Lady of Sherwood

by Jennifer Roberson

  Said de Mandeville, with a marked degree of dryness, “Especially as you and he have only just come to be speaking again.”

  Huntington, who had in a wholly unanticipated excess of pride, told them Robert would support them, would in fact join them, wondered uneasily now if he should have said nothing. But he nodded at Ralph and waited impatiently as his steward went to the door and asked the monk to enter.

  The earl recognized him at once as the man who had indeed accompanied Marian FitzWalter to Huntington Castle five years before. This time, as the last, the monk was clearly in an agony of anxiety that he might do something wrong in front of four of England’s most powerful earls. Huntington, assailed abruptly by a weakness in vision and memory, gripped the chair tightly a moment; had they not played out this scene only yesterday?

  But no. The woman was not present. This was now, not then.

  “Yes? “ he rasped.

  The tonsured monk, perspiring from nerves, was a mass of corpulence beneath the black cassock. He cast a stricken glance at the other earls from worried brown eyes, then looked at Huntington. “Outlaws, my lord. Your son is taken. I am sent to say you must ransom his freedom.”

  Huntington lifted eyebrows. “Must I?”

  “My lord!”the monk said, shocked. “They have taken him!”

  “Who?”

  “Adam Bell, my lord. And his men.”

  “In Sherwood.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “They hold my son in Sherwood? Adam Bell and his men?”

  “They do, my lord.”

  “And they send you to me with a request for ransom?”

  The monk, Huntington saw, was clearly puzzled by the interrogation; had he expected the earl merely to cough up coin? “Yes, my lord.”

  “Why you?”

  “Because they took us all, my lord.”

  “But you are here.”

  “I was sent, my lord, to bring you word.”

  “Of my son’s capture.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Did you see him captured?”

  “No, my lord. But—”

  “Then how can I know it is true, this tale? How can I be certain this is not some elaborate means to steal my money?”

  The monk flushed deep red, then went pasty white. “I was sent, my lord—”

  “Oh, you may have been sent. You may have sent yourself. But that does not mean there is truth in this mummer’s tale.” Huntington gestured. “Ralph, show him out.”

  The steward was startled. “My lord?”

  “He is lying.”

  The monk now was ashen. “No, my lord! I swear it is the truth!”

  “Then where is your proof?” The earl felt a flutter deep in his chest and stifled a cough. “And what should a good monk swear on, when he has no cross?”

  The monk fumbled desperately at his cassock, seeking his rosary and cross; his face flooded with memory. “My lord, they took it!”

  “Did they? Why? Was it made of gold or silver?”

  The monk’s face was running with sweat. “No, my lord . . . my lord, they wanted proof. To show to your son.”

  Huntington did something he had not done for some time. He laughed.

  “My lord!” The monk was astounded.

  The earl pulled himself forward in the chair. “You come to me with a tale that my son is taken by outlaws, and that you were taken by outlaws, and that they stole your rosary to prove to my son they had you, yet they released you to come here, which you have done, but while my son is given proof of your capture, you are given none of his to display to me, his father?” Huntington shook his head. “How am I to believe this? Would you? Would any man with sense?”

  The monk said miserably, “It is the truth, my lord.”

  “It is an abysmal falsehood.”

  “No, my lord. They told me they would take him.”

  The earl pounced on that. “Told you they would take him.”

  “Yes, my lord—”

  “But had not taken him yet?”

  “No, my lord—”

  “They intended to take him?”

  “Yes, my lord—”

  But you have no proof that indeed they did take him, only that they said they would. Yet you were sent to collect a ransom.”

  “I was, my lord.”

  “For a man who may not be held at all.”

  “My lord, I do swear—”

  “I care nothing for what you will and will not swear, you wretched man. This is a lie—” Coughing overwhelmed him.

  “No, my lord!”

  The earl drank wine to still the spasm, then continued hoarsely. “But even if it were not, I would give you nothing. Not for this Adam Bell and his men. Not for yourself, who is as much an outlaw as he.”

  “My lord!”

  Huntington lied with precise enunciation and emphasis, and without compunction. “I disinherited Robert of Locksley five years ago, monk. I have no son. There is no one to ransom.”

  De Mandeville was startled into speech. “My friend, perhaps you should not act so hastily.”

  Huntington made a sound of disgust, thrusting himself back into the chair. “It is a lie, Geoffrey. An attempt to deceive me, for money. Well, I will not tolerate such.” He glared at the monk. “Go back into your woods to whatever fool sent you and say you have failed. There will be no money, for there is no son.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tonight. At once. Now.”

  The monk crossed himself. “My lord, I do swear on my soul, which is God’s—”

  “Is it?”

  “—that I have spoken only the truth.”

  “Then devise a better one.” He gestured at Ralph. “Show him out.”

  Ralph did. When he and the monk were gone, when the door was shut again, Huntington allowed himself to breathe.

  “My God,” Bohun said. “What of your son?”

  De Mandeville’s gaze was sharp. “The son you told us was one of us.”

  “He is,” Huntington said sharply.

  De Vesci frowned. “Yet you told the monk he was disinherited.”

  “Let him believe it, Eustace. Let him say to others that we are no more in accord now than we were last year, or the year before that. I’ll not have outlaws believing they may take my son captive in order to cozzen coin.”

  “But—if he is being held . . .” De Vesci did not finish.

  Huntington shook his head. “Only a fool would believe it.” He lifted a silver goblet and drank deeply of his wine. For the moment, strengthened by anger that he, an earl, should be used so poorly by such benighted fools as outlaws, he did not tremble.

  At sunset William deLacey jogged down the stairs into his dungeon which had become of late, he reflected in mild exasperation, a place he visited nearly more often than his bedchamber. One hand clenched the heavy iron key to the cell, which he employed for its purpose with neat economy once he reached the appropriate door.

  Inside he took up the Exchequer cloth he had folded away, shook it out, and spread it upon the table. From the pile of leather scroll-cases he took one up, uncapped it, slid parchment out. DeLacey unrolled it, spread it atop the painted cloth, weighted it, and began laboriously to inspect it. He sought one particular name; upon finding it, he smiled.

  There was quill and inkpot nearby. The sheriff uncapped the ink, swirled it briefly to mix the pigment, then dipped the quill into it. When he was satisfied the nib carried enough ink but not so much as to sputter and spoil the parchment, he bent over the list and ran a meticulous line through the name he had sought. Then another, then another, until the inked bar upon the parchment made the name beneath it indecipherable.

  DeLacey sanded the parchment, capped the pot, set the quill aside, rerolled the parchment and returned it to its case. That done, he spent a great deal of time going through the casket containing receipts. At last he found the one he wanted, read it, tore it to pieces, and crumpled the shreds into the palm of his hand. Satisfied, he lock
ed the door and climbed the stairs in no haste, rehearsing in his mind the explanation and order he would give to Sir Guy of Gisbourne at first light.

  Nineteen

  Robin drank ale stolen from a shipment on its way to Nottingham from Lincoln. Robin ate venison that had been poached from the forest, and could cost a man a hand. Robin listened to stories of daring and outrageous robberies, none of which he believed. Robin complained his wrists were tied too tightly; they laughed and tightened the knots, then tied his ankles as well. Robin described each and every one of them in terms most explicitly offensive, save he did it in Arabic and none of them understood. They laughed, drank ale, ate venison, told tales embellished with equally distributed blame and insults, drank more ale, and eventually, as the quarter-moon slid behind clouds, slept. Robin did not.

  In the ashen dampness before dawn he slid fingers inside his boot, withdrew the slender knife, and sliced his ankles free. He placed the hilt between his knees with the blade upright, squeezed to keep it there, then cut through the wrist bindings. He reflected wryly that if they caught him, he would explain he merely needed very badly to relieve himself, which was perfectly true.

  Sherwood was their home. But he, a solitary and fanciful boy who enjoyed creeping through shadows pretending he was anything but what he was, had grown up on the hem of Sherwood’s skirts at Huntington Hall, before his father razed it. He had fought a war in a harsh and foreign land, killed men, been wounded, made ill by recurrent fevers, knighted, wounded again, captured, imprisoned, beaten, ransomed by the king himself, and beaten again by Normans purportedly his fellow knights of courtesy and conscience. He was not alien to darkness, to the forest, to fighting, to killing, to pain, to patience, determination and ruthlessness, nor to the need for stealth.

  The fire had burned down to a scattering of jewellike ruddy coals within a ring of stones. The clearing still smelled of roasted venison, spilled ale, and unbathed men who had feasted well. With great care Robin rose, gripping the knife. He waited, lest the shifting of his clothing waken them, but the outlaws slept on. The knots had been secure—even now loops remained around ankles and wrists—but Adam Bell had not searched him further, had not counted on live steel.

  He closed his eyes, turned his head slightly, and let the night take him. The coals were banished. When he opened his eyes again the blackness had definition.

  One step. Two.

  He waited.

  One step. Two.

  He paused.

  Someone beside the fire shifted, muttered in his sleep, flopped over. Robin stood perfectly still and eased his grip on the hilt, twisting his torso slightly toward the clearing. But when there was no alarm given, he eased back again, released pent breath, and ventured another step.

  One more.

  Two.

  He was in the trees.

  A twig beneath his right boot snapped. A limb briefly snagged his sleeve. He froze.

  Nothing.

  One step. Two.

  His senses told him a tree was beside him. Carefully Robin bent, then crouched. An outstretched left hand examined the ground. He felt grass, and fallen leaves. Mostly dirt. A few twigs. With exquisite care he found and picked up each twig, then set it aside. When his searching hand told him no more twigs remained and most of the leaves were cleared from a specific area, he let his knees down. Cold ground met them, but no leaves crackled, no twigs broke.

  He pressed one hand against the ground, steadied himself, then very slowly rotated into a turn. The tree was now behind him. Robin sat down. He waited. There was no sound of discovery, no noise of pursuit.

  Still gripping the knife, he leaned against the tree and prepared to wait for first light, when he could see again.

  Marian, having broken her fast at dawn after a night of little sleep because of Robin’s absence, was engaged in more repairs to the kitchen when Hal came in and said Sir Guy of Gisbourne had come to see her. Surprised, she got to her feet and wiped her grimy right hand on her apron, taking care with her left. It was still immensely sore, still bandaged but healing.

  She was unfit for visitors, but with Gisbourne she did not care. She walked out into hall, thinking inhospitable thoughts about the sheriff’s steward, only to stop short, startled, when she discovered him already inside. Apparently he had invited himself in from the courtyard when Hal had gone to fetch her.

  Marian had not seen Sir Guy of Gisbourne save from a distance for years. Now, face-to-face again with the short, compact man, she recalled how it was he who had given evidence against her at the travesty of a trial before the Abbot of Croxden, who was, because of William deLacey’s elaborate and false tales and manufactured evidence, more than persuaded to declare her a witch. Gisbourne once had proclaimed his love for her, his undying loyalty; both had been extinguished upon learning she refused to return his feelings, and he had summarily sought to discredit her.

  Courtesy therefore was not something she was willing to offer this man. Marian waited, resolutely silent, until splotchy color crept into his saturnine face. He cleared his throat, scowling. “You are to pay your taxes.”

  She had harbored no expectations of what his business might be. But this was astonishing. “I did pay my taxes!”

  “We have no record of it.”

  “I did,” she repeated. When he made no reply, she said, “Gisbourne, I counted out the coin myself and sent Hal to Nottingham.” Marian glanced at the gray-haired servant who nodded vigorously, clearly as taken aback as she.

  “We have no record of it.”

  “I paid them.”

  Gisbourne bestowed upon Hal a look so pointed that even a blind man could not misinterpret the meaning.

  The servant turned white. “I paid them, Lady Marian! I took the money to Nottingham! I gave it over to the collector in the castle bailey!”

  Gisbourne declared, “We have no record of it.”

  “Then your record is false,” Marian snapped. “In God’s name, Gisbourne, I paid my taxes!”

  “We have examined the Exchequer,” he explained. “We have inspected the tax roll, and the receipts. Your taxes are lacking.”

  She felt as if there were no other words in her mouth except four: “I paid the taxes.” Then, more emphatically, “Gisbourne, I paid them.”

  “We have no record.”

  “Look again!”

  “We have looked thrice, Lady Marian.”

  “Look a fourth time, then!”

  “The sheriff has sent me to collect the taxes.”

  “He has already collected them, Gisbourne.”

  “You are to pay me here and now, or forfeit your lands.”

  She began to understand this was neither poor jest nor nightmare, nor had she taken momentary leave of her senses and imagined everything. Her bones turned to ice. “Forfeit my lands?”

  “If the taxes are not paid.”

  Marian looked at Hal, who trembled with shock. She knew him; had known him for more than two decades. He had been her father’s man. She did not doubt he told the truth.

  She did doubt Gisbourne. Or deLacey. Or both.

  “This is a lie,” she said. “This is a ruse.”

  “Lady?”

  “I paid them. You know I paid them. DeLacey knows I paid them. This is a ruse. This is revenge.” Anger abruptly boiled up into her throat so hot and painful she wanted to spit into his face. “He set his soldiers to destroy everything I cherish within this hall, and now he seeks to take what is left!”

  “You are to pay here and now—”

  “I can’t pay,” she said, beginning to shake with outrage. Her stomach churned. “I have no money.”

  “Then your lands are forfeit.”

  “They are my lands, Gisbourne!”

  “But forfeit, unless you pay your taxes.”

  She found it difficult to breathe through the constriction in her throat. She felt as if she might vomit. “He can’t have them. Not my lands. Not Ravenskeep. They were my father’s lands. I inherited them o
n his death.”

  “They were Crown lands, lady, after your father’s death. The Crown held them in trust for you, until you married.” He paused. “You have not married.”

  “The king gave them to me outright!”

  “That king is dead.”

  She had paid the taxes. She had given Robin the last bit of money she had, to ransom Will and Little John and Tuck and Alan and Much. There was not a single coin left in the hall.

  “Tell him . . .” Her voice shook. She steadied it with effort. “Tell him I paid the taxes. I paid them this session, and I will pay them next session, and every session after that.”

  “Lady,” Gisbourne said, “we have no record.”

  “Your record is wrong.”

  “The record is the record.”

  “Gisbourne!”

  Gisbourne shrugged. “It was the sheriff’s command.”

  “And one you were pleased to follow!”

  He smiled. “Indeed, lady.”

  No money. There was no money. None in all the hall.

  “No,” she said.

  “Then you are in arrears.”

  For the first time in her life she wished she had a sword, that she might open his belly with it. “Tell him I refuse. Tell him the taxes were paid. Tell him I will not permit him to take my lands.”

  Gisbourne reached into his sleeve and withdrew a folded parchment. He released it, let it fall to the floor. “So be it, Lady Marian. But if the taxes are not paid within a fortnight, soldiers shall be sent to escort you out of the hall.” He paused. “And you will not be permitted to return.”

  “My hall, Gisbourne! My lands! Tell him that.”

  DeLacey’s steward laughed. “Tell him yourself, whore. I am his servant, not yours.”

  Shocked into silence, she watched Gisbourne turn on his heel and stride out of the hall. When he was gone, when the hall was silent again, empty of orders and denials, of threats and sworn certainties, Marian stared blindly at the folded parchment lying at her feet.

  “I paid,” she said blankly. “Hal—I paid.”

  “Lady, so did I.”

  She focused on him then, saw his face then, noted the stricken expression. He was as frightened as she. Ravenskeep was her home, but it was his as well.