Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 02] (47 page)

“She answers to your bidding.”

“Ah, but this was all her own.”

“Stay back!” Mercardier shouted; they were in the outer bailey. Men upon the wall, armed with crossbows, lined the sentry-walk. One bolt was all it required to strike Marian down.

“Tell them,” Robin commanded.

DeLacey said nothing.

A bit more pressure, and blood flowed.

“Stand down!” deLacey choked. Then, as Robin moved the sword slightly to facilitate speech, “I said,
stand down! Hold!
Any man who shoots will be disciplined!”

“Better,” Robin murmured.

They neared the gates. Were through. And then Marian shouted for aid even as a wagon careened toward them, and Robin had the fleeting impression of a red-haired giant upon the driver’s seat.

From dwellings across the street, arrows flew in warning, thunking into the gates. Soldiers ducked.

“Well fought,” Mercardier said abruptly. “And
your
victory, Locksley. Richard was right: you have honor, heart, and skill.”

But there was no time for response . . . Marian threw her bow into the back of the wagon as it lurched to an awkward halt. Robin, giving way to nerves at last, spun deLacey back the other way and brought the wheel-pommel down against the back of the sheriff’s skull.

“Hurry!” Marian was in the wagon, gripping the sideboards.
“Robin—”

In two leaps he was at the wagon even as Little John yanked on reins to turn the horses, roaring at them to run. It lurched from under Robin, nearly upending him into the street. Swearing, he lost the sword entirely as he grabbed for the sideboards. He barked one shin, fell flat on his face, then pulled himself up and turned around so he sat facing backward, staring at the castle gates.

DeLacey was down in the dirt of the street, one hand clasping the back of his head. Mercardier stood over him. The sun was going down behind the castle; the mercenary, in silhouette, was a broad bulk of a mailed, man-shaped wall, features indistinguishable.

“Merci,”
Robin murmured. Then he thrust a victorious fist into the air. “For the Lionheart!”

Marian’s arms closed tightly around his neck as the wagon bounced and shuddered. “For Robin Hood,” she said.

And kissed him soundly.

The priest concluded his prayers before the modest altar and rose, wincing slightly as his knees creaked. With each season he grew a bit more stiff, a bit more slow, but God did not mind if his servants were not as nimble as in their youth. God required the heart and soul, not the body.

He turned, his mind on a bite of bread, and stopped short. A man stood in the open door, silhouetted against the sunlight. “Father?”

Perhaps the bread would wait a bit. “Yes, my son?”

The man came into the small church. Now the candlelight fell clearly on his face: he was young, handsome, slim, with riotous golden curls. His clothing was a bit tattered, but clearly once had been fine. He had the manners and accent of a lord, yet the priest felt both were affected, not natural. “Father, I have a cart just outside. May I trouble you to accompany me on a short journey?”

This was not an unusual request. There were ill and injured people who could not come into Nottingham; he made it his practice to go where he was needed. “Of course, my son. Shall we be gone long?”

“No, Father, I’ll have you back before sunset. And we shall feed you well, that I promise!” He indicated the door with a graceful gesture. “May we go?”

The priest appreciated the fine manners and charm, though he might chide the young man for veniality; pride of appearance and manners should never come before God.

Outside there was another man with the cart. His clothing was not so fine, nor his expression, nor certainly his manners. “Coming, then, are we?”

The fair-haired man pressed a light hand into the priest’s back, urging him forward. His tone was mild, but the words were odd. “Will—we would do better not to be seen together.”

The other shrugged. “Won’t be here long enough, will we? Oh—I found you this.” He reached into the back of the cart and pulled out a lute. “The fool with it was caterwauling terribly; ’twill be better as yours, you being a minstrel.”

The priest was shocked. “You
stole
this lute?”

The other man—Will?—shrugged. “You can absolve me later, Father. For now—let’s get you in the cart, aye?”

“But—”

“Please, Father.” The charming man was at his elbow. “Let us not tarry. Nottingham is not always kind to our sort.”

“Not if you steal
lutes,”
the priest said sharply, but obligingly allowed himself to be helped into the back of the crude cart. The sin would be mitigated with confession and absolution, and God would of course forgive.

Will handed the suspect lute to him, then climbed up on the seat behind the sharp-hipped piebald horse. The minstrel got in beside the priest and humbly asked if he might see the instrument.

The priest gave it to him. “You have fine hands,” he remarked, as they embraced the instrument. Indeed, minstrel’s hands.

“Ah,” the young man said on a sigh, “it has been too long.” But he did not play, merely grasped the lute with careful, covetous hands, and smiled unceasingly.

“Where are we going?” the priest inquired as the the cart jolted into motion.

The driver hitched a shoulder. “Bit outside the city. Not far. Just down the road, aye?”

They were through the gates in short order. Outside the city, not far, just down the road, Sherwood Forest began. The priest eyed the trees uneasily.
“How
far?” Outlaws inhabited Sherwood.

“Oh, not to worry,” the driver declared offhandedly. “You’re with us.”

Unease increased. “We’re going into Sherwood?”

The lute-player was amused. “Do you think then that God should discriminate?”

“Of course not! But—” He scowled. “ ’Tis dangerous in Sherwood.”

“Betimes,” the driver agreed. “But not today.”

“Why not today?”

The minstrel grinned. “ ’Tis a
celebration,
not cause for concern.”

The priest opened his mouth to demand further explanation, but just then the driver turned the horse off the road onto a narrow, overgrown track. Wheels creaked, thumped, and rattled; the old man caught hold of the sideboards, lest his bones fall out of his flesh.

He smelled woodsmoke, and roasting meat. “How much far—”But the question remained unfinished as the cart was halted.

The minstrel climbed out, one hand wrapped around the neck of the lute; the other he extended to aid the priest. “Come, Father.”

The priest did not disdain the help, nor did he fail to thank the young man. But he was displeased, and knew they saw it. Precisely as he intended.

The driver was down from the seat. He cupped hands to his mouth and emitted a series of bird calls.

A moment later a boy burst out of the bushes, grinning maniacally. “Hurry!”

The driver scowled at him. “Where was the call, Much?”

“No more birds!” the boy said. “They’re
waiting.”

“Waiting, is it?” Will pushed his way past the boy, parting vegetation. “Come along, Father.”

The priest found himself hemmed by the driver, the boy, and the man with the lute. They were casual about it, and not unkind, but he had the distinct impression he was not so much a guest as a captive. Then he pulled up short. “I smell venison!”

“Venison, ale, wine, fruit, bread—and anything else that somehow made its way here,” the minstrel said. “Keep moving, Father, I beg you.”

“We can’t eat venison! ‘Tis the
king’s
deer! ’Tis
poaching!”

And then they were through vegetation into a small clearing, where pine garlands and berry wreaths had been hung, and flowers tucked into hollows, and a crude table cobbled together of rough planks and tree-limb tripods. There was ale and wine as promised, and also bowls of fruit and platters of bread. But in the center of the clearing was a spit and a fire, and a fine deer was roasting.

“Poaching!” the priest repeated.

A very large man stood beside the table. No, a
giant
stood beside the table, presiding over the ale by sampling it. Beyond him was another, tending the meat. The priest was shocked speechless when he saw the tonsure and cassock.

The Benedictine had the grace to look mildly ashamed. “Forgive us, Father. But we had no choice. I am only a monk, you see, and this requires a priest.”

Testily he demanded,
“What
requires a priest?”

Another man stepped into the clearing. He was slim but tall, and broad through the shoulders, with hair so fair as to be nearly white. He wore a fine green-and-gold checkered silk tunic, though it was far from new. “The wedding,” he replied. He flicked a wry glance at the others. “I suggest we begin. The bride is growing impatient.”

“Can’t have
that,”
the giant declared, grinning.

“Father, if you please . . .” The minstrel guided him toward a bulwark of lichen-clad granite, then turned him to face the clearing. “Stand here, I beg you.” He looked at the others. “Do something other than hang about like lackwits; perhaps you might gather as if this meant something to you?” He nodded as they hurried to obey. “Very well, I shall play in the bride. Robin?”

“She’s bringing herself,” the other said. “I’m to wait with the priest.”

A woman’s voice said clearly, “Hurry
up.”

The man in the fine tunic looked imploringly at the priest. “If you please, Father?”

The priest sighed and gave himself over to the moment. He was here, was he not, and could not very well walk himself out of Sherwood and back to Nottingham. He was old. He tired easily. Better to be taken, as he’d been brought. The price was small enough; he’d have their confessions before he departed.

He glanced at the lute-player. “Begin.”

Grinning beatifically, the man obligingly brought the first notes forth. They were distinctly out of tune. The minstrel was horrified.
“Oh, Jesu!”

“Just play,” someone muttered.

“But—”

The priest gaped as a woman stepped out from behind a cluster of bushes. She wore a somewhat wrinkled and soiled red chemise, ungirdled, a golden fillet on her brow to tame the loose black hair, and clutched a spray of flowers in her hand. Yet for all her loveliness, her expression was decidedly cross. “With
or without
music,” she said.

Meekly, the minstrel began to play again. The notes remained out of tune, but no one had the bad manners to comment on it.

The bride, however, did not appear to notice. Or else she did not care. A smile replaced the scowl. Beauty bloomed. The priest very nearly crossed himself.

And then she was coming, the smile in place, with her eyes locked on the fair-haired man in the checkered silk tunic, and the priest forgot all about stolen lutes and poached deer, the dangers of Sherwood’s outlaws. A wedding was a wedding.

But the lute truly was decidedly out of tune.

“Jesu,”
the minstrel muttered.

“Hush,” the priest rebuked, “and, if it please you, cease taking our Lord’s name in vain!” Reprimand given—and heeded—he then bestowed a kindly smile upon the bride and groom, who now stood before him.

Sherwood, despite the arching of trees toward Heaven, was not a church. But God was everywhere.

And even outlaws could be forgiven.

 

 

—from
Robin Hood and Maid Marian
(a later ballad)

Lady of Sherwood
is a historical novel; that is to say, a work of fiction in which the author has made up huge chunks of a story that never happened. History, however, offers writers fascinating and compelling glimpses of actual people—kings, queens, and commoners—whose lives were often documented, and we weave these actual incidents together with those springing from our imaginations. But as with any journalistic endeavor, the annals of the times cannot always be trusted for accuracy; the closest thing to the media in the twelfth century were generally clerics, men requested by their patrons to keep track of things for various reasons. Patronage often results in creative interpretation, then and now, which is why contemporary historians disagree with regard to the characters and actions of yesterday’s heroes and villains as reported by chroniclers of the times. (For instance, scholars are
still
arguing over whether Richard III or Henry VII had the Princes in the Tower murdered.)

Employing the storyteller’s license, I have significantly compressed and rearranged the events following King Richard’s death. He did indeed die laying siege to a nonexistent treasure at Châlus, killed by a minor wound that turned gangrenous. There was great consternation when Richard, lacking heirs of the body, decided his brother, John, the Count of Mortain, and Arthur, Duke of Brittany, his middle brother’s son, had equal claim to England. But there were no codified inheritance traditions in place at the time, and thus no one was certain who had better claim: the youngest son of Henry II, or Henry’s grandson. Richard apparently decided “may the best man win” was the most feasible approach to determining who would succeed. But acceptance of the claimant was actually determined by the most influential men of the land; hence, what the English barons thought of John vs. Arthur mattered a very great deal. It was William Marshal, one of the most powerful men in England, who, in debate with Archbishop Hubert Walter of Canterbury after Richard’s death, declared John should be king, and thus gave John the endorsement that won over many of the English barons. The Archbishop of Canterbury, however, had grave doubts, as shown by his response:
‘So be it, but mark my words, Marshal, you will never regret anything in life as much as this.’

Ironically, John was visiting his nephew in Brittany when word of Richard’s death arrived. He immediately rode for Chinon where the Angevin treasury was kept; money was the key to all. But Arthur’s mother, Constance of Brittany, made her son’s claim all the stronger by entrusting the care of the twelve-year-old boy to Philip of France. The Bretons and French formally accepted Arthur as the rightful successor; John ended up in Normandy where he had himself named Duke, as the Normans wanted nothing to do with the Bretons. There he had his mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, bring up Richard’s mercenaries, under the command of Mercardier, to control things on the Continent, while he hastened to England to be crowned king in Westminster Abbey approximately one month after Richard’s death.

After a few years of a contested reign, John eventually realized that if Arthur, whom he had taken hostage in 1202, remained alive, a threat to his rule would always exist. Reports indicate John sent men to blind and castrate Arthur, though it was not done. For a while there were rumors of Arthur’s death, though others swore he was alive. Eventually the truth came out, reported by the chroniclers of William de Briouze, one of John’s most loyal companions, who wrote that in 1203 King John himself personally murdered his nephew:

John kept Arthur’s sister, Eleanor, hostage as well, though she lived in luxury until a natural death in 1214.

Controversy over who should rule after the death of a popular monarch always provides fodder for novelists, and so I selected the turbulent days immediately following the Lionheart’s demise for the focus of
Lady of Sherwood.
But even in fiction a logical progression of events provides a vital underpinning for the story arc, so I developed my own extrapolation of what might have happened to the central characters of the classic Robin Hood ballads, following events in my earlier novel,
Lady of the Forest.
The concept of robbing from the rich to give to the poor is central to the Robin Hood legend, as is the feud between Robin and the Sheriff of Nottingham and conflict over taxation policies, but even as I told the tale of how such seemingly disparate parties as peasants, a knight’s daughter, and the son of an earl might come to be co-conspiritors in
Lady of the Forest,
I chose to depict the resultant activities in the sequel as an outgrowth of the very real political conflict between John and Arthur. In the interests of accuracy, it should perhaps be noted that while Mercardier truly was captain of the Lionheart’s mercenaries, for my own purposes I transported him from France to England and made him central to this version.

The story of Robin Hood, Marian, and the others, regardless of interpretation, remains a vital and viable part of contemporary society, one of the few universals in literature, and I am certain they shall continue to inspire novelists and screenwriters for centuries to come.