Maid Marian (10 page)

When he had finished, Robin Hood strode back to where I sat and threw himself down on the grass. He grinned like a hound who has just retrieved its first bird, touching upon the ecstatic joy it finds in being such a hound. Robin Hood shone with pleasure, with pride, with shooting as well as he knew he could—with, in that sense, the pure wonder at being a man.

He reclined on his elbows and stretched his legs out before him, but he would not be still. He rolled on one arm to look at me, then back to see what his men were doing, then away toward his quill-stuck target. A less discerning observer might have called him impatient, but I thought I knew better. He was happy, or better, he was delighted. It must have some continuance, some expression in his very posture.

“Indeed, Robin Hood,” I said, thinking I might humor him, “you are as good a shot as the legends say. How did you come by such a skill?”

“Oh,” he said, smiling brightly, his cheeks warmed from his sport, “I have practiced with bows since I was a lad. ’Tis a simple game when there is no wind, is that not so, my merry friends?”

The men nearby him cheered and laughed, clearly pleased to see their leader outshoot them all. I wondered then at this strange dynamic of three score men living in the forest, dependent on one for their plans and survival. Robin Hood kept them safe from the law, and in return they did his bidding and seemed quite happy to do so. I wondered how it would be to be outlawed, to never perhaps visit home again, to never go forth without disguise. It seemed to me that the revels in this camp were made all the brighter by the bleakness of an outlaw’s situation. To be wanted by the king could mean an end to life, but these few had found a respite, a reprieve, and they enjoyed these hours of freedom with every smile and laugh they could muster.

In another moment Robin Hood leapt to his feet to check on the meal and fetch some water, and I watched him make his way through the crowd, greeting his men and passing jests to any who left themselves open to teasing. Little John, I had noticed, often took the brunt of his wit, but he bore the words with a shy smile and did not seem offended by his friend.

When the meat was finished, Robin Hood returned, calmer and in a more restful mood. We dined together, and as we ate he pressed me on my future plans, making me ashamed to admit that I had few plans to share.

“Do you think you will wed this Sir Stephen, as the queen decrees?”

“I do not see that I have much choice, unless some catastrophe should strike and save me at the final hour.”

“You could run, or better yet, now that you are away you could simply not return.”

I had thought on that and was sorely tempted, but my fear of the king’s troops was too great. “I would be caught, I fear, if I were to hide here as you do. The arts of disguise, I think, are not among my skills.”

“And so you shall marry him?”

“I do not know. I can see few other options before me. If I wed Stephen I lose my freedom and my lands; if I hide away I lose only freedom. Perhaps I may flee if I have the nerve.”

“But why return at all if you think you may decide later to flee?”

“If I do not return to Warwick, Lord William will send his men to hunt me. If I remain here, I hate to think what could become of you and your men when I am found out. And too, I cannot help but believe I may devise some plan yet that will make the queen forget about me, now and forever. Some scheme may still save me, and until I have had the time to think all these factors out, I will not go into hiding and make myself the queen’s enemy. If she thinks I am obedient, I have better odds of deceiving her later.”

“Aye, that is certainly true. Once you are marked as the king’s enemy or the queen’s, many a door is closed to you. ’Tis a pity, though.”

“Why is that, pray?”

“Your Norman men know little of how to please a lady, this I’ve observed in my day. And a Norman boy!” He shook his head, but I saw that he glanced sidelong at me. “You deserve a hale fellow, Lady Marian, one who will tame your vixen ways.”

“Tame me!”

“Nay, nay, I’ve misspoken. ’Twould be a shame to lessen your fire by one degree. Nay, you’ve need of a robust fellow, a right hearty lad who will take you firmly onto his knee and keep you there till you sing with delight. You’ve need of a Saxon, mark my words. You’ll find no match among your own sort.”

I opened my mouth to retort, to claim that my father had been a Norman or perhaps to express my shy admiration of Lord William. But a second’s thought made me fall silent, for in truth I could think of no Norman man who’d caught my fancy the way this woodland rogue had done. This perplexed me beyond all measure, and I could not speak for some minutes, so stunned was I by his brash manner.

We sat in silence after that, each mired deep in private thoughts. A sack of new ale came round, and we both drank. Then, as a habit, I loosened a few drops onto the ground. Robin Hood saw me do it.

“’Tis a strange Saxon custom for you to observe, Mistress Lucy.”

“What is? Oh, the little libation. Annie has taught me well, don’t you think?” I smiled and reddened, though I knew not why. “I suppose you might say ’tis my gift to the mother or to Diana—whatever name she goes by here.”

“We called her Dame Hilda in my youth, but you may use your Latin names if you prefer. There is no shame in the old religions.”

“Well, I do not think our rector would agree with you. He speaks at length against paganism and the evils of pantheistic thought.”

“And yet you spill your drops regardless?”

I laughed. “Aye, that I do. I do not like to be told by others what is right and what is wrong.”

“Perhaps I have been mistaken, Lady Marian, in thinking you are such a Norman. You seem quite Saxon underneath.”

“Or perhaps,” I said, in retort, “I am just as much of a Norman as ever, and ’tis the Normans themselves you have underestimated.”

Chapter Nine

I
HAD BEEN ASHAMED
to tell Robin Hood that I had no plan for saving myself, for what fool returns to the lion’s cage without ropes and pry bars for her escape? But I had one idea. In all my thinking, my mind had hit upon one truth time and again. It came from the tale of Pyramus, who, thinking his lady Thisbe dead, took his own life for sorrow. ’Twas a bloody veil and rent cloths that made him consider the false to be true—this delusion held me fixated, for it seemed to contain the whole of my salvation. If I could somehow weave the illusion of my own death I might free myself not only from the threat of this marriage, but from all future weddings the queen might plan. The idea was drastic, and my heart recoiled from the very thought, but it was the only way I had discovered to regain my sad life to my own control.

Through less extreme measures I might, surely, escape from this marriage, but what would that gain me? If I did not marry Stephen, I would be sent next to wed William or Jack or Miles. I could see there would be no end to it, for the king must have his funds and must use me to increase his influence in this country. I should speak, rather, of the desires of the queen, for while Richard crusaded under the holy white cross in Palestine, she ruled his lands in his stead.

Given this reality, how could I not consider the most radical plan? It meant the sure loss of Denby-upon-Trent, for a woman widely supposed to be dead could not attempt any claim on property. But somehow my lands, which once seemed the only thing I owned of value, had become worthless when I placed them alongside a life of tedium in Sencaster. My journey to Sherwood had made it plain that I was suited to a life of action, of fresh air and novelty, not the stilted warmth of Lady Pernelle’s fire. Now that I had faced her treachery, how could I, in faith, condemn myself to do her bidding all of my days, as an honorable daughter must rightly do?

Nay, I could not, and if this stance meant the loss of my lands, that was a fate I would have to endure. For what use were lands if I could not live in them and manage them for myself? I now saw that, dear as it was, Denby and its delights were shackles as well, making me a pawn in the queen’s great game. Without it I was freed from playing.

But the problem remained of staging this theatrical death, and for that I held a whispered conference with Annie late at night as we lay on our skins in the woodland bower.

“Annie,” I hissed at her dozing face. “Annie, wake up! I must speak with you.”

She yawned and nodded with the sluggishness of a human body long deserted by its dreaming mind. “Speak as ye will, Lady Marian, and”—she paused a moment to yawn audibly—“I will listen.”

“Do you recall telling me, when I was young, of old Dame Selga who lived in the great wood near Wodesley village? The woman who brewed potions of love for your friend Mildred and helped Dick the Smith place a charm on his fields so earth that had been sterile and barren began to produce?”

“Sure, I know of Dame Selga. You know how I told you I once saw her house when I went with Polly, fetching wood from the forest.”

“Good, yes, I remember. Annie, I wish you to take me to her when we leave this wood tomorrow. Will you do it?”

With a jerk and twitch Annie was fully awake, propped on one elbow, giving me a sharp look.

“Why should ye wish to see Dame Selga? What would ye want with an old woman such as her?”

“I would speak with her, if I may. ’Tis important, Annie.”

“Has this to do with the letter you read today of the queen? Has it to do with your being sent to marry young Sir Stephen?”

“Yes, it does, of course it does. She may be able to help me, may give some good advice. And I think, Annie, you had best help me too, for have you thought on what will happen if that marriage comes off?”

“Nay—what do you mean?”

“Only this: that once wed, I will be taken to Sencaster, not left in Warwick Castle as I was before. You know this, for I am of age now and should be living in my husband’s court. And if I go, do you think Lady Pernelle will allow you to go there with me? She might at first, as a kind of gift to her new daughter, but you know she would not keep you long. She keeps no servants from outside her own estates, you know that, ’tis a point of pride she never fails to express. And if that happens, what will you do, Annie? I’ll be in no power to help you, not as bride to young Stephen.”

I heard her gasp throughout this speech, and though it pained me to paint this picture of sorrow to her, I felt it necessary. She could not go blindly home, attend me happily in this marriage, not knowing it would alter her life as much as mine. As painful as it was to open her eyes to the harsh light of day, I felt obliged to do it.

“I had not considered it,” she said at last, laying her head back down. “Oh, Lady Marian, at times this seems a wretched life.”

“Indeed it does, Annie, indeed it does.”

We were both quiet, each spinning her skein’s worth of thoughts in the dark, until she spoke at last.

“I will take ye to Dame Selga, if that is where ye wish to go.”

“Thank you, my friend,” I said, reaching out to press her hand. “Thank you.”

A
HOST OF FELLOWS
came to bid Annie good-bye the next morning, standing about to hold her horse’s bridle or tie bundles behind her saddle. Robin Hood came to wish me well, catching my hand in his in something between a handshake and a squeeze. In this morning light, with a cool breeze brushing against my cheeks, my heart soared and opened, felt larger than its mortal cage. I would miss him, I thought, watching his blue eyes as they watched mine. Something in his laughing way awakened a depth in me, an awe, and I had to turn my face away to cover emotions I did not understand.

“As your kin might say, adieu, Lady Marian.”

I turned and caught his smile and felt my own face lift in response. I thought of his “Miss Lucy” and the pleased look on his face when he had shot well the night before, and I grinned with all the joy in my heart. I clucked to my mare and we started forward, walking away from the most generous outlaw I ever expected to meet.

Annie and I rode slowly through the forest, scarcely noticing the birds and their love songs, so lost were we in our own cloudy thoughts. The day seemed to echo our disposition, for thin sheets of fog swirled about our skirts, making the road bright and damp with mud. But at every turn Annie faithfully steered us to the southwest, toward Dame Selga and her forest cottage.

I had already determined that we could safely stop at an inn that night, though I do not know what part my memories of the Wodesley ceiling rats played in my rational weighing of consequences. I am sure it was great. But even, I argued to myself, were we to be caught at an inn near Sherwood, miles from Denby, it would not be such a crime. We had clearly left our guards behind, flying forth in search of adventure—that was to be our explanation when we returned to the world of rules and dependence. So I had planned that we had time to visit Dame Selga, then ride to Warwickshire to sleep the night in the Dog and Partridge, an inn we had spotted on our way.

The morning passed smoothly into day, as it often does in June, and we grew close to the wise woman’s cottage, a dwelling half-buried by a thick ring of forest. The wood in which her cottage lay was crossed by two paths that ran at cross purposes to one another. Dame Selga, as one might expect, lived at the meeting place of these two paths.

Annie grew nervous as we approached, reverting to her girlhood fears of fairies and goblins and man-eating beasts. I too had been raised on tales of Dame Selga and her mysterious dark powers. But I struggled to calm my heart and keep my wits sharp about me by commanding them to observe carefully all that passed in the wood around us.

I noticed, through this attentive state, a change in the forest as we neared, for dark though the canopy made the land, plants and flowers twined together here with an unexpected burst of verdure. Exotic vines climbed English oaks and twisted together with ivy and mistletoe. Blooms in brilliant red and gold shared earth with flags and forget-me-nots. Strange birdcalls floated to my ears, and though it was neither cold nor dark, I shivered deep inside my cloak.

Presently we entered a clearing, and in it stood Dame Selga’s cottage, small and neat. Wisps of smoke curled from the lone window, hinting that someone was at home, so I turned to Annie and whispered loud, “Call to her, won’t you?”

Annie looked pale as linen, but she raised her voice to call out “Dame Selga! Dame Selga!” a time or two. Her calls were answered by a leggy hound who dashed out to inspect our horses and smell our boots. We passed his test, it seemed, for he proved friendly, knocking his head beneath Annie’s hand for a pat or two. While she obliged him and we dismounted, I saw an old woman in a wool smock and black apron come forth from the house, making her way with slow easy steps in our direction.

Leading my horse, I approached her also, for it seemed to me that most of her visitors must shy away, and she might be pleased by a change in attitude. When she reached hearing distance I called to her.

“We are sorry to trouble you, Dame Selga, but I come in hope of your advice.”

She said nothing but hobbled on, never pausing until she stood a young tree’s breadth away from me. She was small, shrunken even, for her head did not rise above my shoulders, but her face was pleasantly soft and wide, and I relaxed upon meeting her eyes. We had nothing to fear from her, of this I was instantly certain.

She grasped my hand, but instead of shaking it, she rolled it over and spread it flat, brushing the palm with three of her fingers. I held quite still, feeling almost that she was a bird I wished to observe and would not frighten away with breathing if I could help it.

At last she spoke, and I realized then that it was her voice that had terrorized the children of Annie’s village and brought them to nightmares in the dark. Her tone somehow ranged between a shrill cry and gravelly coarseness, possibly the result of smoking the pipe I saw peeking forth from her apron pocket.

“Welcome, daughters, welcome.” She walked to Annie, who nearly twitched from fear, and, brushing her palm as she had mine, Dame Selga said, “Ye come not both of ye for my advice, is it right or is it wrong?”

Annie began to stammer silently, but I spoke as clearly as I could. “It is right, grandmother. Only I wish to hear your advice today.”

“Then enter with me, child, and we shall see what there is to see. Ye can wait out here,” she said with a gesture to Annie, who looked, in truth, as though she might faint. I tried my best to catch her eye as I followed the old woman, but she had sunk down onto a log and was patting the dog with all her heart.

Dame Selga’s cottage was dark and smoky as Annie’s family’s had been, but this time I was prepared. She led me in with quiet ceremony and showed me to a three-legged stool, close to the fire. When I was seated she grasped my chin with her gnarled hand, tipping it up so she could look close, though, indeed, the light in the cottage was quite dim. At last she dropped my chin.

“I do not know ye,” she said heavily, seating herself on a wooden chest. “Tell me yer name.”

“I am Marian Fitzwater of Denby-upon-Trent.”

She nodded, mulling this over. “I have never been to Denby.”

“Nay,” I said, “it is many miles from here.”

She thought another moment, then turned to me, quick as a wink, her eyes sharp with intensity.

“How do ye know of me and my living here? Tell me, lass, how do ye know it?”

“The one waiting outside, Annie Bailey, was raised in Wodesley and told me of you. She brought me here when she heard of my need, as a friend only. Truly, Dame Selga, we have never spoken of you to another soul.”

This seemed to calm her, and she returned to her original posture of tranquil contemplation.

“And what do ye wish of me, Maiden Marian?”

Here we were at the difficult part. I hesitated to ask it straight, for perhaps what I sought could not be made.

“I do not know the value of what I seek, or even if it is possible—”