by Anna Burke
“You’ll be drawn and quartered,” she said, though a part of her wondered if her father would even care.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Maybe Linley will thank us for—”
“Ransom her,” said John, mercifully cutting short whatever Siward had been about to say next. “Untouched. It would show your goodwill. How’d you end up with her, anyway?”
“She rode right to me. Almost as if she was looking for trouble.” He pulled Marian a little closer, forcing her to choose between staring at the wiry, no doubt lice-infested hair at the open neck of his shirt or craning her head to look up at his face. She chose his face.
“Did it occur to you that someone might have followed her?” John asked.
“Then they’re still following that gelding of hers, all the way to the horse market at Maunnesfeld.”
“He’ll pay a hundred pounds to see me alive and unspoiled.”
Siward released her in shock and she stumbled backward, tripping over the dais of roots. Robyn’s hand steadied her. At her touch, some of the color came back into the world. She smelled the thick earthy scents of moss and rotting logs, and felt a breath of summer air stir the clearing. I will not be cowed by this man. She lifted her chin and met Siward’s incredulous gaze.
“A hundred pounds?”
“He’ll lose face if something happens to me in his county.”
“A hundred pounds is—”
“You’ve heard about the king?” John asked Siward.
“I am the king.”
“The other king.”
“Good riddance.”
“The sheriff will have his hands on Nottingham’s share of the ransom tax soon enough. We’ve got the records, which is actually why we’re here. I don’t know if the girl is worth a hundred pounds, but he might pay dearly for your cooperation—and for your silence,” said John.
“Hmm.” Siward folded his arms over his chest and considered the three of them. “First, I want to know why your friend here seems so fond of the slut.”
“He’s got a soft spot for maidens in distress,” said John. “Likes to play the hero. You should try it sometime. Excellent results.” He leered convincingly.
“She knew his name.”
“My lord,” said Yvette, twirling a long wicked knife in her hand. “I could get the truth out of him.”
“I’m sure you could, my love,” said Siward.
Marian stepped away from Robyn. Maybe she couldn’t find her way through the woods or fight off outlaws, but she’d grown up in Nottingham. She could lie. “Robyn was a forester,” she said. “He worked for my father before he got caught poaching.”
“Fancied you, did he?” one of Siward’s men said.
“What’s not to like?” Siward held out his hand, and Marian forced herself to place her bound wrists in his grasp again. Robyn growled behind her. “Soft skin. Lovely lips. And a hundred pounds between you and the sweet spot between her legs.”
“She’s got a pretty mouth,” said the same man.
“And teeth.” Marian snarled the words, snapping her jaws to illustrate her point.
Siward laughed as the man recoiled. “Well, John, since you’ve brought me news, can I trust you to take a message to the sheriff? Tell him that I have his daughter and that she will remain unharmed so long as he brings me a hundred pounds, a cask of his finest ale, and a feast worthy of a king by the day after tomorrow. I can’t guarantee her safety any longer than that.”
“Of course, my lord,” said John. “Robyn and I—”
“I’ll be keeping your friend, of course, until then.”
“Of course.” John’s lips thinned and he exchanged a long look with Robyn that Marian couldn’t decipher. “Why don’t we send Robyn, and I’ll stay?”
“I think not. Besides, I want to hear all about how he sprung you from the Nottingham jail. Resourceful lad.”
“Siward,” John tried again. “Listen to—”
“Go, or I’ll geld him before you return.”
John gave Robyn one last look before turning and walking away from the greenwood, leaving Robyn surrounded by Siward’s men and Marian still trapped in his embrace.
Chapter Forty-Three
They tied Robyn to a tree with her arms and legs spread and her face pressed against the moss. Her view of the clearing was limited to what she could see over her shoulder, and that view mostly contained Yvette. The outlaw sat with her head leaning against Siward’s throne and her evil-looking knife on her knees, studying Robyn.
At least with her back to them, the attributes Robyn lacked were not on display. She had no doubt that the reserve Siward’s men showed when it came to valuable hostages would not apply to female outlaws dressed as men. John had said as much when they first met.
The sound of someone striking a flint caught her ear, followed by the smell of wood smoke. She couldn’t see the fire or Marian, and the ropes dug into her wrists and ankles while the muscles in her shoulders ached with the unaccustomed abuse.
Nothing about the situation made sense. Marian still wore the dress from Midsummer. Robyn had left her at the city gates, where she should have been safe enough. What had happened between now and then that had left Robyn tied to a tree with Marian at the mercy of the very man Robyn had hoped to use to eliminate the sheriff?
“Please, let me speak with him,” she heard Marian say.
“You can speak to him from where you are,” Siward’s unmistakable voice replied.
Marian didn’t say anything else. The conversation around the fire ranged from speculation about how the sheriff would respond to their demands to the bleak returns from the latest hunt. From what Robyn gathered, they’d picked this part of the forest nearly clean, which explained the gauntness of the band, and why they raided the villages so frequently. Robyn thought about the lushly inhabited stretch of woodland she called home and silently dared Siward to set foot on her territory. Lisbet and Midge would eat him alive.
Midge. Had John gone back to camp to consult with the others, or had he done as he had assured Siward and headed straight for Nottingham and the sheriff? Robyn ran the scenarios through her head. It seemed highly unlikely that John would take the news to Nottingham himself. If she were him, she would alert the others and then find the prioress, who would notify Emmeline, who would be the best positioned to inform the sheriff of his daughter’s absence. And if John had gone to Tuck, then Robyn could be nearly certain he was on his way back to Siward’s camp even now. All Robyn had to do was keep their attention on her and off Marian until he returned.
Yvette seemed to read her thoughts, for she stood to stretch, her eyes fixed on Robyn. “I’ve an idea,” the outlaw said. She hefted the hilt of her knife in an experimental fashion and tossed it in the air, catching it deftly before she passed out of Robyn’s peripheral vision. “Since we’ve money coming our way, we should decide how we’re going to split it.”
“Evenly,” someone said to a chorus of boos.
“Let’s throw for it.”
Robyn gritted her teeth. At least her outlaws didn’t gamble. They were honest thieves. The thud took her by surprise. She didn’t even have time to flinch as the knife quivered in the trunk a few scant inches from her nose.
“God’s blood,” said Marian. The rest of the brigands cheered, and Robyn smelled Yvette’s musky odor as she leaned in to pluck the knife out of the trunk.
“Didn’t wet yourself, did you?” the woman asked, groping Robyn between the legs.
Robyn stiffened, straining a muscle in her thigh and lower back. Yvette’s breath fell hot on her ear. There was no way the other woman could miss the absence that hung between Robyn’s legs. She waited for Yvette to call her bluff.
Yvette said nothing as she retreated. Robyn didn’t know whether to find that comforting or more alarming. The brigand didn’t seem the type to put much stock in sisterhood.
The next knife nicked Robyn’s hand. She swore as blood collected against the ropes, grateful that it was her
left hand, and not the one that pulled a bowstring. She would need that hand to finish off Siward.
“Nothing for you,” said Yvette to the thrower.
“Sorry about that, lad,” the man said as he retrieved his knife. He patted Robyn roughly on the back, making her shoulders scream with pain, but at least he didn’t grope her. Maybe she’d spare his life. Robyn turned her head to face the tree and leaned her forehead against the mossy bark, breathing in the smell of wood and rot as missiles lit into the trunk all around her.
“Stop,” Marian shouted after the fifth knife. “Please.”
“You’ve upset the pigeon, Yvette,” said Siward.
“Of course I’m upset,” said Marian. Robyn flinched at the steel in her voice. “Robyn took the archery prize at the Nottingham Fair. If you want to see true marksmanship, give him his bow.”
“We’ll need a target,” Yvette said, her words a dark promise.
“Use me.”
The silence that followed had a keen edge. Scattered applause broke it, and Robyn sucked in her breath. The girl was mad. Stark, raving, mad. They weren’t at a market fair where, at close range, performers fired blunt arrows at fainting maidens to the sound of clinking coins. They were in a darkening wood, and Robyn had no intention of risking Marian’s life for the sport of this lot.
The ropes that held her arms gave as Yvette sliced through them, and she fell backward, her feet still bound. The relief was agonizing. She forgot about Marian and the sheriff and Siward as blood flowed back into her arms, stabbing each nerve as it went by. She hardly noticed when her feet were freed.
“Robyn.” Marian knelt before her, resolve in her dark eyes. Firelight flickered across her face and Robyn, still dazed from the sudden freedom from pain, almost reached out to touch her cheek. Marian seized her injured hand and turned it over in the firelight.
“It’s not deep,” said Robyn.
“Hold still.” Marian ripped a strip of cloth from her dress and bound the wound.
“This is madness.”
“You won’t miss.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I saw you shoot.”
“That was for a purse,” Robyn said. “This is different. I can’t shoot at you.”
“You have to.”
Yvette did not let her pursue the argument. She grabbed Marian by the arms and hauled her to the tree Robyn had just vacated. Several pairs of hands restrained Robyn when she launched herself to intervene, and Marian shot Robyn a look of warning.
Marian didn’t understand. Seeing her restrained reminded Robyn too much of Michael’s fate. Letting the sheriff deal with Siward no longer seemed sufficient. She would end him herself, as she had Clovis.
Marian raised her head over Yvette’s rough binding to glare out at the clearing. The gesture, haughty and defiant, calmed some of Robyn’s blind rage. Marian looked in control despite the ropes and her stained gown, and the look she turned on Robyn was full of trust.
“Fetch the lad his bow,” ordered Siward.
Robyn tried one last tactic. “If I miss and she dies, the sheriff will see us all dead.”
“I don’t think so. If you miss, then we deliver you to the sheriff along with the girl’s body and collect the reward for her murderer.”
Sweat trickled down Robyn’s back.
“We’ve all seen how it’s done.” Siward dismissed Robyn with a wave of his hand. “We need something to put on her head. Alex, fetch a bladder of ale.”
The crude bindings exaggerated the curves of Marian’s body, and Robyn noted the eyes that roamed freely over Marian and vowed to pluck them out when this was over. Someone handed her back her bow. Another man strung his own and trained an arrow at her chest in case she decided to aim anywhere besides Marian. Robyn ground her teeth together. Marian deserved so much more than this mockery of a tourney sideshow. At least they hadn’t ripped Marian’s bodice, she consoled herself, but that brought cold comfort.
The man she took to be Alex—a short, broad man with a jerky way of walking—produced a pig’s bladder half full of ale and rested it on top of Marian’s head. “Chin up,” he told her, brushing his knuckle beneath her chin to illustrate his point.
Marian kept her eyes fixed on Robyn’s face. “Let’s give them a show,” she said, offering Robyn a small smile.
She knows what she’s doing, Robyn realized. She reached for an arrow. She knows what this looks like, and she knows what they want. Robyn glanced at the faces around them, lit by the fire in the dying evening light. Yvette watched Marian with contempt and satisfaction. Alex, former owner of the bladder, leered. Ecstatic hatred mingled with lust and poorly suppressed rage from the rest. Beaten men and women all, and Marian stood for everything they’d lost and everything they’d lacked all of their miserable lives. In the heat of their envy, Marian glowed.
I have to contain this fire before it burns us all, Robyn thought, whatever the cost. Still, she could not but admire the naked courage in Marian’s face as she gambled for their lives with her own. Like me. The last thought shook her, and she thought briefly of Gwyneth’s anger at the risks Robyn took, understanding at last the price Gwyneth paid for Robyn’s heroics. Marian’s bravery pierced her heart like an arrow. But I must see this through.
“Ten paces back.” Siward gestured at the short space between her and Marian. “A dog could make this shot.”
He urged her on until she paused at the far side of the clearing. From there, she could still make out the details of Marian’s face, but the shot was far less sure.
“How many arrows?” she asked.
“One,” said Alex.
“Three,” said another man.
“As many as it takes,” said Yvette.
Siward settled the matter. “Three.”
Three arrows. She couldn’t hit the bladder on the first shot. That wouldn’t satisfy the need that drove this spectacle. Nor could she hit it on her second, but each miss had to be spectacular. Marian’s chest rose and fell as the seconds passed. Robyn nocked her arrow, aimed, and loosed.
The arrow landed a finger’s breadth above the bladder. The brigands cheered and heckled her shot, but Marian remained stoic.
She chose another arrow. This time, she aimed lower, feeling the breeze against her cheek as she sighted off an irregularity in the bark a hair’s breadth to the left of the bladder. Any increase in wind strength would send it into the ale, but if it landed where she aimed, she’d know she had the feel of the distance.
The shaft vibrated against the bladder but did not pierce it. Marian flinched and bit her lip but did not cry out.
“I’ll let Yvette take her if you miss,” said Siward.
Robyn lowered her bow as she nocked her last arrow and looked at Siward. A grotesque smile twisted his lips, and the eagerness in his pale eyes repulsed her.
She turned away from him and fired without pausing.
Ale sloshed down Marian’s face and soaked the bodice of her dress. She sputtered beneath the shower, and Robyn forced herself to walk instead of run to her side.
“A waste of good ale,” a man muttered, but the rest didn’t seem to share his opinion. They cheered and uttered bawdy comments that Robyn ignored.
“Are you all right?” she asked as she leaned her bow at the base of the tree and plucked the arrows out of the wood, briefly shielding Marian from view. She didn’t dare touch her with Siward watching.
“Is there any ale left?”
“A bit,” Robyn said as she freed the bladder.
“Give it to me.”
Robyn raised the bladder and poured the remaining ale down Marian’s throat. Marian closed her eyes as she swallowed, and the pulse in her throat fluttered with the panic she had not let herself show. Robyn tossed the empty bladder back to Alex when Marian had drunk her fill.
“I’m untying you,” she told her as she pulled her spare knife out of her boot, uncaring that by revealing its presence it would doubtless be confiscated. She sliced the rop
es that bound Marian’s arms before anyone could protest. Yvette hadn’t bothered to tie her feet, and Marian pulled away from the tree with a shudder.
Robyn gave their audience a mock bow, flourished her arrows, and presented Marian to them with exaggerated ceremony, alive and unscathed and dripping with ale. With luck, that would be the only harm that befell her before this nightmare ended.
Chapter Forty-Four
Idiot, Marian berated herself as she sat with her back to the cave wall, surrounded by the sleeping bodies of men and women who were no doubt dreaming of the ways they would make her suffer in the morning. Robyn remained tied up outside the cave’s mouth, guarded by Yvette and soaked from the insistent drizzle that had descended as the night drew on.
I should have stayed in Nottingham. She could have run to Emmeline when the coast had cleared. Emmeline could have helped her come up with a plan to cover her tracks, and then she could have waited for Robyn at the priory as they had planned.
And then what? You’d run into her arms and change your skirts out for hunting leathers and shoot foresters of a summer’s day? You’ve never been good with a bow, and unless Robyn needs her clothes embroidered, you’re worse than useless. You’re a liability and a burden.
Siward snored on a bedroll beside her. The rope that circled her neck and wrist was wrapped around his sleeping hand, and she’d already discovered that he slept lightly. If only I could wrap it around his throat.
The rain abated, then intensified, coming down in a solid sheet. At least the cave was dry. She couldn’t make out much in the darkness, but she knew the cavern was at least as large as Emmeline’s hall, and she could only guess at what lay in the caves deeper in the hill. Gold? Food? If there was food, there wasn’t much of it. Hides were curing somewhere nearby; she could smell them, along with the sour stench of unwashed bodies and urine. At least the sound of the rain covered the worst of Siward’s snores. She cautiously raised her hands, slowly so as not to wake him, and pressed them to her face. Even the rope stank. The coarse fibers irritated her chafed skin, and she knew she’d have to pick fragments of it out of her wrists later on. If there was a later on. Perhaps even now her father rode toward them, his face distorted with rage, hell-bent on wiping Siward from the face of the earth. Rescue wouldn’t help her, though. She tried to gain some slack in the tightly knotted rope.
