Lady of Sherwood

by Jennifer Roberson

High color underlay the pockmarks. “I say again he is a piss-poor excuse for a knight and Crusader, and I would piss on him at every opportunity.”

  An idea occurred. Casually deLacey said, “It is very likely you shall never see Robert of Locksley again. Would you wish to say farewell? Perhaps make it extremely plain how seriously he has erred? Surely the Lionheart would be ashamed that a man he knighted, a man he himself ransomed, a man he loved so well, should dishonor his memory in such a despicable fashion.”

  Something moved through the dark eyes. A spark of light, of an intensity so vivid it stunned the sheriff. No more was Mercardier the dutiful hired soldier taking no interest in anything other than money. There was something personal here.

  DeLacey tapped fingers upon the table. “You once said you have no conscience.”

  “I am a mercenary. My conscience is hired. Currently it belongs to King John.”

  “Then I will make you a gift,” the sheriff said. “The opportunity to undertake one thing that is for yourself, Captain. Entirely for yourself.”

  Mercardier frowned.

  DeLacey took the ring of keys off his belt and tossed them onto the table. “Explain to Robert of Locksley how very, very much he has dishonored Coeur de Lion. No one will interrupt you.”

  Robin, sitting against the wall, heard the sound of the door again. This time there were no voices, merely quiet footsteps. It was difficult to distinguish how many men might be approaching; but he had learned there were two guards stationed in the dungeon near the line of cells extending away from the pit. He thought it unlikely they were present for him—he was heavily chained and there was no way out of the pit. Probably their task was to guard the cell containing the gathered taxes.

  He stood, canting his head back to stare up at the grille. The light remained wan, no more than what was offered by a single bracketed torch near the pit. Whoever came down the stairs carried neither lamp nor torch.

  Robin listened closely for some indication of the visitor’s business. There was the grit of bootsole on stone, but nothing more. His belly clenched. Every fiber in his body, every corner of his soul, came alive with anticipation.

  Movement. Someone was near the grate. Someone who bent down, unlocked it, then slid the bolt back. The iron lattice was peeled away, allowed to thump down against the stone floor.

  Robin saw Mercardier standing at the rim, staring into the pit.

  It registered instantly. Someone had given the mercenary the keys.

  And Mercardier despised him.

  Chains chimed as he stiffened and moved back out of the patch of light into the darkness of the pit. He had no weapon. He lacked even the ability to use his hands freely. And there was certainly no escape, no opportunity to hide, no chance to avoid what Mercardier planned.

  This bore the mark of William deLacey.

  Inside his head, Robin swore. A beating, no doubt. Possibly even murder.

  The mercenary sat down upon the stone floor and dangled his legs over the rim of the pit. It was an altogether incongruous posture for Mercardier, Robin thought. It spoke of casual companionship, of relaxation, neither of which he had known in the man.

  “When one is a mercenary,” Mercardier began, “one is subject to the whims of one’s patron. But as mercenaries are only hired when that patron wishes things done he himself has no desire to do, and cannot trust servants to do for him, generally the mercenary’s duty is one of enforcement. He guards, he fights, he kills. He also murders, if so ordered. He does not argue against such a thing, does not object to the individual he is hired to kill; he rarely cares what the dispute is about, or who the subject is. He is hired for his skills, not his opinions. And never for his conscience, which is nonexistent.”

  Robin, standing below in the shadows, felt a chill in his flesh. “You will forgive me, I pray, if I am not particularly interested in the nature of being a mercenary.”

  “But you should be,” Mercardier said with profound satisfaction. “I am your judge, you see.”

  Gisbourne presented himself in the hall. DeLacey, who had not sent for him, raised an eloquent eyebrow. His seneschal was scowling. “I thought you sent Mercardier on his way with a report to the king.”

  “So I have.”

  “Then why did you permit him entrée to the taxes again?”

  “I did not.”

  “But I saw him going to the dungeon.”

  “There is more in the dungeon than taxes, Gisbourne.”

  “There is only Robert of Locksley, my lord. What business has Mercardier with him?”

  “The king’s business,” deLacey answered smoothly. “My business. Your business. The business of the shire. The business of making certain an outlaw may not escape, or be rescued, or be deemed unimportant by a king with other concerns on his mind.”

  Gisbourne’s eyes widened as he grasped the implication. “But, my lord—”

  DeLacey cut him off. “In fact, I think I should like to witness the demise. To be certain, you see. To be very, very certain.” He rose. “You may go, Gisbourne. This is not your concern.”

  Robin nodded, though mostly to himself. It was a tidy solution for all concerned. Why wait upon the king’s whim when one might very easily make the problem go away? All it required was a man willing to murder another. A man who had done such before, who had no opinion, no objection. No conscience.

  It was impossible to rescue a dead man. And a dead man never escaped.

  “A competent mercenary is, by nature, a good judge of character,” Mercardier continued. “If one is not, one will not succeed. And when one is the king’s captain of mercenaries, privy to the private matters of high lords and in the king’s confidence, one must be even more vigilant. So that day I first saw you, I studied you. And I knew then you were nothing like the king. He was garrulous and passionate; you were closed. Quiet. He was unstinting in his opinion of men, be they friend or foe; you kept your own counsel even among men who might favor it. When he was angry, you were cold. When he was joyous, you were restrained. He was a great tree of a man, a bulwark upon which nations are built; you were a stripling boy, weighing little more than my sword. Yet for all the differences between the two of you, there was one likeness: you fought the war to win it.”

  Perplexed, Robin stared up at the man. “What other reason is there to fight a war? Not to lose, surely.”

  “Not to lose, no. But for many men war is merely an opportunity, a path to reward. They have little interest in the war itself, merely in victory. They forget that victory must be earned. Victory must be paid for in rivers of blood. But it must never be their own.”

  Robin had witnessed those rivers of blood. He had killed, had spilled his share. The enemy’s. His own.

  “A mercenary,” Mercardier continued inexorably, “serves as he is hired to serve. A season with this patron, a season with that. A skirmish here, a battle there. When one job is completed, he hopes for another. If he is good enough, he has no lack of opportunity; the patrons often will bid for his services.”

  “Mercardier—”

  “But now and again a patron becomes more than a patron. Now and again the mercenary realizes he has no other wish in the world but to serve this patron. Then it is not a job, not a service, not even a duty. But honor. As it was for me to serve Coeur de Lion.”

  Mercardier rose. Moved away. Robin frowned.

  There was the scrape of wood against stone, and then the narrow ladder was shoved over the edge. It slid down, landed in straw. Leaned there, offering exit.

  “Come up,” Mercardier said.

  Robin very nearly laughed. “I think not.”

  Mercardier’s expression did not change. Then he disappeared from the rim of the pit. Robin heard the sound of something being dragged. A moment later a slack arm dropped over the edge, and the body quickly followed. When it landed, Robin saw it was one of the guards. Blood bloomed on his surcoat. He was clearly dead.

  “Come up,” Mercardier repeated. “Do you wish more p
roof than that?”

  Robin did not move. “Why?”

  “Coeur de Lion loved you well. Enough to ransom you from the Infidel, when he did no such thing for anyone else. It was not his duty to do so; he was the king, for the love of God! But he did it. And so, in his memory, I do this.”

  Marian, hiding in the shadows behind a massive pillar, saw the sheriff striding down the corridor leading to the dungeon. It crossed her mind then that it would be a simple task to kill him; she need only loose the arrow and watch him die. But she could not. No more now than in Market Square, when she nearly shot him by mistake. And she was cursed with the imagination to comprehend what would follow: oh, indeed, she might win Robin free, but they would be hunted far more vigilantly for the murder of the sheriff than for simple robbery.

  And yet DeLacey was going to the dungeon. Going to Robin, she did not doubt.

  And the sheriff had the keys.

  Disbelief flickered to life along with fresh hope. There had to be more. But Robin knew better than to make assumptions. “Keys,” he said sharply.

  The ring was dropped down, chiming into straw. Robin scrabbled quickly after it, grabbed it, and began the process of fitting keys into the locks on his shackles.

  “Allez, allez,” Mercardier urged.

  But none of the keys fit. He felt the sickening clench of his belly, the reestablished certainty that this was deLacey’s idea of a jest.

  He threw the key ring into a corner of the pit and glared up at Mercardier.

  “No?” the man asked. Then, murmuring imprecations in French beneath his breath, he disappeared. Robin put one foot upon the bottom rung of the ladder, considering trying anyway. But Mercardier was back, dropping down another set of keys. “From the other guard, oui?”

  Hands trembling, Robin tried the keys one by one. The fourth one unlocked the left shackle. Quickly he stripped it off, then unlocked the other. The sense of relief was profound as the iron fell to the straw.

  “Allez,” Mercardier said.

  Robin climbed the ladder. Once over the edge, once free of the pit, once standing on the floor of the dungeon again, he said, “There is more to it than the Lionheart’s memory. We were never friends, Mercardier; the dislike was mutual. I am turned thief; even I admit it. And you believe I stole this shipment. Why, then? This places you at risk.”

  A spark of anger burned in the dark eyes. “The sheriff is a subtle man,” the mercenary said, “but he made a bad mistake. If one intends a man to believe he has been robbed by outlaws, it is best not to have a soldier who masquerades as an outlaw then appear before the very man who was robbed.” He gestured. “When they brought you in yesterday, I saw two of them. One very tall man. Another short and slight. It gave me pause, and I looked more closely. These two I had seen, before being rendered unconscious.” He shrugged. “I do not doubt the others were present as well, though I did not see them. But no more was necessary. The pieces existed; I put them together. And it all became very clear.”

  Breath gusted out of Robin. “Then deLacey stole his own tax shipment!”

  “Oh, I think nothing was stolen. I think only one chest among the many on the wagon contained coin. Because when I entered the cell earlier, it was obvious to me none of the other chests had been moved.”

  “To make me look guilty,” Robin said.

  “And to discredit me,” Mercardier added. “I interfere with his plans, with his private little kingdom. But it is of no matter now; I intended to withdraw from the king’s service when I returned to Court. This John, he is nothing like his brother. Richard was . . .” He spread his hands, at a loss for words. “Richard was—”

  “Richard,” Robin finished, smiling wryly.

  “He was a king,” Mercardier said, “for whom it was a pleasure to serve. It was my honor for more than ten years. I would have done it for no payment.”

  That, Robin supposed, was the highest form of flattery a mercenary could offer. But . . . “Why the piss?”

  The grim mouth twitched into a fleeting smile. “Most convincing, oui? Such hatred, such contempt for you displayed before witnesses, including the sheriff’s seneschal. I knew deLacey would permit me to return. And so, I am here. And you are free.” But there was no friendliness in the dark eyes. Enmity remained. There never had been, nor never would be companionship between them. “I suggest you go.” Something in his face altered slightly. Briefly. “Go to that woman who would die for you.”

  Robin nodded, prepared to accept his freedom without further explanation. “What will you do? Hire on with someone else?”

  “Perhaps. But first I am going home to Aquitaine. I have been too long away.”

  In the distance, a door opened. Robin froze.

  “Mercardier?” It was deLacey’s voice. “Have you quite incapacitated him?”

  Robin looked sharply at the mercenary, whose expression assured him this interruption had not been planned. Grimly he indicated the dead guard, lying two paces away, and gestured. “The sword.”

  Mercardier went to the guard, drew the sword, and tossed it to Robin even as he unsheathed his own. His voice was a harsh whisper as he said what Robin was thinking. “So we fight, oui?”

  “Ah, oui,” Robin answered grimly. It was the only way to convince the sheriff no complicity existed.

  “Captain?” deLacey called.

  Mercardier answered by attacking Robin.

  Forty-Six

  DeLacey heard the clash of blades as he descended the stairs. It froze him a moment; then he quickened his pace. He was nearly down when the combatants came into view, rounding the wide, arched entrance to the wing of cells.

  Mercardier. And Locksley.

  Something had gone wrong.

  His hand grasped convulsively for his own sword. But he wore none. He was in his own hall, tending his own business. One did not wear a sword when at home.

  But one had a knife. It would not do against a sword, but if Mercardier retained Locksley’s attention there might be an opportunity.

  Perhaps.

  Then again, Mercardier had been King Richard’s finest fighting man. He might neither need nor appreciate such assistance.

  DeLacey halted there, four steps from the bottom. It provided him with an unobstructed view, a view worth watching. He had never seen two finer swordsmen. It brought to mind the memory that he had defeated Sir Robert of Locksley; though a perverse part of him also recalled that the dais steps and chair had impeded Locksley, forcing a slip, and had he not fallen, the fight might easily—and probably would have—gone the other way. Then King Richard had arrived . . . and Marian had broken the sheriff’s arm with a blow from Gisbourne’s crutch.

  DeLacey swore. Had he succeeded in killing Locksley then, his life would have been much different.

  The fight was almost too fast to properly watch. It was a brutal dance of death: attack, parry, break, thrust, parry, chop, parry, attack-attack-attack, feet constantly moving, bodies striking classic and improvised postures, finding ways to maintain balance, to unweight as necessary, to turn and twist and duck, to slide and lean, to back up, then plunge forward; and also a song: the clash of steel on steel, the subtle harmonies of the blade dependent on placement, be it near the hilt or the tip. Quillons caught, were entrapped, wrenched apart. Steel tapped, scraped, chimed, slid. No subtlety in broadswords, no edge on the tips: they were not for piercing and stabbing, but meant to slash, to smash, to hack and to shatter; to sunder flesh and bone, to scythe limb from trunk and head from shoulders.

  They panted now, the opponents. Sweat ran freely, bathing grim faces, the rictuses of effort. Mercardier’s damp dark hair clung to his head, hugging his skull like a steel cap. Locksley’s longer, fairer hair mimicked pale spray as he moved, slapping his shoulders and back, swinging forward to curtain his jaw. They watched each other’s eyes, judged movement by what was seen, was anticipated; stopped the expected offense, turned it to advantage, or reacted in time to recover from an unexpected ploy.

&nb
sp; There was joy in it, deLacey knew, a wholly unimaginable and entirely inexplicable exaltation in the dance: of effort expended, of skill engaged, of the unflagging determination to win. To defeat the enemy.

  These men had once, together, danced this dance against the Infidel in the name of God, of Jerusalem, and of Richard, King of the English. They had survived. They had killed. One of them had been knighted.

  Now they fought one another. And one of them would die.

  Neither spoke. They gasped. Grunted. Neither swore. They breathed. Concentrated. Occasionally deLacey saw one mouth something, as if in conversation with himself. Exhorting himself. Making promises to himself, or perhaps issuing prayers. Nothing else in the world existed for either of them but the movement, the moment, and the opponent.

  They reeled close to the staircase. DeLacey backed up, gripping his knife. His own breath ran ragged and choppy, as if he, too, fought. He was tensed to move; he needed to move.

  Torchlight glanced off steel; steel splashed flashes against the walls. The sheriff, poised five steps above the action, drew his knife. Mercardier need only force Locksley to the stairs, and up, and the knife would prevail over the sword.

  But it was Mercardier whose back was to the stairs. Mercardier who was forced up them. And Mercardier who went down, sprawled there at deLacey’s feet. One hand gripped his blade, but it was out of play. Locksley’s blade was at Mercardier’s throat.

  “Yield,” he gasped.

  Mercardier said nothing, merely breathed noisily.

  “Yield.”

  DeLacey, now four steps above, contemplated throwing the knife. But it was a meat-knife, no more, utterly lacking in balance, and if he missed . . .

  Locksley flipped the grip neatly in his hands, now holding the sword in a vertical position. All he had to do was drive it down and slam the blade through Mercardier’s heaving chest. “Yield.”

  Mercardier’s sword clattered to the floor. His voice was harsh. “I yield me.”