But not just yet. His hands were upon her, and hers upon him, finding eager entrance into clothing beneath the blankets of cloth, of hide, of fallen leaves. As dawn broke upon them, sluggish behind the fog, they affirmed yet again beneath the vault of tree and sky what had been obvious to their souls, obvious to their hearts, from even before the beginning that night in the oratory, with illumination banished save for lightning’s fitful brilliance.
Robin set his shoulder against the bole of a broad-crowned oak and gazed down the road, one hand wrapped around the grip of a strung bow that stood nearly as tall as he. A leather baldric crossed from left shoulder to right hip; from a quiver behind the shoulder sprouted a spray of goose feathers and a sheaf of straight-hewn shafts a full cloth-yard long. He wore hosen and tunic as any peasant, woven of crude cloth, but also boots upon his feet—once fine, now scuffed and soiled—and a brigandine taken from a man he himself had killed. Once accustomed to weighty armor, he found the shirt of linked rings to be no burden.
In the Holy Land, on Crusade, stealth had not been an issue. He had ridden with an army headed by three sovereigns and many high lords. But Sir Robert of Locksley had returned to England a very different man. And that man, now stripped of his knighthood, his earldom, and his home by the Lionheart’s brother, lived among the shadows in the company of outlaws instead of kings and queens.
Robin in the Wood, Robin in the Hood. Robin Hood. Whose entire life, now, was defined by stealth.
He listened for hoofbeats. Then knelt, pressed a palm against the beaten track, and felt for the same. He heard, and felt, nothing. There was no prey upon the road.
Once awake, awareness did not slide again into sleep. The tiny spark he recognized as himself, in spirit if not embodied, continued to glow brightly, slowly gathering strength until he had no fear it might be snuffed out. He remained bound, bodiless, with no recourse to escape, but he was awake, aware, and alive. He understood this, too, was a part of the spell, that to know oneself trapped for uncountable days was as much a torture as a lash upon bare flesh—as if betrayal such as he had known were not torture enough. But he rather thought not. These happenings seemed unplanned, and unforeseen, by the enemy who had enspelled him.
He recognized—something. Nebulous yet, wholly unformed, but his senses comprehended what his body could not feel.
Someone is coming.
Awareness coalesced, compacted, then spasmed in recognition. In comprehension of—opportunity.
He lacked a mouth, but the words, the plea, formed nonetheless. Oh, come. Come soon. Come NOW.
Marian had grown accustomed to living among the trees, naming the forest her hall. She had arrived at a compromise with the results of such surroundings: the damp soil that worked its way into her clothing, the stains of vegetation, the litter of crumpled leaves, the occasional thorn punctures and scratches. So long as no true hurt came of such importunities, she could suffer them in silence, except when a broken thorn stuck fast beneath her flesh, in which case someone—usually Robin, or Much with his quick, deft hands—dug it out for her.
She had, three years before, cast off the binding skirts of a lady’s embroidered chemises and went now clothed more like a man, in heavy woven hosen, tunic, and boots. Over it all she wore a surcoat belted around her hips, the sleeveless, open-sided length of cloth invented on Crusade to beat back the blow of the Holy Land’s sun on metal armor. But hers was not made of fine cloth with the red cross of Crusade on her breast or shoulder; hers was leather, cut to her size, and offered more maidenly modesty than hosen and tunic alone.
Though, at that, Marian smiled. She was no more a maiden, being too often titled whore despite the fact she and Robin had married a few years earlier. And her modesty had been shed years before in the oratory.
But the part of living as an outlaw among the trees and deadfall that she most detested was packing to move the camp. They had all taken to heart the lessons learned of keeping safe from the men who would capture them. They claimed no true home except what they made for a day or a night, though occasionally they settled some few days longer in a place deemed safe; no tables, no stools, save for the trunks of fallen trees, a tumble of moss-laden stone. But there were such things as iron pots, a tripod for the fire, bowls, mugs, bedding. Not to mention the swords, the staffs, the knives, and the invaluable bows Robin had taught each of them to use with frightening accuracy, from Much, the simpleton boy, and the giant, Little John, to Will Scarlet and the minstrel Alan of the Dales; even poor Brother Tuck, preferring to trust to God rather than to the bow, learned it nonetheless. An English longbow, Robin had explained, was a more powerful weapon even than a Norman crossbow with its deadly quarrels, for a cloth-yard arrow could punch through armor from long distances, with the archer well-shielded behind trees and brush.
Marian had cause to know. She had herself learned how to use a bow years before, but now knew also how to fletch the shafts with goose feathers, to tie on and seal the deadly iron broadheads with sinew and glue. A few of the sheriff’s men had been wounded by her arrows, by the accuracy of her aim that might have, could have, killed them, had she chosen to do so. One day, she knew, she would choose, would be brought to the choice. She did not wish to make it. But so long as such men as the sheriff set upon them desired the lives of men she cared for, Marian would not shirk the task of preserving those lives at the cost of their own.
Now Robin came back from the High Road linking Nottingham to Lincoln, a byway that afforded them opportunity to improve the lot of the poor while inconveniencing the lords and wealthy merchants who protested the loss of coin and ornamentation. He slipped through the trees and foliage as if born to the life, making almost no sound. When he saw what little was left to do before departure, he smiled at her in accord. They knew each other’s thoughts. Knew each other’s habits.
“Anyone coming?” Will Scarlet asked, picking idly at his teeth with a green twig. “Any rich Norman rabbits for our stewpot?”
Robin shook his head with its cascade of pale hair. “No one.”
Little John reached down for his pack. “Gives us time, then, to make some distance.”
Alan of the Dales was making certain his lute case rode easily against his shoulders. “We’ll have to take a deer once we reach the caves, or go hungry tonight.”
“And tomorrow,” Tuck put in, patting his ample belly. “No doubt I could go without, but—”
“But we dare not risk it,” Scarlet interjected, “or we’ll be hearing your complaints all night!”
Tuck was astonished. “I never complain!”
“Your belly does,” Little John clarified pointedly.
“Oh.” The monk’s expression was mortified. “Oh, dear.”
“Never mind,” Robin told him, grinning. “We’ll take our deer and feast right well.”
Marian swung her own pack up and slid her arms through the straps. It was a matter of less effort now, to arrange pack, bow, and quiver about her person without tangling anything. Outlawry and privation had trained them all.
Much, grown taller than when he had joined them but still thin and hollow-faced, doused the small fire. He could not fully hide its signs or that people had gathered around it, but his job was to make certain none of them could be identified. The sheriff’s men might find a deserted clearing, but there would be no tracks to follow, no indication of who had camped there. Sherwood housed innumerable outlaws. Not every fire, nor every campsite, hosted Robin Hood and his band.
Robin’s hand fell on Much’s shoulder, thanking him in silence. Next he glanced at Marian. She nodded, drawing in a breath. Then they turned as one to the trees and stepped into the shadows, fading away as if their bodies were wrought of air and light, not formed of flesh and bone. In such meager human sorcery lay survival.
He sensed impatience, emotions that had been dead to him for days, years, decades. He sensed urgency and yearning; he tasted the promise of power, the ability once again to make a difference in the world.
br /> Kingmaker. Widowmaker. Reviled, and beloved. But he knew only one path. Impediments upon it were to be overcome.
Hurry, he wished.
He wished it very hard.
The outcry echoed in the trees. Robin spun around, gesturing sharply to the others strung out behind him on the deer track. Even as all of them dove into foliage, separating to make more difficult targets, a second cry rang out, a different voice now, followed by shouts in Norman French. He held his breath, listening; now it was possible to also hear the threshing of men running through the forest and the louder crashing of horses in pursuit.
Robin, grimacing as he dropped flat behind a downed tree, swore in silence. Poachers, likely, or even known outlaws, had been spotted by one of the sheriff’s patrols. It was sheer bad luck that those pursued were heading straight toward him and his party.
He raised his head slightly and searched over his shoulder. Save for the last fading movement of stilling branches and waving, hip-high fern, there was no hint that a woman and six men were hidden close by. He wished he could see Marian, but if she were invisible to him, neither could the Norman soldiers see her.
More crashing through underbrush. Now he could hear panting, and wheezing, and the blurted, broken prayers of a man who would do better to hoard his breath. Not far away another man cried out, and then a triumphant shout went up from the soldiers.
Underbrush broke apart in front of Robin. The second outlaw was abruptly there, his arms outstretched, his batting hands attempting to open an escape route through hanging vines and low, sweeping branches. Robin briefly saw the scratched, agonized face, the staring eyes, the open mouth. And then the man teetered atop the very trunk Locksley took shelter behind.
Growling oaths behind gritted teeth, Robin reared up, grabbed the man’s tunic, and yanked him off the tree. The outlaw came down hard and loose, limbs splayed; a knee caught Robin in the side of the head hard enough to double his vision.
“Stay down!” he hissed, as the man lay sprawled belly-down on the ground, sobbing in fear and exhaustion.
A soldier on horseback broke through, blue cloak flapping. He wore the traditional conical Norman helm with its steel nasal bisecting his dark face. Robin ducked as the horse gathered itself and sailed over the tree—sailed, too, over two men seeking protection in its meager shelter.
Robin turned on his knees, shouting a warning to the others. More soldiers were crashing before him now, spreading out. The Norman who had jumped the log was calling to his fellows in French, wheeling his horse even as he raised an already spanned crossbow, quarrel resting in its channel. But Robin had had more time; his own arrow was loosed, flying, and took the soldier through the throat.
Now he focused on another—how many are there?—as he deftly nocked a second arrow. So many—there was no time to think, to plan. Only to react.
He stood. Pulled the bowstring back to his chin. Sighted and let fly.
The Norman flew backward off his horse as if a trebuchet stone had struck him in the chest.
But others had broken through. They had spotted other game now, shouting positions to one another. Even as Robin nocked a third arrow, someone clutched at him. “Don’t let them catch me!” the rescued man cried. “They’ll cut me ’and off!”
His aim spoiled, the arrow went wide. Cursing, Robin caught a glimpse of flared equine nostrils, the gape of equine mouth, and the flash of a sword blade swinging down at his head.
“Get off—” he blurted, diving for the ground.
But the blade sheared through hair and flesh, and the sharpened tip slid across his skull.
Marian was well-hidden until Robin’s arrow took the first soldier through the throat. The Norman tumbled limply off his mount, but one booted foot caught in the stirrup long enough to spook the horse, who responded with great lunging leaps sideways. Marian, directly in the animal’s path, attempted to scramble out of the way. But the panicked horse wheeled around, and the body, coming loose at last, was swung out sideways in a wide arc.
The impact of the mailed body colliding with her own knocked Marian off her feet. She was aware of weight, disorientation, her own startled outcry—and then she went down hard against the ground, sprawled on her back, pinned by the weight of the soldier.
She had heard the term “dead weight” before. She had not truly known what it implied. Now she did.
Breath was gone. She gulped air as fear crowded close. She could not breathe—
Panicked, she shoved at the body, trying to dislodge it. Her struggles did nothing but waste what little breath remained in her lungs.
A dead man could not kill her.
The thought stilled her, calmed her, permitted her to draw a normal breath again. Air came in with relief, and then she became aware of more than the soldier’s weight, of his stench. Bladder and bowels.
Blood. Blood in her mouth, running into her throat. She choked, coughed, felt the spray leave her mouth. She turned her head and spat, not knowing if it were dead man’s blood or her own.
The body muffled sound, but she heard shouting. And then abruptly the terrible weight was lifted, dragged aside. Someone was grunting with effort.
“Lady…Lady Marian—” Tuck. His hands grasped one of her arms, dragged her up from the ground. “They’re distracted—you must go now!”
She was dizzy, blinking at him woozily as she put a hand to her mouth. Blood filled it again.
“You’re swifter than I,” Tuck wheezed. “You must go on. Take Robin and go!”
That got through. “Robin?”
“Injured.” Tuck yanked her to her feet. “Can you stand? Good. Here…” He pulled her to a downed tree. She saw Robin then, slumped against the tree as blood sheeted down the side of his face. “Go, both of you.” Tuck pushed her. “The others are leading them away. Waste no time. ’Tis Robin they want more than any of us.”
She knelt beside Robin. He was conscious but clearly in pain. She put a hand to his face and realized they both bled badly.
“Up,” Tuck insisted. He helped Marian back to her feet, then pulled Robin from the ground. “Go on. Get as far as you can.”
“Caves,” Robin said between gritted teeth, weaving in place.
Tuck nodded. “We shall meet you there when we can.”
Marian spat blood again. Hers, she realized, not the dead man’s. She had cut her mouth. “Can you walk?” she asked Robin.
Through the blood, he managed a twisted smile. “Given a choice between that or hanging?” He closed her hand in his own. “Say rather I can run.”
Robin pulled her over the fallen tree, and then both of them were running.
Awareness encompassed more than he had expected ever to sense again, to know, to feel. It was nearly tangible now, coming closer, closer. If hands were his to use, he could nearly touch redemption. Nearly know release.
Come—
Robin’s lungs were afire, but even that pain did not match the pounding in his head. His right hand clutched Marian’s left; otherwise, he would have pressed it against his temple in a fruitless attempt to dull the pain. To halt the blood.
Head wounds. He had learned on Crusade how badly head wounds bled, even if they were not serious. And he believed his was not; the pain was immense, but no worse than anything he had felt before. He remained conscious and on his feet, albeit those feet were clumsy.
Marian’s breathing matched his, ragged and whistling. Together they stumbled through the foliage, attempting to put distance between them and the Normans. Tuck had done them a huge service, Robin knew; it was possible he and the others were captured by now, some of them even killed. But the monk had gotten them away from such danger, and if they were careful they might yet be worthy of his sacrifice. He did not know where they went, merely that they ran. They left behind the deer trail and fought to make a new one, raking aside with outstretched hands impediments such as vine and undergrowth.
“Wait—” It was barely the breath of a sound expelled from her bloodie
d mouth. “Stop—”
He halted, catching a hanging vine to hold himself upright. Marian released his hand and bent over, sucking air noisily. Her long black braid was disheveled, strands pulled loose by branches as they ran. A bruise was rising on her face, blotching one cheekbone. She wiped her mouth free of blood, studied the slick hand dispassionately, then looked at Robin, still panting.
“—head?” she asked.
“Attached.” It was all he could manage, clinging to the vine.
Marian nodded vaguely, attempting a smile. She straightened, then turned and staggered toward a great old oak, roots thick as a man’s thigh where they broke free of the soil in a tangle akin to Celtic knotwork. She drooped against the trunk, pressing her forehead into bark.
Robin loosed his grip on the vine and made his way across to her, wincing against the renewed pain in his head. With care he avoided tripping over the oak roots, but when he reached the trunk he nearly fell. He caught himself with one outstretched arm, then turned and set his spine against the trunk, sliding down until he sat on the ground, cradled between two twisted roots.
With gentle fingers he explored the side of his head. Fortunately the sword blade’s motion had mostly been spent. It had sliced into the flesh above his right ear, but had not cracked the skull beneath. That skull would no doubt house an abominable headache for a day or two, but he was mostly undamaged.
Robin shifted his position to a more comfortable one. Breath came more easily now. Marian’s surcoat swung as she turned; then, like him, she sat down amidst the roots. She looked aside, spat blood, then blotted her mouth against her tunic sleeve.
She studied the soiled sleeve critically. “Stopping, I think.”
Robin stretched out his arm, slung it wearily across her shoulders, and pulled her close. “I think we are out of danger.” He paused. “For now.”