by DAVID B. COE
The king regarded Marshal archly. “So,” he said, “taxation!”
“Taxation?” Eleanor repeated, disbelief in her rising voice. “Milking a dry udder gets you nothing but kicked off the milking stool.”
“Mother, spare me your farmyard memories. You have none, and I don't understand them.”
The princess grinned; Godfrey suppressed a laugh. He caught the young girl's eye and they shared a smile. Of all the people in this chamber, aside from the king, of course, she was likely to be the most valuable ally he could cultivate.
“Rebellion then,” Eleanor said, clearly miffed at being spoken to so. “Do you understand that?”
John shot her a dark look. As before, he knew that she was right, and didn't wish to admit it. If she continued this way, she would lose whatever sway she still held with her son. By the end of this day, Godfrey could be rid of his two most formidable rivals for the king's ear.
Marshal cleared his throat, drawing the king's gaze once more. “These are difficult times. They call for restraint on both sides of the ledger: taxing and spending. We can buy time, or rather borrow for it. I can send envoys to secure loans where they may. There's money chests from Sicily to Normandy if you know where to look.”
And in that moment Godfrey saw the opening he had been waiting for.
He stepped forward, emerging from shadow into the warm light that angled through the fine haze of dust hanging in the throne room air.
“Cap in hand to moneylenders,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt, his eyes fixed on Marshal. “Your master is a king.”
King John smiled at this. He might even have nodded. Godfrey kept his attention on the old knight. Marshal bowed, as if acknowledging a blow from an opponent in a battle tournament, and stepped aside, leaving the floor in front of the king's throne to Godfrey.
“The Crown is owed money at home,” John said. “The northern barons plead poverty, but that's always been the song of rich men. While King Richard took himself abroad for years to look after our Lord Jesus, Baldwin, Fitzrobert, Loxley, and the rest have looked after themselves. The king's tax collectors have been cheated, gulled, bribed, robbed, and sent on their way with piss-pots emptied from the battlements.” He looked at Godfrey expectantly. “So, what's to be done?”
John had led himself exactly where Godfrey had hoped he would go. Flies, all of them; and Godfrey the spider.
“Give me leave, Sire, to go north with a company of mounted men. I'll have merchants and landowners fill your coffers or their coffins.”
Marshal looked scandalized. “Englishmen killing Englishmen?”
Godfrey glanced at him, but his response was directed at the king. “No man loyal to the Crown has anything to fear. But loyalty means paying your share in the defense of the realm.”
John nodded, clearly pleased. “That's well said! Don't you think, Marshal? Mother?”
Eleanor gave her son a withering look. “Richard commanded loyalty not by threats but by example. It would take only a miracle for you to follow it—if you could live as a warrior saint like your brother.”
John was out of his throne and down the steps of the dais almost before the last word had crossed her lips. Godfrey was certain that the king meant to strike his mother. Isabella gave a little gasp. Marshal took a quick step forward. One of Eleanor's ladies stifled a warning cry. Only Eleanor herself didn't move. She glared imperiously at her son, as he halted in front of her, breathing hard.
“Your sainted son was an imbecile,” he said. “And you supported him in every folly from here to Jerusalem and back. You worshiped him while the warrior lost territories hard won by his father. You kissed his picture while England had to pay four years' revenue to ransom him when he was captured.” John's gestures became more animated by the moment, and his voice grew louder with every word. “You are as much to blame as anyone for the wreckage which is my inheritance. You're in grief for a fantasy, Mother, and you're too wise not to know it.”
Eleanor struck him across the cheek so hard that the sound of the blow echoed through the chamber and a spot of blood appeared on John's face. No one spoke. No one so much as took a breath. Isabella gaped at them both, her eyes flicking back and forth between mother and son. At last, John dabbed at the blood with the cuff of his sleeve. His movement seemed to break a spell. Eleanor turned away and walked briskly from the room. John watched her leave, a smile on lips.
“I broke her skin more than she did mine,” he said, looking from Godfrey to Marshal. He stepped back onto the dais and lowered himself into his throne. “Now, Marshal,” he said, his voice crisp, “you served my brother faithfully, and my father before him. I think you've spent enough time with my family, and no doubt would like to spend more with your own. Therefore, and with regret, I accept your resignation from all your offices and the cares of the state. Farewell.”
Godfrey nearly laughed aloud at what he saw on Marshal's face. The man looked like he had been slapped, too, his eyes round, his cheeks ashen. To his credit, though, the old knight managed to keep his dignity. The king held out a hand. Marshal stared at it for a moment before pulling his signet ring from his finger and dropping it into the king's palm. He bowed deeply to the king and said, “Your Majesty,” in a level voice that betrayed none of the emotion written so clearly on his face. Then he turned, and left the chamber, much as Eleanor had done moments before.
John turned to Godfrey. “How many men do you need?”
Godfrey schooled his features and faced his liege.
BY THE TIME he finally left the throne room, Godfrey had gotten from the king nearly everything he wanted. He had John's trust, he had been promised all the men he needed, and he had every confidence that the king would take to heart whatever counsel he offered. William Marshal had managed to discredit himself, and John's mother had completely alienated her son, leaving Godfrey as the king's sole adviser. Not a bad afternoon's work.
He walked down the corridor of the White Tower, feeling rather pleased with himself and confident that he had already completed the most difficult part of his plan. Even as he formed the thought, though, a figure stepped out of the shadows ahead of him and planted itself in the middle of the hallway. Godfrey slowed.
He recognized the man standing before him as Marshal, but he couldn't figure out what the old knight had in mind. He stood still, doing nothing, saying nothing, his back to Godfrey.
But as Godfrey resumed his pace, Marshal suddenly thrust his arms out to the sides, his fists clenched, his back fully exposed to Godfrey.
“Choose carefully, Godfrey, the spot where you would place your dagger.”
Godfrey smirked. Such drama in a single gesture. The old man had much to learn about subtlety. Still, Godfrey couldn't deny that his blade hand itched just a bit. His work would be that much easier with Marshal dead rather than just cast aside. The old knight still had Eleanor's trust, and only a fool would have underestimated either the knight or the queen consort, much less the pair of them.
But he would not tip his hand by being impatient. This was neither the time nor the place for Marshal's murder. Godfrey stared at the man's back, imagining what it would feel like to pierce its center with the blade he carried, but he stepped past the man without slowing, or even glancing at his face.
Marshal called after him, “For I will choose carefully as well.”
Godfrey didn't look back. He didn't break stride. But he did thrust out his arms in turn, showing the knight the full of his back, and making certain that Marshal could see the signet ring that now adorned his hand. Take your best shot, old man, he thought. / fear neither you nor your blade.
He returned to the quarters in which he had been staying and packed what few belongings he carried with him. Then he made his way down to the Tower kitchen and got himself a small bite to eat. By the time he finished and returned to the bailey, his tax collection force was already gathered. Fifty men, armed, mounted, and clothed in the uniforms of the king's guard, all waiting for hi
s command. They didn't appear to be England's finest soldiers, but they would suit his purposes, as would the iron-plated wagon that would carry whatever revenue they collected. John might have been a naif and fool, but he was efficient. Or perhaps the efficiency of the Tower was an artifact from Richard's rule. That struck Godfrey as more likely.
Amused by the thought, he swung himself onto the back of his black charger and led the men out of the Tower grounds.
THE SUN STOOD balanced on its edge at the western horizon, huge and orange and ovate. The eastern sky was already growing dark, a few bright stars gleaming faintly in a vast field of indigo. And in between, directly over the man's head, the heavens had taken on hues of pale purple, the color of an uncertain future.
Small breakers rolled in off the channel, lapping at the pink sands of a beach that was deserted save for him. Gulls glided over the shoreline, crying plaintively, searching for one last catch that would tide them over until morning. Cormorants flew low over the channel swells, black as coal against the slate-colored waters.
The man wore a cloak about his shoulders, its hood drawn over his head. From where he watched, half-hidden, he could see the boats as they made their landing on the beach, but the men aboard couldn't see him.
There were at least half a dozen craft, all of them on sweeps, and they carved through the water in near silence. The soldiers on board wore helmets and armor, and carried lances that gleamed as if bloodstained in the dying light of the sun.
The craft scraped up onto the sand, the doors at their front fell open, and the men began to step off onto the shores of England. Two hundred strong, bristling with weaponry, moving quietly and in unison, they responded with alacrity to the barked commands of their leader: commands spoken in French.
In mere moments, it was over. The craft slid back into the channel and moved away from the shore back toward France. The men formed up and began their march inland.
And the man, who had seen it all, returned to where his horse waited for him. Behind the saddle was a small box that held two carrier pigeons. The man began to compose his message.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Robin, Will, Allan, and Little John rode into Nottingham just as the sun was going down. After the attack on their camp the night before, they had decided to ride together a bit longer. They had shed their armor, no longer needing to pretend that they were knights. For much of the day, an odd tightness had been building in Robin's chest and his emotions had been roiled in ways he couldn't explain. Entering this town served only to make those feelings more intense.
There wasn't much to the place: low buildings of wood and stone and mortar, many of them with uneven roofs of shingle and thatch; men and women in simple, drab garb, returning home from the fields, some leading old work horses, others carrying buckets of water, or bundles of firewood for a cooking fire. He saw few smiles on their faces. These people were weary, not merely from a day's work, but from worrying their way through a hard winter.
And yet, despite the grimness of Nottingham, Robin couldn't help but feel that he belonged here, that he had come home in a way. He couldn't decide if this was merely because he carried Loxley's sword, or if there was some deeper connection at work. He looked around the small village, and for the first time since crossing the channel, he felt that he was truly back in England.
“Nottingham,” Will said, as all four of them dismounted in the lane that ran through town. “Is this your people, Robin?”
Robin considered the question. “Maybe.”
Will looked around, a frown on his young face. “They don't look like much, these middle-Englanders.”
Little John grinned. “I hear you Welsh boys live on leeks and cohabit with sheep.” The big man made a sound like a sheep bleating.
“Right!” Scarlet said, his face turning crimson. For a moment Robin thought he would actually take a swing at John.
Before he could, though, a voice that sounded very much like that of a cross parent said, “Hush!”
They all turned and saw a strange figure by the side of the lane. It looked to be a man, a rotund one at that. He was wrapped almost entirely in gauze, and he stood surrounded by small straw hives amidst a cloud of buzzing bees.
“You wouldn't want to annoy a beehive with your noise,” the man said, tending to his skeps.
The four of them approached the man cautiously.
The man paused and looked them over. “Your swords wouldn't help you if you did, gentlemen!”
“You're the town beekeeper?” Robin asked, keeping a wary eye on the swarm.
“Bless you, no!” the man said. “The friar. Tuck is the name.”
“Well, Friar Tuck, would you know where I might find Sir Walter today?”
“If he's not at Peper Harrow …” The friar pointed up a nearby hill at a home that appeared to be larger and sturdier than those in the town.
Robin stared up at the house, feeling once more that his presence here was more than coincidence, more than simply the result of a dying man's last wish.
“How long will your business take?” Will asked him.
Robin shrugged. “If you're gone, you're gone.” He nodded to his companions, and then to the friar as well. “And God go with you.”
Will, Allan, and John exchanged looks, all of them clearly surprised by the abruptness of Robin's farewell. They had journeyed together for miles, fought and killed side by side.
“That's it?” Will said. “After ten years?”
“Something's with him,” Allan said.
“Aye,” Little John agreed. “Changed him.”
The others nodded. Then Allan turned to Tuck.
“Good friar, where can a man get moderately insensible with drink around here?”
“Allan!” Little John said, clearly scandalized. “He's a man of the cloth!”
But Tuck looked at them appraisingly, a sly grin on his face. “Have you tried the honey-liquor we call mead?” he asked. “It gives a man a halo, does mead.”
* * *
WITH DAYLIGHT FAILING and the air turning cold, Robin rode through the gates of Peper Harrow. He had paused halfway between the village and Loxley's house to remove the Loxley family crest and wreath from the tabard he was wearing, the tabard that had belonged to Sir Robert. He was dressed once more in the garb of a simple soldier and he carried Loxley's sword sheathed in its scabbard and wrapped in the knight's belt.
As he passed through the gate, he saw a serving girl standing beside a huge brown and white dray. Her back was to Robin and she was holding one of the horse's hooves under her arm, digging away caked mud. She wore a simple blue dress and over it a sleeveless linen smock that was begrimed and loose-fitting. Still, Robin could tell that she was tall and willowy.
“Girl,” Robin called.
She turned. Her face was dirty, and though she had tied a cloth over her head to keep her hair from her face, several long, auburn strands had fallen loose and hung over her brow. She swiped at them impatiently with a muddy hand.
“Are you the keeper of this house?” he asked.
She stared back at him brazenly, as if trying to decide whether he deserved an answer.
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” she said at last, her voice deeper and stronger than he had expected.
He nodded once, looking around the courtyard. It was unkempt—more yard than court. “I wish to see Sir Walter Loxley,” he told her.
“And you are?”
Robin looked at her again. Brazen indeed, for a servant. “Robin Longstride.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Plain Robin Longstride? No ‘Sir’?”
He smiled thinly. “No, ma'am. No ‘Sir.’”
“Are you here about the tax?” she asked.
He held up Loxley's sword. “I return the property of his son Robert, who is dead.”
The woman paled at that, and for a moment she stood utterly still, seemingly at a loss as to what to say. Then, “This way.”
She wiped her
hands on the smock and walked away, crossing through the center of the courtyard toward the house. Robin dismounted and led the white charger after her, still taking in his surroundings. Chickens clucked nearby, foraging in the mud and dirt, and dogs scrounged for scraps of food. The serving girl's shoes echoed through the yard, but otherwise she made not a sound, nor did she look back at him. He had questions for her, but all of them died on his tongue. She seemed deeply shaken by word of her master's death, and Robin thought it best to keep silent.