Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 02] (46 page)

“No?” the man asked. Then, murmuring imprecations in French beneath his breath, he disappeared. Robin put one foot upon the bottom rung of the ladder, considering trying anyway. But Mercardier was back, dropping down another set of keys. “From the other guard,
oui?”

Hands trembling, Robin tried the keys one by one. The fourth one unlocked the left shackle. Quickly he stripped it off, then unlocked the other. The sense of relief was profound as the iron fell to the straw.

“Allez,”
Mercardier said.

Robin climbed the ladder. Once over the edge, once free of the pit, once standing on the floor of the dungeon again, he said, “There is more to it than the Lionheart’s memory. We were never friends, Mercardier; the dislike was mutual. I am turned thief; even I admit it. And you believe I stole this shipment. Why, then? This places you at risk.”

A spark of anger burned in the dark eyes. “The sheriff is a subtle man,” the mercenary said, “but he made a bad mistake. If one intends a man to believe he has been robbed by outlaws, it is best not to have a soldier who masquerades as an outlaw then appear before the very man who was robbed.” He gestured. “When they brought you in yesterday, I saw two of them. One very tall man. Another short and slight. It gave me pause, and I looked more closely. These two I had seen, before being rendered unconscious.” He shrugged. “I do not doubt the others were present as well, though I did not see them. But no more was necessary. The pieces existed; I put them together. And it all became very clear.”

Breath gusted out of Robin. “Then deLacey stole his
own
tax shipment!”

“Oh, I think nothing was stolen. I think only one chest among the many on the wagon contained coin. Because when I entered the cell earlier, it was obvious to me none of the other chests had been moved.”

“To make me look guilty,” Robin said.

“And to discredit me,” Mercardier added. “I interfere with his plans, with his private little kingdom. But it is of no matter now; I intended to withdraw from the king’s service when I returned to Court. This John, he is nothing like his brother. Richard was . . .” He spread his hands, at a loss for words. “Richard was—”

“Richard,” Robin finished, smiling wryly.

“He was a king,” Mercardier said, “for whom it was a pleasure to serve. It was my honor for more than ten years. I would have done it for no payment.”

That, Robin supposed, was the highest form of flattery a mercenary could offer. But . . . “Why the piss?”

The grim mouth twitched into a fleeting smile. “Most convincing,
oui?
Such hatred, such contempt for you displayed before witnesses, including the sheriff’s seneschal. I knew deLacey would permit me to return. And so, I am here. And you are free.” But there was no friendliness in the dark eyes. Enmity remained. There never had been, nor never would be companionship between them. “I suggest you go.” Something in his face altered slightly. Briefly. “Go to that woman who would die for you.”

Robin nodded, prepared to accept his freedom without further explanation. “What will you do? Hire on with someone else?”

“Perhaps. But first I am going home to Aquitaine. I have been too long away.”

In the distance, a door opened. Robin froze.

“Mercardier?” It was deLacey’s voice. “Have you quite incapacitated him?”

Robin looked sharply at the mercenary, whose expression assured him this interruption had not been planned. Grimly he indicated the dead guard, lying two paces away, and gestured. “The sword.”

Mercardier went to the guard, drew the sword, and tossed it to Robin even as he unsheathed his own. His voice was a harsh whisper as he said what Robin was thinking. “So we fight,
oui?”

“Ah, oui,”
Robin answered grimly. It was the only way to convince the sheriff no complicity existed.

“Captain?” deLacey called.

Mercardier answered by attacking Robin.

DeLacey heard the clash of blades as he descended the stairs. It froze him a moment; then he quickened his pace. He was nearly down when the combatants came into view, rounding the wide, arched entrance to the wing of cells.

Mercardier. And Locksley.

Something had gone wrong.

His hand grasped convulsively for his own sword. But he wore none. He was in his own hall, tending his own business. One did not wear a sword when at home.

But one had a knife. It would not do against a sword, but if Mercardier retained Locksley’s attention there might be an opportunity.

Perhaps.

Then again, Mercardier had been King Richard’s finest fighting man. He might neither need nor appreciate such assistance.

DeLacey halted there, four steps from the bottom. It provided him with an unobstructed view, a view worth watching. He had never seen two finer swordsmen. It brought to mind the memory that
he
had defeated Sir Robert of Locksley; though a perverse part of him also recalled that the dais steps and chair had impeded Locksley, forcing a slip, and had he not fallen, the fight might easily—and probably would have—gone the other way. Then King Richard had arrived . . . and Marian had broken the sheriff’s arm with a blow from Gisbourne’s crutch.

DeLacey swore. Had he succeeded in killing Locksley then, his life would have been much different.

The fight was almost too fast to properly watch. It was a brutal dance of death: attack, parry, break, thrust, parry, chop, parry, attack-attack-attack, feet constantly moving, bodies striking classic and improvised postures, finding ways to maintain balance, to unweight as necessary, to turn and twist and duck, to slide and lean, to back up, then plunge forward; and also a song: the clash of steel on steel, the subtle harmonies of the blade dependent on placement, be it near the hilt or the tip. Quillons caught, were entrapped, wrenched apart. Steel tapped, scraped, chimed, slid. No subtlety in broadswords, no edge on the tips: they were not for piercing and stabbing, but meant to slash, to smash, to hack and to shatter; to sunder flesh and bone, to scythe limb from trunk and head from shoulders.

They panted now, the opponents. Sweat ran freely, bathing grim faces, the rictuses of effort. Mercardier’s damp dark hair clung to his head, hugging his skull like a steel cap. Locksley’s longer, fairer hair mimicked pale spray as he moved, slapping his shoulders and back, swinging forward to curtain his jaw. They watched each other’s eyes, judged movement by what was seen, was anticipated; stopped the expected offense, turned it to advantage, or reacted in time to recover from an unexpected ploy.

There was joy in it, deLacey knew, a wholly unimaginable and entirely inexplicable exaltation in the dance: of effort expended, of skill engaged, of the unflagging determination to
win.
To defeat the enemy.

These men had once, together, danced this dance against the Infidel in the name of God, of Jerusalem, and of Richard, King of the English. They had survived. They had killed. One of them had been knighted.

Now they fought one another. And one of them would die.

Neither spoke. They gasped. Grunted. Neither swore. They breathed. Concentrated. Occasionally deLacey saw one mouth something, as if in conversation with himself. Exhorting himself. Making promises to himself, or perhaps issuing prayers. Nothing else in the world existed for either of them but the movement, the moment, and the opponent.

They reeled close to the staircase. DeLacey backed up, gripping his knife. His own breath ran ragged and choppy, as if he, too, fought. He was tensed to move; he
needed
to move.

Torchlight glanced off steel; steel splashed flashes against the walls. The sheriff, poised five steps above the action, drew his knife. Mercardier need only force Locksley to the stairs, and up, and the knife would prevail over the sword.

But it was Mercardier whose back was to the stairs. Mercardier who was forced up them. And Mercardier who went down, sprawled there at deLacey’s feet. One hand gripped his blade, but it was out of play. Locksley’s blade was at Mercardier’s throat.

“Yield,” he gasped.

Mercardier said nothing, merely breathed noisily.

“Yield.”

DeLacey, now four steps above, contemplated throwing the knife. But it was a meat-knife, no more, utterly lacking in balance, and if he missed . . .

Locksley flipped the grip neatly in his hands, now holding the sword in a vertical position. All he had to do was drive it down and slam the blade through Mercardier’s heaving chest.
“Yield.”

Mercardier’s sword clattered to the floor. His voice was harsh. “I yield me.”

DeLacey raised the knife, clasping it by the blade tip.

“No,” a woman said. “Unless the lord sheriff
wishes
an arrow shot entirely through his heart.”

Locksley looked up. And grinned.

 

Marian had heard the sound of swords as she crept to the door leading to the dungeon stairs. At first she could not begin to understand what it might mean. And then hope surged. There was no reason for men to be fighting in the dungeon, unless a prisoner had escaped.

A quick glance over her shoulder—no one approached—and she opened the door with care. A torch in a wall bracket lighted the staircase. Halfway down it turned, then turned again; she had been here before. Twice. She knew the staircase, knew the dungeon. Intimately.

Down the steps . . . moving silently. Torchlight flickered. The sound of blade on blade was clearer. There were no outcries, no way for her to tell who was fighting. And no deLacey, either. She thought he must be one of the swordsmen.

And then the staircase turned, and turned again, and the tableau lay before her. The sheriff, poised partway from the bottom, knife in hand. Mercardier, sprawled across the steps. And Robin, demanding he yield.

Marian halted . . . adjusted the arrow, fitting it more securely upon the string. Drew it. Told the sheriff what would happen if he threw the knife.

DeLacey twitched in surprise.

“Drop it,” she said, aware of Robin’s upturned face. She wanted to tell him to watch Mercardier—what if the man came surging up from the stairs?—but did not. She would not break her own concentration, not for a moment.

DeLacey’s shock was plain in his voice. “Marian?”

“Drop
it, Sheriff! It was I who killed your horse; do you truly wish to test me from range such as this?”

He dropped the knife.

Robin picked his way around Mercardier. He was smiling, she thought. He stopped before the sheriff, two steps down, and silently gestured for him to turn around.

DeLacey did so. He now looked at Marian. Stared at Marian. His eyes were malignant.

Robin stepped close behind the sheriff. He set his left arm around deLacey’s throat, shoving his jaw upward, and placed the swordblade against fragile flesh. “Climb,” he said.

Marian glanced briefly beyond them both. “What about Mercardier?”

“He yielded.” Robin was still smiling. “He won’t trouble us.”

Movement. She flicked her glance back at Mercardier, saw in horror that he was rising, had picked up his sword. “Hold!” she said sharply.

He stared up at her. She knew what he saw: a slight boy in yeoman’s garb, until she shook back the hood. It settled on her shoulders. Best not to obstruct her peripheral vision. “You,” he said, and she saw, to her shock, a certain amused satisfaction glinting briefly in his eyes. He knew her now; knew whom he had faced in the lane.

“He yielded,” Robin repeated, when she did not avert the arrow.

Mercardier glared. “I
yielded,
madame.”

It meant something to them, clearly. Something bound them now, though she could not discern what. Not friendship, certainly. Nor enmity; or at least not enough that would bring a man to fight. It was—what it was.

Marian swallowed. Her throat hurt. She felt tight as wire all over, and close to trembling so hard she likely would shoot Mercardier if she loosed, rather than deLacey. She chose to do as Robin apparently wished her to do, from the gesturing fingers. She backed up the stairs. At the door, she paused.

“Turn,” Robin said. “There is the hall to get through, and the baileys. Be ready.”

Marian turned. Leaned a shoulder against the door. Pushed. Robin, she knew, had his sword at the sheriff’s throat. If anyone attacked, he could easily kill deLacey. But she doubted he wished to; that would destroy their advantage. It was up to her to lead them through the hall, to lead them through the baileys. And through the main gates beneath the sentry-walk.

Four arrows. She could expend three.

Behind her, she heard deLacey’s harsh breathing. He would see her hang for this.

With no pretense to logic, Marian wondered what Alan, forever concocting ballads, would make of that.

 

Robin knew she was frightened. He had seen it in her posture, in her face, heard it in her voice. And yet she was in that moment as courageous as any
man
he had known, even hardened soldiers. Even mercenaries. True courage lay in accepting one’s fear, not denying it, in doing what was necessary despite that fear.

He had never
not
been afraid, in war.

Even now.

She opened the door and stepped through, shoving it wide to crash against the wall. She was through, moving steadily and carefully into the hall, arrow nocked, bowstring drawn.

He knew it was possible they might both die in this.

And then, as he moved through the door and Mercardier followed, he heard the mercenary’s familiar battlefield bellow.

“Stand aside! Let no man come near! Do not risk your sheriff’s life!”

It succeeded in bringing soldiers and servants running into the hall. Mailed hands went to sword hilts. Bare hands flew to mouths.

“Stand down!” Mercardier roared. “He will surely kill your lord!”

Marian advanced. Robin marked how she selected one man as her target, pinning him in place until she moved farther and selected another. Wisely done. In trying to take aim at any number of soldiers even as she moved, therefore threatening all, she lessened her chances of accuracy and improved their chances of attacking her without risking injury. In threatening one, she promised at least one death. And no individual soldier wished to take that risk.

So long as they had only swords, not crossbows, he believed she was safe.

“My lord!” It was Gisbourne, come into the hall at a run. He stopped short, hand on hilt.

Robin turned the edge of his blade into deLacey’s throat. “Is there something you wish to say to him?”

“Hold,” the sheriff croaked. Then, more loudly, “Stand down, Gisbourne!”

“But—my lord!” Then he noticed Mercardier, eyes widening.
“Do
something, Captain!”

“He yielded,” Marian explained, and Robin noted with a faint stab of amusement that Gisbourne had become her latest target.

It enraged the steward. “You won’t shoot me! You haven’t the stomach for it!”

DeLacey’s voice rose in alarm. “Gis
bourne—”

“She won’t,” Gisbourne said, and drew his sword.

Marian loosed. The broadhead punched through his right shoulder, front and back, before the arrow lodged in flesh. Only the fletching was visible against Gisbourne’s tunic; the shaft had nearly gone completely through him.

With no wasted motion she caught another arrow out of her belt and nocked it, drawing smoothly and swiftly, before any man could move.

Gisbourne was down. He writhed on the floor, whimpering, left hand clamped to the meat of his shoulder. No one approached to aid him.

Robin’s breath stirred deLacey’s hair. “Move, if you please.”

Through the hall and out of it, aware of eyes upon them, angry eyes, startled eyes, fascinated eyes . . . Mercardier walked behind him, seemingly unaware that he blocked Robin from a rear attack. Marian moved before him, still poised to shoot; and she had proved beyond doubt she had the stomach to do it as well as the skill.

“In the bailey you might be a bit more forthcoming with regard to warning off your soldiers,” Robin suggested. “See what it earned poor Gisbourne?”

“Murder,” deLacey rasped.

“That wasn’t a death-wound, as you very well know. Unless you plan to kill him yourself and blame it on us. I recall you did so before, when you slit the throats of twelve of your own men.”

They were at the threshold of hall and front stairs. “Stand down!” Mercardier roared from close behind; it took every ounce of self-control for Robin not to start. “Let them pass, lest your lord be killed!”

“How kind of him to ward your life so well,” Robin murmured into deLacey’s ear. “Without his assistance, you could be dead. Be certain to reward him—should you survive.”

“If
I
were behind you, you would be dead. Even had I yielded!”

“That is because you have no honor. And
imagine
such a thing: one of King John’s most loyal supporters lacking honor! How could it be possible?”

“Locksley—”

Robin cut it off with increased pressure on the blade against deLacey’s throat. “We are in the bailey now. Hadn’t you better ask your soldiers not to make it necessary for me to kill you?”

Breath hissed in the sheriff’s throat. “Hold!” he shouted. “Stand down!”

“Better.” Robin urged him onward. “Nearly into the outer bailey . . . is Marian not magnificent?”

“Marian’s neck will be stretched even as yours is! Is she truly willing to lose her life because of you? Are you willing to risk her?”

“She has nothing left to lose
but
her life, Lord Sheriff. You and my father saw to that.” He shrugged slightly. “And we shall let her determine what is and is not worth dying for, shall we? She answers to no man.”