Falconer's Prey

by April Hill

  Carefully, she unfolded the well–read and brittle pages of Geoffrey’s last letter, and re–read his tender words of love and cautious words of advice. Finally, she put the letter back in its place and fell asleep, exhausted with worry. Tomorrow, she would have to talk to Uncle Henry.

  And the following day, she would finally meet Robin Hood’s beloved, the fabled and beautiful Maid Marian – and Alice with nothing at all to wear!

  * * * * *

  “There are some things of your mother’s,” Uncle Henry suggested, not very helpfully. “In her old trunks in the attic. If the mice haven’t been at them, perhaps my housekeeper, Philippa, can alter them for you?”

  Alice groaned. Her mother had been a good eight inches taller than she, and heavier, as she recalled. Nonetheless, with a sinking heart, Alice climbed the cold steps to the attic and spent a morose two hours selecting four or five gowns that were relatively free of moth–holes, some simple undergarments, and two half–crumbling pairs of slippers that would have to be stuffed with wadding to fit her smaller feet.

  The trunks held clothing from a time before her mother and father had even met, and that fact spared Alice much of the nostalgic sadness she had feared as she made her way to the attic. Her mother had died suddenly, and all of her belongings had eventually fallen into the hands of her father’s new wife, the despised Isobel, whom he had met and courted in London, and wed only eight weeks later, with barely time to post the banns.

  In the smaller of the trunks, Alice found a locket with a tiny portrait of her mother as a child, which she took with her, along with a few small pieces of inexpensive jewelry, but beyond these items and the aging clothing, there was nothing important of her lost mother to be found in the trunks.

  She brought the dresses down, and even the cheerful Philippa paled at the prospect of making them fit Alice’s smaller form by the very next evening. Still, she pulled out a sewing basket, fitted the best of them to Alice’s wriggling and uncooperative body, and bade Alice leave her to her task. Alice went downstairs to talk to Uncle Henry, her nerves very much on edge.

  She found him in the library, overlooking the house’s great lawns and talking with Will Fletcher. They were poring over a map that had been rolled out over Uncle Henry’s massive desk.

  “Alice, my dear,” he greeted her. “I’m glad you’ve come. Will and I are deciding upon the safest route to London. You must go ’round Nottingham, of course, and slip through most of Nottinghamshire unnoticed until you regain the Great North Road. That should be the worst part of it. After that, if you keep just off the main road during daylight, you should do well, think you not, Will?”

  Fletcher nodded, but with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. “I could almost wish for this infernal rain to continue. The roads are made difficult, but fewer of the Sheriff’s men will wish to muddy their boots and chill their backsides. If we stay clear of Nottingham, it forces us to pass closer to St. Mary’s Abbey, unless we leave the road entirely.”

  “Alice would be more comfortable in a carriage, of course,” Burden observed, smiling at his niece as she nibbled on an apple.

  Will shook his head. “Aye, I’m certain she would, but a pair of rain dampened peasants on sway–backed draft horses will draw less attention. Our pursuers will be looking for a lady, not a tattered grain merchant’s wife.”

  “It’s damp out, and it is a very long ride to London,” Alice sulked.

  “And a very short one to Nottingham prison,” Fletcher said firmly, giving her a hard, warning look. “We will go on horseback. You can play at being poor just a bit longer, Mistress.”

  When her uncle did not come to her defense, Alice chose not to argue the point further.

  Burden opened his desk drawer and withdrew several sealed documents. “Once you are safely in London, Alice, you will need funds. Upon your arrival, Will can notify your new friends in London that I have arranged for you to stay with a colleague and distant cousin of ours, instead. I trust these letters of credit to Will, to deliver to my London bankers. You should be very comfortable, my dear, so there’s no need to worry. And, of course, I’ve already provided Will with ample travel funds, for what the two of you will need.”

  Alice groaned inwardly. Uncle Henry had given her the money without her even asking, but now the money was in the hands of Will Fletcher! She would have to devise a new plan – and do it quickly.

  Burden stood up and reached for her hand. “And now, on to something more cheerful! We must plan for tomorrow’s banquet. It won’t be grand, I’m afraid, with the times what they are – a few trusted friends and neighbors, but a banquet, nonetheless. The first in far too long. How is the sewing coming, my dear?”

  The sewing did not go well. In spite of Philippa’s obvious talent with needle and thread, the dress fit poorly, and even after a good airing, it retained a slight odor of mildew. The shoes not only smelled of mildew, they pinched. What puzzled Alice, as she stood before the tall glass and stared glumly at her reflection in the altered dress, was why she cared about the foolish dress at all, or felt such concern that she might look unattractive. The man she loved and planned to marry was far away, in Hockworth. The only male on the premises that might show the slightest interest in her appearance was a man she loathed – Will Fletcher.

  When they greeted the Lady Marian that evening in the Great Hall of Burden Manor, Alice was painfully aware that she smelled very like a toadstool and her faded green dress, thirty years out of style, sagged about her waist, puddled at her feet, and showed nothing at all of her excellent breasts.

  The Lady Marian, on the other hand, was as slender and sleek as a willow, clothed in ivory silk with great billowing sleeves, and a kirtle of golden braid. Her smile was genuine and warm, and when she smiled, small dimples appeared at the corners of her soft, full lips. Her laugh was delightful, like the sound of fine crystal. Her hair was the color of polished chestnuts and hung to her waist in thick, glistening braids, and plaited into the shining tresses were ephemerally sheer, thin golden threads of ribbon. On her head, she wore a small wreath of fresh violets, in token of the season.

  Whereas, of course, Alice smelled like a peat bog – also in token of the season, she thought gloomily. Alice thought Marian to be the most completely beautiful and elegant woman she had ever seen, with a complexion that glowed like polished alabaster in the firelight, and clear, truly violet eyes. Alice had never met a woman with truly violet eyes, nor someone as warm, charming, and intelligent as the Lady Marian.

  Alice hated her on sight.

  She remembered Fanny’s comments about this famous lady, of whom all of England had heard – mysterious and romantic stories of her identity, of her background, and of her rumored closeness to a band of outlaws and their dashing and colorful leader, bold Robin Hood himself, a landed Knight whose properties had been stolen.

  “Some have it that she’s a near cousin to King Richard,” Fanny had whispered, “and a very great lady afore her lands was stole away for taxes by the Sheriff’s cousin, Guy of Gisbourne, whose wish is to marry with her and snatch her lands for hisself! Then, o’ course, there’s them what says the maid Marian’s no true lady at all.” Fanny confided a bit more, adding a coarse chuckle. “Come to that, there’s a mob of them what says she’d be no maid at all!”

  Fanny laughed heartily at her own joke, and stirred the pot again. “Me? I says a lady is as a lady does, and our Marian’s a sweet and gentle lady, if ever there was one, maid or no. I never heard her to injure or badmouth a body, and she’s surely got the balls of any man here!”

  Looking at the lady as she sat at the wide table across from her, Alice did not doubt Fanny’s assessment. Alice sighed. Try as she might, it would probably be impossible to go on hating Marian.

  Tonight, however, was a different matter entirely. Unwilling to risk open hostility to an honored guest at Uncle Henry’s table, Alice settled for almost total silence by ignoring all of them, picking at her food, and rebuffing each of Marian’s
attempts at pleasant conversation with a flat “yes.” or “no.” Even Will Fletcher’s look of warning and Uncle Henry’s cheerful teasing didn’t succeed in discouraging her sullen responses.

  Oddly, however, what bothered Alice most, and far more that she would have expected, was the fact that the Lady Marian spent the majority of her time that evening talking quietly with Will Fletcher. There was no rudeness on Marian’s part, but quite the contrary – she treated Alice like a beloved younger sister, whenever she could. Yet somehow, whenever Alice looked up, Marian and Will Fletcher were in a corner, deep in private conversation.

  Alice spent most of her time that evening with Uncle Henry, as was only right, since her departure was on the morrow and she would probably not see him again for many months. Dining with them were three very much older balding men with paunches, and an elderly gentlewoman called Beatrice, who was hard of hearing and smelled of camphor.

  Alice did not have a good time.

  Later, after Marian had gone and Alice had retired for the night, she found herself suddenly ravenously hungry. She wrapped herself in a blanket and slipped down to the kitchen, hoping to find a slice or two of the excellent roast lamb she’d declined at supper in an effort to radiate a ladylike disinterest in food. She found the meat, stuffed a generous portion between two large chunks of bread, and was about to return to her room when she heard a footstep behind her, and whirled to find Will Fletcher standing there. Pulling her blanket about her, she tried to slip past him, hiding her late–night supper behind her back.

  “A moment, please, Mistress. I have a question,” he said brusquely, “to which I would like an honest answer, if that’s possible.” He took a seat on the edge of the table and crossed his arms. Alice had learned to be wary when Will Fletcher crossed his arms in this way.

  “What?” she asked, equally brusquely. “Oh, is it possible that the Lady Marian has sent you on a mission to borrow something of mine for her – my lovely dinner gown of molding, moth–eaten silk, perhaps, or this delicate gossamer nightdress I now wear?” She flashed him a brief glimpse of the well–worn and drooping woolen nightshirt she had been forced to borrow from Uncle Henry.

  When he looked perplexed, Alice’s tone – and her claws – sharpened. “I find it curious that I didn’t see the lady leave. Or, is it possible that she is waiting out the storm up in your bedchamber, in your bed, perhaps? Now, I shall have a bit of gossip of my own to share with Fanny, or perhaps with your good and loyal friend Robin when next I see him!” She tossed her head haughtily. “Now, what was your question, Master Fletcher?”

  With one deft motion, Fletcher took her arm and pulled her down next to him across the end of the long kitchen table, then threw the tail of the woolen nightshirt up over her head. Beneath it, Alice was absolutely naked.

  Alice dropped her sandwich to the floor and attempted to cover herself with her one hand.

  “I beg you!” she pleaded in a desperate whisper, aware now that she had let the jest proceed too far. “I meant no!”

  Fletcher made no reply, but raised his arm and administered three quick, open handed slaps to each buttock, then smiled with satisfaction at the rosy pink glow that sprang forth almost immediately across both of Alice’s plump cheeks. He smacked both cheeks again, harder, and was rewarded with a deeper pink and a small squeal of pain from his squirming captive.

  “Stop this!” she hissed, reaching back again in a vain effort to ward off his blows. “At once! My uncle will surely hear, and….”

  “If you would prefer, I’ll be quite happy to invite your uncle to join us,” Fletcher said grimly, pinning the interfering arm behind her back. “He can sit at the table and watch at his leisure while I set your insolent little ass on fire. I doubt seriously that he would object to what he sees, either, after your insufferable rudeness this evening at supper.” After a momentary pause, while he adjusted her just slightly higher over the table so that her feet dangled off the floor, he calmly resumed the spanking.

  Alice groaned as the blows began to land very much harder and lower on her inflamed bottom, and with each swat, she yelped a bit louder, astonished now by the intense discomfort a bare hand could inflict on bare flesh, and leaving her little time to concentrate on the embarrassing nature of her position.

  Then, to her horror, he reached into a tall jug by her head and withdrew a large wooden cooking spoon. One second later, the spoon cracked across her bottom, the sound echoing around the stone walls of the empty kitchen. As her rear end began to pulsate, Alice bit her lip, and tried to no avail to get her feet back on the floor.

  As her anguish increased, so did her struggling, to the point where she nearly slipped off the table. Fletcher simply pulled her across his thigh, tightened his grip and peppered her squirming backside with renewed zeal. Alice swore under her breath, attempting to bite his leg.

  “Should you succeed in getting those sharp white fangs into my flesh, Mistress,” he said sharply, landing two stinging swats across the back of her thighs, “I give you my sincere promise you will quickly regret it!” To emphasize the point, he delivered another brisk spurt of smacks to each inflamed cheek, and at that point Alice desisted in her efforts, and lay still.

  “Now, you may stand up,” he ordered in a loud whisper, pushing her rudely off his lap. “Hold your shirttail up at your waist, put the tip of your nose against the wall. I still have a question to ask and you’ll remain there until I have an answer.”

  “What!” she cried. “I will do no such…”

  Will placed a warning swat with the spoon across her burning right cheek, which elicited yet another howl of pain.

  Miserably, Alice did as he ordered. It had not escaped her notice that it was in this very house, in this very room, and over this very table that she had been soundly and painfully spanked for the very first time in her young life. With her nose touching the wall, even in the darkened kitchen, she was also painfully aware that Will Fletcher had an excellent view of her reddened backside and thighs, her calves, and even her childishly bare feet. It was the very first time any man remotely her age had seen her naked, and it was not a pleasant or romantic way to start.

  “All right, now,” he said quietly. “Keeping in mind that I am still well–armed, you will tell me who this ‘Geoffrey’ is.”

  Alice trembled, and turned around. “I know no one by that name.”

  “That answer, Mistress, is a bald–faced lie, in addition to which, you have just removed your nose from the wall, giving you two offenses to pay for. If you do not wish a third, you will identify this ‘Geoffrey’ person, at once. I will eliminate your need to lie further by confessing that I searched your room this evening, and found not only the bag of baubles you evidently stole from our good friend the Bishop, but a florid note from the mysterious ‘Geoffrey’ of whom we now speak.”

  “You are a vile sneak and a thief!” she cried. “How dare you search my….”

  “I am, indeed a sneak and a thief, Mistress. It is how I make my way in this world. Now, will I have an honest answer from you, or begin to flay you alive with this large, excellent spoon?”

  “He is… a friend,” she growled. “A good friend. It was with him –– uh, with his family, I mean, that I plan to stay while in London.”

  “And does your uncle know of this man?”

  Alice paused for a second before answering. “Not precisely.”

  “Not precisely?” Fletcher repeated. “That is offense number three. I’m afraid, Mistress Alice, it may be time to have yet another discussion of honesty.”

  Alice twisted the hem of the nightshirt nervously. “Uncle Henry knows nothing of Lord Geoffrey.”

  “I thought as much. Who is he, this Lord Geoffrey?”

  “The man I love with all my being.”

  “Ah, yes, but aside from that. A name, perhaps?”

  “His family is called Reynaud.”

  “Has the man you love with all your being a profession?”

  “He’s
a Lord!” she cried.

  “Insolvent ‘Lords’ are as thick as flies in London,” Fletcher scoffed. “I asked his profession. One more lie and....”

  “He doesn’t live in London,” she said quickly. “His estate is in France.”

  “France?” Fletcher’s confusion was increasing by the moment. “How did you, a madwoman confined to a nunnery these twelve years or more, come to meet a French ‘lord’?”

  “He visited the abbey as a pilgrim. On a religious retreat. I met him, that’s all.”

  “And may I ask what drew you to this visiting French lord?”

  “His kindness,” she said coldly. “His excellent manners, something I doubt you would understand. He is fond of books, and music, and birds, and....”

  “Birds?”

  “Yes. Geoffrey keeps birds… beautiful birds for hunting, Falcons.”

  Fletcher scowled. “Ah, then he is a baron, or a fool. Falconry is a King’s sport, or a noble’s. To take prey with a trained bird in Sherwood will lose a poor man an eye, if he’s caught… or worse. The Crown holds its pigeons and hares a good more dearly than it does its peasants.”

  “Perhaps the Crown wishes only to preserve the lives of what few beasts are left from slaughter,” she said smugly, without actually believing it.

  “I suspect it matters little to the pigeon or hare whether he’s eaten by rich man or poor, Mistress. In any case, such prey provides a sparse feast for either – and none for the cheated falcon itself. The bird hunts for food, but the falconer for the sport of killing – a vicious sport, at best, and a cruel pastime.”

  “Geoffrey is fond of animals,” she protested. “That is his reason for keeping falcons!”