Locksley’s brows arched. “Has the new king done so? Have we a new king?”
“Oh, indeed. The only man who might offer you concern with regard to your peasant friends.” DeLacey made a show of removing the parchment from his sleeve, unfolding it, tending its creases; then, with deliberate offhandedness, offered it to Locksley. “Do read it, I beg you.”
He did so, though nothing in his expression divulged his thoughts; Locksley had learned that well enough. He handed the letter back. “I believe you are overzealous in your interpretation of Prince John’s—”
“King John’s, if you please!”
“—desires,” Locksley finished, without correcting himself. “Perhaps it might be best if a more detailed letter was secured before you endeavor to arrest half the countryside.”
“I am empowered by my office—and by this letter—to do what I believe is necessary to secure the realm for King John.”
“I should think there are others who pose greater threat than my companions.”
“Including your father?” deLacey asked pointedly. “The earl is well known as a man unafraid to set himself against King John.”
With equal pointedness, Locksley said, “He set himself against a prince who was attempting to claim a crown yet held by his older brother.”
“And now?” the sheriff inquired.
Locksley smiled ingenuously. “Do you know, the last time Prince John and I spoke, he intended me to marry his daughter.”
DeLacey laughed aloud. “If that is to be construed as a warning that you are in good graces with our king, let me forestall further false assumptions. I have been commanded by that king to serve him in all things, most particularly in securing any man under my control who might prove disruptive to the king’s rule. As you may recall, you were named as an outlaw in John’s own presence, as the man responsible for the murder of an armed guard and the theft of tax monies.”
Locksley controlled his restive horse with unthinking ease. “And you may recall that King Richard himself put an end to such accusations.”
“Do you deny that you stole the money?”
Locksley did not. He knew the sheriff, believed dead at the robbery site, had witnessed it. He also knew the sheriff had himself later slit the throats of his dead and dying men to make it look like butchery, but no one had witnessed that.
“You were fortunate Richard returned home when he did,” deLacey said flatly. “Else you likely would have hanged.”
Locksley’s eyes were guileless. “And will you hang me now?”
“Not yet. For now, I intend merely to arrest you.”
“On what charge?”
“Accosting a royal messenger.”
Locksley laughed. “I did no such thing.”
DeLacey shrugged mail-clad shoulders. “That may be true. But until I can be certain, until I have ascertained the truth from the messenger himself—which may take some time, as he is currently riding about the countryside informing others of Richard’s death—I shall lodge you in my dungeon, Robin Hood.”
“Robin Hood?” Locksley smiled. “Rather, Huntington’s heir. Who certainly has no need to rob a tax shipment or accost a royal messenger when he stands to inherit—within a fortnight, perhaps—the wealth and power of one of England’s most important earldoms.”
DeLacey felt the first twist of dismay in his belly. As he had feared, the earl and his son had apparently patched up their differences, and unless the sheriff wished to gain himself a dangerous enemy—no matter how short the earl’s remaining life, letters could be written, even letters to John, who needed support from men like Huntington—he was powerless to act.
For now.
But he could still ask a question to which he as yet had no answer. “Where are they?”
“Where are who?”
“Your fellow outlaws, the ones you have been harboring at Ravenskeep.”
Locksley’s surprise, damn him, was unfeigned. “Are they not there?”
“No, they are not there. I had the manor searched. Where have they gone?”
Huntington’s heir was dryly amused. “Perhaps they grew weary of being called outlaws and moved to another shire.”
“I would give thanks to God for that,” deLacey said, “were I to believe it. You have sent them somewhere.”
“But I have been with my father.”
Perhaps. Perhaps not. It would bear checking. “Then she did it.”
Locksley shrugged. “Perhaps you should ask her.”
The sheriff gritted his teeth. “Indeed.”
“Ah. I see you have asked her.” Locksley laughed. “Then perhaps you had best search Huntington Castle. I have no doubt the earl would understand you are merely doing your duty.”
It took effort not to show his anger. “I will find them. And I will arrest them. And one day I shall arrest you.”
“Then do so. In the meantime, may I suggest you stand aside?”
This time the sheriff gave the order for his men to move. As Robin Hood rode by, offering a cheerful good day as he set his horse once again into a gallop, William deLacey began to write yet another letter in his head. This one, as the others, would be addressed to King John; this one, unlike the others, would explain that he, his king’s loyal servant, held the tax monies for all of Nottinghamshire in his castle, and that he had legitimate fears that even an earl’s son, who had proven perfidious before, might reckon the money his for the taking.
Before his warrior-brother, John had not pursued deLacey’s contention that Robert of Locksley had stolen money John wanted for himself. But Richard now was dead and John now was king, and the earl was dying, and if the earl’s heir might be proven to be an outlaw in the guise of a nobleman, all the lands and wealth of Huntington would revert to the Crown.
The sheriff smiled grimly. Let Locksley think he has won. So long as he believed so, he would be careless. And deLacey knew himself an immensely patient man.
Sixteen
Some distance down the road Robin pulled up yet again in the midst of rising dust. Gentle hands on the reins and a soothing voice quieted the snorting, stomping horse as he listened closely for the sound of soldiers on his trail. Within moments he was certain no one had followed.
Robin muttered unkind words concerning the sheriff, the sheriff’s letter, and the man who had named himself king. His choice now, thanks to deLacey, lay in two opposing directions. He could ride on to Ravenskeep, which was precisely what he’d set out to do, or seek the others at Locksley Village. He badly wanted to see Marian, particularly in view of the sheriff’s comments regarding a search of the manor, but the latter course beckoned because he felt the others’ lives were genuinely endangered. DeLacey was no fool; the sheriff would soon recall, if he hadn’t already, that the earl’s son was Sir Robert of Locksley. The village was his, as was its hall, and that hall, after Ravenskeep, was the likeliest place of refuge for Scarlet, Little John, Alan, Much, and Tuck—if they had even reached it. If they had not, they should be warned away as soon as possible.
And yet if he rode straight to Locksley and the sheriff did turn up to search the hall and village, deLacey would know at once that Robin was indeed involved in hiding the others. So long as the others—particularly Alan, whose capture was personal for the sheriff—remained unfound, Robin and Marian could not be accused of hiding men who were now, apparently, unpardoned and outlawed again, insofar as the new king had in his letter conveniently left such things open to the sheriff’s interpretation.
Meanwhile, Robin had done something wholly unexpected even by himself in claiming the protection of his father’s name. He despised himself for it, for the abrupt impulse that had put the words in his mouth if only to deflate William deLacey; and yet further reflection suggested such action nonetheless bought him desperately needed time to sort out the next step. So long as he was under the earl’s protection, even if only by implication, he and Marian were free to act with impunity unless, and until—and if—the sheriff convinc
ed King John to authorize their arrest as well.
Robin did not doubt deLacey would attempt it. But for now, he had time. He had best use it wisely. So he sought, found, and took the first deer track leading into Sherwood’s shadows. He, like the sheriff, was hunting outlaws. But he, unlike the sheriff, had a use for them that did not entail hanging.
When everyone at Ravenskeep had been set to restoring order, from salvaging dead chickens for the cookpot to burying the dead foal, Marian went out into the meadow where Robin and the others had set up the butts. Clumps of straw and grass had been fashioned into rough man shapes, wrapped and stitched in sacking, painted with comically leering faces as well as crimson hearts over the left breast, and were tacked up against rough upright wooden planks. She took with her the bow Robin had made her—shorter, more flexible, requiring less strength than his own—and clothyard arrows he had also painstakingly cut to her measure and fletched with goosefeathers. It was not unusual for highborn women to shoot at the butts, or even to hunt with bow and arrow, though Marian knew few who truly did attempt to bring down game. She had learned to shoot several years before, and had, with Robin’s guidance, become a very good shot. But it had been months since she had last taken practice.
She paced out the distance, then stuck a handful of arrows point-first into the ground. She bent and strung the bow, repressing a grunt of effort—it had been too long!—then lifted the bow to draw and test the pull, and the string, which she had coiled and stored away in an oiled leather pouch to keep it pliable.
Pain blossomed in her palm as she gripped the bow.
Marian gasped and snatched her hand from the bow, pressing the curled palm against her breast. She had not thought of her hand, or how it might protest such usage. Pain set her teeth on edge.
But pampering her hand would accomplish nothing.
Marian at last laid down the bow, knelt, took the small meat-knife from the ornamental sheath at her girdle, and began to cut strips of fabric from her fine linen underdress. She bound the strips around the bow’s grip and bandaged her hand. Then she rose again, lifted the bow again, drew again, and found it somewhat more bearable.
“’Twill do,” she muttered between gritted teeth.
Marian lifted the slender fillet from her head and tossed it aside. The sheer veil was employed to tie and bundle her braids, which she then stuffed down the back of her chemise. She pulled an arrow from the soil, used the skirts of her crimson chemise to clean the head of clinging earth, then nocked the arrow, lifted the bow, and drew. Her eye would require practice, but was keen enough withal. Marian sighted down the slender length of the arrow, selecting a spot of ground below the straw-stuffed man. If she aimed directly at the target, the arrow would fly over by a wide margin.
Her arms trembled slightly. Indeed, too long. Marian relaxed, stilled her breath, focused on the patch of ground.
“William deLacey,” she murmured, and loosed.
The arrow hummed into flight. Marian, who had not tended her elbow well enough and paid the price with a stinging slap of string against her bunched sleeve, muttered of incompetency. She was even less pleased when the arrow sailed clear of the target and planted itself in the meadow beyond.
She took up another arrow, cleaned it, nocked it, drew the bow, rotated her left elbow slightly, set right thumb against jawbone, and adjusted her aim.
“William deLacey.”
This time the string did not sting her elbow, nor did she miss, though the arrow pierced no part of the outline of the man, only the edge of the sacking. It stuck into the wood planks.
Her hand was afire and throbbing. Marian closed her eyes briefly, reprimanded herself for weakness, waited for the coals in her flesh to burn away into ash, then took up her third arrow. The ritual was repeated.
“William deLacey.”
The painted man was wounded, if not killed. Marian smiled grimly and continued.
The Earl of Huntington, shrouded in bedrobe and pelts as he sat at his writing table, received the Sheriff of Nottingham in his bedchamber. It was somewhat startling to see deLacey in mail and armed, but he was the sheriff, and the safety of the shire was his purview, and such safety occasionally required force, so Huntington dismissed the oddity of appearance and asked him what he wanted.
William deLacey made no effort to be obsequious, though he did not forgo courtesy entirely. “My lord, I must ask a difficult question.”
Surprised, the earl arched wispy white brows. “Yes?”
“You are aware your son once stole a tax shipment.”
Huntington dropped the quill with a noisy exhalation of exasperation. “I thought that had been settled years ago, William.”
“I merely reaquaint you with the knowledge, my lord, because I fear he has returned to his old ways.”
“Do you?”
“I do.”
“Those are statements, William. I have not yet heard your question.”
DeLacey’s face colored. “Are you aware that your son stole a horse from a merchant a matter of days ago?”
“Robert did? But why would he do such a thing, William? He owns several horses.”
“To me it matters little why he did such a thing, merely that he did it.”
“Who accuses him?”
“The merchant he stole it from.”
“The merchant knows my son, to recognize him? To name him?”
“No, my lord, but—”
“Then how can you be certain it was my son?”
“My lord, he did describe him, and the description suits.” DeLacey shrugged. “But, truly, my concerns extend far beyond this horse. There is the matter of the tax money, this session’s tax money—”
The earl glared. “Do you tell me you have lost it again, William?”
“I tell you no such thing,” the sheriff rasped in thinly disguised irritation. “I merely warn you that the stolen horse indicates a willingness on his part to take that which does not belong to him. Moreover, he delayed a royal messenger on the Nottingham road in order to warn his outlaw friends that Richard was dead and the pardon might be revoked.”
“Did he? And has it been?”
“He did, and it has.”
“And does this revocation also extend to my son?”
“Not as yet, my lord, but now that John is king—”
Huntington freighted his words with a combination of surprise and condescension. “Is he?”
DeLacey stopped, took in the earl’s attitude, began again. “He says so, my lord.” There was a glint of pleasure in his brown eyes. “Have you as yet received no word of King John’s ascension?”
He meant to annoy, and he did. Huntington scowled briefly, then cleared his face of all expression. “What has my son to do with John claiming himself king?”
“The money your son stole before was King John’s money, my lord—”
“Indeed not,” the earl said sharply. “It was tax money collected for King Richard’s ransom.”
“Your son stole it.”
“I saw no evidence of that, William.”
“Because the money disappeared when Richard came to Nottingham.”
“Did it?” Huntington fixed the sheriff with a penetrating stare. “Tell me, if you please . . . why would my son have stolen money when he stood to inherit an earldom?”
DeLacey said smoothly, “Because, my lord, as everyone knows, he stood to inherit nothing at the time. You had disinherited him.”
“Ah, well.” Huntington smiled serenely and was pleased to note the sudden stiffening of the sheriff’s spine. “Boys are often—boys. Would you not agree?”
DeLacey’s breathing was shallow and fast. “My lord, do you mean—”
“I mean that I shall have Ralph send you the price of a good horse before supper tonight, so the merchant’s feathers may be smoothed. I mean that my son offers no threat to any tax current shipment, nor will again.”
DeLacey’s face darkened. “Rapprochement,” he gritted.
&
nbsp; “Indeed,” the earl said smoothly. “Every man needs an heir.”
The sheriff was struggling to retain some measure of self-control and courtesy. “Then, my lord, may I warn you, as is my duty as a servant of the king, that should any man willingly attempt to endanger or oppose that king to the detriment of the soverign’s life and welfare, I shall be forced to use any means necessary to arrest him. Even should he be killed in the doing of it.”
“So I am duly warned,” the earl said with dry amusement. “Though I doubt at my age I would offer you much of a fight, William.”
DeLacey opened his mouth to explain, Huntington did not doubt, that he did not refer to the earl, then clamped it shut again.
The earl waved a hand as he took up his quill again. “You may go, William. Surely, you have more pressing matters to attend, possibly such as hunting down and arresting actual outlaws.”
He listened to the tautly muttered farewell and the sheriff’s heavy tread, the faint chime and scrape of fittings as he stalked out of the chamber. Huntington smiled briefly; then the smile faded as he considered his son’s actions.
Robert was not yet truly his to command. And neither was the sheriff. There was only so much a man, even an earl, could do to manipulate the behavior of others.
But if John lost his throne and was replaced by Arthur of Brittany, men such as William deLacey might lose their offices to better men, particularly men suggested by powerful earls.
Huntington sighed, thinking about dead kings, new kings, tax shipments, stolen horses, outlaws, angry sheriffs, and stubborn sons. “I shall have to have a talk with Robert,” he concluded aloud.
The deer tracks were narrow and unsuited to a man on horseback, which was why so many outlaws utilized them. Robin himself, five years before, had found such tracks mightily helpful during his brief sojourn in Sherwood, but just this moment he wished the deer were wider so that he was not subjected to so much encroachment by foliage. Despite using an arm as a shield, his face was slapped by leaves and limbs any number of times, his hair snagged, and his thighs had already been poked so frequently he wished he was wearing mail.
Lady of Sherwood Page 16
