Juliana Garnett (5 page)

3
 

Gervaise Gaudet was waiting in the antechamber with barely concealed hostility when Tré entered. Light flickered over a fair man of medium height, richly garbed. The window was shuttered but the room was well lit, with several candle racks staggered at intervals along the walls. Carved chests squatted on each side of the door; a scarred table bore a flagon of wine and two silver cups. Gaudet stood beside the table, a cup in one hand, resentment simmering in his hot eyes.

Bone-deep weariness threatened, lapping at the edges of Tré’s endurance. He ignored the sullen gaze and customary niceties:

“I am aware that you are the cousin of my unfortunate predecessor, Gaudet, so do not waste your time or mine with hostilities. The king saw fit to appoint me sheriff instead of you. It does not have to make us enemies.”

“No?” An angry smile played on Gaudet’s mouth. “Yet Eustace was not yet deposed from his position when you were appointed. A strange coincidence, perhaps.”

“So it would seem.” Tré watched him for a moment, the taut set of his jaw, the barely restrained hatred that vibrated the hand holding his wine, and recognized futility in more attempts at civility.

When the silence stretched ominously, Gaudet stirred. “If you think the Saxons will comply with your edicts, you are much mistaken. They will not do so willingly. My cousin found that out to his sorrow, when he attempted to force them to pay their lawful taxes.”

“Eustace de Lowdham’s error was in keeping the monies he collected, not in forcing reluctant barons to pay them. Surely blood kinship does not outweigh common sense so much that you do not recognize that.”

Pale eyes narrowed to thin slits in Gaudet’s fleshy face. He was not a tall man, but projected a sense of height and power due to his brawny frame. His chest swelled with anger as he spat, “A lie! Not only was he put to the trouble of bringing to heel the most defiant barons, but Eustace was beset by outlaws along the way. If you want to hold
your
position, you had best keep in mind that you cannot tender monies to the king that outlaws have stolen from you—”

“Your concern is touching, but you need not fear for me. I will deal most harshly with the outlaws.”

“It is said that you harbor a hatred for outlaws—especially Saxon outlaws.”

“Men who listen to gossip oft find themselves in dire misfortune when they repeat it.”

It was said softly, with no inflection or particular emphasis, but his point was well taken. Gaudet grew silent.

Impatient now to conclude the first meeting with the Saxon barons, Tré turned toward the door. “We will discuss your duties later. Attend me tomorrow.”

It was not an auspicious beginning to his tenure as sheriff. First the barons, now Gaudet. He would not be surprised if he was confronted by a scullery wench before the night ended.

In the hall, Saxon barons milled about with furtive glances and uneasy courage.

The lady has more mettle than do they
, Tré mused. It was a trait that altered his first impression of her, for impassioned courage imbued average features with a rare beauty. Integrity made her dangerous. Lady Neville was a lively adversary, worthy of both caution and admiration.

His gaze roamed the crowded hall, but there was no sign of her by the fire or at the table. Hardly surprising, but definitely annoying.

“Where did she go, Giles?” His soft tone was deceptive, halting the passing steward in his tracks.

“I know not, my lord. When I returned with her wine, she was not by the fire. I did not think she would leave without her mantle.”

“She left the garment behind?”

“She did, my lord.”

“Fetch it. Then find Sir Guy and send him to me.”

Giles departed hastily. Noise overwhelmed the hall, bouncing off high walls and the ceiling. The stench of unwashed bodies was oppressive. A smoky haze permeated clothes and stung the eyes. Tré moved toward the dais. Conversations died; he felt the speculative scrutiny as he maneuvered down the trough between tables.

They watch, furtive as rats in a granary, and as constant … enemies in all the shadows.

When he reached the dais he took his place behind the long, linen-covered table reserved for the high sheriff. The hall was quiet now, with only occasional laughter from the direction of the guard room. The Normans present were more at ease, but the English watched him with rapt intensity.

They wanted answers to questions when he had none for them. None they would want to hear. He resented the Saxons’ carping and whining, their insistence on justice when all England lay groaning under the weight of John’s heavy hand. How could he give them what he did not have himself?

The edge of the huge carved chair pressed into his legs and beckoned comfort, but he did not sit. Not yet. He waited as the silence grew complete and the barons nervous. Then he gestured, an expansive sweep of one arm that encompassed the entire hall.

“Answers are best sought on full stomachs, my lords. Do you be seated at my table.”

Wary glances were exchanged. The smell of roast meat and honeyed sauces was tempting. He sat down as if it were any
banquet; a sewer rushed forward bearing a silver ewer filled with scented water and a towel to dry his hands. It was a signal for dishes to be served.

No cloths draped the lower tables, but jugs of wine and cups were in good supply. The Normans did not hesitate, but found seats on the long benches flanking the tables, until only a few places were left. Finally the Saxons joined them, bunching at one side in a segregated group.

Tré leaned back against feathered bolsters that still bore the blue and silver of the former sheriff. It was his habit to eat sparingly. When he looked up from his trencher, Guy was weaving through the crowded hall to reach the dais and the chair next to him.

“There is dissent among the barons. They thrash about like rabid weasels.” Guy folded his long frame into the stark wood that formed the smaller chair. “Or did you notice?”

“Your humor is misplaced.” Tré indicated the hall with a tilt of his head. “All of Nottingham is a hornet’s nest.”

“Fill their cups again. Enough wine should give even dour Saxons a sense of humor.”

“Enough wine may put the barons at ease.”

“Nothing but the tomb can do that.” Guy eyed him for a moment. “Where is the lady?”

“Gone. Fled into the night like a frightened hare.”

Guy laughed softly. “You would frighten any woman, but I had not thought that one would be so easily terrorized.”

Irritated, Tré did not reply. He scraped a thumb over the curved stem of his cup. It was plain, with simple lines that fit his hand, and he lifted it to drink.

Light from torches and branches of candles gleamed on Guy’s pale hair as he lifted his cup, restless eyes peering over the brim. “It grows late, even for Saxons.”

Tré set his cup on the table and stood up. Heads turned toward him and voices subsided into low mutters, then silenced in tense expectation.

“My lords,” he said evenly, “my purpose in Nottingham is simple. King John has appointed me sheriff to guard his interests, and also the interests of Nottingham’s citizens. I will do
so. In return, you will supply me with men and arms for your king. By Easter.”

Mistrust already reflected in the sullen faces of the Saxon barons swiftly altered to outrage. Tré’s gaze fell on russet-haired Gilbert of Oxton. He said with deliberate emphasis:

“Bring your individual concerns to Guy de Beaufort, who sits at my right hand. He will have my scribe appoint a time to any man who wishes to express his discontent to me.”

Oxton snapped, “It grows difficult to tell tax men from outlaws, save the color of their livery.”

“Not so difficult,” a companion retorted, “for outlaws leave us enough to eat, while the king’s men do not!”

Dissension rumbled, growing louder; across the hall, Norman guards watched with wary readiness.

Tré spoke sharply: “You complain of outlaws that prey upon your lands. You plead for my aid to be rid of them. Why should I lend my arms to your cause, when you do not lend yours to mine?”

“You are the sheriff!” Oxton burst out. “It is your duty—”

“Exactly. As it is your duty to aid your king and your country.” Silence fell. He surveyed flushed, angry faces. “Aid me, and I will aid you.”

When no one spoke, Tré indicated that the meal was over by beckoning the sewer to come forward with the ewer of scented water and a towel to dry his hands. It was the signal to clear the hall; the metallic clank of his guards’ weapons convinced the barons that there was no more to do or say.

Sprawled indolently in the low-backed chair, Guy glanced up at him. Mockery lit his hazel eyes. “That went well.”

“I fully expect Oxton to withhold taxes.”

Guy tugged at the gold chain holding his dark blue mantle on his shoulders, then straightened in his chair to frown down the length of the near-empty hall. “If he does, the others will join him.”

“I expect that as well.” Tré turned to leave the dais, but a sudden pain in his side jerked him to a halt. For a moment he could not draw a deep breath and was forced to take shallow gasps of air.

At once, Guy was solicitous, his deceptive indolence vanishing as he leaped up. “
Merde
! You are as white as a pall.… Has it broken open again? I will bring the surgeon.”

“No.” Breathing was difficult, tortured, the pain a fist that would not release him. Blindly, he put a hand on the back of the chair to maintain balance. “It will pass.”

“The wound is not yet healed, and will likely kill you if you break it open again.” Guy’s voice was taut.

Tré sucked in air between his teeth; the pain began to ease, slowly, intermittent now. “Let it be. It will heal.”

“Yet it has been over a month since you were able to wear even a hauberk.” Low, intense: “Curse John for sending you here on the devil’s business—”

“Guy.” Softly, a warning reminder that ears were always attuned to treachery. It was enough.

Slowly, he released the back of the chair, ignored Guy’s offer of a hand, and stood up straight. The pain receded. Even his body betrayed him, refusing to obey commands to heal.

More to disguise his infirmity from prying eyes than anything else, Tré stopped the young steward passing by the high table: “Giles, you have been remiss. Deliver to me the mantle the lady left earlier.”

Giles paused, said, “I put it aside for you, my lord, as you were engaged in business. I will deliver it at once.”

“A lady?” Guy studied him with open curiosity. “It is not like you to be so hasty in forming new friendships.”

“Not
a
lady. Lady Neville of Ravenshed.”

“Ah.”

A wealth of innuendo lay in that one word, and Tré had no intention of allowing him to expand upon it. Giles returned with the mantle; a faint fragrance of mint wafted up from blue wool as Tré held it out to Guy.

“Keep it safe until it can be returned to the lady.”

“Which you will do personally, of course.”

“Of course.”

4
 

Jane followed a narrow track that was almost invisible, a dun-colored ribbon snaking through primeval wood where spring left scant sign of its arrival. Scattered buds of blue and yellow blossoms brightened the grasses but scorned graceful feathers of bracken; wind soughed in branches of gnarled, twisted trees with knotted faces older than time.

It was raining; but in Sherwood’s depths, rain fell more softly. It was shadowed, silent, reeking of ancient specters. The heavy air was wet against her face, mist dripped from the woolen edges of the hood pulled over her head. Her hosen and jerkin were green—a whisper of color against surrounding shades of olive and umber that rendered her invisible.

Feet clad in laced buskins trod carefully, cushioned on aeons of forest debris; silence reigned king in the forest, a royal presence disapproving of interlopers.

Just ahead was the Cockpen Oak, where Fiskin waited for her. A vine snagged her foot, and she paused. In one hand she held a longbow, an unfamiliar weight now, when once it had been frequent. That was years before. Another lifetime. Another person. The maid she had been then had long since
vanished. A childless widow remained, a score and seven years of age now, a veritable crone.