Hawksmaid (9 page)

1192

M
AID
M
ARIAN—THE NEW
name took some getting used to. Rather like trying to wear a new pair of shoes, a bit stiff at first. For so long she had been Matty, but now in this new life she was to be Maid Marian. She tried her best to always think of herself as such, especially since she had obtained a job in the sheriff's castle at Nottingham. Before she had left for Nottingham, a plan was worked out for sending coded messages to the boys. When hired, she would smuggle Marigold into the castle and the merlin would become her winged messenger.

Within the time Marigold had been with Marian she had proven herself to be a bird of uncanny intelligence. She had, perhaps from Moss's example, developed a patience that served her well. When Marian's father had suffered a bout of catarrh the previous winter and Meg herself was ailing, Marian had had to stay close to home to nurse them both. It had been impossible for her to go out hawking, and the food supplies had dwindled to nearly nothing. Marian had decided to try a very risky strategy for getting fresh meat. Some called it “masterless hawking” or “jessless hawking.”

Marian had let the birds go jessless before, but never when hunting. To attempt this risky tactic Marian had climbed with her merlin to the highest turret of the castle. Whispering in Marigold's ear in the peculiar language that she spoke to all her birds, she had launched the merlin onto the gusting winds to hunt. This might have seemed the same as the other hunting expeditions, but it was entirely different in that there was no prey in sight. The bird herself must search out the prey. Marian was more nervous than she had ever been in all the years she had worked with hawks. She trusted the little merlin, but things could go wrong. Marigold might not find prey, or perhaps she'd wander
far afield and become lost.

Marian waited anxiously at the top of the turret, squinting into the distance, turning to see if the merlin might appear from another direction. By the time Marigold flew in, carrying a plump rabbit in her talons, Marian felt such relief sweep through her, such joy, that she trembled after Marigold dropped the rabbit at her feet and she extended her arm for the merlin to perch on.

And so every few days after Marian began her job in the sheriff‘s castle, one of the boys went to the Fitzwalter castle to tend the hawks and look for a message brought by Marigold. There had been no messages so far.

To Lord William the boys were still just “the boys.” He knew them only as Fynn, Hubie, Will, and Rich, not by their new names of Robin, Little John, and Scarlet. Rich, of course, was still Rich.

A blasted oak in Nottingham's Sherwood Forest, several miles away from Barnsdale, became the boys' new official meeting place. An immense hollow had been carved from the trunk when it had been struck by lightning, and it afforded them a shelter as big as any cave. They found the tree hollow comfortable
and so began spending more time in it, for they found that they could make more money as outlaws than by staying home and working. The deer were very few in this part of the forest, and so the sheriff's officers rarely patrolled near this oak. From here the boys could keep an eye on things, particularly on who came and went in and out of the sheriff's castle. It was far from Nottingham to Barnsdale, but they had managed to steal a few horses and a cob pony right out from under the sheriff's nose, which made their travels easier.

Rich now came into the hollow tree straight from the Fitzwalter castle.

“Any news?” Robin jumped up.

“No.”

“It's been over a fortnight! What's she doing there?” Robin had been burning with impatience since the day Marian left.

“You have to give it time, Robin,” Little John said. “Marian will let us know when she has news.”

“Little's right. Give her time, Robin,” Rich said. “She might be stuck scrubbing floors in the scullery and have no idea where the sheriff keeps his coffers.”

Robin's face suddenly paled. “What if she's stuck in the scullery forever and can never find out anything?
Then where will we be?”

“Well, I'd say right back where we started, and we'll have to think of a new plan for how to lighten the sheriff's purse and the prince's treasury,” Scarlet said as he practiced juggling six pins.

“I can't stand it,” Robin muttered.

“Look, Robin,” Little John said. “I have great faith in our Marian. She will send a message when she has something to say. She will. I know it. And if anybody can find out anything about where there is money and silver plate in that pile of rocks, it's Marian. She is the one who led us to the gobbets, after all.”

“I've heard a bit of other news myself,” Rich said.

“What's that?” Robin asked.

“'Tis said that the Bishop of Ely is coming to Nottingham.”

“William Longchamp is coming?” Robin said, suddenly excited.

“Yes, the only good man left,” Rich said

“Then why would he be coming?” Little John asked.

“Well, he is the chancellor after all. But there are rumors that he is trying to make peace with John,” Rich said slowly.

“Oh no!” Robin groaned.

“It might not be as bad as you think,” Rich said quickly. A light sparkled in his gray-green eyes.

“I don't see how it could be any worse. The only decent man, Richard's most trusted adviser, ready to make a deal with the prince.”

Rich turned his head slowly and looked at each of them. “Don't you see? It could mean that Richard is coming home. And a peace must be brokered between him and his brother.” He paused. “And Marian is right there!”

Now all the boys' eyes sparkled. If it was true that Richard was returning at last, this news would be brighter than any gold or silver Marian could bring them.

 

Marian felt lucky that her room in the castle was high in a tower of the inner ward, for it allowed Marigold not only light but also the freedom to fly away when necessary. The first floor of the tower was used for storage. The second and third floors were for the office of the steward, a most important person of the castle. Then the top floors were divided into minuscule sleeping quarters for servants. All the floors were reached by a
single staircase built into the stone wall. Marian shared her quarters with two other girls. Hannah, a great hall girl—which meant she got to serve there at feasts—and Ellie, a scullery maid like Marian.

Hannah and Ellie found the new maid sweet, although she did ask an awful lot of questions that they could not answer. Marian had to be alert. It would not be good if the two girls discovered that she could read and write. She had made up a story about coming from East Anglia near Ely, which was far away. Thankfully neither Hannah nor Ellie seemed to think much of the presence of a bird in their quarters.

Today Marian was bent over a trough, scrubbing laundry in the courtyard. This was one of the lowliest jobs in the castle. She looked up as Hannah came rushing over.

“Marian, guess what? William Longchamp, the Bishop of Ely himself, is coming! You know they say he be one of the most powerful men in England.”

Marian instantly stopped scrubbing. Trying to conceal her surprise she slid the palm of her wet hand over her face as if wiping away perspiration. Why would William Longchamp be visiting the sheriff? Had he, too, like the Bishop of Hereford, thrown in
his lot with that miserable pawn of Prince John?

“Did you hear me, Marian?” Hannah took a step closer. “Feeling all right, dear? You look a tad peeky. I said, the Bishop of Ely is coming here.”

Now Ellie came into the yard.

“Yes, I just heard the news myself. It's to be a big feast.” Ellie set down another basket of laundry. “And you better do these table linens now so they'll dry in time. Have you ever seen him, Marian?”

“Who?” asked Marian blankly.

“The Bishop of Ely,” Ellie said impatiently. “You must have seen him, being from Ely.”

“Oh!” Marian replied quickly. “We lived outside Ely.”

“You went to church, didn't you?” Hannah said.

“Oh, yes, but not often to the cathedral, just to the little parish church, you know.”

“Well, we'll all be helping out. We need extra hands at the feast to be given in his honor,” Hannah said.

In his honor,
Marian thought. She smelled a rat. Why would the sheriff, one of the most corrupt men in England, honor one of the most
righteous
men in England, the most faithful servant of King Richard
and King Richard's mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, with a feast?

“And the prince is to be here and all,” Ellie added.

Two rats!
Marian thought, as Hannah chattered on. “It's to be a big feast in the great hall—mummers, and the prince is bringing three jesters.”

Marian's head was spinning. This, of course, was all she had hoped for—to serve at a grand feast. One did not find out where silver plate was kept by scrubbing bedsheets and the sheriff's shirts or spending endless hours in the scullery doing all the messy kitchen work, from cutting worms out of potatoes to mopping up the blood from freshly butchered cattle. But there was more at stake here than just silver. Finally, she might have something to write the boys about! She was about to step onto the chessboard—bishop against bishop, prince against a checkmated king. Her mind had been swirling so fast that she nearly didn't catch what Hannah said next. “What's that?”

“I said that the abbess wants to meet all of us who be serving at the feast.”

“Abbess? What abbess?” Marian felt her heart skip a beat. The chessboard had suddenly turned deadly.

“The sheriff's sister, the abbess of the abbey in Nottingham.”

Marian tried to speak, but no words came out.

“Marian, you look like you've seen a ghost.”

I have seen a ghost!
Marian thought. She took a deep breath and, recovering her voice, tried to look as normal as possible. “No, it's just I didn't know that the sheriff had a sister, a sister in the church. You know I'm not from around here.”

Hannah and Ellie snickered. “What's so funny?” Marian asked.

“Well, some say she is not a sister of Christ either,” Hannah whispered.

“More like a lady friend of Prince John,” Ellie added. They giggled.

“But, Hannah, why isn't planning the feast the steward's job? He's the one in charge of the great hall and all who serve there,” Marian asked. The steward was the highest ranking member of any castle's staff and was charged with supervising not only the functions of the great hall but also those of the entire estate and household. He was no mere domestic servant, but frequently a knight. Sir Montgomery, the steward at Nottingham castle, was no exception. Marian had seen
him strutting about in fine robes trimmed in fur.

Ellie replied, “The abbess likes everything just so. That's why she wants more servants. All the silver and brass has to be polished. So I heard that we are all called in to meet the abbess in the steward's chambers in the east tower within the hour.”

It is as Robin said,
Marian thought.
I am truly in the thick of it.

M
ARIAN TRIED TO PREPARE
herself to look into the void of those terrible eyes. But she was not prepared to walk into the steward's chamber and see the abbess flanked by Sir Guy of Gisborne, her mother's murderer.

On the other side of the abbess was a man dressed in bishop's robes. “Who's that?” Marian whispered to Ellie. Surely the Bishop of Ely wouldn't be present for the planning of the feast to honor him.

“The Bishop of Hereford—the very good friend of the sheriff.”

Marian felt her stomach turn. She swallowed and shut her eyes tightly against the nausea.
Steady! Steady!
she told herself.
This is precisely why you are here.
Gold and silver were suddenly secondary to what she might see and find out.

The steward had begun to address the fifty-odd servants who stood before him in the castle library when he was interrupted by the abbess. From the grim look on his face it was fairly obvious that the abbess had encroached on his domain.

“This is to be a grand feast,” she said, raising her hand and gracefully inscribing an arc in the air. Marian noticed that the abbess wore a large ring on her finger. Nothing fancy. No gemstones. But bigger than the simple gold ring that a nun received after her solemn vows signifying her marriage to Jesus Christ. “It is a feast in honor of King Richard's chancellor, the Bishop of Ely.”

The abbess kept talking. Marian tried to listen closely but she could not stand to look at her or Sir Guy.

And now the abbess was talking about the gold
platters on which the roasted swans would be served, as well as the ducks and the suckling pigs. In addition a boar and an ox were to be roasted, sliced, and served with apples. There were silver platters on which the sugar sculptures would be served, then cheeses and nuts. The best of wine was to be poured in the French gold goblets.

Marian suddenly remembered that her father had had a secret compartment in his chamber where he kept a few silver pieces and jewels. She thought of her mother's Star of Jerusalem and felt a stitch in her heart when she remembered the flare of the white rays against the blue. If only the Star of Jerusalem had been tucked away and not on a chain around her mother's neck. (Much of the Fitzwalter treasure had been hidden behind ledgers containing the castle records. If one pushed a scroll entitled
Oat Yield, 1140–1170,
the entire shelf mysteriously swung open. Perhaps this room, too, had a secret place.)

Marian began to examine the room as closely as she could from where she was standing. She scanned the innumerable shelves of books looking for titles that might not seem just right, books that might be out of place—and perhaps not be books at all, but a disguise
for a secret compartment. She read the names on the book spines.
Northumbria Tax Ledgers
,
Vassals of East Anglia
,
Collections of the Exchequer of Westminster
. The titles held little meaning beyond showing that they were helpful tools for robbing the people. But then one title caught her eye.
St. Basil's Book of Prayer
.
Prayers and taxes! Not like bread and butter,
Marian thought.

“Come on, Marian.” She felt Hannah pull her arm. “You're in some dreamworld. We are to step forward and receive the bishop's blessing.”

One by one the servants were quickly kneeling and kissing the bishop's hand as he made the sign of the cross over their heads.

As Marian waited, a plump man dressed in the rough brown fabric came up to her side.

“Are you a bibliophile, mademoiselle?” He spoke with a slight French accent.

“A w-what?” Marian stammered.

“I noticed you perusing the sheriff's library.”

Marian had a sudden sinking feeling. Why had she not been more careful? She looked at him shyly and, affecting her best rustic accent, said, “Oh sir, I never seen books before. I don't know me letters. Can't read but barely my name.”

“Really, my dear?” He bent forward slightly, and Marian took a step backward.

“Yes, sir, really. I be a scullery maid.” He looked down at her hands that, although rough, did not look anything close to the ruddy, coarse, and calloused hands of Ellie, who had spent most of her life scrubbing in noblemen's castles.

Please, dear Lord, do not let me be found out. Please Lord.

“And what is your name child?”

“Marian, sir.”

“Well, I am Frere Tuck, or Friar Tuck, as you say in English. I'm an old acquaintance of Prince John's mother.”

“Queen Eleanor?”

“Yes, my dear. But now I serve here in the chapel of Nottingham castle.”

“Oh” was all that Marian could think to say.

“Ah!” He nodded toward the Bishop of Hereford. It was her turn to kneel. Marian sank to her knees and was about to kiss the bishop's hand when her eyes opened in horror. Yes, there was a ring—a bishop's ring with its purple amethyst set in gold, symbolic of the bishop's vows of fidelity to the church, but on
the little finger of the same hand there was a blazing jewel that put the dusty violet of the bishop's stone to shame. In the very center of the ring was the Star of Jerusalem.

Marian closed her eyes and saw the blood dropping from the chain in the hand of Gisborne. Everything from that horrible day rushed back. The drops of blood from her mother's throat, the pounding of the stones against the old mews tower, the frantic screeches of the birds, her father's anguished sob: “My wife murdered, and now my hawks. What next? My king? Where is my king?” Marian felt her cheek hit the floor. But her last thought before she lost consciousness was
Today is my birthday, my fourteenth birthday!

“She's fainted…. She's fainted.” The sound seemed to come from somewhere far away.

Someone was patting her face with a wet cloth. She did not want to open her eyes. “She'll be fine…fine.” It was the soft, accented voice of the friar. She looked up. His large face was leaning over hers.

“I thought she looked kind of peaky out in the courtyard,” Hannah was saying.

“I'm—I'm fine. Don't worry,” Marian said.

“Now what's your name, child?” the friar asked.

“Mat—Marian. Marian Greenleaf.”

“Well, Marian Greenleaf, I think a sip of this might prove restorative.”

He took a flask out from a pouch in the folds of his robe, uncorked it, and put it to her lips. She took a tiny sip. It burned her throat, but it did revive her. “She'll be right as rain,” the friar said.

“Oh, yes, I do want to serve at the feast,” Marian replied.

“Of course you do, my dear. Such a festive occasion it will be. The Bishop of Ely coming…” Then, under his breath, “Can King Richard be far behind?”