Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  “And in war, too?” He meant it to dissuade her; to point out the folly of bootless wishing.

  Marian shrugged. “I would as soon there were no wars—but that is a woman’s hope, also ... a man prays for it.” She sighed heavily. “Forgive me—I am sour of spirit tonight. But it seems I grow weary of the tedium of my life.”

  “Your life is hardly tedious,” the monk demurred. “Ravenskeep is your portion, yet you marry no man even though you share a bed.” He paused delicately. “But I am sure he will marry you.”

  Marian laughed. “In all things, there must be decorum. Well, Tuck, perhaps you are right ... perhaps he will marry me, and then I’ll tend his hall forever just as I tend it tonight. But I wonder, is there a difference?”

  “There must be, Lady Marian, since God blesses a marriage.”

  She could not argue with that, though she was uncertain God cared one way or the other if she slept with Robin or not. Where is he? she wondered again. Has his father ordered him thrown in his new dungeon? Something pinched hard in her stomach. Or did he go to Nottingham to settle things with the sheriff?

  A cricket chirped beneath the bench. Marian shut her eyes. “Tuck?”

  “Yes, Lady?”

  “Pray for me tonight. Pray for us both tonight.”

  “Aye, Lady. Of course.”

  She found it small comfort, but better than none at all.

  Sixty-Six

  Robin looked at them all as they gathered after breakfast. Hard-eyed men, all of them, save Much who was a boy, yet even he reflected a certain toughness that other boys did not.

  The morning was cool still drugged with mist. It draped layers amidst the trees like a cat across a lap on a cold winter night. Robin nodded at them. “Nearer to Huntington.”

  Clym protested at once. “Aye, where the earl is; d’ye want us caught, then?”

  Robin studied the outlaw. He was a sullen, contentious man who questioned the suggestions of anyone save Adam Bell, for whom he had something akin to respect. Robin knew he lacked it, and would undoubtedly never gain it. He will argue every time. Clym is the kind of man who, as Crusader, robs the dead of dignity and squalls about his own. He will play sapper to my wall, undermining every step. He smiled grimly. But I am not Acre.

  Adam Bell was matter-of-fact. “Why not wait for them here?”

  He’s testing me also, to see if I mean what I say. Robin smiled more widely. Well, he has more right. “They may ride as far as Nottingham, then split up, which reduces our opportunity. If we wait nearer Nottingham than Huntington, we chance being seen, or that the sheriff might send out a routine patrol.”

  Bell grunted noncommittally. “Clym’s right about the earl—what of him? Huntington’s powerful.”

  Robin quashed a laugh. “He won’t expect this.”

  “Maybe not,” Bell agreed, “but if we rob them, and they ride back to Huntington, he’ll send out men, won’t he?”

  Robin considered it. “Possibly,” he conceded, because he knew it was true. His father might be so infuriated by thieves daring to rob his former guests that he could very well retaliate almost instantly.

  Bell nodded. “Halfway, then,” he said. “Between Huntington and Nottingham. Given a choice, most men would go on to the sheriff to complain; ’tis what he’s there for, to keep the law.” He rose from his squat, catching up his bow. “Come on, then. We’ll go. We’ll give our fair knight a taste of the outlaw’s life.”

  Scarlet laughed crudely. “He might even find he likes it!”

  “Do you?” the minstrel asked. “Do you like it, Will Scarlet?”

  Scarlet spat, scowling at Robin. “I’d rather be a knight.”

  Robin did not miss the eloquent glance Alan shot him. It irritated him.

  DeLacey summoned Archaumbault to the hall. When the castellan arrived, the sheriff asked a simple straightforward question. “Are you fit enough to ride to Lincoln?”

  “Yes, my lord. I’m fit.”

  DeLacey hesitated. “I could always send de la Barre.”

  “My lord.” The castellan’s tone hardened. “If I were not fit, I would declare myself so; the duty is more important than a man’s pride.” His mouth jerked flat at the corners. “Philip de la Barre will undoubtedly make a fine castellan someday—if you intend to replace me, my lord—but he requires seasoning.”

  DeLacey hid a smile with effort. I have found your chink, Archaumbault. “Indeed,” he said noncommittally. “You are undoubtedly correct, Archaumbault; he is yet young and too eager. There are duties that require wisdom and experience.” He nodded decisively. “Very well. You will choose your best men and see that the shipment is safely delivered to Lincoln, as commanded by Prince John.”

  “Is that all, my lord?”

  “I want to speak to them before you leave.” DeLacey waved dismissal. Just get it there, Archaumbault—or I will make de la Barre castellan before the week is through.

  Adam Bell sent Clym, Cloudisley, and Wat One-Hand to the far side of the road, while he remained in hiding with Robin, Little John, Will Scarlet, the minstrel, and the boy—whom he said should stay out of the business. Much refused.

  “Leave him be,” Robin said. “He’s quicker than any of you.”

  “You’re not so much older yourself.”

  Robin grinned. “Old enough to learn the butts from Ned Fuller.”

  Bell scowled. “Will you throw that in my face?”

  “Why not? It’s an ugly face.”

  Bell nearly smiled, then managed a dark scowl. “All right, enough. We’d best be quiet.” He ordered the others to spread out, then squatted down in the foliage near Robin. “You’ll know them when you see them, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seen them before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  Robin grinned. “Huntington, Adam—but that tells you nothing. You already know I’ve been there, or Ned Fuller wouldn’t have taught me what I know of splitting arrows.”

  Bell grunted. “Your sort doesn’t stoop to banditry.”

  “Your sort didn’t, once. A yeoman archer, were you not?”

  “Aye.” The voice was harsh. “But still not a knight.”

  “I won’t be a knight for long if they catch me playing at this.”

  Bell glanced at him sharply. “Do they know you, then, these lords?”

  Robin weighed his answer, then settled for an idle: “They have seen me before.” The three might have seen many men in their lifetimes, but that marked no one out for Bell to fix upon.

  From across the road where the others lay in wait, Wat’s bird call sounded. “Riders,” Bell whispered. “It’s for you to say.”

  Robin nodded. He scooped up a handful of mud, rubbed it along his nose, his chin, and across both cheeks, then slicked his hair back and pulled the hood from his shoulders. He settled it over his head, taking care to tuck in loose hair.

  “Aye,” Bell muttered, “not many so fair as you.”

  Three horseman, followed by lackeys, rode abreast on the Nottingham Road. Their heads were bare in sunlight, leaving little doubt to their identities. The quality of their mounts, the richness of their attire, and the accompanying servants underscored their wealth.

  “Yes,” Robin said.

  Adam cupped his hands around his mouth and whistled a bird call. From the shrubbery across the road, another answered him. Then he grinned at Robin. Quietly, too quietly for Little John or Scarlet to hear him, he said pointedly, “This is for you to do.”

  The lords and their lackeys came on, too close now for Robin to argue with Bell or discuss it with the others. With an inward curse he did not permit to pass his lips, Robin jerked an arrow out of his quiver, nocked it swiftly, then stepped out of the foliage into the center of the road.

  “Hold!” He raised the nocked arrow. As the three men drew up putting hands to swords, he fixed the arrow’s point on one: Eustace de Vesci. “Hold,” he repeated.

  Swords were no match for
an arrow loosed by longbow, and none of them rode with shields. De Mandeville at once began to remonstrate, while Henry Bohun attempted to ride forward, to cut off the arrow’s angle and protect the other men. Eustace de Vesci, targeted too well, cursed and turned deep red, tensing in the saddle.

  The hood hid hair and head, and shadowed a face made purposely obscure by mud. Robin held his place in the hoof-churned road with the bowstring drawn to his chin. “No,” he said quietly, altering his accent to something very like Clym’s. “I’d as soon shoot the horses as not—d’ye fancy walking, then?”

  Bohun drew rein at once. “This cannot be tolerated. We are peers of the realm.”

  “I know what you are. Rich men, all three. Lords, are ye not?” Robin looked at de Vesci. “A bullock for the bleeding, from the color of your face.”

  “By God—” de Vesci burst out. “I’ll have the whoreson quartered!”

  De Mandeville said dryly, “You must catch him, first. Have you seen what an arrow from an English longbow can do to a man from this range, Eustace? He’ll pierce your heart easily, then the one in the man behind you.”

  The servant behind de Vesci slowly edged his horse aside.

  “He’ll tire,” de Vesci grated. “Wait him out, I say—he can’t keep it drawn all day.”

  “No,” Robin agreed, “but if I slip or lose my grip, the arrow flies to you. So you might do as I say a wee bit more quickly.”

  “Damn you, you churl—”

  “Your purses,” Robin said. “And your rings. And your chains.”

  “Chains,” de Vesci echoed.

  “Chains of office,” Robin clarified. “That great rope of gold on your chest, my lord ... ’tisn’t a snake, is it? I want it for its gold.”

  “I am the Lord of Alnwick—”

  “I’m the King of Sherwood.”

  Adam Bell’s voice rang out. “Here, now! Tell them the truth, Robin! Who is King of Sherwood?”

  “Here,” agreed Clym from the other side of the road. “We can’t have us two kings!”

  “Why not?” called Little John. “We’ve got us three lords, don’t we?”

  Bohun’s eyes were furious, though his face showed little of it. “Enough of your tricks. We are outnumbered—” He jerked his purse from under his mantle. “Here.” He tossed it down, then stripped the heavy chain of office over his head. “And this.” It landed near the purse. “There. You have my wealth.”

  “And your rings,” Robin said. “The ones under your gloves.”

  “By God!” de Vesci swore. “What gives you the right to steal from your betters—”

  “No man is my better except the King of England.” Robin grinned, though he doubted they could see it in the shadow of the hood. “And if he were here, I’d rob him, too.”

  “Here.” Geoffrey de Mandeville removed purse, chain, and gloves, working his rings free. “Take it, then. Everything.” The man who had carried in his hands the crown of England before Richard accepted it threw down his wealth. “Everything.”

  Robin did not like the feeling growing to fill his belly: a cold, viscid emptiness. He was on Crusade again, preparing to kill again, stripping his mind of emotions, of the arguments against dealing death. “You,” he said to de Vesci, whom he liked much less.

  De Vesci glared back. “Take off that sword,” he ordered. “By God, take off that sword! You’ve stolen it from some poor knight, or nobleman—” He broke off as the arrow wavered minutely, then steadied itself.

  So little to do so much—merely loosen the fingers slightly—“No,” Robin said tightly, not knowing whom he answered: his impulse, or de Vesci’s bluster. “The sword is mine.”

  “You’ve no right to it.” De Vesci yanked his purse free and threw it to the ground. “You’ve no right to any of it.” Next, his chain of office; lastly his rings. “It is no wonder the Normans took us with Saxons such as you raiding carcasses. Did you feed off the guts of brave men?”

  “Ride on,” Robin said harshly, “before my fingers slip.”

  “Eustace,” de Mandeville snapped. “Call him what you will when we are free of him, but—by God!—watch your tongue now. He’ll have your sword, as well.”

  Bohun nodded. “And I’d much prefer to die in my good lady’s bed than here in the muddy road, brought down by an outlaw’s arrow.” He eyed Robin with cool disdain. “We’ve not met your like before. I hope we will not again.”

  “Ride on,” Robin said tightly.

  De Mandeville glanced briefly at the mounted lackeys, then nodded. “Eustace. Henry.” The dignified Earl of Essex did as ordered and rode on steadily as the others filed behind.

  Adam Bell and the others came out onto the road as Robin at last allowed himself to relax, loosening the bowstring. He stared after the lords as they rode into the distance, only half aware that Much and Clym bent to retrieve the purses, chains, and rings from the drying mud of the Nottingham Road.

  “By God,” Cloudisley said, grinning, “that was well done!”

  “Aye.” Bell’s tone was even, with a hint of dry respect. “Knighthood makes a man after all ... I’ve no complaint of you.”

  Robin rattled his arrow back into the quiver. “I have one of you.”

  “Of Adam! You?” Clym’s expression was malignant. “What complaint of the real King of Sherwood?”

  “You wanted it known,” Robin told Bell, ignoring Clym entirely. “You wanted it made very plain.”

  Adam Bell laughed. “Aye, so I did! What kind of man is it who hides behind a hood, thinking to keep a secret? No bravery there, now, is there—many a man can call himself an outlaw and steal for a lark, so long as no one knows him... but a man who means it, a man who has good reason, will risk his name as well.” He bared crooked teeth. “A man in a hood, called Robin. But no one saw your face. You’re safe enough, Sir Knight.”

  Robin nodded as Much came up with a purse and rings. “Did I pass your test?”

  “Aye.” Bell laughed. “You’d have done the same.”

  “Oh?” Robin, assured the lords and their lackeys would not attempt a return, slipped the hood at last and shook mud out of his hair. His daubed face itched. “I did do the same. You failed my test.”

  “Failed?” Clym stepped in close as Robin turned. “What test did we fail?”

  “Honesty,” Robin said. “I want this wealth for the king, not for myself. Yet you stuff coin away thinking no one is looking.”

  At once the others stiffened, staring hard at Clym. Robin sensed the tension in the air, the unalloyed contempt, and knew it had not been planned, that Clym had done it for himself. It was something. A little more than something; the test had been less for a man he already distrusted than others he wanted to.

  “Clym.” Bell’s tone was clipped. “You’ll have another chance.”

  “He’ll keep it for himself, not the king!”

  Little John stepped close, using sheer size to intimidate. “Give it over, Clym.”

  “By Christ, I’ll not listen to you—”

  “Give it up,” Scarlet told him. “He earned it, didn’t he?”

  “Lionheart,” Much announced. “Lionheart’s money!”

  “Christ,” Clym muttered, “we’re all women and boys, giving in to a man like this.”

  “More man than you,” Little John jeered. “I only saw one of us on the road, and it bloody well wasn’t you!”

  Clym reached into his hosen and jerked out the purse, then threw it to the ground. “That for your king’s ransom!” He spat onto the leather.

  Robin turned to Bell. “You have a choice,” he said. “Come with me to Locksley, where there is food, ale, and a hall. We’ve more to discuss now.”

  “Or?” Bell asked.

  “Or not.” Robin shrugged. “I’ve another idea.”

  “Like this one?” Wat One-Hand grinned. “I’m with you, then. This was the easiest job I’ve seen in a long time.”

  “Aye.” Little John’s tone was derisive. “He did all the work.”<
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  “My favorite kind.” Wat’s eyes were bright. “Won’t hurt to listen, will it?”

  “He’s a bloody knight!” Clym cried. “What does he know of our life?”

  “Something now,” Bell retorted. “As the giant said, only one of us was on the road, and it bloody well wasn’t us.” He nodded at Robin. “We’ll come, for now. We’ll eat your food and drink your ale and hear what you have to say.”

  Much picked up the purse Clym had thrown down. He handed it to Robin. “Locksley.”

  DeLacey supervised as Archaumbault ordered the shipment—an ordinary locked chest—placed in the sturdy wagon, then covered with sacking tied down with rough hemp rope. The castellan indicated no particular interest in what it was he intended to escort to Lincoln, merely that the loading be done quickly and properly. DeLacey watched, then motioned for the boy to bring over his own mount.

  “My lord?” Archaumbault was surprised. “Do you come, also?”

  “I have business with Prince John.” He gestured. “Here, de la Barre—”

  But the young man, mounted only paces away, put up a delaying hand a bit too imperative for DeLacey’s liking. “My lord, if it please you—there are riders coming in. And speedily!”

  “Who? Can you see them?” What will delay me now? “De la Barre—”

  “No, my lord.” De la Barre cast a glance over his shoulder. “If you permit, I will go see who they are.”

  “Do,” DeLacey suggested dryly. He glanced to Archaumbault. “Were we ever that young?”

  Archaumbault’s eyes glimmered. “Yesterday, my lord.”

  He was astonished. Before God, the man’s made a jest!

  And then de la Barre was back, taut-faced, stumbling over his words as he reined in his fractious mount. “My lord Sheriff—they are lords ... they speak of robbery, my lord!”

  “What lords?” But deLacey irritably waved him back. “Never mind—I’ll tend it myself.” He glanced again at Archaumbault. “Hold the wagon. We’ll leave in a moment.” Without waiting for the castellan’s answer, deLacey motioned for the boy to continue holding his horse and went forward, marking the clatter of hooves against cobbles and the shouts of an angry man. Who is that? Then his eyes widened. Eustace de Vesci? What is he doing here?—My God, Henry Bohun—and Essex! “Sheriff!” De Vesci reined in his horse so hard its mouth gaped. “My lord Sheriff—attend to this at once! We have been set upon and robbed—”