Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 02] (39 page)

Robin gestured. “Down,” he said. “Leave them there. Come here to me, as I have said.”

De Mandeville dismounted and released his reins, doing as told. After a moment Bohun did the same. De Vesci, muttering imprecations beneath his breath, jumped down from his horse and took three long paces forward that put him alongside his companions.

“Much,” Robin said, “take the horses to Tuck.”

The boy came back out into the road,
sans
swords, took up the dangling reins, and led the horses into the trees. They crashed after him through thick vegetation.

Robin, still several strides away from the earls, slipped his hood, smiling. “The past repeats. But at least this time none of you swears I have no right to my sword.”

“By God!” de Vesci cried, face reddening once more. “It
is
‘again’!”

Bohun blinked. “Robert?”

Geoffrey de Mandeville nodded to himself, as if a question had been answered.

“We have food and ale,” Robin said. “Do join us for a meal.” He whistled a low but carrying call. “Will, Alan, Little John—escort our guests, if you please.”

One by one the men materialized out of the forest on either side of the road, longbows in hand but no arrows nocked. Robin watched as the earls took the measure of them, paying particular attention to the towering size of Little John and the hard-eyed attitude of Will Scarlet, no man’s fool.

“Why are you doing this?” Bohun inquired. De Vesci, baffled, merely scowled.

Robin glanced at the Earl of Essex. Geoffrey de Mandeville sighed, lifting shoulders in a slight apologetic shrug. “I had no chance to tell them what we discussed in the garden.”

“Ah. Well, I suppose it would do best coming from me.” He gestured the others forward. “Go,” he suggested, as Alan fell in before the lords and Will and John behind. They went single-file, trailing slowly into the forest.

Robin went to where Much had left the swords, gathered them up, and followed his men.

His
men.

His army. Such as it was.

He was not Richard the Lionheart, and they were not Crusaders. But he did not see that it mattered who they were or what they were called, so long as what they undertook was for the good of England.

Robin sighed and resettled the swords in his arms.
I am become my father after all.

DeLacey was more than a little shocked when he was admitted to see the Earl of Huntington. He had known the man was ill and growing frail, but now he was wasting away. There was little of him left, only the dull blaze in his faded eyes, the ascetic repressiveness of his thin face. Somewhere beneath the covers the body lay, but the sheriff could see none of it save gnarled hands extruding from bedrobe sleeves and a head crowned with wispy white hair.

It came as a shock.
He is dying.

All men died. But the earl had been old for decades, somehow frozen in time. Only now did he seem vulnerable. Only now was the decisive and difficult spirit dimmed by physical weakness.

DeLacey inclined his head swiftly to hide his expression. “My lord,” he said, betraying no startlement.

“My steward tells me this is a matter of business.” The whispery tone was like parchment tearing.

The sheriff in that moment wanted nothing so much as to depart. At once. To hide from the final, fatal truth that all men confronted, far easier to ignore when one was not brought face to face with mortality.
I will grow old one day.

“Indeed,” he said, withdrawing a folded parchment from his sleeve. “But, my lord—it may wait.”

“Business rarely waits.” A palsied hand gestured. “Tell me.”

DeLacey unfolded the parchment. “This is a letter explaining matters to Marian FitzWalter,” he said. “It is best left to me to tell her, my lord, that you have assumed her tax debt. It is I as sheriff who must account for such matters, and arrange them; men such as yourself need not trouble themselves with evictions.”

A white brow arched. “You will evict her?”

“Indeed, my lord. You own the manor now. Unless you wish her to remain.” He gestured, trying not to lead the man too blatantly. The earl was old and ill, but deLacey knew it extremely unlikely the man had lost his wits. “You perhaps may wish her to act as chatelaine, to keep the tenants in order.”

“Leave her overseeing the management of a manor that once was hers? To pay rents to the man who would not permit his son to marry her?” The earl’s cracked lips moved into a faint, wintry smile. “You are cruel, William.”

“But efficient.”

“Oh, efficient. Always.” The earl coughed, spasming against the pillows, but he waved deLacey away when he made as if to offer assistance. “No. I will not have her stay. I shall make a different provision for the management of the manor. My steward has been a loyal man, and I intend to reward him for it. My title, lands, and wealth shall pass to the Crown upon my death, and likely Ralph will eventually be dismissed as the king chooses his own man. One day the king will no doubt give some favored family or courtier my title as a reward. Therefore I shall have it written that upon my death my steward shall inherit the FitzWalter manor. And I doubt he will have need of that woman running his household.”

It took deLacey’s breath away. That Huntington would give the hall and manor to his
steward!
He himself was dependent on his office for a roof over his head; now Ralph of Huntington, a mere servant, would own his own lands, his own hall. All because he had served a stubborn old man for more than two decades, while William deLacey had served an entire shire for thirty years.

But he kept all of it from his face. He would still have the pleasure of turning Marian out, and that in itself was worth any price.

“I shall have this letter delivered to her,” the sheriff explained. “It is a straightforward document, plain in speech. She has forfeited the manor for want of the proper tax payments. You are now the owner. Therefore she must depart.”

“She is of no moment,” the earl said breathlessly. “But I wish my son to understand what he has given up. An earldom, Huntington Castle, Locksley Village, and now even the girl’s hall. He must see what it is to be alone in the world as a poor man, no better than a peasant, no richer than a serf. He must know what it is to be
destitute.
” His hand trembled as he wiped at damp lips. “Do you know how many men in England would beg for such an inheritance as I intended to leave him?”

William deLacey had a very good idea indeed.

“And yet he rejects what I have done for him. What I have
built
for him.” The earl’s grimace was a rigid spasm. “He is an ungrateful son.”

DeLacey was not certain if he should agree—it was one thing for a father to defame his son, quite another for someone else to do so—and thus he held his tongue.

Then the earl waved a hand. “But he is not my son anymore.”

“My lord—”

Huntington closed his eyes. “I have no son.”

The sheriff could think of nothing else to say, and the earl appeared to have fallen asleep. So he refolded the parchment, slipped it back inside his sleeve, inclined his head briefly to the old man—just in case—and took himself from the room.

Downstairs, before the main door, he met Ralph, who brought his summer-weight cloak. The now infamous Ralph, loyal, helpful, faithful Ralph. Who surely must know soon what the earl had decided, if not already.

But deLacey merely looked grave and accepted Ralph’s aid in the donning of his cloak. “I did not realize the earl had taken so ill.” Which was perfectly true, even if intended merely as overture.

“He has worsened over the last few days,” Ralph said in a subdued tone.

“He has been a good master to you.”

“I could not have wished for a better one.”

“And what of Robert, his son? Do you feel as strongly as the earl does, that the boy should remain disinherited?”

Something flickered in Ralph’s eyes before he smoothed the servant’s mask back into place.

“Ah.” The man need say nothing; it was clear he cared very deeply for Robert of Locksley. Likely Ralph had helped raise the boy to manhood. This made it simpler. “I myself believe the earl is being too harsh. One cannot excuse the follies of youth, of course, and it is quite true that discipline is necessary, but disinheritance? Extreme, I should think.”

Emboldened by a like opinion, Ralph succumbed to frank speech. “My lord and his son have often been at odds. It is most distressing. They are both proud and stubborn men, unwilling to admit when the other may be correct.”

“But should a father be so stubborn when he is dying? When he has so much tradition to pass on to his son? Surely he could forgive him.”

“I pray for it, Lord Sheriff. Every night.”

Prayer. Well. DeLacey did not believe in the efficacy of such. Best a man do what he himself could, rather than begging God for such things as wealth and power.

“Would he come, do you think?” DeLacey asked, as if he had only just been struck by the idea. “You say they are often at odds . . . but should a son not be at his father’s bedside when death approaches? Even if the father disapproves?”

“My lord,
I
believe so. And I have told the earl. Let me send for him, I have asked. Repeatedly. But the earl says I may not go.”

“But would he come?”

“Robin?” The telling slip into the familiarity of a long-time servant was unmarked by Ralph, but significant to the sheriff. “Oh, I do believe so. If he knew his father was dying, I believe he would.”

“And so he should.” DeLacey rested a hand on the steward’s shoulder.

“You are a good man, Ralph. One any man should be glad to have in his service. Let us pray you may yet convince the earl to send for his son. Perhaps—tomorrow?”

Ralph was perplexed. “My lord?”

“And perhaps it should be done no matter what the earl desires.” DeLacey squeezed the shoulder bracingly. “He is a stubborn man, my lord earl, as you have said . . . he may indeed wish for his son to be here, yet cannot bring himself to ask for his presence after insisting against it. But if you were to go on your own . . .” He arched suggestive brows.

Ralph frowned. “I could not go against my lord’s wishes.”

“In nothing else, of course not. But he is
dying,
Ralph! Would you deny him a chance to see his son a final time, to deny that son the chance to ask forgiveness for so much misbehavior? It may be the final opportunity for them to reconcile.”

But Ralph was as yet unconvinced.

DeLacey knew when not to press a man. “Well, it may be moot regardless. He could die tonight, I daresay—and there is no time for you to send for Robert today. Perhaps, if he lives the night . . . well, you may feel differently in the morning. Even the earl may. Perhaps you might ask him again tomorrow, when there is time for you to fetch Robert.” He paused. “To fetch Robert
home,
Ralph, where he belongs.” He resettled his cloak, hooking brooches. “Prayer will help. Give God the opportunity to know what is in your heart. Pray tonight, Ralph, and ask the earl again tomorrow—he would send
you,
would he not, so faithful and trusted a man?—and perhaps you may bring the prodigal home again.”

Ralph seemed encouraged. “I will indeed pray tonight, my lord, and see what the earl says in the morning. Thank you for your confidence.”

DeLacey strode out of the hall into the late afternoon, resolving to station a man to report when Ralph rode out of Huntington.
Plenty of time,
he reflected. The earl and his steward did not know Locksley had taken to hiding in Sherwood. Ralph would go all the way to Ravenskeep to fetch the son home to his dying father, and that would give deLacey time to arrive at Huntington with his soldiers to offer Locksley an appropriate reception.

He smiled as he waited for his horse. Everything was coming together so nicely, and all at the same time. Efficiency incarnate.

Or perhaps God did not like outlaws, even nobly born ones, any more than William deLacey did.

Now
that
was a deity he would willingly pray to. One who punished outlaws. It would certainly save the sheriff a lot of time and aggravation.

 

“And so that is why,” Robin finished, leaning against a tree trunk.

Eustace de Vesci, a flask of ale clutched in one hand, stared uncomprehendingly at Geoffrey de Mandeville.
“You
told him to rob us?”

“Well, not precisely rob
us,”
Essex replied. “I suggested he serve us—and Arthur—by keeping the taxes from John. He has no money, no treasury, merely the title. A king cannot keep his crown if he has no money for the ordering of the realm.”

Henry Bohun was less offended than de Vesci. “But was it necessary to carry out the charade there in the road? You might have identified yourself before taking our swords and making us dismount.”

“Practice,” Robin said succinctly. “I was not raised to this, you see.”

De Mandeville smiled, genuinely amused. De Vesci glowered and said, “You’ve adapted well enough.”

Robin looked at them one by one. The three of them sat in a row along a log, like birds upon a limb. Alan, Will, and Little John, bows in hand, ranged behind them casually. “What is to complain of, my lords? We have fed you, given you ale, kept you company.”

“You have
delayed
us,” de Vesci explained. “We meant to make Lincoln by nightfall.”

“And you still may. I don’t intend to keep your horses, or even your swords.” Robin shrugged. “Only your purses and rings.”

After a moment of stricken silence, de Vesci boomed out a hearty gust of laughter. “By God, you learn fast! I almost believe you.”

“Do,” Robin suggested. “You may all of you go as soon as the toll is paid.”

Bohun understood more quickly than de Vesci, eyes narrowing. De Mandeville did not bother to hide his startlement. “Robert?”

“Or you may stay the night here,” Robin said quietly. “Perhaps in the morning you will feel more generous.”

Will Scarlet prodded the stunned de Vesci in the spine with his longbow. “Pay the toll, aye? Then ’tis Lincoln-bound you’ll be.”

Robin smiled at them companionably. “Fear not. The coin and baubles are not for us. We will take a percentage—I think that is only fair, considering the risk—but I’ll send most along to Arthur.”

“We
can send money along to Arthur!” de Vesci cried, now almost purple with rage. “And he has no need of our jewels!”

De Mandeville was frowning. “Robert, I must protest—”

“You
cannot be seen to send money to Brittany.
You
cannot be seen to support him in any way. You certainly cannot be seen to steal taxes from deLacey. I am already outlawed—a small matter of a pardon revoked, a brace of borrowed horses, the rescue of a cutpurse from under the sheriff’s nose—and disinherited. Surely I am beyond hope. Surely I can no longer embarrass my father. Surely I may convince you I mean what I say.”

“Robert, there is no
need—
” de Mandeville began.

“A sacrifice,” Robin overrode him, “for the good of the realm. Such things are often asked, and as often offered.” He lifted his brows. “Surely
you,
my lords, comprehend the need.” He took an empty leather pouch from his belt and tossed it to land on the ground at de Vesci’s booted feet. “Please put your rings in that. Your purses you may donate to Little John as he takes you to your horses.”

De Mandeville stiffened. “This is not what I intended when we discussed this in the garden.”

Robin nodded sympathetically. “I know. But one must consider this a war, my lord. Wars are not won by undertaking the simple things. Wars are not won by undertaking the
friendly
things. Wars are won by undertaking what is necessary. No matter what others may think.”

“War is honorable!” de Vesci bellowed. “By God, would the Lionheart countenance this?”

“The Lionheart,” Robin said very quietly, “did whatever was necessary. What he
perceived
to be necessary. I was there, you see, when he ordered executed nearly three thousand of Acre’s citizens after the city was won. Even women, my lords.”