Lady of Sherwood

by Jennifer Roberson

  Ralph frowned. “I could not go against my lord’s wishes.”

  “In nothing else, of course not. But he is dying, Ralph! Would you deny him a chance to see his son a final time, to deny that son the chance to ask forgiveness for so much misbehavior? It may be the final opportunity for them to reconcile.”

  But Ralph was as yet unconvinced.

  DeLacey knew when not to press a man. “Well, it may be moot regardless. He could die tonight, I daresay—and there is no time for you to send for Robert today. Perhaps, if he lives the night . . . well, you may feel differently in the morning. Even the earl may. Perhaps you might ask him again tomorrow, when there is time for you to fetch Robert.” He paused. “To fetch Robert home, Ralph, where he belongs.” He resettled his cloak, hooking brooches. “Prayer will help. Give God the opportunity to know what is in your heart. Pray tonight, Ralph, and ask the earl again tomorrow—he would send you, would he not, so faithful and trusted a man?—and perhaps you may bring the prodigal home again.”

  Ralph seemed encouraged. “I will indeed pray tonight, my lord, and see what the earl says in the morning. Thank you for your confidence.”

  DeLacey strode out of the hall into the late afternoon, resolving to station a man to report when Ralph rode out of Huntington. Plenty of time, he reflected. The earl and his steward did not know Locksley had taken to hiding in Sherwood. Ralph would go all the way to Ravenskeep to fetch the son home to his dying father, and that would give deLacey time to arrive at Huntington with his soldiers to offer Locksley an appropriate reception.

  He smiled as he waited for his horse. Everything was coming together so nicely, and all at the same time. Efficiency incarnate.

  Or perhaps God did not like outlaws, even nobly born ones, any more than William deLacey did.

  Now that was a deity he would willingly pray to. One who punished outlaws. It would certainly save the sheriff a lot of time and aggravation.

  “And so that is why,” Robin finished, leaning against a tree trunk.

  Eustace de Vesci, a flask of ale clutched in one hand, stared uncomprehendingly at Geoffrey de Mandeville. “You told him to rob us?”

  “Well, not precisely rob us,” Essex replied. “I suggested he serve us—and Arthur—by keeping the taxes from John. He has no money, no treasury, merely the title. A king cannot keep his crown if he has no money for the ordering of the realm.”

  Henry Bohun was less offended than de Vesci. “But was it necessary to carry out the charade there in the road? You might have identified yourself before taking our swords and making us dismount.”

  “Practice,” Robin said succinctly. “I was not raised to this, you see.”

  De Mandeville smiled, genuinely amused. De Vesci glowered and said, “You’ve adapted well enough.”

  Robin looked at them one by one. The three of them sat in a row along a log, like birds upon a limb. Alan, Will, and Little John, bows in hand, ranged behind them casually. “What is to complain of, my lords? We have fed you, given you ale, kept you company.”

  “You have delayed us,” de Vesci explained. “We meant to make Lincoln by nightfall.”

  “And you still may. I don’t intend to keep your horses, or even your swords.” Robin shrugged. “Only your purses and rings.”

  After a moment of stricken silence, de Vesci boomed out a hearty gust of laughter. “By God, you learn fast! I almost believe you.”

  “Do,” Robin suggested. “You may all of you go as soon as the toll is paid.”

  Bohun understood more quickly than de Vesci, eyes narrowing. De Mandeville did not bother to hide his startlement. “Robert?”

  “Or you may stay the night here,” Robin said quietly. “Perhaps in the morning you will feel more generous.”

  Will Scarlet prodded the stunned de Vesci in the spine with his longbow. “Pay the toll, aye? Then ’tis Lincoln-bound you’ll be.”

  Robin smiled at them companionably. “Fear not. The coin and baubles are not for us. We will take a percentage—I think that is only fair, considering the risk—but I’ll send most along to Arthur.”

  “We can send money along to Arthur!” de Vesci cried, now almost purple with rage. “And he has no need of our jewels!”

  De Mandeville was frowning. “Robert, I must protest—”

  “You cannot be seen to send money to Brittany. You cannot be seen to support him in any way. You certainly cannot be seen to steal taxes from deLacey. I am already outlawed—a small matter of a pardon revoked, a brace of borrowed horses, the rescue of a cutpurse from under the sheriff’s nose—and disinherited. Surely I am beyond hope. Surely I can no longer embarrass my father. Surely I may convince you I mean what I say.”

  “Robert, there is no need—” de Mandeville began.

  “A sacrifice,” Robin overrode him, “for the good of the realm. Such things are often asked, and as often offered.” He lifted his brows. “Surely you, my lords, comprehend the need.” He took an empty leather pouch from his belt and tossed it to land on the ground at de Vesci’s booted feet. “Please put your rings in that. Your purses you may donate to Little John as he takes you to your horses.”

  De Mandeville stiffened. “This is not what I intended when we discussed this in the garden.”

  Robin nodded sympathetically. “I know. But one must consider this a war, my lord. Wars are not won by undertaking the simple things. Wars are not won by undertaking the friendly things. Wars are won by undertaking what is necessary. No matter what others may think.”

  “War is honorable!” de Vesci bellowed. “By God, would the Lionheart countenance this?”

  “The Lionheart,” Robin said very quietly, “did whatever was necessary. What he perceived to be necessary. I was there, you see, when he ordered executed nearly three thousand of Acre’s citizens after the city was won. Even women, my lords.”

  That did not sit well with the three earls. They shifted uncomfortably on the log and exchanged concerned glances.

  “But—robbing us?” Bohun asked. “We are on the same side!”

  “Outlaws have no sides.” Robin grinned, scratching again at stubble. “And we do intend to rob many folk. You are not the only ones.”

  De Mandeville sighed deeply. “I suppose we should be grateful you are not other outlaws. They would keep the coin for themselves.”

  Scarlet declared pointedly, “Other outlaws might even kill you.”

  De Mandeville began methodically to strip off his gloves. Rings followed. He bent, took up the pouch Robin had tossed down, dropped the rings into it. Then he handed the pouch to Bohun with a murmured comment, “The sooner done, the sooner we may go.”

  With an expression of taut displeasure, Hereford repeated the process with his own rings. But de Vesci, when he was given the pouch in turn, merely threw it to the ground. “This is travesty!”

  Robin shrugged. “This is robbery.”

  Scarlet prodded the man in the spine again. “Give over,” he suggested. “You can’t win this war, aye?”

  Robin looked at Alan and Little John. “Much is with the horses. Escort my lords of Hereford and Essex to them. Collect their purses. Then see them to the road, and return their swords. As for my lord of Alnwick”—he looked now at Eustace de Vesci—“we shall, it seems, share his company overnight.”

  De Vesci leaped to his feet. “You dare to threaten me?”

  Robin folded arms across his chest and stretched out his legs in a posture of relaxation, crossing them at the ankles. “I would not construe eating our bread, drinking our ale, and sharing our company as a threat, my lord. Rather, it is hospitality. This is our home, you see.” His gesture encompassed the forest. “I would be remiss as a host if I did not fête you properly.”

  De Mandeville was grave. “Robert, do take care. I understand what you are doing—and I suppose I should share some of the blame!—but you risk making enemies here.”

  Robin ran out of patience. “Good, my lords, I have been disinherited. Outlawed. I may be hanged for
my actions. I have nothing to lose by doing what I do here, but very much to gain, as my lord of Essex pointed out a matter of days ago in my father’s garden.” He paused. “And Arthur of Brittany, because of what I and my companions do here today and in the days to come, may become King of England.”

  It struck them all to silence. Henry Bohun looked thoughtful. Geoffrey de Mandeville was resigned. “My brilliant idea,” he murmured ruefully.

  Eustace de Vesci, face aflame with choler, jerked the rings off his fingers and tossed them to the ground. “For Arthur, then,” he declared forcefully, as if it would defray the embarrassment. “But I will not excuse you for’t!”

  “Nor should you, my lord of Alnwick. This is indeed an outrage.” Robin nodded at Scarlet and the others to gather up the noble chicks. “And I will freely submit to any discipline you wish to mete out . . . once Arthur is on the throne.”

  De Vesci turned on his heel and snapped an order at Scarlet to show him to his horse. Henry Bohun went with him, escorted by Alan.

  It left only Geoffrey de Mandeville. Little John stood behind him, waiting in silence. “A dangerous gamble, Robert.”

  “One you have taken as well.”

  “But not to the same degree.” The older man’s expression was compassionate. “If our efforts fail, and John remains on the throne . . .” He gestured futility.

  “We shall hang,” Robin said simply. “But first they must catch us. Here in Sherwood, that is not so easily done.”

  De Mandeville glanced around at the encroaching trees and vegetation. He nodded slightly, then extended his arm to Robin. His gaze was steady. “Your father is a fool.”

  Smiling, Robin gripped the arm. “But consistent in his convictions. In a world of kings, crowns, and power, that is all too rare.”

  Forty

  Marian was startled when Joan came running up the stairs, breathlessly announcing ‘that Norman’ was back again. Even after close questioning the woman could not identify the visitor better than that, so Marian left off packing her bundle and went downstairs, mentally prepared to face anyone. But she was not expecting Mercardier.

  The perverse part of her that preferred accuracy in all things, even things that did not truly matter in the ordering of the world—it was her besetting and most annoying flaw, Robin had explained in exasperation on several occasions—very nearly informed Joan he was not Norman, but from the duchy of Aquitaine, or so Robin had explained. But she restrained the impulse. His birthplace was hardly at issue, nor had bearing on the moment.

  He stood just inside the door, seemingly ill at ease. She thought perhaps he was a man more comfortable—and best suited to—being out of doors, or in castles and tents discussing war strategy with kings and high lords, not for lingering within halls intended for civilian habitation.

  She nearly missed a step as she approached, abruptly and vividly recalling that it had been he at the business end of her nocked arrow the day before in Nottingham. Had he recognized her after all?

  But Marian thought not: she wore a woman’s chemise again, and her hair had been taken from the tight braid and washed, left loose to dry. Even now it spilled over her shoulders to her knees. There was nothing about her that recalled the lad in yeoman’s clothing.

  “Madame,” he said in his accented English, “I am in need of a horse.”

  Neither tact nor courtesy were his gifts. But Marian looked more closely at him. He carried his helm in the crook of his elbow, yet his gray-threaded dark hair bore no signs of compression. In fact, his hair was entirely disordered. Dirt floured his surcoat. “You appear to be in need of more than that,” she observed. “Have you been in a fight?”

  Color abruptly stained the saturnine face, surprising her with its intensity. It was an entirely different Mercardier who gazed back at her, clearly discomfited despite attempts to hide it.

  “You have,” she said in discovery. “What happened?”

  Beneath the high color, the pocked face was rigid as stone. “May I borrow a horse, madame? Be certain I shall have it returned safely.”

  “What happened to your horse?” In view of who he was and whom he served, it mattered. “I cannot in good conscience lend you a horse if there may be danger to it.”

  Color remained in his face. “Madame, as surely you must know, there has been a robbery.”

  “As surely I must know?” she echoed, truly startled. “Why must I know, Captain?”

  He barely moved his mouth, merely issued the words in a harsh monotone that nonetheless expressed his fury more eloquently than shouting. “Because in all likelihood it was Locksley and his men who did it.”

  “Locksley and his men.” Already it had begun. And yet she could not hide the note of puzzlement in her tone. “Forgive me, Captain—but are you accusing Robin of robbing you?”

  “Of robbing the king, madame.”

  “The king?”

  “He and his men have stolen the taxes.”

  Genuinely taken aback, Marian clapped both hands over her mouth.

  Mercardier’s eyes narrowed. “Feigned shock, madame? Is this studied response because you knew this was to happen?”

  “Unfeigned,” she said through parted fingers. “And unstudied. This response is pure astonishment, Captain.”

  He scoffed. “Ah, oui. Astonishment, certes.” He glared; this was an indeed entirely new Mercardier, to be so extravagant with emotions. “I am to believe you did not know? Come, madame—I may be a mercenary, but not a stupid one.”

  “I did not know,” she answered forcefully, with the weight of truth in the words; because it was true. “Nor am I convinced it was Robin. There are many outlaws in Sherwood.” She had of course known they intended to steal the taxes, but not when. Not so soon. Certainly not today. It was weeks early for the shipment; Robin and the others would never have been prepared to undertake such an effort without time to plan carefully.

  Mercardier scowled at her. “If you continue to delay me with prevarication, I have no choice but to believe you knew what they intended.”

  “A telling point,” she acceded, “but untrue. Though I realize there is no way to convince you.” Marian, frowning, studied him. “Are you injured, Captain?”

  The color flooded back into his face, which had grown uncharacteristically pale. “We were set upon, madame, and quite overpowered.” His mouth thinned. “Briefly.”

  She very nearly laughed; clearly it deeply hurt his pride to confess defeat. Perhaps he had never known it before. “Briefly?”

  He gritted his teeth so hard muscles jerked in his jaw. “The others rode after the outlaws.”

  “The others? Oh, you must mean the soldiers accompanying you; surely not even you would have been expected to be the sole escort.” Marian blinked, affecting ingenuous discovery. “Do you mean then that you were left behind? You did not ride after the outlaws?”

  “I was rendered unconscious,” he said grimly, “and fell from my horse.” Absently he touched a mailed hand to the back of his head, as if recalling the blow. “My horse was not present when I roused.”

  It was not truly amusing—he was obviously in discomfort—but he was so desperately offended that she wanted badly to laugh. Instead, she smothered it and settled for delicate, dry irony, Robin’s most devastating weapon. “Perhaps the horse went after the outlaws as well.”

  And very clearly the mercenary recognized the progenitor of that irony. He took a sharp step forward as if he meant to grab her arm, but aborted the movement with a wince. Marian believed it more likely that pain curbed his temper rather than manners. She was grateful nonetheless; Mercardier was not a man for gentleness. If he touched her, even in mild rebuke, she would very probably bruise. “If you like, I can put a cold compress on your head,” she said, “and offer you a bed.”

  Mercardier glared at her sourly. “And keep me from reporting this theft to the sheriff?”

  “Ah. Of course you would believe that.” She shrugged acknowledgment. “Then I rescind the offe
r. Yes, you may borrow a horse.” She turned to Joan. “Show him to the barn. Hal will see to it he is given a mount.” She looked again at the angry man. “Do see that this horse does not run into the woods chasing outlaws, if you please.”

  Will Scarlet, accompanied by Little John, Much, and Alan, came back laughing from escorting the earls to their horses. “Yon lords are most discommoded,” he announced, briefly attempting a noble accent before dropping back into his own peasant speech. “I think the beefy gent would hang you himself.”

  Robin, squatting next to Tuck, who sat on the ground with the contents of several pouches spread across his cassocked lap, shrugged. “De Vesci, Earl of Alnwick. He has always been disposed to excitability.”

  Alan shook his head. “And you say the one suggested you turn thief?”

  “The Earl of Essex. He did, yes. For Arthur’s sake, he said; but I think he truly had not realized what the task entails.”

  Little John nodded. “They should try it themselves, aye?”

  Scarlet scoffed. “Not them. Never dirty their hands, would they?” He spat in contempt. “Lords.”

  Alan arched golden brows in mock startlement. “Are you forgetting our very own Robin was once a lord himself?”

  “Aye, but not anymore, is he?” Scarlet countered cheerfully. “Just an outlaw like the rest of us, groveling in the dirt.”

  Robin, observing Tuck’s treasure from his position in the dirt and deadfall, nodded sagely. “I came to my senses. This is a much better life than living in a fine hall with fine clothing to wear and fine food to eat and a true bed to sleep in.” Coins and rings glinted against black Benedictine wool in tree-latticed sunlight. The others gathered around, peering down at the riches.

  “How much?” Little John asked.

  “Enough for Marian’s taxes,” Tuck answered primly, “thanks to our friends the earls. Not so much for Arthur of Brittany—we’ll send him the rings, as we can hardly pay taxes with them—and very little for the poor.”