Chapter Sixteen
Bracing a ladder against the wall, Robert climbed up to Mariel’s chamber and pulled himself through the window. He dragged up the rope of linens and dropped it in a heap on the floor. He looked around. Despite his heartache, it was interesting to learn that Mariel could scale a wall or utilize a rope so well. She would have made a good fit with his men, if only she could have stayed long enough to become more involved. The phantom, Elmer, all thorns and prickles…
The bed was stripped bare, but Mariel’s packs sat untouched against a trunk. She had abandoned everything to get away from him. He must have made her feel trapped, he realized. He knew he was relentless in anything he decided to pursue, but his incessant knocking must have been suffocating. And so she’d fled.
He left the bar on the door for a moment, gazing at the packs. He picked one up in each hand and carried them to the bed. They were light. He opened one, untying the leather strings that held shut the flap, and pulled out a brush. The paddle was gilded and the handle was carved out of fine ivory. He set it aside and pulled out a matching comb, the handle carved out of the same ivory with dancing forest nymphs detailed in relief. His thumb rubbed over it.
His chest ached as he held her possessions. She was right. What right did he have to worry for her? Detain her? Yet none of his logical questions made his heart ache any less. God, he was becoming infatuated with her. It probably wasn’t healthy. Yet he must go after her and ensure she was well. He should go down on one knee and beg that she listen to him.
He dug around into her packs and his fingers closed on a thick wad of fabric. Pulling it out, it was the gown she had worn at the archery tent. It was indeed shabby, though the velvet and wool had once been fine.
He set it aside and opened the other pack. Her beaded coif was within, wrapped in a cloth to protect the materials, and again, up close, he realized at one point it had been a fine accessory. Looking closely, the beads were not just made of glass or smoothed pebbles, but were intricate seed pearls. Lord, but the garment was an expensive one. Feeling deeper in the pocket, he found a book. He pulled out the book and examined the leather cover.
“Miracles of Evagrius and Gregory of Tours,” he read aloud. Impressive. Mariel was indeed a learned woman. He began to read. It was a short book and its significance to Mariel at first did not seem apparent. But as he read, he learned that the child in the story had been thrown into a fire by his own father and was protected by the Virgin Mary’s mantle. Why had Mariel kept this story? The book was worn and old. How many times had Mariel read it, making the parchment thin and the binding threadbare? How many times had she been thrown into the figurative fire by her father, only to wish someone had protected her?
He finished reading, feeling an angry tick in his jaw. Harold Crawford should be dead. The bastard didn’t deserve to live and most certainly didn’t deserve the honor of raising two daughters. And he, Robert Huntington, had just let Mariel Crawford go, the woman he knew now, without any doubt, he wanted. They might have learned loving from others, but he was determined that she would know him as her last and her only from henceforth.
He searched in the pouch one last time, and his fingers enclosed on the leather purse of coin he had forced upon her. Dammit, she was now both defenseless and penniless. She had indeed found a way to refuse his charitable coin. He needed to find her, let her know he would never give up on her, make her listen to the truth of his visit to Charlotte, that it had nothing to do with favors of the bedchamber and everything to do with a favor of friendship.
But his men were also planning their raid in another day henceforth. He hadn’t slept since the night before and if he didn’t rest for at least a little while, he would risk making a grave, clumsy misstep. Nottingham wouldn’t expect the forest thieves to attack him a second time so soon. He couldn’t miss the opportunity to catch Nottingham off guard. They needed to act on him as he evicted yet another poor man. Thankfully, the eviction would be near the route toward London. And likely, Mariel was traveling that route, since she had expressed that she wished to venture that way. Mayhap he could kill two birds with one stone, so the saying went, and find her along the way.
…
In the blackness of the nighttime forest, finding Robert’s hidden supplies had been too difficult, though Mariel knew there was a stash somewhere close. She had hoped to find a blanket, at the least. She shivered, curled against a tree at the very campsite she had shared with Robert, when he had spoken honestly of his father and mother, where he had lain beneath the covers with her, where he had offered her his shoulder and chest while they slept. She could still taste the sweetness of his lips as he had kissed her and pressed his body to hers, heating her with his warmth.
It was cold. The fire pit sat black and empty. Dawn approached, and the sky was lightening. Her horse lumbered to the little stream and filled its stomach. She roused herself, shivering uncontrollably, and gathered the animal’s saddle up to reassemble her mount for the long day’s journey. Her soul felt tired. Her heart hurt, and more than once, Robert’s voice begging her to open her door, begging that she listen to him, that she had misunderstood, rang in her mind. What if she had?
It was too late. What was done was done. She had her freedom again and could move about at will once more. Her stomach growled, having grown accustomed to the rich foods at Huntington, and she realized she had left her sack of coin within her packs. She sighed at the loss. Forty coins was a lot of money to gain and then lose again.
She wove onward through the dense trees for the better part of the day, sensing the sun dropping lower on its descent toward nightfall. Her stomach ached for food, relentless in its reminders that she was unable to fill it. She crossed the Huntington border, passing a wooden sign staked into the ground by the main road. Tears for her possessions—her book of miracles and the ribbon she had already lost—choked her throat, and she soon realized it was the thought of losing the chance with Robert that was plaguing her heart. Mayhap I’ve made a grand mistake.
She chanced upon a dilapidated cottage. A pile of furs sat untouched on a rickety stand beside the door and looked as if they had been prepared months before. Likely the hut only had room for a cot, a hearth, and a table and chair. Whoever lived here was poor. But the poor were generous, she had learned. It was the wealthy who were stingy with their resources. The poor knew what it was like to have not, and often shared.
She dismounted in the surrounding trees, tied back her straggly hair into a long braid, and looked down helplessly at her bosom cinched upward by her corset. There was no way to bind herself flat again. Hopefully, the person on the other side of the cottage door was kind and would offer her a badly needed meal, instead of trying to take advantage.
She kept her daggers in place and led her horse into the small clearing, walking straight up to the door. Lifting her fist, she rapped upon it and stepped back. Shuffling sounded on the other side. An old man answered, pulling back the door on squeaking, mismatched hinges.
He stooped low but had likely been her height in his younger years. Still, his face was kindly, his beard white and unwashed, and a smile creased his wrinkled face to reveal a mouth of few teeth. He looked her up and down to assess who she was, though he didn’t seem to care that she was dressed in a lad’s clothing.
“Are you lost?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’m on my way to London town and hoped for a bit of broth or meat if you have it. I haven’t a way to pay but would be happy to help with a chore or two to earn the meal,” she said in her best English accent.
“What are you doing traveling about alone? Don’t you know thieves could tear you apart?”
She nodded. “I don’t wish to travel alone, but all the same, I need nourishment. If you have nothing to offer, I understand.”
She turned to leave, her stomach still growling with pain she had hoped to forget after her stay at Huntington.
“Don’t you worry,” he called. She looked back. “Me old shoulders cannot carry the work they once did. I’m a woodsman, but have not been able to hunt or cut wood for a long time, since before me wife died.” He motioned for her to come inside. “I have little, but what I have, you are welcome to share.”
She nodded her thanks and entered the cottage. Years of accumulated items, saws, tools, and an old hunting bow were tacked to the walls and a window with no glass was positioned opposite the door over his table. He gestured to the one chair he possessed, a roughly hewn piece of furniture made out of incongruent sticks twined together, and went to his hearth, where he pulled out a pot.
“You’re not some sort of criminal, are you?” he eyed her as he slopped the plain broth into a bowl and tore away a chunk of bread from his loaf.
“Nay. My story is my own, but I thank thee kindly for sharing what you have,” she said, and sank into the meal.
The broth was boiling and burned her throat, but her hunger was so overpowering she cared not, tearing off ravenous bites of bread like she was a wolf and saturating them in the liquid. The bread was coarse, seeded, and could hardly be called bread, for it was unleavened and plain. He watched her finish the food, then took the bowl from her.
“It’s all I have to offer,” he said, giving her a sympathetic look, “else I shall starve this day.”
She nodded and smiled, when she heard the sound of hooves approaching from far down the path. She went to the door and cracked it, waiting to see what colors might be coming into view. The man hobbled up beside her and looked out. Her horse sat outside, grazing into the trees, its chestnut tail flicking from side to side.
“Have you brought trouble down upon me?” the old man asked, leveling a glare at her.
She shook her head. “No. I know not who these people could be…”
Her words trailed away as she saw the standard of the Sheriff of Nottingham come into view, though it was not Nottingham’s colors that made her voice falter. The standard of the Sheriff of Ayr also came into view. The menacing eyes of her father, his piercing, cold stare absorbing his surroundings as their horses approached the cottage, settled on the door.
She withdrew inside, the color draining from her face. Crawford would sense her fear. There was nowhere to go. How had he found her? She should have remained at Huntington. She was cornered. Her hands shook, her knees quaked, and she felt a sob attempt to lodge in her throat. The Beast of Ayr was about to reclaim his flighty daughter, and she would soon feel his wrath once again.
…
Robert, John, Will, Alan, and David-the-mute traversed the forest path on foot, having left their horses well off in the trees, and exited Huntington lands. With a finger flick, his men dispersed into the trees. They stalked forward toward the sorry bugger’s cottage, the man they knew was about to be evicted, according to David’s eavesdropping at Nottingham Castle. They needed to make haste, to ensure they converged together with Nottingham upon the cottage.
There had been no sign of Mariel in their day of travel, aside from some tracks that led up to the secluded campsite he had spent the night at with her, where he had wanted so badly to peel away her tunic and trousers by the firelight, bury himself in her warmth, and make love to her with his words, his lips, and all that was masculine about his body. Their campsite, where he had confessed about his father’s brutish ways, his disinterest in Charlotte, and told her of her father’s plan to wed her to his own father. Where he had awoken to her nestled into his arms, her barley hair tangled around his hand. Where he had begun to realize this was a woman that could see him to the altar. He had mentioned none of it to his men when they’d passed by as he dwelled on the memory.
But after passing the mouth of the path, he had not seen any more tracks, nor had he smelled the remnants of a campfire. Apparently, his woman had slept in the cold and dark with nothing to protect her. Clearly, she had learned to minimize the chances of his guards capturing her again.
My woman. Sadly, that wasn’t the case. But knowing she had sought out their campsite made him smile wistfully, even if her cold night spent in misery bothered him. Perhaps she did care. Perhaps she did want him. He let the hope that she had so thoroughly dashed rekindle in his heart. For after his poorly night spent wallowing in his loss and drinking too much ale, he might now have the chance to win her affection again. If he found her.
They began to converge on a clearing through the thinning tree trunks and found the rock landmark beside their hidden cache of supplies. Lifting the weaving of branches and underbrush, he withdrew several coils of rope. Creeping forward, he came closer and saw the cottage of Nottingham’s next victim. He allowed himself a moment of regret. Mariel should have been on this raid, too. A horse whickered. Looking closely at it, his pulse quickened. It was Mariel’s horse. His heart jumped. She had likely only been a mile or less ahead of them the whole time!
He wanted to run to the door and retrieve her, collect her in his arms, and tell her she was a fool for thinking he partook of Charlotte’s favors, but instead took the time to set up the ropes he had slung over his shoulders. There was little time before Nottingham arrived, and there was no way he would best the man if he wasn’t prepared. Climbing a tree to a high branch alongside the path, he braced himself between a couple boughs and tied one of the ropes securely, seeing that his men did the same, though no one spoke or acknowledged one another.
Dropping the rope, he climbed down, took hold of the dangling line, and strode silently across the clearing. He climbed an opposite tree and hung the rope end over a branch, tying off a new rope, climbing down, and carrying the end to another tree, where he climbed up and draped the end over another branch once more. He repeated the ritual with two more ropes.
His task complete, he slunk back through the forest and retrieved his bow and quarterstaff, and ensured he had an abundance of arrows should he need them, flipping the deerskin lid over his quiver. He pulled up his green hood slouching around his neck, dragging it down over his eyes. Nottingham would be lumbering down that path with a smattering of soldiers soon, demanding rent, and then would throw the old man out on his arse when he couldn’t pay, ordering his soldiers to raze the hovel. It was time to get Mariel out.
He perched his staff against a tree and was just about to go to the cottage when he heard horses. His pulse quickened. It was Nottingham. The sheriff was arriving that moment and Mariel was inside the old man’s hut.
“Dammit,” he whispered, stepping behind the tree and waving to capture John’s attention.
He motioned toward the hut, indicating he was going to attempt to go inside. John threw his hands up with confusion and irritation, motioning to the road. Yes, Robert understood. Nottingham approached, and this deviated from the plan. Still, he motioned toward the cottage and mouthed, “Elmer’s horse.”
It took John a moment to understand, his eyes scrutinizing the beast, but when he did, the white sheen that covered his face indicated he suddenly knew what was at stake. Robert left it to Jonathan to inform the others and crept through the trees, padding silently over pine needles and underbrush, and came to the back of the shack where the window stood, shutters open. He peered around the cottage as the men on horseback approached.
Crawford was riding with Nottingham!
“Dammit!” he mouthed again, retreating back behind the shack. Crawford was assessing the cottage…and Mariel’s horse.
Peering inside the window, he saw Mariel with the old man behind the door, her face ghostly, and a terrified tremble shaking her whole body.
“You said you didn’t bring trouble down upon me.” The old man was scolding her.
She shook her head, seemingly unable to find words.
“Psst,” Robert said, leaning in the window.
Both whirled around.
“You’re in danger,” he whispered, though the command in his voice was palpable.
Mariel was too frightened to glare or offer her signature eye roll, and the old man looked as though his ancient heart might give out as he grabbed the wall for support. It was then Robert realized that, dressed in a hood, his face wasn’t discernible.
“Come,” Robert commanded, motioning to both of them. “Out the window.”
“Who are you?” began the old man.
“No questions. Come.”
Mariel exhaled as if she had held all of England’s air in her lungs and dashed to the window, snatching up her bow. She recognizes me. Could it be she was glad to see him? She lifted one leg over the sill, though Robert hauled her out the rest of the way. She clung to his arm, but he extracted himself. There was no time to take comfort in the fact that she sought safety in his arms. With a single gesture, he pointed at the ground to indicate she should wait beside him, and then turned back to the old man, holding his hands out to help him out the window.
The old man shook his head. “Who’s coming down this road?”
“The Sheriff of Nottingham, William de Wendenal. To collect your rents,” Robert said. “There’s no guarantee he won’t harm you.”
The old man shook his head. “I’ll wait and meet him. Surely he’ll be merciful to an old widower who has no money left.”
“Your trust in him is misplaced, old man,” Robert cautioned. “I’ve seen him cause great damage to others. Come, and I can at least guarantee your safety.”
The old man shook his head. “Me wife’s belongings are here and I’ve nothing else left. I can’t climb out windows or run away. I can barely walk. Take this woman away with you and be gone. I’ll fare okay. I have for eighty-eight winters already.”
Robert shook his head but acquiesced to the man’s request and took Mariel’s hand. He dashed back into the woods to the nearest tree and hauled her behind it. Bracing her to the bark, he ripped back his hood, letting it pool around his neck. He crushed his lips to hers, demanding a kiss from her in return, and gripped the sides of her face. Then he stepped back before she could respond, drew in a breath, and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her.
“You daft woman!” he whispered. “I didn’t go to Charlotte for her favors. I went to ask her a favor, to help me. To assemble for you the comforts of a lady, since you’re a noblewoman, for I wished to please you, and she’s the only noblewoman there aside from Anna—who I can hardly tolerate—and I trust Charlotte’s judgment. I went to her for you. I’m not a liar. I told you I have no interest in the woman and dammit, I expect you to start believing me. How many times do I need to explain myself? How much harder must I work to convince you I’m not the bastard you want to believe I am?”
He lunged in for another kiss again, but she fought her mouth away.
“Why did you not tell me?” she demanded.
“You did not give me a chance,” he said, venom flowing over his lips. “And you climbed out your window, so I could not tell you. Would you have listened? Or would you have called me a liar and an arse? Your ire was higher than I’ve ever seen. I don’t give a shite right now if you hate me and want to leave me. You’re unsafe at the present and I’m your only means for protection. So get off your high horse and submit yourself to my help. If only to escape your father right now, quit fighting me every step of the bloody way and submit, woman! I care for you whether or not you care for me, and you’re in grave danger!”
To his surprise, she had no retort, no shove to deliver, no tantrum to throw, and her eyes never once rolled. Her mouth fell open, but then it closed. She nodded. “I thank thee.”
Now it was his turn to be surprised, and a smidge remorseful for having been so forceful. But there was no time to take pride in his tiny victory. He had her back and that was all that mattered. He nodded once, took up her hand, his bow in the other, and hauled her farther into the trees, circling around to the front of the cottage. Beside a sturdy pine tree with several branches like shelves, he motioned for her to climb.
“Don’t rustle the branches or make a single noise,” he whispered in her ear. “Don’t come down until I tell you it’s safe. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
…
Cautiously, she began to rise, moving from one branch to another. By the time she climbed three branches, she looked down at Robert again, though the man had vanished, and her father, alongside Nottingham, began to pass under her. She froze and held her breath. If she could have paused her heart, she would have, for certainly the pulse knocking her chest was as loud as a festival drum.
The horses passed without issue. Mariel resumed climbing, pulling herself up, taking time to brace each foot, gaining just the right balance to rise up with the least amount of shaking. Finally, she sat on a high branch concealed behind boughs and needles, and watched. She had only been higher than she was now when standing on a castle parapet, and there was a difference between standing on a solid stone fortification and sitting precariously on a tree branch with the forest floor directly beneath, as a reminder of how violently one might die hitting the ground. If that were to happen, it wouldn’t matter one iota if her father was there to haul her away to his castle towers.
But now that she sat here, why on earth had the blasted earl convinced her that climbing this tree would be safest? Shouldn’t she be making haste to her horse to run as far away from here as possible? She exhaled, wanting to kick herself as she realized how easily Robert had bent her to his will…again.
A movement in the opposite tree caught her attention. It took a moment to decipher who it was, but there was no mistaking Little John’s broad frame. Though hooded, she could tell he looked at her. He gave her a single nod, then turned his attention back to the procession now halting in front of the woodsman’s door.
Comprehension dawned. This was the raid they had been discussing in Robert’s solar two days before. She had managed to get herself caught right in the thick of it. She looked down at Harold Crawford and could at least feel a jot of relief, that as long as he was still out roaming the countryside in search of her and in search of more political clout, he wasn’t at home terrorizing her fragile sister. Guilt washed through her again for abandoning Madeline to her own devices. What kind of a person was she, leaving her helpless wee sister alone?
Nottingham clearing his throat distracted her from her guilty conscience. A squirrel bounded over the roof of the hut onto a low-hanging branch. How Robert had known the woodsman was going to be Nottingham’s next target, she could not say, but it likely had much to do with the comings and goings of David, who Robert had said made an excellent spy. Come to think of it, she had seen him pass Robert a missive on her first night in the great hall while dining at Jonathan’s table. She hadn’t known David at the time. Clearly David’s role in Robert’s band of men was more about his sleuthing talents.
The Beast of Ayr turned to Nottingham and said something. Her nerves spiked, anticipating what she might witness. Nottingham was about to do something horrible, or disgusting, or even illegal. She had already seen him do such to the forest peasant and his wife. Robert was right. With no law in the king’s absence, someone had to act on the side of justice and take back what Nottingham had ill-gotten. If there was no recourse for the common people in the absence of King Richard, at what point did men decide to fight lawless sovereigns with lawlessness of their own?
A common man might have a weapon or two, but swords and metal were expensive. Only the wealthy had those, and Nottingham was using his might to terrorize others. It would take either the wealthy purse of a noble to outfit a force against tyranny, or it would take the wealthy man himself to face down the tyrant with power of his own. ’Twas obvious that Robert was taking matters into his own hands in the only way he could, while preserving his own estates and position, by hiding his identity as the thief of the forest and assailing Nottingham with his infectious and merry smile.
Except, she counted at least five and ten men donning the Nottingham and Ayr colors. Robert was mad. Completely and utterly mad. He had four other men beside himself, and though they were prepared with their quarterstaffs, swords, and bows, they wore no jingling armor. Certainly, she was about to watch him commit suicide against such odds.
“These beggars, my friend, are what’s the trouble with England,” Nottingham drawled. “They’ve subsisted off King Richard’s generosity, hunting our lawful game, and have nothing to show for it. This dilapidated pile of wood and daub is on the king’s rented land, and their obligation is to pay rent and keep it in good repair.”
“Obviously, they can nay do even that. I’ve the same trouble in the north,” agreed the Beast of Ayr in his Scottish brogue.
Mariel’s gut churned with disgust. The aging woodsman had no coin to purchase repairs. He had hardly any food. Hay would need to be purchased for rethatching and it would cost any man dearly. A woodsman would rely on fur trades, lumber, and crafted woodworks to acquire what he needed, and at eighty-eight years, he wasn’t capable of labor anymore.
The door opened and the old man hobbled out. His eyes widened as he gazed up at William de Wendenal perched atop his destrier. “M’lord Nottingham. A pleasure to see you.” He bowed, though the nervous tremor to his voice gave away his fear.
Mariel watched, knowing her heart was about to break.
“To what do I owe this honor?” the man continued. “I’m afraid the pantry is thin and I haven’t any ale to speak of, but you’re welcome to a drink of cold water.”
“No water,” Nottingham replied with a curl of the nose, as if the poor man’s water was inferior. All knew that many of the nobles relied on private wells. “I’ve come for the rent.”
The man bowed his head again and again. “Begging your pardon, m’lord—”
Nottingham gave Crawford a knowing rise of the eyebrows, to which Crawford harrumphed and nodded.
“—but I’ve been unable to hunt. Bad leg and bad back.”
“Why have you not sold those pelts to purchase repairs to the cottage?” demanded Nottingham.
The man’s voice shook noticeably. “There were no buyers for them at the time, and since I sold my dray horse last month to cover the rents, I’ve no way to get them back to market.”
“You could carry them,” replied Nottingham.
“I’ll try to do just that, if you give me the chance. ’Twill take me sennights, but I’m sure I can manage.”
“Too late. ’Twould be cheaper to tear the cottage down and build anew rather than fix this mess. And if you cannot pay your rent, you cannot reside here any longer. Men?”
“What…what are you doing?” the old man cried, as Nottingham’s men dismounted. “Wait…wait!”
He tried to stop them, but the guards pushed him aside and marched over the threshold, sending the old man off balance and tumbling to the earth.
“Confiscate anything of value!” bellowed Nottingham. “The rest? Pile it out here and burn the place!”
“Stop!” begged the woodsman. “I beg you! Give me some time and I’ll find the money, I swear it!”
No one listened. The old man tried to get to his feet, but without a crutch or a ledge to pull up on, he could do little more than sit there. Mariel covered her mouth, her eyes welling with tears. She hadn’t seen the peasant and his pregnant wife get ousted, and watching it happen to the old man caused pain to squeeze her heart.
The soldiers ignored the old man, trailing out of the house with his scant possessions, dumping a sewing basket that had no doubt been his wife’s into the pile, and taking the man’s only cooking pot and his hunting weapons.
“The only things of value, my lord,” said a soldier. “The rest, just this old table, roughly hewn, some rags, no doubt belonging to his woman. The bed won’t fit through the door, but looks to be in disrepair. Surely it is riddled with nits.”
Nottingham nodded once, his black gaze emotionless as the old man fell into tears. “Please…” he begged. “Please…”
“Set it aflame, men, and let’s move on!”
The old man found the strength to rise when he saw the oil flagons come out and the soldiers begin to douse the thatching with it.
“Stop!” he wailed, running up to a soldier and grabbing his arm. The soldier shoved him away once more. The old man staggered backward, hobbling to stand beneath Nottingham’s horse. “I’ve never known another home! Stop, I beg you! Where will I go?”
“This land is now in my stewardship until King Richard returns! Where you go is not my concern, but you’ll freeload no more on the king’s benevolence!” roared Nottingham, erupting into a rage. “Collect your meager things and be gone!”
The poor man cringed, watching helplessly as a soldier cracked a flint and a spark ignited the thatching. Tears streamed down his face. Tears streamed down Mariel’s face. Rage hardened her brow. She had seen her father employ such tactics of intimidation time and again and had certainly felt his wrath more times than she cared to remember. But watching him sitting beside Nottingham, as if they were old chums, and look down his nose at the old man, made her blood boil. It was all she could do not to whip loose a fistful of arrows and dispatch both men.
“Mount up!” called Nottingham, adjusting his coif over his flow of raven hair.
His soldiers complied, and Mariel looked on helplessly. When was Robert going to make his move? Or would he allow the whole of the woods to catch fire and perish before he finally decided to intervene? His instructions had been clear: wait until he told her to come down from the tree. But who was going to console the old man who had been so kind as to help her? Who was going to help him move his belongings farther from the fire so they didn’t also catch flame? For they were at great danger of igniting with a stray spark. Where was he going to go? How could she sit still and wait for Robert when she knew not when he was going to act?
They had done nothing while Nottingham and Crawford terrorized an old man, stooped with age and grieving over the loss of his woman. She hated her father. And she hated Nottingham, too.
As soon as the entourage turned to leave, she searched for Robert and found him in a tree. He was looking at her instead of at Nottingham or the old man. She couldn’t read him, for he wore his mask again. But she knew he scrutinized her. And she knew from his posture he was tense, like a coil being held closed, about to snap open.
She looked back at the old man, at Nottingham and her father lumbering down the road, as if returning from a successful hunt, then glanced back at Robert again. Except Robert had vanished. She turned her head in each direction, searching amongst the trees, but couldn’t find him. And then in a swoop of ropes, Robert and John, hooded in their dark green masks, swung down from the branches to block Nottingham and Ayr’s path.
“Good day, fine gentlemen!” Robert boomed, landing and skipping to a halt. “And a better day still when you hand over that hefty purse at your hip!”
Nottingham’s face tightened and Ayr reached for his sword, drawing it free. Of course. Her father only spoke with his steel.
“You rabble…” Nottingham said. “How in the hell did you and your greedy buzzards find me again so soon?”
“We’ve eyes throughout the forest, man,” Robert said.
“Sadly for you, after yesterday’s confrontation, I travel with an armed contingent today.”
“Ah, but you see? You still haven’t learned anything of import. Remember? No terrorizing of innocents?”
“And you’re still stuck in your ideals. When one lives on another’s land and uses his resources, they owe in rents.”
“Ah yes, my good man, but when you, the master in charge, make it impossible for any man to succeed in your demands, you, sire, are a tyrant. King Richard was never bothered by this man, keeping to himself in a woodsman’s cottage. And therefore, you will hand over your ill-gotten coin, taken out of the very mouths of starving babes and desperate mums and old, crippled men, and peasants with their pregnant wives, and then you will go on your way. And do try not to accidentally harm anyone else along your journey. I know it may be difficult for you.”
“Such cheek…” Nottingham said. “Too bad it’s not as amusing as you intend it to be.”
“No. It’s a truth,” Robert said. “Last chance, man, to comply. The charities are ever thin with the many patrons you send to their doorsteps. Don’t make me unburden you. For you know I will. Time and again, I best you.”
“Let’s end this ridiculous waste of time,” Crawford said to Nottingham.
“Agreed,” de Wendenal said. “Men? Dispatch them and let’s be on our way.”
The audacity. Mariel scowled. Not that she felt Nottingham was worthy of any respect, but her father felt it his place to make the demand to Nottingham on his own territory. And yet, despite the pointless conversation between Robert and Nottingham that she knew full well was only customary preamble to a skirmish, the old man had sunk back to his knees while the flames lapped over the thatching of his home, heat emanating even to where Mariel still sat perched. His mournful cries squeezed her heart and his agony compelled her.
She turned back to the face-off just as six soldiers jangled forth. Except two more men, Will and Alan, she deduced, also decked in dark green the color of the pine needles and hooded to hide their faces, swung from the trees side by side, dragging a rope in each hand that draped around the group of soldiers. Then, still swinging from their own ropes, they looped in opposite circles so that they switched sides, winding the rope around Nottingham’s men as they sailed back to lower branches on their respective trees.
“Why you… What is the meaning of this?” thundered Nottingham, lunging forward as the soldiers were cinched together. They toppled from their horses, which scattered away. Robert and Jonathan whipped loose three arrows by the fletching, nocking them in succession, and turned to aim at the other soldiers who came forth.
Letting them sail, most were used as a warning and two of them pierced the soldiers’ cloaks, pinning them to the nearest tree. And yet true to Robert’s philosophy, no one was injured.
And then an arrow lodged in Robert’s arm. Mariel held in a strangled cry, for fear of giving herself away. Robert winced and grunted with pain, but still managed to return an arrow to the soldier behind Nottingham. It pierced the joint of the soldier’s chain mail in his neck. Nottingham twisted in his saddle, attempting to steer his mount out of the confusion.
Crawford lifted his sword, kicking his mount forward to bring it down on Robert. Without thought, Mariel descended the tree, one branch at a time, careful not to jostle loose her quiver upon her hip and send her only means of weaponry to the ground. She watched the skirmish as she slid against the trunk, her bow in hand, but John met her father’s threat by throwing up his quarterstaff to deflect the blow meant for Robert.
Robert grinned a devilish smirk. “Oh, William. We meant you no harm, but alas, you’ve drawn blood and now you must pay.”
The other soldiers were already cantering forth when Mariel, landing on the forest floor behind her tree trunk, noticed David ease himself from under the woven tarp of forest undergrowth. He crept up behind the soldiers who sat unaware of his presence, then in succession, slapped their mounts with the flat of his sword. The animals spooked, whinnied, reared, and bolted, taking their riders with them, except for one who tumbled off. The old man watched in horror, and Mariel ran to his side as he cowered beneath her, as if she and Robert’s men were bent on robbing him of the very shirt on his back.
She took his hand.
“Rise up. You have nothing to fear from these men,” she said.
He stared at her, and she glanced at Robert, who was no longer grinning but watching her with alarm. His anger at her presence was palpable. She finally stopped to consider what she’d done. Nottingham was rounding on her, as was her father, both ignoring the soldier who had tumbled to the earth as their sights narrowed on her. Her blood drained away. Her father’s eyes were narrowing on her with both disbelief and rage. He would see her punished and returned to Castle Ayr, and she would never see Robert again.
The fear in Robert’s eyes was heavy, and Mariel instantly regretted revealing herself. But it was too late to hide. Her father kicked his horse forth, abandoning his altercation with John’s quarterstaff, fury settling on his brow.
“Mariel, ye little bitch. I’ll have yer head… Finally,” he snarled.
How it happened, she knew not, but her training kicked in. She whipped loose an arrow, nocked it, and released it with precision as he raised his sword arm. It lodged in the underside of his wrist through his gauntlet.
He dropped the weapon. With a violent growl, he snapped the arrow off, tossed it aside, and returned his attention to Mariel as an arrow pierced the rear of Nottingham’s horse. The beast screeched, reared high, and Nottingham lost control of the animal, tumbling from its back as it bolted into the trees.
Mariel looked for Robert, who had vanished again, though he couldn’t have shot the horse, judging from the arrow’s angle. In fact, it looked to have come from the trees. She looked in that direction again, when a body swung down from another branch straight toward her, a series of ropes she now realized had been put in place in a coordinated plan. She hardly blinked before she was captured in the strong, hardened arms of her assailant.
She knew it was Robert before she even caught her breath. They landed on a middle branch of the very tree she had been ordered to remain hidden within, and as her feet found stability, he gripped the side of her face with both a punishing and possessive leather-clad hand, leveled a stern glare at her through the eye holes of his hood, and leapt off the branch once more, swinging down and landing with two feet planted in front of Crawford as the cottage, now completely engulfed in flame, crackled behind him.
“Your coin, good man,” he said with the same good-natured tone, though there was an unmistakable hardness to his words. “And you can be on your way. But attack us once more and I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”
Mariel held her breath as her father and Robert faced each other down, while Nottingham glanced about to discover the other hooded men had vanished.
“Your horses have been sent fleeing, your soldiers disarmed, one shot in the neck, and I guarantee there’s no way you’ll find us,” Robert stated. “I’ve weapons trained on you as we speak. You cross a line in our friendship.”
As if there had ever been any friendship.
Mariel sat in shock. Robert’s men had been expert ambushers. None of them had shown themselves together but had kept swinging in and out of view, confusing Nottingham’s men with the illusion of a larger force.
And then the reality sank in. She had shot her father. She had pulled back her arm and released the projectile into one of his few vulnerable spots, almost without any concern or thought. She hadn’t cared that they were of the same flesh, that half his blood flowed in hers. She had felt no loyalty, and yet still…would God send her straight to hell for injuring the man who had seeded her?
More importantly, her father now knew she was here. He would never relent in his search of East Anglia until he had her in his clutches and beat her senseless for daring to shoot him. He would turn over every rock, every leaf, every blade of grass, every pine needle. He knew she was here, and he would come for her.
A slicing sound and hard jingles caught her attention. Jonathan now stood side by side with Robert, two coin purses having fallen to the ground. John caught the strings of one with the end of his staff, lifting it up and giving it a jangle as Robert did the same with his sword, collecting Ayr’s purse and giving him a friendly wink.
“Consider this a donation as well, to the well-being of your fellow man. Since you’re a close friend of Nottingham’s, you get to share in his benevolence, forced upon him or otherwise.”
Giving the bag a hearty clinking, he tossed it, caught it, and tipped an imaginary hat.
“On your way now. Run along, lads,” Robert persisted, and though he tried to suppress it, Mariel could see that he favored his injured arm.
Robert and John stood their ground until finally, with scowls and resignation, Crawford and Nottingham turned toward their men who had disentangled themselves from the rope twining and began to walk away.
“Don’t just stand there!” Nottingham yelled. “Go and find the horses! And you—” He whirled around to face Robert and John. “You stabbed my horse. When I get my hands on you, you’ll…” He looked around. No one was there anymore except the old man, still devastated before the fire.
“Where did they go?” he demanded.
The old man shook his head and shrugged.
“Like hell you don’t know,” grumbled the sheriff as he walked away.
Her father, Nottingham, and the soldiers made their way back down the forest trail away from the cottage. Mariel waited, when she felt a presence behind her on the branch. She turned over her shoulder. Robert was at her back, his hood drawn down and sagging around his neck, his hair tangled and sweaty, standing on the bough beneath hers with his hands gripping the branch she sat upon on either side of her rear. Blood stained his arm where he had taken the arrow, but he acted unconcerned.
He laid a finger across his lips then beckoned her to come down onto his wider, more stable branch. She did so, swiveling around on her rear so that she faced him, her knees brushing his chest and straddling him in the confined space. Though his face was still stern, no doubt from her disobeying orders, his eyes fluttered closed for only a moment, then he helped her find her footing on his branch. She turned to brace herself on the tree trunk for balance, only to feel his warmth come up behind her and his hands take her shoulders.
His stomach, chest, and thighs pressed against her to stabilize her, and his lips came down to her ear. “Remain quiet, love. What on earth were you thinking, coming down into the fray? Your father was bent on butchery.”
“I thought to help the old man—”
“Hush,” he interrupted. “’Tis a question not meant to be answered.”
He remained still, bracing her to the trunk so that she couldn’t fall, but also so she couldn’t move and jostle any branches. Minutes went by, and Robert held her in place with no reaction, intimate as it was, though she felt her own blood begin to warm. How in the hell could she think of intimacies right now, of all times, especially after all that had happened? Right after her father had tried to kill her and she had shot him? After she had told Robert she didn’t want him and had left his estate?
And yet, her breathing was shallow. She did her best to even it. Her cheeks were turning pink, but she could do nothing to hide them. And then she felt him. At first it was just a gentle nuzzle to the neck, but like the most primal of animals, he must have sensed her arousal. And then she felt him, lower, nestled against her rear and lower back. He was already stiff as a pike, which meant he had already been aroused and had been trying, just like her, to scold away the urge at such an inappropriate time.
But he was relenting, putting gentle pressure against her, then releasing ever so gently. His chest was hot against her back, blanketing her in warmth and yet holding her in place. Then his hands slid down her arms from her shoulders and encased the backs of her hands in his palms. He braced them outward so that her sides were unprotected, controlling her movement.
She never thought a man controlling anything about her could be exciting. A man’s control had been an abhorred mantle that she had thrown off eight months ago. And yet, Robert wasn’t trying to control her. She could feel that he respected her in every way. She could tell in the weight of his grip that if she pulled away, he would stop. He was silently seeking her trust. He wanted her to entrust herself to him.
She didn’t resist, which seemed to give him slack in his leash of self-control, for his lips and nose began to trail up and down her neck. His teeth nibbled the gentlest pinches to her collarbone, giving her breath a hitch.
“Shh,” he crooned, though she could feel his lips curve into a grin.
The bastard was enjoying the danger of the moment! And with an arrow-shot arm no less.
Then his hands released hers, leaving them braced to the tree with a silent command to keep them there, and slid under her arms and around her torso so that they held her stomach. They inched upward over her ribs, one by one, until they came to the heavy undersides of her breasts. She couldn’t breathe and yet her chest rose and fell, rose and fell. A tingle overcame her skin, settling hard at the tips of her nipples. And yet she kept her arms braced wide, allowing him his explorations.
His hands cupped the weight of each breast, his thumbs curving around them to dust over the tips, and though she wore a corset, she still felt it. She sucked in hard, feeling his lips still playing upon her collarbone, and pressed herself back against him, his pelvis still nudging suggestively against her backside, tilting her head so that his access to her neck was improved. Her body felt like fire. Fire was licking her insides, lapping at her skin just as his hands were giving her breasts a tighter squeeze through the fabric of her tunic. And as she began to squirm with the restless need of a man’s full union, he tortured her further, sliding his hands down her sides to settle at the curve of her waist rounding to her hips.
His thumbs came to rest on the rise of her rear and his long fingers reached dangerously close to the intimate juncture of her thighs. And still, she willed her arms to remain out, braced to the tree, though now she trembled. And then he bent down and whispered in her ear once more.
“What if I made love to you, Mari? Would you give me permission?”
She wanted to laugh. The man was in complete control and could have his way with her willing body. His former mistress still remained at Huntington and women still flocked to be near him, specifically Anna, and yet he was still asking her permission. And she, spineless, couldn’t stop him. Wouldn’t stop him.
“You’re so fair…so fine…I want you,” he whispered, kissing her earlobe, running his lips along her cheek. “You misunderstood my intentions with Charlotte. God, woman, I’ll not make the mistake of letting your barbed words hurt me again. I know you want me, too.”
She instinctively turned around and their lips locked. His kiss became demanding as he pushed her against the trunk. He ran his hands over her rear, up her back again in frantic caresses. Her legs shook. He swallowed the moan that worked its way from her throat.
She thought he would grin at having conquered such a feat, but he didn’t. In fact, he became focused and bold as he gripped the back of her thigh while his other hand cupped her breast. Her knees threatened to buckle, and she lifted a leg to cinch around his thigh. He sensed her instability and tightened his hold, keeping her steady while he rubbed a rhythm up and down her leg. His kissing grew in earnest, the stroke of his tongue matching the pace of his other ministrations.
Her hands shot out to grip the bark, unable to let go for fear of unsteadying herself and plummeting them both to the forest floor. Her breathing became shallower, uneven, her cheeks flushed with excitement, the feel of his manhood wedged against her as his legs straddled her hip, his hand now coaxing heat from between her legs, his massage of the breast sending a shiver of tingles across her skin… He exacted his sweet torture with targeted precision, with a determination that spoke of fear for her safety and gladness in her safety now.
He broke the kiss and rested his forehead to hers. “I can feel your heat for me through your clothing,” he murmured. “I know you’re ready for me… God, woman, you’re killing me…” He resumed his kiss, unable to keep his lips to himself.
And she knew it. She was ready and would willingly strip naked, if he but asked.
“I want you,” he murmured against her lips. “God, I want you.”
Releasing his self-control, the weight of him crushed against her as he encircled her in his arms, chest to chest, and resumed his kissing. She nodded and her fingers clenched him, digging into his skin beneath his tunic.
…
Robert had no idea where this frenzy had come from, other than his heart had knocked his ribs when he saw Mariel sneak down to help the old man. Alarm had coursed through him and white-hot anger had rendered him furious, both at her and at Crawford bearing down to strike his daughter. No other man, especially Crawford, would ever touch her again, as long as Robert had the strength to stand on his own two feet.
But the daft woman had disobeyed him, no matter how good her intentions were, and not only had she risked injury, but also she’d risked discovery, right along with all of them. A quick glance at John had told him his giant of a man understood that a break in protocol was required. John had shot the Sheriff of Nottingham’s horse to divert their attention after Mariel had lodged an arrow perfectly in the underside of Harold Crawford’s wrist. And yet now, having rescued her from her own daftness, after giving Nottingham a chance to leave and his men the chance to pursue them from their various hiding places along the pathway, all he could do was touch her, ensure that she felt the brunt of his affection for her, so that she might never do something so dangerous again.
He had gone from fearing for her safety to conveying to her through his kiss that in this moment, all he could think about was her, without even remembering how he’d arrived at this point. His kissing grew less controlled, less precise, as he listened to the catches in her breath, proof that he was succeeding in pleasing her, proof that she wanted him, despite her declarations to the contrary.
But if Mariel was to throw all her trust into him, he knew he needed to prove his devotion to her. Yet it was commonplace for men to stray sometimes. Even in marriage a husband might keep a lover. The wife for her dowry, connections, alliances, and to seed with a legitimate line of descendants, and a lover to sate the needs a wife didn’t satisfy, provide the bed favors a wife might not know how to provide, someone to love and lavish in gifts, or provide him with heirs his wife couldn’t provide. But while he still didn’t really want marriage, he was going to marry Mariel and devote himself to her in the way that the church favored: one man, one woman.
He didn’t want the yoke of a lifelong commitment, didn’t want her angry father barreling through his castle walls with death in his sights, didn’t want his king to return from Jerusalem to find he had wasted his one shot at marriage on a wild Scottish woman. But he was going to marry Mariel Crawford and invite all matters of wrath to convince her that no one else, not Charlotte, neither Anna, nor whores at a fair, stood to gain a foothold in his heart. He didn’t want anyone else. He knew in his heart that her uncouth behavior and freedom of speech and archery skills and her pure, unfettered beauty could keep him intrigued and in love forever.
In love? Had he just thought that? Surely he wasn’t in love with the wildling as Charlotte had suggested…was he?
Yet pondering love urged him to strip her trousers away and bury himself in heaven. He was certain he might die right now in blissful suffocation from her tongue dancing with his. He couldn’t stop. He wanted her. And right now, he hoped to show it.
…
How long they remained like that, Mariel had no idea, but long enough that the sun had moved considerably toward dusk and the inferno ravaging the cottage had destroyed the majority of wood. It collapsed into a heap of scalding cinders. Robert’s kisses had long since gentled, his hands having slid inside the back of her trousers to brace her rear to his front. Her face felt pleasantly raw from the raking of his stubble, her lips swollen from the kissing sport, and her limbs like jelly.
A whistle caught their attention, a bawdy innuendo intended to tell Robert he had no privacy. Mariel snapped back, nearly toppling off the branch. Robert pulled free his hands from her rear to catch her, righting her, and this time rolled his eyes in unison with her, sharing her annoyance as his men below chuckled.
“Keeping her safe and occupied, I see!” Will hollered up. Her face raged with a blush and she ducked her head down, dragging her braid around her face to shield her cheeks as the men chuckled. “At least give the poor woman a soft bed to endure your rutting instead of forcing her to fend off your advances in a bloody pine tree.”
Robert laughed. “You interrupt my finest victory yet!” he called back down, not bothered in the least. “Would you be so kind as to demonstrate the noble manners taught to you, for once, and give the lady a moment to collect herself?”
“Your wish is my command, my liege!” Will said with a mocking bow. He and the others walked off into the trees to gather their horses. “By the way, Nottingham and his mates are as good as gone. It’s safe to come out now,” he called over his shoulder.
John followed suit, though not before one more glance up at Mariel, as if deciding whether or not to concede defeat to Robert. Once they were gone, she buried her face in her hands. Robert chuckled again, brushing the loose wisps of hair behind her ears with tender fingers.
“Marry me,” he whispered, his fingers continuing the caress even though no more hair needed brushing back.
Her face snapped up and she scrutinized him, trying to determine if he was teasing. But his embarrassed smile at being caught by his men with his hands down her trousers had died away, replaced with a wistful gaze as he studied each tendril he touched with increasing interest.
“I thought you did not want marriage,” she finally replied. The safest answer, for if he was jesting, she called him out on it, and if he was serious, then she voiced a legitimate concern.
He looked into her eyes. “Marry me, and let my claim on you protect you from your father. He’ll be relentless in his pursuit of you now that he’s seen you…now that you’ve shot him.”
She scoffed. “Marriage will not protect me. He’ll only make me a widow at the first opportunity to solve the issue of my property rights.”
“Not if I or my men have a say in it. And Nottingham won’t let him kill me, either. I’m too important to the king. But your father’s a smart man. I believe, over time, he would come to see the merit in such a union betwixt us—”
“Not to mention, he and Nottingham will draw the easy inference that you’re the likely suspect in all these thieving raids,” she continued speaking, as if he had not said a word. “And when your Nottingham learns that you are, in fact, the mastermind of the forest thieves, he’ll strip every ounce of wealth, land, and title from your back and cast you out along with your band of elusive but merry men. That is, if you’re lucky enough to not be thrown in his oubliette for the rest of time.”
He chuckled and settled both his palms over her cheeks. “Will you quit being so keen?” She conceded a smile at his backhanded compliment. “There’s always a chance that your observations will come to pass, love, and believe me, I’ve been considering all my odds, but at least I would die knowing that in the afterlife, my wife would join my side once more. And they won’t come to pass. Like I said, Nottingham knows Richard would never overlook my death. It’s a risk I don’t think he’s willing to take. He’ll stay your father’s murderous hands.”
She chewed her lip, gauging his relative calm. Was he actually confident that he could marry her and not face consequences? Or was his easy demeanor only a cover-up for the torrent of warnings raging through his mind? Did he truly want to marry her? Or did he do it as yet another charity for her? And would the stream of flirting women cease if he came off the market as England’s most eligible bachelor? Likely it would only increase, as women began vying to be his prized leman instead. She would be forever plagued by her suspicions, insecurities, jealousy, and heartache. She chewed her lip harder.
“What is it?” he asked, tipping his head to get a better view of her worried expression and lifting her chin with his fingertip.
And why were they conducting such a serious conversation in a treetop, for heaven sake? She took a deep breath for confidence, something she had thought she had in spades, though now realized she might be lacking.
“In the crofter’s hut, you did not answer my question about marrying me, should my father pursue it, and by all means, you thought you could do nothing to protect me. But now you want marriage?”
“Mari,” he replied, giving her the full attention of his eyes. “I’m scared off easily by the idea of marriage, yes. But I care for you. You’re the first woman I’ve ever offered for. I offer only after careful thought. I was still trying to figure out where my heart was that night by the fire, but as soon as you left Huntington, I knew that whilst I still don’t like the idea of marriage, you’re the only woman I would allow to wear my wedding ring. It’s a special ring. I’ve had it for years. Not just any woman can have it.”
His words stilled, as if he was embarrassed to say his next thought out loud. And embarrassment was a curious sentiment to see on Robert’s brow, considering he was cocksure and lighthearted enough to laugh off any embarrassment. His hands busied themselves by picking up her braid and toying with the frayed ends.
“And you would be the only woman I would ever, what I mean is, go through to completion with…” She scrunched her brow, confused. “You know, em, follow through to the end with…give my seed. For I’ve always been careful to pull away… Does that answer your question?”
No, she realized, it didn’t. As heartfelt and hard as it had been for him to express something so personal, he had still refused to say he wanted to marry her. His explanation was flowery but did nothing to confirm that matrimonial jesses was something he wanted tied about his ankle. What he meant was that he would settle for her if he had to marry someone. Because he cared for her safety, he would set aside his principles and take her to wife. He would make her the mother of his heirs, and he would seat her beside him at board each day. And likely bed his mistress du jour on the side whenever the whim suited him.
She knew she ought to feel honored to have captured his attention in such a way when no other woman had, but an ache in her chest began to throb. A marriage built on a man’s lack of desire to be so tethered would only lead to resentment crumbling their union as time went by. He would then stray, as all men did, and her heart would break. And if he fathered sons on his lemans and all she could produce were daughters, it would be up to him to decide if he recognized them or not, possibly usurping her own children’s place.
“But would you be true to me?” she whispered, her words unsure. That, and she could no longer look at him.
At first he didn’t answer. A foreboding sign, she thought. And then his lips came down to press against hers. His kiss was sweet this time, chaste, innocent, respectful, belying the sinful torrent they had spiraled down minutes before.
“I would do my best to offer the same fidelity I would expect from my wife,” he replied.
Still not a definite yes. I will be faithful to you and only you until the moment of our death. But it was the right sentiment. Could a woman actually hope for more?
She weighed his offer. Give up her freedom and bind herself to him? Refuse him and take her chances running from her father? He was serious right now, but he had put her on the spot. She didn’t know what to say. Taking her hands, he pecked the knuckles on each and smiled, though he seemed unable to look her in the eyes.
Did he think she was rejecting him?
“We return to Huntington, Mari. Think on my offer and tell me your answer sooner rather than later. It’s only a matter of time until your father realizes you’re in my charge. I would prefer to greet him with a legal claim on you rather than watch you dragged away by his brutal hand.”
With that, he let her go and began descending the tree. She followed. Right now she would be returning to Huntington with him, and would sort out the answer to his proposal as best she could.