Lady of Sherwood

by Jennifer Roberson

  DeLacey raised the knife, clasping it by the blade tip.

  “No,” a woman said. “Unless the lord sheriff wishes an arrow shot entirely through his heart.”

  Locksley looked up. And grinned.

  Marian had heard the sound of swords as she crept to the door leading to the dungeon stairs. At first she could not begin to understand what it might mean. And then hope surged. There was no reason for men to be fighting in the dungeon, unless a prisoner had escaped.

  A quick glance over her shoulder—no one approached—and she opened the door with care. A torch in a wall bracket lighted the staircase. Halfway down it turned, then turned again; she had been here before. Twice. She knew the staircase, knew the dungeon. Intimately.

  Down the steps . . . moving silently. Torchlight flickered. The sound of blade on blade was clearer. There were no outcries, no way for her to tell who was fighting. And no deLacey, either. She thought he must be one of the swordsmen.

  And then the staircase turned, and turned again, and the tableau lay before her. The sheriff, poised partway from the bottom, knife in hand. Mercardier, sprawled across the steps. And Robin, demanding he yield.

  Marian halted . . . adjusted the arrow, fitting it more securely upon the string. Drew it. Told the sheriff what would happen if he threw the knife.

  DeLacey twitched in surprise.

  “Drop it,” she said, aware of Robin’s upturned face. She wanted to tell him to watch Mercardier—what if the man came surging up from the stairs?—but did not. She would not break her own concentration, not for a moment.

  DeLacey’s shock was plain in his voice. “Marian?”

  “Drop it, Sheriff! It was I who killed your horse; do you truly wish to test me from range such as this?”

  He dropped the knife.

  Robin picked his way around Mercardier. He was smiling, she thought. He stopped before the sheriff, two steps down, and silently gestured for him to turn around.

  DeLacey did so. He now looked at Marian. Stared at Marian. His eyes were malignant.

  Robin stepped close behind the sheriff. He set his left arm around deLacey’s throat, shoving his jaw upward, and placed the swordblade against fragile flesh. “Climb,” he said.

  Marian glanced briefly beyond them both. “What about Mercardier?”

  “He yielded.” Robin was still smiling. “He won’t trouble us.”

  Movement. She flicked her glance back at Mercardier, saw in horror that he was rising, had picked up his sword. “Hold!” she said sharply.

  He stared up at her. She knew what he saw: a slight boy in yeoman’s garb, until she shook back the hood. It settled on her shoulders. Best not to obstruct her peripheral vision. “You,” he said, and she saw, to her shock, a certain amused satisfaction glinting briefly in his eyes. He knew her now; knew whom he had faced in the lane.

  “He yielded,” Robin repeated, when she did not avert the arrow.

  Mercardier glared. “I yielded, madame.”

  It meant something to them, clearly. Something bound them now, though she could not discern what. Not friendship, certainly. Nor enmity; or at least not enough that would bring a man to fight. It was—what it was.

  Marian swallowed. Her throat hurt. She felt tight as wire all over, and close to trembling so hard she likely would shoot Mercardier if she loosed, rather than deLacey. She chose to do as Robin apparently wished her to do, from the gesturing fingers. She backed up the stairs. At the door, she paused.

  “Turn,” Robin said. “There is the hall to get through, and the baileys. Be ready.”

  Marian turned. Leaned a shoulder against the door. Pushed. Robin, she knew, had his sword at the sheriff’s throat. If anyone attacked, he could easily kill deLacey. But she doubted he wished to; that would destroy their advantage. It was up to her to lead them through the hall, to lead them through the baileys. And through the main gates beneath the sentry-walk.

  Four arrows. She could expend three.

  Behind her, she heard deLacey’s harsh breathing. He would see her hang for this.

  And so I am become an outlaw.

  With no pretense to logic, Marian wondered what Alan, forever concocting ballads, would make of that.

  Robin knew she was frightened. He had seen it in her posture, in her face, heard it in her voice. And yet she was in that moment as courageous as any man he had known, even hardened soldiers. Even mercenaries. True courage lay in accepting one’s fear, not denying it, in doing what was necessary despite that fear.

  He had never not been afraid, in war.

  Even now.

  She opened the door and stepped through, shoving it wide to crash against the wall. She was through, moving steadily and carefully into the hall, arrow nocked, bowstring drawn.

  He knew it was possible they might both die in this.

  And then, as he moved through the door and Mercardier followed, he heard the mercenary’s familiar battlefield bellow.

  “Stand aside! Let no man come near! Do not risk your sheriff’s life!”

  It succeeded in bringing soldiers and servants running into the hall. Mailed hands went to sword hilts. Bare hands flew to mouths.

  “Stand down!” Mercardier roared. “He will surely kill your lord!”

  Marian advanced. Robin marked how she selected one man as her target, pinning him in place until she moved farther and selected another. Wisely done. In trying to take aim at any number of soldiers even as she moved, therefore threatening all, she lessened her chances of accuracy and improved their chances of attacking her without risking injury. In threatening one, she promised at least one death. And no individual soldier wished to take that risk.

  So long as they had only swords, not crossbows, he believed she was safe.

  “My lord!” It was Gisbourne, come into the hall at a run. He stopped short, hand on hilt.

  Robin turned the edge of his blade into deLacey’s throat. “Is there something you wish to say to him?”

  “Hold,” the sheriff croaked. Then, more loudly, “Stand down, Gisbourne!”

  “But—my lord!” Then he noticed Mercardier, eyes widening. “Do something, Captain!”

  “He yielded,” Marian explained, and Robin noted with a faint stab of amusement that Gisbourne had become her latest target.

  It enraged the steward. “You won’t shoot me! You haven’t the stomach for it!”

  DeLacey’s voice rose in alarm. “Gisbourne—”

  “She won’t,” Gisbourne said, and drew his sword.

  Marian loosed. The broadhead punched through his right shoulder, front and back, before the arrow lodged in flesh. Only the fletching was visible against Gisbourne’s tunic; the shaft had nearly gone completely through him.

  With no wasted motion she caught another arrow out of her belt and nocked it, drawing smoothly and swiftly, before any man could move.

  Gisbourne was down. He writhed on the floor, whimpering, left hand clamped to the meat of his shoulder. No one approached to aid him.

  Robin’s breath stirred deLacey’s hair. “Move, if you please.”

  Through the hall and out of it, aware of eyes upon them, angry eyes, startled eyes, fascinated eyes . . . Mercardier walked behind him, seemingly unaware that he blocked Robin from a rear attack. Marian moved before him, still poised to shoot; and she had proved beyond doubt she had the stomach to do it as well as the skill.

  “In the bailey you might be a bit more forthcoming with regard to warning off your soldiers,” Robin suggested. “See what it earned poor Gisbourne?”

  “Murder,” deLacey rasped.

  “That wasn’t a death-wound, as you very well know. Unless you plan to kill him yourself and blame it on us. I recall you did so before, when you slit the throats of twelve of your own men.”

  They were at the threshold of hall and front stairs. “Stand down!” Mercardier roared from close behind; it took every ounce of self-control for Robin not to start. “Let them pass, lest your lord be killed!”

  “How
kind of him to ward your life so well,” Robin murmured into deLacey’s ear. “Without his assistance, you could be dead. Be certain to reward him—should you survive.”

  “If I were behind you, you would be dead. Even had I yielded!”

  “That is because you have no honor. And imagine such a thing: one of King John’s most loyal supporters lacking honor! How could it be possible?”

  “Locksley—”

  Robin cut it off with increased pressure on the blade against deLacey’s throat. “We are in the bailey now. Hadn’t you better ask your soldiers not to make it necessary for me to kill you?”

  Breath hissed in the sheriff’s throat. “Hold!” he shouted. “Stand down!”

  “Better.” Robin urged him onward. “Nearly into the outer bailey . . . is Marian not magnificent?”

  “Marian’s neck will be stretched even as yours is! Is she truly willing to lose her life because of you? Are you willing to risk her?”

  “She has nothing left to lose but her life, Lord Sheriff. You and my father saw to that.” He shrugged slightly. “And we shall let her determine what is and is not worth dying for, shall we? She answers to no man.”

  “She answers to your bidding.”

  “Ah, but this was all her own.”

  “Stay back!” Mercardier shouted; they were in the outer bailey. Men upon the wall, armed with crossbows, lined the sentry-walk. One bolt was all it required to strike Marian down.

  “Tell them,” Robin commanded.

  DeLacey said nothing.

  A bit more pressure, and blood flowed.

  “Stand down!” deLacey choked. Then, as Robin moved the sword slightly to facilitate speech, “I said, stand down! Hold! Any man who shoots will be disciplined!”

  “Better,” Robin murmured.

  They neared the gates. Were through. And then Marian shouted for aid even as a wagon careened toward them, and Robin had the fleeting impression of a red-haired giant upon the driver’s seat.

  From dwellings across the street, arrows flew in warning, thunking into the gates. Soldiers ducked.

  “Well fought,” Mercardier said abruptly. “And your victory, Locksley. Richard was right: you have honor, heart, and skill.”

  But there was no time for response . . . Marian threw her bow into the back of the wagon as it lurched to an awkward halt. Robin, giving way to nerves at last, spun deLacey back the other way and brought the wheel-pommel down against the back of the sheriff’s skull.

  “Hurry!” Marian was in the wagon, gripping the sideboards. “Robin—”

  In two leaps he was at the wagon even as Little John yanked on reins to turn the horses, roaring at them to run. It lurched from under Robin, nearly upending him into the street. Swearing, he lost the sword entirely as he grabbed for the sideboards. He barked one shin, fell flat on his face, then pulled himself up and turned around so he sat facing backward, staring at the castle gates.

  DeLacey was down in the dirt of the street, one hand clasping the back of his head. Mercardier stood over him. The sun was going down behind the castle; the mercenary, in silhouette, was a broad bulk of a mailed, man-shaped wall, features indistinguishable.

  “Merci,” Robin murmured. Then he thrust a victorious fist into the air. “For the Lionheart!”

  Marian’s arms closed tightly around his neck as the wagon bounced and shuddered. “For Robin Hood,” she said.

  And kissed him soundly.

  Epilogue

  The priest concluded his prayers before the modest altar and rose, wincing slightly as his knees creaked. With each season he grew a bit more stiff, a bit more slow, but God did not mind if his servants were not as nimble as in their youth. God required the heart and soul, not the body.

  He turned, his mind on a bite of bread, and stopped short. A man stood in the open door, silhouetted against the sunlight. “Father?”

  Perhaps the bread would wait a bit. “Yes, my son?”

  The man came into the small church. Now the candlelight fell clearly on his face: he was young, handsome, slim, with riotous golden curls. His clothing was a bit tattered, but clearly once had been fine. He had the manners and accent of a lord, yet the priest felt both were affected, not natural. “Father, I have a cart just outside. May I trouble you to accompany me on a short journey?”

  This was not an unusual request. There were ill and injured people who could not come into Nottingham; he made it his practice to go where he was needed. “Of course, my son. Shall we be gone long?”

  “No, Father, I’ll have you back before sunset. And we shall feed you well, that I promise!” He indicated the door with a graceful gesture. “May we go?”

  The priest appreciated the fine manners and charm, though he might chide the young man for veniality; pride of appearance and manners should never come before God.

  Outside there was another man with the cart. His clothing was not so fine, nor his expression, nor certainly his manners. “Coming, then, are we?”

  The fair-haired man pressed a light hand into the priest’s back, urging him forward. His tone was mild, but the words were odd. “Will—we would do better not to be seen together.”

  The other shrugged. “Won’t be here long enough, will we? Oh—I found you this.” He reached into the back of the cart and pulled out a lute. “The fool with it was caterwauling terribly; ’twill be better as yours, you being a minstrel.”

  The priest was shocked. “You stole this lute?”

  The other man—Will?—shrugged. “You can absolve me later, Father. For now—let’s get you in the cart, aye?”

  “But—”

  “Please, Father.” The charming man was at his elbow. “Let us not tarry. Nottingham is not always kind to our sort.”

  “Not if you steal lutes,” the priest said sharply, but obligingly allowed himself to be helped into the back of the crude cart. The sin would be mitigated with confession and absolution, and God would of course forgive.

  Will handed the suspect lute to him, then climbed up on the seat behind the sharp-hipped piebald horse. The minstrel got in beside the priest and humbly asked if he might see the instrument.

  The priest gave it to him. “You have fine hands,” he remarked, as they embraced the instrument. Indeed, minstrel’s hands.

  “Ah,” the young man said on a sigh, “it has been too long.” But he did not play, merely grasped the lute with careful, covetous hands, and smiled unceasingly.

  “Where are we going?” the priest inquired as the the cart jolted into motion.

  The driver hitched a shoulder. “Bit outside the city. Not far. Just down the road, aye?”

  They were through the gates in short order. Outside the city, not far, just down the road, Sherwood Forest began. The priest eyed the trees uneasily. “How far?” Outlaws inhabited Sherwood.

  “Oh, not to worry,” the driver declared offhandedly. “You’re with us.”

  Unease increased. “We’re going into Sherwood?”

  The lute-player was amused. “Do you think then that God should discriminate?”

  “Of course not! But—” He scowled. “ ’Tis dangerous in Sherwood.”

  “Betimes,” the driver agreed. “But not today.”

  “Why not today?”

  The minstrel grinned. “ ’Tis a celebration, not cause for concern.”

  The priest opened his mouth to demand further explanation, but just then the driver turned the horse off the road onto a narrow, overgrown track. Wheels creaked, thumped, and rattled; the old man caught hold of the sideboards, lest his bones fall out of his flesh.

  He smelled woodsmoke, and roasting meat. “How much far—”But the question remained unfinished as the cart was halted.

  The minstrel climbed out, one hand wrapped around the neck of the lute; the other he extended to aid the priest. “Come, Father.”

  The priest did not disdain the help, nor did he fail to thank the young man. But he was displeased, and knew they saw it. Precisely as he intended.

 
The driver was down from the seat. He cupped hands to his mouth and emitted a series of bird calls.

  A moment later a boy burst out of the bushes, grinning maniacally. “Hurry!”

  The driver scowled at him. “Where was the call, Much?”

  “No more birds!” the boy said. “They’re waiting.”

  “Waiting, is it?” Will pushed his way past the boy, parting vegetation. “Come along, Father.”

  The priest found himself hemmed by the driver, the boy, and the man with the lute. They were casual about it, and not unkind, but he had the distinct impression he was not so much a guest as a captive. Then he pulled up short. “I smell venison!”

  “Venison, ale, wine, fruit, bread—and anything else that somehow made its way here,” the minstrel said. “Keep moving, Father, I beg you.”

  “We can’t eat venison! ‘Tis the king’s deer! ’Tis poaching!”

  And then they were through vegetation into a small clearing, where pine garlands and berry wreaths had been hung, and flowers tucked into hollows, and a crude table cobbled together of rough planks and tree-limb tripods. There was ale and wine as promised, and also bowls of fruit and platters of bread. But in the center of the clearing was a spit and a fire, and a fine deer was roasting.

  “Poaching!” the priest repeated.

  A very large man stood beside the table. No, a giant stood beside the table, presiding over the ale by sampling it. Beyond him was another, tending the meat. The priest was shocked speechless when he saw the tonsure and cassock.

  The Benedictine had the grace to look mildly ashamed. “Forgive us, Father. But we had no choice. I am only a monk, you see, and this requires a priest.”

  Testily he demanded, “What requires a priest?”

  Another man stepped into the clearing. He was slim but tall, and broad through the shoulders, with hair so fair as to be nearly white. He wore a fine green-and-gold checkered silk tunic, though it was far from new. “The wedding,” he replied. He flicked a wry glance at the others. “I suggest we begin. The bride is growing impatient.”

  “Can’t have that,” the giant declared, grinning.

  “Father, if you please . . .” The minstrel guided him toward a bulwark of lichen-clad granite, then turned him to face the clearing. “Stand here, I beg you.” He looked at the others. “Do something other than hang about like lackwits; perhaps you might gather as if this meant something to you?” He nodded as they hurried to obey. “Very well, I shall play in the bride. Robin?”