The sheriff undid the latch and swung the door open, one hand on the jamb as he leaned into the chamber. His daughter was on her bed, slumped against the wall, staring vacantly into space as she sucked on a strand of hair. “You’ll have to sleep somewhere else tonight.”
Startled, Eleanor twitched, then sat stiffly upright. “Why? What right—”
He cut off her challenge. “I need your bed.”
She scowled. “What is wrong with yours?”
“Prince John shall be in mine ... I’ll be in yours.” He arched one brow. “Without you in it, preferably—although your wanton behavior could lead one to suspect you might enjoy even that.”
A wave of color swamped her face. “How dare you—”
“Get out,” he said succinctly.
“Where am I supposed—”
“With the servants, if you like—just make certain they’re kitchen wenches. ” He shut the door and latched it, Eleanor forgotten, as he thought ahead to John’s arrival.
“My lord? My lord Sheriff?”
DeLacey halted, sighing. “What now?” he muttered, turning to face yet another crisis. He blinked in mild surprise. “Brother Tuck?”
“My lord.” The fat monk loomed in the dim corridor like a wool-swathed thing of the dark. “My lord, there is something troubling me deeply. You’ll send me back to the abbey, I know, but I must ask you.” Tuck came closer, hands clasping one another in pious rigidity. “It has to do with the execution order, my lord.”
For a moment deLacey did not know what Tuck was talking about. Then he recalled his command to Walter. “Yes?”
The monk hove to a stop, filling much of the narrow corridor with an expanse of heavy shoulders. Without the fat, deLacey thought, the young man might make a respectable fighter, although that also required a certain wit, too, and he was not at all certain Tuck possessed the proper sort. “Lord Sheriff,” he began nervously, “Walter said I was to write in Will Scarlet’s name in place of the man’s real name. But—you see—I don’t think I can do such a thing. I mean—to write in another man’s name? My lord . . . ” Tuck gestured helplessly. “Surely he didn’t mean it.”
DeLacey maintained his bland expression. “Walter said—what?” Delicate inquiry.
Tuck repeated what Walter had said.
“My God!” the sheriff exploded. Then, contritely, “Forgive me, Brother Tuck—it is only I am shocked. I cannot believe a man in my service would suggest such a heinous thing. To write in another man’s name? Are you quite certain that is what he said?”
Tuck’s jowled face was ashen. His voice sounded squeezed. “Yes, my lord.”
DeLacey scrubbed at his face. “I cannot believe it ... Brother Tuck, I assure you, no such thing was ordered. I am the lord high sheriff—would I do such a thing? Would I ask a devout monk to abet me in such a crime?” He shook his head, expression hardening. “I’ll have him dismissed at once.”
“My lord, no!” Tuck cried. “That is—I mean—” His anguish was obvious. “Perhaps Walter merely made a mistake. Perhaps he misunderstood.”
“I find it highly unlikely a man could misunderstand such a heinous thing, Brother Tuck.” DeLacey shook his head. “No. I’ll dismiss him myself.” He gestured preemptorily. “Come with me. We’ll see to it now.”
“My lord—” Tuck appeared mortified. “My lord, I beg you—don’t dismiss him. He’ll have nowhere to go.”
“That is no concern of mine in the face of such infamy.”
Tears shone in Tuck’s brown eyes. “I’m sure it was only a misunderstanding. I knew it had to be a mistake—I mean, Will Scarlet escaped—even I have heard the tale.” He tugged ineffectually at his voluminous cassock. “Now that I know, I will of course correct the execution order.”
DeLacey’s attention sharpened. “You’ve already written it?”
“Yes, my lord ... but as soon as I finished I knew I couldn’t leave it there, I had to know the truth.”
“Of course you did.” Smiling, deLacey nodded. “I commend you for your foresight, Brother Tuck—imagine what might have happened if the wrong man had been hauled up from the dungeon and executed in Scarlet’s place!”
The monk’s face was damp and shiny. “I prayed about it, my lord. I was afraid of that very thing.”
DeLacey nodded, reaching out to clasp Tuck’s shoulder in a familiar, confident grasp. “Well done, Brother. I assure you, I’ll see to it personally that this mistake is corrected. But if you don’t mind, leave the execution order to me. If I am to ask Walter about it, I must have proof.”
“Yes, my lord.” Tuck smiled tremulously. “I’m sure it was all a mistake.”
DeLacey shook his head, guiding Tuck down the corridor. “It might have been very costly, Brother. Very costly indeed. You were right to come to me. You must always bring such things to my attention.” The corridor opened into the hall, well-filled with John’s noisy retinue. “Now, I must attend the prince. I beg you, bring me this execution order so that I may see it. I’ll speak to Walter later.”
“Yes, my lord.” Tuck licked at a damp upper lip. “I’m sure he will be more careful in the future.”
“I’m sure he will be, too.” DeLacey clapped a meaty shoulder in dismissal, sending Tuck on his way.
As the monk picked his way through the confusion of John’s retinue, DeLacey at last let the mask slip. “Walter,” he murmured, “you disappoint me greatly. But until Gisbourne’s back, you’re all I have.” His gaze found Gilbert de Pisan in the middle of the hall, ordering servants this way and that. It reminded deLacey that he would be sleeping in Eleanor’s bed, while John would be in his. “May there be mice,” he murmured, and smiled with perfect serenity as de Pisan signaled to him.
Marian watched as Robin rode through the main gate of Ravenskeep. One portion of her mind marked that the aged gate was beginning to sag worse, which meant the hinges needed to be rehung, but that was a fleeting thought. What occupied most of her thoughts was the way Robin held himself, very stiffly atop the horse with his head not moving at all.
He fears he will break. She nearly winced in sympathy. She had felt that way herself.
The gate was closed behind him, creaking fearfully on weakened hinges. More than oil was needed there.
Men and their pride. Sighing, Marian turned to Sim. “Fetch Hal,” she told him, “and follow quietly. He will not get so far as the road, I am sure.” Her mouth hooked wryly. “We shall have to hope that when—if—he falls, he does not crack his head and spill out all his wits.”
Forty
Eleanor waited until it was dark and the royal retinue was settled in the hall where its members would sleep, clustered around the fire trench or coupled off in corners. It might well be her sleeping place as well, if she did not succeed in finding a more pleasant, private chamber.
She shut the door behind her quietly, then moved smoothly down the corridor to her father’s chamber. There she halted, wiped her damp hands on her kirtle, and drew in a deep breath. Eleanor knocked on the door, then murmured a brief fervent prayer.
After a moment the latch was lifted. A face appeared in the crack between door and jamb. Not Prince John, she knew: the set of the mouth was too supercilious, the arched nose held too high in the air. Gilbert de Pisan, then; she had heard her father describe him.
“My lord? My lord Prince?” It wouldn’t hurt to flatter the seneschal by ‘mistaking’ him for royalty.
“No,” he said. “My lord is within; what do you want?”
“Oh, I am so sorry ...” Eleanor fluttered a hand helplessly and allowed it to settle across a generous bosom. “I am Eleanor deLacey, the high sheriff’s daughter. I—” She bit her lip, smiled in demure dismay, and lowered her eyes. “Would it be possible to see Prince John?”
An elegant silvering eyebrow arched. “Now?”
“If it is possible,” she said softly. “It has to do with my father—I am afraid, you see, that he has not been entirely truthful with Prince John.”
Eleanor put up her chin. Her voice rang out; who was de Pisan to turn her away? Let John himself do it if he would. “Is it betrayal to inform a prince of England about treachery in his midst?”
De Pisan’s mouth flattened. “Certainly not,” he declared frigidly. “Do come in at once.”
Eleanor waited, hands clasped in her kirtle. De Pisan stepped aside and pulled the door open, allowing her to slip inside. He shut and latched it, then signed for her to wait as he approached the tapestry-curtained bed.
“My lord, there is a woman here to see you. Eleanor deLacey.”
The voice behind the curtains was muffled. “Did I send for her?”
“No, my lord. She says it concerns treachery—and her father.”
A hand reached through the gap of curtains and jerked them apart. “Here!” John barked.
De Pisan beckoned and Eleanor hastened forward, casting him a sidelong glance of disdain. Would he listen to what was said?
“My lord.” She curtseyed briefly. “My lord, I am deeply sorry to tax you at such an hour, but I believe it is most important.”
“Treachery usually is.” John wore a high-necked cambric bliaut embroidered at collar and cuffs with gold thread and tiny pearls. His dark eyes glittered. “Say what you’ve come to say.”
She cast de Pisan another glance. “My lord—surely you will understand if I wish not to speak of my father’s guilt in front of another man.”
John flapped a hand at his seneschal. “Outside, if you please. We must honor the lady’s sensibilities.”
“My lord.” A brief bow, and the man was gone.
Eleanor then smiled warmly at John. “My lord—”
He interrupted. “If this is seduction, I find it tedious. I choose my women; they don’t choose me.”
For only a moment it took her off-stride. Then she recovered herself. “No indeed, my lord! Oh, my lord—” She applied a hand to her face, as if to hide confusion. “I thought only to tell you—”
“Yes, yes.” John was clearly impatient. “Treachery, wasn’t it? Your father’s?”
She lowered her hand. “I am desolate, my lord—”
“Among other things, I am sure.” Without the padding of tunics and surcoat, the royal shoulders were very narrow. It made his head look larger. “What treachery, then?”
Eleanor took a deep breath. “He killed my mother, my lord.”
John’s gaze was unrelenting. “I am a man of infinite patience and understanding where personal slights and insults are involved ... surely you must believe you may meet with compassion here.” Unsmiling, he assessed her. “What is it he wants to do? Marry you off to a man you find repulsive?”
“No, my lord.” Stiffly. “At least—not yet.”
His expression lightened. “Ah. I believe I know. He intends to marry—Marian FitzWalter, is it not? And it does not meet with your approval?”
Eleanor tried to swallow down the tightness in her throat. The waters were deeper here than she had ever known them to be. “No,” she answered briefly. “He could do better than that.”
John smiled. “Do not lie, I beg you. Liars have a bad habit of falling out of favor.”
The tightness increased. “She is a whore, my lord.”
“Indeed? Coming from you, that is basest slander.” John smiled and leaned back against the borrowed bolsters. “I was there, lady, when you accused that unfortunate—and well-endowed—minstrel of violating you. But speaking as a man who has done his share of violating, I can only say that you appeared, at that instant, to be enjoying it most distinctly.” One eyebrow arched. “Or is it merely that you like to have men butchered in your name?”
“No!” It burst out of her mouth. “No—I swear—”
“On what?” John asked. “On your virginity?”
She wanted to run, but her feet were rooted. De Pisan stood just outside the door; if she fled, he would noise it around the hall, and she would become a laughingstock. Her reputation was already tattered enough. I have to see it through.
Eleanor raised her head. “Very well. I want the marriage stopped.”
John laughed softly. “Jealousy does not improve a woman’s looks.”
She gritted her teeth. “Surely you understand how I feel! You were a last son, and I a last daughter ... they leave us nothing, my lord, but scraps from the table, throwing them on the floor for us to grovel after, fighting off the dogs!” She went on before he could speak, before he could shout at her, before he could have de Pisan throw her bodily from the room. “My lord, this woman—”
“—is in wardship to the Crown.” John eyed her from under lowered lids. “Therefore it is the king’s decision whether she weds or not, and who the man might be.”
“Yes, my I—”
“As to the rest,” he said silkily, “we do not believe our circumstances are even the least alike. Our lady mother is a queen; our father was a king.” He leaned forward slightly. “Do you understand us, lady?”
She did. She had overstepped. Eleanor shut her eyes. “Forgive me, my lord.”
“Tomorrow, perhaps. Look at me.”
Eleanor did.
“I know very well your father intends to wed the FitzWalter girl. I know many things, not the least of which is that you are desperate. But it has been my experience that desperate people are willing to do many things to ensure their place in the world. Is this not correct?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Therefore I desire you to continue what appears to be a natural bent for you: spying on your father. Because he, like everyone, is indeed capable of treachery should the means present itself, and the time prove opportune. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
John’s eyes glittered in the wan candlelight. “And if you are good at it, I will consider granting your wish.”
Eleanor bowed her head, wanting only to be dismissed.
John laughed sharply. “Just make certain the information you send is the truth, Lady Wanton, and not female exaggeration.” He waved a hand. “Begone.”
She curtseyed again briefly and turned, moving stiffly toward the door.
As she lifted the latch, he spoke again. “This is your father’s chamber?”
She nodded without turning around.
“And he is in your bed?”
Again Eleanor nodded.
“Leaving you with none.”
She swung, hopes rising. If John bedded her—
“Gilbert might serve you,” he said, and yanked the curtain closed.
He lay sprawled on his back in the sand, with the sun searing his face and piercing his fragile eyelids, so that heat and light ate his eyes. Vision was blood-red, then white, then black, as heat cooked away his eyes. He felt the flesh of his body dry, then burn, then crisp, peeling off to burn again, layer by layer, until nothing was left of him but muscle and sinew, and then that, too, was burned away, leaving only bone. The skeleton called Locksley lay baking in the heat, grinning into the sky where the god of hell resided.
“Ya Allah,” he murmured. “La ilaha il’ Mohammed rasul Allah.”
God held his silence.
“Insh’Allah,” he whispered. “Isn’t that what you want?”
The Saracen answered in good Saxon English. “I want you to get well.”
It was wrong, all wrong. There were Saracens who spoke English, but none of them were women. In English he inquired, “Did I not say it right?”
“Rest,” the woman told him. “There is no need to speak.”
He stirred restlessly. The sun had eaten his eyes, or surely he would see her. “Ya Allah,” he murmured again.
“Hush,” she said softly. “If you sleep through the night, you’ll feel much better in the morning.”
English, again. Where was the Arabic? He had labored so long to learn it, so they wouldn’t cut out the Infidel tongue that blasphemed their God.
&n
bsp; He exerted himself, attempting to speak clearly, so they would see how well he’d learned. “La ilaha—il’ Mohammed rasul ... Allah.”
“Sleep,” the woman murmured. Her cool hand was on his brow, taking the heat from his face.
He was accustomed to following orders, lest he be punished for disobedience. He released his tenuous grasp on consciousness and did as the woman commanded.
The Earl of Huntington sat up late over his wine, although he drank little. The chamber was very private, very quiet, a small nook of a room built into a corner of his new castle, appointed to his taste: nothing excessive, because the earl detested ostentation, but the quality was outstanding. White-painted wooden wainscoting—plain, no ornate carvings for him—renected light from two tripod candle stands; a thick Persian carpet of peacock blue and green glowed against plain gray stone; a painted linen hanging of a hunt with fox fleeing hounds bejeweled a third of the wall space; a large chair of oak with a cushion for aging buttocks; a simple trestle table bearing wine, fruit, bread.
Eustace de Vesci, Geoffrey de Mandeville, and Henry Bohun had retired for the evening, leaving him alone to consider the potential repercussions of what they had discussed regarding John’s current plans for England. That something needed to be done, they all knew; it remained for them to determine what it was, and in what way it might be engaged.
But just now something else occupied his thoughts. He plucked a grape from its stem, tucked it into his mouth and chewed meditatively. He plucked another and yet another, quite methodically, until the stem was nearly denuded.
A quiet knock sounded at the door. Ralph, undoubtedly; he had sent for the servant just before withdrawing. “Enter.”
The latch was lifted. Ralph came into the chamber. “My lord.”
The earl plucked the last two grapes and rolled them in aged fingers that found the motion painful. “My son,” he said only.
Ralph’s expression was properly neutral. “No, my lord. Not yet.”
The earl nodded once. “Then I must assume he has chosen to spend his night elsewhere.”
Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] Page 44