Outlaw, page 13
part #1 of Robyn Hood Series
“Now we best be off.” He turned to leave.
“Nay, Giant.” Robyn grabbed his buckskin tunic and he reluctantly turned back to her. “I must see that my mother is safe.”
He sighed. “Once we leave these here trees, it shan’t take great skill to spot us both clear as day prancin’ about on t’ hillside.”
“I have to be sure.”
There must have been something persuasive in her tone or manner, for the giant of a man gave in with a shake of his head. “Then keep low, Rabbit, don’t draw the eye. Else we shall start the very thing we came this way to prevent.”
Crouching low, Littlejohn eased his way through the last of the brush and out into the open pasture. Robyn felt sure that his animal skin clothes would draw little attention from any prying eyes below and she was glad that she wore her father’s green forester tunic rather than the conspicuous burgundy of a hunting noble. She allowed herself a smile as she thought of her father and how proud he was of not only his noble Saxon heritage, but also his humble upbringing as the second son of a mere yeoman. She wanted to do him proud; she needed to show him that she could care for their family and their estate just as any son could have done. If she didn’t do all she could to ensure her estate’s safety, not only would she betray her father’s faith in her, but also she would see her family made destitute, left to starve, or even made outlaws.
The pair of rough scouts made their way to a lone tree, regrouping as they peered around it. The manor was quiet. By now she should have been able to hear the bustle of the daily routine and the sound of the geese doing their best to disrupt it. The quiet was eerie and the stillness made her stomach contract.
“I don’t see anyone.” She looked at Littlejohn hopefully: perhaps his eyes, trained with years in the woods, hunting, stalking, and living by his wits could see what she could not?
He shook his head solemnly. “Nay.”
“I have to get closer...” She waited for his protest.
“Aye.” There was a sadness in his voice and she wanted to ask him what he saw in the emptiness that she could not. She went to speak but stopped herself. In truth, she didn’t want to hear him say it.
Still keeping low and little reassured by the silence of the estate, the pair moved on. Navigating the downhill pasture, they reached the road and, seeing little way to hide in the open, they walked along, weapons ready and in hand. Robyn couldn’t breathe. Her body felt heavy and stiff, every muscle held taut, every part of her waiting, listening, fearing what she would find and unable to prevent herself from looking for it.
Neither of them remarked upon the open gate, swinging wide on its crooked hinges. Side by side they walked under the gatehouse. Robyn held her bow ready, knowing there could be one of the Bailiff’s guards waiting on the other side.
There was nothing but the echo of their damp boots.
Loxley Manor had been decimated.
There were scorch marks on the white walls of the house and inner bailey, smoke snaked from windows, doors hung open like gaping mouths; some had the door torn right from the hinges. Straw from the barn lay strewn about the courtyard but there was no sound of horses or any other animals; they must have been let loose or taken. A few broken tools lay scattered about: a discarded scythe, the haft of a spade, the head of a mattock. There were scraps of cloth, both fine and sack, fluttering, discarded in the breeze, and as Robyn staggered across the yard, her breath not yet returned to her, she noticed a little arrow on the ground too small to have been shot from the bow of an adult.
“Henry!” she shouted and took off at a run towards the manor house. “Billy!” She ran inside and barely took a moment to register the tapestries and weaponry pulled from the walls, or the wooden benches toppled, and the tables turned. She darted for the stairs. “Ellie!” she cried out hopelessly, dashing from room to room, searching in trunks and under beds, panic rising as each hiding place was found empty.
There was a bark outside. She recognised it. “Alfred!” She ran to the window and leaned out.
A horse and rider were following the old dog through the gates. Littlejohn had turned to greet the figure, his stave ready. “Marian!” Robyn dashed across the hall, tripping over a fallen tapestry and pulling herself quickly back off the floor. She leapt down the stairs, taking a few at a time, and rushed out into the courtyard to see a fierce battle taking place.
Alfred had Littlejohn by the arm and he was left with only one hand to fend off the sword-wielding Marian.
“Halt!” Robyn shouted as she darted into the fray. She grabbed Marian’s arm to prevent her from bringing the sword down on Littlejohn, but Marian was quicker and stronger than she expected.
The maiden threw off Robyn’s grasp and turned to her in a rage. “How dare you!” she screamed, raising the sword to strike again as Robyn was left to defend herself with her bow.
“No! Wait!” She toppled backwards, falling over Alfred and hard onto the courtyard. Robyn was winded for a moment but it was long enough for Marian to plant the tip of the sword to her neck and turn to Littlejohn.
“Get off this land or I’ll slit this boy’s throat.”
“No! Marian, it’s me.” Robyn was fighting to prevent the overeager Alfred from licking her exposed cheek, but despite the danger of further dog kisses, she pulled down the scarf and hood. “It’s me! It’s Robyn,” she said.
Marian turned back to her and her entire countenance altered. “Robyn!” the sword was tossed aside and suddenly Robyn had both the dog and the maid on top of her, hugging her eagerly with Marian repeating her name and Alfred joining in enthusiastically. “Oh, Robyn!” Marian pulled back. “How could you?” she snarled, grabbing her shoulders angrily. “How could you just leave like that? I thought you were dead!” she gasped and her voice broke. “Oh Robyn, I thought you were dead!” Unable to explain, Robyn was pulled into a tight embrace that barely gave her room to breathe. “How could you do that to me? To your mother? I couldn’t–I nearly–” Marian pulled away suddenly. “Oh Robyn, you’re soaking wet!”
Robyn grinned in relief and glanced at Littlejohn before looking back to Marian whose eyes sparkled with concern. Although they sat in the centre of a decimated estate, Robyn felt that, at last, she was finally back at home. “It’s a long story.” She laughed as she pulled herself up from the ground and tried to wipe the worst of the dirt and damp from her clothes.
“And who is your friend?” Marian whispered with a slight nod to Littlejohn, who was rubbing his arm where Alfred had enthusiastically fought off the intruder.
“Oh,” Robyn remembered herself, “this is Littlejohn.” She indicated each of them in turn. “Marian, Littlejohn. Littlejohn, Marian.”
“Lady Marian de Staynton of Leaford delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Littlejohn bowed slightly. “Reynold Littlejohn o’ Sherwood, at thy service, milady. ’Ow do?”
Marian seemed a little taken aback at the polite greeting from the huge man in wet furs who was starting to smell a little more like Alfred than Alfred ever had. However, she recovered herself quickly and offered a curtsy.
“Why do I never get a greeting like that?” Robyn asked accusingly as she looked up at Littlejohn with indignation.
He turned to her. “Oh aye? And just when were I s’posed to greet thee as milady? When thou were hidden in a bush? Or when thou were runnin’ through t’wood like a spooked mare?” He looked down at her with one hand on his hip and the other on his stave. “Or p’raps it were when thou were sprawled on thy backside in t’middle of a ruckus and needed me to come and lift thee out of it?” He added a flourishing bow. “Milady?”
Robyn laughed but Marian looked at her, startled. “What have you been doing, Robyn?”
But she shook her head, unable to answer over her laughter. “’Tis a long story, Mare,” she managed. “But tell me,” she added, a note of seriousness returning to her tone, “my mother, is she well? And the children? Are they all staying with you? The estate has been savaged, was anyone hurt?” But the last of Robyn’s smile left her as Marian’s face darkened. “What? What is it?” she pushed.
Marian looked from Littlejohn to Robyn. “I–” she stammered, but couldn’t quite start.
“Marian? What happened?” The panic that had been so quelled by her dearest friend’s arrival was starting to rise again: her chest was tight and she could barely find the air to speak. “Where is my mother?”
“Oh, Robyn...” Marian reached out to touch Robyn’s arm, “...they took her,” she whispered. “They took them all.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The King’s Justice
Constance Fitzwarren sat rigidly in a high-backed wooden chair. It was placed in the centre of a small, stone room. There were no tapestries or home comforts, just bare walls, a wooden bench that scarcely passed muster as a bed, and a small, rickety table. Light poured in from two slits in the wall that only the most benevolent of witnesses would describe as windows, and there was a deeply unpleasant odour which reminded them all that she’d been deliberately placed in a cell located directly above the garderobe.
The High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire himself stood before her, his hands placed on his hips, a deceptively pleasant smile playing across his lips, and the rusting metal key to the heavy door of the chamber conspicuously swinging from his belt. Maud skulked in the shadows, dressed in black from head to toe: she could have been death itself come to warn Constance Fitzwarren of her impending fate.
“So, you see...” William’s manner was pleasant, charming, and reasonable. He was laying the facts out before Constance as if everything were extraordinarily simple, the decision had already been made, and they were a pair of friends merely traipsing through the formalities of their business association. “It is a very generous offer, we shall forgo the tax you owe and set you free to do as you will... all you have to do...” He shrugged nonchalantly. “...Is hand over the outlaw: Robyn Hood.”
Constance looked to her lap and carefully adjusted the trim on her wide sleeve; she sighed then glanced up at the Sheriff before imitating his lackadaisical shrug. “I know of no one called ‘Robyn Hood’.” She picked a fleck of dirt from her dress and sighed once again as if she were merely being asked for a playing card during a rather dull evening of after-dinner games and polite conversation.
It was a charade neither of them could continue for long.
William leaned down and hissed at her; he wanted to make his point without inciting the rage of his grieving wife. “Your daughter was fool enough to present herself at the tournament: we know well you know exactly where she is–”
“There must be some mistake,” Constance interrupted. Her tone was firm and it was clear that she was not a woman to be easily intimidated. “My daughter was at home, grievously ill on the day of the Nottingham Fayre. I know this well, for I tended to her myself.”
Suddenly Maud sprang from the shadows, shoving William aside and launching a backhanded slap across the cheek of the Baroness of Loxley. The sound echoed around the empty chamber and there was a long silence as the two fierce women stared at each other. Even as the red mark started to emerge upon her cheek, Constance presented no show of being hurt or even ruffled by the encounter.
Maud was livid. “You will tell me where that little bitch cub of yours is hiding and I will have her strung up then gutted in the public square. Or would you prefer I took the other daughter in her stead?”
“Well!” Constance replied with a faint air of simmering outrage. “I am hardly likely to hand over any of my children to that fate, am I?”
The Baroness of Loxley portrayed a veil of calm, but William was sure he detected a note of instability in her voice. She was alone, she was weak: her fortitude would break soon enough.
“She murdered him!” Maud screamed. “She murdered my boy! She will hang for it!” His wife was clinging to the woman’s shoulders, their faces mere inches apart. “I will feed her corpse to the rats in the gutter!”
Constance looked across at William. “Would you mind withdrawing the hounds, Sheriff?” Her tone was more of mild annoyance, but the hands in her lap were so tightly held together that the flesh was reddening under the pressure. “It would do you well–” Her voice caught in her throat. She coughed, swallowed, and started again, clearly trying to ignore the presence of Maud who remained looming over her with menace. “It would do you both well to remember that I am the Baroness of Loxley and a good friend to our King. While I, of course, sympathise with your recent loss, you have no reason whatsoever to hold me. So, if you don’t mind, I should like to be on my way.” Constance went to stand but Maud didn’t move and she was unable to leave the seat. She looked to William, and at that moment he saw genuine pleading in her eyes.
He had her.
“On the contrary, Baroness.” William bowed in deference and lightly placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder, guiding her gently away from their prisoner. “I have every reason to hold you. And...” He smiled brightly, and took the tax demand from the table to hand to her. “...To hold your children.” She took the offered parchment and stared at it; he detected the slightest twitch of muscles in her cheeks as she tightened her jaw. “I have given you ample time to pay, Baroness, but I’m afraid that as of today your lands are forfeit. But,” he nodded again and opened out his hands as if offering her the most exquisitely wrapped gift, “since you are so keen on our King hearing of these matters, I shall arrange for you to be taken to York Castle, so you may await his justice.”
“The King’s justice?” Her eyes shot up at him, and she could not prevent her features betraying her shock. “But–but he could be gone for years?”
“Really?” William replied, feigning surprise. “How unfortunate for you.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Betrayal
A shot of fear hurtled through Robyn’s belly.
This was her fault. She had brought this upon her mother. She had been the one foolish enough to enter the tournament. Foolish enough to reveal her face. She had led them straight to her family. She was supposed to protect them all and instead she had put them all in danger.
She thought of Constance, locked in a cell, pacing, weeping, cursing her daughter’s name. She thought of the boys, each in their own cages, chained, confused, and wailing for their mother. She thought of Little Eleanor, proud, clever... but now barefoot and starving in a rat-infested dungeon.
Because of her. Because of her pride, her foolishness, and her cowardice.
When the time had come to hand herself over to the Bailiff, to admit her fault, she had wavered. Instead of announcing who she was, she had remained silent. Instead of handing herself over, she had run away and hidden in the woods.
Now it was they, and not she, who were paying the price for her crimes.
There was only one thing left to do.
Robyn turned and ran.
“Robyn?” Marian called after her. “Where are you going?”
Too many had been hurt: she couldn’t let Marian be one more victim of her misdeeds. “Go home, Mare!” she shouted back.
“I will not.” Instead Marian took off in pursuit, grabbing Robyn’s arm and pulling her to a standstill. Littlejohn was at a distance behind; he’d made no move to follow and remained in the courtyard of the decimated manor with the old dog; Alfred sat at his feet. The pair of them watched in silence as the maidens argued.
“No one else should be harmed by me.” Robyn’s voice was cracking and she found it hard to look into the earnest eyes of her dearest friend.
“Where are you going, Robyn?” Marian repeated softly. But there was a tone to her voice, the same low tone that always told Robyn she was being foolish and it was time to admit she was wrong.
But Robyn knew that this time she wasn’t wrong. This was what she needed to do. This was the right thing. “I’m going to hand myself in to the Sheriff himself.”
Marian stood stunned for a moment and Robyn took the opportunity to turn and head off through the broken gates of Loxley. But her arm was tugged back. “Don’t you dare!” Marian hissed.
But this was bigger than either of them, bigger than anything the two of them had ever faced and she knew Marian was wrong, she knew she couldn’t listen to her. “I have to, Mare.” It was an apology, not only to Marian and to her own family, but also to herself. She had tried but she had failed. It was time to end this.
Robyn set off again, this time determined not to be pulled back, determined not to listen to the pleading.
“No, Robyn!” Marian ran after her. “Don’t be a fool.”
The word cut at her. Turning herself in was not the act of a fool. It was what had to be done, there was no other choice. Everything she had done so far had been about ensuring her family’s safety above her own, and every act had endangered them all further. Now was not the time to walk away.
“It’s about time I took responsibility.” Robyn spoke the words firmly but didn’t look at Marian. Instead, she thought of her father; everything he had worked his life for had crumpled. She had destroyed it all with one touch.
Robert Fitzwarren had been no more than a bastard yeoman’s son, albeit with a noble heritage. But with the right connections, the right prizes won, the right battles fought, the right men impressed, and the right woman wed, he had grown his name and grown his estate until finally, King Henry had bestowed a baronage upon him.
His absence had been mere weeks. Weeks.
Robyn remembered him packing his last few things on the day he had left. She remembered him turning to her, his impossibly brown eyes looking down at her in earnest over his fine, dark red beard. “‘You are the eldest of a noble line, and I expect you to act as such. Your mother is strong and clever, but she does not have our Saxon blood, Robyn. You must be the one to take care of them all, understand?” She had been unable to offer more than a choked nod and he’d embraced her then, repeating again how he wished she could have been at his side, but knowing that one of them had to stay. One of them had to remain at Loxley and keep the estate safe...
