Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (77 page)

“No,” Marian said sharply.

DeLacey nodded. “His name is known to you, my lord, although he has adopted another.” He moved beyond John and a handful of John’s soldiers, then Gisbourne, gesturing to others to move aside. “In fact, if you will permit, I will introduce you—” He threw one man aside hard, shouldered away another, then jerked his sword from the sheath.

“No!” Marian cried. Then, in shock,
“Robin!”

Even as John’s men drew weapons and their lord shouted to hold, deLacey thrust himself through the remaining human impediment and brought the point of his blade to within an inch of the throat he longed most to cut. “Sir Robert,” he acknowledged politely, inwardly jubilant.

Will Scarlet turned on the giant, who stood just behind him. “You said the sheriff was
dead!”

In the stunned silence of the hall, the accusation was condemnation. DeLacey laughed aloud. “My lord Count, I beg your forgiveness for drawing steel in your presence—but
this man
is the reason your money was stolen.
This man,
my lord, is the very thief who stole it.”

“This man?” John echoed.
“This
man, deLacey?”

“This man.” The sheriff smiled. “Robin Hood,” he said, “I’ll see you hanged before sundown.”

Robin did not so much as glance at the swordtip that lingered so close to his throat. He looked straight into the piercing eyes of deLacey, full of self-satisfaction and a barely restrained exultation, and summoned the voice and manner he had so detested in his father. “Who are you to lift hand, blade, or voice against a peer of the realm?”

The imperious condescension infuriated deLacey. “By Christ,” he choked, “I lift what I must against an animal such as you—”

Robin pitched his voice to carry to John, whom he needed; John would understand the division between peerage and purchased service. “This ‘animal,’ ” he said coldly, “can name his ancestors more than ten generations back; we are an old,
old
family—older by far than your office.”

The blade trembled minutely. “Tell me,” deLacey said, “on whose side did your ancestors fight at the Battle of Hastings?” His smile was barbed. “Lineage means less than nothing when another has conquered you.”

“Ah,” Robin said, “then that explains why Prince John desired to marry his daughter to me.”

“Enough,”
John snapped. “I want to know about my money. Explain, if you please.”

DeLacey’s smile broadened. “This man has it, my lord—or
had
it, if it is elsewhere. He and the others—these men here: the giant, the minstrel; infamous Will Scarlet, who killed four of your men—attacked the shipment on its way to Lincoln.” The blade was steady now. “This man here, this confidant of kings, also robbed the Lords of Alnwick, Hereford, and Essex. If you believe nothing of what I say, summon them here. They were most explicit in description: hosen, they said, green tunic, leather bracers on his forearms, and a collared hood.” The swordtip dipped down to tease at the collapsed hood lying loosely across Robin’s shoulders. “Not the attire of a nobleman, is it? But the attire of Robin Hood?” DeLacey nodded. “He’ll have your coin, my lord.”

“Well, then.” John approached. “Well then, Sheriff, if this is true, you may indeed find yourself hanging this man before sundown.” He paused, affecting a puzzled tone that fooled no one, especially not Robin. “But how do you explain the presence of Will Scarlet
here
when you yourself hanged him before my very eyes?”

DeLacey’s face sagged minutely.

“With lies,” Marian said clearly. “The way he always does.”

John shrugged slightly. “Lies are useful,” he said. “Lies serve certain purposes. But their value is diminished when someone uncovers them.”

“I
saw
him!” deLacey declared. “I was there with the shipment when he and his men attacked. Will Scarlet admitted he thought I was dead; how could that happen if he wasn’t there to see it? This is no lie, my lord—Robert of Locksley, in his guise as Robin Hood, did willfully and viciously attack and kill twelve men, cutting open their throats for spite after the men were dead.”

“No!” Little John cried in horror.
“No,
we cut no throats—”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I should let you settle this between you—a decision made in trial by combat.” He glanced around the hall, marking avid eyes. “Would it serve, do you think? If he is indeed this Robin Hood, I have no qualms about permitting such a fight.”

DeLacey laughed in vindication. “You see—?” But the rest was cut off as Robin brought up his bracer-guarded left arm against the flat of the sheriff’s sword, knocking the blade aside. His own sword he jerked free of sheath to kiss the sheriffs blade, coyly placing distance between them.

Robin smiled grimly. “What say you, my lord Count—
shall
we determine the truth in a trial by combat? Surely we are well matched—he is the sheriff, so closely concerned with the daily administration of the shire, while I am a knight but recently returned from Crusade ... indeed, a well-made match!”

“No,” deLacey said coldly. “I am sheriff of this shire. It is my responsibility to determine the truth by the questioning of witnesses—”

John’s voice intruded. “Do you expect me to wait until you have produced de Vesci, Bohun, and de Mandeville?” he asked incredulously. “Do you think I dare? They are my brother’s men, you fool ... as is Sir Robert, and his father. What you propose is ludicrous, Sheriff—do you expect me to condone such folly?” John’s brief laugh was loaded with contempt. “If given a choice between you, whom would I select? Although you have certain useful administrative skills, the Earl of Huntington’s son offers many more advantages to a man in my position. I have no doubt as to the outcome of this battle. I think I shall let it continue.”

Robin saw the comprehension in deLacey’s eyes, the angry acknowledgment. He was devalued and therefore discarded, no longer necessary to any of John’s plans.
John has deserted him, and he knows it.
Robin’s blade scraped deLacey’s, emitting a metallic sibilance as steel kissed steel.
He will be more dangerous now than at any time. Desperation hones even the bluntest of blades.

The sheriff half turned toward John, as if to plead. “My lord—” But he swung back, slashing, to level his sword at Robin.

“No!” Marian cried. The crowd surged back, lurching out of the way. She heard John shout something as he moved aside hastily, but neither Robin nor the sheriff heeded it. They were thoroughly engaged in battering at one another with swords.

No—
She was knocked off balance by a man hastening away from the immediacy of the fight. No one left the hall, they simply moved as one to the walls to watch from relative safety. Marian staggered, regained her balance, saw Gisbourne crutching aside.

Blades clashed, locked briefly, then scraped apart, filling the hall with clangor. Steel glinted in candlelight, striking slashes of light into the eyes of the crowd. She saw Robin’s face, masked as she had seen it before, and the sheriffs, grimly angry.

They moved like dancers, weighing one another by small things such as posture: the tilt of a head, the slant of a shoulder, the position of the free arm, the subtle sliding of a foot. She saw how they watched one another’s
chests,
not eyes, not blades; how they judged their own movements as well as the opponent’s. It was a dance of steel and flesh, a savage seduction of deadly seriousness.

 

“Christ,” Scarlet blurted, shouldering someone aside so he could see more clearly, “he is a bloody knight!”

Little John, next to him—looking
over
heads—snorted inelegantly. “Did you think he lied, then? He’s an earl’s son, Will—”

“But
look
at him,” Scarlet blurted. “He bloody well knows how to fight!”

“Mmmm,” Alan agreed. “He did say he was better with a sword than Adam Bell—or anyone else—with a longbow.” He sighed. “I wish I had my lute.”

“By Christ,
I’d
say so.” Scarlet’s eyes were avid as he followed the fight. “Had I coin, I’d lay a wager on him.”

Tuck winced. “I pray you, Will Scarlet, not to take the Lord’s name in vain.”

Little John glanced around. “A wager, is it? Then let’s see what we can scare up—” But even as he bent to suggest a wager to the nearest man, one of Prince John’s soldiers cut him off with a sword.

“You,” the Norman said. The blade’s tip was at Little John’s belly.
“And
you.” He stared hard at Scarlet as another soldier appeared. “You’ll hold where you are.”

“Normans,” Scarlet said tightly. “I hope he
spits
the sheriff!”

 

Marian knew nothing of sword fighting, save that her father and her brother had learned the uses of a blade. She recalled practice in childhood when Sir Hugh had honed himself, but he had not seen fit to explain to his daughter the things he told his son. Marian watched in ignorance of skill and of technique, knowing only that neither man gave way to the other.

Steel chimed, then screeched as blades were wrenched apart. There seemed no grace in the fight, no elaborate preparations; they simply smashed at one another, clanging blade off blade in repeated efforts to break through the other’s guard to reach the flesh beyond steel.

She was distantly aware of an inequality:
The sheriff is mailed.
Robin wore nothing but tunic and hosen. If deLacey got through, his task was easier.
He will carve him into quarters.

They moved the length of the hall, battering back and forth, catching edges, then snatching them free. Pale hair flew, hiding much of Robin’s face; deLacey’s darker expression was avid, seeking weaknesses, breath hissing through clenched teeth.

They cut at legs and arms, slashed toward throats, stabbed toward midriffs. And always the blades caught, screeching awkward protest, until they broke apart again to begin another attack.

It was subtle at first, but the tenor of the fight altered. Marian was aware of the difference before she could name it; when she saw it at last, she wondered if Robin did.

He’s moving
—
he’s moving back.
DeLacey gave way again and again, allowing Robin the advantage, while turning his blade away.
He is moving back on purpose.

She edged the length of the hall with them, wrenched arms free of hands that would stay her, pushed in front of those blocking her view. She would stay even with Robin so she could see every movement, every expression, every subtlety. Her entire concentration was fixed on him. As they stopped and held ground, Marian stopped also, only dimly aware that Gisbourne was beside her, propped up awkwardly on his crutches.

Then deLacey moved again, beaten back by Robin. He backed the length of the hall, working toward the dais. She wondered if he would recall there were two steps, and if he knew where they were. They could trip a man easily and prove his undoing.

“Fall,” she said tautly, and heard Gisbourne’s derisive comment that she was no proper woman to wish for a man’s death. “Proper?” Marian laughed. “Not so proper as
you,
using Eleanor to put ‘witch-marks’ on your body.” She did not look at him, but only at the fighters. “Or was it her idea?”

Gisbourne forbore to reply, and she didn’t care enough to prod him for an answer. She cared only that Robin defeat the sheriff so all of them were freed.

He was tireless. His movements remained fluid, his power undiminished. In the midst of savagery, she began to see the inherent grace and eerie seduction in a swordfight well fought.

He is younger than the sheriff ... honed in the Crusade.
Surely he would be better. Surely he could endure, while the sheriffs strength waned.

DeLacey’s foot found the dais steps. He went up them swiftly, lurching aside even as Robin struck, then lunged behind the chair he had once inhabited. He set a shoulder against it and shoved, knocking it awry; it was enough, Marian saw, to afford the sheriff both respite and advantage.

Robin brought his sword around just as the chair was shoved awry. The blade came down, glinting white in candlelight. It bit into heavy wood and was caught.

“There,” Gisbourne said.

Robin’s hand slipped as he jerked at his sword, trying to snap the steel free of wood. Just as the blade came free of the chair, deLacey, shouting exultantly, thrust himself from the floor with sword fully extended, intending to sheath it in Robin’s flesh.

“Hold!” bellowed a voice. “By God, I say
hold!”

The roar caused a stirring, but she spared no time to look. She expected deLacey to hold because the authority in the voice was undeniable—
is it John? No
—but the sheriff appeared perfectly willing to ignore the order.

“Hold,
damn you! HOLD!”

William deLacey laughed.

“Robin!” Marian cried. But he read the sheriff as she did and lurched aside, sucking in belly, off balance from the steps. His blade, freed at last from wood, was twisted out of his hand in the last awkward tug; sword clattered to the floor as Robin went down. He landed hard on his back, arms and legs asprawl.

“No!” Marian shouted, hoping to distract deLacey.

He was not distracted. The sheriff kicked aside Robin’s sword, then placed the tip of his blade against pale, sweat-sheened flesh. “Shall I cut your throat for you?”

“Yes,” Gisbourne breathed.

“You bastard whoreson—” Marian wrenched a crutch from beneath Gisbourne’s arm, ignoring his startled bleat as he toppled to the floor, and ran toward Robin.

As the sheriff bent over the downed man, she slashed with all her strength at the back of deLacey’s knees.

Legs buckled. Robin rolled aside as the blade lurched up. DeLacey collapsed to his knees, roaring his surprise; Marian, with methodical precision, smashed the crutch down across his sword arm. The blade clattered free.

“No,” she said fiercely. “The trial is
over.”

DeLacey clutched his arm, swearing furiously. “By Christ, you bitch, it’s
broken
—”