Outlaw, page 2
part #1 of Robyn Hood Series
“Robyn!”
“I shall return for you,” she called back as Marian ran after her with her skirts pulled up.
But Robyn could not wait.
She tore off down the path towards the house, navigating the slope with ease. Jasper’s leg wound was no more than a scratch and the steed tore down the pasture, taking the familiar path they had ridden together so many times. Robyn steered him this way and that, leaping a brook and avoiding the rocks she had been a victim to a hundred times in her childhood. They galloped across the pasture, and a few angry sheep bleated their annoyance at the interlopers who should dare dart through their territory as they grazed.
A sideways glance told Robyn that the messenger was far back along the road journeying at a steady canter; she would beat him easily.
Jasper cleared the wooden fence with ease; there was the smallest thud of wood as he scraped no more than a single hoof, and the pair carried on down the second, steeper pasture, barely slowing. More irritated sheep darted out of the way as Robyn forced her body weight towards the rear of the horse; she didn’t want to slow, but she wasn’t about to topple, either.
Down they darted, skipping past rabbit holes and gorse as they made their way towards the high fence. She knew this path; Jasper always struggled with this fence. He had baulked many a time before she had finally coaxed him over, but she knew just how to handle her horse. She reared up, digging her feet down into the stirrups then up and over they went together.
They landed with a satisfying thump on the soft grass and almost skidded onto the track heading into the gates of Loxley Manor.
The young stable lad, Ned, a gangly boy with a curly mop of light brown hair, ran out to greet her as she careened into the courtyard, but she barely had time to acknowledge him as she slid from Jasper and ran into the house. Scattering mud on the wooden floor, she halted. Where would Mother be? She darted up the stairs and into her mother’s private chambers.
“Mother!”
Constance, Baroness of Loxley, wore her blue dress with long draping sleeves and intricately patterned edging, a starched veil that framed her long face and deep brown eyes. She sat with her embroidery ignored on her lap, as she shared a deep conversation with Marian’s mother, Rosamunde de Staynton, Baroness of Leaford. Constance turned, open-mouthed and startled, as her daughter burst into the room.
“Robyn! Whatever have you been up to?”
Robyn realised her skirts were splattered with mud and her face was hot with exertion, some of her hair had fallen loose and she was breathing hard, pointing to the door behind her. “Courier!”
Her mother’s admonishment turned to surprise. “From Court?”
“Nay.” Robyn shook her head, still trying to gather her breath, but her mother was on her feet in a second muttering an apology to her guest as she rushed from the room with the exhausted Robyn in pursuit.
“Ellie!” Constance shouted across the landing but didn’t wait for a reply; instead she flew down the stairs and out into the courtyard calling for more of her children. “Henry! Billy!”
Robyn looked around desperately; there was only the little lad, Ned, in the courtyard tending to Jasper’s leg and for a moment she felt ridiculous. Perhaps there had been no messenger, perhaps he had been heading elsewhere...
The two little boys came hurtling down from the backfields, little bows in their hands and their Nurse, round and red-faced, in tow. Ellie emerged from the house curious, followed by her young tutor, Sister Aldith. The commotion summoned the women from the kitchen, and Heledd, a bright and brusque woman, shouted across the courtyard to the boy’s Nurse.
“Wha’s all this then, Becca?” But Nursie shook her head and raised her hands in ignorance.
Robyn’s stomach twisted. Had she been a fool?
But then the familiar sound of hooves on the hard road greeted her ears, and she rushed forward to the gates as a courier, in his light brown tunic with his precious cargo in a pouch at his belt, rode into the courtyard of Loxley Manor.
The eager and bright-eyed young man nodded to them and appeared a little surprised to see the keen gathering of women and children awaiting his arrival.
“A message,” he said, rummaging for the letter as Constance, impatient but polite, held out her hand, “from Nottingham.”
The disappointment was palpable; the children groaned, and Robyn felt her heart sink to her feet as her mother’s enlivened face turned to a forced smile.
“Many thanks,” Constance replied without skipping a beat and took the folded parchment, glancing at it with a sigh.
“And another from the continent,” the messenger finished as he pulled a scroll from his pouch.
Constance’s hand shot straight up, and the little ones screeched excitedly. Her eyes fixed on the precious letter, Constance did not look at the courier as she thanked him, and turned to run back into the house. “Do stay and change your horse, take some refreshment,” she called behind her. “I shall have a reply before you go.”
He nodded and slid from his horse, glancing apprehensively at the gaggle of loud women laughing at the door to the kitchens. Young Ned was ready and waiting to offer him aid, but Constance, with all her children in eager pursuit, had already returned to the house.
The Baroness of Loxley entered her husband’s study and cast aside the letter from Nottingham as she excitedly broke her husband’s seal on the scroll. “Oh, ’tis truly him, Robyn!”
Robyn suppressed a scream of joy as she saw the familiar hand of her father upon the page; her mother’s eyes welled up and she pulled the letter open with trembling hands.
“My darling dears...” Constance choked on his words as she read them aloud and Nursie had to pull the boys back as they scrambled over one another to better see the writing, although neither could yet quite read. “The King and I have landed at...” She choked, unable to continue. “No,” she shook her head, “’tis no good, Robyn, darling, could–could you...” With a trembling hand, Constance held out the letter to her eldest who nodded with solemnity and took the rolled parchment from her mother.
Constance took a seat and put her head in her hands, as little Eleanor took to her mother’s side and placed a hand upon her shoulder. All four of them stared eagerly up at Robyn with their big, brown eyes, and dark reddish hair, like a litter of bereft fox cubs.
With a quick glance at that happy round face of Nursie, and the stoic countenance of Ellie’s tutor, Robyn took a deep breath and began to read her father’s correspondence. The news was good; the Baron of Loxley, the King, and the other nobles who had joined them for the crusade had landed safely on the continent and were about to meet with King Philip of France. They would rest and prepare for the next part of the journey; the land crossing to Marseille where they would gather more allies before taking the fleet across the Mediterranean.
Robert Fitzwarren gave little details of the French Court, letting Ellie know of the lady’s finery and addressing the boys when he spoke of the armour of the French King. He told Robyn that she was missed deeply, and he regretted that she could not be at his side as he had wished; but when he told Constance that he would look for her in each room he entered before remembering how far away she was, it was too much for her mother to bear and she descended into sobs.
As soon as Robyn had finished reading, Constance reached out for the letter, demanding to read it again for herself and clutching the words to her chest as if they were his very being.
Robyn glanced around at them all, the two little boys, just three and five, the clever and patient Eleanor now ten years old and already showing signs of the elegant woman she would one day become, and her mother, mouthing her husband’s words to herself. She wondered how different they would all be when her father returned... if he returned... how much of their lives he would miss... At that moment she cursed King Richard. She cursed his mission to retake the holy land from Saladin, she cursed all the Kings of Europe for turning their backs on their nations to leave and fight a Holy war, and she cursed Pope Gregory for igniting this fiery passion for bloodshed.
Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, wondering if she would now have to admit her curses when next she went to confession. Who was she to curse God’s own right hand on earth? Yet even as she thought it, she cursed him again.
She noticed the second letter lying on the desk. The one the courier had brought from Nottingham. It was addressed to her mother, but she cracked open the seal hoping for a distraction from her curses and her father’s absence.
Folded within the letter was a small notice for the Nottingham Fayre. It called upon the sons of nobles to enter the tournament ‘in celebration of the appointment of the new High Sheriff of Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire’. The double honour had been given to a man no one in her circle had ever even heard of; this would normally cause great consternation; however, with most of the men of noble birth being recruited to fight the Holy war, such an appointment was no longer unusual.
Robyn noticed that alongside a prize of ten silver pieces for the winner of each event, there was an obscenely large prize of two hundred silver being offered to the entrant who won the tournament overall. This was more than many of their servants were paid in a year. She wondered how a new Sheriff, with few connections and little wealth of his own, had managed to accrue such a high prize so soon after the Treasury had been run dry by the King seeking his accursed crusade fund.
A two hundred silver prize offered by anyone less than a duke or an earl was almost unheard of. Robyn knew well that at least half the young noblemen left in the two counties would turn out to compete.
She sighed and threw the notice aside, concentrating instead on the letter that accompanied it. She expected it to be her family’s official invitation to the Nottingham Fayre but instead, she gasped.
Carefully, she read through it again. And then again. But there was no doubting it. She ran her finger slowly over the words, hoping, praying that she was mistaken but there was no avoiding the truth. Suddenly she understood exactly where the Sheriff of Nottingham was getting his wealth.
“Mother?” she whispered. Her mother was wrapped up in the letter from her father. “Mother?” Robyn snapped.
“What is it, dear?” Constance replied with only the mildest trace of annoyance.
“Look at this.” Robyn held out the letter but she shook her head.
“Read it to me.”
Robyn glanced at the little ones and the servants, but they would all have to hear this soon enough. If indeed it was true.
“Constance Fitzwarren, Baroness of Loxley, this is hereby demand for late payment of the Treasury tax of two hundred and fifty silver pieces due on the last day of July just passed–”
“It is wrong,” her mother cut in with a shake of her head, “the tax has been waived on account of our donation to the crusade.”
“Mother, it has a date. Today.” She held the letter out and pointed to the date. “It is addressed to you directly, not to Father: this is a genuine demand, Mother.” She shook it as she held it out for her mother, who took the letter slowly and stared down at the words shaking her head.
“It is wrong, it must be wrong.”
The boys were scrambling to look at the letter and their Nurse, Becca, pulled them back. “Let’s be to playin’,” she said with a firm nod to Robyn.
Reluctantly, Ellie was also led away by the Sister. Robyn followed them and closed the door as they left, turning back to Constance who was still in adamant disbelief. “Can we pay?”
“Well, no, of course not, Robyn. And we mustn’t! First the Saladin tithe, then King Richard and his demands, now this! You know your father took everything for the King. He even plundered your dowry.” Robyn’s cheeks burned hot with shame as she remembered how delighted she had been to let him take the damned dowry: at least now talk of marriage could finally cease. But her mother was still fretting. “We barely have a farthing until this year’s yield goes to market and that’s not for another month at least. I’ll write to the Baron.” Constance nodded to herself and rose from her seat.
“Father can’t do anything while he is away–”
“Your father is the Baron of Loxley! Of course, he can do something!”
Robyn was taken aback by her mother’s sudden change in temper, but she kept her tone gentle, noting how Constance still clutched at her husband’s words. It had been far from easy for any of them and it had been hardest of all on Constance.
“He is many weeks away, even if we were to write to The Queen Mother herself, the reply might take days to reach us... and by then,” Robyn pointed at the letter, “it says our lands will be forfeit without pay.”
“The Sheriff has no authority to make such a claim.” Constance shook her head and moved to the desk, searching for quill and ink. “He’ll have to wait.”
“But do we have the power to make him wait?”
“Of course, we do, Robyn.” Constance took a seat at the Baron’s desk and began pulling pieces of parchment from the drawers. “Your father is the Baron of Loxley. Now go and play.” She waved Robyn towards the door.
“Play? Mother, I’m eighteen. I can help–”
“Go and play, Robyn! Mother has work to do.”
Robyn looked at her for a moment, too stunned to speak. But she knew better than to argue. She took a deep breath and bit her tongue, turning from the room and slamming the heavy door behind her.
She marched across the hall, her boots leaving a trail of mud across the wooden floor, then she stopped. Hanging on the wall in the hallway was her father’s old hunting garb. She stared at it. Many of his old clothes, from before he married her mother, were still in a large trunk in his room. Despite being of noble Saxon blood, the young Robert Fitzwarren had spent many years in the King’s service as a forester, upholding the laws of Sherwood. He never forgot his humble beginnings and ensured his children never forgot them either.
“You didn’t come back.” Marian trundled, huffing and puffing into the hallway, her face bright red.
“Apologies,” Robyn muttered as she turned and ran up the stairs.
“Where are you going now?” Marian groaned.
“To fetch some new attire.”
“New attire?” Marian chased her, still puffing, up the stairs. “Whatever for, Robyn?”
“For Nottingham Fayre.”
Chapter Three
A Promise Made in Silver
Maud de Wendenal, an intelligent woman with deceptively soft features, and light eyes framed with a starched veil and a deep red embroidered headband, was seated at her husband’s large, wooden desk. Her back was to the empty hearth, and she was surrounded by bright, new tapestries that hung from the stone walls of Nottingham Castle.
Maud carefully studied William’s draft of a letter he’d sent to the King some months before, and she was happy to discover that imitating her husband’s signature had become second nature to her well-practised hand.
She finished writing his name with a swirling flourish and admired her work for a moment before replacing the quill in the inkpot and reaching for the wax and seal.
At that moment, the door opened.
“What are you up to?” Her husband, an imposing and well-built man of forty, with smart, black hair that fell to his shoulders and a well-groomed moustache, stood in the doorway. He wore his newest tunic, long to the ankle, in a deep shade of red with embroidered green and gold borders. He seemed to spend rather too much of his time on fashion and not enough on business for Maud’s taste.
Slowly looking up, Maud tutted and shook her head. “Dealing with letters, dear. Obviously.”
“Is that the official seal of the High Sheriff?” Her husband marched forward to loom over her, his voice rising in pitch as he started to panic.
“You know it is, dear. You make yourself out a fool when you ask. Do you also wish to know if this is ink with which I write?”
“Knowing you, it could be blood.”
She shot him a cold stare, then stood and gathered her fresh letters. “Don’t be facetious, dear,” she hissed, “you have not the wit.” She stuffed the pile of correspondence into his arms.
“What are these?” The look she gave him was her most contemptuous and he growled in exasperation as he reworded his question. “What are these LETTERS concerning? I ought to know since I am the official composer. Do you not think?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Of course you are, dear. You know very well it’s uncouth for a woman to write. But you needn’t worry yourself: they’re merely trifles. Why not visit the tailor? It must be at least an hour since last you met with him.” She went to leave.
“Trifles?” His tone was firm, and she halted in her tracks. “Such as the trifles you sent demanding taxes from all the local Barons? They are powerful people, Maud. Friends of the King. He will hear of it and I have not the authority or the men to collect such taxes.”
Maud sighed, and her lip twitched as she held back a snarl. “The King is not here, William,” she turned to stare at him, “and we must think of our own position.”
“Our position will be nothing if the King returns to find us his enemies.”
She slammed the wooden door closed. “The King will be gone for years, William. Years! A crusade cannot be won in a season. What shall every noble be doing in his absence?”
William looked confused for a moment. “Why, they shall be going about their business–”
“They will be securing their own position!” She sighed and rubbed her temples: how did this man have not an ounce of cunning? “Who are you, William?” He stared at her and blinked. “This is not a parlour game: tell me. Who are you?”
“I am William de Wendenal,” he said slowly, she could see he knew there was some failure in his words but was struggling to comprehend what it was. “High Sheriff of Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire.”
“Wrong!” Maud prodded the air in front of him, forcing him to step back as she moved towards him. “You are no one! You are the youngest son of a nobody nobleman who merely paid every last penny we had to stand in the place of two, far better men who left to fight alongside the King!” Then she added in a low mutter, “More fool them.”
