Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  Alan smiled thinly. “Scare the stranger out of the alehouse, then steal all his coin.”

  The one-handed man nodded. “But it only works when the stranger’s wanted... and you’re very wanted, my lad. The sheriff treasures his daughter.”

  No one knew about that. No one in Nottingham, save the sheriff and Eleanor—and Robert of Locksley, as well as the FitzWalter girl. He doubted the sheriff or Eleanor would say a word about it, and Locksley had done too much for Alan to begin the rumors himself, which left Marian. And she was in danger herself, if the rumors of her were true.

  Alan shrugged, wagering all he had. “The sheriff has more to concern himself with than a simple minstrel.”

  “Not so simple, my lad. You’ve wounded him in his pride and brought down all his plans. It’s true he wants Will Scarlet, but he wants you, too.”

  Alan’s awareness sharpened. He put down the mug. “How do you know all this? And why tell me? What am I to you?”

  “One of us,” the man declared. “Even if you don’t know it.” He prodded the air with his stump. “And now I’m gone, before the Watch catches me and takes my other hand.”

  Brother Tuck lay very quietly in an agony of guilt. The pallet was narrow and thinly stuffed, hardly enough for a man of his size, but he knew he deserved no better. Had he not betrayed his calling? Had he not betrayed his Lord?

  The sheriff said he hadn’t. The sheriff spoke of things of the spirit, of a sick old woman in need. Tuck wanted to believe him, to believe in him, trusting to God to understand what he had done. But Abbot Martin, even now, wielded a heavier authority than the sheriff could comprehend.

  If the abbot ever found out—Tuck scrunched shut his eyes, feeling folds of fat glue themselves together. He feared Abbot Martin. He feared his punishment. He wouldn’t ever know, unless I told him. Unless the sheriff told him. And he said he wouldn’t.

  It was wrong. It was wrong. He should confess himself. He should go at once to Croxden Abbey and confess himself to the abbot, no matter how harsh the punishment. For what was he but a man who had failed his calling?

  Tuck longed to pray. But he was frightened even of that. To admit what he had done—to put it into words... God knew already, of course, but it was so very private, still hidden from everyone else... if he spoke of it aloud, even to God Himself, it took on a greater aspect of sin. All would know his failure. All would know his weakness.

  She was old, and dying, and helpless, in need of any comfort.

  But he was not a priest. What he had done was wrong.

  Sweat ran down his temples, mingling with his tears. Who can forgive me for this?

  Surely not Abbot Martin.

  Prince John woke badly out of habit, pettishly slapping aside the girl who shared his bed. She was nothing to him now but female flesh. He had done with her hours before, but she had stayed, snuggling against him as he slept. He could not abide a woman who expected to spend the night with his royal personage.

  “Get out!” he snapped, as Gilbert de Pisan came close with a candle. “By God, Gilbert, did no one tell her?”

  “Apparently not, my lord,” the seneschal answered smoothly. “I would have, of course, but I have been occupied on your business.”

  “Have you?” John slapped at her again, smacking her ample rump as she hastily withdrew from the bed. She was fair-haired and plumply pretty, but with a certain vapidity that repelled him now. “Get you gone, get you gone... Gilbert, send her away!”

  “Go,” de Pisan said, even as the girl clutched at sheets.

  “My clothes,” she stammered.

  De Pisan pointed at the door. “Surely you have others.”

  She bit her lip, undecided, then relinquished the sheet. Red-faced, she absented herself without benefit of clothing.

  “God,”John muttered. “Is there nothing better than that?” He sat up, yanking bedclothes over his loins. “What is it, Gilbert?”

  “A late night visitor, my lord. Eustace de Vesci, the lord of Alnwick.”

  “Alnwick is here?” John stared at de Pisan. “You are certain.”

  “Quite certain, my lord. Even now, the earl is being awakened.”

  “By God, he entertains that traitor...” Alnwick had not yet been charged and probably wouldn’t be, but such niceties meant nothing to John. “What about the others? Is Robert FitzWalter here? What about Geoffrey de Mandeville?”

  “FitzWalter is not here, nor is the Earl of Essex. Only Alnwick, my lord.”

  “Merely the first, ”John bit out. “By God, I didn’t think it of Huntington. All those lies about this castle...” He scowled at de Pisan. “They want the throne for themselves.”

  “My lord, none of them have said so.”

  “They don’t need to,” John snapped. “Why else would they come here, but to plot my death?” He chewed angrily at a thumb already devoid of much of its nail. “De Vesci and FitzWalter alone—” He broke off, startled. Then he looked at his seneschal. “That girl. Was she not a FitzWalter?”

  “The one just dismissed, my lord?”

  “No, no, not that one—good God, Gilbert, do you think me a fool?” John expected and received no answer; de Pisan knew better. “The other girl. Sir Hugh FitzWalter’s daughter.”

  “Perhaps a relative, my lord.”

  “And perhaps part of the plot.”

  De Pisan arched an elegant brow. “A woman, my lord?”

  “Yes, a woman, de Pisan ... who better to catch my fancy?” John picked at the coverlet. “Find out what you can about her, Gilbert. If she is closely allied with my Lord of Dunmow...” He scowled mightily. “She will regret it, Gilbert.”

  “Most certainly, my lord.”

  John stared hard at his man. “Then go about it, Gilbert. Find out why de Vesci is here. Find out what Huntington knows. Find out what Marian FitzWalter has to do with Robert FitzWalter, Lord of Dunmow.”

  “My lord.” Gilbert de Pisan bowed deeply.

  “Plots,” John muttered. “Do they never weary of plots?”

  Sir Guy of Gisbourne lay sweating in the bed so magnanimously loaned by the Earl of Huntington, beneath the earl’s brand-new roof. It pleased him little.

  His thigh was afire, which surprised him not at all. The barber who doubled as surgeon had a heavy hand, and his resentment of having to sew instead of chop off showed in every stitch he took. The thigh resembled a particularly ugly piece of fabric, with the meaty cloth too thick for delicacy and the weave distorted by muscle.

  The boar haunted his dreams, along with humiliation. He recalled very clearly the moment before the nightmare, when he had broken through foliage to come face-to-face with the woman he wanted so badly. He had handled it poorly, of course, as was his wont, but in the end Marian FitzWalter would never remember his declaration. She would recall only the boar, and his foolish attempt to kill it.

  “For her,” he muttered thickly. As indeed it had been.

  He squirmed in the bed, then wished he had not done it. Movement sent fresh pain shooting to hip and ankle, reminding him of his folly. For her, and her alone. So she would take notice of him. So she would respect him, which was more than he’d earned before, in his limited dealings with women.

  So little accomplished, too, save to get his thigh sliced open. In the end it had required someone else, another man entirely, to kill the maddened boar. While he lay writhing helplessly, fearing his leg cut off and his blood all spilling out, Sir Robert of Locksley had managed to kill the beast.

  The hero-knight himself, the real Crusader knight, home from glorious battle, compatriot of kings.

  Gisbourne lay in bed and sweated, thinking of Marian.

  He was pressed belly-down on the sand, burning alive in his armor. Sand was ground into mouth, into nose, into eyes, even as he spat. He inhaled, trying for air, and inhaled sand instead because he had no other choice, squashed flat as he was, coughing and choking and hiccoughing, made to swallow more sand because to do so suited them.

  Then a
hand locked into his hair and jerked his head from the ground, nearly cracking his neck. Someone stood on his spine to keep the torso in place, while the head was bent back.

  They were going to slice open his throat.

  He flailed convulsively, hearing the bestial grunt escaping his constricted throat. Lips drew back in a rictus of effort, baring gritted teeth now caked with sand.

  A foot slid beneath his hip and prodded his genitals. He flailed again, struggling, thinking they might cut there as well, spilling blood and manhood both beneath the Saracen sun.

  He saw him then, Sir Hugh Fitz Walter, cut away from Richard’s side even as other men replaced him. As Locksley himself had been cut away, felled by a blow to the head, so was Hugh FitzWalter. The English swarmed their king and dragged him out of danger, while Robert of Locksley and Hugh Fitz Walter were borne down by Saracens.

  He was Richard’s pet, and so they valued him. Fitz Walter was merely a soldier: they tore the armor from him and carved him into bits, dismembering the body before the man was properly dead.

  They threw the head at him, calling out in Arabic. It landed close enough to splatter him with blood, to look into his eyes with its own widened in shock, turning flat and opaque and dead, but staring in spite of it.

  He lay belly-down in the sand with a dead man staring at him, and the blood flooding his face. He inhaled it as he breathed—

  Locksley came awake with a start, exhaling a garbled protest muted by the dream. Sweat poured from him as he shivered. It was happening again.

  He saw the figure then, close by Marian’s side. Locksley thrust himself to his feet, crackling twigs... the crouched figure swung jerkily, then was up and running, darting into the trees even as Marian awoke. “What—?” she began.

  But Locksley was gone, moving by her, aware of deadly calm and a deadlier resolve. “Insh’Allah,” he murmured, as the vestiges of the dream became his reality.

  Thirty-Three

  Eustace de Vesci was a bull of a man, big of bone and spirit. Men had likened him to the king, if of a different color; de Vesci, lord of Alnwick, was dark instead of ruddy, in skin as well as hair.

  But his face was not flushed now, as the Earl of Huntington entered the chamber quietly. His face in fact was pale, with a sickly hue underneath. Only his eyes were alive: deepset, dark and glittering, sharp as a newly ground awl. “He is here?” he said only.

  The earl shut the door firmly, surveying the chamber as he turned. All was well. Only de Vesci was present. Ralph had left them wine, and his absence. They did not have long, Huntington knew; the castle was full of John’s household, and he trusted none of them.

  The panic on first waking had gone. There had been time enough to think, as he dressed himself, and time enough to consider all the alternatives. Huntington was calm now, his breathing controlled, exuding competence. He was a man of iron will who did not suffer weakness in any measure, of the spirit or of the body. “There was no warning,” he said quietly. “Do you think I would send no word?”

  De Vesci swore, swinging to pace across the chamber, then back again. Massive shoulders stretched his dark gray surcoat, very plain for his station, but appropriate to evening travel. “By God, this is the worst of all possibilities. One would think he knew—”

  “He does not.” The earl gestured. “Wine?”

  “No.” De Vesci glowered, reminding the earl of his father, the former earl, dead for several decades, though the Lord of Alnwick was younger than himself. It was the air of impatience and physical power that Huntington knew was absent in himself. His particular personal strength lay in a self-control de Vesci needed to temper his own more passionate nature. “We shall have to turn the others back.”

  “How?” The earl poured himself wine, then retired to a chair. He saw no reason to act overhastily. “I cannot very well send men out at dawn to every road, seeking to cut off the others. It would look highly suspicious to John.”

  “Nor can we meet while he is here,” de Vesci snapped. “It would mean our deaths.”

  The earl put out a staying hand. “Perhaps not. You were invited ostensibly to celebrate my son’s return from the Holy Land—who is to say that is not the actual reason for your presence? John will suspect us, but John suspects everyone—we need only stand firm, and he will find himself without cause or justification to suspect us of anything.”

  “John Softsword requires neither,” de Vesci declared. “Do you think he would hesitate to arrest all of us?”

  “All of us? Yes. He needs us as yet.”

  “ ‘As yet,’ ” de Vesci echoed. “When will he not need us?”

  The earl maintained a reasonable tone. With de Vesci, it was necessary; the man was undeniably courageous, but often too quick to act. “There is no law saying we cannot meet among friends to discuss the state of the realm—”

  “He will call it treason. You know that.”

  Huntington sighed. “Yes, I believe he will. But he is not king just yet, and Richard left Longchamp in charge of the Seal, which is required for such an arrest.” He set down the cup of wine, rose, crossed to the door and opened it.

  De Vesci frowned. “What is it?”

  “A moment.” Huntington gestured his servant into the doorway. “Ralph,” he said quietly, “will you go and fetch my son? At once, if you please.” He shut the door and turned. “We will give John no grounds for suspicion. We will create truth out of falsehood.”

  “Your son.” De Vesci’s dark eyes narrowed. “What does your son know of us?”

  “As yet, nothing. But if we are to present the play for John, we had best have all the players.”

  De Vesci’s jaw was tense. “Then he will learn everything.”

  The earl folded his hands into the sleeves of his robe. “My son has returned from the Holy Land a hero and a knight, having escaped brutal captivity to once more stand at his king’s right hand. Do you suggest to me he is anything but trustworthy?”

  De Vesci knew better. “No.”

  “Good.” The earl went again to his chair and took up his wine. “When the others arrive—”

  “My lord Earl? My lord!” It was Gilbert de Pisan’s annoyingly imperious voice on the other side of the door. “My lord Earl, may I present the Count of Mortain!”

  “God!” De Vesci went white. “He will have our heads for this!”

  The earl fixed him with a level, unruffled stare. “Not unless you plan to serve it to him yourself. And if you do ...” He smiled coolly. “Allow me, if you will, to have Ralph bring the silver platter.”

  Alan’s taste for ale palled as the one-handed man slipped out of the alehouse. Abruptly he set down the mug, gathered up his lute and followed the man into a narrow alleyway as quietly as he could. It stank of refuse and ordure, damp and slick underfoot, treacherous to a man more accustomed to stone floors beneath a lord’s high roof than a ceiling of stars overhead.

  He meant to follow in secrecy, to see if indeed the one-handed man had intended to set a trap. But Alan’s skill lay in verbal subterfuge, not physical activities past those to be found in bed. It did not take long for him to trip over a bolting cat and curse the mistake aloud, instead of within his head. A lute string twanged discordantly as he hugged the instrument.

  Dim moonlight glinted on steel as the one-handed man stepped out of shadow. “Well then, has he thought twice about my warning?”

  Alan was disgusted. “Twice and thrice,” he agreed sourly, warding his lute against harm. “There is no need for a knife.”

  “Unless I mean to use it to part you from your money.” The knife disappeared, as did the bantering tone. “You’d best be on your way. You don’t fit in here, with your fine clothes and pretty ways... even if the Watch doesn’t find you, someone will sell you to them.”

  “Why did you warn me? Who are you?”

  The one-handed man grinned as he turned away. “I’m the eyes and the ears, my lad.”

  Darkness closed over him. So quickly he disappeared
. “Wait—” Alan began, and then broke off as he heard the familiar call:

  “Make way for the Watch!”

  Alan fell back against the wall, slamming shoulders and spine into wattle-and-daub. He hugged the lute to his chest, breathing rapidly. He swallowed convulsively, thinking he should have heeded the man’s warning, should have left immediately, should not have come at all.

  “Make way for the Watch!”

  “Foolish lad,” the voice said. “D’ye plan to wait for them?”

  “No—no—” Alan felt unexpected relief as the one-handed man showed himself again. “But—I’m a stranger to Nottingham—”

  “Should have thought of that.” The man put out his hand. “Give me the lute.”

  Alan hugged it more tightly. “Why?”

  “By God, lad, they’re just around the corner... they’ll know you by it, you fool, that and your pretty tunic.” He motioned impatiently. “I’ll see to it your lute’s kept safe.”

  “But—” They were just around the corner. Alan swore and handed over the lute, hastily pulling the brocaded tunic over his head. “Wait for me—” He jerked his head free of his tunic, words muffled by fabric. “Where will I find you?”

  “In Sherwood,” the man answered, fading into the shadows, “and I’ll find you. ”

  “In Sherwood—” But the Watch was there, just there, rounding the corner even as he began, moonlight glinting on pikes and swords. Breathing noisily, Alan quickly stuffed his telltale tunic into a hole in the crumbling wall of the alehouse. Now all he wore were hosen, shoes, and crumpled sherte, soiled by his stay in the dungeon. He thought about slipping back inside the alehouse and pretending he was a peasant. It wasn’t a bad idea—but he recalled the one-handed man’s warning that someone would sell him to the Watch. He dared trust no one.

  Perhaps not even the man himself. “Sherwood,” Alan muttered, hastening after the stranger. “My God—there are outlaws in Sherwood!”