It was as if, Marian decided, the fire inside had died. Or perhaps it was merely banked.
William deLacey, the Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham, caught his youngest daughter’s arm and steered her away from the knot of women clustered near the minstrel. It wasn’t that he disliked music or was deaf to the minstrel’s skill, but there were far more important things with which to concern himself.
“Eleanor,” he said as she opened her mouth to protest.
She subsided quickly enough, but he was not blind to her resentment. She was plain, not pretty, with no promise of improvement as the years went by. It was no wonder she threw herself at the head of every girlish musician. They were invariably more beautiful than she, and certainly more talented.
But possibly less intelligent. What Eleanor lacked in looks, she made up for in cunning.
He drew her behind a screen and released her arm. A quick glance ascertained that she had not yet spilled wine on her dull saffron kirtle—could she not have dressed more brightly?—and her lank brown hair—could she not have crimped it more?—had not yet begun to come down from an elaborate coiffure. “You are here for a purpose,” he reminded her.
She dipped briefly in a mocking curtsey, lids lowered over angry brown eyes.
“Your future depends on it.”
Lids flickered. Lifted. She looked directly at him. “Your future depends on it.”
His mouth thinned. “Yes. Certainly. You know what I want, just as I know what you want—”
“You don’t know the first thing about what I want.” The tone was quiet but virulent. “You never have, and you never will, because you never listen—”
“Enough!” It shut her mouth instantly, as he intended. “You will behave yourself, Eleanor. I will not have you demeaning me by playing the mooncalf over that minstrel, when you are here for another purpose.”
Eleanor smiled calmly. “The minstrel is exquisite.”
A flicker of irritation flared briefly into anger. “I don’t care if he played for Henry himself at his deathbed, Eleanor! You are to conduct yourself as befits a woman of your station.”
“But you are, as always, more concerned about your station.” She showed teeth briefly, and an overbite. “If you understood music, you would know how good he is.”
He caught her elbow and squeezed. “Eleanor ...” But he bit back the impatience, channeling it into a quieter passion that would touch even his stubborn daughter. “I want what’s best for you. I want a man for you who can give you what you deserve.”
Eleanor nodded sagely. “So that I can share it with you.”
He shook his head slowly. “Don’t waste yourself, Eleanor. Look in the mirror I gave you.”
She blinked. “In the—mirror?”
“In lieu of lands and dowry, a man will marry for beauty. I have no lands of my own, your dowry went to the king, and your beauty is nonexistent.”
Eleanor’s color vanished.
DeLacey patted her arm kindly. “I’m sure you understand that what I do is as good for you as it is for me.”
It was expected that everyone would greet the earl’s son. It was why Huntington insisted they stand on the dais, he and his heir, greeting everyone. His son was back from the dead. His son was on display. See how the son lived in defiance of the tale of his death at Richard the Lionheart’s side?
Marian, too, had heard the tale, grieving for his death. For one night she had cried because her father also had died, and because she recalled a Christmas no one else would. But Robert of Locksley was home, against all odds. Her father never could be. Only his sword had been sent.
She closed her eyes as fingers curled into fists against her skirts. It wasn’t fair, she knew. Locksley’s survival merited prayers and gratitude, not resentment. Not jealousy.
Grimly she chided herself: Be pleased the boy survived. Too many others did not. She opened her eyes again. No, not ‘the boy.’ There is nothing boyish about him.
A man stopped at her side. The voice was quiet and cultured. “I have brought you wine, to cool your pretty throat.”
She glanced up sharply. William deLacey pressed a goblet into her hand, smiling warmly. Condensation on the goblet very nearly caused her to drop it; she closed both hands around it and thanked him with a nod.
The sheriffs brown eyes were compassionate. “I miss him as well, Marian. And I would, given the chance, trade that boy for your father. Hugh of Ravenskeep is worth three of him.”
She was surprised by his bluntness as well as his presumption. They were in the earl’s hall. Anyone wanting favor might carry the words to the earl; or worse, to his son, who no doubt would find them churlish as well as humiliating. “We should give thanks God was merciful in sending one of them home.”
DeLacey smiled. “Your kindness does you credit, but you know I speak the truth. Locksley is nothing to you. Your father was everything.”
Was. Not is; was. Her father was of the past, while she was of the present.
What now was her future? She was Hugh FitzWalter’s only heir, and on his death she had become a ward of the Crown. By English law she held the manor in trust for her future husband, and although she had had no plans to marry, certainly it would be suggested very soon, now that her mourning was done. Ravenskeep, as other manors, was a valuable source of revenue. Marian FitzWalter, ward of the Crown, was one as well. At the moment she was unencumbered because the Crown, in Richard’s person, was imprisoned in Germany.
Treason, she mocked herself, to be grateful for the time while the king is being held. She drank, swallowing rapidly, trying to ward off the bitter taste of the future she despised. If I were a man ... But she broke it off at once, knowing it served no purpose.
The hand brushed her shoulder. “You didn’t have to come.”
Marian summoned a smile over the rim of the goblet. “I came, like everyone else, to pay the earl honor.”
“Not to impress his son?”
“To impress—?” Seeing his eyes, she laughed. “You brought Eleanor.”
A rueful smile replaced the guardedness of his manner. “I am found out.”
Marian matched his smile. “You must not be so anxious, my lord Sheriff. Eleanor will marry, just as her sisters did.”
One corner of his mouth flattened. “Eleanor is plainer than her sisters, as well as headstrong. And older; time is running out.”
It was not what she expected a father to say of his daughter, even his least favorite one. Eleanor was, she thought, too much like her father. They detested one another, while needing each other’s regard.
Marian arched black brows. “So, you have brought her here in hopes of interesting Robert of Locksley.”
“In hopes of interesting the earl; I care little enough what Locksley thinks of the girl. He has no say in the matter.” Impatiently, William deLacey frowned down the line. “If Huntington is the man they say he is, he will see to it soon. There is talk of the boy already.”
Marian was astonished. “He has only just come home!”
DeLacey flicked his fingers. “You know as well as I how servants carry tales. They all of them are peasants; they have no sense of decorum.”
“And perhaps they are only tales.” Marian looked toward the dais. “I cannot imagine there is anything anyone could say of Robert that impugns his honor. The king knighted him—”
“In war,” the sheriff said grimly, “honor is often lacking. Survival is what matters.”
“And if there is truth in these stories,” she retorted, “why are you so eager to wed Eleanor to him?”
The sheriff laughed aloud. Brown eyes glinted. “You know better than that: he is still the son of an earl.” Amusement faded, replaced by a quiet intensity. “Did you come for Locksley?”
Marian drew a constricted breath, conscious of her reddened face. How could she explain? She herself did not know all the reasons she had come. “I came ...” She hesitated. “I came because my father would have wished it. You knew him, my lor
d ... would he not have wished it?” Neatly done, she thought. Let deLacey deal with it.
He smiled, saluting her with a raised goblet. “Indeed, he would have.” Before she could answer, he squeezed her shoulder briefly. “You will excuse me, I pray—I must present Eleanor now.”
He left her, gliding smoothly through the throng to gather up his youngest daughter and escort her to the dais. He ignored those before him, depending on authority to take the place of rank. He was not a lord by ancient ancestral heritage, being of a minor Norman family, but the Conqueror had rewarded exemplary service in the defeat of England by distributing confiscated land and titles. Thus the sheriff had been born into the new nobility and had, with each wife, married above himself. His appetite for power was obvious to Marian, but oddly enough it did not diminish him. He was the sort of man who survived no matter the odds.
Marian looked to the dais. Much as Robert did.
Unlike the sheriff, she waited her turn. She drank wine, gave the empty goblet to a servant, and eventually reached the dais where she looked fully into the face that was devoid of all expression, into pale hazel eyes masked to all of those before him. Indeed, the fires were banked. There was little left save an ember.
She opened her mouth to ask him her single, simple question, but no words came out. She was utterly bereft of speech, robbed by cowardice. Who was she to ask him anything, and why should he know the answer?
He doesn’t care. Look at him—he’d rather be somewhere else than wasting time with sycophants! Self-consciousness sealed her throat. But she was there before them both, duly presented to the earl and his son. Short of turning and fleeing, the least she could do was blurt out the words of welcome she’d practiced at Ravenskeep. She’d meant them to break the ice; now they would save face, a little.
“My lord Earl.” She curtseyed. By rote she said her little piece, uninspired by the subject for whom she had invented it. She hardly heard the words herself; they contained something of gratitude and honor, a scrap of piety. She cared no more than Locksley, who stood so bored beside his father.
And then the boredom vanished. A hand was on her arm even as she turned to go. The wrist, she saw clearly, was no longer thin and bony, but sheathed in firm muscle. The fingers were taut as wire. “Marian of Ravenskeep? ”
Baffled, she nodded—and saw rage blossom in his eyes.
Three
Locksley’s clasp on her arm hurt but Marian let it go, offering yet another curtsey, briefly startled by his question as well as the contact. She looked more closely at him, baffled by the unexpected tension. The rage had dissipated, replaced with impatience; he did not require the honor everyone gave his father.
“Yes,” she told him clearly, wondering what it was about her name that drove him out of silence into abrupt intensity. “Marian of Ravenskeep; Sir Hugh is—” she checked, “was my father.”
The hand remained on her arm as if he had forgotten. Through the fabric of her clothing she felt the grip of his fingers. “It was to you I sent the letter. I trust you received it.”
She turned slightly, twisting her wrist to free it. He released it at once, but made no apology. He was too intent on her answer. “I received no letter, my lord.”
Clearly it was not what he expected. He frowned. Beneath a shock of white-blond hair his brows knitted together over a good, even nose without the prominence of his father’s. “I sent it,” he declared, leaving no room for doubt. “Months ago. I thought you should know how your father died.”
The bluntness took her breath away. How can he know that was my question? Jerkily she shook her head. “I received no letter—”
“Robert.” It was the earl himself, briskly cutting off her words. “Robert, others are waiting. ”If you must speak with this girl, perhaps another time—?”
Blankly, she said, “It must have gone astray—” And then a servant was at her side, urging her away. Her time with the earl was done. His son’s attention was needed elsewhere.
She acquiesced to the servant, too distracted to delay. It had not occurred to her that Locksley would readily recall her or her father. It had not occurred to her he might have met her father on Crusade. It had never occurred to her that Robert of Locksley might really know the details of her father’s death. She had merely meant to ask him out of a childish need to ask, not really expecting an answer, expecting nothing of what he’d implied.
If he knows—if he knows. Abruptly she stopped and swung back, meaning to force her way to the dais. As abruptly, she halted. Locksley’s attention was elsewhere. His face, and his eyes, were empty of all emotion save an abiding, helpless impatience.
Faces, with moving mouths. Locksley heard almost none of them. He hadn’t heard the woman, either, until she said her name. The first part hadn’t touched him. But the second, FitzWalter, had exploded in his ears like a wall besieged by sappers.
Marian of Ravenskeep. Hugh FitzWalter’s daughter. What would my father say, were I sick all over the dais? Marian of Ravenskeep. The dead knight’s daughter.
She had vanished into the crowd. With her had gone forbearance. “How many more?” he asked, as yet another guest left the dais.
His father’s smile was for the hall. “As many as are here.”
It was a tone from his childhood, cloaked in quiet courtesy, framed upon cold steel. He had spent too many years under its sway to withstand it easily even now, or to protest its need.
He looked out again at the hall. What he saw was a Saracen battlefield, and dead men dying. Among them Hugh FitzWalter.
Eventually, when food and tables were cleared away, there was dancing. Marian would have preferred to remain inconspicious, but this was prevented by William deLacey, who insisted she partner him. Her year of mourning was done, he reminded her, and her father would not require such rigorous devotion when there was dancing to be done.
And so she danced, if circumspectly, with deLacey and a handful of others, and eventually Sir Guy of Gisbourne, who presented himself to her in good Norman French, betraying his origins. She knew little about him save he was deLacey’s man and had been spared from the Crusade by the sheriff himself, who paid the shield-tax in order to keep his office effective in the administration of the shire.
Gisbourne was an intense, dark, compact man, short of limb and, she thought, imagination, to judge by his conversation. He danced a trifle stiffly, obviously ill at ease even in simple patterns, but undoubtedly he was more fluid in the activities of his service. He said very little of consequence, being more disposed to stare, which she found unsettling. She did her best to avoid his eyes as she glided through the pattern.
As a knight, Gisbourne was entitled to some honor. She was a knight’s daughter and understood that very well. But Gisbourne was of an entirely unprepossessing merchant family who had bought him the rank, and was too young to have legitimately earned any lands in royal service. He therefore had no property, no manor, and had taken service with the sheriff of Nottingham two years prior to Richard’s latest Crusade, because the sheriff required a steward to supervise his household. In time Gisbourne might earn his own holdings, but for now he was dependent upon the largesse of Nottinghamshire.
His expression was ferocious, low of brow and hairline. The features were strong and blunt, lacking refinement, and his posture was blocky. He wore good wool dyed black. “Lady,” Gisbourne rasped. “Methinks you forget the pattern.”
She had forgotten. In her reverie, she had turned the wrong way. It brought them close, too close; she fell back a step, hot-faced, and saw the glint in his eyes. Boar’s eyes, she thought. Too small, too black, too bright.
“Lady,” he repeated. “Do you wish to stop?”
There was nothing in his words save a self-conscious courtesy she did not expect from a man with the eyes of a boar. Marian felt ashamed, conscious of heat in her face.
She managed a casual tone. “I think we had better stop. I am a trifle overwarm—perhaps a cup of cool wine ... ?” She asked
it deliberately, knowing he would go and she could make her escape.
It seemed Gisbourne knew it also, by the glitter in his eyes. He bowed his departure stiffly. Marian watched him go, then turned to hide herself in the revelers. She had wanted nothing to do with the dancing from the beginning, and less to do with conversation. It was rude to desert a knight who ostensibly did her bidding, but at that moment Marian wanted nothing more than to find a quiet corner.
In the distance she heard a lute and the clear voice of the minstrel soaring over the muddy music of too many people talking. She could go to him, she knew, and linger to listen. But he had gathered a loyal knot of women and girls, and joining them did not appeal to her. Perhaps her best choice would be to go find her old nurse, Matilda, and sit quietly with the woman.
She halted, brought up short by a tall man just before her, and opened her mouth to beg pardon. Then she shut it; it was Locksley. His hazel eyes were oddly intense.
“Come with me,” he said. “This is not the place to talk.” No, it was not, but she had not expected to. “This way,” he declared, and closed her right wrist in his hand.
Gisbourne knew it the moment he returned to the place he had left her: she was gone. And of her own choice, seeking to escape him.
It burned within his belly. He clung to both goblets, smelling the stink of strong wine, and hated himself. He was a false man, jumped up via a corrupt preferment system, and the woman knew it.
Everyone knew it.
He gulped down the contents of one goblet, then gave it away to a servant. He clung to the other, nursing the wine, flagellating himself with the knowledge of his lack. He knew very well that had he been taken into the household of a man other than William deLacey, it would not be so painful to name himself what he was: a landless knight with few prospects for advancement.
Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] Page 3