Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (35 page)

But John did not answer. He was staring at de Vesci. “You missed the feast.”

“Yes, my lord. It is my misfortune—I had intended to present my best wishes to Sir Robert.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Odd that you would not make better plans to assure your arrival on time.”

De Vesci’s mouth crimped tight, hindering a smile. “We were set upon by thieves, and delayed.”

“Thieves.” John nodded sagely, dark eyes narrowing. “The forests are choked with them—I shall have the sheriff see to it something is done immediately.”

“My lord?” Ralph came into the chamber, paused as he saw Prince John and his seneschal, then bowed hastily. Only the barest flicker in his eyes betrayed his concern. “My lord, I am sorry—your son pleads illness.”

“Illness?” Huntington frowned. “What manner of illness?”

Ralph’s face was pasty. “An overindulgence of wine.”

John laughed. “No head for wine, has he? Or is it a woman instead?”

“No, my lord.” Ralph flicked a glance at Huntington. “In captivity he was not allowed wine, my lord. He drank too much in celebration of his homecoming.”

De Vesci forced a laugh. “Then we shall have to teach him what it is to drink properly again!”

“How droll,” John declared. He glanced around the chamber, assessing appointments, then cast a tight smile at the earl. “A fine castle indeed, my lord. Very strong, very safe. Quite remarkable.”

“And expensive.” The earl inclined his head. “I owe the Jews a fortune.”

“What? Have you impoverished yourself?” John’s eyes glittered. “Naturally you have donated to my brother’s ransom.”

“Indeed, my lord. Generously. Several times, in fact.”

“Mmmm.” John was abruptly disinterested. “And are you expecting any more guests, my lord?”

“Indeed, yes. Two more, in fact—Geoffrey de Mandeville, and Henry Bohun.”

“Essex and Hereford.” John’s color was livid. “Anyone else, my lord? Robert FitzWalter, perhaps? Or Robert de Vere?” His nostrils were pinched. “So many great houses, my lord—and all in one place.”

The earl permitted himself a proud smile. “A father’s poor attempt at welcoming home his only son and heir.”

“Indeed.” John cast de Vesci a black scowl, then swept toward the door once more. “De Pisan. I retire. Until the morrow, my lord.”

The earl bowed deeply as John marched out.

“My God!” de Vesci gasped as the door thumped closed. “He knows all of us.
All
of us!”

“He suspects,” the earl said. “Come now, Eustace—the man is not a fool. He has informants, as we do. We simply must take care to see that no one learns how many of us are involved, and what we plan to do.”

“You needn’t have mentioned de Mandeville and Bohun.” De Vesci poured wine with a trembling hand and quaffed several gulps. “Why tell him what he may only suspect?”

“Because if any of the others
do
arrive tonight, I want them expected.” Huntington sat down. “It would not be in our best interests to make John any more suspicious.”

“No.” De Vesci squeezed the cup in one massive hand. “Right here before me—I could have cut his throat.”

“And died for it.” Huntington turned to Ralph. “Where is my son?”

“Not in the castle, my lord. He rode out this morning. No one has seen him since.”

“Does it matter?” de Vesci asked in exasperation. “He need know nothing. It is better that he does not.”

The earl glanced at him coldly. “He is heir to all I have. If he is to succeed me, he must know what we do. And besides—” he laughed softly, “the Count of Mortain has suggested my son might be a worthy husband for his daughter.”

“He hasn’t a daughter,” de Vesci said blankly. And then, in growing alarm, “You mean the bastard girl?”

“Joanna.”

“She’s but a child, yet!”

“I doubt John cares how young she is. If John considers it advantageous, he’ll marry her off at the time he deems appropriate.”

“My God.” De Vesci collapsed into the nearest chair. “Do you know what this means?”

“It means if we overthrow John, my son may stand to benefit.”

“And
you.”

The earl smiled. “And us
all,
my Lord of Alnwick.”

“My God,” de Vesci whispered.

Locksley awoke very stiff, equally sore, and disinclined to move even so much as an eyelid. He had not expected to sleep, but at some point near dawn the enemy Exhaustion had wielded the sword of a Saracen and defeated his attempt to remain awake. He woke slumped and disoriented at the foot of his tree like a discarded pile of soiled clothing, head crooked awkwardly against an exposed root.

This is—England.
For a moment, only a moment, he feared it was not. Relief left him weak.

He heard the hiss and rustle of dead leaves and twigs and the quiet, alert voice—
too alert for this morning
—underscored by a trace of dryness. “You cannot possibly be comfortable.”

He wasn’t, of course, but forbore to tell her so. Already she had accounted for knocking Will Scarlet unconscious, and he did not doubt she would have tried much the same the night before with the selfsame quarterstaff, had she found it necessary. She did not know about his battle with Little John, nor did she need to; he had lost that one, also.

She moved into his line of vision. He saw dirty bare toes, a ragged hem, kirtle stiff with dried mud. “I’ve collected some nuts. Not many, I’m afraid—the squirrels got most of them.”

He moved then, trying to shift his head into a more natural position. Every joint ached. Even his eyes ached. He redistributed his weight and pushed himself up into a sitting position, cracking knots in his spine, and gazed in wan consternation at the cluster of nuts in her hand.

“No,” he said at once.

Smudges underlay her eyes, but he hardly saw them for the lash-fringed color above: deep and blue and impossibly bright for a gently reared knight’s daughter but freshly awakened from a long night on damp ground. “There is nothing else, until we reach Ravenskeep.”

“No,” he repeated more tightly, aware of increasing discomfort. He felt shivery and listless, though his clothing and hair had dried. He felt altogether
squashed
—and then realized all at once, with more than a little dismay, what the matter was.

He shut his eyes, scrubbed haphazardly at his stubbled, sore face, and felt the first tentative shiver of the expected bone-deep shudder that would soon wrack his body into knots. With great effort, he suppressed it.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Quite sure.” He had expected the bruises to hurt. He had expected his lumps to ache. But the recurring fever so many acquired on Crusade had settled quietly into joints and brain overnight and now threatened to overpower the ordinary discomfort earned in honest battle with its sly, pervasive ill will. “We had better go.”

“Yes, but—”

He thrust himself to his feet, turning his back to her so she wouldn’t see his face and the grimace of pain as his head protested movement. “The horse is some distance away. We had best go at once.”

“The nuts are
something--”

“Then eat them,” he snapped, and set off through the brush.

“At least let me put on the shoes!”

He stopped and turned back, pulling aside foliage. Her feet were bare. He was sure of it. “I thought you lost your shoes.”

“I did. Before we left Nottingham.” She sat down, struggling with the ancient leather. “They were set beside me when I awoke this morning.”

“I think Much left them. It would explain why he followed us.” Her tone was odd. “He has left me things before.”

It amused him faintly. “Like a cat with a dead bird.”

“Not like
that.”
A fleeting frown departed swiftly. She laced on the first shoe, then pulled the second on. “They do not fit very well, but are decidedly better than nothing.”

So they were. It displeased him to know someone, even the boy, had been able to come so close as to leave shoes beside Marian no more than paces away from him. But it hurt his head to think about it. Even his eyelids ached, and he squinted, wishing the infant sun did not stab his eyes quite so sharply.

Marian finished lacing on the second shoe and stood up, shaking debris from her kirtle. Her hair was as tangled as it had been the night before, her clothing as tattered and muddied. The delicate, flawless face was mottled with ugly bruises and livid welts, and the cuts at the corners of her mouth were puffed and pink. They looked exceedingly painful.

And yet she says nothing.
He wondered if he knew of another living woman who would not protest in such a state. He wondered if he knew of another living woman who would put on a peasant’s shoes.

The sweep of black brows rose inquiringly. “What is it?”

Nothing,
he answered in silence.
Nothing.
But that was a blatant lie ... in truth it was
everything—
everything just to look at her, to see what a day with Will Scarlet had done to tarnish the beauty, while somehow it polished the spirit.
I am delirious.
And yet he knew he wasn’t. That would come later. “This way.” But he said it less impatiently than before.

 

Prince John smacked one of the body servants on top of the head. “Faster, buffoon! Am I to stay here all day?” Before the man could answer, John transferred his attention to the Norman seneschal standing silently by the door. “Treachery, Gilbert. I can smell its perfidious odor like an Irishman left to rot.”

Gilbert de Pisan gestured for one of the other hovering servants to attend to his master’s feet, setting shoes on over hosen.

“I can
smell
it, Gilbert! I tell you, Eustace de Vesci is here for more than good wishes... and Essex and Hereford, too, when they arrive, as I know they will! Does Huntington think I’m a fool? Does he think I’m blind?” He tore a sleeve free of a servant.
“I’ll
do that—”

“It may be just as he says, my lord.” De Pisan, as always, played devil’s advocate, because it helped John to think.

“I’ve no doubt Oxford will come, too—and Mowbray? Of course, Mowbray...” Dark eyes glittered. “What will they say, I wonder, when
I
am king?”

De Pisan’s voice was exquisitely dry. “No doubt they will express their perfect love and utmost fealty.”

“No doubt.” John scowled blackly. “I should stay, Gilbert. I should stay here, and disrupt their plans... do you think they can accomplish anything with me in residence?”

“No, my lord.”

“But there is the money,” John muttered. “I must go to Lincoln and await the sheriff... I have ordered another collection.” His expression was sublimely sanguine. “For the ransom, you see.”

De Pisan’s expression was guileless. “Indeed, my lord.”

“Of course, now that his daughter is ruined, there is no possibility of marrying her to Huntington’s son, which leaves our brave hero-knight free for Joanna... but no bait to dangle before deLacey ...”John chewed a fingernail. “I like to know they are mine... I will have to promise something else. Surely he would prefer advancement than to remain
here
forever.”

“Surely he would, my lord.”

Musingly, the prince said, “And if I
do
offer Joanna to the earl’s son, it serves to keep Huntington quiet.”

“One would think so, my lord.”

John’s gaze sharpened. “Is that man still here? That clumsy fool who botched the boar hunt?”

De Pisan did not so much as blink in response to the change in subject; he was well accustomed to things more demanding than that. Besides, he knew the answer, because he took pains to know everything he could, so as to satisfy his master. One did not merely
hope
to please John. One did so, and effortlessly, or his place was lost instantly. “Yes, my lord.”

John waved an imperious hand. “Then go find out, Gilbert. He’ll know.”

De Pisan nodded patiently. “What is it you wish him to know?”

“The sheriffs price.” The Count of Mortain smiled. “Every man has more than one.”

De Pisan bowed deeply. “At once.”

“Gilbert—” John broke off, motioning the servants out of the chamber. When the door was shut, he fixed de Pisan with a malevolent stare. “I want this stopped. I want this stopped now. I want this to go no farther than this castle, this day. I will not have men who profess to being loyal subjects believing they can plot treachery beneath my very nose.” John swore viciously. “By
God
—this sort of thing could lay the groundwork for a much more serious threat.”

“They are powerful men, my lord.”

“Then it is time we clipped their wings.” John flicked a finger. “Go.”

Gilbert de Pisan went.

 

Little John squatted in leaf mold, scraping hair out of his face. He was in a foul, belligerent mood, worsened by the fact he had not slept well, and was disposed to argue no matter what was said. Accordingly, he glared back at Adam Bell. “I told you I wouldn’t. I won’t. I’ll have none of this.”

Bell, arms folded, shrugged narrow shoulders. “Your choice,” he said, “but ’tis hard to be a shepherd when your belly’s full of arrows.”

“You’ll not kill me over this!” Little John was peripherally aware of Clym of the Clough and Cloudisley restringing their bows and counting their arrows.
Would they?
Desperation grew. “You’ve enough men to steal for you—you don’t need my help.”

William of Cloudisley laughed, warm brown eyes alight. He was a sweet-faced boy, the kind the girls would sigh for, but for all his innocent looks he had killed men before. “ ’Tisn’t your help we want—we’re wanting your
coin.
But if there’s naught to give us, you’ll borrow from someone else.”

“Borrow,” Little John spat. “D’ye mean me to give it back, then, once I’ve loaned it to you?”

Will Scarlet was on his feet, gingerly testing his battered ribs. “Who’s to know you’ve stolen it?” he asked sourly. “D’ye think
we’ll
say aught?”

“The man whose coin I steal might! He might go straight to the sheriff, who’ll know at once who did it—”

Scarlet flapped an arm. “He’ll know what you did with his woman. D’ye think a man’s purse will matter?”

Little John thrust a hand against the ground and rose to his full height. “I did nothing to the woman. Nothing at all, d’ye hear? I meant to take her back—” He broke it off abruptly, recalling the promise he’d made to fetch the girl back to Scarlet.

Scarlet’s dark eyes narrowed. “Aye,” he said roughly, “I thought it might be that. A trustworthy soul, you are.”

“Never mind that,” Adam Bell interposed. “We’ve other business to tend to.” His look was no longer amused. “Which one of you goes first?”

Scarlet spat, wincing slightly. “I will,” he growled. “Let him see how ’tis done, so he’ll know what’s expected of him.”

Bell nodded. “You’d best make it worth our while.”

Little John shook his head. “You’d not kill me for this.”

Clym of the Clough laughed. It had an ugly sound. “I’ve killed men for less. With you, I’d just use more arrows.”

 

Alan dreamed of plump breasts and plumper bottom, and the taste of a clove-scented mouth hovering near his own—

Someone kicked his foot. “Here, you. I’ll not have a peasant sleeping in my stall. You’ll spoil all the wares.”

Breasts and bottom dissipated into the wan sun of a misty, malodorous morning. Nottingham stank. Alan cursed the merchant looming over him, fists planted on wide hips; in elaborate French the displaced minstrel muttered a comment about the man’s ancestry, then slowly unwound himself. The merchant was a thick, contentious sort, ill-disposed to hear anything Alan might have to say, no matter how politely couched, which was just as well, he decided, since he felt no urge to use politeness anyway.

“Get out of my stall!” the man ordered, rolling back a tunic sleeve from a meaty forearm.

Alan eyed the forearm, the wrist, and the fist, and decided to acquiesce. It was a stroke of brilliance, he thought, that he had tucked under his tunic the purse of silver marks Robert of Locksley had given him, or else the merchant would surely have robbed him before sending him on his way.

He departed the stall amid additional threats to smash in his pretty face, then stepped into a narrow alley to relieve himself. He recalled his brocaded tunic was in the other direction. Worse, his lute was in Sherwood Forest, in the hands—no,
hand—of
a man who would not know how gently to treat a lovely instrument.

Alan glumly rubbed at stubble. Little about him gave away his employment. No one, looking at him, would claim him a minstrel well placed with nobility—well, he
had
been, before Eleanor had seen to it his new placement was somewhere no man would choose to be.

Eleanor. God rot her.
And
Eleanor’s father.

Alan sighed, scratching vigorously at the flea that had taken up residence in the hair furring his abdomen. There was nothing for it but to go into Sherwood and look for the one-handed man. He had money enough to buy a new lute, but instruments of quality were hard to come by, and there was no certainty Nottingham boasted a luthier at all, let alone a good one. Also, it would be foolish to buy one in Nottingham even if there
were
a luthier, because the sheriff had undoubtedly warned his men to look for a man with a lute, and his salvation, for the moment, lay in
not
having one.

So he would go to Sherwood and get back his own lute, of which he was exceedingly fond, as it was of excellent tone and quality and, beside that, had won him more women than anything else might—excepting his tongue, of course, and the sheen of his golden curls.

Alan snorted derisively. He was at present too dirty to be golden. “Fool’s errand,” he muttered. “But some would say it fits.” Food and drink first, he decided. Then Sherwood Forest.

 

The horse was a fine one, Much knew. From a distance he watched it, waiting for someone to step out of the trees and claim it, but no one did, and after a while Much decided no one was near enough to prevent him from stealing it. And so he made his way very quietly out of the bushes, approached the horse from the front, and put his small, deft hands upon the reins. The horse did not protest.