Lady of Sherwood

by Jennifer Roberson

  Power. Ambition. Politics.

  Marian, in the midst of the buttery counting how many crocks remained whole, and full, spread her left palm and looked at the cautery scar. It had caused her to miss her shot, to kill the sheriff’s horse when she had meant only to warn, to contain the man. But it was done; she had committed herself. She, too, had changed: had made herself an outlaw in the name of a justice deLacey refused to condone. The only reason she was here while Robin and the others hid in Sherwood, intending to steal money so her taxes might be paid, so the poor might be fed, so Arthur of Brittany might be aided to the throne and they could be pardoned again, was because no one knew she had been there in Nottingham, helping to rescue Much.

  One moment, one birth or death, could alter the world.

  A wife’s murder changed Will Scarlet. War and captivity changed Robin. The Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham changed Hugh FitzWalter’s daughter.

  Marian closed her hand on the scar. Aloud she said, “He sowed the crop five years ago, after my father’s death. Let him reap it now, and know the blame for his own.”

  She left the buttery then, left the counting of crocks undone. She went upstairs to the room under the eaves she shared—had shared—with Robin, and began to pack warm clothes and necessaries into a bundle. She would tell Joan what else was needed, and Hal as well. She would tell them also that possibly, if necessary, she might take up residence in Sherwood for a time until all was settled.

  When a life could be changed of a moment, it was best to be prepared.

  They had moved their little encampment from near Ravenskeep to a small clearing between Huntington and Nottingham, covering supplies with brush and deadfall leaves. Robin, perched upon a tree stump in desultory conversation about which bird calls would mean what, and how they might deploy themselves depending on circumstances—they had done this very thing when stealing the tax shipment five years before—glanced up sharply as an owl hooted from nearby. Within moments the owl resolved itself into Much slipping out of the trees into the tiny clearing cradled by fallen trees.

  He squatted. “Lords.”

  “You’re certain?” Robin asked.

  “Fine horses. Fine clothes.” Much nodded. “Lords.”

  “How many?” Scarlet asked. “And what kind of escort?”

  Much spread three fingers.

  “The escort,” Alan urged.

  “Three lords,” the boy insisted.

  Scarlet shook his head. “Lords don’t ride unescorted, do they?”

  “Some do,” Robin said thoughtfully, “when they are meeting in secret.”

  Little John, sitting cross-legged on the ground, looked at him sharply. “Meeting with who? What for?”

  “Meeting with my father.” Robin rubbed idly at the roughening stubble along his jaw. “To plot the overthrow of a king.”

  “ ’Tis treason!” Tuck cried.

  Robin agreed. “They could lose their heads for it. Just as we could be hanged for outlawry.” A wry smile twisted his mouth. “What a fine family tradition that would be for the earls of Huntington: one executed for treason, the other hanged for thievery.”

  “You mean for us to rob men meeting with your father?” Alan asked, startled.

  “Best to rob men with money.”

  Little John was puzzled. “Yes, but—if they mean to overthrow King John, then we are on the same side.”

  Robin said gently, “Outlaws have no sides.”

  “Coming soon,” Much reminded.

  “Well, then.” Robin stood up, brushed debris from his hosen. “Shall we put to the test the methods we’ve just discussed?”

  “Now?” Scarlet demanded.

  “Indeed, now. ‘Coming soon,’ Much says.”

  Tuck was alarmed. “What do you mean to do?”

  “Invite them for ale and a bite of bread,” Robin explained. “And then they can ransom their freedom by giving us their coin.”

  Little John was patently unconvinced. “And what if they go to the sheriff?”

  “I believe they will not,” Robin said mildly.

  Now Scarlet was unconvinced. “How can you say that? How can you know?”

  “Because they invited me to join them,” Robin explained, “when it was thought I should be heir to my father’s title. To risk my head as they risked theirs. When peers of the realm undertake treason, they rarely complain to a sheriff of minor matters such as outlaws along the road. Particularly to a sheriff who supports the very king they mean to replace.”

  “Coming,” Much said urgently.

  Robin picked up his bow, hooked the quiver over one shoulder. “Do as I described, and it should fall out properly. Tuck, remain here . . . uncover the food and ale and set a ‘table,’ if you would. We’ll have guests for a midday meal.”

  He sent himself and the others into the trees along the road, hoping they would do as asked, as he had explained. It was not so different from what they had done to rescue Much: one stopped men on horseback with the threat of arrows from cover, then told them what to do. If they could not see who stopped them, how many there were, and where they hid, they were far less likely to protest. Everyone in England knew the power and accuracy of a longbow. And anyone in Nottingham the day before had witnessed or heard of how arrows had been used to control the sheriff.

  Robin reflected a reputation might be useful. Certainly it had benefitted the Crusaders: every man of all nations knew the Lionheart’s reputation for brilliance in the field and personal ability, his gift for inspiring men, not to mention his cheerful but unflagging ruthlessness. Even Saladin had respected Richard. Such things as reputations could be employed as tools themselves.

  But he rather thought a reputation would take care of itself, if they robbed enough people.

  The lords approached, coming into view from around a tight curve. They were indeed the men Robin anticipated: the earls of Alnwick, Hereford, and Essex. A few quiet but scattered bird calls told him the others were in place. Grinning, Robin pulled up his hood, settled it in place, then stepped out onto the road.

  “Hold,” he commanded.

  Then he raised his hand, and the arrows flew.

  The lords, as expected, reined in sharply as the shafts stood up from the ground in a rough semicircle.

  Robin raised his voice. “Swords, if you please.”

  Eustace de Vesci, well in character as his face grew red, blustered immediately. “Who are you? What is the meaning of this?”

  “A robbery,” Robin replied. “Swords, if you please.” He did not alter his accent, his voice, or his phraseology as he had five years before in a similar confrontation. The times were different now, the cause, and his committment.

  “By God!” de Vesci cried. “Again? Again? I cannot but think the road to Nottingham has become a den of thieves!”

  “Bad luck,” Robin observed gravely. “My lords, if you please—your swords. Now.”

  Bohun already had his sword unsheathed, dangling from gloved fingers. De Mandeville was eyeing Robin with something akin to speculation, though nothing of his person bespoke a reluctance to follow orders. He, too, unsheathed his sword. “Eustace,” he said mildly, “this man is not alone. He did not shoot five arrows at once, did he?”

  Robin grinned. “I shot none of them.”

  De Vesci jerked his sword from his sheath and tossed it down before his horse. Bohun and de Mandeville followed suit.

  “Much,” Robin said.

  The boy darted out into the roadway, collected the weapons deftly, and disappeared on the other side of the road.

  “Dismount,” Robin suggested. “Come six steps toward me.”

  De Vesci was horrified. “Do you mean to take our horses?”

  This time Henry Bohun was less willing to follow orders. “We’ll just toss down our purses and ride on, shall we? There is no need to leave us afoot.”

  Robin gestured. “Down,” he said. “Leave them there. Come here to me, as I have said.”

  De Mandevil
le dismounted and released his reins, doing as told. After a moment Bohun did the same. De Vesci, muttering imprecations beneath his breath, jumped down from his horse and took three long paces forward that put him alongside his companions.

  “Much,” Robin said, “take the horses to Tuck.”

  The boy came back out into the road, sans swords, took up the dangling reins, and led the horses into the trees. They crashed after him through thick vegetation.

  Robin, still several strides away from the earls, slipped his hood, smiling. “The past repeats. But at least this time none of you swears I have no right to my sword.”

  “By God!” de Vesci cried, face reddening once more. “It is ‘again’!”

  Bohun blinked. “Robert?”

  Geoffrey de Mandeville nodded to himself, as if a question had been answered.

  “We have food and ale,” Robin said. “Do join us for a meal.” He whistled a low but carrying call. “Will, Alan, Little John—escort our guests, if you please.”

  One by one the men materialized out of the forest on either side of the road, longbows in hand but no arrows nocked. Robin watched as the earls took the measure of them, paying particular attention to the towering size of Little John and the hard-eyed attitude of Will Scarlet, no man’s fool.

  “Why are you doing this?” Bohun inquired. De Vesci, baffled, merely scowled.

  Robin glanced at the Earl of Essex. Geoffrey de Mandeville sighed, lifting shoulders in a slight apologetic shrug. “I had no chance to tell them what we discussed in the garden.”

  “Ah. Well, I suppose it would do best coming from me.” He gestured the others forward. “Go,” he suggested, as Alan fell in before the lords and Will and John behind. They went single-file, trailing slowly into the forest.

  Robin went to where Much had left the swords, gathered them up, and followed his men.

  His men.

  His army. Such as it was.

  He was not Richard the Lionheart, and they were not Crusaders. But he did not see that it mattered who they were or what they were called, so long as what they undertook was for the good of England.

  Robin sighed and resettled the swords in his arms. I am become my father after all.

  Thirty-Nine

  DeLacey was more than a little shocked when he was admitted to see the Earl of Huntington. He had known the man was ill and growing frail, but now he was wasting away. There was little of him left, only the dull blaze in his faded eyes, the ascetic repressiveness of his thin face. Somewhere beneath the covers the body lay, but the sheriff could see none of it save gnarled hands extruding from bedrobe sleeves and a head crowned with wispy white hair.

  It came as a shock. He is dying.

  All men died. But the earl had been old for decades, somehow frozen in time. Only now did he seem vulnerable. Only now was the decisive and difficult spirit dimmed by physical weakness.

  DeLacey inclined his head swiftly to hide his expression. “My lord,” he said, betraying no startlement.

  “My steward tells me this is a matter of business.” The whispery tone was like parchment tearing.

  The sheriff in that moment wanted nothing so much as to depart. At once. To hide from the final, fatal truth that all men confronted, far easier to ignore when one was not brought face to face with mortality. I will grow old one day.

  “Indeed,” he said, withdrawing a folded parchment from his sleeve. “But, my lord—it may wait.”

  “Business rarely waits.” A palsied hand gestured. “Tell me.”

  DeLacey unfolded the parchment. “This is a letter explaining matters to Marian FitzWalter,” he said. “It is best left to me to tell her, my lord, that you have assumed her tax debt. It is I as sheriff who must account for such matters, and arrange them; men such as yourself need not trouble themselves with evictions.”

  A white brow arched. “You will evict her?”

  “Indeed, my lord. You own the manor now. Unless you wish her to remain.” He gestured, trying not to lead the man too blatantly. The earl was old and ill, but deLacey knew it extremely unlikely the man had lost his wits. “You perhaps may wish her to act as chatelaine, to keep the tenants in order.”

  “Leave her overseeing the management of a manor that once was hers? To pay rents to the man who would not permit his son to marry her?” The earl’s cracked lips moved into a faint, wintry smile. “You are cruel, William.”

  “But efficient.”

  “Oh, efficient. Always.” The earl coughed, spasming against the pillows, but he waved deLacey away when he made as if to offer assistance. “No. I will not have her stay. I shall make a different provision for the management of the manor. My steward has been a loyal man, and I intend to reward him for it. My title, lands, and wealth shall pass to the Crown upon my death, and likely Ralph will eventually be dismissed as the king chooses his own man. One day the king will no doubt give some favored family or courtier my title as a reward. Therefore I shall have it written that upon my death my steward shall inherit the FitzWalter manor. And I doubt he will have need of that woman running his household.”

  It took deLacey’s breath away. That Huntington would give the hall and manor to his steward! He himself was dependent on his office for a roof over his head; now Ralph of Huntington, a mere servant, would own his own lands, his own hall. All because he had served a stubborn old man for more than two decades, while William deLacey had served an entire shire for thirty years.

  But he kept all of it from his face. He would still have the pleasure of turning Marian out, and that in itself was worth any price.

  “I shall have this letter delivered to her,” the sheriff explained. “It is a straightforward document, plain in speech. She has forfeited the manor for want of the proper tax payments. You are now the owner. Therefore she must depart.”

  “She is of no moment,” the earl said breathlessly. “But I wish my son to understand what he has given up. An earldom, Huntington Castle, Locksley Village, and now even the girl’s hall. He must see what it is to be alone in the world as a poor man, no better than a peasant, no richer than a serf. He must know what it is to be destitute.” His hand trembled as he wiped at damp lips. “Do you know how many men in England would beg for such an inheritance as I intended to leave him?”

  William deLacey had a very good idea indeed.

  “And yet he rejects what I have done for him. What I have built for him.” The earl’s grimace was a rigid spasm. “He is an ungrateful son.”

  DeLacey was not certain if he should agree—it was one thing for a father to defame his son, quite another for someone else to do so—and thus he held his tongue.

  Then the earl waved a hand. “But he is not my son anymore.”

  “My lord—”

  Huntington closed his eyes. “I have no son.”

  The sheriff could think of nothing else to say, and the earl appeared to have fallen asleep. So he refolded the parchment, slipped it back inside his sleeve, inclined his head briefly to the old man—just in case—and took himself from the room.

  Downstairs, before the main door, he met Ralph, who brought his summer-weight cloak. The now infamous Ralph, loyal, helpful, faithful Ralph. Who surely must know soon what the earl had decided, if not already.

  But deLacey merely looked grave and accepted Ralph’s aid in the donning of his cloak. “I did not realize the earl had taken so ill.” Which was perfectly true, even if intended merely as overture.

  “He has worsened over the last few days,” Ralph said in a subdued tone.

  “He has been a good master to you.”

  “I could not have wished for a better one.”

  “And what of Robert, his son? Do you feel as strongly as the earl does, that the boy should remain disinherited?”

  Something flickered in Ralph’s eyes before he smoothed the servant’s mask back into place.

  “Ah.” The man need say nothing; it was clear he cared very deeply for Robert of Locksley. Likely Ralph had helped raise the boy to
manhood. This made it simpler. “I myself believe the earl is being too harsh. One cannot excuse the follies of youth, of course, and it is quite true that discipline is necessary, but disinheritance? Extreme, I should think.”

  Emboldened by a like opinion, Ralph succumbed to frank speech. “My lord and his son have often been at odds. It is most distressing. They are both proud and stubborn men, unwilling to admit when the other may be correct.”

  “But should a father be so stubborn when he is dying? When he has so much tradition to pass on to his son? Surely he could forgive him.”

  “I pray for it, Lord Sheriff. Every night.”

  Prayer. Well. DeLacey did not believe in the efficacy of such. Best a man do what he himself could, rather than begging God for such things as wealth and power.

  “Would he come, do you think?” DeLacey asked, as if he had only just been struck by the idea. “You say they are often at odds . . . but should a son not be at his father’s bedside when death approaches? Even if the father disapproves?”

  “My lord, I believe so. And I have told the earl. Let me send for him, I have asked. Repeatedly. But the earl says I may not go.”

  “But would he come?”

  “Robin?” The telling slip into the familiarity of a long-time servant was unmarked by Ralph, but significant to the sheriff. “Oh, I do believe so. If he knew his father was dying, I believe he would.”

  “And so he should.” DeLacey rested a hand on the steward’s shoulder.

  “You are a good man, Ralph. One any man should be glad to have in his service. Let us pray you may yet convince the earl to send for his son. Perhaps—tomorrow?”

  Ralph was perplexed. “My lord?”

  “And perhaps it should be done no matter what the earl desires.” DeLacey squeezed the shoulder bracingly. “He is a stubborn man, my lord earl, as you have said . . . he may indeed wish for his son to be here, yet cannot bring himself to ask for his presence after insisting against it. But if you were to go on your own . . .” He arched suggestive brows.