Lady of Sherwood

by Jennifer Roberson

“Remove your helm.”

  Gisbourne did so with shaking hands, eyes furious. Robin moved until he stood behind the kneeling man. Then he struck a blow at the base of Gisbourne’s skull with the wheel-pommel of the sword.

  Robin gazed down upon the unconscious man, aware that he had committed himself utterly—and possibly irrevocably—to an entirely different future than he had ever envisioned. But it was done. And the campaign against William deLacey was begun in earnest.

  Robin saluted the prone Gisbourne, then balanced the blade atop his right shoulder as it were a prime pole intended for fishing, and took himself away into the forest.

  As the sun sank down to spend itself in a haze of gold and gilt along the darkening, tree-fringed horizon, the soldiers came back along the road from Ravenskeep, bound now, Marian assumed, for Nottingham. She and Much skirted the road, crossed it, came in across the sheep meadow along the stone wall, and slipped through a postern gate near the kitchens. She did not see any soldiers stationed to keep watch, but dared not make assumptions. Instead, she and Much made it into the barn and hid there in the shadows.

  “If we wait a bit,” she said very quietly, “Hal will come to feed the horses.”

  And so Hal did, who was surprised nearly unto death when he discovered Marian and Much. Once he had recovered sufficiently to speak again without wheezing in shock, he expressed his relief at finding them whole. Particularly Much.

  Then he looked at Marian. “Soldiers were here.”

  “I know. That is why we did not simply walk in. Did they leave a man here?”

  Hal shook his head. “But they may have made him wait elsewhere along the road, so we wouldn’t know.”

  Marian contemplated that, realizing they would have to be very careful on the way back. Hal, we need food and blankets. Can you go up to the house and have Joan pack us whatever she can?”

  He was startled. “You’re not coming back?”

  “Not tonight,” she said, refusing to admit aloud that the others might not come back at all. “We’ll stay in Sherwood until we’re certain it is safe. Oh—and Much has something for you.”

  On cue, the boy presented the older man with the hammer and chisel. Hal evinced surprise. “You had them! I thought I had gone mad, lady—couldn’t find them earlier.”

  “We needed them for Much,” she explained. “For the shackles. Alan came and got them.” She looked beyond Hal to the open barn door. “Take Much with you—here, Much, put this on—” She slipped out of the hooded capelet and helped him into it; if anyone was watching, Much would not be immediately recognizable. “Go tell Joan we’re here, then bring back whatever you can. We need to go before it is too dark to find our way back.”

  But Hal did not go just yet. “Lady Marian, you will come home? Soon?”

  She told him the precise truth. “As soon as I may.”

  That sufficed. He gestured at Much, and the two of them went out into the sunset.

  Marian, left alone, converted barn to oratory. “Dear God,” she prayed aloud, “let none of us be killed in this. Let all of us survive, so we may come home.”

  William deLacey was ensconced in his private solar with his castellan, Philip de la Barre, when Gisbourne shouted a request for entry and, without waiting for permission, unlatched the door and crashed it open against the wall. The man stomped in, somewhat disheveled and entirely out of sorts. “We must kill him,” he announced without preamble, then winced and felt at the back of his head.

  DeLacey, prepared to reprimand his steward for such crude behavior, withheld the vicious words in view of Gisbourne’s obvious fury. Gisbourne only rarely showed so much naked emotion. Interesting. “Kill whom?”

  “Locksley,” Gisbourne declared. “Robin Hood.”

  “Ah.” Most interesting; and Gisbourne was clearly in pain. “I take it you return here without his company?”

  “Without his company, without my sword, my horse, and my purse,” Gisbourne elucidated, color high in his face. “He took them all.”

  “All?”

  “And not just I was treated so harshly . . . six more of my men as well.”

  That brought deLacey to his feet. “Six others? Seven of you were accosted by Locksley?”

  “Not all by him,” Gisbourne answered sullenly, as if sorry he could not blame everything on Robert of Locksley. “The others as well. Little John. Will Scarlet. Even the minstrel.”

  “Minstrel,” deLacey echoed, at a loss.

  “Alan of the Dales,” Gisbourne explained. “The man who violated Eleanor.”

  That minstrel. DeLacey had given him up years ago. “He is back?”

  “Yes, my lord. I saw Locksley myself; the other descriptions match.” He closed his eyes a moment and swayed on his feet before collecting himself again. “I daresay the monk and the simpleton were involved, as well,” he said in more muted tones.

  “Gisbourne—did you say these men robbed all of you? Seven of you?”

  “Yes. My lord.”

  DeLacey was baffled. Why would men seeking to escape soldiers show themselves and actually rob them? It made no sense.

  “I want him killed,” Gisbourne repeated, though with much less vehemence. He was looking ill now, deLacey noted.

  The sheriff seated himself again, thoughts working swiftly. For some strange reason the news did not make him angry. It was startling, puzzling, and annoying, but it did not make him angry. And it should.

  But then the pieces began to come together, and he understood why he was not angry. This offense, embarrassing and infuriating as it was, actually provided an ideal opportunity.

  “You may go,” he told Gisbourne.

  The steward blinked. “Go?”

  “Go. Elsewhere.” DeLacey waved his hand. “Rest, Gisbourne. Leave this to me.”

  But Gisbourne did not dismiss so easily. “My lord, I am your seneschal—”

  “And Philip, here, is my castellan. I am consulting him with regard to other measures we may take regarding Locksley and the others. Now, you may go.” He paused, marked the hue of Gisbourne’s face. “And I suggest you do it before you collapse at my feet in a pool of your own vomit.”

  The imagery was enough. This time Gisbourne acquiesced and took his leave, calling for a servant as he wobbled out of the hall. DeLacey, pondering opportunity again, glanced across the table at the castellan. De la Barre had done him a service five years before, and repayment had been in the form of promotion. Now let the man earn his place again.

  “I think,” deLacey said, “we have been given a sign.”

  De la Barre, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and young for his position, raised his eyebrows. “A sign, my lord?”

  “Robin Hood now robs with impunity. The roads are threatened, as are lives. It would be a miracle if a tax shipment could get through. Even one escorted by the infamous Mercardier.”

  A glint in de la Barre’s eye told deLacey all he needed to know. The young man had always been a quick study, and willing to undertake any kind of service the sheriff might ask of him.

  “You understand,” deLacey said, “that such a robbery would infuriate the king.”

  “Indeed,” de la Barre murmured.

  “And the man who recaptured the tax shipment from outlaws would be granted a royal boon, incurring the king’s trust and gratitude.”

  “A most generous man, the king,” the castellan noted, smiling.

  “See to it,” the sheriff said. “As I have described to you.”

  Philip de la Barre inclined his head.

  Robin, arriving not long before sundown at the clearing that had become an impromptu camp, was gratified to find Alan, Scarlet, and Little John already present, and safe. They were in high good spirits, intoxicated on success: a practiced bow and flourish from the minstrel indicated a pile of Norman swords. Grinning, Robin tossed his own contributions down to chime atop the blades; in addition to Gisbourne’s, he had liberated sword and purse from one other soldier.

  “And?” Tuck asked a
rchly, seated on the ground with a cassocked lap full of coin. “We must divide it all up, as agreed.”

  In the act of drawing two purses from his belt, Robin froze. “Where is Marian?”

  The monk’s expression altered. “She and Much went to Ravenskeep.”

  “Why? I told them to remain here.”

  Tuck began, “She said we—”

  “—needed food and blankets,” Marian finished for him, slipping out of the shadows. She carried a basket hooked over one arm, and hugged a large bundle to her chest. Behind her, Much came in with a second bundle strapped to his back, and a third clutched in his arms. “And we do,” she said, dumping her bundle to the ground. “If someone will gather kindling and wood, I also have flint and steel.”

  “Is that wise?” Alan asked. “The woodsmoke will give us away.”

  Marian shook her head. “There are other outlaws scattered throughout Sherwood who light fires—we could see the haze along the treetops from Ravenskeep—and charcoal burners aplenty. Can’t you smell them? I doubt one more fire will make a difference.”

  Robin nodded. “Were we to help ourselves to the king’s deer tonight, we might bring them down upon us. But we’ll save that for another night, when we are deeper in the forest. A small fire will do.” He knelt to begin unwrapping the bundle Marian had put down. “You should have stayed here, Marian, but—”

  “But now that I am back safely, you are glad to have the supplies?” She grinned. “I know. So am I.”

  “I’ll get wood,” Scarlet said, and turned back into the trees.

  Tuck and Little John fell to opening Much’s bundles, sorting out the contents, while Alan gathered up stones to build a fire ring. In a short amount of time they had a fire laid and burning, blankets and cloaks made up into pallets and coverlets, and food shared out: cheese and bread and salted meat, early fruit, flasks of ale. It was a supremely simple meal, but nonetheless delicious in view of the day’s events. Much in particular looked blissfully dazed. He fell asleep with a crust of bread still clutched in one hand, head lolling against a tree trunk.

  “Poor lad,” Tuck murmured, leaning to drape a blanket across the boy.

  Robin nodded. “A long day for him.”

  “But a pleasing conclusion.” Alan hooked bedraggled golden curls behind his ears.

  The clearing was small, tree- and brush-hemmed, made cozy by the fire, food, and a company contented with what they had wrought. Shadows loomed large, crowding in among them. The latticework of branches high overhead screened out the moon- and starlight, so that the only dependable illumination was that given off by the modest fire. It was cruel to Scarle’s face, Robin noted absently, whose flesh bore the marks of hardship, grief, and ill humor, but kind to Marian’s. She sat close beside him, leaning against his left shoulder as she chewed a small hard apple. A warm and decorous blanket covered his legs and hers, which were entwined at the ankles.

  Little John, seated on the other side of the fire, stared into the flames, beard glowing ruddy-gold. Alan, inspecting his fingers for bow-born blisters that might interfere with his luteplaying, was humming beneath his breath. Tuck had gathered up three of the stolen pouches and separated out the coin: one pouch for Marian’s taxes, one for the poor, and the smallest amount for them. Joan had sent along enough provender and plenishings to get them through a few days, but they would need more.

  A full belly and freedom, for the moment, from the need to think, the awareness of pursuit, left Robin feeling oddly calm and detached. They had accomplished their goal of rescuing Much, and had done it without getting themselves hurt or captured. As for what they would do now, well, what lay ahead immediately was to gather enough money for Marian’s taxes—Robin believed one more fat purse or two might accomplish that—and then consider what they would do afterward.

  At least, Robin would allow the others to consider what they would do. He already knew what he intended to do.

  The Earl of Essex had given him the key, that day in the garden at Huntington. To overthrow John, one need only replace him with Arthur of Brittany, who would prove generous to all who aided his goal of claiming England for himself, and in his forgiveness of certain sins. Their role in such doings was infinitely simple: to steal from John the financial means to support his kingship. He needed taxes for that. And this session’s collection, currently residing in Nottingham under the sheriff’s authority, was due to be shipped within a few weeks.

  Thieves they had become. Thieves they would be.

  For as long as necessary.

  Marian shifted against him, sighing. He crooked his left arm around her shoulders so he might smooth the hair from her face. “We shall get through this,” he murmured.

  She settled her skull beneath his chin. “I know it.”

  “We may be on short rations for a time, and badly in need of washing, but there is game and water aplenty.”

  “And plenty of victims to rob,” she said dryly.

  He grinned, rubbing his chin against her hair. He needed to shave; already the bristles caught. Or perhaps he would simply forgo shaving altogether and grow a beard. “We’ll rob the ones who deserve it.”

  “How will you know that?”

  “Merchants,” he said, “who overcharge customers; have I not lived near Nottingham all of my life to know who is fair and who is not? Clerics who have forgotten their vows of poverty; my father entertains far too many, so I am acquainted with those as well. And lords who keep their tenants living in hovels, with not enough to eat.”

  “And tax shipments?”

  He smiled. “Most especially those.”

  “Be grateful,” she said suddenly, with one of her lightning shifts of mood.

  He blinked. “Grateful?”

  “That it is spring, not fall. Sherwood would be unkind in winter.” He grunted acknowledgment. “By winter, if all is well, we shall have a new sheriff. And possibly a new king.”

  “And a new pardon?”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Let us hope.”

  “Let us pray,” Tuck clarified.

  Robin stared into the flames. He was not himself certain prayer was effective; he had given up on prayers while a captive of the Turks.

  Then again, he had survived. He had been ransomed. He was home safe, and whole. Perhaps some prayers simply took longer in the answering.

  Before winter, he suggested, aiming it at the skies. If You would be so kind.

  Thirty-Seven

  The Earl of Huntington abhorred showing personal weakness of any kind, lest an adversary find opportunity in it. The men he joined outside in the fog-shrouded bailey to bid farewell were confidants, not adversaries, but he found it galling nonetheless that they should see him so weakened by the malady that would not depart despite chest plasters, possets, and bleedings. Coughing had weakened him further, turning his voice into a ruin. Breath rattled in his aching lungs. He found it difficult now to stand upright, even to breathe in the fog, which weighted his chest even more. His steward, Ralph, waited close by, prepared to offer physical support if necessary.

  Huntington was determined it should not be necessary.

  He had marked it before in the faces of his companions, and marked it again now as they waited for horseboys to bring up their mounts: the opinion that he was dying. Eustace de Vesci, of supremely robust health and temperament, was made most uneasy by his host’s condition. Henry Bohun, more schooled to tact than de Vesci, gave little away in expression. And in Geoffrey de Mandeville’s eyes, of them all a friend as well as a man of like opinion in the ordering of the realm, there was empathy and compassion.

  “We shall see it done,” Huntington said, mustering as much vigor as possible. “The boy put in John’s place.”

  “As soon as may be,” Bohun agreed.

  De Vesci, uncomfortable, hooked thumbs into his belt. Fingers drummed on leather; he was eager to be gone.

  “You have done more than your share,” de Mandeville said quietly. “Leave the rest to
us.”

  Kind words, a friend’s reassurance, but plainly they believed he would die before their plans bore fruit. They expected and desired no more of him now, lest he leave something undone.

  He had left nothing undone.

  The horses were brought. De Vesci, clearly relieved, swung up at once, sweeping his cloak aside with eloquent expertise as he settled into the saddle. Bohun took the moment to touch Huntington’s shoulder briefly, thanked him for his hospitality and advice, then turned to his own mount. It left Geoffrey de Mandeville, the Earl of Essex, formerly Richard’s Justiciar and once one of the most powerful men in England, still unmounted.

  His eyes were kind. “You set a fine example, my lord, of a dedicated man prepared to sacrifice all for his country.”

  “So should we all,” Huntington said testily.

  A smile flirted with the corners of de Mandeville’s mouth. “Indeed. But there is yet one more thing . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Forgive him, my friend. He shares your pride, your stubbornness, your determination. When employed for the proper goals, all of those things are invaluable.”

  Huntington glared.

  “England requires your son, as she has required you.”

  “I have no son,” Huntington declared.

  De Mandeville seemed on the verge of saying more on the subject, but withheld it. He moved forward, clasped Huntington’s shoulders briefly, then turned away to his mount.

  Ralph was close beside him. “My lord, allow me to assist you into the castle.”

  Huntington put out a hand to halt him. It would not do to permit the others to see such weakness. He stood as straight as possible, fog dampening his wispy hair, and watched the three men ride out of the bailey toward the road beyond.

  Abruptly he repeated, “I have no son.” Ralph supported him now, taking much of the earl’s weight onto himself as he turned him toward the castle. “No son,” he said, “no heir. It should revert to the Crown, the title, the lands, the money. But I will make a different accommodation. Soon.”

  Ralph held his silence as he guided the earl to his bedchamber. He removed the heavy outer robe, then helped him to climb into bed. When Huntington was settled against bolsters and pillows, buried beneath mounds of covers, his steward put into his hand a cup of warmed and well-watered wine, mixed with herbs that would allow him to rest. It was as the earl gave over the last of his tightly hoarded strength that the steward finally spoke.