Jennifer Roberson > Quotes

“It's difficult admitting you're wrong. Even more difficult admitting it when you have scoffed and otherwise ridiculed the truth with blind, unremitting determination, so blithely confident in your own infallibility. But then one day -- or one night -- the truth is put into your hands, and you realize those stories and songs and legends told by Northern strangers are truths after all, and that no one has lied to you.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Sword-Singer

“Pain, Rhuan decided, did not simply hurt. Pain also exhausted a person, sapped his soul, thinned his spirit. Worse, pain was tedious.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Deepwood

“And we are made different. On the instant. What we know, what we were, is banished by that instant, razed like a castle under siege, and nothing is recognizable is left. The world is unmade.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Lady of Sherwood

“Now she knew, and spoke it, answering him in kind with cool self-possession, fully cognizant of what the admission could mean. “The fleshly sword, yes. But he also taught me what you cannot: what it is to love a man.” Dull color stained his face. Her thrust had gone home cleanly, and more deeply than she had hoped.

Her matter-of-fact confirmation of his crude insinuation turned the blade back on him. His eyes glittered in flame. “Do you know what I see?”

She knew very well what he saw. She named it before he could. “Robin Hood’s whore,” she answered. “And grateful for the honor.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Lady of the Forest

“In that instant Marian was swept up by the need to touch him, to reach out and press flesh to flesh, finger to finger; to close her hand on his arm so she could feel the warmth and vigor beneath the tunic sleeve. She wanted to know without question he was living, breathing, and hers.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Lady of the Forest

“Saying nothing, she went to the bed he had devised and lay down upon it stiffly, settling a hip carefully as she turned onto her side. Leaves compressed. Twigs crackled. She lay very still, eyes squinched closed, jaws clenched, trying to breathe normally and hoping shadow shielded her face. Silence. “Well?” he asked at last. “It would be better with a cloak thrown over it, but we have none. I left it with the horse.” She smelled dampness, sap, and earth. She would not tell him the truth: even a cloak over the bedding would offer her little comfort.
“It will do,” she said quietly, tucking a leaf down from her mouth.

He nodded. “Get up.”

“But I only just—”

“Please.” She got up, as requested, picking leaves and twigs from her hair and kirtle.

Mutely she watched as he lay down in her place, testing the bed. He was silent. Then, with infinite irony, “You are polite.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Lady of the Forest

“He was weary. Used up. He had been weary for months, for more than a year. In that weariness, in the exhaustion of his spirit, lay the seed of what he was; of what he had become. Of what they had made him, Saladin’s men, and all the others as well. Even his own kind. She had cried out for him to beware, when his horse had been hurt, and fallen. And again when he’d stabbed into the boar’s throat. He recalled it clearly: “Be careful!” she had cried. “Oh my lord, take care!” But nothing else, past that. Because with the cries of his horse in his head, and the stench of blood in his nostrils, what he killed was no longer a boar. What he was, was no longer a man, but a body, mind, and spirit remade on the anvil of war, remixed in the terrible crucible of a holy insanity.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Lady of the Forest

“Locksley? It was. The fall of pale hair, the set of wide shoulders, the posture of his body. Unmistakable. She knew him instantly. And knew, without knowing why, that she would always know him.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Lady of the Forest

“Del, muttering as she struggled to untangle thongs, followed me out of doors. “I am not carrying your foul-tasting aqivi.” “I have the aqivi. You have the water.” She glared up at me as I mounted the stud. “Equitable arrangement. I have more botas than you.” “Extra water,” I agreed. “I thought at some point in time you might want to wash your face.” I swung the stud as she mounted, grinning to myself as she rubbed surreptitiously at her face. She is not a woman for vanity, though the gods have blessed her threefold, but I’ve never yet known a woman not to fall for the implication. We all have our petty revenge.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Sword-Breaker

“Del’s mouth twisted. “You want three women. Why am I not surprised?” I grinned. “You don’t understand men, bascha.” “No,” she agreed dryly. “I have met few examples worth the trouble of learning.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Sword-Singer

“Del’s face was ravaged. “Tiger, please—” I shook my head. “You told me once I loved you. Maybe so. Maybe I do. But right now, with all of this, I find it very hard even to like you.” Del, too shocked, said nothing. I turned the stud loose and rode.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Sword-Singer

“Plainly, Del was irritated. “Oh, Tiger, I swear—you have become an old man. What happened to the days when you would sit up all night swilling amnit or aqivi, trading lies in cantinas?” “I met you,” I retorted. “I joined up with you and got the hoolies beat out of me more times than I can count.” I stood up slowly and rewrapped pelts around my shoulders. “Is that answer enough for you?” Del, taken aback, said nothing in return. I went off to bed.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Sword-Maker

“You’re almost never willing to agree with me; that’s not what I mean. I mean the latter. You’re the one who claims religion is nonsense.” “I used to say the same about magic, too, and look where it got me.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Sword-Maker

“She drew in a huge breath and let it out all at once. "I never thought anyone would want me."

Such plain, simple words, and so eloquent a declaration. In that moment he shared all the pain, all the insecurities of an awkward lass made to believe she was worthless to any man but a feckless father who preferred whisky and wagers to pride in himself and his daughter.

He reached out and caught her hand, fingered it gently, then carried her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. "I want you," he said.

This time when she cried he knew it was for joy.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Lady of the Glen

“His tone was odd, a mixture of restraint and subtle conviction. He did not make light of the question, nor did he attempt to couch his words in chivalrous courtesy. “He wants you, Marian.”

She sighed. “So he says, when it is the lands he wants—”

“No.” He cut her off. “DeLacey wants you.”

She grimaced. “Because of what I have—”

“Because of what you are.” She scowled at him.

“What am I, then? Sir Hugh FitzWalter’s daughter, ward to King Richard—”

“Marian.” His face was stripped free of the mask. What she saw now was blazing, naked emotion.

“What you are is a woman he wants very badly in bed. And I think he would do anything to make sure he gets you there.” Her shocked denial was instantaneous. “Oh no—”

“Oh yes.” She stared at him, undone by his conviction. This was nothing she had anticipated, this brutal, male truth. “I—don’t understand ...” And she didn’t, not really, not fully. She was only beginning to, and it frightened her very badly.

His smile was wintry. “I am not the one to explain in elaborate detail why a man, any man, might feel as deLacey does.”

Why not?”

Robin sighed. “Helen of Troy.”

It baffled her utterly. “What?”

“Helen of Troy. Have you no knowledge of the classics?”

“Of course I do; I was told all the stories. Helen was married to Menelaus of Sparta, until Paris of Troy cast his eyes upon her and fell in love with her at once. He stole her and took her to Troy. Agamemnon and Menelaus followed to get her back, and Troy was destroyed.”

Robin nodded. “For the love of a beautiful woman.”

“Yes, but—” She stopped. “Oh no--”

“Yes.”

“But—I’m not—”

“Ask any man,” he said.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Lady of the Forest

“Nabir nodded. “What’s first?” “Footwork.” “Footwork! But I learned footwork nearly two years ago!” “Didn’t learn much, did you?” Then, more kindly, “Or maybe you’ve just forgotten.” It did exactly as I expected. It shut the boy up.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Sword-Maker

“A horse broke through beside her, nearly knocking the mare over. At first Marian thought the horse unmounted, possibly Gisbourne’s, running from the boar, because she saw no rider—and then she did see him and realized he was clad in the colors of the forest, nearly invisible, almost indistinguishable against the emerald, olive, and jade. It was the shock of white-blond hair that betrayed his identity, and the grimness of his features.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Lady of the Forest

“Men are fools when it comes to women. It doesn’t matter how smart you are, or how shrewd, or how much experience you’ve had. They’re all born knowing just what it takes to find a way to muddle up your head. And given the chance, they do.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Sword-Maker

“I drew in a deep breath, then exhaled in satisfaction. “Smell that? That’s air, bascha … good, clean air. And warm air, too . . no more frozen lungs.” “No,” she agreed, “no more frozen lungs … now we can breathe Southron air and have our lungs scorched.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Sword-Maker

“I thought briefly about rising, then considered the state of head and belly and decided staying close to the ground in an attitude of prayer, regardless of true intention, was a posture worth practicing.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Sword-Breaker

“What did he do to you?” I asked her, ignoring the darkening of the bear’s looming face. “Nothing,” she declared, enunciating distinctly. “Do you think every man wants to get me in his bed?” “Every man who’s not dead already—or gelded.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Sword-Dancer

“Her face flamed and her breasts prickled. She did not think again of the sheriff or of his unmarried daughter. She thought instead of herself, and of the man who led her so unerringly through the hall to an adjoining antechamber. They passed even the minstrel, watching over his lute. Blue eyes were brightly knowing; his smile was meant for her. Inside the chamber Locksley boomed shut the door behind her. Marian looked past him, noting chairs, candle racks, tapestried walls. At least, she thought wryly, it does not have a bed. That much he will spare me.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Lady of the Forest

“Men are fools when it comes to women.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Sword-Maker

“We all change,” I said offhandedly. “We get older, a little wiser … we learn not to judge people and things by homelands, language, gender.” “Do we?” Abbu grinned. “So we do. Yes, Sandtiger, the woman is much better than I expected. But there is still much I can teach her.” “Wait till she warms up.” I showed him my teeth. “Better yet, wait until she sings.” Abbu wasn’t listening.”
― Jennifer Roberson, Sword-Maker