Heir of Locksley Read online

  Outlaw’s Legacy

  Book 1

  Heir of Locksley

  by

  N.B. Dixon

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  * * * * *

  Copyright 2016 N.B. Dixon at Smashwords.

  https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/nbdixon

  Cover design by Natasha Snow

  http://www.natashasnow.com

  This book is available in print at most online retailers.

  http://www.beatentrackpublishing.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  * * * * *

  This novel is a work of fiction and the characters and events in it exist only in its pages and in the author’s imagination.

  * * * * *

  Robin of Locksley is a rebel, more comfortable roaming Sherwood Forest with his longbow and courting the village girls than learning how to run a manor.

  An innocent flirtation with a peasant girl soon lands Robin in trouble, and worse, he finds himself inexplicably attracted to Will Scathelock, his best friend since childhood. Robin must decide whether to follow the rules of society or his own conscience.

  Meanwhile, his neighbour, Guy of Gisborne, is anxious to get his hands on the Locksley estate and he will do anything to make it happen—even murder.

  * * * * *

  Table of Contents

  Prologue Summer 1170

  Part 1 Summer 1182

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part 2 Summer 1188

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue Summer 1192

  Author’s Note

  Coming Soon

  Beaten Track Publishing

  * * * * *

  Prologue

  Summer 1170

  Rain pounded with unrelenting ferocity against the windowpane. A violent clap of thunder jolted Martha awake. She sat up, cursing herself for falling asleep, and cast an anxious glance at the bed.

  Lady Matilda slept, her deathly pale face drawn with exhaustion, a stark contrast to the raven hair spread across the pillows. Her labour had lasted a day and a half, and Martha had been in constant attendance.

  Lady Matilda had been confined to bed five days earlier with a fever, and that, coupled with the child arriving too soon, had weakened her to the point that her survival was doubtful.

  Lord Locksley was away from home, with no definite time fixed for his return. Martha had ordered that a messenger be sent to him when his wife first took ill, but she feared he would arrive too late.

  A vivid flash of lightning illuminated the ornately carved crib, followed by a second clap of thunder, even louder than the first. The wind howled like some demented creature, causing the shutters to rattle.

  The baby woke and began to cry. His shrill wails sounded lost in the vast bedchamber.

  Martha jumped up and ran to him, scooping the boy up in her arms. “There, little one,” she crooned, rocking him against her shoulder. “It’s just a storm. You are safe.” Her soothing words made no difference.

  From the depths of the huge four-poster bed, a soft voice spoke. “Is everything all right, Martha?”

  “Aye, Lady.”

  Martha approached the bed, forcing a smile onto her face. Lady Matilda looked so delicate and tiny among all the embroidered pillows and coverlets. Her body took up barely half the bed. It was a family heirloom, Lady Matilda had once told her. Many generations of Locksleys had been born and died in it.

  Martha adopted the soothing tone she always used when speaking to Lady Matilda, as if she were calming a frightened child. “It was the storm. It scared him.”

  “He is strong?” Lady Matilda murmured. She had asked this question three times already.

  “Very strong, My Lady, as you can hear, the picture of health. He’ll make his father proud.”

  “You must care for him, Martha, as if he were your own.”

  Tears pricked the corners of Martha’s eyes. She spoke briskly to cover them. “We’ll have none of that talk, My Lady. It’s common to feel tired after childbirth. You’ll be right as rain in a day or two.”

  It was a kind lie. Lady Matilda had never been strong. She and Lord Locksley had longed for a son, and Lady Matilda had almost certainly given her life bringing him into the world.

  She gazed at her son as though committing his face to memory. “I am dying, Martha, I know it. Promise me you will look after him. I could go to my God in peace if I knew you were there to watch over him.”

  Martha couldn’t stop the tears or the catch in her voice. “I promise, My Lady. I will love him as if he were my own child.”

  The bedchamber door banged open, startling them both. Lord Locksley stood there, his cloak dripping, his boots splattered with mud. He hurried to his wife’s bedside. “How are you, Matilda?”

  She beamed up at him. “Never mind me, my love. Look at our son. Isn’t he beautiful?”

  Martha wordlessly held out the child. He had stopped crying for the moment.

  Lord Locksley took him in his arms. He held the baby as if afraid he might attack.

  “He looks like you,” Lady Matilda said.

  Lord Locksley made a noncommittal noise.

  Martha couldn’t see the resemblance. The boy’s hair was black like his father’s, but as his mother was also dark, that meant nothing. As yet, he didn’t really look like anyone. Still, Lady Matilda evidently saw something no one else did.

  She tried to sit up but fell back against her pillows.

  “Lie still, my dear.” Lord Locksley stretched out a hand, but his fingers stopped short, as if he feared to touch her.

  Martha could see from his eyes that he knew his wife was dying.

  “The child is healthy?” he asked.

  “Indeed.” Lady Matilda’s smile was radiant. “I would like to call him Robin, if that pleases you. It was my father’s name.”

  “As you wish.”

  Martha winced at the chilly indifference in Lord Locksley’s voice. She longed to speak, to dissolve the tension, but she was a servant, invisible until called for. She doubted if Lord Locksley even knew her name.

  Oblivious to the atmosphere in the room, Lady Matilda closed her eyes with a contented sigh.

  “You should rest,” Lord Locksley told her.

  Lady Matilda half opened one eye. “Are you happy, my love? Have I done well?”

  “Of course I am happy. Get some sleep, my dear, do not exhaust yourself.”

  Another clap of thunder made Martha jump. The baby, henceforth to be known as Robin, let out a fresh wail.

  Lord Locksley started as though he had been stung. He thrust Robin at Martha. “Good lord, what is the matter with him?”

  Martha hid her rising anger with difficulty. “He is hungry, perhaps, My Lord.”

  “Then feed him, for God’s sake, before he wakes half the household.” Lord Locksley hurried out, closing the door behind him
.

  Martha sat in a chair by the fire and nursed little Robin. A pang pierced her heart as she thought of her own stillborn baby boy. His father had never even seen him, having died in a riding accident months before. Still, God had smiled on her. He had sent a replacement.

  She looked at Robin’s round face with its dimpled cheeks and button nose, and love swelled in her heart. Love, and fear.

  Why wasn’t Lord Locksley pleased with his son? The son he had wanted so badly. Robin was perfect in every way, yet Martha had had the distinct impression that Lord Locksley could hardly bear to look at him. His wife was dying, yet he didn’t seem to care. But maybe she was being unfair. Men didn’t show their grief like women did. They bottled it up inside, to be released only in private. Still, something wasn’t right, and Martha’s heart beat faster with anxiety for the little boy now asleep in her arms.

  With the approach of dawn, the storm at last blew itself out. Martha laid Robin in his crib. Then, she checked on her mistress.

  Lady Matilda’s face was peaceful. Fearing what she would find, Martha took the limp wrist in both hands, pressing her fingers to the pulse point as her mother had shown her long ago. Lady Matilda’s skin was still warm, but no life beat under Martha’s fingers.

  She had slipped away without a word or so much as a sigh, believing her son was safe with a father who loved him.

  Blinking back tears, Martha arranged Lady Matilda’s hands across her breast and settled the covers. Then she moved back to the crib. For a long time, she stood gazing down at the sleeping Robin.

  “It’s you against the world,” she said softly. “You’ll have a tough road to follow, growing up without your mother, but you’ll never be alone, I promise, not as long as I live.” Bending, she kissed his silky cheek and then hurried to give Lord Locksley the news that his wife was dead.

  * * * * *

  Part 1

  Summer 1182

  * * * * *

  Chapter 1

  The arrow flew straight and true, striking the straw dummy’s chest dead centre.

  Robin let out a whoop of triumph. “Ha! That’s three times in a row.” He performed a little celebratory jig, fist punching the air, and grinned at the boy who stood awaiting his turn. “Beat that if you can, Guy.”

  “Robin,” his tutor admonished. “It is not gentlemanly to gloat.”

  “I wasn’t gloating. I was stating a fact.” Robin thought he saw his tutor’s lips twitch for an instant before his face assumed its usual stern expression.

  “Nevertheless, you could be a little more supportive of your friend.”

  Robin clapped Guy on the back. “Go on, your turn.”

  Guy shrugged off Robin’s touch and picked up his bow. He approached the dummy, looking less than enthusiastic. Robin noticed his hands were shaking as he fitted an arrow to his bow string.

  “Take deep breaths,” Robin coached. “And remember to hold the arrow level with your—”

  “I know,” Guy snapped.

  Robin opened his mouth but his tutor laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Enough.”

  His quiet voice silenced Robin more effectively than a shout would have done. Robin had a lot of respect for his tutor. Sir Richard of Lee was an old comrade of his father. The two knights had fought together alongside King Henry when his son, Young Henry, had tried to seize the throne. It had been Lord Locksley’s idea for Sir Richard to tutor both boys, and for the past three years, Sir Richard had trained them in all manner of fighting and weaponry.

  While Robin enjoyed all his lessons, it was archery he loved the most. Though the longbow was not a weapon traditionally used by a nobleman, Sir Richard had thought Robin and Guy should learn. His own grandfather had been a Welsh archer. Sir Richard had made Robin’s bow himself, and it was his most treasured possession.

  Once, when Sir Richard hadn’t known he was listening, Robin had heard him tell his father that he was one of the best young archers Richard had seen.

  “He will go far,” Sir Richard had said. “I cannot teach him fast enough. The boy soaks up my lessons like a cloth does water.”

  “It is a pity he cannot apply such devotion to his other studies,” had been Lord Locksley’s only comment.

  Lord Locksley had always been a remote presence in Robin’s life—someone to be wary of, even feared. Robin had no memory of his mother, but that place was more than filled by his nurse, Martha. He loved her better than anyone in the world.

  If Robin considered any time not spent training as time wasted, he knew Guy didn’t feel the same. Guy dreaded their lessons. He had no natural aptitude for either the sword or the bow. Robin tried to be sympathetic, but he couldn’t help thinking that after three years, Guy should have improved at least a little. It wasn’t any fun sparring against him. There was no challenge.

  The two boys had been friends for as long as Robin could remember. The Gisbornes occupied the neighbouring estate. Sir Benedict Gisborne and Robin’s father were old friends.

  Guy’s first arrow went wide, burying itself in the trunk of a nearby tree. Robin held his tongue as Guy threw down his bow in frustration.

  “Concentrate, Guy,” Sir Richard said. “Become one with the bow. Loosing at the wrong time can mean the difference between victory and defeat.”

  Guy scowled, but picked up his bow again.

  Robin studied his friend as he stood there, face twisted in a grimace of concentration.

  The two boys were complete opposites to look at. Where Robin was slim and compact, Guy was broad and stocky with arms and legs that seemed too big for his body. He was often prone to clumsiness, which meant Robin won the vast majority of their practice sword bouts. His blonde hair lay sleek and straight against his head as if it had been pressed flat, whereas Robin’s tousled black locks were a source of perpetual irritation to his father.

  At last, Guy fired. This shot was better. It landed just outside the circle that was the dummy’s heart.

  “Good!” Sir Richard said. “Try again.”

  Guy let fly his third arrow. This time, his aim was true.

  Robin grinned. “He’s dead. See? That wasn’t so hard.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Guy muttered.

  “No, really, it’s easy.” To demonstrate, Robin fitted a fresh arrow to his own bow and fired. It split Guy’s arrow in two, and stuck, quivering, in the dummy’s chest.

  Guy heaved a sigh. “Easy for you, maybe.”

  “All right, how about some sword practice instead?” Robin didn’t wait for Guy to agree, but ran off in the direction of the house.

  ***

  Alone with his tutor, Guy shuffled his feet and stared at the ground. Robin, he knew, would have had some cheeky quip to fill the uncomfortable silence. Robin was never short of something to say. Guy, on the other hand, was ready to sink through the ground with embarrassment.

  He kept looking at Robin’s arrow, standing upright and proud while his own lay splintered and discarded, worthless. He had frozen. It always happened like this, whether he was practising archery or at dinner in his father’s hall. His mind would shut down, and his chest tighten with panic.

  He was heir to the Gisborne estate. One day, it would be his to manage, but how could he be respected as a knight and a gentlemen when he couldn’t do anything right?

  Robin didn’t care what anyone thought. He breezed through life. He was confident in any situation. It wasn’t fair.

  Guy knew it was wrong to feel jealous of his friend, but there were times when he felt Robin was making fun of him. Even his own parents were full of praise for Robin and often compared them. Did they ever wish they had Robin for a son?

  Guy’s sister, Katrina, had declared herself in love with Robin and sworn she would marry no other. She was a year younger than Guy but had twice his confidence.

  A gentle hand on his shoulder jerked Guy out of his gloomy thoughts. Sir Richard was smiling down at him.

  “You shouldn’t take it so hard. Not all of us c
an be good at everything straight away.”

  “Robin is.” The words were out before Guy could stop them.

  Sir Richard chuckled. “Believe me, he isn’t. He is confident, which makes you think he knows what he’s doing. You have strengths, too.”

  Guy wondered what those strengths were.

  “I know one thing,” Sir Richard went on. “However cocky he is, Robin has a good heart. He would never intentionally upset you. He doesn’t think before he speaks sometimes.”

  Guy smiled in spite of himself. It was rare to hear grown-ups describe Robin in anything other than glowing terms.

  The sound of running footsteps announced Robin’s return. Feeling more cheerful, Guy caught the practice sword Robin threw to him. The swords were made of wood, but they could certainly do some damage to your opponent if you knew what you were doing.

  Once, an over-enthusiastic swing from Guy had got under Robin’s guard and smacked him in the mouth, chipping one of his front teeth. The chip was visible every time he smiled. Guy knew he should have been sorry, but he’d secretly been glad. He had scored a hit. Robin, for his part, had taken the injury cheerfully, vowing revenge. Guy’s ribs had been black and blue that evening.

  They each assumed the correct battle stance, swords held ready. Robin struck first. Guy managed to parry the blow. He made a return strike, which Robin easily blocked. He skipped back from Guy’s next thrust; the field rang with the clash of wood on wood.

  Robin’s reflexes were fast. Guy felt awkward and clumsy by comparison. But he was bigger and heavier, if he could just use that to his advantage. He bore down on Robin, putting all his strength behind his strikes, trying to intimidate him. Sweat poured down his forehead, while Robin wasn’t even out of breath. There was a stinging pain across Guy’s ribs.