Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 02] (40 page)

That did not sit well with the three earls. They shifted uncomfortably on the log and exchanged concerned glances.

“But—robbing
us?
” Bohun asked. “We are on the same side!”

“Outlaws have no sides.” Robin grinned, scratching again at stubble. “And we do intend to rob many folk. You are not the only ones.”

De Mandeville sighed deeply. “I suppose we should be grateful you are not other outlaws. They would keep the coin for themselves.”

Scarlet declared pointedly, “Other outlaws might even kill you.”

De Mandeville began methodically to strip off his gloves. Rings followed. He bent, took up the pouch Robin had tossed down, dropped the rings into it. Then he handed the pouch to Bohun with a murmured comment, “The sooner done, the sooner we may go.”

With an expression of taut displeasure, Hereford repeated the process with his own rings. But de Vesci, when he was given the pouch in turn, merely threw it to the ground. “This is travesty!”

Robin shrugged. “This is robbery.”

Scarlet prodded the man in the spine again. “Give over,” he suggested. “You can’t win this war, aye?”

Robin looked at Alan and Little John. “Much is with the horses. Escort my lords of Hereford and Essex to them. Collect their purses. Then see them to the road, and return their swords. As for my lord of Alnwick”—he looked now at Eustace de Vesci—“we shall, it seems, share his company overnight.”

De Vesci leaped to his feet. “You
dare
to threaten me?”

Robin folded arms across his chest and stretched out his legs in a posture of relaxation, crossing them at the ankles. “I would not construe eating our bread, drinking our ale, and sharing our company as a
threat,
my lord. Rather, it is hospitality. This is our home, you see.” His gesture encompassed the forest. “I would be remiss as a host if I did not fête you properly.”

De Mandeville was grave. “Robert, do take care. I understand what you are doing—and I suppose I should share some of the blame!—but you risk making enemies here.”

Robin ran out of patience. “Good, my lords, I have been disinherited. Outlawed. I may be
hanged
for my actions. I have nothing to lose by doing what I do here, but very much to gain, as my lord of Essex pointed out a matter of days ago in my father’s garden.” He paused. “And Arthur of Brittany, because of what I and my companions do here today and in the days to come, may become King of England.”

It struck them all to silence. Henry Bohun looked thoughtful. Geoffrey de Mandeville was resigned. “My brilliant idea,” he murmured ruefully.

Eustace de Vesci, face aflame with choler, jerked the rings off his fingers and tossed them to the ground. “For Arthur, then,” he declared forcefully, as if it would defray the embarrassment. “But I will not excuse you for’t!”

“Nor should you, my lord of Alnwick. This is indeed an outrage.” Robin nodded at Scarlet and the others to gather up the noble chicks. “And I will freely submit to any discipline you wish to mete out . . . once Arthur is on the throne.”

De Vesci turned on his heel and snapped an order at Scarlet to show him to his horse. Henry Bohun went with him, escorted by Alan.

It left only Geoffrey de Mandeville. Little John stood behind him, waiting in silence. “A dangerous gamble, Robert.”

“One you have taken as well.”

“But not to the same degree.” The older man’s expression was compassionate. “If our efforts fail, and John remains on the throne . . .” He gestured futility.

“We shall hang,” Robin said simply. “But first they must catch us. Here in Sherwood, that is not so easily done.”

De Mandeville glanced around at the encroaching trees and vegetation. He nodded slightly, then extended his arm to Robin. His gaze was steady. “Your father is a fool.”

Smiling, Robin gripped the arm. “But consistent in his convictions. In a world of kings, crowns, and power, that is all too rare.”

Marian was startled when Joan came running up the stairs, breathlessly announcing ‘
that Norman’
was back again. Even after close questioning the woman could not identify the visitor better than that, so Marian left off packing her bundle and went downstairs, mentally prepared to face anyone. But she was not expecting Mercardier.

The perverse part of her that preferred accuracy in all things, even things that did not truly matter in the ordering of the world—it was her besetting and most annoying flaw, Robin had explained in exasperation on several occasions—very nearly informed Joan he was not Norman, but from the duchy of Aquitaine, or so Robin had explained. But she restrained the impulse. His birthplace was hardly at issue, nor had bearing on the moment.

He stood just inside the door, seemingly ill at ease. She thought perhaps he was a man more comfortable—and best suited to—being out of doors, or in castles and tents discussing war strategy with kings and high lords, not for lingering within halls intended for civilian habitation.

She nearly missed a step as she approached, abruptly and vividly recalling that it had been he at the business end of her nocked arrow the day before in Nottingham. Had he recognized her after all?

But Marian thought not: she wore a woman’s chemise again, and her hair had been taken from the tight braid and washed, left loose to dry. Even now it spilled over her shoulders to her knees. There was nothing about her that recalled the lad in yeoman’s clothing.

“Madame,” he said in his accented English, “I am in need of a horse.”

Neither tact nor courtesy were his gifts. But Marian looked more closely at him. He carried his helm in the crook of his elbow, yet his gray-threaded dark hair bore no signs of compression. In fact, his hair was entirely disordered. Dirt floured his surcoat. “You appear to be in need of more than that,” she observed. “Have you been in a fight?”

Color abruptly stained the saturnine face, surprising her with its intensity. It was an entirely different Mercardier who gazed back at her, clearly discomfited despite attempts to hide it.

“You have,” she said in discovery. “What happened?”

Beneath the high color, the pocked face was rigid as stone. “May I borrow a horse, madame? Be certain I shall have it returned safely.”

“What happened to
your
horse?” In view of who he was and whom he served, it mattered. “I cannot in good conscience lend you a horse if there may be danger to it.”

Color remained in his face. “Madame, as surely you must know, there has been a robbery.”

“As surely I must know?” she echoed, truly startled. “Why must
I
know, Captain?”

He barely moved his mouth, merely issued the words in a harsh monotone that nonetheless expressed his fury more eloquently than shouting. “Because in all likelihood it was Locksley and his men who did it.”

“Locksley and his men.” Already it had begun. And yet she could not hide the note of puzzlement in her tone. “Forgive me, Captain—but are you accusing Robin of robbing you?”

“Of robbing the king, madame.”

“The
king?
”

“He and his men have stolen the taxes.”

Genuinely taken aback, Marian clapped both hands over her mouth.

Mercardier’s eyes narrowed. “Feigned shock, madame? Is this studied response because you knew this was to happen?”

“
Un
feigned,” she said through parted fingers. “And unstudied. This response is pure astonishment, Captain.”

He scoffed. “
Ah, oui.
Astonishment,
certes.
” He glared; this was an indeed entirely new Mercardier, to be so extravagant with emotions. “I am to believe you did not know? Come, madame—I may be a mercenary, but not a stupid one.”

“I did not know,” she answered forcefully, with the weight of truth in the words; because it
was
true. “Nor am I convinced it was Robin. There are many outlaws in Sherwood.” She had of course known they intended to steal the taxes, but not when. Not so soon. Certainly not today. It was weeks early for the shipment; Robin and the others would never have been prepared to undertake such an effort without time to plan carefully.

Mercardier scowled at her. “If you continue to delay me with prevarication, I have no choice but to believe you knew what they intended.”

“A telling point,” she acceded, “but untrue. Though I realize there is no way to convince you.” Marian, frowning, studied him. “Are you injured, Captain?”

The color flooded back into his face, which had grown uncharacteristically pale. “We were set upon, madame, and quite overpowered.” His mouth thinned. “Briefly.”

She very nearly laughed; clearly it deeply hurt his pride to confess defeat. Perhaps he had never known it before. “Briefly?”

He gritted his teeth so hard muscles jerked in his jaw. “The others rode after the outlaws.”

“The others? Oh, you must mean the soldiers accompanying you; surely not even you would have been expected to be the sole escort.” Marian blinked, affecting ingenuous discovery. “Do you mean then that you were left behind? You did
not
ride after the outlaws?”

“I was rendered unconscious,” he said grimly, “and fell from my horse.” Absently he touched a mailed hand to the back of his head, as if recalling the blow. “My horse was not present when I roused.”

It was not truly amusing—he was obviously in discomfort—but he was so desperately offended that she wanted badly to laugh. Instead, she smothered it and settled for delicate, dry irony, Robin’s most devastating weapon. “Perhaps the horse went after the outlaws as well.”

And very clearly the mercenary recognized the progenitor of that irony. He took a sharp step forward as if he meant to grab her arm, but aborted the movement with a wince. Marian believed it more likely that pain curbed his temper rather than manners. She was grateful nonetheless; Mercardier was not a man for gentleness. If he touched her, even in mild rebuke, she would very probably bruise. “If you like, I can put a cold compress on your head,” she said, “and offer you a bed.”

Mercardier glared at her sourly. “And keep me from reporting this theft to the sheriff?”

“Ah. Of course you would believe that.” She shrugged acknowledgment. “Then I rescind the offer. Yes, you may borrow a horse.” She turned to Joan. “Show him to the barn. Hal will see to it he is given a mount.” She looked again at the angry man. “Do see that
this
horse does not run into the woods chasing outlaws, if you please.”

 

Will Scarlet, accompanied by Little John, Much, and Alan, came back laughing from escorting the earls to their horses. “Yon lords are most discommoded,” he announced, briefly attempting a noble accent before dropping back into his own peasant speech. “I think the beefy gent would hang you himself.”

Robin, squatting next to Tuck, who sat on the ground with the contents of several pouches spread across his cassocked lap, shrugged. “De Vesci, Earl of Alnwick. He has always been disposed to excitability.”

Alan shook his head. “And you say the one suggested you turn thief?”

“The Earl of Essex. He did, yes. For Arthur’s sake, he said; but I think he truly had not realized what the task entails.”

Little John nodded. “They should try it themselves, aye?”

Scarlet scoffed. “Not them. Never dirty their hands, would they?” He spat in contempt. “
Lords.
”

Alan arched golden brows in mock startlement. “Are you forgetting our very own Robin was once a lord himself?”

“Aye, but not anymore, is he?” Scarlet countered cheerfully. “Just an outlaw like the rest of us, groveling in the dirt.”

Robin, observing Tuck’s treasure from his position in the dirt and deadfall, nodded sagely. “I came to my senses. This is a much better life than living in a fine hall with fine clothing to wear and fine food to eat and a true bed to sleep in.” Coins and rings glinted against black Benedictine wool in tree-latticed sunlight. The others gathered around, peering down at the riches.

“How much?” Little John asked.

“Enough for Marian’s taxes,” Tuck answered primly, “thanks to our friends the earls. Not so much for Arthur of Brittany—we’ll send him the rings, as we can hardly pay taxes with them—and very little for the poor.”

Alan leaned closer. “What about us?”

“Naught for us,” Tuck said.

“Naught?” Scarlet was outraged. “How can there be naught for us?”

“Because we come last,” Robin explained.

“Last! Why last? ’Tis us doing the thieving!”

Tuck began dividing the coins and rings into separate pouches, carefully counting them out.

Robin glanced up. The others all loomed over him wearing various expressions ranging from Will Scarlet’s hostile affrontedness and Alan’s speculative smile. But the minstrel had always been an observer, using what he saw as fodder for his ballads. “Because we are not doing this for ourselves.”

Scarlet was scandalized. “Of course we are!”

“Not
first,
” Little John told him. “We come last. Marian, Arthur of Brittany, the poor, and then us.”

It did not mollify. “None o’ them are living here with us, are they? I still say we should come first.”

Robin stood. “Will, when your wife was alive, who ate first?”

It baffled Scarlet entirely. “Meggie served me first.”

“Did you eat?”

“I waited for her.” He shrugged. “Only fair.”

“But you might argue that you were more deserving, having worked in the fields all day.”

“Maybe.”

“But you, being a fair man—you have just said so—wished to share the meal with her.”

Scarlet shook his head. “What are you getting at?”

Alan laughed softly. “He’s getting at that we may be more deserving, having worked to steal the money, but ’tis more fair to share it with others first.”

“Will,” Robin said quietly. “We need you.
I
need you. But you are a free man. You may go, if you prefer.”

“And rob by myself?”

Little John made a sound of derision. “We’re not known through all of England, are we?”

“You are,” Alan observed, smiling cheerily. “The Hathersage Giant.”

The Hathersage Giant shot the minstrel a quelling glance and went on. “You could go down to London if you liked, look for work there. ’Tis a big city; they’d likely not know you at all. No need to be an outlaw there.”

“I
am
an outlaw. I murdered Norman soldiers. I’ve silver pennies on my head, like a wolf.”

“You were pardoned once,” Robin said. “We all of us were.”

“But King Richard is dead,” Tuck pointed out.

Robin nodded. “So long as John is king in his place, we are outlaws. Yes. But if we aid Arthur, there may be a pardon in it.”

“ ‘May,’ ” Alan emphasized.

“We stole the taxes before with no expectation of a pardon,” Robin observed mildly. He looked at Will. “Are you with us in this?”

Scarlet ducked his head, kicking at leaves as if to excavate each one. When he looked up again, his eyes were less hostile. “They’ll hang you, too, aye?”

“Me?” Robin nodded. “Of course. I am, as you say, an outlaw like the rest of you, groveling in the dirt.”

“Even being an earl’s son.”

He very nearly laughed. “Oh, I imagine it is possible they would do me the honor of chopping off my head with an ax instead of hanging me, but I believe I would still be dead.”

“Well, then.” Will Scarlet nodded. “We’re all wolf’s-heads, aren’t we?”

Much tipped his head back and howled.

Alan sighed. “Thank you, Will. He’ll be doing that for days.”

Robin reached over and planted a hand on Much’s mouth, cutting off the howl. “Birds,” he said sternly. “Not wolves. Birds.” He glanced at Tuck as he released the grinning boy. “I’ll take the pouches with Marian’s taxes, Arthur’s money, and what is meant for the poor, and deliver them to Abraham the Jew.”

Little John was startled. “In Nottingham?”

“They’ll not expect me there,” Robin told him. “Abraham will see to it Marian’s taxes are paid, and that Arthur’s money is sent on and the portion for the poor is distributed.” He received the pouches from Tuck. “When I return, we’ll need to discuss what to do when the sheriff sends the tax shipment. It won’t be for a few weeks yet. But we must be ready.” He hooked the pouches through his belt.

“You’ll be wanting your bow,” Scarlet reminded him as he turned to go.

“No. Too obvious.” He dropped his hand to the sword at his hip. “But I have this. In fact, you
all
have swords, with thanks to the soldiers we robbed yesterday. I suggest you set about learning how to use them.”

“Swords?” Little John asked doubtfully.

Scarlet nodded. “Lords use swords.”

“Then consider yourselves lords in Sherwood. Lords
of
Sherwood.” Robin, laughing, made an elegant leg in tribute, then took his leave to fetch his horse.

Behind him, Alan began a song about parfait gentil knights wielding swords on the field of battle, seeking glory and honor and entry into Heaven, even as the others set up a chorus of groans.

“Well,” Robin murmured, striding toward Charlemagne, “somewhat better than wolves.”

Somewhat.

 

DeLacey, in the inner bailey, was in the midst of assigning a man to report at once should the earl’s steward ride out of Huntington Castle at any time, when Mercardier arrived in a flurry of iron horseshoes ringing on the cobbles. Everything about the mercenary’s tight, jerky motions bespoke his anger; deLacey repressed a smile and prepared to be outraged.

As Mercardier dismounted—he said something in a quick aside to the horseboy—he stripped off his helm and thrust it into the crook of his elbow. His strides were long and militant, sharply clipped in the sound of their mailed tread. One hand gripped the hilt of his sword, as if it needed to be doing something to feel competent.