Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (38 page)

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Authors: Lady of the Forest

BOOK: Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]
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Oddly it intrigued him, to discover what she had thought. “Yes?”
“I thought you needed it,” she murmured, mostly to herself.
“Needed
it.”
A strange observation.
Marian’s tone was level. “You looked very lonely. Very—solitary.”
He broke dried limbs beneath his boots. “Solitariness is not so bad a thing. There is some security to be gained in relying on oneself.”
“But you weren’t,” she said quietly.
He looked at her sharply, aware of an undertone. “You recall the evening more clearly than I.”
Her face was red again. “You were not relying on yourself. You were there in the midst of many people celebrating Christmas, a happy time for all, yet you hung back and stood in the shadows. Even when my mother attempted to draw you out.” Marian’s expression warped very briefly. “It was her last Christmas.”
His tongue lay dead in his mouth, stilled by the simplicity of her statement and the knowledge of what it meant.
Both parents dead. And no brothers or sisters. No more family holidays.
He wanted to apologize. He wanted to tell her he could not recall why he had been so reluctant to join the festivities, save he was not a boy who showed much of himself to others. He wanted also to express condolences, that her mother had not lived to see another Christmas.
Mostly, looking at her, he wanted to tell her very plainly he wished for mistletoe
now,
so he could be the one to ask the forfeit of her.
 
Alan hitched a shoulder, trying to jerk it free of the massive paw that held him still. “Since when did the Hathersage Giant take to outlawry?”
The grip slackened only a moment, then clamped down again. “You see?” the giant asked. “Even he knows the truth!”
Will Scarlet laughed harshly. “Aye! He called you outlaw.”
The Hathersage Giant swung Alan around. “Have you coin?” he barked. “Have you anything of value with which I can pay my fee?”
As if I would tell him.
Alan shook his head, glancing at the others. He knew none of them.
The sandy-haired one beckoned to the boy. Only three fingers were wrapped around the longbow. The fourth was missing. “Here. Bring that horse
here.”
The boy approached. Alan was faintly surprised to discover he recognized him: the cutpurse he’d caught in Nottingham, who’d told him Marian FitzWalter was taken. What was he doing with a fine mount?—unless he’d taken to stealing horses as well as men’s purses.
The other archer lowered his bow, slackening the string. He was young, younger than Alan and nearly as pretty, though dark instead of golden. He grinned at the giant. “Little John,” he said, “in Sherwood we
take
coin, we don’t ask if a man has it!”
Will Scarlet was truculent. “Have I paid my fee, then? The horse is enough, I’ll warrant.”
The boy clutched reins.
“Mine.
”
The slight, dark man gestured slightly. “Clym.”
The arrow was loosed. It sped the brief distance, then drove into the earth between the boy’s bare feet.
Alan jerked briefly. “He’s a
boy—”
The archer, Clym, didn’t smile. “So was I, once.”
Little John released Alan’s shoulder. “By God, Adam Bell, I’ll not have you harming the boy! D’ye hear me? He’s done nothing. What threat is he to you?”
Alan stared hard at the slight man. Adam Bell? Adam
Bell?
“Wait,” he breathed.
“D’ye hear me?” Little John repeated.
“Is it enough?” Scarlet asked.
“Mine,” the boy declared.
A soft hoot came from nearby. Adam Bell and the two archers turned sharply toward the sound. In a moment a man stepped out of the trees.
“You!” Alan said. Then, more urgently, “Have you damaged my lute?”
The one-handed man grinned, hoisting the instrument up to display it. “Buy it back, and find out!”
“Wat.” Adam Bell glanced back briefly to the archer called Clym. “Take the horse. Cloudisley will relieve our new friend of his purse.”
Adam Bell. Clym—of the Clough? And Cloudisley.
Alan stared.
My God
—
I’ve stumbled across the most notorious outlaws in England!
William of Cloudisley came forward, arching suggestive brows at Alan. He waggled beckoning fingers. “You can give it to me—or I can take it myself.”
“He’s not gentle,” Clym declared. “Though pretty as you are, I might do it myself.”
Alan fell back a step, but the giant’s body prevented him from further retreat. “This isn’t fair,” he said. “I’m not a wealthy man. I’m not a lord. I’m not a Norman. You’re robbing an Englishman.”
“Lute-player!” Clym’s tone was contemptuous. “You live off Norman bounty.” He looked at Much, lingering much too slowly with the horse. “Boy, what did I say?”
The boy reached down and plucked the arrow from the track. He threw it back at Clym in a mute but rebellious gesture.
“Leave him alone,” Little John rumbled.
“That horse is my fee,” Scarlet declared.
Adam Bell still looked at the one-handed man. “Did you bring the lute-player here?”
“I relieved him of his lute because it would have given him away to the Watch.” The man named Wat came further onto the track, gripping the instrument’s neck. “He’s one of us, Adam—though only just come to the life. He’s the fool who tupped the sheriffs daughter.”
Clym laughed harshly. “Fool to tup her? Or fool to be caught?”
“Both,” Alan said glumly. “Though she is an
active
woman.”
Adam Bell nodded. “Worth hanging for?”
“He wasn’t going to hang me. He meant to cut out my tongue.” Alan’s gaze lingered briefly on Wat’s stump. “At least you can still steal ... I’d lose my living.”
Wat grinned. “Aye, but I’m a thief
because
of this....” He looked beyond Alan to Little John. “So, you’ve come, too? Aye, well ye might—the sheriffs asking for you.”
The giant’s face drained. It left him wan and sickly, splotched with copper freckles.
Will Scarlet grunted. “Warned you, didn’t I?”
“The news,” Adam Bell said. “What have you learned of the sheriff?”
“He’s set his Watch on the pretty lad what raped his daughter”—Wat flashed a grin at Alan—“and wants the Hathersage Giant as well as the man called Scarlet. Has to do with a woman—
another
woman—”
“Sheriffs leman,” Scarlet scoffed.
“No.” One-handed Wat shook his head. “No, she’s the daughter of a knight. Marian FitzWalter. She’s nothing to do with the sheriff.”
“You see?” Little John’s tone was aggrieved. “Not a Norman at all, nor the sheriffs woman—”
Cloudisley nodded thoughtfully. “ ’Tis why the Normans are out, then.”
“Boy,” Clym growled at recalcitrant Much, “d’ye want an arrow between your eyes instead of between your feet?”
“Anyway, she’s safe now,” Little John said. “Halfway home by now.”
Alan put out his hand to Wat. “May I have my lute?”
“Your money first,” Cloudisley said, putting out his hand.
“Marian,” Much whispered. Then his eyes grew large. “Horse,” he expelled.
“Aye, horse,” Clym agreed, striding forward at last to grab the reins from Much.
Much didn’t seem to notice.
“Robin’s.”
“Mine now, boy.”
“No!”
Much shrieked it.
“Robin’s—”
And he jerked the reins away, sending the horse lunging sideways.
Cloudisley’s bow jammed Little John’s belly. “Hold,” he said softly.
“He’s a
boy—”
“My lute?” Alan repeated, looking back at Wat.
The one-handed man glanced at Adam Bell. “I did say he could fetch it.”
“He can buy it,” Bell answered. And then, tersely, “Riders—hear?”
Cloudisley swung at the muted drumming of hooves. “Normans?—aye, what else—?”
“Clym!” It was Bell, twisting to look back at the other outlaw. “Clym—leave the boy—”
Wat was gone, disappearing into the foliage with Alan’s lute. Cloudisley and Clym fell in beside one another at the center of the track, nocking arrows and raising bows even as Bell stepped to the side. Sunlight flashed on steel.
“Normans—?” But Alan didn’t wait to see, he simply leaped for the trees.
Little John grabbed for Much. “Let him go—let the horse go—”
“Mine,” Much declared.
“Normans, boy—leave
them
to chase the horse!”
“Away!” Adam Bell hissed.
William of Cloudisley and Clym of the Clough loosed two arrows as the riders broke into sight: six blue-cloaked Nottingham men in conical Norman helms. Two fell instantly, plucked off their mounts by arrows.
“All of them,” Bell said curtly. “Let none of them live.”
Much tried to mount the bay, but its fright sent it scrabbling sideways. Little John clung to the boy’s arm, pulling him away. “Let him
go
—”
“A miss!” Cloudisley shouted, twisting aside as he reached for another arrow. “One coming
through—Clym—”
Norman sword was unsheathed, scything through the air in a flash of steel. It drove both archers aside, breaking their opportunity. Both men dropped, rolled, and came up, scrabbling for new arrows.
Little John squeezed the boy’s thin wrist, breaking the grip on the reins. Freed, the horse retreated; Little John swung the boy around, ducked as the blade whistled by, then shoved Much toward the trees. “Run, boy—” He swung back, doubled a fist, brought it up swiftly to chop the Norman rider’s horse in the nose.
Alan, sprawled face down in bracken, gaped as the blow sent the horse staggering backward, tossing its head violently, so that the rider, caught off-guard, had to put his mind to horsemanship instead of to killing outlaws.
“Two more!” Adam Bell shouted. “And another coming through!”
Cloudisley and Clym, falling in behind the Normans, loosed two more arrows.
Will Scarlet dodged a horse and a crossbow bolt, then leaped up to catch rein. He hung on leather, letting the horse take his weight as its rider attempted futilely to control his mount while loading another bolt. The bolt fell free, and then the crossbow itself, as the Norman reached for his sword.
“Scarlet!” Cloudisley shouted, and let fly with another arrow.
“One more!” Bell shouted. “By God, giant—take
care!”
Little John threw himself to the track as the sword whistled down again in a glittering, deadly arc. He swore as a hoof struck his leg, rolled away, scrambled up and lurched for the trees.
“Clym,” Bell said intently.
“Mine,” the archer agreed, but the arrow did not fly true. It lodged itself high in the Norman’s back, near his left shoulder. Clym swore.
The Norman wheeled his horse heavily, looking back at the outlaws. An older man, they saw, a coldly furious veteran whom they could not afford to let live.
“Cloudisley!” Bell shouted.
But the Norman jammed spurs into his mount, swung the horse again, and sent him down the track toward Nottingham. Robin’s bay, free of impediment, followed at a gallop.
“No!” Scarlet shouted. “By God—not the
horse—”
Alan rose cautiously as Little John broke through bracken. “Well done—” he began.
The giant clamped his shoulder tightly to hold him in place. The other hand grasped at and caught the purse tied beneath the tunic, now exposed by a rent in the cloth. “Had I a choice,” the giant said hoarsely, “I’d leave your coin to you.” He tore the purse free of belt. “But I haven’t got a choice.”
“Wait—” Alan cried. And then, as Wat reappeared, “Give me back my lute!”
Little John turned and flung Alan’s purse at Adam Bell. “There! My fee. Now am I free to go?”
Bell caught the purse, hefted it and nodded satisfaction. But the look he sent to the giant was one of an odd compassion. “Why go?” he asked. “What’s left to you now, but to live in Sherwood?”
“I’ve paid your fee!” Little John snarled. “I’ve robbed an innocent man, and I’ve given the purse to you.”
Bell’s gaze was level. “And you aided well-known outlaws in full view of a Norman soldier, who lived to tell about it.”
Horrified, Little John stared.
Cloudisley hooked an arm through his bow, settling it across his back. “You are not a man another man forgets, especially a Norman soldier undone by peasantry.”
The giant lowered his gaze from Adam Bell to the bodies sprawled on the track: five Norman soldiers in the sheriff of Nottingham’s livery.
Will Scarlet laughed. “Go home to your sheep,” he jeered. “Go home to Hathersage, so they can hang you there!”
One-handed Wat slapped the belly of the lute into Alan’s grasp. “And you,” he said cheerfully, “are already wanted.”
Much came onto the track, wiping a wrist across his nose. He said nothing, staring sulkily at them all.
Scarlet laughed again, filling the trees with sound. “Wolf’s-heads, all of us—to a boy and a pretty minstrel!”
“No,” Alan said, even as Little John did.
One-handed Wat grinned. “Welcome to Sherwood Forest, where the king’s law fails and
our
law prevails!”

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