Lady of Sherwood

by Jennifer Roberson

  She took the bow grip into her hand once again, and with the other checked the seating of the quiver over her shoulder. Robin had lessoned her well in five years, and she had wasted no time rehoning her eye after deLacey had come to her hall. Let him reap what he had sowed.

  DeLacey set Gisbourne the task of gathering up a small troop of castle guards and going out into the city to cry the announcement of the upcoming punishment of a notorious thief. Once the introductions were made so that as large a crowd as possible was ready to witness the moment, the sheriff and another clutch of soldiers would escort Much to Market Square and to the block, where he would be chained down and his hands struck off. But only after deLacey had recounted the boy’s sins and crimes, not the least of which was helping “Robin Hood” rob the tax shipment of monies gathered from the citizens themselves.

  He knew there had been widespread laughter and jests with regard to Locksley stealing the shipment quite literally from under the sheriff’s own nose; the auxiliary tax collection had been most unpopular, and many believed the robbery poetic justice, especially since Locksley foolishly had Abraham the Jew distribute the money among the poor before it was reclaimed by the Crown. Even King Richard, newly ransomed, had been amused by the audacity of the robbery and subsequent distribution, and pardoned the act rather than punished it. But the wealthy merchants of the city had been neither pleased nor amused, and the only reason deLacey had not been able to arrest Locksley and the others was that the Lionheart was home again, and all of England rejoiced. It would have been politically foolish to arrest the son of a powerful earl when that man was also a Crusader knighted personally by the immensely popular king.

  Times were different now. There would be no pardon for such acts as thievery, and Much was known as an expert pickpocket. DeLacey had simple-minded Much dead to rights.

  Meanwhile, Robert of Locksley was disinherited; Marian was on the verge of losing her manor and lands; Alan of the Dales was cut off from his former life among the gentry, forced to make silver pennies in roadhouses instead of silver marks in the halls of lords; and Tuck was denied an opportunity to join the priesthood and rise through the ranks of the Church. DeLacey had begun his revenge, however slowly it progressed, and he did not doubt eventually he would have them all destroyed.

  Robin ran lightly up the narrow stairs to the room under the eaves, secure in the knowledge no one in the building would hinder him. Abraham’s note had given him the freedom to come and go at need, and the door to the street would not be immediately unbarred should soldiers arrive demanding to be let in, which would give him a chance to escape.

  The room huddled beneath a steeply pitched roof, the angle so extreme that Robin had to duck his head to avoid cracking open his skull. A single window illuminated the tiny room. A broken cot was shoved against the wall beneath the window; Robin pushed it out of the way with a scrape of wood on wood, then unlatched the lopsided shutter. Leather hinges were stiff and unwieldy, but he tamed the shutter’s temper and set it against the wall. A narrow opening, but tall enough for him to perch himself in it so long as he sat upon the sill. Below the window extended the thatched overhang shielding the street door from rain. Robin worked his body into the unshuttered frame and settled his rump upon the sill, one foot outside dug into the thatching for support, one bracing himself from the inside. The building fronted the portion of the Square in front of the castle gates; he had a clear and unobstructed view of the pillory, the stocks, and the block. From here, an archer with an English longbow could punch an arrow through plate armor, let alone through mail.

  Robin stripped off the quiver, leaned down into the room, and set it against the wall. He could not shoot from this position—the bow was too long for the opening—but he had two options: to slide back into the room, take up one arrow after another, nock, aim, and let fly through the window; or to stand up on the thatched overhang and shoot from the open.

  He nodded. And waited.

  Marian’s head jerked up as she heard the call: “Oyez! Oyez!” It was quickly followed by the shouted announcement that all citizens of Nottingham were to gather in the square to witness the punishment of a known pickpocket.

  A chill swept her bones, setting the hairs to rising on her flesh. She saw the gates pushed open, saw the troop of soldiers, saw Gisbourne at their head. They wore mail, blue surcoats, Norman helms, broadswords, and carried shields and crossbows. The latter disturbed her; crossbows were limited in distance and accuracy compared to longbows, but nonetheless afforded the soldiers better offense against archers than swords. It gave them more latitude to stop the rescue, to wound or possibly kill Robin and the others.

  Or even me . . . But she shook that off at once, concentrating instead on sliding through the crowd to take up her position near the corner of the wall, beside the bench and barrel. When a taller man stepped in front of her, it was a wholly natural response for her to climb up onto the bench, not in the least unusual. The added height gave her a better view of the gates and the soldiers and allowed her room to shoot over the crowd, but she was not so tall that she was markedly obvious. Robin had been right to send Little John into Sherwood; the giant would have been noticed immediately, and targeted by deLacey’s men.

  She was aware of an almost painful emptiness in the pit of her stomach. Tension bled back into her shoulders. Her breath ran shallow, as if she could not pull in enough air to fill her lungs. Marian wrenched her eyes from the soldiers and looked about swiftly, searching for Robin, Tuck, Scarlet, and Alan. Tuck she knew had to be somewhere in the crowd, somewhere near the block, but the others would be up if possible, stationed at a high vantage point. No one on the ground would have opportunity to shoot through the crowd without the risk of hitting an innocent bystander.

  Her quick search found no familiar faces. She supposed that was good; if even she, knowing they were somewhere in the square, couldn’t find them, neither could the soldiers.

  Gisbourne and the sheriff’s men cleared a passage through the gathering crowd, opening room around the block. She heard hawkers cursing Gisbourne; all customers now turned their attention to him instead of continuing to bargain. But after a few moments even the vendors grew interested. Some of them threw cloths over their wares and shinnied up the stall posts to balance atop their shelves or to cling precariously to awning supports. The crowd was in two layers now: those on the ground, and those climbing up on whatever they might—stalls, wagons, benches, even the pillory and stocks—to find a better view. People gathered in ground-floor doorways and second-story windows. Fathers snatched children up onto their shoulders, bidding them not to miss the show.

  “Oyez! Oyez!”

  The crowd was pushed back further by Gisbourne and his troop of soldiery, while other onlookers were ordered down from the stocks and pillory. Marian assessed the opening in the crowd, noting how much room surrounded the area where Much would be brought. Into that space, if necessary, she had to carefully place her arrows so as to warn away the soldiers, while harming no one.

  A full listing of Much’s crimes was shouted above the noise. And then a second troop of soldiers exited the castle, a clutch of men on foot surrounding the boy, moving awkwardly in his chains. Behind them, mounted, rode William deLacey.

  Those nearest the bench upon which Marian stood surged forward, moving into the Square proper. Marian still needed the extra height to see over the crowd, but no one stood beside her. No one stood behind her. Everyone was thronging into the square, trying to see and hear what was about to happen.

  One well-placed arrow, and deLacey was dead.

  The very thing that Will Scarlet desired.

  Marian’s breath ran raggedly through a constricted throat. Somewhere in the crowd, somewhere above the crowd, Scarlet drew his bowstring. She knew it. Knew it. And cursed him for it.

  “Don’t,” she murmured. Will—don’t.

  Much was the object. Not the sheriff’s death.

  Thirty-One

  DeLacey was
pleased by the number of people thronging Market Square. It proved there was always interest in justice, despite the occasional complaints from the peasantry that they were not treated fairly. But a thief was a thief; whereas poachers engendered sympathy among those who lacked food, cutpurses did not. Cutpurses stole from everyone, and in an offensively personal manner.

  Gisbourne’s troop had done a good job clearing the crowd from the immediate vicinity of the block. The sheriff wanted to make sure any attempt at rescue would require Robin and the others to cross unshielded space, where they would be easily spotted by his men. Gisbourne’s mounted troop now took up equidistant stations within the interior perimeter of the crowd; people feared and respected horses even if they were willing to challenge men.

  Gisbourne himself had dismounted, handed his horse off, and now stood near the brazier next to the block. Mature coals burned within, brought over from the smithy; a length of iron had been thrust into the heat for use in cautery once each hand was struck off. There was no sense in letting the boy bleed to death. The point was to set a visible example, a reminder people would see every time they saw Much.

  And as much a reminder to Robert of Locksley that no one was inviolable.

  The boy was taken directly to the block, but was not immediately chained down. He was made to stand beside it, between the block and the pungent coals, where, deLacey was satisfied to see, he trembled uncontrollably. The face was corpse-candle pale save where bruises purpled it. A fitting vision of imminent justice for other cutpurses and malcontents.

  Still mounted, deLacey had a good view of the crowd. Hundreds of faces stared at him expectantly, some fearful, some appalled, some plainly fascinated by what was about to happen. It never failed to pique the sheriff’s curiosity that public punishments and executions brought out such perversely avid interest.

  DeLacey thrust a hand into the air. It took a few minutes for the waves of sound to die down as the serried ranks of people were hushed by their neighbors. When all was quiet save for the squall of an infant or the piping question of a child, the background complaints of livestock brought in for Market Day, he lowered the arm. He pitched his voice to carry over the crowd.

  “This boy,” he said. “This boy, this miller’s son you know as Much, is a thief. He steals hard-earned money from everyone here, be you merchant, yeoman, gentlewife, or even, much as it pains me to say it, the Sheriff of Nottingham.” He paused for the tittering and laughter to die down, allowing them their amusement at his expense. “You know this boy. You know who he is, what he is, and what he has done. For every purse cut, for every ware snatched from wagons and stalls, you need only look upon him to see the face of the thief who stole it.”

  “Every purse?” someone called skeptically. “That busy, then, is he?”

  DeLacey overrode the challenge and the scattered laughter it provoked. “When next you bring complaints to me of such things, recall what you see this day. Remember it. And know that I will punish every thief caught. For it is my duty as High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire to see that justice is served, that the king’s law is obeyed. I swear to you this day that no man—and no woman—is above the law. Justice sees no stations, only actions. So let it be known by all gathered here today—wealthy merchant, innkeeper, goodwife, yeoman, men of the cloth, even the thieves themselves—that none shall go unpunished.” As he intended, the crowd cheered lustily. He smiled, raised his arm again. “I promise you this day—”

  But that promise remained unmade. Before he could finish, an arrow sped into the ground at his horse’s hooves. That one was still quivering as another and another and yet a fourth sliced through the air to stand upright from the ground.

  “Hold!” someone shouted.

  Three more arrows flew down from the heavens, striking the block, the stocks, even the pillory. A fourth found a home in one soldier’s mailed shoulder, and he cried out in shock and pain as he bent over in his saddle, clasping the shaft.

  DeLacey’s first thought was of disbelief; how could they have known he would act so quickly when he had promised them a fortnight? But there was no time for questions; as his plan collapsed, he roared at his soldiers to find the archers. “It’s Locksley!” he shouted, gesticulating. “Look for him—look for the earl’s son, and the giant, the minstrel, Will Scarlet . . .” The arrows had come down. “Gisbourne—look for them up high, on roofs, in the windows—”

  His horse shifted uneasily. He reined it in sharply, annoyed—and then the animal abruptly staggered and began to collapse.

  Robin, having balanced atop the thatched overhang to shoot, twitched slightly in startlement as the arrow struck deLacey’s horse. It was not his shaft, nor would it have been his choice to drop the sheriff to the ground, for there deLacey would make a far more difficult target; unless, of course, Will Scarlet had intended the sheriff as his target and shot the horse by mistake.

  He grimaced as the horse went down, wishing he had impressed upon Scarlet with more vigor that killing deLacey would do them considerable harm. Tuck had gotten Much away with greater alacrity than expected, and the crowd had swallowed both boy and Benedictine. But there were no guarantees of safety; deLacey had his share of supporters among the wealthier citizenry, and Much could still be recaptured before he and Tuck ever reached Sherwood. Rescuing a cutpurse from maiming was one thing. Robin doubted anyone save Much’s victims would care. Killing the Lord High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, however, would invite the scrutiny and fury of King John himself. Even the Lionheart could not forgive the outright murder of a sheriff. John, who had favored deLacey on more than one occasion, would see them all executed.

  Of course, that was only if the sheriff were killed, and if they were caught—and if he didn’t kill Scarlet himself before anyone else reached him.

  In Arabic, Robin muttered maledictions. Then he returned his attention to the matter at hand: making certain Much and Tuck were not immediately pursued.

  The very instant she had loosed the arrow, Marian saw it coming, saw what was happening; knew what would happen.

  Her sore hand spasmed into a cramp, flaring in sudden pain as she released the bowstring. Instead of planting itself in the ground, the arrow found a living target.

  This was not at all what she had intended. Only to shoot near the horse, to control the sheriff’s actions. Precisely as she had done twice before. No one, neither man nor beast, was supposed to be struck. No one was to be harmed.

  But the horse had gone down, was dying—and it was her fault.

  Hers alone.

  She recoiled upon the bench, curling back abruptly against the castle wall to slam her spine and the back of her skull into stone. The bow was heavy in her hand. She wanted nothing more than to hurl it away, to strip out of the quiver, to take back what she had done and make it all undone. Frantically she rubbed the cramp out of her hand, cursing herself for weakness.

  And then movement caught her eye. She jerked her head sideways, saw the mailed man in the lane behind her, a tall, dark, bull of a man, staring straight at her.

  In that instant she comprehended what the disguise meant. It was safety of a sort, but also danger. She was not Marian of Ravenskeep. She was merely the hooded stranger, presumably male, who had shot at the sheriff, had brought down his horse. And so she would be treated.

  She responded without thought. Despite the residual pain in her hand, the arrow was nocked, the bow raised, the string drawn back to her chin in an effortless series of motions, precisely as Robin had taught her. No more did she wish to discard the weapon. It was now deliverance.

  He had, she marked, a broadsword, but sheathed, and no crossbow. To reach her, to threaten her, to kill her, he would have to cross the distance dividing them. And in such time as that required, she could drive an arrow through his body.

  That much he knew. And halted.

  Her hand trembled, and so did the bow. Marian eased herself down from the bench. She backed up with infinite care, making certain her feet had decent pur
chase on the packed and rutted lane. If she tripped he would be on her; and any shot she attempted would go awry.

  When enough space lay between them that he could neither kill nor capture her, Marian released the tension of the string without releasing the arrow. She turned. She ran.

  As his mount went down, deLacey caught a glimpse of a feathered shaft standing out from the horse’s ribs in front of his right leg, then threw himself away from the dying animal so he would not be trapped as he had been trapped once before in similar circumstances. He rolled awkwardly, blindly aware of screams, shouts, cries of shock. But there was also a surging, powerful undercurrent of abrupt and avid interest: they were not the targets, not the good folk of Nottingham. He was. The king’s man. Sheriff. The Norman sheriff.

  DeLacey struggled up to his knees. “Find them! Find them, I say—” An arrow whizzed by his head from behind. He flinched and remained kneeling so as to present a smaller target. “Gisbourne—”

  But Gisbourne, on foot, stood near the crowd, both hands held stiffly away from his body in an eloquent statement of obedience to the enemy’s shouted order. In utter disbelief, deLacey stared at his men and saw them standing down. Each of them was armed, but no one moved to defend him. They were clearly nonplussed by the attack, uneasily aware they were at a disadvantage. The man who had been shot still bent forward in his saddle, cursing noisily in Norman French, but no one moved to his aid, lest they become targets as well.

  DeLacey realized then the boy was gone. In the confusion, as his men looked at their wounded comrade, the boy had escaped. Or been rescued.