Robin Hood (16 page)

T
uck liked these men who had just come to Nottingham. The little one with the red hair— Scarlet—always had something amusing to say, often at the expense of the enormous Little John. The other lad, Allan something, was awfully quiet, but seemed a good sort. He played the lute well and had a passable singing voice.

Little John, though, was a kindred soul. Of that, Tuck was already certain. The man appreciated all the things Tuck himself knew to be most important in this earthly life: good food, fine drink, large women. That they had already become fast friends came as no surprise to the friar.

All three men had a great thirst, as did Tuck, of course. So after allowing them to sample as much of his precious golden mead as he could bear, Tuck decided that they needed to be introduced to the Bait and Trap.

The tavern was warm inside, and the air smelled strongly of roasting meat and musty ale, of pipe smoke and sweat. A fire burned in the hearth at the center of the back wall, and candles glowed in sconces all around the inn and in a ponderous old chandelier that hung from the groaning beams of the ceiling. There were tables and chairs around the perimeter of the great room, but much of the floor had been cleared of furniture and was now crowded with dancers and musicians.

Allan and Will looked at each other, their faces like those of little boys on Christmas morning. Then, without a glance at John or the friar, they rushed forward and were swallowed by the crowd. Little John drank down the rest of his mead and placed the stone jar by the door.

“Come on!” he said, clapping a hand on Tuck's back and leading him over to the bar. “I'm still thirsty.”

They bought ales. Or rather, Tuck bought ales for them. Little John tried to explain that some kind of strange small animals had stolen all the gold he and his friends had, but with the noise and the music and the effects of the mead, the friar had a hard time understanding all that the big man said. Not that it mattered in the end. These were his friends, and by the grace of God he had coin to share.

In a short time, Tuck and John were seated at a table at one end of the Bait and Trap, ales before them, good conversation between them. At the other end of the tavern, Allan had pulled out his lute, and had joined with a pair of local musicians to form a trio that drew the attention of many of the dancers, including several young women. While Allan and the others played, Will stepped a lively jig, capering from
one woman to the next, dancing with none of them and all of them, much to the amusement of everyone else in the bar.

A new keg was brought out from the back, and a loud cheer went up from everyone on the floor. Tuck hoped that Will, Allan, and John were the only ones expecting him to pay their way this evening. God hadn't graced him with enough coin for all.

When he grew tired of dancing, Will joined Allan and the other musicians on a makeshift stage and lent his voice to the boisterous singing. Other players joined in, until the music was deafening.

John and Tuck continued their conversation, periodically waving the serving girls over for more ale. The friar couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much, and in fact, he couldn't quite remember how much they'd had this evening. A lot. He was sure of that.

Sipping the latest selection the girls had brought to him, the friar smacked his lips and nodded toward his cup.

“Home brew,” he said. “If I wasn't the village priest I'd try for village drunkard.”

O
N THE OTHER
side of the inn, Allan and Will had positioned themselves at the edge of the stage. The rest of the musicians were off drinking, and so Will and Allan were drinking, too. It seemed only fair. Allan continued to play his lute, but Will was surveying the room, eyeing the women, several of whom stood in a cluster nearby, eyeing Will and Allan.

L
ITTLE JOHN HAD
lost interest in their conversation and was trading looks with a large woman who
stood nearby, sipping an ale and regarding the big man coyly over the rim of her cup.

“Right,” John said. “She looks like my size. I'll put a smile on her face.”

Tuck frowned, discomfited by the turn the evening seemed to be taking. He was, after all, a man of the cloth.

“So,” he began, hoping to change the subject, “Why do they call you Little John?”

The man swiveled sharply in his chair, his eyebrows furrowing menacingly. “What are you getting at?” he demanded.

Tuck's eyes widened. “What?” he asked innocently.

John stood, nearly toppling his chair, walked over to the girl, and danced her away.

W
ILL
AND
A
LLAN
were still watching the girls who had been watching them, but they hadn't made much progress in actually speaking to them. It should have been easy—they were practically the only men in the Bait and Trap. But somehow they had yet to get up their nerve.

Will tried to give Allan some pointers, though he was slow to follow his own advice.

“The secret of success,” he said, “is never go for the prettiest one. Start with the homely one on the left.”

Allan looked up from his lute again, nodding sagely. “Right,” he said. “Which one is that?”

Will frowned at him, and they continued to stand there, watching the girls watch them. The group of girls was smaller now, though. Several of them had given up on these two and moved on.

“The main thing is,” Allan said, now dispensing
advice himself, “you mustn't frighten them off. Village maidens are shy …”

R
OBIN SAT NEAR
the fireplace in the Loxley home, enjoying its warmth, watching as serving girls cleared the plates and what was left of the evening meal from the table. Sir Walter had long since bade Robin good night and, with Marion leading him back to his chamber, had gone off to bed. The dogs still lay on the floor nearby, as if unwilling to let him out of their sight.

It had been a strange night, and he stared into the fire burning in the hearth, puzzling over the bargain he had made with Loxley's father. Of course, Robin understood that the old man didn't wish to see the Crown or its agents taking this house away from Marion when he died. And he supposed that would be reason enough for Sir Walter to chance this charade he had proposed. But Robin sensed that there was more at work here than that. Walter had recognized his name, though Robin didn't know how that was possible. The old man had appeared genuinely frightened of him at first. What was it he had asked?
Are you here to exact revenge?

Later, once Walter had convinced himself that Robin meant him no harm, he had hinted again at knowing more about Robin's past than the archer did himself. He had offered to teach Robin something of his own history.

And Loxley seemed to take great pleasure in teasing Marion with suggestions of romance between her and Robin. Were these merely the eccentricities of an old man, or confused emotions brought on by grief and the shock of bad tidings? Or was there more to Walter's teasing and riddles?

Loxley might have looked old, but his mind seemed sharp enough. There was purpose in all of this, though what it was Robin couldn't fathom.

Marion reentered the hall, hesitating briefly at the sight of him sitting in his chair, and then continuing over to the table. The dogs raised their heads and followed her with their dark eyes. She examined the table, appeared satisfied that it had been tended properly, and wandered back toward where Robin sat, now watching her.

He wasn't sure he understood her, either. Sir Robert had been dead for days, but as far as Marion was concerned, she had lost him this very afternoon. Robin could see the sadness in her eyes; he recalled how deeply she had been moved by news of the knight's death earlier in the day, though he hadn't known then who she was.

Yet the only tears he had seen in her eyes, she had shed not for her own loss, but for Sir Walter's. It almost seemed that she cared more for her husband's father, than for her husband. Perhaps that was what happened when a knight left his home and love for ten years.

He couldn't deny that she was an attractive woman. Not merely pretty like a barmaid or a country maiden; hers was an unconventional beauty. High cheekbones, waves of auburn hair, eyes that were strikingly blue and that seemed to miss nothing of what happened around her. There was both grace and strength in her body. She appeared to be as comfortable cleaning the muck from a dray's hoof as she was hosting dinner for a stranger.

And though she clearly hadn't been happy about the deal Walter had made with Robin, she hadn't
refused, either. Was she merely pragmatic, or did she have her own purpose in playing along?

Too many mysteries. Robin wondered if he wouldn't be better off leaving Peper Harrow now, while he still had the chance. But he didn't rise from the chair. Curiosity held him there; the promise of learning more about his past, about his family, about the odd twists and hints of fate that had led him from King Richard's army to the warm glow of this fire, and the company of this mysterious and handsome woman.

“Walter says we're to share my chambers,” she said, after a lengthy silence.

The fire popped, startling the dog nearest the hearth.

Robin didn't answer her.

“It is merely a ruse to convince the servants,” she added, her tone businesslike.

Robin allowed himself a small smile. “If the aim is deception, you should address me as ‘husband,’ or ‘my dear.’”

She scowled at him. “Don't be ridiculous.” She turned, starting toward the stairs. “Let us retire now.”

He didn't move. “Ask me nicely.”

Without turning or pausing, Marion started up the stairs. Robin thought she would ignore him entirely, but as she climbed the steps she said in a low voice, “Please, husband, will you join me in our chambers?”

Robin pushed himself out of the chair, crossed to the stairway, and started up after her. The dogs loped along with him.

Reaching the top of the stairway, Robin and the dogs followed Marion down a narrow corridor and
into her bedchamber. It was a modest room but it felt warm and comfortable. A fire had been lit in the small hearth, and a few candles burned beside the bed.

Marion closed the door and turned to face him, her expression severe. “I sleep with a dagger,” she said, glowering at him. “If you so much as move to touch me I will sever your manhood. Understood?”

Robin's eyebrows went up. “Thanks for the warning.”

She gestured toward a large cushion next to the hearth. Clearly this was usually intended for the dogs, but there could be no mistaking her intent. For tonight—and no doubt all the nights to follow—this was to be his bed.

Without so much as a “goodnight” she pulled closed the curtains that surrounded her bed. Robin stood where he was, watching her. She blew out the candles around her one by one, until the only light in the chamber came from the fire in the hearth.

With the candles out, Robin couldn't see past the curtains, but he heard a rustle of cloth, and imagined that Marion must be removing her dress. A thought came unbidden: It had been a long, long time since last he had lain with a woman.

Robin stepped to the hearth, sat down on the bedding and started to pull off his boots. One of the dogs trotted over to him and lay down beside him, taking up more than its fair share of the cushion. Robin couldn't help laughing. It surely wasn't the companionship he would have preferred, but it would have to do for this night.