Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  Her mind was utterly empty. She stared at the face that transformed itself out of shape, into a blanched blob of flesh lacking in character. She could see no features in it because she stared so hard.

  Words reformed in her mind. He thinks he can buy me with this. His face took on features again as she forced herself to think. He believes I owe him this. She studied the man, seeing the soul within. Gisbourne is no different from the sheriff or the earl.

  Trembling, Marian stood up with slow deliberation. The silence seemed very loud, the air between them heavy. It was difficult to speak, to put into words the outrage that she felt. “What you do,” she began in cold, deadly anger, “what you choose to do, for or against your lord, for or against a prince, is yours to do. I will have naught of it. I will have no part of it. You will not drag me down into the madness of your jealousy, Sir Guy . . . I am not part of your obsession. And if I am its object, I say to end it now. End it now. I will have none of it. I will have none of you.”

  “Lady Marian—”

  She overrode him easily, pitching her voice above his protest. “And if it means you will put me down into that filthy hole, then do it. Let it be done. Let me stay there until I grow old and ugly enough that no man wants me ... I will have no part of you. ”

  Gisbourne wept. “You have to,” he whispered. “You have to, Lady Marian . . . how else am I to save myself from the king’s wrath?”

  “The king’s wrath!”

  “He will learn I offered to serve Prince John ... he will learn I have perjured myself to improve my lot, so I could rise in a prince’s service, so I could better myself for you—”

  “Not for me!” she cried furiously. “You want it for yourself!”

  “For you.” He put out a pleading hand. “Don’t you see? He’s free. The devil is loosed. ‘Look to yourself,’ it said, ‘the devil is loosed.’ ” Gisbourne’s hand shook. “I am the youngest son of a wool merchant, Lady Marian, who had no aptitude; whose knighthood was bought; who cannot wield a sword or even ride very well . . . don’t you see? I want to be those things. I want to do those things.” Bitterness crept in. “But I am used to count candles, to keep the accounts in order, to carry out such duties as would sicken an honest man in the name of the sheriffs greed—”

  “So you compound your own guilt by serving him.” Marian’s voice was rusty. She did not enjoy seeing a man grovel before her, or throw into her face the crimes he justified by his need to win her regard. It humiliated her that he had done those things, but not so much as it did to watch him now, begging before her. “You said the king is free?”

  “ ‘The devil is loosed,’ ” he quoted. “The devil will destroy us all.”

  Her joy was overwhelming. The king is FREE. Marian laughed aloud. “Not me,” she countered. “Look to yourself, Sir Guy—I am free of you. I am free of the sheriff.”

  His hand dropped. He clung to his crutches, then heaved himself upright again, balancing carefully. “You don’t understand,” he said. “You have no comprehension how meticulous is the sheriff—how very careful he is when it comes to laying plans.” Gisbourne shook his head. “Lady Marian, I promise you: if you don’t marry me you will be made to marry the sheriff. Or you will surely burn.”

  Marian laughed at him. “The king is free, Sir Guy! You said it yourself. I think I am in no danger.”

  Gisbourne did not even smile. “How is he to prevent that which he does not know?”

  Huntington Castle bulked before them in the darkness, looming up from undulant hills into the argent moonlight. Torches in the bailey lent only superficial illumination beyond the curtain-wall, to paint dimly the hoof-churned earth before the portcullis where Robin and the others gathered.

  Will Scarlet scowled at the gatehouse, misliking the idea of going beyond castle walls. The last time it had happened he had been thrown into a cell in Nottingham.

  He slid a glance at the giant. “He’ll not get us in there.”

  Little John shrugged. “None of us thought he’d take on the sheriff, either.”

  Robin, with Much clinging to him, reined in his horse before the gatehouse. “Open!” he shouted. “By God—open this gate!”

  “This is Huntington,” Scarlet hissed. “Is he mad to roar at them?”

  “He’s a knight,” the giant hissed back.

  “And the earl is an earl—he’ll not be swayed by a knight!”

  Pale faces appeared atop the wall, mail coifs glinting. The features were indistinct, voices inaudible.

  “Open!” Robin shouted, thrusting up an outspread hand as if he commanded an army.

  After a brief consultation, the portcullis grated once and began to rise.

  “You see?” said Little John.

  Scarlet glowered. “Likely they’ll catch us all and throw us into the dungeon. Or hang us.”

  “Robin’s not so foolhardy as that.”

  Scarlet stared past the giant. “No—I think he’s mad.”

  As the portcullis rose to a negotiable height, Robin twisted to look back at them. Pale hair glowed in torchlight as he shook it back from a face that was a mask of grim, unrelenting determination. “Are you with me now as you were today? Will you trust me tonight as you did this afternoon?” He gazed at each of them, rigid atop his cart horse, but undiminished by its clumsiness. “I promise you all—on my honor as a knight—no one will harm you here.”

  Alan, smiling, rode toward him with Tuck guiding his horse behind, but Will Scarlet and Little John hung back on their new mounts. Scarlet said it first. “He’s the earl, damn you! Honor or no, knight or no—what chance have we against him?”

  Robin laughed. “As much chance as we had against the sheriff and his Normans!”

  Scarlet shook his head. “This is different. This is Huntington.”

  Robin lost his smile. “Is that what you said when the Normans killed your wife?”

  Scarlet swore. Then he jammed his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode at a clumsy canter past Robin into the outer bailey of England’s newest castle.

  Little John sighed. “ ’Tis done, then, isn’t it?”

  “Not yet,” Robin replied. “Now there is the earl.”

  Seventy-Three

  It was small revenge, but Gisbourne didn’t care. He knocked the candle off its stand, plunging the room into darkness, then crutched his way into the corridor. There he ordered the door slammed closed and locked again, aware of his voice only as a distant incoherency, and slowly made his way down the corridor to his room. The crutches were oddly heavy, unexpectedly unwieldy, as if he had grown clumsy in the brief length of time between entering and exiting her chamber.

  He wobbled, recovered himself, then moved ahead again, leaning heavily on the supports beneath his arms.

  She refused. The air seemed heavier. The silence in the corridor was filled with a sibilant hiss. She refused. Repeating it altered nothing, but he seemed incapable of framing other words. I told her everything. He had not considered that, only that he would offer her escape from the sheriff, which surely she would take. I told her everything in my heart, everything I hoped for, everything I dreamed—and she refused.

  Another man, she said. Surely not the sheriff. She said it wasn’t the sheriff.

  I might as well have cut my heart from my chest and handed it to her ... she would have respected that as much as anything else. Heat coursed through his body. He felt his loins tighten, the muscles in his belly contract. Humiliation was painful, lifting the flesh on his bones and bathing it in a thin sheen of sweat. I offered. everything, and she refused.

  Another man.

  Gisbourne stopped before his door. Horrified, he said, “I told her everything—”

  He rarely spoke to women beyond what was necessary. But to her he had spoken freely, sharing more of himself than he had shared with anyone. And she had ridiculed him.

  Worse, he had told her of the king. She knew his secret, now. She had the weapon, too. The only difference was, he had the free
dom to use it.

  Self-contempt writhed in his belly, squeezing his bowels. He had told her everything, and she reviled him for it.

  Gisbourne put out a hand to lift the latch and saw that it shook. He was weak, weak and foolish, no match for a man like the sheriff, who understood how to turn setbacks into victories. All he understood was how to put into writing his support for a treacherous prince, whose position now was threatened by the very brother he had tried to replace.

  “The devil is loosed,” Gisbourne whispered, and pushed open the narrow door.

  Beyond, in his chamber, waited Eleanor deLacey.

  Horseboys came running as Robin and the others rode into the bailey. Much slid off at once, then Robin, who thrust out reins to the first boy who reached him. “Hold him here.”

  A quick glance showed him the others dismounting nearly as hastily. Alan was off his horse, mimicking Robin by handing off the reins; Tuck was slow and ungainly, murmuring prayers, but he, too, was on the ground; Will Scarlet and Little John moved more deliberately, as if not entirely certain of their welcome.

  Nor am I, of mine. A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye caught Robin’s attention. He turned quickly, hand dropping to his sword, and saw the figure of his father coming forward into the torchlight.

  He held his ground, though the palm of his hand sweated against the grip. Part of him was detached and methodical, thoroughly assessing the play of light and shadow, the footing in the bailey, the positioning of his companions. Another part of him longed to cry out to his father to stop so they could begin again; that he had never wanted this; that the earl had brought them to this. But Robin said nothing. It was time to convince his father the boy had become a man.

  Behind the earl ranged six men-at-arms, helmed and at the ready. The earl held himself very erect, superficially a younger man, until one looked farther and saw he was old. Tension had diminished some of the inflexible strength in his features, altering them to the brittle sharpness of the aged.

  His mouth was set in a tight, repressive line. “I will not have rabble in my castle,” he declared. “Take yourselves from here at once. This is not Sherwood Forest; outlaws are not welcome.”

  He doesn’t see me. His father’s view of him was blocked by the horse. As the others exchanged uneasy glances, Robin moved quietly around his mount’s broad rump into the torchlight.

  The earl’s start was visible. The inflexibility cracked. “Robert? By God—Robert?” His shock was unmistakable; the earl took a single step forward before recalling himself. He flicked a hard glance at Robin’s companions, then looked again at his son. Despite his rigidity, his eyes were oddly bright. “Come in,” he said simply.

  Robin heard a stirring behind him: Will Scarlet and Little John, murmuring something to Alan. But that did not concern him as he stared at his father. He knows why I have come. Some of Robin’s tension eased. At least she is safe. I’ll take her from here, then go elsewhere. Ravenskeep, perhaps. He must know he’s beaten. Robin glanced at the others, jerking his head toward the keep. “Come in.”

  But the earl’s tone hardened. “Not them, Robert. I’ll not have such in my hall.”

  Robin stopped short. “My lord—”

  The earl cut him off. “This is not a haven to outlaws.” Another glance repudiated them. “I know who these men are, every one of them: a murderer, a rapist, a half-witted cutpurse—”

  “No.” Robin looked beyond the earl to the men-at-arms. He knew all of them: toughened, loyal veterans who served the earl, not him. He was heir, not earl; the old man held precedence. “If you will keep them out, then I stay out as well.”

  “Robert.” The earl’s eyes were momentarily hurt, his expression baffled; then he dismissed the emotions and replaced them with cold disdain, relying on the hauteur Robin knew so well. “This business between us is private. We will not share it before such men as these.”

  Robin gave up his attempt to win entrance. His hopes of a reconciliation were extinguished utterly. “Bring her out,” he said plainly, “or I will go in after her without a word to you, and I will use my sword on any man who interferes.”

  “Robert—”

  “Bring her out, my lord.”

  The hauteur slipped. Anger replaced it. “She isn’t here,” the earl declared. “By God, Robert—do you think me so foolish as to have that woman brought here?” He made a sharp, dismissive gesture that negated his own implication. “DeLacey has her at Nottingham, where she’ll be tried as a witch.”

  “A witch—”

  “There were proofs,” the earl told him. “Also a witness. Abbot Martin has been summoned. They will question her most closely.”

  Robin wanted to laugh, but he knew better. His father was a careful man, too careful to be dismissed as a blusterer, or a fool telling lies merely for the moment. “Ya Allah, are you mad? Marian is no witch! This is nothing more than a ploy to force my hand—”

  “Then surely they will discover that she is innocent, and no harm will be done.” For a moment the earl’s expression softened. “Robert, come in. If you must have these men in also, then I will not keep them out—but come in. There are things we must discuss.”

  He is in his own way as bad as deLacey, using and discarding people as he requires them, manipulating truths to serve his own purposes. Robin shook his head. “Not while Marian is in Nottingham Castle.”

  “He won’t harm her,” the earl snapped impatiently. “He’ll have her installed in his finest bedchamber, not a cell—he wants to marry her, not burn her at the stake.” His eyebrows formed a level bar, as if he were deeply annoyed by his son’s inability to see the necessity of intrigue. “Surely you understand by now how these things are handled, Robert. You have been in war, as well as being privy to a king’s confidences.” His expression softened slightly, as if the reprimand no longer were needed, since the point was made. “Come in—there are better places for privacy then the bailey of my castle.”

  Robin did not move. “You gave her to deLacey. You found out where she was, and you gave her to deLacey.”

  “DeLacey took her himself—or, if he was wise, he sent men to do it. Robert—”

  The four simple words were difficult to form. “They burned Locksley down.”

  The earl gestured. “Come in—” Then he broke off as color spilled out of his face. Matched against his hair, it turned his head into a sheer white skull. “Burned—?”

  “They burned Locksley down.” It was easier this time. “The hall. The village. And nearly Brother Tuck.”

  “And my lute,” Alan murmured.

  The earl did not spare so much as a glance at Tuck or Alan. “Burned—?” he repeated. “But I said nothing of that . . . that was never suggested—I sent word where she was, not that he was to have the village burned!”

  “It was done. Locksley is destroyed.” Robin smiled grimly. “Smoking me out, my lord? But what good is that if the hive is destroyed?”

  “Robin.” It was Alan, moving into the torchlight. “Robin, go in. We can wait for you here. If she is at Nottingham, she is safe.”

  Robin turned on him. “Before God, Alan—”

  “Robin—no.” With distinct deliberation, Alan shook his head. “The sheriff will never harm her.”

  It was enough to bring home the truth: Marian was safe, because deLacey was dead. There would be no trial. There would be no questioning. All the sheriffs plans lay sprawled across the Lincoln road along with deLacey’s body.

  For the first time since he had left his father’s hall, intent on redressing wrongs done to Jews and kings, Robert of Locksley acknowledged what he had done.

  He looked at the others: at Alan, Much, Tuck, Will Scarlet, Little John. This is what I am.

  His voice felt long unused as he turned again to his father. “You sent Thomas to fetch me home.”

  “Of course I did. I knew you would fight for her. I wanted you unharmed.”

  Robin shook his head. “Did it tell you nothing? Did i
t mean nothing to you that I would have risked my life for her?”

  “Robert—”

  “What kind of son would I be if I turned my back on a woman merely to save myself? What sort of earl would I be if I shut my eyes to such things?” He felt old and empty and fragile, too used up to debate the issue. “What sort of man would I be if I concocted a travesty, then took pains to see my son was not present while others burned to death?”

  The earl’s tone frayed. “You are my heir, Robert! A man takes pains to preserve his heir.”

  “ ‘A man takes pains,’ ” Robin quoted. “Ya Allah, but I am weary ...” He looked at his companions. “This man was my father. This man was my father.”

  “Robert.”

  “My father, the Earl of Huntington, who felt it appropriate to have a woman abducted merely to rid an impediment from his heir’s future.” He nodded faintly. “The impediment is removed. But now there is no future, because there is no heir.” “Robert, wait—”

  He swung back to the earl. “Did you have any intention of speaking to me of my mother?”

  The earl’s mouth compressed itself into a thin, flat line. “Your mother has nothing to do with this.”

  Robin nodded. “So I thought.” He turned toward the boy who held his horse and retrieved the reins, looping them up over the horse’s neck. To the others, he said, “We will camp outside the walls; what there is to be done at Nottingham is better done in daylight.”

  He wanted very badly to ride directly to the castle, but it was possible no one yet knew of the sheriffs death. If they believed deLacey in Lincoln, no one would release Marian without proper permission. Tomorrow the truth would be known, and no one at the castle would be in a position to refuse a request for her release.

  “Robert—?” the earl blurted. “Robert—wait—”