Maid Marian (17 page)

“I know not,” I said, “but I’ll tell you this. Queen Eleanor is not one to suffer John and his army for long. She knows his motives and designs too well. Trust it, she will see that no harm comes to Richard’s throne.”

“Aye, I agree with you,” he said, nodding, for he had heard all my tales of Eleanor and knew her to be a crafty old bear. “But she is away in Rouen, is she not? What if she hears nothing of John?” His eyes darkened, and a strange sensation curled inside me, like a snake coiling upon itself.

“I’ve heard that William, bishop of Ely, has spoken abroad of John’s behavior,” I said, my voice sounding rough even to my own ears, “and will not rest until she knows of it. His hope had been to rouse the English nobles against the prince, but I believe his own bad manners at court have put his peers permanently against him.”

“Bishop of Ely—what is he, against a prince with mercenaries?”

On we talked in this vein, and as we did I grew more serious and strove to convince Robin that he ought to lie low. Perhaps when John was more distracted with matters of state, the outlaws might venture forth freely again, but for now I feared for the life of any who went as far as Nottingham town. The place was swarming with purchased guards who caused trouble for every man, whether he were an honest tradesman or an outlaw in disguise.

Robin was always reluctant to curb their mode of life, but he also hated to send his men into certain danger. I believe I had just succeeded in persuading him to live out the coming winter in quiet, but the next morning we got bad word proving that our caution had come too late.

Dick Akeland came running, near dead from exhaustion, to tell us all that Will Stutley had been betrayed in the town and was now captured by Prince John’s men. He lay inside the sheriff’s prison in Nottingham town, awaiting the hour of his hanging. I had never seen Robin’s face go so all white as it did at that news, and I too felt sick, for Will Stutley was an old friend and a loyal member of the band.

Without hesitating, Robin and a dozen men threw on disguises and left for town, each toting broad swords and a leather quiver stuffed with arrows. Annie and I discussed the matter with nervous voices, then slipped through the trees behind them, following the band to Nottingham so we might witness what passed for ourselves.

The town was crowded when we arrived, though whether it was more filled than usual in honor of Will’s scheduled hanging, we did not know. Annie suggested we follow the crowd, thinking that it would lead us to the gallows tree in its time, and she was quite right. The main of men passed through the market, then on to the edge of a wooded clearing near the southern walls of town.

A poor broad oak, conscribed executioner, was already strung with a hempen rope. As we neared we saw Will, dejected and weak, surrounded by the sheriff’s men. He looked quite ill and a little dazed, and my heart ached to see him thus, even as I considered that this could be the destined end of every man of the Greenwood tree if care weren’t taken to keep them safe.

Before long the sheriff stepped close to the tree to proclaim Will’s crime to the crowd, that of a hunted outlaw who stole his meat from the king’s forest. I saw that Prince John was nowhere near, though his hand had certainly arranged the lot, for left on his own the sheriff had never caught a single outlaw from the forest.

I was straining my eyes over heads and hat tops to catch a glimpse of the sheriff’s finery, for I had heard much about it from the men of Robin’s camp, and so did not see when the excitement started. From my elbow I heard Annie exclaim, “Lawks-a-mercy, ’tis Little John!” Then all around me the crowd burst into disordered murmurs and even shouts.

“What is it, Annie? Tell me, what passes?”

She gripped my arm tightly and raised up on her toes.

“Why, just then, as the sheriff spoke, Little John leapt out from behind that bush, there, near Will Stutley, and sliced free his hands from their bonds. He had a spare sword, and now he and Will stand back to back, fighting against the sheriff’s men.”

Indeed, by now I could see for myself that everything beneath the hanging tree had turned to bedlam, for swords were flashing in the sunlight, and the sheriff ran from here to there, shouting to his men and standing in their way. Just then I heard the whistle of arrows and saw that several men were struck, not in the chest or lanky limb but by the tunic, pinned neatly to the trunk of the tree. The sheriff himself had his velvet hat whisked off his head by a goose-quilled arrow, and when he noticed it he sank straight down as if his blood had turned to lead, no longer hindering his men in their work.

Will and Little John made steady progress, and when they were covered by a second storm of arrows, they leapt lightly onto the sheriff’s horse and thundered out of the city gate, free across the open field.

The entire battle might have lasted a full minute or perhaps two, and when it was over Annie and I clung to each other, both weak in the knees. I thought of Will and his frightened face and thanked the heavens that he had such a master as Robin Hood, who would never leave one of his men to swing on the gallows. But at the same time I saw that this would be Robin’s fate if he were too bold, and I turned my feet toward Sherwood Forest, refreshing my vow to make him keep quiet—at least until the end of winter.

Chapter Fifteen

B
Y THE TIME
W
ILL
S
TUTLEY
recovered his nerve, the cold winds of winter swelled in force, sweeping down from the north and whistling through the trees of Sherwood. Robin set his men to work building bowers and gathering wood so the band might have supplies enough to last the winter through. Two score or more of the men moved into a broad-mouthed cave that stood near the river, but this was considered too chilly by Annie, who required that we have a wood-built house.

Just as she wished, a bower was built of our very own, and this we swept with happy hearts, squeezing green moss into the cracks and lining the floors with dry grass and deer pelts. We had space enough for our own fire and a propped-up door that could be removed to let out the smoke. We thought ourselves quite lucky indeed. The roof was so cunningly covered with boughs that not a drop of rain fell in, and we were left dry in our little house.

’Twas lucky indeed that we two shared a long experience with dull winter days, for Robin spent most of this time away, staying disguised at this inn or that, gathering news about Prince John. The keepers of the Blue Boar Inn were great friends of his, and I heard that he passed near all of January in their warm barn, exchanging tales as one does in winter when the snowstorms fly.

At times that winter my heart complained, weeping over the lost comforts of Warwick and bemoaning the darkness of our hut. But when these thoughts grew strong enough, I summoned an image of Lady Pernelle and her clawing hands and made myself believe I was happy. And, in fact, ’twas a great help to have Annie near, for she kept my memory honest and recalled the dullness of winters at Warwick with such dreary detail as made me smile.

Perhaps I was growing accustomed to harshness, or perhaps my critical mind was weak, but as it was I firmly believed I’d passed harder winters than that one. Our lives were not so terribly dull, for we had our stitching and friends about. Most days too we had need to call in one of the men to test if his tunic were too long, too short, or nearly perfect. Robin did pass our way sometimes, and when he did he always stopped to sit by our fire and tell us the news and hear how we were passing the time.

I missed his company in a thousand ways, and at first I begged him to return to the camp, that we might resume our talks of the world. Whenever I asked he would tarry longer, passing a night in the cave with his men and bringing his smile to our bower at the morrow. He brought us news and London wine and herbs to burn in our small fire, but then he would always be off again, his eyes expressing his sorrow at parting while his two feet itched to be away. I thought he was bothered by the close crowds of winter, for with us all huddled around the fire, there was hardly room for private talk. Perhaps he reckoned as I did, that if he couldn’t have the sun to himself, he would just as soon not see it at all.

Winter was hard on his restless soul, for he had a constant need for doing, and the snow and cold kept him sadly still. I think he looked with envy sometimes at our work with the iron needles, for he could not find quiet tasks enough to employ himself for half the day, and this made him irritable. He knew it did and this, I believe, was what caused him to stay apart. It was his habit of many long years, and sad as it was to be without him, I did not question it.

M
ARCH FOLLOWED
F
EBRUARY
in the usual way and with it came heavy rains and winds, the sort that flood small river towns and leaves them caked with mud. But late in the month the sun began to shine with some strength, and I felt the blood that had been thickened by cold begin to run swiftly in my veins. Each day I stretched my limbs a bit more, first with long walks and then with forays into the clearing to work with my cudgel. I was determined to show Robin that I’d lost no skill over the winter months, so I practiced steadily, thinking of how my progress would please him.

Soon he returned to join our band, merry as ever but sobered somewhat by news that Prince John was attempting to gain the chancellorship of England, a position that would give him near full control over the country until the king’s return. I tried to assure him that Queen Eleanor would never allow such a thing to pass, but I fear Robin was beginning to doubt the queen’s interest in our island.

But on the small scale of our daily lives, spring breezes seemed to awaken us all and breathe new life into our souls. Allan’s songs were heard with new joy, piping tunes were to be danced to, and sport of all kind was undertaken at the least suggestion. My tensions with Little John still remained, although Annie did much to relieve them by gracing him with her own attention. She smiled and winked and kept him entranced while Robin and I sat together, deep in the grasses at the edge of the meadow. He liked to tickle my nose with a grass blade, teasing until he made me laugh, while I plucked flowers to tuck in my hair. But we both felt restless near the Greenwood tree and longed for a chance to slip away.

H
E AND
I
HAD
fast become the best of friends, and I found myself thinking of him at all hours, preparing tales he might enjoy, practicing smiles meant just for him. I dreamt of him so often—and in such warm dreams—that I believe his image was worn in grooves upon the insides of my eyelids. His vision, his words, his breath in my ear followed me day and night, thrilling my bones down to the marrow. All these things seemed natural to me, and I thought very little of them until one day in early May when I found myself walking a path with Ellen and heard myself ask this question of her: “Ellen, tell me, how did you know when you were in love?”

“In love with Allan? Why, I had known him near all my life, and I can’t think of a time when I did not love him.”

“But as more than a friend, I mean, or a brother.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Could have been when he first sang me the “May Ellen” song, for it’s as romantic as any I know. Or when my father—oh, and that man—told me, you know, who I was to marry. I could not tell you, honestly, Marian, only that I knew when it was time to know.”

I frowned this off, for it did not help me, nor did I understand why I had asked it of her to begin with. Ellen was no one to ask serious questions of, but did I seriously wish to ask it? And why might I? These questions left my mind disturbed, and I passed several sleepless nights, but still I felt no nearer the answer until a misty night in June when I had an hour of true revealing.

A
NNIE AND
I
WERE
in the camp filling pots with oil and rags to use as lanterns the rest of the year, and so we knew nothing of the danger until it was nearly done with. Robin and Little John had left early that day heading west, while most of the men were sent south and east. Now that Prince John vied for the chancellorship, we all assumed he was sufficiently distracted to allow our men free reign of the forest—a false assumption we would soon regret.

Together Annie and I did our work, talking and singing as we often did, chatting with the other men left behind to tend the fires and prepare meat enough for the evening meal. The sun grew heavy, low and languid, and the men returned from the south and east, but Robin and Little John were not among them. As a group we waited, quiet but unafraid, until the sky began to darken, and then I felt my first pang of fear. For the sun sets late in the month of June, and I had never known Robin to stay out so long before.

We worried and waited, and some made jokes to hide their fright while others sat with drawn faces, unsure what to think or do. At last we ate, biting our meat with tortured mouths, and retired to bed though we were not sleepy, mechanically grinding the rhythms of the day.

I passed, that night, through a sea of anguish and delirium, fearing the worst and seeing my dread mix itself in with terrible dreams. Somewhat toward dawn I dreamt again of Atalanta and heard in my sleep the lines of the poem I had read so often in my Ovid text but had misplaced from my conscious mind.

For Atalanta was green in love, untutored—she did not know

what she was doing, and loved, and did not know it.

I woke with a shock, gasping and starting, eyes flung open to meet my fate. The words still rang in my head, echoed against my beating heart, and I had to think to form a breath, force my lungs to accept the air. Truth became black and white to me, and I opened my eyes wide in the darkness and saw what I could not see before.

I loved Robin Hood.

The night, the earth, the cosmic design—all were clear to me in that instant. A realization of vast proportion had dawned in my mind, and I greeted it with the open acceptance a sudden knowledge is worthy of. I had loved him long and earnestly, perhaps since the day we met, perhaps less time, I did not know. But did it matter? This was love, I knew it at last, and for a moment a golden light entered my breast and let me shine.

But not a full heartbeat later, I opened my eyes again in the dark and had to fight back the pain of tears. For what did it matter whom I loved, if Robin would never return to me? A whole night he’d been gone, a full score of hours. I bit my hand to stop my cries and thought instead that I should have hope, for would Robin not hope were he in my place?

Knowing that my night had ended and no more sleep would come to me, I rose and dressed and slipped to the camp to kindle the fires against the cold. For when they returned, I told myself, they might be chilled from their night abroad and would wish for a fire to warm themselves by. When this was done I found other tasks to occupy my trembling hands, mending and fixing in the demilight of a newborn day.

I had just sat down to shudder and gasp a second time, to admit the fear that had crept in stealthily past my resolve, when a snap in the forest caught my ears and brought me running to meet my love.

Robin and Little John stepped into our clearing looking as if they had never seen a more generous sight. One was supported by the other, and when I grew closer I saw that it was Little John who was injured, leaning his giant’s weight on his friend. They called out when they saw me, and I exclaimed too, rushing to help them make their way to the fireside and seats of rest.