Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 02] (37 page)

Robin nodded. “Were we to help ourselves to the king’s deer tonight, we might bring them down upon us. But we’ll save that for another night, when we are deeper in the forest. A small fire will do.” He knelt to begin unwrapping the bundle Marian had put down. “You should have stayed here, Marian, but—”

“But now that I am back safely, you are glad to have the supplies?” She grinned. “I know. So am I.”

“I’ll get wood,” Scarlet said, and turned back into the trees.

Tuck and Little John fell to opening Much’s bundles, sorting out the contents, while Alan gathered up stones to build a fire ring. In a short amount of time they had a fire laid and burning, blankets and cloaks made up into pallets and coverlets, and food shared out: cheese and bread and salted meat, early fruit, flasks of ale. It was a supremely simple meal, but nonetheless delicious in view of the day’s events. Much in particular looked blissfully dazed. He fell asleep with a crust of bread still clutched in one hand, head lolling against a tree trunk.

“Poor lad,” Tuck murmured, leaning to drape a blanket across the boy.

Robin nodded. “A long day for him.”

“But a pleasing conclusion.” Alan hooked bedraggled golden curls behind his ears.

The clearing was small, tree- and brush-hemmed, made cozy by the fire, food, and a company contented with what they had wrought. Shadows loomed large, crowding in among them. The latticework of branches high overhead screened out the moon- and starlight, so that the only dependable illumination was that given off by the modest fire. It was cruel to Scarle’s face, Robin noted absently, whose flesh bore the marks of hardship, grief, and ill humor, but kind to Marian’s. She sat close beside him, leaning against his left shoulder as she chewed a small hard apple. A warm and decorous blanket covered his legs and hers, which were entwined at the ankles.

Little John, seated on the other side of the fire, stared into the flames, beard glowing ruddy-gold. Alan, inspecting his fingers for bow-born blisters that might interfere with his luteplaying, was humming beneath his breath. Tuck had gathered up three of the stolen pouches and separated out the coin: one pouch for Marian’s taxes, one for the poor, and the smallest amount for them. Joan had sent along enough provender and plenishings to get them through a few days, but they would need more.

A full belly and freedom, for the moment, from the need to think, the awareness of pursuit, left Robin feeling oddly calm and detached. They had accomplished their goal of rescuing Much, and had done it without getting themselves hurt or captured. As for what they would do now, well, what lay ahead immediately was to gather enough money for Marian’s taxes—Robin believed one more fat purse or two might accomplish that—and then consider what they would do afterward.

At least, Robin would allow the others to consider what they would do. He already knew what
he
intended to do.

The Earl of Essex had given him the key, that day in the garden at Huntington. To overthrow John, one need only replace him with Arthur of Brittany, who would prove generous to all who aided his goal of claiming England for himself, and in his forgiveness of certain sins. Their role in such doings was infinitely simple: to steal from John the financial means to support his kingship. He needed taxes for that. And this session’s collection, currently residing in Nottingham under the sheriff’s authority, was due to be shipped within a few weeks.

Thieves they had become. Thieves they would be.

For as long as necessary.

Marian shifted against him, sighing. He crooked his left arm around her shoulders so he might smooth the hair from her face. “We shall get through this,” he murmured.

She settled her skull beneath his chin. “I know it.”

“We may be on short rations for a time, and badly in need of washing, but there is game and water aplenty.”

“And plenty of victims to rob,” she said dryly.

He grinned, rubbing his chin against her hair. He needed to shave; already the bristles caught. Or perhaps he would simply forgo shaving altogether and grow a beard. “We’ll rob the ones who deserve it.”

“How will you know that?”

“Merchants,” he said, “who overcharge customers; have I not lived near Nottingham all of my life to know who is fair and who is not? Clerics who have forgotten their vows of poverty; my father entertains far too many, so I am acquainted with those as well. And lords who keep their tenants living in hovels, with not enough to eat.”

“And tax shipments?”

He smiled. “Most especially those.”

“Be grateful,” she said suddenly, with one of her lightning shifts of mood.

He blinked. “Grateful?”

“That it is spring, not fall. Sherwood would be unkind in winter.” He grunted acknowledgment. “By winter, if all is well, we shall have a new sheriff. And possibly a new king.”

“And a new pardon?”

He kissed the top of her head. “Let us hope.”

“Let us
pray,
” Tuck clarified.

Robin stared into the flames. He was not himself certain prayer was effective; he had given up on prayers while a captive of the Turks.

Then again, he
had
survived. He
had
been ransomed. He
was
home safe, and whole. Perhaps some prayers simply took longer in the answering.

Before winter,
he suggested, aiming it at the skies.
If You would be so kind.

The Earl of Huntington abhorred showing personal weakness of any kind, lest an adversary find opportunity in it. The men he joined outside in the fog-shrouded bailey to bid farewell were confidants, not adversaries, but he found it galling nonetheless that they should see him so weakened by the malady that would not depart despite chest plasters, possets, and bleedings. Coughing had weakened him further, turning his voice into a ruin. Breath rattled in his aching lungs. He found it difficult now to stand upright, even to breathe in the fog, which weighted his chest even more. His steward, Ralph, waited close by, prepared to offer physical support if necessary.

Huntington was determined it should not be necessary.

He had marked it before in the faces of his companions, and marked it again now as they waited for horseboys to bring up their mounts: the opinion that he was dying. Eustace de Vesci, of supremely robust health and temperament, was made most uneasy by his host’s condition. Henry Bohun, more schooled to tact than de Vesci, gave little away in expression. And in Geoffrey de Mandeville’s eyes, of them all a friend as well as a man of like opinion in the ordering of the realm, there was empathy and compassion.

“We shall see it done,” Huntington said, mustering as much vigor as possible. “The boy put in John’s place.”

“As soon as may be,” Bohun agreed.

De Vesci, uncomfortable, hooked thumbs into his belt. Fingers drummed on leather; he was eager to be gone.

“You have done more than your share,” de Mandeville said quietly. “Leave the rest to us.”

Kind words, a friend’s reassurance, but plainly they believed he would die before their plans bore fruit. They expected and desired no more of him now, lest he leave something undone.

He had left nothing undone.

The horses were brought. De Vesci, clearly relieved, swung up at once, sweeping his cloak aside with eloquent expertise as he settled into the saddle. Bohun took the moment to touch Huntington’s shoulder briefly, thanked him for his hospitality and advice, then turned to his own mount. It left Geoffrey de Mandeville, the Earl of Essex, formerly Richard’s Justiciar and once one of the most powerful men in England, still unmounted.

His eyes were kind. “You set a fine example, my lord, of a dedicated man prepared to sacrifice all for his country.”

“So should we all,” Huntington said testily.

A smile flirted with the corners of de Mandeville’s mouth. “Indeed. But there is yet one more thing . . .”

“Yes?”

“Forgive him, my friend. He shares your pride, your stubbornness, your determination. When employed for the proper goals, all of those things are invaluable.”

Huntington glared.

“England requires your son, as she has required you.”

“I have no son,” Huntington declared.

De Mandeville seemed on the verge of saying more on the subject, but withheld it. He moved forward, clasped Huntington’s shoulders briefly, then turned away to his mount.

Ralph was close beside him. “My lord, allow me to assist you into the castle.”

Huntington put out a hand to halt him. It would not do to permit the others to see such weakness. He stood as straight as possible, fog dampening his wispy hair, and watched the three men ride out of the bailey toward the road beyond.

Abruptly he repeated, “I have no son.” Ralph supported him now, taking much of the earl’s weight onto himself as he turned him toward the castle. “No son,” he said, “no heir. It should revert to the Crown, the title, the lands, the money. But I will make a different accommodation. Soon.”

Ralph held his silence as he guided the earl to his bedchamber. He removed the heavy outer robe, then helped him to climb into bed. When Huntington was settled against bolsters and pillows, buried beneath mounds of covers, his steward put into his hand a cup of warmed and well-watered wine, mixed with herbs that would allow him to rest. It was as the earl gave over the last of his tightly hoarded strength that the steward finally spoke.

“My lord, you are dying.”

He supposed he was. And how odd that he felt no stirrings of anger at Ralph’s bald speech.

“My lord, allow me to send for your son.”

He stared into the distance, through the shadows of the chamber. “I have no son.”

“You have a fine son, my lord.”

He managed a thin smile. “Arthur of Brittany shall have it all, Ralph, even if he is not king in name yet. John has coveted and feared this castle since first he ever saw it. Let him continue to covet it. Let him continue to fear it. Let him know that all of my wealth and power, which he needs so desperately, shall be delivered on my death to the boy in Brittany.”

“You did not have this castle built for Arthur, my lord.”

No. Not for any king, living or dead, nor for a boy in far-off Brittany. But for a boy who believed himself a man, capable of self-government, now living in the forest.

“Let me send for him, my lord.”

He was very tired. “So he may witness my death, and rejoice?”

“He will not rejoice, my lord. Trust me in this.”

Huntington closed his eyes. “He was never the son I wished for. I believed, when Henry and William died, he might be made to understand what he must become. But he did not. He refused.”

“My lord, he is your only surviving child. Your immortality. Forgive him the failings you believe to be his.”

He was not so near death he could not parse out careful phraseology. “ ‘Believe to be his,’ ” he echoed. Ralph’s way of saying Robert had failed in nothing, only his father in accepting his differences. Huntington considered chastising his steward for such frankness. But just now he hadn’t the strength.

His sons were dead. The only one remaining belonged wholly to his mother, equally dead.

How perverse of God to take the sons he needed, and leave behind the one he could not countenance.

Ralph disapproved.

Let him. He was not the earl. Only the earl’s steward.

It came to him then that he should make provision for the man who had served him so many years. Even if Ralph did believe there was worth in Robert.

But then, Robert had always had a way about him that attracted others, enabled them to forgive him all his sins and failings. He had won Ralph. Even the Earl of Essex. All men, it seemed, save his father. And the Sheriff of Nottingham.

Knighted, but disinherited. He was an outlaw now. But the Earl of Huntington believed, with sour acknowledgment, it was entirely possible his fey, fanciful son was capable of winning forgiveness even for that. Again.

He plucked ineffectually at covers, was relieved when Ralph resettled them for him.
I was not strict enough with Robert. I should have beaten the fancies out of him.

He had tried. But obviously not hard enough.

 

Morning fog lay low along the ground, dampening hair and clothing. “Bird calls,” Robin said.

Marian blinked. She was not quite wholly awake, seated on a pallet of folded blankets with a cloak wrapped tightly around her to keep out the chill. “Bird calls?”

He smiled. “Like this.” And proceeded to run through a series of whistles and hootings Marian could not distinguish from the actual fowl.

“How can you
do
all that?” she asked, astonished; he had never before demonstrated such ability.

He shrugged; a tendril of fog peeled away from a shoulder. “As a boy I spent many hours tracking and mimicking birds. I pretended to be them.”

Little John was taken aback. “To be
birds?
An earl’s son? Whatever for?”

Marian thought about it. “I never pretended to be a bird. I pretended to be a horse, galloping across the meadow.” She could see it again in her mind’s eye, feel the choppy rhythm of her pretend canter.

“I was never the horse,” Robin said. “I was always
on
the horse. A destrier, in fact, riding to the lists.”

“And winning?”

“Of course, winning! Would I imagine losing?”

Will Scarlet, gnawing on hard-crusted bread, grunted through a mouthful.
“I
imagined eating a whole meal.”

“Tedious,” Alan remarked. “I, on the other hand, pretended to be Queen Eleanor’s most favorite jongleur.”

“Well,” Little John said slyly, “you
were
Eleanor’s favorite jongleur. But she wasn’t the queen, was she? Only the sheriff’s daughter.”

Alan promptly tossed the remains of a loaf at Little John, who batted it away.

“Here!” Scarlet bestirred himself to fetch the loaf out of the new-laid fire, brushing it free of soot. “You never wanted for food, did you, any of you?”

“I was always fat,” Tuck said resignedly, adding wood to the fire. “No one, looking at me, would ever think
I
wanted for food.”

“Bird calls,” Robin said sternly. “Let me hear them.”

“Why?” Marian asked.

“For signals,” he explained. “Far better than shouting names across the road at one another as we’re preparing to rob people.”

“I can do a duck,” she said, and blew firmly through pursed lips into the hollow of a fist. She mitigated the volume and intonation by opening and closing her fingers.

“A decent duck, that,” Tuck observed judiciously.

“Except ducks are in lakes and ponds, not hiding in the forest,” Scarlet pointed out. “No one will believe a lone duck is calling to others along the Nottingham road.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Robin said. “Marian goes back to Ravenskeep today.”

She stiffened. “I do?”

“You do. We are embarking on outlawry—well, more than what we did yesterday, or five years ago—and it’s best if you go home.”

“Yesterday you believed it wasn’t safe for me to go home.”

“Yes. Yesterday. But the soldiers have been there now.”

“They could come again.”

“And if you remain gone, it will be far too suspicious.”

“You were the one who said the sheriff might arrest me and take me to Nottingham to make me tell him where you are.”

“Yesterday you knew where we were. Today you will not.”

It shocked her. “You intend to hide from
me?”

“It is safest.”

“For you?”

“For you.”

Almost as one the others got to their feet, murmuring identically about returning in a moment—Scarlet was frank enough to declare he needed a piss—and disappeared into the fog, crashing through vegetation. Even Much went, when Tuck tugged him to his feet.

Marian watched the mass defection with interest. “They believe we are going to fight.”

“There is that possibility,” he agreed. “If you refuse to go.”

She knew that tone, that tilt of the head. He was amused, but serious. “Explain it to me, then,” she invited. “Why should I go back to Ravenskeep while all of you are hiding in the forest?”

Employing his meat-knife, he carved off a sliver of cheese from the chunk in his hand. “Because the sheriff knows it was us—me, Little John, Tuck, Will, and Alan—in Nottingham yesterday, rescuing Much. He does
not
know you were there. Best to leave it that way.” He ate the cheese, and carved another bite. “You are already in his bad graces.”

“So you will send me back home to wait and worry.” She scowled at him, noting absently the stippling of white-blond stubble along his jaw. Would he grow a beard now that he hid in Sherwood? “I have told you before how much I detest that. Women sent along home to wonder in ignorance what is becoming of their men.”

He continued to carve the cheese into pieces with all due seriousness, as if nothing else in the world mattered but his breakfast. “If you leave Ravenskeep now, you tell the sheriff he’s won. You forfeit possession.”

Her head came up sharply.

“Marian,” he said, “outlawry is hard. It is not a life any man chooses for himself. Why would he choose it for the woman he loves?”

“Perhaps she will choose it for herself.” But the protest was half-hearted. Robin was right. She could not absent herself from the manor while the sheriff plotted to take it. “If I go,” she said, surrendering, “how will I find you?”

He smiled; he never gloated in victory, for which she was grateful. Otherwise she would have to smack him. “Ride along the road. If you hear a plethora of bird calls, likely it is us.”

“Robin—”

But he cut her off. “I have thought it through, Marian. When added to what Little John took from the peddler, within a day, possibly two, we should have enough coin to cover your taxes. I will have it delivered to deLacey, and a proper receipt executed in front of witnesses.”

“Who shall deliver it? You? You would walk into the castle and risk arrest?”

“Abraham the Jew,” he told her. “DeLacey dares not arrest Abraham, not for this. He will be safe. And then the taxes shall be paid, and Ravenskeep will no longer be at risk.”

“But you’ll still be in Sherwood. Robbing people.”

“Until deLacey is dismissed, yes. But if we rob enough people and steal all the taxes, make it impossible for him to properly govern the shire, he shall be gone in short order.”

“And until then?”

“Until then, you will be home safe in Ravenskeep—”

Dryly she interrupted, “While you and the others pretend to be birds.”

“But not a duck,” he said, feeding her the last piece of cheese to silence further protest.

From behind them in the trees came a rude cacophony of very poor bird calls.

 

DeLacey ran lightly down the steps of the castle into the inner bailey. The fog had lifted and he felt ineffably young this day, buoyant with high hopes and good spirits. He smiled at Mercardier, standing by the wagon.