Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (34 page)

“My lord.” Gilbert de Pisan bowed deeply.

“Plots,” John muttered. “Do they never weary of plots?”

 

Sir Guy of Gisbourne lay sweating in the bed so magnanimously loaned by the Earl of Huntington, beneath the earl’s brand-new roof. It pleased him little.

His thigh was afire, which surprised him not at all. The barber who doubled as surgeon had a heavy hand, and his resentment of having to sew instead of chop off showed in every stitch he took. The thigh resembled a particularly ugly piece of fabric, with the meaty cloth too thick for delicacy and the weave distorted by muscle.

The boar haunted his dreams, along with humiliation. He recalled very clearly the moment before the nightmare, when he had broken through foliage to come face-to-face with the woman he wanted so badly. He had handled it poorly, of course, as was his wont, but in the end Marian FitzWalter would never remember his declaration. She would recall only the boar, and his foolish attempt to kill it.

“For her,” he muttered thickly. As indeed it had been.

He squirmed in the bed, then wished he had not done it. Movement sent fresh pain shooting to hip and ankle, reminding him of his folly.
For her, and her alone.
So she would take notice of him. So she would
respect
him, which was more than he’d earned before, in his limited dealings with women.

So little accomplished, too, save to get his thigh sliced open. In the end it had required someone else, another man entirely, to kill the maddened boar. While
he
lay writhing helplessly, fearing his leg cut off and his blood all spilling out, Sir Robert of Locksley had managed to kill the beast.

The hero-knight himself, the
real
Crusader knight, home from glorious battle, compatriot of kings.

Gisbourne lay in bed and sweated, thinking of Marian.

 

Locksley came awake with a start, exhaling a garbled protest muted by the dream. Sweat poured from him as he shivered. It was happening
again.

He saw the figure then, close by Marian’s side. Locksley thrust himself to his feet, crackling twigs... the crouched figure swung jerkily, then was up and running, darting into the trees even as Marian awoke. “What—?” she began.

But Locksley was gone, moving by her, aware of deadly calm and a deadlier resolve.
“Insh’Allah,”
he murmured, as the vestiges of the dream became his reality.

Eustace de Vesci was a bull of a man, big of bone and spirit. Men had likened him to the king, if of a different color; de Vesci, lord of Alnwick, was dark instead of ruddy, in skin as well as hair.

But his face was not flushed now, as the Earl of Huntington entered the chamber quietly. His face in fact was pale, with a sickly hue underneath. Only his eyes were alive: deepset, dark and glittering, sharp as a newly ground awl. “He is
here?”
he said only.

The earl shut the door firmly, surveying the chamber as he turned. All was well. Only de Vesci was present. Ralph had left them wine, and his absence. They did not have long, Huntington knew; the castle was full of John’s household, and he trusted none of them.

The panic on first waking had gone. There had been time enough to think, as he dressed himself, and time enough to consider all the alternatives. Huntington was calm now, his breathing controlled, exuding competence. He was a man of iron will who did not suffer weakness in any measure, of the spirit or of the body. “There was no warning,” he said quietly. “Do you think I would send no word?”

De Vesci swore, swinging to pace across the chamber, then back again. Massive shoulders stretched his dark gray surcoat, very plain for his station, but appropriate to evening travel. “By God, this is the worst of all possibilities. One would think he knew—”

“He does not.” The earl gestured. “Wine?”

“No.” De Vesci glowered, reminding the earl of his father, the former earl, dead for several decades, though the Lord of Alnwick was younger than himself. It was the air of impatience and physical power that Huntington knew was absent in himself. His particular personal strength lay in a self-control de Vesci needed to temper his own more passionate nature. “We shall have to turn the others back.”

“How?” The earl poured himself wine, then retired to a chair. He saw no reason to act overhastily. “I cannot very well send men out at dawn to every road, seeking to cut off the others. It would look highly suspicious to John.”

“Nor can we meet while he is
here,”
de Vesci snapped. “It would mean our deaths.”

The earl put out a staying hand. “Perhaps not. You were invited ostensibly to celebrate my son’s return from the Holy Land—who is to say that is not the actual reason for your presence? John will suspect us, but John suspects
everyone—
we need only stand firm, and he will find himself without cause or justification to suspect us of anything.”

“John Softsword requires neither,” de Vesci declared. “Do you think he would hesitate to arrest all of us?”

“All of us? Yes. He needs us as yet.”

“ ‘As yet,’ ” de Vesci echoed. “When will he
not
need us?”

The earl maintained a reasonable tone. With de Vesci, it was necessary; the man was undeniably courageous, but often too quick to act. “There is no law saying we cannot meet among friends to discuss the state of the realm—”

“He will call it treason. You know that.”

Huntington sighed. “Yes, I believe he will. But he is not king just yet, and Richard left Longchamp in charge of the Seal, which is required for such an arrest.” He set down the cup of wine, rose, crossed to the door and opened it.

De Vesci frowned. “What is it?”

“A moment.” Huntington gestured his servant into the doorway. “Ralph,” he said quietly, “will you go and fetch my son? At once, if you please.” He shut the door and turned. “We will give John no grounds for suspicion. We will create truth out of falsehood.”

“Your son.” De Vesci’s dark eyes narrowed. “What does your son know of us?”

“As yet, nothing. But if we are to present the play for John, we had best have all the players.”

De Vesci’s jaw was tense. “Then he will learn everything.”

The earl folded his hands into the sleeves of his robe. “My son has returned from the Holy Land a hero and a knight, having escaped brutal captivity to once more stand at his king’s right hand. Do you suggest to me he is anything but trustworthy?”

De Vesci knew better. “No.”

“Good.” The earl went again to his chair and took up his wine. “When the others arrive—”

“My lord Earl? My lord!” It was Gilbert de Pisan’s annoyingly imperious voice on the other side of the door. “My lord Earl, may I present the Count of Mortain!”

“God!” De Vesci went white. “He will have our heads for this!”

The earl fixed him with a level, unruffled stare. “Not unless you plan to serve it to him yourself. And if you do ...” He smiled coolly. “Allow me, if you will, to have Ralph bring the silver platter.”

 

Alan’s taste for ale palled as the one-handed man slipped out of the alehouse. Abruptly he set down the mug, gathered up his lute and followed the man into a narrow alleyway as quietly as he could. It stank of refuse and ordure, damp and slick underfoot, treacherous to a man more accustomed to stone floors beneath a lord’s high roof than a ceiling of stars overhead.

He meant to follow in secrecy, to see if indeed the one-handed man had intended to set a trap. But Alan’s skill lay in verbal subterfuge, not physical activities past those to be found in bed. It did not take long for him to trip over a bolting cat and curse the mistake aloud, instead of within his head. A lute string twanged discordantly as he hugged the instrument.

Dim moonlight glinted on steel as the one-handed man stepped out of shadow. “Well then, has he thought twice about my warning?”

Alan was disgusted. “Twice
and
thrice,” he agreed sourly, warding his lute against harm. “There is no need for a knife.”

“Unless I mean to use it to part you from your money.” The knife disappeared, as did the bantering tone. “You’d best be on your way. You don’t fit in here, with your fine clothes and pretty ways... even if the Watch doesn’t find you, someone will sell you to them.”

“Why did you warn me? Who are you?”

The one-handed man grinned as he turned away. “I’m the eyes and the ears, my lad.”

Darkness closed over him. So quickly he disappeared. “Wait—” Alan began, and then broke off as he heard the familiar call:

Alan fell back against the wall, slamming shoulders and spine into wattle-and-daub. He hugged the lute to his chest, breathing rapidly. He swallowed convulsively, thinking he should have heeded the man’s warning, should have left immediately, should not have come at all.

“Foolish lad,” the voice said. “D’ye plan to wait for them?”

“No—
no
—” Alan felt unexpected relief as the one-handed man showed himself again. “But—I’m a stranger to Nottingham—”

“Should have thought of that.” The man put out his hand. “Give me the lute.”

Alan hugged it more tightly. “Why?”

“By God, lad, they’re just around the corner... they’ll
know
you by it, you fool, that and your pretty tunic.” He motioned impatiently. “I’ll see to it your lute’s kept safe.”

“But—” They
were
just around the corner. Alan swore and handed over the lute, hastily pulling the brocaded tunic over his head. “Wait for me—” He jerked his head free of his tunic, words muffled by fabric. “Where will I find you?”

“In Sherwood,” the man answered, fading into the shadows, “and I’ll find
you.
”

“In
Sherwood
—” But the Watch was there,
just
there, rounding the corner even as he began, moonlight glinting on pikes and swords. Breathing noisily, Alan quickly stuffed his telltale tunic into a hole in the crumbling wall of the alehouse. Now all he wore were hosen, shoes, and crumpled sherte, soiled by his stay in the dungeon. He thought about slipping back inside the alehouse and pretending he was a peasant. It wasn’t a bad idea—but he recalled the one-handed man’s warning that someone would sell him to the Watch. He dared trust no one.

Perhaps not even the man himself. “Sherwood,” Alan muttered, hastening after the stranger. “My God—there are
outlaws
in Sherwood!”

And soon his lute as well.

 

The crackle of brush but paces away broke apart Marian’s fitful doze and threw her headlong into wakefulness.
Someone is here--
Someone
close,
creeping carefully to her bedding.

She lurched back frenziedly, scrabbling in the leaves and branches. “What?—” But the night-muffled stranger fled quickly into the darkness even as Locksley pursued him, shedding leaf mold as he ran.

Not Will Scarlet
—Panic and anger commingled. Scrambling to her feet, Marian clawed for and found the quarterstaff Locksley had brought with them.
This time I’ll hit him so hard I’ll knock his ears off his head.
She kicked free of branches that could foul her movements and gripped the staff tightly, trying to ignore the sickness in her stomach born of shock, sudden fright, and a much too-abrupt awakening.

Then Locksley was unexpectedly
back,
casually ducking a low-hanging limb as he stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight. He did not appear particularly winded or concerned, raking a hand through his pale hair, but decidedly relaxed, picking leaf mold from his damp tunic.

“Well?” she demanded.

Locksley stopped short. His face was bruised and battered, distinctly the worse for wear, but as he stared at her she saw a change in it, a pronounced alteration that took her breath away, so complete was the transformation.

Robert of Locksley grinned. And then he began to laugh.

“What?” Marian asked.

Laughter softened his face. It lasted but a moment, then faded into an amusement more gentle in its expression, lighting his hazel eyes and curving the corners of his mouth. “You,” he declared. “I need not have come at all.”

“I don’t—” And then she did understand. Marian’s face burned as she put up her chin, clutching the staff more tightly. “There is no sense in doing
nothing
in your own defense, simply because you are a woman.”

“No sense at all,” he agreed gravely. “I was merely thinking there was no need for my intervention in any of this. You appear more equipped for battle than I ... after all, it was you who stunned Will Scarlet, not me.” He shrugged. “I might have remained in Nottingham and saved myself some trouble.”

“So might I,” she retorted dryly, “but Will Scarlet desired otherwise.” She jerked her head in the direction of the trees, wanting to turn the topic. “Since you are back so soon, I must assume you did not catch him.”

“I did catch him. I let him go.” He returned to his tree and sat down once more, leaning against the trunk. “He seemed to prefer it. It was the boy.”

“Much?” It surprised her. “Why did he run?”

“You frightened him.”

“He frightened
me.”
Immeasurably relieved, Marian leaned and set down the quarterstaff, then knelt upon the bedding. She trembled slightly in the aftermath, chiding Locksley more tartly than she intended. “You might have told him he could join us.”

“I did. He simply ducked away and disappeared, much like a rabbit.”

Marian nodded, sighing. “Much trusts no one.”

“He seems to trust you.”

She shrugged, working again at tangled hair. “I spoke to him whenever I went to the mill. I think they gave him little time there, save to send him out of the way. He was always quiet, always odd, quick to dart away. One day he wasn’t there. I never saw him again, until today.” She stopped untangling her hair. “It was only—this morning!” She stared at him in shock. “First Much, then the giant—and then Will Scarlet. But—it feels like
seven
days!”

Locksley stared over her head, setting his own against the tree. He shivered once, then rubbed a splay-fingered hand over his face, then through his hair, as if his skin hurt. “Captivity alters one’s understanding of time.”

Marian sat very still, wary of stepping off but wanting to very much. “Did it alter it for you?”

The mask was back in place but the facade seemed thinner, less substantial, oddly attenuated. He was markedly different from the man she had seen on the dais, still reserved, still intensely private, but more approachable.
Or is it that I desire to approach?

His voice was subdued. “At first I counted the days. Then the weeks. After two months, nothing mattered anymore but that I survive the hour.” After a moment of noisy silence, he looked directly at her. His gaze did not waver, nor did his tone. “Your father would be proud.”

“Of—” She swallowed painfully, surprised by the magnitude of the unexpected uprush of anguish, “me?”

“As you should be proud of him.” A muscle twitched in one cheek. “He died defending his king. He died defending his God.”

Marian locked hands into her kirtle. “Was it very—bad?”

He did not hesitate. “No. It was over immediately.”

The mask was sealed again, like wax over parchment. Marian knew he lied.

 

The Earl of Huntington composed himself as the chamber door was flung open. He hoped de Vesci had done the same.

Gilbert de Pisan stepped aside. Prince John, fully clothed, swept into the chamber. “Alnwick!” he cried. “To think I would have missed you had you not come in tonight!”

“My lord Count.” De Vesci bowed elegantly. His composure lacked for nothing, even on short notice. The earl smiled privately; had he been practicing? “I am sorry, my lord, I don’t take your meaning—had I not come in tonight?”

“Yes.” John nodded. “I intend to depart at midday tomorrow. Unless, of course, the earl desires me to stay?” He cast Huntington a pointed stare.

“My lord—of course. You are welcome to stay at Huntington as long as you like.” Mentally the earl began to count his larders. If John did stay, he would have to arrange for additional victuals and supplies. “May I tell my steward?”