Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 02] Read Online Free Page A

process, as every sheriff in England was required to attend the sessions. From this final accounting at Michaelmas the king himself was paid, campaigns were funded, the administration of all of England was underwritten, including the payment of sheriffs. Accounts were required to be accurate and absolute; and it was known by all the sheriffs that writs of expenditures, in the days of Holy Crusade, far too frequently outnumbered tally pieces. William deLacey, who would rather hang criminals than account for the king’s coin, detested Easter and Michaelmas.
    He heard the key scrape in the lock. Gisbourne. And so it was; and so Gisbourne let himself into the dungeon and imprisoned them both. For now the wealth of Nottinghamshire—pardon, the king’s wealth—was safe.
    DeLacey grunted and stepped away from the table. Gisbourne, a short, compact, dark man, bent and placed a stack of wooden tallies into the receipt.
    “And?” deLacey asked ominously.
    Grimly, Gisbourne took a packet of parchment from his purse. He untied it and began parceling out the writs into various squares representing cities, towns, villages, manors. No one in England was spared a share of taxes. But neither was England spared expenses.
    “And?” deLacey repeated.
    “There are more tallies to come,” Gisbourne said. “I have men out now going from village to village to collect the taxes as yet unpaid, but it will take time.”
    “I do not have a surfeit of time,” the sheriff reminded. “Tell the men to be ruthless. I must have a full accounting before the preliminary session.”
    Gisbourne’s mouth barely moved. “Yes, my lord.”
    “See to it.”
    “Yes, my lord.”
    The sheriff glared at the writs strewn across the Exchequer. “It would be much simpler if everyone simply paid the tax collectors on time. Then it would spare me the need to send soldiers to the villages, and spare the peasants the attentions of those soldiers.”
    “So it would, my lord.”
    Attention recaptured by the colorless tone, deLacey studied his steward. Gisbourne was being more down-mouthed than usual. “Is this something I should concern myself with?”
    Dark eyes flickered. “No, my lord.”
    “Eleanor, is it?”
    Gisbourne was startled that his business was so obvious, but hid it instantly. “The child is ill, my lord.”
    “Which one?”
    “The girl.”
    Gisbourne’s daughter. Or the girl presumed to be Gisbourne’s daughter; the sheriff was well aware Eleanor was more than indiscriminate when it came to her pleasures. Rumor had it Gisbourne had sired neither the girl nor boy, though Gisbourne himself claimed them.
    “Will she live?”
    “The chirurgeon believes so, my lord.”
    “Well, then. Tend my business, Gisbourne, and the chirurgeon will tend his.”
    “Yes, my lord.”
    William deLacey let himself out of the cell, resolving to visit the mews. He had acquired a young hawk from the Earl of Huntington, and wished to see how its training progressed.

    Mercardier gave Marian and Robin little enough time to exchange farewells. The mercenary, already mounted, waited at the opened gate. He said nothing, but the intensity of his stare and the grimness of his mouth made it plain further delay would not be tolerated. As Robin led his horse toward the gate, Marian walked with him.
    Conscious of the king’s man, they exchanged a chaste kiss, though Robin’s hand lingered a moment in her hair; and then he was mounting, gathering rein as he swung a leg across the saddle. She had packed him clothing, adding to it a wrapped parcel of cheese and bread; Robin had strapped on dagger and sword. There was nothing left to be done save leave.
    “I will be home as soon as may be,” Robin told her, gripping her hand a moment, and then he rode out.
    She watched them go: one large, mail-clad mercenary atop a huge bay horse, a younger, slighter knight in simple leather and wool, mounted on a gray. The latter wore no mail, but was no less competent, she knew—or