Heart of Sherwood Read online

  He had removed his ripped and blood-soaked shirt and she was able to observe the gash clearly. Alice, who sat on a three-legged stool at his head, dabbed the remaining blood from his shoulder.

  "No need to make a fuss," Much said. "'Tis only a scratch." He grimaced in pain as Alice touched the spot with the cloth.

  "Much, my man, I can see right through torn muscle to bone," Robyn replied. "It will have to be stitched. Alice?" Robyn turned her gaze to Little John's wife. "Do you have a thin needle and fine thread?"

  Robyn saw the trepidation flash into her eyes. "I have some sewing implements, but I have never stitched skin before."

  Robyn responded with a reassuring smile. "You will do well; just keep the stitches small and close together."

  Alice rose, shaking her head. "I'll do the best I can."

  "You know, I'd really rather not-" Much began to protest, but Robyn ignored him.

  "Friar, please bring me a bottle of your strongest spirits," she requested, and he nodded and ducked out through the draped doorway.

  "I'm sorry to be such a bother," Much said as he looked around at his friends.

  "You're no bother," Alan dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Except when you are being annoying and insufferable, but not because of a little wound."

  "I am most proud of you," Robyn praised catching his attention. "You were very brave today and gave more than you got, I'd wager."

  A pleased grin crossed Much's lips and his hazel eyes sparkled. Tuck returned anon with a dark brown bottle, Alice and her sewing bag behind him.

  "This will peal the bark off a walnut tree," the Friar said as he handed it to Robyn.

  She winked at him and handed it to Much. "Drink now, to take the edge off the pain."

  He smiled, nodded, and proceeded to do exactly that. Suddenly he lurched up and began to cough, his eyes watering and face turning red. The other men laughed and Much pushed the bottle back at Robyn. "Bleeding hell, Friar!" he managed between wheezing and another cough; then he settled on his pillows. "But it does go to work right fast, I admit."

  Without warning, Robyn poured a stream of the alcohol into his gaping cut.

  Much screamed and lurched again as the liquid fire burned him to the core. "Bleeding Christ! Are you trying to kill me? What in the blazes was that for?"

  "Sorry, Much, but easier getting it over quick," Robyn said with a contrite expression. "Alcohol cleans better than water, even if it does hurt like hell."

  A dizzy delirium swept over Much's face and he slurred, "I think I may not feel the stitching now."

  Everyone smiled and Robyn nodded to Alice, then stepped back to give her more room. As she started the first tentative prick of the needle, Robyn turned to Tuck. "Did you learn to make a salve or poultice at the monastery?"

  "Aye," he said, recollection stirring in his deep set gray eyes. "I think I can get together all the ingredients. I'll start making it right away," he affirmed and hurried out.

  "Much, I know why you went and got hurt," Alan said jokingly. Much tried to focus on him through glazed eyes and blinked. A broad grin ran across Alan's scruffy face. "It's certs to impress Evelyn, that bellibone who joined us from Nottingham," he grinned. "Now if you can only get her to take care of you whilst you recover."

  "Bite your tongue, Alan," he managed before his eyelids became too heavy, then added hopefully, "Do you think she may?"

  The men laughed.

  "Honestly," Alice chided them with a motherly scowl.

  By the time Alice was done stitching, Tuck returned with a bowl of gooey green stuff. "I'll just apply this and we can bandage him up," he said. Robyn nodded and took her leave.

  *~*~*

  Robyn went down to the stream for solitude after the stress of the morning, thinking of what the Sheriff would be doing next, thus to be prepared. She was washing a cloth stuffed with wool about the length and breadth of her foot, buried deep in her thoughts when she heard a twig crack and spun around with a start.

  Her heart leapt into her throat before settling back down in relief. "Will! You startled me. How did things go at Loxley?"

  "Better than with you, it would seem," Will replied with honest concern in his voice. "Are you hurt?" he asked pointing to the blood in the water that had come from her rag.

  "Oh, no, I'm fine; but Much was injured. We think he'll recover shortly and be back to giving everyone a hard time."

  "What's that you are washing there?" The curious lad came over and sat beside her on the bank of the brook.

  Robyn was ready for that question. "This is my sword cleaning cloth," she said as she squeezed the water out of it. "It's padded so that I don't cut myself while wiping blood off the sharp edge of the blade. Made it myself, see?" She held the pad in her left hand and swiped her right hand down the middle as if it was a blade.

  Will's eyes widened and his face warmed. "You are so clever, Robin. You think of so many things that sometimes it boggles my mind."

  "Nah," Robyn uttered, lowering her head in humility. "So the supplies were all handed out?"

  "Aye. And you all saved the villagers?"

  "For now, but the Sheriff will be after us more than ever. We'll have to get rid of the horses."

  Will's blue eyes widened with surprise. "What? I like ridin' better than walkin'."

  "I as well," she agreed. "But they make noise, they smell and are impossible to hide on short notice, so they must go–all but the one that pulls the wagon."

  Will nodded and began to fiddle with a twig, his elbows resting on his knees. Then he asked, "Do you have any family?"

  The unexpected question caught Robyn by surprise. "No," she said as emotionless as she could. "Not anymore. I did have mother, father, sister, brothers, but… now it's just me. How about you?"

  "Me mum lives in Nottingham with Timm, my little brother. Our papa died a few years back. There was an accident. Anyway, the Sheriff didn't care. He refused to give us more time to raise money to pay our taxes. That's why I had to start pickin' pockets, and I was good at it," he said and raised his eyes to hers. "Until I got caught. That was about a year ago and I had to run off out here in the forest or be locked up and sold off."

  Robyn's expression changed from benevolence to bewilderment. "What? What do you mean, sold off?"

  "It's what the Sheriff does. He can keep but a few prisoners in that dungeon of his, so it's only for short term, you know, those that will be let go, those what have relatives to pay them out, or those to be executed. Anyone with a real sentence is sent to serve his years in the mines. I've never heard of a'body comin' back from there alive."

  "But, but, that's slavery–that's illegal. No native born Englishman is ever to be made a slave."

  "He says criminals lose their rights when they commit a crime," Will explained. "Anyway, I had to run off, but I always feel terrible, all the time, because I left me mum and brother and I'm not there to take care of them."

  "Why didn't you say something sooner, Will?" Robyn's eyes were flooded with compassion and she reached a hand over to his shoulder. "It is no problem to give a bag of necessities to them whenever they need it. Alan is good at getting in and out of town without ever being recognized. You and I could as well if we go on a rainy day and keep our hoods up. Will, we can take care of your family."

  For the first time that day he smiled at her. "Thank you. That means a lot." He dropped his twig and tilted his head at her as if he was thinking. "You may have lost your birth family, Robin, but you have a new family with us. I would be honored to be your brother if you'd have me."

  Joy warmed her heart at his acceptance of her, odd that she was, lying imposter that she was, and she beamed at him. She lifted her hand from his shoulder and mussed his shaggy black hair. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into, mate! Any brother of mine is likely to be teased, have pranks pulled on him, and get blamed for all my mistakes." She sprang to her feet, feeling light once more. "Brother it is, then!"

  Chapter Eleven

&
nbsp; FitzWalter Manor, the next day

  "So, Bertram, prithee how does the harvest fare?" Marian approached her father's steward where he worked keeping the records in the manor study. Bertram looked up from his books, quill still in one hand, and ran the other through his smooth salt and pepper locks.

  "The harvest should be quite good for this year, milady," he replied. "The weather has favored us. Howbeit, much of our income will undoubtedly go to taxes once again," he added in dismay.

  "Never mind about that now," Marian instructed as she stood peering over his shoulder at the ledgers. "We must be sure to hold back a percentage more of the grain from market this year." He looked up at her questioningly. She smiled and laid a reassuring hand on his stooped shoulder. "I want to be certs there is enough to feed all our families this winter, and," she added with a wink, "we will only be taxed on the income we make at market, not on what we have hidden in our storehouses."

  Bertram smiled and nodded at her. "I pray you are correct. The grain will keep, and what we do not use can be sold next year."

  "Precisely."

  They were interrupted by Anne, who peeked in through the open doorway. "Milady?" she inquired tentatively as to not disturb important manor business.

  "Yes, Anne?" Marian lifted her gaze from the books to inquire.

  "A cloth merchant from London has arrived to see you. Shall I show her in?"

  Marian hesitated for a moment. She did not recall requesting a visit, but then coming from London… "Yes, invite her into the hall and I will join her there." Anne curtsied and scuttled off. "Let me know at once if anything is amiss, Bertram," she said but glanced back at the parchment with a frown. "Are we actually selling to that Cheney character? He is a killcow and a cheat. He overcharges his customers while undercutting his suppliers."

  Bertram's jaw dropped with surprise. "Milady, I did not realize!"

  She smirked at him. "He offered you a cut, didn't he?"

  "On my oath, I am flabbergasted to learn of his trickery!" The older man's face paled in front of her eyes.

  Mayhap he was telling the truth, or he just didn't want to be dismissed. Marian's father had hired him, so she would grant him the benefit of the doubt. However, this led her to wonder what the steward had been up to in her absence.

  "Find a more honest buyer for our grain, or else I shall be forced to do it for you. And by the way, Bertram–if I must perform your duties in your stead, what need have I to keep you in the employment of this house?" She fixed him with a powerful, knowing gaze and he swallowed a lump from his throat.

  "Yes, milady. I will find a more reputable buyer at once. Why, the scoundrel was trying to cheat us! He'll get a piece of my mind."

  Marian let the matter go for now; her curiosity was peaked regarding her visitor, who did not turn out to be what she was expecting. Standing there with a large bag overflowing with cloth samples, was a striking woman very stylishly dressed.

  "Maid Marian, how wonderful to finally meet you!" the caramel haired merchant greeted with a broad smile. "Queen Eleanor has told me so much about you."

  Eleanor sent her! Marian's heart leapt into her throat with excitement. "You have me at a disadvantage, Madam-?"

  "Amee de Neville, at your service. The Queen thought you may be in need of a new gown. Mayhap we would have more privacy in your chamber, for a measurement?"

  "Certainly. This way," Marian said and began leading her up the stairs. "I am in need of a new gown indeed, as I have been invited to the Michaelmas Feast in Nottingham." Upon entering her room, she closed and latched the door, then turned expectantly to Amee.

  The envoy set down her bag, withdrew a sealed letter and handed it to Marian. "Am I to send a reply with you?" she asked as she carried the precious parcel to her dressing table.

  "I shall be traveling on to York from here," Amee replied. "You have another medium for sending notes, have you not?"

  "I do," Marian said. "Now, what cloth have you for me, and what news of the court?"

  Amee smiled and tossed her bag onto Marian's bed. "Plenty of both!"

  *~*~*

  After an hour of conversation and choosing a fabulous deep plum wool with white silk for the lining and trim, Amee bid Marian adieu and returned on her way. Marian opened her letter and read it with enthusiasm.

  After a moment's contemplation, Marian took out pen and parchment to compose a brief reply. She tore the strip of writing and rolled it up into a small furl. Opening a drawer, she withdrew one of the tiny note cases that attach to the pigeon's leg and slipped the message in. Next she visited the aviary on the roof, tied the case securely to a bird, kissed it for luck and launched it into the air. The trained pigeon struck out home and Marian smiled.

  I hope Queen Eleanor agrees; I so want to tell Robyn. Oh, Robyn! Marian's heart warmed and her face glowed simply thinking of the woman that she loved. She closed her eyes, remembering the previous night and knew in her soul that Robyn was safe; she wanted her safe in her arms, in her bed where she belonged… but that would have to wait.

  *~*~*

  Nottingham, two days hence.

  Deputy Blanchard knocked on Sheriff Giffard's office door with marked hesitation. Godfrey had been in a foul mood since the incident at Millhaven and Edward had tried to avoid him.

  "Come," the gruff voice called and Blanchard opened the door.

  "My Lord Sheriff," he began as he escorted a dapper noble into the room. "Sir Giles, Earl of Pipewall, wishes an audience."

  The elegant and indignant Earl made a sweeping motion with his crimson cloak before tossing it over his shoulder and proceeded in attempting to make himself look taller by raising his chin and eying the Sheriff over the crook of his lengthy nose. "Nottingham, something must be done about these bandits of yours!" he exclaimed in a prudish tenor.

  Nottingham sighed with a shake of his head, deliberately rose to his feet and stepped around his desk so he could tower over the whining noble before he spoke in a manner which strained to remain civil. "Do tell."

  Under the terrible gaze of the robust Sheriff, Sir Giles' airs diminished. "My escort and I were assailed by this young fellow in a hooded green cloak and his confederates on our way back to York. They roughed up my knights, scared my driver out of his wits and threatened us with bodily harm if we did not hand over all our coins and valuables. Now I have to return home for more silver before I can complete my business transaction and who's to say I won't be accosted and robbed again?"

  The Sheriff narrowed his eyes and stroked his beard pensively. "Precisely where and when did this attack take place?"

  "Shortly after noon, only a few hours ago, on the east road through Sherwood Forest."

  "Mayhap if we move quickly enough, they can be tracked," Nottingham voiced and looked to Edward as if in silent command to gather a troop.

  The deputy nodded, turning to exit the chamber, but simultaneously an irate merchant stormed in. "Sheriff, I have been robbed!" His colorful silks were sweaty and soiled, and his puffy cheeks were beet red.

  Giffard's eyes grew wide and his mouth fell agape. "Where? When? Speak, man!"

  Edward waited to hear this report before leaving to gather guards.

  "On the west road from Mansfield, through Sherwood Forest," the merchant explained in a vexed voice. "Perhaps 'twas a little after noon; the sun was high overhead. I think it may have been the outlaw I saw on your wanted sign. He was youthful and slender, wearing that same hood. He had a bow and a gang of ruffians with him. They stole all my goods–all of them! What will I do with nothing to sell?"

  "What say you? Around noon on the west road? Are you sure 'twas not the east road?"

  The angry merchant scowled in annoyance. "I think I should know which road I traveled, Sheriff. Do you take me for a simpleton?"

  "No, not at all," Nottingham replied as he paced, his ebony brows knitted together drawing furrows between them. "But even Hood cannot be in two places at the same time. What is he up to?"

  Just as Giff
ard raised a hand and looked at Blanchard to issue new orders, a tax collector, small in stature and dressed in a drab tunic and dark leggings, scurried in, his big round eyes looking up frantically at the Sheriff. "My lord, I have been robbed! The tax money," he moaned. "Whatever shall I do? Prince John-"

  Giffard breeched the distance between them in two long strides to interrupt. "What? You, too? Where, when?"

  Edward could sense the Sheriff's temper rising as Giffard pulled at his own hair.

  "I was traveling the central road, past Rutherford Abby, with four armed guards, about noon today," he explained, wringing his hands with worry. "It was a trap, a planned trap, I tell you! Before I knew it, my guards were roped and tied to trees. There must have been six, no eight or more, and the leader was a young slender fellow in a hood. They took the portion of tax money I had collected and was bringing here, to you, my Lord Sheriff. It's not my fault!" Edward watched as distress changed to dread on the tax collector's expression.

  Giffard snapped around and paced to the nearest wall which he slammed with the palm of his hand. "Bloody hell!" he shouted as he turned toward the trio of victims. "The sardin' brigand can't be in three places at once!" He wiped a hand down his face which was damp with perspiration. "He has played a trick on us, the bastard, using doubles so we don't know which one was the real Robin Hood. This is your fault, Blanchard!" he bellowed, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

  "Mine?" His eyes grew wide as a queasy, panic flooded his stomach, threatening to make him ill on the spot.

  "Yes, yours!" The Sheriff strode toward him with the full authority of his office. Next he spoke in a softer, more dangerous tone. "You had an opportunity to kill him two days ago, after the others and I left and the two of you stood alone, and you didn't take it."

  "But, my lord-"

  "Don't give me that chivalry bollocks about keeping your word; I know all too well that you are a man of honor!" He spit out the words with such disdain it took the group aback. Upon hearing their gasps of disbelief, Giffard reigned in his rant, and sought a more reasonable tone of voice. As he eyed the nobleman, he explained, "In truth, there is a place for chivalry between honorable men of station but, when dealing with criminals, sometimes we must employ their own tactics against them. In a recent encounter with Hood, we were at a bit of a standoff, you see," he continued motioning to the merchant and tax collector in turn. "Blanchard was forced to give his word not to shoot the thief in exchange for my safe release. Well, what say you all? Should he not have in that instance broken his oath to rid us of that pestilence?"