The Heirs of Locksley (The Robin Hood Stories 2)

“Caught him sneaking around back,” Dav said. The prisoner lunged, but Grace twisted his arm and dropped him to his knees at Robin’s feet.

Robin of Locksley, lord of Sherwood, outlaw of legend, master of whatever realm he happened to find himself in, put hands on hips and looked down his nose at the man. Marian’s breath still caught to see him like this, as it had the very first time she had set her gaze on him.

“Might I ask why you were sneaking into my camp, sir? You’d have been welcomed and offered wine if you’d come in the front.”

The prisoner was high-born, the way he bucked and bristled at the handling these lowly foresters gave him. He might not even have noticed yet that Grace was a woman. “How dare you! I owe you no explanation—”

“Give me a name, then. Surely, you can do that much.”

The man spat. So, high-born and foolish.

Marian rose from her bench and went to stand by her husband, her hands folded serenely. “This one is Berold FitzHugh’s eldest son, I think. Ranulf FitzHugh, aren’t you? Robin, you remember the FitzHughs?”

He thought for a moment, or pretended to, his gaze narrowed as he studied the irate young man. “Ah, yes. Had a habit of bribing old King John into granting him the lands of rebel barons, didn’t he?”

“My father is loyal—”

“Lord Ranulf, why are you here?” Robin said, his tone growing iron.

The lad finally stopped fighting, as if he just now realized what he had gotten himself in to. “I . . . I . . . I wished to speak to your son. At the tournament . . . It’s a matter of honor! It does not involve you, my lord.”

“But this is my camp,” Robin drawled. “A matter of honor, sneaking around the back? I don’t think so.”

Marian frowned. She did not like Ranulf, and did not like what any of this implied. “Dav, will you look at his hands? Do you think he uses a bow?”

Grace, a gleam in her eyes, held Ranulf while Dav yanked back his arms and had a look at his right hand, which would draw the string. He said, “Calluses, my lady. I think he does.”

“Mary beat you at the tournament today, didn’t she?” Marian said. “And you came here hoping to . . . what?”

“I told you, my purpose is with Lord John—”

“Then why not come in daylight?”

Ranulf glared. Beside her, Robin uncrossed his arms, squeezed his hands into fists. He was rarely so angry that he had no words or carried such darkness in his gaze.

Marian said softly, “My children can well look after themselves, as you’d have realized if you spent half a thought on the matter. So, what did you think would happen, coming here? Knowing who their father is?”

Ranulf was tra

pped. He had the look of a hound who had cornered a boar all by himself and then didn’t know what to do with it. “Those . . . They’re just stories. You aren’t him, not really.”

“No, of course not. That man lived a long time ago,” Robin murmured. “I am much angrier right now than he ever was.”

A log in the fire snapped, and sparks rose up. Marian shivered at the sound. Summer was nigh, but she was suddenly cold.

“My lord?” Will asked cautiously.

“Tie him,” Robin said. “We will decide what to do with him before the night is out. And now I really need that mug of ale.”

* * *

Eleanor was nowhere in sight. When the girl wanted to disappear, she was very good at it. But if she hadn’t simply run off, if she had been taken, if there were murderers about and something happened—

“Where has she gone?” Mary said. “Did you see her?”

Henry was also looking around in a panic. “She’s so quiet, I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Isn’t that just like her. Eleanor is so quiet, poor Eleanor who can’t speak, and she uses all that pity to get away with the worst kind of mischief!”