Sunrise gilded mist, so that shafts of mote-filled saffron light penetrated the window notches and illuminated the little chamber. Fieldstone glistened damply. Robin, newly awakened in an unfamiliar place, wondered for an instant if he had died during the night and no longer walked the earth.
Then he recognized the oratory, and remembered the night before.
He sat upright instantly, jerking cloaks aside; two cloaks, not one, and none of them housing Marian. She had left him entirely alone without waking him, which was odd of itself; he had not slept well since Acre and small noises and movement usually disturbed him.
England... Slack-limbed in relief, Robin slumped back to the matting and gazed fixedly at the low timber roof looming overhead. He lay on his back with his legs propped up, his hands splayed limply across his abdomen, trying to sort out the welter of emotions surging up in place of aching emptiness, and the newly recalled responses of a body too long locked up in mind as well as in truth.
The acknowledgment was tentative and explorative, so as not to chase away the fragile, much-needed belief: that he was a man after all, despite the attempts of others to strip him, in the most elemental way, of the ability to prove it; despite also his own more successful attempts to mute his natural desires out of a sense of degradation in captivity, and also a personal shame that a man, even a king, might desire him in place of a woman.
Such desires, though named perversion in the sight of God, were not unheard of in an army, where men trusted other men implicitly, or died. In need of women but with none in attendance save those they caught and raped, some men sought release by private means, while others looked to companions. There were those, he supposed, who preferred it anyway; he had begun to think it might be so with Richard, for who but the king would have first claim on any woman, willing or no, and yet took none to his bed?
But as to his bed, and the woman in it ...
He laughed joyously, in an uprush of jubilant well-being. He was whole again, or nearly so; a man again without question. It only remained for him to make certain his father realized it, so the Earl of Huntington’s heir need not ever fear him again.
“Ya Allah. ” He grinned up at the roof. In Arabic or English, God was merciful.
Forty-Nine
William deLacey supposed Nottingham citizens might speak well of his touring of the city in the aftermath of the storm. What they did not know—and did not need to know—was that he didn’t really care what damage had been done to the city or her people. His attention was wholly consumed by his current task, which had less to do with storm damage than with the devastation Prince John might wreak if his wishes were not obeyed.
He negotiated the twisty, narrow streets with distaste, disliking the mud that splattered his cloak and the stink of refuse and waste carried throughout the city, distributed in a most haphazard manner by the wind and rain. He noted with mild surprise, as he crossed the invisible border between the Jewish Quarter and the rest of Nottingham, that the odor was somewhat improved. Here people labored most assiduously to clean up waste and refuse, carting it away.
Two things, then, Jews were good for: lending money, and cleaning the streets.
He dismounted in front of the low-roofed, square building that was home and business to Abraham the Jew. He summoned one of the boys helping to sweep the cobbles in front of the door and bade him announce the sheriffs presence to Abraham, then come out and hold the horse. The boy was thin, dark-eyed and dark-haired, with eloquent, mobile features less offensive than those boasted by many of the Jews, deLacey decided.
Accordingly the boy went in, returned after a moment, and took the horse’s reins. In accented English he told the sheriff his grandfather would receive him.
“As well he should,” deLacey agreed, and unlatched the door.
The old man sat, as he usually did, for his wracked joints allowed him little latitude for movement. He inclined his head in greeting, then gestured stiffly for the sheriff to seat himself.
“No, I think not. My business will not require much time.” DeLacey swept a glance around the tiny room, very plain and unadorned, as if Abraham had no desire to show off the wealth he had acquired through usury. The Jews cheated everyone. Abraham merely seemed to be cleverer than others. “You will recall our conversation with regard to the additional tax.”
Abraham’s mouth tightened minutely. “Indeed, my lord—”
“I have come to reiterate that no tardiness will be tolerated.” The place stank of Jewishness; deLacey saw that the cloth covering the table was stitched with the cabalistic signs the Jews claimed as their written language. “It is vital that the sum be raised to ransom the king.”
“Indeed, my lord, we would like to think—”
But the sheriff did not permit him to finish. “You will recall that I asked you to speak to the other Jews.”
Abraham inclined his head.
“And that you were to tell them I would expect delivery of the taxes by the end of the month.”
“Yes, my lord, but now—”
“Now what?” deLacey snapped. “Is this the beginning of a ceaseless refrain encompassing refusal?”
Abraham sighed very faintly. “The storm has done much damage, my lord. Please to allow us a little more time to discuss the matter—”
“He is your king, Jew! Your liege lord. There can be no excuses to take precedence over the release of our sovereign.”
“My lord Sheriff.” Abraham’s twisted hands did not twitch upon the table. “It is as important to us that the king be released as it is to you. We have given generously—”
“And are more generous in taking,” deLacey retorted. “If anything, this storm will prompt others to come to you for money to hire repairs. Will you say to them you cannot lend it to them? No, of course not, because to do so would be bad business—a Jew who smells a profit never refuses custom.” He permitted himself a cold smile. “But when it comes to ransoming the king, which would not return a profit on money freely given, you refuse to consider it.”
Abraham was patient. “My lord, we have refused the king nothing. We have given more than most. All I ask—”
“It is refused,” deLacey stated. “You will speak to the others at once, gather the money, then bring it personally to me. I shall expect it within three days.”
“My lord!” Abraham’s expression was anguished. “My lord, I beg you—grant us time. This storm—”
DeLacey’s hand was on the latch. “The storm was indeed a bad one, and much damage was done. So much, in fact, it will be difficult to keep whole those possessions that escaped damage—surely you know how it is with poor people who lose what little they have. Too often they riot, and steal from those whom they consider less deserving than they themselves.” He opened the door. “Jews are always such easy targets.”
Outside, deLacey briefly considered flipping a penny to the boy who brought his horse, then thought better of it. If he were to expect the Jews to bring him the money, it had best be Jewish money and not coin of his own coffers. That would defeat the purpose.
Marian stood in the hall and tried to make sense of a world half destroyed by wind and rain. While she and Robin had remained oblivious to the storm save the one of their own making, Ravenskeep had suffered. Shutters had been torn off walls, so that blowing rain soaked bedding and rushes, which meant the wet bedding had to be dried on a day none too promising for steady sunlight, while old rushes needed to be hauled out by hand and replaced with fresh. The beaten earth beneath was too hard to be called mud, but was slick and treacherous.
The kitchen and pantry also had suffered losses, for water had come in beneath the doors and ruined sacks of flour, as well as other necessities; the cookfires had all been extinguished and the coals turned into black soup, which had to be disposed of before a new fire was laid. The roof had leaked badly in three places, less seriously in four others.
The hall was bad enough, but the exterior worse. Sim had come in and explained i
n detail how the chicken house had collapsed, scattering dead and living fowl throughout the walled courtyard. Somehow the stable door had unlocked itself, freeing the bay gelding—Marian did not explain how the lock had been opened on purpose, or the reasons for it—and letting in so much wind and rain that grain sacks were sodden and spoiled, and the bedding straw blown all over until hardly a wisp remained inside the stable, while the rest, he said, was likely halfway to Nottingham. The main gate had blown down and needed replacing, which Marian already knew, and most of the loose cobbles had been washed free of their beds, leaving muddy holes pocking the courtyard like an old woman shedding teeth.
That was the beginning. Marian listened to most of it and delegated duties by importance: she gave Sim silver pennies and sent him with the cart to the mill for more flour, because they needed bread; Hal she set to collecting and stacking cobbles to one side in the courtyard until the mud dried out and they could replace and reseat them; Joan she dispatched to supervising the airing out of soaked bedding and the cleaning of the kitchen.
Stephen and Tam reported the sheep were scattered all over the meadow and it would take some doing to gather them again; there were ewes dead, they said, and drowned lambs, and the bellwether was half-mad, which risked the rest of the flock, but they could tend them well enough. Marian set them to that task, knowing both men cared so much about the sheep they would be useless seeing to anything else until the flock was safe. So she called in Roger, who was her least favorite of all because he was lazy and sullen—he had run away twice from her father, but was brought back both times by Sim, who counseled a third chance—and asked him to see how many shingles they had stored away; if there were none, he would have to make them, as well as new shutters.
She then set three of the kitchen-girls to raking soaked rushes out of the hall, which would likely take all day, but told them not to replace the rushes because if it rained again before Roger finished the shutters and shingles, there would be all of it to do yet again.
In all the mess Marian was comforted by one thought: Robin was in the oratory. She wondered what he would say when he came in, or what she would say, and when he did at last come in the open door to blot out the tentative morning sun she found no words at all for a greeting, just an imbecilic smile. His own mirrored hers.
“Lady,” he said then, “will you walk out with me?”
And she went, because she had to, because they could say nothing to one another where others could hear them save mouth the courtesies of rank.
Her heart was full of an unforeseen shy hesitance and an equally surprising anticipation. Was this what love was? To want and not want, to need and not need, to relish the physical power while frightened by it as well?
She drew in a breath as they stepped outside the hall. “The oratory?” He was circumspect, taking care not to compromise her outside her very door. But his smile slid crooked as he cast her a sidelong glance. The timbre in his voice was altered, lacking its cool self-possession. He sounded wholly natural and somehow very young, unguarded by wariness. “I would forget what I have to say.”
She grinned. “What have you to say?”
“That I must go.”
She had not expected that. Not so soon.
He was quietly insistent. “I must, Marian—if I am to settle things with my father, I cannot put them off.”
She believed it worth the attempt. “I offered to send him a message. You refused. And then there was the storm.” It was most of it inconsequential. Marian wanted to tell him how much she desired him to stay, but words failed her. All she could do was what she had done, and hope it was enough. “I could send Sim with a message now.”
His expression was bleak. “You don’t know my father—he is not a man of much patience when he has made up his mind about something ... the last word I had from him was Prince John had dangled his daughter as bait to catch Huntington’s heir. If I wait, it may be settled before I can speak against it.”
Her joy was abruptly extinguished. “John’s daughter,” she said hollowly.
“Yes.” He was serious now. “I had no interest in the match when it was first mentioned, and even less interest now. I promise you that.”
She could think of no single phrase that would express what she was feeling. Too many words tumbled about in her head, like a fortune-teller’s knucklebones. And she had no right to chide him—they had no claims on each other past what they wanted to make.
She drew in a constricted breath. “You will go to Huntington, then—”
“And come back.” Most definitive; the smile in his eyes was warm. “It may take a day or two—or three, knowing my father!—but I will come back to you. I promise, Marian.” He glanced briefly at the courtyard, where Hal gathered cobbles. His mouth tightened minutely. “I can do nothing now—”
“Here.” She gestured. “The gate is open, my lord—shall I walk you out of it?”
The glint in his eyes was pronounced. “Do, Lady Marian.”
She turned. “Hal—will you bring a horse for Sir Robert? He leaves for Huntington.”
“Aye, Lady Marian.”
“We’ll wait,” she said. Then, feeling jubilant again, because he was not deserting her utterly, “It would not do for him to bring the horse when we least expected it.”
“No,” he agreed gravely. “Marian—I will come back. He is not an easy man to deal with, but I will insist he understand.”
She felt the first touch of alarm. “Would he forbid you to see me?”
His face was very still. “He may forbid all manner of things—it was always his way. But I am no longer a boy. It is for me to shape my life.”
“You are his heir. What if he chose to disinherit you?”
“I am his only son—his only child.” Dryly, he added, “And there is no one else to inherit that monstrosity he has caused to be built.”
Marian laughed. “It is a most impressive castle.”
His tone was scornful. “A tribute to vanity ... worse than that, it is as much a beacon as the Beltane fire—he will use it to his own ends, because it gives him power. Power attracts others.” Robin shook his head. “His fine Norman castle speaks well of his wealth, but says nothing of his intentions save he can withstand any siege. It is a promise, Marian—‘do as I say,’ it says, ‘or beware how I can be used to withstand that which I do not approve.’ ”
“A message,” she declared. “He sends a message to John!”
“And to anyone else who dares to disagree with him.” Robin sighed, scraping a hand through shining hair. “Pray God they ransom Richard, or this realm could fall to John. And if John rules England, it will be because France permits it; he is in league with Philip. The king told me before he sailed for home.”
It was astonishing. “If the king knows—”
Robin shook his head. “What can he do from Germany?”
She understood that well enough. “But surely the ransom will be raised. England adores the Lionheart.”
“England can only contribute what money she has left. Richard drained her coffers to fuel the Crusade—I doubt there is enough to pay German Henry’s ransom.” His expression was grim. “Had my father looked to the king’s release rather than his own vanity ...” But he let it go as Hal approached with the horse. “I thank you.” He took the reins. Somberly, he said, “I will promise the horse better treatment this time.”
Marian had not asked what had driven him out into the storm, and did not now. She did not see that spending a night in a man’s bed—and in his arms—gave her the right to know all his secrets, or his private thoughts. “Come out,” she said quietly, and led the way through the gate.
It was a mistake, Sir Guy of Gisbourne decided as the cart journey jarred his wound. He should have stayed at Huntington another day at least, allowing his leg time to heal before banging it about in a rude cart driven by a carter who searched out every rut and pothole just to keep his passenger alert. But a part of his mind reminded him most d
istinctly he dared not let another day go by without supervising Nottingham Castle, or all his diligent work would be undone in a few days by the ineptitude of Walter and his ilk; nor could he allow the sheriff too much freedom from observation. It was necessary that he return to Nottingham, but he was not enjoying the painful journey.
Gisbourne managed a smile. Prince John had promised. Surely a promise from the future King of England was money in his purse.
The Earl of Huntington sat down at table and applied himself to the first meal of the day as Ralph served it. “Who?”
Ralph repeated himself. “Sir Hugh FitzWalter’s daughter, Lady Marian, of Ravenskeep. He died a year ago, on Crusade; she attended the feast in Sir Robert’s honor. It was she whom your son rescued from the boar.”
That woman; he recalled her well. The earl grunted acknowledgment. “And you say she has been kidnapped?”
“She was abducted during the fair by a man who was to be hanged for murdering four of Prince John’s men, my lord. Somehow he escaped, and abducted the lady as his parole. He took her with him into Sherwood Forest.”
Huntington’s mouth pinched tightly. It was most distressing that such behavior was allowed to occur, but the earl was convinced it was encouraged by a pervasive permissiveness he abhorred. It spoke poorly of Nottingham’s sheriff as well as the attitude of women in general.
“What is become of a woman’s chastity?” he asked. “First deLacey’s daughter, and now this dead knight’s girl. They should have more regard for their families.” The earl selected an apple and bit into it carefully, mindful of missing teeth. “It is just as well her father is dead, I suppose—she is quite despoiled, of course.”
“Undoubtedly, my lord. But she was seen on the Nottingham road with your son.”
“My son!” His attention sharpened. “What was my son doing with her?”
“There is talk he rescued her.”
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