Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (15 page)

“He raped me.”

“Eleanor—”

“He raped me.”

“Think about what you’re doing!”

With exquisite clarity: “He—raped—me.”

 

When the cask was at last filled with heated water and the stool placed within it, with soap and towel nearby, Locksley dismissed the servants and stripped out of his soiled garments. He couldn’t stand the smell of himself clothed and crusted in blood. Naked, itching, and bruised from his wrestling match with the boar, he climbed into the cask and sank gratefully onto the stool.

He hissed, holding his breath against the bite of heated water. When his body was sufficiently adjusted to the temperature he slid off the stool and ducked his head beneath the surface, stripping his hair of blood.

It crossed his mind that drowning might be a pleasant way to die, to rid himself of memories and unpleasantries associated with the Crusade. But his breath soon ran out, and the pleasure was less certain.

He came up spewing water and resumed his seat upon the stool, letting his knotted muscles loosen in the heat. With eyes closed, disassociated from his chamber and the trappings of his father’s vanity, he could drift, forgetting himself entirely. But it was a transitory escape, because with lassitude came recollection. The heat of the water brought back the heat of the Holy Land, the acrid smells of dust and sweat, the tang of unwashed bodies, the effluvia of the marches and campsites, and the stink of rotting bodies.

Locksley tensed upon the stool, locking both hands over the roughhewn edge of the cask that once housed wine. The peace was banished. Teeth set, he stood, taking up the soap, and began to scrub himself violently, concentrating on ridding himself of the remains of the encounter with the boar, and with his own fragility.

“My God, Robert—
what did they do to you?”

He spun around, dropping the soap, peripherally aware that the awkward movement had driven a splinter into one foot. But he forgot that quickly enough. His father had entered. His father had seen.

The earl stopped awkwardly just inside the closing door. He gaped in undisguised shock as he gazed upon his son. Then shock became revulsion. The old face was the color of death. “Robert—my
God—”

Locksley sat down at once, sinking his shoulders beneath the surface. It was an instinctive retreat, though now much too late.

The earl’s hands clutched his surcoat, crumpling costly fabric. “Robert—
Robert—”

Locksley shut his teeth. “You were never to know.”

The old face spasmed. “Why did you say nothing?”

He recoiled. That, he had not expected. It was never contemplated, even envisioned, that he would speak a word of it to his father,
his
father, who could never understand, never even
believe—
He expelled the question abruptly, aware of an underlying hostility for the man, any man, who would dare to ask, to intrude. “What would you have me say?”

“But—Robert ...” The earl passed a shaking hand over his face. His pallor lessened, tinged with the first trace of returning color. “They are barbarians!”

The hostility receded. Locksley found it cynically amusing: his father was predictable in his outrage, a man born to wealth and rank and power but above meting out physical abuse save when it benefited discipline. “I think it made no difference
whose
son I was.”

The earl scrubbed his face with both hands, as if cleansing himself of shock. Blue eyes glittered balefully. “Barbarians, all of them.”

“Yes,” Locksley agreed, and let it go at that. He knew better than to explain. “I didn’t know you wanted me, my lord.” A gentle reprimand, though he doubted the earl would mark it. But that he dared offer one, however subtle, was a new and tentative freedom.

The earl retreated to the bench along the wall beside the door. He sat down, clasped his hands over his knees, and studied his son thoughtfully. The shock was banished, replaced by parental assessment. White brows knitted themselves into a single line across the shelf of his brow.

Am I like him?
Locksley wondered.
Is that what I will be?

Huntington sighed. “I had not intended to speak to you of this. Not yet. But another has spoken of it to
me,
and so I bring it to you. You are a man now, as this Crusade—and its treatment of you—has proved.” His elbows collapsed; he interlaced his fingertips across the pleated surcoat. “This is not something to which you must pay immediate attention. I have some comprehension of how you must feel, but newly come home ... there is no need to discuss it in great detail, or make a decision. Not yet. In time.”

“My lord—?” He found it more obscure than his own implied reprimand.

Huntington smiled wryly. “You are much admired, Robert, for many things. Most of which you will know. But foremost among them is your unmarried state.”

Locksley grimaced. It had taken less time than he’d anticipated. “I see he has been at you.”

White brows rose. “Has he spoken to you?”

Locksley shrugged, kicking the soap up from the bottom of the cask so he might begin again to scrub. “He said something of it last night. I gave him no answer. But I thought surely now, after what has happened, there would be no chance of it.”

Huntington frowned. “What happened today that might alter the possibility?”

Locksley considered the question carefully. It was unlike his father to give tacit approval to anything untoward, which certainly the supposed rape of Eleanor deLacey must be considered. “She’s been publicly despoiled, has she not?”

The earl recoiled. “I’ve heard nothing of it!”

Is he so old as that?
“You were
there,
my lord.”

Huntington stared, then expelled a bark of startled laughter. “Good God, Robert! Not
deLacey’s
daughter—my God, d’you think I’d consider that notorious baggage for you?”

His son nearly smiled. “I didn’t know she was notorious. She wasn’t, when I left.”

“Most certainly notorious. We will not speak of the girl.” The earl’s tone was stern.

“Very well.” Scrapes and scratches stung from the lather. “What of the minstrel, then?”

“The minstrel? He is none of my concern. It is a matter for the sheriff.”

“Isn’t William deLacey somewhat more closely involved in the matter than you might be? She is his daughter.”

Huntington scowled. “Let him deal with the matter, I say. The man was a fool. He will stay the night in the dungeon, then be taken back to Nottingham Castle tomorrow. The sheriff may do with him as he likes. I have no interest in it.”

“Cut out his tongue, I heard.” Locksley’s tone was uninflected.

The earl shrugged. “He’s fortunate not to be killed.”

His son scooped wet hair out of his face. “And if he’s innocent?”

“Innocent! You were there, Robert ... there was no doubt of what they were doing!”

Locksley nearly smiled. Clearly the image made the earl uncomfortable. He was affronted that such goings-on could occur under his roof; that any of his guests would so flagrantly abuse his hospitality. “No doubt of what they were doing, perhaps—but what of the matter of fault? You said yourself Eleanor deLacey is notorious.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the earl retorted. “It isn’t my concern, nor is it yours. We have something far more important to discuss.”

And so the topic was altered. “Marriage,” Locksley agreed. “Pray continue, my lord.”

The earl nodded. “A bastard, but still acknowledged. Certainly royal by-blows have married into fine houses before.”

Locksley stopped scrubbing. “Whose?”

“John’s. Her name is Joanna.” The earl shrugged. “It was mentioned, nothing more. The man’s a consummate conniver, I’ll give him that.” The earl was up, striding around the cask to the far wall, where he peered out the window slot. “He discusses castles as if he has an abiding interest in the dirt and dregs of it, when it’s perfectly obvious he wants to know if I intend to stand against him, now that I have the means.”

Locksley himself wondered that, if in a detached way. He and his father had never discussed policy. He and his father had never discussed much at all. This was the first conversation he could ever recall having that contained fewer commands than opinions and declarations. He doubted his father would change his habits now, but at least he paid lip-service to the fact his son was grown.

Cynicism asserted itself, breaking through lethargy.
At least, while it suits him.

Huntington swung back. “He compliments you now, when but yesterday he insulted you by implying unspeakable things. And so he dangles a daughter. A conniver, I say. He knows he’s unpopular with the barons. He knows how badly he needs us. So now he comes calling, like a boy wooing a maid. Faugh! I’d as soon be quit of him before this night is through!” Huntington strode back toward the door. “But I doubt we’d be so fortunate as that. The larder is yet full.” He unlatched and opened the door. “Don’t trouble yourself about this, Robert. I have no doubt he’s using the girl’s name to every baron with an unmarried heir.”

Locksley watched mutely as the earl went out and thudded the door closed behind him. “No,” he said at last. “I won’t trouble myself about it.” He had no intention of marrying anyone.

Just after dawn, as the other women in the chamber began to stir sluggishly, Marian yanked her mantle into place over her clothing and met old Matilda’s chiding gaze forthrightly. “We’re not staying another moment,” she declared. “I’ve done what I could to change the sheriff’s mind, but he won’t listen. Neither will his daughter. So, we’re leaving now. We can eat something on the road.”

“The sheriffs riding back to Nottingham today himself. We’d be safer—”

“We’ll be safe enough,” Marian said firmly, cutting her off. “The road to Nottingham is too well-traveled to afford thieves much chance of success, and I have no desire to spend one more moment in that man’s company. We’re going.”

Matilda appealed to propriety as always. “Have you asked the earl’s leave?”

Marian set her teeth. She had neither time nor patience for argument, no matter how well intended. “We’re
going,
Matilda!” She turned on her heel and marched toward the door, snapping the folds in her skirts and her mantle out of her way as the old nurse, who was stiff and slow in the mornings, followed more carefully.

The door was opened before they reached it. A big-eyed servant-girl bobbed a quick curtsey. “Lady Marian?” At Marian’s nod, she went on hurriedly. “I been sent from the barber. You’re to come and see Sir Guy, if you please, lady. The barber says he’s asking for you.”

It surprised her. “Sir Guy is asking for me?”

“My lady, yes. Will you come?”

There was no indecision, only puzzlement aplenty. Marian cast a glance at Matilda as she nodded. “Of course. Run ahead and tell him we’re coming.”

“Aye, my lady.” The girl turned and hastened off.

“There, now,” Matilda said as she joined Marian in the corridor and pulled the door closed. “You see? We’re not meant to leave so quickly.”

“We’ll go as soon as we’ve seen him.” Alarmed, Marian stared worriedly at the heavy-set woman. “You don’t think he’s in danger of dying, do you?”

“No thanks to the boar,” Matilda muttered, moving in Marian’s wake. “Run ahead, my girl ... I’ll come along in my own time.”

 

Gisbourne breathed noisily through clenched teeth, clutching wadded bedding in both hands. He was very careful not to move, not to so much as twitch, but the pain was a wise beast and stalked him effortlessly, beating down his defenses until it found his thigh and sank its teeth into his flesh. The virulence of its bite reached up into his hip, and threatened the state of his belly.

He didn’t want to vomit. Vomiting required movement, and movement, regardless of the cause, would bring renewed pain of a magnitude he had no wish to consider, nor most certainly to encounter.

The barber had cut the hose from his left leg and had cleaned and bandaged the angry wound as best he could. But he did so against his wishes; the wound, he explained, would certainly mortify. Gisbourne’s best bet for survival was to have the leg cut off.

Gisbourne refused. Gisbourne declared he would die two-legged, if he were meant to die.

The barber called him a fool. When his patient mentioned concern for the Lady Marian’s safety, the barber spied his chance. All he need do, surely, was take the lady aside and explain the facts to her. Then she could prevail upon the man to accede to greater wisdom and let the leg be amputated.

Gisbourne knew this. He was not and had never been a dull-witted man. For this reason he refused the sleeping draughts the barber pressed upon him. By now he was dehydrated and very thirsty, but no less determined a patient than when the men had brought him in.

Marian. Would she come? He wasn’t sure, and now he wasn’t sure he wanted her to. Part of him had no desire for her to see him like this. Another part of him wanted badly to look on her face again, to reassure himself that the boar had not injured her. His memory of the encounter was blurred by pain and remembered panic; he could not recall what had happened after—even when he tried.

His concentration faltered. He thought back again to the day before, after the hunt, when he had been put into a chamber not meant for housing the sick. Not meant for lovemaking, either, but that had proved no deterrent.

Faintly, Gisbourne smiled. Eleanor deLacey—and a wandering minstrel! How was
that
for the downfall of a lady?

Attention snapped back at the sound of a lifted latch. The door was opened and Marian admitted, swathed in a dark blue mantle. He recalled it from the day before, blue against the green forest, and the tumbled mass of hair. She wore a white linen coif now and the glorious hair was braided into submission, dangling against her waist. But neither mantle nor head-cloth hid even a whisper of her beauty. Gisbourne, abruptly self-conscious, pulled a coverlet over his legs.

The barber took her aside, speaking quietly and quickly. Gisbourne knew what he said. He prepared to answer her, albeit more politely.

And then she was there at his side, kneeling gracefully, quietly folding the voluminous mantle around skirts. The white skin, so close, was flawless, touched with healthy color. In her black-fringed eyes he saw sincere consternation.

He wondered if perhaps the wound, after all, was worth it, if it made her think of him. Better than being ignored. Better than being forgotten.

“Sir Guy?” The voice was low and smoky. He was not a passionate man, withal, being quiet in his habits, but she sounded like no other woman he had known, in bed or out of it. He could not help himself. He could not suppress the vision of Marian instead of Eleanor, bedding a man here in this room.

His face flamed instantly. He felt sick to his stomach, and cursed himself for his weakness. She was deserving of better.

She smiled tentatively, as if afraid it was inappropriate to smile at a man who might yet die. He understood her discomfort. He had watched two sisters die, and had found it unsettling. Most of all he had disliked not knowing what to say.

He swallowed painfully. His throat was dry, but he dared not quench it. He feared the water might contain something to put him to sleep, and he couldn’t risk that. He might wake up—
if
he woke up—with a leg missing. “Lady,” he croaked. “How do you fare?”

A true smile flowered; she was, he saw, relieved to hear him make sense. “Much better than you, I think.”

He swallowed again. “I was afraid the boar might have harmed you.”

“Oh, no. He was quite satisfied with you.” Self-consciously she smoothed her hunt-soiled mantle. “There was no danger. Robert killed it before it could hurt anyone else.”

The door opened again, admitting a fat old woman. Her attendant, he knew, so the meeting was circumspect. “Robert—of Locksley?” He thought it odd she would use his given name so intimately, but she appeared not to notice.

“Yes. It was over very quickly.” Marian gestured. “I have never seen a man quite so fast, or so skilled. There was no fear in him, only determination.”

Gisbourne gazed into her face, hearing the undertone of admiration. It rankled; Locksley had accomplished what he, Gisbourne, had not, and with surpassing skill. Hail the conquering hero, returned from the Holy Land... He drew a breath, gritting teeth, and set the thought aside. “I wanted to be certain you were well. To see for myself ...” He gave way, hot of face. He had no skill with words. His gift was with sums, and weights and measures. He could run a household, not kill a boar. Gisbourne knew very well which impressed a woman more.

Marian glanced over a shoulder at the barber, hovering in the background. Her expression was serious when she looked back. “Sir Guy, he says—”

“He says he wants to cut off my leg.” He nodded tightly. “Lady—I can’t allow it.”

Her approach was careful. “He says it could be dangerous, if nothing is done.”

“He thinks I’ll die. He thinks the leg will rot.” Gisbourne shook his head. “I couldn’t bear it, being one-legged. And he hasn’t tried, past poulticing it. There is cautery. Have him burn it closed first. If that doesn’t work ...” Gisbourne’s hand twitched. “Better then that I die. But I’ll die with both legs whole.”

She gazed down at him mutely, weighing his words. He saw the genuine concern in her eyes, the assessment of the validity of his wishes. Then, smiling, she pressed a soft, cool hand against his burning forehead. “Then I will tell him so. It is
your
leg, after all—your wishes must be followed.” She paused. “May I pour you water?”

“No,” he rasped. “He will drug me, then cut it off.”

She checked the beginnings of an answer and turned to the barber, gathering skirts and mantle as she rose. “Have you spoken to the sheriff? Have you told the sheriff what Sir Guy’s wishes are?”

The barber bobbed quickly. “Lady, he’s sore hurt. If I leave the leg on—”

“You
will
leave it on. He wishes it so. Have you spoken to the sheriff?”

The barber was unhappy. “He says I am to tend him as best I can.”

“Then do so. Clean the wound and use iron. Tend him carefully, as you are bidden ... do you understand?” Her tone was inflexible. “You will do as this man wishes. You are not to drug him insensible and then cut off the leg. Do you understand?”

“Lady, I do, but—”

“But nothing,” she said firmly. “If it eases your sense of duty,
I
will go to the sheriff—”

“No need.” It was deLacey himself, entering the chamber. “I am come myself; what would you say to me?”

Gisbourne saw the subtle but instantaneous change in her attitude. The solicitude vanished, replaced with physical stiffness and a taut self-control. Yet the words were quiet enough, if still inflexible. “This man insists on cutting off Sir Guy’s leg. It’s not what Sir Guy wishes. I’ve told this man to clean and cauterize the wound. The rest is in God’s hands.”

She doesn’t like him.
It was, initially, preposterous. But he was certain of it.
She doesn’t
like
him!
Gisbourne twitched as a bolt of pain bit into his thigh, cutting through the startled realization.
What has he done to turn her against him?

DeLacey’s expression was momentarily arrested, but he moved quickly enough to counter her quiet hostility. He inclined his head to her. A brief glance in Gisbourne’s direction was meant to convey sincere concern for his steward’s health and condition.

Gisbourne, gritting his teeth against the pain, saw something more.
He’s using my condition to sway her opinion.

“Indeed, in God’s hands,” deLacey agreed easily. He looked sternly at the barber. “You will do as the lady orders.”

“Aye, my lord.” The barber bowed.

Gisbourne waited for the sheriff to acknowledge him now, to speak, but beyond the merest flick of a glance in his direction, deLacey looked only at Marian. “I understand you and your woman are to leave.”

“Yes, my lord.” Very stiffly.

“Then may I suggest you travel with my party? I am taking Eleanor back to Nottingham.”

Marian’s tone was icy. “And the minstrel, my lord?”

“Yes, of course. They’re bringing him up now.” DeLacey glanced at Matilda. “You and your woman will be most welcome. It will be company for Eleanor. . .” The tone abruptly went dry. “More
proper
company, though her reputation is quite beyond repair.”

Marian was undeterred, which also surprised Gisbourne. More often than not people folded beneath deLacey’s desires. “I think not. Matilda and I have already ordered our horses. I tarried only to see how Sir Guy fared.” Her glance at
him
was kind. “You must conserve your strength, Sir Guy. I will pray for your recovery.”

“Lady—” He wanted to delay her, to make her stay, but she was clearly anxious to be gone from the sheriffs company. “I—” But he couldn’t say it. There was so much he couldn’t say, to a woman such as she. “Thank you, Lady Marian.”

“Marian.” DeLacey, overly free with her Christian name, Gisbourne thought, reached out to halt her even as she moved toward the door. “I insist—” But the rest of his sentence was lost in the noise of the door and the hurried words of a guard.

“Lord Sheriff? My lord—” The liveried guardsman stopped just inside the door and stood stiffly. His face was expressionless. “The man has disappeared.”

DeLacey’s eyes narrowed minutely. “The minstrel?”

Gisbourne, who had seen that expression before, wanted to snicker.
As if his doubt could alter the truth!

The guard swallowed visibly. “My lord. Yes.”

DeLacey’s enunciation was most distinct. “Disappeared?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“From the cell?”

“Yes, my lord.”

DeLacey was thunderstruck. “The minstrel has escaped from the earl’s
dungeon?”

Marian’s laughter filled the chamber. It was a sound unfeigned and unforced, eloquent in its delight. Astonished, Gisbourne stared at her, then looked at the sheriff, who was infinitely chagrined, and irritated by it.

“My lord.” The guard, however, was grim. “My lord, the earl wishes to speak with you.”

“Yes.” DeLacey’s tone was hard. “I imagine he does.” He glanced briefly at Marian, expression masked, then looked back at the guard. “Escort the lady and her woman to the great hall. She will accompany my party. I would have her needs attended.”

“My lord—
no!”
She shook her head as a wave of color blossomed in her face. But she regained self-control quickly. More quietly, she said, “We can’t wait any longer.”

“But of course you can.” DeLacey spared a glance for Gisbourne, but it was quickly spent. “Wait in the great hall with the guard, if you please. I think it imperative that Eleanor have better company than I alone can provide.”

“My lord.” The guard inclined his head as the sheriff left the room. Then he looked at Marian. “My lady—if you please?”

Gisbourne was astonished by the venom in her voice. “No, I do
not
please. But I have no choice, have I?”