Robin Hood: Fortune's Wheel - Chapter Twelve
Title: Fortune's Wheel - Chapter Twelve
Spoilers: through 2x11
Word Count: 5293
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
A/N: Many, many thanks to bookishy, who stepped in to beta this chapter and did an absolutely fantastic job!
March, 1193
“No, no,” Olaf said, shaking his head. As the Earl of Orkney's brother and thus the highest-ranked among the Norsemen, he had been appointed their negotiator. Finally he gave up trying to express himself in rudimentary French and switched to rapid, frustrated Norse.
The translator looked nervously from Olaf to Vaysey before speaking. “That was not what you said earlier. Please go over the revised terms of your proposal again.”
The smile plastered on Vaysey's face faltered a little. Normally Guy would have smirked at seeing Vaysey's patience tried-when it wasn't because of him-or been equally irritated, but he found that he couldn't quite bring himself to care.
As Vaysey began, very slowly and clearly, to reiterate the latest terms that they had agreed on, Guy let the sound of his voice fade to little more than a murmur at the back of his consciousness. He leaned his head back, studying the smoke that swirled slowly in a shaft of light thrown by one of the lancet windows high above. He wasn't usually one for seeing beauty in the mundane, or taking notice of things that had no effect on him, but he was fucking bored.
He understood that negotiations were delicate, whether manipulating a peasant into doing what you wanted without a fuss, or getting a noble to believe you've been on his side all along, even if it were just so you could get close enough to slide a dagger between his ribs. Things took time, and they couldn't be rushed. This, however, was taking forever.
Besides the problem of translation, which slowed everything considerably, Vaysey was negotiating on behalf of Prince John, who was notoriously fickle, and several days' ride away-which, admittedly, was better than when he'd been across the Channel. And this was in concert with the six other Black Knights who were still in Nottingham, each of whom had their own interests, concerns, alliances, and prejudices. It seemed as if the Norse contingent was just as tenuously allied, from the way they argued and threw glares and stood in groupings that changed from day to day.
Guy had been ready a week ago to finish the negotiations and get to the fighting, but they seemed no closer to reaching an agreement now than they had then. Rather than listen to the measured back-and-forth of offers between Vaysey, one of the translators, and Olaf-all of which would likely be completely irrelevant by the following day-Guy let his mind wander to matters that affected him more directly.
The business with the armourers was going well; most had actually come through, and shipments of chainmail and weapons and padding were starting to arrive. They'd had to hamstring a couple as examples, but that was because one decided he didn't want the job after all and the other had threatened to talk to his local (Richard-friendly) lord if he didn't get paid a third more than what they'd agreed on. Still, there was no sense in losing perfectly good craftsmen, so they'd made sure the men could still do their trade-and would carry out the bargain, lest they really did want to lose something important.
And now the armoury was quietly filling up with items ready for the Black Knights to take away with them as they trickled back to their castles to wait. Vaysey had complimented him on the success and efficiency of his work, but the pride it made him feel was hollow. Once he had craved those moments when Vaysey looked on him with favor, few and hard-won as they were. Now, though, Guy found that instead of desiring praise, he just wished to be left alone to do his job. Vaysey was getting under his skin more and more lately, though Guy thought he'd quashed feelings of discontent-or worse-weeks ago. But he found himself increasingly fixated on the fact that Vaysey had very neatly caught him in a position where he wasn't just Guy's path to power. This late in the game, Vaysey was his only path to power. Guy had to believe very hard in the glories of future success to justify anyone holding that much sway over him.
But there were pleasanter things to think on. The Norsemen were friendly enough; they were good to drink with, and actually more understandable after a few pints. They'd also brought some handsome hounds with them and he was thinking of making an offer for one provided that she was a good breeder; her rarity would be as attractive as her abilities.
And then there was Marian. Guy saw little of her except at meals now; this time she seemed to be actively engaging with some of the women in the castle and he was usually busy with political matters or entertaining guests. He had been wanting to take her out again to show her the progress at Knighton, but there simply hadn't been the time when both of them were free. Nor would she likely appreciate him dragging her out in the cold, wet weather they'd been having of late. Enough of the peasants were sick abed that spring planting was going slowly; he would wait until it warmed.
In truth, not being around her so much was a bit of a relief. He hadn't realized how wearying it had been to agonize over her every word and gesture. It wasn't that he'd had a change of heart towards Marian-far from it-it was that after having space to himself he felt better equipped to deal with her cryptic looks and oblique answers. He could keep his temper and, in turn, she would slowly warm to him. And so he did not push things; it was enough, most days, that she walked silently beside him, or that her smile did not flag when she caught his eye while laughing with Spenser's sister across the hall.
His worries were now more directed towards the plan of the Black Knights-if negotiations ever ended-which left space for hope, now rekindled, to burn, small but steady.
*
Robin and Much leaned nonchalantly against buildings that formed either side of a narrow passage. They'd been to speak with a contact in Nottingham, who either had frustratingly little to say, or was suddenly much more reticent about speaking. Yet there was still a chance they would learn something useful today; they were doing rounds in town and so were waiting for the other outlaws to arrive with the food and medicine to distribute.
Much nodded ever so slightly, not looking at Robin. Both of them headed down the passage, into deeper shadows and, to Robin's chagrin, mud. Soon they were joined by John, Will, and Djaq, who began to divide up the sacks they had brought.
“Is that all there is?” Robin asked, peering inside the one Djaq had handed him. It was disturbingly light.
“If we're rationing the stores to get through Lent,” Will said grimly, handing one of his sacks to
Much. It was clear that Will's thoughts ran to the loss of the food stores in the autumn.
“The sooner spring comes, the better,” John said.
After that, the outlaws split up, stopping at homes throughout Nottingham to drop off rations that had become increasingly meagre in the past few weeks. Though the outlaws had never had fine fare, even they, who had direct access to the winter food cache, were beginning to feel it. Robin had gotten to the point that he wanted to chuck every wizened turnip he saw in Much's hand across the camp.
Robin spent a few moments with each of the families on his list, asking about their hunger, their health, and if they'd heard anything strange around town. Most were too busy looking after themselves, though a few had noticed that a surprising number of covered carts were going to the castle every week. After the last of his food had been delivered, Robin made his way back to the market to meet up with the other outlaws.
He was the first to arrive, and took a seat on a barrel in the shadow of one of the stalls. After a few moments he saw Much, and then Will, hurrying towards him with their hoods drawn low. They stopped in their tracks at the sound of hooves coming from the direction of the castle. Soon Vaysey and Gisborne appeared in the center of the market along with an armed escort. Robin caught Much's eye as he ducked behind a line of freshly-dyed fabric, hung to dry. This should be interesting.
The crowd cleared a wide circle around the horseman. One of the guards played a short blast on a horn while Vaysey pulled out a piece of folded parchment.
“People of Nottingham,” he read, in a tone that was too pleased for Robin's liking. “I bring to you the sad news that Robin Hood is no longer simply an enemy of the law, but an enemy of the king. Last week, he stole the silver that was going to go to ransom King Richard.”
Robin blinked. What on earth was this new scheme of Vaysey's? He glanced at Much, who, from the alarming shade of purple his face had turned, was equally astonished.
“Yes,” Vaysey continued, after the crowd had had several moments to murmur, “every last penny. And so I have the misfortune to announce to you that, if Robin Hood is not caught, the tax collectors will be forced to return to Nottinghamshire to collect our share of the ransom. Oh, and Robin Hood has a bounty of twenty pounds on his head, dead or alive.”
Robin snorted. “Do not underestimate twenty pounds,” Djaq said quietly in his ear. He hadn't seen her approach. “It does not seem like a lot to you, but it's more than many of these people will see in years of hard work.”
Robin turned to look at her. “What is this all about? 'We stole the ransom money.' What's his game?”
“Maybe someone else stole the money and blamed us,” Djaq said.
“Maybe Vaysey took the money and is blaming us,” Will said, joining their huddle.
Robin looked at him in horror. “It's possible. The Black Knights are up to something big, and they'll need a lot of money . . .”
“Robin, we should go,” Will said quietly, urgently. Though Vaysey had left, the crowd hadn't yet returned to its normal state. People who knew them looked in their direction, then quickly looked away. It was oddly quiet. Surely they didn't believe . . . ? Whether they did or didn't, Robin realized, everything was different when you had an empty belly. And when there was money to be had.
*
When Hugh, the kitchen steward, lifted his eyes from the scrawled list, they focused on a point past Marian. She followed his gaze, turning to find Blanche standing in the doorway of the kitchen, waiting.
Marian turned back to Hugh. “Is there anything else?”
“No, my lady. Herring for supper, and eel pie at dinner. Again.”
Marian sighed. “It's not too long until Easter, Hugh.”
“It will never be so welcome.”
Marian joined Blanche in the hall. “Alys said she has something special for this evening,” Blanche said, starting down the corridor.
“Oh does she?” Marian asked, falling into step with her.
As the negotiations had worn on, polite conversation and needlework with the older women had grown exceedingly boring. Alys, Blanche, and Marian, who had neither children nor husbands, had begun slipping away of an evening to Marian's room, where they would discuss things that were not children and do anything but embroider.
“I actually don't mind embroidery,” Alys had said once. “I like having nice things that I've made myself.” But Marian and Blanche had rolled their eyes and banned it in their presence. Still, they couldn't quite condone idleness during Lent, so Marian made much headway in converting old linens into underclothes for the poor, as she did not feel she had to hide her work in front of Blanche and Alys. They might think her odd, but she no longer feared they would make it the subject of gossip.
Though they had become quite friendly, Marian still held her tongue about a number of things. While Alys seemed ambivalent about the political situation and Blanche scarcely seemed to care, she was wary of what they might let slip with a careless remark. Yet the need to be guarded wasn't something new for Marian, and she found the castle much less dreary since their return, despite the cold, wet weather and the interminable plates of salted herring.
They found Alys in Marian's room, with a very satisfied smile on her face.
“So what is it?” Blanche asked, as soon as the door shut behind them.
“Brandywine,” Alys said, gesturing to a small decanter on the chest that had been converted to a table. “My brother brought several casks for Lord Vaysey. I didn't think he'd miss this much.”
The women gathered round the table; Alys filled three pewter cups and handed them out. Marian sniffed hers experimentally. It was deep gold, darker than mead, and smelled neither like that nor wine.
“Careful,” Alys said. “It's strong.”
Marian sipped. It tingled her tongue, and was very sweet. She swallowed, and a moment later a burst of warmth trailed down her throat into her chest.
“Oh, I love it!” cried Blanche.
“It is good,” Marian added. She took another sip, and this time the flavor was fuller, richer. She held it too long in her mouth though, and the tingle grew into a burn. It was strange, but its novelty was welcome.
“Good,” Alys said, and then opened a small box that sat beside the cask. Marian snorted when she saw the dice inside. “Drinking and gambling? In the middle of Lent?”
“That is exactly why we need it,” Blanche said.
“And you,” Alys said, gesturing to Blanche, “need a bit of fun before you go off to be a proper married woman.”
The room grew silent. Marian looked down at her cup. Blanche looked away. Then she took up her cup, tossed it back, and promptly succumbed to a fit of coughing.
Alys snickered, and the cheerful atmosphere soon returned. They proceeded to sip brandy and gossip about the relative charms of the Norsemen while they played dice for candied almonds.
Some time later, when the cups had been emptied and refilled, Blanche addressed Alys abruptly. “Did you love your husband?”
Alys paused, the dice in her hand. “No, I don't think so. Not in the way troubadours describe love. But he was a good man. He treated me well. The pension he left me was very generous, even if it's not enough for my brother.” Alys cast down the dice. It was taking longer for them to count the dots now, but it got done, and the proper number of almonds exchanged hands with some giggling.
“Do you wish you'd had a husband you'd loved?” Blanche prodded.
Alys shrugged. “Sometimes I wished for a handsomer husband, but I was never unhappy. So I never thought about it.”
“Was he good . . . you know . . .”
Alys coloured fiercely. “Oh good lord! Why don't you plague Marian with questions for awhile? And roll the dice. It's your turn.” She hastily took a drink.
“I was just wondering, since your husband was a good deal older, like mine will be.” Blanche rolled the dice, collected her almonds and promptly ate half. Marian hoped that she had gotten distracted by all the counting, but she had no such luck.
“You are very lucky, Marian,” Blanche said around a mouthful of almonds, “that you are unattached, and have no cousin or brother or father who is trying to make a match for you with any man in sight who's got a bit of land. Though I heard that you have your own land. I wouldn't want to try and manage that on my own.”
Marian reached for the dice since Blanche had forgotten to pass them, trying to think of ways to change the course of the conversation. But it was hard to concentrate. For awhile she had felt floaty and relaxed, but now the clouds in her mind were beginning to get in the way.
“Why did you break off your engagement with Sir Guy anyway?”
Marian threw the dice a bit harder than she intended and one bounced off of their tiny makeshift table. Alys reached down to get it, and when she came up again her eyes were shining with interest. “He did not keep to the terms of our betrothal,” Marian said primly, rolling the die again. “I could not stand to have a husband who lied to me.”
“So you broke it off!” Blanche said, wide-eyed. “Even if he had lied I think I'd have been tempted to go through with it. Shoulders like that, and the way he walks. I bet he could have made it up to you.” Her expression left no question as to what she implied.
At that, even Alys laughed.
Blanche leaned forward, rocking the table perilously. “So while you were betrothed, did you ever-”
“No!” Marian cried sharply. She rose from the table and walked swiftly across the room to the windowed alcove. They must think her a poor sport, but she couldn't pretend all of the time. There was a moment of silence and then she heard her door open. She felt bad for driving them out, but this was a conversation she was not ready to have.
But she was mistaken; a moment later Alys joined her. “I am sorry we upset you. I hope you know that Blanche meant no harm by it.”
“I know,” Marian said softly, blinking back tears that had welled up. She wasn't sure where her sudden wish to weep had come from.
Alys leaned back against the window ledge. “It must be difficult for you . . . to navigate between your feelings and your principles. You hold to them more strongly than almost everyone I know.”
“What do you mean?” Marian asked, sniffing.
“It is clear that you still care for him. And to deny yourself that because of your principles-”
“Care for him?” Marian asked, incredulous. “How could I care for someone who can plan treason as if he were planning his expenses for the year? Someone who can terrorize peasants or murder enemies in cold blood? Someone who can work for Vaysey and not see anything wrong with him?”
Alys looked down at her hands. “Sometimes it is difficult to understand why our hearts incline the way they do.”
Marian shook her head. “There are things you do not know, Alys. Terrible things.”
“Is he really so bad as all that?”
Marian sighed. “Sometimes-sometimes I think-no, I know-that he would be a very different person in different circumstances. Away from Vaysey. Maybe a good man, even; certainly a better one. He has sometimes been a friend to me, but-” she broke off, shaking her head. “Please, let us leave this topic. Now that I have ruined the evening.”
“It is of no matter. Come, I have a question about my red dress I wished to ask you. I'm weary of the blue trim; perhaps you could help me decide what to change it to?”
*
They were awakened early the next morning by a knock at the door. Sarah rose to answer it, and when Marian sat up to see who it was, there was such a pounding in her head that she momentarily forgot why she had awakened. That the brandywine was “strong” had been an understatement.
Sarah turned from whoever was in the doorway to peer into the darkened room. “No, I don't think she's here,” she said quietly. There was an answering murmur, and then Sarah called out softly for Blanche's maid, who sat up, rubbing her eyes. She joined Sarah at the door, but by that point Marian, Alys, and Alys's maid were all completely awake.
“She rose early and hasn't come back yet,” the maid said. There was another murmur, and the door closed.
“My lady didn't return last night,” the maid aloud said in a strained voice. “Her cousin wants to leave this morning. Please help me. They will be looking for her now.”
Marian, confused, looked at Alys, whose face was grave in the weak light of her rushlamp.
“Hurry, we must find her before Hereford does,” she said, shoving her arms through the sleeves of the dress her maid had brought.
When Marian continued to look at her blankly, Alys elaborated. “She's been carrying on with Sir Guy's man. I'm afraid that's where she is now.”
“Allan A Dale?” Marian asked, incredulously. She had known they were friendly-a little more than friendly-at Christmas, but she didn't think that they had been attached enough to risk anything with Blanche now engaged.
“I think that's his name. Come, we must go look for her!”
Marian grabbed the gown she had been wearing the day before, which was still tossed over a chair, then shoved her feet into shoes without bothering to take the time to put on stockings. She almost wished she had; the cold air in the corridor hit her ankles and immediately sent shivers up her body.
The five women split up and, as Marian was most acquainted with the castle and had the best reason to be poking around in strange places, she found herself searching the courtyard, the gardens, the outbuildings and other places that didn't make up the keep. She didn't realize until she'd been searching fruitlessly for some time that they had no way to contact each other. Her nervousness grew as the sky lightened and servants began to appear on early-morning errands.
Finally, finally she found Blanche and Allan tucked away in the last stall in the stable. Though they were mostly dressed, the straw was strewn with gloves and stockings and shoes, and there was no doubt what they had been up to.
“Blanche!” Marian whispered over the stall door. “Blanche!”
Allan stirred, but did not wake, and Marian groaned when she saw a pitcher that had been knocked over in the straw. She unhooked the door and knelt over Blanche, shaking her until she woke. Blanche's eyes focused on her and she gave a little shriek.
“Hush!” Marian whispered. “They are looking for you! You have to come now!”
Blanche stared at her a moment, blankly, and then terror suddenly appeared in her eyes. “Oh god, oh god,” she muttered as she searched through the straw for her clothing.
“I can't believe you could be this careless,” Marian said sharply to Allan, who had finally sat up.
“Nnnngg,” he replied, pressing a palm to his forehead.
“Really, what were you thinking?” Marian beckoned Blanche to her, and attempted to do the laces up the back of her dress while Blanche tied the tops of her stockings.
“I've never fallen asleep like that,” Blanche said nervously.
“I'm guessing it was the brandywine. My head's been pounding since I woke. See if you can do anything about your hair,” Marian said, setting Blanche's cloak about her shoulders.
“You had brandy? How'd you get brandy?” Allan said, looking up from the boot he was trying to pull on.
Marian rolled her eyes. “Blanche, come on!”
She stepped around the door of the stall and Blanche made to follow her, but then stopped. She ran back to Allan, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him down for a long kiss. Marian looked away, embarrassed.
“Thanks,” Blanche said finally.
“Any time. You remember that,” Allan said.
Blanche turned back to Marian and grinned, then hurried out of the barn behind her.
“Thank you so much,” Blanche said, when she had caught up with her. “And . . . I'm sorry about last night.”
Marian shook her head. “Don't apologize. It's complicated; you couldn't know. But weren't you worried about what your cousin would do? Or Sir Walter?”
The corners of Blanche's mouth turned up. “Of Sir Walter, I made sure to tell him that riding is a great pastime of mine.” She gave Marian a pointed look. Marian, despite herself, snorted.
Then Blanche sighed. “But you are right. I would not want Henry to find out. He has been very good to me since my father died, I would not want to shame him.”
After a moment, Marian asked, “So you are really going to marry Sir Walter? I thought you did not like him.”
Blanche tugged a hand through her long, blonde hair. “It's a better match than I had hoped for, actually. I have little to offer; it's only with my cousin's help that I could marry so well. And it could be worse. Sir Walter could be fat and bald. Or a miser.”
Marian bit her lip, unsure of whether to proceed. Her conscience would not let her stay quiet, yet she knew how weighty the words of others could be when one has made a difficult decision. “Blanche,” she began slowly, “Sir Walter is a cruel man. He has pretty manners, but I fear that does not extend below the surface.”
“If you are talking of him laying hands on me, I do not fear mistreatment. This match is as advantageous for him as it is for me; Henry would not stand for it. And if you are not . . . well, there are ways a wife may influence her husband.”
She looked so fierce, so determined and impossibly young. Though she was several years younger than Marian, she often displayed the worldly sophistication of a woman many years older. Now, though, uncertainty revealed her as the young girl that she was. Her determination echoed painfully in Marian's breast; she had been there, once. Blanche, at least, seemed to be on a more equal footing with her betrothed; though her parents were dead, the Earl of Hereford was a powerful ally to have.
“I am sure you will master them all,” she said, with a forced smile. Blanche returned the smile, and after that seemed to be more relaxed.
Marian took Blanche up to her room by the least-used ways. When they had arrived without incident, and no one had shown up to upbraid them, Blanche's mood changed markedly. She informed the Earl of Hereford imperiously that she needed more time to pack.
Finally she was washed and dressed and her things had been carried down to the courtyard and there was nothing left to do but say goodbye.
“Thank you again,” Blanche said, when she turned to Marian. Abruptly, she pulled her into a hug. “Shall I give your greetings to the Countess of Mortain?”
“Isabella? Shall you see her?”
Blanche nodded. “The Countess is a frequent guest of ours at Hereford. We've invited her to the wedding.”
Marian smiled. “Please do give my greetings to her. And . . . I wish you happiness in your marriage.”
Blanche returned her smile. “Thank you.” She turned to leave, but paused at the door. “After the wedding we'll be travelling north to Sir Walter's estates. Perhaps I shall see you again before long!”
*
Robin heard Much a good long while before he saw him. Much had gotten much better at moving quietly through the forest, but he all too often forgot to concentrate on what he was doing-especially when he was alone-and ended up thrashing through the underbrush as loudly as a bear.
“There you are!” Much cried when he had gotten much closer. “I've been wondering where you keep disappearing to. You-oh. What's he doing there?”
Much had caught sight of what Robin had been watching-sort of, he'd been thinking, too-for a good part of the afternoon. It was the strange new activity at Knighton, today overseen by Guy of Gisborne.
“I don't know,” Robin said. “He's got no right to that land, even if Marian is held at the castle. Only the king can dispose of it, and Vaysey-or Prince John-is certainly not king.”
Much took a seat beside Robin on the fallen log, just inside the shadow of the forest. They watched in silence for a few moments.
“Is this why you've been so snappish lately? I mean, more snappish than you've been. Because you have been you know, since, well-”
“Much!” Robin hissed.
Much looked sheepish, but it didn't prevent him from adding, “Well, you have. And everyone's worried about you. I'm worried about you.”
Robin sighed, dropping his head. He stared at his hands. It had been a long time since it had been just the two of them together, not distributing food or hunting or spying, just sitting. Though he didn't think he could talk about half of what was on his mind right now, Much being there was . . . nice.
“You know,” he said, glancing over at Much, “when we started this outlaw thing, I thought it would be a few weeks, maybe through the summer. We would appeal to the Council, they'd give me back my title, and it would be all over.” Robin paused, picking at the outer bark on the tree trunk. It came away under his fingers, damp and crumbly and smelling of earth. “I never thought it would be a handful of us trying to defend the country from Prince John.”
“But there are others, besides us. There's the Council, and Queen Eleanor is on our side now that she's back in the country. And Prince John has loads of enemies. I don't even know who likes him, really. Besides the Sheriff. And the Black Knights.”
“Except the Black Knights are turning out to be half of England.” Robin threw the bits of bark away. They fell silently on the wet ground.
After a moment, he turned to Much. “And there's more, that I heard from Marian. That I haven't told any of you yet.”
“More? What more can there be?”
“The Black Knights have allies outside the country. The Norwegians are only part of it.”
Much's eyes grew round. “What does that mean?”
Robin looked down at his hands. “I don't know. Maybe they'll try to attack Richard in Austria. Maybe they'll attack England.”
“Well, what do we do?”
It was the response he'd expected, but that didn't make it any less easy to hear. He was the leader, so they looked to him for answers, even if he didn't have the experience or the political acumen to begin to know how to deal with this situation. Marian might have ideas, but he wanted to keep her out of this as much as possible. The beginning of a plan-or at least a course of action-was forming in his mind, but he hesitated to speak of it because he didn't know-or rather, he knew too well-how the gang would react.
“I don't know,” he lied.
Chapter Thirteen
Spoilers: through 2x11
Word Count: 5293
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
A/N: Many, many thanks to bookishy, who stepped in to beta this chapter and did an absolutely fantastic job!
March, 1193
“No, no,” Olaf said, shaking his head. As the Earl of Orkney's brother and thus the highest-ranked among the Norsemen, he had been appointed their negotiator. Finally he gave up trying to express himself in rudimentary French and switched to rapid, frustrated Norse.
The translator looked nervously from Olaf to Vaysey before speaking. “That was not what you said earlier. Please go over the revised terms of your proposal again.”
The smile plastered on Vaysey's face faltered a little. Normally Guy would have smirked at seeing Vaysey's patience tried-when it wasn't because of him-or been equally irritated, but he found that he couldn't quite bring himself to care.
As Vaysey began, very slowly and clearly, to reiterate the latest terms that they had agreed on, Guy let the sound of his voice fade to little more than a murmur at the back of his consciousness. He leaned his head back, studying the smoke that swirled slowly in a shaft of light thrown by one of the lancet windows high above. He wasn't usually one for seeing beauty in the mundane, or taking notice of things that had no effect on him, but he was fucking bored.
He understood that negotiations were delicate, whether manipulating a peasant into doing what you wanted without a fuss, or getting a noble to believe you've been on his side all along, even if it were just so you could get close enough to slide a dagger between his ribs. Things took time, and they couldn't be rushed. This, however, was taking forever.
Besides the problem of translation, which slowed everything considerably, Vaysey was negotiating on behalf of Prince John, who was notoriously fickle, and several days' ride away-which, admittedly, was better than when he'd been across the Channel. And this was in concert with the six other Black Knights who were still in Nottingham, each of whom had their own interests, concerns, alliances, and prejudices. It seemed as if the Norse contingent was just as tenuously allied, from the way they argued and threw glares and stood in groupings that changed from day to day.
Guy had been ready a week ago to finish the negotiations and get to the fighting, but they seemed no closer to reaching an agreement now than they had then. Rather than listen to the measured back-and-forth of offers between Vaysey, one of the translators, and Olaf-all of which would likely be completely irrelevant by the following day-Guy let his mind wander to matters that affected him more directly.
The business with the armourers was going well; most had actually come through, and shipments of chainmail and weapons and padding were starting to arrive. They'd had to hamstring a couple as examples, but that was because one decided he didn't want the job after all and the other had threatened to talk to his local (Richard-friendly) lord if he didn't get paid a third more than what they'd agreed on. Still, there was no sense in losing perfectly good craftsmen, so they'd made sure the men could still do their trade-and would carry out the bargain, lest they really did want to lose something important.
And now the armoury was quietly filling up with items ready for the Black Knights to take away with them as they trickled back to their castles to wait. Vaysey had complimented him on the success and efficiency of his work, but the pride it made him feel was hollow. Once he had craved those moments when Vaysey looked on him with favor, few and hard-won as they were. Now, though, Guy found that instead of desiring praise, he just wished to be left alone to do his job. Vaysey was getting under his skin more and more lately, though Guy thought he'd quashed feelings of discontent-or worse-weeks ago. But he found himself increasingly fixated on the fact that Vaysey had very neatly caught him in a position where he wasn't just Guy's path to power. This late in the game, Vaysey was his only path to power. Guy had to believe very hard in the glories of future success to justify anyone holding that much sway over him.
But there were pleasanter things to think on. The Norsemen were friendly enough; they were good to drink with, and actually more understandable after a few pints. They'd also brought some handsome hounds with them and he was thinking of making an offer for one provided that she was a good breeder; her rarity would be as attractive as her abilities.
And then there was Marian. Guy saw little of her except at meals now; this time she seemed to be actively engaging with some of the women in the castle and he was usually busy with political matters or entertaining guests. He had been wanting to take her out again to show her the progress at Knighton, but there simply hadn't been the time when both of them were free. Nor would she likely appreciate him dragging her out in the cold, wet weather they'd been having of late. Enough of the peasants were sick abed that spring planting was going slowly; he would wait until it warmed.
In truth, not being around her so much was a bit of a relief. He hadn't realized how wearying it had been to agonize over her every word and gesture. It wasn't that he'd had a change of heart towards Marian-far from it-it was that after having space to himself he felt better equipped to deal with her cryptic looks and oblique answers. He could keep his temper and, in turn, she would slowly warm to him. And so he did not push things; it was enough, most days, that she walked silently beside him, or that her smile did not flag when she caught his eye while laughing with Spenser's sister across the hall.
His worries were now more directed towards the plan of the Black Knights-if negotiations ever ended-which left space for hope, now rekindled, to burn, small but steady.
*
Robin and Much leaned nonchalantly against buildings that formed either side of a narrow passage. They'd been to speak with a contact in Nottingham, who either had frustratingly little to say, or was suddenly much more reticent about speaking. Yet there was still a chance they would learn something useful today; they were doing rounds in town and so were waiting for the other outlaws to arrive with the food and medicine to distribute.
Much nodded ever so slightly, not looking at Robin. Both of them headed down the passage, into deeper shadows and, to Robin's chagrin, mud. Soon they were joined by John, Will, and Djaq, who began to divide up the sacks they had brought.
“Is that all there is?” Robin asked, peering inside the one Djaq had handed him. It was disturbingly light.
“If we're rationing the stores to get through Lent,” Will said grimly, handing one of his sacks to
Much. It was clear that Will's thoughts ran to the loss of the food stores in the autumn.
“The sooner spring comes, the better,” John said.
After that, the outlaws split up, stopping at homes throughout Nottingham to drop off rations that had become increasingly meagre in the past few weeks. Though the outlaws had never had fine fare, even they, who had direct access to the winter food cache, were beginning to feel it. Robin had gotten to the point that he wanted to chuck every wizened turnip he saw in Much's hand across the camp.
Robin spent a few moments with each of the families on his list, asking about their hunger, their health, and if they'd heard anything strange around town. Most were too busy looking after themselves, though a few had noticed that a surprising number of covered carts were going to the castle every week. After the last of his food had been delivered, Robin made his way back to the market to meet up with the other outlaws.
He was the first to arrive, and took a seat on a barrel in the shadow of one of the stalls. After a few moments he saw Much, and then Will, hurrying towards him with their hoods drawn low. They stopped in their tracks at the sound of hooves coming from the direction of the castle. Soon Vaysey and Gisborne appeared in the center of the market along with an armed escort. Robin caught Much's eye as he ducked behind a line of freshly-dyed fabric, hung to dry. This should be interesting.
The crowd cleared a wide circle around the horseman. One of the guards played a short blast on a horn while Vaysey pulled out a piece of folded parchment.
“People of Nottingham,” he read, in a tone that was too pleased for Robin's liking. “I bring to you the sad news that Robin Hood is no longer simply an enemy of the law, but an enemy of the king. Last week, he stole the silver that was going to go to ransom King Richard.”
Robin blinked. What on earth was this new scheme of Vaysey's? He glanced at Much, who, from the alarming shade of purple his face had turned, was equally astonished.
“Yes,” Vaysey continued, after the crowd had had several moments to murmur, “every last penny. And so I have the misfortune to announce to you that, if Robin Hood is not caught, the tax collectors will be forced to return to Nottinghamshire to collect our share of the ransom. Oh, and Robin Hood has a bounty of twenty pounds on his head, dead or alive.”
Robin snorted. “Do not underestimate twenty pounds,” Djaq said quietly in his ear. He hadn't seen her approach. “It does not seem like a lot to you, but it's more than many of these people will see in years of hard work.”
Robin turned to look at her. “What is this all about? 'We stole the ransom money.' What's his game?”
“Maybe someone else stole the money and blamed us,” Djaq said.
“Maybe Vaysey took the money and is blaming us,” Will said, joining their huddle.
Robin looked at him in horror. “It's possible. The Black Knights are up to something big, and they'll need a lot of money . . .”
“Robin, we should go,” Will said quietly, urgently. Though Vaysey had left, the crowd hadn't yet returned to its normal state. People who knew them looked in their direction, then quickly looked away. It was oddly quiet. Surely they didn't believe . . . ? Whether they did or didn't, Robin realized, everything was different when you had an empty belly. And when there was money to be had.
*
When Hugh, the kitchen steward, lifted his eyes from the scrawled list, they focused on a point past Marian. She followed his gaze, turning to find Blanche standing in the doorway of the kitchen, waiting.
Marian turned back to Hugh. “Is there anything else?”
“No, my lady. Herring for supper, and eel pie at dinner. Again.”
Marian sighed. “It's not too long until Easter, Hugh.”
“It will never be so welcome.”
Marian joined Blanche in the hall. “Alys said she has something special for this evening,” Blanche said, starting down the corridor.
“Oh does she?” Marian asked, falling into step with her.
As the negotiations had worn on, polite conversation and needlework with the older women had grown exceedingly boring. Alys, Blanche, and Marian, who had neither children nor husbands, had begun slipping away of an evening to Marian's room, where they would discuss things that were not children and do anything but embroider.
“I actually don't mind embroidery,” Alys had said once. “I like having nice things that I've made myself.” But Marian and Blanche had rolled their eyes and banned it in their presence. Still, they couldn't quite condone idleness during Lent, so Marian made much headway in converting old linens into underclothes for the poor, as she did not feel she had to hide her work in front of Blanche and Alys. They might think her odd, but she no longer feared they would make it the subject of gossip.
Though they had become quite friendly, Marian still held her tongue about a number of things. While Alys seemed ambivalent about the political situation and Blanche scarcely seemed to care, she was wary of what they might let slip with a careless remark. Yet the need to be guarded wasn't something new for Marian, and she found the castle much less dreary since their return, despite the cold, wet weather and the interminable plates of salted herring.
They found Alys in Marian's room, with a very satisfied smile on her face.
“So what is it?” Blanche asked, as soon as the door shut behind them.
“Brandywine,” Alys said, gesturing to a small decanter on the chest that had been converted to a table. “My brother brought several casks for Lord Vaysey. I didn't think he'd miss this much.”
The women gathered round the table; Alys filled three pewter cups and handed them out. Marian sniffed hers experimentally. It was deep gold, darker than mead, and smelled neither like that nor wine.
“Careful,” Alys said. “It's strong.”
Marian sipped. It tingled her tongue, and was very sweet. She swallowed, and a moment later a burst of warmth trailed down her throat into her chest.
“Oh, I love it!” cried Blanche.
“It is good,” Marian added. She took another sip, and this time the flavor was fuller, richer. She held it too long in her mouth though, and the tingle grew into a burn. It was strange, but its novelty was welcome.
“Good,” Alys said, and then opened a small box that sat beside the cask. Marian snorted when she saw the dice inside. “Drinking and gambling? In the middle of Lent?”
“That is exactly why we need it,” Blanche said.
“And you,” Alys said, gesturing to Blanche, “need a bit of fun before you go off to be a proper married woman.”
The room grew silent. Marian looked down at her cup. Blanche looked away. Then she took up her cup, tossed it back, and promptly succumbed to a fit of coughing.
Alys snickered, and the cheerful atmosphere soon returned. They proceeded to sip brandy and gossip about the relative charms of the Norsemen while they played dice for candied almonds.
Some time later, when the cups had been emptied and refilled, Blanche addressed Alys abruptly. “Did you love your husband?”
Alys paused, the dice in her hand. “No, I don't think so. Not in the way troubadours describe love. But he was a good man. He treated me well. The pension he left me was very generous, even if it's not enough for my brother.” Alys cast down the dice. It was taking longer for them to count the dots now, but it got done, and the proper number of almonds exchanged hands with some giggling.
“Do you wish you'd had a husband you'd loved?” Blanche prodded.
Alys shrugged. “Sometimes I wished for a handsomer husband, but I was never unhappy. So I never thought about it.”
“Was he good . . . you know . . .”
Alys coloured fiercely. “Oh good lord! Why don't you plague Marian with questions for awhile? And roll the dice. It's your turn.” She hastily took a drink.
“I was just wondering, since your husband was a good deal older, like mine will be.” Blanche rolled the dice, collected her almonds and promptly ate half. Marian hoped that she had gotten distracted by all the counting, but she had no such luck.
“You are very lucky, Marian,” Blanche said around a mouthful of almonds, “that you are unattached, and have no cousin or brother or father who is trying to make a match for you with any man in sight who's got a bit of land. Though I heard that you have your own land. I wouldn't want to try and manage that on my own.”
Marian reached for the dice since Blanche had forgotten to pass them, trying to think of ways to change the course of the conversation. But it was hard to concentrate. For awhile she had felt floaty and relaxed, but now the clouds in her mind were beginning to get in the way.
“Why did you break off your engagement with Sir Guy anyway?”
Marian threw the dice a bit harder than she intended and one bounced off of their tiny makeshift table. Alys reached down to get it, and when she came up again her eyes were shining with interest. “He did not keep to the terms of our betrothal,” Marian said primly, rolling the die again. “I could not stand to have a husband who lied to me.”
“So you broke it off!” Blanche said, wide-eyed. “Even if he had lied I think I'd have been tempted to go through with it. Shoulders like that, and the way he walks. I bet he could have made it up to you.” Her expression left no question as to what she implied.
At that, even Alys laughed.
Blanche leaned forward, rocking the table perilously. “So while you were betrothed, did you ever-”
“No!” Marian cried sharply. She rose from the table and walked swiftly across the room to the windowed alcove. They must think her a poor sport, but she couldn't pretend all of the time. There was a moment of silence and then she heard her door open. She felt bad for driving them out, but this was a conversation she was not ready to have.
But she was mistaken; a moment later Alys joined her. “I am sorry we upset you. I hope you know that Blanche meant no harm by it.”
“I know,” Marian said softly, blinking back tears that had welled up. She wasn't sure where her sudden wish to weep had come from.
Alys leaned back against the window ledge. “It must be difficult for you . . . to navigate between your feelings and your principles. You hold to them more strongly than almost everyone I know.”
“What do you mean?” Marian asked, sniffing.
“It is clear that you still care for him. And to deny yourself that because of your principles-”
“Care for him?” Marian asked, incredulous. “How could I care for someone who can plan treason as if he were planning his expenses for the year? Someone who can terrorize peasants or murder enemies in cold blood? Someone who can work for Vaysey and not see anything wrong with him?”
Alys looked down at her hands. “Sometimes it is difficult to understand why our hearts incline the way they do.”
Marian shook her head. “There are things you do not know, Alys. Terrible things.”
“Is he really so bad as all that?”
Marian sighed. “Sometimes-sometimes I think-no, I know-that he would be a very different person in different circumstances. Away from Vaysey. Maybe a good man, even; certainly a better one. He has sometimes been a friend to me, but-” she broke off, shaking her head. “Please, let us leave this topic. Now that I have ruined the evening.”
“It is of no matter. Come, I have a question about my red dress I wished to ask you. I'm weary of the blue trim; perhaps you could help me decide what to change it to?”
*
They were awakened early the next morning by a knock at the door. Sarah rose to answer it, and when Marian sat up to see who it was, there was such a pounding in her head that she momentarily forgot why she had awakened. That the brandywine was “strong” had been an understatement.
Sarah turned from whoever was in the doorway to peer into the darkened room. “No, I don't think she's here,” she said quietly. There was an answering murmur, and then Sarah called out softly for Blanche's maid, who sat up, rubbing her eyes. She joined Sarah at the door, but by that point Marian, Alys, and Alys's maid were all completely awake.
“She rose early and hasn't come back yet,” the maid said. There was another murmur, and the door closed.
“My lady didn't return last night,” the maid aloud said in a strained voice. “Her cousin wants to leave this morning. Please help me. They will be looking for her now.”
Marian, confused, looked at Alys, whose face was grave in the weak light of her rushlamp.
“Hurry, we must find her before Hereford does,” she said, shoving her arms through the sleeves of the dress her maid had brought.
When Marian continued to look at her blankly, Alys elaborated. “She's been carrying on with Sir Guy's man. I'm afraid that's where she is now.”
“Allan A Dale?” Marian asked, incredulously. She had known they were friendly-a little more than friendly-at Christmas, but she didn't think that they had been attached enough to risk anything with Blanche now engaged.
“I think that's his name. Come, we must go look for her!”
Marian grabbed the gown she had been wearing the day before, which was still tossed over a chair, then shoved her feet into shoes without bothering to take the time to put on stockings. She almost wished she had; the cold air in the corridor hit her ankles and immediately sent shivers up her body.
The five women split up and, as Marian was most acquainted with the castle and had the best reason to be poking around in strange places, she found herself searching the courtyard, the gardens, the outbuildings and other places that didn't make up the keep. She didn't realize until she'd been searching fruitlessly for some time that they had no way to contact each other. Her nervousness grew as the sky lightened and servants began to appear on early-morning errands.
Finally, finally she found Blanche and Allan tucked away in the last stall in the stable. Though they were mostly dressed, the straw was strewn with gloves and stockings and shoes, and there was no doubt what they had been up to.
“Blanche!” Marian whispered over the stall door. “Blanche!”
Allan stirred, but did not wake, and Marian groaned when she saw a pitcher that had been knocked over in the straw. She unhooked the door and knelt over Blanche, shaking her until she woke. Blanche's eyes focused on her and she gave a little shriek.
“Hush!” Marian whispered. “They are looking for you! You have to come now!”
Blanche stared at her a moment, blankly, and then terror suddenly appeared in her eyes. “Oh god, oh god,” she muttered as she searched through the straw for her clothing.
“I can't believe you could be this careless,” Marian said sharply to Allan, who had finally sat up.
“Nnnngg,” he replied, pressing a palm to his forehead.
“Really, what were you thinking?” Marian beckoned Blanche to her, and attempted to do the laces up the back of her dress while Blanche tied the tops of her stockings.
“I've never fallen asleep like that,” Blanche said nervously.
“I'm guessing it was the brandywine. My head's been pounding since I woke. See if you can do anything about your hair,” Marian said, setting Blanche's cloak about her shoulders.
“You had brandy? How'd you get brandy?” Allan said, looking up from the boot he was trying to pull on.
Marian rolled her eyes. “Blanche, come on!”
She stepped around the door of the stall and Blanche made to follow her, but then stopped. She ran back to Allan, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him down for a long kiss. Marian looked away, embarrassed.
“Thanks,” Blanche said finally.
“Any time. You remember that,” Allan said.
Blanche turned back to Marian and grinned, then hurried out of the barn behind her.
“Thank you so much,” Blanche said, when she had caught up with her. “And . . . I'm sorry about last night.”
Marian shook her head. “Don't apologize. It's complicated; you couldn't know. But weren't you worried about what your cousin would do? Or Sir Walter?”
The corners of Blanche's mouth turned up. “Of Sir Walter, I made sure to tell him that riding is a great pastime of mine.” She gave Marian a pointed look. Marian, despite herself, snorted.
Then Blanche sighed. “But you are right. I would not want Henry to find out. He has been very good to me since my father died, I would not want to shame him.”
After a moment, Marian asked, “So you are really going to marry Sir Walter? I thought you did not like him.”
Blanche tugged a hand through her long, blonde hair. “It's a better match than I had hoped for, actually. I have little to offer; it's only with my cousin's help that I could marry so well. And it could be worse. Sir Walter could be fat and bald. Or a miser.”
Marian bit her lip, unsure of whether to proceed. Her conscience would not let her stay quiet, yet she knew how weighty the words of others could be when one has made a difficult decision. “Blanche,” she began slowly, “Sir Walter is a cruel man. He has pretty manners, but I fear that does not extend below the surface.”
“If you are talking of him laying hands on me, I do not fear mistreatment. This match is as advantageous for him as it is for me; Henry would not stand for it. And if you are not . . . well, there are ways a wife may influence her husband.”
She looked so fierce, so determined and impossibly young. Though she was several years younger than Marian, she often displayed the worldly sophistication of a woman many years older. Now, though, uncertainty revealed her as the young girl that she was. Her determination echoed painfully in Marian's breast; she had been there, once. Blanche, at least, seemed to be on a more equal footing with her betrothed; though her parents were dead, the Earl of Hereford was a powerful ally to have.
“I am sure you will master them all,” she said, with a forced smile. Blanche returned the smile, and after that seemed to be more relaxed.
Marian took Blanche up to her room by the least-used ways. When they had arrived without incident, and no one had shown up to upbraid them, Blanche's mood changed markedly. She informed the Earl of Hereford imperiously that she needed more time to pack.
Finally she was washed and dressed and her things had been carried down to the courtyard and there was nothing left to do but say goodbye.
“Thank you again,” Blanche said, when she turned to Marian. Abruptly, she pulled her into a hug. “Shall I give your greetings to the Countess of Mortain?”
“Isabella? Shall you see her?”
Blanche nodded. “The Countess is a frequent guest of ours at Hereford. We've invited her to the wedding.”
Marian smiled. “Please do give my greetings to her. And . . . I wish you happiness in your marriage.”
Blanche returned her smile. “Thank you.” She turned to leave, but paused at the door. “After the wedding we'll be travelling north to Sir Walter's estates. Perhaps I shall see you again before long!”
*
Robin heard Much a good long while before he saw him. Much had gotten much better at moving quietly through the forest, but he all too often forgot to concentrate on what he was doing-especially when he was alone-and ended up thrashing through the underbrush as loudly as a bear.
“There you are!” Much cried when he had gotten much closer. “I've been wondering where you keep disappearing to. You-oh. What's he doing there?”
Much had caught sight of what Robin had been watching-sort of, he'd been thinking, too-for a good part of the afternoon. It was the strange new activity at Knighton, today overseen by Guy of Gisborne.
“I don't know,” Robin said. “He's got no right to that land, even if Marian is held at the castle. Only the king can dispose of it, and Vaysey-or Prince John-is certainly not king.”
Much took a seat beside Robin on the fallen log, just inside the shadow of the forest. They watched in silence for a few moments.
“Is this why you've been so snappish lately? I mean, more snappish than you've been. Because you have been you know, since, well-”
“Much!” Robin hissed.
Much looked sheepish, but it didn't prevent him from adding, “Well, you have. And everyone's worried about you. I'm worried about you.”
Robin sighed, dropping his head. He stared at his hands. It had been a long time since it had been just the two of them together, not distributing food or hunting or spying, just sitting. Though he didn't think he could talk about half of what was on his mind right now, Much being there was . . . nice.
“You know,” he said, glancing over at Much, “when we started this outlaw thing, I thought it would be a few weeks, maybe through the summer. We would appeal to the Council, they'd give me back my title, and it would be all over.” Robin paused, picking at the outer bark on the tree trunk. It came away under his fingers, damp and crumbly and smelling of earth. “I never thought it would be a handful of us trying to defend the country from Prince John.”
“But there are others, besides us. There's the Council, and Queen Eleanor is on our side now that she's back in the country. And Prince John has loads of enemies. I don't even know who likes him, really. Besides the Sheriff. And the Black Knights.”
“Except the Black Knights are turning out to be half of England.” Robin threw the bits of bark away. They fell silently on the wet ground.
After a moment, he turned to Much. “And there's more, that I heard from Marian. That I haven't told any of you yet.”
“More? What more can there be?”
“The Black Knights have allies outside the country. The Norwegians are only part of it.”
Much's eyes grew round. “What does that mean?”
Robin looked down at his hands. “I don't know. Maybe they'll try to attack Richard in Austria. Maybe they'll attack England.”
“Well, what do we do?”
It was the response he'd expected, but that didn't make it any less easy to hear. He was the leader, so they looked to him for answers, even if he didn't have the experience or the political acumen to begin to know how to deal with this situation. Marian might have ideas, but he wanted to keep her out of this as much as possible. The beginning of a plan-or at least a course of action-was forming in his mind, but he hesitated to speak of it because he didn't know-or rather, he knew too well-how the gang would react.
“I don't know,” he lied.
Chapter Thirteen