Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (53 page)

Sir Guy of Gisbourne was barely settled in his own bed when William deLacey entered the small, low-roofed chamber and dismissed the Earl of Huntington’s carter. Gisbourne, sweating from pain and twitching with exhaustion, was in no mood to give the sheriff the sort of obsequiousness ordinarily required; besides, he no longer felt quite so dutiful as before. Now he had his own ambitions to fulfill.

As deLacey mentioned something about pleasant surprises, Gisbourne tried to display a bland expression. He felt as if his betrayal of the sheriffs interests was emblazoned on his brow for deLacey to read, to realize what had been done to destroy his chances with Marian. Gisbourne felt guilty and intensely self-conscious, wishing he had deLacey’s skill at prevarication.

“Welcome back,” the sheriff said, casting a glance around the small chamber with its pitifully few appointments: a bed, one clothing trunk, a single candle stand bearing the stub of a tallow candle. The slit of a narrow splayed window let in a vertical bar of wan light from a dimmer day. “We have missed you, Gisbourne,” deLacey announced magnanimously. “Very much so, in fact. I see we have underestimated your value to Nottingham Castle.”

He’s here to say something specific...
Gisbourne nodded, thinking back to Gilbert de Pisan and his unexpected success at manipulating the man.
If I could do that here, now, with the sheriff—
He managed a self-deprecating smile. “I am the seneschal, my lord—it is my duty to see to it your needs are properly looked after.”

DeLacey raised a finger. “Ah, but you do it with surpassing skill. I doubt not you could hold your own with Gilbert de Pisan.”

Gisbourne’s heart stopped, then resumed with a hollow cramping thump. He had said nothing of de Pisan, merely thought it.
What does he know? Anything? Or is he just talking?

The sheriff continued smoothly. “In fact, I believe it is time I seriously considered rewarding you with something significant, Sir Guy—something that will be remarked upon by others as a sign of my favor, which of course would help you rise.”

Gisbourne felt out of his depth. Once he might have been pleased by the unexpected observations and a promised reward, but now all he could do was try to knit his shredded wits back together again.

DeLacey nodded, linking hands behind his back. “It is unfortunate your father could not provide more for you than secondhand armor and mount, Sir Guy—but if he had, perhaps I would be missing my most valued servant. So, to show my appreciation, I have decided to bestow upon you an increase in your yearly income, and the hand of my daughter.”

Gisbourne’s tongue felt thick. “Your daughter?”

DeLacey nodded, smiling. “You will become my son, Sir Guy, in the sight of God and the law... any benefits accruing to me in the future shall also accrue to you, so long as you remain in my service.” He laughed briefly. “Of course, we know the service shall be long, and your position secure. I have no intention of dismissing the man who tends my business so well.”

Gisbourne’s smile was a frozen rictus.
Why doesn’t he just bury me now?

DeLacey assessed his expression, his own assuming a more benevolent cast. “But you would do best to rest. I won’t tire you with conversation now. If you are feeling better tomorrow, I’ll have Eleanor visit. I know she will be quite pleased to talk of future plans.”

Gisbourne nodded stiffly as deLacey turned and went out of the chamber, pulling the door closed. As it thumped shut, Gisbourne heard the lid of his coffin being pegged down.

He dragged the pillow out from beneath his head and dropped it over his face.
I wish I had the wherewithal to smother myself.

 

Will Scarlet’s face assumed a peculiar ashen hue. “Is it true?” he rasped. “The
king
knighted you?”

“At Acre.” Robin left it at that.

Alan nodded, smiling. “Where the Lionheart broke down the Saracen walls along with Saracen hearts.”

“You,”
Clym said; as much a challenge as a comment. “A pretty boy like you?”

“Leave it,” Adam Bell said, though his gaze was fixed on Robin. “If ’tis true—”

“It is,” Alan interposed.

Heedless, Bell went on. “—and you
are
a knight, what were you doing in the depths of Sherwood Forest?”

“The woman,” Scarlet growled. “You came for her, didn’t you?”

Robin smiled. “I believed it a proper response for a knight to make: to rescue the maiden in distress.”

Much stirred. “Marian.”

Scarlet looked at Robin sidelong: a dog who has met his match, yet still wary of surrender. “I only took her to get away. I thought she was a Norman. I thought she was the sheriffs leman.”

“I told you she wasn’t!” Little John grated. “And even if she was, she wasn’t deserving of
that—”

“Normans,” Scarlet declared, “deserve whatever we can give them—”

“So you kill them!” The giant was angry. “Four of them, they said—’twas why they meant to hang you.”

“Aye,” Scarlet snapped. “It’s in the Bible, the priests say: an eye for an eye. They killed my Meggie, giant!
Four
of the bloody Normans killed my wife!”

No one answered that. Robin was aware of an odd thrumming tension, like a bowstring strung too tight. Clym was red-faced, with a glitter in his eyes; William of Cloudisley merely looked thoughtful; Adam Bell was chewing absently at a thumbnail. Robin wondered if each of them recalled the crimes for which they’d been outlawed.

He looked at Cloudisley, likely no older than he.
Poacher?
Perhaps. Wat One-Hand, yes.
He paid the price for it.
And possibly Bell as well, though he’d been a yeoman, and probably in service to a wealthy lord.
A man that skilled with a longbow is worth keeping on.
Then again, maybe not poaching. “Who did you kill?” Robin asked.

Bell’s eyes narrowed. Then he hitched a shoulder. “Alehouse brawl,” he answered. “A man in my company. No loss; he was a
Saxon.
They meant to maim me, like Wat, but a friend set me free. I’ve been free ever since, living among the shadows.”

Robin nodded. “The Normans have only themselves to blame for the men of Sherwood Forest.” He looked then at Clym, who glared balefully.
He still wants to fight.
Robin leaned forward. Without heat, he said, “If you will come to Huntington, I will see to it you’re given a sword.”

“Into the earl’s clutches?” Clym bared yellowed teeth. “I’m not that much a fool.”

“Into the earl’s clutches?—no.” Robin relaxed, gathering reins; Clym was no longer an issue. “He’d never foul his hands. As for
me,
well—” He shrugged. “A man soaked in the blood of Saracens is already dirty enough.”

Something flickered in Clym’s hard eyes. “I’ll not kill the king’s own knight.” He released the reins. Grudgingly, he muttered, “I’d have gone on Crusade myself, but I was already outlawed.”

Robin shook his head. “The king could have used you. He could have used all of you.” He looked at each man in the group. “There are ways of buying pardons.”

Scarlet laughed bitterly. “What good does
that
do, then? The king’s in Germany!”

Robin pressed bootheels into the horse’s flanks. “There are ways of buying kings.”

He didn’t bother to gallop. Clym, Cloudisley, or Bell, regardless of speed, could stop his departure with a single well-placed arrow.

“Nottingham?” he asked.

Much shifted closer. “Nott-ham.”

 

Called before her father so he could explain his plans for her future, Eleanor managed first to close her mouth, which took an extra effort, only to open it again immediately and snap out a succinct refusal. “Marry that fool? You must be mad.”

He drank again. “I’ve told Gisbourne. He was delighted, of course; how better to secure a place with an employer on the verge of rising much higher than even
he
anticipated?”

That caught her attention. He was plotting something again. Undoubtedly Prince John would want to be told of it.

Eleanor curbed her anger. She softened her tone. “How
much
higher?”

“Very high indeed.” Her father smiled. “I thought it might interest you.”

“It does.” She smiled guilelessly. “What do you mean to do?”

Blandly, he said, “Serve my king.”

Which one?
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed.
The present king, or the man who
wants to be king? Inwardly, she chafed.
Why can’t he speak more plainly? I dare not ask him—he will tumble to my game.
“So,” she prevaricated, “you are in line for something better than the office you hold now.”

“I never planned to be sheriff forever,” he told her. “You know me well enough, Eleanor... in my position, you would be no more satisfied with Nottinghamshire than I, when there is better in the offing.”

“Indeed,” she agreed.

“But naturally there are family responsibilities I must tend to first, such as arranging the marriage of my last daughter.” He sipped again. “I had hoped for better, of course, but your folly with the minstrel has changed my plans. You will marry Gisbourne. It should suit you both, I think.”

Eleanor managed to keep her tone light. “I do not
wish
to marry Gisbourne.”
And I won’t. I’ll find some way to stop it.

“Your wishes are no longer my concern. Leave me, Eleanor. I have things to consider.”

“Gisbourne,” she muttered, in direst contempt.

Her father, amused, had the last word as she tugged open the door.
“So
well suited.”

She thumped it shut behind her.

The streets of Nottingham were muddy and clogged with refuse, redolent of waste. Robin reined in the horse at Market Square amidst the normal bustle. People slipped and slid, skirts and hosen stiff with mud.

Much scrambled down nimbly from the horse. There was no doubt in Robin’s mind the boy could disappear easily enough, but it still concerned him that Much might be caught by the sheriffs men. “Be wary of Normans.”

Much gazed up at him.
“Lion
heart
.”

Robin smiled, reaching to pat the boot where he’d tucked his recovered purse. “Lionheart,” he agreed.

Much grinned gloriously, then darted away. He was lost to sight instantly.

Robin stared after him. He understood Much well enough: the boy wanted him to use the returned coin toward the Lionheart’s ransom, something he was willing to do. But there was more in the boy’s words, more in the boy’s eyes. What else did Much expect him to do?

Steal?
he wondered. Robin smiled wryly.
Ransom Richard with coin stolen from others... wouldn’t
that
amuse the sing!

It would also buy him back.

Robin’s smile disappeared. Scowling fiercely, he reined the horse around and headed out of Nottingham toward his father’s lands.

 

Tuck sweated nervously, shifting from foot to foot as Walter knocked on the door before them. The sheriff had upset him with scurrilous talk and innuendo, but he wasn’t certain telling Sir Guy of Gisbourne all about it was the best thing to do. Perhaps if nothing were said, it would simply go away.

A testy voice called to them to enter. Walter, nodding satisfaction, undid the latch and pushed the door open. The monk followed hesitantly, moving aside as Walter waited impatiently to close the door. Privacy was necessary, but it made Tuck feel more guilty than ever before. He stuck his hands into his sleeves and waited mutely.

Sir Guy of Gisbourne, in bliaut and soiled hosen—one fabric leg was entirely cut off—was slumped against pillows, scowling at them both. He was a dark-hued man gone pale, face drawn and stubbled, with one bare, bandaged leg propped up on a bolster. “What is it?” he asked wearily.

“This is Brother Tuck.” Walter’s gesture was quick and perfunctory. “Do you remember? We wrote Abbot Martin when Brother Hubert died ... this is his replacement.”

Gisbourne grunted. “So I see.” He shifted slightly, wincing.

Walter looked expectantly at Tuck. “Tell him, Brother. Tell him everything.”

“But—I—”

“Everything.
”

Tuck told Gisbourne everything.

 

Eleanor halted outside the door. It was a distasteful and wildly inappropriate thing she proposed to do, but she was past being disposed to conduct her affairs with regard to propriety. The issue was serious. If she did not take pains to settle it, her entire life could be ruined.

She drew in a deep breath, arranged her expression into a suitably pleasant one, then rapped on the door. After a moment it was opened. “Sir Guy—” she began, then broke it off in surprise. The face staring back at her was not Gisbourne’s. “Walter,” she said, “what are
you
doing here?”