Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (37 page)

It called for something, if only to lessen some of her concern. She saw him shiver again. “As if you could do anything,” she declared archly. “Who was it stunned Will Scarlet?”

Clearly, the audacity astonished him. He was rigidly, perfectly still.

Her spirit wilted.
I’ve gone too
—

For the second time in two days, she heard Robert of Locksley laugh. She found it intensely pleasing.

 

Alan of the Dales tripped over a half-buried tree root and fell sprawling into bracken, flinging out hands to catch himself, then twisting onto a shoulder because his hands were too valuable to risk on unseen hazards. He landed awkwardly and painfully on his left shoulder, then his left hip; lastly—and most annoyingly—he banged his head on an accompanying root.

He lay there a moment, swearing inventively in French, then switched to English, which he found cruder and therefore more satisfying. French was for music and women.

Alan sat up in the midst of hip-high fern, peeling a frond away from his mouth, and glared sourly at the offending root. It did not please him to realize he had undertaken a foolish and impossible task. It did not please him to admit he had been even more foolish to leave the track. But he had heard hoofbeats—or
believed
he heard them—and now he found himself dirtier than before, with green stains soiling his clothing and mud on his elbows.

I am thoroughly disreputable ...
And so he was. Before, it had been through his exploits in bed, which merely added to his allure. Now it was solely because of his appearance, which did not please him at all.

He stood up, muttering in English, and brushed as much dirt and debris from his clothing as possible. He took a single step toward the track, heard hoofbeats again, and ducked down into bracken.

This time it
was
hoofbeats.

Alan squatted very still, daring only to breathe. With the FitzWalter girl missing he had no doubt the sheriff’s men were searching for her in Sherwood, where rumor said Scarlet had taken her, but even if he were not the target of the search he dared take no chances. They would snap him up readily enough for the sake of Eleanor’s lie; only the night before the Watch had been set on him.

He waited. Morning sunlight glimmered through the spring foliage. He saw a flash of steel and blue livery as the hoofbeats grew louder.

Normans. As expected, deLacey’s men, armed with swords and crossbows. He recognized none of them, except to know their livery and the arrogance of their faces.

Alan watched them go by. He lacked his lute and tunic—and much of his minstrel’s demeanor, as well as a razor—but he had no doubt they would at least draw rein to question him, if only to ask about the girl. Better to hide himself than to risk recognition.

The Normans were gone. He waited a little longer, then slowly made his way out of the foliage onto the edge of the track, massaging his left shoulder. He set out once more, heading deeper into Sherwood, assuming at some point the one-handed man would appear. He was after all an outlaw acquainted with the forest, which meant he likely knew it well and who belonged in it. And as he had extended an invitation—

The faint jingle of bit and bridle intruded. It came from behind, from the direction the Normans had ridden ... Alan froze, then lunged off the track once more. This time he chose his bolt-hole more carefully than before.

He dropped to his knees, ducking beneath the surface of the tall bracken, and peered through gaps as best he could. But ten paces up the track came a boy with a horse—a boy
leading
a horse, with no apparent intention of mounting the horse even though it wasn’t lame and showed no other infirmities.

Alan frowned, chewing a lip. The horse was very fine. The boy was not. They did not belong together.
If I could impress upon him my need to burrow the horse—

But Alan’s need went unmet. Even as he considered stepping out onto the track, inventing an explanation, someone else did so first—a dark-haired, dark-eyed man with bruises on his face, and the pinched, pale, desperate look of a man hard-pressed to survive.

His explanation was much simpler than Alan’s. “Here,” he said roughly, “this horse is mine, now.”

 

Gilbert de Pisan, overseeing the packing of Prince John’s retinue and baggage train in the bailey, gave a series of commands in a quiet, unhurried tone, saw to it those receiving the commands began to follow them properly, then took himself inside the earl’s remarkable new castle and found his master alone in denuded chambers, chewing his fingernails.

John lowered his hand as de Pisan entered. “Well?”

“Things commence as they should, my lord. We shall be able to leave for Lincoln the moment you desire it.”

John perched a portion of his weight upon the corner of a slab of English oak set upon trestles. One braced, booted leg propped him up. The other was hooked across the corner, swinging in small arcs of restless energy and poorly suppressed impatience. His crimson traveling cloak, much finer than any worn by others on the most elaborate of occasions, drooped from jeweled brooches pinned at padded shoulders.

The prince’s expression was feral. “What I desire is information.”

De Pisan inclined his head, folding hands inside wide sleeves. “The girl is a relative of Robert FitzWalter, Lord of Dunmow. Sir Hugh FitzWalter, her father, was a distant cousin. There is no indication they have had any dealings together, to hatch plots or for any other purpose.

“Her father’s dead. What of his holdings?”

“They are hers, according to law; she is a ward of the Crown.”

“Then my brother administers her dowry.”

“Yes, my lord.”

John mused silently, working at another nail. “She is wealthy?”

“Not incredibly so, my lord ... Ravenskeep is a modest manor with moderate income. But she is the only remaining issue of the marriage, and both her parents are dead.”

John nodded. “Find out what you can about the current state of her coffers. My brother has been somewhat occupied this past year himself ... and if this manor is as modest as you claim, it may well have been overlooked during the ransom collections.” He spat out a sliver of nail. “If so, we shall have to see to it she donates to
this
collection.” “Yes, my lord.”

John’s gaze was level. “What of the sheriffs price?”

De Pisan smiled faintly. “I was put on notice that Sir Guy of Gisbourne will not be so malleable as he once was.”

Angevin brows rose. “Oh?”

“Indeed, it was made most clear to me that Sir Guy expects to be as well-rewarded as the sheriff. In fact, I found it most fascinating to learn of
Gisbourne’s
desired reward.” Briefly, de Pisan’s amusement displayed good teeth. “He told me explicitly what he wanted. He then told me what the sheriff wants.”

“And?”

“They are one and the same, my lord. He did not say so—in fact, he said otherwise; something about a rich old North Country woman—but it was obvious to me. He lied about the sheriff, because he knows very well a simple knight of no reknown will stand little chance against a man like William deLacey.”

John sat very still. The leg no longer swung. “Yes?”

“The selfsame FitzWalter girl.”

“For knight
and
sheriff?”

“It would seem so.”

John’s dark eyes narrowed.

De Pisan smoothed his surcoat. “My lord, if you would entertain a suggestion from your seneschal, it might behoove you to look to the FitzWalter girl yourself, with an eye toward administering her disposal upon the proper man. They say she is beautiful—that even a man of high station would care little enough for her holdings so long as the lady comes to his bed.”

John made no answer.

De Pisan drew a breath. “Men such as Alnwick, Hereford, and Oxford are wealthy already ... I believe flesh would mean more than yet another tedious manor.”

The king’s brother said nothing.

“Ravenskeep lies on the other side of Nottingham, my lord. In fact, a man who held lands on either side of the city—such as Huntington, and Ravenskeep—would be in position to dictate Nottingham’s strength.”

“Yes,” John said at last. “Oh yes, I do see ...” He looked at de Pisan. “It would be most unfortunate to waste a woman held in such high regard—and with such valuable holdings—on a mere sheriff.”

“Yes, my lord. My thoughts exactly.”

“In fact ...”John smiled. “The Earl of Huntington himself, with his brand-new castle, has no wife to house in it.”

Much gaped at the outlaw. He knew him: Will Scarlet, who’d fought the Hathersage Giant, then stolen Marian.

“Here,” Scarlet repeated. “Save yourself a hand and let me have the horse.”

Much fell back, dragging at a rein; the horse, protesting, yanked its head upward. Much did not relinquish his grasp upon the leather, which stretched his arm taut and nearly unhinged his elbow.

“Let
go
—” Scarlet grabbed his own share of rein. “By God, boy, don’t make me hurt you—”

Much kicked one of Scarlet’s shins, then bent and scooped up a handful of dirt and flung it at his face, jerking the horse his way.
“Mine!”
Much cried.

Scarlet swiped dirt out of his eyes, then lunged toward Much. Frightened, the bay stallion set back, digging up track, even as Scarlet’s grasping hand came down on Much’s shoulder, grabbing a handful of tunic. “You little—”

Much bared teeth, jerking the rein again. The bay squealed and plunged backward, dragging Much and Scarlet in tow like fish on a willow stringer.

“Mine—” Much hissed.

“You little whelp—” Scarlet attempted to halt the horse by sheer force of will, but he was no match for a frightened horse.

A body darted out of the trees and leaped for the saddle, flinging a leg across cloak and leather. Toes dug for stirrups. “I’ll settle this,” the man offered breathlessly.
“I’ll
take the horse—”

“By God, you
won’t—”
Scarlet caught at a hosen-clad leg. “Get down from there—”

“Mine!” Much shouted.

The mounted man jammed heels into the bay’s flanks, grasping one loose rein even as the other remained well-claimed. He pulled the horse’s head around toward his knee, trying to turn him, to deprive them of leverage, so he could break the horse free.

Scarlet jumped for an arm. “I’ll have you down—”

Much kicked at Scarlet even as the golden-haired man laughed and said, “A horse requires a rider, not an oxen-driver!”

“Oxen-driver, am I?—By God, boy, stop your kicking ...” And yet again to the rider,
“I’ll
have you down—”

Much clung to the rein, making furious, inarticulate noises. The bay squealed and set back again, pawing clots of track, snapping his head skyward in a bid to break free.

The rider pulled the reins taut. The horse, steered so cruelly, swung his hindquarters and nearly trampled Much. Will Scarlet jerked the stranger’s right foot out of the stirrup, then grasped handfuls of hosen, hauling him bodily down from the saddle even as the rider grasped at mane and rein.

“Mine!” Much shrieked.

The horse backed up quickly, shedding its rider over a shoulder as Scarlet dragged him free. Much, still clinging to rein, was jerked off his feet, but refused to release his find. He was dragged several paces before the terrified animal stopped, quivering and snorting.

“Hold!”
a voice shouted.

Much, spitting dirt, craned his head around.

Four men stepped out of the trees. Three of them had bows; one did not. He was the Hathersage Giant.

Will Scarlet, tangled on the track with the golden-haired stranger, let go of the man. “The horse is
mine,”
he snapped. “My portion of the fee.”

“Is it?” Little John retorted. He strode forward, caught the stranger by tunic and shoulder—and a handful of hair—and dragged him to his feet, swinging him to face the three men. “Then this one’s mine! His coin is
my
fee!”

“Wait—” the man protested, but Little John shook him sharply. “No noise out of you. This doesn’t concern you.”

“But it
does—”

“No noise, I said!”

Much got up on hands and knees, watching closely, and slowly backed toward the horse. If he could get up without them noticing, then mount the animal—

One of the nocked bows was lifted in his direction. Much stopped moving. “Here,” the outlaw ordered. “And bring the horse with you.”

 

The Earl of Huntington waited in the bailey as both men dismounted, handing their mounts to the horseboys. They were similar in appearance: both tall, both slender, and both powerful barons of ancient families and established titles: Geoffrey de Mandeville, the Earl of Essex, and Henry Bohun, Earl of Hereford.

Mandeville was the eldest, a spare, gray, dignified man. Bohun was younger, darker, more fluid in movement. Each man came forward, offering outstretched hands to the earl and his companion, Eustace de Vesci.

“Well timed,” de Vesci said. “Prince John has only just left.”

“Yes,” de Mandeville said. He was terse and austere of feature. “We met him on the road.”

De Vesci’s arm dropped away from the handclasp. “Did he say anything?”

De Mandeville’s tone was frosty. “To me he says little, as if fearing he will condemn himself to his brother’s man.”

Bohun’s expression was sober, but less severe. “He fears Essex, as is to be expected. But to me he was more forthcoming. He suggested we make haste, if we were to wish well to Huntington’s son.” His tone was dry. “He left no doubt as to his suspicions.”

“He would not,” Huntington agreed. “That is John’s way, to sow discord as he can. Now. Come in. There is much to talk about.”

The others followed him, murmuring comments about the castle. De Vesci was gloomier than de Mandeville and Bohun, remarking on his fears that John would contrive a way to learn of their discussion. Huntington signed him into silence, then led them all into a private chamber.

“Ralph will bring wine,” he said. Then, to de Vesci, with dry deliberation, “If you
desire
John to know, do say so in the hallways.”

The gentle chiding found its mark. Red-faced, de Vesci scowled back. “Do you not trust your household?”

“As much as you trust yours.”

Bohun laughed harshly. “John disunites us even in his absence.”

De Mandeville’s gray eyes flicked from man to man as he stripped off his gloves and moved to unpin his cloak. “I think it important we waste no time here. John moves quickly—”

“Softsword,” de Vesci remarked in contempt.

“But not his wits,” de Mandeville retorted. “He is the Old King’s son in many ways, and Henry was not a fool.”

Huntington’s smile was cool. “He would not thank us for this.”

“He would not have brought us to this.” De Mandeville dropped cloak and gloves into a chair. “Nor would Geoffrey; he was less stubborn than John.”

Bohun scoffed politely. “But a vain fool, withal. To die in a tournament—”

“An accident,” Huntington said.

“One wonders. He was older than John, and would have been named Richard’s heir ...” Bohun turned, found a chair, seated himself. “But we are not here to speak of dead men—”

De Vesci’s voice was harsh. “Geoffrey had a son. Arthur of Brittany may well be our best hope.”

“Richard
is our best hope.” De Mandeville’s voice was crisp. “Do we forget ourselves? Our loyalty is to the king, not to destroying John merely for our own sakes.”

Huntington turned as Ralph came through the door with a tray bearing a flagon and silver goblets. “Thank you, Ralph. There, on the table. I will pour for my guests.” Ralph set the tray down and turned to leave. Huntington delayed him with a gesture. “My son?”

The servant shook his head. “No, my lord. Not yet.”

Huntington’s mouth crimped briefly. “Send him here at once when he arrives.”

“Yes, my lord.” Ralph pulled the door shut behind him.

Huntington moved to the table and began to fill the goblets. “Now. I am informed that John has sent a message to Philip of France, suggesting their mutual interests are best served by the Lionheart’s continued captivity. I am also informed he has written to Germany, offering Henry money to
keep
Richard there.”

“But—” de Vesci frowned. “So long as the king lives, John cannot rule. Everyone knows Richard is held prisoner.”

De Mandeville shrugged. “All Henry need do is raise the ransom demand. The realm is near bankrupt now—when the people realize they cannot afford to meet Henry’s demands, they may well give it up as a bad risk.”

Bohun nodded. “And if Richard should meet with an accident—”

De Vesci shook his head. “No one would believe that.”

“No. But dead is
dead
—and England would require a king. Since Berengaria has not conceived ...” Bohun gestured. “John is the obvious choice.”

“There is Arthur,” de Vesci insisted. “Geoffrey was the oldest, after Richard—his son would take precedence. Richard himself is said to favor Arthur. That is why John was given the Gloucester heiress and all the honors with her, to take what his brother chose to give him and be silent the rest of his life.”

Huntington shook his head as he handed out the goblets. “Arthur is eight years old. A boy would stand no chance in a fight for the throne of England.”

“And he’s in Brittany,” Bohun added. “His mother is sister to the Scots king—she knows too much is at stake. And the Bretons prize him too much to risk him now. Later, perhaps, when he is older—”

“When John holds the throne?” De Vesci drank, then glared at them all. “You know what he will do. He will have the boy killed.”

De Mandeville sipped his wine more deliberately, then lowered the goblet. “Not if he poses no threat. And he won’t, for a time ... and if we succeed in this, we’ll have no need of Arthur. For Richard will be home, and England safe.”

De Vesci was openly skeptical. “You are so secure in that. You wear the king as your banner.”

De Mandeville’s temper flared. “By God, I should! He made me Justiciar of England—it is your folly to forget it!”

Huntington spoke quietly in the sudden silence. “Old friend,” he said to the Earl of Essex who, with the Bishop of Durham, personally administered England in the king’s absence, “no one forgets it. You risk more than us all.”

The older man sat down suddenly, clutching at a chair arm. “This foolish Crusade—it strips England of her king when she needs him most.”

“The Crusade is ended,” Bohun said. “Already our soldiers return home—as Huntington’s son does.” He flicked a glance at the earl. “Do you intend to inform him of what we do?”

“He must know. And you must allow him to know. He was close to the king himself.” Huntington’s face was masklike. “After all, it was the Lionheart who personally ransomed him back from Saladin.” His slight smile was stiff. “Not his father.”

 

Locksley was hungry, sick, and out of sorts, but he said nothing of it, because Marian faced the circumstances with a fortitude and spirit he had not expected to find in a gently bred young woman.

She stepped over tree roots, picking her way with care. “I imagine this is not what you are accustomed to.”

He smiled faintly, thinking she negotiated treacherous footing easily enough in borrowed shoes, with an unaffected, coltish grace he found peculiarly engaging. In no way did she resemble the decorous and subdued young woman who had come to the dais to give him a colorless if circumspect welcome home. Then she had been very like the others, watching him sideways, as if weighing him with an eye toward a future relationship.

“Walking,” she elaborated. “That was a fine horse ...”

It pinched. “Yes.”

She scraped tangled hair out of her face, tucking a lock behind her ear. “Perhaps he will make his way home.”

She meant to be kind. He was less so. “Perhaps. I rather think he will find his way to someone else’s stable.”

“If they know he is yours, perhaps they will bring him back.”

He looked at her levelly. “Do you really think so?”

She gazed back a long moment, then sighed. “No. I wanted to lift your spirits.”

He smiled crookedly. “My spirits will do well enough without discussion.”

Her expression was skeptical, but she did not address the issue, choosing instead another tack. “What of your fever?”

“It also requires no discussion.”

Marian was clearly undaunted, no longer intimidated by his tone or expression, which he found both curious and puzzling. “You sound like my father.” The hem of her kirtle caught. She jerked it free. “Then what
would
you prefer to talk about?”

He bent a limb back to keep it from her face. “We need talk about nothing.”

She thrust out an arm to steady herself. “There is no sense in punishing ourselves because someone stole your horse ... we may as well make the best of it.”

Leaf mold hissed beneath his boots. “I have not found talking to be the best of anything.”

She slanted him a look under lowered lids. “No. I recall that about you—you said very little that Christmas Eve.”

It took him a moment to recall the one she meant. When he did he was moved to smile, but forbore to let her see it. “Perhaps because I was somewhat taken aback by the forwardness of a knight’s daughter who took it upon herself to trick me under the mistletoe.”

Marian’s face flared red.

“Well?” he prodded. “You did trick me.”

“I told you,” she muttered self-consciously, “I had kissed everyone else.”

“There was no need to kiss
me,
merely to count me as a conquest.”

“It wasn’t—you weren’t—” She shrugged awkwardly. “Never mind.”

He scrubbed briefly at his forehead, faintly amused he had managed to discomfit her. She had a ready tongue and a readier wit and was quick to defend others, but now, when she required it for herself, she offered nothing in her own defense save a self-conscious silence. “And I thought it was for the man to seek out the woman.”

She cast him a sideways glance. The tangle of her hair framed an exquisite face, even bruised as it was. “You wouldn’t have. You barely spoke to anyone. You stood in the shadows and
watched
everyone ...” And then, as if realizing she might yet offend, she let it trail off as if inconsequential. “I just thought ...”