Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (65 page)

Alan found himself a stump on which to sit and settled himself comfortably, hooking the belly of his lute against his right thigh as the neck nestled into his left hand. He found the tableau inspiring and longed to make a song of it, wondering in the back of his mind if he could create a legend merely by singing the truth.

An earl’s son hunting coin with the vilest outlaws in Sherwood Forest.
Alan pursed his lips.
There might be something in it ... something to lure the ear ... God knows he’s fodder enough: a noble, a knight, king’s confidant, Crusader.
He grinned to himself, thanking his Muse, and bent his head over the lute as he toyed with a verse. He did nothing aloud, merely play acted the minstrel’s part to help himself think.

“Now,” Adam Bell said quietly, “let’s hear what you have to say.”

In various postures the others sat, or hunched, or leaned; in the dull colors of their clothing they blended into the foliage and trees, melding into shadows. Only Robin stood, at ease, one hand wrapped around his bow. In the light of a late afternoon, brass-bright after three gloomy days, his hair glowed like needfire.

“I have a plan,” he said quietly, “to help you, and me, and all England.”

Alan’s smile grew. The verse begat another:

Robin’s tone was pitched conversationally, but with a casual note of camaraderie, as if he counted himself among them. “You know as well as I the Forest Laws are too binding, robbing all but the king and nobility of the chance to eat venison.”

“You want to change the law?” Will Scarlet was clearly contemptuous. “D’ye mean to make yourself king, then?”

Robin grinned. “No. I mean to bring
home
the king, so he may do something about it.”

Clym swore. “D’ye mean to march us to Germany then—maybe walk across the water!—and beg King Henry oh so prettily to give us our Richard back?”

“I mean to pay the ransom,” Robin told him. “And you can help me do it.”

Ah, Alan thought,
what a ballad there is in this!

“We’ve no money,” Scarlet declared. “How are we to pay?”

Robin arched a quizzical eyebrow. “Then what do you do with the coin you steal? Eat it in place of deer?”

Clym laughed. Cloudisley smiled. Bell merely looked thoughtful.

“Here,” Little John said. “You mean to steal it, then? For the king?”

Robin nodded. “The chancellor, William Longchamp, has taxed everything in England. Men like the Sheriff of Nottingham see that all of us pay the tax. But it’s never enough, is it? More and more is demanded, until even the Jews claim poverty—”

“Jews,” Clym muttered. “They eat Christian babies.”

“No,” Robin said patiently. “It is true they eat no pork, but they do not eat babies in its place.”

Clym was unconvinced. He swore softly, then spat.
“That
for your Jews.”

The minstrel marked how Robin weighed expressions, looking at each of the outlaws.
He’s been in the army—with his name, he likely commanded. He knows how to win men.

Alan’s smile widened again as Robin continued easily, showing no impatience with Clym’s foul temper, or contempt for the man. “There are those who escape paying as much as they should—”

“Rich men,” Scarlet said sourly. “Rich men like Normans.”

“Rich men like
nobles,”
said Wat One-Hand.

“And bishops, and abbots, and archbishops.” Robin nodded. “There are those men who speak of God while robbing the poor to adorn themselves with jewels and cloth of gold, and altars with silver plate.”

Alan laughed to himself, exulting inwardly:

“And knights,” Clym said pointedly. “What do
knights
pay?”

“Knights pay what they can in service, if not in coin,” Robin answered patiently, unoffended by the implication. “It isn’t the rich on Crusade, because the Crusade has made all men poor.”

Fascinated, Alan watched him in silence, offering no comment or question. Robin’s words made sense, but his matter-of-fact approach misdirected the others into believing what he suggested was a perfectly normal thing for a man such as himself.

An earl’s son telling outlaws they should rob the clergy? Even in the king’s name, it is not so simple a thing.
His fingers twitched.
My God, what fodder he is! All it wants is a woman.

Adam Bell nodded, pulling idly at his bottom lip. “So, you want us to rob rich men and give the coin to you, so you can ransom the king.” He nodded again. “We’re not mad, Sir Knight. Nor are we simpletons—except the boy, there.”

Much’s face colored. He glared blackly at Bell.

“No,” Robin said, “not simple. Much has a special gift. There is no boy—
or
man!—who is quicker with his hands or more loyal to a cause.”

“Lionheart,” Much said stoutly.

“Agh, God—d’ye think we’re so foolish as all that?” Clym asked. “You come here to Sherwood and tell us we’re to rob priests and noblemen, then give it all to you—”

“Not to me.” The camaraderie faded. Robin’s tone was level, with no hint of amusement in it. He was deadly serious, with the look of a man who would not tolerate obstruction if there were no grounds for it. “We will set it all aside, then send it to Longchamp in London.”

“Longchamp!” Bell shook his head. “You said it yourself: he’s taxing England to death.”

Robin tapped the foot of his bow into the earth, watching intently as leaf mold was ground into motes of fine powder. “There is a difference,” he said quietly, “between a tax levied to buy back the king”—he looked at them now, and Alan caught his breath at the fixed determination that transfigured the hazel eyes—“and one levied to have him killed.”

“What?” Little John’s tone was sharp. “
Who
wants him killed?”

Robin stopped tapping. “Prince John desires the throne. He will do whatever he must to make certain his brother remains imprisoned forever—which is impractical, because the threat of escape is too great—or that he dies unexpectedly of means no one quite understands.” He stood very still, looking at each man. The fading bruises on his face underscored his intensity.

’Tis the eyes,
Alan decided.
He knows how to master his face, but the eyes give him away. When they’re cold and dead and steady is when he’s most intent on his quarry.

“And I suppose you know all this because you’re a knight.” Cloudisley was less belligerent than Clym, and less deliberate than Bell, but his skepticism was plain.

Coolly, Robin said, “Among other things.”

Alan grinned. Here it is ... will he tell them now, or wait?

“This latest ‘tax,’ ” Robin went on, divulging nothing more, “is nothing but Prince John’s vanity demanding coin for his debts. It is not Longchamp’s doing.”

“But—” Cloudisley was astonished. It was preposterous even to outlaws that a prince would do such a thing. “Then the money isn’t going for the king at all.”

“No.”

Adam Bell nodded musingly. “Into Prince John’s coffers.”

Robin nodded. “I’d rather send it to German Henry than put it in John’s hands.”

Bell glanced at Clym, then at Cloudisley. His smile ran crooked. “Tell me,” he said, “why we should aid the king.”

It startled even Clym. “But he’s the
king—”

Bell thrust out a silencing hand, staring hard at Robin. “I want
him
to answer. I want a pretty knight—and more than that, perhaps?—to tell us why we should steal to buy back a king who’s as Norman as any of them.”

They had none of them thought of it. Not even Alan, whose fingers stilled the strings.
Norman as any of them
—
aye, so he is ... but Richard was
born
to be king
—He looked at Robin.
Let him answer the riddle.

Robin nodded. “A fair question, Adam—but one for
him
to answer.”

Bell scoffed. “So I thought. So, then, why should
you
aid him? He’s a Norman. You’re Saxon.” His eyes were veiled behind lashes. “Or so you’d have us think.”

“We’ve lost England,” Robin said. “We lost her long ago when the Conqueror took her from us. And certainly we have suffered, all of us, though some more than others—”

“Some
less,”
Clym muttered.

“And some less.” He did not shirk the admission. “They are here, Adam. We cannot send them home again. But we can reclaim our country by teaching the invaders how to live as Englishmen.”

Adam grunted. “And King Richard can do that?”

“I believe he is a man who trusts another man regardless of his birth, so long as that man puts his faith in the king.”

Cloudisley stirred. “And what does that gain us?”

“Consideration,” Robin declared. “He will treat you as men, not beasts. He understands the wealth of a land lies in what folk produce, not in crushing them down.”

Clym was troubled. “He’s a warrior, they say—”

“So he is. I have seen him in battle.”

“A strong man, then?”

“The strongest I have met, in all the ways a man is measured.” Robin slanted a smile at Little John. “He might subdue the Hathersage Giant.”

Alan struck a chord. “Robin has the right of it. We’ll not rid our shores of the Normans ... what serves us now is to retain as much of England in the rearing up of her kings.”

“Bring Richard home,” Robin said, “and I promise you better days. Far better than John does; would you rather have
him
as king?”

The silence was loud. Then Scarlet stirred. “If all of England is so poor, there’s no more coin to be had. How can we help?”

Robin’s answer was flat and measured, empty of emotion. “There are three lords riding out of Huntington tomorrow, at midday. They are wealthy, powerful men. I intend to waylay them on the road and demand their purses of them—and anything else of worth that can be put toward the ransom.”

“Do you?” Adam Bell grinned. “This is your information?”

“It is.”

A subtle, contradictory man.
Alan cradled his lute.
And to think I believed him tedious back at Huntington Castle.

Bell, Clym, and Cloudisley exchanged eloquent glances. Clym grinned hugely, though he directed it at the ground; Cloudisley proved intent on the wrap of his longbow’s handgrip; Bell was the one who answered. “And who is to say we will not kill you now and rob them ourselves, without your assistance?”

Robin said merely, “Because none of you
can
kill me.”

 

Gisbourne, who had succeeded in changing from bliaut to tunic, also struggled into baggy hosen. He sat on the edge of his bed and gathered his strength, determined to rejoin the world from which his injury had cut him off. He could do nothing in bed in his chamber, could conduct no affairs nor see to running the castle; and if Prince John
did
send word in response to his letter, he might never receive it. But if he were up and about, taking an interest in his responsibilities, his lot would no doubt improve.

He hooked the crutches beneath his arms and hitched himself up, putting as little weight as possible on the injured leg. It itched abominably as the swelling went down. Laboriously Gisbourne made his way to the door, unlatched it, and crutched out of the way as he tugged it open.

In the corridor, prepared to knock, stood the sheriff. “Gisbourne!” He smiled delighted surprise. “I have come to put you to work.”

Taken aback, Gisbourne leaned on his crutches. “Oh?” he inquired weakly. He had hoped to avoid the sheriff for as long as possible.

“Yes.” DeLacey waved a hand, shooing Gisbourne back toward the bed. “Go on, go on—this can be done from over there.”

“But I wanted—”

“No, Sir Guy. I understand your feelings of unworthiness, but I assure you I have no intention of allowing you to return to work too soon. There are some small tasks which can be done here, such as this letter.” He displayed parchment, sand, and wax. “Come, Sir Guy, I have no time to waste.” DeLacey’s gesture suggested Gisbourne sit down at once. “This is an important letter.”

Gisbourne sat down unsteadily, grimacing absently. “But—you have a clerk for this.”

“Had
a clerk for this. He has been dismissed.”

Gisbourne opened his mouth to feign ignorance of the reason, saw the expression in deLacey’s eyes, and forbore to say anything. Tuck had done his work in freeing Marian from a forced marriage, but he had paid the price. Now both of them were gone, and it was Gisbourne’s turn to deal with deLacey.

He took the proffered parchment, wax, and sand, set all aside, then pulled the piece of wood he’d used as a table onto his lap. “Yes, my lord?”

“To Abbot Martin,” deLacey directed. “He is commended for his godliness and wisdom in all things, and praised for his attentiveness to ridding the world of evil.”

Writing, Gisbourne frowned. He wanted very badly to ask the sheriff what the letter concerned, but he was being used as clerk, not confidant. He began the salutation, which in itself would take up much of the parchment.

DeLacey’s tone was relentless. “He is commanded to make his way here to Nottingham as soon as possible, for the examination of a woman suspected of being a witch.”