Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (21 page)

DeLacey turned. “You heard me,” he rasped. “His life.”

“But—if he has been sentenced ...” Marian looked from the murderer to the sheriff.
He wouldn’t. He would not promise this man release, then deny it. Would he?
“You said he had been sentenced.”

DeLacey smiled faintly. “You pleaded for the minstrel. You pleaded for the boy. Leniency, you begged; well, is this not leniency? Have I not heard your arguments, and acceded to your wishes?” He flicked a glance at Scarlet. “But let this man be victorious, and I will spare his life.”

Marian was neither convinced nor placated.
I know him better, now. There is something in this he wants
. . .
something in this he gains.
But she could not discern what it was, unless it was meant to salvage a thing he believed lost. “A bone to dogs,” she murmured, frowning.
A bone, perhaps, for me?

 

His name was Abraham, and he was a Jew. Robert of Locksley, looking down on the small, wizened man, could see nothing about him that marked him different. And yet people did.
Englishmen
did, naming him and other Jews perfidious usurers who robbed good Christians of their coin in an attempt to destroy them.

Locksley, who had just returned from two years spent in the lands from which Abraham and his family had come, no longer understood the distinction between good Christian men who murdered in the name of their God, and devoutly peaceful Jews who worshipped the same God. Their ways were different, yes, but the results markedly less contentious, lacking in violence. The Crusaders leveled cities, killed Saracens, raped women, and murdered children. As if, somehow, God desired such atrocities to be certain of their souls.

In England, Jews had been killed. Boarded up in a tower and burned to death, in York. And in London, at Richard’s coronation, hundreds of others had died. Simply because they were Jews. A part of the earl’s son wanted to say he was sorry. But how did one man apologize for the hostility of a nation?

The old Jew nodded welcome and gestured for Locksley to seat himself on a stool by a table. He himself was already seated at the same table, a deference due, he said, to age and infirmity. England’s dampness sat ill upon his joints, though spring and summer were easier seasons.

Locksley sat down. He was not a man for inanities in prelude to conversation. Richard valued his bluntness, but Richard, though a king, was himself no courtier. “I need money.”

Abraham nodded. The sagging flesh by the dark eyes creased. It was not an unexpected request. “And how much do you need?”

He had no idea, but Abraham might. “I am Locksley,” he said diffidently. “Robert of Locksley. My father is the Earl of Huntington.”

Abraham’s face lighted. “Ah, of course! You are the hero-son!”

It made him intensely uncomfortable. “If you require proof, there is this.” He extended his right hand on the table, displaying the signet ring upon his forefinger. “There are other proofs at Huntington, if you require them.”

“No, no. It is enough, my young lord.” Abraham smiled warmly. “I am acquainted with your father.”

No more than that, but it told Locksley something, even in subtlety: a moneylender would not divulge a customer’s name. Yet clearly the earl had borrowed. “The castle.”

“And a fine, large castle.” Dark eyes glinted. “Do you wish one for yourself?”

“No!” It was expelled instantly, framed in vehemence. “No, not for me ... I need money for a man. Money for—a king.”

The old man’s expectant expression faded. Gnarled hands smoothed the embroidered border at his robe’s neckline. “You want money for King Richard’s ransom?”

“Yes.” Locksley touched his ring, turning it on his finger. “There is this. A few more things left to me by my mother. And—Locksley.” He looked at Abraham. “Can you give me money against the revenues?”

Abraham’s expression was troubled. “I cannot, my lord. Forgive me. But you see—they mean to raise the taxes. We have already given what we can to the king’s cause . . . across England, we have raised thousands of marks—but what is left we must hold back. The taxes, you see.” Hands gestured futility. “We dare not be late, we Jews—they will use any excuse.”

But Locksley’s attention was fixed on something other than tardy payments. “The taxes are being
raised?”

“There are rumors . . .” The tone was delicate. “With the king held prisoner, his brother governs the realm. And Prince John is ... well ...” Abraham sighed. “He is not his brother.” “Nor is he king,” Locksley declared. “He is a wealthy man since marrying the Gloucester heiress . . . and Nottinghamshire is his. The rest is Richard’s money. And as he is in Germany, he can’t authorize increases.”

“Perhaps not.” Abraham’s expression was oddly sanguine, as if serenity could mask his true opinion. “Nonetheless, my sources are impeccable. Within a matter of days, the sheriff will send out tax collectors.”

Still Locksley protested. “It isn’t the proper season.”

“My lord . . .” Abraham diffidently touched Locksley’s hand for an instant, then withdrew it. “You have been long out of England, my lord. There have been—changes.”

“John,” he said flatly.

“In lieu of sons by the king, the Count of Mortain is heir,” the old man said. “If the king is not returned, his brother will rule in his stead.”

Locksley considered it, looking for alternatives. He did not want to believe so much corruption had entered England’s breast. “These additional taxes may well be intended for the king’s ransom.”

“Indeed, my lord, and a worthwhile reason, if it be true—but there is no money left to give. In the last two years, taxes have been raised three times. Twice, to finance the Holy War. We gave, my lord. Then word of the ransom came. We gave, my lord. And now, again, the king’s safety is the excuse . . .” Abraham sighed wearily. “There are those who say the money will be diverted elsewhere. That the king will not benefit while his brother is in debt.”

“John is in debt?”

Abraham smoothed his robe. “Even the highest are known to live beyond their means.”

The face before him blurred. Locksley, deep in thought, did not see the old man’s expression. He stared transfixed at Abraham while he worked through the repercussions. “He would not—” He broke it off, frowning. “I know him, Abraham. The king. For a war, for a Crusade, he would persuade an old woman to give up the last tooth in her head—but for himself, he would not. He would not impoverish his realm.”

“The people know, my lord. That is why they have given freely.”

“But this is
John’s
doing.”

“They know that, also. But knowing the truth of the matter does not lessen the penalty should one refuse to pay.”

“But if you
can’t
—if there is no money . . .” Locksley shook his head. “He will say it’s for his brother.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And keep it for himself.”

In Abraham’s silence the answer was implicit.

Marian frowned, watching as the soldiers cut the leather gag from Will Scarlet’s mouth. The flesh beneath was pale and compressed, baring a long-set network of creases in the midst of grime-smudged stubble. She knew it must be painful, but he made no move to rub his face. He was, withal, filthy, and no doubt lice-ridden as well. Her body answered at once, setting up a chorus of nonexistent itches she longed to scratch vigorously, but didn’t because she felt it would give a murderer victory, when he deserved nothing more than contempt for such base brutality.
Four men,
she reflected.
Out of spite, or out of temper?

“I want to know,” deLacey said, “if you understand.”

Will Scarlet stared at him from dark eyes aglitter with abiding malignancy.

The sheriff was patient. “Do you understand?”

Still the man was silent. The crowd began to murmur.

And yet a third time, with additional explanation. “If you win the match you will not be hanged. I say this before witnesses: half of Nottingham.”

Scarlet’s fixed stare did not waver. He merely thrust out his manacled wrists in a jangle of chiming iron.

The sheriff looked to his guard contingent. “I charge you with the keeping of this man. If he attempts to escape, you will kill him at once.” He looked at the crowd, raising his voice, pitching it to carry. “Is that not fair? That if a murderer escape, he be killed immediately so as not to risk innocent souls?”

Marian looked at the faces. Everyone was nodding.
He plays them with words. He plays them all like fish. They know the giant will win. All they want is entertainment.
Iron chimed again as Will Scarlet altered his stance. The sheriff motioned a soldier to unlock the shackles.
Why?
Marian wondered.
What does he gain from this?

 

She was a blaze of crimson before Will Scathlocke, all swaddled in brilliant wool. It made it easy to find her. It made it easy to see her. It made it a simple thing to mark out the sheriff’s woman, who believed he should be hanged.

Had she not proclaimed it?
You said he had been sentenced.
Telling him, very plainly, she thought he should be denied a chance to save himself.

Wife, daughter, mistress. The title didn’t matter. She thought he should hang. Even without her words she damned him with her eyes, with the stiffness of expression, sickened by his crime.

No crime at all, killing those men. Had he to do it again, he would do much more than kill them. He would rend each limb from limb and laugh while doing it.

She was beautiful, he saw, in the Celtic way: dark and bright at once, with a fey, compelling glamour set to snare a man’s attention even in repose, when she put no thought to it. Not so very different from the woman he had loved.

Noise around him rose. Vision flickered faintly. Even the smell had changed: prelude to the madness. He tingled in his groin and armpits, felt the tightening of genitals. Saliva filled his mouth.

They asked: would he fight the giant?

He’d fight any man; often, he had no choice, when the madness came upon him.

And a second ludicrous question: would he not attempt escape?

In that also, there was no choice. What fool would stay behind, to suffer for Norman justice? To be hanged for Norman lies?

But William Scathlocke nodded.

DeLacey motioned for the iron to be removed and watched dispassionately as a soldier bent to unlock the ankles, then rose again to tend the wrists. Weight fell from imprisoned limbs, clamoring of freedom. DeLacey heard the murmuring spread: Nottingham was astonished that he would treat one of them so fairly as to give a second chance to a man, a brutal murderer, already tried and sentenced to hang.

It would do, he knew. The fight and its fury would command their attention, and then, very quietly, in the midst of so much turmoil—he knew Scathlocke’s history would ensure a violent battle—the sheriff could at last tend his office. The boy would surreptitously be taken away to the castle, to receive proper punishment as prescribed by law. The giant, Little John, would eventually prevail, because no single man, regardless of battle madness, could win against such power.

And William Scathlocke, who would of course attempt escape—only a fool would not, and Scarlet, regardless of birth, was no fool, they said—could be cut down in the streets like the brutal beast he was.
And all my problems solved with nary a word of protest.

With everything settled so neatly before all of Nottingham, even Marian couldn’t protest that the sheriff had been unjust. A woman’s weapon, the tongue; but he would blunt it, for now.

 

John Naylor, Little John, Hathersage Giant and shepherd, stared down in some consternation at the man who was meant to fight him. He did not know him personally, but knew a little
about
him; William Scathlocke, called Scarlet, had become notorious. Everyone in Nottinghamshire knew well what he had done. And none, so far as Little John knew, blamed him for any of it.

But murder was murder, even in Norman England. And that a lowborn English peasant had dared to lay his dirty villein’s hands on four Normans in Prince John’s personal service, let alone
kill
them . . . well, no man guilty of such could hope for an attempt at understanding, nor even a chance to explain, save from his own people. People such as dared speak no word in Scathlocke’s defense, lest the Normans look to them.

Scathlocke, he decided, did not
look
like a murderer. He looked very much like every other Englishman trying to make a living in an age of brutal indifference, ruled by ruthless, selfish men. Little John knew nothing of nobility, save names and royal castles, and how to offer servility when such behavior was required. His entire life experience was limited to shepherding and peasanthood, to ignorance and hardship, to unending labor performed to pay killing taxes to Norman overlords. He knew what was fair, and what wasn’t; he knew the grinding poverty so many others shared. He knew a little of anger, something of resentment; had more than a passing acquaintanceship with frustration and helplessness.

Madness he didn’t know. But William Scathlocke did.

Little John was not afraid of the man, whom he couldn’t understand, whom rumor claimed went mad when the heat of battle was on him. Little John’s fear of physical abuse at the hands of others had died in early adolescence, when he stood head and shoulders above even the tallest of men. Of course, such tremendous size did not ward him from other abuses. He had grown up with a raft of names meant to cut him to the heart, if not harm the body. Some had managed to do it.

He discovered the only true escape, the only true chance at making a life for himself, was to turn from humans entirely and take solace in animals. They loved unconditionally. And if they couldn’t speak, not as men and women spoke, at least the language they used offered comfort and release.

Shepherding suited him. He expected no better life, content to tend, to lamb, to shear. But when a sweating, belligerent man at a North Country fair had challenged him to a wrestling match—he’d beaten everyone else—Little John discovered he could do more than tend his sheep; he could win by sheer power if not by technique. But making a living from the fairs was not fulfilling enough. There they gawked at his size, murmuring comments behind his back, muttering of the monster, resurrecting the old names, though with less virulence than simple astonishment underscored by a trace of distaste. Always, it was the sheep to which he went for personal peace.

He was not a violent man. He was not a difficult man. He was not a man who desired to irritate his betters, yet irritate one he had. Little John knew it instinctively, as well as who the man was: the lord high sheriff himself. But the giant could not stand silently by and do nothing for the boy, who was like to lose his hand without a protest in his behalf.

No—the woman had protested. She had spoken her mind, voicing the concerns that Little John felt as well, but she was a woman, with no more influence in matters of decision than a serf. She couldn’t win without someone to help her, without a man large enough to propose a way to alter the “justice” that would deprive a boy of his hand.

And now here he stood, staring down at the man called Will Scarlet, murderer, whom everyone said was mad. A man but half the giant’s size but who, in his madness, could kill four armed Norman soldiers.

Scathlocke had, rumor said, beaten one man to death. The fourth and final soldier he had relieved of his throat.

Little John was not afraid, but neither was he such a fool as to assume there was no danger in a man with nothing to lose.

 

Much stood very still, offering no protest. He was quick and deft and agile, but he knew when he was caught. He knew also, instinctively, when it was best simply to wait, because trying to escape when the time wasn’t right merely resulted in additional pain.

The soldier was big, sheathed in mail shirt, blue tabard, and the conical Norman helm with its ugly metal nasal that distorted a man’s face even as it protected it. The Norman’s hands were big also, and very strong; Much felt the weight of them around his wrists, crossed snuggly behind his back.

He breathed noisily through his mouth, letting it hang slack. It was easier to breathe that way, because a backhanded blow in childhood—he didn’t remember from whom; not his father, was it?—had collapsed the bridge of his nose. Things were better now that he had grown, but spring and fall were difficult seasons because his head was always stuffed.

The giant he found astonishing. Never had he seen a man so tall, nor with such an incandescent bushiness of red hair and beard. He wore only baggy hosen so his freckled torso was bared, giving Much—and everyone else—an unobstructed view of a massive chest.

Blue eyes, Much saw, tilting back his head to look. And pale, reddish lashes.
Giant,
he said in silence, thinking of the world he had created for himself, where imaginary beings treated him like a king.

He added someone to it. A friendly, red-haired giant, who protected him against harm.

Marian, and the giant. Princess and protector.

Much smiled happily. His world was getting better.

 

Cold,
Marian thought.
Cold
—
and very angry.
The near-black eyes were unsettling, so fixed and oddly compelling. She would not have characterized them as the eyes of a madman, because she had never seen a madman before; if Will Scathlocke-Scarlet really
were
one, he was her first. She hoped he was her last.

DeLacey stirred beside her. “Get on with it,” he commanded.

She glanced at him sharply, hearing the undertone of anticipation; of an odd, unstated pleasure, as if he knew perfectly well what would come of the bout. She found it both interesting and dismaying at once, that a man could predict a thing so accurately as to display not even the slightest concern over men he did not control.

Or did he? He was, she had come to believe, a consummate manipulator of people and things around him. She had seen it in the past two days; she had been a victim of it herself. She understood there existed such things as subterfuge and intrigue—she was not an ignorant woman, and her father was plainspoken—but never had she seen the practice of gamesmanship applied before her eyes, when she had the vision to see it.

For example, the game of matchmaking: he had intended to make a match between Eleanor and Locksley and had worked toward that aim with concerted diligence. That the ploy had failed was hardly his fault— Eleanor herself had destroyed the chance of a marriage—but for all Marian knew the earl himself might have withheld his permission once it got that far. And, of course, there was Locksley—

Robin.
She conjured his face, hearing in his tone the thing that had made him someone else, someone other than what
they
claimed; not so much a hero-knight as a vulnerable young man, come home to things unknown.
Robin.
She was cognizant of new confusion; of victory and pleasure in the name no others used.

“Marian.” The sheriff put a hand upon her arm to move her out of danger.

The ring was abruptly a battlefield. Marian knew nothing of wrestling, and very little of fighting. This was, plainly, mayhem, the focused, obsessed intent of one man to defeat another so he could escape execution.

She did not know what the giant expected. Perhaps it was a time spent in introduction, in the courtesies of discovery while they tested one another. But what Scarlet answered with superseded courtesies, being nothing more than a brutal display of raw, unfettered need, and physical expiation for sins only he understood.

Will Scarlet spun on his heels and charged at the giant, aiming for his shins. Hands clutched at knees, thumbs dug into muscle. Little John growled a startled protest, then grabbed doubled handfuls of Scarlet’s ragged tunic and shoved down across bunched shoulders even as he himself stumbled back, struggling to hold his balance.