Outlaw, page 3
part #1 of Robyn Hood Series
“Well... I–”
“What do you suppose shall happen upon the King’s return? When these fools of men have esteemed themselves in King Richard’s eyes by cutting down foreign peasants in God’s name? Do you suppose they will all bow to you? Do you imagine that they will respect your paid-for rank and all that you have not achieved? Or do you believe you will be given a shake of the hand, perhaps even a pat on the back and then promptly returned to the nowhere from whence we came?”
William threw her letters down on the desk, suddenly angry at her berating. “This talk is fruitless. You and I know nothing of the King’s plans, we know nothing of the future, we know not even how many of these men shall return–”
“Precisely.” He stared at her blankly as she smiled. “Think on Prince John.”
“The King’s brother? What of him?” William asked.
“He means to make himself Regent.” Although the pair were completely alone, Maud whispered the words conspiratorially.
“But the King made him swear an oath to stay out of the country–”
“The King is gone, William; the sooner you accept that, the happier you shall be!” She threw her arms up in despair. “My word! The King! The King! Every moment the King!”
“But Prince John cannot mean to defy his brother’s wishes,” he argued. “The Barons would never have it.”
“He does, and he shall.” She stared at him as he shook his head in bemusement. “Do you intend to be loyal to an absent Lord who shall have us cast out upon his return? Or are we to show loyalty to the Prince who intends to take the Crown for his own?”
“The Crown? You said he merely intended to become Regent.”
“One step at a time, William.” She placed a hand lightly on his chest; the cloth of his new tunic was soft, smooth, and expensive. Maud had to admit, she did enjoy some of the trappings of wealth. She whispered to him, “You and I must demonstrate our loyalty now. If we are an early supporter of the new King... Well, who knows what lands and titles he may bestow upon you...” She smiled, a gentle smirk that formed a dimple on her right cheek.
William nodded, a slow grin forming upon his lips. “What is the plan?”
“Prince John is raising funds. I have already pledged a thousand silver to–”
“A thousand silver!”
“Hush your voice, Husband.” She glanced warily to the door as if expecting a spy’s ear to appear in the woodwork. “The silver shall largely come from our tax upon Loxley, Edgerton, and Leaford–”
“Those estates have given much of their wealth to the King’s crusade–”
She dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. “Those sorts of people always have hidden coffers stuffed with gold and jewels. They merely require a little shakedown to encourage them to hand it over.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Even so, where are we to find the shortfall? We’d need at least another few hundred silver, surely.”
“The tournament.”
“Nottingham Fayre? But that is merely peasants gathering. How are we to gather the silver from amongst them?”
Maud picked up her letters and stuffed them back into his arms. “A penny entry fee for starters: those peasants have long had too much handed to them at the expense of their betters. Then a single silver will be paid to participate in the tournament itself. That should keep the worst of the ruffians out. Then a grand prize of two hundred pieces will encourage a good number of young noblemen to take up your ‘kind and personal invitation’ to compete.” She smiled, delighted at her own proposal.
“Two hundred silver, Maud?” He shook his head. “Have you thought this through? How shall we make enough to meet the Prince’s pledge?”
“The prize is merely to tempt the crowds, William!” She chuckled and leaned towards him. “Archery shall be the only event where it is even possible to earn enough points to win the tournament outright.”
William laughed. “And I imagine your nephew has already pledged himself?”
“Theobald’s name was the first one on the list. Have you ever known that boy to be beaten at archery?”
“I have not.” The Sheriff smiled and clutched Maud’s perfectly inscribed invitations. “Are you aware of something, Maud?”
“Pray tell?”
“I do believe, I love my wife.”
She laughed and lightly slapped his shoulder as she pushed him out of the door. “Off with you, man, and find a boy to deliver the last of those invites.”
Chapter Four
A Clandestine Escape
The fires had long gone out and the manor was dark and quiet.
Robyn Fitzwarren turned over in her bed; she was restless and torn. The last three days had been nothing but a constant argument between her and Marian. Marian had told her not to go, not to be a fool, not to risk her modesty and safety by going alone or risk getting caught in the guise of a boy.
And yet...
If her father was here if he had not left with the King, and indeed if the King himself had not abandoned his rule, then there would be no difficulty to try to prevent. But in their absence her home was endangered, her family threatened, and her land risked being made forfeit. This not only imperilled her kin but the servants in her household and peasants who worked the land, tended to their swine and sheep, lived their lives under the baronage of her father. What would happen should the estate be taken? Would they be cast out? Would the land be claimed as forest by Prince John so that only he and his retinue could be permitted within it? Would they all become akin to the vagabond she had seen earlier that day? Bedraggled and hungry, reduced to poaching to put food on the table?
It was not just her pride as Marian had claimed, it was not simply her desire to see the competition bested by her hand. It was Robyn’s loyalty to her father, to her family, and also to the dozens of families who worked on her land and depended on the Fitzwarren estate. It was those people who kept her mind turning towards the tournament, and towards the chance of winning two hundred silver merely with the skill of her bow.
Her bare feet were on the floor and she was standing in the dark of her cool chamber before she even realised her decision had been made.
She had been torn when her father had left for the Holy Land; he’d offered her the chance to follow in the footsteps of old Queen Eleanor by joining the men on crusade. She could have seen the wonders of the East, visited the sacred sites, perhaps even proven herself in battle. But it would have meant abandoning her mother. Constance was a strong woman but not nearly so strong as she appeared, and Robyn knew it would be difficult for her to manage the estate alone. She was also glad not to have left Marian. They had rarely been much apart in their years growing up together in adjacent estates and it would have been hard to be away from her.
But since Robyn had not gone on the crusade, since she had stayed behind with a mind to support her family in her father’s stead, she could not lie awake at night merely thinking the solution without acting upon it.
So, despite her dearest and most prudent friend’s dire warnings, Robyn was going.
Hurriedly she dressed in her father’s old foresters’ garb. She was fortunate that she was tall and somewhat broad-shouldered for her sex, taking after her father’s Saxon build, as it meant that she’d not had much to do in the way of last-minute tailoring.
The last few nights she’d worked in secret. Smuggling an extra candle as well as some thread into her room so she could work on the old tunic. She was glad, for once, she’d inherited her father’s frame and thereby had little to do by way of shortening the trousers. Although they did have to be let out slightly at the hips, as it wasn’t enough to leave them untied and rely only on the leather belt to hold them up.
It was his oldest outfit, from the years when he was a little younger than Robyn was now and, although the quality was good, it was frayed in places and there were a few patches here and there. He had kept it, so he said because it reminded him to be humble. It reminded him of where he had come from and where he could so easily go back to, noble blood or nay.
Although she had been drawn to the more impressive burgundy hunting garb from his later years, on balance Robyn thought it best to arrive at the fayre looking unremarkable in the old, patched-up foresters’ green.
The shoulder cape and hood were a separate piece, and it had taken much searching through the old trunk to find it. For a moment she’d worried it had been cast out or lost, despite her father being notorious for hoarding his old clothing and trinkets. There was even a leather belt hanging in his room that he swore his forefather had worn at the Battle of Hastings, although he always became rather reticent when it came to clarifying on which side this particular ancestor had fought.
But after much fretting, Robyn had discovered the head cape at the bottom of the trunk in the folds of another tunic. Well-tailored and a little old-fashioned, it fit her well enough, sitting around the top of her shoulders. Tied with a little leather clasp at the front, it would do well at hiding her coiled, dark red hair. Her face was another matter. The brim of the hood was not quite long enough to conceal her feminine jaw, and, in the end, she opted for a bandana. Anyone wearing a scarf in August would draw some attention, but she had little choice and hoped they would merely think she was a boy hiding pox scars.
Once she was dressed in her newly altered outfit she was hesitant. Hovering at the side of the bed, she wondered if she were being too much of a fool.
But when she thought through the alternatives, of waiting for her father’s return or appealing to the absent King, she knew there was simply no one left to aid her in her hour of need. She had remained in England to support her mother and she vowed to do just that.
With her feet clad only in her woollen hose, her bow and quiver on her back, and carrying her boots to avoid waking others with her footfall, Robyn slipped through the door of her chamber and down the stairs into the long hall. She could hear the snoring of the few old men and boys who had been left to man the estate, although it was not nearly as loud as when her father’s full retinue was at home. Tentatively she crept along the wooden floorboards and stopped dead as one creaked so loud in the quiet hall that it was almost as if a crack of thunder had torn through the rafters.
There was movement, then a long, lazy yawn.
Robyn froze. Her breath held tight in her chest and she watched horror-struck, as a shadow reared up from the floor and turned to look at her.
A thousand poor excuses ran through her mind but not one of them would be able to explain her predawn excursion in men’s clothing.
But then it was Alfred who ambled towards her, shuffling sleepily. And a swathe of relief washed over her as she knelt down to receive him.
“Go back to sleep, old boy.” The wolfhound softly nuzzled her hand. “Go on,” she hissed, “away.” Looking at her in a half-daze, Alfred turned and went back to the warmth of the dying hearth. For a moment she considered taking him with her, but she knew that even if no one recognised her, they might recognise her father’s dog. Reluctantly she left the safety of the long hall alone and slipped out into the courtyard.
It had rained lightly a few hours earlier. The ground was soft and the smell of wet earth hung in the air. She leaned against the freshly limewashed wall of the manor and slipped on her hunting boots. Her father’s old boots were sturdier and more obviously built for the chase, but they were also far too large for her more dainty feet and she was forced to make do with her own.
The sky was already lightening with the dawn, and she could just about make out the shadow of the gatehouse across the courtyard. As they were every night, the gates were sealed and no doubt Hereward would be on night watch. She was certain he would be snoring loudly, and Robyn had often wondered why the ancient old man was still placed on duty rather than simply left to tell stories by the fire and sleep. As is the want of an old man past his best years. But even if there was a chance he would sleep through her escape, it was still more likely than not that she would rouse him from his slumber, and more likely still that he would rouse the entire castle to his aid.
So, rather than the main gate, she made instead for the small postern door set in the wall under the west tower.
Robyn twisted her shoulders in the old borrowed jerkin. Even with her hurried tailoring, the cloth pulled at her and she wasn’t used to feeling quite so exposed. Her usual attire consisted of high-waisted dresses with long, wide sleeves, intricately beaded belts, and the occasional piece of family jewellery when her mother insisted. Although she did love her dresses, they were useless for sport and, she remembered guiltily, this wasn’t the first time she had gone abroad in her father’s hunting garb. The last time had been six or so years before: she couldn’t remember the date but she remembered getting caught. She remembered being grabbed by her nursemaid, dragged out to the back of the stables, the sting of the leather belt on her thigh and the bitter curses the woman had spat: “If thou wants to be a boy, I shall treat thee like a boy!”
She closed her eyes at the memory. Her nursemaid had left soon after that. Left or been told to leave, she wasn’t sure which. But either way, Robyn had kept to her dresses ever since.
That was... until tonight.
Tonight she wore leather trousers, and strong, bound leather boots. The old, green tunic reached only her mid-thigh and she felt almost as if she were walking outside in her underclothes. It was strange, exciting, and so wonderfully freeing that she walked with new confidence in her step, almost forgetting that she was meant to be stealthy in her escape.
“Who goes there?”
Robyn’s heart froze. She ducked down and slid into the shadows of the high wall of the manor. Damn that Hereward. Asleep when he ought to be awake and awake when she most needed him to be asleep. Had he seen her, or only heard her footsteps? She couldn’t breathe.
Should she come clean and admit her plan? He would no doubt prevent her from leaving but surely that would be preferable to being mistaken for a bandit and killed?
Would he tell her mother? Would she be kept in the house as punishment? Prevented from following through with any plan to save the estate?
Perhaps she should make a dash for it? Run for the postern door and away into the night? Would he give chase? Shoot upon her? Raise the alarm?
“I said, who goes there?”
She heard his shuffling feet approach. A nervousness to his gait that twisted her stomach in guilt: no doubt he was preparing to meet his death. He would be quivering in fear; a honourable old man standing ready to fight to the death in order to protect the very noble’s daughter who was causing his concern.
“Oh, ’tis naught but thee!”
Robyn looked around in a panic, wondering how old Hereward had managed to spot her hiding in the dark when he could barely spot her figure even in the light. But it was the great, hulking shadow of Alfred that the old man had seen; he’d followed his mistress out into the dark and saved her from capture with his sleepy loyalty. She promised herself she would save that wolfhound the finest meat from the table that evening.
“Well, come on, then, boy,” Hereward beckoned the wolfhound over, “thou can join mine patrol.”
The loyal dog glanced at the shadow where Robyn had hunkered down, then lumbered happily over to greet the frail, old guardsman. She peered around the wall to see the pair of them turn and head off towards the gatehouse. No doubt Hereward’s version of a patrol involved a good sit-down and a glug of ale followed by a nap.
In happy relief, Robyn paused a moment until the pair were out of earshot and then darted for the postern door. Laughing to herself at her skilful victory, she eased open the latch and disappeared into the night.
Chapter Five
The Green Man
It was still before dawn and Robyn was already regretting not bringing food with her or a good, solid fur coat. The green hunting tunic was just a little too thin and her limbs were starting to feel like ice. She hurried along the road, one hand tentatively laid on the hilt of her double-edged knife, even as she reassured herself that she was quite alone and quite safe.
The hoot of an owl made her jump, and she spun in fright as she caught the spectral whiteness of its wings and heard the flapping of its feathers swooping overhead.
She laughed in relief as she watched its pale silhouette disappear and allowed herself a moment to enjoy the spectacle. When she related the story to Marian she would be sure to cut out the moment in which she had been afraid and remark only on her delight at the close proximity of the nocturnal hunter.
Despite her self-declared confidence, Robyn picked up her pace as she neared the forest. Feeling exposed on the road alone, she longed for the protection of the trees but the moment she alighted on the perimeter of the wood she hesitated at the heaviness of the darkness within. She glanced back, half hoping to find herself pursued, if not by a friendly mule-mounted monk with a lantern and a fresh loaf of bread to offer, then at least by a local poacher she could join in a stroll for few furlongs.
But alas, she was utterly alone.
In the distance, in the river valley, she could see the white wall surrounding Loxley Manor, a silhouette slowly coloured by the threat of the emerging sun. It was getting late. She needed to be in Nottingham long before noon and if she was to get there then she would have to go through Sherwood. She nodded to herself; the decision was harder now so far from the blankets of her warm bed but it was still the same. If she was to keep her home safe then she would enter that tournament and she would win.
Taking a deep breath she entered the wood and hurried along the ancient road.
There was an eerie silence in the sleeping forest and Robyn found she had taken her bow from her back and nocked an arrow, quite without realising. The only sound she encountered was her own breath and the soft padding of her leather soles on a dirt track hardened by a thousand years of horses’ hooves and carts.
