Marian drew breath and commenced the tale. “My husband beats me,” she said. “I’m off clad as a boy, but won’t hold, will it? Once I’m out of Nottingham—I’m Lincoln-bound, aye?—I’ll change back to women’s clothing.”
“My man beats me,” the woman responded, unconvinced. “No cause to run from that. Better a man than none.”
Marian took a gamble. “Then come with me. We’ll both go to Lincoln.”
“Lincoln! Me!” The woman laughed and tossed her head. “Na, na, Nottingham’s me home. I’ll be stayin‘.” She eyed the locket again. “But I’ll give up me shawl and skirt, I will, for that, aye? ’Twill buy me sommat better.”
The exchange was made. Once the woman was gone, tucking the locket into her bosom, Marian immediately pulled the skirt on over her trews, tugged it down to cover her ankles, slipped the hood to her shoulder. Then she unstrung the bow, looped the string around her waist, wrapped the shawl around her head and shoulders to hide the quiver and her face, and took up the bow again. The wood was curved from its service, but she tied a torn strip of grimy homespun around the grip, then affected to lean on the unstrung bow as if she had a bad foot or leg. With exquisite care and equally precise subterfuge, she limped down the lane toward the city gates.
Thirty-Three
After three large goblets of unwatered wine, William deLacey felt somewhat better. But not as well as he preferred to feel under the circumstances; and so he ordered food, more wine, and eventually lost himself in contemplation as he sat deep in the chair upon the hall dais, booted feet propped up on the table.
He hid from no part of the day’s events. He had attempted to disarm the potential threat against him and his plan to punish the boy by announcing that said punishment would be undertaken in a fortnight. His intent was to lop off Much’s hands before any of his outlaw friends might know about it, so that the deed, already done, would drive them to fury, and fury into a mistake that would lead to their capture.
Instead, Locksley had anticipated the misinformation. He had anticipated the sheriff’s actions. He had prepared his battle, waged it, and won.
Mercardier had claimed Locksley cleverer than the sheriff. DeLacey neither feared nor believed that, so the insult did not strike a blow to his heart to form a permanent canker the way it might with another man. Oh, he granted Locksey was indeed a clever man; he had never believed otherwise. But cleverer than he? Indeed, he thought not. It was merely a matter of adjusting his thinking to fit the facts at hand: that Locksley had the wit and mettle to challenge his enemy. That ability should come as no surprise in a man who had fought the Infidel on Crusade, who had been knighted by the king for his valor in the field.
But Sir Robert of Locksley had also been caught. Disarmed and dishonored in the field, captured in the field, imprisoned by the Infidel until ransomed by Coeur de Lion.
Now it was deLacey’s task to have him caught again. Only this time there would be no ransom paid. And John would not be seduced by the honor in a man, the valor in a soldier, a fall of white-blond hair and the clever hazel eyes.
Meanwhile—deLacey drank wine again, drowning the taste of gall—there is the problem of Mercardier and the taxes.
Robin was most pleased to find Charlemagne where he’d left him. That hadn’t been a given; there were outlaws aplenty in Sherwood, and a fine horse such as Charlemagne would fetch a good price at the Lincoln horsefair. There were people in the world who would not care that neither pedigree nor provenance was offered. A good horse was a good horse.
He held a one-sided conversation with that good horse, explaining their current difficulties and why he was not stabled at home in Ravenskeep’s barn, with straw bedding underfoot, fresh hay for fodder, oats, and apples for treats. Not to mention that his mares were missing as well; the big animal took his position as herd sire seriously. By the time Robin was done discussing matters with Charlemagne, Alan of the Dales came bursting breathlessly into the clearing, golden curls festooned with bits of tattered leaves, strung bow clutched in one hand. Not far behind him was Scarlet.
“Will,” Robin said brightly, with false joviality. Then took three long strides across the small clearing and loosed a blow from his fist that knocked the other down. He forbore to swear only with great effort when the impact set up a complaint in his hand, and loomed over the man. “I said you were not to kill the sheriff.”
From his less than impressive position on the ground, Scarlet glared up at him. “Didn’t, did I?”
“I also said you were not to try to kill the sheriff. Do you remember that? Shoot to warn, I said. It wasn’t folly, Will. I had good reason for insisting on restraint.”
Scarlet hitched himself up on his elbows, scowling fiercely. “The only man I shot was a soldier, and in the shoulder, not the almighty sheriff. And if ’twas me, I wouldn’t have hit the horse!”
Frowning, Robin looked at Alan. He would not expect it of the minstrel, but—“Was it you who shot his horse?”
“No!” Alan cried, aghast. “Why would I?”
“Perhaps by mistake,” Robin said. “Someone shot the horse.”
“What do you care about the horse?” Scarlet asked belligerently.
“Other than had we intended the sheriff to be a target, and it is difficult to make a man a target when he’s on the ground instead of on horseback, I don’t,” Robin replied. “But had deLacey been killed, we would be wanted for murder, not the rescue of a boy.” He paused. “I hardly think Tuck shot the horse.”
“No,” said a voice. “I shot the horse.” And Marian was there, coming out of the shadows.
Robin, stunned, was utterly bereft of speech. It was Alan who blurted, “You?”
Scarlet, thus exonerated, spat out a curse intended for men who struck before they knew the truth, and got to his feet. “There,” he said, “will you hit her now?”
“I didn’t mean to shoot the horse,” Marian declared, leaning her bow against a tree to unwind the shawl from her head and shoulders.
Alan blinked. “What, you intended to kill the sheriff? You?”
“No, I did not intend to kill the sheriff. I did not intend to kill the horse. My intent was to shoot at the ground, as I’d done before. But—my hand. The shot went awry.” She stared down at the left hand, palm still wrapped to ward the still-new cautery scar. She looked forlornly first at Charlemagne, then at Robin. “I didn’t mean to,” she insisted, and then burst into tears.
The storm did not last long. Marian was ashamed of it—the last thing she had expected was that she would horrify them and embarrass herself by weeping—but Robin did not appear to be horrified, or particularly surprised. With a quiet word to the others about keeping an eye open for Tuck and Much, and Little John, he caught her elbow and guided her out of the clearing. He found a fallen tree and sat her down upon the trunk, then took up position beside her.
Marian yet clutched the soiled shawl. She wiped at her face, sniffed noisily, then heaved a heavy sigh. “Why,” she began in bewilderment, “am I so upset about the sheriff’s horse when I nearly killed a man?”
“Because the horse is innocent.”
She thought he might be joking. She slanted him a sideways glance and saw he was not. “You mean that.”
“Of course I do. The horse is not our enemy. William deLacey is.”
“But I didn’t intend to shoot him, either!”
He grimaced. “Well, no. But as you say, the shot went awry. An innocent animal who has no choice in his days or his duties died because of your mistake. Anyone would feel bad.”
Marian disagreed. “A man would not.”
“Some men would.”
“Scarlet would not.”
“I said ‘some men,’ Marian. And yes, it is an accepted battle tactic: there are times when the only way to defeat the enemy is to unhorse him.”
She winced, seeing again the horrible vision of deLacey’s horse collapsing; imagining horses dying by the hundreds on battlefields. “They have no choic
e ever, the horses, do they?”
“No. But—sometimes neither do we. Particularly in war. And there are many small moments seemingly innocent, often unintended, that grow to become a war.”
Marian began to pick at the frayed shawl. “And was this a war, what we undertook today?”
Robin smiled crookedly. “Rather, a skirmish.”
“And we won.”
“We gained our objective, yes: we rescued Much.”
“And deLacey? How will he view it?”
“A supreme annoyance,” Robin said dryly.
She studied him a moment. “But there is more. I can see it in your eyes.”
He nodded, pale hair stirring. “Before, we were male dogs across the road from one another, tails stiff, hackles raised, posturing for effect. There were occasional attempts at dominance. But now . . .” He sighed, smiled faintly. “Well, I have intentionally crossed that road and entered his territory. There is no greater challenge.”
“And so you shall fight.”
“Until one of us rolls over to expose his throat and belly.”
Marian knew better. “Neither of you will do that.”
He did not reply.
Tension was a hard knot in her throat and belly. “There was another man, Robin. A man who came and found me, after I shot the horse. Who knew what I’d done. But—I didn’t hesitate. I saw him, and I counted him as the enemy, and I prepared to shoot him. And I think—I think I would have. In that moment. Had he come for me.” Tears welled up again, as did a painful desperation. “What am I, that I can in one moment be horrified that I killed a horse, and the next prepare to kill a man?”
He sat very close to her but did not touch her, did not wrap an arm around her, nor grasp a hand. He gave her the space to sort out her feelings without trying to take them into himself. “A survivor,” he said at last.
“A what?”
“Survivor,” he repeated. “Marian—it is never easy to kill a man. At the moment, that very moment when you realize that he must die because he is the enemy, and because he will kill you or countless others, you do one of three things.” His voice was very quiet. “You hesitate, and die. You run away, and die inside because of the shame. Or you strike your own blow first. And survive.”
“Mercardier,” she said.
He was very still.
“Mercardier,” she repeated. “That was the man. He came to me. He might have stopped me. Caught me. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t run away. I nocked an arrow and raised the bow, prepared to strike my own blow first, just as you said—and then I ran away.” She paused. “Walked.”
“Marian.” His tone now was peculiar. “You escaped Mercardier?”
She nodded, though she did not know if she would characterize running—or walking—away as escaping so much as cowardice.
Then she said, feeling oddly distant, “I cannot stop shaking . . .” And put out her hands to display the trembling.
Now he did touch her. Now he gripped her hands in his own and stilled them. “Marian. What you feel is natural.”
She shivered, felt something hard and hot well up in her chest, then creep to engulf her throat.
“What you faced today, what you accepted with all good intentions, was the willingness to take responsibility for Much’s life—but also two other things. First, you acted at great risk to yourself.”
“But I didn’t matter! It was Much!”
“Hush,” he said with mock severity, then went on. “When you accept the risk on another’s behalf, it is easy to forget the danger. But once the goal is accomplished, the blindness of dedication falls away. You understand what might have happened to you, had things gone wrong.”
Marian stared hard at the ground.
“The second is that you had the ordering of a man’s future. You might have killed William deLacey today.”
“Yes,” she said numbly, lips and hands icy. “I was angry enough to.” She looked at him sharply. “What if it wasn’t my hand so much as hatred that sent that shot awry?”
“When you kill a man,” he said evenly, “everything changes. You are never the same. And when you realize you might have killed a man, that you held that power over him for the time it took to nock and loose an arrow, you realize why man is mortal. We are not fit to be God. No man—or woman—should be God. But sometimes, sometimes, there is no choice.”
“And then everything changes,” she murmured dazedly.
“Yes.”
Marian swallowed heavily, painfully. “I do not wish,” she began with careful clarity, “ever, ever, to make that choice again. Not even by mistake. Nor by necessity, to survive. I want him stopped, oh, yes. But killed? By me?” She shuddered, then looked at him. Gazed at him, at the beloved face that shared her anguish, because, she realized, he had felt it, too. His own rite of passage, when first he had gone to war. “You knew it would be like this. When I said I would go with you, would do my part in rescuing Much.”
He held his silence a moment. Then, “You believed you could make a difference. It was not my place to rob you of that.”
Bitterly she said, “I nearly killed a man. And I played God with Mercardier’s life.”
“A kinder God that man has never known.”
She thought that an odd statement, and said so.
“You offered him mercy,” Robin said. “That is more than he has ever offered himself.” Then, as if abruptly overcome, he wrapped his arms around her, drew her against his chest, and set his face into her braided hair. He murmured a prayer of thanksgiving, of gratitude, of overwhelming relief that she was alive and unharmed, and kissed her fervently.
Then he remarked that the shawl stank, and now so did she.
It was incongruous and wholly unexpected. Shocked, Marian would have protested, but a voice called out Robin’s name and then the others were there. Scarlet, Alan. Tuck. And another.
She jumped to her feet. “Much!”
“There’s a problem,” Alan declared grimly. “We have no key for his shackles.”
“Ah,” Robin said. “Well, then, I shall have to go and fetch an ax, or a hammer and chisel.”
“Fetch them?” Scarlet echoed. “From where?”
“Ravenskeep,” Marian said decisively, glad to have a goal instead of memories and fears. As one, they stared at her; was she playing God again? But, “Where else?” she asked. “You all know where such things are kept, there.”
Tuck was deeply worried. “But won’t the sheriff go to Ravenskeep?”
“Or send soldiers?” Alan agreed vigorously.
“I doubt he will go there himself,” Robin said. “I think he would prefer not to show himself quite so soon after losing Much; the people might laugh. Rather, he will send men. This time.”
“You’d risk it?” Scarlet asked.
Marian said promptly, “I will go.”
“No, you will not,” Robin countered lightly. “You have no gift of stealth; nor should you, the way you were raised.”
“Stealth? In my own home?”
“Marian, either you return to Ravenskeep as chatelaine and risk being arrested—”
“The sheriff doesn’t know I took part in Much’s rescue!”
“—and interrogated,” Robin went on, ignoring the interruption, “so the sheriff might discover where we are hiding; or you must steal the tools. And there are those of us better fit for such activity.”
“Aye,” Scarlet agreed morosely. “The one most fit for it is the one who has need of the tools!”
Marian looked at Much. His face was pale and grimy, and deeply bruised. Heavy shackles linked by iron chain weighted arms and ankles. “Then go,” she said abruptly. “One of you. All of you. Just hasten. We need to get Much free.”
“I’ll go at once,” Robin agreed.
“No.” It was Alan, unaccountably. “Let me. Robin—if you were caught, you would pay the highest price.”
“And you wouldn’t?” Scarlet asked.
“Everyone knows it
was Robin who challenged the sheriff in his own city,” the minstrel explained. “They saw no one else. I have not been near Nottingham for two years; no one would expect me, and no one would necessarily recognize me. You, Will, are wanted for murder; the soldiers would likely kill you before taking you back.” He shrugged. “I would rather have all of you free to rescue me, than Robin caught and in need of us to rescue him. Wouldn’t you?”
Frowning uneasily, Marian glanced into shadows. “Where is John?”
“Hiding?” Tuck asked.
Scarlet scowled. “Still?”
“Never mind John,” Alan said. “He’ll be well enough. But Much needs these shackles cut off.” He glanced at Robin. “I’ll be back before sundown.”
They watched as the minstrel slipped back into the trees. Scarlet shook his head. “I’d never have thought it of him.”
Tuck merely smiled. “God provides courage when it is most needed.”
“Courage?” Scarlet asked skeptically. “Sweet Mary in Heaven, I’d call it stupidity!”
Much held his arms out. “Off,” he said, with simple desperation.
Even Will Scarlet had the grace to look abashed.
Thirty-Four
DeLacey was roused from his contemplative reverie with the arrival of one of his tax collectors. In view of the day’s events, in view of all the wine, he might otherwise have looked on this interruption with disfavor. But money had arrived, and an accounting was always satisfying. This cheered him immensely.
The sheriff personally escorted the man down to the cell, where he stationed two guards for the duration. There he spread the Exchequer cloth and beckoned the tax collector to begin doling out the bags of coins and the various receipt markers. The procedure required time and repetition, but it served to take his mind off Robin Hood.
Until Mercardier arrived.
The mercenary did nothing more than station himself in the doorway, thick arms folded. He said no word, made no sound, merely stood there, like massive statuary. DeLacey found it intensely annoying, and eventually accepted that his concentration was completely destroyed. He excused the tax collector, then glared balefully at the captain. “What is it?”
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