by N B Dixon
Beaumont glared at him, and made no move to eat.
“I wouldn’t turn your nose up, Captain. This is the only food you’re likely to get. There will be no one coming to rescue you. Nobody knows where you are. You may as well make the most of it and enjoy our hospitality.”
Beaumont opened his mouth furiously, but Will, grinning, seized the opportunity to shove the bread and meat into his mouth, forcing him to take a bite. Mouthful by mouthful, Beaumont was fed, while the others watched with expressions ranging from resentful to amused.
“There you are,” Will said when the last morsel was gone. “Now you’re just as much an outlaw as the rest of us. Eating venison is a crime, after all.” Will moved to the fire to cut some meat for himself.
“Some ale for our guest,” Robin called.
Edward approached Beaumont with an ale skin, which he shoved in his face. Beaumont did not open his mouth in time, and ale dribbled down his face to splatter his tunic. His eyes promised murder to each and every one of them.
John took a whetstone from the pocket of his jerkin and applied it to the blade of his axe. The rasp of metal on stone was chilling, and after that, Beaumont obediently sipped at the ale Edward offered him.
Robin set sentries to guard their prisoner throughout the night. John took the first watch.
Robin left the others, seeking the solitude of the shelter cave. He dreaded sleep, where the nightmares waited to pounce, but he was physically exhausted.
He’d learned in Nottingham that Sir Richard was scheduled to be hanged tomorrow. If all went well, he would soon be among them. Robin yearned to see him again. With Martha gone, Sir Richard was the closest thing to a parent he had left.
***
Guy paced his solar, one eye on the window slit through which the midday sun shone. It was time for Sir Richard of Lee’s execution. He had already ordered the man to be brought up from the dungeons.
It had been a disagreeable twelve hours. The man charged with taking the first shipment of Prince John’s new taxes to Lincoln had arrived at Nottingham Castle late into the evening with a tale of being set upon by outlaws close to the borders of Sherwood. He had described the leader as a hooded man dressed in green, and Guy had had no difficulty in attaching a name to the description. He’d had the man flogged for his carelessness and then ordered him put in the stocks. He was considering hanging him to set an example to any other of his lackeys who would allow themselves to be so easily caught.
His bad day had got even worse when, two hours after that, a handful of soldiers had arrived, all of them wounded and minus their captain. The soldiers told of an ambush in which they had been beaten, tied up and left for dead, while Beaumont had been taken.
Katrina had, of course, gone into hysterics, screaming that her husband’s capture was all Guy’s fault.
“Locksley would never have taken him if you hadn’t arrested his tutor.”
“You may recall,” Guy said silkily, “that it was your idea.”
“I don’t care. Send men into Sherwood. Bring Hugo back.”
Guy had declined to obey. He suspected Locksley intended to demand an exchange—Beaumont for Sir Richard. Clever, but Locksley was assuming Beaumont was valuable to him. Guy had no intention of surrendering Sir Richard. He would have Locksley, and if his incompetent captain perished as well, there were plenty where he came from. He’d kept this information from Katrina.
Reaching the outer bailey, he accosted a soldier he vaguely recognised as being a member of Beaumont’s special handpicked guard.
“The prisoner?”
“They brought him out a few minutes ago, My Lord. He is being led to the gallows as we speak.”
“Any sign of Locksley?”
“None, My Lord.”
Guy frowned. If Locksley was going to make any kind of a rescue attempt, he was cutting it fine.
Someone plucked at his sleeve, and he turned to see Katrina glaring at him.
“Well? Where is Locksley? Have they caught him?”
Guy prayed for patience. “Not yet.”
“What are you waiting for? My husband’s life could be hanging in the balance, if Locksley has not killed him already. What is the matter with all these men?”
Guy spoke through gritted teeth. “They cannot catch a man who is not present.”
“You mean they haven’t seen him. That is not the same thing. He may be here somewhere, but in disguise.”
Guy snorted. He would know Locksley’s face anywhere. There was nothing the man could do to hide himself. And if he appeared wearing that ridiculous hood, it would be as good as a giveaway.
He gripped Katrina’s elbow, ignoring her slight wince. “He will be here. Count on it. Come. We don’t want to miss the old man’s final exit.”
They passed through the gatehouse of Nottingham Castle and into the city proper. The square was crowded, both with stallholders and merchants plying their trades, and townsfolk who had turned up to watch the execution. The gallows stood in the centre of the square, like an ominous guardian. It had claimed too many victims to count, and Guy had added considerably to that number during his time as sheriff.
At sight of Guy, the people fell back, clearing the way. Soldiers approached the gallows, dragging Sir Richard between them. He was blindfolded, his hands bound behind him. As he was forced onto the stool beneath the beam from which the noose hung, the hangman appeared and slipped the noose about his neck.
There was still no sign of Locksley. Guy contained his impatience with an effort. He had to be here somewhere. He’d taken Beaumont for a reason.
A drum started to beat, a slow, ominous rhythm. The noise of the spectators gradually hushed. Guy mounted a small dais, his eyes sweeping the gathered townsfolk. Nearly all of them were transfixed by the unfolding spectacle, some looking entertained, others, anxious.
“People of Nottingham,” Guy began. It was as far as he got. Arrows streaked seemingly from nowhere, burying themselves in the wooden frame of the gallows, as well as the soldiers standing closest to it. One arrow hit the drummer, silencing him mid-beat, and causing the hangman to duck hurriedly out of sight. Screams erupted from the crowd as people stared wildly around for the archers.
Guy’s hands clenched at his sides. He had not underestimated Locksley.
“Find them!” he barked.
Soldiers split off in myriad directions, while others raised loaded crossbows, searching for a target. More arrows rained down. Two soldiers were dropped mid-stride, clutching their legs. Another two had their crossbows knocked from their hands, to discharge their bolts harmlessly into the ground.
“Locksley!” Guy roared. “I know you’re there. You cannot hide forever.”
“Why would I want to hide?” A voice called over the panicking crowd.
Guy tracked the sound, his eyes lighting on the uppermost window of a tavern across the road. Locksley was framed in the opening.
“There!” Guy yelled, pointing.
Several soldiers aimed their crossbows in the direction of the window, but Locksley had already dropped from sight.
Guy swore in impotent frustration.
“Aim into the crowd,” he ordered his men. They obeyed at once, sending a flurry of crossbow bolts into the milling throng. The air filled with fresh screams as people scattered and tried to run.
Guy called over the rising chaos. “Surrender, Locksley, or watch innocent people die.”
Locksley did not reappear. A sudden scream from Katrina had Guy’s head whipping around. She was pointing frantically at the window. Guy saw an enormous man where Robin had been. He recognised John Little, the man who had helped the thief escape. He was holding Hugo Beaumont upside down, dangling him headfirst over the drop.
“Do something!” Katrina pleaded.
Guy seethed. He’d expected some negotiation, a simple trade. Then he could appear to go along with it and snatch Locksley. The man had him well and truly over a barrel. Beaumont dying in a fight was one thing, bu
t if he allowed his captain to fall, there would be mutiny among his men. Beaumont was popular with the Nottingham garrison.
“Release Sir Richard, Gisborne.” Locksley had reappeared beside John Little, an arrow aimed unerringly at Gisborne’s heart. “Tell your men that if they fire into the crowd again, my friend will let your captain fall.”
“Stand down,” Guy snarled at his men, and to the hangman, “release him.”
Scowling, the hangman obeyed. He stripped away the noose and blindfold and cut the rope binding Sir Richard’s wrists. Sir Richard stepped from the gallows, and instantly, a man materialised out of the crowd. It was Will Scathelock. Guy longed to give the order to shoot the man on sight, knowing what it would do to Locksley, but Locksley was already speaking.
“Don’t even think about it, Gisborne. You will allow them to walk away unscathed. If I get so much as a hint that you intend to stop them, Beaumont is a dead man.”
Guy was forced to stand and watch as Will and Sir Richard were swallowed by the crowd. His face burned with rage and humiliation. He was Sheriff of Nottingham, the most powerful man in the shire, and he was helpless to act. He could only watch as his most hated enemy made a fool of him in front of Nottingham’s citizens. They would remember this day—how Robin Hood rescued a criminal from justice with a handful of helpers.
Katrina called up to Locksley, the hatred twisting her face a match for Guy’s own. “The old man is free. Release my husband.”
Guy wondered if Locksley would give the order to let the man fall. It was what he would have done, but to his surprise, Locksley muttered something to John Little, and the giant leaned back away from the window, though not, Guy saw, without a scowl. Evidently, Locksley’s order did not sit well with him.
A few moments later, Hugo Beaumont was at their side. He was pale, but otherwise unhurt.
Guy longed to give him the command to search for Locksley, but he knew it would be useless. The man would already have lost himself in the crowd.
***
That evening, Guy sat glowering into the depths of his wine cup. It was his sixth cup—or maybe his seventh—he was losing track. No amount of wine in the world could wash away the day’s embarrassments. Meanwhile, Locksley was buried deep in Sherwood, gloating over his success. It was galling.
I’ll kill him, Guy vowed silently. If it is the last thing I do, I will kill him.
Part 2
1193
Chapter 8
Marian stood in Huntingdon Chapel, close to where the coffin lay. The air was heavy with the cloying smell of incense, which could not quite mask the faint odour of death.
Her father had at last given up the struggle to live. He’d lingered beyond what the physicians had predicted, and Marian had even begun to tell herself that he might recover, but finally, the battle was lost. He had lain in state in the chapel for two nights, but it was unusually mild for the time of year, and in the confines of the small chapel this was becoming apparent.
Marian stared straight ahead as the droning of the priest washed over her. The chapel was packed with castle servants and villagers from the estate, as well as garrison soldiers and nobles. She saw Guy of Gisborne among the mourners. He caught her eye at one point, and gave her a sympathetic smile. Marian tried to return it, but in truth, she had never felt like smiling less.
She was alone in the world. Her mother had died when Marian was still a small child. Four elder brothers had all followed one another to the grave in quick succession. For years, it had been she and her father. He’d lavished her with love and affection, and given her protection when it mattered most. With him gone, not only her future, but the future of Huntingdon hung in the balance.
Silent tears slid down Marian’s cheeks. Mixed in with her grief was resentment, much as she hated herself for it. Nothing in her life was certain anymore. Whenever she tried to look into her future, the prospect was bleak. Marian wished there was someone—anyone—she could turn to for aid. Her nearest living relative was a cousin in Normandy. He would inherit Huntingdon if she did not produce an heir. Marian had never even seen him.
There was Guy of Gisborne, but Marian had been blessed with more than her share of the Huntingdon family pride, and she was not yet willing to bend it enough to ask for help, particularly as she was convinced Guy coveted the earldom.
At long last, the service drew to a close and Marian joined the procession of mourners flooding out of the chapel. Her father’s coffin would be interred in the Huntingdon family crypt. There he would join six generations of his forebears: a long and unbroken line of male heirs. She was the only survivor of her father’s offspring. This branch of the Huntingdon bloodline would end with her. Any sons she produced would take the name of their father, not their mother.
Before he died, her father had informed her that she was now a ward of the Crown, which meant that the king would choose the disposal of both her hand and her lands. With Richard currently a prisoner, Prince John would take on the task, and he would be certain to make the choice that would most benefit him, regardless of her happiness.
Marian had been born within the castle walls. For her entire life, it had been her home. Today, as her father’s coffin was lowered into the crypt, it seemed more like a prison.
Once out in the fresh air, Marian stood by the door of the chapel, greeting the mourners as they filed past. Many of the servants and villagers hurried back to their work now that the service was over, but the nobles formed a line in order to offer their condolences. Marian responded with mechanical courtesy to every professed expression of sympathy. She wished they would all leave her in peace.
A hand brushed her arm. She looked up into Guy of Gisborne’s concerned face.
“A sad loss indeed. Your father was a good man.”
“I shall miss him terribly.” Her voice trembled, and she blinked hard.
Guy of Gisborne patted her arm once, a silent gesture of comfort.
“Thank you for coming today,” Marian said. “I know you must be very busy. I am grateful you took the time to be here.”
“I was worried about you. I wanted to make sure for myself that you were well.”
“I am as well as can be expected. My father did not suffer at the end. That is some consolation, at least.”
His face twisted as though he had something unpleasant to say. “Will you walk with me? There is a matter I must speak to you about.”
“Can’t it wait, My Lord?”
“I’m afraid not. I have grave news, Lady Marian, and as it concerns your father, you should hear what I have to say.”
Dread tightened Marian’s chest. She nodded and allowed Guy of Gisborne to take her arm.
He led her away from the curious onlookers and out into the castle grounds, where they walked in silence for a few minutes. When Marian could no longer bear the suspense, she asked, “What is it you have to tell me, My Lord?”
“It is difficult to know where to begin. As you are aware, on your father’s death, your guardianship became the responsibility of the Crown.”
Marian stiffened. Surely he wasn’t about to propose. Her father was scarcely in his grave.
He seemed to guess what was going through her mind. “Don’t worry, Lady Marian. As yet, no provisions for your welfare have been made.”
“A relief indeed.” Marian was unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.
“What I have to tell you refers to your father’s debts.”
Marian started. “Debts? What do you mean?”
“I’m afraid your father was in serious financial trouble. He had not paid his taxes to the Crown for three months. He was declared in arrears. You must know that with the king now imprisoned in Germany, every noble in the land is contributing to the ransom fund. It has been decided that your lands will revert to the Crown until a suitable custodian for them is appointed.”
Marian had come to an abrupt stop. She glared up at Guy. “I would remind you and Prince John that I am a ward of the king.
Only he can make such a decision.”
Guy was unruffled. “The king is currently unable to decide anything. It is in the best interests of the Crown for the Huntingdon lands to be returned. King Richard would certainly make the same choice if he were here. The Huntingdon estate is too vast for a woman to manage alone.”
Marian trembled with fury. “I have managed well enough these past months without a man to hold my hand.”
“It is a temporary measure,” Guy said soothingly. “If the prince can find a suitable candidate for the earldom, he will promise you to him in marriage.”
“I will say it again. That is not his decision to make. Perhaps you’re hoping the prince will choose you.”
His reply was dignified. “I want only to help you, Lady Marian. You may find this hard to believe, but your happiness means a great deal to me. I am as reluctant as you to see you driven from your home and forced to marry a stranger.”
This was not what Marian had expected. She felt her cheeks redden. Either he was a talented liar or he truly meant what he said. Her father had raised her to show courtesy at all times.
“Forgive me, My Lord. It has been a difficult few days.”
“I did not take offence. However, you were right in one point. I am here to make you an offer.”
Marian tensed once more, but he plunged on before she could speak.
“You would be welcome as my guest in Nottingham Castle. You will be under my protection there.”
“What will I need protection from?”
“You are a worthy prize, Lady Marian. Your beauty aside, the wealth and position a man would gain, through being your husband and the Earl of Huntingdon, may lead some to take drastic actions. You can’t remain here by yourself. It isn’t safe.”
Marian repressed a shudder. Some men would do anything in the name of power and greed. There might be those who would stoop to rape in order to force her hand. Once she was dragged before a priest, there would be no going back. She had no family she could turn to. She was certain the soldiers would not stay on indefinitely without payment. Some had gone already. Once they left, the castle would be undefended, ideal prey for any fortune hunter.