The Outlaws of Sherwood Page 19

  “Thief!” gobbled the sheriff, seizing a ring. “Thief! This was taken from the hand of Sir Nicholas not a month past!”

  “Indeed?” said Robin. “How curious. For it bears upon it—you see,” he said, taking it delicately from the sheriff’s shaking hand so that their fingers did not touch, “it bears the sigil mark of an old Saxon family, and I know they cherished it very dearly. So dearly, I think,” he said, smiling, “that you must be mistaken; for only to another Saxon’s hand would they have yielded it up. But they will, I am sure, take comfort in the fact that it has fallen to Norman hands at last to save a fellow Saxon from harm.

  “And these must be the mortgages?” Robin continued, bending closer to the table to look at the heavy vellum pages lying before Beautement. “Yes. I shall take these, for they are mine now; and I have a bard who will be happy to scrape them clean, for he has been pining for something to commit his lyrics to; and so yet another person’s heart shall be gladdened by our meeting this day.”

  “Gladdened?” the sheriff said thickly. “I shall be gladdened by the sight of you and your foul crew hanging from my gibbet!”

  “I am sorry to disappoint you,” said Robin. “Surely there must be some other thing to please you; for life is short enough—for both of us.”

  “Short enough!” said the sheriff; “within these walls you have the upper hand; but you shall not leave these gates alive.”

  “For shame,” said Marian, rising from her chair with a sweep of amber skirts. “How can you speak so? I know naught of what happens here, though I see you know each other past this day’s meeting and in no friendly attitude; but I see also that this man,” and she made a tiny bow toward Robin, “has offered good price for Sir Richard’s mortgages; and I cannot see that your claim is not satisfied.”

  She turned gracefully to Sir Richard, who still looked dazed. “I congratulate you, sir, on your good fortune; not merely in the regaining of your property and by it your life and livelihood,” she said with the faintest clear stress, “but in the having of so good a friend as this man.” Her eyes, perfectly cool and indifferent, met Robin’s briefly; and if looks could kill, thought Robin, Nigel would have pounded several holes in my heart by now. Marian looked back to Sir Richard. “At so happy an occasion”—the sheriff twitched—“I wish to cause no distress”—the sheriff twitched again—“but I hope that regaining your own home will not make you a stranger to ours. Our invitation is still sincere even if it is no longer necessary.”

  There was a tiny pause, in which the loudest noise was the sheriff’s breathing. His men were still caught in their awkward poses, half at the fraudulent ease of soldiers in a situation that should not call for their skill, and half on useless guard from the arrow-points held steadily at the hollows of their throats. The outlaws looked relaxed, as if they stood around with their arrows notched and their bows pulled back for hours daily, just, perhaps, in practice—or in anticipation of such occasions as this one. The sheriff hauled violently at his tunic, which had a tendency to ruck up over a belly grown too big for it.

  Marian turned so smoothly to Robin that perhaps only the sheriff and the outlaws standing nearest heard Beautement begin to say, “But—”

  “I would have your name, sir,” said Marian. “I would thank you by name for a good friend we share.”

  “My name is Robin,” said Robin Hood; “Robin, son of Robert, forester, once, in the king’s service.”

  “And so you are a good king’s man,” said Marian. “I am glad to know this.” There was a strangled noise like a sob behind her; the sheriff’s men looked miserably to their leader. “But I could have no doubt by this generous deed.”

  “It is not fit,” said Sir Richard slowly, “that you, my lady, should offer my thanks first. I can only beg that my—my oppression of mind these recent weeks has had a—an adverse effect on my manners. I thank you from my deepest heart.” His eyes still looked blank, but he fixed them on Robin’s face, and straightened his back, and did not look at Beautement or the sheriff. Robin could guess that it took all his self-command not to; for it was not yet clear to Robin, or, doubtless, to Sir Richard, that gold and impudence would carry this day. And while Robin knew that Marian provided a leaden weight upon the sheriff’s behaviour, and that by her presence there might yet be no blood shed and no one of Sir Richard’s loyal folk taken for siding with outlaws against the law of England, still he wished her far away from this dangerous show.

  “May I offer you—refreshment?” said Sir Richard. He looked around, as if a meal might materialize at his elbow as a confirmation of the miracle this doomed day had brought him. One of his people stepped forward, braving the red-hot gaze of the sheriff, and said to Sir Richard, “My lord?”

  Robin said, “We thank you, but we have—other duties, which bid us not tarry. But we hope to see you again, and soon, and under less—er—mortal circumstances. On that day we shall be glad to eat and drink—and to laugh—with you.”

  Sir Richard’s eyes seemed at last to focus, and the faintest beginning of a smile touched his mouth. “I shall look forward to it.”

  “We too should be leaving,” said Marian; “you will see us to your gate, will you not? Perhaps the looking at what is again yours without question will please you.” Her words flew like butterflies through the vibrant air of the hall; and the company was quiet, as if watching them. There was definitely a smile on Sir Richard’s face now, but it was a small one, and not entirely pleasant. “I shall of course escort you off my property,” he said, and his eyes swept round the room, and took in the fact that the sheriff’s men were outnumbered better than two to one by his own folk; and that at the moment there were arrows at their throats besides.

  “Perhaps all my guests would do me the great service of letting me bide alone just now,” said Sir Richard; “I have, you understand, much to attend to, now that my lands are my own once more. I have been sadly careless of late, for the grief that was upon me. I fear I would be a poor host.”

  Beautement stood up uncertainly; his lower lip trembled like a child’s. He seemed not to notice or remember the gold strewn upon the table in front of him; it was the sheriff who stuffed it back into the two purses, and stood gripping them in his two hands.

  A moment longer he stood, glaring, Beautement a little to one side; Robin watched as his eyes roved over his own men, then Robin’s, and, last, upon Marian. There his gaze lingered for a heartbeat or two, and his nostrils flared—not a pretty sight when the nose is long and red, thought Robin—and his bristly eyebrows drew together so fiercely that his deep-set eyes almost disappeared beneath them. Then he stamped down off the dais and made for the door as if blindly, bumbling close to one arm-bent archer, Eva, who slid silkily aside without ever letting her arrow waver from her prisoner’s throat. When the sheriff’s bulk was outlined by the sunlight of the doorway, Robin’s folk stepped back, to let the sheriff’s men follow him; but they did not slacken their bowstrings. Beautement hurried after the sheriff, eyes on the floor, anxious not to be the last to leave, for fear, perhaps, of an arrow stinging his heel to hurry him on his way. Robin’s bow seemed to chafe his shoulder at the thought.

  Nigel and Aethelreda stood up; and, Marian’s father trailing behind them, looking like a man who has narrowly missed the gallows and is not sure yet of his fate, came up to the little group before the dais.

  “We will give them a few minutes to get well on their way,” said Sir Richard; his folk were slipping out now also, in some apparent speed; and Robin’s folk began to ease their arrows. “I believe the word will go round that at the last defeat we have won a victory, and the sheriff will not choose to tarry. Then I will take you to my gate—unless you might now agree to stay? I beg you will. I believe my kitchens have kept themselves in good order without my attention, and I owe you a meal at least.”

  Robin shook his head. “It may not be true that it is duty that takes us away in haste, but wisdom will do as well. The sheriff will not love me for this
day’s work, and I wish to be back to my own—er—lands before he decides what to do about it.”

  “I do not seek graceful protestations,” said Sir Richard, “and my gratitude is none the less for the asking of this question. But great heavens, man, what made you do this? You must know there’s a price on your head, and no small one at that—and on yours,” he added, looking at Little John, “as I would guess you must be John Little.”

  Marian shivered, and Nigel laid a hand on her arm, and murmured something to her; and Robin had to repress a desire to lay his own hands upon Nigel’s shoulders and throw him out the door.

  “If you have heard that much of us, then perhaps you have heard more,” said Robin. “It seemed worth risking a little to come to the aid of the one true Saxon lord who lives in Sherwood’s shadow.” He wondered where Nigel’s estate might march; and then he thought, the man detests me already; let him make something of it if he will. But Nigel was silent, and Robin kept his eyes on Sir Richard.

  “If you call this risking a little, then I want to know no more of how you spend your days,” said Sir Richard. “But I thank you again …”

  Robin interrupted: “Thank us no more if you would please us with it. Were your extremity any less, we would not have come thus to your aid; for the aid of rogues is not without its own price, or so I fear the sheriff will wish to make you believe.

  “Tell us this instead: that what by—as I may call it—sleight of hand you have won, you will keep. And hold.”

  A shadow crossed Sir Richard’s face. “You may be sure that I will hold it.” He was silent, and when he spoke again it was as though he pulled the thought out one word at a time: “My sorrow has been great, and as it grew upon me, the sheriff has made it grow the greater. The simple gaining of my lands, victory enough as that would be, was not enough for one of his metal. I will not forget. I have tried, perhaps, to forget some things; but this I will never forget.”

  Robin said gently, “There might have been an easier way to do what we have done this day, but we are rough folk and not ready-witted. I feared the danger I put you in by drawing you out of another. That Saxon ring is not the only jewel the sheriff will recognise. But if we are lucky—and if you, perhaps, will pretend to forget some things—he may concentrate his efforts on me.”

  “You mean that he is a coward? Aye,” said Sir Richard. “This is one of the things I have learnt. I had thought, or chosen to let myself think, he was merely over-fond of luxury. But if I cannot thank you more, let me say this to you: if you ever have need of a true friend, I am he; and this castle, you know, has never been taken. Walter!” he said, and turned away at once. The young man in livery who had answered his lord’s call before stepped up again. “Have them bring Windwing out,” said Sir Richard. “I have it in mind to ride with my guests a little way.

  “And you, my dear,” he said to Marian. “I hope there will be no ill effects of this day’s visit for you and yours.”

  Marian smiled her cool aristocratic smile. “How could there be?” she said. “Will the sheriff hold me responsible for seeing his discomfiture?” She spoke lightly while Nigel watched, his hand again on her arm.

  “How could there be?” said Sir Richard, nearly matching her tone. “But I think perhaps you would do well not to go visiting our sheriff, if you are again in the mood for visiting, for some little time. I know that the sheriff does not like to be reminded of—discomfiture; and this sample of it, I think, will prick him hardily.”

  Marian smiled again, almost sleepily, as if Nigel’s hand on her arm were a yoke that bore her down. “If the mood for visiting comes upon me again soon, I shall come to you first.”

  They moved to the door; outside, a great grey horse was being led up. “You do not ride, I think?” Sir Richard said to Robin.

  “No,” said Robin; “I have it in my mind some day to breed a horse that can climb trees; until then I find it more convenient to go on foot.”

  “Climb trees?” said Nigel, in a voice that suggested that he was judge and jury and gaol-house keeper, and that he enjoyed his work.

  Robin said, “My folk and I lead a somewhat—idle life. We spend some amount of time lying comfortably in the branches that our great English oaks see fit to provide us. Horses, however, love meadows best.”

  “I should miss riding,” Marian put in, as if making conversation.

  “No fit husband for you would expect you to give it up,” said Nigel, through his teeth.

  “My people are unaccustomed to riding,” said Robin thoughtfully. “Most of us, I think, do not miss what we do not know.”

  Sir Richard beckoned to the men holding the horses, and the little procession went on foot, with the horses being led after; quite the parade, thought Robin, and a pity the sheriff is not here to appreciate it.

  “Not all of us are ignorant of horse-flesh, however,” said Will. “Are we, Rafe? A fine animal, sir,” to Sir Richard.

  “And you are?” said Nigel to Will, turning his gaol-house eye from Robin.

  “I am Will,” said Will cheerfully; “Will Scarlet, as I am called now, who was once … well, no matter. I remember you, Nigel; you always cried when we were playing tag, and you got knocked down. You used to call us bullies. And I remember once you put sand in our soup,” he went on reminiscently, “and we tried to drown you in it, and we might have succeeded if old Anna hadn’t come in just then.”

  Nigel stopped dead where he stood. Robin looked at him, thinking that he had the face of someone who would put sand in the soup. “So—! Will, you call yourself? I remember Will of Norwell, and his foul young cousins, all of whom thought it great sport to set upon the one of their number who was thin and weak—”

  “You were never great sport,” said Will. “I assure you.”

  “I remember you,” Nigel went on as if he had not heard. “And I remember that that Will of Norwell forsook family and loyalty and lawful obedience when they would not be bullied to suit his whim, and ran off, and skulks now in the wild wood, with others of his stripe.

  “Sir Richard, you cannot know who your saviour is, or …”

  “Next time, Will, I shall leave you at home,” said Robin, as Nigel blustered himself into silence in his attempt to phrase his condemnation the most roundly. “I thought Much was the only one of us who needed a gag.”

  Sir Richard said, “I cannot condone their methods in all cases, sir; but I cannot condone our sheriff either, and in this case I choose, as men will, the sin that pleases me most. I am grateful to Robin, and to Will—whose tongue does need curbing, I think; I see how he might have decided to turn outlaw—and to these people, these outlaws, as they are called. And I feel no shame at my gratitude.”

  “Your debts were debts of honour, and these men have no honour!” cried Nigel.

  “Do they not?” said Sir Richard gently. “Was it honourable to divest me of my lands for wanting to save the life of my son?”

  Nigel opened and closed his mouth a few times, but even his piety was unequal to the task of condemning a man’s son to his face. He then turned on Marian. She was trying to look female and negligible, which was more difficult for her than speaking out against the sheriff had been. She had her face a little turned away, but she had not managed to droop.

  “And you! You defended these renegades! You spoke against the man who embodies justice—”

  “Justice?” Marian snapped, turning round and looking Nigel in the eyes with a glitter in her own. “If he is the embodiment of justice then I am Queen Eleanor. I spoke as I saw fit; as I saw fit to offer Sir Richard some token of friendship.…”

  “Token,” sneered Nigel. “Interesting that you should think to offer tokens on the day that these outlaws should appear—”

  Robin stepped forward, struck Nigel on the chin with his curled fist, and knocked him down.

  “How little things change,” murmured Will, unabashed. “A pity Hugh and Edmund are not here.”

  Sir Richard grabbed Robin’s arm as Nigel s
hook himself and began to climb to his feet. “I believe, sir, that you owe the lady an apology, even if my friend here was a little hasty in the asking.”

  “Apologise?” squeaked Nigel. He swayed awkwardly upright, but hurled himself at Robin without hesitation. Robin went down with a grunt, and the two thrashed about for a moment or two, while the jaws of the horse-leaders dropped, and their eyes brightened. But it was over quickly; Robin was soon sitting on Nigel’s breast and banging his head briskly against the ground.

  “Oh, my,” said Sir Richard, and went to break them up. None of the outlaws moved, although Marian’s father took a step or two, sideways, as if he was not certain where he wished to go. Marian stepped too, but forward, to stand by Will, and say quietly in his ear: “This is not correct of me, but I find in me no sorrow that I am to be relieved of Nigel’s admiration. Though in truth he had some cause to hate you, you know. You were bullies.”

  Marian’s father stumbled in Sir Richard’s wake and was now attempting to brush Nigel down; Sir Richard had turned away to grasp Robin by the shoulders and was saying something, rather fiercely, in an undertone. Robin looked blank.

  “Do not clench your fists, my dear,” said Will; “it is not seemly, and I believe that work is over for today. And I do not recall that either you or—or Sess minded our bullying.”

  Marian sighed, and relaxed her fingers. “It might be simpler merely to have a price on one’s head. And Sess and I learnt to climb trees very young, which was beneath Nigel’s dignity. He’s always had trouble with his dignity, that one.”

  “Which is the real reason he will not trouble you after today,” said Will; “and little to do with your espousal of an outlaw perspective. And we might have been less bullying out-of-doors if he had been less bullying indoors. Adding figures came easily to him, as—as—”