Knight of Sherwood

by N B Dixon

  “You’re forgetting we robbed her,” John reminded him.

  “Lady Marian Fitzwalter is the daughter of one of the most influential nobles in the land,” Sir Richard remonstrated. “It was badly done.”

  Robin rounded on him. “You’d rather we left Blidworth to starve?”

  Edward spoke for the first time. “She’ll be sure to tell Gisborne what happened. Didn’t she say she was under his protection?”

  “For all the good it’ll do her,” John growled. “Gisborne’s men have been running round Sherwood for months without finding any of us. Lady Marian can whine until she’s hoarse.”

  “Do not get complacent,” Sir Richard warned. “Gisborne is no fool. He is sure to try some other strategy soon.”

  “Robin’s more than a match for him,” Edward declared. “He’ll keep us safe.”

  Robin suppressed a wince. Edward viewed him as a minor god. He wondered sometimes if Sir Richard had been right. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken the boy in. Then again, he could hardly have left him to the dangers of Sherwood. Still, he was one more responsibility.

  Wat toasted Robin. “To our leader.”

  Will shot Robin a swift, probing glance before frowning at Wat. “Give it a rest.”

  Wat scowled at the two of them. “What’s the matter with you? It’s been a profitable week. Are you sore because the wench didn’t tremble before the mighty Robin Hood?”

  Robin was on his feet instantly. “If you weren’t drunk, I’d knock your tongue behind your teeth for that.”

  Wat leapt up, too, reaching for his quarterstaff. John seized him by one scrawny shoulder, and Will moved to grip Robin’s arm.

  “That’s enough. We’re all drunk. Time to head back. Edward, you take first watch tonight.”

  Robin shook Will off. He couldn’t explain even to himself why he was in such a foul mood. Wat was right. The day had been a lucrative one. Blidworth would be safe. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep. With the excitement of the robbery spent, tiredness was weighing on him again. He always felt so alive when he was running rings around Gisborne’s men and frightening hapless nobles out of their ill-gotten gains. But then night would come and he would be at the mercy of his dreams. It didn’t seem to matter how much ale he drank. It was never enough to banish the dreams.

  The ride back was a silent one; Robin’s mood affected all of them. John, Wat and Sir Richard headed straight for the sleeping cave on their return. Edward, as per his orders, took refuge up a nearby tree to take his stint at sentry duty. Will used the last of their wood to revive the fire. They would need to chop more tomorrow. Robin held his hands out to the flames, very aware of Will sitting across from him on the other side of the fire.

  This was the first time they’d been alone in a while. Robin usually took care to keep them both busy, sending Will off with John whenever possible. His body tightened with need at Will’s proximity.

  Sometimes, he wondered what would happen if he gave in to the urge to grab Will and kiss him. It had to be better than living in this hell of loneliness and wanting. But then memories would return, bringing with them the familiar shame and fury.

  “You should get some sleep,” he said brusquely.

  “So should you. You look about ready to collapse.”

  “I’m well enough.”

  “You might fool the others, but not me. You think I don’t know how you lie awake half the night, when you’re not tossing and turning because of some nightmare or other?”

  “Do you have a suggestion?”

  “Tell me what’s wrong.” Will’s voice was scarcely above a whisper. His blue eyes were soft in the firelight. Robin saw concern and desire equally mingled.

  A sudden longing rose up in him—a longing for the old days when Will had been closer to him than a brother. When his feelings had not been confused and complicated. When he would have told Will anything, knowing he would understand. Of its own volition, his body leaned towards Will. Will mirrored the gesture. It would be so easy to take those few crucial steps around the fire. Will wanted him. His body language said that loud and clear. Robin’s breath caught. Will’s eyes drew him in, gentle, patient. It was almost too much to bear.

  Robin jerked back with a curse. He shot to his feet.

  Will leapt up also. Their gazes locked. The tension stretched between them, taut enough to snap.

  “Robin,” Will said. That was all, just his name.

  Robin turned away with an effort. “We should get some sleep. It’s late, and we’ve a busy day tomorrow.”

  “So you’ve decided it was a mistake? For months, you’ve been pretending it didn’t happen. You started this, not me.”

  Robin turned back slowly to meet Will’s angry, accusing eyes. He forced out the words, wondering as he did so why he was bothering, but knowing he could never admit the truth.

  “People often behave differently in times of war. A man never knows from one day to the next if he’ll live or die, and needs don’t just go away. I’m sorry if you read more into it than there was.”

  Will shot him a look of contempt. “That’s nonsense and you know it. You can lie to yourself, but not to me. There’s something between us, and the sooner you accept that, the happier we’ll both be.” He walked away, leaving Robin with absolutely nothing to say in reply.

  Chapter 10

  The hunting party assembled in the outer bailey of Nottingham Castle. Marian and Katrina were the only women present. A stable boy brought Marian’s horse and assisted her to mount. She settled her mantle into place and reached up to make sure her hair was decently covered beneath her linen coif. The stable boy next turned to assist Katrina into the saddle. She smiled insincerely over at Marian as she settled her own clothing into place.

  “I should have thought this would not be to your taste, Lady Marian, so soon after your father’s death.”

  “I’m not sure I take your meaning.”

  “Only that I know you must still be grieving his loss. I should have thought witnessing more death would be distressing for you.”

  Marian’s smile was as insincere as Katrina’s own. “Thank you for your concern, but life does go on. I cannot stay locked in my room forever. A bit of fresh air and exercise will do me good.”

  Marian did not add her other reason for wanting to join the hunt. The party would be travelling into Sherwood. As unlikely as it might seem, she couldn’t help entertaining the hope that she might see Robin of Locksley again. She still couldn’t reconcile the outlaw who gave to the poor with the cold stranger who had robbed her. She knew she should have been resentful—after all, he had left her with virtually nothing—but her primary emotion was curiosity.

  The hunting horn winded, and amid a clattering of hooves and the excited barking of dogs, the hunting party streamed out under the portcullis into the February morning. The air had lost some of its biting chill in the past week, though a hard sprinkling of frost still coated the trees. The birds welcomed the milder weather with their song.

  Marian had attended many such hunts in the past. As Earl of Huntingdon, her father had had more rights than most, and on his own lands was free to hunt deer as well as boar or pheasant. Marian had been riding since she was old enough to walk, and for her, it was as natural to be in the saddle as it was to be on foot. She was even a decent hand with the bow, though she was somewhat out of practice.

  She carried no weapon with her today except for her eating knife. She had not come on this expedition to hunt game. Her quarry was two-legged.

  Sherwood closed around them, wrapping them in its stillness and mystery. By law, none but the king was allowed to hunt deer in Sherwood, but it seemed Prince John had given permission to certain of his favourites to make use of the forest. He was expected to pay another visit to Nottingham Castle himself. Marian wasn’t looking forward to the event. She didn’t know how she would be able to face the prince with anything like courtesy, considering he had been the one to strip her of her home. There was also her ne
wfound knowledge concerning Guy. Would she be brave enough to take the chance if it were offered to her?

  You must, she told herself. To preserve Huntingdon and keep it out of the sheriff’s hands. She no longer thought of him as Guy of Gisborne. He had no right to the name, and if it became known he was related to a notorious outlaw, he would certainly lose Prince John’s favour.

  The hunt wound about through the trees, breaking into smaller groups as the dogs picked up different scents. Marian allowed her horse to proceed at a leisurely pace, gradually falling further and further behind the others. Katrina was thankfully no longer beside her. Only a servant was still in close attendance. Marian wished he would go, but knew better than to suggest it. The man was no doubt acting on the sheriff’s orders, but it was inconvenient to her own plans. She would have to lose him another way.

  She urged her horse into a trot, and set off down a path which soon left the rest of the hunting party behind her.

  The servant called out, his voice harsh with anxiety, but Marian’s only response was to urge her horse to go faster. She was confident the servant would not be able to catch her. His horse was well past its prime, and she could tell just from watching that the man was not at home in a saddle.

  For some time, she allowed herself to revel in the simple joy of freedom. What she had said to Katrina was true. She’d hoped that exercise and fresh air would do her good. She dug her heels into the horse’s flanks, urging it into a gallop. The horse took off with a will, and Marian let out a cry of delight. They plunged through the trees, and Marian’s coif came loose, allowing her hair to stream out behind her. Folds of her mantle fluttered in the breeze. A log lay in their way. Marian urged her horse to jump. It leapt over the obstacle and galloped on.

  Marian did not see the low-hanging branch until it was almost too late. At this speed, it would easily swipe her out of the saddle. Pulling hard on the reins, she managed to swerve aside and checked her snorting, foam-splattered horse. They came to an abrupt halt. Looking around her, Marian was pleased to see that she had lost the servant, but she had no idea where she was. She had never travelled this deep into Sherwood before, and her surroundings were not remotely familiar. They weren’t even on any kind of trail. Her exhilaration faded, and anxiety took its place. How on earth was she going to find her way back? There was no landmark within sight—only more trees.

  Her horse, untroubled by any such anxieties, had begun to graze. Marian slipped from the saddle and tried without much success to settle her hair back into order.

  “It is dangerous to wander about by yourself.”

  Marian started. Turning, she saw Robin of Locksley leaning casually against an oak tree as if he’d been there all along, but Marian could have sworn she had been alone only seconds ago. He wasn’t wearing his hood up today; it lay loose over his shoulders, and Marian was able to examine his face. At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about him. His nose was crooked, as though he had been in a bad fight at some time in his life. His lips were sensual, but at the moment, they were set in a hard line. There were dark circles under his eyes, which were a piercing green. Ragged black hair hung below his jaw, and his clothes showed evidence of recent mending. Mud and leaf mould clung to his boots. All in all, he was a disreputable sight.

  Nothing about him suggested the nobleman of Ursula’s tale, and Marian was assailed by sudden misgivings. What if he were just a common vagabond? And she was alone with him.

  Don’t show fear. He’ll pick up on it.

  “I’m not alone,” she said, in as firm a voice as she could muster.

  He made a show of looking all around them.

  Marian coloured. “I’m with a hunting party. They are somewhere hereabouts.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but you have left them far behind.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know everything that happens in this forest.” He turned to go.

  “Wait! You can’t leave me here.”

  He turned back, one eyebrow raised. “I am not your bodyguard. If you want to wander about in Sherwood, that is your own affair.”

  She gritted her teeth. Why did he have to be so cold? She’d never done anything to him. “Could you at least escort me to a more familiar path?”

  “You wish me to put myself in danger for your sake? You said yourself Gisborne and his men are all over the forest today.”

  “I never said I was with Gisborne, and you were more than capable of dealing with his men when we met on the road.”

  He sighed irritably, then gestured. “This way.”

  Marian seized her horse’s bridle and hurried after him, the horse coming most unwillingly.

  They walked for some minutes in silence. He made no noise at all as he slipped through the forest, and Marian was conscious of how she and her horse crashed along behind him. Once or twice, he cast irritated glances back at her. She realised she would have no better opportunity than this to ask her questions.

  “Is it true they call you Robin Hood?”

  “Among other things.”

  “And is it true you give what you take to the poor?”

  “Is there a reason for these questions?”

  “I find it hard to believe. Outlaws do not usually give to those less fortunate. They keep what they take for themselves.”

  “Do you know many outlaws?”

  Marian chose to ignore the question. “I heard you were once a nobleman, Robin of Locksley.” The colour rose to her cheeks.

  “And our fathers once intended us to marry. Is that what you were going to say?”

  Marian ducked another low-hanging branch. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Now you are under the sheriff’s care. Is he a good protector? A kind, considerate man?”

  “I hardly know him.”

  “It was generous of him to take you in after your father’s death.”

  Marian jerked her horse to a halt and rounded on him. “How do you know my father is dead?”

  “You told me yourself.”

  Marian opened her mouth, then shut it again. He was right. She’d told him her father was dead when they first met—an unforgivable mistake.

  “So,” Robin mused, “now he’s gone, you’ve turned to the sheriff. I find that interesting.”

  Marian was furious. He was mocking her. He probably thought she had agreed to warm the sheriff’s bed in exchange for his protection.

  “What makes you think I had any choice? Prince John has declared Huntingdon Castle the property of the Crown. The only way I can return to it is with a husband.”

  “And you have decided Guy of Gisborne is a suitable candidate?”

  “I’ve decided nothing. You know as well as I do that a woman has no say in the disposal of her future. I am a ward of the Crown. I must marry whomever the king selects for me.”

  His face softened. Marian thought she detected sympathy in his manner.

  “I imagine Gisborne is anxious to add Huntingdon to his estates. He is not the type to take a woman into his household out of the goodness of his heart.”

  “I’m sure he intends to speak to the prince, if he hasn’t already, but I won’t make it easy for them.”

  They resumed walking. “Why do you hate Gisborne so much?” Marian asked.

  “He murdered my father and took my lands from me. He also tried to have me killed while I was on Crusade.”

  Marian was horrified. What would a man have to do to make another resort to such lengths to be rid of him? She was about to voice the question out loud, when her foot caught in a hidden rabbit hole. Her ankle twisted violently to the left, and she fell with a cry.

  Robin cursed, but dropped down beside her. Pain seared through Marian’s ankle and foot, bringing unwanted tears to her eyes. She gritted her teeth, trying not to make a sound.

  “Here,” Robin said. “Let me see.” He peeled aside folds of her kirtle and ran fingers over her ankle.

  Marian jumped, letting out an involuntar
y whimper. She was also aware of the warm, callused fingers against her bare skin. The sensation was oddly pleasant, and highly improper.

  “It’s only a sprain. I’ll help you mount your horse.”

  Both of them froze as the sound of hooves crashing through the foliage struck their ears, accompanied by the barking of dogs and men’s shouts.

  “They’ve found me!” Marian was aghast. If Robin thought she had planned this… She looked up at his face, but it gave nothing away. “You should go.”

  “No time,” he said curtly. Raising a hunting horn which hung by a strap on his shoulder, he blew a long note.

  Marian was startled. Surely he had as good as given away his position, but then it occurred to her that if there was going to be a fight, Robin would need reinforcements.

  He drew his sword. “Stay down.”

  Marian slumped against an oak tree, watching Robin. He stood motionless, listening as the men drew closer. Why didn’t he run? Surely he would have had time to get away. Did he want this fight? Maybe he feared the men would come after him and he would inadvertently lead them to his hideout—wherever that was. Marian suspected it must be close.

  The men were upon them, their horses’ hooves flinging up clods of mud. Marian wiped a dollop from her cheek.

  “My Lady!” Hugo Beaumont exclaimed. “Are you hurt?”

  “Just a sprained ankle. I fell from my horse. I’m all right.”

  Hugo and Robin locked gazes, but before either of them could do anything, five men melted out of the trees to stand alongside Robin. No—Marian quickly amended her estimate—four of them were men, one of them a good deal older than the rest, but the fifth was a mere boy. Marian recognised a couple of them, particularly the giant of a man who clutched a wicked-looking axe. Every one of them was armed. Even the boy carried a dagger, and he looked as though he knew how to use it.

  “This is a pleasant surprise, Beaumont,” Robin remarked. “You came into Sherwood to hunt deer, and instead you land a wolf. Gisborne will be proud—that is, if you survive long enough to tell him about it.”

  Marian looked around, realising the sheriff was not with the party. He must have been in another part of the forest. It occurred to her then, looking over the group of men, that there were not nearly as many as had started out that morning. These men must have come on purpose to look for her. As if moved by some unseen signal, the men attacked.