And soon his lute as well.
The crackle of brush but paces away broke apart Marian’s fitful doze and threw her headlong into wakefulness. Someone is here--Someone close, creeping carefully to her bedding.
She lurched back frenziedly, scrabbling in the leaves and branches. “What?—” But the night-muffled stranger fled quickly into the darkness even as Locksley pursued him, shedding leaf mold as he ran.
Not Will Scarlet—Panic and anger commingled. Scrambling to her feet, Marian clawed for and found the quarterstaff Locksley had brought with them. This time I’ll hit him so hard I’ll knock his ears off his head. She kicked free of branches that could foul her movements and gripped the staff tightly, trying to ignore the sickness in her stomach born of shock, sudden fright, and a much too-abrupt awakening.
Then Locksley was unexpectedly back, casually ducking a low-hanging limb as he stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight. He did not appear particularly winded or concerned, raking a hand through his pale hair, but decidedly relaxed, picking leaf mold from his damp tunic.
“Well?” she demanded.
Locksley stopped short. His face was bruised and battered, distinctly the worse for wear, but as he stared at her she saw a change in it, a pronounced alteration that took her breath away, so complete was the transformation.
Robert of Locksley grinned. And then he began to laugh.
“What?” Marian asked.
Laughter softened his face. It lasted but a moment, then faded into an amusement more gentle in its expression, lighting his hazel eyes and curving the corners of his mouth. “You,” he declared. “I need not have come at all.”
“I don’t—” And then she did understand. Marian’s face burned as she put up her chin, clutching the staff more tightly. “There is no sense in doing nothing in your own defense, simply because you are a woman.”
“No sense at all,” he agreed gravely. “I was merely thinking there was no need for my intervention in any of this. You appear more equipped for battle than I ... after all, it was you who stunned Will Scarlet, not me.” He shrugged. “I might have remained in Nottingham and saved myself some trouble.”
“So might I,” she retorted dryly, “but Will Scarlet desired otherwise.” She jerked her head in the direction of the trees, wanting to turn the topic. “Since you are back so soon, I must assume you did not catch him.”
“I did catch him. I let him go.” He returned to his tree and sat down once more, leaning against the trunk. “He seemed to prefer it. It was the boy.”
“Much?” It surprised her. “Why did he run?”
“You frightened him.”
“He frightened me.” Immeasurably relieved, Marian leaned and set down the quarterstaff, then knelt upon the bedding. She trembled slightly in the aftermath, chiding Locksley more tartly than she intended. “You might have told him he could join us.”
“I did. He simply ducked away and disappeared, much like a rabbit.”
Marian nodded, sighing. “Much trusts no one.”
“He seems to trust you.”
She shrugged, working again at tangled hair. “I spoke to him whenever I went to the mill. I think they gave him little time there, save to send him out of the way. He was always quiet, always odd, quick to dart away. One day he wasn’t there. I never saw him again, until today.” She stopped untangling her hair. “It was only—this morning!” She stared at him in shock. “First Much, then the giant—and then Will Scarlet. But—it feels like seven days!”
Locksley stared over her head, setting his own against the tree. He shivered once, then rubbed a splay-fingered hand over his face, then through his hair, as if his skin hurt. “Captivity alters one’s understanding of time.”
Marian sat very still, wary of stepping off but wanting to very much. “Did it alter it for you?”
The mask was back in place but the facade seemed thinner, less substantial, oddly attenuated. He was markedly different from the man she had seen on the dais, still reserved, still intensely private, but more approachable. Or is it that I desire to approach?
His voice was subdued. “At first I counted the days. Then the weeks. After two months, nothing mattered anymore but that I survive the hour.” After a moment of noisy silence, he looked directly at her. His gaze did not waver, nor did his tone. “Your father would be proud.”
“Of—” She swallowed painfully, surprised by the magnitude of the unexpected uprush of anguish, “me?”
“As you should be proud of him.” A muscle twitched in one cheek. “He died defending his king. He died defending his God.”
Marian locked hands into her kirtle. “Was it very—bad?”
He did not hesitate. “No. It was over immediately.”
The mask was sealed again, like wax over parchment. Marian knew he lied.
The Earl of Huntington composed himself as the chamber door was flung open. He hoped de Vesci had done the same.
Gilbert de Pisan stepped aside. Prince John, fully clothed, swept into the chamber. “Alnwick!” he cried. “To think I would have missed you had you not come in tonight!”
“My lord Count.” De Vesci bowed elegantly. His composure lacked for nothing, even on short notice. The earl smiled privately; had he been practicing? “I am sorry, my lord, I don’t take your meaning—had I not come in tonight?”
“Yes.” John nodded. “I intend to depart at midday tomorrow. Unless, of course, the earl desires me to stay?” He cast Huntington a pointed stare.
“My lord—of course. You are welcome to stay at Huntington as long as you like.” Mentally the earl began to count his larders. If John did stay, he would have to arrange for additional victuals and supplies. “May I tell my steward?”
But John did not answer. He was staring at de Vesci. “You missed the feast.”
“Yes, my lord. It is my misfortune—I had intended to present my best wishes to Sir Robert.”
John’s eyes narrowed. “Odd that you would not make better plans to assure your arrival on time.”
De Vesci’s mouth crimped tight, hindering a smile. “We were set upon by thieves, and delayed.”
“Thieves.” John nodded sagely, dark eyes narrowing. “The forests are choked with them—I shall have the sheriff see to it something is done immediately.”
“My lord?” Ralph came into the chamber, paused as he saw Prince John and his seneschal, then bowed hastily. Only the barest flicker in his eyes betrayed his concern. “My lord, I am sorry—your son pleads illness.”
“Illness?” Huntington frowned. “What manner of illness?”
Ralph’s face was pasty. “An overindulgence of wine.”
John laughed. “No head for wine, has he? Or is it a woman instead?”
“No, my lord.” Ralph flicked a glance at Huntington. “In captivity he was not allowed wine, my lord. He drank too much in celebration of his homecoming.”
De Vesci forced a laugh. “Then we shall have to teach him what it is to drink properly again!”
“How droll,” John declared. He glanced around the chamber, assessing appointments, then cast a tight smile at the earl. “A fine castle indeed, my lord. Very strong, very safe. Quite remarkable.”
“And expensive.” The earl inclined his head. “I owe the Jews a fortune.”
“What? Have you impoverished yourself?” John’s eyes glittered. “Naturally you have donated to my brother’s ransom.”
“Indeed, my lord. Generously. Several times, in fact.”
“Mmmm.” John was abruptly disinterested. “And are you expecting any more guests, my lord?”
“Indeed, yes. Two more, in fact—Geoffrey de Mandeville, and Henry Bohun.”
“Essex and Hereford.” John’s color was livid. “Anyone else, my lord? Robert FitzWalter, perhaps? Or Robert de Vere?” His nostrils were pinched. “So many great houses, my lord—and all in one place.”
The earl permitted himself a proud smile. “A father’s poor attempt at welcoming home his only son and hei
r.”
“Indeed.” John cast de Vesci a black scowl, then swept toward the door once more. “De Pisan. I retire. Until the morrow, my lord.”
The earl bowed deeply as John marched out.
“My God!” de Vesci gasped as the door thumped closed. “He knows all of us. All of us!”
“He suspects,” the earl said. “Come now, Eustace—the man is not a fool. He has informants, as we do. We simply must take care to see that no one learns how many of us are involved, and what we plan to do.”
“You needn’t have mentioned de Mandeville and Bohun.” De Vesci poured wine with a trembling hand and quaffed several gulps. “Why tell him what he may only suspect?”
“Because if any of the others do arrive tonight, I want them expected.” Huntington sat down. “It would not be in our best interests to make John any more suspicious.”
“No.” De Vesci squeezed the cup in one massive hand. “Right here before me—I could have cut his throat.”
“And died for it.” Huntington turned to Ralph. “Where is my son?”
“Not in the castle, my lord. He rode out this morning. No one has seen him since.”
“Does it matter?” de Vesci asked in exasperation. “He need know nothing. It is better that he does not.”
The earl glanced at him coldly. “He is heir to all I have. If he is to succeed me, he must know what we do. And besides—” he laughed softly, “the Count of Mortain has suggested my son might be a worthy husband for his daughter.”
“He hasn’t a daughter,” de Vesci said blankly. And then, in growing alarm, “You mean the bastard girl?”
“Joanna.”
“She’s but a child, yet!”
“I doubt John cares how young she is. If John considers it advantageous, he’ll marry her off at the time he deems appropriate.”
“My God.” De Vesci collapsed into the nearest chair. “Do you know what this means?”
“It means if we overthrow John, my son may stand to benefit.”
“And you.”
The earl smiled. “And us all, my Lord of Alnwick.”
“My God,” de Vesci whispered.
Thirty-Four
Locksley awoke very stiff, equally sore, and disinclined to move even so much as an eyelid. He had not expected to sleep, but at some point near dawn the enemy Exhaustion had wielded the sword of a Saracen and defeated his attempt to remain awake. He woke slumped and disoriented at the foot of his tree like a discarded pile of soiled clothing, head crooked awkwardly against an exposed root.
This is—England. For a moment, only a moment, he feared it was not. Relief left him weak.
He heard the hiss and rustle of dead leaves and twigs and the quiet, alert voice—too alert for this morning—underscored by a trace of dryness. “You cannot possibly be comfortable.”
He wasn’t, of course, but forbore to tell her so. Already she had accounted for knocking Will Scarlet unconscious, and he did not doubt she would have tried much the same the night before with the selfsame quarterstaff, had she found it necessary. She did not know about his battle with Little John, nor did she need to; he had lost that one, also.
She moved into his line of vision. He saw dirty bare toes, a ragged hem, kirtle stiff with dried mud. “I’ve collected some nuts. Not many, I’m afraid—the squirrels got most of them.”
He moved then, trying to shift his head into a more natural position. Every joint ached. Even his eyes ached. He redistributed his weight and pushed himself up into a sitting position, cracking knots in his spine, and gazed in wan consternation at the cluster of nuts in her hand.
“No,” he said at once.
Smudges underlay her eyes, but he hardly saw them for the lash-fringed color above: deep and blue and impossibly bright for a gently reared knight’s daughter but freshly awakened from a long night on damp ground. “There is nothing else, until we reach Ravenskeep.”
“No,” he repeated more tightly, aware of increasing discomfort. He felt shivery and listless, though his clothing and hair had dried. He felt altogether squashed—and then realized all at once, with more than a little dismay, what the matter was.
He shut his eyes, scrubbed haphazardly at his stubbled, sore face, and felt the first tentative shiver of the expected bone-deep shudder that would soon wrack his body into knots. With great effort, he suppressed it.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Quite sure.” He had expected the bruises to hurt. He had expected his lumps to ache. But the recurring fever so many acquired on Crusade had settled quietly into joints and brain overnight and now threatened to overpower the ordinary discomfort earned in honest battle with its sly, pervasive ill will. “We had better go.”
“Yes, but—”
He thrust himself to his feet, turning his back to her so she wouldn’t see his face and the grimace of pain as his head protested movement. “The horse is some distance away. We had best go at once.”
“The nuts are something--”
“Then eat them,” he snapped, and set off through the brush.
“At least let me put on the shoes!”
He stopped and turned back, pulling aside foliage. Her feet were bare. He was sure of it. “I thought you lost your shoes.”
“I did. Before we left Nottingham.” She sat down, struggling with the ancient leather. “They were set beside me when I awoke this morning.”
“Shoes?”
“I think Much left them. It would explain why he followed us.” Her tone was odd. “He has left me things before.”
It amused him faintly. “Like a cat with a dead bird.”
“Not like that.” A fleeting frown departed swiftly. She laced on the first shoe, then pulled the second on. “They do not fit very well, but are decidedly better than nothing.”
So they were. It displeased him to know someone, even the boy, had been able to come so close as to leave shoes beside Marian no more than paces away from him. But it hurt his head to think about it. Even his eyelids ached, and he squinted, wishing the infant sun did not stab his eyes quite so sharply.
Marian finished lacing on the second shoe and stood up, shaking debris from her kirtle. Her hair was as tangled as it had been the night before, her clothing as tattered and muddied. The delicate, flawless face was mottled with ugly bruises and livid welts, and the cuts at the corners of her mouth were puffed and pink. They looked exceedingly painful.
And yet she says nothing. He wondered if he knew of another living woman who would not protest in such a state. He wondered if he knew of another living woman who would put on a peasant’s shoes.
The sweep of black brows rose inquiringly. “What is it?”
Nothing, he answered in silence. Nothing. But that was a blatant lie ... in truth it was everything—everything just to look at her, to see what a day with Will Scarlet had done to tarnish the beauty, while somehow it polished the spirit. I am delirious. And yet he knew he wasn’t. That would come later. “This way.” But he said it less impatiently than before.
Prince John smacked one of the body servants on top of the head. “Faster, buffoon! Am I to stay here all day?” Before the man could answer, John transferred his attention to the Norman seneschal standing silently by the door. “Treachery, Gilbert. I can smell its perfidious odor like an Irishman left to rot.”
Gilbert de Pisan gestured for one of the other hovering servants to attend to his master’s feet, setting shoes on over hosen.
“I can smell it, Gilbert! I tell you, Eustace de Vesci is here for more than good wishes... and Essex and Hereford, too, when they arrive, as I know they will! Does Huntington think I’m a fool? Does he think I’m blind?” He tore a sleeve free of a servant. “I’ll do that—”
“It may be just as he says, my lord.” De Pisan, as always, played devil’s advocate, because it helped John to think.
“I’ve no doubt Oxford will come, too—and Mowbray? Of course, Mowbray...” Dark eyes glittered. “What will they say, I wonder, when I am kin
g?”
De Pisan’s voice was exquisitely dry. “No doubt they will express their perfect love and utmost fealty.”
“No doubt.” John scowled blackly. “I should stay, Gilbert. I should stay here, and disrupt their plans... do you think they can accomplish anything with me in residence?”
“No, my lord.”
“But there is the money,” John muttered. “I must go to Lincoln and await the sheriff... I have ordered another collection.” His expression was sublimely sanguine. “For the ransom, you see.”
De Pisan’s expression was guileless. “Indeed, my lord.”
“Of course, now that his daughter is ruined, there is no possibility of marrying her to Huntington’s son, which leaves our brave hero-knight free for Joanna... but no bait to dangle before deLacey ...”John chewed a fingernail. “I like to know they are mine... I will have to promise something else. Surely he would prefer advancement than to remain here forever.”
“Surely he would, my lord.”
Musingly, the prince said, “And if I do offer Joanna to the earl’s son, it serves to keep Huntington quiet.”
“One would think so, my lord.”
John’s gaze sharpened. “Is that man still here? That clumsy fool who botched the boar hunt?”
De Pisan did not so much as blink in response to the change in subject; he was well accustomed to things more demanding than that. Besides, he knew the answer, because he took pains to know everything he could, so as to satisfy his master. One did not merely hope to please John. One did so, and effortlessly, or his place was lost instantly. “Yes, my lord.”
John waved an imperious hand. “Then go find out, Gilbert. He’ll know.”
De Pisan nodded patiently. “What is it you wish him to know?”
“The sheriffs price.” The Count of Mortain smiled. “Every man has more than one.”
De Pisan bowed deeply. “At once.”
“Gilbert—” John broke off, motioning the servants out of the chamber. When the door was shut, he fixed de Pisan with a malevolent stare. “I want this stopped. I want this stopped now. I want this to go no farther than this castle, this day. I will not have men who profess to being loyal subjects believing they can plot treachery beneath my very nose.” John swore viciously. “By God—this sort of thing could lay the groundwork for a much more serious threat.”
Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] Page 37