answer. To Huntington, I said, come and I’ll give you a sword.” He nicked Clym’s flesh, letting a thin slit of blood well. “Here I am, Sir Outlaw—have you an answer yet?”

  He knew where the others were; he had taken pains to know. The giant would not interfere, nor would Alan. Bell would, he was certain, and Cloudisley as well; Wat One-Hand, probably not; possibly Will Scarlet.

  “Yield,” Little John said. “Clym—don’t be a fool!”

  Don’t be a fool, Robin echoed, I need every one of you—but only if you’re with me.

  “Let him up,” Bell ordered curtly.

  Robin loomed over the downed man, watching Clym’s eyes. “Are you next, Adam Bell?”

  “Let him up, I said.”

  “Tell me who is next.”

  “By God!” Bell’s anger burst free in a roar ripped from his belly, reflecting years of frustration. “D’ye want us all, then? To grind us into submission like the Normans?”

  One step to the right, he is mine—one more, Cloudisley is. “No,” he said clearly.

  “Then what do you want?”

  It ran through his head again. If I lean, Clym is dead—then a pivot to the right and Bell is—Cloudisley would have more to do than time. “What I want is for you to look at Clym.”

  Clym lay very still as six men and one boy looked
at him. “Here,” he said tightly, “what?”

  “I want them to know,” Robin said.

  Clym swallowed heavily, then flinched as the tip drew more blood. “Know what?”

  “I killed Turks in the Holy Land in the name of God and King Richard. Do you think I will balk at killing a lowborn Saxon dog?”

  “Damn you—” Bell began.

  “I want you to know.!” Robin cried. “I want you to know what it is to die for what you believe.”

  “By Christ,” Cloudisley rasped, “what are we to believe? That you’re mad?—Aye! We believe!”

  “No.” Robin shook his head without taking his eyes from Clym’s. “No, not that.”

  “Then what?” Bell asked. “What are we to believe in?”

  Robin bared his teeth at Clym in a feral grin. “God and King Richard,” he said. “And that I’m a better man with a sword than any of you are with longbows.”

  Wat One-Hand grunted. “Better with a longbow, too, splitting three arrows.”

  “But not with a quarterstaff.” Little John’s tone was lighter. “In that you’ve met your better.”

  “So I have. But you’re not a man to use it when I’ve a sword at Clym’s throat.”

  Little John scoffed. “I don’t know as I care if you cut open his throat. What’s Clym of the Clough to me?”

  “What do you want?” Bell asked. “What else do you want?”

  “I want you to come with me when I rob the three lords.” Robin slid him a sideways glance. “I’m new at banditry.”

  “Adam!” Clym shouted. “Will ye have him bleed me to death?”

  “Let him up,” Bell said gruffly. “We’ll help you to rob your lords.”

  Sixty-Five