Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 02] (41 page)

With carefully measured amazement, deLacey demanded, “What are you doing here?”

Mercardier drew himself up. His mouth was compressed into a taut, angry line, and his color was somewhere between the red of rage and the sweaty pallor of injury. Dark eyes glittered with a feverish intensity; Mercardier, the sheriff realized, was very, very angry.

And hideously embarrassed.

Oh, but this is sweeter than I envisioned.
“Yes?” he asked in feigned alarm. “What has happened?”

“Robbery.” It was ground out between clenched teeth.

It played out so well that deLacey was not even remotely at pains to sound genuine; it was all too easy to imagine it real. Because if the taxes
had
been stolen, it would certainly spell his ruin. He tapped the outrage easily. “The taxes? The
taxes?
”

Mercardier nodded once.

DeLacey did not shout. He spoke with exceeding gentleness. “Where are my men, Captain?”

“Chasing outlaws.”

He permitted contempt to grace his tone. “Then why are
you
here? Should you not be out with them? Should you not be doing your duty? The command was
yours,
Captain. And you did assure me, most assiduously, that the shipment would be safe with you. It was, in fact, why the king sent you: you were the most able man for the job.” With quiet pleasure, he saw the words strike home. “I think I shall send
you
to inform the king of this travesty.”

The color had completely fled Mercardier’s face. “It is my duty, Lord Sheriff.”

“Your duty, and your downfall! God in Heaven, Captain, but do you realize what this means? This is disastrous!” He wiped a trembling hand over his face. “My God, my God . . . we are both ruined, Captain—
both
ruined by this!”

“Lord Sheriff—”

“How did this happen? Explain to me how this happened. How this
could
happen, with you as escort!”

Mercardier drew breath, composed himself, then began in soldierly fashion to report what had occurred. How arrows had sprung out of the trees on either side of the road; how they had been ordered to halt and stand down, or die where they stood; how he had been struck a terrible blow on the head by one of the outlaws. He had roused, he said, to find the wagon gone, the soldiers gone, and his horse missing.

“Then you don’t
know
where the taxes are. You don’t
know
where my men are.”

Mercardier allowed as how he did not, not with any certainty.

“Who was it?” deLacey snapped. “Did you see anyone you might recognize?”

The hard face did not flinch. “I was not to see many before I was rendered unconscious.”

“
Anyone,
Mercardier?”

“They wore hoods,” he said briefly. “Six of them. One was quite tall; another remarkably stout. Yet a third was slight and quick, like a boy.”

“And?”

A muscle jumped in the dark-stubbled jaw. “I believe it was the men who rescued the cutpurse.”

He made it statement, not inquiry. “Robert of Locksley.”

The thick neck was unbent, the head unbowed. “My lord.”

DeLacey turned his back on Mercardier. Let the mercenary interpret the motion as outrage, as disgust; but he was hard-pressed not to smile.

And then he heard shouting and the sound of many horses, the rattle of iron-rimmed cartwheels and hooves against the cobbled outer bailey. “Lord Sheriff!”

DeLacey swung sharply back, even as Mercardier turned. Coming through the gates into the inner bailey was a wagon, and mounted soldiers. And Philip de la Barre.

“Lord Sheriff!” The wagon was halted at de la Barre’s gestured order. “We have the taxes, my lord!”

“You
have
them?” DeLacey sprinted toward the wagon. “God in Heaven, swear it, de la Barre!”

“We have them. I swear it.” De la Barre reached down to the wagon, gestured for one of the small chests to be handed up, and carried it to the sheriff. He leaned down from the saddle. “There, my lord. Will you be certain of it?”

As Mercardier came up, deLacey unhooked the latch and lifted back the lid. Inside lay a pile of coins spilled from their careful stacks. He looked hard at the mercenary, then displayed the contents. “And so we are redeemed.”

White-faced, Mercardier nodded once.

“Did you see them, Philip?”

“Not all of them, I regret, not to attach names; they know the forest well, my lord—better than we, I am ashamed to confess. But the one who mattered, yes: ’twas Locksley, my lord.”

“You captured none of them?”

“My concern was for the taxes. I did dispatch four men to hunt the outlaws in the forest and, if possible, come back with their location. But the rest of us returned so as to safeguard the wagon.”

“Well done.” Satisfied, deLacey closed and latched the lid, then handed the small chest back to de la Barre. “Thank you, Philip. You have saved us all.” He flicked a glance at Mercardier, then looked back at his castellan. “Have the wagon unloaded and the chests placed back in the dungeon cell. I think it best that we do not immediately send the shipment off again; why tempt fate a second time? It is early yet in any event; we shall wait a few weeks.” He turned now to Mercardier. “Captain, you will forgive me, I am sure, if I do not ask you to oversee the transfer. You have been injured, that is plain to see, and should rest.”

Mercardier, clutching his helm in rigid fingers, jaw muscles jumping, inclined his head.

“And now, if you will excuse me, I must contemplate how best to capture Locksley and his men.” DeLacey turned on his heel and departed.

 

Marian, after supper, wandered listlessly up the stairs to the room under the eaves. Her bundle was mostly finished; she added a handful of items to it, then tied it up into a pack with rope and leather thongs. Still listless, she lay down on the bed, propped her head upon the bundle, and thought about Ravenskeep as the sun went down. About Robin. About the others: Tuck, Much, Scarlet, Alan, and Little John. About men whom she admired—and the one man she loved—but who would nonetheless be hanged if captured.

She could not bear the idea of losing the manor. But there was something far more important to her than lands and a hall. Something for which she had been willing to trade Ravenskeep to the sheriff, and would again.

Marian closed her eyes. Put both hands over her face, shutting out the sunset, hiding in self-imposed darkness, and said her prayers. “Don’t let them die. Don’t let any of them die. Don’t ever let them be caught.” And then, very softly, “
Please.
”

He found the weight oppressive. Attempts to dislodge it failed. He lay trapped, unable to move, breathing painfully.

“My lord?”

That voice. Ralph? He opened his eyes. Indeed. Ralph.

“My lord.” Ralph bent down over the edge of the bed. “My lord, if you please—shall I go and fetch your son?”

His son. He had three, did he not?

“May I go and fetch Robert, my lord?”

Ah. That son. The youngest. The weakest.

“My lord. Can you hear me?”

There was nothing wrong with his ears.

“My lord, I think he should like to see you.”

He closed his eyes again.

“Please, my lord. May I go?”

He had no strength for speaking.

“My lord . . . you may dismiss me, if you like, but I am going to fetch Robin home.”

Robin? Oh. Robert. The youngest. The weakest. The one his wife had ruined.

“Forgive me, my lord.”

The door shut behind Ralph.

 

DeLacey was smiling broadly when Philip de la Barre came into the hall, passing a small, stooped man on his way out. The castellan glanced at the elderly man casually, frowned briefly, then approached the dais as deLacey motioned him forward.

“Who was that, my lord? Do I know him?”

The sheriff raised his brows. “Has it become my business to be aware of whom you know?”

De la Barre had the grace to blush. “No, my lord. My apologies.”

“I daresay if you have borrowed money from the Jews, you may well know him. He is a money-lender. Just now, a very unhappy money-lender; his mission has failed.” He straightened in the chair, noting how the other’s color deepened yet again; perhaps he
had
borrowed money from the Jews. So many Christians did. “Now, Philip, what business have we?”

“I have received word that the steward has left Huntington Castle, my lord.”

DeLacey laughed. “Splendid news!” He glanced at the hour candle burning upon the table where he conducted the business of the shire, then looked again at de la Barre. “It will take time for him to ride all the way to Ravenskeep, and for Marian to lead him to Locksley. Give it until midday, Philip. Your men are ready?”

“They are, my lord.”

“Good. Reacquaint them with our goal. In a matter of hours we shall be taking up residence in Huntington Castle for as long as necessary, though I suspect the response will come today. Collect Gisbourne—I daresay he will enjoy this—and I will join you later.”

“Yes, my lord. Shall I ask the king’s mercenary to accompany us?”

He snickered. “Alas, the captain is in my bad graces, as well as suffering from the headache. We shall leave him behind, I think.” DeLacey scooted down in the chair again, stretching booted legs out as he indicated with a gesture his castellan was to leave. As de la Barre bowed and departed, the sheriff permitted himself an intense pleased glow of anticipation. “I do believe this is the most
delicious
day I have enjoyed in some time.”

 

Marian was cutting roses for her table—taking far more care than when she had sliced open her hand, so as not to repeat the experience—when the man rode in at a gallop. Dust drifted; she waved it away in irritation as it settled on hair and clothing, then went immediately to learn the man’s business. He was down from his horse by the time she reached him, clearly intent upon entering the hall even as Sim, come up from the pigs, remonstrated with him.

She gestured thanks and the servant fell silent. “What is it?” she asked the stranger.

He turned sharply, hair disheveled, clothing disordered, his spirits clearly as agitated as the horse whose reins he clutched. The animal dripped foam from a bit he chewed steadily. She smelled the salty pungency of the lather streaking the animal’s chest and flanks. “Lady Marian?—
yes,
thank God in Heaven! I am here for Robin. He must come home at once.”

“Home?” she echoed, startled.

“To Huntington.” He seemed well cognizant of what he said, by the expression of his face. “Lady, I beg you . . . is he here?”

And so it is come.
Marian slipped the pruning scissors into the pocket of her loose overdress and folded her hands together, straightening her shoulders. Indeed, it had come. “Who sent you?”

“No one—that is, I came myself.” Color stood high in his face. “The earl would not say I should, but I felt it necessary.” His eyes implored her. “He is dying.”

She felt extraordinarily calm, strangely serene. It was her game to win or lose, and a man’s life in her hands. Without compunction, without hesitation, she accepted the weight of that responsibility. “The earl is dying?”

“Indeed, yes.” He gestured helplessly. “He may even be dead as we speak.”

“And so you wish Robin to go back.”

“Yes, lady—”

“He is disinherited.”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“The earl, you say, did not send you.”

“No, lady, but—”

“This is a trap,” she said crisply.

He stared at her, mouth agape in unfeigned shock. She realized abruptly she knew who he was: the earl’s own steward. “A trap? Lady—
no,
it is no trap! Why should it be a trap?”

“To catch an outlaw.”

But Ralph flung out a dismissive hand as if the last thing in the world that mattered was what the sheriff called Robin. And perhaps it was; no guilt graced his face and eyes. “Lady—” He was desperate. “Shall I stay here, then? As surety? Will you give him the message and let
him
decide?”

Marian looked hard at Ralph, assessing the language of his body, the expression of face and eyes. If there was truth in what he said, she had no right to keep the news from Robin. But neither did she have the right to lead him into a trap if Ralph played her false.

She turned to Sim, waiting in case she needed the stranger taken away. “Bring me a horse, if you please.”

Sim disapproved. Clearly. But he nodded and went off to the barn.

“We shall take a ride,” she told Ralph, “and if we are fortunate, perhaps we shall be found where the birds are most active. But I promise nothing.”

It utterly baffled the steward. “Please, Lady Marian . . . he
must
come home. There must be a final chance for each of them to forgive the other. For reconciliation.”

There was equal truth in that. But,
Am I doing the right thing?
“Wait here,” she told him curtly, “there is something I must do.”

While Ralph waited with his mettlesome horse, as Sim grudgingly brought up a mount for her, Marian went into the hall to retrieve her bundle and her bow, and to say farewell to Joan and the others. Temporarily.

She hoped. She prayed.

 

Robin allowed Charlemagne to crash through vegetation, then put him over a downed tree. The horse answered gamely, landed easily. Robin whistled. He heard bird calls echoing in answer and smiled grimly; they had learned the lessons. But the smile faded quickly. As he burst into the clearing on the snorting horse, he swung down out of the saddle, gave the reins over to a startled Much, and reached to scoop up a flask of ale. Drinking would delay the explanation and allow him to regain some self-control.

Little John had been supervising an ungainly mock sword battle between Will Scarlet and Alan. But weapons clutched in rigid and untrained hands were tossed aside as they gathered to face Robin, alarmed by his demeanor.

“What is it?” Tuck asked.

Four swallows of ale had not made him feel more in control. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then pushed the words out past the swelling anger in his throat. “He sold it.”

“Sold it?” Tuck echoed.

“The manor. The lands. For the tax-debt. So he told Abraham.” Robin abruptly hurled the flask into the trees. “He sold it
to my father!
”

His sword was half drawn; Little John caught him before he could do more violence. “Robin—Robin, wait. Hold.”

“Let me go—” He struggled briefly, but John was unforgiving. And it was this man who had at first meeting beaten him at quarterstaffs and knocked him into the river.

“Hold,” the giant repeated, containing him easily. “You’ll harm yourself—or one of us, aye?”

He released the sword hilt. “Do you understand?” He did not believe they could, nor would. It was too painful, too excruciatingly infuriating.
“He sold Ravenskeep to my father.”

Scarlet shook his head. “Bastard.”

“Whoreson,” Alan muttered, exchanging shocked glances with Tuck.

Much stood there clinging to Charlemagne’s reins. “Gone?” he asked. “Our home?”

“John, let me go—” This time Robin jerked free, because Little John allowed it. He turned to the boy, still half blind with rage, viciously tugging his tunic back into order. “Gone,” he affirmed bitterly. “Oh, the manor is still there . . . but it belongs to the Earl of Huntington.”

And then he sat down all of a sudden, collapsing onto a stump. He bent over crossed arms, hugging himself, breathing through clenched teeth—and rocking slightly at the waist because he could not sit still, not at all, not for one moment. He had never, not once in all of his life, been so angry. When Abraham had told him, the shock had stunned him into frozen silence. But the ride back gave him time, time to think about the ramifications, the magnitude of the betrayal.

And to think about Marian, whose home was lost.

“How?” Alan asked.

Tuck crossed himself, murmured a prayer. “The tax-debt,” he said. “If the taxes are not paid, the sheriff may sell the property to whomever will pay the debt.”

“She had
fourteen days,”
Alan declared.

Tuck shrugged. “Do you believe anything deLacey says?”

Scarlet frowned. “Wouldn’t the king want it? The manor?”

“He gets the money,” Tuck explained. “That is what matters to John.”

Little John shook his head, frowning. “But Marian already paid her taxes.”

The monk nodded. “I’ll wager—though not really, because ’tis a sin—that our sheriff kept the earl’s money for himself.”

“You won’t wager because ’tis a sin,” Scarlet said in disbelief, “but you’ll rob people?”

“Never mind.” Robin stopped rocking.
“Insh’Allah,
I could kill him. Send him directly to hell.”

Alan arched brows. “Your father?”

Robin cast him a scorching glance. “Oh,
he
will go to hell, that I promise. But I meant the sheriff. The bloody whoreson bastard—”And the anger welled up again, swamped him, spilled over, demanding release. He proceeded to fill the air with invective couched in a polyglot of three tongues. Tuck, who understood two of them, blushed in mortification, while the others marveled at his facility with languages.

“What talk is that?” Little John asked with interest.

Alan grinned. “French.”

“No, that other one. Not the French one.”

“Likely Infidel,” Scarlet ventured, then blinked. “Spits a lot with it, aye?”

A new target. Robin broke off his maledictions. “Do you find this amusing?”

“No,” Alan answered before volatile Scarlet could reply in kind, and possibly start a fight. “I think we are all of us willing to kill the sheriff. We’re waiting for you to tell us when and how.”

“Christ,” Robin said, stripping hair back from his face with two doubled fists. “Oh, good Christ—how do I tell Marian?”

Much, staring past them, abruptly thrust the reins of Robin’s horse into Tuck’s hands. He disappeared into the trees before anyone could ask him what he was doing.

“Was that a duck call?” Scarlet inquired.

A moment later they heard Much shout a name. And it was none of theirs.

“Well,” Little John said to Robin with genuine regret, “you’ll be telling her now, aye?”

Robin shut his eyes a moment, then stood and stared blankly into the trees where Much had gone. The road lay beyond, shielded from view by vegetation. He felt ill, and old, and entirely, utterly helpless. Not since the Saracens captured him had he felt such dread and despair. “I think this shall be the hardest thing I have ever done.”

And then Much was back, followed by Marian crashing through on horseback. He was startled to see she was dressed for working in the hall, not for traveling; and her kirtle showed the effects of her ride through trees and underbrush. Sherwood was a vigorous forest, unkind and occasionally hostile to those not prepared for its encroachments. Marian’s hair had been pulled loose of its braids to straggle over her shoulders. He marked again the contrast between white skin and black hair, the richness of blue eyes. And wanted more than ever for the nightmare to end.

Tightness filled his throat.
How do I tell her?

Behind him, Charlemagne nickered a greeting. Marian’s horse answered. And then Robin saw the second rider coming through after Marian. His mind registered astonishment—why would Marian bring anyone to their camp?—before recognizing the man. And then he knew him.

Ralph flung himself out of his saddle. “My lord!” He let go of the reins and forced his way through a tangle of blackberry bush, unmindful of obstruction. “Robin!”

Ralph only rarely lapsed into familiarity.

And then the steward was there before him, eyes frantic, breathing hard and helplessly, opening and closing his mouth as if there were too many words to choose from.

Robin saw the pallor of shock, the trembling of great emotion, the taut impatience of anxiety. The steward drew breath to speak. “Come home,” Ralph said; it was command, not suggestion, as if in that moment he had banished a lifetime of servitude and the courtesies of his calling. “Your father is dying.”

He felt rather than heard the stirring of shock among the others.

Illogically he thought,
Did I not just promise my father would go to hell?