3 The Outlaw's Tale Read online

  Frevisse stood, braced against his grasp. Sister Emma was motionless in the road. Master Naylor lay face-down on the verge, his arm wrenched up across the small of his back toward his shoulders by a broad-muscled man straddling him at the hips. The fourth of their attackers stood over him, Master Naylor’s sword in his hand.

  “Yield,” the man holding Naylor ordered. “We mean no harm to you or the sisters. Yield. There’s no help for it.”

  His face white and screwed tight with pain, Naylor nodded. The man eased his hold, rose up from him, and stepped aside. Naylor, wincing, rolled over and sat up, nursing his arm for a moment before rising to his feet. His armed captor topped him by half a head, out-muscled him by several pounds, and was weaponed as well. But Naylor, facing him squarely, demanded, “What do you want? These are nuns, for God’s sake. You’re damned if you harm them, we’ve little to rob, and will hardly bring a ransom worth your while.”

  “We know who they are, and it’s neither ransom nor robbery we want.” The man was rougher of looks and manner than the one still holding Frevisse, but there was nothing threatening in his tone. He grinned. “All we ask is your company for dinner in the greenwood. Our master sent us for you.”

  Master Naylor’s face registered his irony and disbelief. “And I suppose your master’s name is Robin Hood?”

  The man grinned wider. “When it suits him. And that’s Little John standing over yon fallen lady, not knowing what to do about her. And Will Scarlet is holding your other.” He made a somewhat respectful bob of his head to Frevisse, then turned to the man beside him. “Hal, take his dagger, too, and let’s be away from here.”

  “Will someone come see to this one?”

  The rather plaintive plea from the outlaw still holding Sister Emma’s horse made Frevisse pull against her own captor’s hold. “Let me go to her.”

  The man promptly released her with the sketch of a bow. She went to kneel beside Sister Emma and found her breathing was suspiciously even and her color good. Somewhat more sharply than necessary Frevisse slapped her cheeks and said briskly, “Wake up, sister. Wake up, or I needs must dash water in your face and spoil your wimple. You can’t stay here. Wake up.”

  With soft groans and much fluttering of eyelashes, Sister Emma responded, looking first at Frevisse bending over her, and then at the man standing behind her. With a piteous moan, she turned her face away and shut her eyes again. “Oh, it’s not a nightmare. We’re ruined, Dame Frevisse. Ruined!”

  With quelling asperity Frevisse said, “I doubt it.” Whatever these men were about, it hardly seemed rapine or even robbery, to judge by their words and carefulness so far. But Hal had Master Naylor’s dagger now, and the sword was still at the steward’s chest, and none of them looked inclined to patience. The big man said, “We can’t be biding here on the high road all the afternoon. Help her up and we’ll be going.”

  Frevisse nodded and rose, pulling on Sister Emma’s arm. Little John – and Frevisse doubted that was anything like his proper name – took Sister Emma’s other one. Sister Emma shrank from him with small noises of distress and fear, but did not resist beyond that.

  “Come on, then, sister,” the man said, not unkindly. “Let’s be away from here.” He grinned and added, “Welcome to Sherwood!”

  Chapter Two

  The man called Hal chose be Master Naylor’s keeper. He took the steward’s sword belt to wear himself, notching it around his waist and sheathing the sword with a satisfied air. But he kept the dagger in hand at Naylor’s back while two of the other outlaws tied the dropped bundles to the saddle of one of the horses, and Little John stayed guard by the women.

  There being no help for any of it, Frevisse stood silently, while Sister Emma first pleaded to be set free, then threatened her brothers’ vengence on anyone who touched her, and the sheriff’s full rigor if she wasn’t sent on her way immediately, and finally - when no one paid heed to any of that – gave herself up to loud crying, clutching Frevisse for support.

  Over Sister Emma’s head, Frevisse met Master Naylor’s questioning look and twitched her head in the smallest of negative gestures. There was no hope of any escape that included Sister Emma; she would be as burdensome as wet laundry. And as useful. Careful that none of the outlaws was looking at her, Frevisse silently formed, “You go.” He had the best hope of escape, given any kind of a chance.

  Grim-faced, Master Naylor shook his head. He was bound by duty to protect them; he would not desert them, no matter how little help he could offer. And then the man who had captured Frevisse brought a rope from one of the bundles and, with Hal still keeping the dagger at his back, tied Master Naylor’s arms behind him.

  “Done, Cullum,” he said.

  They followed the road only a little way, then turned aside into a wide grassy path used by timber cutters, Frevisse guessed. But this was not the season for timber cutting, and the outlaws moved with an assurance that showed they expected to meet no one. Well away from the road, Will disappeared into the underbrush with the horses, one tied behind the other.

  “Bring them back!” Sister Emma wailed. “You’re stealing our horses!”

  “They’ll keep hidden here till you need them again,” said Cullum shortly. “You’ll have them back. Now let’s be away from here. Will can catch up.”

  “We’re to walk? In the woods? Do you know what it’s like in the woods? How can you expect me-”

  Sister Emma’s volume was increasing with her distress. Reading the look on Cullum’s face, Frevisse said hurriedly, “Hush, Sister. Be quiet! You’re going to make them angry. You don’t want them angry, do you?”

  “My brothers will–“ Sister Emma began loudly, then grasped what Frevisse was saying. She stopped, gaping, for a moment, then shut her mouth with an audible snap. Head hunched and hands clasped tightly under her chin, she began to pray. But inaudibly.

  “Good,” said Cullum. Beside him, Hal was tightening a blindfold over Master Naylor’s eyes. Will came back, with a gesture to Cullum that all was well. Cullum nodded in reply and said, “Then let’s be going. You’ll be behind me, steward, with Hal to guide you. Then the women, with Will and John to see to them. No more noise than need be or we’ll have to gag you and sling you from a pole and carry you like a deer’s carcass. You understand?”

  “Clearly,” Master Naylor answered evenly.

  Frevisse did not mistake his tone for submission. But Cullum, satisfied, said, “Good.” He led them off the wide way for a narrower path deeper into the woods. Frevisse, hampered by skirts, wimple, and veil among the branches and brush, was thankful she was at least unblindfolded and unbound. Dressed as they were, she and Sister Emma could not flee through the underbrush beyond the path; and the outlaws knew it.

  And certainly Sister Emma had no thought of escape. She was too busy stumbling over everything in her path, untangling her veil from almost every branch, and sobbing under her breath every prayer she could remember, whether they suited their present trouble or not.

  Ahead of her a branch slipped past Cullum’s shoulder and whipped across Master Naylor’s face. He flinched but made no outcry. Sister Emma stumbled yet again; John caught her elbow to steady her but she jerked it indignantly from his hold, then tripped again and fell to her knees with a miserable cry. Master Naylor started to turn, demanding, “What…” but Frevisse said quickly, “It’s all right. She only tripped,” before Hal could do anything to him. He faced forward again, but Sister Emma wailed from the ground, “It’s not all right! I can’t do this!”

  Before any of the men could intervene, Frevisse hissed, “Hush! They’ll gag you if you keep on this way. Be quiet.”

  Sister Emma gulped, cast a cringing look at John looming beside her and let Frevisse help her to her feet.

  They went on. She pretended to be absorbed in managing herself and Sister Emma along the narrow path; but she was also trying to memorize the way they went – left along a dry stream cut, right at a fallen tree caught in the crotch of another,
left again in sight of a tall broken stump. The way was deliberately tangled, she thought; and was doubtful she would be able to find her way back even if she had the chance. But at least she could try.

  At last they came into a large clearing. It was ringed by wide-trunked trees, with sunlight and flowers in its long grass and the air fragrant with the smell of roasting venison. A half dozen roughly dressed men were scattered around in the shade. One of them, seated on a great tree root across the clearing, plucked lightly at a lute, so apparently at ease that he did not even look up as they came by. The others lounged to their feet, looking uncertain how to respond to the presence of two nuns in their midst. Except one, who moved forward with a confidence that said he was their leader.

  He was perhaps near forty, dressed in the plain-cut green tunic of a forester; but the belt and pouch and dagger sheath at his waist were of richly finished leather. He was smiling, and there was charm in both his smile and the way he said to Cullum, “Take off his blindfold. There’s no need now. Let him see for himself we mean no harm, neither to him nor these fair ladies.”

  While he spoke, he looked quickly, assessingly, from Sister Emma’s rather dazed, damp, tear-reddened face to Frevisse standing cold-eyed and calm beside her. His smile deepened, and by-passing Master Naylor and Sister Emma both, he went down on one knee in front of Frevisse. “Good cousin, I pray your forgiveness for this unseemly meeting. I could find no better way.”

  Frevisse, ready for a great many possibilities at that moment but not that one, stared.

  The man lifted his head. A little pleadingly, he said, “Don’t you remember me at all then, cousin?”

  Frevisse began to shake her head. But something in him – maybe the mischief behind his eyes even while he pleaded – awakened memory, and suddenly, despite the changes in him, he was familiar. “Nicholas!” she exclaimed. Her father’s older brother’s elder son and indeed her cousin, though they had not met for almost twenty years.

  He sprang to his feet, holding out his hands to her. “You’d always more wits than any three other women together. I knew you’d remember!”

  In the surprise of the moment, Frevisse held out her own hands to clasp his. “Of course I remember! At Uncle Thomas’. You were there in his household that whole season from Michaelmas until after Christmastide.” And had been sent away in disgrace, she remembered, because of too many jokes and insolences and finally for trying to seduce a serving girl.

  There was clearly nothing of that scandal in Nicholas’ mind. He grinned broadly at her, holding her hands in his own hard, strong ones. “You were an earnest creature then, forever tucked away in Uncle Thomas’ library despite all Aunt Matilda tried to do to have you out of there. Are you still that earnest?”

  “Are you still a teasing rogue?” Frevisse retorted.

  Nicholas threw back his head and laughed. “Yes! Yes, indeed I am!”

  “And you could find no other way than this for a reunion?” Master Naylor asked, his voice dry and edged.

  Nicholas looked around at him with plain surprise, as if he had forgotten there was anyone there but himself and Frevisse. His demeanor changed quickly to apologetic. “Now here I’m at fault to neglect you, sir. And you, good lady.” He turned his smile on Sister Emma, who in the surprises of the moment was staring from him to Frevisse and back again, for a wonder both wordless and tearless. But as he bowed elegantly to her, she remembered herself and drew away from him with a sniff and a trembling chin.

  Nicholas’ smile turned rueful. “You’ve indeed been poorly handled, gentle lady. Let me make amends, I pray you.” He stepped back, drew himself up straight, and swept a low bow to all three of them. “By your gracious leave, good master and fair ladies, let me invite you to our feast this day. We dine not elegantly but well, and I swear you would be no more honorably received in even the highest hall of the land.”

  Frevisse looked pointedly aside to Master Naylor’s bound hands. Nicholas took her meaning and gestured to Cullum. “Free him. He knows now we mean no harm. I’ve given my oath and am Dame Frevisse’s cousin into the bargain. He’ll give no trouble. Will you, man?”

  “Leave the ladies untouched and you’ll have no trouble from me.”

  Nicholas put up a hand in ready oath. “As I pray for God’s grace, they’ll come to no harm that I can keep them from.”

  Master Naylor, rubbing his rope-marked wrists, eyed him coldly. Nicholas turned to Frevisse.

  “There’ll be food soon. Will you talk with me the while until we eat?”

  Rather than answering, Frevisse was gazing past him at the lute player still playing on the far side of the clearing. He had remained bent over his lute, his face half-unseen, but with an air of listening as intently as his fellows to everything that passed.

  “I know him from somewhere,” Frevisse murmured.

  Nicholas glanced around to see whom she was looking at and shrugged. “I doubt it, unless your prioress lets wandering minstrels play for her nuns upon occasion.”

  Which Domina Edith certainly did not. But Frevisse was the priory’s hosteler, in charge of the guests that the Benedictine Rule required every house to provide for. The lute player might well have spent the night some time.

  The feeling was so strong that she would have gone to speak to him, but Nicholas led her aside to where a blanket had been spread on the ground at the foot of the largest tree. Sister Emma made to follow but one of the outlaws stepped in her way with what could pass for a polite murmur, and Master Naylor took her by the arm, speaking quickly in her ear. Tears threatened for a moment, but then Master Naylor took her by the arm, speaking quickly in her ear as he led her with the outlaw to another tree and blanket. Frevisse, satisfied they would be all right, gave her attention to Nicholas.

  He gestured down. “Be seated, if it please you.”

  Grateful, Frevisse sank down on the blanket. It had been fine once, thick and closely woven, but was filthy now with hard use. Nicholas sat down on the tree root beside her and leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. For a moment they looked at each other.

  Frevisse was remembering how he had been when they were young. He had been tall and still was, though somewhat stooped; he had been slender, he was now gaunt; his thick brown hair was further back from his forehead, and there was gray scattered through its curls. Laughter had always lurked behind his eyes, even in what should have been his most solemn moments, and it was still there. But so was weariness, and there were deep-set lines beside his mouth and around his eyes. He was older, and he had changed, except for the lurking merriment behind his eyes.

  “You’re looking more solemn than you need to, cousin,” he said.

  He had used to grin down at her much as he was now when about to tease away her anger at him. She was not angry with him now, nor much in the mood for being teased. “Remembering you and how you came to be an outlaw is enough to make me solemn.”

  “Ah.” Nicholas looked away from her. “There were mistakes, and then more mistakes. Some folk - and particularly my father – always said I would go too far. One day I finally did. I’ve been paying for it a long time.”

  “Almost sixteen years.”

  “That long?” He looked a little startled, thinking of it, and then agreed, “Yes. It has been, I suppose. You always tended to be right. I remember that.”

  He had been in his early twenties, his father’s heir to two good manors, when he ran afoul of a local lord unamused by some escapade of his. Frevisse did not know all the matter of it, but what had been a slight matter had escalated to a quarrel and then to an armed skirmish. Men had been killed on both sides, and Nicholas’ own father had refused to back him or stand out against the decree of outlawry a Staffordshire sheriff had brought down on him. In answer, Nicholas had disappeared into the Derby hills, and that had been the last Frevisse knew of him until today. The Derby hills were a long way from southern Oxfordshire.

  “Your father died,” she said.

  “I know. I�
� used to learn things. About home. But it’s been a while now. Edward?”

  “He was well, the last I heard, a year ago. And his wife and children.”

  “He has children?”

  “Two sons and two daughters. The oldest boy is named Edward after his father.”

  “And the younger? Not Nicholas by any chance?”

  “Not by any chance,” Frevisse agreed. “He’s named after his grandfather.”

  Nicholas looked down at his hands. They had been clever, graceful hands when he was young. Now they were broad and blunt, roughened and weather-browned like his face. Barely above a whisper he said, “I want to go home, cousin. I repent my sins, all of them. I want the king’s pardon so I can go home.”

  Frevisse said nothing, not knowing what to say. Nicholas gripped his hands together tightly enough the knuckles whitened and looked at her. There were tears in his eyes, and his voice was edged by a quiver he could not control. “It’s been sixteen years. Long years. I want a pardon and an end to this.”

  Frevisse hesitated, then said, “Is that why we’re here? Why I’m here? Because you want a pardon and you think I can win one for you?”

  “You were Thomas Chaucer’s pet when you were in his household, and word runs that he’s still fond of you. He even comes to see you in your nunnery and takes an interest in its business because you’re there.”

  “Yes.” How Nicholas knew that she did not know; but she could guess how pleased he had been to learn it.

  “If you asked him - told him I’d truly changed and am truly repentant – if you begged him in my name for a royal pardon for me and my men, he could get it. It would be easy for him, wouldn’t it? Knowing whom he knows. High in the government as he is. He could do it without thinking twice, and he would if you asked him.”