Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  It made no sense to Robin, who was aware of a peculiar impatience rising in his spirit. He was tired of giving way merely to keep the peace. Very tired indeed. “I have been out of England for two years,” he declared lightly enough, prelude to anger. Then, purposefully provocative, “Have they crowned a new king in my absence, that I should surrender a horse without protest?”

  Faces darkened, although Alan looked wryly amused and Little John discontented. “Aye,” Clym said harshly. “King of Sherwood, villein—”

  “No.” Adam Bell’s quiet voice cut him off. “Not villein ... he speaks too well”—his clear-eyed gaze, on Robin, was direct and discomfiting—“and the minstrel said ‘my lord.’ ”

  A moment of silence, only. Then Will Scarlet scowled and muttered an oath even as Cloudisley and Clym, stilled into wary alertness, fixed Robin with speculative stares.

  Accustomed to judging mens’ actions in battle, Robin marked how they held their bows, their stances and readiness. He flicked a quick glance at Alan, then at Little John, assessing; they were poised for nothing that offered violence. It was something.

  Quietly he said, “My name, as I told the giant, is Robin. Robin of Locksley.”

  Clym grunted. “Locksley’s hard by Huntington.”

  “Robin.” Alan’s mouth shaped it oddly, as if he felt more comfortable with titles and ranks of honor. “Robin—Robert. ” He avoided Robin’s gaze even as he colored. “He’ll have coin.”

  Grinning, Wat waggled the fingers of his only remaining hand. “Toss it down, then.”

  “And get off the horse,” Scarlet growled.

  “No!” Much cried.

  “Agh God—not the boy again—” Scarlet strode forward and grasped the bay’s reins. “This time I’ll break your neck—”

  “No,” Robin said.

  “By God, you’ll not tell me what to do!” Scarlet flushed angrily, so that the smudged purplish bruises showed darker yet in the stubbled ruin of his face. “It’ll be me who does the telling—”

  Little John laughed harshly. “As you did when you fought him? Aye, that was impressive!”

  Adam Bell looked at Robin. “Was it you, then?”

  Clym leaned and spat. “Lapdog to the Normans.”

  Robin smiled faintly. “I’ve very sharp teeth.”

  “Come down from there!” Scarlet snapped. “By God—”

  “Wait.” Robin cut him off with a sharp, imperative command that stilled all of them by instinct. He had learned the tone in war; they had in servitude. Robin looked at Cloudisley and Clym. “I’ve an idea to settle this.”

  Clym swore beneath his breath, muttering epithets.

  Robin shrugged. “Less painful, I will warrant, than shooting me full of arrows—or suffering your own hurts.” Before they could protest, he said, “I will match you for the horse.”

  Clouidsley laughed. “Match us how?”

  He offered them terms they would approve. “Choose your best archer.”

  Cloudisley and Clym exchanged startled glances that faded quickly into a private amusement; they did not consider another might have the skill. But it was Adam Bell who answered. “It’ll be me who shoots.” To Cloudisley he said, crisply, “Go cut us a target.” And lastly to Robin, in deceptive quietude, “I’ll know your name before.”

  Robin hitched a casual shoulder. “Robin of Locksley.”

  “I’ll have your real name—” But Bell broke it off, grinning. “As you say, then, Robin—we’ll shoot for that, too.” He turned as Cloudisley, who had carved a heart in the trunk of a tree, called that it was ready.

  “Cloudisley’s bow,” Bell told him. “You’ll have no disadvantage.”

  Robin caught the bow and the quiver of arrows as Cloudisley tossed them. He shook back his hair and nodded acceptance. “The rules?”

  Bell smiled. “Three arrows in the heart, or you lose.” He pointed stiff-armed. “See that white gouge there in the center of the heart? Closest to that, wins.”

  “I keep the horse,” Robin said, not bothering to look. “I keep my coin.”

  “And your life,” Bell quipped. “Forfeit all if you lose.”

  Robin glanced back at Much, whose face was strained. He smiled at the boy, then licked and blew upon the thumb and fingers of his right hand, which he displayed to Much. “Magic,” he said.

  Much’s thin face lighted.

  Fifty-One

  The sheriff, satisfied that his visit to Abraham the Jew would result in the expected—and much-needed—payment, which in turn would be sent to Prince John at Lincoln, returned to Nottingham Castle in good spirits, fixing his mind upon the approaching “marriage” to Marian. That it would be a sham ceremony did not in any way disturb him; it would get Marian into his bed. He understood very well she would not surrender readily; in fact, after their recent meeting, he had come to believe she would not agree at all, and that trickery was the only alternative.

  He rode through the barbican gate beneath the portcullis. I will lure her, he thought contentedly. Lure her into a false wedding in spite of her protests. He smiled in anticipation. With dear Brother Tuck involved, I have the upper hand. The fat monk would do anything to avoid being dismissed from the abbey now that he understood the risks of refusing. Marian may protest all she likes, but to no avail—she will believe herself truly married when the ceremony is over. The genuine ceremony would come later, when Marian was so compromised as to see no other way out. After all, what choice will she have? Will Scarlet destroyed any public pretense to chastity.

  A horseboy came running as deLacey swung off his mount. He handed the reins over, marking the cart and carthorse waiting in the bailey. He knew neither cart nor horse, and somewhat testily called over the nearest soldier to explain matters.

  “Sir Guy’s come back,” the soldier told him. “The Earl of Huntington sent him in the cart; the carter’s helping him inside. My lord—”

  DeLacey, on the point of leaving, paused. “Yes?”

  “Will you call on Captain Archaumbault?”

  “Is he dying?”

  The soldier crossed himself. “No, my lord, but—”

  “Then he’ll do better without my presence.” The sheriff turned on his heel and went into the castle, thinking about Gisbourne. He’ll complain about the candles ... Then, smiling faintly, Unless he’ll be too busy thinking about his approaching nuptials.

  On one side of the Nottingham Road lay the outermost fringe of Sherwood Forest, sparse and sparing with trees, and only partially clad in a tattered finery of low shrubbery and thinning vines. On the other side stretched slightly undulant fields lush with grass, divided one from another by hedgerows and low fieldstone walls.

  It was on the more level side that Adam Bell gathered his men, indicating the tree Cloudisley had marked. He told Little John to walk off thirty paces from the marked tree to where they stood between road and fields because, he said, the giant’s longer strides would improve the challenge; also, Little John had less reason to cheat than anyone else. Robin smiled, conceded that was true, and leaned casually on Cloudisley’s borrowed longbow as the red-haired giant carefully walked off the distance from tree to gathering. Then Bell drew a line in the dirt with the worn heel of one boot.

  “We’ll stand behind this.” He gestured. “Your target, ‘my lord.’ ”

  Robin’s impatience now was gone, replaced by the cool carelessness he had learned to wear as a mask against the stifling rigidity of his father. He raised an eloquent eyebrow. “ ’Twould be churlish of me to precede the King of Sherwood.”

  “Here, now—” Clym began.

  Robin hitched a shoulder, purposefully mild. “You did say so.”

  “So you did,” Bell agreed, casting a quelling glance at Clym. “Right, then—we’ll have us a match.” He stepped to the line, took his stance, nocked and lifted the bow. “Three in the heart,” he said, and let fly one after another.

  Cloudisley, standing off to one side of the marked tree, lifted a fist in t
he air when the last of the arrows struck wood and quivered into stillness. “Three in the heart!” he called. “Three in the gouge!”

  Unsurprised, Robin nodded slightly. He expected superior marksmanship from the smaller man, who handled his bow with the understated expertise of a talented, confident archer. Bell employed no boasting, no goading, no flamboyance that marked him more interested in appearance than in results.

  “Clear it,” Bell called, then moved away from the line with a brief gesture to his opponent.

  Robin waited until Cloudisley pulled the shafts, then stepped to the crude line and mimicked Bell’s relaxed stance. One by one he nocked each arrow, pulled the bowstring back to his ear, released smoothly. Like Bell, he employed no flourishes that might alter the tension and detract from his aim; he had been taught too well to succumb to showing off. He lowered the bow as the last arrow was loosed and waited for the call.

  Cloudisley didn’t hesitate. “Ten more paces, giant! The match is tied!”

  Bell nodded agreement as he glanced sidelong at Little John. “Ten more.”

  Little John supplied them, and another line was drawn. Robin glanced briefly at Much, whose expression was rapt, then smiled and waggled his fingers, blowing on them again.

  “Enough of that,” Clym growled.

  Robin grinned. “Afraid the magic is real?”

  “Hush,” Bell said, stepping to the line. Once again he nocked three arrows with swift skill and loosed them as fast.

  “Three in the heart!” came the call. “And three more in the gouge!”

  “Clear!” Bell shouted as Robin nodded and moved to the line.

  He shot three times. The result was the same: three shafts buried in the white flash of the gouge. Robin looked at Little John. “Ten more paces?”

  Alan eyed the distance, then shook his head. “Difficult to see from here.”

  Adam Bell smiled. “My arrows have eyes.” And he appeared to prove it when Cloudisley called the result: at fifty of Little John’s paces, all three shafts buried themselves in the gouge.

  Robin nodded, sincere in his admiration. “Fine shooting.” But he had no more time to waste. He raised his voice to Cloudisley. “Don’t clear the heart. Leave the arrows there.”

  “Leave them!” Even Bell frowned. “You’ll spoil your shots.”

  Scarlet hooted. “Let him, then, Adam.”

  “Leave them,” Robin repeated, stepping to the line. He glanced sidelong at Bell. “I think it should be decisive.”

  Bell grunted. “As you will.”

  Robin nodded absently, glanced briefly once more at Much, then lifted the nocked bow. “Each one,” he said quietly, and with grave deliberation let fly three more arrows.

  Cloudisley moved to look, then turned an astonished face to them. “By God,” he blurted, “he split them! Each of Adam’s arrows!”

  A twinge of relief pinched Robin’s belly; he had not been certain he could, after so long away from the butts. He had a gift, no more; an incredibly keen eye, which he had honed through years of painstaking practice. Many of the hours he had stolen from his father, slipping away into the forest, had been spent at his makeshift target.

  The others were disbelieving. “No,” Scarlet growled, even as Clym spat out an oath. Adam Bell’s mouth was tight as he walked toward the tree.

  No time to tarry—Robin tossed bow and quiver to Little John, who caught them awkwardly, then beckoned Much over with the horse. He grasped the boy beneath his arms and threw him up on the broad bay rump, then climbed up himself, hooking his right leg across the neck as he eased himself into the saddle.

  Alan looked up at him shrewdly. “I’ve never witnessed marksmanship like that before, and I’ve seen my share of matches at tournaments and fairs.”

  It was challenge and question. From the minstrel, both were fair; Alan knew precisely who he was. “My father believed it beneath his heir’s dignity to shoot against common yeomen.”

  A shout went up from Adam Bell. “By God—the arrows are split!”

  “You’d have won,” Alan declared.

  Robin nodded. “It would have made my father angrier, that I dared to win money when he could give me all I wanted.”

  Alan’s eyes narrowed. “But you don’t want it, do you?”

  Robin shrugged, lifting reins. “What I want can’t be bought.”

  “You went on Crusade.” The minstrel began to smile, nodding slightly as inspiration was born. “Fame and glory, then... and the knighthood you won.”

  “No.” Robin, who considered himself unlikely ballad fodder, cast a glance at the outlaws clustered around the marked tree, in which dwelled six arrows: three of them split in half. “Freedom is what I wanted.”

  Alan’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “You?”

  Robin angled the horse toward Nottingham. “You never knew my father.”

  “Here, now!” It was Clym, harsh and belligerent, striding toward the road to cut the horse off. “Here now, where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

  A sense of urgency lent curtness to Robin’s tone. He did not like this man, and he wanted very much to be on his way. “Does it matter?”

  “Aye.” The man put a hand on the reins. “Aye, it does—Adam Bell’s the best!”

  “Was,” Robin countered with inoffensive succinctness. “But he is still King of Sherwood.”

  Cloudisley came up and retrieved bow and quiver from Little John. “And what are you king of?”

  “Myself.” Robin saw the glitter in Clym’s hard eyes and the unrepentant set of his mouth, which told him a thing or two—mostly that it was doubtful he could leave without forcing the issue. And that made him angry. For too many years of his life, in childhood and adulthood, others had spent too much time telling him what to do. I am weary of it. He might have tried to ride through the outlaw, forcing him aside with the sheer bulk of the horse, but Robin was very conscious of Much sitting close behind him. Quietly, he said, “Take your hand from my horse.”

  Clym of the Clough grinned. “Come down from there and make me.”

  The others had departed the target also, striding toward the confrontation. Now Little John glowered. “Let him go, Clym. He’s won the right to go.”

  “No one said I had to let him go.” Clym joggled the reins, glaring belligerent invitation. “Come down from there, boy—let’s see how you fare with me.”

  Let us end this travesty. Robin looked at Adam Bell. “Have you swords?”

  “Swords? No.” Bell frowned. “I was a yeoman, before I was outlawed ... but I never touched a sword. Neither has any of us.” “Then the match is forfeit.” Robin gazed down at Clym. “Find yourself a sword, and I’ll meet you wherever you like. For now, you’ll let me by.” “Let him go,” Alan said quietly. “Don’t test him, Clym.” Then, as Clym moved closer as if to grasp at a leg, “Clym—don’t be a fool! He’s a knight—”

  A heavy silence descended. Adam Bell’s fox eyes narrowed. “A knight, now, is it?”

  “Sir Robin?” asked Cloudisley, giving up no quarter. “You don’t look old enough.”

  Alan cast Robin an eloquent glance, then grinned at the others. “They knight them young in battle.”

  Scarlet’s barked laugh was ugly. “Battle! What battle—” But he broke it off. His color waned a little. “Crusader?”

  “Knighted,” Bell murmured.

  Alan smiled brilliantly. “By the Lionheart himself.”

  Fifty-Two

  Sir Guy of Gisbourne was barely settled in his own bed when William deLacey entered the small, low-roofed chamber and dismissed the Earl of Huntington’s carter. Gisbourne, sweating from pain and twitching with exhaustion, was in no mood to give the sheriff the sort of obsequiousness ordinarily required; besides, he no longer felt quite so dutiful as before. Now he had his own ambitions to fulfill.

  As deLacey mentioned something about pleasant surprises, Gisbourne tried to display a bland expression. He felt as if his betrayal of the sheriffs interest
s was emblazoned on his brow for deLacey to read, to realize what had been done to destroy his chances with Marian. Gisbourne felt guilty and intensely self-conscious, wishing he had deLacey’s skill at prevarication.

  “Welcome back,” the sheriff said, casting a glance around the small chamber with its pitifully few appointments: a bed, one clothing trunk, a single candle stand bearing the stub of a tallow candle. The slit of a narrow splayed window let in a vertical bar of wan light from a dimmer day. “We have missed you, Gisbourne,” deLacey announced magnanimously. “Very much so, in fact. I see we have underestimated your value to Nottingham Castle.”

  He’s here to say something specific... Gisbourne nodded, thinking back to Gilbert de Pisan and his unexpected success at manipulating the man. If I could do that here, now, with the sheriff—He managed a self-deprecating smile. “I am the seneschal, my lord—it is my duty to see to it your needs are properly looked after.”

  DeLacey raised a finger. “Ah, but you do it with surpassing skill. I doubt not you could hold your own with Gilbert de Pisan.”

  Gisbourne’s heart stopped, then resumed with a hollow cramping thump. He had said nothing of de Pisan, merely thought it. What does he know? Anything? Or is he just talking?

  The sheriff continued smoothly. “In fact, I believe it is time I seriously considered rewarding you with something significant, Sir Guy—something that will be remarked upon by others as a sign of my favor, which of course would help you rise.”

  Gisbourne felt out of his depth. Once he might have been pleased by the unexpected observations and a promised reward, but now all he could do was try to knit his shredded wits back together again.

  DeLacey nodded, linking hands behind his back. “It is unfortunate your father could not provide more for you than secondhand armor and mount, Sir Guy—but if he had, perhaps I would be missing my most valued servant. So, to show my appreciation, I have decided to bestow upon you an increase in your yearly income, and the hand of my daughter.”

  Gisbourne’s tongue felt thick. “Your daughter?”