Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (70 page)

She said nothing immediately. Then, “Robin.” He turned at the door, pausing. Light from narrow windows was kind to her face and hair, as the moonlight had been to her nakedness the night before. “The shipment will be well-guarded. How can you think to defeat so many soldiers with only a handful of men?”

“Men—and arrows.” He felt cold, distant, strangely detached, as if he fought already. It took effort to speak to a woman who could not know what it was to match oneself against another in an effort to end his life. “Have you ever seen what longbows do to Norman mail?”

Marian shook her head.

“The arrow goes through,” he said quietly. “Through cloth, through leather, through mail—and certainly through flesh.” Brutally, he added, “A single man with an English longbow need never fear a Norman... and we have
four
archers.”

 

Gisbourne, newly shaved and in fresh clothing, crutched out to the hall for the first time since the boar had sliced open his leg. It brought him much satisfaction to again be mobile.

He stopped short in the hall, squinting disapproval. “I said to
reduce
the candles...” He leaned on crutches in the center of the hall, looking at rack after rack of stumpy wax candles. “Before God, they’ve put
more
out! Do they think we’re made of money?”

“Sir Guy?” It was Walter, coming in with a parchment in his hand. “Sir Guy—this just arrived.”

Gisbourne scowled. His mind was on money, not messages. “Who is responsible for all these candles? I said to reduce the number, Walter ... I said too much money was being spent on unnecessary things. This many candles are
unnecessary.”

Walter nodded. “But it was the sheriff himself who ordered more put out. Sir Guy—here.” He extended his hand. “The message.”

“The sheriff ordered more?” The message was unimportant when compared to a waste of coin. “But he agreed to allow me the latitude to make my own assessments.”

“Aye. Sir Guy—the message—”

“Not
mine,”
Gisbourne snapped. “Who would write to me? It’s for the sheriff, is it not?”

“It bears no seal, merely the sheriff’s office.” Walter shrugged. “I thought it might be important.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he told Walter irritably. “The sheriff is on his way to Lincoln. Whatever this is will have to wait.”

Walter was plainly troubled. “The messenger was quite out of breath, Sir Guy, and his horse near broken down. He spent himself to get here. It must be important.”

Impatiently, Gisbourne beckoned. “I’ll read it, then... I’ll judge if it’s important enough to act immediately.”

Walter was much relieved. He handed the parchment over.

Frowning, Gisbourne broke the blob of wax that bore no seal. There was no salutation, no intricate honorifics, merely a cryptic message in a hand unknown to Gisbourne:

And beneath it a single letter:
J.

Gisbourne read it twice. Then he looked at Walter. “From where did the messenger ride?”

“From Lincoln. He said he even risked Sherwood Forest to get the message here quickly.” Walter smiled. “ ’Tis important, isn’t it?”

“From Lincoln,” Gisbourne echoed.
Through Sherwood
—
then he missed the sheriff altogether.
He read the message a third time. He had learned much of the sheriff since he had come to Nottingham, so obliqueness and intrigue were no longer alien to him. His mind knit it together quickly. Gisbourne
knew.

Walter now was worried. “Sir Guy? Is it bad news?”

I sent a message to Prince John avowing my loyalty. He has it in writing
—
he has written proof—he can use it against me if he believes it could help his cause
—And he would, of course. John would use anything in any way to force others to assume his guilt. And now that the king was free—

—
the devil indeed is loosed
—Gisbourne laughed at Walter, though what he wanted was to cry. “Yes,” he said, “and no. Depending on your plans.” “Sir Guy?”

Gisbourne laughed again, in bitter apprehension. Walter no longer mattered. Nothing of import mattered, if one had supported the wrong side.

“Sir Guy—do we need to send word to the sheriff?”

Gisbourne’s smile was ghastly. “I think he’ll find out in Lincoln.”

Alan was irritated: he had left behind his lute because Robin had said it was dangerous to bring it. He had initially protested, then given in. Robin was right. They went to rob the sheriff, not fill his ears with music; it was entirely possible the lute might get in the way. So he had left it behind with Marian at Locksley, and now suffered for it. He felt naked without the instrument close by where he could reach it in answer to a capricious Muse who did not understand such things as stealing tax money from the sheriff.

They took the shortest route through Sherwood Forest, as described by Much, who knew it better than anyone had suspected. Their object was to cut straight across to the Lincoln Road, find the place most favorable to their intentions—a narrowing of the road that would squeeze the Normans close and foul a laden wagon—then wait. A day, two, perhaps even three; Robin did not believe it would take longer, for deLacey would want very badly to transport the money to Prince John as quickly as possible.

They struck a pace that was part trot, part lope, a ground-eating gait that would bring them to the Lincoln Road before the Normans could arrive at the predetermined place even if they had left today. Much went first, slipping under low-hanging limbs that threatened everyone else, particularly the giant; Little John muttered impatiently from time to time, and once had stopped long enough to rip an offending branch clean of its trunk.

Scarlet said nothing at all, which surprised Alan a little. He had expected the man to complain about this or that, or make it plain he thought little of their knightly leader—Scarlet had never made a secret of his contempt for Robin—but he held his tongue. He simply clutched the bow tightly and went on behind Robin as Clym had gone behind Adam Bell.

Alan dismissed it. He brought up the rear, because when his mind was so full of verse and music it was hard to think of other things such as keeping up with others.

A fragment drifted in:

Robin might not appreciate being called an outlaw—he wasn’t one, yet—but by intending to steal the tax shipment from the sheriff himself, he undertook the sort of thievery that would result in a hanging. Once the sheriff discovered who it was, Robin would be speedily
un
hooded—and his rank declared forfeit, his inheritance stripped from him, the capture of his person worth money. It would undoubtedly be more than the seven pennies’ bounty on a wolf’s-head, but they would call him that anyway, just as they did the others.

He gives up more than any of us, but his faith is stronger regardless.
Alan shook his head. So much done in Richard’s name, with so few certainties.
If
they succeeded;
if
the money arrived safely;
if
German Henry accepted it and
if
he freed the king—then perhaps this would be worth it.

Meanwhile, the verse continued.

It was a conceit, Alan knew, to enter himself in the lyrics, but he saw no reason not to. Did he not also accompany Robin Hood on a foray against the sheriff?

Alan sighed in frustration. Without his lute his music was crippled, and so was he.

Tuck laughed at Marian, which infuriated her. “Why
not?”
she asked. “Women have done it before, I daresay. All I need do is borrow the clothing, stuff my hair into a hood, and off I go.”

She faced him within the hall, hands resting on hips. She was straight, slim, and fiercely lovely: a Celtic warrior-queen. Tuck groped for the kindest way to explain, though he himself was not certain she would fail to accomplish whatever she set out to do. He had learned Marian FitzWalter was no helpless maiden, but a woman with a strength of will to rival any man’s.

Still, he was quite certain in
this
instance she was wrong. “No,” he said gently. “Lady Marian—you would fool no one.”

“I just told you how I could... if required, I could cut my hair short—”

“No,” he said again, forestalling her argument. She was not serious, he knew; or not as serious as she believed. She was lonely and intensely helpless. She grasped at straws because there was nothing else to do. “Lady—no one would
ever
mistake you for a boy.”

The line of her mouth was mutinous. “There are ways of disguising oneself. I could darken my features, puff out my cheeks, walk like a boy—”

Tuck made himself stern, which went against his nature, but he saw nothing else that might aid him in this particular battle. “You are too well-grown to portray a boy, too settled in your features—young boys are like unshaped clay, lacking character in their faces. Your face has
much
character—”

“I’ll distort it. I said so.”

“—and far too much beauty.” He smiled self-consciously, aware of his reddened face; monks were not supposed to notice such things, but of course they did. “If you were a brawny, plain Saxon maid, perhaps you might accomplish it. But you are fine-boned and delicate, and—” Tuck broke off. How was he to tell her—even he, a
monk,
who might be expected to speak of such things with detachment—that the very lushness of her body would preclude a masquerade. Lamely, he finished, “No man alive would take you for a boy.”

“Delicate?” she echoed incredulously. “Let me tell you what has become of my life recently, and we’ll see if
that
applies—”

“Lady Marian,” he said firmly, “you were asked to wait. Only a fool would go against his wishes, which are for your safety, and put on a poor disguise to join him in an enterprise from which no one may return.”

At last he reached her, if with brutal frankness instead of pious platitudes. She was white-faced and still. The fading bruises on her face stood out in stark relief against the pallor of her flesh. Unshed tears made her eyes bright in the midday dimness of the hall. “Perhaps,” she began unevenly, “perhaps I wish so much to be a fool because I would rather die
with
him there, than learn of his death here.”

It was poignant, and painful. “I will pray,” he told her, not knowing what else to offer. “I will pray for his safety.”

With a hint of her former acerbity, Marian suggested, “And pray for my
sanity.”

Tuck smiled. “I will.”

 

When Much came darting back through trees and foliage, Robin knew the wait was ended before it was truly begun. He had been correct, then; the sheriff wanted to deliver the money to John before the day was finished, rather than wait two or three more, a delay sure to infuriate the prince.

They squatted in the bracken, shielded by hip-high fern, and spoke softly of the plans laid at Locksley Hall, adapted now to the circumstances of road, of trees, of Normans.

Carefully he questioned Much, whom he knew to be limited in speech but shrewd in observation, and learned there was a driver on the seat with a mailed Norman next to him, plus ten outriders spaced around the wagon. They wore swords, knives, and carried crossbows, as was expected.

“Sheriff,” Much said.

Robin, thinking ahead rapidly, fixed his attention again. “The sheriff is with them?” Much nodded even as Scarlet swore. Robin put up a hand. “It makes no difference. He is only one more man... we will treat him as the others.” He looked into serious faces: a red-bearded giant wrestler who preferred to tend sheep; a hard-faced Saxon murderer who had more reason than most to hate Normans; a pretty troubadour who had, of late, grown to look more like the others than the silk-clad seducer who had nearly lost his tongue.

And Much.
Robin sighed.

“Well?” Scarlet asked curtly.

Robin marked the dilation in Scarlet’s eyes, turning them from brown to black. “Will—” For the first time he used the man’s Christian name, and saw it register. “I will have you with me.”

Brief surprise lighted the darkening eyes; then Scarlet jerked his head in a single nod of acknowledgment.

“Little John, you and Alan will take the other side. And Much”—he smiled at the boy’s poised eagerness—“you are to do as I said before. Have you the knife?” It appeared in Much’s hand. Robin nodded. “Good. Stay clear of crossbows and swords—there is no need to go so close when we have longbows. We can do most of our work from a distance. If this goes as it should, we will not risk ourselves.”

“If,”
Alan said lightly.

Robin smiled. “The only man who countenances no
‘if’
is Richard, King of the English—and he is not here.”

“He will be,” Little John murmured. “if this works...”

“If,
again.” But Robin’s amusement faded. “There is no more time. We must take up our places, and wait. I will loose the first arrow—after that do as you will.”

“We’re not you,” Alan said quietly. “We are apprentices, not masters. We each of us will miss more than once or twice.”

Robin nodded. “Use every arrow in your quiver. Each of us has thirty—if we cannot find thirteen targets with so many shafts apiece, we had better go back to Locksley and begin plowing fields.” He put his hand on Much’s thin shoulder. “You have the most dangerous role—do what you have to
quickly,
and take no more risks than you must. A dead boy serves no king.”

Much nodded intently, then ran ahead to give them warning when the Normans approached the curve.

“Wait—”
Little John blurted.

Scarlet swore. “No
time—”

The giant’s face was pale. “ ’Tis murder to kill all of them outright. You’ve killed Normans, Will, but I haven’t.”

“You agreed!”

“I agreed to help steal the money—”

“Enough.” Robin cut them off sharply, aware of dispassion rising in his soul. This was as much a war as Acre, if different in size and design. He required dispassion. “They have crossbows, Little John. If we give them the chance, they will use them.”

The giant’s expression was anguished. “We can’t just
kill
them!”

Scarlet growled. “By God, you’ve spent too much time with sheep—”

“All right,” Robin said curtly. “We’ll give them the chance to surrender the money. But remember, John—they’ll kill the boy first.”

“Then
I’ll
do Much’s job—”

“You can’t!” Alan hissed. “Before God, giant, can’t you see? If they caught any of us now, they’d hang us within the week.”

Little John’s face was corpse-white in the frame of brilliant hair and beard. “I can’t just
kill
a man.”

“Then don’t,” Robin told him. “Shoot
near
them—let them be wary of you. It will keep them distracted.”

The giant nodded eventually. Robin jerked his head at Little John and Alan. They moved through bracken and dropped down to the road where it narrowed and swept left, then disappeared again into fern.

“Why?” Scarlet challenged. “Why d’ye want
me?”

Robin hitched a shoulder. “You have no love for Normans.”

“You’d want the giant, or the minstrel.”

“I prefer a man unafraid to kill as many Normans as we must.” Robin spared him no kindness, but the truth was kind enough to a man like William Scathlocke. “Scathlocke, to Scarlet. How did you come by it?”

Scarlet grimaced. “They found me with the last man, the one whose throat I bit out.” He did not duck the brutality of fact; he had seen it as necessary. “I was bloody all over by then, from the other three I killed—this one was the worst. He nearly killed
me
—I had to do something.” He shrugged a little. “I was blood up to my elbows ... they called me Scarlet for it.” His dark eyes were steady. “If you can do
this,
you’d have done what I did.”

Robin nodded. “But I’ve done more than this... and you will do more than that.”

“You do it for a king.”

“You did it for a wife.”

Scarlet’s face stiffened. “God, but I’d kill them
all—”

From ahead, Much whistled a birdcall. Robin slapped a hand to Scarlet’s shoulder. “Now you will have your chance.”

Scarlet rose to assume his own position, but lingered a moment. He touched his swollen nose. “A right smart blow, it was.”

Robin laughed softly, reflecting on his fading bruises. “And I’ve only now begun to chew on both sides of my mouth.”

 

Gisbourne sat in the sheriffs chair, nearly paralyzed from the multitude of thoughts filling his head. He feared it might burst, so packed was it with anxiety.