Lady of Sherwood

by Molly Bilinski

  Marcus’s mouth went dry as her faintly trembling hands went to the laces of her shift. “Robin…”

  “I know the consequences of what I’m asking you,” she murmured. “But if—if you would have me, I would want you to have me as a husband has his wife.”

  He wrapped his longer, warmer fingers around hers, and brought her hand to his mouth in order to press a kiss to her knuckles. “As a wife would have her husband. Who am I to turn down such grace and beauty as offered before me?”

  She huffed out a nervous giggle, breaking into the first real smile he’d seen from her in days. Threading their fingers together, she tugged him close and whispered, “Take me to bed, Marcus. Let me be yours alone in every way I can.”

  Marcus lowered his mouth gently to hers even as he walked her backward toward the low-slung bed in the corner. She deserved much better, though all she’d ever asked for was him. He wasn’t about to disappoint her now.

  Robin fumbled with the laces on his breeches, and then pulled them apart only as far as would allow her to get a hand inside and around him. He shuddered, kissing along her jaw to the smooth column of her neck as he tugged her chemise over her head.

  “You—I—may I look?” He backed briefly out of her reach. “Please, Robin. Let me look at you.”

  The last time he’d seen her even close to naked had been when they were children, swimming in the creek in the heat of summer. That had been back before he’d known what it was to want a woman in such a way. Before his fourteenth year and waking to a mess in his sheets some mornings.

  His eyes started from the tops of her feet and her skinny ankles, up her legs to the linen of her small clothes still clinging to her wide hips. Good for birthing, he remembered one of the older women in the village saying after Robin and most of the other girls had started to fill out in places. Her belly was soft and curved despite the muscle he knew she had from years of bow and sword work. That same skill gave her sturdy, lean arms and shoulders. He continued up the graceful curve of her neck to her jaw. She’d taken a punch one time when they were thirteen from one of the older village boys who had always been a bit of a bully. It had rocked her, but she’d kept her feet, drew back her arm, and knocked him clean on his rear. She’d worn her bruise proudly for all to see, much to the exasperation of her mother.

  For as good as she looked, he couldn’t wait to touch her.

  “May I?” he whispered, reaching for the band of linen over her breasts, although his fingers stopped short of the fabric.

  Robin’s eyelids fluttered, and her head tipped back. “Yes. Please, Marcus.”

  He found where it was knotted under her arm on the one side, gently tugging it free. It slithered to the floor. His hands spanned her ribcage, thumbs brushing her tender under-curve while he took in this new part of her. She’d never been what one could consider buxom, but she wasn’t flat chested like he was.

  Perfect. She’s perfect. Marcus told her so, and he watched with a slow smile as her blush streaked from her cheeks to her collarbones.

  She slipped out of her small clothes while he stripped off the rest of his clothes and left them in a heap. He lay down on his pallet and pulled her gently on top of him.

  Robin shifted, distinctly uncomfortable. “I’ve never been above you.”

  “And you’ve certainly never been beneath me.” Marcus ran his thumbs along the crease of her leg and torso. Gently but firmly, he positioned them on their sides, one of her long legs slung up over his hip. It took one last adjustment to line them up properly, and he eased into her with a few short strokes. Her mouth parted silently, and her eyes went wide.

  “I am but a simple man,” he whispered, nudging her nose with his own, “and yet I am lucky enough to see the beauty and grace of God before me.”

  She giggled and wound her arms around his shoulders to pull him closer. He cradled the back of her head with one hand while the other lifted her knee higher. Moving steadily, he rubbed his stubbled cheek against her smooth one. He thought, Lady Archer of my heart, I will love you always.

  ***

  Jemma came to collect her as the barest hint of light began to show in the eastern sky. Marcus wrapped Robin securely in her cloak and kissed her soundly.

  “You might as well have this now, since you’re here,” he said, handing Jemma her quarterstaff.

  She ran her fingers over it, and her eyes widened. Though she couldn’t see the intricate carvings, he knew she could feel them. “Marcus…”

  “Use it well.” He held up a hand to stave off her protests. “That’s all I ask in terms of payment.”

  Jemma nodded, then threw her arms around him in a hug that caught both he and Robin off guard with its intensity.

  They lingered in the doorway until he made shooing motions. “Go. Now. Before you lose the shadows.”

  Robin stroked his hair back from his forehead, and then gave him one last, lingering kiss. “I love you, Marcus. With all my heart.”

  “I know.” He pushed her gently out the door. “I have loved you since I knew what it was to do so.” Closing up the cottage once more, he then scrubbed a hand over his face. They had dozed on and off through the night when they weren’t making love. He’d tried to stay awake mostly because he couldn’t bear the thought of having her so close without making the most of it.

  The sky outside had begun to lighten fractionally. Marcus dragged his fingers through his unruly hair and sighed happily. He stepped around the tiny wooden table as the quiet click of the door latch sounded in the otherwise silent cottage.

  “Go home, love, before it’s…” He trailed off, staring at the pair of soldiers before him. “It’s a bit early for business. Don’t you think, gentlemen?”

  “Not when we’ve business to attend to on behalf of our lord,” the one nearest him said.

  Marcus blinked, letting his hand wander unobtrusively across the table for the closest woodcarving tool. He wrapped his fingers around it, licked his lips, and asked, “And who would that be?”

  The second one locked the door at his back as the first drew a short, wickedly sharp knife from his belt. “Sir Guy of Gisborne.”

  “Sleep. At least a little bit. Before the rest of the manor wakes,” Jemma pleaded, the corners of her mouth tugging upward into a smile despite her own tiredness.

  “You want me to sleep?” Robin wrapped both arms around one of her bedposts and swung until she had to land on either the mattress or the stone floor. She chose the mattress, flopping ungracefully onto her front. “I don’t think I could if I wanted to.” Rolling onto her back, she let her head hang over the edge enough to see Jemma. “Oh, could I sleep the next thousand years, I’d never be as well rested as when in the arms of love itself.”

  Jemma waited.

  Robin clapped a hand over her mouth in an attempt to stifle her giggles, but failed.

  “I’m a poet,” she squeaked out between bits of laughter.

  “You’re not a poet.”

  “I am.”

  Biting the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling herself, Jemma conceded, “You’re a bad poet.”

  Robin drew her knees to her chest and positively guffawed. At this rate, they were going to wake the entire manor. She tapered off into silent chuckles. When she eventually calmed completely, Jemma crawled onto the bed next to her, and they curled up like the children they had once been.

  “Was it what you thought it would be?” Jemma whispered, wrapping her fingers around Robin’s.

  “I didn’t know what it was supposed to be.” Robin reached out and pulled gently on one of Jemma’s curls. “It hurt, a bit.”

  Jemma nodded. “I’ve heard women say that.”

  “It was what it was,” she murmured. “And it was beautiful because of that.” Her eyes closed, a sweet smile still playing about her lips. “We’ll never get a white wedding. But perhaps, we can have something as special that is only ours.”

  “You will always have each other.” Jemma pushed Robin’s unr
uly hair from her forehead and smoothed away the creases brought on by worry. “That will always be enough.”

  Robin hummed a bit of song—Jemma couldn’t remember the title, but the melody was familiar as breathing, taught to the pair of them on long winter nights by Robert—and sighed with contentment.

  Jemma huffed once in annoyance, and then picked up where Robin had left off, never stopping the motion of her fingertips against the other girl’s smooth skin even as she let the sound reverberate from her chest.

  Sunlight slatted through the window. If Jemma listened very, very closely, she could begin to hear the sounds of the manor waking for the day. The chickens clucked loudly from the courtyard, most likely perturbed by one of the kitchen girls fetching eggs. While the stone walls muted much of the noise, she’d trained herself to listen for the unusual.

  The sudden cacophony of voices both inside and out was most certainly not part of the ordinary morning routine.

  “Ladies! My Ladies,” someone shouted from the corridor. “Lady Robin!”

  Robin jerked. She’d slipped into a doze, and now blinked owlishly at Jemma from the sudden intrusion of the outside world. “Wha—”

  “I don’t know. Something’s got everyone riled up. Stay here,” Jemma added, motioning for Robin to put her head back down as she slipped from the bed. She inched open the door and was nearly brained by Charlotte, who had been poised to knock. Jemma caught the closed fist before it could make contact with her face and squeezed sharply. Not enough to hurt, just enough to focus Charlotte’s frantic attention.

  “Is Lady Robin with you?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Of course.” The implication of her whereabouts for the entire night—in her room, in the company of her most trusted servant—were conveyed through Jemma’s tone. “What is going on?”

  “There’s been—it’s Marcus.” Charlotte’s eyes darted over Jemma’s shoulders. Jemma didn’t need to look to know Robin hadn’t stayed on the bed. “It’s Marcus.”

  “What’s happened?” Robin demanded.

  Charlotte struggled for words. Jemma took the opportunity to shove the first dress she could find in Robin’s direction. It wouldn’t do for the future Lady of Lockesly to be seen wandering through the village in broad daylight wearing nothing but her nightclothes.

  Robin slung her quiver over her shoulder, grabbed her bow, and all but pushed Charlotte to get her to move. Jemma brought up the rear of their little procession along the corridor and down the main staircase.

  The servant didn’t follow them past the hedgerow. Knots formed in Jemma’s belly with each step she took in Robin’s wake. Villagers parted around them, shouts tapering off to murmurs and silence.

  More than one face they passed had tear streaks.

  “Robin,” Jemma said quietly, grabbing for the other girl’s wrist. Robin shrugged her off.

  It was only when they reached the worn path to Marcus’s door that Robin hesitated, reaching back for Jemma’s hand. She clasped it tightly as Eleanor, the thatcher’s wife and Marcus’s closest neighbor, approached, palms out. Though her hands were clean, there were bloodstains on her apron and dress.

  “My Lady,” she said, eyes red-rimmed and glistening. “I am so very sorry.”

  Robin wavered briefly, but seemed to collect herself. “Where—where—I want to see him.”

  “He is inside.”

  Jemma let her go when she twisted her fingers free, and then followed silently.

  The cottage smelled of wood and copper.

  Jemma’s feet took her as far as the table, and she gripped the edge of it. Someone had moved Marcus to his bed and covered him from toes to neck with a blanket.

  Robin dropped heavily to her knees by his side, bow clattering away across the floor. “My Marcus,” she whispered in the deathly quiet. “My sweet, sweet love.” She stroked his hair back and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “God keep you safe in His company, my heart. Until we meet again.”

  Jemma watched her sit back on her heels, turn her face upward, and swallow repeatedly. When she looked over, gone was the smiling, carefree girl she’d been less than half an hour earlier. In her place was a Robin who had stared down the ratty target in the field until she could hit it dead center from any distance and angle.

  “Who did this?” she asked.

  “There’s a man in the corner.” Jemma and Robin turned to look at Eleanor in the doorway. “Dressed real fancy.”

  Jemma went to look as Robin gathered her bow and got to her feet. She pulled the blanket down enough to expose the coat of arms on his uniform, and then had to work very hard to act as though nothing were amiss. Turning back to Eleanor, she shrugged.

  “A tragedy, either way. So young, he was.” The older woman gave them a small, pitying smile, and left them alone once more.

  “Who was it? Jemma, damn it, let me—”

  “It was one of Gisborne’s men,” she hissed, fingers wrapped around Robin’s forearm to keep her still.

  Robin’s face went white.

  “Think about this,” Jemma whispered. “Think about this, Robin.”

  “He had an innocent boy killed,” she snapped. “What is there to think about?”

  Jemma glanced furtively at the open cottage door. “If—there is no going back from this. If we walk this path, there is no going back.”

  “He would make property of me.” Robin shook with the force of her words though her tone was soft. “I would be his prize, not his wife. I want nothing to do with him, and for what he did to my sweet Marcus, well, even God might agree with me on this mortal sin. He dies, Jemma,” she added, locking eyes with the other girl. “Guy of Gisborne dies tonight.”

  ***

  Dinner was a subdued and awkward affair that evening.

  While most of the village reeled from Marcus’s unexpected and violent death at the hands of what they were calling rouge knights, Robin alternated between trying to find enough of an appetite to appease her mother and making mental battle plans. The task of killing Guy seemed almost impossible, and she badly needed Jemma’s input.

  One of the kitchen girls fumbled a knife and sent it clattering loudly against the wooden table. The hall seemed to hold its breath.

  “What is the matter with everyone today?” Sabine snapped, striking her palm against the tabletop.

  The serving girl snatched up the knife and bowed. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but we’re all still—the village boy, the good friend of Lady Robin’s—”

  “Seventeen years ago, I named my daughter Rhiannon, and I’ll remove from service anyone in this house who can’t seem to remember that, so help me God!” Her eyes narrowed. “A tragedy, of course, but the world spins on. There are other events of more importance we must look forward to.” She waited until she had Robin’s attention to add, “We’ve a wedding to plan.”

  Robin swallowed heavily, avoided catching Jemma’s eye from where she stood by the wall across the room, and stood decisively. “Well, if he’s looking for a bride as pure and chaste as Holy Water, someone to be nothing but a trinket for him, he’ll naught find it here. I’d sooner dance with Lucifer and his demons than take that monster as my husband.” She walked with barely contained fury to the other end of the table and stopped just beyond her mother’s physical reach. “You’ve a whore for a daughter now, Mother, and the possibility of a bastard for a grandchild. I regret nothing.”

  It was, of course, too soon to know if what she and Marcus had done would come to fruition, but she wasn’t above using the possibility of it against her mother.

  With both hands fisting the material of her skirt, Robin stepped straight-backed and gracefully from the hall without looking back.

  ***

  “You’re not, you know.” Jemma’s deft fingers tucked another strand of Robin’s hair into the complicated braid she worked on. When finished, it wouldn’t be able to be used against her by any of Guy’s men at arms. Or Guy himself.

  “Not what?” Robin murmured,
turning toward the window at Jemma’s soft touch.

  “A whore. You’re not,” she insisted, stilling Robin’s movements. “You are not a whore. You made a choice out of love.”

  “Still frowned upon.”

  “Aye, and how many would have made that same choice because of it?” Jemma added a pin by Robin’s left ear to hold everything in place better. “Not many. Not many have the courage you do.” She paused, and then said carefully, “You remind me of Boadicea.”

  “Boadicea? You remember that story?” It was one of Robert’s favorites to tell Robin. Though she was hazy on some of the finer details, she remembered sitting near her father in the practice field as he regaled her—and Jemma—with the old Celtic legend.

  “The Celtic warrior woman who led armies against the Romans? Of course I remember.” She came around the front of the chair in Robin’s bedchambers to survey her handiwork. “She fought for what she believed in. She fought to protect her home. Same as you.”

  Robin’s eyebrows rose.

  “Your body is your home,” Jemma said quietly. “Everything else can be taken from you, but your body, your heart, they never can.” The corners of her mouth twitched in the barest hint of a smile. “My mother told me that. Before she died.”

  “Your mother sounds like a lovely woman.”

  “She was.” Jemma took a deep breath and picked up Robin’s hands from where they twisted in her lap. “Are you sure of this? We walk this road, and we can’t go back.”

  “I’m sure.” Robin tilted her head to the side. “We?”

  Jemma snorted. “Would I leave this madness solely to you? No. I loved him, too,” she added softly. “In a different way.”

  “Then we do this together.” Robin stood. “We do this for Marcus. We do this for us.” Her shoulders twitched. She freed a hand to clap it over her mouth as she choked back sobs.

  Jemma wrapped her in a hug, and held on.

  ***

  Sabine, Lady of Lockesly, stood at the window in her bedchamber and looked out across her husband’s lands. Hers, now, by virtue of his death, and illuminated only briefly when the clouds skittered across the sky to reveal the full moon.