Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (23 page)

Will Scarlet was a stranger to Nottingham, hailing from a village near Croxden Abbey. He knew nothing of the alleys, the streets, the winding passageways between buildings that nearly touched one another, so closely were they built. He knew only that if he gave way, if he let the soldiers take him, the sheriff would see to it he died in a way much more lengthy and painful than hanging. And so he carried the woman down every winding alley that gave onto another, hoping to foil the men that surely would follow, to gain back the sheriffs woman.

After putting up a fight that had taxed his patience and temper, she’d quieted. She hung now across one shoulder, slack as a sack of flour, not even so much as moaning. He heard no crying, either, nor the stifled sobs of a woman in fear trying not to let him know. He knew that sound very well. It woke him every night, in the darkness of his dreams.

She was still, and very quiet. Not even so much as a twitch.

Not dead, is she?
Abruptly he wanted to stop, to let her down, and lay her gently in the street, and strip the mantle back. To see if she breathed.
Don’t let her be dead.

But he didn’t dare stop running. If they caught him,
he
was dead. Dead for four killings, not counting the sheriffs woman. They’d hang him anyway, even if she lived.

No choice, then. Just run ... and run some more, until he was free of the city, safe in the shadows of close-grown woods, where he could
be
a shadow and hide himself in foliage and see if the woman lived.

Panting, he went on, ignoring the trembling in his legs, the gnawing weakness of an exhaustion that threatened to bring him down. No decent food, very little water, beatings twice and three times a day—there was little of him left, save what he manufactured out of hatred and anger and pain.

That, he couldn’t bear. It would drive him mad again. And he would kill again, lost in grief and pain. Kill and kill and kill, until someone killed
him.

Maybe it was best. Maybe he deserved it. Maybe letting them kill him would stop the sounds he heard, in the darkness of his dreams.

Let her be alive,
he thought. But he said nothing aloud. If she was dead, she couldn’t hear him. Alive, she wouldn’t believe him. No more than the sheriff himself, when Scarlet had told him the truth of the killings.

 

Alan of the Dales reached out and caught the boy, pulling him up short. The object of his attentions twisted in his grasp, but Alan’s hands were strong. “Wait,” he said only, using the tone of voice he’d heard used by men of power, when they wanted a thing done.

The boy froze stiffly, one arm trapped in Alan’s grasp. He made no protest, made no sound, merely waited, as he’d been bidden. Lank brown hair straggled into eyes the color of ale, dark with a tinge of russet when the light hit right.

Alan redistributed the weight of his lute. “Do you know what happened?” It was important that
he
know; a minstrel needed fodder for his music, if he were to continue.

The boy stared back at him, big-eyed and pale of face.

Alan shook his arm. “A question, boy. Do you know what happened?”

The boy shivered. He was thin, and slight, and fragile. His face was made of hollows, cut through with oblique angles. The nose was misshapen, flattened across the bridge by something other than nature. Circles like smudgy bruises lay beneath his lackluster eyes.

Alan had seen such faces on the beggars in every city. He had thanked God often that his music saved him from the life, when there were no other prospects save scrabbling in the streets. He was fortunate his mother had lived long enough to buy him lessons from the duke’s old lute-player. His pretty face would have bought him a living, if he’d stayed at the keep with the duke, but his tastes lay in other directions . . . ah, but that was long ago. His life was different, now.

He loosened his grip on the arm. “I don’t mean to hurt you, boy. I’m only asking a question.” It got him nothing. The boy stood perfectly still, watching out of eyes slewed sideways in his head, like a dog about to be whipped. Alan let him go. “Never mind. I’ll ask someone else.”

The boy didn’t run at once. “Marian,” he said softly, in a muffled, slurry tone. Then darted into the throng and was gone almost instantly.

Marian. Marian FitzWalter? The woman from Huntington Castle?

No. Surely not. And even if it were, what did it matter to him? She was dangerous. She could tell the sheriff he was in Nottingham. He wanted nothing to do with her.

Alan shrugged a little. Not worth the wondering. What concerned him now was the temper of the crowd, moving onward through the streets like a herd of the king’s deer being worked by huntsmen and hounds.

Worth following, the boy. If he could be seen again.

Alan hugged his lute. No sense risking it. He would move, like everyone else, toward the edges of the city. Hoping for the sort of thing he could put into a song.

The right sort of song could make him his fortune, but he hadn’t found it yet. There was no one in England worth making music about. Certainly Prince John wasn’t. The only one who
was
worth the effort was imprisoned in a dungeon in a foreign king’s castle.

They said a minstrel had discovered the Lionheart. Blondel, they called him. King Richard’s personal lute-player, who’d been with him on Crusade.

No doubt
Blondel
had plenty of inspiration, while Alan was left with none. “Give me a hero,” he begged, speaking to his Muse. They were on personal terms. “Give me a man—and a woman?” He considered. “There should be a woman, so love can play a part . . .” He nodded. “Give me a man and woman about whom legends can be made.” He paused again, thinking seriously, then added a final request, because it wouldn’t do to present himself to his Muse as a man with no humility, though some might argue that he had none anyway. Alan shrugged, dismissing that. “And give me the talent to make those legends live.”

 

William deLacey was furious. The guard contingent summoned from the castle faced him in the center of the street, every man a fool, protesting the sheriffs orders without saying a word.

“You have crossbows,” he said flatly. “If swords can’t stop him, a crossbow quarrel will.”

“But—” One of the blue-tabarded soldiers shifted from foot to foot. “My lord Sheriff, he’s
carrying
the woman. There is a danger that we might strike her instead.”

DeLacey shut his teeth on the fury he longed to display. “I sent for the eight of you because you are reputed to be the best archers in the castle.” He waited for comprehension. When none came, he lashed out. “He has legs, has he not? Aim for his
legs,
you fools!” He stared angrily at each man, noting reticence and resentment on the dark Norman faces. “Or is it you fear your reputed competence is lacking? That no matter how careful you are, your incompetence will harm the woman instead of the man?”

The soldiers exchanged glances. Their expressions did not improve.

DeLacey wanted to strike each and every one of them. “While we stand here debating your merits,” he said venomously, “that villein is escaping. Go after him and stop him.
Now.
All I ask is that you do your jobs.” Even as they shifted, he stilled them once more with the virulence in his voice. “If you can’t accomplish
this
much at my asking, perhaps you would do better to give up your present positions and become Norman villeins.” He paused, contempt inserted delicately like a blade between two ribs. “And wouldn’t the
Saxon
villeins love to teach you your place?”

It had the anticipated effect. The soldiers moved hastily away to obey his orders in precisely the way he suggested.

“Legs,” deLacey muttered. “Are they blind as well as stupid?”

 

Locksley retrieved his horse from the stables and mounted, thinking rapidly ahead to Will Scarlet’s intended destination. A few careful questions at the stables had told him Scarlet was a stranger to the city and its immediate environs, which meant it very likely the man would head for the closest shelter he could find. Locksley doubted he would choose any of the dwellings, for fear the sheriff would institute a house-to-house—or hovel-to-hovel—search, as was his right. DeLacey had the authority and manpower to carry through with any kind of search, even if it meant burning down half of Nottingham. It made it more likely the man would leave off looking for conventional shelter and search for something else.

A fox going to ground . . .
Locksley set his mount to a noisy long-trot through the streets and stood in the stirrups, letting his legs absorb the pounding rather than buttocks and torso.
He will look for ground well sheltered on all sides, obstructing a proper search.
He left behind the tattered edges of the poorer district, guiding the horse away from the city.
A man of the country, accustomed to close-grown forests, would seek out familiar ground.

Sherwood Forest. It cradled much of Nottingham, and the High Road as well. Remnants of Sherwood even encroached on Huntington lands. It was an old, well-grown forest, known throughout the shire as a haven for poachers and outlaws. Soldiers who went in very often did not come out.

But the same could be said of certain outlaws who sought refuge. Sherwood kept its secrets, along with many lives.

He will look for the shortest route.
Undoubtedly he already had, since Locksley was certain Scarlet and his prisoner had preceded him out of the city. It was possible both were already gone, swallowed by the forest, in which case his task was to track them somehow through dense foliage, tangled trees, and the detritus of ancient deadfall.

He sought the most direct route from Nottingham to Sherwood, and dismounted at the forest’s edge. He tied the horse to a tree, draped his dark green cloak across the saddle, and melted into the shadows.

 

Marian was muffled in layers of wool, arms trapped by constricting folds, face pressed against the weave. There was air, but little. She found herself short of breath, light of head, and very cramped of will.
Patience,
she counseled herself again.
Let him think you are utterly helpless.
She reflected with more than a little irony that it should be easy enough. She
was
helpless.

He was weary, she knew. He staggered, cursed, growled breathless exhortations to himself as he made his way onward. They must be out of the city, because the sound and smells had changed. She did not feel so compressed as she had before, weighed down by close-built dwellings. The day was brighter.

Out of Nottingham, bound for
—
where?
Her ignorance alarmed her. She could understand using her as a shield while in the city, but why now? Why do it once he was free? Why not simply dump her where she was, so he could move faster? Of what use was she to him, save to slow him down?

The answer seemed obvious. Why would any man keep a woman?

The sound of the day altered again. She heard the crackle of twigs beneath him, the rustling of displaced grass and leaves, the harsh alarmed croak of a nearby crow. Sunlight, once tinted crimson, was changed to bloodied purple.

Trees.
She frowned.
A forest?
The answer was implicit as the first bough snagged on her mantle, digging into her back.

Marian bit her tongue to keep from protesting, to keep from shifting her weight in an attempt to avoid the bough. There was no sense in letting him know she was awake and alert. Let him believe she was unconscious. That way she would have the benefit of surprise when he finally put her down.

His grasp on her slackened. Marian held her breath.
Don’t move
—
not a twitch.
He stopped. She felt his grasp shift, looking for new purchase. And then he pulled her down, levering her off his shoulder.

She inhaled a soundless breath.
Don’t rush
—
lure him into carelessness.
She was down. She felt the ground beneath her. He had put her on her side, trapping one arm. Marian squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
Wait until there is room.

It was difficult to lie so still. A part of her mind screamed at her to tear wildly at the mantle, to strip herself from its folds, but she knew better than to give in. If she moved too soon, she gave herself away. Best to wait. When he relaxed, his vigilance would decrease—and she could attempt escape.

He knelt over her, digging his hands into her mantle. She felt the fabric tighten, then slide. A shaft of muted light found the opening. The air was sweet and cool.

She waited. His hands were on her, grasping new folds. He tugged one free of her face.
Not enough
—
not enough yet.
God, the waiting would kill her.

He caught hold again of the mantle and yanked it free of her. Tumbled onto her face, Marian gritted teeth.
Not yet.
Let him think her dead.

He closed a hand on one arm and pulled her over onto her back. Her head lolled to one side. Marian held her breath.
If he’ll only give me up as dead and move aside.
He knelt beside her. She could hear his breathing, harsh and raspy; she could smell the stink of him.
Can’t you see I’m dead?

He touched a strand of her hair, peeling it back from her face with hands that shook. “Don’t be dead,” he begged.

Marian clawed for his eyes even as she lunged, scrambling up, trying to knock him back as she thrust herself up from the ground. She heard his blurt of surprise, felt him fall back a little, saw the astonishment on his face harden into a new and ferocious resolve. If she took time to look for a weapon, he’d be on her again.