Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (17 page)

He made his way out of the street into Market Square itself and halted by a roughly made stall where he could, if he desired, buy a lady a colorful ribbon. A brilliant array of streamers fluttered in the thin spring air, but his eyes marked something other than ribbons to braid into hair; what
he
saw, from the corner of an unsuspecting eye, was the flutter of a pennon, the snapping of a banner, the ripple of a herald’s tabard in a land very far from England.

He moved away from the stall even as the merchant held out a basket overflowing with a tangled cloth rainbow.

Odors were thick. He smelled pasties, young wine, sweetmeats, spices; the effluvia of streets that were home to the four- and two-footed alike. His ears were stopped up with the nearly indecipherable accents of Nottingham’s merchants, the shire’s peasantry, the babble of women telling stories on their men, the wild shrieks of children, the deeper-pitched tones of husbands freed of a serf’s duties to lose their cares in ale.

He closed his eyes and let the sounds wash over him.

The call of stall merchants and shills working the crowd . . . clay flutes, sweet and somber . . . the staccato patter of stick against drum ... the chime of finger bells. Even the thread of a nimbly played lute, the sighing song of an Irish harp. But the music faded raggedly, replaced by other noise transmuted by memory.

He smelled blood and bowels and butchery in the midst of Nottingham Fair, surrounded by the people who labored to pay the costs of a war in which he could no longer believe; underwriting destruction in the guise of a warrior-king whose conviction was as sincere as it was undimmed, no matter the price paid in the blood of his own men, and the blood of the Saracen.

The blood of his own body, spilled by men of both sides.

“Richard ...” he murmured, but banished it with movement both awkward and abrupt, passing swiftly through the people until he fetched up against the wooden frame of a raised platform. He stopped, caught support, clung. Sweat stippled lip and brow. When he could, he wiped it away with the cuff of his tunic, stirring the thick lock of pale hair shadowing his left eye. Time he saw the barber, if he were to see at all.

He looked up at the stilt-legged platform that had offered him support, and realized it was a gallows. He lurched away from the framework, needing to remove himself from yet another means for meting out death to men.

Someone banged into him from behind, then slid off his hip as if jostled by the throng. Locksley, knocked free of dark thoughts and balance, caught only a glimpse of the other: small, slight, quick. And already swallowed by the crowd.

He remembered too late a thing no man, with coin to his name, should ever forget in the midst of so many. Fingers felt the ends of the leather thong knotted around his belt. Sliced through cleanly, with nary a tug or snag. His purse was simply
gone
, as was the thief.

Thoughtfully, Locksley stared down at the cut thong. The task he had come to perform now was impossible, unless he were to turn thief as well.

He sighed, rubbing idly at his left wrist that, once broken, reminded him from time to time of its injury. It had healed cleanly enough—so had everything else of flesh and bone—but would not let itself be forgotten.

Indicative, he thought wryly, of the misuse of a man’s body in the name of vanity. For what else was a Crusade but the context of a man‘s—no, a
king’s
—wish to prove himself to God, ally, and enemy, lest he be unremarked in life as well as in death?

An old argument. Richard had not been convinced.

Locksley tugged the cut thong from his belt, studied it a moment, then dropped it to the street. Nothing left for it, then, but to find another way.

 

The first of deLacey’s orders was for servants to see to it the Lady Marian and her woman were comfortably settled. The second was for Eleanor to take herself to her chambers, where she was to wait upon his summons. The third was for Gisbourne’s assistant to appear before him at once in his personal chambers, where the sheriff promptly retired to change his clothes. He anticipated no problems with the assistant, intending only to get a sketchy idea of how things stood; he then would pay a courtesy call on the old nurse and take Marian to the fair, provided she could be pried loose from the old woman.

Gisbourne’s assistant arrived in short order. He was a pasty-faced, mousy man, thin of frame and spirit, with fine colorless hair and the squint of a weak-sighted man better accustomed to entertaining sums than human company. The name was Walter, deLacey recalled, as he signaled for and drank down a cup of watered wine.

“Sir Guy will be indisposed for a matter of days, perhaps weeks.” DeLacey handed the cup to the hovering servant, working his belt loose from his hips as another servant waited to divest him of his surcoat. “He met with an accident, and will remain at Huntington Castle until well enough to travel. Until then, you shall have to assume his duties.”

Walter’s mouth opened, then shut. He blinked, squinting a little.

The sheriff waited for a response as the servant tended the surcoat, but none was forthcoming. “Well? May I entrust the duty to you, or shall I hire another man?”

Walter wiped his palms against the soiled front of his gray-brown robe. “No, my lord. I mean—yes, my lord.”

DeLacey, wresting his arms free of sleeves, frowned impatiently. “Which is it, man?” Next the undertunic and bliaut, baring a winter-pale torso as yet unsoftened by age. Then he sat down upon a stool to facilitate the removal of his boots. “Yes or no?”

“My lord, you may entrust the duty to me.”

“Good.” Freed of his boots, the sheriff stripped out of hosen. “Now, what has happened while I’ve been gone?”

“There is the matter of the murderer, my lord. He was to be hanged this morning . . . but of course, with you gone, nothing was done.” Nervously, Walter tugged at his frayed robe. “The gallows is built, my lord ... but when shall it be used?”

DeLacey gestured his choice of fresh clothing, then shrugged dismissively. “Prince John is still at Huntington. As the men killed were in his service, it’s best we leave the hanging until such a time as he pleases himself to attend.” High-necked bliaut, fresh hose. “Leave the murderer below. He’ll do well enough in the dungeon for a day or two more.” Next came the longsleeved undertunic, a fine lightweight wool of pale saffron, embroidered at each cuff. “Anything else?”

“The new clerk is come. The one Sir Guy sent to the abbey for.”

Delacey was distracted by the appearance of a fresh surcoat and the exertions required to don it. “Sir Guy sent for a new clerk?”

“Yes, my lord. Brother Hubert died two months ago, if you recall it ... Sir Guy said it was impossible for him to keep up with his own work as well as the correspondence. He sent for a new clerk.”

“Very well.” Such things lay within Gisbourne’s office. DeLacey waved a hand. “Another monk, is it?”

“Yes, my lord. From Croxden Abbey.”

The sheriff grunted, standing still as the servant looped and pulled taut the long leather belt that, once knotted, hung nearly to his left knee. “Anything else?”

Walter tugged again at his ink-stained robe. “There are the usual petitions for hearings on interpretations of Forest Law, my lord . . . the foresters have brought in six more poachers since you’ve been gone ... and there’s the matter of the last tax collection. Some of the villages are late.”

DeLacey sighed. “When are they ever on time?” He bent and tugged on his freshly dusted boots. “We shall have to see to it the taxes are paid, punishments melted out. And payments increased . . . the peasants will complain, of course, but there is no choice in the matter.” John had made that clear. DeLacey straightened, stamped his feet, and waved away the servant. “Another time, Walter. See to it the clerk is given those letters I wanted recopied—I don’t expect Gisbourne saw to them himself” He paused. “Or you?”

Walter blanched. “No, my lord.”

“Very well, give them to—what is his name?”

“Tuck, my lord. Brother Tuck.”

The sheriff nodded. “Tell him I’ll expect them finished in a good hand by morning, and that I desire to see him immediately after breakfast.”

“Yes, my lord.” Walter paused. “Will you be wanting an order written for William Scathlocke?”

“William—?” But he recalled it: the murderer. They said he was half mad, a man empowered by demons when the battle fit was on him. DeLacey had heard of such things, but had never seen it himself. “Have this Tuck see to it.” He unlatched the door, thinking ahead to Marian. “And tell him to use his best-taught English and Latin . . . this is Prince John, after all, who wants it with so much drama.”

Marian perched on the stool next to the bed. The chamber was tiny, offering no more room than was required for a narrow bed, but it sufficed. Already Matilda seemed better, propped against feather-stuffed pillows murmuring repeated assurances that she would be well, that Marian need not worry, that her difficulty on the road was merely a dizzy spell now passed.

Marian smiled and nodded, keeping her thoughts to herself, and helped the old woman drink an herbal tea. When the mug was empty she set it on the floor next to the stool and smoothed the woolen coverlet over the mound of Matilda’s body.
How many times did she do this for me?
Too many times to count. Since her mother had died, Marian’s true solace and place of comfort had been with the plump nurse.

“He’s a good man,” Matilda murmured. “A hospitable man, to take me in like this.”

“The sheriff?” Faint surprise pricked Marian’s conscience; she should be more gracious in her thoughts of him. “What else could he do but have us in? Only a man with no heart or soul would have denied us shelter.”

Matilda’s eyes were crouched in creases more pronounced in her weakness, though her color was mostly restored. “But you would have denied it, if it weren’t for me. Don’t hide it from me, my girl. I’ve seen the look in your eye.”

So easily Matilda made her feel like a child, defensive and determined. “I think he handled the matter of the minstrel poorly,” Marian said finally, wondering uneasily if she had wronged deLacey again. “There are other ways of dealing with penalties.”

“Fathers of daughters don’t always see what’s best.” Matilda shifted her bulk. “They see the girl, and proprieties.”

“And lost opportunities?” Marian smiled. “He wanted to betrothe her to Robert of Locksley.”

“Aye, well, that’s gone now.” The edge of Matilda’s wimple was stained with sweat and grime. “The earl will find someone better.”

“What of the sheriff?” Marian reached up to unwind the soiled linen. “What does he do with a daughter so publicly ruined?”

The old nurse grunted as coif and wimple came free, baring her compressed gray hair. “Likely put her in a nunnery, or marry her off to the man least likely to protest.” Blue eyes glinted briefly. “Now, as for you—”

“Me!”

“Your year is up, my girl. With your father gone now, ’tis best we look at finding a man fit for Ravenskeep.”

Marian busied herself with folding the linen, setting it aside, and removing nonexistent folds and creases from the coverlet. “I am in no hurry.”

“You’ll be no younger tomorrow.”

“And only a
bit
older.” Marian grinned at the answering twinkle in Matilda’s eye. “You see? You’re in no hurry to lose me, are you?”

“Pah, I won’t be losing you . . . unless you mean to turn me out. Who else is there to look after the babies you’ll bear?”

Marian laughed. “I think it’s
much
too soon to think about babies—” She broke off as the door scraped open.

“Marian.” It was deLacey, clean and refreshed and smiling. But after the greeting for her, he went directly to the woman in the bed. “Matilda, how do you fare? I see you have tea—is there anything else I can have brought to you? Food, perhaps, or another coverlet?” He knelt down easily, taking her plump damp hand into both of his as he smiled warmly into her eyes. “You must not hesitate to tell me or any of my people, Matilda . . . I won’t have you suffering out of a displaced idea of saving us trouble. You are my guest here as long as need be.”

Color splotched the woman’s face. “Oh, my lord Sheriff—”

DeLacey cut off her protest easily. “I won’t have it. You and your lady are my guests.” He smiled faintly, cast a sidelong glance at Marian, and looked again into Matilda’s eyes. He leaned closer, lowering his voice intimately. “It is my right as lord high sheriff to command you both to stay, but I know better than that: such high-handedness would merely earn me your enmity. Certainly that of your lady, who knows her own mind.” Teeth glinted briefly. “There is no cause to reproach yourself for honoring me with your company, no matter the cause . . . I am most pleased to host both of you, on whatever terms I must.”

“My lord—” the old woman began.

He silenced her with a raised hand. “I’ll have none of it, Matilda. The matter is settled.” He chanced another glance at Marian, arched eloquent brows, looked again at the old woman. “If there is but one thing I might ask of you . . .” Deliberately, he let it fade suggestively.

Matilda rose to the bait instantly. “My lord, of course!”

He smiled. “Then convince the Lady Marian to go with me to the fair.”

The object now was plain. Marian shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Of course you can,” Matilda retorted. “It’s best you go, rather than staying here all shut up. What good d’ye do me staring down on my sleeping face?”

“I couldn’t go.” Marian cast a chiding scowl at deLacey, undaunted by his rank. “I can’t leave her alone.”

“Of course not,” he agreed smoothly, as if surprised by the implication that he would dare to suggest such a thing. “I intend to have two women stay with her at all times, to help her in any way. You are too good-hearted to desert, Marian . . . I mean no insult to you.”

“Go,” Matilda insisted. “The air will put color in your cheeks.”

Marian looked accusingly from one to the other. “You conspire against me.”

DeLacey exchanged a smiling glance with Matilda. “We understand each other.”

“Say you’ll go,” Matilda told her. “You’ll be back before nightfall, and we’ll have supper together.”

Marian shook her head firmly. “I don’t think so—”

“For me,” the nurse said stoutly. “Bring me back a ribbon, or a fresh spring pomander.”

Marian had no desire to go, but staying behind might only add to the problem if Matilda came to believe her health was in jeopardy. Her color and breathing were much improved, but Marian recalled all too clearly the panic she’d felt on first sight of the old woman’s distress.

DeLacey rose. “I’ll send the women in,” he told Matilda. “You can pass the time exchanging gossip.”

Marian sent a glare in his direction, but softened it as she turned back to Matilda. “I can’t fight both of you.”

“Nor are you meant to; we both know what’s good for you, even if
you
don’t. Go on, my girl. An old woman needs time to herself.”

“There, now.” The sheriff rounded the bed to extend a hand. “Dismissed smartly, I think. She reminds me of
my
old nurse, may God bless her soul.”

Marian scooped up her soiled blue mantle and rose. “My lord, I think—”

“Wait.” He took the mantle from her hands. “This has seen hard days, thanks to Gisbourne’s bloody courage. I’ll have another brought. One of Eleanor’s.”

Yet another thing for Eleanor to resent. Marian opened her mouth to protest, but he had turned from her to unlatch the door. He waited for her there, eyebrows arched inquisitively.

Later,
she promised herself.
Not now, not here . . . we will discuss this later.
She glanced down briefly at Matilda, then abruptly made up her mind. “Before dark,” she said firmly, brooking no argument.

The sheriff’s eyes glinted. “With ribbon and pomander.”

 

It was inelegant, Alan believed, but the best he could do: he filched a wooden bucket from a stall as the merchant looked away, took it to a place around a curve, overturned it to spill out the cupful of water, and set it upside down on the ground. Whereupon he perched his rump upon it, unhooked his lute, placed his scarlet cap upon the ground and began to play.

It was not what he had been told to do, but he seemed to have little choice. The alehouse to which he had been directed no longer existed, as he had discovered to his intense dismay. A fire a year before had destroyed a number of buildings, among them the alehouse; Alan was left to contemplate cynically whether his rescuer had known that and sent him there purposely, intending to withhold promised coin.

Not much sense in that game with me--there are ways for men like me if winning other coin.
But for some time no one much noticed. Music was a staple of fairs, and Alan was hardly the sole practitioner setting up to earn some coin. But he was good, knew it, and let the confidence carry his voice. Soon enough he caught an old dame, then a younger one, then two little girls with their mother. After that came a young man or two, and then young wives with their husbands, and his audience was born.

It changed, of course. New people came, others departed. He noted expressions indicative of attentiveness, or lack of, and adapted his style to suit. Peasants were poor folk—he was more accustomed to playing for lords, earning marks in place of pennies—but before long a few silver coins littered the cloth of his hat.

A young woman came up, as he paused to work tension from grimy fingers, and offered a cup of sweet cider with a bob of her head and brief curtsey, paying tribute to his talent. She was plain, too thin, mostly shapeless, but female nonetheless, and responsive to his smile, to a warm glance from bright blue eyes.

Be careful,
his conscience said as he drank. Then, as the girl smiled tremulously,
I will sing this one for her.

He gave her back the empty cup and bent his head, letting the tangled ringlets tumble across a shoulder. Fingers found their places, pausing as he built anticipation. Then, softly, somberly, Alan began to sing.

He won them easily. He was, if nothing else, a genuinely talented minstrel and took pride in his appeal, using lute and voice to dominate the moments it took to complete the ballad. As he finished the peasant girl was crying, tears running down her face though she made no sound at all.

Alan unexpectedly was moved to shame. She was not Eleanor. She was not a rich man’s wife. She was not a silly ladies’ maid looking for a moment’s dalliance. She was a young English peasant girl touched by a tragic story and the power of his skill.

I waste myself . . .
But then two coins fell into his hat, followed by three more, and the thought passed from his mind, as did the peasant girl.

 

Games of skill and strength abounded, offering purses of various sizes. Locksley, who had wrestled the Lionheart himself, though unsuccessfully—Richard
always
won—briefly considered trying for a purse as a way of restoring his coin, until he saw the prospective opponent. He stopped short, shoulder to shoulder with other gaping men gathered around the lopsided roped-off ring near the center of Market Square, and stared in startled silence. Then, with exceeding—if unspoken—fervency, he gave pronounced and explicit thanks to God for bestowing upon him the wit to know when to hold his tongue.

As did so many who had seen him, Locksley measured men against King Richard when determining size. Part of the Lionheart’s personal power and tremendous grasp of command was derived from his physical appearance, and his willingness to use it. Richard was a head taller than most men, particularly the smaller, slighter Saracens. His limbs were thick with muscle refined through arduous marches. Where others dwindled in the privations of Crusade—Locksley himself was one—Richard thrived. Known as a hearty trencherman, the king, being
king
, wanted for nothing in food and drink. In frame, habits, and spirit, Richard Coeur de Lion was impressively robust.

But this man was
enormous
, even as he bent over to scoop up his hapless and squawking opponent, who vociferously protested being dangled by an ankle in midair from one hand.

Locksley nodded absently. It lacked style, he reflected, but not effectiveness.

He glanced around the swelling knot of onlookers as they gawked at the giant, traded wagers among themselves, and murmured vulgar appreciation for the power of the man. Someone called out that the victorious giant should dump Hal on his head, to teach him better manners. The unfortunate Hal, still suspended, shouted back, but his words were distorted by his precarious position.

It drew a laugh from the others. Then a red-tunicked man stepped out of the crowd, brandished a purse, and challenged the next brave soul to go a fall with the giant.

Locksley arched a brow, surveying the suddenly quiet audience. He grinned to himself. Then, not being a stupid man—and marking how the red-tunicked man’s eyes roved the audience speculatively—he took himself off to find a game promising less exertion, fewer chances for defeat, and an opponent who did not resemble a man less than some red-maned tree.

 

DeLacey, clasping Marian’s elbow, deftly steered her around a puddle of urine left by a passing horse. Coolly she said, “That was cleverly done.” She eased her elbow from his grasp. “Matilda had no chance at all.”

He gave in at once, knowing when to discard prevarication. “Yes, it was clever—and the device of a desperate man. Had I addressed myself to
you
, we would not now be attending the fair.”

“No,” she agreed. “And you know why.”

He nodded as an off-duty soldier called a greeting. “Matilda was much improved, Marian. You saw that for yourself.” He allowed the faintest tinge of iron to enter his tone. “You have been a year in mourning. It’s time you thought of frivolity again.”

She pulled the hem of the crimson mantle out of the dust. Eleanor was taller. His daughter’s height, he thought, was the only thing in which she surpassed Hugh FitzWalter’s magnificent daughter. Certainly not in voice; Marian’s was low, and oddly—seductively—smoky. “I am more concerned, just now, with Matilda’s health.”

“She is old, Marian. Even rest will not replace lost youth.”

The bluntness startled her, striking home with truth. “My lord—”

“Let us not argue.” He took her hand and tucked it into his elbow smoothly, locking it into place. “Believe me, if I thought Matilda to be in serious jeopardy, I would summon the finest physician in Nottingham. But she is old, and weary, and journeys tax her now. She shouldn’t have gone with you.”