The Outlaws of Sherwood (24 page)

It was curiously quiet as they approached Mapperley. There were cattle and sheep grazing in some of the fields, and corn ripening in others, and turnip tops visible in one near the way they took; perhaps it was only that Robin and his band knew what they approached, but to them the silence pressed in upon them as the clear blue sky had done since they stepped out from under Sherwood's green leaves. Even the short streets of the little village that huddled under the castle walls were deserted; they saw one or two skinny dogs, who slunk away from them.

When they crossed into the outer bailey they at last saw some folk: sheriff's men, who stared as Robin and those with him entered the unguarded gate. They did not try to stop them, but they did not look as comfortable as the minions of a conquering and unconquerable force should look. As the Sherwood outlaws came further into the bailey grounds, one or two of the sheriff's men began to drift around behind them, toward the gate; whereupon three or four of Sir Richard's folk began to drift in a like manner. Robin's careful eye tallied up as Old William had predicted; the sheriff's men were outnumbered here by slightly better than two to one, and while the sheriff's men were better dressed and armed, Sir Richard's men looked the more earnest of purpose.

A few of the local men were unconvincingly posed as shepherds to a few of Sir Richard's beasts grouped for the purpose; several were engaged in horse-breaking, which to any accustomed eye was confusing the well-broken horse being worked. But the watchfulness of the scene was so plain that the thud of the horse's hoofs, and the occasional voice, were startling.

It was worse inside the main court. A porter hailed them half-heartedly at the gate; but when Robin said, “We have business with Sir Richard and Blaise de Beautement,” he made no further question, and the outlaws walked on. Here were more sheriff's men standing around looking utterly ill at ease, as if perhaps they were suddenly possessed of a few more arms and legs than they were accustomed to, and did not know how to dispose them. And here were thicker and more watchful clots of Sir Richard's peasantry. The blacksmith was banging away at a simple horse-shoe, so the size of his audience was surprising; but his audience was paying poor attention, and most were looking over their shoulders. Indeed, the blacksmith was not well attending either, for the iron under his hammer was becoming brittle with the long and needless working. All the horses in Sir Richard's stable seemed to need hand-walking today; and all the hawks in his hawk house were individually carried out to take the sun.

When the Sherwood folk came to the inner ward, the same atmosphere prevailed; and not a one of the sheriff's horses was tied, for each was held by a grim-faced peasant—several of whom looked as if they'd never been so close to a horse before.

Not all the horses belonged to the sheriff or to Beautement; there was another little group slightly to one side, their trappings less gaudy, and perhaps even a little well-worn for fashion, but aristocratic nonetheless. “Marian,” said Will, under his breath. “What will she be at?”

Rafe said quietly, “Whatever it is, she will do it handsomely.”

Will, thinking of the girl who had climbed trees and torn her skirts like his own little sister, said, “I hope so.”

No one here asked their business; no one asked what name should be announced; but when they reached the Great Hall they were obviously anticipated, and the tableau opened out a little to let them in.

Sir Richard, drawn and haggard and looking twice his years, stood with his head bowed and his hands cupped with a curious desolate emptiness, as if they would never hold anything again. He wore a green tunic very similar to the ones favoured by the outlaws of Sherwood; but his, while of a better cloth, hung less well upon his stooped shoulders than upon any of Robin's folk. The sheriff was standing behind the great table, where Sir Richard was wont to sit; and Robin's fists closed involuntarily at the sight, for at the table itself, in Sir Richard's very chair, was a thin, pink-eyed man in a long dingy robe trimmed in fur: this would be Beautement.

The sheriff's expression as he looked at the new arrivals was mixed of lust and fear and uncertainty; and Robin remembered that Old William had spoken of other visitors whose unexpected arrival had put the sheriff out already—whose identity he had guessed even before he saw the horses outside and recognised the blaze-faced bay. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on the sheriff but they would not obey him; against his will they slid to the other end of the table.

Marian sat there, with her hands crossed gracefully in her lap, and her curly hair smoothed back under a riband; he could only see the top of her head, and the beautiful slope of her neck.… He could not remember when last he had seen her in a dress; this one was the colour of dark amber, with embroidered cuffs, and a yoke of some fancy needlework across the breasts; the skirt fell in long thick folds, hiding her feet. He wondered if she was beautiful, or if only in his eyes she gleamed in the sunlight.

With her was her father, who sat staring like one stricken at the girlhood friends of his daughter; for Much stood at Robin's elbow on the one hand, and Will moved up and stood beside Little John at the other. The man's face was bloodless, and in his slow and fearful mind the truth of his daughter's absences was inexorably emerging from the shadows where he had banished it.

Beside him sat a sad-faced woman a little older than Marian; and over Marian's chair, half-crouched like a dog protecting a bone, stood a young man Robin guessed must be Nigel. He, too, looked at the outlaws as if his worst suspicions were being confirmed, but Robin feared any outburst he might make less than anything Marian's father might say, for he could call too many of them by name.

“A merry meeting,” said Robin; and Sir Richard stirred, as if a long-forgotten voice were disturbing a bitter dream. “I am glad we came not too late.”

The sheriff opened his mouth, and his men, who had been ranged around the walls of the room, took a long step forward. But the sheriff said nothing after all, and they paused again, leaning on their lances and looking silly; committed to leaving their lounging against the walls but having no command to follow.

“For we have come in time, have we not?” said Robin; and he unhooked the purse at his belt. Little John did the same. “We are here to buy back the mortgages on Sir Richard's lands, which I understand are otherwise forfeit. We would have come to you sooner—sir—” said Robin to the sheriff, who stared over his head, “but we have a quaint dislike for Nottingham town, where the streets are narrow and we cannot catch our breath.” And at Robin's words there was some clinking of hauberks against sword-hilts and lance-butts against flagstones.

Sir Richard moved now; his hands clasped, and his head rose and turned toward Robin. Robin's name had already shaped itself on his lips when some spark of his native wit returned to him, and instead he said formally, “Sir, I know not what you mean by this; but these debts are my own, and I ask no aid; my lands are forfeit.”

“I think not,” said Robin. “You may call them mine, if you wish, rather than yours, but they are no longer Beautement's; and I hire you now and forever as my administrator. I have no wish to oversee this holding, which would be too great a responsibility to a—yeoman—like myself.”

“And if I choose not to accept?” said Beautement, querulously. “For the worth of the lands I know, and I mislike the look of your purses.”

“And the hands that hold them!” cried the sheriff at last. “Seize them!” But he was too late; for there was an arrow at the throat of every one of his men before he finished saying the words; and there were Much and Will and Little John and Robin left over, smiling faintly, their hands loose at their sides.

“How unkind,” said Robin mournfully. “But see! All is not lost; our gold is good.” And he and Little John upended their purses on the table; and a lovely bright heap of gold and jewels spilled twinkling out. A bar of sunlight from a high window lay diagonally across the table, and the outlaws' ransom fell across it, as if the table were divided per saltire, and Sir Richard should gain a new coat of arms by the day's business.

“Thief!” gobbled the sheriff, seizing a ring. “
Thief
! This was taken from the hand of Sir Nicholas not a month past!”

“Indeed?” said Robin. “How curious. For it bears upon it—you see,” he said, taking it delicately from the sheriff's shaking hand so that their fingers did not touch, “it bears the sigil mark of an old Saxon family, and I know they cherished it very dearly. So dearly, I think,” he said, smiling, “that you must be mistaken; for only to another Saxon's hand would they have yielded it up. But they will, I am sure, take comfort in the fact that it has fallen to Norman hands at last to save a fellow Saxon from harm.

“And these must be the mortgages?” Robin continued, bending closer to the table to look at the heavy vellum pages lying before Beautement. “Yes. I shall take these, for they are mine now; and I have a bard who will be happy to scrape them clean, for he has been pining for something to commit his lyrics to; and so yet another person's heart shall be gladdened by our meeting this day.”

“Gladdened?” the sheriff said thickly. “I shall be gladdened by the sight of you and your foul crew hanging from my gibbet!”

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” said Robin. “Surely there must be some other thing to please you; for life is short enough—for both of us.”

“Short enough!” said the sheriff; “within these walls you have the upper hand; but you shall not leave these gates alive.”

“For shame,” said Marian, rising from her chair with a sweep of amber skirts. “How can you speak so? I know naught of what happens here, though I see you know each other past this day's meeting and in no friendly attitude; but I see also that this man,” and she made a tiny bow toward Robin, “has offered good price for Sir Richard's mortgages; and I cannot see that your claim is not satisfied.”

She turned gracefully to Sir Richard, who still looked dazed. “I congratulate you, sir, on your good fortune; not merely in the regaining of your property and by it your life and livelihood,” she said with the faintest clear stress, “but in the having of so good a friend as this man.” Her eyes, perfectly cool and indifferent, met Robin's briefly; and if looks could kill, thought Robin, Nigel would have pounded several holes in my heart by now. Marian looked back to Sir Richard. “At so happy an occasion”—the sheriff twitched—“I wish to cause no distress”—the sheriff twitched again—“but I hope that regaining your own home will not make you a stranger to ours. Our invitation is still sincere even if it is no longer necessary.”

There was a tiny pause, in which the loudest noise was the sheriff's breathing. His men were still caught in their awkward poses, half at the fraudulent ease of soldiers in a situation that should not call for their skill, and half on useless guard from the arrow-points held steadily at the hollows of their throats. The outlaws looked relaxed, as if they stood around with their arrows notched and their bows pulled back for hours daily, just, perhaps, in practice—or in anticipation of such occasions as this one. The sheriff hauled violently at his tunic, which had a tendency to ruck up over a belly grown too big for it.

Marian turned so smoothly to Robin that perhaps only the sheriff and the outlaws standing nearest heard Beautement begin to say, “But—”

“I would have your name, sir,” said Marian. “I would thank you by name for a good friend we share.”

“My name is Robin,” said Robin Hood; “Robin, son of Robert, forester, once, in the king's service.”

“And so you are a good king's man,” said Marian. “I am glad to know this.” There was a strangled noise like a sob behind her; the sheriff's men looked miserably to their leader. “But I could have no doubt by this generous deed.”

“It is not fit,” said Sir Richard slowly, “that you, my lady, should offer my thanks first. I can only beg that my—my oppression of mind these recent weeks has had a—an adverse effect on my manners. I thank you from my deepest heart.” His eyes still looked blank, but he fixed them on Robin's face, and straightened his back, and did not look at Beautement or the sheriff. Robin could guess that it took all his self-command not to; for it was not yet clear to Robin, or, doubtless, to Sir Richard, that gold and impudence would carry this day. And while Robin knew that Marian provided a leaden weight upon the sheriff's behaviour, and that by her presence there might yet be no blood shed and no one of Sir Richard's loyal folk taken for siding with outlaws against the law of England, still he wished her far away from this dangerous show.

“May I offer you—refreshment?” said Sir Richard. He looked around, as if a meal might materialize at his elbow as a confirmation of the miracle this doomed day had brought him. One of his people stepped forward, braving the red-hot gaze of the sheriff, and said to Sir Richard, “My lord?”

Robin said, “We thank you, but we have—other duties, which bid us not tarry. But we hope to see you again, and soon, and under less—er—mortal circumstances. On that day we shall be glad to eat and drink—and to laugh—with you.”

Sir Richard's eyes seemed at last to focus, and the faintest beginning of a smile touched his mouth. “I shall look forward to it.”

“We too should be leaving,” said Marian; “you will see us to your gate, will you not? Perhaps the looking at what is again yours without question will please you.” Her words flew like butterflies through the vibrant air of the hall; and the company was quiet, as if watching them. There was definitely a smile on Sir Richard's face now, but it was a small one, and not entirely pleasant. “I shall of course escort you off my property,” he said, and his eyes swept round the room, and took in the fact that the sheriff's men were outnumbered better than two to one by his own folk; and that at the moment there were arrows at their throats besides.