by DAVID B. COE
Little John raised an eyebrow. “Where?”
“North,” Robin said.
The big man nodded once. “Suits me.” He took another drink and handed the bottle to Will. It seemed even the drinking game had grown too complicated for them. Best simply to drink.
Robin grinned, joined them. No sense in letting them drink all the good stuff.
ROBIN AWOKE BELOWDECKS with a pounding headache and a mouth so dry that his tongue felt like wood and his teeth seemed to be covered with fur. His stomach felt sour and tight.
The boat moved steadily. Robin could hear the sweeps cutting rhythmically through the water. The sweeps.
His mind stumbled on that thought and he sat bolt upright in his small pallet. Not a good idea. His head spinning, he forced himself to his feet, stumbled out of their cramped quarters and made his way over to the ladder leading up out of the hold. With some effort he managed to climb out onto the deck.
Shielding his eyes from the too-bright sun, Robin refused to believe what he saw. It couldn't be. They were headed to Gravesend. That was where he and the boys were going to make their escape. That couldn't be the Thames in front of them, winding toward the port of London. Although that looked suspiciously like the famed Tower in the distance.
Seeing him, the captain raised a hand in greeting. “Make ready, Sir Robert. We will dock in twenty minutes.”
“Gravesend?” Robin asked weakly, hoping that he was mistaking some other port for the royal city. As if he could mistake the White Tower for anything else in England.
The captain frowned at Robin, as if he thought him simple, or still drunk. “No, M'Lord, the Palace Dock. The Tower of London.”
Robin turned quickly and lurched back to the hatch. He practically fell down the ladder and scurried back to the quarters where the others still slept.
“Wake up!” Robin shouted at them.
Little John stirred but didn't open his eyes. “Right!” he said sleepily. “I think I'll breakfast on twelve oysters and a quart of ale.”
Robin shook Will and Allan.
“Where are we?” Allan asked, rubbing his eyes.
Robin shook Will again. “London!”
Will's eyes flew open. “Holy Christ!” Robin and the others washed and tried make themselves look the part. As they did, though, Robin wondered how they had ever managed to fool the captain and the king's man, and how they could possibly hope to deceive Lady Eleanor of Aquataine, Richard's mother. They didn't look like knights; they looked like ruffians, road thieves.
“Be ready to ride as soon as it's done,” Robin said, crossing to his pack.
“What if Loxley was known to the king's mother, or brother, or any of them?” Will asked.
Robin glanced up at him. “Then we'll be riding for our lives.”
CHAPTER
NINE
Over the last ten years, Robin had faced the Saracens and the French in battle. He had endured hardships most men could hardly imagine, and had found courage within his heart he hadn't known he possessed. But he could not recall ever being as nervous about anything as he was about telling Eleanor of Aquitaine that her son was dead.
It wasn't that he feared for his life, though Will, Allan, and Little John seemed fairly certain that they would all end their day as prisoners in the White Tower. Rather, he was awed by the mere fact that he was about to meet the great lady. Eleanor had been Queen Consort of England for as long as Robin had been alive. Longer, actually. She was the most famous, powerful, notorious woman in all the world. She was also said to be the most beautiful, even now, well into her seventies.
And so it was that he stood at the prow of the ship, staring toward the dock, watching as people gathered to greet the vessel. All around him, the ship's crew rushed to and fro, preparing to dock. Will and Allan stood with their feet planted, their faces pale, their hands on the hilts of their swords. The ship bumped into the dock and two men jumped onto the quay to tie her in.
Robin had thought that he would have trouble spotting the queen consort; he should have known better. As bells pealed from the towers of the palace, the royal entourage emerged from the palace gate. The crowd parted. An older woman led the royal procession down toward the dock. She was tall, regal. The sun lit her handsome face. Surely this had to be Eleanor. She was accompanied by a knight, also tall, with a mane of red and silver hair. Behind them came a younger pair, the man with dark curls and a trim beard, and on his arm a young woman of surpassing beauty. Was this Prince John then?
No sooner had Robin asked himself the question than the thought came to him unbidden and as unforgiving as stone. No, not prince. This was the new king.
GODFREY AND BELVEDERE steered their mounts through the filthy lanes of London toward the walls of the great White Tower. They had crossed the channel in the dark of night and had ridden hard to the city. Godfrey's face still ached where the arrow had hit him, but he would be damned if he was going to let a simple wound disrupt his plans.
As they neared the tower, church bells began to toll throughout the city. Belvedere shot Godfrey a puzzled look. Godfrey shrugged. The two men rode into the stable yard and dismounted, leaving their horses to the White Tower's grooms. Within the tower walls, men and women rushed in every direction, as if preparing for a wedding or a feast.
“What is this?” Godfrey asked one of the grooms.
“M'Lord! King Richard returns from France, M'Lord.”
Godfrey looked at Belvedere again, his mind reeling. Richard was dead. That was what Loxley had told them, practically with his dying breath. They hurried toward the water gate, pushing their way past a growing throng. Still unable to see, they climbed the saddling stones to get a better view.
There on the Thames, already at the dock, was the king's ship.
“Did Loxley deceive us?” Belvedere asked, keeping his voice low.
Godfrey shrugged, his eyes fixed on the vessel.
THE SHIP HAD been secured, the gangplank swung out and positioned so that Robin could disembark. One of the servants who had accompanied the king's equerry handed Robin the box that held Richard's crown. The equerry himself then stepped forward and draped over the box a cloth bearing the Plantagenet leopards. Robin stepped onto the plank, feeling hundreds of pairs of eyes upon him, and walked down to the dock.
For Robin, though, this was no longer an act. He could see Eleanor clearly now. Her face was lined, but her eyes remained clear and brilliant, like blue gems. They were fixed on him. While others in the crowd continued to search for Richard, she did not. She marked Robin's approach, saw what he carried, and already she grieved. For an instant, it seemed that her knees buckled. The color had drained from her cheeks and she briefly closed her eyes and appeared to whisper a prayer.
Then she was watching him again, composed somehow. Robin couldn't help but admire her strength.
He stopped just in front of her, holding the box before him. Eleanor pulled the cloth from the box, opened it, and removed the crown, which gleamed in the sunlight. Her hands were steady, her expression impassive, save for the mournful look in her eyes.
She turned to John and said, “Kneel.”
Shock registered on the young man's face as he finally seemed to understand what had happened and what it meant for him. He slowly lowered himself to one knee.
Eleanor placed the crown on his head. “I wish you long life, my son,” she said.
She then knelt in turn and every person on the dock followed her example, kneeling with rustles of silk and brocade that made the air around them hum, as if charged.
“The king is dead!” Eleanor announced, her voice as clear and loud as a church bell. “Long live the king!”
All around them the crowd repeated the words. “Long live the king!” They said it a second time, their voices growing louder. The third time, they shouted it, the sound building to a crescendo that threatened to topple the White Tower itself.
John looked around him, still pale, but seeming already to warm to his
new office. “Rise!” he commanded, his voice carrying over the dock.
The people stood once more, murmured conversations sweeping through the assembled masses. The Lionheart was dead; John was their king.
The young girl standing with John took his hand, her gaze drawn again and again to the golden crown he now wore.
The queen consort seemed to have reached the limits of her endurance. She leaned on the knight beside her for support, and looked deathly pale.
“You!” the king said. “Come closer.”
It took Robin a moment to realize that John was speaking to him.
Robin stood and approached the king. John was eyeing him closely.
“I don't know you,” John said.
“Robert Loxley, Sire, of Nottingham.” The lie came easily to Robin's lips. Speaking to Eleanor of Aquitaine had nearly been more than he could manage, but John was another matter.
The king nodded. “Welcome, then. Forgive me. I don't know any of you; you've been at war so long.”
“We have, sir.”
“And how did my brother die?”
“By exposing himself to danger, sir,” Robin said. “As was his way.”
“As was his way,” John mimicked, his tone mocking, his expression turning sour.
Eleanor, standing nearby, glowered at him, her right hand opened and rigid and trembling. For a second, Robin thought that she would slap him, heedless of the crown he now wore. But after regarding him briefly with manifest contempt, she turned sharply and strode back toward the tower. Through it all, John appeared oblivious.
“You shall be rewarded,” John said, still facing Robin. He thought for a moment, then regarded the many rings on his hand. Choosing one, he tried to remove it. At first he couldn't pull it past the knuckle, but after a bit more effort, he managed to twist it free. He reached out to drop it in Robin's hand, but then hesitated.
“Nottingham, you say?” John asked.
“Yes, my lord,” Robin answered.
John smiled thinly. “Your father, Sir Walter, owes the Crown tax.” He tapped the ring on his crown. “My Crown. We'll start with this.”
He returned the ring to his finger, glanced at Robin once more, that same acid smile on his lips, and swept away. The crowd parted for him as if he were a ship carving through still waters. Men bowed, women curtsied. John seemed to enjoy it all. Eleanor's youngest might have been shocked to find himself elevated to the throne on this day, but he had recovered all too quickly. If this was the man who was to lead England, Robin grieved for the realm.
STANDING WITH BELVEDERE, watching as John claimed Richard the Lionheart's crown, Godfrey found his gaze straying repeatedly to the knight who had stepped off the king's ship carrying the pannier. He knew the man. He was sure of it. But from where?
He saw the man speak to Eleanor, and then to the new king, and he burned to know what they said. Regardless of his identity, he had somehow come to possess Richard's crown, which Godfrey very nearly had in his grasp.
This stranger was his enemy.
He absently reached a hand up to the throbbing wound on his cheek, his eyes still fixed on the man. How familiar he looked …
Prince John—King John—spoke to the man a moment longer before turning away from him and starting back toward White Tower. He parted the crowd of onlookers with a small gesture and strode past them. Even from a distance, Godfrey could tell that John was enjoying himself. Others followed him back to the Tower—the exchequer and justiciar, William Marshal and the cardinal.
As John neared the Tower gate, he spotted Godfrey. A huge smile lit his face, and he opened his arms in greeting, walking to where Godfrey and Belvedere waited.
“Godfrey, my friend!” the king said, his voice carrying.
Godfrey and Belvedere stepped forward to receive the king's greeting. Belvedere kneeled, but Godfrey remained standing.
As he drew near, John noticed the scar on Godfrey's cheek. His smile faded. “Your face?”
Godfrey grinned as if the wound was nothing. “A hunting accident.”
John studied the scar critically for a second. “Call it dueling. The ladies will love you even more.”
Godfrey's laugh was genuine. “I bow to your knowledge of ladies, Sire!”
John laughed in turn, and Belvedere joined in.
The king walked on toward the castle, though not before glancing back at Belvedere and saying “You may get up now,” his voice tinged with amusement.
Belvedere stood. Godfrey, meanwhile, had turned his attention back to the stranger on the dock. He knew him now. The archer from the forest in France. The scar on Godfrey's cheek burned. The man had known enough to recover Richard's crown and bring it to London. He might well recognize Godfrey as Robert Loxley's killer. He was a threat to everything Godfrey hoped to accomplish.
“He knows too much,” Godfrey said to Belvedere, still watching the man. “Get rid of him.”
Belvedere nodded, a small smile on his lips.
ROBIN HELPED LEAD King Richard's charger off the ship and then waited as Will, Allan, and Little John brought their mounts ashore as well. The time had come for them to leave London and make their way to Nottingham, and none too soon, as far as Robin was concerned. Their ruse had worked, and it seemed that no one would be putting them in the stocks or fitting nooses to their necks. Still, he'd had quite enough of pretending to be someone he wasn't.
As he and others started off the dock, though, he heard someone call to him. “Sir Robert.”
Robin halted, and cast a wary eye at the man approaching him. After a moment he recognized him as the knight who had stood with Eleanor when first Robin came off the ship. He was an older man, though he didn't appear to have conceded much to age. He was lean and tall, and he moved with the easy grace of a swordsman. His eyes were pale, and his mane of reddish gold hair was shot through with white.
“I am William Marshal,” the man said stopping in front of Robin. “The husband of Lady Isabel de Clare. You will know of me perhaps. Your father and I were young men together. He will remember.”
Robin knew of William Marshal. Who in England hadn't heard tales of the famed knight's valor in battle and his exploits in the tournament ring? Of course, Robin knew nothing of the man's friendship with Loxley's father, and so he kept his mouth shut, and simply nodded, acknowledging what Marshal had told him.
“Tell him I will come to see him soon,” Marshal went on. “On Spring's first black night. I may have need of him …”
The knight stopped himself, smiling reflexively. Robin had the sense that he had been about to say more than he intended.
“I'll tell him,” Robin said.
He bowed his head to the man and moved on. He could feel Marshal watching him as he walked, and he wondered if the knight suspected that Robin wasn't who he claimed to be. Robin didn't look back.
CHAPTER
TEN
It was late afternoon, and Marion sat with Sir Walter by the ruined arch at the entrance to Peper Harrow. Sir Walter enjoyed getting out, particularly at this time of day. He could no longer see the golden sunlight shining on the walls of his ancestral home and warming the surrounding fields, but he often told her that it remained his favorite time of day. It was Marion's as well, and she was glad to indulge his desire to sit outside as dusk approached. The air was growing chill with the sun's descent, and Marion retrieved the old man's brown woolen cloak from the cart. While there, she put on her own as well. Returning to Walter, she wrapped the cloak around his shoulders. The old man caught her hand in his own and gave it a small squeeze, favoring her with a grateful smile. She sat beside him, her face tipped toward the setting sun, savoring its warm caress. Walter inhaled deeply.
“My nose has learned something since my eyes failed me,” he said. “So—mark this, Marion—here between the myrtle and the wild strawberry patch, make my funeral pyre. Strip the turf east-west a foot deep—”
“This is mere mischief,” Marion broke in, trying to make light o
f what the old man had said. “Frightening me with your funeral talk. I'll laugh at you when you're a hundred.” Despite her brave words, though, Marion felt an odd chill. Shivering, she pulled her wrap tighter around her shoulders.
Walter gave a small laugh, but when he spoke again, it was in the same dark vein. “Lay a platform of slow-burning hardwood, spaces between to make a good draft. Then, pine laid crosswise—the sap will heat body and bones to vapor and to ash, which I will have scattered—”
“Stop!” Marion said. She stood and turned away from him, huddling ever deeper within her cloak. “Is this a funeral for a good Christian gentleman?” She tried once more to turn this into a jest. “I'll tell on you as a pagan to Robert when he returns from his campaigns.”