Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  Alan edged closer, squinting through the dust. “Are you certain that is the Count of Mortain?”

  Robin glanced at him. “You’ve seen him. Aren’t you?”

  The minstrel squinted harder, then blew out a breath. “Yes.”

  Scarlet swore again. “ ’Tis over, then, isn’t it? You’re selling us to Prince John—”

  “He’s doing no such thing,” Alan retorted. “Are you forgetting who it was ordered all those Normans killed?”

  It silenced everyone save Tuck, who murmured a desperate prayer.

  “Well.” Robin chewed briefly at a lip. “It may serve us. John’s presence breeds confusion and distraction—he’ll keep the attention focused on himself while we seek out Marian.”

  Little John was worried. “D’ye think they’ve found the bodies?”

  Robin shrugged. “With John at Nottingham Castle, no one will notice if we prop up the sheriffs body itself in the great hall.”

  Abbot Martin’s eyebrows arched in delicate inquiry as he turned to William deLacey. “Who is Robin Hood?”

  DeLacey did not remove his gaze from Marian. “A murderer,” he replied. “An animal, Abbot—not only did he kill twelve of my men, but he cut their throats as well to show his contempt for my authority.”

  “That is a lie!” Marian cried. “He would never do such a thing!”

  The abbot did not react in the slightest to her shout. He turned instead to the sheriff. “Is this true?” The question was posed with very little inflection, as if the abbot were quite bored.

  “Perfectly true,” deLacey answered readily with unshakable confidence. “I myself escaped death only because one of the outlaws—a red-haired man known as the Hathersage Giant—believed I was already dead.”

  “Then why wasn’t your throat cut?” Marian asked acidly.

  DeLacey pulled awry the mail hauberk, displaying his neck. “It was my good fortune—and God’s intervention”—he nodded at the abbot—“that a party approached as the giant bent to me. I was left for dead as they escaped; my men already were.”

  From where she stood Marian could see no mark upon the sheriffs throat, but clearly the abbot did. His face paled markedly. Small eyes glittered as he turned to Marian again. “You lay with this man? This ‘Robin Hood’?”

  “Not that man,” she said flatly. “Not the man the sheriff portrays him to be ... Abbot Martin, he has concocted false truths: first to force my hand, now to catch a man who is innocent of this crime—”

  “Innocent?” deLacey asked softly. “Be assured, my men were killed. Be assured of their murderers: Robin Hood and others, among them Will Scarlet, already guilty of murder; John Naylor, the Hathersage Giant, who was was unmistakably present at an earlier attempt to kill my castellan, so sworn by him; a pretty troubadour, who raped my daughter—my daughter, if you please!—and a boy cutpurse whom you yourself aided to escape when he tried to take my purse.” His voice was suspiciously silky, presaging what she now recognized as true danger. “Tell me I lie, Marian. Tell me again I lie about the men who abet Robin Hood.”

  For the first time since she entered the hall, Marian cut free her hold on defiance. What was required now was practicality, and the sort of inflexibility deLacey had once counseled. She must adopt his own methods if she were to survive.

  And Robin also. She took a single step toward the dais, looking only at the abbot, and softened the arrogant posture that had so irritated the sheriff. “Abbot Martin,” she said quietly, “I realize he has made it quite impossible for you to believe me. He is a clever, eloquent, persuasive man, a man who once swore an oath to my father as he left for Crusade that he would guard my welfare with his life.” She raised her head slightly and met the abbot’s opaque eyes. “You see how he keeps his oaths.”

  DeLacey hooked his hands over the arms of his chair and thrust himself to his feet. “De la Barre!” he shouted. “Philip de la Barre!”

  A man came into the hall, doffing his helm. He uncovered thick brown hair; a young, earnest face; the russet-brown eyes that had held no mercy as he ordered Locksley burned. His face was peculiarly white. “My lord?”

  DeLacey frowned as he slowly resumed his seat. “De la Barre—what manner of attire is this? You appear before Abbot Martin in crusted mail and soiled leggings—”

  “My lord.” De la Barre’s voice wavered, then he recovered himself. “My lord, I apologize for the state of my attire. But this is blood, my lord ... the blood of twelve men found murdered on the road.”

  “So much blood?” DeLacey marveled. “After so much time?”

  “My lord, I could not avoid it. Their throats had been cut.”

  “No,” Marian said sharply. “He is lying. This man himself is a murderer. He ordered—”

  De la Barre turned on her. “If you like, Lady Marian, I will be most pleased to show you the bodies.” He flicked a glance at deLacey. “With the sheriff’s permission.”

  DeLacey turned to the avid-eyed man beside him. “Is it necessary, Abbot? She says de la Barre lies; shall we see if he does?”

  “Stop it,” Marian said. Her self-control frayed. The colors of the hall bled one into another, blurring the outlines of chairs, benches, and men. I am tired, only that—and hungry.

  “Very well; for now I shall stop it.” The sheriff relaxed into the chair. “As to the charge of witchcraft, I’m afraid it remains to be dealt with. Do you intend to refute the charge?”

  “Of course,” she replied promptly, snatching by force of will at an argument that would provide her with a focus. “You have only the proof you yourself have manufactured.”

  DeLacey looked thoughtful. “What of your handiwork?”

  “Mine?” Marian shook her head. “There is no such thing. A broom? I think not. A poppet? If you truly have one, undoubtedly someone bribed Roger to produce it.”

  “No.” DeLacey fingered his chin. “No, I meant something else. Something more incriminating.”

  “There is nothing,” she retorted. “This nonsense is meant merely to mislead the abbot.”

  DeLacey looked past her. “Sir Guy, will you come forward?”

  Startled, Marian turned. Sir Guy of Gisbourne crutched slowly into the hall from the distant door. His hair was freshly combed, his face newly shaven. His eyes, as they met hers, were perfectly opaque.

  Marian shivered. Just like Abbot Martin’s.

  DeLacey’s tone was serene. “Sir Guy, I understand you have your own charge to lay against Lady Marian.”

  “I do, my lord.” Gisbourne halted near her, balancing carefully on crutches. “She cast a spell on me.”

  “What—?”

  Abbot Martin cut her off with a sharp gesture and leaned forward. “What manner of spell?”

  Gisbourne colored. His voice was low. “She seduced me. She put witch-marks on my body.”

  “In the name of God,” Marian cried, “how far must this travesty go? Witch-marks? This is madness! Abbot Martin—”

  “Show me,” the abbot said, and his small eyes glittered.

  In silence, eyes averted, Gisbourne stripped down his bliaut. On the flesh of his chest, from throat to abdomen, were the deep empurpled marks of a passionate woman’s mouth.

  Seventy-Five

  Scarlet stared hard at Robin as dust slowly settled. “What do we do, then, Robin in the Hood? Ride up to the hall itself and walk in behind Prince John?”

  “I think—yes.” Robin smiled, gathering rein. “I think that is precisely what we shall do.”

  Scarlet blanched. “Wait—I wasn’t meaning it like that—”

  “But why not? We will be lost in the crowd, and even if we are not”—Robin laughed mirthlessly—“I am known to Prince John as the Earl of Huntington’s son, to whom he wished to marry his daughter.”

  “His daughter!” Now Little John stared. “You’re to marry John’s daughter?”

  “Bastard daughter,” Robin clarified. “And now I think not. I think my actions this day have rendered me entirely
unsuitable.” He tapped Much’s knee. “Ready, Sir Cutpurse?”

  Much leaned forward alertly, murmuring assent.

  Marian gazed in horror at the livid bruises on Gisbourne’s flesh. She understood instantly what such “proofs” implied. Don’t give in now. She swung back quickly, beseeching the abbot. “Listen to none of these lies—”

  “Lies?” deLacey interrupted. “Look again at his flesh.”

  She ignored him, knowing instinctively her only chance now lay in convincing the abbot to wait and make no judgment. To force that delay she had to find something that could divert his attention. “Before you judge me, judge the man at your side. He has connived and intrigued to win Prince John’s favor, so much so that he takes money intended for the king’s ransom and sends it to Prince John instead of to the chancellor.” She went on swiftly as deLacey opened his mouth to refute her. “Ask him why his men were robbed on the road to Lincoln instead of the road to London.” She flicked a glance at deLacey. “There is something of a difference between north and south, I think ... surely a man so astute as the sheriff would not confuse the two.”

  DeLacey’s eyes glittered. “Only a fool would send so much money by the ordinary route. I chose to send it toward Lincoln, later diverting it to London. It was to confuse any possible attack; sadly, it failed.”

  Marian plucked another arrow from her quiver. “Ask him why he had his man—that man, Abbot!”—she pointed at de la Barre—“set fire to Locksley Hall and burn the village down.”

  “Witch-fire,” deLacey murmured. “A spell gone awry.”

  She had no time to debate it. “Ask him why he tried to force me into a false marriage using a clerk in place of a true priest.”

  DeLacey was unruffled. “Your father desired us to marry, which you yourself admitted. The sham was to protect your questionable honor until a real priest could be brought.”

  The quiver now was empty, save for a final arrow. Marian loosed it with careful deliberation. “Ask him why he contrives to destroy a woman who is a ward of the Crown, and is therefore answerable only to the King of England, by whose mercy and wisdom you yourself hold office.” She weighted the last purposefully and was pleased to see the abbot take notice at last. She slanted a glance at deLacey. “The sheriff purchased his position, Abbot. How much integrity has a man who buys his office, when your abbacy is purchased by a divinely inspired vocation and obedience to the king?”

  Color burned in deLacey’s face. “A clever woman,” he rasped, “with a clever tongue in her head. The Serpent’s, perhaps? Surely she must be guided by the devil.”

  “If that is so,” she said, “it must be for the king to pursue.”

  Abbot Martin shifted in pettish annoyance. “The king is imprisoned, as you well know. I suspect you intend to rely on your wardship merely to hide the truth, since you are aware the king can have no influence in the matter.”

  Marian looked straight at Gisbourne. “I pray you, then, Abbot Martin ... why did this man here—the sheriffs own seneschal—see fit to tell a witch the king has been released?”

  She had expected some manner of reply from the abbot or the sheriff; some accusation of falsehood; a derisive comment on her perfidious witch’s tongue. But there was only silence.

  As Marian glanced back at deLacey she found him rising from his chair. His face was tight and pale. Did I strike true at last?

  But deLacey looked beyond her. “My lord,” he said evenly, though the expression in his eyes was one of grim futility. Then Abbot Martin rose, small hands clutching chair arms, and Gisbourne blurted something she did not understand.

  Marian spun in place. Standing two paces behind her was Prince John shaking road dust from his mantle as much of his retinue gathered in the hall. “Sheriff,” he said lightly, “I seem to require your castle ... and any soldiers you have to spare. I may have need of them.”

  In the bailey, the last stragglers from the royal retinue hastened into the hall to join their lord. Robin dropped off his horse even as Much slid down the slick rump; as Will Scarlet and Little John clambered off and Alan swung down with something approaching his old elegance, though he was stubbled and soiled. Only Tuck remained ahorse, hiding money sacks beneath his cassock.

  Robin nodded, glancing around the bailey to see if anyone watched. Then he swept off his mantle and approached Tuck’s horse, signaling for the monk to dismount. As Tuck climbed down, Robin draped the mantle over saddle and sacks, tucking folds in. “Much.” The boy was there, waiting expectantly. Robin gave him the reins. “You are now a horseboy at Nottingham Castle. Conduct yourself as the others do, but let no one lift the mantle.”

  “Won’t work,” Scarlet muttered. “They’ll know he’s not one of them. We should have left it with the Jew.”

  “Look around,” Robin suggested. “John has brought horseboys and pages aplenty. Mixed with the Nottingham boys, no one knows who belongs to whom.” He touched Much on the shoulder. “We will be back soon.”

  “This is madness,” Scarlet insisted. “Walking right into the great hall?”

  Robin nodded. “All of John’s people are in there. As with the boys, no one knows where anyone belongs. You will lose yourselves in the crowd.”

  “I won’t,” Little John muttered.

  “No,” Robin agreed, “but neither will I. Marian deserves to see me.”

  In the hall before the sheriff and abbot, Marian swung to face Prince John. This the best chance I will have. “My lord Count,” she said quietly, “I beg your leave to speak.”

  DeLacey’s response was immediate. “No.”

  With a quelling glance in the sheriff’s direction, John indulged her. “Speak.”

  She was hideously conscious of her dishevelled state, as aware now of his avid gaze as she had been in Huntington Castle the night of Robin’s feast. But now it did not matter. “The sheriff accuses me of witchcraft. This is a lie, my lord, and a blatant one, contrived by a desperate man who cannot reconcile my desire for another—”

  “This is nonsense,” deLacey declared.

  John lifted an admonishing hand without looking away from Marian. “Be silent.”

  She went on as quietly as before, conscious now that she never need be afraid of John again, or of the connivance of deLacey, because she had learned to believe in herself. “My lord, this man has contrived all manner of false proofs and innuendo to force my hand, believing I would be desperate enough to accept him. I am not and never was, despite his best efforts, desperate enough to accept such a man as he.” She lifted her chin in quiet defiance. “I am a ward of the Crown, my lord. I believe that still bears some weight.”

  “Indeed,” John agreed dryly, “more now than ever before.” He looked beyond her to deLacey. “I will have the truth of you. Now. Here. This moment. I have very little time.”

  DeLacey inclined his head.

  John’s eyes narrowed. “This woman is not a witch.”

  A tiny bubble of laughter broke within Marian. He does not ask, he tells!

  DeLacey’s face was stretched taut. He did not look at the abbot. “There was evidence that someone at Ravenskeep—”

  “Say it, deLacey.”

  The sheriffs jaw muscles flexed. “I think perhaps the serf was mistaken.”

  “Indeed,” Marian muttered.

  John’s eyes glittered. “My lord Sheriff, you have overstepped your bounds in this matter. It is not for you to decide the disposition of the lady’s hand, but to guard its welfare. If you desire her so badly, you must petition the king for her in marriage ... you may buy her, if you like, should you have the money; I am quite certain Richard will sell her as quickly as not, provided he requires more money to fund another Crusade”—he hitched a negligent shoulder—“or whatever whim he may next fix his mind upon.”

  Marian heard a litany within the confines of her head: It is done, it is done, it is over. She wavered as she stood, so swept with relief and the residue of tension released that hunger and exhaustion nearly preva
iled. Surely the king will see that it is Robin I want.

  “Petition the king?” deLacey echoed. “But that is impossible. He is in Germany.”

  “No,” John said thoughtfully, “he is in France by now, unless he has already sailed. In which case he may well be in Dover already.” His eyes were pupilless, completely opaque. “He is on my trail, do you see? I have become my brother’s prey.” His smile was a travesty. “Do you understand now why I require your castle?”

  Will Scarlet’s face was ashen as he pressed himself into the stone wall just inside the outer door. “They’ll know me,” he hissed. “The soldiers know who I am. They’ll throw me back into the dungeon.”

  Robin and the others clustered around Scarlet. Little John dropped a hand to the smaller man’s shoulder. “They’ll know me,” he said.

  “But they don’t want to hang you!”

  Little John’s tone was somber. “They do now—or will soon enough. Recall what we’ve done this day.”

  Scarlet rubbed violently at his bruised face. “This is mad—”

  Robin’s tone was cold. “They killed your wife,” he said. “Would you have them kill yet another woman?”

  Scarlet was unconvinced. “But if the sheriffs not here—”

  “What is to stop the guardsmen from abusing Marian as they abused your wife?”

  Scarlet opened his mouth, then closed it. His lips clamped together tightly. Dark eyes glittered. “Go on, then, all of you.”

  “And you?” Alan asked.

  William Scathlocke, known as Scarlet, nodded his assent.

  “Good.” Robin touched his shoulder briefly. “I need every man.”

  DeLacey thought rapidly. Richard is free—and John has just solicited from me a vow of loyalty. He glared wrathfully at Gisbourne, hanging miserably on his crutches. “Why was I not told?” he asked. “You told her quickly enough—wasn’t this message for me?”

  “You were gone,” Gisbourne countered. “You’d gone to Lincoln with the money.”