Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 02] (32 page)

“Don’t,” she murmured. Will—don’t.

Much was the object. Not the sheriff’s death.

DeLacey was pleased by the number of people thronging Market Square. It proved there was always interest in justice, despite the occasional complaints from the peasantry that they were not treated fairly. But a thief was a thief; whereas poachers engendered sympathy among those who lacked food, cutpurses did not. Cutpurses stole from everyone, and in an offensively personal manner.

Gisbourne’s troop had done a good job clearing the crowd from the immediate vicinity of the block. The sheriff wanted to make sure any attempt at rescue would require Robin and the others to cross unshielded space, where they would be easily spotted by his men. Gisbourne’s mounted troop now took up equidistant stations within the interior perimeter of the crowd; people feared and respected horses even if they were willing to challenge men.

Gisbourne himself had dismounted, handed his horse off, and now stood near the brazier next to the block. Mature coals burned within, brought over from the smithy; a length of iron had been thrust into the heat for use in cautery once each hand was struck off. There was no sense in letting the boy bleed to death. The point was to set a visible example, a reminder people would see every time they saw Much.

And as much a reminder to Robert of Locksley that no one was inviolable.

The boy was taken directly to the block, but was not immediately chained down. He was made to stand beside it, between the block and the pungent coals, where, deLacey was satisfied to see, he trembled uncontrollably. The face was corpse-candle pale save where bruises purpled it. A fitting vision of imminent justice for other cutpurses and malcontents.

Still mounted, deLacey had a good view of the crowd. Hundreds of faces stared at him expectantly, some fearful, some appalled, some plainly fascinated by what was about to happen. It never failed to pique the sheriff’s curiosity that public punishments and executions brought out such perversely avid interest.

DeLacey thrust a hand into the air. It took a few minutes for the waves of sound to die down as the serried ranks of people were hushed by their neighbors. When all was quiet save for the squall of an infant or the piping question of a child, the background complaints of livestock brought in for Market Day, he lowered the arm. He pitched his voice to carry over the crowd.

“This boy,” he said. “This boy, this miller’s son you know as Much, is a thief. He steals hard-earned money from everyone here, be you merchant, yeoman, gentlewife, or even, much as it pains me to say it, the Sheriff of Nottingham.” He paused for the tittering and laughter to die down, allowing them their amusement at his expense. “You know this boy. You know who he is,
what
he is, and what he has done. For every purse cut, for every ware snatched from wagons and stalls, you need only look upon him to see the face of the thief who stole it.”

“Every purse?” someone called skeptically. “That busy, then, is he?”

DeLacey overrode the challenge and the scattered laughter it provoked. “When next you bring complaints to me of such things, recall what you see this day. Remember it. And know that I
will
punish every thief caught. For it is my duty as High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire to see that justice is served, that the king’s law is obeyed. I swear to you this day that
no
man—and no woman—is above the law. Justice sees no stations, only actions. So let it be known by all gathered here today
—
wealthy merchant, innkeeper, goodwife, yeoman, men of the cloth,
even the thieves themselves
—that none shall go unpunished.” As he intended, the crowd cheered lustily. He smiled, raised his arm again. “I promise you this day—”

But that promise remained unmade. Before he could finish, an arrow sped into the ground at his horse’s hooves. That one was still quivering as another and another and yet a fourth sliced through the air to stand upright from the ground.

“Hold!”
someone shouted.

Three more arrows flew down from the heavens, striking the block, the stocks, even the pillory. A fourth found a home in one soldier’s mailed shoulder, and he cried out in shock and pain as he bent over in his saddle, clasping the shaft.

DeLacey’s first thought was of disbelief; how could they have known he would act so quickly when he had promised them a fortnight? But there was no time for questions; as his plan collapsed, he roared at his soldiers to find the archers. “It’s Locksley!” he shouted, gesticulating. “Look for him—look for the earl’s son, and the giant, the minstrel, Will Scarlet . . .” The arrows had come
down.
“Gisbourne—look for them up high, on roofs, in the windows—”

His horse shifted uneasily. He reined it in sharply, annoyed—and then the animal abruptly staggered and began to collapse.

 

Robin, having balanced atop the thatched overhang to shoot, twitched slightly in startlement as the arrow struck deLacey’s horse. It was not his shaft, nor would it have been his choice to drop the sheriff to the ground, for there deLacey would make a far more difficult target; unless, of course, Will Scarlet had intended the sheriff as his target and shot the horse by mistake.

He grimaced as the horse went down, wishing he had impressed upon Scarlet with more vigor that killing deLacey would do them considerable harm. Tuck had gotten Much away with greater alacrity than expected, and the crowd had swallowed both boy and Benedictine. But there were no guarantees of safety; deLacey had his share of supporters among the wealthier citizenry, and Much could still be recaptured before he and Tuck ever reached Sherwood. Rescuing a cutpurse from maiming was one thing. Robin doubted anyone save Much’s victims would care. Killing the Lord High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, however, would invite the scrutiny and fury of King John himself. Even the Lionheart could not forgive the outright murder of a sheriff. John, who had favored deLacey on more than one occasion, would see them all executed.

Of course, that was only if the sheriff
were
killed, and if they
were
caught—and if he didn’t kill Scarlet himself before anyone else reached him.

In Arabic, Robin muttered maledictions. Then he returned his attention to the matter at hand: making certain Much and Tuck were not immediately pursued.

 

The very instant she had loosed the arrow, Marian saw it coming, saw what was happening;
knew
what would happen.

Her sore hand spasmed into a cramp, flaring in sudden pain as she released the bowstring. Instead of planting itself in the ground, the arrow found a living target.

This was not at all what she had intended. Only to shoot
near
the horse, to control the sheriff’s actions. Precisely as she had done twice before. No one, neither man nor beast, was supposed to be struck. No one was to be harmed.

But the horse had gone down, was dying—and it was her fault.

Hers alone.

She recoiled upon the bench, curling back abruptly against the castle wall to slam her spine and the back of her skull into stone. The bow was heavy in her hand. She wanted nothing more than to hurl it away, to strip out of the quiver, to take back what she had done and make it all
un
done. Frantically she rubbed the cramp out of her hand, cursing herself for weakness.

And then movement caught her eye. She jerked her head sideways, saw the mailed man in the lane behind her, a tall, dark, bull of a man, staring straight at her.

In that instant she comprehended what the disguise meant. It was safety of a sort, but also danger. She was not Marian of Ravenskeep. She was merely the hooded stranger, presumably male, who had shot at the sheriff, had brought down his horse. And so she would be treated.

She responded without thought. Despite the residual pain in her hand, the arrow was nocked, the bow raised, the string drawn back to her chin in an effortless series of motions, precisely as Robin had taught her. No more did she wish to discard the weapon. It was now deliverance.

He had, she marked, a broadsword, but sheathed, and no crossbow. To reach her, to threaten her, to kill her, he would have to cross the distance dividing them. And in such time as that required, she could drive an arrow through his body.

That much he knew. And halted.

Her hand trembled, and so did the bow. Marian eased herself down from the bench. She backed up with infinite care, making certain her feet had decent purchase on the packed and rutted lane. If she tripped he would be on her; and any shot she attempted would go awry.

When enough space lay between them that he could neither kill nor capture her, Marian released the tension of the string without releasing the arrow. She turned. She ran.

 

As his mount went down, deLacey caught a glimpse of a feathered shaft standing out from the horse’s ribs in front of his right leg, then threw himself away from the dying animal so he would not be trapped as he had been trapped once before in similar circumstances. He rolled awkwardly, blindly aware of screams, shouts, cries of shock. But there was also a surging, powerful undercurrent of abrupt and avid interest:
they
were not the targets, not the good folk of Nottingham. He was. The king’s man. Sheriff. The
Norman
sheriff.

DeLacey struggled up to his knees. “Find them! Find them, I say—” An arrow whizzed by his head from behind. He flinched and remained kneeling so as to present a smaller target. “Gisbourne—”

But Gisbourne, on foot, stood near the crowd, both hands held stiffly away from his body in an eloquent statement of obedience to the enemy’s shouted order. In utter disbelief, deLacey stared at his men and saw them standing down. Each of them was armed, but no one moved to defend him. They were clearly nonplussed by the attack, uneasily aware they were at a disadvantage. The man who had been shot still bent forward in his saddle, cursing noisily in Norman French, but no one moved to his aid, lest they become targets as well.

DeLacey realized then the boy was gone. In the confusion, as his men looked at their wounded comrade, the boy had escaped. Or been rescued.

“Are you soldiers?” he roared, infuriated. “Or cowards? In the name of King John, I order you to do your duty! Find that boy! Find Locksley and the others!”

“Sheriff!” called the voice he now recognized as that he most despised. “Your soldiers are wise men. I urge you to be the same.”

DeLacey hung there on his knees, not testing Locksley’s resolve. But he addressed the audience, not the men who meant to stop him. Much was missing, swallowed by the crowd. And he knew he needed that crowd if his men were to find the boy. “He is a
thief!”
he shouted. “Will you give him up to murderers and rapists? To men who steal your coin?”

“Taxes!” Locksley shouted. “Taxes collected from people who have no money with which to pay, and yet are
made
to pay. Again and again! How many of you paid your taxes five years ago, and then again, and then donated to the ransom for the Lionheart?”

A massed shout went up from the crowd, followed by muttered commentary. At last a few of the soldiers were lifting crossbows, preparing to span them.

Locksley called, “And how many of you were given some of your money
back
from that additional collection when it was taken back from King John, who wanted it for himself?”

This time the shout was a roar of triumph. The soldiers aimed their crossbows not toward Locksley’s voice, but at the crowd.

DeLacey swore under his breath. He was winning them, was Locksley. While they feared the sheriff and his men, they were malleable. But fear was clearly fading; his men had been slow to act, and the crowd was fast becoming a mob, spurred on by Locksley’s appeal. DeLacey hastily waved at his men to hold and made another attempt to recapture the spectators. “But how many times has that boy stolen for
him
self? How many times has your precious coin gone for a sweetmeat stuffed into his mouth, when you meant it for something else?”

“And how many times have the tax collectors sent out by William deLacey threatened you and your families?” Locksley countered. “No one is safe. Only a matter of days ago the sheriff set his men on Lady Marian FitzWalter’s manor, turning the livestock loose and destroying furniture. If he is willing to do that to a knight’s daughter, how can
you
stand against him? He has set himself up as lord of Nottinghamshire, taking your money in the name of the king!”

Robin slid back in the narrow window and caught up his quiver, slipping it over one shoulder. He had no time to linger; best to make his escape now, to get out of Nottingham and back into Sherwood, where soldiers would find it difficult to track him and the others. He trusted Tuck to bring Much to the meeting place, and the others to make their ways as well. But his mind was on Marian even as he ran back down the crude staircase. He knew she was neither a fool nor a coward, but neither was she accustomed to being hunted. It changed a man, made a man think differently, to anticipate the actions and threats of others and respond accordingly. To be willing to do whatever was necessary. He had no doubt she could find her way to the meeting place, but she still needed to get out of Nottingham without being discovered or caught.

“Taxes are necessary!” deLacey shouted. “Without taxes England will fail. How else do you suppose Crusades are mounted?”

“Fair
taxes,” Locksley agreed. “Collected by fair men. Is there anyone in Nottingham who has not been victim to an overzealous officer of the king?”

The crowd roared denial.

“Is there anyone in Nottingham who sees his family suffer so he might pay the taxes?”

This time the crowd affirmed it.

“It is the law!” deLacey shouted. “The boy must pay for his crimes.
Give him back!”

But it was too late. Much was gone, perhaps shielded by the crowd, perhaps spirited away to a building, or an alley, or hidden within one of the stalls. DeLacey drew in a breath to order his men to commence a search, and then realized it was futile. The crowd was clearly on Locksley’s side, thanks to his discourse about taxes. Horses could break through easily enough by virtue of trampling people, soldiers could even shoot various spectators, but either the mass of people would obstruct the search by the expedient of simple stolid numbers, or would panic into flight if soldiers began loosing crossbow quarrels or hacking bodies with broadswords.

Panic could kill. He had seen it happen before. And the memory of the day would not be the sheriff’s attempt to carry out a lawful punishment of a lone boy cutpurse, thwarted by outlaws, but that William deLacey’s overzealous actions had caused the deaths of men, women, and children, killed by Norman soldiers.

He had not survived in office this long by permitting wounded pride and fury to overcome political pragmatism. He had himself been a soldier, once. He understood the complex geography that lay between true defeat and strategic retreat.

DeLacey climbed to his feet, glad to be off his knees. To an archer in the crowd, on the same level, he was no longer a target, but he knew full well Locksley and the others could kill him easily from their elevated positions; he knew also that they themselves knew it and were secure in that knowledge. With precise, deliberate movements, the sheriff gripped his sword hilt with his off hand and drew it. He dangled it from his fingers, then released. The weapon thudded to the ground.

“Stand down,” he called, so that his men—and Locksley—could hear.

Let Locksley have the day, have the boy. There would be another opportunity, and time for another plan.

 

Marian tugged the hood forward to make certain it didn’t slide back in her flight. No one seeing her hasten by would name her a woman, merely a young man clad as a yeoman and carrying bow and quiver; but all knew the sheriff and his soldiers had been stymied by hooded archers, a known cutpurse rescued. Anyone who had been robbed would be likely to stop her if possible, to turn her over to the sheriff. Anyone who supported the sheriff—and she knew there were many in the merchant class and nobility—would assume the worst of her.

She went into the crowd at once, however, knowing her best chance lay in losing herself among hundreds. Young man or not, yeoman or not, she was hardly the only one. If the sheriff meant to arrest everyone who wore a hood or carried a longbow, he would have to round up a fair portion of the populace.

The spectators themselves were entertained by the rescue. As she moved through the crowd, she heard laughter and jests and sly commentary on the sheriff’s failure to carry out his duty, how Norman soldiers when faced with good English archers could only throw down their weapons and give way. The poorer folk had never been robbed by anyone other than the king’s tax collectors and deLacey’s obsessive attention to detail in the collections; they would applaud the rescue rather than decry it.

Marian slid through a knot of men, then paused. Deepening her voice, she clipped off the syllables. “W‘at ’appened?”

“W‘at?” someone asked. “Did ’ee miss it, then?”

“Jus’ got ’ere, aye?” she muttered.

In a tumble of words, laughter, and vulgarity, she was told by several what had happened: how the sheriff had been made a right proper fool of by Robin Hood, who had once before helped the poor of Nottinghamshire.

A hand came down on her shoulder. Marian tensed into stiffness. “Aye,” a man said lightly in high good humor. “Good English archers as are better’n Norman soldiers! And ‘tis our taxes as pay for ’em!”

“Taxes,” Marian rasped, then spat at the ground. This occasioned the same response from others; as they spat and cursed the sheriff, the king, and all tax collectors, she eased herself away from them and slipped through the crowd again.

 

William deLacey had neither time nor patience with the cursing soldier who yet bore an arrow buried in his shoulder. The wound was unlikely to kill him; he was therefore living testament to the troop’s incompetence.

DeLacey stomped back through the gates, ordered his dead horse to be disposed of, then bellowed for Gisbourne to attend him. Gisbourne arrived at a run, helm clasped under one arm. The sheriff eyed him blackly a moment, then gestured for the others to be gone. It left him with his seneschal, who was looking more than a little trepidatious.

“Gisbourne,” deLacey said silkily, “what just happened?”

“Happened, my lord?”

“What just happened, Gisbourne?” He waved an arm. “Out there?”

Color stole up Gisbourne’s neck and into his face. “We lost our prisoner, sir.”

“Had him
stolen,
Gisbourne! From under our noses!”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Not a man of yours made any attempt to stop the outlaws.”

“Sir—there was some concern that you might be killed.”

“Some concern that
you
might be killed,” deLacey snapped. “Do you think I don’t know the face of a coward when I see one?”

The suspect’s face was stiff with tension. “My lord—it seemed a wiser course to protect you.”

“Protect
me!
Me, Gisbourne? I had my horse shot out from under me!”

“Well,” Gisbourne ventured. “Better the horse than you. My lord.”

DeLacey shut his eyes a long moment. When he opened them again, he had regained some measure of self-control. “Gisbourne, you are to gather your soldiers immediately. Divide them into three troops. Send one to Locksley Village. Send another to Ravenskeep. And the third, Gisbourne, the third you shall lead yourself—into Sherwood Forest.”

Gisbourne was plainly astonished. “Into Sherwood, sir? But—”

“ ‘But’ nothing,” deLacey said. “That was Sir Robert of Locksley, Gisbourne. Or perhaps he has given that up in favor of a new name, one ‘Robin Hood.’ He has proven himself before all of Nottingham to be nothing more than an outlaw, and I will have him caught. All of them, Gisbourne. Your task now is to find them, arrest them, and bring them to me.”

“All of them, my lord?”

“All of them,” deLacey declared. “I was willing to let the boy go with the forfeiture of his hands, but this crime cannot be tolerated. Locksley is no longer the heir of a powerful earl, Gisbourne, but a disinherited outlaw, subject to the laws of the land. No pardons will be given by
this
king, Gisbourne. Therefore it is your task to catch him—to catch them all—and bring them to me.”

“Will you execute them, my lord?”

A new voice intruded, explaining matter-of-factly, “That shall be for the king to decide.”

DeLacey snapped his head around, primed to upbraid the individual who dared interrupt the sheriff’s business. Then he recognized the man. “Captain,” he acknowledged grimly.

Mercardier inclined his head briefly, but he looked at Gisbourne. “Do as the sheriff commands you,” he said simply. “Bring them in, every man. But their disposal shall be the king’s desire.”

“You saw what they did,” deLacey said sharply.

“Indeed,” Mercardier agreed. “They disgraced you, Lord Sheriff, disgraced your authority and the authority of the king, by whose whim you hold your office. I am certain you shall have your execution, but such determination is the king’s to make. Your task is merely to catch them.” The mercenary gestured briefly. “Redeem yourself, Lord Sheriff. Prove to the king you deserve his confidence.”

Outrage boiled into deLacey’s throat like bile. “It was the
former
king who pardoned them!”

Mercardier said, without inflection, “But I think this king is nothing like his brother.”

The sheriff contemplated that statement a moment, seeking clues to implication. But the mercenary was impossible to read.

And Mercardier continued, speaking to Gisbourne. “I saw the archer who shot the sheriff’s horse. He is not tall, and is markedly slight, very like a boy.”

DeLacey was astonished. “You
saw
him shoot my horse?”

“No, my lord. I followed the path of the arrow, and sought the archer. I found him.”

“Yet you stand before me with no prisoner,” deLacey said with exquisite contempt. “Am I then to assume this archer escaped? From
you,
Captain? The Lionheart’s infamous mercenary, scourge of the Infidel?”

Mercardier said simply, “For the Lionheart I would gladly have died. But not, I think, for you.”

With great effort, deLacey suppressed his fury. Pointedly he observed, “You knew Locksley before this. Fought with him on Crusade.” There was no need to be more explicit. Mercardier would understand.

Mercardier did. “Lord Sheriff, please recall I
am
a mercenary. I am not paid for, nor can afford complications of the heart. Should the present king wish my former comrade-in-arms to be executed for what he has done, be certain I shall carry out the command.” For the first time since the mercenary had arrived, deLacey recognized the dryness in his tone as irony. “You see, no man may accuse me of having a conscience.”

DeLacey ground his teeth. King John had sent this man; he could not afford to antagonize him further. Not yet. Not until he had secured some promise from John that he, deLacey, would not be punished for what had happened this day. And he could not write him with a complaint of Mercardier until Locksley and the others were captured.

“Perhaps,” the sheriff said, “I should have you ride out with Gisbourne. Who better to set a trap for an outlaw than one who knows how he thinks?”

Mercardier did not so much as blink. “Were I hired by you, Lord Sheriff, be certain I would do so. Were I sent by the king to serve you in this, be certain I should do so. But I was not hired by you, and the king sent me to guard his tax shipment. Not to go into the forest looking for outlaws cleverer than you.”

DeLacey glared. “And if I should prevail upon the king to have you aid me in this?”

The mercenary hitched one broad shoulder in a casual shrug. “Then I would catch him, this outlaw you fear, as well as his companions. And I daresay I should keep them.”

The sheriff decided then and there the day was a total failure. He had lost his incomparable example for other city pickpockets, had lost face before the citizenry of Nottingham, had lost a battle of wits with Robert of Locksley, and now even a humorless paid soldier bested him. It was time, he believed, he went back into the castle and called for wine. As much as he could drink.

But there was one matter of business to finish first. To Gisbourne, he said, “Take the men. Go. Find Locksley. Find them all. Bring them here. Do not show your face within these walls until that is accomplished.” He paused, aware of Gisbourne’s quick glance at Mercardier. “Do I make myself clear, Gisbourne? Because I pay
your
keep and thus have the ordering of
you
even if I do not claim this mercenary’s service.”

The seneschal’s eyes snapped back. He colored. “Yes, my lord.”

“Go.”

Gisbourne went.

 

Robin struck a steady trot at the verge between road and forest. His ears were attuned to pursuit, but for the moment there was none. His goal was to move quickly without impediment for as long as he could, and then go into the trees. He longed briefly for Charlemagne, but he had left the horse back in the forest where they were to meet. Such was Sherwood’s architecture that a man on foot stood better chance of flight through its depths than a man on horseback. It was hard to be quiet when a mount crashed through all manner of foliage, leaving obvious spoor in the detritus of his motion. A man might slip into the trees and leave no sign such as a soldier might find, particularly a Norman lacking woodcraft.

The soldiers would be angry, Robin knew, stung by deLacey’s insults and their own bruised pride. Their goal would be to find Much and the men who rescued him as quickly as possible, to placate the furious sheriff as well as redeeming their own failure. But such anger and haste would increase incompetence; it was stealth that might catch their quarry, not sheer numbers and might.

Robin smiled grimly. Four more strides—and then he ducked off the verge into the trees, taking care to move quietly and carefully, leaving no sign, as he crossed into the depths. Let them try to find him. Let them crash through on horseback, alerting him to their presence. Let them curse their Norman curses, serve their Norman lords, ride their Norman horses, while an Englishman bred of English bone led them a merry chase through the heart of an English forest.