Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  The earl’s son swung up into the saddle, then reached a hand down to Much. “Robin,” he said clearly. “Robin—in the hood.”

  “Robin Hood,” Much declared, settling behind the saddle.

  Alan mourned softly. “Ah, but it wants my lute.”

  Well after dark, William deLacey walked through the castle gatehouse into the outer bailey. The questions began at once—My lord, are you well? My lord, what has happened? My lord, are you harmed?—but he answered none of them. He walked on blistered feet through the outer and inner baileys, refusing to limp, then up the front stairs. It was as he reached the door that Philip de la Barre came striding rapidly from the guardhouse.

  “My lord!” De la Barre broke into a run and caught him just inside the door, where the torchlight was most distinct. His brown eyes were wide and shocked. “My lord Sheriff—what has happened?”

  “Outlaws,” deLacey said succinctly, briefly touching his neck where the blood had dried. “Have you done as I asked?”

  “The woman?” De la Barre’s eyes cleared and acquired a self-satisfied glow. “Indeed, my lord. She awaits the sheriffs pleasure.”

  DeLacey might once have appreciated the unintended innuendo. Just now he did not; his head ached, his feet stung, and he wanted very badly to take a bath to rid himself of crusted blood. He nodded briefly, then turned away from the young Norman and walked toward the hall.

  “My lord?” De la Barre sounded afraid; perhaps the sheriffs casual dismissal denoted displeasure. “Lord Sheriff—is there anything else I might do?”

  “Anything else? DeLacey swung around. ”Yes. You may take a detail with a wagon to the Lincoln Road and gather up the bodies. The money, I fear, is gone.”

  De la Barre nearly gaped in shock. “Bodies?”

  “Twelve of them. One is Archaumbault’s.” DeLacey turned back and walked into the hall with only a slight limp. For every blister I count, I will cut off a piece of his flesh before I see him hanged.

  Marian sat in darkness on the narrow bed, leaning against the wall. She stared hard into darkness, examining the strength of her will and the contents of her spirit.

  Her anger had died. Its initial intensity had waned as the darkness waxed, muting itself after a brief sharp brilliance to a deep-seated smolder. She needed her wits now. Anger blunted wits. There was no one she could rely on save herself.

  She had stopped asking herself how Sir Guy of Gisbourne could have imagined her so foolish as to exchange the undesired sheriff for an undesired knight. It had filled up her head and mouth for too long after the candle died, when she first stood in darkness in the center of the chamber, until she acknowledged her own folly and shut her mouth on it so as not to waste what wit she had on fruitless questions. There was no answer. Gisbourne had done as he had done because he believed it necessary. Because he believed it the only way.

  Marian laughed softly. Just like the sheriff.

  Darkness. Silence. The weight of solitude. Each was a weapon meant to break her, to drive her into humiliation out of defiant self-possession; to goad her into surrender, into pleas for mercy, for compassion, for understanding.

  Grimly she reflected, But mostly into compliance, in bed and out of it.

  A sound destroyed the silence even as light banished darkness. The heavy door scraped open. “Marian.”

  She wanted to laugh. Such a soft, seductive whisper. But with the edge of a blade in the sound, issuing from a man long accustomed to being heard no matter how loudly he spoke. No matter how softly he whispered.

  He brought the torch with him, unattended by liveried soldiers; what he wanted from her he wanted given—or taken—in the privacy of the chamber. Capitulation? she wondered. Perhaps even retribution. Or merely the opportunity to have what another man had.

  Marian smiled grimly. I will not be broken. I will not be humiliated. You will get no surrender from me.

  They sat in a knotted circle beyond the castle walls: Alan of the Dales, Little John, Brother Tuck, Much, and Will Scarlet, beneath the full spring moon. Its light was kind to them, smoothing away gaunt hollows, the etched fretwork of constant tension, the stubble of unshaven faces—save for the giant, who was bearded, and the boy, who could not yet grow one.

  Will Scarlet’s gaze followed Robin, who tended the horses some distance away. In the moonlight Locksley was patchwork: dark, unremarkable clothing; the glint of sword and knife; the pallor of hands and face; the lucent fall of hair. “Earl’s son,” Scarlet muttered. “By Christ, the earl’s son.”

  “Does it matter?” Alan asked irritably, naked without his lute.

  “Aye, it matters! He’s a bloody nobleman—”

  “And a knight, and a Crusader,” Little John said slowly, “as well as an outlaw.” He cast Scarlet a hard glance. “He’s given up more than you.”

  “I gave up a wife--”

  “Aye,” Alan agreed, “who was unfairly taken from you; we’re not arguing that. We’re arguing that you killed those men in a fit of rage, of revenge; he gave up everything after thinking very carefully about what needed doing.” He yanked a thistle from the earth, then tossed it aside. “He’s no better than any of us now, nor worse. Let him be, Will.”

  “I know what you’d have done,” the giant accused. “You’d have left us in the bailey and skittled in to see the earl, turning your back on outlaws to save your inheritance—”

  “So would you.”

  “Aye. Probably,” said Little John. “Probably so would the minstrel. But he didn’t, did he?”

  Scarlet scowled. “Because of the woman.”

  “More than that,” Alan countered. “He’s the makings of a hero, with what he’s done. Just like Charlemagne. Just like Roland.”

  Scarlet’s laugh was a sharp bark of sound. “Hero! Him? What did he do but help us kill Normans and steal the sheriff’s money?”

  “It’s in the doing,” Alan replied carelessly, “as any jongleur knows. You’ll steal to stay alive. He stole to buy back a king.”

  Scarlet scoffed. “Because he knew he never had to steal again. He had an earldom to keep him warm.”

  “He repudiated it. You heard him, Will: ‘This man was my father.’ ”

  “Aye,” the giant rumbled, digging through his beard to scratch his face. “With his father calling after him even as we rode out of the castle. He never looked around.”

  Tuck rattled beads, wide face shiny in moonlight as he mouthed prayers. Much hunched big-eyed in silence, staring avidly after Robin.

  “Let him be,” Alan said. “We can no more pretend to know what he is inside his heart than to know what you are in yours.”

  Scarlet’s mouth warped briefly. “Wolf’s-head,” he muttered.

  Little John nodded. “So is he.”

  “Lonely,” Much murmured into the top of one knee.

  Seventy-Four

  Some time after cockcrow Marian was brought before the dais of Nottingham Castle. The hall was arranged differently. The massive trestle table had been broken down and set aside against a wall, leaving much of the hall floor clear. Two chairs sat upon the dais in place of one, side by side. Both were empty.

  Her armed and mailed escort put her in the center of the huge expanse of floor. She was dwarfed by massive columns. The soldiers left her there, then ranged themselves nearby.

  Marian drew in a steadying breath. She had been allowed nothing: no food, no water, no time to tend her hair or mussed clothing; or even to wash her face. She had managed to use the chamber pot just prior to being brought out, but she was exhausted from tension and very little sleep. If I swoon, it won’t be from fear. She took some comfort in that. It was important that she display to William deLacey a calm, unruffled spirit capable of withstanding him no matter what he attempted.

  She knew the sheriff by the scrape of boot on stone and the faint metallic clicks as his soldiers drew themselves up into perfect immobility. She waited quietly, her fingers tautly clasping her kirtle folds, and counseled herself to
show him only calmness.

  The resolution required more effort than she anticipated: he wore mail, a massive sword, a thick gold chain of office, and carried a shining helm in the crook of his elbow. The mail coif was pushed to his shoulders, freeing head and hair.

  He halted upon the dais just before his chair. His brown eyes were impassive. Marian saw no anger there, no passion, no ambition. She saw the Sheriff of Nottingham in full command of his power.

  In skirt folds she fisted her hands, trying to summon courage. It was time to implement the course she had determined during the night. Think as he thinks. Anticipate him. Do not permit provocation. His strength is in finding weakness.

  “Marian FitzWalter.”

  She did not answer.

  “You are called here before us—”

  “ ‘Us’?” she said clearly, purposely cutting him off. “I see no king present.”

  He continued relentlessly, seemingly unperturbed. “—to answer a charge of witchcraft.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “so I was given to understand when I was brought here against my will. Surely if I were a witch I could have prevented that, and then you would be here alone holding court as if you were king.”

  The impassiveness faded. Dark eyebrows hooked upward. “Marian,” he said curiously, “for whose benefit are you speaking? For mine?—but it makes no difference; I will do what I will do. For my men?—surely not; they have little interest in what becomes of you.”

  She bit back an angry retort, conscious of heat in her face. Quietly she inquired, “For whose benefit do you speak? Mine?—but it matters little; you will do what you will do. For your men?—surely not; they have heard such talk before and are likely weary of it. You do often border on tedium.”

  DeLacey sighed. “This is serious, Marian.”

  “Is it?” She glanced around, then turned her eyes wide back to him. “But where is the abbot? Surely you are not the only authority in matters of the soul; it requires a more forgiving spirit than the one you possess, as you proved to me last night.”

  “I am the only authority in the matter of your disposal.”

  “But I believed that decided last night. You said then you intended to burn me at the stake. Why this travesty? Burn me.” She managed a smile more tranquil than she felt. “Though it is no doubt somewhat discomfiting to take a charred corpse to bed.”

  Robin roused them at dawn, calling out each of their names. In either hand he held two linked sacks of tax money, brought first to Locksley, then to Huntington. “Tuck,” he said quietly, “we have need of your cassock.”

  The monk, wiping blearily at his face, gazed up at Robin blankly. “My cassock?”

  “I want it to look natural.” Robin hauled the sacks upward as he stepped to Tuck’s saddled horse. He swung the first linked pair up across the horse’s withers in front of the saddle, then placed the other linked pair athwart the horse’s loins. He slapped the saddle. “Here, Tuck ... there should be enough of your ‘skirts’ to hide the money.”

  Tuck brightened. “So there should.”

  “Brother,” Little John warned, “is this what you want to do? You’ve done naught wrong by falling in with wolf’s-heads to protect the woman ... this will bespeak your willingness to help us.”

  Tuck smiled. “The money belongs neither to the sheriff, nor to Prince John. It belongs to the people, Jews and Christians alike, who have raised it for their king. I doubt God will look harshly on me for this.”

  “Did He say so?” Scarlet asked acidly.

  Tuck’s smile widened. “I will ask him later—after we have reclaimed the Lady Marian.”

  “Then let us ride,” Robin suggested, flipping reins over the head of Tuck’s mount. “Brother?”

  Alan hummed a tune as he strolled to his horse.

  Scarlet tugged his filthy tunic into place. “You want to ride into Nottingham Castle carrying all that money?”

  Robin went to his own horse, arranging sword, bow, and mantle as he swung up into the saddle. “No. I intend to give it to Abraham the Jew, from whom it was stolen. He’ll see that it is taken to William Longchamp in London.”

  “Who’ll then get it to the king?” Little John asked.

  “To the German king; we’ll have to hope Henry is in the frame of mind to count it enough.” Robin gathered rein, then freed a stirrup so Much could clamber up. “Waste no more time, if you please ... I think Marian might admire haste.”

  Marian raised her chin as the Abbot of Croxden made his way into the hall, face downcast as if in pious meditation. Delicate hands were clasped at his abdomen, mostly hidden by full sleeves. His tonsured hair was graying from brown to silver.

  The abbot quietly assumed his seat next to the sheriff. He looked at Marian briefly, then turned his head toward deLacey. “Nuns must be contrite. Has she proved contrite?”

  Strike now. As deLacey opened his mouth, Marian forestalled him. “I am contrite,” she said, “in my congress with God, who hears my prayers nightly.”

  The abbot ignored her. “Nuns must repent sin. Has she repented?”

  “She—”

  “I repent of allowing myself to be misled by the man now seated beside you,” she interposed swiftly, “and I have no intention of becoming a nun so you may have my lands.” She saw the flicker in his dark eyes. “Isn’t that what he told you to bring you here? That if adjudged a witch, I might repent and become a nun?” She shook her head. “Do not be fooled by him.”

  DeLacey waited until she was concluded, then said quietly to the abbot, “We have proofs of her witchcraft, and a witness.”

  “Who?” Marian demanded. “No one would denounce me—except the Earl of Huntington, perhaps ...” She looked hard at the abbot, who did not favor her with a glance. “But his denouncement has nothing to do with witchcraft, Abbot—he denounces me so his son will forsake me.”

  At last he looked up. His eyes were small and black, betraying no humanity.

  Courage wavered briefly, until she reclaimed it. “I confess this much: I am an adulteress. I lay in carnal congress with Sir Robert of Locksley, the earl’s son. That is my crime, Abbot. That is why I am here.”

  The abbot addressed her in a soft, gentle tone, much at odds with his expression. “And do you repent of it?”

  “No,” she declared. “What is conducted between men and women is their concern, and God’s ... it is the responsibility of no man, neither sheriff nor earl, to dictate the actions of a man and a woman who consent to the bedding—”

  “Adultery is a sin,” the abbot rebuked mildly.

  “So is attempting to force a woman into marriage against her will.” She slanted a glance at deLacey. “Ask him about Brother Tuck, whom he required to lie. Whom he required to play the part of a priest.”

  DeLacey smiled. “Witches are very clever. Their lies are most astute, bordering on the truth. It makes them dangerous.”

  “Gluttony is also a sin, which requires harsh discipline.” Abbot Martin sighed softly. “What proofs have you found, Sheriff?”

  “A broom—”

  “A broom!” Marian laughed. “How many halls haven’t a broom?”

  “—and a poppet.”

  “In whose image?” the abbot inquired.

  DeLacey looked at Marian. “She must have feared discovery—the poppet’s face was obscured.”

  “I feared no discovery,” Marian declared, “because it isn’t mine. Everyone at Ravenskeep will bear out my innocence.”

  “No,” the sheriff said lightly, “I fear one won’t. A villein known as Roger.”

  It stunned her. “Roger?”

  “He is our witness. I have questioned him already, and am quite satisfied that he tells the truth as he knows it.”

  “ ‘As he knows it,’ ” she echoed in disbelief, then turned quickly to the abbot. “Do you see what he’s done? He twists a peasant’s words into falsehoods he can use against me.”

  The sheriff merely smiled.

  Marian wiped damp
palms against her kirtle, regaining self-control. “Abbot Martin, I beg you—end this travesty. This has been contrived to force my hand. He desires to marry me—”

  “No,” deLacey said lightly, “I think not, now.”

  She meant to retort, to say he fooled no one, least of all her, but as she opened her mouth to say so something in his eyes prevented her. “You mean it,” she blurted.

  “Yes, I mean it. Do you count me less fastidious than the earl? Once I offered you escape from dishonor, as a decent man would, but you repudiated me. You went from me into carnal congress with Robert of Locksley, as you yourself have admitted, who is himself as guilty as you are in things far worse than making poppets.” He rested his hand lightly on his sword. “I have no desire to lie with Robin Hood’s whore, and less to marry her.”

  Marian swallowed back the shout she longed to make, replacing it with an edged courtesy modeled after his own. “Then what do you desire?”

  “Robin Hood,” he said gravely. “If I must burn you to get him, be certain I shall.”

  Dust floured the air as Robin and the others approached the split in the Nottingham Road. One branching led into the city itself, the other out beyond Ravenskeep and on toward distant Lincoln. A large mounted party clogged the split, blocking anyone else who might desire to approach the city. Sunlight glinted off mail and the equipage of fine horses.

  Robin drew rein abruptly, signaling the others to do the same. “Normans?” Alan fell in beside him. “Or a Saxon lord?”

  Will Scarlet muttered imprecations; Little John growled at him to hold his tongue until they knew better what was worth swearing at. Tuck, like Much, was silent, carefully rearranging the ‘skirts’ that hid the sacks.

  “It’s a vanguard,” Robin said softly. “But no pennons are flying—wait—” He stared harder. “Ya Allah—John?”

  Little John gaped. “Prince John?”

  Robin nodded, frowning. “But John is a man whose vanity requires everyone to know who he is ... yet he flies no pennons, has no one crying his approach.”