Heart of Sherwood Read online

  Feeling the ire well up in her again, she raised her gaze to spot the righteous rage in her confessor's eyes at the news.

  "He killed them because of me, and Will died because of me, so maybe there was some of that guilt in the mix, but did you know that Deputy Blanchard was actually working with us? Turns out he was Queen Eleanor's spy in Nottingham. He-" She paused thinking back to their meeting in the stable. "He warned me that the lads had been compromised and needed my help. It was he who sent the details about Prince John's plot and the tax money." When Tuck patted her shoulder, she continued. "It was too much, just too much, after everything else. So, I went to Loxley manor, where I knew he would be packing to flee the country. I could have waited and let the Prince's assassins catch up to him, but no. I planned to engage him in a duel and kill him."

  "Still, it was a fight, and he is an excellent swordsman. He could have just as easily killed you instead. Intent or not, 'twas not murder. And Robin, get that self-blame out of your heart right this instant; any horrible crime Giffard committed was his own doing, not yours. You cannot take responsibility for everything that happens in this world."

  She nodded, lowering her head once more. "I know. But I did bear a secret weapon to use against him."

  Tuck declared, "And do you think he didn't keep several knives stowed away in his boot, up his sleeve, on his belt? I have never known the Sheriff to fight fair. But if your conscience is not clear over this, I will prescribe a penance for you to perform so that you can get past it."

  "Not a dozen Hail Mary's and Our Fathers," she spouted back as she straightened and pinned him with commanding scrutiny. "He may have been an evil man who deserved to die, but I took it upon myself to become that instrument. I set out to kill him, knowing beyond any shadow of doubt that I would succeed. It may not be murder in the eyes of the law or the church, but my heart is heavy. Strip it all away, and I killed him because I wanted to, because I somehow thought I had a right to. But in truth, I am no killer, and it weighs on me."

  Tuck nodded. "The Lord knows your heart, Robin, better than you do yourself. What you need is time spent with God to sort things through. While you have been wallowing in your melancholy, your people have had no meat."

  His words struck a chord that tore at her; she had not even considered that!

  "Therefore, here is your penance: proceed into the forest and fast for the rest of the day and night. Pray and seek God's face, that He may give you the answers you seek. Then, with the first light of morning, go on a hunt and bring back a large buck that the camp can eat heartily." Then he raised both hands and proclaimed, "May our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you; and by His authority I absolve you from every bond and interdict, so far as my power allows and your needs require." Making the sign of the cross he concluded, "Thereupon, I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

  "Amen," she repeated. "Thank you." She rose and started for the flap over the opening, then turned back to him. "Do you honestly believe my action was just?"

  Tuck rose and wobbled over to her. "Child, what I believe doesn't really matter, does it? It is what you believe that counts. Do as I have prescribed and you shall receive your absolution."

  *~*~*

  Wearing gloves and with a blanket wrapped around her for extra warmth, Robyn walked through the forest over new-fallen snow searching her heart and asking God for guidance. Every once in a while, a cold gust would chill her to the bone, but she only welcomed it as punishment for her sins. Somewhere in the night, huddled in a small thicket near the stream, she fell asleep with hunger churning in her belly.

  She woke as light began to emerge amid the shadows. Freezing rain fell, the little droplets of ice plopping from twigs to create tiny divots in the carpet of snow. Robyn was so cold that she didn't want to move, but this was the time of the morning best for a hunt, when she knew the deer would go to the brook for a drink. She was discouraged at having experienced no revelations, no profound discoveries, and no lifting of her burden. In fact, as she readied her bow and arrows, she felt an added layer of guilt. I was so focused on myself that I failed to care properly for those under my charge. That is simply unacceptable!

  After rubbing her clothing in musk oil to hide her scent, she checked the wind. The air was completely still, save from the slow, steady drip of ice. Her footsteps were silent in the snow and the dawn was as quiet as she could remember. Her eyes scanned the banks of the stream as she crept slowly toward a crossing point where she often observed deer tracks. There she stopped and pressed herself against a tall ash in a spot with a clear view; she did not need to wait long. Awe and wonder overwhelmed Robyn when she saw the majestic smoky stag stride out of the grove. She counted 16 points crowning his regal head as he scoped out his surroundings before bowing to take a drink. Great in stature, with gray and mist markings, she concluded he was the most beautiful animal she had ever seen.

  She started to raise her weapon, but hesitated. How can I kill this magnificent stag? Is he not God's creation, too? But the camp hungers; they need meat. Surely another deer not so grand as this one will come along. Conflicting emotions began to war within her over what to do. She aimed her bow determinately, but stayed the arrow a moment longer. A voice coming from deep within prodded her thoughts. You show more compassion for this deer than you did for the Sheriff.

  She stiffened her jaw and rebuked that notion. The stag has no guile or evil in it; it has done no wrong, harmed no one, while Giffard killed, stole, lied, and conspired of treason. It does not deserve to die, but he did.

  A strong feeling emerged from deep in her core as another voice whispered to her mind. Was not my son beautiful and had he done any wrong? And yet, it was necessary for him to be sacrificed so that many may live.

  Two words branded her heart in that instant: duty and sacrifice. She thought she had known what they meant. Hadn't she done her duty to manage the manor and oversee the well-being of the serfs while her father and brother were away in the Holy Land? Hadn't she known sacrifice to have lost every member of her family? And yet, in that very moment those words became real to her as if for the very first time.

  Duty and sacrifice. Christ's duty had been to fulfill the will of the Father, and He had been sacrificed to that end. To uphold justice was her duty, and the sacrifice had been her own innocence. Those under her authority, under her care were hungry and depended on her even more now that Will was no longer with them. She was the group's best hunter, and the task was more difficult in winter. But to kill this exquisite creature…

  The imperial stag lifted his head from the brook licking the drops that rolled from his chin. Then he stared right at her. Perhaps it was Robyn's imagination, but she felt such a deep connection to him. She was sure he saw her; yet he did not bolt away. It was as if he knew his place in the circle of life, the purpose for which he had been born, and now that he had lived many years and fathered many fawns, he did not shy from it. Duty and sacrifice.

  With tears streaming down her face, Robyn let loose the shaft and it flew true. In that moment the burden of guilt she carried fell aside like a discarded garment, and she wept.

  *~*~*

  A short while later, Robyn struggled to drag the tremendous deer weighing more than herself up the bank. She had tried to lift it onto her shoulders, but simply did not possess the strength. Now, having fought cold, hunger and a mighty inner battle, she contended against her own physical limitations. She slipped on an icy patch in the snow and hit the ground beside the body of the stag wishing she could return to her childhood, back to a time before she knew anything of death.

  And then she heard a voice–a real voice, booming toward her.

  "Robyn, do you need a hand?" Little John reached down and plucked her up like one would a child, a warm smile on his broad face. It was a most welcome sight! "What a giant you have bagged!" He roared. "And while it would be entertaining to watch you push, pull, and crawl your way back to camp with
it, why don't I just do what I do best?" He winked at her and tossed the deer over his shoulders.

  "Praise all the saints, the Holy Mother and Christ Jesus himself!" she declared. Her friend had lifted her spirits as well as her body. She didn't have to go it alone, and that was another blessing. "Your best is not in the strength of your arm, but in the strength of your heart. Gramercy, my friend."

  Little John smiled as they headed through the crystalline forest. "You are a wonderful hunter, Robyn, so I figured if Tuck said shoot us a buck at dawn, you'd have done so. I also figured, being the wee, slight thing that you are, you'd need help to carry it."

  Her eyes lit as she returned his smile. "I am glad you are so good at figuring!"

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Where the English Channel meets the North Sea, December 25, 1193

  The indomitable seventy-one-year old Queen Eleanor, wrapped in a pristine white woolen cloak and hood, stepped outside the aft cabin of the cog to greet the day. The storm had subsided as suddenly as it had arisen and the sea that churned and roared just moments before was now at peace. Shining fingers of sunlight pierced the clouds to touch wet droplets that clung to the ship's rigging, causing them to sparkle like diamonds.

  The angels have given us lights for Christmas, she thought with an appreciative smile.

  Eleanor had departed England with an impressive retinue and large escort after appointing Archbishop Hubert Walter Chief Justiciar as per Richard's instructions, making him the indisputable ruler of the country in her absence or until the King should return. They joined with ships from the ports of Dunwich, Ipswich and Orford which carried the assembled noble hostages, and now the substantial flotilla sailed for the heart of the Holy Roman Empire, to a city where her heart waited to be released. Having made all the preparations, they had set forth only days ago as soon as word returned from Henry agreeing to release her son on January seventh, once he had inspected and approved the ransom.

  Naturally, she insisted upon riding on board the ship carrying the 100,000 marks of silver in its hold. It was a sturdy vessel, she had determined: a flat bottomed cog with its oak construction of lapstrake planking and single mast high against the sky. She watched as deckhands unfurled the big square sail adorned in four segments of red and yellow stripes, rampant lions, and crusader crosses. She had been impressed by the innovative rear-mounted rudder and its superior ability to steer the vessel. The larger castle-like tower built into the stern (which usually served as the captain's quarters) and the smaller one in the bow added secure spaces topside while the crew berths and cargo below were accessible through a deck hatch.

  Upon seeing her, the captain rushed over with concern etched on his leathery, bearded face. "Have a care, Your Highness," he warned as he extended an arm for her to take. "The wood is slippery still."

  She raised her chin and breathed deep of the clean, salty air. "Gramercy, Captain," she replied with a pleasant nod acknowledging his gallantry. Two young maids-in-waiting spilled out of the cabin to assume their flanking positions on either side of the Queen. "But I think we have it covered. How much farther to Cologne?"

  "We should reach the Rhine in a few days and proceed up river," he explained with a humble bow. "Perhaps a week more, depending on the weather."

  "Bishop Adolf von Berg will be joining us there," she mentioned. "Please arrange suitable quarters for His Grace."

  "Yes, Your Highness." After another bow, the captain went back about his business, calling to a crewman, "See that the rigging is tight there, lad!"

  Escorted by her attendants who fussed over her far too much, the Queen set out for a much needed walk to get her blood pumping. She had always promoted the notion of morning exercise. Beyond that, her mind raced. Why did that damned Frederick Barbarossa have to go and get himself killed in the first place? she pondered. This is really all his fault!

  As she gazed out over the expanse of sea, Eleanor thought about the powerful German warrior king who'd set out together with Richard and Phillip II of France, answering the Pope's call for a third crusade to recapture the Holy Land from the Saracens led by Saladin. Apart from failing to secure Jerusalem itself, the venture had been generally successful, liberating large portions of the region and reducing Saladin's power. Perhaps if Frederick had not been so impetuous and actually lived to reach Jerusalem, the outcome would have been different… and Richard would never have ended up in his current predicament.

  She had heard various versions of the story, each with a different slant, as to how and why he drowned crossing the Saleph River when there was a perfectly good bridge. Frederick's massive army, under his bold and cunning leadership, had just won a major victory over the Turks in the Battle of Iconium and pushed into Armenia.

  Saladin must have been worried with three kings' armies converging on him from diverse directions, but alas. Some said he was too impatient to wait while the army crossed the bridge and forged ahead on horseback through the deep. Others said he was so hot and tired from battle and the journey that he simply wanted to cool off in the water while a few claimed he failed to forge the waterway successfully because he suffered a heart attack.

  Eleanor shook her head and lowered her gaze. In truth it didn't matter. Only a fool plunges into a river wearing a hundred pounds of armor! For that caused him to drown. Mayhap he was swept from his steed by the rushing current or fell when his heart seized; but regardless, if he had either waited to traverse the bridge or had the sense God gave a goose and removed his armor before attempting the river cross, then his throne would not have been handed to a mere child.

  Henry had been twenty and five when the mighty Barbarossa died, and only twenty-six when he was crowned Emperor of the Romans–a title Eleanor found ridiculous considering no actual Romans lived there. The youngster had grand ambitions and required money to fund his incursions aimed at expanding the empire Frederick had built. Maybe he was also a little jealous and incensed that Phillip and Richard came out of war safely while his father had not. And she shouldn't be too angry with him since it was actually his vassal Duke Leopold who had captured her boy in the first place.

  At least Henry did treat him well, even though the monetary demand had been unfathomable! Yet, with the help of her capable ministers, loyal subjects, and a certain enigmatic outlaw, the sum had been raised, and they were on course to bring her favored son home.

  *~*~*

  Mainz, in the Holy Roman Empire, Feb 2, 1194

  Eleanor and her entourage were given the most luxurious accommodations within the walled city on the Rhine. All the money and hostages had been counted and approved. Eleanor's excitement and anticipation at finally being reunited with her son after a three and a half year separation was greater than any she could recall. She took Archbishop Walter de Coutances of Rouen's arm as they were escorted into the Romanesque hall. Thick, stone walls rose to a high ceiling and their footsteps echoed throughout the chamber. Across the room, she spied Justiciar William Longchamp, attired in white silk ecclesiastical robes embroidered in gold. He was as impeccably groomed as ever, but the color had faded from his wavy locks, leaving them gray. Where he had once been robust, his physique now waned, but his bright eyes were as lively as in his youth. Upon noting her entrance, he immediately snapped to attention.

  "Your Highness," William greeted, crossing one foot in front of the other and granting her a deep bow. His voice was jovial and light. He traversed the floor to meet her and Walter in the midst of the large room with its hodge-podge of furnishings, rugs, and tapestries. "And Archbishop, so very glad we will at last see our Richard a free man!" He bowed over Eleanor's hand, brushing his lips to it, before turning to Walter and repeating the gesture. "I am glad to see you and Walter both looking so fit."

  "What of Richard?" Eleanor asked anxiously. "Have you seen him? Is he well?"

  The old bishop smiled broadly and with a wave of his hand replied with a wink, "As sturdy a killbuck as ever!"

  Before Eleanor had a chance to gr
ill him further, a large door opened at the far end of the hall. A silk-clad, royal herald with a brunet page-boy cut strode through and announced the arrival of his highness Henry IV, Emperor of the Romans. He was followed by the lean young king of modest stature and curly acorn hair upon which sat a gold crown, a red mantle draped over his blue tunic. His brown eyes brightened the moment they rested on Eleanor.

  She fell into a deep curtsey as her two aides bowed low in respect.

  Henry walked to her and took her hand as she straightened. He inclined his head to her and smiled. "Queen Eleanor, I am so glad to meet you at last. I have heard kings and courtiers speak of you all my life; the most remarkable woman in all the world, they would say. But now, in your presence, I perceive that their accolades fell short."

  "I am honored, my Lord Emperor," she replied with a bow of her head.

  "But I fear it is not me you came to see this day," he added with humor in his tone. "Where is that most articulate knight?" Henry turned and motioned to a guard at the door from which he had entered and he opened it again.

  Eleanor's heart leapt into her throat and she forgot to breathe as time froze. And then there he stood, the joy of her life! Tall and muscular, with broad shoulders, narrow hips, and powerful limbs, he was a man in his prime. His hair was a wavy rust-brown matching a manly beard and mustache, which covered a strong chin and brushed ruddy cheeks. Delight lit his hazel eyes as they met hers. Unable to contain her emotions any longer, Eleanor tossed dignity to the wind and ran to throw her arms around him. Tears of elation streaked her face as she was enveloped in his comforting embrace.

  "Dear Mother," Richard hummed. "If you are here, then England has lost her beauty."

  Eleanor laughed through her emotion and released him long enough to use her handkerchief, but had yet been able to speak.

  "Come, now." He took her arm and motioned to the noble company. "Let us be done with this business so that we may return home, for spring dare not awaken without you to greet it."