Robin Hood Page 10

  EVERY BREATH WAS too shallow and left her gasping for more air. Her heart labored in her breast; her throat felt tight, as if some taloned hand had taken hold of her and refused to let go.

  I return the property of his son Robert, who is dead.

  Walter had tried to warn her. He had told her that her husband was gone, that Robert himself had told him so. Marion had refused to believe him. But there could be no denying the word of this solemn stranger. Her husband was dead.

  She led the man into the large hall of the house, kicked off her shoes just inside the door, and crossed to Margaret, who stood waiting for her holding a towel and a copper basin of water. Marion sat on the stool and the girl cleaned the mud and muck from her feet. When Margaret had finished, Marion began to towel them off.

  “Maggie!” Walter called from another room. “Where is she?”

  The maid glanced over at the stranger before looking up at Marion. “Ma'am, Sir Walter calls for you.”

  “Yes, Margaret, I hear him.” Her voice sounded shaky to her own ears. “Tell him we have a guest.”

  Margaret hurried away. Marion stood and stepped into the braided slippers the girl had left for her. Then she pulled on a house coat that, though old and worn, was a far sight better than the smock she had been wearing. Feeling more herself, her emotions under control at least for the moment, she turned once more to the stranger—this Robin Longstride—who now regarded her with a mix of shock and chagrin that might have been comical under other circumstances.

  “I am Marion Loxley, wife of Robert,” she said. “I thank you for taking the time to deliver the news here.”

  The man opened and closed his mouth several times before finally managing to say, “M'Lady, I owe you an apology. If I had known—”

  “Bad news is bad news,” Marion said. “There's no joy or comfort in how it comes.” She hesitated. “Did you serve alongside my husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he die proudly?” she asked, surprised at the ease with which she could speak those words.

  “Killed in an ambush, ma'am.” He said this as if it were routine, as if he spoke of such things all the time. For all she knew, he did. “He was the man chosen to return King Richard's crown.”

  It took a moment for those words to sink in. King Richard was dead, too. It seemed too high a price, even for a king's crusade. “I am glad for him,” she said at last, feeling that Longstride expected her to say something. The man chosen to return the dead king's crown … Was this how soldiers honored one another?

  “Marion, who's here?” Walter called.

  “A traveler, Walter,” she called back. She met the stranger's gaze. “This news will be very hard on him,” she said quickly, keeping her voice low. “Do you understand?”

  “Well, bring him in!” the old man said.

  “Yes, yes …” she answered. She turned back to Longstride. “Tell him Robert is in Jerusalem and sends his love and will return soon.”

  “I am here to return the sword,” the man said. “I do not need to say anything else.”

  Damn him and his soldiers' creed! “No! Let Walter see out his days thinking his son loves him and yearns to see him again.”

  Before the stranger could respond, Walter appeared in the doorway, leaning on his staff, a smile on his wizened face. Somehow, despite his blindness, he turned directly toward her, a gentle rebuke in his expression.

  “Marion, our traveler will be thirsty. Travelers are always thirsty.” He turned unerringly to face the soldier. “Is that not so? … Your name, sir?”

  “Longstride. Robin Longstride.”

  Walter's smile faltered at the sound of the name, and he seemed to grip his staff more tightly. “Do you mock me?” he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.

  Marion looked back and forth between the two men. She didn't understand what was happening, but she was now even more wary of the stranger than she had been a moment before.

  She could see, though, that Longstride had no more idea of what Walter meant than she did. The soldier appeared to be taken aback at the old man's reaction.

  “Sir?” he said.

  Walter looked more frightened than she had ever seen him. “Are you here to exact revenge?”

  Longstride frowned, but then appeared to remember his purpose in coming. “Your son asked me to return this sword to you.”

  The old man blinked, realization crashing over him. He slowly held out a shaking hand. The soldier placed the sword in Walter's hand, but before he could release it, Walter placed his hands over Longstride's, holding them there for a moment. The soldier gazed down at their hands, and then looked up into the man's face, recognition in his pale eyes.

  In the next moment, Walter moved his hands, running them over the pommel and hilt of the weapon.

  “How does Robert defend himself if he has no sword?” the old man said. “The prodigal son will not return after all?”

  Longstride said nothing.

  “No tears or forgiveness from his father,” Walter went on quietly. “No amends to be made.”

  Marion felt a tear run down her cheek, her chest tight once more.

  “Did you see him die?” Walter asked the man.

  “I was with him as he passed,” Longstride said. “His last words were for the love and bond between a father and son.”

  “Forgive my rudeness. My grief has been waiting for this day.” Walter put down the sword. “Come, so that I may see you.”

  Walter reached out for the man's face. At first, Longstride flinched, clearly uncomfortable with being “seen” this way. But after that initial reluctance, he held himself still and allowed Walter's fingers to travel lightly over his strong features. For his part, Walter seemed almost to recognize something in the feel of the man's face. His fingers lingered longer over Longstride's eyes and brow and nose, than they had with others Marion had seen him “look” at.

  “Robin Longstride,” Walter said, his voice low again. “A common enough, but noble Saxon name. So, you will dine with us.” He stepped back and wrinkled his nose, winking at Marion as he did. “But first you must bathe, sir. You stink.”

  LOXLEY'S WIDOW LED Robin to a bathing chamber near the back of the house. It was a small room, the walls paneled with dark wood. A candle burned near a copper tub newly filled with steaming water. As Robin followed Marion into the room, another maid was placing towels near the tub. That done, she slipped out the door, leaving Robin and Marion alone. Marion dipped a hand in the tub, testing the water.

  “I have laid out some of my husband's clothes. I hope you don't find that too disconcerting.”

  Robin thought it best not to tell her that her husband's clothes and armor had won him passage across the channel and an audience with the new king and Eleanor of Aquitaine.

  When he didn't answer, Marion started to leave.

  “My lady,” Robin said, stopping her. “I cannot remove this chain mail by myself. I will need help.”

  “Jane!” Marion called. “Madge!”

  She waited several moments, but no answer came. Appearing to steel herself, Marion helped Robin pull off his tabard. Then she began to unlace his coat of mail. Robin became very conscious of just how near she was to him, of the light touch of her fingers through the mail. He also recalled what the old man had said. You stink. He felt his face shading to red and he kept himself from looking back at her. He bent over while she helped him pull the mail over his head and then straightened once it was off.

  Her gaze strayed to his chest and arms, lingering on his many scars.

  “Thank you,” Robin said.

  Her eyes met his briefly, and then she left the chamber.

  As much as Robin welcomed the feel of hot water on his filthy and travel-weary body, he did not tarry in the bath. He got himself clean, dried off, and donned Sir Robert's clothes. Leaving the chamber, he made his way back to the main hall of the Loxley home. A fire blazed brightly in a large stone hearth, and candles burned in two large, cir
cular chandeliers and in candelabras standing throughout the room. Straw covered the floor. Several dogs lay near the hearth, gnawing on bones.

  Sir Walter was already seated at the head of a long wooden table near the hearth. Marion, dressed now in a light blue dress, laced at the front, was placing a large bowl of stew on the table as Robin walked in. She looked up at him, before quickly turning her attention back to the food.

  In addition to the stew, the table was laden with cheese, wine, and bread. It was basic fare—noble families in England ate this way every night. But Robin couldn't remember the last time he'd had such a meal, and after Walter spoke a short prayer of thanks, they all began to eat. Robin was ravenous and for a long time he simply ate. At one point, Marion got up and left the hall, saying something about getting more cheese.

  Walter, meanwhile, had stopped eating and was holding Loxley's sword, once again running his hands over the hilt and the scabbard.

  “You have taken a long road to bring this to me,” he said. “I cannot decide whether that makes you trustworthy …”

  “… Or manipulative?” Marion finished for him, reappearing in the doorway bearing a plate.

  “Marion!” Walter said, turning toward her as she returned to the table with a rustle of cloth and set the plate near Robin. “I am merely trying to gauge the quality of the man we have as our guest. Is he handsome?”

  Marion opened her mouth, closed it again, her cheeks turning bright red. Clearly this was the last thing she had expected the old man to ask.

  “In the way that yeoman sometimes are,” she said. “When they're sober.”

  Sir Walter turned back to Robin. “Entertain us with the tale of your life. We don't get many visitors anymore, except tax collectors and beggars.”

  “I don't know where I am from,” Robin told the man. “Only where I've been.”

  The old man wouldn't be put off. “I am starving for news of the outside world.”

  Remembering his encounter with the knight on the White Tower dock, Robin said, “William Marshal sends you a message.”

  Walter laughed in a way that made Robin think that he wasn't at all surprised by this, that he might even already know what Marshal had told Robin to say. “Marshal, eh? What does the old wolf have to say for himself?”

  “He said to look for him on Spring's first black night.”

  “He calls a meeting?” Walter nodded slowly. “It has been too long. I look forward to that.” He paused, absently running his hands over the sword again. “Marion, what color are his eyes?”

  Marion didn't bother looking up from her plate. “I don't know yet.”

  “I have a proposal for you, young man,” Walter went on, as if he hadn't heard. “You brought me this sword, which has great meaning. Give me your time.” He held up the weapon. “It is yours.”

  Robin considered this. It was a fine weapon, but in the end, that wasn't why he agreed. He still felt the pull of this place, and he didn't know why. He would honor Walter's request, but he would remain for his own purposes.

  “I could stay a day or more,” he said. “There is a question I'd like to ask.”

  Walter smiled, apparently not surprised by this, either. “What is your question?”

  “The words on the hilt of the sword. What do they relate to?”

  The old man's smile deepened and turned sly, as if they were gaming and Walter had just made a wager he knew he would win. “I think I have much I can tell you,” he said. “About history. About your history.”

  Robin narrowed his eyes. “That is very generous of you, sir.”

  Walter shrugged. “Perhaps. You have not heard the other half of the contract yet. I want you to stay in Nottingham.” He looked toward Marion, perhaps sensing that she was listening closely to all they said. “And for the time being become my returned son and therefore Marion's spouse.” He grinned.

  She scowled at the man. “To what end, Walter? You have had too much to drink.” She reached forward and took the wineglass from the old man's hand.

  Robin thought she might say more, but Sir Walter raised his hand, silencing her.

  “Now, in reality, woman, we both know that without a husband you will lose this land when I die. Do you dispute that?”

  Marion's mouth twisted sourly. “No,” she conceded.

  “If I say this is my son, he will be seen as that, and, so, as your husband.” He turned back to Robin, and once more Robin was amazed at how this blind old man always seemed to know exactly where everyone was. “It is a fair contract,” the old man said. “It is not as if I expected you to have children.” Once more he grinned, clearly enjoying himself greatly.

  This time Robin felt himself blushing; he didn't look for Marion's response. He thought he could imagine it.

  Walter continued to eye him expectantly. “The sword for your time, Longstride. Are you in agreement?”

  The three of them sat in silence for several moments.

  Finally, Robin said, “Yes,” in a low voice.

  Walter smiled.

  “Marion,” he said. “Go and tell the staff that my son has arrived and our home is whole again. Let them ring the church bells in celebration.” He sat back, looking immensely pleased with himself, and held out a hand. “More wine, please.”

  Marion looked decidedly less happy, but she gave the wineglass back to him. She glanced briefly at Robin, stood, and left the hall.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  Tuck liked these men who had just come to Nottingham. The little one with the red hair— Scarlet—always had something amusing to say, often at the expense of the enormous Little John. The other lad, Allan something, was awfully quiet, but seemed a good sort. He played the lute well and had a passable singing voice.

  Little John, though, was a kindred soul. Of that, Tuck was already certain. The man appreciated all the things Tuck himself knew to be most important in this earthly life: good food, fine drink, large women. That they had already become fast friends came as no surprise to the friar.

  All three men had a great thirst, as did Tuck, of course. So after allowing them to sample as much of his precious golden mead as he could bear, Tuck decided that they needed to be introduced to the Bait and Trap.

  The tavern was warm inside, and the air smelled strongly of roasting meat and musty ale, of pipe smoke and sweat. A fire burned in the hearth at the center of the back wall, and candles glowed in sconces all around the inn and in a ponderous old chandelier that hung from the groaning beams of the ceiling. There were tables and chairs around the perimeter of the great room, but much of the floor had been cleared of furniture and was now crowded with dancers and musicians.

  Allan and Will looked at each other, their faces like those of little boys on Christmas morning. Then, without a glance at John or the friar, they rushed forward and were swallowed by the crowd. Little John drank down the rest of his mead and placed the stone jar by the door.

  “Come on!” he said, clapping a hand on Tuck's back and leading him over to the bar. “I'm still thirsty.”

  They bought ales. Or rather, Tuck bought ales for them. Little John tried to explain that some kind of strange small animals had stolen all the gold he and his friends had, but with the noise and the music and the effects of the mead, the friar had a hard time understanding all that the big man said. Not that it mattered in the end. These were his friends, and by the grace of God he had coin to share.

  In a short time, Tuck and John were seated at a table at one end of the Bait and Trap, ales before them, good conversation between them. At the other end of the tavern, Allan had pulled out his lute, and had joined with a pair of local musicians to form a trio that drew the attention of many of the dancers, including several young women. While Allan and the others played, Will stepped a lively jig, capering from one woman to the next, dancing with none of them and all of them, much to the amusement of everyone else in the bar.

  A new keg was brought out from the back, and a loud cheer went up fro
m everyone on the floor. Tuck hoped that Will, Allan, and John were the only ones expecting him to pay their way this evening. God hadn't graced him with enough coin for all.

  When he grew tired of dancing, Will joined Allan and the other musicians on a makeshift stage and lent his voice to the boisterous singing. Other players joined in, until the music was deafening.

  John and Tuck continued their conversation, periodically waving the serving girls over for more ale. The friar couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much, and in fact, he couldn't quite remember how much they'd had this evening. A lot. He was sure of that.