Juliana Garnett (20 page)

Jane nodded grim agreement. “It rings false. I did not know what to make of it, so seek your advice. Proclamations have been read in village market squares, inviting entrants to the tourneys, while barons are expected to attend in the king’s
honor. Saxon, Norman—all are summoned. I fear there is more to this than meets the eye.”

Silence fell. She drew in a deep breath, blew it out again, softly. “It reeks of treachery. A tourney with sumptuous prizes tempts outlaws to attend, or rob those who travel to Nottingham. I fear he tries to trap you.”

“And ye worried we would rise to the lure?” John chuckled. “Nay, ’tis naught to worry about, milady. ’Tis too obvious a snare.”

“Have you thought,” Tuck said slowly, “that it may well be a trap for
you
, milady?”

Silence gathered in the corners like shadows. Bitter regret seeped into the cave, almost tangible, a ghostly presence. Other ghosts lingered; his name was not mentioned, yet Robin’s memory was sharp and hovering. Jane shut her eyes against it. Tuck’s words echoed, a litany to haunt her like the old ghosts:

Have you thought it might well be a trap for you …?

III
 
 NOTTINGHAM CASTLE
JUNE 21, 1213

16
 

Sunlight flooded the middle bailey, tinged turrets a rich gold, caught in pennons fluttering on battlement walls. Tré saw her standing across the crowded bailey beside a white palfrey; rose-colored silk veil Lifted softly in the wind that always blew over the summit of Nottingham Castle. Her face was turned from him, pure profile as serene as if carved from alabaster.

He cursed softly. What was Lady Neville doing there? It was dangerous in Nottingham, more so for this lady than most. Robin Hood’s niece would find her welcome strained when the king arrived—with recent rumors of the outlaws return to Sherwood, King John’s mood might turn vicious.

His gaze shifted to the elderly baron at Jane’s side. Lord Creighton bore himself with dignity, white hair long and brushing velvet-clad shoulders in the Saxon style. The bailey swarmed with barons and their retinues: horses, dogs, and servants, blurs of color and sound created chaos. Avid eyes everywhere … if he sent her away, it would be marked by all, yet temptation was great.

Even as the thought formed, he strode across the paving stones of the bailey. Her servant saw him first; Dena nudged her mistress.

Gracious as a queen, Lady Neville inclined her head in greeting when he reached her side.

“My lord high sheriff, how kind of you to invite me to the festivities and banquet.”

It sounded stilted, formal and practiced; he ignored it. “I did not invite you, my lady.”

Uncertainty flickered in her eyes, faded into opaque blue. “No? There must be a mistake—”

“I did not make the mistake.” His mouth thinned in irritation. “You should not be here. It is not safe.”

Her chin tilted upward, lips firmed into a taut line. “If it’s not safe, my lord, then there are many here who should be advised of their danger.”

“Enough, Lady Neville. I am in no mood for the polite jab and feint that passes for conversation with you. Why did you come here?”

He had almost betrayed himself—an unwelcome surprise that he would venture warning or concern. Yet with this lady it seemed natural—another unwelcome revelation.

Familiar challenge gleamed in her blue eyes. “Is it so amazing that I would answer the summons to Nottingham for a tournament and banquet?”

“A summons?” He put a hand on her arm, fingers closing just above the elbow. “I would speak with you in private, Lady Neville.”

“Speak freely here, my lord. Dena is a trusted servant, and Lord Creighton—”

He turned abruptly, swept a glance over Dena and Lord Creighton. “Lady Neville will return shortly.”

Creighton sputtered a protest, but the servant had more sense; silent, she made the sign of the cross over her breast.

Devaux escorted Jane to a corner away from horses and crowd. With a hand still on her arm, he said grimly, “I find your presence here unwarranted.”

“And I find your incivility insulting!” Anger threaded her words. She glared at him from under brows pleated in a frown. “I was sent a summons—a demand, if you will—to be here.”

His eyes narrowed. He asked, though he already suspected the reply: “Who delivered it?”

“It was a castle courier, but your seal bound the message.” Uncertainty was back in her voice, faint but definite. “You—did not send it, my lord sheriff?”

Gaudet.
It would avail him much to discover Gaudet’s reasons for luring Lady Neville to the castle under false pretenses. His jaw tightened, a curt reply:

“No, I would prefer you were still at Ravenshed.”

Chagrin replaced uncertainty, stilted words in a voice like ice: “Your courtesy is boundless, my lord. Had I known I am not welcome, I would have been most content to remain at Ravenshed.”

Calmly, he surveyed her flushed face. Her reaction seemed genuine, yet trust eluded him. It was not his nature to believe easily. He released her arm and looked away. A throng of men and horses swarmed into the bailey. Nottingham was already crowded; silk pavilions sprouted like weeds all the way to the Trent. King John’s royal retinue would soon overflow the grounds.

“Milady, when the king arrives, dissension arrives.”

“Then nothing has changed since last I had audience with King John.”

A tart observation of truth. He smiled slightly. “I imagine it has not. One of the king’s greatest gifts is his ability to create turmoil wherever he goes.”

“A birthright not limited to kings, it seems.”

His brow lifted. “Is that directed at me, milady?”

“Indeed, you are more clever than you appear, my lord.”

He should be irritated; subtle insults usually annoyed him. Yet he understood her chagrin, recognized that he had offended her. Tact was not one of his virtues.

He cupped a hand under her elbow, escorted her from the shadow of staved structures built against the stone wall separating the middle bailey from the inner moat. The great hall was directly across from the square stone gatehouse and drawbridge; he steered her around it. There, thick grass and dirt cushioned their feet. The Royal Mews housing falcons
and hawks lay on the north side; at the rear beneath the shade of huge trees and mossed wall was the common chapel. Gravestones dotted consecrated ground; none came here, and it was quiet. Tumult was muted and distant.

Releasing her arm, he freed her to sit on a low bench beneath the spreading shade of an oak. Lady Neville would not meet his eyes, but kept her gaze at his chest and throat. He watched her silently, waiting.

Long, graceful fingers folded in her lap, soft but capable; hands that had held a bow with ruthless intent, then nursed him to health with infinite tenderness. An enigma, this lady of Ravenshed.… She looked up at last.

“If you have a matter to discuss with me, my lord, be so kind as to do so. I am to meet Lord and Lady Dunham at the middle gate ere long.”

“They will wait.”

Lashes lowered; cheeks grew pink with ire. He smiled. Too easy to bait, this lovely lady who haunted his nights and invaded his waking hours—he had not expected to see her again this soon. It took him off-guard, left him floundering for a plausible reason to make her leave—and a better reason to let her stay.

“Lady Neville, your safety is in question.”

Eyes widened; light gleamed through the silk wimple to shadow her face. “Why, my lord?”

“If you stay for the banquet, the king is quite likely to take umbrage at your presence. Rumors of Robin Hood and his men run rampant through the shire. But you must be well aware of this.”

Coolly holding his gaze, she nodded. “I have heard the rumors, of course, my lord.”

She gives nothing away
.…

His mouth twisted wryly. “No doubt you are well aware of the reasons for those rumors.”

“It is possible that such rumors began when you pursued the outlaws—”

He cut off an explanation both knew skirted truth. “Yet even more possible is that the rumors began when Little John
and Robin Hood’s men were set free from arrest by a hooded figure some prefer to believe is a dead outlaw.”

An awkward silence fell; he thought of the garrison of soldiers positioned along Sherwood roads, waiting for outlaws bold enough to ambush travelers to the tournament. A daring ploy, executed by Captain Oliver, who knew Sherwood near as well as the outlaws. A trap to spring shut on Little John, Will Scarlett, and Alan of the Dales.…

But what of Lady Neville? A complication, a diversion—possible disaster. Gaudet’s trick, perhaps, but he must learn the truth before the king’s arrival.

But now, without betraying the careful net cast about Nottingham, he could only accept Lady Neville’s presence without more comment. To draw attention to either of them could warn the outlaws she still protected.

He sat beside her on the narrow seat. His sword clinked softly on stone. She eyed him quickly, then looked away.

“I had thought we had an understanding now, my lord.”

Dangerous emotion beckoned, a disconcerting urge to tell her how welcome he found her unexpected arrival—it was irritating and baffling. A complication he did not need.

“Why would you think that, Lady Neville?” A safe distance was required, deliberate resistance to the lure inherent in her eloquent eyes, in the sweet fragrance of mint that clung to her hair. She could be dangerous to him—so why this impulse to protect her?

“We did part in understanding, did we not, my lord?”

To say no would be an obvious lie. Too obvious a lie. Agreement would leave him open to a risk he did not intend to take. He did not look at her; his gaze riveted on the stone wall of the great hall. Moss furred its crevices, a bright green against soft sandstone. He splayed his hands on his knees, black wool tunic bunched beneath his palms.

“Your hospitality was most generous, my lady.”

“Perhaps one day I can say the same of yours, my lord sheriff.”

A gentle rebuke for his rudeness. Unwillingly, he looked at her, then wished he had not.

Regal and alluring; infinitely elegant and achingly seductive, a woman to honor, not to insult—the reasons did not matter. For the first time in more years than he could name, regret curled inside him, a burning ache.

Bitter realization, facing the man he had become—once a knight sworn to courtesy, loyalty, truth—now a mockery of those vows. Honor lost, along with any semblance of humanity he had once possessed.

She rose to her feet, silken grace and fragrant mint. He stood to put a hand on her arm; fingers crushed rose wool but not delicate wrist bones as he held her lightly. Honest concern betrayed him.

“My lady, it would be safer for you to remain at the castle.”

“I hardly think that necessary, my lord sheriff.” She did not look at him, staring past him to the bailey. “I am to meet my cousin and her husband. Arrangements have been made.”

It did not lessen his resolve; he regarded her gravely, a command cloaked in courtesy: “Honor Nottingham with your presence, if you will; Lady Neville. It will be easier for me to guard you well if you are here.”

“Guard me? Am I truly in danger?”

“Less danger here than on a Sherwood road rife with outlaws—lest you forget.”

His blunt reminder of past transgressions did not go unheeded. She drew in a sharp breath. He released her arm, stepped back to allow her to precede him.

She accompanied him across the bailey; feathers and flutters came from the Royal Mews as they passed. A falconer fed hawks and gyrfalcons bits of raw meat, greeted by fierce screeches and loud whips of great wings.

At the gatehouse, he saw his steward and beckoned him near. “See to Lady Neville’s servants, Giles. She will be staying in the castle tonight.”

Wind fluttered the silk veil against her face; she frowned in dismay. “What of Lady Dunham?”

“Your cousin is welcome to stay with you here.” He flicked a glance at the steward. “See to it, Giles.”

“Aye, my lord sheriff.” Giles hesitated, then said, “All of the
chambers are full, my lord. Perhaps Hugh de Baliol would give up his bed for the lady.”