Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (36 page)

Much stroked its nose, liking the warmth of the breath whuffing against his arm. It was a fine, tall horse; a deep-chested, unmarked bay. Much petted the horse, slicking the long, sloping shoulder where it joined the heavy neck. The leather trappings were of excellent quality, and the brown cloak hooked across the saddle bespoke an expert’s hand at the loom. He smiled, content with his prize, and untied the reins. He would lead him down the track, then into the backside of Nottingham Castle, where he knew a man who would pay silver for such a horse.

 

Gisbourne heard the door open. Inwardly he cursed; it was the barber, he knew, come to goad him into protest, to complain of discomfort, so the barber could respond that the leg was rotting off.

God, but he hated the man!

“Sir Guy.” It was not the barber. He did not speak with such a cool, mellifluous voice in the accents of Gisbourne’s childhood.

Am I dead?
He opened his eyes. No, he wasn’t dead. The voice belonged to Gilbert de Pisan, elegantly attired in a rich blue surcoat of Oriental cut left open to show off the embroidered tunic beneath. Obviously the prince’s service paid better than the sheriffs.

Gisbourne struggled to right himself, to pull himself straight against the bolsters, even as de Pisan made a gesture meant to stay him. Damply, Gisbourne smiled, wishing he had a cloth to wipe his burning face.

“Sir Guy. I am commanded to express my lord’s deepest sympathies for your wound.”

Gisbourne was feverish and flustered, knowing he looked his worst. “I thank him for that. And you,” he added hastily, “for bringing word to me.”

De Pisan’s smile was cool. “Of course.” He eyed the bloody bandage with some distaste. “You will recover, Sir Guy? There is no threat to your leg?”

“No threat,” Gisbourne declared. “I will be fully recovered very soon.”

“I am most pleased to hear it,” de Pisan said tranquilly, “as will my lord be pleased. There is a service you can do him, but of course we must wait until—”

“A service?” Gisbourne scrubbed his damp face with a sweat-stained tunic sleeve. “What service may I do the prince?”

De Pisan frowned faintly, stroking his upper lip with a slender finger. “You recall you spoke with him before with regard to rewarding the sheriffs most diligent service.”

“Of course.” Gisbourne momentarily wondered how de Pisan knew the nature of the conversation, as he had not been present; he realized, belatedly, the seneschal had been informed after the fact. As to who had done the informing ... Gisbourne swallowed tightly. “I told him the sheriff would be particularly pleased to have his daughter wed to the Earl of Huntington’s son.”

“Yes. A good match—until two days ago.” The tone was oblique.

“Two days—?” It confused Gisbourne, who recalled little of two days before save the confrontation with the boar. “I don’t remember ...”

De Pisan’s brows arched. “The lady was despoiled. Do you not recall? The culprit was discovered even as you were brought into the chamber.”

Gisbourne remembered none of it.

De Pisan waved a dismissive hand. “It is no longer important, save to alter the reward my lord had planned to bestow upon the sheriff. It seems now we require more information. And as you know him so well, undoubtedly you are well informed as to what else might please the sheriff.”

Gisbourne wanted to tell the seneschal to ask the sheriff himself. “I fear I do not know him
that
well—”

“Surely you are aware of something, Sir Guy.”

Gisbourne stared at de Pisan a long moment. His innocence had ended most decidedly, with the death knell sounded during the sheriffs visit the day before. He had actually come to visit Marian; Gisbourne understood that now. He understood quite a lot. If he did not make shift for himself and his future, no one would do it for him.

Gisbourne cleared his throat. “I have served the sheriff—”

“My lord is aware of that.”

Gisbourne gritted his teeth. “May I have water?” he temporized.

A flash of impatience showed briefly in de Pisan’s eyes, but was banished instantly. Murmuring apologies for his oversight, he poured a cup of water and handed it to Gisbourne.

Gisbourne waited, watching
him
wait. He understood all too well that Prince John had not been interested in his abilities, but had only sought information that might be used to manipulate the sheriff. Gisbourne had most willingly told him what he knew. And he would tell de Pisan now, but he would have more in return than the privilege of being ravaged by a wild boar. It was time Sir Guy of Gisbourne laid the groundwork for something better than service in Nottingham.

He held out the empty cup expectantly, staring fixedly at the seneschal. He had seen agreements reached in perfect silence between the sheriff and other men. De Pisan served Prince John; surely he would understand the complexities of such things.

A muscle ticked in de Pisan’s cheek, and then he reached for the cup and set it on the table next to the pitcher. He turned back to Gisbourne and folded his slender hands into the wide, banded sleeves of his Oriental surcoat.

“Yes,” he said clearly, his gaze unwavering.

Gisbourne smiled. He was beginning to understand how to manipulate a person. “I am a knight,” he said, “of respectable name and family. But there are sons before me—there will be no portion save what I make for myself.”

“Yes,” de Pisan said; clearly he understood the opening gambit and what would follow.

“To advance myself, I need to marry well. And there is a woman ...”

De Pisan’s tone was uninflected. “Yes, Sir Guy. There usually is.”

Gisbourne told him about her. He told him her name. He told him her holdings. He told him he wanted her. And then he told de Pisan what would most please the sheriff.

De Pisan nodded. “I will inform my lord.”

“Soon,” Gisbourne suggested, then closed his eyes and slumped back against the bolster.

“Soon,” de Pisan said dryly, and the door thumped closed behind him.

Just after dawn, William deLacey strode out of the castle keep into the inner bailey. Mist still lingered along the top of the curtain-wall, shrouding the castle in transient isolation. Beyond lay Nottingham, only beginning to stir, noise muted by the wall and the dampness. In the east a brassy sphere of light, tarnished by the mist, marked the sun’s new birth.

Archaumbault and five men prepared to mount as horses were brought to them. The castellan was grim and terse, snapping out curt replies to brief questions from the others. DeLacey stopped behind him and said with deliberate softness, “You will fetch her back, Archaumbault.”

The man started, bit his lip on a protest, and turned smartly. His eyes searched the sheriff’s face a moment, and then the merest trace of comprehension altered his own expression from military rectitude into human understanding: more than his position was at stake. “Yes, my lord. As soon as possible.”

The sheriff nodded, satisfied. He could go on to another subject. “What of the minstrel? I received no report on rising.”

“No, my lord.” Archaumbault’s eyes were bloodshot. “The Watch was unable to catch him, my lord.”

DeLacey arched a brow. “I believed it as good as done.”

“As did I, my lord ... but someone must have warned him. He was gone by the time the Watch reached the alehouse—they recovered only his tunic.”

“His tunic.” The sheriff allowed a trace of contempt to lace his tone for the benefit of the others, whom he did not desire to grow lax in attentiveness merely because he did not shout. He preferred a quieter approach, with no less attention to detail. “I am not interested in tunics.”

“My lord.” A quick twitch of Archaumbault’s head had the others mounting with alacrity, gathering reins taut. “They are still searching for him.”

“Good. I want him recovered.”
Through not as much as I want Marian recovered.
DeLacey flicked a hand. “I expect success in both endeavors.”

“We will do our best, my lord.”

It was time the others saw no man was inviolable to the sheriffs displeasure, even Archaumbault. Such knowledge would make them aware that Archaumbault could be replaced if he failed—perhaps by one of them.

DeLacey raked the castellan with a contemptuous glance. “I have yet to see your best in either matter.” Archaumbault’s mouth tightened. The others exchanged glances. “Go,” deLacey said.

He watched them do so, then swung on his heel and came face-to-face with his daughter. Brought up short, he frowned. “I told you to stay in your chamber.”

Eleanor shrugged slightly. “That was yesterday. Today is—today.”

He eyed her with disfavor, having less reason than ever to countenance her attitude. She had made a fool of him publicly and had destroyed his plans, and she showed absolutely no remorse. “You will return to your chamber at once.”

“Why?” Her chin rose. She wore yellowed green, which was not her color; the hue deepened the sallowness of her complexion. “I’ll be walled up soon enough, won’t I, once the FitzWalter girl arrives.” Eleanor arched dark brows. “That is—
if
she arrives ... and if you’ll have the stomach for her once the truth is known.” She smiled slyly. “A night in the forest with outlaws—”

“Enough!” he snapped.

Eleanor laughed in delight. She had stirred true passion in him. “Why, my lord, one would think you really do care for her—”

Will she never shut her mouth?
He reached out, closed his hand around her elbow, swung her around smartly and marched her back into the castle. “I am of half a mind to marry you to a Welshman inside of a week and let
him
have the taming of your tongue ... if he lets you keep it.” He walked her steadily down the corridor. “I care little enough what you think of me—you’ve made your opinion plain enough this past year—but I won’t have you undermining Marian before she even arrives.”

“If she arrives.” Eleanor tried to jerk free of his grasp, but he held her arm too tightly. “Will you have
two
despoiled women living in your castle?”

“One,” he answered grimly. “I’ll pack you up, so help me, and send you out of it.”

Eleanor scoffed. “No one will have me, now!”

“On the contrary,” he said silkily, “I think
everyone
will have you—if they haven’t done it yet!”

A wave of color came and went in her face, leaving it pale and waxen. Her lips trembled with anger even as he manhandled her up the stairs. “If you would stop thinking of yourself and think of me—”

“I have thought of you many times, Eleanor—too many times; if fact, I
weary
of thinking of you ... I believe it is time I stopped. I believe it is time I gave up trying to match you advantageously and simply married you off to the first man willing to take you, well used as you are—”

She was a banshee echoing stridently in the corridors of the castle, where no secrets were wholly secret even when whispered quietly. “I only want to make my own decisions! About my body, about my future—”

Here, at last. He yanked open the door to her chamber and pushed her into it. Each word was deliberate and distinct. “No woman has enough sense and the wherewithal to make such decisions, Eleanor. Certainly you haven’t.” DeLacey shut the door between them before she could finish.

 

Marian walked a step or two behind Locksley only by virtue of shorter legs. His pace was not fast, nor was it particularly deliberate in deference to her gender, but it appeared to be determined wholly by the moment, and by which way seemed easiest. He bent back threatening boughs when he could, but an increasing number escaped his grasping hand as he miscalculated distance and density. Marian warded off the fugitive branches, but one or two slapped her in face and neck, scraping across welts and bruises. It left her a trifle disgruntled, wishing he would or he wouldn’t; halfway measures netted her increasing discomfort.

Ahead, Locksley stumbled over a creeper, caught his balance awkwardly, almost tentatively, then paused to turn back toward her, as if to warn her of treacherous footing. But by the time he turned Marian was well past the tangling foliage, staring in some consternation at his face.

Something was wrong. His color was bad, his flesh had a pinched look, and he carried his head gingerly, as if it hurt to move.
The fight with Will Scarlet.
Marian’s mouth tightened. He would say nothing of it, of course, just as her father would not, and
had
not, often enough, following a particularly painful weapons practice session. So she said nothing of it also, raising another topic. “How much farther?”

He shivered, then rubbed an arm as if to ward off a chill. “Not far. The track lies a little that way”—he pointed—“and the forest proper ends just ahead. We are not so far from Nottingham—”

“Ravenskeep,” she said firmly.

A faint smile hooked one corner of his mouth. “Ravenskeep.” Dampness stuck together the finer strands of hair at his temples. “I have only one horse.”

“Yes, so you told me.” Marian smiled. “One of us shall have to ride pillion.”

He arched a single brow. “They will remark it an intimacy.”

“I will remark it a necessity.” She grinned. “Besides, who will see us? And if anyone does, who will recognize us? Your face is near to purple, and mine no better, I fear.”

“No,” he agreed judiciously.

“Well then, we shall be free of idle gossip—surely an uncommon occurrence, and therefore to be treasured.” She caught up her kirtle once more, dragging the torn hem out of the way. “In our dishabille, we will be fortunate if we are not taken for peasants riding a stolen horse. We would be hanged on the spot.”

His tone was odd. “Your father did not sire a peasant.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but something in his eyes stopped her before she could answer. His expression was strangely intent, almost fixed, with a burning, feral intensity, as if there were more to the statement than a simple rejoinder.

Why does he—?
But she let it go, because she was afraid of the answer, afraid it would be the one she did not desire to know, because she wanted more of him, more and more of him, without understanding why.

Marian swallowed tightly. “Neither did yours.”

It broke the moment. “Mine? No. And he would be at some pains to make certain you knew it.” Now the tone was dry and a little ragged, fraying at worn edges, like a length of threadbare cloth. “This way. Through here.”

She went on even as he did, thankful for Much’s shoes as fallen tree limbs cracked beneath her. “Why did you not leave the horse closer?”

He peeled back a bough. “Sherwood houses outlaws other than Will Scarlet. One need only ride a track, and your coin is taken—if not your life, or your horse. I did not want to make myself so obvious to men more conversant with Sherwood than I.”

Marian ducked the branch, feeling the caress of a leaf across her scalp. “But you
are
conversant.”

He let go of the bough, moving ahead. “A little. I roamed the fringes when I was young. The village of Locksley is on its edges, close to Huntington.”

“What is it like?”

The silence between them stretched, filled with the crackle of their passage. “I have never been there.”

“But—your name ...” She let it go then, because she feared to intrude.

“My father bestowed Locksley upon me before I left on Crusade, so I would be more than Huntington’s son, but a lord in my own right. I should have gone, but ...” He shrugged. “I was too impatient to be away. A village and small manor in the English countryside did not interest me, when Jerusalem—and glory—beckoned.”

Her kirtle snagged, bringing her up short. Impatiently, Marian jerked it free. “And you are sorry for it.”

He glanced briefly back, saw her level gaze on him, and turned away quickly, as if he could not bear the simplicity of her comment. “I should have valued the people, if not the revenues.”

“You have the chance now.”

“Yes.” He pulled aside a creeper. “Here. My horse is—” He stopped short, clinging to creeper,
“gone.
”

“Your horse?” Marian came up beside him, picking at a sticky substance in her hair that proved to be a cobweb. Making a moue of distaste, she wiped the residue from her hands on the nearest tree trunk. “Are you sure this is—”

“Yes. Completely sure.” He gestured. “Right
there;
see how the grass has been uprooted?”

She looked, seeing the telltale signs of an iron-shod horse and the damage done by its hunger. The horse was decidedly absent. “Yes.”

He sighed heavily, murmuring something she couldn’t quite catch as he scraped both hands through his hair distractedly. “And I said the track was hazardous ...”

He sounded so disgusted, so ineffably dismayed that Marian smiled. She was footsore, aching, and tired, but short of conjuring a horse there was little they could do.

She moved two paces and sat down on a moss-clad stump, settling her skirts around her. “We’ll rest, then go on.”

He pressed his spine against a tree and leaned heavily, then slowly slid down, scraping bark, until he sat on the ground. He appeared altogether exhausted, scrubbing his face all out of shape like a toddler in need of a nap. The pinched look of the flesh around his eyes and mouth deepened almost imperceptibly, but Marian saw it.

“Are you hurt?” she blurted. “I mean—worse than the obvious?”

Eyebrows lowered into a knitted shelf no less forbidding for its pale hue. The scowl was eloquent.

Marian put up a staying hand. “Oh, I know—men are never to say what does or does not hurt them ... I learned that from my father. But from my
mother
I learned that men generally lie, because they feel it unmans them to admit they feel pain.” She picked a long-stemmed flower and put the end between her teeth. Around it, she said, “How badly did he hurt you?”

A ghost of a crooked smile softened the austerity of his expression. “Not so badly as you just have.”

“It is the truth, and you know it.”

“Then if I tell you I am not hurt so badly, you will accuse me of lying.”

“If it is a lie—though it usually is.” She grinned around the stem. “Fairly caught, Robin. The truth, if you please.”

He stared at her a long moment, saying nothing, so intent she felt her peculiarly high spirits wane. And then the mask slipped, and the faint smile returned. He scrubbed again at his face. “It isn’t so much what Will Scarlet did—”

“You see?”

“—as what the Holy Land did,” he finished stolidly, ignoring her comment.

“The—oh.” She took the stem out of her mouth. “I did not mean to pry.”

“Yes, you did. Why else would you ask?” He lessened it with irony, which surprised her; he had displayed very little of amusement before. “Men born of England do not fare well in heat and sun. There are fevers—” He shrugged. “I, like many others, brought one home with me.”

She sat very straight. “Then you’re not just hurt, you’re ill—”

“But it will pass. It always does.”

“Always
does ...” she echoed. “Then this has happened more than once?” She had believed it of no consequence; clearly, this was different.

“At least three times. Richard had it twice—” Abruptly, the mask was back in place. “It isn’t worth discussing.”

Which means, he won’t discuss it.
Marian sighed, tossing aside the long-stemmed flower. “Then perhaps you should remain here, while I—”

“No.”

She took offense, albeit mild. “You don’t even know what I intended to say.”

“Oh yes. I have taken your measure, Marian”—which both astonished and intrigued her—“and I know very well what you intended to say, and what you would like to do.” He stood up, scraping bark bits from his tunic. “I am not so ill or infirm that I will allow a woman to strike out through Sherwood Forest with no one to escort her.”