Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 02] (22 page)

Ice descended upon her. She felt it sheathing her bones, creeping out to encase her flesh. A lady would not answer the challenge, most particularly not with the sweet venom she employed, but if deLacey claimed she was no more a lady, she would satisfy his opinion. “And how is your arm?”she asked, reminding him sweetly that she herself had broken it with a blow of a crutch. “Did it heal well? Does it ache in the winter, or before a storm? I understand it is far more difficult to recover from injury when one is of an advanced age.”

It told. His mouth tightened and the flesh beneath his eyes crimped into a deeper fretwork of lines. But he merely smiled. “Have you brought the taxes?”

“I have brought no such thing,” she retorted. “I owe you no taxes. I paid my taxes.”

“The rolls show you did not.”

“The rolls lie,” she said. “Or you do.”

“But
I
am the sheriff. It is
I
who determines what has been paid, and what is yet owed. It is
I
who makes the accounting. Do you wish to contest it with me?”

“I do.”

He stood behind the chair now, forearms folded upon its back as if he were at ease. And perhaps he was. It infuriated her. “Marian,” he said, “this ends. Ravenskeep shall be mine.”

It took immense effort not to spit the words at him. “It shall not.”

“Then pay the taxes.”

“I paid them.”

“We have no receipt saying so, nor is your name entered in the rolls.”

“Then there has been a mistake.”

“The mistake is yours. You neglected to pay your taxes.”

“I paid.
”

“But I am not so cruel as you might claim,” he went on. “I have given you a fortnight to pay them. I could take Ravenskeep now, today, yet I give you time to comply.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but a shout from behind her interrupted. “Lord Sheriff !” Marian spun. Gisbourne stood there. As he saw her his face went white, then red, and he fixed his gaze pointedly upon deLacey. “My lord, will you come out?”

The sheriff frowned. “Come out where, Gisbourne? This is my hall. You may speak if I say you may speak.”

Gisbourne glanced again at Marian, then away. He seemed nothing so much as distressed by her presence, as if what he had to say would embarrass him before her. “Will you come out, my lord?”

DeLacey considered it, sighed, then assented. As he crossed the hall and passed by Marian, he gave her the flicker of an amused smile. “ We may continue our pleasant discourse when I return.”

Marian, who had a great deal more to say to him, gritted her teeth. She wished she had a crutch, that she might break his arm again.

Or better yet, his skull.

Upon reaching Locksley, Robin went immediately to the hall, which he found deserted except for the two servants who cared for it in his absence. The woman and her husband said yes, the sheriff’s soldiers had indeed come looking for Little John, Will Scarlet, and the others, but none of them was present so none of them was found, though the soldiers had immediately gone into the forest to search for them there.

Robin frowned at that; surely the others should have reached the village before the soldiers arrived.
Unless Adam Bell delayed them longer than I thought.
There was also the possibility that they had spied the soldiers before reaching Locksley.

The husband went on to explain the visit from the sheriff’s men had caused some hardship for the villagers because the soldiers had been merciless in their questioning and hasty search but that the bruises would heal and the things broken could be mended. And while Robin was relieved to hear little damage had been done to villagers and property, he was left wondering just where Alan, Tuck, Much, and the others had gone and how they fared.

“Sherwood,” he murmured absently when he went back outside to the waiting horse. He had no idea
where
in Sherwood they might have gone, but he believed it likely they had sought shelter in the depths upon discovering soldiers had reached the village first; and at least they
had
discovered it first. He reflected with irony that perhaps it was fortunate they had run into Adam Bell and his men despite the enforced visit and toll. Otherwise they might have been in the village when the soldiers arrived.

Robin, looking at the fringe of forest encroaching on the village outskirts, knew Locksley was no more a safe place now than Ravenskeep or Nottingham. Short of leaving the area entirely, they had no place to go but into Sherwood.

He left orders with the couple to welcome his friends should they arrive, though now he doubted they would, and then took himself back the way he had come on Gisbourne’s horse. The others were safe from arrest; so long as he was required to ride past Huntington Castle on his way back to Ravenskeep, he might as well call on his father to acquaint him with his decision regarding Marian, marriage, children, earldoms, and treasonous activities designed to bring down a king.

 

DeLacey was more than a little annoyed that Gisbourne felt it necessary and appropriate to drag him out of his own hall. But when the steward spilled his news in a rush, he understood. “
Locksley
stole your horse?”

Gisbourne nodded vigorously. “I saw him clearly, my lord. Nor did he attempt to hide himself. He said he was taking my horse, and so he did.”

For once Gisbourne had demonstrated good sense in not sharing his news in the hall where Marian would hear. DeLacey did not want her to know—
yet
—that Locksley had stolen Gisbourne’s horse, lest she find some way to delay his arrest; and he thought it would be delicious to return with her outlaw lover in chains and parade him before her.

He smiled, anticipating her reaction. And then he laughed, clapping the man on his shoulder. “Well done, Gisbourne! Now we have proof and I have cause. Go back outside and tell the castellan to have soldiers readied; we ride for Huntington Castle at once.” He paused. “You as well, Gisbourne. I want the earl to hear what you have to say.”

The steward was startled. “I have only just got here! I had to ride a woodcutter’s cart all the way in.”

“Well, now you shall have a horse to ride instead.” He paused. “I trust this time you’ll be able to keep it.”

“But—” Gisbourne blurted as he began to turn away.

“Yes?”

“Will the earl listen?”

“He shall have to. Have we not an unimpeachable witness, the Sheriff of Nottingham’s very own seneschal?”

Darker color flooded Gisbourne’s saturnine face. “It is somewhat embarrassing, my lord, that he was able to take my horse. I am a knight.”

DeLacey was exasperated.
“Jesu,
Gisbourne, do you think it matters to me that he embarrassed you? You will say what you saw to the earl himself, and I shall arrest Locksley. This is
two
horses he has stolen in less than a fortnight. He has proven himself an outlaw before witnesses, and I shall treat him accordingly.”

“My lord—?”

Once again, the sheriff turned back. “What is it?”

“Do you intend to take Ravenskeep from Lady Marian?”

DeLacey, distracted, frowned; what had this to do with the topic? “I do.”

“Then I would request that the manor and lands be given to me.”

It was astonishing. “To
you!
”

“Yes, my lord. I have a family. I am a knight. I should like to have a knight’s lawful portion.” His chin rose, thrusting itself against the air. “I deserve it.”

“Do
you?”

Gisbourne said with no inflection, “It would remove your daughter from beneath your roof.”

For a moment deLacey was so stunned he could only stare at the man. And then he began to laugh.

“My lord, I am serious!”

DeLacey eventually regained self-control. “But Gisbourne, then she would be under
your
roof. Constantly.”

The steward’s face was implacable. “She would be there, under that roof. I would be here. Under yours.”

Still amused, deLacey said, “I should have you beaten for such disrespect. She
is
my daughter.” Gisbourne did not so much as blink. “But I understand, Gisbourne. Oh, indeed I do.” He grinned again. “I shall consider it. But first we have to arrest Locksley so the lady has no one to whom she might turn in order to get coin to pay the taxes.”

“If she did,” Gisbourne said, “you would only find another way of saying she hadn’t paid.”

“Wise to that, are you?”

“My lord, I am wise to all of your schemes.”

DeLacey cocked an eyebrow. “That, Gisbourne, is perhaps not something of which you should boast.”

“No, my lord. Of course not.”

Satisfied that the warning was heeded, and pleased to contemplate hosting Sir Robert of Locksley in his dungeon, the sheriff went back into his hall to don soldier’s gear. He wanted the earl to remember who ruled Nottinghamshire, and by what authority, when he took his son and heir into custody.

 

Marian was struck by the sheriff’s manner as he returned to the hall. Wariness set in when she marked the smile on his face and the glint in his eyes. His body spoke of anticipation and incipient activity, and when he saw her watching him his smile broadened.

“What is it?” she asked.

DeLacey paused long enough to strike a pose of delicately measured surprise and arched one brow. “Are we friends now that you should be privy to my business?” But he overrode any answer she might make. “Outlaws,” he answered succinctly. “I regret that we shall have to continue our discussion at another time, but my duty is to the safety of the people of Nottinghamshire.”

As he strode by her, Marian inquired acidly, “Including those who are overtaxed, or who have already paid but are accused of not paying?”

“Another time, Marian,” he called over his shoulder. “Run along home—” But he turned briefly to bestow upon her a warmly insincere smile. “Though it may not be your home beyond a fortnight.” And he was gone before she could summon another retort.

Marian wanted to howl with frustration. She did not know whether to believe him regarding outlaws; it could be a ploy to avoid her. But Gisbourne had been sincerely agitated, and certainly there were outlaws aplenty in Sherwood, and she thought it likely deLacey had told the truth. It made her no happier.

She could leave. But she had not yet said everything she wished to say to the man she had come to detest with unflagging venom. Irresolute and angry, Marian stood in the middle of the hall and scowled fiercely at the high-backed chair and trestle table set upon the dais. “Were I man,” she declared, “we would settle this at sword’s point.”

A harsh, accented voice said, “An honest solution. But more difficult than you might expect.”

Marian, startled, turned sharply, one hand pressed to her breast. At first she saw only the shape of the man, the height, the breadth of shoulders, the thick mailed torso beneath its belted surcoat. Then she saw the sword, the wide hand resting upon its pommel, and his face.

Last time she had seen him, little had been visible in the deepening of dusk and the first wash of torchlight. But here in the hall, coif slipped to his shoulders, the stubbled jaw shaved so that the flesh was unshadowed, she marked the man far more clearly. He was a veteran soldier incarnate, with a hard face showing the nicks and blemishes of battle, the pocks of childhood disease, the implacability of dark eyes accustomed to seeing death in all its forms. Silver threaded near-black hair. One heavy, level eyebrow was bisected by the thin slash of a scar.

Mercardier,
Robin had named him.

“You went to France,” she said, then realized how inane it sounded.

He ignored it. He walked toward her steadily, the hem of his surcoat rippling against the greaves warding his shins. When he was but two paces away, he drew the two-handed broadsword.

Marian tensed to recoil as it hissed from the sheath, but he merely turned it in his hands and offered it to her. She stared at it, then looked into his face.

His tone was rough. “Take it.”

“Why?”

“Take it.”

When Marian made no effort to do so, he stepped forward with more speed than she would have expected from a man of his mailed bulk, and before she could protest, he grabbed both of her hands and wrapped them around the hilt. She was trapped as he imprisoned them, making certain she grasped the sword lest she drop it on her feet.

And then he released it. The weight was astonishing.

“Hold it,” he said curtly. “Do not dull the edge against the stones.”

She was a knight’s daughter. She had been taught that a properly balanced sword was at home in a trained man’s hands, neither too heavy nor too light. But she was a woman, not a man, and this sword, this massive Norman sword forged for a ruthless mercenary whose only code was killing for coin, dragged itself downward despite her grip.

She recalled what her father had taught her: the round end was a wheel-pommel, for balance; the channel down the center of the blade—in this case, there were two—was a fuller, and had been inscribed. With effort—the sword was over a yard in length—she kept the blade from touching the floor beneath the rushes. Her forearms flexed and trembled.

He stepped closer. One hand caught and lifted the tip, so that the point rested squarely atop the long leather belt wrapped around his hips. Were the sword to pierce, it would cut through the wall of his abdomen. “Now,” he said, “settle it.”

Marian stared at him.

“Settle it,” he repeated.

“Settle what?”

“Your dispute about the taxes. You said you would settle it at sword’s point.”

“With the
sheriff,
” she explained. “I have no quarrel with you.”

“But you do. I am sent from the king to collect the taxes the sheriff has collected, to escort them to London.”

“You?”

“Oui, madame.
”

It was impossible to hold the sword up any longer. Her arms ached with it. “Take it back,” she said. “And tell me why you insisted I hold it.”

He shifted the tip aside, then stepped forward to close one hand around the grip even as she gave it into his keeping. “Because you do not respect the sword, or the means to use it.” The big man sheathed the weapon. “It is easy, no, to say you will kill a man? To say you will settle a dispute at sword’s point? But the truth is different. It deserves respect, as does the sword.”

It occurred to her that perhaps he was mad. But she did not think so. Robin had once said something very similar about the bow, when he gave her a lesson. One was to respect a weapon before one should use it.

“I have cause,” she said plainly, “and you are not privy to my business to know what I should and should not respect.”

“The sword is
my
business. As is war.”

Marian smiled thinly. “Do you believe a woman cannot have cause to wage war?”

“All battles are not the same,” he said in his accented rasp; she thought perhaps he was conceding the point, though she wasn’t certain. His eyes were dark and unreadable. “Were you a man, you might indeed settle it with a sword, had you the courage and the will. But that is more difficult than you believe, and better left unspoken unless you understand what such things require. Instead, you had best use a woman’s weapon.”

“A
woman’s
weapon?”

“Your tongue,” he said; with Robin, it would have been irony. With this man, it was fact as he saw it. “Tell me your dispute.”

“You are the sheriff’s man.” She weighted her tone with contempt. “It serves no purpose.”

“I am
the king’s
man. And it serves every purpose.”

Marian studied him, marking the hardness in dark eyes, the granite of his face. He was, she thought, immense of commitment and immovable in flesh, a dangerous enemy. She found herself very glad he and Robin had fought on the same side.

“My war,” she said, “is with William deLacey. Taxes are the excuse. But he has shaped that excuse into a weapon—a sword, if you will, for which he has no respect—and holds it to my throat.”

“Tell me, madame.”

But before she could speak again, deLacey himself came into the hall. He had put off his fine clothing and wore serviceable mail, spurs, and carried a sword. He was taller than Mercardier but considerably slighter when judged against the mercenary’s bulk. Abruptly whimsical, she decided deLacey was a dagger, thin-bladed and honed to a sharpness that would cut into viscera before anyone knew. Mercardier was the very weapon he carried: a massive, heavy broadsword designed not to puncture, not to slice, but to batter flesh into pulp and to shatter all the bones.