she had used to tie back her hair.
“I have been at Peper Harrow, Marion,” he drawled,“waiting in vain for Sir Walter to receive me. Kindly inform him that I have better things to do than haunt his threshold.”
“That you have, while there are robbers roaming free in Sherwood! That's sheriff's business; why don't you see to it?”
Tom snickered.
The sheriff's face turned beet red. “Tell the old man the next time I'll break down his door!”
Marion eyed him suspiciously. “What have you got to say to Sir Walter that he should disturb himself for you?”
The man drew himself up, looking even more haughty than usual. “That in Nottingham I stand for England's exchequer, and if he thinks himself too proud to pay what's due—”
“He is not too proud!” Marion broke in. “But too poor! In the name of King Richard you have stripped our wealth to pay for foreign adventures, while at home the Church in the name of a merciful God has reaped without mercy the larger share of what we have sown to feed ourselves. Between a sheriff and a bishop, I wouldn't care to judge who's the greater curse on honest English folk!”
She expected that he would redden and splutter in his anger, as he had before. But he remained composed as he guided his mount closer to her. Marion stood her ground, though she sensed that Tom had grown tense behind her. Paul had halted in the field.
The sheriff leered at her. He smelled of too-sweet perfume and she thought she caught the scent of wine on his breath.
“That's talk to get a woman locked in the keep,” he said, his voice low and oily. “Why make an enemy ofme, Miss Marion, when you have the means to make me your protector?” His gaze dropped briefly to the laces that tied the bodice of her dress.
“What means?” she demanded.
The sheriff's hand reached out, as quick as lightning. Grabbing hold of her bodice, he pulled her roughly toward him, leaned down, and kissed her full on the mouth. She should have endured the kiss; though his manners were common, the power he wielded was real. But in her fury and her revulsion Marion couldn't help herself. She bit his lip as hard as she could.
The sheriff thrust her away so forcefully that she nearly stumbled. He put his hand to his lip, testing it for blood. Marion spat.
“Like being kissed by a putrid fish,” she said, her voice shaking with rage. “If you leave now, I will lengthen your life by not telling my husband when he returns home.”
The sheriff laughed coldly. “Your husband? After ten years? If he's not dead, he's rutting his way through the brothels of the Barbary Coast.”
If she'd had a sword, he would have been dead already. “Go. Now.”
He remained just where he was, grinning. “Think on it, Miss Marion. Sir Walter is dying without an heir, so Peper Harrow will belong to the Crown, and you will be living in the hedgerow. You'll be glad to come to me then.”
He laughed again, wheeled his horse, and rode away, his ruffians trailing behind him.
Marion turned and walked quickly back to the house, too furious to say anything to Tom or Old Paul.
* * *
T HE WINDS ON the English Channel had died down at dusk, leaving the ship to drift slowly toward England. Robin and the others were awake below-decks, their small chamber lit dimly by candlelight. Allan sat on a barrel, plucking at the strings of his lute, while Will and Little John drank wine and sang along, their voices slightly off-key.
Robin sat apart from the others, lost in thought, staring at the palm of his hand, at the small mark that had been left there by the hilt of Loxley's sword. Allan had said something about a blood oath, but Robin knew better. This mark hadn't been made by anything so mystical. He still remembered the sting of it. Thinking this, he pulled the sword from the scabbard on his belt and examined the hilt closely. There was copper wire there, holding a leather grip in place. It was wound around the hilt, its sharp end protruding slightly. He gripped
“I have been at Peper Harrow, Marion,” he drawled,“waiting in vain for Sir Walter to receive me. Kindly inform him that I have better things to do than haunt his threshold.”
“That you have, while there are robbers roaming free in Sherwood! That's sheriff's business; why don't you see to it?”
Tom snickered.
The sheriff's face turned beet red. “Tell the old man the next time I'll break down his door!”
Marion eyed him suspiciously. “What have you got to say to Sir Walter that he should disturb himself for you?”
The man drew himself up, looking even more haughty than usual. “That in Nottingham I stand for England's exchequer, and if he thinks himself too proud to pay what's due—”
“He is not too proud!” Marion broke in. “But too poor! In the name of King Richard you have stripped our wealth to pay for foreign adventures, while at home the Church in the name of a merciful God has reaped without mercy the larger share of what we have sown to feed ourselves. Between a sheriff and a bishop, I wouldn't care to judge who's the greater curse on honest English folk!”
She expected that he would redden and splutter in his anger, as he had before. But he remained composed as he guided his mount closer to her. Marion stood her ground, though she sensed that Tom had grown tense behind her. Paul had halted in the field.
The sheriff leered at her. He smelled of too-sweet perfume and she thought she caught the scent of wine on his breath.
“That's talk to get a woman locked in the keep,” he said, his voice low and oily. “Why make an enemy ofme, Miss Marion, when you have the means to make me your protector?” His gaze dropped briefly to the laces that tied the bodice of her dress.
“What means?” she demanded.
The sheriff's hand reached out, as quick as lightning. Grabbing hold of her bodice, he pulled her roughly toward him, leaned down, and kissed her full on the mouth. She should have endured the kiss; though his manners were common, the power he wielded was real. But in her fury and her revulsion Marion couldn't help herself. She bit his lip as hard as she could.
The sheriff thrust her away so forcefully that she nearly stumbled. He put his hand to his lip, testing it for blood. Marion spat.
“Like being kissed by a putrid fish,” she said, her voice shaking with rage. “If you leave now, I will lengthen your life by not telling my husband when he returns home.”
The sheriff laughed coldly. “Your husband? After ten years? If he's not dead, he's rutting his way through the brothels of the Barbary Coast.”
If she'd had a sword, he would have been dead already. “Go. Now.”
He remained just where he was, grinning. “Think on it, Miss Marion. Sir Walter is dying without an heir, so Peper Harrow will belong to the Crown, and you will be living in the hedgerow. You'll be glad to come to me then.”
He laughed again, wheeled his horse, and rode away, his ruffians trailing behind him.
Marion turned and walked quickly back to the house, too furious to say anything to Tom or Old Paul.
* * *
T HE WINDS ON the English Channel had died down at dusk, leaving the ship to drift slowly toward England. Robin and the others were awake below-decks, their small chamber lit dimly by candlelight. Allan sat on a barrel, plucking at the strings of his lute, while Will and Little John drank wine and sang along, their voices slightly off-key.
Robin sat apart from the others, lost in thought, staring at the palm of his hand, at the small mark that had been left there by the hilt of Loxley's sword. Allan had said something about a blood oath, but Robin knew better. This mark hadn't been made by anything so mystical. He still remembered the sting of it. Thinking this, he pulled the sword from the scabbard on his belt and examined the hilt closely. There was copper wire there, holding a leather grip in place. It was wound around the hilt, its sharp end protruding slightly. He gripped
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