Immortal Outlaw

by Lisa Hendrix

  The young jongleur from Hokenall came into his sights, aboard the ugliest dun horse Steinarr had ever seen. The fellow spotted the bow in Steinarr’s hand and pulled up short. “Pray, do not kill me, my lord. I only come to ride with you.”

  “God’s knees, man.” Steinarr eased off the string and started putting the bow away. “You do not ride up on a man so in a forest where there are outlaws.”

  “There are outlaws in every forest, my lord.”

  “Sherwood is worse than most.”

  “As well I know, my lord.”

  “What are you doing here, Jongleur?” demanded Marian.

  “Coming with you, I do hope, my lady, to be your guard.”

  “She already has a guard,” said Steinarr.

  “Of course, my lord. But such a treasure surely needs more than one man protecting her.”

  “A trusted soldier, not a stranger and jongleur.”

  “I may sing a bit, but I have a sharp sword and a willingness to use it. Let me earn your trust, my lord.”

  “Earn Lord Peter’s trust. He can use a good man.”

  “He offered me a place, but I cannot stay with him, my lord. I am outlaw like you.”

  “I am not outlaw. Why does everyone think I am outlaw? I probably should be, but I am not. Why are you outlaw … What is your name?”

  “William, my lord, William Scathelocke of Criggle stone. I killed a man.”

  “And I am supposed to trust you because you have done murder?”

  “ ‘Twas one of the sheriff’s men. He forced himself on a woman in our village, and I pulled him off. We fought and I killed him, and now I am the wanted man, and outlaw. If the sheriff catches me, I will hang.”

  “A good reason to avoid him,” admitted Steinarr. “But why come with us?”

  “Because of who you are, my lord,” he said, as if it should be evident even to a fool.

  “And who do you think we are, William Scathelocke?” asked Marian.

  The fellow smiled. “ ‘Tis who I know you are, my lady. I heard of you in Retford, and saw you there, too, talking to the man who told the tale. You are the Maid Marian. And your good knight, here, is Robin Hood.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “ I AM GOING to kill him this time,” said Steinarr.

  “Will?”

  “No, Ari. Will cannot help that he’s a fool. Ari should know better.”

  They’d argued the nonexistence of Robin Hood with Will Scathelocke all the way to Newstead Abbey without success. The notion that Robin Hood was real, that Steinarr was he, and that Marian was Robin Hood’s Marian, was so solidly fixed in the fellow’s head that their arguments left it undented. Of course, it would have helped if they could have told him the truth, but Steinarr didn’t trust him enough for that. In the end, he’d left Will to watch the main road for Guy—a somewhat useful duty that kept him out of mischief—while he and Marian rode the last way into the abbey, threading their way between the ponds where the canons raised fish for the abbey table.

  “First I will kill Guy. Then Baldwin. Then Ari,” Steinarr went on. “By then my blade will be dull and it will hurt more.”

  “He cannot help it that someone believes his tale so completely.”

  “He should never have told it—not with real names. He did this to me once in Vass. Made up some story about a fellow named Steinarr who had been tupping the jarl’s daughter. It was a humorous tale and we all laughed—until the jarl came through and heard it. It nearly got me flayed.”

  “So you had not been tupping the earl’s daughter?” she asked, shifting the title to something more familiar.

  “Only the daughter of a merchant-trader,” said Steinarr. He felt Marian stiffen and added, “ ‘Twas long before you were even born, so do not make that face. I can feel how sour it is without even looking.”

  “My face is not sour. And you are not so old you would have been tupping anyone’s daughter before I was born. Unless boys of five and six years are familiar with women in your land.”

  “We actually start earlier than that,” he said and laughed as she huffed at him. “I have told you, I am older than you think.”

  “But you—”

  “I am older, Marian. Much older. ’Tis time you believed me. Now hush. The gatehouse is just ahead.”

  As they reached the little hut, a sturdy monk dressed in the simple gray robe of a Franciscan friar stepped out, a long staff in his hand. “How may I help you, my lord. My lady.”

  “We would speak with Abbot Talebot.”

  “He is just finishing his prayers, my lord. I will show you where you may wait.” He had them tie the horses by the gate, then led them into a chamber that stood tucked up hard against the wall. “The lady may go no farther. I will send word you are here.”

  Steinarr folded his arms and stood silently. Marian, on the other hand, fidgeted, toying with the ends of her girdle, with the flap on her scrip, with the end of her plaits beneath her headrail, until finally, Steinarr crossed to where she was pacing and enfolded her hands in his just to still them. “Why are you so nervous?”

  “It seems wrong to be here without a riddle or clue of any sort. What if we missed something at Hokenall?”

  “Then we will go back and you will have another visit with Lady Nichola while we search once more. But let us see what the abbot has to say before we look for trouble.”

  “Wise knight.” She feathered kisses across his knuckles. “What would I do without you?”

  Steinarr had asked himself the same question at dawn. What would he do without her? How could he go on without her when this was done?

  They were still standing like that when the light shifted. “Do you come to marry, my children?”

  They pulled apart hurriedly, and Marian knelt to kiss the abbot’s ring. “No, Lord Abbot. We come to ask a question.”

  Unlike the monk at the gate, the abbot wore white, with a short, dark fur cape around his shoulders, the mark of the Augustinian canons who resided within Newstead’s walls. “What question would that be?”

  “About my father, Lord David Fitzwalter, and a certain riddle I think he left with you.”

  “Ah, you must be Matilda. And you have been to Hokenall. Well done, my lady, but where is your half-brother, young Robert? I know him only a little, but enough to know this knight is not him.”

  “No, my lord Abbot. Sir Steinarr is here to help me follow Father’s trail.”

  “It is Robert’s task to follow it, not yours, my lady.”

  “True enough, Lord Abbot. But Father’s quest has left Robert with a broken leg. I come to help him, and this knight to help me. Do you know where the next part of the puzzle lies?”

  The abbot’s face pinched as he looked from Steinarr to Marian. “A question I fear I cannot answer. I pledged to Lord David and, more importantly, to the king, that I would only reveal the next portion of the riddle to Robert. They feared he would find someone to do the work for him.”

  “But he would be here if not for his leg, which Father and King Edward caused,” protested Marian.

  The abbot held out his empty hands to show his helplessness. “Send him back here when his leg is healed and I will gladly give him the next riddle.”

  “It is here, then?”

  “Aye, most assuredly.”

  “Please, my lord. We have less than a fortnight before Robert must present the prize to the king, and we do not even know how many more clues there are or where the king may be found.”

  The abbot’s concerned face cleared. “That I may help with. This riddle that I possess is the last one. Once Robert presents himself, he has only to follow it to the treasure, and thence carry it to the king.”

  “If you will not tell us where the treasure is, will you at least tell us what it is?”

  The abbot’s lips thinned. “No. But I will say it is something you and Robert know very well. Bring him here, my lady, and all will be revealed.”

  “All right. We can do this,” said Steinarr, t
aking Marian’s hand. “Robin can surely ride by now. I will get him back here and then find the king and get Robin to him. I promise you.”

  “It will not be difficult, monsire.” The abbot smiled broadly. “I received a message only yesterday. The king lies in Leicestershire even now and—”

  “So near?” Marian’s face lit up. “Then we can reach him!”

  “If you would let me finish …”

  Marian flushed. “Forgive me, Lord Abbot.”

  “What I started to say is, the king is in Leicestershire, but the message was to say that he comes here to Newstead in the next days. We are to prepare for a royal—”

  Abbot Talebot stopped, for there was no point in going on: the receiving hall was empty. A moment later he heard hoofbeats drumming away down the road. Smiling, he turned to retire to his chamber. For once, it might actually be worthwhile hosting the king. The next week should prove interesting, indeed.

  “ I WOULD LIKE to see the prioress,” said Ari once more.

  The servant, a bent old man who had been peeling rushes by the fire when Ari entered, held up his hands helplessly. “Gone to Tuxford, my lord. She said to give her regards and say that the boy is much better and you may see him when she returns.”

  Ari glanced toward the solar. This mysterious prioress had banned him from it for five days now, supposedly to assure Robin’s rest after his quinsy had taken a turn for the worse. With each day, his unease had grown deeper and his attempts to call a vision more urgent. Just this morning he had stopped by the pool to try once more to persuade the gods to talk to him, spilling so much blood that he was still light-headed. For naught, again. And to add to the uselessness of it, if he hadn’t stopped at the pool, he might have caught the prioress before she left.

  Ari grumbled his thanks and turned to go. But as his hand touched the door, his sight clouded over, just for an instant. He reached for the vision and it faded, leaving only a sense of warning, even deeper than before.

  “I already knew that,” he muttered.

  “What was that, my lord?” asked the old man.

  “Nothing. I will just be a moment.” Ari turned and pounded up the stairs as the old man called after him.

  Robin lay on the cot, limp and colorless, so pale he might have been a cloud on the linens, except for the blood-stained bandage on each arm. Ari quickly barred the door and went to the boy. “Robin. Robin. Rouse yourself.”

  Slowly, his eyes opened. “Monsire? You have come at last.”

  “What has she been doing to you?” Ari pulled aside the bandage on one arm to see three sets of parallel cuts, one still oozing blood.

  “Bleeding me.” Robin struggled to raise his head. “I told her to stop, but she says my blood is poisoned.”

  “Pillocks. You had the quinsy, is all. This is too much. I need to get you out of here before the old fool kills you.”

  He threw aside the bed coverings and checked Robin’s leg. All the swelling was gone, and the bone looked to have set fairly straight. “This looks like it will hold you. Have you tried walking yet?”

  Robin shook his head. “I think I could, if I had my strength.”

  “You are going to have to. Come, let’s get you up. First just sit.”

  As Robin sat, wobbly as an infant, on the edge of the bed, someone pounded on the door. “Hey. What are you about in there? The boy is ill, leave him be.”

  “A moment,” called Ari. He knelt in front of Robin. “Listen to me. I can carry you out if I must, but the fool nun has told her men you are ill and must be kept here. They will want to stop us on her behalf, unless you can convince every last one of them that you are fit to leave.”

  “I will do what I must, monsire. I know I cannot stay here longer. Help me up.”

  “Let’s get you dressed first.” As the man outside pounded on the door again, Ari jerked open cupboards and chests, tossing clothes toward Robin as he found them, then helped him dress. Finally, Ari checked the splints once more. “Are you ready?”

  Robin nodded, put his hand on Ari’s shoulder, and pushed up onto his good leg. He swayed precariously, and his face got paler, if that was possible, but after a moment, he steadied.

  “Good lad. Put your foot down.”

  Hesitantly, Robin shifted weight onto his injured leg. A wan smile showed his pleasure. “I can stand.”

  “Try a step or two.”

  Hand still on Ari’s shoulder, Robin hobbled toward the door. “It does not hurt, but ’tis weak. And my head spins so.”

  “From all the bleeding. ’Tis only a few steps down, and then out to the horse. Can you do it?”

  “I can. I will, just … stay nearby.” Robin positioned himself before the door and drew a deep breath. “Open it.”

  ’Twas remarkable to watch. As the door opened, Robin appeared to grow a good two inches, straightening and setting himself with that same determined grit he’d shown on the way to the colliers’ camp.

  “Is there some problem?” Robin asked the burly fellow who led the men blocking the way.

  “Um, er, that is, you are ill. Prioress Celestria said you were.”

  “Clearly, she was mistaken,” said Ari, stepping up to Robin’s shoulder. “He is well, and he wishes to go.”

  “But the prioress said not to—”

  “AmIaprisoner?” asked Robin.

  “No, but—”

  “Then I may go at my will,” said Robin. “And it is my will to go.”

  “We are most grateful for your lady’s charity,” said Ari, “but it is time for Robin here to be gone. Give the prioress our thanks. We leave.”

  Robin started forward, but the man didn’t give way. Ari stepped around to confront him. “I said, we leave. Stand aside.”

  For a heartbeat, the big fellow stood there glowering, but then his gaze drifted down to where Ari’s fingers touched his sword. “I, er, suppose the boy can go. It is his choice, healthy or not. But if he dies, it is on you, monsire.”

  “Agreed. Now move.”

  The fellow turned to the others. “Out of the way, so he can manage the stairs.”

  The rumble of heavy feet signaled that the stairs were being cleared. Robin stepped forward onto the landing, and Ari took a position at his side, prepared to catch him if he gave out.

  But it wasn’t necessary. Robin took one look at the men and women watching below, squared his shoulders once more, and marched down the stairs and across the hall. Only the extreme paleness of his face and the stiffness of his splinted leg gave any sign he was hurting. Outside, Ari quickly brought the horse around to the mounting block, helped Robin into the saddle, and swung up behind him, reaching around to support him as he took the reins.

  “You are hurt, too, monsire.”

  Ari glanced at his bandaged hand. “ ‘Tis nothing. I cut myself, is all. Come. Let us leave this place.”

  The Headon men followed them clear out to the road, watching and muttering among themselves. A few notes of admiration caught Ari’s ear.

  “Well done, lad,” murmured Ari as he turned toward the colliers’ camp. He felt Robin sway in the saddle and tightened his grip to steady him. “Hold on a little longer.”

  They had reached the far edge of the fields when Robin asked. “Are we away, monsire?”

  “Aye.”

  “Good. Catch me,” said Robin, and fainted dead away.

  CWEN WATCHED THE raven and the sleeping boy ride past from the shadows of a big oak. It was difficult, letting them go when young Robin was so close to death, but she had found something so much more valuable than the boy’s lifeblood.

  The raven’s. This was why she had been brought here.

  She’d discovered his vision pool on a quiet walk just the day before, drawn to it by the raven himself as he’d called to the gods. She’d stood, watching him spill his blood into the water and ride away afterward having failed, and she had rejoiced in his failure. She’d known he would be back, spilling more of his magic into the water with his blood, just a
s she had known that once he had the boy, he would stay away.

  So she’d let him have Robin, and now the pool was hers. Finally it was all in place: the pool, its waters, the raven’s blood, and tonight, the full moon.

  She passed the day in the woods nearby, preparing, watching, waiting, until the moon rose late that afternoon. As the sky slowly darkened around it, she laid out her tools on the water’s edge and began her spell-spinning. Hours passed, the moon climbed higher, and Cwen continued her ceaseless chant. The power stirred to life around her, ruffling the trees and frightening the beasts away. One frightened rabbit bolted straight into her arms, and she accepted its sacrifice with a quick slash of the knife. She spilled the first of the warm, rich blood to the gods and drank the rest to strengthen herself for what was to come.

  In the last moment before the moon broke above the trees, she stripped away her garments, baring herself to the gods’ power, and stepped to the edge of the pool.

  “Blood and water, man and beast, light and dark, earth and sky,” she said, arms spread wide to the heavens. “I am here, Great Ones. Make me your instrument again, and they will all know your power and revel in your glory.”

  The moon shone above the treetops, its perfect roundness reflected in the center of the pool. Cwen’s breath caught in her throat. “So beautiful, my lords. I give myself to it and you.”

  She waded into the pool, gasping as the cold and the power closed around her waist. The waters began to swirl, to glow, to pulse, around her. Unflinching, she stepped to the center and sank to the bottom, letting the consecrated water, fecund with the seer’s vision-blood, close over her head. Water flowed into her mouth and she drank, taking the power in, but her lungs fought, aching, burning, her frail human body fighting what must be done.

  And then it could fight no longer. With a sense of triumph, she breathed in the water, and in the moment of her drowning, once more knew the true power of the gods.

  “BEWARE,” SAID STEINARR as they rode down the forest path east of Headon. “Osbert will come rolling out of the woods shortly, full of hope once more.”