It was miraculous, Tuck thought, the way the hall had been changed by a few hours of intense cleaning. Or is it blasphemous to call it such? He wasn’t sure. He only knew that Locksley Hall was much improved, though more work was yet required.
He moved through the center of the hall slowly, head tipped back to survey the roof. The webs were gone, new rushes sprinkled with aromatic herbs replaced the mildewed filth, and the gaps in daub-and-wattle had been filled in with new. The open hearth was clean and the vent high overhead had been recut and freed of debris. Mice were still a problem, but the cat would soon see to it that fewer and fewer survived.
It was gloomy inside the hall as fading daylight withdrew illumination. They would need to light rush-lights soon, though Marian appeared not to notice. She stood in the doorway with her back to the hall and Tuck, gazing out at the waning day. By her posture he could tell she was thinking of Robin: she hugged herself rigidly, head tilted slightly as if to listen harder for the sound of his horse.
He groped to bring her peace. “The hall is much improved.”
She bestirred herself to speak, turning her head slightly so he could hear her. “It is better. It needs much yet. More windows, and I’d plaster the inside walls, then whiten them.” She paused; her mind, he could tell, was not on the hall. “But it is better, yes. Fit for an earl’s son.”
“He’ll come,” Tuck said comfortingly. “Did he not send a messenger to say so?”
She swung stiffly, then fell against the doorjamb, pressing her spine to wood. “To say he would be delayed, and I must wait longer yet?—yes, so he did; a small bit of relief. But there was no news other than that, nothing at all of what passed between Robin and his father.” She drew in a heavy breath, giving away trepidation. “And when at last he comes himself, what news will he bring? That he has reconciled with his father, and goes home to live in the castle? Or has broken with the earl, and stays here while I go home?”
Tuck smiled. “He could marry you, Lady Marian. Then you could live at Ravenskeep and let the reeve and bailiff administer Locksley, or the other way around.”
Marian sighed, tucking behind her ear an errant strand of hair. “Methinks you look to the easier side, Brother—the harder side is more likely. He’s an earl’s only son. What man alive would give up such an inheritance?”
“Do you believe it will come to that? That the earl would make it a choice?”
“Or Robin will.” Her mouth twisted. “He is stubborn, Sir Robert of Locksley ... as stubborn as his father. What one perceives as weakness, the other perceives as strength.”
“Then I’ll pray for you,” he said simply. “I’ll pray for you and Robin.”
Marian sighed. “Let us hope your Father is more understanding than his.”
Tuck’s round face shone. “Oh, He is. Of that I am certain. And much less concerned with rank and titles and castles, since all men are as one in His eyes.” He made his ponderous way across the hall, hands thrust into wide sleeves. “Is there more that I can do? I was useless in the cleaning—is there something else I might do?”
Marian was pensive. “Robin sent word to me—I need to send someone to Ravenskeep, to tell them I am safe. Joan will worry, and Sim—I can’t let them believe misfortune has befallen me.”
“Then let me send someone,” Tuck said. “I will find James and ask for a man who can go to Ravenskeep.” He was pleased; it was something he could do. “I’ll go to him now, Lady Marian. It is not so far—if the man hurries, he could be at Ravenskeep by dark—”
“No, he could not; not by dark. It’s nearly thirty miles to Ravenskeep from here.”
Tuck relented. “If he found a ride with a carter—”
“But we could not count on that.”
“He could reach Nottingham before dark.”
Marian laughed. “Yes,” she agreed. “Brother Tuck, do you never give up?”
“I pray for patience nightly.”
“Ah.” Her eyes glinted, but her smile was kind. She pushed the fallen hair from her face. “I will not dissuade you, Tuck. Let the man go, if he will. ”
Tuck nodded. “Shall I write you the message, then?”
“Write it?” Her expression was baffled. “You can write?”
He nodded vigorously. “Indeed, Lady—it was why I was sent to Nottingham. To be the sheriffs clerk.”
“Oh.” She smiled distantly. “I had not thought of that. I was just grateful you weren’t a priest.”
He laughed. “Will you tell me what to write?”
Marian shook her head. “No one there can read. It will have to be remembered, not written down.”
“Ah.” Tuck nodded. It was not unusual. “Then I’ll find James and have him send the best man for it. What would you have him say?”
“That I am safe, and well ... and that I am protected. That I will return when I can.” Marian smiled sadly. “Very much as Robin said to me.”
“Aye.” Tuck paused as she moved aside, then went out the doorway. “ ’Tis a beginning, Lady.”
“And perhaps an ending.”
They had gone to ground nearer Nottingham, Adam Bell and the others, with Robin in their number. Alan, who was full of words and music, was pleased to have his company, because it gave him more with which to work.
They settled at a campsite Bell said was a regular haunt, though the grimness in his tone suggested it would be no more; there was no certainty, Alan knew, that the outlaw trusted Robin, and would really believe he meant no more than to rob his three rich lords.
Clym of the Clough sat close to Cloudisley and Wat One-Hand, talking quietly, slanting sideways glances in Robin’s direction. Adam Bell unaccountably sat alone, inspecting Alan’s bow, quiver, and feathers, paying no mind to anyone else. The others sprawled against trees and rocks and stumps: the giant near the boy, who showed him tricks with stones and quick fingers; and Scarlet by himself, fingering his bruises as if the presence of the man who had given them to him made each one ache again.
Robin sat apart, leaning against a tree. Indolent as a cat, Alan mused, but as quick and effortless in his movements. No wasted motion.
The minstrel went to him and sat down atop an exposed root, cradling his lute. “There are some who would say you are mad.”
Robin hitched a shoulder, working idly at a long stem hanging from his mouth. “I am angry, not mad.”
“Permit me to say, my lord, that few only sons of powerful earls would consort with lowborn outlaws merely to vex their fathers.”
The indolence evaporated. “Is that what you think this is?”
Alan shrugged. “Unless you tell me, I can’t know.”
“It is not for you to know.”
With exaggerated servility, “Yes, my lord.”
It annoyed, as Alan intended. “That is over.”
“Is it?”
“It does not apply here.”
“Here in England? Or here in Sherwood?”
Robin said something concise and clipped in a foreign language. Not French; Alan spoke and sang French. Spanish? He thought not. But he understood its intent: he had driven the thorn too deep.
Alan probed delicately. “This is for the king, then.”
“I said so.”
“Do you think it will change anything?”
“If we bring him home, it will change something; I will insist upon it.”
Alan nodded to himself; things were falling in place. “My lord—”
“Robin.”
“Robin, then.” He paused. “Are you quit of all of it, then? The privilege of rank?”
The mouth flattened. “I am quit of my father. If he chooses to strip me of title and heritage, he is free to do so.”
“Ah. Few men would be willing to risk it.” Alan gestured. “Certainly none of these men.”
The dying day gilded pale hair, dappling his face with shadow. “No. None of these men would; I daresay you count yourself among them.” He did not wait for Alan’s answer. “I make no
apology for my birth, minstrel ... I only offer such to those men inconvenienced by it, as my father would have them be.” He shifted against the tree. “England needs her king.”
“And you believe this will bring him home.”
Robin sighed, jerking the stem from his mouth to discard it with a sharp motion. “Nothing else has.”
“What assurances do you have that Longchamp will accept the money?”
“He will.”
“Because the earl’s son sends it.”
Robin’s scowl was black. “I will use it as I have to.”
“And make yourself into a wolf’s-head.” Alan dropped the careful probing. “You may do with your life as you wish, of course; who am I to argue? But I daresay any of those men over there—no, perhaps not the giant, and certainly not the boy—would kill to have your place. Is it fair that you ask them to aid you when what you are doing is an insult to them?”
“How is it an insult to them?”
“You give them hope,” Alan said. “You couch your desire for banditry in the words that will move them the most: for God and King Richard, you said.” Suddenly he was angry. “They are outlaws, my lord—what hope have they of pardon?”
“I have mentioned no pardon.”
“No. But Adam Bell is quick-witted enough to understand it is the unspoken reward ... it is what you intend, isn’t it? To ask the king to pardon those who helped to buy him back?”
Robin’s fingers curved around the grip of his Norman sword. “He will assuredly give it.”
The worm was on the hook. Alan lowered it into the water. “Because you ask for it.”
The fish neither rose nor struck. “What do you want, minstrel?”
Alan grinned. “To be one. A minstrel. To be a famous one. To pull myself up from the commoner sort and set myself apart.”
Robin’s expression was quizzical. “And you think I can aid you.”
“You have already.” Alan ran his fingers down the neck of his lute, bringing a shimmer of subtle sound. “It only requires a hero, and appropriately heroic feats.”
Robin laughed aloud, startling the others into a hushed silence. “What do you want of me that might be heroic?”
Alan grinned widely. “To survive long enough that you are worthy of my talent.”
Robin laughed again. “Assuredly, I will try.”
Alan bent over his lute, keeping his gaze indirect. There was more yet he wished to probe. “You were with the king in the Holy Land.”
“I was.”
“He knighted you himself.”
“After Acre; yes.”
“Blondel was with you, then?”
“At Acre? Yes. And—elsewhere.”
Alan did not miss the subtle check. He knew the earl’s son had been captured and imprisoned, which left a gap of unknown size in Robin’s awareness of developments between the time he was taken and the time he was released. How long? Alan wondered. He says nothing of it, and I dare not ask him for it.
“I know a little of Blondel,” he said lightly. “He is well-respected. A troubadour of the old school, harking back to Queen Eleanor’s day.”
“He is too young for that. His style is older, yes, but he is a young man.”
Alan smiled. “As young as you?”
Robin’s gaze shifted. He pulled up another stem and began to shred its length.
“I know a little of Blondel,” Alan repeated. “And I know the rumors. A fair-haired man, they said; a white-haired man, they said ... was closer to the king than the wife he does not sleep with.”
Robin’s eyes were shuttered as he stared fixedly at the work his fingers made of the stem. “It is difficult to sleep with a wife when you are imprisoned in Germany.”
Alan laughed. “A courtier, to be sure. Ah well, I wondered”—He rose, then checked his step as he finished his sentence “—you seem so certain of the king.”
Robin merely smiled a cool, elegant smile divulging nothing at all. “Have no fear, jongleur—I will see you have your pardon.”
It wasn’t what Alan wanted, nor what he had expected. But he was unsurprised. He had come to believe the earl’s son might do and say anything to accomplish what he desired. Even rob his father’s friends to buy his king’s freedom.
James, the reeve of Locksley, sent an obliging man to make his way to Ravenskeep with a message from its lady. The man was willing enough—it never hurt to ingratiate yourself with the wife of the manor’s lord—and set out in good spirits, watching the end of the day with a practiced eye. Though many were superstitious about traveling after dark, he was not much troubled by it; and anyway, he would stay the night in Nottingham with a friend, then set out again in late or midmorning. He was not particularly concerned about delay; what did it really matter when the villeins at Ravenskeep were given their lady’s message? She was Locksley’s lady now. Her courtesy was admirable, that she wanted to tell her old manor how she fared at the new one, but it wasn’t imperative that they be told immediately. The morning would do.
So saying to himself, he was pleased to meet another on a similar errand. The man was a villein from Huntington bound for a manor beyond Nottingham, as pleased as the Locksley man to meet up with company, and they passed the time in friendly talk about respective lords.
It soon came about that the Huntington man knew Locksley’s lord, and the new lady as well. “Lady Marian? Of Ravenskeep?”
“Aye. Now of Locksley.”
“Ah. Well then, there’s no need for you to go on at all. Stay in Nottingham another day; I’ll take your message for you.”
“You?”
“Aye. I’m for Ravenskeep myself, on the earl’s business.”
The Locksley man thought it fortuitous and gave the Huntington man the message. At Nottingham they parted; the Locksley man went to his friend, while the Huntington man turned around again to go back to Huntington Castle.
The earl would pay him extra for traveling at night, especially when he learned the lady in question was but two or three miles away instead of twenty-one.
DeLacey heard the report: Archaumbault was in the bailey, on his way to see the sheriff. Quietly deLacey assumed his place in his chair, called for wine, then lost himself in thought as the castellan came in.
Archaumbault was rigidly correct, as always, as he drew up before the sheriff. “My lord, we have brought in the villein.”
DeLacey glanced up. “Roger?”
“Yes, my lord. He tells an interesting tale.”
Ah, here we are. “In what way ‘interesting’?”
The man’s eyes glimmered with disgust. “Witchcraft, my lord. You were right to send us there. The woman is involved.”
“Which woman? Some serving-woman?”
“No, my lord.” Archaumbault pressed his lips together until they nearly disappeared. “The Lady Marian herself.”
“Marian!” DeLacey was on his feet. “Are you mad? The Lady Marian would never countenance such a thing, let alone participate herself! Before God, Archaumbault—” But he broke it off. “He must be mad. Marian? Oh—no.” He sat down slackly, all the strength leaving his legs. A nice touch; he believes me implicitly. “Let us pray he is mistaken.”
“My lord, he may be; he is a villein, a Saxon dog.” The tone was perfectly level, betraying no suspicion. “But he has accused her, my lord—and we found proof that someone worships the devil.”
“What proofs?”
“A broom, my lord.”
A broom? What hall hasn’t a broom—did de la Barre think that enough? “A broom.” DeLacey nodded. “What else, Archaumbault?”
“A poppet, my lord.”
“Oh?” Better, de la Barre. “In whose image?” Mine? That would be too much ... but it is too clever for de la Barre to think of.
Archaumbault shook his head. “It was too crude for it to be recognizable, my lord ... but there is no doubting its meaning.”
“Witchcraft. At Ravenskeep ... oh God, let it not be Marian.” DeLacey sighe
d heavily and bent his head, rubbing at his temples as if in pain. “The devil tempts so many, and we are so helpless against the onslaught.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
DeLacey sighed. “What of the Lady Marian herself? What did she say, Archaumbault?”
“She was not present, my lord. Her woman is very worried.”
The sheriff bit back an oath and contrived to look more sorrowful. “Yet more proof, I wonder? She smells the hunt and bolts?” He shook his head. “What else am I to do? She must be questioned, of course. And the villein, naturally—where have you put him, Archaumbault?”
“Below, my lord. Shall I have him brought up here?”
“No. No, not yet.” He drank slowly, thinking it over. “No, we’ll leave him until morning. For now, let him be.” He shook his head wearily. “Mount a detail at dawn, Archaumbault. We must find the Lady Marian to learn the truth of this.”
“Yes, my lord.”
DeLacey waved a hand in dismissal. Good man, Archaumbault. Find the lady for me while I prepare her reception.
Marian sat by the door on the bench James had brought, staring out into waning daylight. The fields were green and gold, gilded by lowering sun. Locksley was not Nottingham, nor even Ravenskeep, and offered little of comfort. But the hall itself was improved. She just could not stay inside.
Tuck lingered in the doorway. “Lady, perhaps he’ll come yet. There are any number of delays—”
“Tuck.” She cut him off crisply. “He is not a patient man, nor close with his tongue when he’s angry. He will have told his father by now. What is to be said, is said.” What is to be done, is done. She picked at her kirtle. “He said not to expect him tonight. I only hoped he would be back.” And prayed it, as well.
Tuck did not answer at once. The early evening was cool, touched with a hint of dampness. The hall smelled of fresh-cut rushes, new thatching, and tangy herbs. Her bed was at the back wall, in a corner, made of matting and borrowed blankets; she could not retreat to that, not while it was empty.
“Lady Marian,” he began, “perhaps—”
She didn’t let him finish. “This is what my mother did. This is what all women do: we wait. We tend the hall, and wait.” She twisted her head to look at the monk. “I would rather be a man, I think. Then I would be there also, instead of here. Waiting.”
Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] Page 69