Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 02] (19 page)

“I do not.” His eyes were steady, as was his tone. “For no reason, Marian.”

A chill passed across her flesh. “But you do not know all the reasons why you should consider it.”

“I do.”

She searched his face. “Do you?”

He turned from her, went to the overturned bed and righted it with effort. Then he sat down upon the edge of the frame, still naked, and said very gently, “You are not a broodmare.”

Her belly clenched into a painful knot. “No. But men may expect children. It is not unreasonable.”

“Are you dead yet?”

“No but—”

“Marian.” He said it with finality. “My decision was made there upon the floor. I did not come to live with you merely to get children.”

“No, but—”

“It is a
part
of life, yes, and one I might otherwise cherish . . . but not all there is.”

She sought the faintest trace of falsehood, of words said merely to comfort. “But Robin . . . your father—”

“My father is but one parent, and not one I honor.” He smiled faintly. “My mother would understand.”

Within she blossomed, rejoicing, but now there were other issues at stake. “He will arrest you, will he not?”

“My father?”

She did not see how he could find humor in the moment. “DeLacey! King John’s lapdog. He hates you, Robin.” But did not add,
As he hates me.

Robin’s mouth compressed. “If he can, he will hang me. When he knows I have broken with my father, he will move to arrest me until he has evidence that supports my hanging. Or he will manufacture it.” He grimaced. “When my
father
knows I have broken with my father, he may well himself command the sheriff to do so.”

“Tell neither of them. Yet.”

He contemplated her warily. “What are you thinking?”

She shrugged. “That if he will hang you anyway, you should perhaps give him reason.”

He rose again, expression abruptly stilled. She knew the look in his eyes.

“Give deLacey reason,” she said, “but remove from John the
means
to support his lapdog.”

He gazed down upon her. His tone was peculiar. “Lady, do I take your meaning aright?”

Marian stood up, dragging the blanket with her. She was not so free as he was to be unconcerned with nudity in the middle of the day. “You do, my lord.”

Despite the severity of his tone, a light was kindling in his eyes. “Let me be certain we speak of identical matters, if you please: you, a knight’s daughter, are counseling me, an earl’s son who was knighted by the Lionheart himself, to steal taxes from the sheriff. To steal taxes from the king.”

“But never to keep it,” she pointed out matter-of-factly. “You are not Adam Bell.”

His brows arched up. “Then what would you have me
do
with the money I steal?”

“What you did five years ago with the money you stole then.” She smiled to see his expression. “Give it back to the people.”

 

William deLacey was bitter of mood when he arrived at Nottingham Castle, thinking ahead to the letter he meant to write to King John. When he saw Gisbourne coming down the steps to greet him, his mood plunged further.

“My lord,” Gisbourne said, “there is someone waiting to see you.”

The steward likely would never again allow him a moment’s peace with regard to visitors. “Another royal messenger, Gisbourne?”

“Not precisely, my lord. But he is sent from King John.” DeLacey swung down and let the horseboy take the reins. “Sent from King John, but
not
a messenger?”

“Well,” Gisbourne said, “he is not leaving. He has come to stay. So no, I believe he is not a messenger, even though he carries word from the king.”

The sheriff cast him a withering glance as he climbed the hall steps. “Who is this man? Did you bother to ask?”

As they crossed the threshold and a body loomed up before them, Gisbourne said,
“You
might ask, my lord.”

DeLacey stopped short. He was unaccustomed to being accosted within his own hall. He was less accustomed to being accosted by large, strange, stubbled men clad in mail, coif, spurs, wearing a massive Norman sword and carrying a helm tucked into the crook of a thick arm. He was, deLacey reflected, the very image of vengeful demon taking on the guise of a soldier. Except the badge bearing a cross stitched into the shoulder of his surcoat gave lie to the image of a dark-eyed, dark-haired, scarred, and lightly pocked demon: he had fought on Crusade.

Richard’s man, then. Perhaps Gisbourne had mistaken
which
king the man had come from.

But Richard was dead. The sheriff owed no loyalty to a dead king. Therefore he had latitude to dismiss courtesies and discourage strangers. “Later,”he said curtly.

The big soldier spoke to deLacey’s retreating back. “I am sent from King John, my lord.”

The accent was French, the voice a harsh rumble, the tone without embellishment. DeLacey turned back. “From King
John?”

Dark eyes glittered. “It was where my lord Richard asked me to be.”

This was unexpected. “Did he? And when did you see him last?”

The stranger did not answer the challenge implicit in deLacey’s condescending drawl, but merely the question. “The day they entombed him at his father’s feet, at Fontevrault. But I was told by others what he wished for me, where he wished me to be.”

It was astonishing. “He wished you to be
here?”

“At his brother’s side. His brother sent me here.”

The sheriff stilled. There was something about the tone, something
in
the man, that demanded attention. “Then why is King John, so recently gifted with Richard’s loyal man, sending you to me?”

“He is particularly concerned with the security of the tax money,” the soldier replied. “I am here to escort the shipment.”

Of course he was; it should come as no surprise that John wanted to be certain his money was safe, in view of the loss five years before. But once the tax shipment was taken to the Exchequer session, deLacey surrendered his power. He therefore said smoothly, “We are as yet still collecting the taxes. Peasants are slow to pay. Be certain that when we are ready, the king shall have his money.”

Gisbourne said ingenuously, “Despite the outlaws?”

DeLacey, furious, glared, but before he could reprimand his steward, the soldier spoke. “And so the king has sent
me,
Lord Sheriff. I shall be certain the shipment is unmolested on its journey.”

DeLacey frowned.
One man? John sends me one man, believing that to be enough when Sherwood is full of outlaws?
But he merely asked, pointedly, “Who are you, that he would expect such capable service?”

“King’s man” was the clipped answer. “Captain, once, of Coeur de Lion’s mercenaries.”

The sheriff stiffened.
“Mercardier?”

The man did not smile. “That is my name, my lord.”

DeLacey rejoiced. DeLacey laughed aloud. DeLacey knew this man; Mercardier was infamous. “Then you are well come!”he said jubilantly. “Well come indeed. There is much for you to attend.” He gave the big man his hand in a firm clasp, then clapped one wide shoulder in a friendly buffet. “You are perhaps the greatest boon I might ask of my king.” He glanced aside. “Gisbourne, see to it Mercardier is assigned proper quarters—in the castle, if you please—and then he and I shall share a meal in the hall.”

“My lord,” Gisbourne affirmed, and took himself off.

DeLacey turned the full force of a charming smile on the mercenary. “Come, Mercardier. I have no doubt there are many tales you might tell me of your experiences on Crusade.”

There was no answering charm in the big man’s face, merely stolid acceptance. “My lord.”

A tedious man, no doubt, but useful. And uncommonly competent when it came to killing. Anticipating with pleasure the shock in store for various outlaws, the sheriff escorted the best and bravest of the Lionheart’s personal bodyguard into the hall.

Robin wanted nothing more than to stay with Marian, to aid in efforts to restore Ravenskeep, but Adam Bell had given him a task he must complete if he were to free his friends. Once told, Marian had herself ordered him to go at once, seeking hastily and finding amidst the wreckage the small wash-leather pouch of mixed coins she had set aside. He had already beggared himself and not reached the sum demanded, but he added to it Marian’s coin, and a silver Celtic cloak-brooch his mother had given him twelve years before. Now he rode near dusk into Sherwood, waiting to be found.

It did not require much time. As William of Cloudisley stepped out of deepening shadows not far from the Nottingham road, Robin was of the opinion he likely had been followed to Ravenskeep and watched. “Where is Adam?” he asked.

Cloudisley grinned and made no answer.

Robin flung the pouch. “Let them go.”

The outlaw, catching it, weighed it thoughtfully, then jerked his head toward the foliage. “Come to the fire and have ale with Adam.”

“I have no time for ale. Let them go. I’ve paid their toll.”

“Adam expects you.”

He set his teeth. “Adam may expect what he likes. I expect to leave.”

“You
will
leave, aye?—after you join us for ale. D’ye not wish to see that your friends are well?”

“I have no time—”

“Then you’d best sort that out with the others.” Cloudisley leaned on his bow. “ ’Tis an invitation you’d do well not to refuse, or Clym will offer you another from the end of an arrow.” The handsome outlaw grinned, indicating with a jerk of his head that Clym of the Clough was quite near; not that closeness was required with an English longbow. “And you’ll do better on foot. ’Tis hard on a horse, trying to come through here. Leave him.”

Robin blessed the foresight that had suggested he leave Charlemagne at home, since he now expected he’d not see this horse again. He dismounted with deliberate slowness so Clym would not be persuaded to loose his arrow, and tied one rein to a limb. It did not surprise him in the least when Cloudisley, moving close, relieved him of meat-knife.

“Where?” Robin asked curtly.

“The track’s through there,” Cloudisley said. “Move along, aye?”

He moved along, aware of the knife at his back and Clym’s presence somewhere nearby, and at last broke out of deer trail and foliage into a compact clearing that served as a camp. A tiny fire smoked fitfully, smelling of oak and resin. Adam Bell was perched idly on a fallen tree, cradling a skin of ale.

Robin halted, sensing trouble. “Where are they?”

Bell shrugged, then tossed the skin across the fire.

He caught it without thought. “Where
are
they?”

“Where you sent them,” the outlaw replied.

“Locksley?”
And then Robin understood. “You never had them!”

“We did. But they paid their toll.” Bell indicated the lute case leaning against the log, then dangled Tuck’s rosary from one hand. “They’ll have them back, once they buy them back.”

Astonishment kindled into anger. “If they are at Locksley they may never be able to buy anything back,” Robin said heatedly. “Did you think I lied about the sheriff? They are in danger. He means to arrest them all. It will cost Scarlet and likely Alan their lives, and Much his hand!”

“Lying?—likely not.” Adam Bell took up another skin and tilted his head back to drink before continuing. “But ’tisn’t our concern what the sheriff does, unless he does it to us.”

Robin hurled the skin back at the outlaw, then turned on his heel. He stopped short, but only because Cloudisley was there with the meat-knife at his throat. Beyond him, leering with broken teeth, stood Clym of the Clough, arrow nocked.

“Earls’ sons,” Adam Bell said lightly, “are worth more than fat friars.”

Anger flared anew, fed by frustration. All manner of protests and oaths tangled themselves in Robin’s mouth, but he made none of them. Nothing he said could convince these men to do anything they wished not to do; they reckoned their actions along such courses as knights and noblemen did not know. It was best to wait, to bide his time, mind his tongue, and watch for opportunity.

Robin eventually turned back to Bell. “A clever trick,”he said tightly, trying to keep self-control from fraying further, “but you know as well as everyone else that my father and I are not in accord. I was disinherited; he will pay you nothing for my safety.”

“Aye, well, we’ll give him the chance to tell us so.” The outlaw flung the skin back yet again. “Now sit down and drink with us.”

Robin caught the skin but did not move otherwise. “I must go to Locksley.”

“If the sheriff has gone hunting them there, he has them already. You can do nothing but be caught and thrown into the dungeon along with them—or so you say.” Bell smiled companionably as Cloudisley tied Robin’s wrists at his waist with leather thongs, then shoved him toward the fire. “ ’Twill be dark soon, and we’re not expecting to hear from the earl until tomorrow. You’d best bide with us. Sherwood isn’t safe at night, now, is it?”

 

The Earl of Huntington put off his bedrobe and coverlet in honor of his guests, and met them all in a room not his bedchamber. There was food in abundance, give thanks to Ralph’s competence, and fine wine. He himself ate little and drank less, not wishing to display his weakness with goblet and meat-knife, and let Alnwick carry the pointless conversation. Eustace de Vesci, a bluff and impetuous man, was good at such things.

But now the meal was done, the table cleared, and they all of them sat loose-limbed and at ease in cushioned, tall-backed chairs and discussed what they had come to discuss: England’s new king, and their role in his rule.

Until they were interrupted.

Ralph was quiet, as always, and certainly aware of the topic, but the earls broke off at once when he came into the room. Huntington, knowing his steward would never consider interrupting without excellent reason, motioned him near immediately.

Ralph bent close. “A caller, my lord. A Benedictine monk. He says he has news of your son.”

It was so baffling he did not keep his voice lowered. “What has a Benedictine monk to say about my son?”

“He spoke of outlaws, my lord.”

The earl was instantly suspicious. “Was there not a monk involved with my son five years ago? Or, rather, involved with the woman?”

“Indeed, my lord. In fact, he accompanied her here.”

De Vesci stirred in his chair, straightening. “I recall that! It was your son’s whore, was it not?”

“Marian FitzWalter.” That was de Mandeville, more circumspect, who had met her father.

Huntington refused to discuss the woman. “He is an outlaw himself, this monk. Why should I see him?”

“For your son’s sake, he says.”

Henry Bohun, Earl of Hereford, gestured. “Tend it, Huntington. Your son’s welfare is vital.”

Said de Mandeville, with a marked degree of dryness, “Especially as you and he have only just come to be speaking again.”

Huntington, who had in a wholly unanticipated excess of pride, told them Robert would support them, would in fact join them, wondered uneasily now if he should have said nothing. But he nodded at Ralph and waited impatiently as his steward went to the door and asked the monk to enter.

The earl recognized him at once as the man who had indeed accompanied Marian FitzWalter to Huntington Castle five years before. This time, as the last, the monk was clearly in an agony of anxiety that he might do something wrong in front of four of England’s most powerful earls. Huntington, assailed abruptly by a weakness in vision and memory, gripped the chair tightly a moment; had they not played out this scene only yesterday?

But no. The woman was not present. This was now, not then.

“Yes? “ he rasped.

The tonsured monk, perspiring from nerves, was a mass of corpulence beneath the black cassock. He cast a stricken glance at the other earls from worried brown eyes, then looked at Huntington. “Outlaws, my lord. Your son is taken. I am sent to say you must ransom his freedom.”

Huntington lifted eyebrows. “Must I?”

“My lord!”the monk said, shocked. “They have taken him!”

“Who?”

“Adam Bell, my lord. And his men.”

“In Sherwood.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“They hold my son in Sherwood? Adam Bell and his men?”

“They do, my lord.”

“And they send you to me with a request for ransom?”

The monk, Huntington saw, was clearly puzzled by the interrogation; had he expected the earl merely to cough up coin? “Yes, my lord.”

“Why
you?”

“Because they took us all, my lord.”

“But you are here.”

“I was sent, my lord, to bring you word.”

“Of my son’s capture.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Did you
see
him captured?”

“No, my lord. But—”

“Then how can I know it is true, this tale? How can I be certain this is not some elaborate means to steal my money?”

The monk flushed deep red, then went pasty white. “I was
sent,
my lord—”

“Oh, you may have been sent. You may have sent yourself. But that does not mean there is truth in this mummer’s tale.” Huntington gestured. “Ralph, show him out.”

The steward was startled. “My lord?”

“He is lying.”

The monk now was ashen.
“No,
my lord! I swear it is the truth!”

“Then where is your proof?” The earl felt a flutter deep in his chest and stifled a cough. “And what should a good monk swear on, when he has no cross?”

The monk fumbled desperately at his cassock, seeking his rosary and cross; his face flooded with memory. “My lord, they took it!”

“Did they? Why? Was it made of gold or silver?”

The monk’s face was running with sweat. “No, my lord . . . my lord, they wanted proof. To show to your son.”

Huntington did something he had not done for some time. He laughed.

“My lord!” The monk was astounded.

The earl pulled himself forward in the chair. “You come to me with a tale that my son is taken by outlaws, and that
you
were taken by outlaws, and that they stole your rosary to prove to my son they had you, yet they released you to come here, which you have done, but while my son is given proof of
your
capture, you are given none of his to display to me, his father?” Huntington shook his head. “How am I to believe this? Would you? Would any man with sense?”

The monk said miserably, “It is the truth, my lord.”

“It is an abysmal falsehood.”

“No, my lord. They told me they would take him.”

The earl pounced on that.
“Told
you they would take him.”

“Yes, my lord—”

“But had not taken him yet?”

“No, my lord—”

“They
intended
to take him?”

“Yes, my lord—”

But you have no proof that indeed they
did
take him, only that they said they would. Yet you were sent to collect a ransom.”

“I was, my lord.”

“For a man who may not be held at all.”

“My lord, I do swear—”

“I care nothing for what you will and will not swear, you wretched man. This is a lie—” Coughing overwhelmed him.

“No,
my lord!”

The earl drank wine to still the spasm, then continued hoarsely. “But even if it were not, I would give you nothing. Not for this Adam Bell and his men. Not for yourself, who is as much an outlaw as he.”

“My lord!”

Huntington lied with precise enunciation and emphasis, and without compunction. “I disinherited Robert of Locksley five years ago, monk. I have no son. There is no one to ransom.”

De Mandeville was startled into speech. “My friend, perhaps you should not act so hastily.”

Huntington made a sound of disgust, thrusting himself back into the chair. “It is a lie, Geoffrey. An attempt to deceive me, for money. Well, I will not tolerate such.” He glared at the monk. “Go back into your woods to whatever fool sent you and say you have failed. There will be no money, for there is no son.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight. At once. Now.”

The monk crossed himself. “My lord, I do swear on my soul, which is God’s—”

“Is
it?”

“—that I have spoken only the truth.”

“Then devise a better one.” He gestured at Ralph. “Show him out.”

Ralph did. When he and the monk were gone, when the door was shut again, Huntington allowed himself to breathe.

“My God,” Bohun said. “What of your son?”

De Mandeville’s gaze was sharp. “The son you told us was one of us.”

“He is,” Huntington said sharply.

De Vesci frowned. “Yet you told the monk he was disinherited.”

“Let him believe it, Eustace. Let him say to others that we are no more in accord now than we were last year, or the year before that. I’ll not have outlaws believing they may take my son captive in order to cozzen coin.”

“But—if he
is
being held . . .” De Vesci did not finish.

Huntington shook his head. “Only a fool would believe it.” He lifted a silver goblet and drank deeply of his wine. For the moment, strengthened by anger that he, an earl, should be used so poorly by such benighted fools as outlaws, he did not tremble.

 

At sunset William deLacey jogged down the stairs into his dungeon which had become of late, he reflected in mild exasperation, a place he visited nearly more often than his bedchamber. One hand clenched the heavy iron key to the cell, which he employed for its purpose with neat economy once he reached the appropriate door.

Inside he took up the Exchequer cloth he had folded away, shook it out, and spread it upon the table. From the pile of leather scroll-cases he took one up, uncapped it, slid parchment out. DeLacey unrolled it, spread it atop the painted cloth, weighted it, and began laboriously to inspect it. He sought one particular name; upon finding it, he smiled.