Maid Marian (16 page)

I
STRODE OFF
with Robin the following day with a song in my heart, for the sun was high and the grass was green, and for once I felt I needed no more than those simple things to be content. Just outside his clearing, Robin felled a stiff blackthorn limb for me to use as a staff, while I stood in the sun and watched him work. Soon enough he brought it to me, and I took the long limb in my hands, startled at its uneven weight.

“You’ll have to adjust your hands to balance it,” he said, hoisting his own cudgel into the air. He then explained how every inch of the staff was part of the weapon, excepting the places where my hands gripped the wood. “You can do great damage to a man by knocking his hands where he holds the bar, but take care never to let it happen to you, or you’ll soon be done for.”

We tried a few beginning knocks, to give me the feel for wood against wood, and as we worked my hopes took flight, then faltered and crashed, dead on the ground. This would not be the easy sport I had envisioned, for every time the cudgels met, my hands recoiled from the sharp sting. Soon my arms ached from holding my staff, and my eyes burned dry from moving too fast. I begged for a rest and stood a moment, breathing hard, then I hoisted my staff a second time and took some more practice knocks.

Before long I had learned the basic blows, and Robin began to add footwork to our exercise. He had me step with a lunge each time I pushed my cudgel in to strike, taking advantage of my slight weight to throw what I had into the blow. This went well, and I was pleased until my skirts wrapped round my legs, and I tripped, stumbled, flailed about. I fell hard, and my own stick fell upon me, causing tears to spring to my eyes.

“Are you well, Marian?” Robin asked, offering his hand. I seized it and stood, but as I did so I wavered and reached to steady myself against his arm. “Stay a moment, you’ve had a hard knock,” he murmured, gripping my arms so I could not sway.

My heart was beating fast and hard, the result, I thought, of my fall. I held my breath and looked to his face, surprised to see it bent near mine. His mouth looked inviting, and I held quite still as he leaned closer, ever closer, until at last his lips brushed mine. For a moment the world grew warm and heady, and a sensation akin to drunkenness flitted about on my palms and neck. I could smell his sweat mixed with the tartness of crushed grass and of buckthorn leaves. Neither of us issued a breath, each frightened, I imagine, of scaring the other off, until a loud splashing in the river nearby startled us both, and we breathed again. Robin turned, releasing me, and I followed his gaze to the stream where Little John dunked and splashed in the clear water.

“Lord! Little John, you son of an ass! A murrain take thee!” Robin shouted, full of anger, then dropped his voice to an irate mumble. “I told him not to come by here, and what has he done? Just that, the bastard.”

Robin paced off to curse at his friend, and I took my cudgel and made for camp, glad to slip like a little raven through the trees, far from their anger.

Chapter Fourteen

F
ROM THAT DAY ON
I rejoiced to see that my fog had lifted, though into its place rolled storm clouds wrapped around fine weather, a mess of friendships, emotions, and attitudes. Robin and Little John were up and down, friends today and foes tomorrow. Little John’s behavior in the stream had been just the start; soon after comments and vague slights puffed into larger quarrels between them. And the angrier Robin Hood became, the more Little John seemed to hate me, perhaps because I was the newest addition to the band and as such was the one to take the brunt.

Robin and I were never alone, for the men liked to have him near, like a totem—the sight of him seemed to put them at ease. In my heart I blamed Little John, imagining that he roused them to want their leader always close, or incited them to draw him near their sport, into their talk and away from me. It may have been that they drew him off with motives as innocent as lambs in springtime. But from my vantage it seemed mean and jealous.

The days stormed on in this turbulent state, and at times I felt that the only stable things about me were my needle and cloth, for they never changed form except on my command. At times I knew not what to do, nor where to turn, but to my stitching. My cudgel too became a solace, for I took it with me to the clearing each day and practiced my knocks without a partner, sometimes beating against a dead tree to toughen my hands and arms to fighting. I laced two strips of soft leather about my pole to use as grips, and this did something to protect my palms and keep blisters from heeding my progress.

When the mood of the camp became thin as the pasty crust that falls to shreds, such that I thought I might jump from my skin, a wondrous thing passed. David of Doncaster and Lawrence Ganniel, now my good friend on account of the well-tailored tunic he wore, were sent one day toward Nottingham town to watch the southern roads to the forest. They returned early, a sure sign that they had come across something worthwhile, but they cannot have known how wonderful their seizure was to lonely me.

For it was Annie they led and Clym o’ the Tower, recently come from Warwick Castle on my request. Oh, how I cried out with joy at her face, and how she exclaimed over me as well! Our words fell out in a rush of French, landing pell-mell, each on the other. Annie told me raggedly how she’d feared, oh so greatly, that I had killed myself when I disappeared on my wedding day, flung myself into some raging river. Indeed, even now she wept over me as though I had truly died, and nothing less than my full explanation would settle her nerves and soothe her sorrow.

So I related how I’d come away, saved by Robin at the final hour, and how we had walked in disguise to Sherwood. She thought the story was a jolly one and laughed throughout, especially as she pictured me tripping over mud in the long friar’s robes.

It was such relief to both of us to see each other again that we did nothing but talk for hours, each telling and retelling her own tale in greater detail, expressing her fright in superlative fashion. Annie told me with fluttering hands of the chaos that had enveloped the castle when it was known that I was gone. Lady Pernelle, she said, had screamed and been taken to her room in a fit of frenzy. Young Sir Stephen had not taken things ill, but had ridden out that very day on a hunt, not the least bothered by the absence of his bride. Guards and soldiers had been sent forth, but when they returned without news or word, Lord William had declared what Annie feared, that I must have taken my own life and therefore would be sought no more.

Word had been sent at once to the queen, and just as Clym arrived at Warwick, so too did parchment with Eleanor’s seal. She declared me undeserving of the gifts of this life, too wicked and worthless to merit such a husband and mother-in-law as she had ordained for me. I was wasted in God’s eyes, she had written, so reckless was I in my zeal to die.

This, of course, was the gravest of crimes, for to welcome death before taking sacraments was a solid crime against God. Annie said she had wept for days thinking of my soul writhing in hell, and nothing more than Clym’s honest report of my safety could shake her from the gruesome thought. She told me Clym had been forced to tell the self-same tale three times over before she could even comprehend, and here Clym came forward to agree, laughing at what a state she’d been in.

Annie was welcomed by one and all, for the men remembered her winning ways, and Robin was glad for my sake to see her, knowing what anguish I’d felt over her. I put her at night in my corner bed, hidden within Ellen’s bower, and we spent the dark hours reviewing our fates and discussing our new life among the outlaws.

W
HAT A DIFFERENCE
my friend’s presence made to life in the camp! Now my days of sewing flew by, made light by our constant French prattle. Annie, accustomed as she was to farmwork, proved able to handle any task Little John proposed to her. Soon she taught me to tend the fire, a bit of cooking, and preserving meat. She even proposed brewing up soap from ashes and lard, seeing the camp had none about, and began her work with capable hands. Oh, thanks be to Annie, soon soap would be had!

But more important than her practical help was the outlet she allowed for my thoughts, for I could tell her anything and she would hear it, used as she was to my odd turns of mind. I told her of my distress at having no path to follow through the mist of life, and she nodded her head and pleaded patience. Then I spoke of how I longed for Warwick in the dark of night, and she smiled and said I must take my lot without a grumble. But most of all I spoke to her of the personalities of the outlaw band—a thing I could not discuss with Robin—for several of them had puzzled me, Little John far above the rest.

I caught her one day as she sat by the river gutting the trout that lay caught in the trap. She wished to teach me how to do it, and we set to with knives and fingers. As I watched the scales fly off the fish back onto my arms and into my hair, I introduced a topic that might take my mind from what I did.

“Have you not noticed, Annie, an odd thing among some of the men here? ’Tisn’t true of the main of them, not of Lawrence or Adam or even Robin, but some have a strange way of fixing their eyes upon my bodice when they ought to meet my face.”

Annie chuckled and flicked a fish scale in my direction. “Oh, aye, we had the sort in Wodesley too. To them you’re naught but a drink of sweet cream—no head, no limbs, just a pair of teats ripe for the milking.” She gave me a broad wink. “You wouldn’t know, for your life’s been so small in Warwick Castle, but men are a confounding lot. They place a vast weight on kisses and trifles, and think not at all on great troubling things.”

“You seem to understand them well enough,” I said.

“’Tis the blessing of experience,” she said with a nod. “I’ve had a da and two brothers—may their souls be resting on the streets of heaven. And I had fair friends among the Wodesley lads.”

“Then can you tell me, Annie,” I said, wrinkling my nose to avoid the fish scent, “why Little John dislikes me so?”

Annie looked startled. “Does he now?”

“Indeed, he does! He never has a kind word for me and always seeks to draw Robin off when we two are talking together.”

“And you’ve no thoughts of why it might be so?”

“I’ve no idea! I’ve tried my best to be kind to him, but he seems set against me. Some of his words have been downright vile.”

Annie bit her lip a moment. “I daresay, Marian, for all your sharp wits, sometimes you do miss the very porridge that’s been set right before you. Are you telling me you do not know why he should behave this way?”

“No! Truly, Annie, if you’ve got him parsed, I beg of you, tell me what you know.”

“Oh, I know nothing, but I can suppose well enough to see the truth. Marian, tell me, what do you think this camp was like before you came? What do you think they did of an evening?”

“Sat and talked, I suppose. Heard Allan a Dale sing and held mock fights and such—as they do now.”

“And who do you suppose sat with Robin Hood and heard his stories as you do?”

“I don’t know. Little John, perhaps, or Will Scarlet.”

“And who do you think he jested with and told his troubles to?”

I shrugged. “Little John? He is his right-hand man.”

Annie placed her hands on her hips and gave me one of the looks that told me I was being obtuse. “So you stand here now and tell me all this, but still have to ask why he dislikes you?”

I gasped a little. “Annie, are you saying he’s jealous?”

“Of the time you spend with Robin, I do suspect he is.”

“Nay, but that cannot be. Those two are together all day long, and they often sit near each other at supper.”

“But you are there too in the evening time, are you not? And who’s to say, perhaps Robin talks of things with you that he would not mention to Little John. Lord knows it’s a rare bird that likes to speak of laws and politicking as eagerly as you take to it. Perhaps Robin enjoys this talk of kings and tax monies, as he finds with you, and perhaps his men are ill suited to it.” She paused here to give me a hard look. “I know you may not believe me now, but trust it, my girl, I am right.”

We locked eyes for a silent moment. Then, with a sigh, I gave in.

“But Annie, if what you say is true, then what am I to do about it? Is there no cure?”

“None that you can manage, dear,” she said, kindlier now that she’d won her way. “This is for Robin Hood to handle—your interference would only make a mess of things.”

“But what if Robin doesn’t know?”

“Don’t you worry, love,” she said, patting my hands. “I’ve been meaning to have a talk with that one since I arrived here, and I’ll make sure he’s straightened out. For once you just leave things to your Annie, there’s a dear. I’ll make it right, just you see.”

My faith in Annie was firm in this matter, for she knew more of men than I. And so, my burden lifted away, I began to relax and worry less about the band. ’Twas an exciting time for me, for with Annie’s arrival and her willingness to teach me things, my daily tasks were becoming more varied. Soon I spent mornings walking the woods in search of beehives or special flowers or in brewing ale over a fire.

Annie’s warm ways also helped me come to know the men, for she was always bold and outgoing and led me to speak where I would not have done so myself. With gentle attention, she set me to waxing bowstrings alongside Adam Bell or constructing bower tops with Martin Loverd. With her steady hand behind me, I made friends with the men and they with me, especially the quieter ones among them, who welcomed my retiring ways.

Clym o’ the Tower also found a change in life under the Greenwood tree, for he was dubbed one of Robin’s band and a prouder Clym I had never seen. If I had thought his old felt hat took a wringing when he spoke to me in Warwick Castle, it was nothing to the gripping and tearing it bore during his first interview with Robin Hood. Robin, working from reports of mine, praised him as a man of disguises, and Clym reddened about the ears to hear himself spoken of this way. But in exchange, Clym swore to serve Robin as faithfully as any of his men could do and was made welcome.

My talks with Robin increased in number after Annie’s arrival, for if she and I were not sitting together, she would invariably gather a group of the men about her, and she always saw to it that the number included Little John. With jests and barbs she kept them laughing while Robin and I discussed the news from Nottingham, which grew more serious by the day.

“He amasses so many men,” Robin said, speaking of Prince John, “that I shudder to think what he might try. With Richard away, what do you think? Might he try for the whole kingdom?”

We sat a little apart from the group, both conscious that we were never in private, for the men thought it their solemn duty in this time of trouble to attend him like bulldogs. It was an infuriating attachment which I resented to the depths of my bones. I glanced at his hands and bit my lip, wishing they might reach out for me and brush my body like some new bow, as yet unbent. My thoughts often ran thus when we sat together, for this was part of the game I played. I spoke of the world, of kings and armies, while concealing the warmest of intimate thoughts.