by Anna Burke
Damn her. It didn’t surprise Robyn that the song had spread. Anything that put the sheriff in an uncomfortable light was bound to attract public attention, and there were those who knew of his courtship of Gwyneth. That his daughter might also be wrapped up in a scandal would be oil tossed in the flame.
Stopping the spread of the song was impossible, she realized as she broke into a jog. The damage couldn’t be mitigated. She’d just have to ride it out and forbid Alanna from composing so much as a rhyme about her or Marian for the rest of her life. Her short life, she amended. She’d let Alanna’s easy smile and steadying presence fool her. Minstrels were dangerous. More dangerous than noble ladies dressed in their brother’s clothes or an outlaw with a bow.
She arrived back at their camp with the rising sun. Midge and John waited for her at the entrance to the cleft with worried faces. Both visibly relaxed when she came into view.
“Unnecessary,” Midge said the minute Robyn was close enough to hear her. “There was no reason for you to go to the city. None.”
John, who understood exactly why Robyn had gone, didn’t say anything. He did, however, frown at the look on Robyn’s face.
“Is Alanna back yet?”
“No. Is everything all right?”
She explained about the song in a low and angry voice, doing her best to keep her temper.
“I thought you knew,” said Midge when she finished.
“Knew that she was planning on spreading it all over England?”
“Well, you heard her singing.”
“I didn’t realize she was going to sing it in front of other people.”
“Robyn has a point,” said John. “We’re trying to avoid attracting attention.”
“Did it say anywhere that Robyn Hood is a supposedly dead woman hiding in the forest?”
“No, but she could have at least changed my name.”
“We know about a dozen Robyns,” said Midge dismissively. “It’s a common name.”
“It’s a risk. A risk we really, really don’t need,” said Robyn, “and if Alanna continues, I’ll send her back to Emmeline.”
“You will not,” said Will. She’d emerged from the cleft in time to catch the last few exchanges.
“She’s putting us all at risk.”
“She’s saving your ass.”
Robyn blinked at Will.
“No one will go out of their way to help an ordinary outlaw. They’d turn you in as soon as they saw you, hoping for a reward. But Robyn Hood? Don’t you see what Alanna is doing?”
“Enlighten me.”
“She’s making you a hero.”
Robyn’s head spun as she stared at Will, unable to comprehend the meaning of her words. “I’m not a hero,” she said at last. “I’m a poacher and a murderer and a thief.” Marian’s dowry hung heavily in her purse, reminding her of a few more crimes she could add to the list.
“That doesn’t matter. Alanna always says people don’t want to hear the truth. They want something bigger than they are. That’s why singers always lie.”
“They can lie about someone else, then.”
“It’s too late for that,” Midge added, not at all helpfully, in Robyn’s opinion.
“Did you get the arrow?” John asked.
“What?”
“The arrow. That’s why you went, isn’t it?”
“Marian couldn’t find it.” She remembered the things Marian had found, however, and looked over her shoulder. “Let’s get inside. I have things to tell you.”
“Five pounds?” said Midge in outrage when Robyn finished her story. “We’re worth just as much as you.”
“If we’re captured, you can take it up with the sheriff,” said John. He furrowed his brow at the drawing. “It’s not a good likeness.”
“Does it matter? Between this and Alanna’s ridiculous ballad, we’ll be lucky to still be alive by autumn.”
“This could apply to any outlaw out here,” said Will as she studied the picture. Tom and Lisbet listened with wide eyes, and Robyn hated that they’d come to her for safety, only to find themselves even more hunted than before.
“And now any outlaw out here is at risk. All someone has to do is say, ‘I found one of Robyn Hood’s companions,’ and they can try to claim their reward,” said John. Robyn appreciated that he, at least, understood the gravity of the situation.
“So, we give them an outlaw.”
They all turned to Will.
“Are you volunteering?” said Midge.
“Hardly. Siward, remember? The sheriff is looking for someone to hang. He can claim Siward is you, for all that it matters to us. He’ll get his blood, we’ll get rid of Siward, and the woods will be safer for everyone.”
Robyn wanted to argue. She wanted to point out that the woods would never be safe, and that drawing the sheriff into a fight now was idiocy, but she couldn’t deny the logic of Will’s plan. “Marian said you would be able to read this,” she said, handing the illegible list to Will.
Her green eyes scanned the parchment. “Robyn,” she said when she finished. “Do you know what this is?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking you.”
“This is the list of taxes still owed for the ransom tax, and the dates they’re due.”
She was too tired and full of conflicting emotions to sort out why, exactly, this had Will so excited, and she waited for Will to explain.
“Some of these manors are on the other side of the forest. They’ll have to cut through to get to Nottingham.”
“Bringing them directly to us,” Robyn finished for her, a smile creeping across her face.
Chapter Forty
Words and tears are woman’s weapons. As she continued her feigned act of contrition, she wondered if her father had realized how effective tears could be under the right circumstances. He let her break her fast in the dining room instead of her bedroom. The housekeeper kept her lips thinned to a narrow slash as she brought Marian honeyed bread and fruit from the kitchen, though Marian heard her scolding a maid behind the closed door. She didn’t know who the woman disapproved of—Marian, or the sheriff. Either way, she didn’t have a friend in Eliza or Hob. He remained nearby and his gaze made the back of her neck prickle.
Getting a message to Emmeline wasn’t possible. No one here would deliver it for her, and what could her friend do? Her father was within his rights to marry her off and to keep her locked up until then. Alanna couldn’t help either. Besides, she might go to Robyn, and that would end in disaster. She had no intention of seeing Robyn hanged.
Her only hope was to create a distraction. She surveyed her surroundings as she slowly ate her meal. Leaving under the cover of darkness had its advantages, but by then she’d be locked up in her room. Escaping out the window wasn’t an option. The drop was too great, and her father’s men guarded the street. Unless she developed squirrel-like climbing skills, that route was out.
She paused with the bread halfway to her lips. Yes, the drop to the ground was too far. If she could manage to climb up the thatch, however, she might be able to make her way to the cross street and the stable. The steep pitch of the roof loomed in her mind’s eye. At least she’d die instantly if she slipped. Alternatively, she could wait until after her wedding to make her escape. Surely she’d have more freedom then. That plan, however, required spending her wedding night with her husband, and the thought of the repugnant viscount touching her was untenable.
Setting the bread down, she reached for the honey and the knife. Amber liquid dripped from the short blunt blade as she spread it over the remaining slice on her plate. Too dull to do much damage to anyone, she mused, eyeing the edge. Maybe it could punch through flesh if she shoved hard enough, but she didn’t think it would be able to puncture leather. Even a straw dummy stood a chance of beating her, with this as her only weapon.
Straw. Her hand tightened on the hilt. If she could get this back to her room somehow, she might be able to use it to get a grip as she cli
mbed. Excitement raced through her, followed by sharp terror. This was madness. The long sleeves of her gown hid her trembling hands from Hob’s sight, and she forced herself to eat. She would need her strength.
The housekeeper bustled in with a mug of ale for Hob just as she was finishing her meal, giving Marian her chance. She slipped the sticky blade up her sleeve and hoped the honey would do its part to keep it glued there for the length of time it would take to return upstairs. A maid followed the housekeeper, glancing at Eliza nervously as she cleared away Marian’s plate. In her obvious distress, the girl didn’t notice the missing utensil, and Marian allowed herself to breathe as she stood and turned to face her jailors.
“I would like to return to my room now,” she said. “And would you bring me some water for washing?”
The housekeeper nodded, and Hob took a swig of ale before gesturing for her to lead the way. She kept her head bowed and meek and her arms wrapped around herself as she walked the short distance to her chamber, the façade helping to keep the knife in its hiding place. Once inside, she shoved it beneath her mattress and arranged herself on the stool by her washbasin. An ewer of hot water arrived moments later. Thanking the maid before she dismissed her, she proceeded to wash her face and hands. Cleaning the knife took a matter of seconds. She secreted it in the stays of her bodice, unwilling to risk losing it should her father decide to move her elsewhere, and looked around. One blade wasn’t enough. She opened the wardrobe again.
The red traveling cloak was old and out of fashion. She’d worn it as a younger girl, and the dark red color reminded her too much of blood. That didn’t matter. It had a hood and it would hide her fine clothes, even if it did catch the eye. Her mother’s comb lay on the shelf above the hooks. The bone handle was rounded, and the teeth still contained strands of her hair. Could they bite deep enough into the thatch to support her weight? No other option presented itself.
She unlatched the window shutter and peered out into the street. Business went on as usual below: hawkers shouting about their wares, animated discussions between friends, quarrels creating little stirs of movement amid the crowd as people pushed to get out of harm’s way. A herd of sheep trotted below, followed by a rider on horseback who hurled invectives at the young shepherd to get them out of his way. She frowned. The rider wore the prince’s livery, and he pulled up sharply at her father’s door. Normally, she would have done her best to overhear the news a messenger brought. His haste, and the brutal way he shoved the reins at one of the guards, suggested bad news. Perhaps the king had escaped and was on his way back to England to thwart John’s plans. She no longer cared. The messenger’s arrival provided her an unlooked-for opportunity. The guards argued about who should hold the horse, which seemed inclined to nip, and Marian swallowed her fear. Nobody in the street was looking up. It had amazed her, as a child in this room, how infrequently people bothered to raise their heads above eye level. She would have to trust to that now while her father’s men were distracted. She grabbed the cloak, put the knife between her teeth and the comb in her bodice, and stood at the edge of the window. The hardest part would be getting over the lip of the thatch, which jutted out above her. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this. She’d need to dangle in midair, then haul herself up using nothing more than the knife and the beam.
I can’t do this, she thought as she measured the distance. Nor could she bear the alternative. She moved slowly so as not to attract attention to herself as she edged out onto the sill. She could barely close her hand over the lip of the thatch. The coarse straws provided little grip, but the beam beneath them did. Marian said a prayer, and only the certainty of her future if she stayed spurred her into the uncertainty of open air as she swung out over the street three stories below.
No one gasped as she hung suspended. They would see soon, though, if she didn’t move, but pounding terror stripped her of her senses. Her fingers ached with the weight of her body and her feet reached uselessly for the ledge she’d left behind. I’m going to die, her mind gibbered at her, splattered with the shit and rotting food and piss that filled the street below. The seconds passed, each one increasing the likelihood of her exposure.
Shouts erupted from the ground. Mother have mercy, she prayed, and took one hand away from the beam and turned herself to face the building. She couldn’t see anything in the street, but the shouting continued. The knife handle between her teeth still tasted sweet in her dry mouth. Whimpering, she released her hand again, this time to take the knife, and prayed her other hand would hold her weight. It did, though barely, and she swung herself back just enough to stab the blade into the thatch above the crossbeam.
It held. Shaking with panic and effort, she dared to haul her body up enough to place her other hand on the hilt. It held again. A laugh, born of fear and insanity, escaped her lips. The sound gave her the strength she needed to pull herself up far enough to swing one leg over the edge. The pitch of the roof didn’t give her much leverage, but it was enough. She pulled the comb out of her bodice and jammed it into the thickly woven straw with all her strength. It sank an inch in, and she hauled herself fully over the edge.
Her sense of victory faded as she appraised the slope above her. It seemed as tall as a mountain, and her arms already felt as if they had reached the end of her strength. Climbing the rest of the way, only to descend on the other side unnoticed, was inconceivable. She glanced down. A crowd milled below her, but they weren’t looking up. They were shouting at each other and at the messenger, who had returned to his horse and was having difficulty getting past them. Whatever news he’d brought had clearly stirred them up, and Marian stared, unwilling to believe her luck as her father’s guards did their best to keep the crowd away from the door. No one noticed the girl in the red cloak clinging to the roof like a drunken bat. Her relief lasted as long as it took for her muscles to remind her that they objected to this kind of use. Gritting her teeth, she continued her climb.
The comb snapped halfway to the peak. The force sent her sliding back down, and her feet in their felt dancing shoes scrabbled at the thatch for purchase that did not come. Straw flitted to the street below. Desperate, she shoved the jagged, broken handle into the roof. Her fingers strained with the effort of keeping her tenuous grip on the bone. Above her, the remnants of the comb stuck out from the straw like jagged fangs.
I will not die here.
Her right foot found a knot of fibers. Working her toe in, she shoved off, and the ground ceased to pull at her with such vehemence.
Sweat poured down her face and stung her eyes as she reached the peak of the roof and looked down. The buildings on this side tapered more slowly, and she saw the roof of the stable to her left. She’d deal with the drop from the first roof to the second when she got there. For now, she focused on lowering herself carefully, making sure her knife and comb were firmly sunk into the thatch at each move. The stable roof thankfully hid her from anyone’s glance, as it extended over most of the street. She skidded down the thatch as the comb came loose again. The motion pulled the knife free but she managed to sink it in before she had fallen more than a few feet. Her already heightened nerves screamed at her, and her shoulder ached from the wrench. At least the drop had brought her closer to the stable. She eyed the distance between her and the next roof. She couldn’t get an accurate measurement from this angle, but she knew it was more than she wanted to drop willingly. A broken ankle wasn’t an option.
The problem gnawed at her until a movement across the street sparked her attention. A woman stood in an open window with a bucket in her hands and her jaw hanging open. Marian froze. The woman, by all rights, should have raised the hue and cry the moment she spotted one of her neighbors potentially breaking the law. Failure to do so implicated her in the crime. Marian held a finger to her lips and silently begged the stranger for mercy. The woman emptied the bucket slowly, still staring at Marian, and then backed into her home. It was the first prayer she’d had answered in what felt like
years.
Marian let herself plummet to the stable roof without further deliberation. She tried to take the jolt loosely. The impact knocked her breath out of her chest and she barely caught herself from rolling all the way off. She wheezed until her lungs stopped seizing and then edged toward the alley. Several bodies lay in the darkness, probably drunk or possibly dead. They didn’t matter. She dropped again, this time lowering herself as far as she could before letting go.
Filth spattered around her. One of the bodies stirred. She didn’t wait around to find out what he would do, and hurried into the street with her hood up. Taking a horse from these stables wasn’t an option. The men there would recognize her and alert her father as soon as she attempted to ride away. Her own mare was stabled with Emmeline’s horses at the castle. That wasn’t an option either. She chewed her lip as she walked, dodging through the crowd with her eyes down to avoid drawing attention. The smell of ale hit her as she passed a tavern. Customers still rowdy from the night before milled in the streets, and one man collapsed against his horse before slumping to the ground with a hand still on his stirrup.
She didn’t give herself time to question her decision. He’d already untied the horse from the post, and the animal seemed more than willing to get away from his wasted owner as she gathered the reins in her hand and backed the gelding up enough to mount. Her tired arms barely managed to pull her body into the saddle, and she had to make three attempts before she gained enough momentum to flop over the horse’s back. He stood patiently while she floundered, and once upright, to the amusement of several onlookers, she sat awkwardly in her skirts.
