by DAVID B. COE
Marion mounted smoothly and appeared to be just as comfortable sitting a horse as she had been cleaning a dray's hoof, or hosting a stranger at her supper table. The more Robin saw of Robert Loxley's wife, the more impressed he was. She didn't wait for him, but steered her mount toward the gate and the lane leading down into Nottingham. Robin swung himself onto the charger and rode after her, pulling abreast of her just as they cleared the gate and started down the road. She still said nothing to him, and for the moment Robin held his tongue as well. From the perspective of the hill on which Peper Harrow was perched, the town of Nottingham looked smaller than it had the day before. The fields surrounding the town appeared green enough, as if they should have yielded healthy crops, but several of the plots remained uncultivated.
The town itself looked as though it once had been prosperous—its buildings were well-constructed, the road leading to and from the village gates was relatively broad and well-traveled. But like the fields, the town seemed to have suffered as of late. Prosperity was but a memory now. Hard times had come and stayed.
Robin glanced at Marion and found that she was watching him, as if gauging his responses to what he saw. She faced forward again, maintaining her silence. He looked beyond the fields to the vast forest looming at their edge, its shadows seeming to swallow the morning light.
“What wood is that?” he asked, pointing.
“That is Sherwood Forest.”
“Sherwood,” he repeated in a whisper. The name stirred his memory, though he couldn't say why.
They continued down the hill into Nottingham and steered their horses to the center of the small village.
As they did, Robin spotted three familiar forms in the street, walking gingerly and squinting hard at the morning light. None of them showed any sign of being able to walk a straight line, or, for that matter, to clothe himself properly. Will Scarlet carried his boots and shirt. Allan A'Dayle's shirt was on, barely, but he seemed to be holding up his breeches with one hand and carrying his lute with the other. And Little John seemed to be wearing everything backward, or at least sideways. Taken together, they made quite a sight. A moment later several girls emerged from a nearby building, their clothes nearly as disheveled as those of Robin's friends. As soon as they spotted Marion, however, they retreated back inside.
John made his way over to a horse trough and began to splash water over his head and face. The others paused to wait for him.
Chuckling at the sight, Robin started toward them. “You still here?” he said. “I thought I'd seen the back of you.” He glanced at Marion, who had followed. “My men at arms. This is about as courtly as they get. Will Scarlet, Allan A'Dayle, and Little John.”
John waved at her from the trough. Will and Allan sketched bows.
Marion looked them over. Robin expected her to be scandalized, to refuse even to acknowledge them, but she surprised him.
She nodded to the men, an ironic smile on her lips. “I trust you had … an historic evening.”
“Gentlemen,” Robin said. “Lady Marion Loxley.” He paused, but only for a moment. “My wife.”
Will dropped his boots. Allan nearly dropped his breeches. Little John straightened and walked back to where the others stood. They exchanged looks and then turned as one toward Marion, and regarded her for several moments.
She endured their stares as best she could, though after a few seconds her gaze began to flick toward Robin, as if she was hoping he would make them stop looking at her.
“A little rash perhaps,” Will said at last, out of the side of his mouth. “But well played, Robin.”
Robin raised his eyebrows at the three of them. Taking his hint, they bowed to Marion and offered greetings.
“G'day, ma'am.”
“How do you do?”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Robin cleared his throat. “Also, it may be best to address me as Robert.” When the three of them looked his way again, skepticism on their faces, he added, “For the time being.”
“Really?” Will said.
Little John nodded solemnly, clearly suppressing a smile. “Right you are, Robin!”
Allan bowed deeply to him. “Sir Bob …”
Following his lead, Will and Little John began to bow as well, and soon the three of them were practically falling over one another trying to see who could bow the lowest and grovel the best.
“That's the way,” Robin said, grinning at them.
As he and Marion turned their horses to continue through the town, Robin could tell that Marion was trying to keep herself from laughing. He also had the sense that she liked the boys, and again, this surprised him.
For his part, Robin realized that he was relieved and pleased that Will, Allan, and Little John hadn't left Nottingham. He liked having them around, and since it now seemed that he would be living in this town for some time, he felt better knowing that he had allies here.
Just a bit farther up the lane, past scrabbling chickens and pigs rooting through dirt and rotten leaves, Marion and Robin came to a cluster of villagers who, it soon became apparent, had been waiting for a chance to welcome “Robert Loxley” back to his home. They called greetings and bowed to Robin, their hands clasped, their knuckles held to their foreheads. Robin felt himself growing vaguely uncomfortable. He could accept having to pretend to be Loxley in front of the house servants and townspeople. But pretending that he deserved their obeisance in this way—he had to resist the urge to jump off his horse and pull them up off their knees.
“This is rare respect for a foot soldier,” he muttered so that only Marion could hear.
“Then bear yourself like a knight, sir,” she said, an edge to her voice. “Your people look to you.”
“My people …” Robin looked at the townsfolk a second time. They weren't groveling out of fear; in fact, they seemed genuinely pleased to have their lord back in Nottingham. My people… He sat a little straighter in his saddle, and he belatedly acknowledged the greetings they offered. He didn't put on airs, or act superior as he had seen some nobles do. But he nodded to them, the way an army commander might answer the shouted greetings of his men.
Marion nodded her approval and actually graced him with a smile. “Like that,” she said quietly. She eyed a white-haired woman and her husband, standing slightly apart from the others. These two bowed as well, but they eyed Robin keenly, their brows furrowed. “Now even the older folk who remember Robert—”
“They know something's amiss here …” Robin said, watching the couple as well.
“Sir Walter is their lord,” Marion said, her voice still lowered, but her tone firm. “I am their ladyship. And you are Robert returned if we say so and act so.”
As if to prove her point, another gentleman, even older than the two who had been watching Robin, stepped forward and saluted him, standing as straight as his old body would allow.
“Sir Robert!” he called. “You remember me! Tom Chamberlain—the pig man!”
Robin smiled at the gentleman. “And you don't look a day older, Tom!”
Marion glanced at Robin quickly, surprise and approval in her expression. He smiled back.
They rode on slowly, waving, smiling, nodding, accepting greetings and offering some of their own. This all felt strange to him, but he could see now that he didn't have to be false to himself in order to “be” Loxley, and perhaps he couldn't ask for more than that on his first day in Nottingham.
Riding around a bend in the lane, Robin and Marion came to what Robin guessed was Nottingham's tithe barn. Most every town in England had one; the bishops of York had to have their grain, just as the realm's kings demanded their gold. The heavyset friar Robin and his companions had encountered the day before stood outside the barn beside a wagon that had been loaded with grain. Nearby, eight guards and their horses waited to escort the wagon northward. All of them wore the bright red and white livery of York's bishop, and looked every bit as competent as any soldier of the realm.
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br /> “Friar Tuck is new here,” Marion told him, indicating the priest. “You will be Robert for sure.”
Tuck looked over at them as they approached and raised a hand in greeting. If Robin hadn't known better he would have sworn that the good friar looked every bit as hungover as Will, Allan, and Little John had been. His eyes were red, and though he favored Marion with a smile that appeared genuine, it obviously took a great effort.
He stepped forward to meet them. “Ahh, Marion. Good word travels from Peper Harrow this morning.” He turned his gaze to Robin. “Sir Robert, you should have made yourself known when we met in the fields. Welcome home.”
Before Robin could reply, a second wagon rolled out of the tithe barn. It, too, was loaded with grain. A deacon of the church followed it out into the sunlight, a ledger in his hand. He took little notice of Robin and Marion.
“Yes,” Robin said, acknowledging Tuck's greeting. “Forgive me, Friar. What goes on here?”
“We are moving the grain to York at the bishop's request,” the friar said. “Some politics out of London I hear.”
Marion gave the friar a reproachful look, and the man wilted some under her gaze. In fairness to Tuck, Robin didn't think he looked too happy about sending the grain away. But if the bishop had called for a shipment, there was nothing Tuck could do. Even as he formed this thought, Robin felt the kernel of a plan forming in the back of his mind. He kept it there for now, but he smiled inwardly at the notion that had come into his head.
“This is our grain,” Marion was saying, scolding Tuck as if he was a wayward child and she his parent. “It belongs in the soil.”
“Lady Marion, I but follow the demands of my superiors, and abide by their saying and their rule.” He sounded truly distressed, and Robin found himself feeling some sympathy for the man. Some.
Marion said not another word. She looked straight ahead, as if Tuck had become invisible to her, and rode away. Robin steered his horse closer to the man.
“Does his holiness know of your wealth in honey?” Robin asked in a voice only loud enough for Tuck to hear. “Should the bishop not be told of that bounty, too, so that the righteous may spread Nottingham honey on Nottingham bread?”
Tuck's eyes went wide, and he licked his lips, clearly understanding that he was caught between his bishop and his lord. “There are wolves in York, Sir Robert. Voracious wolves. These bees are my family. I am a procreator by design and need.” He paused licking his lips a second time and shuffling closer to Robin's horse. “A great need. I am not a ‘churchy’ friar, never have been. I prefer to preach on the highways and byways—the spray of wildflowers from Poppleton to Dover and back to here I take some humble credit for. The bees bring life. They are my life, Sir Robert.”
Robin decided then and there that he liked this friar. He leaned closer to the man. “Then the bees need not be spoken of.” He raised his voice a bit, glancing at the deacon. “This place needs all the life it can get, do you not agree?”
The church's man shot Robin a filthy look.
Tuck, though, smiled conspiratorially. “Easily said for you, sir, but who will protect the friar from the wrath of his bishop? The bees bring life,” Tuck said again, the words laden with meaning this time. “They are my life, Sir Robert.”
Robin leaned close to the man again. “Should the grain not find it's way to York, then the bees need not be spoken of.” He nodded to the friar and spurred his mount after Marion, who had ridden far ahead. Robin felt confident that he and Tuck had reached an agreement, and they would soon be fast friends.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Robin caught up with Marion at the edge of town. She regarded him oddly as he pulled abreast of her once more, but she didn't ask what he had said to Tuck. She led him back around the town and up onto the hill, so that soon they were riding through the fields just outside of Peper Harrow. As before, Robin was struck by the richness of the surrounding lands. It all looked lush and fertile. Had he been a farmer, he would have been drawn to the deep living green of these lands. He looked around him, his puzzlement growing by the moment.
“This is rich country,” he said at last. “Where are your cattle? Your sheep?”
Marion took a breath, looking over the lands in turn. “Sold,” she said. “Eaten, stolen, traded. We have had seven lean years in the shire. Our meat is rabbit, or a wild pig on a lucky day.”
Robin looked toward the forest. “And deer?”
“If you're willing to risk your neck to the king's executioner!” Marion said. “Every deer in the land belongs to his majesty.”
He hadn't known. That didn't seem any more just than the church claiming these people's grain. No meat, no bread. How were they supposed to eat?
“The lives of kings and bishops depend on their people,” Robin said, as much to himself as to Marion. “So why do the people believe it's the other way about?”
Marion eyed him curiously, clearly not knowing what to make of what he had said. In truth, Robin wasn't sure what to make of it either. He had never said such a thing before, at least not so that others could hear. It wasn't really the kind of thing he was used to thinking. He'd spent the last ten years as a soldier, worrying about his own survival and that of the men fighting beside him. He took Loxley's sword and armor as much to get himself back to England as to honor Sir Robert's last request. But this … this had been an odd day. First he had ridden through town as a lord, and had found himself warming to the feel of it. Now he had spoken as if trying to incite a rabble. Who was this Robert Loxley he had become? For that matter, who was the Robin Longstride whom Sir Walter claimed to know?
Robin turned to look back down at Nottingham below them. And doing so, he saw the grain carts rattling away along the road, the bishop's guards riding on either side of them. The kernel had sprouted roots and taken hold.
He and Marion resumed their ride. Passing through the fields, they saw two men working the land, one of them bent and ancient looking, the other only slightly younger, with a ruddy, pleasant face. Marion whispered their names to him as they drew near the pair: the younger man was known as Gaffer Tom; the old one was Paul, a farmer who had worked the Loxley lands for years upon years.
When they had drawn even with the men, Gaffer Tom took off his hat.
“Welcome home, sir!” he called.
Paul raised a gnarled knuckle to his forehead. “An honor, sir!”
Robin nodded back to the men, and as they returned to their labors, Robin and Marion continued their ride. She told him more about the history of the land and the Loxley family. Robin listened, trying to hang on to every bit of information she offered. All the while, they kept to the hill, so that every few moments Robin was offered a different perspective on the town below and fields around them. Eventually, Marion's narrative came around to her own story.
“I was an old maid when Robert courted me,” she told him with a smile. “Twenty-four! And ripe for a nunnery. The daughter of a respectable widow with”—she held her thumb and forefinger just a little bit apart—“a thimbleful of noble blood. He saw me in church at Ely and I was betrothed in a week. A week later, he was seduced by King Richard to join ship for France and Jerusalem. So we were wed, and he left at daybreak to ride south. That was my married life, with a man I hardly knew.”
“A good knight,” Robin said, thinking of what it must have been like for Sir Robert to leave his new bride the morning after his wedding.
“Short, but oh, so sweet,” Marion said, staring off over the fields.
It took Robin a moment. “No,” he said, trying to keep from laughing. “A good—”
“Oh!” Marion said, raising a hand to her mouth, her face coloring.
Robin grinned. “A knight-in-arms. A brave soldier.”
He had to give her credit; she recovered quickly, making the best of her embarrassment. “My knight-in-arms even so,” she said, smiling as well. “And I in his.” She looked at him sidelong. “And you?”
Rob
in shrugged looking straight ahead. “I am what I am: an archer as soon as I could bend a bow and, ever since, on the march for pay, with nothing to offer a woman.”
The words sounded harsh and bitter to his own ears, and he smiled at her to soften what he had said.
“Least of all a lady,” he continued. “I barely spoke English before I learned to speak French. I was brought up by strangers among olive groves in Southern France. I can't remember my mother or my father.”
Saying this, his thoughts turned once more to the promise Sir Walter had made the night before. Somehow, the old man knew the secrets of his past. It seemed Marion's thoughts had taken a similar turn. She looked at him, a question in her eyes.
