Juliana Garnett (18 page)

He was leaving. With him would go the tension, the unbearable anxiety—the drumming excitement. Ravenshed would return to normal. Long days of routine tasks, hopefully uninterrupted by tragedies great or small. Days would settle around her again, comfortable and endless. Her life would return to the same rhythm as before he had come.

And she did not think she could bear it.

14
 

“You were gone overlong, my lord. I took it upon my own head to make decisions.” Gervaise Gaudet’s hand curled into a fist atop the table; his eyes blazed as he stared back at Tré.

“Then you can take it upon your own head to undo them. I do not condone indiscriminate killing of prisoners, outlaw or no. All men are allowed justice.”

“Justice? Such as that shown in the forest? Those men are wolf’s heads—murderers, rapists, and vermin. Outlaws by even their own standards.”

“Mark me well, Gaudet—” Tré kept his tone even and soft so that the undersheriff had to be very still to hear him. “Convicted outlaws will be hanged with due process. You are not judge and executioner—unless you wish to feel the weight of my own justice upon your neck.”

Silence fell; a torch hissed and sputtered in the iron cresset on the near wall. None near enough to hear the sharp words dared move for fear of attracting attention.

“Do you threaten me, my lord?” Gaudet asked at last. His tone was mild despite taut white lines carved on each side of his mouth.

“I do not threaten. Betimes, I promise, but I see no need for idle threats.” His meaning was well marked, and as the pale eyes flickered: “Your place here is only as secure as your prudence keeps it. You have no more power in the Norman borough than any castellan.”

Light glittered on the chain of office Gaudet wore around his neck like a badge of pride, polished and preening against crimson velvet. A tuft of beard on the narrow point of his chin quivered with suppressed anger; a muscle leaped in his jaw. “I am appointed by the king to sheriff of the Saxon borough of Nottingham, a man of consequence.”

“Until you overstep your bounds. In your recitation of self-consequence, do not forget that you also have sworn to uphold your duty of obedience to your superiors. King John himself made the distinction of high sheriff mine, Gaudet.”

It had to be galling. To a man of Gaudet’s pride and ambition, the bitterness of seeing the position he wanted go to another would be doubly harsh when accompanied by the shame of his cousin’s failure. It would be made worse by the knowledge that the man to whom the position was given made no secret of the fact that he considered it a demotion in rank.

His point made, Tré gestured Guy forward. “Join us, Sir Guy. We must discuss the king’s visit. John sends word that he will be in Nottingham by Saint John’s Eve, on his way to Clipstone Palace to hunt. As Sir Gervaise took the liberty of forming a reply to him”—a lifted brow and glance at Gaudet made him writhe in his chair—“we are now committed to a celebration in the king’s honor.”

“A celebration!” Guy checked angry astonishment at a warning glance from Tré, then smiled grimly. “I see.”

“No,” Gaudet snarled, “I do not think you do see. The king enjoys a hanging. We have outlaws to hang. Hangings always draw a crowd. It stands to reason it would impress the king to conjoin hangings and observance of Saint John’s Eve. Especially in light of his reconciliation with the pope.”

“Yea, an apt manner to mark a saint’s feast day and reconciling with the church,” Guy muttered wryly. “Hanging outlaws.”

Tré leaned against the table. Thin light almost pierced the
windows overhead; it was gray outside, raining again. Musty gloom pervaded the hall and chilled his bones.

The thought of the king was more chilling.

“It might,” he said slowly, and saw Guy turn to stare at him with narrowed eyes, “be to our advantage after all.”

“I said it would be.” Gaudet sounded as waspish as an old woman. “It will please the king.”

“What will please the king is to have his coffers full and all the outlaws exterminated.” Guy slung one foot onto a hard bench; his eyes were cold. “We have neither.”

“That is hardly my fault.” Gaudet lifted a brow; his lips thinned. “Nor is it my responsibility. I have done my duties as prescribed. It is the high sheriff’s duty to rid the shire of outlaws and collect the king’s taxes.”

Tré put up a warning hand when Guy loomed over Gaudet with a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Leave it, Sir Guy. He is right.”

“He baits you!” Guy gestured to Gaudet angrily. “It would not surprise me to learn he sent an invitation to the king to come, knowing John will not be pleased.”

“Nor would it me. But there are ways to deal with men of deceit.” He waited until Gaudet slid his wary gaze from Guy to him, then smiled. “Treachery begets treachery.”

Rising to his feet, the undersheriff bared his teeth in a feral smile. “As you should well know, my lord. It was treachery that gained you the position of high sheriff.”

“Yea, but not of the sort you mean. If not for the treachery of my Saxon overlord, I would not now be here. He has lost all because of his treason. Be ware, lest you do the same.”

Silence greeted his warning, then Gaudet pushed past him to quit the hall in a flurry of red and yellow garments.

Guy muttered, “He will do you a serious harm if he is not watched.”

“Even watched, he manages.”

Guy nodded agreement. “So the king arrives. We have a month to deplete the shire of outlaws and fill the king’s coffers. Again.”

“Yet Gaudet has lent us his aid, though he may not know it.”

“By inviting the king?” Guy looked incredulous.

“Yea, by inviting the king to a celebration.” He pushed away from the table. “I will explain while we see to the king’s apartments.”

They left the great hall; directly across were the kitchens, with his own apartments taking up the rest of the curtain wall. Cobbled stones were slick as they crossed the middle bailey to the gate that led to the upper bailey and the royal apartments. Rain misted carved lions on each side of the gate, drooled from stone fangs bared in savage warning. A unicorn reared in frozen posture against the drawbridge; chains clanked a hollow protest as the gate was lifted for them. Below, a moat trickled sluggishly, giving off a stench that not even fresh rain could abate. A steep flight of stone steps led to the upper bailey, encompassed by four towers and high stone walls.

“It is hard to reconcile yielding up this castle even to King Richard,” Guy muttered when they passed beneath the high tower, which guarded the entry to the upper bailey. “Yet it held out only three days.”

“You met Richard once. Would you hold it against him?”

Guy laughed softly. “I would not have tried. What plan do you have to thwart John?”

“See this?” He indicated the newly constructed tower. “It is part of John’s plan to strengthen the defenses and refortify the castle. He knows it may be needed. There is more.”

They entered the round tower; it was set amid the royal apartments, with chapels, guardhouses, and granary strung within the protection of fifteen-foot-thick walls. This was the highest part of Nottingham Castle. It perched atop the summit of sandstone that jutted up from the feet of the King’s Meadows, with rocky toes dipped in the River Leen.

Inside, there was dark gloom unlit by torch or window. A thin slit gave the only light, a weak stream of gray that barely cut the shadows. Tré did not take the coil of stone steps that led to the top. The toe of his boot nudged the floor, counted four stones, then another before catching on a small projection. He knelt; fingers grazed an iron latch worked into stone, tucked beneath the low-hanging rise of stairs.

Over one shoulder: “Are any close-by?”

“Nay.” Guy sounded hushed, anticipating. “None come near.”

Tré curled his fingers into the iron ring and gave a tug. It grated roughly, stone on stone, shifted only a bit before he tugged again. This time the stone lifted; a rush of musty air swept up and over him. Infinity yawned black and endless.

“A cellar?” Guy sounded disappointed.

“More than that, Guy. Here. Light these.” He produced two candle stubs, and Guy lit them from the torch at the entry.

When he returned, he muttered, “We should wait until dark for this.”

“No. The light would be more easily seen then. We do not go far.” He slid into the opening, looked up, saw Guy’s face, and grinned. “You are one of the few who know of this. Step carefully. Do not look so distrusting. Not even Gaudet knows this exists.”

“Knows
what
—” Guy’s voice bounced eerily and was swallowed by gloom as he followed Tré. He glanced around; disembodied by enveloping blackness, his face was a collage of stark shadow and pallid light. “It is a tunnel.”

“Yea, it is that. It leads to the river.”

“To the River Leen?”

“Past the brewhouse and under the Rock Yard. It is a natural tunnel, I think, a bit improved upon. It goes through castle rock … take caution.”

“How did you find it?” Guy spoke in a hush; it did not matter, for his words were quickly smothered in shadow. Underfoot, the sandstone proved to be precarious footing. The tunnel dipped away sharply, disappeared in darkness.

“It was an accident.”

“It is not well known, then?”

Tré held his candle higher; a draft guttered it to leave only Guy’s candle burning. Above them, the steps were a soft buff shimmer.

“No. It is meant for only the king to know.”

“A way out.…”

“Built after Richard’s siege, I do not doubt. It has been here
longer than the tower.” He indicated the shaft. “It ends just above the river.”

Breath formed clouds in front of their faces; even in the dark, he saw that Guy understood the implications inherent to the tunnel’s existence. It was a way out, but also a way into the castle. Dangerous knowledge in the wrong hands.

Once outside the tower again, he stood in the shadow of the wall where the rain did not reach. Above them, on the top battlements, guards kept watch.

“The king anticipates civil war.” Guy phrased it as a statement of fact. “He plans for it. He means to use Nottingham as a military base against his own barons.”

“Yea, I believe he does. It explains his need for money and fortified walls where the French are not likely to come. If cornered here, he has a way out—and a way in.”

Beyond the castle, a northern bailey was already partly enclosed by wooden palisades. Another defensive wall.

“And the king comes in a month,” Guy said softly. “Does war against the barons begin so soon?”

“It could. If it does, we will have a way out.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance; beyond the high walls of the upper bailey, the King’s Meadows stretched to the River Trent, the water only a faint haze below a wooded ridge. London was a long way away, yet had never seemed closer.

“What do we do about the outlaws?” Guy paused. “You said you have a plan.”

“Gaudet has been kind enough to solve that problem for us, though he would be grieved to hear it.”

Grinning, Guy joined him on the steep descent to the middle bailey. “Then I am doubly curious to hear your solution.”

“It is simple enough. We will invite them to the king’s celebration.”

15
 

First light would come early now with the waxing of summer strong upon the land. Jane stood in the darkness by the stable wall. She wore a loose tunic and hose beneath a black robe; over that, a red hood with a bell sewn to the long tip. It was a leper’s garb, a worthy disguise that should see her safely unaccosted on her journey.

The silence was dense around her as she led a rouncy from the stable, an old beast that would cause little comment, and mounted astride. Rufford Abbey lay a goodly distance from Ravenshed; she prayed Brother Tuck was still there.

Crumpled parchment crackled when she moved, scratching tender flesh, tucked inside her tunic to keep it safe. It bore the sheriff’s seal, broken now, delivered by castle courier, a command disguised as invitation: A tourney and banquet to honor the king—her presence was required. It was formal, detached, no hint of what had passed between them; a question unanswered.