God’s cathedral.
Trust Tuck to see Sherwood with the eyes of innocence, of trust and integrity, eyes that sought beauty in place of danger.
Tension broke, foreboding dissipated. Marian laughed, genuinely amused by the dichotomy of opinion. And even as Tuck fumbled for his absent rosary, a red-haired giant thrust himself into the open, leading two other prodigals not to the Promised Land, but surely to reunion.
Robin came upon them clustered near the road, gilded ocher and amber in the touch of a lowering sun. It was Little John he spied first, of course, red hair afire; and then Tuck of the rotund, cassocked silhouette. His mind registered the others according to shape and coloring as well: Will, posture stiff and truculent; Alan, negligent in the repose he had honed in high courts, with golden curls somewhat less than clean.
And Marian. It must be. She was the only one left. But even he, who knew her intimately, would never have taken her for a woman. Not from behind. A lad, yes; a slight boy more than twelve and less than eighteen. But never as the woman with whom he shared a bed.
Because relief was a tangible thing now that he saw them whole and unharmed, he could afford to be angry. And so he was, galloping up to them on a high-headed horse whom he barely contained, and let them see it in his face as he glared down upon them.
“Good Christ,” he said as he reined in with no small vehemence, “have you entirely lost whatever wits you once possessed?”
It was not precisely the reception any of them expected. Certainly not Marian, who turned to him so sharply the hood slid off her head. And then there was no mistaking her for a lad, with a spray of loosened hair framing a potent femininity in the purity of her features.
It was Little John who found his voice first. “She said you were captured!”
Charlemagne, in his hasty halt, had dug up dirt from the track and sprayed them liberally. Marian swept a dollop from her face and spat grit, then scowled up at Robin. “He was captured. Or so Tuck told me.”
The monk stared at them in alarm as they turned as one to him. “You heard Adam Bell! He said he intended to capture him!”
“He’s here now, aye?” Scarlet said, smearing dirt across his brow with the scrape of a forearm.
“What are you doing on the road?” Robin demanded, forgoing explanation that he had indeed been Adam Bell’s captive. “The high road to Nottingham, I remind you; do you wish to get yourself taken by the sheriff?”
Scarlet glared back. “If we’re unpardoned, you’re unpardoned. And you’re on the road, aye? Ahorse!”
“Aye,” Little John expostulated. “Easier to see on a horse.”
Robin supposed they both of them had a point in that.
Alan of the Dales was smiling crookedly. “It was suggested we return to Ravenskeep.”
“And I suggested they not do any such thing,” Marian inserted. “DeLacey’s been there once already.”
“And that’s why he won’t be back,” Little John declared vehemently. “Why search it twice?”
“The hall won’t survive a second search,” Marian retorted. Then she looked at Robin. “Does it matter whether we are in the road or in the forest? The sheriff has Much. That is what matters.”
Robin jumped down from his horse and dragged the reins over Charlemagne’s head. “Indeed, so it does. And there is much to discuss about it—but shall we do it elsewhere?” He marched by them then, leading the horse beyond the verge and into the forest.
When they did not immediately join him, he marched out again, grabbed Marian by the arm, and jerked her in after him.
This time they followed.
Twenty-Seven
DeLacey’s daughter presented herself to him in the midst of his evening meal, which he shared with Mercardier. He considered telling her to depart at once lest she ruin his appetite, but forbore. Better to deal with her now and have it done with, than to anticipate it another time.
She had borne two children, but her body remained as narrow and sharp as before, except for a looser belly, as did expression and tongue. There was nothing soft about his youngest, least of all her temperament. In a man it might have been advantage; in a woman, in Eleanor particularly, it did nothing but plague him.
Eleanor never cared who in the hall heard what she had to say. She had learned deceit, but never circumspection. She utterly ignored Mercardier. “Gisbourne tells me you mean to have Ravenskeep for your own.”
He drank down the last of the wine and motioned for more. A servant refilled the cup “Gisbourne speaks out of turn.”
“He is my husband. He should speak to me of such matters.”
“Gisbourne is, apparently, husband in name only.” He smiled to see the color surge into her face; now she was very aware of Mercardier’s presence. “You told me so yourself.”
She stood very erect. “I want them. Her lands. I want them.”
“And Gisbourne wants them for you.”
That, she had not expected. It amused him to see the unshielded expression on her face, the open astonishment. Eleanor no doubt had heard from Gisbourne that he wanted Ravenskeep, and she acted merely to preempt that claim.
“Indeed,” he continued. “He suggested you and the children might be more comfortable away from my hall.”
“But—” Clearly, she was baffled. “I thought he wanted the lands for himself. To live there.”
“Of course you did. But though Gisbourne would just as soon live apart from you—and, I presume, away from children who may not be his own—he never claimed Ravenskeep for himself. He asked it for you.”
DeLacey watched her sort through the information, attempting to find a way to turn it to her advantage. In the end she settled for the simplicity of repeated demand. “I want the lands.”
He sipped wine, settling back into his chair. “They would revert to the Crown, Eleanor.”
“You know as well as I that John owes you,” she retorted. “Ask him for them.”
It was true, but he might have wished she be not so blatant before a man who served the king. Still, Mercardier might as well hear the truth of his new master. He had been Richard’s man. “John may owe any number of men any number of things,” he observed, “but such facts guarantee nothing. Indeed, if reminded of this ‘duty,’ he may see fit simply to destroy the one who does the reminding.”
“John needs money,” she said flatly. “He is king in name, but it is to the boy in Brittany Richard left his money. Buy the lands.”
He was impressed by the extent of her knowledge. But then, Eleanor had always made a practice of listening at keyholes, of bribing servants to gain information.
“She will never find the coin in a fortnight,” Eleanor said. “The lands are forfeit. Pay John a sum toward the taxes. He has all of England—a lesser Nottinghamshire manor could not possibly matter to him—but he needs money.”
“And then I should give the lands to Gisbourne.”
“To me.”
“He means them for you.”
“To me alone,” she insisted. “I want something of my own.”
He smiled. “You have what I have given you. This hall, this city, an entire shire. You are the daughter of the Lord High Sheriff.”
“And heir to none of it,” she retorted. “The title and castle go with the office, and that you purchased. If John takes a fancy to put another in your place, where does that leave me?”
He affected innocence. “With Gisbourne?”
Eleanor colored again. “If you are put out of your office, Gisbourne is put out of his. And I have children to think of.”
The sheriff observed lazily, “It is true that a woman knows the children of her body, even if the man never knows who is the father.”
He had shocked her at last. Her eyes slanted sharply in Mercardier’s direction, and then she drew herself up, very white of face. “Give me the lands. I want a home apart from you, apart from Gisbourne. I want something of my own.”
DeLacey had never wanted the lands. He had wanted their lady
. He no more desired them now even without their lady; he desired simply to take them from her. It did not matter to him if Gisbourne claimed them, or Eleanor, or even the King of England. The point was merely to relieve Marian of them.
“I shall consider it,” he said. “Now, if you please, I intend to finish my supper.”
“I want—”
“You have said what you want, Eleanor! Enough. You have my answer.”
With acid sweetness she inquired, “And when will you have finished this considering?”
DeLacey smiled. “Well, I think I shall certainly know when the fortnight is ended. So take yourself away and consider whatever it is women consider until then.”
She took herself away. The sheriff sighed, rubbed briefly at his brow, then cast a resigned glance in Mercardier’s direction. “Have you children, Captain?”
“I have no wife,” he answered. “Bastards, perhaps. If so, they live with their mothers.”
“Ah.” DeLacey nodded. “Possibly the wisest course of all. A man need not trouble himself about bastards.”
“Unless,” Mercardier said, “they are the sons of kings.”
The sheriff grunted. “The world might be different if the Lionheart had sired a cub. Even a bastard one.”
“And you might have no office.”
DeLacey looked at him sharply. As usual, there was no indication of amusement or intent. Merely observation, without emphasis or implication.
He lifted his wine cup. “Somewhere, I do trust, I would have an office. One merely must have the money with which to buy it.” He offered the big man a smile. “Perhaps I am as much a mercenary as you. Perhaps we all of us are, unless we be born kings.”
Mercardier said simply, “Or serve out of honor.”
DeLacey laughed. “Oh, honor. Indeed. Honor!”
“You disbelieve in honor?”
“Say, rather, I have little acquaintance with it. In these times, in the service of Henry’s sons, it is a commodity rarely come by.”
“My lord Lionheart,” Mercardier said, “had honor in plenty.”
DeLacey could not resist. “Perhaps he might have wielded his cock in honor’s service, then, and given us an heir, instead of wasting himself in men . . . or in wasting those men and money on far Jerusalem. Which, I might add, remains in the hands of the Infidel.” He gestured toward the mercenary. “What say you now in the Lionheart’s defense?”
Mercardier, characteristically, said nothing at all. DeLacey, still smiling, drank to his small victory with a final gulp of wine.
Marian scowled. Robin looked remarkably comfortable with command as he seated himself upon a fallen tree, reins hooked casually through an elbow. His clothing was far finer than anything she’d seen him wear in years, his manner overly relaxed. She saw no tension in him, no apprehension, merely an overwhelming competence, as if he had accepted something in and about himself to which he had not before given full consideration.
Suspicion roused sluggishly; was fed by an uprush of startled fear. Was this what a man was, she wondered, when secure in the knowledge he would inherit wealth, title, power? Secure in the certainty he would be an earl, with no such concerns as a sheriff bent on ruining his hall or his holdings by lying about taxes?
She felt hollow abruptly, and chilled to the bone. She had given him the choice. Had insisted he had the choice. Obviously, he had made it.
Marian closed her eyes tightly, blinding herself, setting herself at distance, then opened them again. He looked no different, save for the clothing. But he seemed different, and not just because of the clothing.
The others had arranged themselves as students to a master. Marian, hugging herself, did not, nor did she sit. She stood in shadow, wishing she might hide herself from what she feared was the truth.
Robin looked straight at her out of hazel eyes gone opaque. And she recognized the mask. Knew that mask. It was the man he had been five years before, home from Crusade, from captivity, to tell her her father was dead. When he himself had been as dead, if only inside. “Tell me.”
She did: how she had discovered Much in the pit; how he had been beaten for information; how the sheriff intended to cut off his hands in a fortnight.
The others had heard it already. Robin had heard part of it—she was sure Joan had explained—but now he heard the whole of it. Now he understood.
“How shall we do it?” she asked. “How shall he be freed?”
He averted his face, staring hard at the ground. One booted toe dug into soil, overturning stones and twigs. Charlemagne, bored, nibbled desultorily at Robin’s fine silk-shot overtunic, who merely hitched the shoulder to shoo the horse away as if he were no more than an annoying insect.
At last he looked at Marian. “You should go home.”
Unaccountably, tears threatened. She considered telling him that she might very soon have no hall to go home to.
“You,” he said to Little John, “should hide yourself in Sherwood. And you”—he looked at Alan, Will, and Tuck—“should go to Nottingham.”
They were astonished, and said so. Vociferously. Marian waited them out, watching Robin do the same.
“But you see,” he said finally, when they gave him space to speak, “I doubt our zealous sheriff will wait those fourteen days. I think he will haul Much out into Market Square the moment the fancy strikes him.”
She had not thought of that. Nor had any of them. Protests died abruptly as Robin continued.
“We must be in Nottingham,” he said, “to rescue him.”
“Rescue him how?” Scarlet demanded.
“However the moment strikes us,” Robin answered. “We have longbows. We can shelter at distance, and from distance stop the proceedings.”
“You’d have us in Nottingham?” Scarlet grumbled. “The lion’s den, aye?”
“He will not look for us there,” Robin explained. “At Ravenskeep, yes; he has. At Locksley, yes; he has—and nearly caught you there, even as he caught Much. We four may hide ourselves in Nottingham. John”—his gaze flicked to the giant—“is too big to hide anywhere in the city. Even in disguise.”
Glumly, Little John nodded.
“Five,” Marian murmured.
They shifted to look at her.
“Five,” she repeated. “I have my own bow.”
“But you can’t,” Scarlet blurted. “You’re a woman.”
“Did you know I was a woman when you first saw me like this?” She looked at Robin. “Did you?”
“Not from behind,” he admitted.
“Nor does the bow know I am a woman. I can shoot as straight as any here, save you.”
Alan’s dolorous sigh was excessively exaggerated. “I do need my lute. This requires a ballad.” He grimaced. “But my lute currently lends her lovely presence to Adam Bell and his men, who have no appreciation of her worth.”
Robin looked like he wished to protest Marian’s decision, to insist she go home, but did not go forward with it. Instead, he declared simply, “We will get Much back, and whole.”
“He’ll expect it,” Little John warned. “And ’tisn’t Much I mean.”
“Then we shall give him what he expects,” Robin said. “Once we permit him to see us in the city when he takes Much to the square, we shall then show ourselves in as many places as possible—without falling prey to soldiers, need I add?—and drive him to distraction. We shall be”—his smile was brief and fleeting—“midges he cannot quite reach to slap away.”
Little John frowned. “And what if he hauls Much back into the castle to chop off his hands there?”
“That is a risk,” Robin confirmed. “But we shall have to rescue him before that can be done.”
Marian sat down at last, perching upon a stump. “William deLacey will want him seen by as many people as possible. He won’t wish to punish him in secret, but to set an example for anyone who contemplates defying the Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham. And it isn’t because Much filched purses, but because he is one of yo
u.”
“ ‘One of us’?” Alan questioned, eyebrows arching beneath a tangled coil of golden hair.
“You stole the tax shipment,” she said. “He slit the throats of his own men for it, to make you seem worse than thieves and murderers, but butchers as well. He has no desire to cut off Much’s hands in secret inside the castle, but to let everyone see the sheriff’s justice. And to let us see what he intends if he ever catches us.”
The minstrel smiled, quoting again. “ ‘Us’?”
“You were not there,” Robin reminded her gently. “You were never a part of that theft.”
“But I have harmed the sheriff far more deeply than any of you,” she replied, “and he counts me as much an enemy now as he does you.”
It was Robin who knew her best, and Robin who arrived at comprehension before the others. “Marian . . . what have you done?”
“I have looked him in the eye,” she said, “and declared my own war.”
His face tautened. “Why?”
She found her voice steadier than expected. “Because in fourteen days he will take my home.”
The others were horrified, and said so. Only Robin was calm. Too calm. “How?”
Bitterness welled up. “I have not, he says, paid my taxes.”
“You did.”
“I did.”
It was Tuck who said it first. “He altered the rolls,”he blurted. The others stirred, staring at him. “The tax rolls,” he amplified. “All the names are listed, you see. In all the shires. The accounting is taken to the Exchequer. The taxes are taken, aye?” He shrugged off their bafflement. “I was a clerk. I’ve inscribed rolls before myself. ’Tisn’t difficult . . . likely he struck off her name.”
“My name is nowhere,” she affirmed. “Oh, indeed, I did look. Be certain of it. That is where I was earlier today, searching for my name. But as Gisbourne said: ‘There is no record.’ ”
Little John was genuinely stricken. “Then what happens to you?”
“He takes my home,” she said, “and turns me out of it. He has promised it.”
“He won’t,” Scarlet declared emphatically. “We’ll not let him, will we?”
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