Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  The thrust was purposeful as a knife slicing into vitals with a deft, cold-blooded twist. My God—she blames ME—

  As well she should.

  The pain was shattering. In that moment all his plans fell into ruin, undone by nothing so effective as a simple tone of voice and a coldness in the eyes.

  His mouth would hardly obey. “Marian—I beg you—”

  “For what?” The contempt was plainer now. “For my forgiveness? But you can hardly be blamed, Lord Sheriff. How could you have foreseen that a man sentenced to hang might be desperate enough to kidnap a woman so as to use her to buy his freedom?

  For the first time in many years, he spoke from the heart. “Don’t hate me, I beg you... my God—Marian—”

  She was so cold, so controlled; in that moment, she was as he had been. “I am well,” she said plainly. “The cuts and bruises will heal.”

  “Not that,” he said. “Not that—”

  “Oh?” She arched eloquent brows. “Then you inquire, without using words, as to the status of my virginity.”

  It was agony. “Marian, please--”

  Her face was very white. “I am as I was, my lord. Is that not answer enough?”

  DeLacey felt himself shaking. With effort, he reached for a measure of fragile self-control, trying to explain in a way she could comprehend; in a way he could. “You don’t understand—”

  “I think I do. You want to know what everyone else wants to know. The only difference is, you believe you can ask it.”

  Some of the rage came back, kindled by her coldness. He struck out viciously. “I was your father’s friend! Allow me, if you will, to grieve for him a moment; to see what has become of his beloved little girl.”

  Marian recoiled. It was her turn to be shocked by the weapon in his tone. “You throw that in my face—”

  “I throw nothing. I throw noting. Impatiently he swiped at the moisture dotting his upper lip. “My God, Marian, do you blame me?” he rasped. “Any man would feel as I do, seeing what has happened. As for me—” His smile was ghastly. “I have known you since you were born. Allow me a moment—nothing more, a moment only, I swear”—delicate irony—“to reconcile my guilt.”

  Marian gazed at him transfixed, then swallowed heavily. “Guilt?”

  Painfully, he said, “You were in my charge.”

  It blunted her contempt. She spoke with less vehemence now, and much less challenge. “And I told you, my lord—you cannot be blamed—”

  “I can.” He cut her off curtly, not yet prepared to surrender the emotions, then turned away to stare blindly at the door but paces away. “To allow that to happen...” He shut his eyes, trying to master himself. “You have too good a heart to lay blame at my door, even when I deserve it.”

  She made no answer. He swung back, expecting contempt; he found unshed tears instead. “I have nothing of the sort,” she said unevenly. “I am not a saint, my lord—and yes, I do blame you... but don’t make me over into something I am not.”

  She had surrendered the advantage that had won her, however briefly, a measure of concern that she would prove difficult. This he understood. She was no longer warded against him, but was clay within his grasp. “Marian.” He drew in a deep breath, recalling the delicate plans he had made on the ride to Ravenskeep. She had seen a side of him he had not wished to display, but it was an honest portion, and he did not regret it at all. She might now better understand the true depth of his feelings... but it was time to exert control again, to cause her to act as he desired her to act. He could not lose self-control again. “This is painful for us both... let us dispense with discussion of it and move to something else.” He cast a quick glance across the hall. “May we sit?”

  After a moment she nodded. He followed her to the bench and sat down as she motioned him to. “And you.” He mimicked her gesture.

  Marian shook her head, keeping distance between them. “I think I would rather stand.”

  “No,” he said sadly. “In a moment, you will not. It is bad news I bear about someone dear to you.”

  “But who—” Her eyes widened in shock. “Oh God—not Matilda ...”

  DeLacey merely nodded. It was her turn for exhibition; he was done with his.

  After a frozen moment Marian sat down awkwardly, staring blindly into the hall. Her voice was oddly empty. “For a while I forgot, in the midst of everything else... and then I intended to send someone for her—” She closed her eyes. “I should have gone myself. I should have gone sooner.”

  He offered her nothing at all, neither sympathy nor kindness. Marian stared mutely into the shadowed hall. He watched her mercilessly, permitting himself no tactful words or gestures to dilute the moment. He wanted to see her, to judge her state of mind, so he could adapt to the moment. His anger now was cooled, infinitely controlled; this was too important to be diminished by excess emotion.

  He waited. Eventually Marian brushed away tears, speaking in a tight, strangled tone. “Will you bring her back?”

  “She has already been buried.”

  “There?” She was anguished. “This was her home!”

  “No one could anticipate when you might—return.” He was deliberately oblique. “I felt it best to see the woman buried as soon as possible.”

  A spasm warped her battered face. “I should have gone straight back to Nottingham.”

  He didn’t care to waste any more time on Matilda. “Marian.” He waited until she looked at him. “This is not why I came”—although it was—“but now, however indelicate it may seem, I must discuss it with you. Because there is a solution.”

  She stared at him in silence, eyes dulled by grief. She did not much care what else he had to say.

  DeLacey approached it carefully. “You see, I have sorrow of my own, and some small understanding... a father’s rage and helplessness, much as I feel for you.” He smiled sadly. “My daughter has been publicly despoiled. I know the truth of the matter, as I was at some pains to tell you, but regardless of that truth I must offer my daughter the protection of a father, and the love and the care...” DeLacey sighed heavily. “Arrangements must be made in case there is a child.”

  For the moment her grief was banished. Marian’s gaze sharpened. “My lord—”

  But he overrode her. “I have decided to marry Eleanor to my steward, Sir Guy of Gisbourne.”

  She said nothing at once, staring at him fixedly. Then, with a breathless laugh of bitter acknowledgment, “And who for me, my lord? Is that not what you came for?”

  “Yes,” he answered gently, curtailing a satisfied smile. “You shall marry me.”

  Forty-Four

  The bed was narrow and gave in the middle, so that Robin lay in a ditch. With effort, he levered himself into a sitting position, wincing in response to the stiffness of his spine and joints, then slowly swung both legs over the edge of the bed. He counted it a victory.

  For a long moment he contemplated life from that position, reaccustoming himself to the expected residual soreness, then leaned down and picked up the bowl. Somewhat forlornly he studied its contents, cooled and scummy on top, but that was his own fault; he didn’t really mind broth all that much, but it had been something with which to provoke Marian, which had proved intensely enjoyable. He’d put off eating it too long.

  He sighed and picked up the spoon, stirring the clouded top layer into the rest of the broth. He ate most of it with grave deliberation, thinking about the times in the Holy Land when there had been nothing at all; then washed the taste down with water and set all on the floor again.

  He gazed at the door. “William deLacey,” he muttered, “you are becoming a nuisance.”

  He scowled, wiggling his bare toes. Someone had stripped him of his boots and leather wrappings, leaving him in his tunic and baggy hosen. The boots stood beside the bed, but he lacked the inclination to struggle with pulling them on.

  Robin stood up slowly, swore in English and Arabic as he twisted this way and that to break fre
e the knots in his spine, then made his way to the door. The fever had broken as it always did by morning; he was much recovered, but stiff and sore. By midday he would be better, by evening better than that; for now, however, he hurt.

  He met no servants on the way down. As he reached the lower portion of the screened staircase, he heard the echo of voices bouncing off the walls and high timber ceiling: deLacey’s and Marian’s.

  He stopped short, lingering off balance between one rough step and the next. I should not be doing this.

  Undoubtedly he should not, but he was not persuaded to make his way back up the stairs now that he was down them. Instead he let momentum carry the day and descended a few more steps. Near the bottom he paused, leaned against the pebbly wall, and listened unabashedly to the remains of a private conversation.

  The sheriffs voice was dolorous. “Arrangements must be made in case there is a child.”

  Robin’s eyes narrowed. He wastes little time—

  “My lord—” Marian began.

  “I have decided to marry Eleanor to my steward, Sir Guy of Gisbourne.”

  Robin blinked surprise—he had believed the sheriff to be speaking of Marian—and then cynical relief was followed by true relief: first, that he himself was no longer a target for Eleanor deLacey; secondly, that Marian was not the subject.

  But then he heard the sound she expelled: a breathy, bitter laugh that banished his relief; he had not heard the whole conversation. “And who for me, my lord? Is that not what you came for?”

  “Yes,” the sheriff answered. “You shall marry me.”

  So—it is that. Robin’s teeth shut. He stared fixedly into nothingness for a tense moment, vision unfocused, listening very hard as he waited for her answer. Marian made none, which he disliked; he interpreted her silence as consideration. Grimly he shook his head, slumping against the wall. His skull thumped stone.

  He gazed into the dimness above his head. What else was she to do? A woman in her situation had no choice: she went into a nunnery, or she married a man willing to give his name to a bastard, if one resulted. He himself had lacked the courage to ask Marian if Will Scarlet had violated her, thinking it indecent and not for him to bring up; William deLacey had asked, because it was important. For all Robin was beginning to detest the man, the sheriff was correct. Uncommonly blunt, perhaps, but candor revealed the truth. Tact too often obscured it.

  He shut his eyes and mouthed an expletive learned from the Christian army. He wanted very much to descend the last two steps and stride across the hall into the conversation, discomforting the sheriff severely, but it wasn’t his place. It did not concern him. He should go back up to bed, where he need not worry about Marian FitzWalter’s future despite what her father preferred; where he need only think about riding away in the morning on his borrowed horse, so he could once again go home to a castle he didn’t know.

  The knowledge pinched. Go, he told himself. But he lingered anyway, because he had to know.

  Marian answered at last in a clear, precise tone. “I am a ward of the king.”

  “The king is currently imprisoned.”

  “That does not remove me from his protection, my lord. He is not dead, after all—and not like to be while he is worth money.”

  “Perhaps not,” deLacey agreed, with no hint of impatience, “but you can hardly afford to wait until the king is released, if he is released. That might take years with the poor state of England’s coffers—and you, I fear, have but a week or two to waste.”

  “Waste them on what, my lord?” she asked pointedly. “The contemplation of ways to avoid marrying you?”

  Plainly it displeased him. His voice was a whip-crack. “Marian—”

  She cut him off smoothly, all meek decorum, but with an edge to her words. “Forgive me, my lord... I am desolated by the news of Matilda’s death. I am not fit company. Please—permit me to walk you to the door.”

  “Marian—”

  “I beg you, my lord—give me time to grieve—”

  His words were crisp, ending her attempts at polite prevarication. Steel showed through the silk. “You have grieved quite enough. It is time to think of yourself.”

  With exquisite dryness, she said, “My lord, I do assure you I am thinking of myself.”

  Robin laughed mutely, stifling it with effort.

  “Marian.” DeLacey’s tone altered. It was cold, deadly, certain. “You know very well this is what your father wanted.”

  Silence filled the hall. And so the battle is won. Robin shut his eyes, aware of a brief, intense moment of sharp regret. I should never have told her.

  “My lord,” Marian said eventually, “I will give you my answer as soon as I am able.”

  “Come to Nottingham. Now.”

  “No.” Nothing more than that.

  “Then come tomorrow.”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Marian—”

  “Give me time!” she cried. It echoed throughout the hall.

  Robin shook his head. She will do it because of that... because her father wished it. And it was I who told her.

  “Very well,” deLacey agreed. Then, in silky suggestion, “Do see me to my horse.”

  Marian said nothing. After a long moment Robin heard the door thump closed.

  He stood there against the wall. He did not climb back to his borrowed room. Instead he went down the remaining two steps into the hall itself, staring into the emptiness filled with rush motes, dust, and ash. His spirit felt no cleaner.

  Marian stood outside in the courtyard, watching as William deLacey at last rode away from the manor. Without moving she waited until Sim shut and latched the gate, settling the bar into place; then with grave meticulousness she bent and picked up the loose cobble by her foot. With all her might she heaved the dense brick at the gate.

  As it cracked against the wood, spraying dust and chips, Marian gritted her teeth. “I hope your horse bolts.”

  Sim was astonished. “Lady Marian!”

  “I do,” she insisted. Then, as venomously, “No, perhaps I don’t—or surely he will be injured and brought here for me to tend.”

  The servant inspected the gouge left in the gate. “Lady—he’s the sheriff.”

  “I don’t care if he is Prince John himself—I will not be made to do what I do not wish to do.” Wind teased her hair, blowing it free of the braid. Marian caught loose strands back from her eyes and peered into the sky. “Don’t storm,” she begged fervently. “At least not until he is closer to Nottingham.”

  “Poor gate,” Sim murmured, rubbing the abused wood. “Yet another scar.”

  In her black mood, Marian found it surpassing strange that a man could be concerned with the appearance of a gate, but she supposed Sim was welcome to care for whatever pleased him. Some men liked dogs, some women cats; for now, she was too angry to think past the outrage she felt. Clutching her damp hair against the breeze, she spun on her heel and marched back into the hall.

  She thumped the door closed behind her, fighting tears of humiliation and grief. Matilda dead, and William deLacey using her father’s wishes to force her hand. He hadn’t even the decency to allow her time to grieve.

  And Will Scarlet—A shudder passed through her body, so intense it clicked her teeth together. Tears threatened again on a wave of revulsion so powerful it nearly made her sick to her stomach. She had not allowed herself to think of Scarlet in anything but terms of anger and a cold certainty that she had suffered nothing at his hands but dishevelment and discomfort.

  He had not violated her physically, but he had defiled her sense of safety. Just as the sheriff had taken pains to remind her.

  DeLacey. Marian knew him much better now. She understood him now. He would use whatever there was—if he didn’t make it himself—to please his own ambitions.

  I will tell him—She stopped dead, brought up short. “What are you doing?”

  Robin sat casually on the rush-strewn floor, leaning against one of the massive ti
mber posts holding up the roof. He looked uncommonly at ease with his knees crooked up, feet buried in rushes. His hazel eyes were steady as he hooked his elbows over his knees. “Waiting for you,” he said. “I as much as the sheriff would like to know what you plan to do.”

  Marian pointed at the stairs. “Go back to bed.”

  “I think not.”

  She simply hadn’t the strength, in view of the turmoil in her spirit. She lowered her arm limply, seeing an odd set to his mouth. It wasn’t a smile, precisely, but a cool, subtle challenge, as if he lay in wait. When coupled with deLacey’s behavior, it made her angry. “I’ll have the servants in to drag you back up the stairs!”

  “They will refuse,” he said. “The son of the Earl of Huntington somewhat outranks their lady.”

  So easily he disarms me. She wanted to cry, but did not; she would not before him. “Matilda’s dead,” she choked. “She was ill, and I left her ... and now she’s dead.”

  “Your old nurse?”

  “I left her at Nottingham Castle when he dragged me out to the fair, and then Will Scarlet took me—” Marian gritted her teeth as anger overtook grief. “I wish I were a man. I wish I could fight like man. I wish I could hit someone. I wish—oh, I don’t know what I wish... that I were a different person, able to deal with situations not of my own making.”

  He studied her gravely, as if expecting more.

  Marian took a single wavering step to the nearest post. It was opposite Robin’s; she slid down the length to the floor and puddled herself upon it, staring blindly at him. “It’s all coming undone. My father, my nurse ... now this.” She crooked her knees, as he did, knowing skirts guarded her modesty; it was a comfortable posture and put something between them: two sets of knees and three long paces. She rested her head against the post, feeling weary and worn and helpless. “Why can’t he let it be? I did not ask for his interest. Why can’t he let it be?”

  He offered no answer at first. She did not look at him, but her senses screamed of his presence. Three paces away—yet they felt more like three miles, then again only three inches; whatever the distance was, she lacked the courage to walk it, to even initiate the motion.