Marian was not seen in Sherwood for the next several days, but such an absence was not without precedent, and Robin chose not to think about it. She was being sensible, that was all, and staying out of the way till Sir Richard’s fate had been decided. The working out of that fate which Robin and his folk had in mind kept them all busy enough: the best way to Sir Richard’s castle had to be agreed upon and then spied out for traps, unexpected traps, and places where unexpected traps might be set between the present and the day to come. The recent forays of foresters and sheriff’s men into parts of Sherwood usually left alone suggested that the sheriff had thought of the possibility of Robin Hood’s scoundrels making trouble in defence of the last important Saxon lord in Nottinghamshire.
The outlaws’ collected booty also needed its value guessed with enough certainty that they might not make fools of themselves when they threw the mortgage payment at Beautement’s feet. “Or rather,” said Robin, “our reckoning must be so unmistakably in excess of the amount owed that Beautement dare not protest.”
“You’ll have no trouble with Beautement himself,” said Friar Tuck. “He’s afraid of raindrops and falling leaves and clouds across the sun—and sees signs and omens in all of them. He has a taster at his elbow for every meal, I understand, although no one has as yet cared to make the attempt to poison so miserable a fellow.”
“He sounds the sheriff’s favourite kind of tool,” said Robin; “the kind that has no mind of its own to distract it.”
“Exactly,” said the friar.
“You here?” said Will, coming upon them. “There must be fresh venison for dinner.”
“Your respect for my grey hairs never fails to astonish me,” said the friar. “It is no wonder I prefer the less taxing companionship of my dogs.”
Much appeared at this moment, bearing a wooden plate, and Marjorie followed him, bearing another. “It was baking day,” said Much, “and I felt that we should have the opportunity to try as much of what there is to try as we can—in honour of our guest, of course. Matilda has much respect for a man in orders—even if such respect is a little thin elsewhere in our company. You could put that down there,” he said to Marjorie.
“I thought,” she said shyly, glancing at Robin, “that you would tell me if these are—are acceptable.” Between the two trays there were three loaves and a mound of rolls and buns enough for the Lionheart’s army.
“I’m sure you have learnt to bake,” said Robin mildly. “But you have not learnt to handle Much. The phrases that you need, my lady, are ‘No’; ‘No, you can’t’; and ‘No, get out of here before I throw something at you.’”
She put her shoulders back. “I am not ‘my lady’ here,” she said. “I am an outlaw, and an outlaw’s wife.” The spirit went out of her again and she said, a little wistfully, “Alan doesn’t care about food, you know; I think he would eat the leaves off trees if they would nourish him enough to go on writing songs. And Matilda is very kind, and no one else will—will tell me anything.”
“Sit down and have a roll,” said Much. “Have you tried eating one yourself?”
“No, I—” She sounded surprised. She glanced over her shoulder. “I should go back. Matilda will miss me.”
“Not for a quarter hour. Take dinner with your leader, Robin Hood. Lady—that is—Marjorie, this is Robin; Robin, Marjorie. You met once under somewhat trying circumstances, I believe. This is a very good roll.”
“Is it?” she said hopefully.
There was a small commotion, swiftly quelled, from the direction of the kitchen area, and Marjorie started. “I must go,” she muttered, and fled.
Will caught Robin’s look and said involuntarily, “Good God, man! That timid little thing is nothing like Marian!”
“True,” said Much, with his mouth full. “Marian can’t cook.”
Whether or not Robin would have had anything to say to this was to remain unknown; there was a low, urgent whistle from just beyond Greentree’s environs, and all heads snapped around as Eva burst into view. “Bartlemey’s been hurt,” she said, panting; “oh, friar, good fortune that you are here tonight.”
“Is it bad, then?” said Robin, standing up and beckoning to a few of the faces turned toward them; Much and Will had already reached for their bows.
She shook her head. “I do not know for sure; I hope not. I fear … We were surprised by a group of foresters. Seven or eight of them, I believe, and we only three.” She tried to smile. “Of course the losing party always sees two enemies for every one. But there were more of them than us. We knocked them down and got away; one of them has an arrow through his leg. But so does Bartlemey. Gilbert is with him; I came ahead for help.”
Bartlemey was carried to Greentree white and sweating, but the friar pulled the shaft out easily and declared the wound shallow, “as such things go. You will come to no lasting harm, my friend, though you find it hard to believe now, if you follow my instructions.” And he gave his orders for the making of a poultice.
It was deep night by this time, and the friar agreed to stay: “I am too tired to walk far, and I would like besides to see Bartlemey once more before I leave him to your doubtful mercies.” Room was made for him, and a blanket found, not too threadbare nor too troubled by its life in a damp cave and its memories of the sheep who had originally worn it.
There should not have been foresters prowling—particularly in such numbers—through that bit of Sherwood where Eva and Gilbert and Bartlemey had been, any more than there should have been foresters where Cecil and Little John had met them only a few days before. Robin’s outlaws were too many to remain invisible and too few to withstand a determined effort to get rid of them. Robin knew he would not be able to sleep soon that night. He returned to the fireside and poked a corner of the low-burning embers to make them catch again. He stood staring at the little tongue of flame, and then picked up the cup he had been whittling when Marian had last visited Greentree; he had not touched it since. There was not enough light to see accurately; but his fingers knew the shape of both cup and blade—and not all of the outlaws’ drinking vessels sat straight anyway. At least he would not cut himself. Probably. He could not bear to sit doing nothing, and he was too tired to stand an extra watch and let someone sleep who could. Everyone else had gone either to bed or back on guard; the camp was very quiet, except for an occasional pop from the fire and the scrape of knife against wood. So he heard the almost silent tread behind him; and then Will Scarlet dropped down beside him with a sigh.
“I’ve never known you unable to sleep,” said Robin, after a minute.
Will smiled a little. “The good friar takes up the space of two men—and that’s you and me, I guess. I’m grateful it won’t rain tonight, for it’s a tree for us.” He paused. “Besides … I have wanted to say something to you.”
Robin’s knife seemed at a loss; it groped its way over the surface of the knot, but found no chip ready to be cut out.
“You might want to know,” said Will. “Or you might throw me into the fire. But you might want to know—”
“Out with it, man,” said Robin to his knife.
Will looked at his hands as if he wished for something to chop at also. “Marian has a suitor. She has had them since she was fourteen, I know—but the years draw by, and her father grows older, and … the months pass and nothing seems to change. Marian is from home a little more often is all, but not so much more often that a man who does not want to know cannot ignore it. And so his thoughts ease back into the well-worn way that is most comfortable to him.”
A curl of shaving fell at Robin’s feet. “Go on.”
Will sighed again. “This suitor is a man named Nigel. His father was a Norman, but his mother was Saxon, and wife to his father. He levies the taxes that the sheriff requires, but he keeps his lands in good repair, and his people have a fair chance. None goes hungry. Marian’s father would be pleased if she accepted him.”
The cup was taking shape. “How do you know all this?”
“The whole camp knows of it,” said Will, a trifle grimly. “I know a bit more, for Marian has long been my friend, and often I can read her face when she will not speak; and I am the only one of us who knew her father well.… I knew Nigel too, long ago, when we were all children.”
“The whole camp knows, you say,” said Robin. “I did not.”
“Who would tell you?” said Will. “You of all of us are the most dependent on the tales others bring here. The fate of Marian’s father’s lands is not without interest in Nottingham, and so the fate of Marian herself as his only child is not without interest.” He paused again. “I would have kept silence—Marian would not love me for telling you, did she know—but I think perhaps her father is pressing her. She was used to laugh about Nigel; but she has not laughed about him lately.”
Robin was silent for so long that Will yawned involuntarily. “Time for you to go looking for that tree,” said Robin. “I can recommend the ash over there,” he said, pointing with his knife. “There is a hump of root on the south-western side that might almost have grown there to be a headrest.”
“Oh,” said Will, and yawned again. Robin’s head had bowed again over the cup in his hands. “Um. Thank you.” He stood up uncertainly, but Robin said nothing more.
Marian’s other piece of news proved correct also: there was to be a grand fair in Nottingham, and an archery contest was to be a central attraction. There had often been archery contests at previous fairs, and they always drew a good crowd, both of archers and of onlookers; but the prize of the golden arrow made this contest unusual. It was not only that the prize was, to the sort of folk most likely to be shooting, of less interest than the usual one of a sheep or pig; it was that everyone knew that the sheriff was determined that this contest would trick the outlaws of Sherwood into exposing themselves.
“He wants a rumour put about that good shooting will win a pardon and—this is the best part—an honest job with the foresters, specially arranged by himself. But the right sort of folk don’t talk to the sheriff’s men, so that is precisely how the rumour goes: that he wants it put about. And then the man who tells you this grins, and you grin back, and you both know what the sheriff’s pardon is worth, which is almost as much as a place with the king’s foresters,” said Rafe.
“There will be plenty who’ll be glad to shoot for the other prizes, though,” said Simon; “there’s still a sheep and a cow and a horse.…” He sighed. Greentree had several times found itself sheltering sick or wounded or lost baby animals that Simon brought back with him. Robin had once found him hastily building a rabbit-hutch for the nest of baby rabbits he’d found a fortnight before the day he rescued a fox-cub. He’d scowled at his leader. “I’m not on duty!” he’d said. “I’m free the rest of today!”
“Did I say anything?” said Robin. “At least animals are quiet. I am, however, admiring your work. I will remember this talent of yours, you know.”
The scowl lifted, and Simon rubbed his sweaty forehead. “Oh, well, Jocelin showed me what to do, first.”
The fox-cub was no longer a cub, but it showed no inclination to leave an easy life of fireside supper-scraps. (The rabbits had been released when they reached adult size, to Much’s disgust, who felt that the proper fate of all plump young rabbits was in stew.) It was sitting alertly behind Simon’s ankles as he sighed, and he reached down to scratch it gently behind the ears. It was shy and wild with most of the others, but Simon it adored.
“That golden arrow is likely to make the best archers shoot a little awry,” said Little John. “Who wouldn’t prefer a sheep?”
“What I fail to understand is why he thinks an archery contest is going to lure me anywhere,” said Robin. “It was common knowledge when I was a forester that I could hit the broad side of a barn only if it wasn’t walking away too quickly.”
“I don’t think the good sheriff remembers you as that young forester,” said Much thoughtfully. “You weren’t a major public nuisance and private terror to him then; therefore you are somebody else.”
Little John grunted. “By that reasoning, all any of us need do is trim our hair, wear some of the fancy clothes we take off their owners, call ourselves by other names, and walk gaily down the main street of Nottingham.”
“It would be amusing, would it not?” said Robin.
“My favourite amusement takes the form of knocking fat Normans off their horses and stealing their purses,” said Will. “I am sorry I missed Sir Miles.”
“He was good sport,” said Little John. “Watching Cecil’s face as he gagged him was best of all. I had forgotten what it is like to have just knocked one’s first Norman off his horse.”
“Do you know I have still not met your young protégé?” said Will. “My curiosity grows sharp. Is it not strange that I have never seen him?”
Robin shrugged. “There are too many people in this camp,” he said.
“There speaks the man who worries about keeping us all fed,” said Little John.
“Especially you,” said Much.
“You eat more than I do to keep that mouth of yours going,” said Little John. “Cecil ducked meeting Marian too. Robin and I thought he knew her in his old life. Maybe he knew you too, Will.”
Will frowned. “So? We are all outlaws together now. Why should we not meet?”
“You shall,” said Robin. “Have patience with the boy.”
“You only want someone to talk linen shirts and lace to since Alan and Marjorie are too high-minded to look back on what they lost,” said Much. “I don’t blame Cecil for avoiding you.”
Robin sent everyone else into hiding before those who were to go to the meeting at Sir Richard’s Mapperley set out. “There is nothing to tell me that we’ve been found or that we’ll be successfully followed, but we are about to twist the sheriff’s tail for him very hard, and he will try his best to turn and bite us for it. The energy of sheer rage can do remarkable things sometimes.” And who should know better than I? he thought.
Everyone carried a longbow, and most carried a staff besides. The bow Will carried could put an arrow through an oak door, did he draw it strongly, as could Little John’s, though the latter preferred to rely on his staff. “I am glad I am not a sheriff’s man today,” said Robin, looking them all over before they set out. Most of their tunics were patched; many had sewn leather pads over their shoulders where their quivers chafed, and there were dark shiny strips down their dark-green breasts where the straps hung. Their leggings were ragged and not all their boots had begun life paired; but their faces were eager and their eyes bright.
The last of the Greentree folk shouldered their small personal bundles and bulkier bits of common camp gear and disappeared into the trees. “What an unholy racket,” said Robin, wincing.
“Harald knows better how to make boots than to walk in them,” said Little John.
“Now that is Matilda,” said Will, listening; “she has just been slapped in the face by a branch and she wants to chop the tree down.”
It was a beautiful day; the birds sang behind the leaves, the bits of sky visible overhead were blue, and the little breeze was kindly. Robin and Little John carried the two heavy purses that were to buy Sir Richard’s freedom; Robin felt that the Norman gold was balefully dragging at his belt and trying to bruise his hip with every step. It doesn’t like being put to a good use, he thought, and smiled; and saw, out of the corner of his eye, Little John shifting the purse at his belt to hang more comfortably.
They came to the edge of Sherwood when the sun was high. They stood in the last row of trees, blinking out at the bright meadow that lay nearest them, below the farms around Sir Richard’s moated strong-hold. Robin looked around at his folk and said cheerfully, “Remember that we are an army of the faithful, come to rout the heathen enemy, and step out boldly.” He was the first into the sunlight, Little John close at his side; the others shook their fears from them, and followed, trying not to huddle. Their lives had become too much like the king’s deer they hunted, and sunlight and empty spaces were strange to them.
“The sun never shines like this on the Nottingham market,” murmured Rafe with half a laugh to Simon, who, looking around wide-eyed himself, wryly agreed. Simon wished he were a fox himself, thought longingly of the cool familiar reaches of Sherwood, and sighed.