by Edale Lane
"Good. Your station may not receive the honor of a knight or spy, but your work is of vital importance to the crown," she said and smiled at him.
"Gramercy, Your Highness," Marceau replied, pleased to have received the Queen's praise. He bowed and retreated to the hallway as Eleanor closed the door behind him.
She carried the small package to her writing desk, took a seat and removed the note. New outlaw in Nottingham. Robin Hood. Highly skilled. Hates the Sheriff. Acts honorably. Commands dozens. Price on his head.
"Interesting," she mused and paused to consider the possibilities. Then she took out a piece of paper, dipped her quill into the ink well, and composed a letter.
M,
What do you know of the outlaw Hood? Try to discover more. Is he loyal to the King? Could we enlist him as an ally?
E.
"There," she concluded. She sprinkled bits of fine sand across the ink to prevent it from running, then let it dry before blowing off the grains, folding it into an envelope and sealing it with wax and a commonplace seal she kept for use in just such covert circumstances. After tucking the letter away in a secret compartment of her desk, Eleanor strolled over, opened her door and peered out into the hallway. Upon spotting one of the stewards, she called him over.
"George," she began in an aloof tone. "I have grown dreadfully bored with these bed curtains and wish to commission a new set. Do find me that merchantess, Amee de Neville who has secured good merchandise for me in the past, and make haste." She raised her chin to conclude the command. She is one of my most trusted agents and will raise no suspicion taking this letter to Marian.
"Right away, Your Highness," George pledged with a cordial bow. He was thin as a reed, and almost as frail, but properly cultured with impeccable manners that suited Eleanor. "I was on my way to find you." She raised her brow and pursed her lips in annoyance, but the steward continued. "There is a prioress awaiting you at court. She arrived early and is very persistent to speak with you on a grave matter. I tried to pass her to one of the ministers, but she stubbornly vows that only the Queen will suffice. Shall I have her escorted out, Your Grace?"
Eleanor brought a hand to her chin. Now she was intrigued. "No, George; that will not be necessary. I will attend court this morning and see for myself what urgent matter has emboldened the prioress."
George stepped aside making way for the Queen with a chivalrous bow. "I will find our merchant and bring her to the castle."
"Very good." She graced him with a smile before proceeding down the corridor toward the courtroom.
Two attendants stood at the large double doors to the hall, the one on her left courteously opening the ingress for her. She nodded acknowledging him and promenaded into the official room. Very few courtiers were about at that hour, only two gentlemen playing chess at a corner table, a maid setting out flowers in their vases and an engaged couple making eyes at each other. In the center of the hall, standing near the throne, was a stout, buxom woman in an unadorned black robe with long, wide sleeves. The white draped wimple and black overveil completely covered her hair and her round, smooth cheeks did little to pinpoint an age. Eleanor decided that her visitor was neither young nor old, but somewhere suitably in-between.
When the prioress turned to the Queen Mother, relief lit her hazel eyes. "Your Highness," she uttered in a grateful tone, and bowed from the waist clasping her hands together in front of her. "Thank you ever so much for agreeing to see me."
Eleanor continued to scrutinize the clergywoman as she walked toward her. "My steward informed me that you were unmovable, so I had to see you for myself." She stopped upon reaching the Benedictine eying her with a curious gaze. "What is this matter of such great urgency?"
"I am Margery Dourant, second Prioress of Wallingwells Priory in the north of Nottinghamshire," she began with enthusiasm. "I have written to Your Highness twice before, but having received no reply, and what with unreliable couriers and highwaymen and the like, I presumed you never received my request."
A light of recognition sparked in the recesses of Eleanor's mind. The letters had arrived and she intended to respond, but had been so distracted by attempting to procure her son's release that nothing else registered.
"And so you have traveled all this way in person," the Queen noted. "This must be a matter of import. Prioress Dourant, you now have my attention."
A joyous smile radiated across Margery's face. "God bless you," she gushed and bowed again as she nervously fingered her silver cross. "As you know, the war has left many widows and orphans along with returning our brave Christian soldiers blind or lame, or maimed in some other fashion–even sickened in their minds and souls. And yet there are so few hospitals, and alms houses, to care for them. Nottinghamshire, in particular, is lacking facilities for the poor and indigent. Our Priory is small, Your Highness, and needing resources so that we may fulfill the Lord's work by building just such a house to care for our wounded crusaders and their widows and orphans who find themselves without food or shelter. I understand you to be a virtuous, good-hearted Christian woman, who is known as a great benefactor to the Church. We at Wallingwells are in need of your generosity now, more than ever." In an emotional outburst, she clasped the Queen's hand and dropped to her knees. "Please, Your Highness; help us."
Eleanor sighed and tugged upward on Margery's hands. "Stand up, Prioress." The words escaped through her teeth like a hiss. "'Virtuous' may have gone a bit far with the flattery, but you are correct that I patron the Holy Church. That fact established, I must inform you this is a bad time."
"This is a terrible time indeed!" she hastily agreed speaking with extreme passion. "For all my life local abbeys and priories could care for the poor in their areas alone, but because of the war the need has become too great. I have seen noble men reduced to pitiful beggars, common soldiers who fought in our Lord's Name, for Christ's glory and honor, carrying the Holy Cross with them into battle, return missing limbs or riddled with leprosy, brave men who shake and cry in the night from images that haunt their spirits. And the children! So many orphans, we cannot take them all in. Can you imagine turning away a child, a child whose father gave his life fighting for our banner, for our King?"
"Prioress," Eleanor interrupted. "I know well the horrors of war, and this one has lasted too long. I myself bear much of the misery of which you speak, which is why–while I agree with you wholeheartedly and would under any other circumstances gladly give you a hefty donation–all of our resources now must go to securing the release of King Richard. The royal family cannot spare the money you request at this time." Eleanor watched as Margery's fervor started to fade. "Have you not sent your petition to the Church, to Rome?"
"Indeed," she replied, her voice more somber. "And they gave me the same response. Resources are needed more elsewhere. Your Grace?" Margery turned haunted eyes up to meet Eleanor's. "Why was it necessary to send so many to die in a foreign land, fighting an enemy we have never seen for a reward we will never experience?"
"Vanity."
Margery tilted her head and inquired. "May I speak freely?"
Surprised, Eleanor's eyes widened. With a laugh she replied, "I thought you already were!"
Color rose in the Prioress's cheeks and she lowered her face. "Forgive me; I have never been in the presence of royalty before."
"There is nothing to forgive. What wish you?"
"I know that Your Grace will understand," Margery began. "The Church is like all other things; women are considered unimportant, less valuable, not capable, and even expendable. I truly admire you and can only imagine what it has taken for you to become the extraordinary and powerful person you are. The bishop could not be bothered with me. Of the three cardinals I wrote to, only one replied. But our work is important in the Lord's eyes and for the English people–your people. When King Richard's ransom is paid, and he has returned, will you remember my request?"
Eleanor recognized the struggle the Prioress grappled with; she had waged the
same battle her whole life. She thought of her first marriage that had been political and how she managed an advantageous departure from it. She recalled the years spent locked in a tower because of the bitter disagreement between Henry and herself. How she had loved and hated that man! He had been her passion and her purgatory. But now her heart belonged to another man–her favored son, Richard. If anything should prevent his safe return, if John should seize the throne instead, she could find herself back in that tower, or worse. Even with her considerable authority, her power and influence, her wealth and property, all could be nil with one word from a man–John.
I am getting too old to be locked up in towers, she thought.
Eleanor met Margery's eyes and let out a slow breath. "You think, because I live in a castle, I do not recognize my people's plight, but that isn't true. I know all too well the shadow that has fallen over England, one that can only be dispelled by the return of the King. Once Richard is safely back, I promise to give consideration to your request to build an alms house in Nottinghamshire. I shan't forget you."
Once more relief washed over Margery's face. "Thank you, Your Highness," she cooed, and bowed to kiss her Queen's hand. "I already pray for you every day, but now I shall double my prayer time for you and the King. God bless you, my Queen; God bless you."
"Come now, Prioress Dourant," Eleanor said gaily. "Did you arrive with an escort?"
Big, round eyes looked out from that white, ivory face. "Two of the sisters and our driver are awaiting without."
"Bring them in. Your party shall take respite in the great hall before you journey back to Wallingwells. I am pleased to see that there are members of the clergy more focused on caring for God's people than filling their own mouths and furthering their political careers."
*~*~*
Sherwood Forest, one week hence
Robyn raised the heavy ax and slammed it down onto a length of thick branch, chopping it into manageable sized fire wood. In the summer heat, sweat poured from her brow which she wiped with her sleeve before repeating the aching motion. Some of the children pitching horseshoes nearby noticed her. Young Charles Naylor and Christina, Isaac's daughter from Loxley village, dashed over to see what she was doing.
"Why are you chopping the wood?" Charles asked, a confused wrinkle around his nose. "You are the leader. Here, I will do that for you," he eagerly offered.
Robyn lowered the ax and stomped the branch to finish the break. Smiling, she wiped sweat once more. "Thank you Charles, but let me ask you a question." He gazed up at her, enraptured and in awe, and nodded. "How do you think one best leads?"
He tilted his head and pursed his lips, concentration radiating from his features. Then he shrugged. "I always thought leaders just gave orders."
Robyn laughed and took a moment to sit on a fresh stump nearby. The two children gathered around her and it was Christina who spoke next. "Robin does more than just give orders, silly," she said shooting Charles a disapproving stare.
Robyn reached out a hand and mussed it through the boy's tawny hair. "By example, young man. The way to lead is by doing."
"Like when Lord FitzWalter rode off to the crusades with the King instead of sending a knight in his place, even though he is old," Charles offered in evidence.
"Precisely," Robyn smiled.
"But chopping wood is such an ordinary, unimportant task," Christina observed. "Wouldn't your time be better spent planning the next theft?"
"All activities are important," Robyn replied, "even yours. Here, I'll show you. Charles, you see that stack of logs I've chopped?" He nodded. "They are doing no good where they lie. Could you please carry them over to the wood stack near the fire for me?"
"Aye!" he said and scrambled to load as much of the tinder in his arms as he could manage. Christina giggled after him.
Once they were alone, Robyn spoke quietly to Christina. "I suspect his arms are as strong as mine." Surprise lit her youthful face. "'Tis true. That is why I must chop the wood, so that my arms and back become stronger. Sometimes it takes hard things to make us stronger, but we must never give up and never, never let anyone stop us from becoming everything that we can be. You see this ax head?" She lifted the tool to show it to the girl.
Christina nodded and shrugged. "It just looks like an ax head to me."
"To some people, you just look like a girl. Once this was part of a rock, buried deep in the earth, but someone dug it up and put it into a red-hot fire. The rock didn't like it, but in the fire all the iron melted and drained away from the rock and then it was poured into a mold. When it cooled, it was the shape of an ax head, but it was dull. The smith then scraped metal filings across this thin side over and over again, rasping away bits of iron. It probably didn't feel good, but it made the edge sharp so it could cut wood easily. Then it was fitted on its handle and became valuable to the people who use it. If it had stayed buried in the earth, the ore would have never known pain; it also would never do anything important."
Christina's eyes glimmered with understanding. "Things that hurt us can also make us stronger and more valuable, more useful."
"That's right," Robyn said, her eyes beaming compassionately at the damaged young woman before her. "You are not less than before; you are more. Don't ever, ever, think that you are less."
On impulse, Christina lurched forward and hugged Robyn, then whispered in her ear. "I know who you are, why your arms aren't strong, but don't worry; I won't tell anyone. They don't see like I do." Then composing herself, she sat back in her spot.
Robyn's eyes grew large with sudden fear, but the girl's gleaming expression eased her anxiety. "But how?"
"Shhh," she said putting a finger to her lips. "I don't just look at people; I see them. I see you, and you are a good leader. You always have been. No one else sees; they only see what they expect to, but they all know you are good. I don't know if they would follow you if they knew, so I will say nothing, not even to Mama and Papa. Even before, back at Loxley, you were always my hero."
Robyn's mouth fell agape in wonder at Christina's words and she found herself speechless with blush rising in her cheeks.
Christina smiled. "The ax story is a good one." Then she hopped up and strolled back to rejoin the children at play.
While Robyn remained in a state of disbelief that this child recognized her, Alan A Dale trotted up to her side. "The merchant wagon from York will be passing the east road through Sherwood tomorrow afternoon. It'll be the journey back to London after selling goods in the north, so will be loaded with coins, not merchandise. I hear the merchant in question puts his thumb on the scales and swindles the poor every chance he gets."
Robyn laughed and rose to slap Alan on the back. "Good work, mate. I'm leaving anon to select the perfect spot for an ambush."
"Not without me, you ain't!" Alan declared with a grin.
As the two started out of camp, they passed Friar Tuck hanging out his clean, wet blanket to dry in the sun.
"Good day, gents," he greeted. "Are we out for a stroll?"
"Stakin' out the east road for tomorrow's merchant," Alan replied. "Want to come?"
"Well," he stammered and rubbed his pudgy hands together.
"It would be helpful, Friar," Robyn added. "I've been meaning to ask you something, anyway."
"East road isn't too far, I don't suppose. Sure, I'll join you lads," he agreed, and they headed out into the forest. "What can I do for you, Robin?"
"You can teach me to handle a sword," she said. "Verily, I hear tell you are indeed one of the best swordsman in all of England and, well, we can't let all that fine knowledge stay locked up inside you, now can we?"
"I wouldn't say best," Tuck answered modestly. Then a worried furrow crossed his brow. "That Sheriff of Nottingham is damn dangerous with a blade, mind you Robin. He's killed many a man in a fair fight, more in ones not so fair. You aren't thinking of going up against him man to man, now are you?"
"Nothing like that," she assured him. "Not when I k
now I can best him with a bow. But I must be prepared for every contingency. Little John is helping me get strong, Gilbert is training me to be an even better shot, and so naturally, I turn to you for the blade. Don't worry, Alan; when I'm done with that, I'll be coming to you for music lessons," she said with a wink toward her cohort.
The men both laughed. Tuck asked, "Do you own a sword? Let's have a look at it."
She drew the steel from her scabbard and they paused while the Friar examined it. His mouth fell open in sudden astonishment. "Why, Robin, this is a crusader sword! I recognize the make, the quality, this cross in the hilt. Where ever did you get it?"
Robyn almost forgot to breathe. Why had she not thought about the uniqueness of her father's sword? "I found it," she offered as calmly as she could.
He shook his head. "No one 'finds' a sword like this, lad. God will forgive you if you stole it as long as you only use it in a righteous cause."
Robyn hung her head as if ashamed. "So I found it on a knight passed out drunk after he returned from the Holy Land. I figured he may not want it anymore, anyway." In her heart she asked forgiveness, not for theft but for lying… again.
Tuck returned her sword. "Well, you have a fine weapon. Let's see your grip."
Robyn held the sword the way her father had shown her, firmly, but not too tight.
Tuck nodded. "Yes, but turn your body sideways, like this," he demonstrated, "to present a slighter target, and keep your right foot out in front like so." Robyn mimicked his stance. "Good, good. We'll work more later," he said and commenced walking again. "We have a robbery to lay out, I believe."
"Yes, thank you," Robyn said.
"First, I shall teach you to fence," Tuck said and then grinned wide. "Then I shall teach you to fight."
"Are they not the same?" Alan asked.
"Indeed not!" Tuck bellowed with a hearty laugh. "Fencing has rules." Abruptly his tone darkened. "The Sheriff doesn't fence."
*~*~*
Tuck made sure Robyn and Alan could quote Psalm 1, Psalm 23 and several of the Confessions of St. Augustine before they arrived at the east road. Then they grew quiet as they walked up the dirt highway searching for a spot where the road was sunken below the surrounding earth and the trees were thick enough to conceal an ambush. They had discovered just such a stretch when they heard the rumble of a carriage and the clop of hooves ahead.
