by N B Dixon
“First blood to me,” Robin cried.
“Do not flourish your sword so much, Guy,” Sir Richard advised. “It allows your opponent time to get in under your guard.”
The fight went on. Guy was determined to get in a hit, but Robin seemed to anticipate every one of his attacks, and his sword was always there to block. Robin got in another hit, just above Guy’s elbow. Guy let out an involuntary yelp and immediately cursed himself. He couldn’t show weakness.
Robin was grinning fiercely, enjoying the mock battle, his chipped tooth winking in the morning sun.
“Ready to yield?” he asked.
It was that grin that pushed Guy over the edge. Forgetting all the rules of swordsmanship, he tackled Robin, using his extra weight to bear him to the ground.
“Guy!” Sir Richard shouted, but Guy barely heard him. He had Robin in a headlock and both were panting for breath.
“You broke the rules,” Robin remarked.
“So?”
Something jabbed Guy in the chest, just below his collarbone. He looked down. Robin’s sword rested there, his hand perfectly steady. Guy cursed silently. How had Robin managed to keep hold of his sword? Guy had been sure he’d dropped it in the fall.
Sir Richard loomed over them both. He looked angry, which was rare, but then Guy had broken one of the most important rules of sword fighting. Knights practised honour and chivalry at all times, even to their enemies.
“I have never seen such an exhibition,” Sir Richard stormed. “You should be ashamed of yourselves. Rolling in the grass like peasants.”
Guy looked down, but Robin held Sir Richard’s gaze.
“Guy started it. I was defending myself.”
“Enough. This ends your lesson for today. Get on home, the pair of you.”
As they walked back in the direction of Locksley Manor, Guy rubbed at the grass stains down the front of his tunic. He would be in trouble when his mother saw them.
“Serves you right,” Robin said without sympathy, examining a graze on his wrist. “You won’t get away with that trick again.”
Guy bristled. “I could knock you down any time I wanted.”
“You’ll have to catch me first.” Robin was off, sprinting like a deer.
Guy gave chase at once, but he was already tired after the sword fight and quickly fell behind. Robin’s mocking laughter spurred him to put on an extra burst of speed, and the two of them hurtled around the side of the house.
Guy skidded to a sudden halt. There, standing a few feet away, was his father, Sir Benedict of Gisborne. Guy’s sister Katrina was also with him. Sir Benedict was talking to Lord Locksley, and neither of them had noticed the two boys pounding over the grass towards them.
Katrina stared wide-eyed at the approaching Robin, while Guy tried to call out a warning, but in his breathless condition, all he could manage was a strangled croak.
Robin crashed straight into Sir Benedict. He stumbled, and would have ploughed face first into the grass if Lord Locksley hadn’t seized his shoulder and steadied him.
Robin hit the ground with a bump, and an oof! of surprise.
Guy, his face scarlet, hurried up to them.
Robin had already bounced back to his feet. “I am so sorry, Sir Benedict. I didn’t see you.”
Sir Benedict had succeeded in regaining his balance. He was several years older than Lord Locksley and his health hadn’t been strong of late.
“Are you all right, Father?” Guy asked anxiously.
Sir Benedict looked shaken, but managed a smile. “I’m quite all right, son.”
Lord Locksley aimed a blow at the back of Robin’s head, which he dodged. “What did you think you were doing? Running about like some ruffian.”
“I didn’t see you,” Robin repeated, stepping back out of reach.
Lord Locksley looked furious, but before he could say anything else, Sir Benedict spoke up.
“Now, now, Geoffrey. Boys will be boys, you know. There’s no harm done.” He smiled at Robin. “I accept your apology, but next time, try to look where you are going or you will cause someone a serious injury.”
For the first time since Guy had known him, Robin looked genuinely contrite. “Yes, Sir Benedict. I’m glad you are not hurt.”
Sir Benedict took his leave of Lord Locksley and, with Guy’s help, mounted his horse.
Guy saw Katrina give Robin a dazzling smile as he lifted her up behind their father. He mounted his own horse, which had been tethered nearby.
As they left, Robin grimaced over his shoulder at him. Guy knew Robin was in for one of his father’s lectures, maybe even a whipping. For once, Guy didn’t envy him.
***
Robin stood his ground. He was in trouble, and he knew it. Part of him wished he could have beat a hasty retreat like Guy.
“Come with me,” Lord Locksley ordered. He didn’t wait for Robin to say anything but turned on his heel and headed indoors, leaving Robin no choice but to follow.
Locksley Manor had once been a castle. It had been scaled down over the years after a fire wiped out a good portion of the building. In its place stood a handsome stone manor house. The front door opened directly onto the hall, which boasted a central fire pit. As there was no chimney, the smoke found its way out through the eaves. There was no glass in any of the windows, but heavy wooden shutters kept out some of the draughts.
A staircase gave access to the solar and sleeping chambers above while a side door led to a yard where the stables, kitchen and various store sheds were situated. These also doubled as sleeping quarters for the servants, or else they bedded down in the hall itself.
The great hall was Robin’s least favourite place. It was where his father often entertained his lordly friends, while Robin was forced to sit there, dying of boredom.
Gisborne Manor was built on a similar, if smaller scale, and was far more homely in Robin’s opinion. The two estates had once been one until Sir Edmund Locksley, a landless Norman knight, was granted a portion of the Gisborne land after its Saxon earl fell out of favour with King Stephen during the civil war. Robin wished he were at Gisborne Manor now, or anywhere but here.
The great hall was alive with activity. There was to be a dinner that night, and servants were busy stacking logs in the hearth and laying fresh floor rushes. Still others set the long trestle tables with the finest silver Locksley Manor had to offer.
At the sight of their lord and master, all the servants stopped what they were doing and either bowed or curtsied.
“Leave, all of you,” Lord Locksley ordered.
The hall was cleared in record time. Some of the servants sent Robin looks of sympathy. He squashed an impulse to ask them to stay. They couldn’t help in any case, and none would dare disobey their lord.
Within moments, the hall was empty but for Robin and Lord Locksley. Robin braced himself. He had a good idea what was coming and he wasn’t looking forward to it.
Lord Locksley surveyed him as though searching for something. Robin held his gaze for as long as he could, but finally looked away.
“It was an accident,” he mumbled.
Lord Locksley spoke as if he hadn’t heard him. “You are to be lord of this estate one day, Robin, and yet you refuse to take your responsibilities seriously.”
“I do, Father,” Robin protested.
“Do not interrupt me. You shirk your lessons with the priest. You spend your time playing the fool, and you are far too free with the servants. I have had cause to speak to you many times on this subject, and yet, you continue to defy me. Since words cannot get through to you, we will see what other methods can achieve.”
Lord Locksley strode over to the hearth and took down a strap, which hung on a nail in a secluded recess there.
“Lean over that table.”
Robin obeyed. He bent until his stomach and head rested on the end of one of the dining tables.
The first blow fell without warning. Robin sucked in a breath through his teeth but managed n
ot to cry out. He had endured punishments like this before. He bit his lip hard until he tasted blood but no further sound escaped him. A dozen times, the strap rose and fell, each blow echoing around the silent hall.
When at last it was over, Robin straightened slowly. He met his father’s gaze, dry-eyed. He saw a flash of irritation.
“You can go,” Lord Locksley said. “I expect you to be on your best behaviour this evening.”
“Yes, Father.” As Robin made his escape, he couldn’t help thinking that if his father expected him to sit through many tedious hours of dinner conversation, he maybe shouldn’t have hit him quite so hard.
Robin wasn’t one to dwell on his misdemeanours. Now the ordeal with his father was over, he went to the kitchen in search of comfort.
Peggy, the manor cook, was halfway inside the large oven, lifting out the day’s bread. Only her ample rump could be seen. Robin took advantage of her distraction and the general before-dinner mayhem to steal a piece of cooling gingerbread from the rack.
Alan a Dale, the kitchen boy, saw him and winked. “Smells good, doesn’t it?” He eyed the gingerbread in Robin’s hand wistfully. “Reckon if I tried stealing any, I’d be spotted fast as anything.”
Robin held out the gingerbread.
Alan’s eyes widened. “I couldn’t, Master Robin.”
“Quick, before anyone sees.”
Alan’s grubby hand shot out and seized the offering. He took a tiny nibble before shoving the rest inside his tunic.
“No one makes gingerbread like Peggy. Thank you, Master Robin.”
Robin grinned. “Save it for later when there’s no one about.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I will. I’d get a beating from the bottler if they caught me with it. I’ve already had one this week.”
Robin wasn’t surprised. Alan’s father, Ned, was the best musician in the village, and it seemed his son was set to follow in his footsteps. But Ned and Alan were serfs and had nothing to call their own. Even Ned’s lute was a gift handed down through his family.
Alan’s great-grandmother, it was said, had been a free woman but had married a serf, making her descendants serfs also. The lute had been hers. It was old and battered, but Alan played it at every opportunity and was forever getting into trouble for not keeping his mind on his chores.
Robin swiped a second piece of gingerbread for himself.
“Master Robin!”
Hand halfway to his mouth, Robin looked up guiltily at Peggy. She had turned in time to see this latest theft and stood, floury hands on hips.
“You’ll spoil your dinner, Master Robin.”
“It’s just one piece, Peggy.” Robin gave her his best smile.
Her fierce expression softened a little. “Well, don’t you come crying to me when you’ve the belly gripes later. Now be off with you. You’re getting under my feet.”
As Robin made his way upstairs, he reflected on his father’s words.
You make too free with the servants.
It was true that Robin was on friendly terms with many of the manor servants, with the possible exception of Edgar, his father’s steward. He found them much better company than the wealthy knights and lords his father associated with. They were enough to make anyone pass out from boredom. Even at the age of twelve, Robin was well versed in social etiquette. He could smile and engage in small talk as well as any adult, but he didn’t care about any of it. He often felt like the mummers who performed masked plays at festivals. It seemed he was always acting a part. His father barely noticed him except to criticise, and his upbringing had been largely left up to servants.
Robin’s feet had carried him up to his room without him having to think about it. Outside the door, he paused. A tapestry made by his mother hung on the wall. It featured a woodland scene in which various forest animals and fairy folk cavorted, watched by a small boy and girl peeking out from behind a tree. Robin had always loved it, but his father thought it was too sentimental, which was why it had been banished upstairs.
The bedroom door opened, and Martha stuck her head out. “What are you doing standing about? Come in here and change. I’ve laid your clothes out ready.”
Robin followed her into the room and perched on the edge of the bed. He hoped Martha wouldn’t notice his wince as he sat down, but her gaze zeroed in on him at once.
“Not again. What did you do this time?”
“I crashed into Sir Benedict and nearly knocked him flying.”
Martha clicked her tongue.
“It was Guy’s fault,” Robin defended himself. “He was chasing me. Father was really cross.”
“I’m not surprised. Playing such games at your age. You’re getting too old for that sort of thing.”
Robin didn’t bother arguing. He had other things on his mind. “Why does my father dislike me so much?”
Martha dropped the shoes she was holding. “What on Earth makes you say that?”
“Is it because of my mother? She died giving birth to me, so Father must blame me for her death. Did he love her very much?”
Martha regarded him for a long moment. She had turned pale, Robin noticed. He half regretted saying anything. The questions had chased themselves around his head for so long, but he’d never had the courage to speak them aloud until now.
Martha recovered her composure. She sat beside Robin on the bed and put an arm around his shoulders. If anyone else had tried it, Robin would have shrugged them off, but Martha was different.
“Firstly, you are not to blame for your mother’s death.” Her voice was firm, yet gentle at the same time. “It is true she died bringing you into the world. She and your father wanted a son very much, but your mother was never strong. Lots of women have a hard time bearing children, and sometimes, the mother or the child don’t survive. It is no one’s fault. It is the will of God.”
Robin wondered why God would want a woman or child to die, but something else Martha had said stuck in his mind.
“Father wanted a son?”
“He did indeed, so you can get the silly notion that he doesn’t like you out of your head. Your father loves you, even if you do try his patience sometimes. Perhaps you could try behaving a bit better in future?”
She didn’t sound too confident, and Robin smiled.
“Hurry and dress or you will be late for dinner. Shall I send one of the manservants to you?”
“No, I can manage.”
Martha gave his shoulders a last squeeze and left. But as Robin struggled into his stiff, uncomfortable new tunic, he felt far from reassured. His father may have wanted a son, but the one he had was a disappointment to him, and Robin couldn’t help wondering, if his mother had lived, would he have been a disappointment to her as well?
* * * * *
Chapter 2
Lord Locksley was fond of entertaining. His lavish feasts were famous among the neighbouring gentry. Hardly a week passed when Robin wasn’t expected to attend one of these banquets. Martha always made sure he was dressed in his best clothes, his hair was combed into some semblance of order and he would be placed at the top table with his father. Robin never understood why he was required to make an appearance at all, since his father’s friends mostly ignored him.
The Gisbornes, as their closest neighbours, were nearly always there, though of late, Sir Benedict had not accompanied his family.
Robin knew he had been taking less of an active role in the running of his estate this past year or two. As Guy was not of age, the estate was managed by the steward and Lady Amelia, who was several years younger than her husband.
Guy often talked about when he would take over the estate. Sometimes, Robin thought Guy was just waiting for Sir Benedict to die.
If Guy was anxious to assume his position as Lord of Gisborne Manor, Robin hoped his own father would live for a good long time to come. He often wished he wasn’t an only child, or better yet, a younger son. Younger sons didn’t have the same pressures on them. They could make their own way
in the world. They didn’t have to look across the table at their father every meal and feel like they were failing him.
Robin could hear the guests long before he saw them. He wondered if he could return to his room and plead a stomach upset, but regretfully, he dismissed the idea. He’d tried that once too often, and his father wouldn’t fall for it, particularly after the earlier incident with Sir Benedict. With any luck, there would be some entertainment after dinner. Maybe then he could make his escape, when everyone would be too drunk to notice.
Guy’s sister Katrina pounced on him the moment he entered the great hall. A fire crackled in the hearth, and this, combined with the number of guests, made the room uncomfortably warm.
Katrina was dressed in a gown of blue silk. A jewelled net secured her golden hair. With her blue eyes and porcelain skin, she was the image of Lady Gisborne.
Robin sighed. Katrina had taken to following him around a lot recently. He liked her well enough, but her attention was something he didn’t quite know how to deal with.
“Robin, I was worried about you. Lord Locksley was so angry. Was he very hard on you? It was an accident. Father knows it. He doesn’t blame you in the slightest.”
Robin shrugged. He wasn’t going to admit to Katrina that his backside felt as though a red hot branding iron had been pressed to his skin.
“Is Sir Benedict all right?”
“Oh, yes, perfectly, although he was unable to come tonight. He sends his apologies. Mother and Guy are here. Mother was all for staying home, but I insisted we come. It has been an age since I saw you, and Lord Locksley, of course,” she added as an afterthought.
It had, in fact, only been that morning, but Robin didn’t feel like arguing the point. He searched for a change of subject, while looking around all the time for Guy in the hope of rescue.
Katrina was still beaming at him. She moved a step closer, fluttering her long eyelashes.