Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (33 page)

“And me?” Scarlet asked roughly. “What about me?”

Bell didn’t answer at once. When he did, the tone was negligent, as if the answer were implicit and not worth putting into words. “A man like you is welcome to do as we do, and to do it among our number. We can always use a man who likes to kill Normans.”

Scarlet grunted assent, not knowing how else to answer. But even as he agreed, the worm of shame writhed.

But his Maggie didn’t answer, to chide him or say him nay.

 

William deLacey sat in a private chamber, sprawled slackly in a chair. That he had not yet gone to bed was attributable to Prince John, who had ordered him most specifically to gather additional taxes and take them to Lincoln, where John intended to personally see to it the money was sent to Germany as ransom to free King Richard.

John, of course, would do no such thing, because it served two purposes not to: it filled his own coffers, and kept Richard out of England.

John in power meant, eventually, John as
king;
the people wouldn’t stand for a proxy regent any longer than they had to, and besides, there was William Longchamp, the Bishop of Ely, whom Richard had left in charge. Longchamp was chancellor, but had managed to do much of John’s more unpopular work for him without intending to, simply by levying the taxes needed to raise Richard’s ransom. Now the people hated Longchamp and wanted him removed, which benefited John for the moment; but would they tolerate John himself any better? At least Longchamp worked honestly if too zealously in the king’s interest, no matter how imperious he was. John would work merely to further his own place, to seal forever his grip upon England’s throne.

John as king.
William deLacey laughed bitterly.
He’ll bankrupt the realm.

And what of himself? Would there be improved rank, as John promised? Would he rise in John’s service, leaving behind Nottingham to rise ever higher, one of John’s handpicked men, trusted to serve the new king?

Not likely. If John were smart, he would trust no one.

As I trust no one.
DeLacey drank wine from a silver goblet.
If Richard comes home, I must work for my living; I’ve bought all I can buy. But if John becomes king, he’ll have to offer a reward for good and faithful service ... for seeing to it, almost singlehandedly, that part of Richard’s ransom goes nowhere near Germany.

A knock on the door interrupted his reverie. “Lord Sheriff?”

DeLacey sighed. “I’ve gone to bed.”

“My lord, I have news. It has to do with the man you ordered taken.”

“William Scathlocke?” DeLacey thrust himself out of the chair and strode across to the door, unlatching and jerking it open. “Have you found him after all? And the Lady Marian?”

Archaumbault stood in the corridor. “My lord, no—not
that
man, my lord. The other one you wanted.”

DeLacey scowled. “What other one?”

“The minstrel, my lord. You gave orders for him to be taken.”

DeLacey was displeased, though he didn’t show it to Archaumbault. It wouldn’t do to inform the garrison commander he was no longer particularly interested in the man accused of despoiling his already-despoiled daughter. He saw no sense in wasting extra effort, although now he’d have to give the matter some attention for the sake of propriety. “Very well. What news have you?”

“He was seen in an alehouse, my lord. The Watch was sent after him. I cannot say yet if they have been successful.”

“Very well. Apprise me when—and if—they are.” DeLacey paused.
“In the morning,
Archaumbault.”

“Yes, my lord.” The man bowed, then swung on his heel to stride down the corridor.

The sheriff shut the door and lingered, tapping fingertips against it. “The minstrel,” he murmured. “Alan of the Dales... a fitting wedding gift, perhaps, for the woman who argued most eloquently that I preserve his tongue.” He nodded. “And just in time. Tomorrow, perhaps—or the next day.” He walked to the table and picked up the shining goblet, lifting it high into the air. “To Marian FitzWalter—soon to be deLacey.” He smiled with anticipation. “Very,
very
soon.”

The forest was cool, damp, dark, filled with the sounds of night. Much knelt in silence, shrouded by foliage, and stared fixedly at the woman who was his princess. She lay on the heaped pile of woven boughs, leaves, and deadfall, hands folded into her kirtle, much like a corpse laid out for burial. Corpselike, she lay mutely, tensely, as if afraid to breathe.

Was she asleep? He thought not. No more than Robin was, sitting against a tree. His posture was stiff, incredibly rigid, as if he expected to break.

But why would the prince break? And why would the princess not sleep?

Much clutched his shoes. He had never understood such things. He knew only what he felt, and he sensed what others felt by attending their voices, postures, and expressions. He had come too late to hear them speak at any length. He had heard nothing more from either of them than their last few sentences, and he could understand nothing of the content save the underlying emotions that blazed so brilliantly, illuminating the dullness that fogged much of his brain.

Fighting? No. Not as his mother and father. Not as Norman and Saxon. Not as peasant and peasant.

Was it because they were prince and princess?

Much rubbed at his flattened nose. His body as yet only fitfully gave way to vague yearnings, urges he didn’t speak of, because there was no one to whom he could speak and no words to describe what he felt.

Did they feel yearnings, too, his prince and his princess? Or were they above such things, set apart from his world, made of different flesh?

Much stared at them. People were alien. Animals he knew, because their needs were simple, very much like his own.

Much clutched the shoes. He wanted to give them to her, to make his way quietly to her and
give
them to her, so her feet would no longer be bare. But courage failed him. The king’s fool was too low to speak to the princess.

Eventually, they would sleep. Then he would creep to her side and put the shoes there, where she would find them when she woke.

The Earl of Huntington was sound asleep when the servant woke him. Blearily the earl clawed his way into awareness, intending to vilify the servant for daring to awaken him in the midst of a good night’s sleep, but one look at Ralph’s expression drove all thought of chastisement away.

He sat up, reaching for the robe cast across the foot of his bed. “What is it?”

“My lord.” Ralph’s face was pinched and colorless. “My lord, Alnwick is here.”

Robe sleeve hooked over a stiffened elbow. “Alnwick ... Eustace de Vesci is here?
Now?”

“Yes, my lord. What should I tell him?”

“My God,” the earl breathed. He finished tugging on the robe, but only because he had begun, not because he gave it any thought. Indeed, his thoughts were far away from such mundane things as apparel. “Tell him?” The earl scraped a gnarled hand through thinning hair. “Tell him I will join him presently. At once!”

“My lord.” Ralph bowed and hastened toward the door.

“And Ralph ...” The earl climbed out of bed. “By God, Ralph, tell him the
Count of Mortain
is here!”

Ralph nodded once. “My lord, I will.”

He was gone, thumping the door closed. The earl slowly sat down on the edge of his bed, trying to put order to his robe. “De Vesci,” he breathed, “here. With John here as well.” He felt old, weak, apprehensive. “This is a nightmare come true.”

 

The alehouse was lighted only with smudgy candlelight that stank of poor rendering. The walls were wattle-and-daub, the roof thatching brittle and balding like an old man’s head. Alan of the Dales was used to considerably better, but he felt under the circumstances this alehouse would do as well as another, since it was unlikely the sheriff or his men would frequent such a place.

He had finished half his ale when the hand came down on the mug and smacked it back to the table. “Friend,” the man declared, “you’d best be on your way.”

Belligerence was alien to Alan, who had perfected diplomacy and a delicate way with an insult, but this was too much. “No,” he said flatly, and tried to pick up his mug again.

The man once more slammed it down, slopping ale over the rim. “Friend,” he said more tightly, “I do this for your life. The Watch has been called on you.”

It sent a frisson of fear through Alan. “How do you know? Who are you? Why should I believe you?” Belatedly, he considered the sort of things he should have considered before.

The man smiled humorlessly. He was dark, slight, one-handed. “I know because I know; because I’m paid to know. Who I am doesn’t matter. As to why you should believe me—don’t, then, friend minstrel ... but you’ll pay the price, I promise.”

Alan could not avoid looking at the half-healed stump of the man’s right arm, which was thrust under his nose. He was meant not to avoid it; a telling argument for trusting the stranger’s warning.

But as much an argument for believing it might be a trap. Alan was no fool. He knew very well there were tricks meant to trap the unwary individual, especially pretty ones very like himself. His golden curls and languid ways attracted men as well as women. And men, he had learned early, were often more dangerous than women when rebuffed, because so much more was at stake.

“I’ve paid my price,” he said coolly. “Take your dungeon stink somewhere else.”

“You know the smell of it, then?” The one-handed man grinned. “Well then, you have only the sheriff to blame—d’ye think I cut off this hand myself?”

“It really isn’t my concern
who
cut off your hand. No doubt you deserved it.” Alan wrested the mug away and deliberately raised it to his mouth.

The man shrugged. “As you like, my pretty lad. But you’ll be singing no songs at all when the sheriff is through with you, nor will you play that lute with only a stump for a hand.”

Alan smiled thinly. “Scare the stranger out of the alehouse, then steal all his coin.”

The one-handed man nodded. “But it only works when the stranger’s wanted... and you’re
very
wanted, my lad. The sheriff treasures his daughter.”

No one knew about that. No one in Nottingham, save the sheriff and Eleanor—and Robert of Locksley, as well as the FitzWalter girl. He doubted the sheriff or Eleanor would say a word about it, and Locksley had done too much for Alan to begin the rumors himself, which left Marian. And she was in danger herself, if the rumors of her were true.

Alan shrugged, wagering all he had. “The sheriff has more to concern himself with than a simple minstrel.”

“Not so simple, my lad. You’ve wounded him in his pride and brought down all his plans. It’s true he wants Will Scarlet, but he wants you, too.”

Alan’s awareness sharpened. He put down the mug. “How do you know all this? And why tell me? What am I to you?”

“One of us,” the man declared. “Even if you don’t know it.” He prodded the air with his stump. “And now
I’m
gone, before the Watch catches me and takes my other hand.”

Brother Tuck lay very quietly in an agony of guilt. The pallet was narrow and thinly stuffed, hardly enough for a man of his size, but he knew he deserved no better. Had he not betrayed his calling? Had he not betrayed his Lord?

The sheriff said he hadn’t. The sheriff spoke of things of the spirit, of a sick old woman in need. Tuck wanted to believe him, to believe
in
him, trusting to God to understand what he had done. But Abbot Martin, even now, wielded a heavier authority than the sheriff could comprehend.

If the abbot ever found out
—Tuck scrunched shut his eyes, feeling folds of fat glue themselves together. He feared Abbot Martin. He feared his punishment.
He wouldn’t ever know, unless I told him. Unless the sheriff told him. And he said he wouldn’t.

It was wrong. It was
wrong.
He should confess himself. He should go at once to Croxden Abbey and confess himself to the abbot, no matter how harsh the punishment. For what was he but a man who had failed his calling?

Tuck longed to pray. But he was frightened even of that. To admit what he had done—to put it into words... God knew already, of course, but it was so very private, still hidden from everyone else... if he spoke of it aloud, even to God Himself, it took on a greater aspect of sin. All would know his failure. All would know his weakness.

But he was not a priest. What he had done was wrong.

Sweat ran down his temples, mingling with his tears.
Who can forgive me for this?

Surely not Abbot Martin.

 

Prince John woke badly out of habit, pettishly slapping aside the girl who shared his bed. She was nothing to him now but female flesh. He had done with her hours before, but she had stayed, snuggling against him as he slept. He could not abide a woman who expected to spend the night with his royal personage.

“Get
out!”
he snapped, as Gilbert de Pisan came close with a candle. “By God, Gilbert, did no one tell her?”

“Apparently not, my lord,” the seneschal answered smoothly. “I would have, of course, but I have been occupied on your business.”

“Have you?” John slapped at her again, smacking her ample rump as she hastily withdrew from the bed. She was fair-haired and plumply pretty, but with a certain vapidity that repelled him now. “Get you gone, get you
gone...
Gilbert, send her away!”

“Go,” de Pisan said, even as the girl clutched at sheets.

“My clothes,” she stammered.

De Pisan pointed at the door. “Surely you have others.”

She bit her lip, undecided, then relinquished the sheet. Red-faced, she absented herself without benefit of clothing.

“God,”John muttered. “Is there nothing better than
that?”
He sat up, yanking bedclothes over his loins. “What is it, Gilbert?”

“A late night visitor, my lord. Eustace de Vesci, the lord of Alnwick.”

“Alnwick is
here
?” John stared at de Pisan. “You are certain.”

“Quite certain, my lord. Even now, the earl is being awakened.”

“By God, he entertains that traitor...” Alnwick had not yet been charged and probably wouldn’t be, but such niceties meant nothing to John. “What about the others? Is Robert FitzWalter here? What about Geoffrey de Mandeville?”

“FitzWalter is not here, nor is the Earl of Essex. Only Alnwick, my lord.”

“Merely the
first
, ”John bit out. “By God, I didn’t think it of Huntington. All those lies about this castle...” He scowled at de Pisan. “They want the throne for themselves.”

“My lord, none of them have said so.”

“They don’t need to,” John snapped. “Why else would they come here, but to plot my death?” He chewed angrily at a thumb already devoid of much of its nail. “De Vesci and FitzWalter alone—” He broke off, startled. Then he looked at his seneschal. “That girl. Was she not a FitzWalter?”

“The one just dismissed, my lord?”

“No, no, not
that
one—good God, Gilbert, do you think me a fool?” John expected and received no answer; de Pisan knew better. “The other girl. Sir
Hugh
FitzWalter’s daughter.”

“Perhaps a relative, my lord.”

“And perhaps part of the plot.”

De Pisan arched an elegant brow. “A woman, my lord?”

“Yes, a woman, de Pisan ... who better to catch my fancy?” John picked at the coverlet. “Find out what you can about her, Gilbert. If she is closely allied with my Lord of Dunmow...” He scowled mightily. “She will regret it, Gilbert.”

“Most certainly, my lord.”

John stared hard at his man. “Then go about it, Gilbert. Find out why de Vesci is here. Find out what Huntington knows. Find out what Marian FitzWalter has to do with
Robert
FitzWalter, Lord of Dunmow.”