“The taxes?” she asked, as it was uppermost in her mind.
His features hardened. “They haven’t yet come to Longstride manor.”
She didn’t like the look in his eyes. “Please, Robin, don’t do anything rash.”
He took a deep breath. He wanted to tell her about the man buried on his land. He couldn’t. It would endanger her.
And she was a woman of kindness, not weakness, but a gentleness that soothed him. If she knew he had killed, much less how he’d done it…no.
He moved on. “That’s what my father would say.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s fine,” he replied, and he relaxed a bit. “Truth is, I didn’t really appreciate him or his perspective until I had to plow a mile in his shoes.”
“Is it difficult to have him gone?”
“Even more than I would have imagined. I don’t know how he has the patience for it all.” He shook his head, a lock of dark hair falling across his eyes. “I’m not like him.”
“That’s not a crime, you know,” she said softly.
“He thought it was.” They walked along, not speaking for a moment. “I wish he was here now to tell me. I miss him, much as I wouldn’t have believed it.”
“He’ll come back to you,” she said, “and you are fortunate in that. I miss my parents every day, knowing that I’ll never see them again.”
“I’m careless to be complaining,” he said. “I didn’t mean to cause you distress.”
“You didn’t,” she said quickly. “There’s just… so much on my mind lately.”
Silence fell between them again. For a moment she wanted to take him into her confidence, tell him what she and the others were planning. She was sure he would approve. She stopped herself, though. It wasn’t her decision. She couldn’t risk it, no matter how much she wanted to.
A rustling in the brush just ahead of them interrupted her train of thought. Robin was instantly alert. He tossed her the reins and slung his bow off his shoulder. The horse shied away from the sudden movement, and she had to hang onto the reins to keep it from bolting. Robin stepped forward, a long arrow at half draw.
From the side of the road burst a small dark shape. It flew across the gap as if it had been flung, running and tumbling to the other side. The horse started again, yanking Marian a step backward.
From the same part of the brush a wolf leapt onto the road. It landed on three paws, one of its front legs a ragged stump. Dark fur bristled along the hump of its shoulder as it turned toward them and bared yellowed fangs. It growled, tongue lolling out of a muzzle shot through with gray. The horse reared at the sight of it, pulling the leather straps through her hands, burning them in a sharp line. She held on, but barely, her eyes not on the horse but on Robin.
He ran forward, taking four long strides to put him squarely between her and the predator. It hopped on its three legs, growling loudly. Robin pulled and loosed the arrow laid across his bow. It flew swift and straight, thudding into the ground under the wolf’s low-slung chest, striking so hard that the vibrating shaft smacked it across the muzzle.
The wolf snorted and jerked its head, hopping backward. It sneezed and looked up at Robin, who already had another arrow ready to fire.
“Go on and get,” Robin said. “Don’t make me kill you, old-timer.”
The wolf looked across the road where its prey had disappeared, and then back again.
Robin took another step.
The wolf dropped its tail and barked once, sharply. It turned and bolted in the direction from which it had come.
Marian dragged the horse over to Robin as he walked to the arrow sticking from the road, plucked it free, and dropped it into his quiver.
“You didn’t kill it.”
“It was a lone wolf, old and crippled and expelled from his pack. He was just trying to eat. That’s not worth dying over.” Something passed over his face—a sadness. “Not worth killing over.”
“What was it chasing?”
“I couldn’t see. Perhaps a rabbit?”
Soft, mewling cries, and then a growling whimper, came from beneath a blackberry bush.
Robin hopped off the edge of the road and waded through the underbrush a few steps. Locating the sound, he parted the branches of a bush, stopped, and stared for a long moment. Before she could ask what he saw he stood up with a baby fox in his hands. The tiny creature wriggled and whimpered and her heart went out to it.
“His mother would never have birthed her kits this close to the road,” Robin said. “He must have wandered off by himself, perhaps looking for her.”
“You think something has happened to her?”
“There’s no way to know, but he won’t survive on his own. He’s too young. Too small.”
“I’ll take him,” Marian said impulsively.
Robin looked at her. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. We’ve had enough orphans in these parts. I won’t see another.”
“Have you ever raised a wild creature?”
“Once, as a child. This one will be wanting milk and warmth.”
Robin handed her the tiny squirming ball of fur. She stroked him for a few seconds and held him close to her body for warmth. Within moments he had relaxed and fallen asleep.
“You’re a natural mother,” Robin said, his voice respectful.
“We shall see.”
Robin straightened and cleared his throat. “You should be getting back. It will be full dark soon.”
She nodded.
He held the fox and steadied her horse while she mounted. Once she was settled, he handed her the creature, which she carefully tucked into an inner pocket of her cloak. Then he gave her the reins.
“I might stop by the castle sometime,” he said, then he added with a subtle smile, “to check on the little fox, of course.”
“I’d welcome you any time,” she answered, feeling herself blush. “For the fox’s sake.”
“Be safe on the road.”
She nodded but made no motion to begin riding away. Again she felt the urge to tell him of her plans, but again she refrained. Robin had enough of his own worries trying to manage the manor in his father’s absence. She didn’t need to be adding to them.
“If there is anything I can do to help you,” she said instead, “please just ask.”
He smiled up at her, a full, dazzling smile that took her breath away. He didn’t say a word, just let go of her horse and took a step back into the forest. He gave her a little salute, and she urged her horse forward.
Don’t spoil the moment. Don’t look back. Don’t.
She turned and looked back. He was gone, disappeared into the forest from whence he’d come.
* * *
Chastity was waiting for her when she arrived at her room.
“You were gone a long time,” the girl said. There was no disapproval in her voice—just curiosity.
Marian trusted Chastity with her life, but she didn’t want to pull her in too deep. She couldn’t risk putting her friend in danger. If she kept this plan from her, though, it would be the first time in years that she hadn’t shared a confidence. So she reached inside her cloak and pulled out the baby fox, which looked up groggily.
“Look what I have found.”
“Oh, he’s adorable,” Chastity cooed. “Will you keep him?”
“Yes. I need to get him some milk.”
“I will go fetch you some supper and bring your milk,” Chastity said. “Then we can talk all about it.”
“All about what?” Marian’s breath caught in her chest.
“About how you met Robin in the woods,” Chastity said with a smirk.
Marian allowed herself a smile. “I do believe you are a mind reader.”
“No, but I am a face reader, and yours is an open book.”
Oh, Marian thought, that may not be the best thing.
* * *
By the time Chastity returned with the food and some milk for their new arrival
, Marian had changed clothes. The baby fox sat on the bed watching everything with wide eyes. She thought she might have to soak a rag with milk, in order for him to suckle, but when Chastity set down a saucer he attacked, pouncing on the meal and able to drink it himself.
“So, shall we call your new pet Robin?” Chastity teased.
Marian rolled her eyes. “I can hardly do that. How would it look?”
“Well, then, what shall he be named? Lord Fox?”
“Too simple. Lord of the Greenwood?”
“Och, princess, that’s quite a mouthful when he needs chastised.”
“Perhaps.” Marian tapped her chin with her finger. “I think for now I will call him Champion.”
The fox looked up as if responding to his name, and she smiled. Heaven knew the kingdom needed a champion right now.
“Champion, Lord of the Greenwood,” Chastity said, softly stroking the russet fur. “Long may he protect us all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The dirt under his feet was so hard-packed that no dust came off it as he walked, putting one foot in front of the other. A bead of sweat hung on the end of his nose, shaking with each breath. He watched it as a way to pass the miles from the mill to his appointed delivery spot, losing himself in the mesmerizing shimmer, counting to himself how many steps the drop would hold and when it fell, as they all invariably did, how many steps until another formed.
“Ho, boy! No need to go further. We can take that up for you.”
Much turned at the booming voice, looking over the edge of the road and out into the field. Two men moved toward him, having left a team of horses behind. One man was older than his father, lean as a leather strap and looking twice as tough.
The other was a giant.
Much smiled as they drew near and lowered the crossbeam that held bags of meal and flour. Old Soldier put a hand on his arm, iron fingers squeezing the muscle. Pain shot through him, but he stood straight and didn’t flinch.
“I swear, we could unhitch that team, put you in their place, and not miss a step,” the grizzled old man teased.
Heat colored his cheeks. He pointed at the giant.
“He’s the one you should strap into the harness. Little John can out-pull two horses easy. I saw him do it at the Beltane festival last year.”
Little John threw his head back and laughed. “You were there?”
Old Soldier spat on the ground. “Everyone was there and you know it, you big lummox.”
Little John raised his arms and flexed. Biceps the size of melons bulged against the short sleeves of his light tunic.
“Not everyone has heard of the Mighty John.”
“Your head is bigger than your muscles.”
Much basked in the warmth of their companionship, listening as the two men joked with each other in easy camaraderie. Deep in his heart he longed for a friendship like that, someone who wouldn’t anger at a humorous insult, and would be there in times of need.
Little John reached down, grasping the crossbar in one hand and lifting it to his shoulder. Much had to pull his mouth closed at the sight of it. He knew exactly how much those bags weighed—nearly as much as he did. To see a man lift them as if they were empty shocked him. Silhouetted by the setting sun, Little John looked like a carving of Ogimos, god of strength and eloquence.
Suddenly there was silence, and a tension cut the air, drawing Much’s eyes leftward to Old Soldier. The man’s face had closed like a fist and his hand lay across the hilt of the dagger shoved into his belt, fingertips almost casually wrapped round it. His voice darted out, low and quick.
“See to, Little John. Stop acting a fool.”
The giant looked down, and the grin plastered on his face cracked and broke and crumbled into his beard. He and Old Soldier both peered in the same direction. Much turned to look where they did.
Down the road came a company of mounted men, thirty strong. His eyes picked out the line of swords on all their hips, and many carried halberds or lances—even a poleax or two. As they drew near he recognized Lord Locksley at the head of the retinue, wearing his bright blue tabard over gold brazed mail. The men directly behind him were other nobles, and behind them rode a contingent of guards.
“What is this?” Little John said, watching them draw near. He looked at Old Soldier. “Do you think this is from the other day?”
Old Soldier leaned close to Much, so close he could feel the old man’s breath on his face.
“Can you run?”
Much nodded.
“Then fly over that field and tell Lord Longstride that company is coming.” He spat on the ground. “Bad company.”
* * *
The door rattled in its frame, wood jarring against wood and sounding like thunder. The noise rolled through the house.
Glynna Longstride stepped into the great room, drying her hands from washing vegetables for the evening dinner. A thin, salmon-colored shift clung to her chest and stomach, sucking close to her skin with the water from the washing. She had been daydreaming, absentmindedly performing her task as she thought about the Sheriff. She accepted the sensation of wet linen against her skin, enjoying it and adding it into the texture of her reverie.
There was no servant to get the door—all of the house staff were out in the field. She pushed down the surge of annoyance that threatened to fill her chest.
The door rattled again as her hand fell on the latch. She jerked back, startled, the sound vibrating the air around her.
“Who knocks so fiercely on my door?” she cried.
A voice came through the door, muffled but familiar. “A duly appointed vassal to the king.”
Through the wood she felt someone with whom she was familiar. She gripped and lifted the heavy bolt, sliding it from the iron ring in the doorframe and back into its oiled housing. Swinging the door open she spoke.
“Merl? What is the meaning of…?” Her voice died as she saw the armed retinue of men lined up behind Locksley. His face softened as he saw her.
“We are here to collect the taxes for your household,” he said, and he looked down at her collarbone, unable to hold her gaze. Then his eyes dropped even lower.
“We already gave to the war effort,” she said. She pulled her shoulders back, standing proud without covering up. “My husband, a large portion of our belongings, and most of our people.”
His voice dropped, low enough to not be heard by the other men at the front of the porch.
“This is different, Gealbhan.”
“Do not call me that.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not your sparrow.”
Red rushed to his face as he met those stormy eyes. He stared at her for a long moment, clearly admiring the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck. It was as if she could read his every thought—not that he was going to any great lengths to hide them from her.
Without turning, he spoke to the men behind him. “Search it all, take one third of anything with value, and remember to look for any books.”
The men moved forward, pressing in. Glynna stumbled back. As they approached the door, some of the men stared at her, raw lust washing over their faces, turning their sneers into leers. And in that moment she understood all too well.
They will take everything.
Everything but what she held most dear. She trusted in the wards to hold on her room. She felt a slight moment of fear at the mention of the book. It couldn’t be hers, could it? No one knew she had it, not even the Sheriff. Something inside her held it back from him, though she felt no guilt.
Lila. Lila might know about the book from the days when it had belonged to Glynna’s mother. White-hot anger flared through her at the thought that a servant would have the audacity to betray her. Then she tucked the thought away.
She’d deal with Lila later.
There was a rush of sound behind her. Before a single invading foot could cross the threshold Robin was simply there. He appeared from nowhere, just suddenly moving past her. He twisted, kicking out with a m
uddy boot. The door slammed shut and someone outside howled, their fingers too slow to prevent being crushed by the impact. Leaning against the rough planks, he threw the bolt.
The door shook as fists pounded from the outside.
He turned, gripping her arms. His hands left smears on her smock. His eyes blazed in their sockets, teeth showing white in his dirt-covered face.
“That won’t hold them long,” he said urgently. “Gather the girls and anyone else who is here and go out the back before they get there. Don’t return until after the sun rises again.”
She nodded, taking in his words, understanding them. Yet she didn’t move to comply, wrestling inside herself. Did she have enough power to stop these men?
Not without preparation. Not without ritual.
He shook her. “Go! It won’t take them long to begin circling the house. Get your children to safety.”
She nodded, blonde hair falling around her face.
Robin looked past her. “Go with her and help her.”
She turned and saw the miller’s son standing at the doorway to the hall. He didn’t speak, just nodded vigorously. Moving forward he reached out and took her arm. His hands were far stronger than she would have expected.
“It’ll be alright, milady,” the boy said. “He’ll take care of this.” He didn’t look at her when he spoke, though, tugging on her arm.
One thought ran through her head.
I always thought he was slow.
Looking at her son one last time, she allowed herself to be led around the corner.
* * *
Robin moved to the mantle of the fireplace. His fingers slipped across his bow on its pegs. Its yew seemed to grow warm as it called to him, an old faithful friend.
Reluctantly he pulled away from it and reached past, his hand closing on the leather-wrapped handle of an ancient hurley bat. It had been in his family for generations, passed down from father to son. The wood had cracked but never split, the ash grain worn smooth from hundreds of clashes on the field of a sport that was a cross between a child’s game and murder.
He pulled it from its place.
* * *
“We cannot get through. The door is too stout!”
Mark of the Black Arrow Page 24
