Alan, bending to kiss her parted mouth, wondered how he could transform the newly conceived song for the other woman into one for Eleanor.
But his consternation was brief. His experience was vast.
Sir Guy of Gisbourne, summoned somewhat imperiously by Gilbert de Pisan as the first oliphant sounded, relieved himself with alacrity, dressed even more hastily, and accompanied the count’s steward willingly enough, though he had no idea why de Pisan might want him. He merely went as bidden because he was accustomed to doing the bidding of others; it was reflexive. Authority spoke. It was not something of which he was proud, but at least no one could fault his dedication to duty.
He knew no one would. No one cared enough.
Gisbourne was brought up short at a chamber door flanked by armed men and realized, with some surprise and more unsettlement, he was not brought to see de Pisan but de Pisan’s lord. “Briefly,” John’s seneschal warned. “And disagree with nothing. My lord count and mornings do not often agree.” Something like contempt passed through de Pisan’s eyes. His smile was faintly derisive; he unlatched the door and paused with fingertips resting on wood. “You understand my lord count is the man to whom England looks while the king is imprisoned.”
Gisbourne, skilled with accounting and administration, did not claim to be courtier or diplomat; words were not his skill. But he had attended the sheriff long enough to understand implication, even couched in falsehood. “Of course,” he agreed stolidly, thinking ahead to the chamber housing the king’s brother. He would agree with whatever de Pisan said. His experience was vast.
“I knew you were a man of sound judgment,” de Pisan murmured. “I have told my lord so.”
“Told—him?” Gisbourne lingered between corridor and chamber.
“Of course.” The mask was bland. “Did you not ask that I commend you to him? I have done so.”
Gisbourne nearly stammered his thanks. Then, as de Pisan waved him on, he crossed into the chamber and came face-to-face for the first time in his life with England’s sanguine savior.
Or the man who would like to be.
Nine
Prince John smiled a measured welcome as body servants labored to attire him. Gisbourne counted three men, deftly adorning their slightly built lord with bliaut, chausses, tunic, padded surcoat, belt, boots, and myriad ornamentation. Through it all John stood loose-limbed and malleable, letting them beautify him.
He doesn’t look discomfited by morning. Gisbourne bowed. He looks alert as a hunting hound.
“Ah,” the count said. “I was so hoping you’d come.”
Gisbourne, straightening, wondered if any man would refuse.
“Do you hunt boar?” John inquired.
Gisbourne did not answer at once. He was transfixed by the knowledge of whom he faced, by his wholly unanticipated closeness to sovereignty. He had not aspired so high; he had merely desired knighthood because it lay within the realm of possibility, as Richard sold off the chivalry of England. But this was impossible. This was preposterous. He, Guy of Gisbourne, never mind the “Sir,” stood in the same chamber—to which he had been summoned—with Prince John of England, who might one day be king himself.
He didn’t look like a king, Gisbourne reflected. He didn’t much look like a prince, either, except for his richness of dress. He was small, dark of hair and eyes, swarthy of complexion. His nose was a trifle too long, and the negligible width of shoulders beneath the careful padding was no broader than slim hips.
He looks like a bird, beak and all. But Gisbourne shook it away. Boar, John had said. Did he hunt boar? “My lord, yes. I have. And will, today, as you have invited. If there is boar, this time of year.” He paused, briefly horrified. “I mean—of course there will be boar.” Gisbourne cursed himself, wishing he had deLacey’s unflappable temperament. He would know what to say, and how to say it. “There will be, of course. Boar.”
“Of course.” John tightened a ring on one finger as his body servants clustered around, arranging folds, tying ties, settling heavy, embroidered sleeves. “God grant we all have good luck.”
Gisbourne nodded mechanically. He is narrow between the eyes, like a horse with a small brain. But from what he had heard, Neither John’s brain nor his ambitions were undersized. “Yes, my lord. God grant.”
“I had you brought here because there is something I must ask. It regards your employer.” John’s expression was tranquil. “It is my task, you know, to administer my brother’s realm while the king is imprisoned.”
There was a peculiar pause. Gisbourne rushed to fill the poised, expectant waiting. “Yes, my lord.”
“Therefore I must take measures to insure the welfare of all the shires—no, not that one, you fool . . . this one!” John snatched a ring from one of the body servants and thrust it onto a finger. He contemplated the choice, then nodded once and returned his attention to Gisbourne. “I believe you may know William deLacey best of all, Sir Guy. What say you?”
Dampness stained the sleeves of Gisbourne’s undertunic. He cursed his nervousness. “My lord, it would seem so—I am his steward, and am privy to his business.”
John selected another ring. The emerald glistened richly. “He is a modest man, your sheriff, as becomes a man of taste—we would have him content in his office, so he may continue to serve us as well as can be expected from a man of his talent.” Gisbourne did not miss the shift to the royal “we.” John admired the emerald, and the slim hand that wore it. “Therefore we are at some pains to discover the true ambition of our most loyal servants, so we may reward them accordingly.” Dark eyes glittered briefly as he lifted eyelids fractionally to hold Gisbourne’s gaze. “Is there something he desires above all else? Something within our power to grant?”
Gisbourne thought frantically. He knew very well deLacey wanted power and preferment, but so did everyone else. For that matter so did he; what could he tell Prince John that might set him apart, marking him, Gisbourne, as an attentive man, alert to his lord’s desires more than other men?
Hastily Gisbourne brushed at the dampness stippling his upper lip and struck at the first option. “His daughter, my lord.”
John’s brows arched eloquent inquiry.
“His daughter,” Gisbourne repeated, “married to Huntington’s son.”
“To Huntington’s son? Locksley?”
“He’s the only son he has. The earl, I mean.” Gisbourne cleared his throat. “Eleanor, my lord. To Robert of Locksley.”
“A worthy, if ambitious, alliance.” John’s expression was closed. “The earl is a powerful man.”
“She’s the only one left, my lord. He’s married off all the others. He was despairing of a match, until Locksley came home.” Gisbourne shrugged, affecting nonchalance; he felt far from it. “She’s old for it—twenty-three, my lord—but not so bad a match.”
“The earl might look higher. He is Huntington.” John’s smile was fleeting. “And the sheriff might look lower, to a faithful steward. Who is nonetheless a knight, and due certain respect.”
It was fact. Gisbourne said nothing. It was not for him to decide. But the idea, abruptly born, altered to a possibility and a blossoming promise: a dream of something more. If he means to give me a woman ...
John shrugged off the hands of his servants, waving them away. His eyes were red-rimmed but alert: “You have our gratitude,” he said lightly. “There must be something we can reward your loyalty with . . .”
Gisbourne sucked in air through constricted lungs. “My lord—if I may ask—”
John waved a ring-crusted hand. “I hereby declare you may have the first thrust today when the huntsmen have rousted the boar.”
Gisbourne had wanted much more. He had hoped for more, for the one whose name he did not know, but whose face had filled his dreams. “Thank you, my lord. My lord—” But England’s savior was gone. So were Gisbourne’s hopes.
“Boar?” The huntsman nearly gaped. “But—it’s spring!”
The earl
grimaced in disgust. “Given the opportunity, I daresay our dear count would change the season to suit him.”
The huntsman’s tone was dry. He was not serf or servant, but a man of skill and repute, well paid by the earl. It gave him a little freedom. “Can he conjure boar?”
Huntington glanced around the bailey, marking the milling throng awaiting mounts as hostlers brought them from stables. “I believe he expects us to do it for him.” The earl closed his eyes and sighed, squeezing the prominent bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Do your best, Dickon. Send out extra beaters and rob the kennels, as you see fit ... this man may one day be our king.”
“What of the untried alaunts? They are young dogs, worth bringing along properly . . .” The huntsman gestured submission even as he counseled defiance. “Your kennels are the finest in Nottinghamshire, my lord. It would be a shame to destroy the promise of years to come.”
The earl’s fine white hair glistened in new sunlight. “Would you have me defy him, then?”
“Let it be stag,” Dickon suggested. “There is stag aplenty . . . we needn’t risk the alaunts, but set lymers and brachets on him—”
The earl flicked a speck of dust from the sleeve of embroidered surcoat. Another more attentive glance around the bailey acquainted him with its fitness to host so many. “I shall have new livery for the porters and men-at-arms ...” His attention returned to Dickon. “He said boar.”
The huntsman gave in. “Yes, my lord. Boar. But—” He gestured helplessness. “And if there is no boar?”
“We will of course be breaking our fast in the fields . . . I will have the kitchens delay as long as possible, then do my best to make the meal last as long as possible. But if neither ploy is successful ...” Huntington sighed heavily and cast a scowling glance across his shoulder. “Then beat out every stag you can find and send it down upon us. A veritable flood of stag.” Without much conviction, he added, “And if we are fortunate, perhaps a well-placed hoof will rid us—and England—of our mutual trouble before it sucks us dry.”
The huntsman smiled, then disguised it behind a hand. “Treason, my lord.”
Huntington’s answering smile was wintry. “No more than John’s attempt to sever his brother from the crown.”
The day promised well, if the morning was any indication. But Marian paid scant attention to the sky and the weather, thinking instead of how best to have horses brought out for them, in the midst of so much preparation, without becoming a part of the hunt. She held her chemise and mantle close, wending through guests, following directions given by one of the household servants. It might have been easy enough, were the bailey untenanted, but so many people milled and clustered, on foot and on horseback, that it was difficult to hold to a particular line.
Fat Matilda, wheezing, thrust out a pointing hand. “There. See? The earl.”
Marian followed the gesture. “Busy,” she said, and adroitly avoided the nearest knot of Huntington Castle’s guests. “Do you expect me to simply walk up and interrupt his conversation?”
Matilda followed in her mistress’s determined wake, clutching impotently at the voluminous robe. “You’re a knight’s daughter, my girl—not a common scullery maid.”
“You forget...” Marian wound her way through the crowd, wishing she’d waited a little longer. “To the Earl of Huntington, I’m not much more.”
Matilda was affronted. “You’re Sir Hugh FitzWalter’s daughter! No shame in that, my girl. He was a fine man, your father was, and worth a moment of the earl’s time.”
“Yes,” Marian agreed. “A fine man indeed, but—” She turned sharply to face the woman. “Why is it so important? Can’t I just go home? Can’t I just leave?”
Swaddled in gray wool, Matilda was warm and flushed. She wobbled to a stop, mopped her chin, gazed at her mistress’s face. Tears glittered in Marian’s eyes, but did not overflow. Matilda knew she hated to cry.
The old woman blotted her brow beneath the damp coif, the folds of throat-flesh and wimple. “Your mother wanted me to see to it you grew up fine, Lady Marian. She said so before she died.”
The voice, with effort, was steady. “I have grown up very well, Matilda. You have done an admirable job.”
“Your father wanted me to see to it you were looked after while he was gone. And now that he’s dead—” Unexpectedly, tears brimmed in Matilda’s eyes also. Her voice was thick. “I want to do right by you.”
“You have,” Marian said. “And you will. But leaving now, without disturbing the earl, is not so important a thing to set us at odds.”
“Leaving now? Why?” The hand slipped under an elbow. “Pray, my lady, don’t desert me. My day would be quite destroyed.”
William deLacey’s grasp was gentle on her elbow, but Marian stepped aside, removing her arm from his fingers with a murmured comment. “All these people...” She sought for and found an excuse. “I have been isolated this past year, in my grief—I find myself discommoded by such great numbers.”
“And so you run? The daughter of Hugh FitzWalter?” DeLacey shook his head. Morning light touched the tracery of silver in his wavy brown hair. “That is not like the brave maid I know.”
“So I told her, my lord.” Matilda ignored Marian’s pointed glance. “What she needs is to be out of doors with everyone.”
“Then we are in complete agreement.” DeLacey’s smile was easy. “If I promised to look after her, would you leave her to me? You know me, Matilda—I will be at some pains to make certain she is well.”
The old nurse dipped an ungainly curtsy. “Of course, my lord. And I don’t mind admitting I’d just as soon rest my bones a while longer.”
Marian gritted teeth, smiling through them with effort. “Matilda—”
But deLacey was too quick, too smooth. “But of course, Matilda. Go in to breakfast in the kitchens. I will tend her welfare myself.”
Another unbalanced curtsey. “Thank you, my lord. I know you’ll do your best.”
“Wait—” Marian reached out, but deLacey had her arm again and was turning her away. Matilda, smiling, swung ponderously toward the keep and breasted the crowd.
Marian opened her mouth to chide deLacey. But the sheriff was deftly escorting her through the throng, murmuring greetings as they went. He made no attempt to lend her his attention until they stood near the inner curtain wall, by the gate leading into the outer ward. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I had no wish to deprive my day of your beauty.”
“Stop it,” Marian said.
He laughed. “Am I found out? Do you grow weary of pursuit?”
“I grow weary of manipulation.”
He laughed again in honest admiration. “I should know better. Hugh was never one for prevarication, either—why should his daughter be?” He tucked her hand into his elbow. “Come now, Marian—”
She removed her hand, clasping fingers behind her back. “Stop that, also.”
DeLacey’s expression was suddenly wary: a hound aware of a new—and possibly hazardous—scent. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“Surely not,” she retorted. “You? I think: never.”
He smiled. “Very well. What would you have me say?”
“The truth.” That you know very well my father wants us to marry. But she did not dare suggest it, in case he didn’t know.
“The truth is difficult for a man such as I.” DeLacey, clearly, was unperturbed by her expectations and no more willing to give up the game than she was to play. He simply changed the rules. “But here it is, ungarnished: I would like you to accompany me on the hunt today.” He paused. “Is that so cruel a wish?”
She was forced to admit she supposed it was not.
He nodded. “Good. Here, step away—the hunt prepares to leave.”
Purposefully he pulled her out of harm’s way as mounted guests vacated the inner bailey for the outer, and the forested chases beyond. The noise was clamorous: leashed hounds belling and barking, horse hooves clattering, m
en shouting to one another, women laughing shrilly, the oliphant winding again.
DeLacey’s expression changed. Marian twisted her head, searching, and found Prince John very close, looking down upon her from a restless mount. The horse pawed, scraping the cobbles, and gnawed fretfully at the bit. Foam dripped from its mouth.
John continued to assess her, much as he had the night before. Hastily she lowered her gaze and stared fixedly at the bailey cobbles. Let him go away—let him not notice me--let him want someone else.
Miraculously, he did. “Lord Sheriff,” John said, “will you accompany me?” He flicked an impatient, imperative gesture. “Now, if you please. Some men might accord it an honor.”
Most men would. Certainly those behind him, waiting on his pleasure. Certainly William deLacey. “Of course, my lord. At once.” He inclined his head, flicking a glance at Marian beneath lowered lids. Softly, he promised, “This won’t last all day. I will find you later.”
She said nothing, acutely aware of John’s perusal. She kept her head bowed, counting the endless moments as deLacey turned and moved away, calling for his horse. Nearby, the ring of hooves on stone diminished. Marian chanced an upward glance and found herself unattended.
Relief made her dizzy. Pressing one hand against the small lump that was her crucifix, she gathered the mantle with the other and stepped back into the shadows of the towering wall. When they’re gone, I’ll go--and no one will be the wiser as to my direction. A hostler came and asked if she wanted her horse, then brought it in accordance with her wishes, tugging his forelock; Marian thanked him, bade him go, and held the horse quiet as the last knot of mounted guests trailed out, hastening to catch the others. Thank you, God. She wrapped her hands around the pommel and prepared to mount. I should summon Matilda, but she’ll only berate me. Someone grasped her foot and threw her up into the saddle.
Startled, Marian landed badly and scrambled to right herself as the horse sidled. She hooked her toes into the stirrups hastily, muttering words a lady should never mutter as the horse snorted and danced aside. By the time she had recovered her balance and control of the horse her coif had come off and her skirts were bunched. The thick black braid, barely contained before, tumbled free of confinement. Her head, and one leg, were bare for all to see. “You might have warned—” She checked herself.
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