Locksley shook his head. “I will not pledge my support to this.”
“You spineless cur, your father would have!” Lord Longstride shouted. He leaped forward, clearing the table before him in a spatter of plates and food, lunging at Locksley. Suddenly the two men were locked with each other and rolling on the ground. The room filled with the chang of dress armor on the marble tile, and the dull, meaty thuds of fists. Marian watched Robert striding across the room to his father’s aid, and breathed a prayer of thanks that Robin had left.
“Enough!” the king roared.
The two men froze.
Richard lifted his gaze, dismissing the two combatants as if they were irrelevant, daring either of them to continue fighting as he spoke.
“We set sail at dawn in ten days’ time. All who support their king should present themselves at the ships.” His eyes swept the room. “The rest of you remain safe in your beds as we fight in the name of the Lord Jesu.”
Stepping off the stage he swept alone through the room, fierce and majestic. His boots clapped on the floor and his silken capelet snapped in the air behind him. Silence accompanied his departure.
The moment he disappeared from sight, however, the room exploded in conversation. Some murmured in small groups, others argued loudly. Looking around, Marian saw dismay on many faces. It echoed what she felt in her heart.
Why hadn’t he told her?
Who would be in charge with the king gone?
Why was he abandoning his people?
Why was he abandoning her? None of it made any sense.
Chastity bumped her with a hip and leaned close. “You need to do something to check this mood before it spoils, princess,” she whispered urgently. “This could go ugly too quickly.”
Marian nodded to her friend. She forced herself to smile, and walked slowly to the stage that had just been abandoned. She was the king’s representative in his absence. It was her responsibility.
“My lords and ladies,” she said, loudly enough to be heard over the din. “Thank you all for being here tonight. Please, eat and drink your fill.” The hubbub died down, and she motioned toward Alan. “Bard, more music. Please.”
Alan-a-Dale nodded, lifted his ancient harp, and began playing a jaunty tune that did nothing to elevate her spirits or alleviate the pain she felt, but seemed to soothe the crowd, breaking apart the seething confusion. The implications of Richard’s announcement began to swirl in her mind. This would affect everyone in the kingdom. Noble to peasant. Families would be separated, the harvest would be a daunting task, and a portion of the men who could be called to defend the land would be away. England would be vulnerable.
Weakness drew jackals and wolves.
She breathed a prayer.
Stepping from the stage, she walked among the guests, listening to snatches of conversation here and there. The voices strained with concern, but anger seemed to have fled everyone in the room.
Except one.
Friar Tuck had moved to a corner, a goblet in each fist. He glared daggers at the cardinal, who was engaged in conversation and seemed oblivious to the friar’s fury.
The cardinal… the king had met with him right before the feast. She thought back to his posture as he trailed in behind her uncle.
He knew all along what the king had planned.
She walked to the cardinal’s side and caught his eye. He turned from those with whom he was talking and led her a few steps away. She bowed her head.
“I am sorry, Your Grace, for disturbing your conversation. It’s just that…”
He waved a gentle hand toward her, wiping away her apology. “I’ve asked the king not to go, to just send men in his stead, but he refuses.” He sighed and she watched the motion as it shook the parchment skin on his cheeks and throat. “He is a brave one. A fierce warrior. I shall pray every day for his safe return.”
The man’s words made sense, but his eyes were veiled.
He’s keeping something to himself.
She had long ago learned that it was impossible to get a holy man to talk when he chose not to, so she didn’t bother asking him to explain. No, she was going to have to speak with the king.
Marian took her leave, and slipped from the hall, walking briskly. Cutting around corners and turning down halls with which she was intimately familiar, she managed to avoid anyone but servants. Within a quarter turn of the glass she reached her uncle’s suite. A burly guard, his armor polished but dented from combat, stood at attention by the door.
“Is the king in his chambers?” she asked.
“No, milady.” The man dropped his eyes to the ground.
“Then where is he? It is imperative that I speak with him immediately.”
“I am sorry, but that is not possible. He is taking in some night air, and has closed himself to visitors.”
So he was in the garden courtyard.
She stepped forward. “That does not include me.”
The guard lifted his hand, palm out but careful not to actually touch her.
“He made himself clear, milady. All visitors.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then turned and walked away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The door slammed open, crashing against the wall. A vase on a table shuddered, rocked, and fell to the floor. Robin expected it to shatter, but it was made of sterner stuff than he realized. Only the rim chipped, catapulting a tiny sliver—a needle of ceramic—that spun away and disappeared into the shadows at the edge of the room.
Turn the vase toward the wall, and no one would know the difference.
Until his father kicked the spinning urn from his path. It skittered across the floor and exploded into shards against the stone wall.
“What were you thinking?” His father, Lord of Longstride Manor, vassal to the king, bellowed at him with a face gone purple. Robin felt the kick and rise of his own anger, the beast that slept in his belly, and struggled to keep his voice even. He hated fighting this way, no matter how often they did it.
Inside, however, he prepared to do battle.
“I’m not the one who vowed to strip this family of our resources, and run off across the ocean.”
“I’m doing nothing of the sort,” Longstride replied. “I’m following the edict of the king.”
“Without a thought to your wife and children.”
His father jerked back as if he’d been slapped. His teeth ground together, chewing his words.
“How dare you?”
Robin pushed out of the chair. “What do you expect Mother to do? Have you thought of how your leaving will affect Becca and Ruth?”
“Your mother is a strong woman, and will manage until I return.” Longstride waved a hand toward the door as he spoke.
Robin’s voice dropped. “What if you don’t return?”
His father stopped, his body motionless, his hand in mid-air. His arms fell to his side, and he seemed to deflate.
“God will protect me.” He didn’t look at his son as he spoke.
“God protects us all,” Robin replied, “and yet we all still die.”
His father shook his head, wheat-colored hair shifting side to side as if it were blown in the wind.
“Don’t speak ill of God’s mission.”
“I’m not… but you shouldn’t go.” He wanted to add and nor should Robert, but he bit it off. His brother was old enough to stay or go at his own will.
Longstride’s eyes, blue and cold as the depth of winter, narrowed. New strength seemed to bolster him as he peered at his son.
“I know what your true concern is,” he said.
“Your safety and the wellbeing of this family.”
The laugh barked out.
“You do not want to shoulder your own responsibility. You never have. Now you will be without a choice.”
“And what responsibility is that, Father? To learn by your side, under your hand, how to one day become the Lord of Longstride? That is something you have taught Robert, but the manor on
ly needs one lord and that was always going to be him. Or was my duty to care for my mother while Robert devoted himself to you? You know she has no love for me. She devotes herself to the others, but not to me, and Becca and Ruth look to me for nothing—neither guidance or protection—as they prepare to someday be ladies of other manors than this.”
His father took a deep shuddering breath. “You must act as lord in my absence, even though you are ill-suited to it. There is one thing, however, that you and you alone can do for this family.”
“And what is that?” Robin asked.
“You must protect our lands and our title, and the best way you can do that is to woo the Lady Marian.”
Robin stared at his father in shock, but couldn’t think of a thing to say in response.
“Mark my words,” Longstride added, “the man who wins her to wife places his family half a step from the throne. And since King Richard has refused to make a match on her behalf—”
“He has?” Robin interrupted. “Others have tried?”
“Don’t be a fool, boy. Of course they have. She’s of age. Every lord has tried to persuade the king to wed her to himself or one of his sons. Given the king’s stance on the subject, there are only two possible outcomes. Either he intends to keep her a spinster so that no child of hers could ever pose a challenge to the throne, which I know better than, or, worse, he intends to let her choose her own suitor, foolhardy as that is.”
“You said every lord had made an offer. Does that mean—?”
“I suggested Robert as a match, naturally. After she gave her dance to you, though, I’m beginning to wonder if I should have put you up instead.”
“I’m not livestock to be bartered,” Robin said.
“You are, and so is she. If you don’t see that, then you’re even more of a fool than I take you for.” Longstride paused, then continued. “Son, you have an opportunity here to do something for all of us. Locksley is remaining behind. He has made no secret of his interest in her, and he will take every advantage to press his suit. With the king gone, you must not let him turn her head.”
The very thought made Robin sick with anger.
“So, be a good lad and get the girl to pledge herself to you, if you can. Prove your loyalty to the family.”
The anger beast kicked again.
“I love this family.”
“Then I am simply giving you a chance to prove it. Grow up and do your duty. That’s how you show love for your family.”
The beast climbed. So his father viewed both him and Marian as no better than farm animals to be sold and bred. Robin clamped his jaw shut to hold the anger in. If he spoke—even one word—the beast would roar out and he would lose himself to rage.
His father felt no such need to bite his tongue.
“I’m sure it’s too much to ask, though,” Longstride said. “After all, you have never lived up to your responsibility. Always playing childish games, and never being a proper son like Robert.”
Without thinking Robin began moving, crossing the floor. He shouldered past his father and strode to the door, pausing only to snatch his bow and quiver from their pegs.
His father’s voice chased him into the night.
“You will have to stop playing in the woods, and become a man!”
* * *
Marian’s heart was in her throat. Carefully, she placed her tiny oil lamp on the ledge beside the door, its flame barely strong enough to light her way. The passageway behind her was pitch black, but Chastity was the only other member of the castle who knew this secret tunnel.
She hoped—prayed—that Richard would not be angry at her. Yet she had to have answers. The need for them burned in her chest like coal in a furnace.
She opened the door that was hidden behind a hedge of thorny roses, and stepped into the fragrant night air. Moving to the path and looking around, she saw Richard on a raised bench that overlooked a bed of night-blooming buds. Quietly, she walked toward him.
As if sensing her presence, Richard looked up swiftly from the blooms. He stared at her for a long moment, not blinking. She stopped walking, and stood in the moonlight until he waved her forward.
“What is it, child?” he asked, as she came to stand next to him.
“I’m not a child.” She said it firmly, but winced inwardly. She didn’t mean to start off on the wrong foot.
“No,” he said quietly. “I suppose you’re not. Time has a strange way of catching up to us when we least expect it. Not that long ago you were a little girl dancing on my brother’s feet. Now you’re a woman grown, and I am quite sure you didn’t tread on young Longstride’s boots even once. Quite a feat, since I hear you gave him every dance, much to the dismay of your other suitors.”
Heat came to her cheeks and she struggled to keep her composure. They could discuss Robin at a different time. Later, when urgent matters didn’t press so hard.
“You should have told me your plans,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “I would have kept your secret.”
He sighed. “I know you would have, but I had reason to keep close counsel until the very last moment.” He paused. “Even from you,” he added.
“I don’t think you should go,” she said. “Send the men, but you are too valuable to risk losing in such a venture.”
He looked straight at her, fallen hair casting a shadow over his eyes.
“My dearest niece, this cause is too valuable for me not to go.”
She took a deep breath, fully aware that her next words would brush against blasphemy, even though she did not mean them as such.
“The pope does not go into the fray himself,” she said. “Surely he cannot expect a king to do so.”
Richard reached out and took her hand. “He is fighting very hard, just not in the way you are thinking.”
“What do you mean?”
He sighed, and it was almost as if she was watching him age before her eyes, his shoulders stooping under some invisible burden.
“We do not struggle merely against flesh and blood.”
She blinked. She had heard such words before. One of the monks had spoken them, years earlier, in her childhood, or perhaps it had even been the cardinal. The man who had said them had been quoting from the Bible, and had talked about the spiritual battle that raged around them all—spirits and angels and demons and principalities all clashing and striking and clanging, invisible to the eye. She remembered it vividly, because of how deeply it had frightened her. She had barely slept for a fortnight, convinced that she saw shadows moving around her room, images teasing her and flickers of motion caught out of the corners of her eyes.
She’d been young, and she’d just lost her parents to the fire.
The king continued. “Sometimes there is more to a situation than there appears. Evil lives in this world, and every day it walks the earth, growing stronger. We have an opportunity—” he shook his head, dismissing his choice of words “—a duty, to vanquish it now before it consumes everything. If we don’t, the world will be covered in darkness, and there will be nowhere anyone can run to be safe.”
A chill danced up her spine. “You’re talking about more than the infidels.”
“Every war is waged on three battlefields. On the earth itself, in the human heart, and in the realm of the spirits. Every so often those three battlefields merge into one.”
“I don’t understand.”
His eyes turned sad. “And I’m very glad you don’t. I pray that you never do, because if that day comes, then I will have failed to protect you and England from this great curse.”
“If the threat is that great, shouldn’t you remain here to protect the kingdom?”
“The kingdom was here before me and will remain after me.” He shook his head. “I’ve chosen another to stand in my stead.”
“Another?” she said, her eyes widening. “Who?”
“John is coming to care for the land and watch the throne.”
“John?” she said.
“Oh.” The word went dry in her throat.
Her Uncle John. She had met him only once, on a visit to Ireland when she was a wee child. Her memory of him was hazy and distorted by the passage of time.
“He has been gone so long.”
Richard shifted on the bench beside her. “So long that it’s difficult to recall why our father sent him to Ireland in the first place. He’s not the true king there, just a vassal of England living in a small holding owned by the crown.”
“You are the crown.”
He tilted his head in assent. “Owned by me then.” Richard grew quiet. She let him fade into memories for a long moment as she studied his face in profile. His hair swirled, unruly around his head, giving him the maned look of the lion after which he was named. Finally he shuddered, and blew out a long breath, releasing his thoughts into the world.
He didn’t look at her when he spoke.
“Our father was a hard man. I didn’t even allow John to come when your father died. I sent word by messenger after he and your mother had been interred. All because of a dead man’s insistence.”
She didn’t know how to respond. Richard never mentioned his father, her grandfather, taken before her birth by a winter pox that had scoured the land.
“It is a good choice.” Richard nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “My cousin Henry has long envied the throne, and I would not give him the opportunity to make mischief.”
“There are only two choices?”
“I’d thought, briefly, to leave England in your care.”
The words hit her chest, echoing as they struck. Before she could speak, however, he continued.
“But you’re young,” he said. “Too young to be burdened prematurely by such responsibility.”
“I would do my best,” she said.
“I know.” His hand was warm on hers. “But John is my decision. I expect you to help him where you can.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“And, if the worst should happen overseas, well, then England will have had some time to adjust to its new king, and he to her.”
Marian felt a lump in her throat. “Nothing will happen to you,” she whispered. It was more of a prayer. He smiled at her, but she could see sorrow in his eyes, and it gave her a moment of panic. It was one thing for her to fear for his safety. It was chilling to know that he, too, was fearful that he might never return.
Mark of the Black Arrow Page 8