Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  “But de la Barre—”

  “—is not castellan; Archaumbault is, and he’s gone to Lincoln with the sheriff.” And all the money. “I am seneschal; the castle currently is in my charge.”

  In a way it was true, though he trod dangerous ground. He simply could not be certain which way the sheriff might prefer to have the woman held. In his uncertainty, he might as well act and attempt to profit from it. It was what deLacey would do.

  Gisbourne carefully pushed himself away from the table and rose, catching up crutches. Idly he said, “If the king were free right now, Walter, and on his way to England, do you think he would like to learn a ward of the Crown has been put into a dungeon?”

  “No,” Walter conceded, “but the king isn’t free—”

  “Pretend,” Gisbourne suggested succinctly. “Now go and have the abbot shown to a chamber, then order the Lady Marian brought out of the dungeon.”

  Marian thrust herself from the floor as the grate was lowered and locked. She could see very little, merely a crosshatched rectangle of wan light, and the indistinct face of the soldier who snapped the bolt home. Then the face went away and she saw no one at all, not even the man who had said she was a witch.

  Inane laughter bubbled up, accompanied by despair. “Fly,” she said unevenly. “Doesn’t a witch require a broom?”

  She bit down into her lip, fighting back tears. God, but she hurt. “No,” she said aloud.

  But she could not ignore it. Now that he was gone, now that she was still, now that she was alone—

  Marian hugged her ribs, biting more firmly into her lip. The ear and jaw still ached. The inside of her mouth was cut, though it no longer bled. Somehow she had twisted an ankle—when he pulled me off the horse?—and her wrists felt bruised from the pressure of his grasp. She was as battered as before, when Will Scarlet had taken her. At least then I was out-of-doors where I could breathe clean air without the stink of ordure and—rats?

  Yes, rats. She heard them near the walls. Marian stood in the faded patch of crosshatched light and looked at her hole. She was alone at least, but hardly the first inhabitant. The straw was thickly fouled, and an unemptied bucket of slops was set into a corner. There was no bench, no stool, not even a pallet.

  But for the moment such knowledge palled. She thought instead of the flames she had seen, the shouting she had heard, the screams but barely begun.

  Burn the entire village.

  Marian shivered. “Don’t let them die for me--” Tears stung her eyes. She felt sick to her stomach, wanting to spew up vileness in response to recognition: a man had done this thing because she dared to love his son. “No,” Marian murmured, “because the son dares to love me.”

  She swallowed heavily, fighting the urge to vomit. Her abused belly contracted. Anger-tempered courage wavered, until she fixed her mind on the man’s cold-blooded order to burn everything. She did not avoid it. It gave her the strength to overcome the fear, to live on determination to see him answer for it.

  She dared not sit, or tempt the rats. So she paced in a small pattern, rubbing a sore elbow, favoring an aching ankle, picking straw from her tangled hair. Around and around she went, crossing the patch of light. She fixed her mind on Robin, wishing him to the castle where he would set her free.

  “Childhood dreams,” she muttered.

  For now, they were all she had.

  They had smelled it for some time, but now they could see it. In moonlight the smoke was eerie, lacelike layers snagging on tree branches, then shredding to drift away. Much leaned close to Robin, pressing against his back. “Fire.”

  Robin nodded. They were very close to Locksley, but the sun had gone down. Only the moon offered illumination. Robin used it to find his way along the track he knew existed, because he had used it earlier. “A bonfire, perhaps—” They broke free of the perimeter fringe into the meadowlands, and saw without obstruction the ruin of Locksley Hall.

  “Jesu,” Alan whispered. “The whole village is gone—”

  Avoiding Much, Robin slid awkwardly from the still-moving cart horse and ran toward the charred, blackened timbers, which were still smoking, still glowing, still listlessly burning, like a handful of stubborn coals. “Marian—”

  The stench of smoke was thick, intermixed with the tang of burned flesh; some of it was animal, some of it human. Beyond the ruins of the hall lay the village itself. Most of it was burned, but flames were slow to die.

  He was aware as he ran of a body making its way toward him, heavy through the shoulders, wide through the hips, thick of ankle and calf. It registered that the body was male, not female, swathed in black wool that was burned through in dozens of places. The face was fleshy and stunned, smeared with ash and soot; the cowlike brown eyes expressed little but naked horror.

  “Tuck!” Robin caught at the monk’s shoulders and saw the wince in his eyes. “Tuck—where is she?”

  “Gone—” the monk whispered. “All of it—gone—”

  “Tuck.” He doubled up handfuls of spark-riddled cassock. “Where is Marian?”

  “I went in—I went in to see . . . to see if she was there—” Tuck smeared a soot-covered hand across his face. “The whole hall was burning—”

  Robin’s voice cracked. “Insh’Allah, Tuck—where is Marian?”

  The monk began to cough, bringing up viscid black spittle. He spat it onto the ground, still coughing, then gathered up his rosary and began to pray.

  Robin closed his hand over the crucifix and ripped it from Tuck’s grasp. His voice now was deadly. “Is Marian dead?”

  Fleshy hands groped. “Let me—I must—”

  “Tuck!” Others were there now; Robin felt them, saw them, heard them: Much and Will Scarlet, Alan and Little John, and people coming up from the burning village. “Is she dead? Is Marian dead?”

  Sense returned to Tuck’s eyes. He coughed weakly again, then grasped Robin’s shoulder. “No—no ... someone took her away. I heard her shouting . . . by the time I reached the hall, they were riding away—and the hall was burning, and the village, too—”

  “Someone took her?” Robin caught handfuls of cassock again. “In the name of God, Tuck—tell me what you know--”

  “They took her,” Tuck repeated. “Mounted men.”

  “Normans,” Scarlet said.

  “No mail—I saw no shine, no glint—” Tuck shook his head. “They wore plain clothing, like peasants—”

  “But they rode,” Robin said. He cast a glance at the others, seeing nods of comprehension, the bleakness of acknowledgment. “Tuck—” But the question died before it was asked. He recalled all too clearly Thomas, sent from his father, garbed in plain clothing and begging in desperation that he go home. “Ya Allah--” He stared at Tuck. “My father—? Would my father—?” He looked beyond to the burning village. “This--?”

  “Robin.” It was the giant, red hair glinting in fireglow. “What do you want us to do?”

  “I want—” He tried again. “I want—” But the words kept dying. He was cold, very cold, and the world felt far away. I told her to stay here because she would be safe. Because she would be SAFE. With effort he found his tongue, and the wit to form the words. “I want you to come with me. Now.” He looked at them. “Will you?” He looked at Tuck. “Will you?”

  “Which way?” Scarlet asked.

  “Huntington,” he murmured; it sounded like someone else.

  Much was there with the cart horse, handing rein to Robin.

  Seventy-Two

  Marian heard footsteps, mutterings, and at last the metallic snap of the bolt being unlocked. She stood beneath the crosshatched trapdoor and watched as it was pulled open. Dim light crept into the hole into which she had been dropped, illuminating its closeness and the fetid conditions, lessening more than ever her taste for captivity. Already she itched.

  Someone else? Then, cynically, Or someone sent to test me?

  The ladder scraped over the edge and was dropped down as she dodged it. “Co
me up,” a voice invited.

  Marian hesitated. She trusted no one now.

  “Come up,” the voice insisted. “D’ye like it down there? We’re to put you somewhere else.”

  Hastily she climbed, kicking aside her kirtle and shift. Nothing could be worse than the filthy, choking hole; even if it were, she was willing to risk finding out.

  The man had not lied. She was taken to an ordinary chamber housing one bed and a stool and was left there. The door was latched from the outside; she assumed there was a guard.

  Marian smiled wryly. Perhaps two, this time; last time one proved not enough.

  The splayed windows were no more wide than she was, the slits for admitting light little more than arrow-loops. There was no light to admit; it was dark without and within. A single fat candle on a stand near the door shed fickle illumination, but was better than nothing, certainly far better than she had known in the hole.

  Marian sighed and ran both hands through her tangled hair, scraping it back from her face. She was filthy, she knew, her dishevelled hair still littered with straw, her kirtle stained from a sweating horse, her face smudged with dirt and possibly blood. She scrubbed at it absently, recalling with distaste the leader of the Normans and his attempt to silence her.

  She had barely turned to assess her room when the latch rattled again and the door was swung open. She spun stiffly, backing up two steps, until she saw Sir Guy of Gisbourne crutching his way into the chamber. Beyond him stood the guards, who this time shut and locked the door behind him.

  Marian was much relieved to see a sympathetic face. He had aided her before, perhaps he would again. She smiled, relaxing. “Do they distrust you now?”

  His expression was rueful. “As one might expect. But I gave the order—I want no one suspecting me.” He actually smiled back. It was the first time she had seen him so at ease. The smile smoothed the intensity from his face and softened the hardness of the dark eyes she had once likened to a boar’s. “I am sorry you were put into the dungeon,” he said, hiding nothing of his displeasure. “De la Barre was told only that you were a witch, and were to be brought to the castle. He believed the nonsense, of course—the sheriff can be convincing—and so he put you down there, thinking to please the sheriff.”

  He was different. She heard it in his tone, saw it in his eyes. The awkward intensity was banished, replaced with a hint of pride and a trace of self-satisfaction. But the change in Sir Guy of Gisbourne was not what concerned her. “The Sheriff ordered this?”

  Gisbourne nodded. “He thinks it will force your hand. That you will agree to marry him to escape a witchcraft trial.”

  Marian found it preposterous. “No man would go to so much trouble merely to win a woman! A village—even lives?” She stared at him. “Would he? Even William deLacey?”

  Gisbourne’s mouth twisted. The glint in his dark eyes was bittersweet. “Men do. The sheriff has. He wants you that badly.”

  This was at odds with everything she had suspected. “I thought it was the earl.”

  “Huntington?” He nodded. “He has a part in this—I am told the sheriff received a message yesterday from the earl.”

  She was cold, so very cold. Then my message will have failed . . . he is using the sheriff to further his own aims. She looked at Gisbourne. “One hand holds the other, while both men profit?”

  He shrugged uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze.

  Laggardly, she recalled her manners as she was struck again by the awkwardness of his posture, draped across two crude crutches. She gestured. “Sir Guy—seat yourself. The stool, there—or would you prefer the bed?”

  He shook his head. “I will stand. If it please you, Lady Marian, I would have you sit. There is much for you to hear.”

  She sought common ground as she perched on the edge of the bed. She had never been comfortable in his presence; she felt guilty now that he seemed at ease and her awkwardness still remained. He had done so much for her. “Have you come again to release me?” She smiled crookedly. “Or is there no help for me at all?”

  “I have come to give you release, if you are willing to take it.” The wording was oblique, but Gisbourne offered no better. He hitched a shoulder slightly, as if to resettle a crutch. “He means to follow through with the trial, unless you agree to marry him. He’s summoned Abbot Martin here from Croxden.”

  Added to everything else, it shook her badly. “He is here?”

  Gisbourne nodded.

  Marian stared at him, putting together the pieces even though she wanted very badly to disbelieve the result. “Both men, united—and the abbot, as well . . .” It hurt to swallow. “What is there to do? How do I fight them both?”

  Gisbourne’s saturnine face was freshly shaved, and he wore clean clothing. “Lady . . . there is much to do. You may listen—and give me your kindness and consideration, if you would be so generous.” He drew in a deep breath. “I tried once before to say this—there, in the forest—but the boar interrupted.”

  Marian suppressed her impatience; she was more concerned with the abbot’s presence and the sheriffs intentions. She recalled the boar, of course, and Gisbourne’s injury. She recalled vaguely that he had been trying to say something to her then, before the boar broke into their clearing. He had never said it at all because the boar had intervened. And then Robin, killing it. “I am sorry, Sir Guy—”

  He cut her off with a shake of his head. “No, do not apologize. I have often been a fool in my life, especially with women. They—you—often frighten me.” He managed a self-conscious smile. Then its edges crumbled away, baring nakedness, betraying desperation. “So many times I have tried to speak to women, only to make a fool of myself—to blunder into incoherency.”

  Marian focused her attention, essaying a smile. She wanted to give him heart; it wasn’t his fault there was so much more to think about. “You are not incoherent now.”

  “No. I am—changed.” He swallowed heavily. His dark face was a little gray, but his eyes did not avoid hers. “Lady Marian, I overstep my bounds, but I must say it. I—” He moistened dry lips. “I desire to marry you.”

  She was empty of emotion. For a long moment all she could do was stare. How could he think of marriage when she might well burn at the stake?

  And yet perhaps she wouldn’t. Hadn’t he come to aid her?

  Marian swallowed carefully; her ear and jaw still ached. “Is this what you meant to say? Then?”

  “I meant to say then that I would do anything for you,” he told her earnestly, hiding nothing from her. “To declare my intentions . . . and to say I would die for you.” His voice steadied. “I very nearly did.”

  So he had. “Sir Guy—” Her mouth felt numb. This is too much ... all of this, too much. But she had no desire to hurt him. Reluctantly she began, “Sir Guy, I am sorry—” “You don’t understand,” he said desperately, cutting her off abruptly. “I love you, Lady Marian.”

  It silenced her completely. Three simple words bearing the weight of a man’s soul—and she was required to crush it. Marian thought it might almost be better to inhabit the hole again, to withstand rats instead of dealing with this man’s heart. “Sir Guy—”

  The earnestness faded, replaced with intensity. “I am devoted to you,” he insisted. “I will be what I must be, do what I must do, to make you happy.” He crutched closer. His expression transformed itself from desperation to something akin to torment, as if he knew she would not be easily swayed and required a sacrifice. “I have never said that to a woman ... I thought I never could . . . I thought I would never care—” His knuckles were white on the crutches. “Forgive me—I meant to say it differently . . . Lady Marian, please—I meant once to better myself, to improve myself with marriage, but that is past. I want you, not Ravenskeep ... and that is more than the sheriff can claim!”

  She wanted to stare at her hands, clasped so tightly in her lap. She wanted to stare at the floor. She wanted to look anywhere save into Gisbourne’s face. But she owed him
that much. “Sir Guy . . . forgive me, Sir Guy—but I cannot marry you.”

  “I know,” he said raggedly, “I know I am only a knight, and a poor one—one whose knighthood was bought . . . I know your father was a real one, a man who deserved the knighthood, but I promise you, I promise—I will do whatever I must . . . Lady Marian, I beg you—”

  “No,” she said. “Don’t beg.”

  Awkwardly, he lowered himself to one knee, clinging to the crutches. “Lady Marian—please—”

  She wanted desperately to find the words to make him go away before she had to hurt him. “Sir Guy—”

  His eyes were avid and determined. “I saw you to your freedom. I brought you from the dungeon. I risked my life for you—”

  “Sir Guy, I beg you—”

  “Consider me,” he told her. “Look upon a man who is in an agony of need. I worship you, Lady Marian—”

  She was intensely embarrassed. “Sir Guy, get up—get up! This is nonsense—”

  “Look at what I have done for you, Lady. I have even warned you of the sheriff.”

  “I don’t want to marry him, either,” she declared, now as desperate as he. “And I won’t. Trial or no, I will not marry him. No matter what he does, no matter what he says. I can’t.”

  He hung there, staring at her. Clutching his crutches. “Then marry me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Sir Guy—” The only way to end this was to give him the truth. “Sir Guy—I love someone else.”

  “I am here on my knees before you—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I am sorry. I cannot.”

  The boar’s eyes were too bright, burning now like Locksley Hall, like the eyes of the man who had ordered the village destroyed. “I lied for you!” he cried. “I nearly died for you! I have jeopardized my place, I have betrayed my lord, I have served a traitorous prince—” He wavered on his knees. “I have done all manner of things to bring me to this point.” Tears gathered in his eyes, extinguishing the flame. “I pray you, Lady Marian—don’t fail me now! I have risked too much for you.”