Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  “Come on, then, let’s not waste any of it.” The giant strode directly to the log bridge, stationed himself on his side of the stream, and waggled imperative fingers. “Come across—if you can.”

  This could hurt ... Locksley paced more deliberately to the crude bridge, judging his footing carefully, and the length of the giant’s staff. Were it a test of archery skill, I’d be a happy man. He paused, set one booted foot on the end of the log, tested it for solidity.

  “Come now, will ye take all night?” the giant chided. “Or d’ye think to lull me to sleep with all this, then sneak across in the dark?”

  Locksley continued to test the bridge, ignoring the baiting. His body had changed in the two years since he’d left England to join the Lionheart’s cause, and then again while on campaign, and yet twice more in captivity and restoration. Weight had come and gone, dependent on nourishment, while muscle lengthened, increased, and gained power. He had grown up in Richard’s army, trading youth for hardened manhood in the deprivations of crusading. No more was he the whip-slender youth his father knew, but an experienced fighting man. He knew himself much better than ever before, in mind and body. He had beaten bigger men than himself in many things, but none so big as this man in anything so purely physical—or painful—as quarterstaffs.

  “Come on, then,” the giant said. “D’ye want the girl, or not?”

  I want her. Locksley rolled the staff in his hands, seeking the most comfortable grip. But not in the way you think, nor for the same reasons.

  The giant shook his head. “She’ll be old before this ends.”

  Locksley walked out on the bridge, assessing steadiness, footing, and balance. “And you’ll be exceedingly wet.”

  Twenty-Seven

  With the sun nearly set and only a token number of candles lighted, Nottingham Castle’s hall resembled a shadowy cavern. William deLacey, seated on the dais, rose from his chair and set both hands upon the table, leaning on braced arms. “Where are they?” he roared.

  The castellan was a tall, heavy man, thick through the shoulders and chest, and thicker yet through the middle, where an ever-expanding belly pressed uncomfortably against unforgiving mail. He was a dark-haired man, with a face naturally saturnine; now, before the sheriffs unadulterated anger, it took on an uncompromising hue of new bronze. “My lord—”

  “Where are they?” deLacey repeated, very softly now. “Six of your best, Archaumbault ... a reflection of you, perhaps?”

  Archaumbault shifted self-consciously, chafed by his tight mail and shame. “My lord, it may be that the forest hinders them. It is Sherwood, after all ... once off the tracks, it’s difficult to follow anyone conversant with the forest—”

  “He isn’t a fox,” deLacey ground out. “He’s a man, who is dragging a woman with him. Will Scathlocke isn’t from Nottingham, he’s from a village east of here; do you think him conversant with Sherwood?” He glared at Archaumbault. “He is on foot; they are mounted. He is unarmed; they have crossbows. They should have caught him before he got to Sherwood.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Well, then.” DeLacey straightened and folded his arms. “What do you propose to do?”

  “Assign more men to the task, my lord. More capable men, my lord—obviously those already searching are not up to the task. I will see to it personally that only the best will be given the duty.”

  “Do.” DeLacey smiled. “Lead them yourself, Archaumbault.”

  The man didn’t so much as twitch. “Yes, my lord.”

  The sheriff flicked his fingers. “Go.”

  “My lord.” The castellan turned smartly on his heels and strode out of the hall.

  “Fool,” deLacey muttered wearily, collapsing into his chair. “The incompetence appalls me ...” But he let it go, breaking off, because Gisbourne’s mousy assistant, Walter, had come into the hall. “What is it?”

  Walter, squinting, bobbed a hasty bow. “The clerk, my lord. Brother Tuck. He has a letter for you regarding his employment here. From the abbot of Croxden, my lord.”

  “Very well.” DeLacey sat back, sighing. “Have him bring it in.”

  Walter nodded and hastened back out. The sheriff, not much interested in what the abbot had to say, idly contemplated the dimness of the hall as he waited for the new clerk. “Gisbourne will have us all blind,” he muttered crossly. “How is a man to see if there is no light at all?” Mentally he told himself to have more candles put out.

  “My lord Sheriff?”

  DeLacey motioned the man forward. “Brother Tuck, is it?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Come closer, into the light—though God knows there’s little of that.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Brother Tuck came forward. “I have a letter, my lord—”

  “From Abbot Martin, I know. Bring it here.” DeLacey put out one hand.

  The monk acceded, wheezing very slightly as he stepped up to the dais and handed over the sealed parchment. He retreated quickly enough, folding his hands into the deep sleeves of his black cassock.

  DeLacey broke the seal and scanned the letter. Eventually he looked at the monk: a young man of great girth and humble demeanor, with a cow’s-cap of curly brown hair surrounding a freshly shaven tonsure. Even his eyes were cowlike: large, brown, and placid. “It says here you’ve been sent from the abbey because you’re a discipline problem.”

  The quiet voice was steady. “Yes, my lord.”

  DeLacey’s tone bordered on disbelief. “You are a discipline problem?”

  The young friar blotted at his upper lip nervously. “Lord sheriff, I confess to a great sin I have as yet been unable to conquer.” His smile was sad. “I eat too much.”

  “Indeed.” It was obvious.

  “Far too much, my lord.” One plump hand splayed across the belly swelling the unadorned cassock.

  “Abbot Martin says you are to be on half-rations while here.”

  Brother Tuck sighed. “I’ve prayed and prayed, my lord ... so far, nothing has worked.”

  DeLacey angled a single brow upward. “And I am believed able to provide the discipline your faith cannot?”

  Tuck’s wide, fleshy face was oddly bland, putting deLacey once again in mind of a cow. “Abbot Martin believes you are capable of eliciting any kind of behavior you desire.”

  “Does he?” DeLacey’s smile was thin. He appreciated the two-edged content of the statement. “As well he should. Your Abbot Martin and I have crossed swords before—in a manner of speaking.”

  “I admit my weakness,” Tuck declared earnestly. “I would be very grateful if there’s anything you can do to aid me in this. Until I conquer my sin, I won’t be able to return to the abbey and take full orders.”

  “And that’s what you want?”

  Tuck’s face took on an almost unearthly light. “Oh my lord—yes! More than anything!”

  “Very well.” DeLacey rattled the parchment. “Serve me well in all things—and accept my discipline—and I’ll send you back to Abbot Martin with a recommendation he wouldn’t dare ignore.”

  Tuck gulped heavily, clasping his thick-fingered hands. “My lord, I would be most grateful.”

  “Meanwhile ...” The sheriff fingered his chin. “Meanwhile, I would have you draw up an execution order for William Scathlocke. Leave the date open. The final fate of the man rests upon Prince John’s pleasure.” Provided Archaumbault’s six expert archers haven’t killed him yet—or Archaumbault himself, once he gets to it.

  “Yes, my lord.” Tuck bobbed a bow and turned away.

  “Brother Tuck.”

  He swung back, cassock billowing. “Yes, my lord?”

  “You are unable to preside at a wedding, then?”

  “Yes, my lord. Until I take orders.”

  “Yes. So I thought.” DeLacey waved a hand. “Go along, Brother Tuck. I’ll have the order in the morning.”

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

  The sheriff watched the corpulent pries
t make his way out of the hall. When again he sat in dimness, gazing thoughtfully into the distance, he folded the parchment into a precise, palm-sized square. “Abbot Martin,” he murmured. “For this, I thank you truly: you’ve sent me an idealistic fool who puts his trust in God, yet aspires to very little while believing in Him too much. This man will be easy to use.”

  Little John laughed aloud. “Wet, will I be? No, I think not—only if I’m thirsty, and I spill a bit down my front.”

  The stranger offered no answer as he stepped out onto the log bridge. His expression was masked, but his eyes were fiercely alert as his deliberate, precisely measured steps brought him closer. Whatever else he was, he wasn’t a bully-braggart, but a man who understood winning took more than words.

  “My name is Robin,” he said gravely. “Of Locksley. My mother taught me I should know a man’s name before fighting him.”

  Little John grinned toothily. “Did she, now? Well, Robin Redbreast, my name is John Naylor, though the jest is ‘Little’ John. But you may call me ‘my lord’ when this awkward dance is over.”

  Robin nodded. “And what will you call me when the dance is over?”

  “You? A wet bird, that’s what!” Little John shifted his substantial weight, spreading booted feet and legs. “Come on, then,” he murmured, mostly to himself as he assessed his opponent.

  Robin halted halfway across the bridge. He stood calmly with one foot in front of the other, balancing with ease, knees slightly flexed. He gripped the staff firmly but not too tightly, and kept his elbows tucked to his sides so as not to diffuse the power to the ends of the staff, or too far from the center of his body. He could not rely on footing to offer an advantage, so it fell to his arms and shoulders to do the required damage.

  Little John nodded. A man who understands.

  Robin hunched, then flattened the line of his shoulders, working them loose, and raised his chin. “Will you come?” he invited.

  “Ah, ’tis for you to come across.”

  Robin shook back loose hair from his face. “It seems unfair that we begin with you on solid ground, and I on a bridge likely to roll at a single misstep.”

  I know what you do, friend Robin. Little John grinned as he moved out onto the log. “Having tested it, like I do now, you know as well as I do the log won’t roll. As for fairness or unfairness, ’tis you who wants something. Buy the ground, if you will, by making your way across.”

  The younger man shrugged. “I’ll make it as I can—” And struck his first blow.

  A feint. Little John knew it even as his body reacted, moving to block the blow that wouldn’t come. Only brute strength allowed him to stop his own momentum and anticipate the second blow, which was not a feint, and which would have opened up his scalp had it landed. It didn’t only because Little John stopped and turned it.

  “Hah!” he cried, then snapped massive wrists and flipped his own staff around, only to have an equally heavy blow turned back as he had done.

  Blond Robin grinned. “It will be dark before we are done.”

  “Aye, so it will.” Little John laid on again. And again was turned back.

  Within a matter of moments each had taken the other’s measure and found nothing wanting. Where Little John excelled in sheer power, Robin used finesse to dart a blow at thighs or ribs, to snap a quick slap toward the staff, or to feint once again at the head. In turn he warded as many similar sallies from Little John, until each man slowed his pace and thought very carefully about what strategy might work before attempting it.

  ’Twill take all night, Little John thought sourly. He was accustomed to winning quickly through sheer intimidation.

  Robin swiped at ankles, then knees, then head, but was turned back each time. Like Little John, he panted, fair hair dampening at the line of temple and jaw.

  Quarterstaffs locked. “A pretty boy,” Little John jeered, “but the staff takes a man.”

  Robin grimaced against the immensity of the pressure applied by Little John. “Then why do you have one?”

  “I earned my right to the staff when you were still in the cradle.”

  Robin grunted with the effort of holding his place on the log. “Better a cradle than a cow-byre.”

  “Sheep.” Little John grinned. “I’m a shepherd, not a cowherd.”

  “No doubt the sheep are sorry.”

  “Are they?” Little John jerked back his staff, spun it quickly, then tried a slashing maneuver that would have broken a bone. But Robin caught it and turned it back, fair hair flying, then swung a flat blow that scraped Little John’s staff and slipped beneath his guard to smack him stoutly on the ribs.

  Little John grunted. No damage, but a warning. Staffs clacked and meshed. “No doubt your mother was sorry when she whelped you—she must have wanted a son, instead of a pretty daughter.”

  Robin laughed, adjusting his footing deftly as Little John leaned. “Since you tend sheep, no doubt you can’t tell the difference between a boy and a girl.”

  Little John, who had heard that old joke a hundred times, did not rise to the bait. But he admired the boy for trying. “Here, then ... we’ll give the girl a taste—” He feinted, ducked the response, feinted a second time, aiming low, then straightened to his full height and snapped the staff at head height. That’s got it. The end of the quarterstaff, poorly deflected, banged off Robin’s and caught him above the right ear, precisely where Little John had aimed. “There, my pretty girl—the bath’ll do you good!”

  Blood broke from the abused scalp immediately. Knocked off balance, Robin dropped the staff, clutched futilely at Little John, then pushed off from the log bridge as physical control deserted. He landed flat on his back, full-length, arms and legs awry. The accompanying splash was shallow, but most satisfactory.

  Little John nodded, leaning on his staff. “Clean that pretty face before your mother sees it.”

  Robin came up almost at once, spewing water and flinging his hair from his eyes, then floated a moment, arms outstretched, face screwed up against the ache in his head. Wet, the pale hair was darker, and slicked back from a face, Little John reflected in some surprise, that really was pretty—in an austere, masculine way. And there was a scar bared by the ducking—no, two. One underneath the chin, and another on the forehead, just at the hairline. A pinkish-purplish slash stretching from midway across the brow to the left temple, where it cut into wet hair, then disappeared.

  “Who’s the wet one, then?” But Little John asked it with less conviction than he might have. “Was that a quarterstaff?”

  Robin frowned faintly as he slowly lifted his head. “Was what—oh. No.” He gingerly touched the right side above the ear of his head, bleeding pinkly into his hair. “This was the quarterstaff.”

  “I did warn you, Robin Redbreast.”

  “So you did.” Robin stood up, still gently fingering the lump. The water lapped at his thighs.

  Stouter than I thought. Little John squinted; the dusk was deepening. “So. You’ll be off to the sheriff to tell him where you met me, so he can set his Normans on me.”

  “No.” The bantering fled Robin’s tone, altering his expression. The mask was in place again, but the eyes betrayed an almost feral attentiveness. “I told you I came for myself, not the sheriff. I owe the woman something.”

  “Do you, now?” Little John grinned. “All but Norman, are you, to take a Norman leman? Or is she your wife, consorting with the sheriff to gain you a little favor?”

  Blood trailed down to mix with the water soaking Robin’s tunic. He did not appear to notice. “She is none of those things,” he said flatly. “Her name is Marian of Ravenskeep. Her father was a knight with the Lionheart on Crusade, before he—died.”

  Little John lost his smile. “Then what was she doing with the sheriff?”

  “Sharing his company, albeit reluctantly, because he gave her no choice.” Arms hung slackly from wide shoulders; wider than Little John had noticed before when half hidden in pale hair. More than eve
r was plainer now, in the honesty of wet wool glued to a powerful body braced against moving water. “He would marry her, if he could. But the lady is a Saxon, and will have none of him.”

  The accent had changed. Little John heard it, recognized it, felt the dull spring of dread in the hollow beneath his breastbone. The “pretty” boy was much more than he appeared.

  And the woman—? “Saxon ...” he echoed.

  “Born and bred,” Robin declared. “Like you. Like me.”

  Little John threw down his quarterstaff. “Will Scarlet has her.”

  “I know. It’s why I came.”

  “He calls her—” Little John swallowed harshly. “He calls her a Norman whore.”

  Fair brows rose. “And she allows him to?”

  Little John felt sick. “She’s gagged.”

  Robin cupped hands to his temples and slid fingers through, slicking water from dribbling hair. “I came to bring her back. If you want to fight me again, we’d best get at it.”

  “No. No need.” Troubled, Little John shook his head. “He said I’d be named an outlaw.”

  Robin’s gaze was steady. “Is that what you are?”

  “No! I told him so. But the boy saw me with her, and he’ll go back to the Normans.” He hitched his big shoulders awkwardly. “By now he’s there already.”

  “Much.” Robin nodded. “He’s not gone to the Normans. They’d cut off his hand for thievery.” He waded toward the bank. “He said you saved it, earlier today. Do you believe him so ungrateful as to carry tales to the Normans?”

  Little John reached down a hand, clasped Robin’s, and pulled him from the water. “That boy ...” He frowned. “D’ye mean ’twas him all along?”

  “Much saw you with Marian. He thought you might hurt him, so he ran. But it wasn’t to the sheriff.”

  The enormity of the truth stunned Little John. “That boy,” he whispered. “By God, if I’d known, I’d have—” But he broke off, distracted by something else. “He went to you. You were waiting.”

  “We met upon the road.” Robin grimaced, fingering the lump on the side of his head. “We should have had this conversation before you pitched me into the water. It might have saved me a headache.”