Lady of Sherwood

by Jennifer Roberson

  Our door. Weakly, Marian smiled. It pleased her they all felt so comfortable at Ravenskeep. When she had first offered them her roof five years before, she had not been certain any of them would accept; nor, if they had, that any of them would remain. But only Alan had gone at last, as was required of itinerant minstrelsy. Not for him was the patronage of a high lord who’d give him a permanent place in his household. Alan had forfeited such when he’d slept with William deLacey’s daughter. It was vital he not be known, lest the sheriff have him taken, and thus he limited himself to inns along the roadways. But everyone else had stayed on at Ravenskeep.

  The first shock of the wound and cautery was passing. Marian felt weak, shaky, and oddly restless because the body was so offended, but she was also aware of an element of relief. The others were safe. And Robin was elsewhere. It was entirely possible deLacey’s mission, whatever it might be, was rendered futile before he even appeared.

  Marian therefore allowed herself to relax. The poppy syrup, given leave to do its work without the hindrance of too-busy thoughts and an overabundance of worries, overwhelmed her senses and carried her away.

  Ralph met him as Robin came in from out of doors. In his haste to see his father, he hadn’t marked how the steward’s hair was beginning to gray. Ralph was no longer young, but he retained the quiet competence and trustworthiness that made him indispensable to the Earl of Huntington. “Sir Robert, forgive me, but I am laying in stores for the larders, as the earl is expecting guests. Shall you be staying on?”

  Robin had originally intended to ride to Locksley and visit overnight before continuing on to Ravenskeep after seeing his father. His realization upon the sentry-walk that the earl was likely dying had made him reconsider. But—guests? “Should he have anyone in when he is so ill?”

  “He did send for them, Sir Robert. He expects to see them regardless.”

  “Who is coming?”

  “The earls of Alnwick, Essex, and Hereford.” Ralph smiled faintly. “Old friends.”

  Old friends—and equally old conspirators. Robin was stunned. “In God’s name,” he blurted, “what does he plan now?”

  Not a muscle twitched in the steward’s calm face. “Forgive me, Sir Robert, but—”

  “ ‘But’ nothing, Ralph! If he’s having those three lords in, he is plotting something. You know it. Don’t prevaricate with me.”

  Ralph said diffidently, “I trust Sir Robert recalls I am his father’s man.”

  Sir Robert did recall. He would get nothing from the steward that was not in his father’s interests—or under his father’s control. “Have they been here in the last five years?”

  “They are your father’s friends, Sir Robert—”

  “Friends and peers,” Robin said curtly, aware of a rising sense of apprehension. “That I know, Ralph. Answer the question.”

  “They have each of them been here.”

  “Together?”

  Ralph’s expression suggested he preferred not to answer. Which was answer in itself.

  Robin scowled. “The last time Eustace de Vesci, Henry Bohun, and Geoffrey de Mandeville were here together in my father’s company, they planned to stop John from taking the crown while Richard was imprisoned. Well, Richard is no longer imprisoned; Richard is dead—and John is very likely to be king.” There was no confirmation in Ralph’s face or eyes, merely immense patience. “Damn you,” Robin said, furious, “do you realize what this could do to him?”

  “My lord earl sets his own course. Always.”

  “Even if it kills him?” Frustration and futility welled up. Robin scraped a stiff-fingered hand through his hair and yanked at it as if the offense to his scalp might somehow alter the moment. “Do you not see, Ralph?—if John does become king, such plotting is treason. My father will be executed, his title and lands forfeited to the Crown . . .” He cast a beseeching look at the steward. “Is this what you wish him to risk?”

  “He will forfeit his title and lands only if he has no son to inherit them.” Ralph’s voice was steady. “He risked you, and lost you, Robin. There is no reason he should not now risk a title and lands you have no wish to inherit.”

  He did not miss the slip into familiarity. “And if John is stopped and Arthur of Brittany becomes king instead?”

  Ralph’s tone was dry as chalk. “Then certainly the earl will retain his title and holdings. Treason is not treason if your side wins.”

  Robin shook his head, muttering a particularly vehement army oath he had learned on Crusade.

  “He believes it vital for the welfare of the realm, Sir Robert,” Ralph insisted. “Just as you did when you went on Crusade.”

  Ya Allah, but Ralph was as skilled with words and intonations as his father! “I did not risk being charged with treason.”

  “You risked being killed, and very nearly were.” The steward shrugged. “Battles are fought in many different ways on many different grounds, my lord. You did what you felt was best for England and her king. Your father does as well.”

  “By plotting treason against a prince?”

  “That prince plotted the same against his own brother.”

  Robin began to wonder if beating his head against the wall might lead him to comprehend. As it was, he was firmly convinced his father, Ralph, and various earls had gone completely mad.

  Or perhaps he should beat their heads against the wall.

  “Last time he meant to marry me to John’s bastard daughter,” he said darkly. “What is he plotting for me this time?”

  Ralph’s surprise was unfeigned. “But you have no part in this, my lord.”

  “I am here, am I not?”

  “But not at his command.”

  Robin felt very near to grabbing handfuls of Ralph’s tunic and slamming him into a wall. “Damn you, speak plainly with me! You know he desires something of me. Now that I am here, he will plot his plots and involve me in them.” He scowled. “What does he want of me?”

  “Merely to be,” the steward said, “what you were born to be.”

  He wanted to laugh, but it was unconnected to humor. “I was born a third son. I was never meant to be heir.”

  “That is true,” Ralph agreed quietly after a moment.

  “Did he send word to Marian so that she would urge me to come?”

  “Not through me.”

  “Did you send word to her in my father’s place?”

  “I did not.”

  He scowled. “Then how in the name of all the saints did she find out?”

  “A messenger arrived from the king. You were summoned to France. But you were not here, and he was sent on to Ravenskeep.”

  “Where Marian received the message.” Robin nodded; he had been en route to France with Mercardier. “And so she learned my father was ill.”

  With great care so as not to shade his tone with anything other than simple truth, Ralph explained, “She was not sent for, nor was she brought. She simply came of her own accord.”

  It was preposterous that Marian should do such a thing, and yet wholly like her. She knew she was not welcome at Huntington Castle. Yet the earl was ill, and so she came.

  Robin studied Ralph’s emotionless face. “Did he receive her?”

  “He did.”

  That was startling. “What did she and my father speak about?”

  “I was not privy to the conversation.”

  “Well, then,” Robin said, “perhaps I should go and ask the same question of someone who was.”

  “Wait!” Robin turned back as Ralph clutched at his sleeve. “Wait, Robin. He truly is ill—”

  “I’ve seen that.”

  “—and like to die.” Anxiety, unmasked, now carved lines in Ralph’s face. “No matter what he does now against John, he will be dead before he could be charged with treason and executed.”

  “What has this to do with Marian?”

  “A personal plea,” Ralph said in desperation, “from me, if you would grant it. Please, my lord, let this go. If y
ou must know, could you not ask your lady? It was she who came here. She who precipitated the conversation. Ask her.”

  After a moment Robin nodded. “Very well. But I think I shall speak to him nonetheless about the guests he is expecting, and their business.”

  “My lord,” Ralph said, releasing the sleeve with alacrity, “that is your decision.”

  Robin was unmollified. “It is somewhat encouraging that you allow me at least one.”

  A wave of color flooded the steward’s face. “My lord—”

  Robin turned to go, already planning what he would say to his father.

  “There is one possibility, my lord.” Ralph’s voice was very quiet. “One solution that may save him from what you consider lunacy.”

  Robin swung back sharply. “What is it?”

  The steward said, “Be his son again. In every way. Then it will matter to him what you think. He may even listen.”

  “ ‘May,’ ” Robin echoed pointedly.

  “He is a stubborn man, the earl—”

  “In all the ways you may count!”

  “—and his son equally stubborn.” Ralph’s voice firmed out of servitude into opinion. “But if they could be made to work together, instead of against one another, no one in England—neither sheriffs nor princes—could defeat them.”

  Robin stared at him, then expelled a sharp laugh. “My God, Ralph, but you do serve him in all things! He has well and truly tamed you.”

  “It is the truth.”

  “As you see it.”

  “It is the truth.”

  “Set myself beneath his roof again so I may possibly alter his plans?” Robin shook his head. “He will merely use the time to attempt to alter mine.”

  “Well,” Ralph said, “I have already said you are as stubborn as he. I doubt it would be any easier for him to make you believe as you feel you cannot than for you to make him do so.”

  “Then it would be no more than a waste of time.”

  “He has little left,” Ralph declared curtly. “He should do well to waste it in his son’s company.”

  Robin opened his mouth to answer with equal curtness, and then realized there was no answer.

  Not yet. Possibly never.

  “Excuse me, my lord.” Ralph was servant again. “I must tend to the larders.”

  As the steward slipped by him, Robin shut his eyes and shook his head in slow, steady denial.

  There were many ways to win a battle. There were fewer ways to win a war. But he felt without a doubt that his father, through Ralph, had found one of them.

  Twelve

  William deLacey swung down from his horse, tossed the reins in the general direction of the hurrying horseboy, and climbed the steps to the hall door. His pounding was eventually answered by a woman he recognized as having seen a time or two with Marian, though he did not know her name.

  “Robert of Locksley,” he said brusquely.

  She shook her head. “Sir Robert isn’t here, my lord sheriff. He’s gone to Huntington.”

  “Has he?” Sarcasm was heavy; he knew as everyone did that the earl and his son were not on speaking terms. “Then I’ll see your lady.” Locksley was preferable—it was he and his companions the sheriff suspected—but Marian would do for an initial salvo.

  “I’m sorry, but she—”

  He halted her in midspeech with a raised hand. So, they wished to play games. He struck a pose of overly dramatic surprise. “What, is she not here also? Has she gone to Huntington?” Marian was less likely to visit the earl than his son. “Hold your tongue, woman—” As she began to protest: “I shall see for myself.” He pushed past her, setting her aside rudely.

  “My lord! My lord sheriff!” She grabbed for his sleeve and missed. “Please—my lady is hurt—”

  “Is she? Sad news indeed.” He strode through the hall he had not been invited into for five years. “What has befallen her, I wonder?”

  The woman hastened after him. “She is resting—”

  “Abed, is she?” He paused at the bottom of the stairs. “And would she be alone? Or is Locksley there with her?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but climbed the stairs steadily with a heavy tread. The woman pursued; he ignored her entreaties. “Locksley! Marian!” he shouted. “Roust yourselves . . . you have company—”

  DeLacey broke off and stopped short at the head of the stairs before the narrow door, but only because a man stood in his way: a fat and frowning monk swathed equally in the plain black robes of the Benedictine brotherhood and severe disapproval.

  “My lord sheriff,” Tuck said in tones of rebuke, “the Lady Marian is resting. She is not to be disturbed.”

  “Hurt, is she?” DeLacey offered the monk a smooth smile. “Ah, well, by now I don’t doubt she is bored and longing for company. Let me not tarry, and I’ll relieve her of tedium.”

  He was certain he had found Robert of Locksley, or that the room was empty. But when he realized he could not get by Tuck short of shoving him over the edge of the landing to the rush-strewn floor below—thereby possibly killing him, which would not recommend him as a particularly effective sheriff no matter how tempting—he resorted to something perhaps a trifle more subtle but no less impressive.

  He drew his sword with a hiss of steel. “Stand aside, Brother, or you’ll be making your confession before God within the hour.”

  Tuck was astonished. “Lord sheriff! Such behavior is outrageous!”

  “Stand aside,” deLacey repeated.

  Tuck hesitated, and the sheriff took the opportunity to set a hip against the man. It served to buy him room; he pushed by, jerked aside the latch, and stepped across the threshold with his blade raised. He slammed the door shut, latched it, and leaned against it; short of breaking it down, which deLacey believed Tuck would not attempt, no one could enter.

  He looked at the bed, grinning, and froze. “My God—”

  She was slow to wake, fumbling upright against propped pillows. He saw the mass of braided hair with tendrils loosened around her face, the pallor of her skin, the slow blink of heavy lids across blue eyes gone to black.

  “Marian?”

  She lifted a hand to push hair out of her face, and winced. He saw then it was bandaged; heard the hiss of pain as she jerked the hand away from her head.

  This was not a mummer’s dance. He had seen sickness before, and injury, and the effects of poppy syrup.

  She recognized him, he saw. Color was slow to bloom, but it did. She was fully and modestly clothed beneath the bed linens, but jerked at the coverlet nonetheless.

  DeLacey eventually remembered to lower his blade, though he did not sheathe it. “Well,” he said. “Shall I inquire as to whether your appearance is due to the services of your paramour?—ah, no?” Her anger was slow because of the drug’s effects, but it arrived eventually. “No, I see not. Injury, is it?”

  Marian said, in distracted annoyance, “The wolf is in my door.” It astonished him. “Wolf?”

  But she merely scowled and offered no answer.

  Drugged half insensible, he was likely to get little coherency out of her. But William deLacey also realized he could nonetheless gather up enough odd bits of information that, pieced together, might provide him with some answers.

  Two strides, and he was at her bedside. Steel shone dully in muted light as he bent over her. “Lady,” he said, “why did Locksley and the others accost a royal messenger on the road?”

  She frowned owlishly up at him.

  “Why did Locksley and the others detain a royal messenger?”

  There came banging at the door, and raised voices. The woman and Tuck, both calling for him to come out, to let them in, to leave the lady alone. He ignored all suggestions, all orders.

  “Why?” he repeated.

  “Pardoned,” she murmured.

  “For now,” he agreed. “But not irrevocably. Not if they have taken to outlawry again. Not if they are accosting royal messengers on business of the king, certainly!”


  She blinked up at him. “Dead.”

  “The king? Yes. So I have been given to understand. But the news arrived considerably later than it should have.” He sheathed his sword and bent closer to her, altering his question. “Where are they? Where is Robin Hood? Where is the Hathersage Giant? Where is that murdering villein Will Scarlet, the simpleton cutpurse, and, in particular, where is the man who violated my daughter?”

  Marian drew in a deep, unsteady breath, then expelled it. She managed at last to knit enough words together to form two coherent, if lackluster, sentences. “He did no such thing. Ask Eleanor.”

  He had asked Eleanor. He knew very well Alan of the Dales had not forced his daughter; more likely, she had forced him, though deLacey doubted the minstrel had been unwilling. But it remained his task as father first and sheriff second to arrest and punish the man regardless of the truth. “Where is he?”

  Marian smiled drowsily. “Gone.”

  “And the others?”

  The smile broadened. “Not gone.”

  The door behind deLacey burst open, torn off its hinges. He turned, expecting Tuck; found himself faced instead with a very large, very angry John Naylor of Hathersage, now known as Little John of Ravenskeep. DeLacey took a single step backward and fetched up against the bed.

  “What d’ye think you’re doing?” the giant roared.

  DeLacey had asked where they were, knowing it very likely all were already in hiding. But two of them were here: Tuck, and Little John. This was not what he had expected.

  The woman squeezed in beside Little John and went directly to Marian, planting her body between his and the bed as she murmured indignant asides regarding lord high sheriffs who had no courtesy and even less right to burst in upon people inside their own homes.

  DeLacey set his teeth. There was nothing left for it but to stand his ground and brazen it out. He scowled at the big man. “Why did you detain a royal messenger?”

  Little John clearly had no idea what he was talking about, or had in the intervening years become an expert mummer. There was no flicker of recognition in his eyes, nor of guilt. “What royal messenger? We haven’t detained any royal messenger. Why would we?”