by N B Dixon
Alan nodded. “He and Gisborne claim the money they take from us in taxes is being sent abroad to help King Richard, but we know it isn’t true. Longchamp is also demanding taxes to fund Richard’s Crusade. There’s not much to choose between the two.”
“Who manages Gisborne Manor while he’s playing lord and master here?” Will asked.
“His old steward died. Gisborne installed a bailiff there while Edgar lords it over us.” There was loathing in Much’s voice. It was echoed in the faces of the other men at the table.
“Aye, Edgar is in Gisborne’s pocket all right,” Matthew said. “Does his bidding as eager as a dog with its master. He delights in carrying tales about any villagers whether they’re true or not. Gisborne comes down on us hard, sometimes even without any evidence. Edgar’s word is enough. He collects the taxes and terrorises our womenfolk and children.”
Robin remembered Edgar well. He had been a bully, but also a coward. The moment anyone stood up to him, he had run with his tail between his legs, but with a powerful sheriff behind him, Robin didn’t doubt Edgar was exercising his newfound authority safe in the knowledge that none of the villagers could retaliate.
“What will you do, Robin?” Much asked. “After all, you’re alive, and you are the rightful heir of Locksley.”
“You forget, my father disinherited me before I left for the Crusade. Besides, I doubt right has much to do with this. I am no friend of Prince John, so he is unlikely to take my part against Gisborne.”
He saw disappointment in every face. They had believed that with his return, Gisborne would be forced to leave the manor.
A weight seemed to settle on Robin’s shoulders. His villagers were desperate; that was plain to see in their ragged clothes and thin, anxious faces. Every one of them had been subjected to harsh taxes and brutal treatment. There was no one to protect them—no one except him. He and Gisborne would have to have a little chat, preferably at sword-point.
The tavern door opened, bringing with it another icy blast, and Edgar.
For the second time that evening, silence fell.
“There’s the filthy turncoat,” Will murmured, his hand going to the dagger at his belt.
Robin shot him a warning look.
Edgar was better dressed than he had ever seen him, and with a paunch that spoke of rich living. His well-fed corpulence could not have made more of a contrast to the men around him.
“What’s the matter with you all?” he snapped. And then his eyes fell on Robin. The colour drained from Edgar’s florid face, and he clutched at the nearest table for support. “You!”
“You sound disappointed.” Robin had risen to his feet. He was a head taller than the steward, and he used it to full advantage. “Such things I’ve been hearing, Edgar. It seems you’ve gone up in the world.”
Edgar composed himself with an obvious effort. His face resumed a good approximation of the disdain Robin remembered so well. “When your father died, Guy of Gisborne was granted the Locksley land. You were disinherited, after all.”
“When my father died?” Robin’s voice was menacingly soft. “Don’t you mean when he was murdered by your new master? Did he bribe you to look the other way?”
Will placed a hand on Robin’s shoulder, tightening his grip as Robin made to shrug him off. “Not here. Or do you want to bring trouble down on Alan’s head?”
That calmed Robin. If Edgar was murdered on these premises, Alan would lose his livelihood, or worse. Robin caught a glimpse of Jane’s frightened face among all the men.
As steward to the sheriff, Edgar had the full might of Prince John behind him. Any harm to Guy or his servants would have far-reaching consequences for more than just Robin.
Alan broke the tension. “How about a drink, Edgar, seeing as you’re here?”
“I think not.” Still eyeing Robin as if he were a mad dog that might bite at any moment, Edgar pulled his cloak closer about him and turned for the door. “I will inform the sheriff of your return, Locksley. He will be…interested.” He laid a heavy emphasis on the word and headed for the door. Slowly, a low babble of talk broke out again.
“That’s torn it,” Much breathed. “He’ll tell Gisborne and bring men to take you in.”
“Robin hasn’t broken the law,” Alan objected. “He has every right to be here.”
“Gisborne won’t see it that way,” Will said. “Robin’s not his favourite person.” He turned to Robin. “We should go.”
“I must see Martha first.”
“I’ll take you,” Much said.
***
Guy of Gisborne, High Sheriff of Nottingham, settled before his hearth and allowed his eyes to wander around the hall.
He had visited Locksley Manor so often during his early childhood years, it had been almost a second home to him. He’d attended more feasts in this hall than he could count; always, they had been occasions of discomfort and embarrassment for him. But those days were long gone. When he looked back, Guy could no longer identify the man he was now with the awkward child he had been.
Tonight, the hall was deserted. Guy was looking forward to an hour or two in front of the fire before retiring. He would have to ride back to Nottingham Castle first thing in the morning. There was plenty of paperwork awaiting his attention, as well as several criminals in need of hanging.
As he lifted a pewter cup of wine to his lips, the ring on his finger caught the firelight. His thoughts turned to the assassin he had sent to the Holy Land. He had given the man a ring just like this one on the eve of his departure. It was a token to be sent back as proof of the assassin’s success. The man had come with a sinister reputation—it was Prince John who had recommended him when Guy first took over management of the Locksley estate. The prince had almost as much reason as Guy to hate Robin of Locksley, as it had been he who had helped foil his rebellion four years earlier.
Guy would have expected to have heard from the assassin by now. The man had been gone for months, although, Guy supposed, it would take a long time for the assassin first to reach his destination, then to pick up the king’s trail. He would have to find Robin among an army of thousands—no easy task. Still, the suspense was getting to Guy. Robin was the final link to the past he longed so desperately to forget. Sever that link, and he could put it behind him once and for all.
The door to the hall burst open. A freezing gust of wind preceded the breathless figure of Edgar. Snow flecked his hair and dripped from the edges of his cloak. He looked agitated.
“What is it, Edgar?” Guy asked languidly, not bothering to rise from his chair.
“He’s back!”
“Who is back?”
“Robin of Locksley.”
A chill far greater than that in the hall descended over Guy. The cup in his hand shook and he set it on the table. He had no wish for Edgar to see his weakness. Covering his shock as best he could, he snapped, “Nonsense! Locksley is in the Holy Land as well you know.”
“He’s back, My Lord. I’ve seen him with my own eyes. He is in the Blue Boar tavern even as we speak.”
Guy thought rapidly. Locksley was alive and back in England? Then the assassin had failed. Did Locksley know yet that his father was dead? If he had discovered the ring on the assassin, he would know who was after him and be keen for vengeance. Guy knew from experience that Locksley was a formidable opponent.
“I’ll take him before he can do any damage, although if he has any sense, he would have left the tavern already.”
The outer door opened a second time, admitting a man dressed for riding. He, too, was flecked with snow, though he looked angry rather than agitated.
Guy recognised his steward from Nottingham Castle. He had no great liking for the man. He had been foisted on Guy by Prince John—another of the prince’s favourites. The man was capable, but lacked imagination.
Seeing the peaceful evening he’d been imagining evaporate before his eyes, Guy turned to him with some resentment. “What is it, Joel?”
“And you are telling me this because?”
“The thief ran. Your men attempted to chase him, but he was helped to escape by one of your soldiers.”
Guy was mildly interested. “Who?”
“John Little, My Lord.”
“How can you be sure he helped the thief to escape?”
“The thief ran into an alley. Your men surrounded all entrances. They sent Little in after him, but he got away. Little claimed he’d searched the tavern, but he couldn’t have. There wasn’t time. Now he’s disappeared, too.”
“I know of this John Little,” Edgar put in. “He was involved in some scandal a few years ago. He hails from the village of Hathersage.”
“Then he may well have returned there.”
The name John Little rang a bell with Guy. Hadn’t there been a soldier of that name with the Nottingham garrison? And hadn’t he helped Locksley to put down Prince John’s rebellion? Two ghosts from the past appearing in one day—a coincidence? Guy did not like coincidences.
“If I could have some extra men, My Lord,” Joel began, but Guy cut him off.
“Not tonight. I have more important things to worry about than your lost purse. Tomorrow morning, you may take some men to Hathersage and bring back the thief and this ex-soldier. For now, leave us.”
Guy could see Joel longing to protest. It must have been humiliating for the man to have his purse snatched and then for the thief to escape practically under his nose. But Guy did not have time to pander to the man’s wounded pride. He had an old enemy to apprehend. Fortunately, Joel was wise enough to keep his mouth shut. The mood Guy was in, he would have had him hanged on the spot, prince’s favourite or no.
***
Guy had not visited the Blue Boar in some years. He knew Edgar suspected it to be a hotbed of treason, but he had never been able to dig up any proof. Personally, Guy thought a tavern full of disgruntled peasants was unlikely to prove a threat, but with Locksley in charge, it would be a different matter.
The talk died instantly as Guy stepped into the squalid den. All heads turned to him as he scanned the assembled customers, but saw no sign of Locksley.
“Where is the landlord?”
A young man stepped forward. He seemed vaguely familiar to Guy. Had he worked at Locksley Manor at one time? A woman, probably his wife, came to stand alongside him.
“How can I help you, Sheriff?” the man asked in a neutral tone.
“Your name?”
“Alan a Dale, My Lord.”
“Where is Locksley?”
The man looked puzzled. “My Lord?”
“I know he has been here; do not trouble to deny it. My steward saw him. Where is he?”
“You’re right, My Lord, he has been here, but he left a few minutes ago. I have no idea where he went.”
“Liar!” shouted Edgar. Turning to Guy, he said, “This man was once the stable boy at Locksley Manor. He is one of Locksley’s friends.”
“So I am,” Alan said. “It was a sad day for all of us when Robin left. We all thought he was dead.”
“And you expect me to believe that he would not tell an old friend where he would be staying?” Guy did not bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
“You have broken the law,” Edgar chipped in. “You were caught red-handed associating with a known criminal.”
Alan raised an eyebrow. “A criminal? I had no idea, My Lord Sheriff. What is his crime?”
Guy glared at his steward. Technically, of course, Locksley had committed no crime. It was hardly a hanging offence to return to the village of his birth. Guy seized on the only excuse he had. “Locksley was disinherited by his father. He is no longer heir to the Locksley estate. He is nothing, a peasant like you. I demand to know where he is. If you don’t tell me, perhaps your pretty wife there will be more forthcoming.”
“I tell you, My Lord, I don’t know where he is. He was in the tavern when Edgar came in. He knew Edgar would run straight for you. You know Robin, My Lord. Do you think he would tell me where he was going, knowing that you would likely return and question me?”
There was sense in that. Locksley would not have wanted to endanger his peasant friends. Guy considered having the man’s wife arrested. The threat of torture for his wife would loosen the man’s tongue, but if it transpired that he really did not know whence Locksley had fled, then Guy would have wasted valuable time. The longer they dallied, the more chance Locksley would have to make a clean getaway. Best to search the village. He could not have gone far.
“Very well. I will take your word this once, but be warned. If I hear so much as a rumour that Robin of Locksley has been here again, it will be the worse for you.” Guy gestured to a disgruntled Edgar, and they swept out of the tavern.
***
“What should we do?” Jane whispered. She was shaking.
Alan put a comforting arm around her. “Robin is at the mill. Much took him to see Martha. Gisborne will probably search the village for him.”
“But the mill will be one of the first places he’ll look. Edgar will remember, even if Gisborne doesn’t, that it was the miller’s family who sheltered Robin when he was disinherited. Can we get a warning to him?”
“I don’t see how. If Gisborne catches me anywhere near there, it will be all up for Robin.”
“What will he do to him?” Tears glimmered in Jane’s eyes.
Alan gave her a comforting squeeze, though dread gripped his own heart. “Gisborne can’t afford to let Robin live. If Robin were to get word to the king or perhaps to Longchamp that Gisborne had seized his land unlawfully, it could go very badly for our dear sheriff.”
“We have to get word to him somehow,” Jane insisted.
“I’ll go,” George said. “My girl Lara is up at the mill helping to nurse the old woman. What could be more natural than a father dropping by to see his neighbours and escort his daughter home? No one will think it suspicious.”
Alan seized on this. “Go now! And pray God you aren’t too late.”
***
A young girl opened the door to them. Her smile of greeting faded from her face as she took in Robin and Will. She looked pale and tired.
“Who are these men, Much? What do they want?”
Robin noticed the way her voice trembled. Much spoke before he could.
“Lara, you remember Robin and Will.”
Robin saw the dawning recognition in her eyes at his name. He, too, was surprised. He remembered Lara as a shy child, but here was a lovely woman.
She curtseyed and inclined her head to Will. “It’s good to see you, Master Robin.”
Robin had no time for pleasantries. “How is she?”
“Not good, I’m afraid. You’d best come with me.”
Much’s mother, Meg, was stirring a pot of water boiling on the hearth, from which rose the aromatic scent of herbs. She gave a cry of delight when she saw Robin and flung herself at him, laughing and crying as she hugged him.
“You’re home. Thank God! They said you were dead.”
Robin kissed her cheek. “I’m very much alive as you can see.” He gestured to the pot. “What’s that?”
“A sleeping draught. Much must have told you about Martha. She gets little rest these days. This is the only thing that helps. It won’t be ready for a bit yet. Go on up to her. She’ll want to see you.”
Martha lay on a pallet in the mill loft. As Robin’s eyes fell on her, his chest tightened with grief and shock. She was painfully thin. Her form was almost buried by the blankets cocooning her. Only her white face showed, surrounded by a loosened mass of grey hair. Her eyes were sunk deep into hollow sockets, and her breathing was shallow and laboured. Robin knelt by her side and took one frail, claw-like hand in his, wrapping his fingers gently around it.
“Martha, it’s me, Robin. I’ve come home.” His voice broke on the last word. Guilt pierced him. If he’d ne
ver gone in the first place, none of this would have happened.
Martha’s eyelids fluttered. Her gaze wandered for a few seconds before focusing on Robin’s face. Her lips parted in a smile. “Robin? Is it really you?”
“Yes. I’m here.”
Her fingers tightened on his, but there was little strength in them.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Thirsty,” she croaked.
He released her hand long enough to fill a wooden cup with water from a jug which sat on the floor nearby. Lifting Martha’s head, he brought the cup to her lips.
He winced with every painful swallow she took, cradling her head against his shoulder as she had done so often for him as a child. When the cup was empty, he eased her back down and took her hand once more.
“Robin, my beautiful boy. I knew you would come back. I dreamed about it. Why did you take so long?”
“I’m sorry!” The words were wrung from Robin’s heart. He wasn’t just apologising for Martha’s condition, but for everything. For leaving her, for leaving all of them.
“Are you well?” she whispered.
“I’m well,” Robin lied. “And I won’t leave you again, I promise.”
“I’ll be gone soon enough.”
Robin’s hand spasmed in hers. He blinked hard and kept his voice steady with an effort. “You’re not dying, Martha. You’ll be better soon.”
“No.” Her tone held a shadow of its old brusqueness. “I’m not long for this life, Robin. I am ready to go. I’ll see my husband again and my little son.”
Robin started. Martha had had a son? She’d never told him that.
“I wanted…wanted to see you one last time. To tell you…that…I love you.”
“Don’t talk. You’ll tire yourself out.”
“You should go,” she gasped. Her words hit him like a physical blow. He knew he had no right to feel hurt after leaving her to Guy’s mercy.
“Gisborne.” She was becoming more agitated.
Robin laid his free hand across her forehead. Her skin was clammy to the touch. “Shh. You’ll exhaust yourself. Rest now.”
“Promise me!” She was insistent, fear lending her strength. “Promise me you will go away again and never come back. If he finds you, he’ll kill you.”
