Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (47 page)

“Given leave, he will be. He most certainly plans to be.”

Marian felt cold. She shivered. “This is too much. Matilda—now this—” She touched a trembling fingertip to a welt on her cheek. Softly, she said, “I could never be Helen.”

“And I would rather not be Cassandra, crying doom throughout the land.” Robin rolled his head against the post. “What will you tell him, then?”

Marian smiled grimly. “That I will not be his Helen.”

“There may be no choice.”

“I am the king’s ward, not his. Not Prince John’s. There is no one to tell me what I must do.”

“Propriety,” he said. “Society, as well. Eleanor marries Gisbourne. DeLacey will marry you.”

“You listened,” she accused.

He did not deny it.

Marian scraped the hair back from her face. “But there is no
need—
Will Scarlet did nothing!”

“It will be his excuse. That—and your father’s wishes.”

Marian shut her eyes. “You should never have told me.”

Robin did not answer.

She looked at him. His face was stark and pale. Bleakness crowded his eyes. “You’re ill,” she said suddenly, thrusting to her feet. “I’ll have Sim and Hal—”

“No.” He did not move. “I am not ill.”

“Men will often say—”

“Let it be,” he told her. “I am not ill.”

Marian looked at his unshod feet and found it incongruous. “Where are your boots?”

“Where you—or someone—put them.”

Irresolute, she wavered. “I can’t leave you here.”

He quirked a single eyebrow. “Why not? I am comfortable.”

“You are the Earl of Huntington’s son—one day you will
be
the earl ... and you are sitting in a dusty hall amidst rushes that need changing.” Inconsequentially she added, “And wearing no shoes.”

He smiled. “I am comfortable.”

Rushes littered her kirtle. She knew she had to go, to leave him here, or anywhere, just to regain her composure, to consider the things he had told her. But she lingered a moment more, stiff and awkward and wretched, thinking of repercussions. Unlike Paris, or Helen of Troy. “You said—any man.”

The light died out of his eyes. “I am not any man.”

She was suddenly ashamed she had asked, that she had
implied.
She had not meant him precisely, but men in general; she was only awed by the idea that he believed her akin to Helen.

“I didn’t mean—” she began, but broke it off raggedly.
No
—
perhaps I did.
And perhaps he recognized it.

Marian turned gracelessly and walked toward the stairs.

 

William deLacey did not like the look of the sky, or the feel of the air. He sensed an understated
power,
as if lightning threatened to strike. A cool wind blew out of the oak wood and across the open meadow to buffet the track, gathering dirt and debris as a child gathers a handful of pebbles to throw at the first unwitting soul who crosses his path.

He disliked the taste of the day, but he disliked more the taste in his mouth: bitter gall. Marian had begun to mimic Eleanor to an alarming degree; clearly she expected her own desires to play a role in the decision of her marriage. It was utter nonsense that a woman would be allowed to say him yea or nay; he was a good match for her, and his able administration would soon set the manor to rights. Ravenskeep had fallen into disrepair because she had no husband; serfs had run away, freeholders denied her the rents, those who remained to help were a lazy, unskilled lot who could not even manage to hang a gate properly.

And a year without a father had eroded her self-discipline. She required a firm hand if she were to be the kind of wife he deserved.

DeLacey’s mount shied sideways as a cluster of leaves blew by. The wind grew stronger, snatching at his cloak. He steadied the horse, squinted to study the sky, and considered perhaps it might be best if he went back to Ravenskeep to wait out the storm.

He discarded the idea at once. Marian needed time to see he intended only the best for her. If he returned to her now, he would only be adding fuel to the fire. Better to let her calm down. He had other plans to put into motion.

DeLacey sighed wearily. “Grant me patience to deal with women.”

 

Sir Guy of Gisbourne was nonplussed to learn he could not have the loan of a cart and driver to return to Nottingham just yet—a storm, he was told; wait until morning. It left him considerably out of sorts. He wanted very badly to return to Nottingham. Aside from his normal duties, to which Walter would not attend quite so assiduously as he, Gisbourne desired very much to place himself back in deLacey’s confidence. He needed to know what the sheriff intended to do, so
he
could be in position to tell Prince John what he needed to know about the state of the sheriffs conscience and the limits of his ambition.

“There are no limits,” Gisbourne muttered. “He’d want the throne, were there a chance to take it.”

There was not, of course. Unless the Lionheart proved also a lion in bed and got a son on Berengaria, John would inherit; precisely as John intended... although Gisbourne believed the Count of Mortain might do whatever was required to expedite the succession. And if
John
were not named heir—he and his brother did not always agree—there was always dead Geoffrey’s son, Arthur of Brittany.

Gisbourne slumped against the pillows. Such thoughts were new to him, who had never wasted his time on intrigue past that which the sheriff employed in the day-to-day administration of his office. Gisbourne was not an innocent; he fully understood that intrigue was required. He simply had avoided it himself.

That time now was finished. He had involved himself. He would involve himself further. The reward would be worth it.

 

William of Cloudisley had gone to the fringe of the forest, where sparse skirts met meadow and track. Sherwood Forest thinned near Ravenskeep, offering considerably less cover, but Adam Bell had brought Clym of the Clough and Cloudisley—as well as his newfound followers—to try for better prey.

“They won’t expect us here,” he’d said, “and it’s not near Nottingham.”

Little John, very glum, sat against a tree trunk. “It’s madness,” he muttered.

Will Scarlet turned on him. “When will you understand? This is our sort of life, now. You can’t go back to your sheep. You can’t go back to your fairs.”

Much, squatting mutely, watched the giant with avid eyes, as if waiting for Little John to say what he should do.

Clym of the Clough laughed harshly. “Give it up, Scarlet—he’s a boy in a man’s body. The simpleton is more of a man than him—I saw how he defended that horse.”

“
My
horse,” Scarlet muttered.

Alan of the Dales, perched upon a stump, merely shook his head. “And none of you a horseman.”

“And you are?” Scarlet challenged. “I don’t see you on horseback.”

“Because you stole my mount.” Alan struck a muted chord on his lute. “You see—”

“Quiet,” Bell snapped. “Hold your noise, minstrel.”

One-handed Wat laughed softly. “I’ll break it, if you like.”

Bell shook his head as Alan thrust his lute behind his back. “We’ve no need for a musician... he can go on his way.”

“I’m as wanted as you are,” Alan retorted. “None of
you
lay with the sheriffs daughter.”

Will Scarlet grunted. “Was she worth being outlawed over?”

“Hush,” Bell said as a bird call sounded. “It’s Cloudisley.”

It was. The handsome young man made his way back through the trees and squatted down before them to drink from a waterskin. He shook his head as they waited, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “A rich man, I’ll wager, but not for the likes of us.”

“
One
man—” Clym began.

Bell lifted a silencing hand. “We’ve bows. We outnumber him. Why do you say so, William?”

Cloudisley smiled crookedly. “He’s the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

Scarlet swore even as Little John shut his eyes. “Let
me
have him, then.”

“No.” Bell’s tone was level. “He may be one man, and easy enough to kill—but it would bring down Prince John upon us. Killing his personal sheriff would make us too dangerous—they’d want us taken at once.”

“We’re wanted
now,”
Scarlet said.

Little John shook his head. “Fools, all of you.”

The others ignored him. Clym rubbed his jaw. “We could just rob him—leave him alive—”

“And make him angry,” Wat said. “Angrier than he is. He’ll set all his pet Normans on us. He’d just as soon take us now, but if we did
that
—” He shook his head. “They’d never stop looking. Why make it harder?”

Adam Bell nodded. “We’ve learned not to press our lord high sheriff ... he can’t stop all thievery, but if he took it into his head to concentrate on us, he’d catch us for sure. No—we’ll let him be. Sometimes the largest fish can pull in the unwary fisherman. And I’m not a man who can swim.”

Alan’s expression was serious. “He’s not a man who tolerates slights and insults. Bell’s right—we’d do best to let him go.”

Scarlet laughed harshly. “Speaks a man born to the life!”

“Were you?” Alan countered. “They’re hanging you for murder, not banditry.”

“Enough,” Bell said. “It’s decided, then: we let the man ride on.”

“I’d do it,” Scarlet muttered.

Clym set the end of his bow against Scarlet’s shoulder. “We might just as well kill you.”

Bell stood up and gestured for Cloudisley to gather the waterskins. “We go on. There will be others to rob.”

Much jumped up and melted into the trees before anyone could speak. Bell stared after him.

Little John, rising, nodded at the man. “You’ll not tell the boy what to do. He’s wiser than the rest of us—he comes and goes with no one knowing.”

“He
could kill the sheriff,” Scarlet muttered.

“But he won’t,” Little John said.

“Off with you,” Bell suggested. “We’ve other fish to catch.”

 

Robin sat against the post as Marian left the hall. He felt no inclination to rise and follow her, or to rise and go out of the door, or to do anything save sit there while he battled the demon again. It reared up before him, then struck low and hard into his loins, as if to castrate him.

They had done that to him already.

He drew his legs in tightly, warding loins and belly, then locked his arms around knees and pressed his brow very hard into the weave of the hosen.

He was whole in body. No knife had been used on him because the threat had been enough: how would Malik Ric like to receive as a gift the manhood parts of his most beloved companion? And so he had shut off everything, building walls and masks and facades, castrating himself in his mind until he was dead and empty and neuter, unable to look at a woman, unable to think of a woman, unable to
see
a woman when she stood directly before him.

For nearly two years he had not lain with a woman. He had not even dreamed of it.

Until the night in Sherwood Forest he had not believed it possible he could ever respond again. He had done his work too well.

He lifted his head, sweating. The pain was exquisite. Harshly, he repeated, “I am not any man.”

Tuck knelt before the altar in Nottingham Castle’s damp chapel, trying to muster the courage to face the sheriff and tell him what he felt. He was not a priest and could hardly consider himself anyone’s conscience; nevertheless he was quite convinced that William deLacey had seriously miscarried his duties in the hanging of a man who wasn’t Will Scarlet.

That his own execution order had been the instrument by which the deed was done troubled Tuck deeply, but that sin was for him to confess before God and a real priest. Right now he wanted to stand before deLacey and find out precisely what had occurred, but that took courage, and Tuck knew he lacked the kind of confidence required to brace a man as strong-willed and authoritarian as the sheriff.

Behind him, the narrow wooden door scraped open. A shaft of corridor torchlight crept into the chapel. “He’s back,” Walter said, “and he’s asking for you.”

Tuck’s belly clenched. He heaved himself up from his knees and turned to face Walter. “Where am I to go?”

“His solar,” Walter told him. “He wants this kept private, which means you might need to spend even more time on your knees. He doesn’t do things in private unless the servants aren’t to know about them, and
that
means—”

“I know,” Tuck said hollowly. “Like letting the wrong man hang.”

Walter sighed. “You’ll have to decide how important this is to your future, Brother Tuck. There is no man in the sheriffs service who hasn’t had to examine his conscience more than once—unless it’s Sir Guy, and
he
has no imagination at all. He just carries out his duties and thinks only of saving coin.” Walter stepped aside and held the door open wider. “Come, Brother Tuck—you’ll know what you must do when he tells you what he wants. You’ll do it, or you won’t—and that’s between you and your God.”

“And Abbot Martin,” Tuck murmured glumly.

Walter smiled a little. “Church politics, I’ve heard, are far worse than administrative ones.”

“I ignored them.” Tuck squeezed between Walter and the doorjamb. “But I can’t ignore this.”

Briefly Walter touched his shoulder. “You’re a good man, Brother. You’ll do what’s right.”

Will I?
Tuck wondered.
Or don’t I just do what everyone else tells me to do, because it’s easier?

 

Ravenskeep was a plain manor house, not a castle. Its second storey was little more than a shell: timber framing mixed with plaster and some brickwork, providing walls considerably less permanent than the thick masonry in castles such as Nottingham and Huntington. But it did allow the members of the FitzWalter household a measure of privacy, for instead of relying on thin screen partitions to delineate specific areas such as one end of the hall for Sir Hugh’s family and the other end for the servants with little more than habit dividing the two areas, as was the case in other households, the upper storey provided proper rooms.

Marian retreated to her own room as she fled the brutal intensity in Robin’s eyes, and stayed there for some while trying to sort out her thoughts. There was a myriad of emotions to deal with, each deserving of its own time: grief over Matilda’s death; the anger and trepidation caused by William deLacey; the residue of Scarlet’s actions, which she time and again pushed to the back of her mind because her vulnerability frightened her; and lastly Robin himself, who had managed without apparent intention to plunge her into a vast, abiding confusion.

The king’s continuing absence placed her in a precarious position, because it would be simple enough for a man of deLacey’s authority and willingness to circumvent the constraints of her wardship. With her reputation in shreds, regardless of the truth, society would demand she do something to repair it. Two possibilities therefore presented themselves: she could marry a man willing to claim the bastard she knew could not exist, or she could give up her worldly holdings and retreat to a nunnery.

Neither alternative appealed to Marian, who sat upon her bed with her spine against the wall and hugged her knees. “There is a
third,”
she muttered. “I wait for the king to be released, and plead my case to him.”

But she placed little hope in that. She sincerely doubted that Richard, upon his return to England after a year of imprisonment and a year on Crusade, would be much interested in the plight of a simple knight’s daughter.

Once, she
had
been wealthy, at least her family had; but on the heels of Richard’s coronation in 1189, the new king had declared himself eager to recapture Jerusalem from the hands of the Infidel Turks, and had called for donations—as well as instituting new taxation policies and the sale of titles and knighthoods—to support the Third Crusade. Sir Hugh FitzWalter had sworn on the deaths of his wife and only son to go on Crusade if one was ever undertaken, and he had robbed his own coffers to provide his new king with the wherewithal to go.

His generosity had subsequently robbed his only remaining child of father
and
coin; save for the Ravenskeep lands and rents, Marian had little of the former FitzWalter wealth. With the king out of the country and Prince John instituting his own taxation policies, coupled with ransom demands, England herself was not much better off. Marian could see no advantage to bleeding her villeins and freeholders dry, so she had curtailed demands for regular rents. It reduced her circumstances, but she was willing to live under strict economies. It meant little to her that the main gate sagged, or the cobbles were coming up. Things would improve when England’s king returned.

“If,”
she murmured.

Meanwhile, there was Robin.

“Oh God...” Marian shut her eyes tightly. Helen of Troy, was she? With William deLacey desiring to act the part of Helen’s husband, Menelaus of Sparta. Who then was Paris, the Trojan hero who seduced Helen away to the fabled city that later fell?

The answer seemed implicit. Marian tried to banish the vision, but the only prospect she saw had a fall of sun-whitened hair and wore the face of Robert of Locksley.

Her smile was bitter. “He would
laugh,”
she declared.

 

William deLacey received Brother Tuck in his private solar, a small second-storey chamber on the west side of Nottingham Castle. It boasted two splayed windows cut deeply into the walls so that the room was illuminated much of the time by natural sunlight; just now, with the storm coming on, the light was a sickly gray that appeared to match the monk’s mood.

The sheriff himself admitted Tuck, personally offered to pour him wine, which was politely declined, and gestured for Tuck to seat himself upon a padded bench.

As he pulled out his own chair, the sheriff assessed Tuck’s demeanor. It was obvious to deLacey the fat young man was exceedingly nervous, and he believed it had to do with something more than being invited to the lord high sheriff of Nottingham’s solar.

He sat down, distributing his weight so as to appear relaxed and unthreatening. There was no need to put Tuck on guard before it was necessary. It might not be required at all. Tuck was a timid man.

DeLacey smiled warmly. “It gives me the greatest of pleasures to share some good news with you, Brother Tuck. Do you know of the Lady Marian FitzWalter, Sir Hugh FitzWalter’s daughter?”

Tuck’s cowlike eyes expressed puzzlement. “My lord—I am not of Nottingham. My village is in the south of England.”

DeLacey nodded. “Permit me, then, to describe her to you as a pious, lovely lady, as kind of heart and sweet of temperament as a young woman could be.”

Tuck nodded baffled approval.

DeLacey smiled widely, exuding appropriate pride and pleasure. “She has consented to become my wife.”

The monk’s thick brown eyebrows shot up. “My lord—my congratulations. If she is as you say, surely you are a fortunate man.”

“Most fortunate,” deLacey agreed. “I was good friends with her father, Sir Hugh, and have watched the little girl become a woman. It pleases me a great deal to know I shall be the one to care for her well-being.”

“Indeed, my lord.”

DeLacey was pleased. Things proceeded as planned. “Particularly in view of the circumstances.”

“My—lord?”

The sheriff allowed an expression of sorrow tempered with anger to touch his features. “The Lady Marian was the victim of unfortunate circumstances, Brother Tuck—it was she whom the murderer, Will Scarlet, abducted. He took her to Sherwood Forest and kept her there overnight. She is now safely back at her home—I have just come from there—but is of course understandably upset by what has happened. She is quite concerned with what people will say—people gossip so much, you know—and so it was decided she might best be served if she married me sooner than anticipated.”

Tuck was, if possible, looking more confused than ever. “Of course, my lord. It must have been a terrible thing.” He paled a little and took a deep breath. “About this Will Scarlet—”

The sheriff cut him off smoothly. “Naturally, it is my desire to put the lady’s mind at ease, and to silence those overbusy tongues. Therefore I have offered to wed the lady immediately.” DeLacey leaned forward before Tuck could begin again. “This is why I require your service, Brother Tuck. We have a delicate situation made worse by an unforeseen absence, and an illness.”

“My lord?”

“You see, Nottingham has two priests... but one is on pilgrimage, and the other is quite ill. In fact, he might die.” The sheriff shook his head. “Pray God he recovers.”

Tuck crossed himself.

DeLacey sat back. “You see the difficulty, do you not? Here is a lady whose honor has been besmirched and can only be regained through honest, if hasty, marriage... you understand, of course, there might be—
issue
—from this unfortunate misadventure.” He sighed deeply and shook his head. “The poor lady... she is understandably distressed, of course—can you blame her for desiring to put to rights whatever she can?”

“N-no. My lord. But—”

“Therefore it falls to you.” He leaned forward again, clasping his hands between his knees. “Of course you must understand, Brother Tuck ... this would not be a real marriage, but simply a proxy ceremony. Naturally there would be no consummation, for neither of us wishes to commit adultery.” Consternation crossed his face. “I’m sorry, Brother—I know this must be distressing for you—but think how the lady feels. All she desires right now is to marry at once. Since that cannot be done, I offer a temporary solution: let her
believe
herself married—and everyone else believe it as well—so that her mind will be at rest. Then once the furor has died down and she feels more comfortable, a proper wedding presided over by a true priest will bind us in the sight of God.”

Tuck wrung his hands. Dampness sheened his fleshy face. “But—my lord... will she not question my presence?”

DeLacey smiled faintly. “Not if we tell her you are a priest.”

“That would be a
lie.”

The sheriff nodded regretfully. “I realize how distasteful that would be to you, Brother—you are a devout and good-hearted man—but what of the lady? She is in an agony of faith, Brother, believing herself defiled. I would save her that distress.”

Tuck nodded absently. “But—if you didn’t... if there were no ...” He reddened. “My lord Sheriff—”

DeLacey rescued him. “Many a bridegroom has drunk too much at his wedding feast. Either that—or I will fall conveniently ill. I have no wish to compromise the lady, Brother Tuck—although that has already been done, of course. I want only to relieve her of her great distress. I believed this might be the most painless way, but if you feel it is asking too much of you—”

“My lord—”

“—or perhaps of
God...”
DeLacey sighed heavily and shook his head. “Surely God would not blame us for a small lie, provided nothing more was done.” He appealed to Tuck. “Do you think?”

Tuck was trembling. “My lord—already I have lied before God by allowing that poor old woman to believe I was a priest—”

“Precisely,” deLacey agreed. “What more harm in this?”

“My
lord—”

“The old woman is dead and beyond harm—this poor lady is very young with many years before her in which to castigate herself for being so defiled... would you have her suffer so long for that?”

Tuck was breathing hard. “But she wouldn’t really be
married
—”

“Of course not.” DeLacey paused. “But if she believed it, and she proved to be with child, would it not mitigate the sin of bearing a bastard child?”

“But it
would
be a bastard!”

“Only until a real priest could perform the ceremony. And I assure you, that shall be done in time.”

Tuck wiped at his sweating face, shutting his eyes tightly. Beneath his breath he murmured a prayer.

DeLacey waited. He knew better than to press too hard for an answer; the fat monk was the sort of naive innocent who would need to be made to believe the decision was his own.

“My lord...” Tuck sighed, his massive shoulders drooping. “My lord, this is wrong—”

“I would not ask such a thing for myself,” deLacey said softly. “This is for the lady, a true and gentle soul who deserves far better than what she has received.”

Tuck seemed almost to shrink. “Very well,” he whispered. “But I pray you find a priest before the week is out.”

“I do assure you, Brother, I will write at once to Abbot Martin.” He rose, extending his arm toward the door. “I know you will wish to go to your devotions. Please pray for the lady, Brother Tuck. I know this sits ill with you, but when you ask God for forgiveness mention the lady’s name. I’m sure he will understand.”