The Outlaws of Sherwood (23 page)

That, thought Marian, is what Reda calls his covetous look, and she's right. Her own eyes wandered to the fireplace, and Reda perhaps felt the hand on her arm close before Marian drew it away, for she turned to her lady and under pretext of arranging her scarf for her—which Marian kept fidgeting with—caught her eye and smiled her slow smile. The halo of her flaxen hair blocked the sheep-spit from Marian's gaze as she bent toward her. Marian sighed; Reda knew her very well.

“There are better-looking, better-dowered girls within a day's ride,” Marian had said once, furiously, to Reda—Marian did not waste her composure when they were alone. “Why
me
?”

“Maybe he likes a challenge,” Reda replied. “You
and
your father's estates.”

Marian snorted with laughter—a muffled snort, that Beatrix might not hear from the next room and come to inquire the cause; Beatrix felt that laughter was most often the expression of some vice that needed to be put down or tied up or locked away. Reda rarely laughed; that time too she had only smiled her slow smile.

It was hard to tell about Reda sometimes; her composure went to the bone. She rarely spoke—and only to Marian—of her own youth, when she had watched her father die of a wasting disease in a year and a half, and her mother die of grief in six months; and a wastrel younger brother go through the family estate at such a pace as to have come to the end just as he fell off his horse and broke his neck. Reda had bought her composure dear; and she was less than three years older than Marian. She was pretty and, as Marian had cause to know, both practical and kind—and able to keep her peace. She might have married, had any man had the sense to see past her dowerlessness. None had, and Marian had convinced her father to send for her; she was but a second cousin once removed after all, and had no nearer family left her.

Rawl returned with wine and cups and then retired only far enough to hover at her father's elbow, almost quivering with eagerness to be sent on another errand. They were lucky to have Rawl and Cerdic and Aethelreda; very lucky.

“Rawl,” she said, and his spaniel's eyes shifted at once to her face. She was not the master, but she would do; any errand was better than none. “Would you ask Cerdic to join us here?”

“I
asked,” she said, when Rawl had disappeared, “for any news of Sir Richard; Cerdic has cousins there.”

Nigel's face had rearranged itself once again into its melancholy lines, but this insistence upon the topic of another man's ills (another unmarried man, Marian thought suddenly, with amusement; Sir Richard was a widower of long standing) obviously did not suit him. Perhaps any tale of a landed man's loss of land was upsetting to a land-proud account-clutching man like Nigel. She had a pang as she thought this, for would she not be devastated if her father lost his lands—and he could be foolish enough to do so without Cerdic's sharp-eyed loyalty—this home that she had grown up in, however much she had grown to dislike it of late? And, she thought, something that cuts even closer to the heart: would I like it if all Robin's conversation with me began tending to the sad plight of a good-looking widow.…

“If there were only something his friends and well-wishers could do,” said Nigel.

“As you mention it,” Marian said quickly, relieved that he should have fallen so neatly where she wished him to fall, and fearful that he might back out again if she let him go on talking, “I had thought of riding there tomorrow to offer him what comfort a friend might”—Nigel's eyes flickered—“and to tell him that if he is in need of bed and board for the immediate future we would be honoured to be of use to him.”

“But, Marian,” said her father. “You cannot go—alone—” His voice wavered, for as they both knew she went alone where she would, and he had long since learnt he could not stop her. But Nigel need not know these things, and it was fitting that a father should disapprove of so indelicate and unfeminine an errand. His eyes slid away from hers, as they usually did, but they both knew they were playing a father and daughter role for their guest—so why, thought Marian at him irritably, can you not keep your voice steady?

“I thought to ask you to accompany me,” said Marian silkily. Her father's gaze jerked up at that, and they looked at each other with no great affection on either side. Then, as if unified by a single thought—which I guess we are, Marian said to herself: that of fear that Nigel won't play this game with us—they looked to their visitor. “Perhaps our guest would care to make another of this party?” Marian's father said feebly.

“I should be glad to offer my support,” said Nigel, and now he cast his eyes down in no good humour. I think I can rely on your clinging to my shadow, thought Marian, and shedding the light of your dreadful respectability upon the proceedings. All the proceedings.

Cerdic entered then and Marian said, “What news of Sir Richard?” and everyone turned quickly, Reda perhaps quickest of all.

Cerdic shook his head. “Sir Richard has locked himself up, and will speak to no one; nor does he eat and, they think, sleep. He is returned from the city but a few days past, with nothing to tell, and the cloud upon him as dark as ever. His candle is seen shining from his high window at all hours of the night, and they see a shadow of a man pacing.”

“His people—?” began Marian, not sure exactly how to phrase the question.

Cerdic, who knew of his mistress's absences if not of a certainty that the company she kept when she was from home might have a dangerous interest in his answer, said calmly, “Sir Richard did issue orders that no one shall attempt to bar the lawful execution of Blaise of Beautement's visit tomorrow.”

Marian was wondering if she dared ask if they would obey, when her father, who was quick enough to notice anything that might rub his timidity too near, said nervously, “They will obey, will they not?”

“I am sure they will not disregard the last orders of so good a master,” said Cerdic gravely, and a taut silence followed, broken just before it became panicky by Marian, suggesting that perhaps Nigel would gratify her by playing a game of chess.

“You will come tomorrow?” Marian said, pleadingly, to Reda. She had tucked her hand into her cousin's elbow that she might speak quietly enough that Beatrix, close behind them, might not hear. Beatrix had deplorably quick ears.

Nigel was staying overnight; he often did anyway, as it was a longish journey to his home for a man who had no taste for the usual forms of travel. But in this case he stayed because they would set out early on the morrow for Sir Richard's Mapperley; and as he obviously viewed this eventuality with less and less pleasure as the evening hours had passed, dinner had been something of a trial. It was not Nigel's place to protest what he had agreed to, once Marian's father had given it his permission; and Marian had taxed her skill at conversation to its utmost and beyond in the last few hours, for she could see the thoughts slipping like fishes behind her father's watery eyes, and knew that if she once let him say what he opened his mouth to say several times, she could yet lose what she had gained.

Reda had followed where Marian led, and had made her own inconsequential observations when Marian had paused for breath or for inspiration. But her eyes were blank, and Marian did not know what she thought of the plan for tomorrow; nor, as her friend, would Marian try the tricks on her that she had used upon her father and her suitor. And so she only asked: “You
will
come tomorrow?”

Reda pressed Marian's hand to her side briefly and said, “I will come,” but her voice was flat.

After a minute, and half a flight of stairs, Constance twittering away at Beatrix behind them, Marian said, “You do not care for it.”

Reda was silent for so long that Marian thought she would get no answer. She and Reda shared a bedroom, but the other women were supposed to attend to their needs before they retired to their own bedchamber, and when she was in the mood Marian enjoyed making the attentions difficult for Beatrix, who so hated the idea that she should have to attend anyone but herself. On this evening Marian asked the merest token from her women, and Reda nothing at all; Marian dismissed them quickly.

Reda sat, hands folded, on her bed. Marian looked at her and then went to the window, which she had not allowed Hawise to close, and leaned out over the sill. The stars were bright tonight, and the air tasted better in her throat than the wine at dinner had. She closed her eyes and thought that it was not her voice that was hoarse from the strain of the evening past, but her mind; and wished that the breeze could blow behind her eyes.… Blow away thoughts of Robin. She opened her eyes. Even if Robin had not existed, she could never have married Nigel. But if Robin had not existed, she might have gone already to a convent, where she might look at the stars every night without her heart's hurting for someone who looked at the same stars and might not be thinking of her as he did so.

She heard footfalls behind her. She turned as, without looking at her friend, Reda sat down on the sill beside her, and looked out over the quiet garden and the wall and trees beyond. The square plot where the herbs grew was a paler green against the shadows, as if it glowed faintly in its own light. When Reda had first come to live with them she had been horrified at Marian's fondness for the night air, which everyone knew was poisonous; perhaps it was Marian's own obvious health that changed her mind, or merely the realization that Marian was as stubborn as earth or stone or fire when she chose. But Reda did not shudder now when Marian shoved at the curtains as though she would like to open the entire wall to the out-of-doors, and had even learnt to like the cool herb-scented draught that wandered through their window. She still sniffed at it cautiously, though, as if she might notice poison in the air in time to duck back and slam the shutters closed against it.

“It does not matter if I approve or not, does it?” said Reda. “You have chosen your line and mean to keep it, as you have done this long time. past. If there was a time when I, or your father, might have changed you, I missed it.”

Marian was silent.

“Perhaps,” said Reda, “were I as you are, I would do the same. I do not know.”

“I will be grateful for your presence tomorrow,” said Marian humbly.

“Yes, I believe you,” Reda said thoughtfully. “Sometimes I envy you knowing so clearly what you want. It is why Beatrix hates you, you know, for she does not know, and can only see that she must wait on you because you are the lord's daughter. It would comfort her to believe that it is being the lord's daughter that gives you that surety, but it is her misfortune not to be stupid, and so her hatred is difficult for her. It twists in her hands, and bites her.”

“I suppose I do know what I want,” said Marian sadly, “but I do not see much hope that I shall get it. There is not much in that to be envious of.”

“I know that too,” said Reda gently.

Marian made a face, and rubbed her hand over her aching eyes. “Then what is the use of knowing?” she said. “For you or for me.”

Reda looked into her friend's face as if she would read her fortune there. Marian's heart beat suddenly faster, as if she would, and that Reda's next words would tell it to her. But what Reda said was: “I do not know you, for all the years I have spent daily in your company. We are not much alike. I would have married Nigel. Come; we must go to bed. You will need your wits about you tomorrow.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

If they decide to obey Sir Richard after all, our bright career is reaching a swift and brutal end,” said Robin lightly.

Much said, “These folk have no illusions about what kind of master Beautement would be, with the sheriff standing behind him and telling him when to breathe and what clothes to put on. For love they might obey Sir Richard, had they less to lose—or nothing to hope for. Those whose hearts hurt the worst will remember that they do their good master a service by disobeying him now.”

“I believe you,” said Robin; “but I have a mastery of the art of worrying that is a burden to me if I may not use it.” He looked up at the clear blue sky, which hurt his eyes; he wished for green.

A small hunch-backed old man materialized from behind a hedgerow. “Sir,” he said, looking around at them. His eye fell on Little John, and his face brightened. “I bring you the news you look for,” he said. “The sheriff has come, and his men are placed as Robin Hood said they would be; but we have two men for each of his, and three for the biggest ones.” He grinned, showing more gaps than teeth. “None so big as you; we'd need four for you.”

“And Sir Richard?” said Robin.

The man's smile vanished. “He's up in his hall, with the sheriff, and Beautement, and a few of Beautement's greasy hangers-on, and the sheriff's men that aren't standing around stiff as pokers and looking like fools outside; and there are some visitors for Sir Richard who came today too.”

“Visitors?” said Robin sharply.

The man's shoulders rose and fell. “Aye. That's what I know. A lady and an old man and a young one; and another lady, and maybe a few folk with 'em. Friends of Sir Richard's, who want to bear him away with 'em when all's done. A kind thought: Sir Richard might have leprosy for all his great friends have stood beside him these last weeks. And these visitors have put the sheriff off his stride, for which alone they're welcome to us. He can't gloat as much as he wanted; 'twould be impolite with ladies present.” The man grinned again, and spat.

Robin was amused, despite the suspicion that had immediately presented itself to him. “The sheriff standing on the wrong foot is always good news to me,” he said.

“You'll be Robin Hood himself, sir?” said the old man.

“I am,” said Robin. “And you are?”

“William,” he said. “Old William. I was a clerk till I got too old and my hand knotted up; but Sir Richard has kept me this eight years for nothing. I know what would come to me, did Beautement become my lord.”