Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (18 page)

“No.” Marian’s expression was sober. On Eleanor’s face it might have been sullen; on hers it was exquisite. “No, I thought not myself ... but how do you say so? She has been with me all my life . . . how do I tell her I want her to stay at home?”

“The way a knight’s daughter must,” he told her evenly. “With gentleness, with compassion, and utter inflexibility. If you want her to live to be nurse to
your
children, she must stay home.”

His words triggered something. Surprised, deLacey saw a wave of high color wash away the Celtic pallor. It lent her a vividness that took his breath away. Then, aware of his gaze, she made a pretty gesture meant to stave off a question.

The compulsion was overpowering. At that moment
—this moment!—
he wanted nothing more than to strip the mantle from her, and all the other fabrics, to lay bare the flesh he needed so much to taste. To yank the coif from her head and free the glorious hair, sinking his hands into it, losing himself in the satiation of the flesh that was, if only briefly, as intoxicating as power.
I want it all. ALL. The wealth, the power, the woman.

“My lord?” she inquired.

Sanity rushed back, filling in the hole that desire had so unexpectedly uncovered in his soul. “William,” he said harshly. “You must call me William.”

For a long, too-long moment, she regarded him intently. He felt hideously exposed; that she read every nuance in him, every fleshly need, and was repelled by it.

But Marian was unawakened. Marian as yet did not understand such needs. Not as Eleanor might. “No,” she said merely, in her quiet, smoky voice, and pulled her hand away.

Locksley stopped at a well, since he had no coin for cider, ale, or wine, and waited his turn in the midst of Nottingham’s inhabitants and country peasants. He heard their desultory talk, the comments of dissatisfaction, the muttered imprecations against those who taxed them unduly, who sentenced them to starve because venison was denied them, in the name of the king’s selfishness, or the earl’s private holdings.

The sheriff, all agreed, was a harsh, unbending man who carried out his office with no thought to their plight. How would
he
like it, they wondered aloud aggrievedly, if the Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham were forced to toil for others, denied the forest game that could feed a thousand villages throughout the worst of winters? Was it any wonder poachers were made of farmers? And what
then
could they do, they and their women, when the men were maimed for trying to feed their children?

Mute, Locksley waited his turn, listening closely, and at last was given the dipper. He nodded his thanks and took water from the bucket that quenched the thirst of peasants; set his lips to the dipper that peasants had set their lips to; drank from the water that peasants also would drink from. Water, at least, was free, requiring no physical toil, exacting no tax or servitude, requiring no permission from the lord who ordered their lives.

Locksley lowered the dipper, staring blankly into the well as water ran down his chin. The realization was abrupt, and as unsettling.
I am they, and they are I
...
there is no difference between us. The Saracens made me their peasant, just as I make these men mine.

“Here, now.” It was the man behind him. “Here, now—d’ye mean to drink it dry?”

Locksley swung to face him. The man fell back into the man behind him, who cursed, muttering of clumsiness, and then shut his mouth abruptly as he also saw Locksley’s expression. They were peasants, both of them, trained from childhood to know and acknowledge their betters. He wore plain, unadorned clothing not so different from their own, unless one studied workmanship and cloth, but the bearing and intangible power of presence set him apart from them.

Each man hastily tugged at a forelock, wondering inwardly what
he
was doing here, drinking so publicly from a well best used by the peasantry, but neither said a word save to murmur a servile greeting.

“No,” Locksley said tightly, pressing the dipper into the first man’s hands. “No, I’ll not drink it dry. You deserve it more than I.”

 

Marian could not look at William deLacey. He had spoken so easily of Matilda being nurse to her future children, not knowing he echoed the woman’s own words. In and of themselves the words were not so startling, nor particularly uncommon, but to hear such things mentioned by the sheriff, whom her father desired her to marry—and who had, inexplicably, assumed an intensity she had never seen in a man—left her feeling oddly unsettled. He had stared at her so oddly.

She dragged the borrowed mantle more tightly around her shoulders, tucking her hands out of sight. Steadfastly she stared into the crowd, searching for a distraction, and saw it almost at once. “Ribbons!” she cried. “I must fetch Matilda a ribbon—” She moved swiftly across the street, to busy her hands and mind with the examination of color, fabric, and length.

He followed, of course, as she had expected him to. But by the time he stood again at her shoulder Marian had recovered her self-control. And so, she saw, had he; he put out a steady hand and pulled loose from the basket a single crimson length. He laid it across her shoulder, atop the bright woolen mantle. Then, sharply, he said “No,” and took the ribbon away.

It was altogether puzzling. Marian turned from him again and pieced through the baskets, finding many colorful ribbons that took her fancy. In the end she chose dark wine, knowing it suited Matilda.

Before she could speak, the sheriff paid for the trifle. Marian protested, but he dismissed it easily. “Come with me,” he said. “There is something I want to do.”

She accommodated him, tucking the newly purchased ribbon into the purse hung beneath her mantle as he escorted her to a stall full of finely loomed wool. The quality was exquisite, the dye-lots rich and clean. No slubs in the weave, no splotches in the color.

“This,” deLacey declared, and pulled up a fold of cloth. It was a rich, brilliant blue. “This,” he said, “not that. Blue to match your eyes, and for the blackness of your hair.”

“No,” she said promptly. “No, my lord—I forbid it.”

He smiled easily. “The other is ruined. And this—” He touched a fold, “—this one is Eleanor’s. It does you far less credit than you deserve.”

She was adamant. “I have other mantles at home.”

He was as inflexible. “I will have it made up, and bring it to you myself.”

In that moment Marian realized the confrontation would color the rest of their lives, if she took no pains to change it. Something had happened. Something had given him leave to pursue her. Something in his eyes, that indefinable intensity, told her very clearly he intended to do so.
How do I deal with this? How can I dissuade him without destroying the linkage with my father?
“No,” she said, half pleading, protecting her memory of Hugh FitzWalter. “Please, my lord—”

“It pleases me,” he agreed. “I will not be denied.”

It will get worse, not better.
She sought her only weapon. “I will not wear it. ”

His expression was very still. She could not pierce its facade. “That is your choice,” he told her evenly. “But I will have this done.” He had told her to be inflexible. She saw the example before her.

He is buying little pieces of me, breaking them off bit by bit. No matter what I say, no matter what I do . . .
Firmly, she repeated, “I will not wear it.”

DeLacey turned from her and looked at the merchant. “Have it taken to the castle. The account will be settled later.”

Marian put a hand on his wrist, knowing instinctively it would hold him. “My lord, I beg you—don’t put me in such a difficult position. I can’t accept it.”

“Indeed you can, and you shall. I insist. The matter is settled.”

She jerked her hand away, knowing the ploy failed. “Have I no say?”

He smiled. “In this, no. Marian—honor me. I have seen you grow up from an awkward, coltish girl into a lovely woman. I wish only to pay tribute to what you have become. Can you deny me that?” He continued before she could answer. “Your father and I were friends. I ask no more intimacy than that, Marian . . . allow me to give you this in memory of his name.”

He was smooth and eloquent. She knew him for many things, not all of them admirable, but she could not deny the effectiveness of his words. His manner was impeccable. The underlying tension she had seen but moments before was gone, banished by a courtesy no different from that he offered others.

And yet there remained a single small weapon, born of bitterness, that she should be so weak. “What are you like, I wonder, when you speak as you’d like to speak, without the requirements of office?”

The recoil was minute, but present. She knew it when she saw it, because she had waited for it. “Do you imply I am a liar?”

Marian laughed, seeing and hearing genuine astonishment. “A diplomat, my lord. A man overschooled with words, who understands phraseology far better than most, I fear. And while I understand the means, I don’t comprehend the intent. Why manipulate
me?
”

She had at last effectively undercut him. “Because,” he said finally, in an unfamiliar tone, “you insist upon it.”

It dumbfounded her, but he offered no explanation. He offered nothing at all, save a tight, masked expression she found less than eloquent, yet strangely illuminating.

 

The smell of meat pasties roused Locksley’s appetite, but he had no coin with which to buy any. While water cost nothing, victuals weren’t free, which only renewed his determination to find a game at which he could win a purse.

He heard the sound before he saw the cause: a whining hum of displaced air, cut through by wooden shafts. He knew it instantly. Swiftly he made his way through the multitude, and stopped short at the edge of the green near Market Square. Six archers competed, shooting at a distance that would soon bespeak their skill. Locksley watched closely, marking longbows and cloth-yard arrows, fletched with ticked goose quills.

The targets were vaguely man-shaped, made of straw stuffed into sacking, then bound against movable wooden standards. On the breast of each “man” were painted multicolored rings, with a heart-shaped bull’s-eye in the center.

Locksley smiled, folded his arms and spread his legs to relax his stance. He watched as the six men drew arrows, nocked, and loosed. One shaft flew wide, ending that archer’s participation. Two others struck straw, naught else, which also ended the turns. One struck the outer ring, two others the center ring. But none pierced the heart. No man could continue.

Absently, he nodded. The barker was calling for new archers. He marked his man apart, and when all six failed archers stepped away from the line, Locksley moved to intercept him. “A good stout bow,” he said lightly, altering his accent to something less than aristocratic, “but a bit too tall for you.”

The man glowered at him. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, sullen, with a squint to one eye. “D’ye you think you could do better?”

Locksley hitched a shoulder. “But one way to see. Give me the loan of your bow and five of your arrows. You’ll share in the winnings.”

The man assessed him, noting quality and cut of clothing; considering possibilities. “How much?”

“A quarter,” Locksley answered.

“Half,” the man countered. “Without bow nor arrows, you’ll win nothing at all.”

Locksley paused a moment, as if thinking it over. “Bargain.”

The man squinted at him. “Who be you, then?”

He hesitated. “Robin. Robin of Locksley, hard by Huntington.”

“I know it.” The man handed over the bow. “I’m Tom Fletcher, of Hathersage. ’Tis what I do, d’ye see: make arrows such as these. So what, I ask myself, do
you
know of bows?”

Robert, newly christened Robin, hitched a single shoulder. “Watch me shoot, Tom Fletcher, and you’ll see what I know of bows.”

“Hmmmph,” was Tom Fletcher’s comment, but he stood aside to watch as Locksley tested the bow.

It was smooth, sleek yew, measuring more than six feet. Locksley found the pull to his liking, as anticipated, and the fit of the leather-wrapped handgrip. He put out his right hand for an arrow, and Tom Fletcher gave him one.

“Clear away!” someone shouted. “Clear away for the archers!”

He stepped to the line, along with five others. The butts remained at the same distance, as no one had struck the heart. He measured it automatically, marked the play of breeze, and honed his concentration. A strange bow and a strange arrow; it would take him more than once.

Five others loosed. Locksley nocked his borrowed arrow, raised his borrowed longbow, brought back his right hand to his jaw. Tension sang through string and arms, promising sweet power. He hadn’t handled a longbow for more months than he cared to recall.

He counted, then loosed. The string hummed briefly as it catapulted the feathered shaft through the light spring air. It struck into the target just outside the heart-shaped bull’s-eye.

Tom Fletcher grunted. “Not so bad a first shot.”

But not good enough. Locksley put out his hand for the second arrow. He loosed as the others loosed. This one pierced the heart. None of the others did.

A cheer went up. Tom Fletcher slapped his back. “Done, then! And half of the winnings mine.”

“Not yet,” Locksley said. “Three more arrows yet.”

“But you’ve won! You’ve beaten the others, Robin. What more is left to do?”

Find out if I can still do it.
But he said it to himself.

“Target!” someone called. “Back ten more paces; d’ye think you can manage that?”

Locksley nocked the arrow. When he loosed it, the heart boasted a second shaft.

“Target!” was shouted. Another ten paces added.

Tom Fletcher swore. “Boy, you’ll not do it. Take your winnings and go.”

Locksley’s eyes glinted. “After dividing them?”

The fletcher spat. “Hit that heart but twice more, my lad, and you’ll have my half as well.”

Twice more Locksley shot. Twice more the heart was pierced. But when the watching crowd threatened to bruise him with celebration, the former Robert of Locksley, companion to the king, merely gave the bow back to Tom Fletcher, accepted the purse with murmured thanks, and disappeared into the throng.

 

Alan of the Dales finished the chord with a flourish and bent over in a cramped bow. The listeners around him applauded. Coins landed in his hat. He saw the glint of silver marks and looked up with a grin of thanks. “My lord—” But he let the false flattery die out when he saw the title was applicable. Instead he rose to his feet, dangling the lute at his side.

He was all-over brown, Alan saw: plain brown tunic and hosen, with a plain brown leather belt, and plain brown leather boots. He was unremarkable save for his stature and the set of his shoulders, for the shape of facial bones, the wide-set hazel eyes, and the near-white hair that tumbled across wide shoulders.

The tone was cool. It might have been mocking, save there was no emotion at all. What little he knew of Robert of Locksley convinced Alan the earl’s son was sparing with his feelings. “I told you to go to the alehouse.”

Resentment goaded him into challenge. “It burned down last year—or did you forget, my lord?”

For only a moment surprise replaced the cool implacability. Then it faded, replaced by a grim bleakness. “Last year I was on Crusade.”