Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (79 page)

She said, “All England would rejoice.”

The Lionheart laughed. “Yes, I imagine she would.” He raised his cup. “To your health, Lady Marian. To
his
health also—and to England’s as well.”

This time when she curtseyed she did not require his help.

Robin sat on the bench as she had, slumped against the wall. He looked up as she came forward and put out a hand to her, drawing her down beside him.

Marian sighed, leaning hard against him. “He is—impressive.”

“Yes. And persuasive. And many other things.”

She smiled. “But not an unkind man.”

“Not if it suits his purpose.” Robin opened one hand. “A gift from Coeur de Lion.”

“Robin—those are your father’s rings—”

“Yes.”

“Then part of the ransom arrived.”

“Enough. Henry trusts him for the rest, but Richard says he will not pay it.” Robin’s eyes were bleak. “He has forgiven John. He will forgive deLacey also, provided the price is met. He even permits him to keep his office.” He rolled his head from side to side. “Nothing is changed. I expected—more. I thought he would stay here and administer England, instead of sailing for Normandy to harry Philip again. I thought—” He cut it off abruptly, thrusting the rings into his belt-purse. “Does it matter what I thought?”

Marian shifted closer. “You said nothing is changed; it is. We are. You, and I, and all of us.”

He laughed tightly in self-contempt. “We are pardoned outlaws.”

“But alive, not spitted on a sword, or hanged on Nottingham gallows.”
Or burned at the stake.

“I wanted things to be
different.
I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to make England right again. Instead, he tells
me
—” He broke it off bitterly. “None of it matters.”

“He told you—what? To tend England?” Marian smiled. “I cannot think of a better man.”

He grunted disagreement.

She prodded him with an elbow. “Come, Robin—the others are outside. Let us not add to their worries by keeping news of the pardon from them.”

“No.” He allowed her to pull him up, then caught her shoulders in his hands. “Marian—”

He was visibly upset. “Robin, what is it?”

“This ... just
this—”
He trapped her head in his hands and drew her face to his, then took her mouth with his own.

For a brief moment Marian thought of Eleanor and the others, of Gisbourne and de Pisan, perhaps even the king, who loved Robin also. And then awareness of them faded, concern for them dispersed; she gave herself to the man rather than the moment. She took back her own fiercely, impressing upon Robin that she as much as he comprehended the needs of a body once threatened by assault.

“I wanted to kill him,” he breathed against her mouth. “I wanted to cut his throat, cut out his heart, cut to pieces his tongue ... but how was I to know you would take a
crutch
to him?”

Marian laughed huskily. “Spine,” she said softly. “I think I have finally grown one.”

He kissed her again hard, then gently, then took her hand into his again and led her outside to the bailey, where Little John, Will Scarlet, Alan, Tuck, and Much waited with the mantle-draped horse.

Scarlet’s face was white and tense. “Are we dead men, then?”

“No,” Robin replied, “nor wolf’s-heads, either. While the Lionheart stays in England, we are safe from the sheriffs justice.”

“Safe?” Little John echoed. “I can go back to my sheep?”

Alan’s face was mournful. “I have no lute.”

“Buy another,” Robin said.

“I have no money, either.”

“Steal it,” Scarlet said, jubilant in forgiveness.

“Stealing’s a
sin,”
Tuck declared. “And we are past that, now. The king is home at last.”

“For a while,” Robin said in dry disgust, kicking aside a broken cobble. “Until he leaves for France to make war with Philip Augustus. Then it will all be the same again.
Exactly
the same.” He glanced around, mouth knotting up into a grim, unforgiving line. “Let us go elsewhere. I weary of Nottingham.”

Marian’s throat felt tight. Here at last was the future. “To Huntington?”

“No.” He was annoyed that she even asked it. “That is finished, Marian; whatever I become, it will not be the Earl of Huntington.” Irritation faded, replaced by the warm, private smile she had seen inside. “My hall has burned, Lady—may I share yours a while?”

Relief blossomed painfully, filling up her spirit. “Then Ravenskeep. All of you. And if you want to stay, there is work for each of you.”

“I’m a jongleur—” Alan began, and then a thoughtful look replaced his affrontedness. “It will take time to write my ballads.”

“D’ye have sheep?” Little John asked.

“I have sheep. And I have a manor that needs men.” She slanted a glance at Scarlet. “Even you.” She looked away quickly so as not to embarrass him, or herself, and smiled at Tuck. “The oratory is small, but there is room for a monk. Perhaps we might even build a chapel.” Lastly she looked at Much. “And I need you most,” she said. “Who else will see to the running of the manor?”

Much frowned fiercely. “Robin
Hood.”

She looked across his head at Robin. “Robin Hood is no more.”

“Here,” Scarlet said. “What about the money? Doesn’t the king need it?”

Robin looked at Tuck’s horse, muffled in cloak and coin. His eyes were speculative.

No,
Marian thought.
He wouldn’t—

Robin glanced back at the keep, then looked again at the cloak-swathed saddle. “No,” he said lightly, “the king doesn’t need it—not as much as others do. We’ll give some of it back to the Jews, who raised most of it; and some of it to the people of Locksley, so they can rebuild the village; and the rest to poorer folk who need it much more than the king.”

Alan’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t sound like Richard Plantagenet.”

“No,” Marian said, sighing, “it sounds like Robin Hood.”

“Lionheart,” Much murmured.

Robin caught him under the arms and swung him up into the saddle, leaving him perched atop the mantle. “The Lionheart,” he said, “is a very busy man. There are still wars to be fought.” He looped up the reins and gave them to Much. “Ravenskeep,” he directed, “hard by Sherwood Forest.”

Alan laughed softly, slanting a bright glance at Marian as his eloquent voice rang out:

Robin swore. “I am not the man for
that.”

Marian looked at Alan. In perfect accord they grinned at one another as, with grave deliberation, Robin Hood robbed the king for whom he had learned to steal.

The reconstruction of popular myth carries with it the burden of preconception and expectation; no reader, touched in some fashion by the Robin Hood legend, can escape certain preferences in the manner of retelling.

Lady of the Forest
is not a recounting of the classic story, because there is none; the ballads that introduced Robin Hood to English folklore (initially mentioned in 1377 via
Piers Plowman
) consistently contradict one another throughout the several centuries of their creation. This novel therefore is purely my own concoction, a fictional interpretation of imaginary events leading to the more familiar adventures depicted in novels, TV productions, and films.

Lady of the Forest
is more properly a “prequel”—the story of how the Robin Hood legend was born. The major emphasis is on Marian’s contribution, but I also desired to create a logical underpinning to the otherwise unwieldy version of the disinherited earl’s son forming a band of outlaws. The social stratification of the times would not permit the admixture of such distinctly delineated social classes; the events in
Lady of the Forest
are my attempt to explain in believable fashion how such an unlikely admixture might occur.

Many scholars have investigated Robin Hood with an eye toward proving or disproving his existence. Evidence appears to support the theory that no single outlaw existed to fill the role we know, but that “Robin Hood” was a composite of several outlaws, including Adam Bell. Adding to the confusion are the conflicting opinions regarding the actual time frame; different versions of the ballads present Robin as active during the reigns of three separate kings: Richard I, Edward I, and Henry III. As entire books have been written on the subject, among them Professor J.C. Holt’s excellent
Robin Hood,
and Maurice Keen’s
The Outlaws of Medieval England,
I will not attempt here to outline proofs and theories, but urge readers to investigate on their own.

Authors who care deeply about historical accuracy are often faced with a dilemma: to relate documented facts in a cut-and-dried fashion that quite often harms a story’s dramatic potential, or to use history like a crazy quilt, stitching together the truthful patches with the fictional ones. I have employed the latter method.

Historians disagree with regard to Richard I’s apparent homosexuality. I adhere to the conventional opinion for the purposes of this story. Supposition aside, it must be noted that while Richard married Berengaria of Navarre solely to gain her father’s financial and military support for the Third Crusade, this sort of political alliance occurred frequently. That he sired no children also is no infallible indication of sexual preference—Richard was too busy crusading and making war to spend much time with his wife, though one might argue a king would acknowledge the distinct need for an heir.

Although the Lionheart as hero has indelibly stamped history with his charismatic presence, he too suffered documented bouts of the family temper tantrums. His facility for brutality and selfishness is evidenced by his execution of 2,600 captive Saracens following the Siege of Acre, and his apparent indifference to his English realm—during the ten years of his reign, Richard spent only four months in England. He died of gangrene in France in 1198 while besieging a castle erroneously reported to contain great treasure. For those interested in historical trivia, it should be noted that Richard’s quote regarding Prince John and “evil counselors” is a documented one, as was the note Philip sent to John upon Richard’s release.

Any linkage of Prince (or King) John to the Robin Hood legend conjures the term “evil.” While John indeed tried to steal his absent brother’s throne, kidnapped an affianced bride from a powerful baron (he later married her), and murdered his nephew, Arthur of Brittany, he was neither a stupid man nor a complete fool. As king he proved a far more able administrator than his brother, but had an unfailing knack for infuriating and alienating powerful barons. Americans in particular may look to this latter trait with approval; John’s actions led to a revolt of the barons, among them the Earls of Alnwick, Hereford, and Essex, who created and forced John to sign the Magna Carta in 1215, thereby laying the foundations for the U.S. Constitution.

One of the most difficult aspects of writing a historical novel is how to accurately portray female characters. Contemporary authors are often taken to task for imbuing medieval women with anachronistic independence of thought and feminist leanings. In Eleanor deLacey, a character entirely of my own invention, I tread close to the boundaries; nonetheless, there were women of “loose morals” even in 1194—I choose to believe an Eleanor might well have looked to sexual dalliance as a means of seeking freedom of choice in an age when women had very little.

Marian is a truer product of her times, shaped by the ordinary responsibilities and expectations of a medieval woman. That she was freed to become something more (or less, depending on point of view) is attributable to the destruction of her reputation. In losing that, she gained the freedom to love where and when she most desired to, and the strength to make her own way.

Although Marian’s small part in the ballads does not appear until the seventeenth century May-games, I hope I have done justice in bringing to life a woman who has, throughout distant and recent history, remained little more than a cipher.

I am indebted to a multiplicity of resource materials, foremost among them Holt’s
Robin Hood
and Keen’s
The Outlaws of Medieval England; The Ballads of Robin Hood,
circa sixteenth, fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, edited by Jim Lees; Elizabeth Hallam’s
The Plantagenet Chronicles;
W.L. Warren’s
King John;
and several books by Joseph and Frances Gies, including
Women in the Middle Ages, Life in a Medieval Castle,
and
Life in a Medieval City.