Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 02] (42 page)

Ralph reached out and gripped his arm. “I beg you. Come home. Let him die with his son at his side.”

There was nothing in him but emptiness. An absence of emotion. He felt cold and old and bespelled into silence.

Then Marian broke it. “Could it be a trap?”

But he had seen Ralph’s face and eyes. Heard the ravages of grief in the shaking voice. Ralph had served his father for more than twenty years. Had helped raise the third son, the fey, fanciful, rebellious son, seeing to it he was fed even when the earl said he should have no meal; salving the wounds and bruises of the earl’s punishments. Ralph was his father by default, and both of them knew it.

No, it was not a trap.

And then he was gathering Charlemagne’s reins and a handful of mane, one foot in the stirrup, his mind ranging far ahead, gone from the clearing in the forest to a room in a castle where an old man resided, a bitter bastard of a man whose only inclination was to control those around him. To kill a wife’s soul with indifference, to wrack a young son with self-doubts, to put a king off his throne because the earl preferred another.

Robin pulled himself up, swung a leg over, settled into the saddle, hooked the other stirrup with his right foot. He looked at Marian. There was a great and terrible grief building inside his soul to couple with the anger, but it had nothing to do with his father.

Tuck of them all was the one who understood. “Go,” he said. “I will tell her.”

For that, too, he cursed his father. Robin let the anger carry him. He dug heels into Charlemagne’s flanks and departed in a flurry of leaves and soil.

 

Marian was absently aware of Ralph leaping to his horse, of swinging up and reining the horse’s head around sharply. She neither rode after Robin nor dismounted. She knew him; he desired no one to be with him. Ralph would see that.

“Tell me what?” she asked Tuck.

Behind her Ralph went crashing after Robin.

“Tell me what?” she repeated.

“If his father’s not dead already,” Scarlet drawled, “Robin’ll likely kill him.”

They all knew something. Something she did not. Something that had moved Robin to speak of business with his father when his father was dying. Something that had moved Will Scarlet to speak in jest of a man’s murder when that man was already dying.

And abruptly she knew: Robin’s grief had been for
her.

“The money-lender went to see the sheriff about your tax-debt,” Tuck explained quietly. “We had enough, you see. But the sheriff told him the debt was already paid.” His eyes were compassionate. “By the earl.”

“The earl! Paid
my
tax-debt?” It was inconceivable. “But why? He has no love for me; quite the opposite! And he disinherited Robin. Why would he do such a thing?”

Scarlet said bluntly, “To take your home from you.”

Tuck was shocked by Will’s comment, telling him sharply to hold his tongue. Little John cuffed him over one ear, cursing him casually. But Marian merely sat upon the horse, slack in the saddle. She was aware that her mind registered a cluster of granite boulders, a small campsite with belongings set out, a fire laid but not lit, longbows, swords, and full quivers leaning against trees. And faces. Their faces. Expectant, worried faces, waiting to hear what she would say.

She listened again to the words in her mind.
‘To take your home from you.’

Alan was at her stirrup. “Come down.”

Marian stared at him.

He reached out a hand. “Come down, Marian. Come sit by the fire—Much is lighting it now—and have some ale, a bit of bread, some salted meat.”

Why should she be thirsty? Why should she be hungry?

She made as if to turn the horse away, toward the road—perhaps she should go after Robin—but Alan’s hand was on the reins. “No,” he said. “Let Robin say what must be said to the earl. You did not see him when he returned from Nottingham—there is nothing you might say to the earl that could possibly be more devastating than whatever Robin will tell him.”

Scarlet grunted. “Oh, I daresay ’twill be hot in that room!”

And then Little John was there, clasping her waist in his big freckled hands. There was no choice anymore; he lifted her down, steadied her on her feet, then guided her to the fire as if she were an errant child. Tuck hastily tossed a folded blanket over a boulder as John urged her to sit.

“We’ll get it back, aye?” Little John said. “We’ll pay the taxes again. You won’t lose Ravenskeep, lady. We’ll see to it.”

The words meant nothing. She heard them, but they made no sense. She realized she was shaking uncontrollably. She wanted to scream, weep, shout, shriek, howl. But all her body would do was sit there like a lump of suet. Trembling.

“My home,” she said numbly; her mouth was sluggish at forming words. “My father—my father was given Ravenskeep by Old King Henry more than thirty years ago. I was born there. My brother died there. My
mother
died there. And my father’s sword—all that came home from Crusade—is with them both, down in the crypt.” She looked up into the red-bearded, sorrowful face. “How can he take my home?”

Little John shook his head.

“Robin will get it back,” Tuck said with certainty.

She wanted to be angry, but all she could feel spreading within her was a cold, quivering hollowness. Her bones had all gone brittle, fragile as glass.

And then something within her broke. The glass shattered to pieces. Marian began to weep.

It was Alan who came to her and knelt, who placed graceful hands on either side of her head and gently cradled her skull. He said nothing, merely offered comfort. She reached up, caught his wrists, clung, then bent forward. He took her weight against him, guided her brow against his shoulder, and let her cry herself out even as Tuck prayed for her.

When she was done she pulled away from Alan with a watery smile and a grateful pat on his shoulder. She was aware of their eyes watching her as she straightened upon the boulder, wondering what next she would do. Scream? Shriek?

But Marian felt strangely calm now. Strong. The shock, the storm, had passed. There were things to do.

She shook her head. “I should have killed deLacey instead of his poor horse.”

“Ah,” Scarlet said with comfortable affection, “there’s our lass!”

Much brought her ale in a mug. Marian thanked him, drank half of it down—she was thirsty after all—and wiped the residue from her upper lip. She was clear-headed now, certain of her course.

“I brought some things,” she said. “The pack is on the horse. Would someone get it down?” As Little John turned to do so, she looked at the others. “We shall wait for Robin. When he is back, we will decide what to do.”

“What do you
want
to do?” Alan asked with some trepidation.

“I want to punish William deLacey,” she said grimly. “I want him to be dismissed, as we discussed. And
I
want to be a part of it.” She stopped short. “Did you steal the tax shipment yesterday?”

They looked blank. Tuck shook his head.

“We had guests,” Alan said. “A parcel of lords.” He smiled, taking a seat upon a thick log. “And none too pleased to be here.”

“’Tis how we had enough to pay your taxes,” Scarlet explained, then had the grace to look abashed for bringing it up again.

Little John brought back her bundle as Much began to unsaddle her horse. “Robin took the money in to Abraham the Jew,” the giant said as he set her bundle down beside the boulder. “ ’Twas to go for your taxes, for Arthur of Brittany, and the poor.”

Marian leaned down and began to untie her bundle, peeling back layers so she could rummage through it. “Mercardier came and said he’d been robbed . . . that you had stolen the taxes.”

“No,” Tuck said firmly. “We did no such thing.”

She frowned.
“Someone
stole the taxes. They bashed him over the head. The soldiers went off after the outlaws and left Mercardier lying in the road.”

Scarlet smirked. “Likely he deserved it.”

“Could it have been Adam Bell?”

Little John was frowning as he sat down beside the fire, fetching an ale flask from the motley collection near the rocks. “Does it matter?”

“It might,” Marian answered. “Mercardier believes you did it. I’m sure he’s told the sheriff so by now.”

Alan released a long, low whistle. “He’ll be harrying the countryside for us.”

“Nor will he stop till he finds us,” she said. “We must be ready for him.” She began dragging clothing out of the pack.

“What are you doing?” Little John asked.

She paused, one hand full of hosen. “Changing clothes,” she replied. “I cannot very well live in Sherwood dressed like this.”

“Live
in Sherwood?” Scarlet echoed.

Marian draped hosen, tunic, and belt over one arm as she rose. “Where else am I to go?”

They exchanged startled glances. But no one offered an answer.

She grabbed up the blanket as well, intending to hang a privacy screen upon an appropriate—and appropriately distant—tree. “When I come back,” she said, “I want someone to teach me how to hold a sword.”

Tuck was astonished. “Why?”

Alan’s expression was oddly blank, as if he feared to offend her. “Do you believe you could handle a sword?”

Marian remembered the weight of Mercardier’s in her hands. “No,” she replied truthfully. “But I need to know how a man handles a sword, so I may learn how to disarm him.”

“See?” Will Scarlet gleefully nudged Little John’s rump with a booted toe. “Didn’t I say she was our lass?”

 

DeLacey and his men had spent the afternoon gathered in the room across the corridor from the earl’s bedchamber. Plans were in place. What was required to set them in motion was the mouse to step into the trap. So when Gisbourne finally came up to say Locksley and the steward had just ridden into the castle courtyard, deLacey heaved a sigh of relief coupled with a spurt of anticipation. He shot a glance at Philip de la Barre, who nodded back; the castellan moved smoothly to the wall beside the closed door, gripping an iron fireplace poker. Other men had swords unsheathed and at the ready, waiting quietly with the look of avid predators on their faces. DeLacey himself did not draw his sword, nor take up anything that might be used as a weapon. He merely waited beside the door, which he had left slightly ajar. From here he could see the earl’s closed door directly across the hall; if he extended his head beyond the jamb he could also see the end of the corridor where the staircase began. But he did not extend his head. It was a simple matter to hear the footsteps and voices as two men hurried up the stairs; he did not need to see them.

DeLacey closed one hand around the iron door handle. The left he raised to hold Philip de la Barre in place until such time as he gave the signal and jerked the door open, allowing the castellan to move.

“What am
I
to do?” Gisbourne asked.

DeLacey shot him a murderous glare. Locksley and the steward were at the top of the stairs. “Take the steward,” he whispered, keeping an eye on the earl’s door. “Don’t let him interfere.”He gestured Gisbourne to back up, fingers tightening on the handle.

Footsteps. The steward was saying something. Locksley made no answer. DeLacey tensed.

Locksley was at the earl’s door: unlatching, pushing it open, and stepping across the threshold all in one motion.

DeLacey jerked the door open wide and sharply gestured de la Barre through.

Robin lengthened his stride as he approached his father’s bedchamber, moving ahead of Ralph. He was aware of a strange complement of emotions: nervousness, childish apprehension, a trace of fear—would he find his father dead?—a touch of the old resentment; even a desire not to be here at all, to depart immediately so as not to involve himself—if he did not see his father dead, the earl would never truly
be
dead—and the certainty that the world was about to change again.

But he wanted to know.
Needed
to know. Badly.

Drawing a breath, he unlatched the door, pushed it open, and stepped across the threshold.

The first impression was of the sour scent of illness and agedness, of spiced wine left sitting too long, of the mustiness of a room with its window shuttered. He saw his father slumped back against pillows and bolsters, eyes closed, mouth parted; heard the thin rasp of shallow inhalations.
Not dead yet.

There was movement behind him; likely Ralph entering. He took another stride into the room—

—and something hard and heavy slammed across the backs of his knees, dropping him sharply to the floor before he could even cry out. He heard the dull clanging thump of iron landing on carpeted floor; and then hands were on him. His sword was drawn and tossed aside. An arm closed around his throat as he knelt there, raising and twisting his jaw so the throat was bared, arching his spine backward. He felt the cold kiss of edged steel: knife. A quick slice or puncture would open his jugular.

So quickly. So polished. So well planned.

Marian had asked if it might be a trap. And he had dismissed it in the face of Ralph’s genuine fear and anxiousness. Ralph had not lied; indeed, his father
was
dying. It was obvious when one looked upon him. And neither had Ralph arranged this trap. More likely he had merely been used to set and bait it by someone who understood very few could dissemble well enough to fool a man prepared for such.

Clever, clever trap. Truth used. Opportunity found. Men manipulated who were too distracted by an old man’s dying to consider the consequences of a clever sheriff driven to finding a way to capture a man he could not otherwise catch by ordinary means. Who understood that the best trap of all let the prey put itself in it.

Inwardly, Robin shook his head. Beautifully played. Almost he could admire it, save he was the prey. And well and truly caught.

His arms hung heavily from his shoulders, slightly outstretched away from his body. He was not a coward, but neither was he a fool. At the moment there was no opportunity save the chance to live. He did not move. Did not so much as twitch.

“My lord!” his captor said sharply.

And then there was commotion in the hall; Ralph was saying something in a raised voice, asking what business they had. The room was abruptly filled with men, armed men, mailed men, helmed soldiers all. Blades were unsheathed. Ralph’s voice rose yet again, outraged, desperate.

The man who held Robin captive stretched his spine another inch, cranked his jaw up another notch. Robin gritted his teeth, the tension of his throat so taut he could barely swallow. He was fully aware of the vulnerability of the position. His arms were free; he might reach for his captor. But not before the knife would enter his throat. Not before any number of soldiers might introduce the points of their broadswords into his belly and chest.

William deLacey entered his line of vision. Iron dripped from gloved hands: shackles and chains.

“Thank you, Philip,” he said lightly, then looked at Robin. “I should welcome you home, save this is not home anymore, is it? The earl told me he has no son, that his title, castle, estates, and wealth shall revert to the Crown. One would not believe the Earl of Huntington should give anything over to John, but there you are. Better to the king than to an outlaw, yes?” He turned slightly toward the corridor and held out the chains, dangling them idly. Shackles clashed. He raised his voice. “Would you care to do the honors, Gisbourne?”

From out in the corridor Ralph was demanding to be allowed into the room, to see to the earl. And swearing to Robin desperately, whom he could not see, that he hadn’t known it
was
a trap. By God in Heaven. And so he continued to swear until his voice was abruptly cut off.