Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  Women had no power. Women had no value; he had made that clear. Therefore she would have to think as a man, plan as a man, and execute as a man.

  She needed a man to do it.

  “Who?” Eleanor asked, unheeding of the silence.

  Surely there was someone. Someone she could buy. She had little coin to spare, no jewels to speak of, and until this was settled her physical charms were suspect because of public discovery; the rape claim might remove the taint of wantonness, but it wouldn’t erase the fact. Now everyone knew what most may have suspected: the Sheriff of Nottingham’s daughter was no longer a virgin.

  “My choice,” she said through clenched teeth, thinking of the men. “They all have been my choice.”

  Now the choice had been taken from her.

  “Who?” she repeated. “Where is there a man as hungry as I for revenge, who will accept satisfaction in place of coin or gem?”

  No one she could think of. Men hated her father, but few if any would be willing to cross him.

  Eleanor sighed and pressed both hands against her face, massaging her skin, her fingertips searching for the telltale first hint of lines in the flesh near her eyes, her bony nose, her downturned, sullen mouth. She was getting older. Soon it would show.

  How much—? Eleanor slid off the bed and moved purposefully to one of the chests. Deftly she unlatched the hasp and flipped it back, then lifted the lid. Her groping hand found the mirror her father had mentioned.

  She knelt there on the floor, cradling the mirror in both hands as she raised it high enough. The light in the chamber was wan, casting sallow illumination. It yellowed her face, dulled her hair, threw shadows beneath her eyes.

  Hastily she slapped at her cheeks, attempting to bring the blush of roses to flesh that proved reluctant. She needed paint, but her father forbade it; only rarely did she test him by smudging precious kohl onto her eyelids, or rubbing carmine on her lips.

  She was not and never had been a beautiful woman. Nor would she ever be.

  Eleanor bit into her lip as her face crumpled into despair. Tears swelled, spilled, rolled down her cheeks, dripping to stain the dull gray fabric of her kirtle. She hugged the mirror to her breast and wished it could lie; or that she could believe the men who praised her as beautiful, when all they wanted was for her to spread her legs. “ ‘Fairest Eleanor,’ ” she choked, recalling the minstrel’s practiced flattery.

  She gripped the mirror more tightly, pressing the rim into her palms. Marian is fair.

  Eleanor had denied it, taking solace in pettiness, but she had no more time now for self-deception. Better to acknowledge that the enemy was fairer, for it would fan the kindling fires. She needed to feel the fires. When the flame ate at her soul, it was easier to hate.

  DeLacey strode outside into the bailey with every intention of dealing with the interruption as quickly and curtly as possible, or of handing it off to someone else, anyone else, so he could be on his way. He had no time to waste; every moment Marian spent with Robert of Locksley reduced his chances. He would not tolerate that.

  He located his horse, nearly lost in the morass of other mounts, milling horseboys scampering to follow shouted orders, and a baggage train of significant size.

  Forebodying pinched his belly. He stopped short, caught the tunic sleeve of a passing horseboy, and dragged him close as the boy struggled to keep the tunic on his shoulder. “What is this?” he hissed.

  The boy gaped at him, one shoulder bared. “My lord—?”

  “What is—” But he discontinued the question; he had an answer. He released the horseboy, then calmly and politely welcomed the man who parted the confusion like Moses the Red Sea.

  “My lord Sheriff.” Elegant Gilbert de Pisan greeted him coolly in the quietly arrogant manner deLacey detested; but then, he detested the man himself, no matter what he said. “As you see, Prince John has arrived after all. ”

  DeLacey managed not to show his consternation. “I believed him bound for Lincoln.”

  “Indeed, and so we will be.” As always, de Pisan phrased his words in such a way as to suggest royalty. “There was a hanging he desired to see.”

  The sheriff wanted to spit at the man or, better yet, send him sprawling onto the cobbles—before the bricks were swept free of urine and manure—so as to destroy his supercilious elegance. This will delay me significantly ... oh God, could you not see fit to spare me this royal lackiwit? DeLacey inclined his head. “And so he shall. If it pleases Prince John, I will see to it the murderer hangs at dawn tomorrow.”

  The seneschal’s eyes narrowed minutely. “Not dawn,” he suggested. “My lord finds it a gruesome way to begin the day. No—” de Pisan frowned thoughtfully, “perhaps during breakfast. He enjoys entertainment at meals.”

  “During—DeLacey cut off the question. ”Of course. As Prince John desires.”

  De Pisan waved an all-encompassing hand. “As you can see, there is some confusion here. We shall require your assistance in sorting everything out.”

  “Yes, of course.” Inwardly deLacey cursed de Pisan and his lord, royal-born or not. “But if you will excuse me briefly, I must see to it that my steward has the execution order properly drawn up.”

  De Pisan inclined his head. “Of course, Sheriff. But my lord cannot abide a disorganized castle ... you will return immediately to put order to this mess? He is but a mile away.”

  “I will return immediately.” Damn him for a fool—does he really think it falls within my purview to oversee the bailey? What does he think I have servants for? DeLacey turned smartly and marched back into the keep, whereupon he shouted for Walter. When the small man appeared, robe askew and hair flying, deLacey fixed him with a baleful glare. “Who have we in the dungeon?”

  Walter blinked bafflement, then ventured an answer. “Criminals, my lord.”

  “Which ones, blast you?” It took all of the sheriffs control not to snatch Walter up short by the collar of his tunic and shake him till he bled from nose and ears. “I need to hang a man in the morning, during breakfast. Find a suitable one.”

  “A suitable one,” Walter echoed, clearly undone by the task.

  Gisbourne, for all his faults, understands how to arrange such things. DeLacey cleared his throat, controlling his fury. “Pick a man, any man, and hang him during breakfast. And make sure the order says his name is William Scathlocke.”

  “Scathlocke?”

  “Do it,” deLacey ordered, seeing the horror in Walter’s eyes, “or I shall use you in his place.”

  Walter understood that well enough. “At once,” he blurted.

  “Good.” William deLacey swung about, marched yet again into the bailey, cursing the feckless prince who didn’t care a fig how he upset the lives of those around him. “We’ll hang him here,” he muttered, casting a swift glance around the bailey, “not in the city proper—or someone will know it isn’t really Will Scarlet.” He couldn’t afford that. “And I’ll order his tongue cut out so he can’t say the wrong thing at the wrong time.”

  Thirty Nine

  Brother Tuck sat at the wobbly table in the tiny solar tucked into a corner of the castle, trying to hold the surface steady so he wouldn’t smear his work and have to begin again, thereby wasting ink, vellum, and the time and effort which would be better spent on moving ahead instead of redoing. He wished the light were better so he could see the work more clearly, but Walter had made it clear that Sir Guy of Gisbourne would not tolerate additional candles. Tuck had noticed the sheriff’s hall knew no shortage, but that was not his concern.

  Ordinarily the conditions would not have bothered him so much, for monks were accustomed to long hours of physical toil and hardship, but the light was beginning to die out of the day. Soon he would be required to rely only on candles, and there simply were not enough.

  He sighed and straightened, arching back to stretch his spine. His vision blurred briefly as he readjusted focus from close work to far, massaging with one hand the spongy flesh of a sho
ulder stiff from hours of concentration.

  In the abbey, conditions had been better. There he had sat in a spacious room with many of the brothers, enjoying the generous daylight admitted by twenty windows. No one spoke as he worked—Abbot Martin said that to speak was to dilute the concentration—but all were content to know others labored with them to glorify God in the illumination of manuscripts requested by kings and queens.

  William deLacey would request no such thing. What he wanted done were ordinary letters; ah, but what could Tuck protest? It was work. There was a private place for him to sleep just off the musty chapel, and as much food as he could eat, though he knew better than to ask for additional helpings. Word would get back to Abbot Martin.

  The door scraped open. “Brother Tuck?” It was Walter, sliding through with little fuss.

  Tuck was glad enough of an excuse to rest his fingers and eyes, and gladder still of the company. He knew no one in the castle save Walter and a few of the kitchen servants, unless one counted the sheriff, whom he did not; they could never be anything other than lord and servant.

  He set down the quill and turned on the creaking bench unused to his bulk, rubbing absently at the naked skin of the tonsure carved in the midst of his curly brown hair. It itched from recent shaving. “Is it supper already?”

  “No.” Walter’s expression was serious as he shut the door behind him. “Not yet, and not like to be any time soon. Didn’t you hear the commotion?”

  Tuck had, but he’d paid it no mind. When he lost himself in writing he was aware of very little. The formation of clear, elegant letters required every bit of his attention. “I’m nearly done with the recopying,” he said, indicating the stack of sanded vellum.

  Walter waved that away, coming to stand next to Tuck. He peered critically at the lettering, then sighed and pointed at a fresh sheet of vellum. “There is one more thing. An order for an execution.”

  Tuck blinked in surprise. “I’m not sure—”

  “You have to,” Walter declared a trifle desperately, as if he believed Tuck might indeed have grounds for protest. “Brother Hubert did it all the time.”

  “I hadn’t thought that would be part of my duties.”

  “Your duties are to write whatever the sheriff tells you.” But Walter’s bleak expression softened the curtness of his words. “You’ll have to do such things, or he’ll have no use for you. He’ll send you back to the abbey.”

  Tuck’s brows knitted over his blob of a nose. That would undoubtedly result in his dismissal from the abbey or, failing that, would surely diminish any opportunity to become a priest.

  “You don’t have to witness it,” Walter said quickly, “just write up the order. In Latin, if you can.”

  “Of course I write Latin. I’m a monk.”

  “Then write it up,” Walter hissed. “There is one in here somewhere for you to copy, just change the date, the offense, and the name. He wants it for the morning.”

  Tuck nodded slowly. “What is the man’s offense?”

  “He killed four soldiers.”

  Automatically Tuck scribed a cross in the air between them. “May God have mercy on their souls.”

  “Norman souls,” Walter said dryly. “If such as soldiers have them.”

  Tuck looked more closely at the unkempt little man. Walter was officious in a lackluster sort of way, but Tuck had believed him devoted to the sheriff. Now he was not so certain. “Then I will pray for God to forgive the man who killed them.”

  “Why not?” Walter asked. “He’s not hanging, anyway.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “You don’t need to. Just do as the sheriff wants.” Walter sighed, picking at a loose thread hanging from a fraying sleeve. “Write up the order, Brother Tuck. He murdered four Normans. That’s all they count as important.”

  Tuck was undeterred. “You just said he wasn’t hanging.”

  “He’s not,” Walter agreed. “Some other poor fool will, because the sheriff’s lost Will Scarlet. But he daren’t tell Prince John, who’s just come for supper.”

  “But—” Tuck’s comprehension was abrupt, as was his astonishment. “I can’t do that! Write in another man’s name? D’ye mean they’ll hang him as Will Scarlet, even if he isn’t?”

  “He’ll hang,” Walter explained, “no matter what his name. What’s the difference, then?”

  “I can’t do that,” Tuck repeated.

  Walter sighed wearily. “Then go tell it to the sheriff. I’ll ask Abbot Martin to send us another clerk.”

  “The sheriff will hang an innocent man?”

  “There’s innocent, and innocent.” Walter opened the door. “Any man in the dungeon is bound for hell one day. This one will go there sooner.”

  “I won’t,” Tuck declared. But Walter was already gone.

  Locksley’s world was small now, bounded by two things only: the immediate portion of track but one pace ahead of each stride, and the woman at his side. His focus had narrowed as the fever burned in his brain; he dared not even look up for fear he would lose his precarious grip on what remained of the world and disgrace himself utterly by swooning in her dooryard.

  If he got that far.

  “Nearly there,” she said.

  Did she know? No. She couldn’t. He had taken great care to hide the truth of his condition so Marian need not concern herself with caring for the man who had set out to rescue her.

  “Here’s the postern gate.” She did something with a latch. “Through here, then across the courtyard . . . it’s not a grand castle, only a modest hall.” Wood creaked. Hinges rasped. “Oil,” she murmured absently. Then, with more urgency, “Take care—the cobbles have come loose. One good storm, and most will wash out of their beds.”

  He stumbled almost immediately, tripping over a lopsided brick. It jarred him, leaving him weak and sweaty. “Ravenskeep?”

  “Ravenskeep,” she agreed, taking her hand from his arm. “Will you come in? It is past time for supper, but something will be left. You can stay the night, then borrow one of our horses. I’ll send word to your father—”

  “No, not my father—” He didn’t intend to sound so curt. “Send no word. I’ll ride back now.”

  Marian shut and latched the gate. “There is no need to hasten back.”

  “I would prefer it.” He had no desire for her to discern how ill he felt. “If you like, you can send out bread and water, but there is no need to trouble yourself.”

  Marian sighed. “Very well. Wait here, then ... I’ll order the horse saddled, and have bread and water sent out.” She pointed. “There is a bench.”

  He waited until she was gone, then sat down stiffly upon it. He slumped against the wall, feeling wan and weak and dull-witted. The stones of the wall bit into his flesh, threatening his spine. Every joint ached, and the light hurt his eyes.

  Locksley could see little of Ravenskeep. It was to his blurred vision an indistinct blocky shape circled by a wall well-covered with ivy, which obscured the clean lines and angles of properly mortared brickwork. The bench beneath him was weathered wood much scored by age, grayed and gouged and splintery.

  Ravenskeep. He knew it not at all, though she said once he’d been there on a certain Christmas Eve many years ago.

  How many, he wondered? Just now he could not recall it, merely that she said he had kissed her beneath the mistletoe.

  No. She had kissed him.

  Somehow, it mattered. It meant he owed her a kiss, initiated by him—No. He shut his eyes. It was the fever. Nothing more.

  “Robin?”

  Robin. She called him that, just as his mother had. Just as Richard had.

  “Robin?” He looked up at her and saw the bundle and mug in her hands. An odd glint lighted her eyes. “Sim is bringing the horse.”

  He could hear shod hoofs ringing on cobbles.

  She held out the mug. “Water.”

  He took it and drank deeply, not knowing how thirsty he was until the water slid down
his throat, and then he swallowed and swallowed and swallowed until the water was gone, but it had done its work. He felt vaguely alive again.

  Sim arrived with the horse. Robin paid it little mind, save to note it was bay, bridled, and saddled.

  Marian tucked the bundle of food into the saddle wallet. Then she swung back smartly, standing very straight. The tangled mass of her hair hung nearly to the girdle binding her waist and hips Norman-fashion. “Simple gratitude is not enough, but I know it is all you’ll accept. Therefore I say it: ‘thank you.’ ” Her hands were linked together in the folds of her ruined kirtle. “If there is ever a service I may do you—”

  He laughed, cutting her off. He hadn’t meant to—he knew it sounded rude—but he couldn’t help himself. “Lady Marian, you have done it.”

  She was confused. “What have I done?”

  “Allowed me to recall that there are women ... and there are women.” It made perfect sense to him, though she still seemed baffled. He stood up stiffly and put the mug back into her hands. “Such a thing is easy to forget when men gather for war.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There is no explanation.” He took the reins from Sim and pulled them across the horse’s neck, then hoisted a leg and hooked a boot toe into the stirrup. With an upward lurch more awkward than usual—and considerably more painful—he pulled himself into the saddle, glad the horse was quiet. “What I did was not enough ... no more than it was enough for your father that day. But there is no help for it . . . at least you are alive.”

  “Robin ...” But she let it go, merely clutching the mug and nodding as he turned the horse toward the main gate.

  He left her standing there in the courtyard of Ravenskeep, thinking as he rode of mistletoe and Christmas, and a blue-eyed, black-haired girl.