THE RUNAWAY
No, not my father! No!
Rodger ran across the dimly lit, cobbled courtyard toward the stable. He heard Uncle Robin shout at him to stop, but he only ran faster.
I didn't want to believe it! I was sure that boy was lying to me. But he wasn't. It's true. It's all true!
He reached the stable doors and fell against them, panting, his breath a frosty plume in the night air. His body shook with sobs, the tears coursing in icy trails down his cheeks.
'He stuck a knife in him and killed him. Your father's a murderer….'
His father had murdered the miner who led the strike. Killed him in cold blood, in front of his son. Who else had Father murdered, or tortured, or mutilated, at Sheriff Vaisey's orders? He'd tried to kill Aunt Marian! True, he hadn't known it was her, but what if he had succeeded? Aunt Marian would be dead now. Uncle Robin wouldn't have married her, and Eleanor would never have been born.
'Hard to tell you—things I'm ashamed of—I wasn't a good man when I worked for Vaisey.'
His father's own words. Now he understood. Now it all made sense. For years he'd heard rumours, whispers, hushed conversations. He'd seen, and puzzled over, the unfriendly way some people looked at them when they rode into Nottingham. All the times he was told he'd understand things when he was older, and worse, all the times his father had changed the subject when he'd asked questions about their family.
They hadn't wanted to tell him, so they had kept the truth from him. And he didn't want to believe any of it. He still didn't. But it was true. His father had killed people, for Sheriff Vaisey.
A wave of nausea turned his stomach upside down as he pulled open the stable doors.
I've got to get out of here. I can't go back home, not now. I can't listen to any more of it. I can't look at him, knowing.
Where can I go? Allan a Dale's house? No, that's the first place they'd look. Hugh and Willie's cottage? No, they'd send me straight home rather than risk Father's anger.
No, I've got to get out of Locksley altogether.
He snatched Starlight's bridle from its peg, and led the pony from his stall. He buckled the bridle on as quickly as his cold-numbed fingers would allow.
Much and Eve? I could ride to Bonchurch! No. Much is Uncle Robin's friend more than Father's. He's never liked Father. Besides, they'd search there, too.
Little John. That's it! I could ride to the orphanage and see Little John. I like John. He's kind. I could talk to him.
He scrambled up onto Starlight's back. A half moon, shrouded in wispy clouds, was the only light to guide him as he galloped his pony out of the village and onto the road.
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"Guy, just calm down. We'll find him. He couldn't have gone far. Meg, Marian, stay here. We'll search the village."
"Papa, let me come! I can help!"
"Not this time, sweetie. Stay here with your mother and Aunt Meg, in case Rodger comes back home."
"But, Papa!"
"Eleanor!" said Marian, as the two men grabbed their coats and went outside. "You heard your father!"
Eleanor sighed in exasperation, and dropped back down on the sofa.
"Why'd Rodger run off, anyway?" she asked her mother. "The big silly! Didn't he want to hear the rest of the story? I did!"
"He was upset, darling," answered Aunt Meg. Tears filled her eyes as Marian went to her and embraced her.
"It's okay, Meg, they'll find him. He'll be okay. We knew this was going to be hard, but don't worry. We'll get through it, and he will, too. We've been through worse."
Eleanor's ears perked up. She badly wanted to know what the "worse" consisted of, but her mother and Meg said no more.
Really, it was maddening! Why did adults always stop talking just when their conversations were getting interesting?
"Mama," she ventured after a moment, "is it true, Uncle Guy killed a miner? Did he kill anyone else? And did you know about this before tonight?"
"Yes, Eleanor, I knew."
"Aunt Meg, you knew, too? And Mama, he stabbed you? Do you have a scar from it? Can I see?"
"Eleanor, please! Help us out and be quiet for now."
Even Eleanor knew when enough was enough. She fell into a frustrated silence, while her mother and Aunt Meg sat near the fire, holding each other's hands, and waited for word.
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Robin and Guy came back inside a few minutes later. Their faces were somber.
"You didn't find him?"
"We searched the stable first. His pony's missing."
"Oh, no."
"We'll gather some men and send them out in different directions," said Robin. "Any idea where he might have gone?"
"You don't suppose he went to Nottingham, to your father's house, Meg?" suggested Marian.
"It's quite possible, yes," said Meg, and she smiled faintly with relief. "I should have thought of that myself. Guy, that's probably where he went. You should go there first. I should come with you."
"No, wait here, Meg. I don't want you out in this cold."
"Maybe he went to the orphanage to see Little John," offered Eleanor.
"Not likely," answered her father. "It's twenty miles or more to the orphanage. He wouldn't ride that far, not on a night like this."
Eleanor shrugged and said no more. She knew Rodger. Oh, yes, he'd ride that far in the cold and dark, all worked up over this business with his father as he was. Run off crying, and right in the middle of her father's fascinating story, too! Upset enough to jump on his pony and ride all night to who knew where, but if the grown-ups didn't want to take her suggestion seriously, that was their problem.
"I think you should go to my father's house first," Meg said again.
Of course, thought Robin, after a moment's reflection. He's gone to his grandfather's house. It makes perfect sense. He wouldn't ride all the way to the orphanage.
Or would he? Rodger can be impulsive at times. Hmm, just like someone else I know. Feel, act, and then, lastly if at all, think—hasn't that always been Guy's motto?
"I'd like to get my hands on the man who told his son that story—"
"Guy, you'll do no such thing," said Robin, dragged away from his thoughts by the sudden and dangerous anger he saw in the man's face. He clamped down hard on Guy's arm and looked sternly at him. "Come on, this isn't helping matters. Simmer down before you rush out and do something stupid."
"Who was the boy that Rodger met in the marketplace?" Marian asked.
"How the hell should I know?" Guy shot back. "He was just a boy, like any other."
He disengaged his arm from Robin's grasp, and swept a lock of his black hair from his ice-blue eyes with a toss of his head. He knew Robin was right, much as he chafed under the rebuke, but calm and rational discussions were not, and never had been, his favoured way of dealing with problems.
"He told Rodger that his grandfather was a miner," said Robin. "What happened that day at Treeton? Do you remember anything about the man you killed?"
"There was an accident at the mine," Guy replied in a low voice. "Some of the miners died, and so one of the miners refused to go back down, and he threatened to lead a strike. Vaisey showed up while I was arguing with him. I ordered him and the other men back into the mine. When he didn't comply, and I hesitated, Vaisey said "are you giving them choices?" You know, in that tone he took with me when he thought I was being too soft. I-I didn't think. I was angry and humiliated by the whole situation. So I pulled my dagger and killed the man, in front of the others. I'm pretty sure one of them was his son."
That's Guy, thought Robin. He feels an emotion, and he acts on it. Only later, after he's done something reckless, without regard for the consequences, does he stop to think. And now his son is just like him. Run off without a thought to the pain and worry he's putting his family through.
"The miner's son's name was Rowan," said Marian. "You remember him, Robin?"
Robin caught Marian's quick glance, and the almost imperceptible shake of her head. Oh, yes, he remembered Rowan very well. The young man's drive for revenge against Gisborne had nearly cost Marian her life.
"He won the silver arrow in the Sheriff's archery contest," Marian continued, "with a little help. It was his father, Dunne, that you killed, Guy."
"Rowan?" said Guy. "Okay. He beat out my archer, Michael the Red. Well, actually, you did, Robin. You told me the story, remember?"
Robin saw Marian glare at him from behind Guy, and shake her head again, and he frowned at her.
What does she think, that I'll slip up and tell Guy the whole truth? We agreed long ago that we would never divulge her full part in that story. Guy only knows that it was Marian's arm that he cut when he confronted her as the Nightwatchman, but what would he do if he knew Rowan came close to killing Marian that day, just to get back at him?
"You tricked the Sheriff and I both," Guy went on, smiling a bit at the memory, and mercifully oblivious to the furtive exchange of glances between Robin and Marian. "You shot the arrow that won the contest, but Rowan got the credit for the win and took home the silver arrow."
"The little boy that had the run-in with Rodger in the marketplace must be Rowan's son, then," said Robin. He paused, and saw that Guy's fleeting smile had changed back into a menacing glower.
"Guy, before you do something rash, think about this. We don't know for sure that Rowan's son heard the story from his father. He might have heard it from some other person in his village. And even if he did, that doesn't mean Rowan put his son up to telling Rodger about it."
"Children say things, without thought to the hurt they cause, added Meg. "You said the child was young, right? About seven or eight, perhaps? He didn't understand. Don't blame him."
"Don't blame Rowan, either," said Marian. "He's bitter about his father."
"And I'm not?" countered Guy sullenly. "You think I don't regret what I did that day? If I had a farthing for every past action of mine that I regret, I'd be a rich man. And now it's not just me, but my son, who has to pay for my wrongs."
Robin saw that Guy, despite his tone of voice, was close to tears. His impatience with the man's stormy, passionate temper faded.
"I never should have said anything—"
"You had to, Guy," said Robin as he placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "And you're going to have to tell him a lot more before this is over. But right now we need to find him. Come on, before Rodger rides too far away. We'll get some others to help us. Let's go."
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How far is it to the orphanage? An hour, maybe two? It can't be further than that. I must be almost there.
Rodger slowed Starlight to a walk. The pony's shaggy winter coat would make him overheat if he kept him at a canter all the way.
He, however, wasn't in any danger of overheating. He buried his stiff, chapped hands into Starlight's mane, and bowed low over the pony's neck so that the animal's body heat would warm him. The frigid night air bit through his woolen shirt and trousers and his thin indoor shoes. It hurt. He shivered so hard that he ached inside as much as outside. His tear-dulled eyes strained to see in the darkness.
Perhaps I should turn back. There are outlaws in these woods, or so I've heard. Not nice, mannerly outlaws like Uncle Robin and his gang, but rough, lawless men who will take what they can from me. I have nothing of value to steal, except Starlight. My beautiful pony!—what if someone tries to steal him? I'll fight them! But how? I have no weapon, not even a knife. Perhaps I should turn back.
No. I can't. My father….
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The hour before sunrise was still and dark. The crunch of his boots on the frost-brittle grass was the only sound Little John heard as he wheeled another load of kindling from the shed to the house.
He treasured these times early in the morning, when he could be alone with his thoughts. He had precious little time to himself, and no chance for deep thought, once the orphans were awake.
He smiled. Such a noisy, boisterous crew they were, but he loved them. When, one by one, they grew up and left the orphanage, to apprentice with craftsmen or work in the fields and houses of titled lords, he felt the loss keenly.
They were all his children, though none could ever fill the void left by Alice, the beloved wife he had lost when he became an outlaw, and John, the child he'd never gotten to know. His son John would be a grown man by now, with children of his own. His grandchildren. But he would never know them. They were out of his life forever, and far away, with another man, another husband and father. Luke was a good man, who could look after them as they deserved. They didn't need him anymore.
But the orphans were here, now, and they needed him, as the peasants who once suffered under Vaisey's tyranny had needed him. With that knowledge, John was content. If, alone at night in his bed, he felt the bitter ache of loneliness, the love-starved children in his care drove most of it away the next day with their laughter and their hugs and their gratitude.
He trundled the barrow slowly. The bigger boys could cart more wood once they were up and fed. He'd had to learn to pace himself these last few years. He got tired now. He wasn't young anymore. When he pushed himself too hard, he felt it—the heavy, dull pain in his chest that troubled him with increasing frequency. Matilda had prescribed a medicine for him to mix with his nightly cup of wine, to ease the discomfort. It helped him to keep going. He had to, for so many depended on him.
He was pushing the barrow back to the shed for another load of kindling when he heard the clip-clop of hooves approaching. Who could it be at this hour of the morning?
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It can't be much further, can it? How many hours have I been riding? It must be nearly morning. Is that the glow of sunrise? No, that's only the setting moon shining through the trees. They're all glittery with ice. It's beautiful….
Funny, I don't feel so cold anymore, just sleepy. Maybe I should stop to rest for a while. No, the orphanage is just around the next corner. Isn't it? I can't think, can't remember….
Maybe this is a nightmare, the whole thing, with my father and all. I'll wake up soon, in my nice warm bed, and none of this will be real. I'm so tired. No more dreams. I just want to sleep now….
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Little John dropped the wheelbarrow, and rounded the corner of the house. He saw a shaggy black pony and its rider, a dark-haired boy clad only in a shirt and trousers, who lay slumped over the pony's neck.
"Who are you?" he asked as he went up to them and took the pony's bridle. He lifted the young rider upright.
"Rodger? What're doin' here, lad? Did you ride all the way from Locksley? You must be near frozen! Here, get down!"
When Rodger didn't respond, John pulled him off the pony's back. The boy's limbs were so stiff with cold that he could barely stand.
"What were you thinkin', lad? You're not half-dressed! And all the way from Locksley on a night like this? Why are you here?"
"Oh, Little John!" Rodger cried weakly, through jaws chattering with cold, "I had to run away! I had no choice! My father—he told me—"
So, that's it, thought John. Robin told me on his last visit here that he and Guy were plannin' to tell the little ones. Rodger finally found out the truth about his father. Well, God help the poor lad now, and his mum and dad.
Rodger sagged down. John caught him. He lifted the nearly unconscious boy in his strong arms and carried him into the house.
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Within a short time, Rodger was seated in a comfortable chair in the orphanage kitchen, thawing out near the roaring fire under a heavy, head-to-toe layer of blankets. He spooned hot porridge, and toasted bread thickly slathered with butter and honey, into his famished mouth, while John went outside to settle his pony in the stable with a hot bran mash and a bucket of oats.
Without telling Rodger, John sent one of the older boys, mounted on a cart horse and well bundled against the cold, in the direction of Locksley, to try to intercept the inevitable search party and inform Rodger's family of his whereabouts. He returned to the kitchen just as Rodger was starting on his third bowl of porridge.
"Your father told you, did he?" he asked as he pulled up a chair to sit beside him.
Rodger stared at him. "How did you know?"
"It wasn't hard to figure out. I'm only surprised he waited this long."
"Then, you knew? You knew about the things he did?"
"Of course. I was there. I was part of Robin's gang."
"But, my father is your friend!"
"Aye, he is."
"But how can he be, after what he's—"
John smiled, and reached over to give his shoulder a gentle shake.
"Finish your breakfast, lad, and we'll talk."