Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  Troubled, he nodded. “Aye, of course—but the earl? Why should he pay heed to your words?”

  “He is, above all, loyal to the king. He wants no part of Prince John. It seems to me the earl would also oppose the sheriff, as William deLacey is John’s man.”

  Tuck smoothed crumpled parchment across cassock and thigh. “Perhaps so, Lady Marian.”

  She smiled. “You think he will be indisposed to put much stock in what I have to say.”

  He nodded, reddening again.

  “Therefore I must be circumspect in my language—and offer him something he desires very much, so he must pay heed.”

  Tuck’s mouth opened. “You don’t mean to tell him you will give up his son!”

  Marian’s teeth clicked shut. “Not in so many words. Imply it, yes—because this sort of warfare lives on implication. That much I have learned from the sheriff.” Her mouth tightened into a grim line. “I want you to put into writing that the sheriff has stolen money intended to ransom the king, and intends to take it himself to John in Lincoln. If the earl requires an additional weapon against the Count of Mortain, he shall have this one. Once the king is home—”

  “If he comes home.”

  Marian looked at Tuck. “He must come home. Otherwise what Robin does is naught but outlawry.”

  Tuck’s upper lip was stippled with perspiration. He blotted it, then once again smoothed the dog-eared parchment. “But it is,” he said quietly. “It is outlawry.”

  “And in my own way, I do my share. If this fails and John becomes king, I too could be named a wolf’s-head.” Marian gestured slightly. “Write it, Brother Tuck. Let us give the earl his weapon.” And let me gain mine as well.

  DeLacey waited until the sounds of ill-ridden horses crashing through foliage faded, replaced with a heavy stillness that made him all too aware of fragile mortality. He was the only man of thirteen still alive, and only because of a head wound that spilled so much blood the others believed him dead. He was grateful the squeamish giant had been the one to assess his condition; Will Scarlet would have cut his throat outright, and he did not doubt Robert of Locksley—Robin Hood! he exulted—would have loosed another arrow.

  When the stillness was replaced by the sounds of the forest, he at last struggled to lever himself up on his right elbow so he could view the scene. It was much as expected: mailed bodies scattered here and there, dead mounts; the wagon bearing its weight of empty chest, bereft now of horses.

  “Twelve men,” he muttered. “They’ll hang even an earl’s son for work such as this!”

  With effort, he untangled his spur from stirrup and freed his left leg, though he could do little with it. But the cramp was gone, and the feeling of helplessness abated. He tried tugging himself free of the downed horse, but was unsuccessful. The weight was too much, though the ground was soft enough to have kept the leg whole. He needed help to lift the horse, but since there was none to be had he would rely on something else.

  Twisting, he pulled the Norman sword free of its sheath. At close quarters it was unwieldy, but there was no other help for it. With effort and tenacity, he set himself to the task of scraping away the mud that cradled his trapped leg. If he dug enough of it aside, he could pull himself free. It would take time, of course, but he was going nowhere. He had all the time in the world.

  “Marian,” deLacey muttered. He was aware peripherally of a curious indifference, as if mind and body were numb to the promise of the woman he had desired for so long.

  Then numbness disappeared. Indifference dissipated. She spread her legs for Robert of Locksley.

  Aware of fury and thwarted desire, he appended a new name to Hugh FitzWalter’s daughter with deliberate clarity. “Robin. Hood’s. Whore.”

  James the reeve had been dispatched to deliver the message to Huntington, then was to go on to Nottingham and Abraham. Marian lingered outside the hall as the sun went down, watching again for Robin.

  Go inside, she told herself. This offers nothing. But she could not make herself turn and go. A moment longer only, and then another moment, until the moments became an hour.

  From the tree line behind the hall came a crackle of underbrush. Hope stilled her completely a moment, then gave her the freedom to dart toward the rear of the hall, to see if it were Robin coming back with the others.

  Strangers, all of them. One man carried a torch.

  Marian knew at once none of them were peasants, though their clothing was simple enough. They were too intent, too organized, fixed on a single goal. “The earl—” Foreboding sprang up, hollowing her belly. “This is his answer.”

  The man in the lead was young and suspiciously pleased with himself. She saw the slight smile, the glint in his brown eyes, the arrogant manner at odds with his dress. For only an instant she lingered, thinking to attempt conversation, to explain what the message was for. But something in the man’s eyes persuaded her otherwise. Why come out of sherwood if all they mean is to talk?

  “Tuck—” She spun, yanking her kirtle skirts out of the way. “Brother Tuck!” If I can reach the hall—reach a rake--It wasn’t a quarterstaff, but she thought it might do.

  Near the bench they caught her. Marian felt the hands grasping at arms, the fingers digging in—Will Scarlet all over again—

  She shouted a denial, recalling the degradation of Scarlet’s possession of her. That he had not raped her meant nothing now—he had put rough hands on her and hurt her, forcing her to do things she did not wish to do. It was no different now.

  She fought viciously, biting and kicking, jamming elbows at ribs and bellies, grinding heels into toes. In shock they slackened their hold.

  Marian twisted, tearing from their grasps. The bench—and the rake—right there—

  She reached for it, clawed for it, felt a fingertip touch wood. “Yes—” But they grabbed her again, knocking aside the rake.

  “Hold her!” one man snapped in pure Norman French. “By God, if you can’t, I will—” And he was there in front of her even as she twisted, reaching out to sink his hand into her hair, to catch the thick braid and wind it around his palm.

  Marian kicked, trying to jam stiffened toes into vulnerable flesh. A raised knee set to slam between the man’s legs was turned aside with a kick of his own that nearly hooked her off her feet. He jerked her head up tight, snubbed like an unbroken colt. “No spells,” he said curtly. “No spells on us, witch—”

  He looked nothing like Will Scarlet, but that is whom she saw. She smelled him again, heard him again. Marian thrust herself against the man and tried to slam her head up under his chin.

  He swore a string of Norman oaths. The cuff from a broad-palmed hand landed athwart ear and jaw, shutting her teeth together slantwise. Blood broke inside her mouth even as her twisted jaw protested with a sharp bolt of pain. The intensity silenced Marian and recalled her to herself. Not Will Scarlet.

  Other men also, gathering near: ten of them, she thought; ten of the earl’s men sent to dismiss the woman. Sluggishly she remembered. He called me witch.

  She struggled briefly and suffered for it. Hands tightened on her, twisting her arms; the Norman took another wrap of braid so tight it pulled her head to the side, jarring her jaw again. “I’m not a witch—”

  “Shut your mouth,” he said, “or I will stuff it full of excrement and let you choke on it.”

  She was dazed now, and aching, but understood all too well the danger she was in. The earl had reacted in a way she had not anticipated. “He’s lying,” she gasped through the ache in ear and jaw. “The earl’s lying—”

  The man’s free hand closed on her face, squeezing it out of shape. Pain lanced through her jaw. “We have proof,” he declared, “and a man who will swear to your witchcraft. A man from Ravenskeep.”

  Ravenskeep—? “But it’s not true,” she protested. “Witchcraft has nothing to do with this . . . this is a petty lord’s revenge—”

  He bent quickly, scooped up loose, powdery dirt, forced it bet
ween her teeth and clamped her mouth shut. “If you do not hold your tongue, I will cut it out and feed it to you.”

  She shut her throat to keep herself from choking even as tears of effort ran from her eyes. When he took her trembling silence for surrender, he removed his hand. “What we’re—”

  Marian spat into his face the dirt he had stuffed in her mouth. “Tuck!” she shouted. “Tuck—to me—”

  Her captor did not bother to wipe the sludge from his face. He turned to the man with the torch. “Burn it,” he said quietly. “Burn the entire village.” He swung back to Marian, pressing a hand across her mouth before she could protest. With grave deliberation he scrubbed dirt- and blood-laden spittle from his young face. “The deaths will be on your soul—if a witch has a soul.”

  Seventy-One

  DeLacey at last tossed aside the sword and dug gloved fingers deep into half-dried mud, dragging his body forward even as he braced the other foot against the firmer saddle. The numb leg moved sluggishly until the trapped foot was in the rough-hewn channel he had so tenaciously cut, and then he lurched again, straining, dragging his leg free of the slack, heavy body.

  He sprawled facedown in the road newly muddied by blood, while pain beat in his head. Sweating, he gasped, “Is no one bound for Lincoln?” The road had been deserted since the attack.

  He lay limply for some time, trying to still the pounding of his head. Gingerly he fingered stiff, matted hair bare of coif and helm, the crusted wound itself, and the blood dried on his face. At last, he could scratch it.

  “He’ll hang,” deLacey murmured. “By God—I’ll see he hangs ... and I’ll have his whore patch.”

  Robin reined in his horse as Scarlet shouted behind him. It took an extra moment, since the cart horse was unresponsive, and by the time Robin got him turned fully he found Scarlet and Alan laughing as Little John picked himself up from the ground. The other cart horse wandered his way up the track until Robin turned him back, then reached and caught loose rein.

  Little John’s face was as fiery as his hair. “I’ll walk from here.”

  Robin rode slowly back along the track, grimly leading a horse who pulled against his shoulder. He stopped as he reached the giant. “The first time you sheared a sheep, did you know how?”

  Little John shook his head, frowning.

  “The first time you wrestled a man, did you know how?”

  The giant muttered denial.

  “But you sheared a second sheep, and you wrestled a second man.” Robin held out the rein. Glumly, Little John took it.

  Locksley Hall was ablaze even as Marian was jerked from the ground and slammed down across a horse’s withers. She smelled pungent woodsmoke. Not the hall. She lost her breath as the saddle jammed into her abdomen, so that even as she drew breath to shout it was driven out of her. Noisily she sucked air back in again, but a man was in the saddle with one hand wrapped in her braid, mashing her face against the horse’s shoulder.

  Not the hall. She heard the crackle and snap of flame consuming the straw and grass used in the daub-and-wattle as fire made its way up the cruck-beamed timber supports to the fresh thatchingJames and others had labored to repair. So much work.

  She shifted, trying to slide off. He caught handfuls of braid and kirtle bodice and pressed her down again. Marian tasted salt, blood, horsehair, and sweat, as well as the residue of dirt left from the leader’s attempt to gag her.

  “If you struggle,” he said simply, “I will hang you by your hair and drag you beside me.”

  Her jaw and ear ached with unremitting pain. She wanted to struggle again for no other reason than to hold herself upright so the pounding in her head lessened, but he refused her that. She dared not press him too much. Her position was precarious as well as uncomfortable. If she fell, she could easily have a leg broken—or both of them—by the misstep of a galloping horse, or be trampled entirely.

  She thought of Tuck again, who had gone out of the hall to visit the villagers. If he can carry word to Robin ...

  If Robin lived to hear it.

  She heard the startled outcries of Locksley’s inhabitants as they discovered the hall afire, and the promise of an inferno as a galloping rider swung by to toss his torch into thatching within the village proper. Burn it, the leader had said. Burn the entire village.

  Marian twisted her head to pitch her voice upward. “Not the village,” she begged. “They’ve done nothing—it was I who sent the message!”

  Her wrists were bound behind her by the strength of one large hand. With the other he swung the horse around, then set it to a lope. The saddle ground into her midriff She banged nose and chin on the flexing shoulder. Marian craned up her head, but the leader jammed her down again with a murmured imprecation against Saxon witches.

  The shouting and crackle faded as Locksley fell behind. Numbly Marian thought, They burn witches, too.

  DeLacey tested his leg. It was whole, if sore; he doubted there would be any lasting ill effects. He recovered his sword, cleaned and sheathed it, went from body to body to see if anyone lived.

  Only one man did, if barely: Archaumbault, the castellan, lay half beneath the wagon. A crossbow lay close at hand with the trigger discharged; Archaumbault was the man, then, who had aimed for and missed the boy.

  Unfortunate ... I would have preferred my castellan—or anyone--had accounted for someone. Now we look like fools, bested by Saxon wolf’s-heads.

  Colorless, the dying veteran breathed shallowly and unevenly. His eyelids were cracked, but deLacey doubted Archaumbault saw anything.

  Acknowledgment was bitter. I need more men like him, yet he is taken from me.

  Archaumbault was beyond help. I remained then to use the man’s loss to further the sheriffs ambitions; if a man had to die, deLacey thought, the least he could do was serve his lord by that death.

  He drew his knife, hesitated only briefly, then methodically slit Archaumbault’s throat. Blood welled, bubbled briefly, then flowed. It slowed after a moment: sluggish tears from a dry eye.

  DeLacey went to each man and cut his throat likewise. He was taking no chances that the earl might contrive to bribe his son free of banditry and murder charges, depending on title and influence to mitigate the sentence; this kind of atrocity assured Locksley—no, Robin Hood—would be executed.

  As for me? DeLacey smiled grimly. He nicked the side of his throat, then cleaned and resheathed the weapon. Someone happened along before Sir Robert of Locksley could finish cutting me.

  Marian nearly fell when she was dragged off the horse. She ached from the pounding ride, her feet and hands were numb, her jaw and ear hurt badly, and she wanted very much to sit down normally, simply to sort out her wits. But the man merely caught both her wrists at her spine, sealed them again in his grasp, then marched her toward the castle.

  She expected Huntington’s castle. What she saw was Nottingham’s.

  “But—” She bit it off. She would give him no chance to misuse her further. And it made as much sense as anything else: the earl would not desire her in his castle. Perhaps this worked in her favor; if she were at Nottingham, the sheriff would come to see her. Perhaps he would explain.

  They cannot just lock me away. They want something from me. The earl wants me gone--the sheriff wants me in bed. It flushed her with angry humiliation. If he thinks this will do it, he is mad.

  The man took her in by a side door, banging her shoulder into the stone jamb—Marian winced; she would be a mass of scrapes and bruises by the time he was done—then pushed her down the corridor she found more reminiscent of a tunnel. Hair pulled free of braid straggled around her shoulders as she shook it back from her face; she felt the cool, damp air—and smelled the stench—of Nottingham’s dungeon.

  He took her out of the corridor into a dark, low-vaulted chamber, where mail-clad soldiers gathered. “Open,” he said, and one of the Normans unlocked the grate in the floor and flipped it back to reveal a rectangular hole. “No,” her captor said, when someo
ne dragged over the crude ladder. “She’s a witch; let her fly. If she can’t, then she’ll fall.”

  And Marian fell as he tipped her over. She landed hard on ancient straw loosely strewn over packed floor.

  Gisbourne was in the sheriffs solar when Walter found him to say the Abbot of Croxden had arrived. “He says he’s come to investigate a charge of witchcraft laid against the Lady Marian FitzWalter.”

  Gisbourne recalled the letter he had written at deLacey’s order. He had not expected it to be answered so quickly, and just now he had other matters far more important to attend, such as how to incriminate the sheriff with something even more dangerous than the letter Prince John had from him.

  Gisbourne sighed, annoyed. “The sheriff isn’t here; he’s in Lincoln. And she isn’t here, either, so the abbot can’t very well do anything yet. He’ll just have to wait.”

  “But she is here,” Walter said. “Philip de la Barre brought her in not long ago. He put her in the dungeon.”

  “In the dungeon?” Gisbourne was appalled. “Is he mad?”

  Walter shrugged. “He said she’s a witch.”

  Gisbourne dropped the papers to the sheriffs table. “She isn’t a witch, you fool . . . can’t you see the sheriff is using that against her to force her to marry him? There is no truth to the suspicion.”

  Walter was bewildered. “Sir Guy, all I know is Philip de la Barre put her in the dungeon. He said she is a witch. That the sheriff told him so.”

  Of course he did, Gisbourne thought. He’d lie to anyone to serve his own purposes. “Well,” he said briskly, hoping to douse any newly raised suspicions Walter might have, “perhaps she is; perhaps she is not. That is to be settled between Abbot Martin and the sheriff.” He paused. “And the king, of course—she is a royal ward.” He straightened his disordered papers. “Walter, de la Barre made a mistake. Have the Lady Marian brought out of the dungeon and installed in a chamber.”