Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 02] (44 page)

Hung and drawn for a hasty bleeding, then skinned and pierced with a tree limb for crude spit-roasting over the fire, the deer proved most tasty. Marian, leaning against a log, did not even mind the grease dribbling down her chin. A corner of blanket proved up to the task of imitating table linen, and she occasionally dabbed at her face. But mostly she ate. With a belly full of venison and the last of the ale—they would have to steal more, Scarlet suggested; Tuck said they could buy it—she was sleepily replete under the rising moon.

“Alan,” she said, contemplating the last of her bread as she heaved a happy sigh, “sing something.”

He was perched upon a stump. “I haven’t my lute.”

“Sing without the lute.”

Alan licked his fingers one by one, then wiped them against a quilted doublet that once had been rather fine. But its green velvet now was compressed and shiny with soiling, and there was one sizable tear along a seam coyly displaying the stuffing that formed its padded shape. They were all of them filthy now, save for Marian, who had bathed two days before. She was only mildly grimy.

“I could,” he said finally, “if I did not despair of being shouted down by those who refuse to appreciate my talent.”

“I
appreciate it,” Marian replied. “And if any of them complain, they can wash up the dishes.” Joan had packed a handful of wooden bowls and two badly dented pewter platters along with several equally dented mugs. Keepsakes, Marian believed, of the sheriff’s destructive visit.

“If he sings,” Scarlet said,
“you
can wash up the dishes.”

“He sings very well,” she retorted.

“He does,” Tuck agreed, soaking up the last of the blood and fat in his bowl with a crust of bread.

Firelight shone off the film of grease on Much’s face. “Sing about Robin.”

Alan was startled. “Robin?”

Scarlet grunted. “He’s got no songs about Robin, lad.”

“Oh, I think he does.” Marian had a very clear memory of certain nonsensical verses she had heard years before. “And appropriate, methinks, in Robin’s absence.”

Little John was skeptical. “Have you one, then?”

Much scooted forward eagerly to sit at the minstrel’s feet. Alan smiled faintly. There was no lute to aide him, but he did the best he could.

DeLacey, ensconced within his cushioned chair upon the dais, permitted a servant to refill his goblet. In very good spirits—he had dined already, and this was his third cup of unwatered wine—he smiled upon Mercardier. The mercenary had said no word since being summoned to the hall. He merely waited stolidly, helm tucked under one arm, as he stood before the dais.

“You do understand that it shall save time and effort,” the sheriff said. “You may explain to the king what became of his taxes—albeit briefly, by the grace of God!—
and
tell him that we now have in custody the man responsible for robbing you. I shall have my clerk write it all down, of course, but I am quite certain the king will request a verbal report as well.”

Mercardier said, “I understand.”

“Contained in the report of your misapprehension regarding your ability to guard the shipment will be detailed information of Robert of Locksley’s behavior these past weeks. My lord king will recall, I am certain, that it was Locksley who stole the shipment five years ago. Clearly he has returned to his old habits; worse, he has extended them. But he resides in the dungeon now, awaiting the king’s pleasure. When the king so desires, he may inform me as to his wishes with regard to the prisoner’s disposal.”

Something flared in dark eyes—pleasure, perhaps?—though the tone was without inflection. “And so you mean to kill him.”

“I
mean nothing, Captain! It may be my duty to have him executed, but it is not my decision.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I shall have my clerk write the letter tomorrow. Expect to leave in the afternoon, yes?”

Mercardier inclined his head. “Yes.”

No ‘
my lord.’
DeLacey might call him on the crude informality. But he was too pleased with the ordering of his world, just now, and the promise of his future. He let the slip go as the Lionheart’s captain of mercenaries took his leave.

Besides, within a matter of days Mercardier’s mouth would be filled to choking with honorifics and obsequious words, as he admitted before the king that he had failed.

 

After a while Robin stopped kneading his legs. With knees still drawn up he crossed his arms over his chest, tucking shackled wrists beneath armpits—the chain was long enough for that—let his skull rest against the wall, and closed his eyes.

Marian and the others would eventually realize he was captured, likely tomorrow. But he did not believe there was anything they could do about it. His future, if there was to be one, depended entirely upon the pleasure of King John.

Who once had wished Sir Robert of Locksley to marry his daughter. Bastard daughter, withal, but still of royal seed.

In the darkness, surrounded by the stench of dead men’s waste, Robin smiled. It was a hard, twisted, self-deprecating smile, composed of very little humor. DeLacey himself had said it:
And lo, how the knight has fallen.

Low indeed.

Marian had never ridden so fast, so recklessly, that she endangered her life, but she did so as she returned from Huntington Castle—and didn’t care. She had no time to care, merely to plan; to realize that another man had died and, in that dying, the world had once again been turned upside down.

She heard the bird calls in Sherwood, but made no answer. They knew her; they merely warned one another. And when she ducked under the last tree limb and threw herself out of the saddle, all of them had gathered.

“Trouble?” Tuck asked.

“The worst,” she said breathlessly. “The sheriff has taken Robin.”

“ ’Twas
a trap!” Little John cried, as Scarlet cursed.

“Not initially.” Marian let Much take her horse, but asked that the animal remain saddled. She went at once to her possessions and found shift and chemise. “The servant said deLacey and his men came after Ralph left. When Robin got there, they took him. He’s in Nottingham Castle already.”

“What about the earl?” Little John asked.

She shook out shift and chemise, gathered up long girdle. “Dead; he truly
was
dying. And Ralph was badly injured protesting the sheriff’s intentions.”

“What are you doing?” Alan asked.

“Changing back,” she answered shortly. “I mean to go see deLacey.” She glanced at Tuck. “Would you wrap my bow for me, make it look like a walking stick?”

Mystified, he nodded.

“We’re going, too,” Scarlet declared. “You’ll not leave us behind.”

Marian grabbed a blanket and flung it over the nearest tree; if it was not enough, they could turn their backs. “I know. I want you there. I need you to steal a wagon and put it near the castle gates, in Market Square.”

“And do what?” Little John asked.

“Wait. Be ready.” She slipped behind the screening blanket.

“Wait for what?” Alan asked, voice somewhat muffled.

Marian unfastened the belt that held tunic and hosen in place. “For us to come out.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” That was Scarlet.

“Me. Robin.” She jerked the hooded capelet and tunic off over her head, then folded them into a compact package and stuffed it into the back side of her hosen, belting both into place.

Little John was astonished. “And how d’ye mean to get him out of the castle?”

“I’ll find a way.”

“And if you don’t?” Alan asked sharply.

“Then I shall be in the dungeon, too, and you’ll have to rescue us both.” She yanked shift and chemise over her head, flailing and digging for sleeves. “I am the only one of us who can confront William deLacey in person, so I shall.”

“Confront him!” Scarlet echoed.

Little John was appalled. “And do what
then?”

She tugged shift and chemise down over breasts and hips. “Find out what he wants.”

“He’s
got
what he wants!” Alan declared. “Robin!”

Marian double-wrapped the girdle low around her waist atop the tunic and capelet, then tugged at the skirts to make sure the hosen and boots were covered. “William deLacey is a man who will always want more. I intend to find out what it is.”

Scarlet sounded dubious. “What if ’tis something you can do nothing about?”

“Then I’ll find another way. But at least I shall be inside the castle.” She snatched the blanket aside, striding back into the camp where she asked Alan for arrows. “Not many,” she said. “Four.”

“Arrows?”

“Arrows.”

He handed four to her. She hiked up her skirts, ignoring various expressions of male startlement, and tucked the shafts inside her right boot. The broadheads rubbed her ankle, but she believed the hosen would provide some protection. With a thong borrowed from her bundle, Marian tied the arrows to her thigh beneath the fletchings. She could not bend her knee, but she did not need to. “Tuck?”

Silently, he handed her the coiled bowstring. He understood. Marian cast him a grateful glance and tucked the bowstring inside her other boot. Then she turned to her horse.

Scarlet did not understand. “You can’t even walk, can you?”

She could stand well enough on the arrow-splinted leg. She slid her left boot toe into the stirrup, then smiled as she felt Little John’s hands spanning her waist. He boosted her, and she swung the stiffened right leg with no little awkwardness across the horse’s rump. She could not use that stirrup; she let the leg hang, canting herself slightly to the right.

Tuck was there to hand up the bow. He had wrapped it carefully in a bit of sacking, rope, and leather, altering its silhouette.

“Come into Nottingham one at a time,” she said. “Steal that wagon. Be ready. And pray to God that I can get him out of the castle.”

“That,” Tuck said, “is what I am best at. Praying.”

Marian nodded at them, absently noting frowns of concern, but she had no more time. She smacked her horse with the “walking stick” and headed back toward the Nottingham road.

 

Robin had no idea when he might be fed, or even if he might. Certainly nothing had been brought the night before, and nothing yet this morning. His belly was audibly displeased.

He had been awake for some time, having not slept well, and was aware of a sense of general dullness and vague soreness. It was truly amazing, he reflected, how the body grew accustomed to specific bedding. He had spent several nights in Sherwood and now a night in the dungeon, and his body made it known it preferred the bed in Ravenskeep.

Of course, that bed included Marian. This bed included rats.

He had paced out the pit earlier and knew its shape and size. Walking had reacquainted him with the ache behind his knees, so he walked steadily; a body grew stiff otherwise. But when he heard the sound of a door creaking open in the distance and men’s voices, he stopped moving altogether. He stood in the faint patch of cross-hatched torchlight and stared up at the grate, listening closely.

Three men, he judged, sorting through the descending footsteps and voices. One was Gisbourne. Another he did not know. The third man was—Mercardier? But why?

He heard the clank of keys. Hope surged; did they mean to bring him out of the pit? But though the voices grew close, close enough he knew they were not far from the iron grille, no one approached. Voices receded somewhat. Gisbourne was complaining about something, though Robin could not distinguish the topic. The light above was better, albeit jumped and danced. The third man must be a guard carrying a torch.

And then Mercardier’s raised voice carried clearly into the pit. “Indeed, I insist; it remains my duty to see that the taxes are safe.”

Gisbourne’s tone, though the words were unclear, suggested ridicule.

Mercardier’s answer was distinct and typically emotionless. “Until the king himself relieves me of this duty, it is mine. Open the door.”

Robin heard the sound of keys again, and a bolt shot back. More conversation, though no words he could distinguish. Eventually he heard the cell door swing closed, the bolt, and the clank of a lock relocked. Keys chimed. Footsteps approached.

“Exactly as I left it,” Mercardier said in a strange kind of satisfaction. “Now, where is Locksley?”

“There.” Gisbourne must have pointed at the pit.

“Down there?—
ah, oui.”
Someone stopped beside the grate. As before, Robin could not make out identities, only shapes, color, and movement. But he knew it was Mercardier. He peered upward, squinting. “The torch,” Mercardier said. Light flared, spilled down through the cross-hatched iron. Robin saw silhouettes. And then Mercardier squatted to get a closer look. “Ah, I see him now. Oh, indeed. Most fitting.” His tone, usually so emotionless, took on a trace of contempt. “Do you know what you have cost me? Do you know you have given the sheriff opportunity to complain of my abilities?” The mercenary shifted slightly. “No one has
ever
had that chance.”

That, Robin knew. Mercardier had been highly respected for his competence, though he was not known as a man of great wit. But his military prowess was legendary. He and King Richard had made a formidable pair.

“I will be dismissed,” he went on, “and sent home in disgrace.
I,
Mercardier. Coeur de Lion’s captain of mercenaries!”

Robin considered saying someone else would surely hire him. But he forebore; the mercenary was clearly angry. He had never seen him angry. Mercardier was a man of immense self-control.

But not just now. He rose. He stood atop the grate. There was movement. “You are a piss-poor excuse for a knight and Crusader,” the captain said harshly in his ruined voice, “and so I piss on you.”

The stream of urine rained down. Robin, realizing what it was a moment before it arrived, cursed and leaped awkwardly out of its path, chains ringing.

“Rot in hell,” Mercardier said as Gisbourne laughed.

Robin turned his back. He stared hard at the wall, trembling with anger. With humiliation.

Eventually they left, and the light left with them.

 

DeLacey, frowning over parchment, glanced up in surprise as he recognized the voice echoing in the hall. He had not expected this, but it brought him great pleasure.

He pushed aside the pile of parchments—writs for this, complaints of that—set down the goosefeather quill, and made himself comfortable in the massive chair. “Marian! How do you fare?” And then he marked the walking stick she clung to, the pronounced hitch in her gait. “Not well, I take it. What happened?”

She waved away a servant who offered assistance. The chemise was a clear, brilliant blue that brought out the hue of her eyes, which were fixed on him with wintry determination. The stick was as tall as she was, slightly curved, knobby and wrapped with leather to guard her delicate hands. But he was startled to see that her waist had thickened somewhat; was she breeding?
No wonder she is here to plead for her lover.

“My horse fell,” she replied curtly. “She broke her leg, and very nearly broke mine.”

“So sorry,” he murmured, seeing the stain of embarrassment in her face. “Perhaps you should have remained at home and sent a messenger.”

“This I wish to address in person.” She limped the length of the hall. “And I suspect you know very well what I’ve come for.”

He felt a curl of pleasure deep in his belly. “Do apprise me.”

She halted before the dais. “Robin.”

He smiled with delight. “Indeed.”

Marian said abruptly, “You and my father were friends.”

“So we were.”

“You watched me grow up.”

“I watched you grow from childhood into beauty.” He arched his brows. “But what has this to do with Robin Hood?”

“I would ask that you recall the days you and my father were friends, and how we hosted you at Ravenskeep. My mother, my brother. Even I was told to give you good welcome.”

“Which you did most prettily,” he agreed, “when your lady mother could convince you to stand still long enough to finish a sentence.” He smiled. “You were always more interested in boys’ things, then. I recall it was a struggle even to keep you in skirts. Though you have learned to wear them with surpassing grace.” He shifted in the chair. “And now that you have reminded me that I have known your family since before you were born and thus should feel some softness for you, say what you’ve come to say. Plead his case, Marian.”

Color rose in her face. “He did not steal the taxes. None of them did.”

“Mercardier said they did.”

“Mercardier is wrong.”

“My castellan said they did.”

“Your castellan is wrong.”

“And the other men guarding the shipment?”

“If those men say Robin did it, those men, too, are wrong. He did not.
They
did not.”

“But they have sworn they saw him.”

“Others,” she said coolly, “will swear Robin was elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” He sat upright.

“Robin and the others were in Sherwood—”

“This occurred in Sherwood, along the Nottingham road.”

“—robbing
others,”
she finished. “Mercardier and your castellan undoubtedly saw what they expected to see: outlaws. But there
are
other outlaws in Sherwood. Robin did not rob this shipment.”

She seemed quite certain. DeLacey contemplated that, chewing idly on a hangnail. “Have you witnesses?”

“Not here.”

“Peasants?” He allowed a trace of contempt to underscore the word; peasants he could contend with. Peasants could disappear.

“Lords,” she replied. “The earls of Alnwick, Hereford, and Essex.”

His belly clenched. Those earls had indeed been at Huntington. He had seen them himself. But he managed a smile. “You are telling me these men were robbed by Locksley? And did not come to me to report this?”

She hitched a shoulder. “If they had, you would know very well Robin is innocent.”

DeLacey glared. This was growing more complicated by the moment. He needed time.

And he had it. With a negligent shrug he settled again in the chair. “We have opposing witnesses, it seems. Most confusing. But nothing may be done until the king is informed.”

“Something may be done. You may release him.”

“Preposterous! Release the man who stole the taxes five years ago—”

“—and stole two horses—”

“And returned them both.”

“—delayed a royal messenger—”

“But the messenger got through.”

“—and stole a known and sentenced cutpurse from just punishment?”

“Much is a
boy,”
she said, “and he is simple. I agree cutting purses should not be tolerated, but Much is not like other boys. He doesn’t understand. Anyone who knows him realizes that.” She drew herself up, then winced as if it jarred her leg. “I would be willing to assume responsibility for him. Should he steal again, I would make good the loss.”