by N B Dixon
***
Marian moved her hands down her skirts, making sure the folds hung correctly. Her hair had been expertly twisted up on top of her head and secured in a jewelled net by Ursula, and she wore her finest gown. Marian’s knees shook as she approached the door to the royal apartments.
Enough, she told herself sternly. This is what you wanted. Prince John likes people to be afraid of him. Do not show him your fear.
She wiped her palms on her skirts, freeing them of clammy sweat, and knocked.
A languid voice called to her to enter. Marian slipped inside, making the deepest curtsy she could. She straightened from it to find Prince John regarding her. One look told her he had been drinking a lot. In the time he had been staying at the castle, she had noticed he rarely seemed to be without a cup of either wine or ale in his hand. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes had a bleary look. When he spoke, his words were a little slurred.
“So you are Lady Marian Fitzwalter.”
She curtsied again. “Yes, Sire.”
“And your father is dead, making you a ward of the Crown. You know, of course, that my brother is currently languishing in some Austrian dungeon, which means that your disposal is down to me.”
Marian bristled. Her disposal? He was making her sound like a piece of property he intended to sell. Then it dawned on her; in his eyes, that was exactly what she was. Strictly speaking, John had no authority over her. While King Richard lived, he was her guardian. Marian bit back the words she longed to utter and waited.
Prince John’s beady eyes were fixed on her. Even in his inebriated state, they missed nothing.
“You are silent. Perhaps you resent your future being decided by those with wiser heads than yours.”
Marian bit her lip, determined not to give him the satisfaction of rising to his bait.
“There is nothing less becoming than a sulky woman,” Prince John remarked. “It seems whoever marries you will have his work cut out teaching you how a proper lady should behave.”
This was too much. “I have been forced to leave my home, Sire. I have left behind everything I know to come and live among strangers. My future is uncertain and in the hands of others who do not have my personal feelings at heart.”
“Are you suggesting you should have a say in your future?”
“I believe everyone has the right to determine the manner of their own happiness.”
“That is where you are wrong. A woman has no such right. She is put on this Earth to bear children and bring honour to her husband. That is her role. A woman who accepts that is a contented woman.”
Marian gaped at him. Arrogant horson. She knew she should keep quiet, but his words goaded her past endurance.
“I have managed my father’s lands well, Sire. The entire time of his illness I was responsible for governing the estate.”
“And your father died in debt, leaving the estate in dire need of repair.”
That silenced her.
Prince John waved a hand in dismissal. “You irritate me. Take yourself away and blunt that sharp tongue of yours. The next time I order you into my royal presence, I trust you will conduct yourself with more respect.”
Marian knew then that she had lost her chance. Prince John had not named Guy as the husband he had chosen for her, but even if he had, he would never listen to her. He would believe it to be an elaborate story she had concocted to stop the marriage taking place. He thought her to be nothing but a stupid child. Marian managed another clumsy curtsy as she left the room. Tears of bitter defeat stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
Chapter 12
Robin made his way through the various stalls and booths, keeping a wary eye on the men at arms patrolling the streets. They were out in great numbers, but dressed as he was in anonymous clothing and with his hood up, he was one of many who had come into Nottingham for market day. No soldier looked twice at him. He passed the gallows where a body hung, motionless on this mild, windless day. Robin’s nose wrinkled as the smell of decay reached him. A little further on, he saw a boy no older than Edward in the stocks. From the look of his pinched, filthy face, he had been there some time.
He recalled a scene similar to this many years ago when he’d been a wide-eyed boy of twelve, brought to Nottingham with his father for a few days of fun. That visit had changed his life. He had witnessed the death of a friend, and discovered that his father and Guy of Gisborne’s mother were lovers. Most importantly, he’d met Will.
He soon found the shop he sought. Tom Fletcher was well known for his skill. He made the finest arrows in the shire, or so Sir Richard claimed. This recommendation was good enough for Robin. He needed arrows, and thanks to the recent visit of the Abbot of Saint Mary’s, he now had the money to pay for them, even after Blidworth, Locksley and Hathersage had been given their share.
One glance at the goods on display was enough to tell Robin that Sir Richard had not exaggerated. There were several varieties of arrows, from needle-tipped bodkins used for bringing down game, to broadheads capable of punching through mail. There was a wide selection of bows on offer, including short hunting bows and the huge Welsh longbows similar to Robin’s own. He picked one of these up, examining it with a critical eye. The craftsmanship was superb. The yew was stout and excellently cut and shaped. Robin determined there and then that if his bow ever suffered any mishap, he would come here for a replacement.
“If you would like to try out the bow, I have some targets set up out back.”
Robin looked up to find a toothless old man grinning across at him. He gestured with a gnarled hand that looked incapable of producing a bow like the one Robin still held.
“This is one of the finest I’ve ever seen,” Robin said.
“Know something about them, do you, sir?”
For answer, Robin passed over his own longbow for inspection.
The old man handled it as if it were made of glass rather than wood. “This is a beauty. Welsh made if I’m not mistaken.”
“I believe it was from Gwent originally.”
“Ah, the home of the longbow. I’ve always had a desire to visit the place. Well, sir, with a treasure like that, you will not be wanting one of my paltry imitations.”
Robin smiled. “Far from paltry, but I’m here for arrows today.”
“I have every kind you could wish here, sir. Much of my stock was made by my son. My eyesight isn’t what it was, but he’s coming along nicely.”
Robin made his selection and paid the man. As he turned to go, the old man called, “Business is a bit slow today, sir. I can tell you are an archer after my own heart from the way you hold your bow. If you’d like to have a shot at the targets, do so and welcome.”
Robin hesitated. It was unwise to linger in Nottingham, but it was so long since he had shot merely for pleasure. These days, it was always to fill his belly or save his life.
He followed the man behind the shop to a small area where the butts had been set up. On each one was a man crudely fashioned from straw, with a heart marked on his chest. Robin drew back the string of the fletcher’s bow, liking the feel of its pull, and fitted one of the newly purchased arrows. He forced himself to keep still, to take note of the wind, and then, let fly.
His arrow hit the bullseye he was aiming for and he grinned.
Taking twenty paces back, he shot again, and then a third arrow from fifty paces. All struck home, piercing each dummy clean through the heart.
“Impressive.” Tom Fletcher grinned another of his wide, toothless grins. “You can hit a stationary target well enough, but how about a moving one?” He pointed to a dummy that hung suspended from ropes. A younger man, presumably his son, had also come to watch, and at a nod from his father, he set the target swinging.
From where he stood, Robin let fly. The skewered dummy came to a halt, the arrow through its heart.
The fletcher and his son whistled in appreciation.
“Tell you what,” Tom Fletcher said. “Look at these willow wands h
ere. Split all of those, and that bow is yours. It wouldn’t do you any harm to have a spare.”
“I couldn’t afford it,” Robin protested.
“Never you mind that. Just you split all those wands, and it’s yours.”
Relishing the challenge, Robin stepped back a further ten paces. The wands were small sticks of willow driven into the ground in a rough line. Robin eyed each one, taking note of the distance between them and the size of each. They varied, but none of them were particularly large and all were difficult to see.
He loosed. The first wand was sheared neatly down the middle. The second and third met the same fate.
“Back a bit further,” Tom Fletcher called.
Robin obeyed. Four more wands were left standing. He loosed two arrows in swift succession, and two more wands met their deaths. Two remained.
“By thunder, I’ve never seen shooting like that my whole life.”
“Save your praise a bit longer,” Robin muttered. The two remaining wands were the smallest and set the closest together. Robin aimed with care and loosed. Even as the first arrow left the string, he was nocking his second. As the first wand split, the second flew, breaking the remaining wand and snapping the arrow already embedded in the ground in half.
The fletcher and his son whooped and clapped. The son hurried to collect Robin’s arrows, and he returned them to his quiver, feeling more cheerful than he could remember in months.
“I’d say you’re even better than that Robin Hood,” Tom Fletcher exclaimed. “And he’s supposed to be the best archer in England. You’ll win the silver arrow, no question.”
“Silver arrow?”
“Haven’t you heard? There’s to be an archery contest in honour of Prince John’s visit. The prize is a silver arrow, and the sheriff himself will award it to the winner. You should enter.”
“Perhaps I will. An arrow presented by the sheriff is a reward worthy of any good archer.”
Tom Fletcher gave Robin an odd look, apparently unable to decide whether he was being sarcastic.
“If you do enter, you’ll be going up against the best in England. You’ll need an edge over the rest of them. This is the bow for you.”
“I couldn’t take it,” Robin began, but his objections were waved aside.
***
“Of all the foolish notions I ever heard, this takes the prize.”
Sir Richard glared at Robin over the tunic he was mending. They were alone. Will was collecting firewood, and Wat and John were hunting. Edward was in Locksley, having received Robin’s permission to visit his family.
Robin looked up from examining his new bow. “You sound like Will.”
“He’s right. Why would you take such a risk? You must know it’s a trap. Gisborne hopes to lure you out of Sherwood.”
“All the more reason to go. What better way to humiliate Gisborne and perhaps get him thrown out of office? When I escape right under his nose, I fancy our royal prince won’t be too happy. As long as he’s sheriff, Gisborne is safe, but alone and powerless, he’s mine. He murdered my father and tried to kill me, or have you forgotten?”
“I haven’t forgotten. But are you listening to yourself? All you ever talk of is vengeance.”
“What else is there?”
“There are your friends, the people who rely on you. These risks you take, first with the abbot and now this, it’s as if you don’t care about your own life.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Think of Will. He loves you, Robin. What do you think your death would do to him?”
“This has nothing to do with Will. Leave him out of it.”
Sir Richard regarded him. Robin was reminded of his childhood, and the few times he had earned his tutor’s displeasure. His father could shout till he was hoarse and it made no difference, but one frown or stern word from Sir Richard and Robin was miserable. It made him even angrier. He was no longer a child.
“I never thought you could be so cold to someone who has always been there for you,” Sir Richard said.
Robin had had enough. “I’m not forcing anyone to come with me. Will understands the risks. If you don’t like it, then stay behind. With your leg, you would be unable to run in any case.”
***
“This was a dammed foolish scheme,” John grumbled.
Will was only half listening. Robin had approached the herald. The two men were in conversation. It took all of Will’s self-control not to reach for his dagger. If Robin’s disguise didn’t fool him…
“You should have talked him out of it. He’d have listened to you.”
Will snorted. “Robin listens to no one—me least of all.”
The herald was holding out his hand, an expectant look on his face. Robin dropped the entry fee into his palm.
“There are soldiers everywhere,” John fretted.
“I have eyes,” Will retorted. Robin was moving away, melting into the crowd. Will let out a sigh of relief. They were past the first hurdle.
Much as Will relished the idea of Gisborne being humiliated, John was right. This was a risk, and a needless one at that. They were playing right into Gisborne’s hands, doing exactly what he expected.
“We need to move,” John said. “We’re too exposed here.”
He had a point. Will could pass anonymously through any crowd, but John’s height was a giveaway to anybody on the lookout for him. Not for the first time, Will wondered if they should have left John back at camp with Sir Richard. If they all got out of this alive, it would be nothing short of a miracle.
***
From her position in the royal box, Marian scanned the crowd. She knew it was a useless occupation, but she couldn’t stop her eyes roving ceaselessly over the throng of townsfolk come to witness the contest. Several vendors were taking advantage of the festive atmosphere and had set up makeshift stalls selling food and trinkets. One landlord was handing out ale from a large barrel.
Anxiety knotted the pit of Marian’s stomach, making her nauseous.
“Are you well, Lady Marian? You look pale.”
Marian glanced to her right where Katrina was sitting. She looked radiant, a contented smile lighting her lovely face.
“I’m quite well, thank you.”
Also in the box were Guy of Gisborne, Prince John, and the Abbot of Saint Mary’s, all three of them in earnest conversation. Hugo Beaumont was marshalling his men at arms.
A trumpet fanfare blasted and the noisy chatter and laughter died as a herald announced in a loud, pompous voice that the archery tournament was about to start and all hopefuls should take their places. They would begin by shooting fifty paces back from the target. The longbow had a formidable range in the hands of a competent archer, and the standard of this contest would be high.
Marian clenched handfuls of her kirtle. Please, she prayed silently. Please stay away.
There were about twenty archers in all. Their range covered the entire spectrum from young boys with barely a growth of beard on their chins, to elderly men who had no doubt shot at many such tournaments. One of them, a particularly ragged specimen with a pronounced limp, was skulking unobtrusively at the back of the group as though frightened of being noticed. He barely looked as though he had the strength to draw the massive longbow he carried.
Marian’s eyes passed over him, scanning the rest of the archers. None of them looked like they could be Robin Hood, but then it occurred to her that he was probably in disguise. He would be a fool indeed if he strode into Nottingham square in that green tunic.
A man in late-middle age with a badly pockmarked face took his position. Marian supposed the archers must have drawn lots before the tournament to decide in what order they would shoot.
She focused her eyes on the target, which was made of wood and mounted on an earthen butt. In the centre of the target was a circle with a gouge in the shape of a heart. She found her own fingers moving as though she, too, held a bow.
The pockmarked man fired. His arrow
missed the circle, and he was disqualified. One by one, the archers fired their arrows. Some, like the first archer, missed the circle entirely. Others hit the outer edge but not the heart. The lame beggar was last in line. He stumbled forward amid much laughter and catcalls. He drew back his bow with arms that trembled from the strain, but when his arrow flew, it sped unerringly to the exact centre of the heart.
There was a surprised burst of applause from the crowd as the herald called the score.
The archers had been whittled down to twelve. While the target was being cleared, Marian scanned the men for any sight of the beggar, but he seemed to have disappeared again.
“That was quite a shot,” Katrina observed. “I should not have thought him capable. He looks as though he might drop dead at any moment.”
“Perhaps it was a fluke,” Marian said, still scanning the crowd. “I’m sure he will not manage it a second time.”
“You are probably right.” But there was a nasty smile playing around Katrina’s full lips.
The herald called for silence once more and the second round began. This time, the contestants fired two arrows at the target, which had been taken back fifty paces. The beggar was once again the last to shoot. Whereas the other archers had fired their two arrows one at a time, he loosed both of his at once and both struck the centre of the heart.
A spontaneous cheer broke out, and Marian was seized by a nasty suspicion. Could the beggar…? But no; he wouldn’t be that stupid. What was the point in bothering with a disguise if you were going to give yourself away with your own skill?
***
“I’ll kill him,” Will muttered under his breath. “I’ll kill him myself.”
“What’s Robin playing at?” John hissed.
“He wants to win, doesn’t he?” Wat pointed out.
John’s hand drifted to his axe.
Will began to work his way closer to the archers, trying to look as though he were a fascinated spectator wanting a better view. His eyes never left Robin. Edward had slipped away, hopefully to find a suitable exit for them as Robin had instructed.
The third round had begun; only five archers were left. Every one of those had shown impressive skill so far, their arrows striking true every time. Will could not get near enough to Robin. All he could do was pray.
