Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (22 page)

A simple shove, no more, yet the giant’s unthinking reaction hurled Scarlet to the street, smashing his chest into packed dirt. Onlookers shouted, elbowing one another and raising myriad wagers.

Scarlet coughed, swore, then scrambled up, wiping at a split lip. The tunic was filthier than ever, stained now by manure and blood. Lank, dirty dark hair hung into his face and eyes. He hunched, twitching fingers and rolled his head against taut shoulders, cracking the bones in his neck. Marian saw the same cold, wary look in eyes and expression as he moved around the circle, measuring the giant. This time when he dove, Little John was ready.

The giant snatched Scarlet out of the air like an insect caught in midflight and slammed him down again, driving the air from laboring lungs in a blurted, garbled bleat. This time he knelt over Scarlet, leaning on splayed hands. Legs were spread and braced.

As Scarlet, gasping, pressed himself up from the dirt, Little John slid an arm between his opponent’s wrist and the ground and neatly hooked away the braced limb that held up Scarlet’s weight. The murderer fell. Again. And again, as the giant alternated arms. The maneuver, repeated four times, deprived the smaller man utterly of mobility and dropped him easily every time he tried to rise.

“D‘ye give in, then?” Little John asked. “D’ye yield to the better man?”

Scarlet lay prone, panting in the dirt, and the giant hovered over him, waiting for him to move.

A trick, Marian saw.
Wrestling tricks a body when the man least expects it
...
the winner uses weight, and balance, and power
—

Spectators were shouting encouragement to both men. It didn’t seem to matter to them which man won. Amazed, Marian stared around the throng closing in on the ring. The faces were avid, the eyes oddly vacant of sense or comprehension. To them it was enough merely to shout aloud, for one man or the other, before the hated sheriff.

Little John was laughing. He sprawled on knees and hands across Scarlet’s body, then slapped him on one shoulder, murmuring something Marian couldn’t hear. Another call for surrender, she guessed, which still wasn’t answered. The giant turned his head to look at Much, whose hand would remain attached now that victory was assured.

Scarlet moved then, kicking out at Little John’s ankles even as he snatched a thick wrist and jerked it from the ground. As the giant wavered, shouting unintelligibly, Will Scarlet carried the big hand to his mouth and bit deeply into flesh. Little John howled as blood began to flow.

“Cheating!” someone shouted.

“Forfeit the match!” cried another.

“You’ve doomed yourself!” came a third. “They’ll have to hang you, churl!”

The giant slammed a fist into the side of Will Scarlet’s head, hurling him across the ring. People continued to shout that Scarlet had cheated; that the giant was the winner.

Marian glanced at deLacey for a ruling. “What becomes of him now?”

Delacey’s expression was grim. “There are rules to a match, albeit unspoken ones.” He looked down at her. “This cannot be tolerated.”

“Then you’ll hang him anyway.” She looked past him to the boy. “What about Much?”

In the ring, Scarlet charged Little John, who caught him by the shoulders and hurled him away once more.

“The boy will—” DeLacey’s hand reached for her arm. “Marian—
beware
—”

And then a body fetched up hard against her legs and feet, nearly knocking her down. Marian cried out, staggering, flailing her arms awkwardly as she attempted to regain balance.

The body came up clawing, rolling upward from the dirt, snatching at mantle and kirtle, dragging cloth aside as it fouled his route. Hands dug through fabric, gouging into tender flesh. She smelled the stench of the man.
“What do you
—
?”

But one arm went around her ribs, squeezing the breath from her body. Another clamped down on her throat. She felt a man’s rigid body pressed hard the length of her spine, crushing her buttocks into his thighs, smashing her head against his heaving chest.

“I’ll kill her,” Will Scarlet promised. “And don’t think I can’t. I like the taste of throats, especially Norman ones.”

Locksley heard the muffled tumult as he stepped out of Abraham’s dwelling, mentally counting coin he had counted three times over, thinking bleak, dark thoughts about ransoms left unpaid and taxes unfairly diverted to greedy, treacherous princes desirous of being king.

The narrowness of the twisting alleyway funneled and distorted the sound, making it difficult to determine from which direction the shouting and cheering came. He paused, listening, wondering at its cause. Market Square, he guessed . . . and then it stopped, cut off like a stewing hen’s head. The uncanny absence of sound was as eerily absolute as the moment after a thunderclap so loud as to still a heart.

He heard through the funnel William deLacey’s voice, raised in fury and fear:
“Kill me this villein!”

And then a second voice, bellowing another order in lowborn, deep-toned speech:
“Let the woman go!”

Marian FitzWalter had been with the sheriff. Locksley touched his meat-knife, then broke into a run.

 

Marian could smell the stink of the dungeon on Scathlocke, the tang of filth and physical exertion mixed with tension and fear. She thrashed once, flailing violently, trying to kick free of her mantle and the man who imprisoned her. Half throttled, she gasped, “But—I’m not—”

Dirty, bloodied fingers locked into her veil and braid, jerking her head into stillness. The arm across her throat cut off the rest of her protest. “D‘ye think I care? D’ye think it matters to me? You’re meat for eating, lady . . . sheriffs leman, are you?”

It was harder to speak now, but she gritted it between her teeth. “No—I’m n—” And then vision darkened perceptibly as the pressure on her throat increased. She choked, wailing mutely, trying to claw at the arm.

His breath stirred her veil, gusting across her cheek. “Best come with me, little whore. You’ll buy Will Scarlet his freedom.”

Even as he spoke he backed away from the others, pulling her off her feet. Marian scrambled for purchase, digging in her heels, trying to right herself even as he moved, but Scarlet was taller, stronger, heavier, more determined even than she. Half dragging, half carrying her, he worked his way through the murmuring crowd as deLacey and soldiers followed.

The sheriff’s eyes were wild. His mouth, as he gave terse orders, was warped into ugly grimness. Marian, seeing that, felt a measure of relief. Surely deLacey would stop him.

She stumbled, hissing in startled fright. Scarlet held her elbows pinned against her sides by one thick arm, immobilizing her head with the other even as he dragged her. All she could do was kick, hoping to hook an ankle. But slippered feet fouled on heavy folds of crimson wool, thwarting her attempt.

He can’t mean to carry me off . . .
Acknowledgment blossomed: indeed, he
could
carry her off, even through Nottingham. And probably would, using her as his parole.
Someone has to stop him.
Marian grimaced, baring teeth, wishing she could bite. Wishing she could
breathe.

“Kill me this villein!” the sheriff shouted in fury.

And then the giant, bellowing, blood smeared on his face: “Let the woman go!”

Scarlet stumbled, cursing, and caught her up more closely than ever, near to cracking ribs. Above her own choked gasp Marian could hear his ragged breathing. He wasn’t certain, she realized. He wasn’t completely convinced that she would be enough.

Inconsequential thoughts fed her frenzied mind inanities she didn’t want to consider.
He killed four men.
He had called her little whore. He had called her the sheriffs leman. He had even called her a Norman.
I’m not!
she railed futilely. As if it might make a difference.

 

Much gaped as hands fell free. He was
loose.
The soldier let go of his wrists as the murderer grabbed the woman.

Grabbed
Marian.

Transfixed, Much stared. He wouldn’t kill her, would he? Not Marian. Not her.

The sheriff, enraged, was shouting. Even the giant was.

Should he shout, too? But wouldn’t they catch him again?

Much laughed: he was
free.

He spun on his heel and ran, darting through the crowd, ducking arms and elbows. Keeping in the tail of one eye the blood-bright woolen mantle.

 

A woman, the giant raged. How could he threaten a woman? It was one thing to attack a man twice your size, even unfairly; another entirely to offer harm to a woman.

Little John strode through the crowd rapidly, thrusting aside human impediments with huge, practiced hands. Sheep were more amenable, and certainly considerably smaller, but they were similar in habits to Nottingham citizens, who followed a single man as the flock followed the bellwether.

But this bellwether, he knew, was no castrated ram with a bell around his neck. This bellwether intended to desert the flock, taking the finest ewe with him.

He did not know her. He had never seen her before. It didn’t matter to him that she was the sheriffs daughter, or wife, or mistress. What mattered to Little John was that she was being treated unfairly, much too roughly, and had no recourse at all.

The giant recalled what that was like. When he was small, and powerless; when he was bigger, and shy. He also remembered the day he had put a stop to it, using for the first time sheer physical strength—and the anger of too many years—to stop the verbal abuse that hurt worse, in many ways, than the beatings he’d undergone.

No more beatings. No more verbal abuse. No one dared, now.

Yet Will Scarlet dared. And he dared it with a
woman.

Not fair,
Little John muttered inwardly.
One thing to bite a man . . . but to carry off a woman
—

If no one else could get the woman back, Little John would see to it
he
did.

 

DeLacey was cold, very cold, in mind as well as body. A part of him wanted very much to lose control absolutely and bellow to the heavens of this incredible outrage, screaming furious epithets at the outlaw who had so confounded him. But to do so risked Marian; it also risked his precarious governance of Nottingham itself.

He had felt it clearly but moments before. They questioned him, the people. They dared to question him, even within their minds; even if they didn’t realize what they did, he knew they questioned him. Marian had caused it initially, but that had passed. He had won back control with the introduction of the murderer into the contest for Much’s hand, intending to maintain that control with the outcome of the match.

But now the murderer had gained control for himself by abducting Marian. And everyone in Nottingham—including Marian herself—expected the sheriff to resolve the situation. With an abundant expediency.
I will have her back,
he declared.
Alive, unharmed, untouched.

Or he would, in his authority, order Will Scathlocke hanged, quartered, decapitated. With all of Nottingham made to watch.

 

“—
mistake!”
Marian gasped. “I’m not—” She swallowed convulsively, gritting her teeth against the pain of her throat. “I’m not who you think—” But the voice was weak and thready, distorted by compression even as it died out. She doubted he heard her over the rasp of his own breathing, or the muffled hum of onlookers.
Can’t someone
—
? Anyone
—
?

No, they could not. Or would not. He had killed four men. And who was she to them? Most of them didn’t know her, even if they knew
of
her. Why would anyone risk himself in an attempt to stop Will Scarlet?

One of her slippers was lost, baring stocking and foot. Marian scrabbled awkwardly, trying to regain purchase, but Scarlet merely tightened his grasp and dragged her more quickly yet. She could barely breathe through the constriction around her ribs. If he loosened only a
little
—

“Be still!” he snapped.

Marian gritted her teeth.
If he wants so much to drag me, why not let him
carry
me?
She sagged, going briefly limp. As Scarlet cursed, paused, hitched her up again, Marian doubled up both legs and kicked out backward. She wanted to land both feet in the most vulnerable place she could reach, be it belly, groin, or knees. Anything would do, so long as it obstructed him.

He was spread-legged, which defeated her attempt. One of her feet grazed the inside of a thigh and went through, doing no damage. The other, bare of slipper, caught a knee briefly, then fouled on baggy hose.

One of her arms was free. Marian reached up behind her head, clawing, and caught an ear. With what strength remained, tapping also into anger, she attempted in all violence to rip the ear from his head.

Cursing, Scarlet clamped a hand closed on her wrist. “Let it go—Let it
go
—
”

She wanted to curse back, but the pain in her wrist demanded all her attention. He didn’t twist it. Didn’t even try to pull her hand away. He just
squeezed.

Fingers sprang free of the ear. Scarlet forced the arm back down to the other, caught at her midsection, and thrust the aching wrist into his other hand. There he held her just long enough to catch a handful of mantle and sweep the folds of summerweight wool up over her head. He swaddled her in the mantle, blocking light, vision, air, then lifted and dumped her facedown across one shoulder.

She tried once to struggle. The arm slackened briefly, showing her without words the danger she risked. If she struggled, he’d let her fall. Headfirst to the street, where she’d likely break her neck.

Marian’s thoughts worked swiftly, purging her of pain and humiliation, the overwhelming fear. There was more here at stake than being carried off like a sack of flour. There were plans to be considered.
Patience
—She damped her bitterness. An opportunity would present itself no matter what she did.

Eventually, he would stop. Eventually he would take her down from his shoulder. Eventually he would unwrap her. And then she would do whatever it took to win herself free of him.

 

Locksley thrust his way into the crowd, shoving others aside. He saw the red-haired giant doing much the same, working his way through the throng. The streets were almost impassable, clogged with hundreds of people now all oddly intent upon a single thing: to follow the giant, who followed the sheriff, who followed someone else.

He caught an arm, stopping one man in his tracks. “Who is it? What has happened?”

The man scowled back. “Fight’s over.” He shrugged. His face was pocked with the scars of a childhood disease. “Scarlet’s got himself loose.”

Locksley frowned. “Scarlet?”

“Will Scarlet, they call him. Man what killed four Normans. Sheriff let him fight the giant for the boy’s hand, but he snatched the woman with the sheriff instead.” The pockmarked man shrugged again. “I never seen her before.”

He was curt in urgency. “Was she wearing red?”

The man lacked three teeth. He displayed his lack in a grin. “Bright as day, she was. Made her an easy target.”

Locksley stared at the man. “He killed four men, you say.”

“Four Norman soldiers. Due to hang, he is—if the sheriff doesn’t kill him barehand for this.”

Locksley stood very still in the midst of constant motion. The man stared at him a moment, then shrugged and edged away. Locksley was aware of movement around him, the comments of the people as they eddied around the obstruction, then passed on by him. But none of it was important. None of it mattered.

Marian FitzWalter, in the hands of a murderer.

Once, he might have assumed a man would never harm a woman, but war had changed that assumption. War changed men; it had certainly changed him. And though he had protested, though he had tried to stop them in the name of God, the king, and chivalry, not a single Christian soldier had listened. They had done whatever they pleased, shouting then of conquest; later, of education: the dead were Saracens, they said, heretics and faithless dogs God wanted destroyed.

He knew better. He had seen too many women sundered by Christian swords to trust to gender to save her. He had seen too many women raped by groups of Christian men to trust to manners to save her.

Stripped of the weapons to stop it, of the freedom to do it, of the will to even attempt it, Locksley had been forced to watch the father die.

This time was different. He had weapons and freedom and will. He would not stand idly by and let the
daughter
die.