Nottingham

by Anna Burke

  Robyn did her best to hide her surprise. “Sometimes they don’t.” Clovis hadn’t screamed either.

  “My brother says it’s not my fault.”

  “What do you think?” Robyn asked, weighing her words.

  “I don’t know.” Lisbet released the string. It snapped against her arm, but she didn’t cry out, even as the welt grew visibly red.

  “Lisbet, can you promise me something?”

  Lisbet looked up at her and Robyn remembered with an acute stab of pain the way she’d smiled through a mouthful of bread on the day Michael died.

  “Promise me that if someone ever makes you feel scared like that again, you’ll do whatever you need to do.”

  Lisbet shrugged. It was something at least.

  “Can you climb?” Robyn asked, hoping to get the girl’s mind off murder.

  “Yes. They sent me up for apples and chestnuts.”

  “Show me.”

  Lisbet set the bow down gingerly and eyed the nearest tree. The bark was smooth, and Robyn might have thought twice before scaling it herself. Lisbet shook out her shoulders and ran toward it, leaping onto the trunk like a squirrel and using her momentum to carry her up to the first branch.

  Will clapped from somewhere behind Robyn. “She’s better than a tumbler,” she said, her eyes alight with curiosity. “Could you show me how to do that?”

  Lisbet dropped back down, wiped her hands on her tunic, and shrugged. “I could try. Will you show me how to use that?” She pointed at Will’s sword.

  Will walked around Lisbet, sizing her up. “You’d do better with an axe, I think. Or a staff.”

  “Why?”

  She grasped Lisbet’s wiry shoulder. “You’ve got power here, like your brother. You could throw an axe quite a ways, I’d bet.”

  “Nobody would touch me if I had a sword.”

  “But nobody would question you if you carried an axe. Sometimes it’s better not to look too dangerous. Now, how do I climb this tree?”

  Lisbet gave Will a considering look. “Your power is in your legs,” she said, deliberately mimicking Will’s way of speaking. “And you’re tall. When you run toward the tree, tuck your legs and grip with your hands, pushing yourself up. You won’t get very many strides before your body wants to fall, so make sure you have your eye on a branch. Like this.” She performed the trick again.

  Robyn watched, too. Scaling a tree quickly could mean the difference between life and death, whether it was to stay out of sight of a forester or to escape an enraged boar. Will didn’t manage to get more than halfway to the first branch before falling. She landed with a thump, dusted off her tunic, and tried again.

  “You have to trust yourself,” Lisbet said.

  “I trust myself to fall.” Will took a longer running jump and this time made it to the branch before dropping.

  “There you go.”

  Robyn tried after Will, the tree bark rough and familiar beneath her hands. It didn’t take her long to get the hang of it. Weeks of living rough had hardened her frame, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine a wolf behind her to give her the extra push she needed. Lisbet’s technique differed from her own, which involved considerably more scraping of knees and elbows, and it also boasted speed.

  “Lisbet, I want you to teach everyone this. Can you do that?”

  “I can try.” Lisbet shot Robyn a dubious look. “Even Little John?”

  “He might surprise you. He’s light on his feet. I’d be more worried about your brother.” Robyn had hoped to make the girl smile, but she just gave another solemn nod.

  Now that there were six of them, with Midge occasionally adding to their number, Robyn’s mind started turning over new possibilities. Lisbet wouldn’t be much use in a fight, but she had keen eyes and a wariness about her that made her an excellent lookout. Tom, with his massive shoulders and broad frame, brought more muscle to their band. John was cutting him a stave to use as a weapon for now, although the hammer at his belt looked like it could crush a man’s head just as easily, and Robyn wanted to get both blacksmiths behind a longbow once she had time to find some likely wood. Five armed outlaws and one fearsome lookout offered significantly better odds than two.

  More members also meant more mouths. Game was plentiful for now, but meat alone wouldn’t keep them going. She foraged for berries, greens, and mushrooms as she went, but as the days lengthened and midsummer approached, her mind strayed increasingly toward thoughts of winter. They needed a place to stay during the long, cold months, and a place to store dried meat, nuts, and fruit out of the reach of squirrels and damp.

  On top of all her worries came the occasional distant baying of hounds. They scaled trees each time they heard them, stowing their few belongings in the hiding places they’d found around their camp, but the longer they spent there, the more the place looked lived in. It was only a matter of time before a huntsman stumbled upon their clearing.

  A breeze ruffled her hair. She smelled deer and sap and water, and with those things the certainty of change.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Marian woke to the unfamiliar sounds of Nottingham’s streets drifting in through her window, along with its smells: nightsoil, freshly baked bread, animal dung, and spices. It reminded her of her childhood, which brought still more memories. Her mother, laughing in her father’s arms before a miscarriage bled her life away. Her brothers, wrestling in the street and shouting for Marian to watch to see who won, mud and dust streaking their clothes. They had died fighting in Jerusalem, along with her father’s laughter and his loyalty to Richard.

  She shoved off the blankets and slipped into her clothes, straightening her chemise and grimacing as she touched her hair. It would need to be brushed and braided, then rebound with ribbons, an arduous process that she didn’t want to deal with. On the other hand, she thought as she pulled the rumpled ribbons from her hair, at least she could brush out the lingering scents of last night’s dinner. Shame coiled within her. She wanted to bathe, anything to wipe away the lingering feel of Linley’s eyes.

  The comb in her room had belonged to her mother. The bone handle warmed to her touch, and she ran it through her hair in the long, even strokes she remembered, imagining the feel of her mother’s hands on her scalp. So much might have been different, had she lived. So much about her father might have been different.

  “Marian,” said the housekeeper, announcing her presence with a soft knock. “Your father wishes to escort you back to Harcourt himself this morning.”

  “Really?” She couldn’t help her surprise. He rarely rode with her, preferring to entrust her to Sir Gregor’s company.

  “I’ve prepared a light breakfast for you, and then you’ll be on your way. Here. Let me help you with that.” The woman snatched the comb from Marian’s hand and proceeded to detangle her hair with cold efficiency before braiding it into the two thick ropes so popular at court. “Green or blue?” she asked, holding up fresh ribbons.

  “Blue.” Blue, too, reminded her of her mother.

  “There.” The housekeeper examined her handiwork, then adjusted the way the braids hung over Marian’s chest.

  I’ll be riding, she wanted to say, but the woman had little enough cause to groom anyone but herself in the sheriff’s house. If prettying her up made the housekeeper happy, Marian supposed it was the least she could do. Besides, arguing would just extend the process.

  Her father was in the kitchen wolfing down cold sausage and bread. He greeted Marian with a greasy kiss on the cheek, which the housekeeper discreetly dabbed off when his back was turned.

  “I’ve sent a man to let Gregor know he won’t be needed. He will return ahead of us.”

  “He won’t be riding with us?”

  “There are things I’d like to discuss with you in private.”

  The bread turned to charcoal in her mouth. “Of course, Father,” she said.

  Her mare waited outside the house alongside her father’s horse and a forester she didn’t recogni
ze. Marian stroked her mare’s nose and gave the black stallion an affectionate scratch beneath his jaw, doing her best to ignore the man on the bay gelding. Her father had a fondness for brutes, and this one didn’t look like an exception. She kept the horses between her and his line of sight until her father arrived and ordered her to mount.

  “If the weather holds, we’ll make good time,” the sheriff said as he slapped his horse on the shoulder. The stallion nickered and reached his head around to nibble on his rider’s boots, flattening his ears in a gesture Marian recognized as play anger. She amended her earlier thought. She liked one of the brutes that surrounded her father.

  “Enough of that, you ruffian.” He pushed the animal’s muzzle gently away, and Marian’s resentment wavered. She saw that side of him so rarely these days. Her own horse rolled her eyes at the presence of a stallion, and she prayed the mare didn’t go into heat on their ride.

  “Dinner went well,” he said as they trotted down the street, forcing pedestrians to scamper out of their way. Marian winced as an old woman stumbled in her haste to avoid crossing the sheriff’s path.

  “Father,” Marian said, hesitating before she continued. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Oh?” His smile was tolerant.

  “Would you consider sending me to the priory? The prioress is Emmeline’s sister, as you know, and I think I would like it. I could learn to illuminate and read, which could be quite useful to you.”

  Her father didn’t speak immediately, but his brows lowered as they passed the city gates. Only when they were out of range of the gate guards and a group of peasants did he turn on her.

  “No daughter of mine will end up as a nun in that place, Christ as my witness. You will never speak of this to me again, and you will be grateful I do not see fit to beat you for your impudence.” Spittle flew out of his mouth as he shouted the last words.

  Marian froze in her saddle. Never in her life had he spoken to her with that tone, and the vitriol scalded her. Even the forester looked taken aback by the outburst.

  “Now,” the sheriff continued, rolling his shoulders, “let us discuss more practical matters. The viscount wants to move the date of the wedding closer to Midsummer. He’s quite taken with you, and with Richard gone I think it would be best to get you settled before things get out of hand. I’ve had a few more offers, however. Lord Barrick has expressed interest, though I find him unsuitable, and Sir Mathurin—you remember him?—approached me just this week. He’s younger than the others, better looking, too, but not in line for a direct inheritance. Still, his interest may quicken the viscount’s, and who knows what he will offer?”

  “Father . . .”

  “It would do you good to appear more in court. You need to show off your assets instead of hiding behind Emmeline. There will be a feast on Midsummer, and you will attend. I will see to it that you have a new gown.”

  A gown for the viscount.

  “I hate him.”

  Her father reached out and grabbed her horse’s rein. “Say that again, daughter, and I will marry you to Lord Barrick. The viscount is a good man with good standing. Your sons will inherit his estates, and you will bite your tongue and bear it. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. She did understand. She understood now just how little her happiness meant to him, and the knowledge left her cold and empty as they passed beneath the branches of the forest.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Flies droned around their heads as the sun baked the tops of the trees, and uncharacteristic heat soaked Sherwood in thick golden rays. Robyn hoped the rest of her band felt more awake than she did. They couldn’t afford to give in to somnolence, not with the road only a few feet away. She strained her ears for the sound of hoofbeats. Only the flies answered.

  “Go back to hell,” she muttered as she slapped one that had managed to weasel its way onto her neck for a bite. John raised an eyebrow at her from the neighboring tree. She thought about glaring, then decided that required too much energy, and returned to leaning against the trunk. Three days. Three days, and no one of means had passed by their stretch of road. A group of masons, several goatherds, and a handful of pilgrims had stirred the dust, but none were worth hanging over. They needed a fat merchant, or perhaps a member of the clergy. Their souls were already damned; picking the pockets of a priest wasn’t going to make things any worse.

  “Hey.” John nodded toward the road. Robyn started from her stupor. The sound of hooves floated above the low hum of droning insects, and she saw Tom, Will, and Alanna stir from their positions across the road. The arrow came readily to her hand as she waited for their quarry to round the bend. Two horses, maybe three. Less than five, but a mounted man posed a significantly greater risk than men on foot, and even one horse changed the balance of the odds. Too risky, she decided, and then the riders came into view.

  Hatred burst from her heart like a spray of noxious vines, choking everything in its path. Three horses ambled down the lane, but Robyn only had eyes for the man on the black stallion. His belly protruded over his saddle, and sunlight reflected off the rings on his fingers and the silver thread in his collar. She stepped into the road, bowstring taut, the sound of John’s muffled curses barely registering.

  “Good day, Sheriff,” Robyn said, leveling the arrow directly at his heart. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and the whole world contracted to the eyes bulging in outrage on the man astride the powerfully muscled horse. Michael’s eyes had bulged, too, at the end, but not in rage.

  “Don’t be a fool,” said the man to the sheriff’s left. “Do you have any idea who this is?”

  “He knows, Tam. That’s why he called me ‘Sheriff.’” The sheriff’s knuckles released their bloodless grip on his reins, and he leaned forward in the saddle to scrutinize Robyn. “Remove your hood, my bold friend.”

  “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you. The sun is rather bright today.”

  “So bright I might be tempted to overlook this grievous error, as it has clearly addled your brains. Stand down.” His tone was contemptuous. Dismissive even, and Robyn seethed with murder.

  “How can I stand down to someone as low as you?”

  “Watch yourself, boy,” said Tam.

  “Wait.” The sheriff held up a hand and narrowed his eyes. “You’re the archer.”

  Robyn flexed her hand on the bowstring. It took every ounce of her strength not to release the shaft and send the sheriff straight to hell.

  “The archer?” asked Tam.

  “From the fair. You remember our particularly generous friend.”

  “The widow seemed grateful for the purse,” Robyn said. “It would seem it helped her escape an unwanted proposal.”

  “Is that so.”

  “Some men just don’t know when no means no.”

  “And some boys mistake bold words for manhood,” said the sheriff, loosening his sword in its scabbard.

  Will slipped out of the trees with her blade bared, and the horses shifted as John and Tom closed in their ranks from behind. Alanna remained in the tree, ready to deliver a knife to a throat if needed.

  “Only one of you has a bow,” Tam said. “We’ll gut you like pigs.”

  “Not before I kill you.” Robyn’s words were for the sheriff. He gave her a thin smile.

  “You would kill a man in cold blood in front of his only daughter?”

  Robyn’s heartbeat slowed. She tore her eyes from the sheriff’s face and forced herself to glance behind him.

  On a small bay mare rode Marian.

  His words did not immediately make sense to her. Marian was not the sheriff’s daughter. Could not be the sheriff’s daughter. Surely Robyn would have known. You knew he had a daughter, she thought, but she had not seen the girl in years. Yet as impossible as the thought was, her mind presented her with a list of things that had not added up about Marian. There was the fair, where Marian had stepped onto the field to speak to Robyn, and the comments she had brushed off but nonethel
ess overheard. Perhaps Marian had assumed that Robyn already knew who she was. Nottingham wasn’t large enough that she should have missed that. Sheriff’s daughter. The words repeated in her mind, and Will filled the silence.

  “No one needs to die,” said Will, and Robyn detected the quaver in her voice, “as long as you give us your purses.”

  No, thought Robyn. This is wrong. This is all wrong. For a moment she hated them all: the sheriff, Michael, and Marian. The sheriff for killing her brother. Michael for dying. And Marian, Marian she hated for spoiling her revenge. Just shoot him, she urged her fingers. Nothing else matters. Her finger itched to release the arrow and free Michael’s ghost. He would do it for her if their roles were reversed, damning the consequences.

  Her eyes slid back to Marian’s. If she loosed this arrow, she’d be condemning Marian to that same nightmare. She would fall asleep, as Robyn did, watching someone she loved die over and over and over again.

  “Marian,” the sheriff said, never taking his eyes off Robyn. “What was the archer’s name, again?”

  “Robyn Hood.” Marian kept her tone even, what little emotion she betrayed attributable to fear, not familiarity, but there was a plea there.

  “Yes, Robyn Hood. A fine archer. A man like you could have made a decent living, and yet here you are.”

  “And a man like you could have made a fine husband, only she wasn’t interested, was she?” Rage twisted his face at her words. It sent a thrill of vindictive pleasure through her. “She got as far away from you as she could.”

  “You will pay for that,” said the sheriff in a deceptively calm voice.

  “I believe I did.”

  “Your purse,” said John from the rear. “A small price for your life, don’t you think?”

  “Yours too.” Will pointed at Tam with her sword.

  “The lady may keep hers.” Robyn was careful not to let her hand waver on the arrow. “We do not tax those who cannot pay here.”