Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  Henry Bohun stirred, leaning one hip against a merlon. “England is in a sorry state,” he said. “John is systematically raping our economy—”

  “The king did much the same,” Robin interrupted. “Its cause was the Crusade, not personal greed, but the result is as much his responsibility as John’s.”

  De Vesci glowered. “Do you support Softsword? After riding with his brother?”

  “I do not support John.” He spoke with careful conciseness so they would not misunderstand. “I swore to serve the king, and I do wholeheartedly. What I question is the motivation.”

  “You have been gone too long.” Robin knew that tone: his father was highly displeased. His son had dared to criticize him in front of his peers. “So long, in fact, you have absolutely no understanding of how things stand in England.”

  That was true, but he could give them nothing. “I understand that England is indeed very poor. I also understand that she must be made poorer, if we are to buy back her king.”

  “Damn you!” The earl trembled with anger. “Do you question your father? Do you question your betters?”

  “No,” he answered coolly. “Only your plans for me.”

  De Vesci swore. “By God, you were quick enough to take the Crusader’s oath and ride off to the Holy Land! But now that we ask a simple thing of you—”

  “Simple? To marry John’s daughter?” Robin shook his head. “It’s his ploy, my lords... why make it yours?”

  “Because the only way you can beat John is to use his methods,” the earl snapped. “He is not a fool, Robert; don’t assume he has no resources. But if we appear to do as he wishes, we can use it for our own good.”

  Robin shrugged. “If marrying one of your people to John’s bastard girl will help save England, then by all means do it. All I would ask is that you look to someone else for your sacrificial lamb.”

  “Robert!” Huntington was nearly purple. “By God, boy—”

  “My lords.” He turned to them. “My lords, I do apologize, but I have no doubt there are alternative plans. Until twelve days ago you could not even be certain I was alive; until four days ago no one even knew John planned to dangle this girl as bait.” He bowed with careful grace. “If you will excuse me ... I was ill overnight.” Before his father could mouth another protest, Robin turned on his heel and strode back down the sentry-walk to the stairs.

  He is the same man he was when I left England... the same man he was when my mother died—He shut it off abruptly as he descended stiffly. What had he expected? That his return from the dead would alter his father’s character? Only a fool would think so. Only a dreamer could. The Earl of Huntington had been shaped decades ago, long before he married a fey, ethereal woman utterly alien to his ken, before any of his children were born, before any of them died. Save the last one: me. He sighed heavily as his boot struck the cobbles of the bailey. It will be more difficult than I thought.

  Tuck was in the chapel praying when Walter opened the door. He heard the scrape of wood on stone and swung painfully on his knees, fearful of the message.

  Walter’s face was taut. “He wants you,” he said. “It’s come, Brother Tuck.”

  Tuck hung there a moment, unable even to breathe. And then the breath started again, filling up his chest, and he knew he could not give it all to God. He had been weak, and a fool, succumbing to a will much firmer than his own, as he always did. As he always had.

  Tuck sighed heavily, admitting a thing he had no desire to acknowledge: that there were times when a man, with only the assistance of God, had to make his own decisions.

  He nodded at Walter, wiping a trembling hand over his damp, fleshy face. Then he turned back briefly to the altar, crossed himself with crisp, deliberate precision, and climbed ponderously to his feet.

  He wants you, Walter had said. It’s come, Brother Tuck.

  He walked slowly and mechanically toward the narrow door.

  Fifty-Four

  Robin walked into the great hall of Huntington Castle and stopped deliberately in the center. Gravely he studied the immensity of masonry, the timber floor covered with rushes, the architectural advancement his father said were trusses, which held up the roof through the use of elaborate arched vaults instead of relying on columns; and indeed, the roof did stay up, rising above his head in seductive symmetry. Painted silks hung over walls, and the ornate musician’s gallery stretched from side to side like a walkway to heaven itself.

  Lastly he looked at the dais, upon which he had stood with the earl to receive much of England in celebration of his return.

  Robin smiled. And Marian.

  He recalled it very vividly: the moment she’d stopped before him to make her little speech. She had been to him then as all the others, merely a woman, until he allowed her beauty to register so strongly as to deny it absolutely, because he dared not let close a woman to a man as defiled as he; and then her name had trapped him utterly: Marian FitzWalter, the daughter to whom Sir Hugh had charged him to carry a special message.

  His slow smile stretched his bruised face, then altered into a grin of quiet satisfaction. He nodded, thinking of Marian, and turned to make his way out of the hall to the chamber serving as his own. He was brought up short by an unexpected discomfort in his left boot: his newly returned purse had worked its way too low, rubbing annoyingly against his ankle.

  Robin bent and dug fingers deep between leather and hosen, working until he caught the severed thongs and dragged the pouch free. He hefted it assessively. From the weight, Much had spent none of it.

  Lionheart, the boy had said. And why not? German Henry desired to be paid for his hospitality before he would consider releasing his honored guest. What England had raised so far simply was not enough. Perhaps it was time everyone contributed their purses.

  He raked the hall with a glance of contempt. My father might well have made his castle smaller and given the balance to the ransom—And then he checked the thought. He had little money of his own, and Abraham the Jew said the Locksley rents were already depleted; what then was left? What resources did he have to donate to the cause?

  Laggardly, he remembered. “My mother ...” he murmured. “Ya Allah, I’d forgotten—”

  He had resources yet: the casket of jewels she had willed upon her death to her only surviving child. She had meant it for his wife, but Robin had the feeling Marian wouldn’t mind.

  He strode out of the hall at last. His mother’s jewels would do nicely. No doubt Abraham would give him a good price for them, and know how to send on the money.

  DeLacey stood at an angle to Marian, shoulder turned obliquely. He glanced about casually as if to assess the ordering of his hall. In no way did he indicate the intensity of his anticipation as the moment drew nearer. He wanted to shout aloud exultantly, crying his jubilation, because to him it was as gratifying as carnal congress to witness a plan come together.

  The sound of footsteps echoed sibilantly as the six-man guard came into the hall. From the corner of his eye he saw Marian turn her head to mark them, to watch in polite disinterest, believing them present merely to escort her home if she declared that her desire.

  Tuck entered then, coming into candleglow out of dimness. His face was pale, but his gaze was clear and steady.

  Good. He is prepared. DeLacey gestured slightly, indicating where Tuck was to stand. He drew in a deep breath, released it very slowly. Now. He savored the slight turn, the idleness of his gaze, the controlled approach. He felt much like one of his falcons, preparing to fold his wings and stoop upon the prey.

  DeLacey smiled disarmingly, watching the play of emotions in Marian’s face: curiosity, wariness, a subtle involuntary recoil. The bruises and scratches marring her beauty were still visible, but such disfigurements would fade. He would tend them himself.

  He paused before her, deepened the warmth of his smile, then reached out smoothly and caught both her hands in his own. He did not permit her to withdraw them. “Marian,” he said tenderly, �
��you know very well your father would approve.”

  In that instant, she understood. Vivid color stained her face. A flash in her eyes took him aback; not anger, as one might expect, but guilt. It was gone quickly, replaced fourfold by intense displeasure, but clearly there was more here than even he had anticipated.

  Comprehension was abrupt. “By God—” he blurted, “he did want this—”

  “No.” She tried again unsuccessfully to pull her hands free. “If he knew what you truly were, he would never countenance friendship, let alone a marriage.” She tugged ineffectually. “Let go--”

  DeLacey was stunned. “I see it now. I see it now very clearly... he told you this before he left, but you decided to deny me—”

  Her eyes were fever-bright with anger. “He did no such thing—”

  “Or else he sent word.” Shock was fading; his mind worked rapidly to assess the circumstances, to repair his broken approach. He understood now. “You must have known for some time what your father wanted ... and it is your foolish woman’s fancies that leads you to this folly—” “It isn’t folly to desire to make my own decision,” she declared. Then, furiously, “Will you let go—?”

  “Yes.” And he did, but only briefly, long enough for him to shift his grip to her arms, to spin her in place so the guards were at her back and Tuck stood before her. “Marian, this is Father Tuck. I admit I had intended to act wholly selfishly in this, merely to please my own interests, but now I see there is much more to it than that. Indeed, I see that this is necessary if only to please your father.” He nodded at Tuck. “Begin the ceremony.”

  The monk stared at Marian as if transfixed. Perspiration stippled his upper lip. His mouth trembled minutely.

  “Father,” deLacey said meaningfully, “pray, begin the ceremony.”

  Tuck looked at him. “No.”

  DeLacey was astounded. “By God—you will—”

  “By God, I will not.” Tuck smiled nervously at Marian. “Be at ease, lady—I am monk, not priest. Nothing here is binding.”

  Marian tore free. DeLacey looked only at Tuck. “Fool,” he said softly. “O corpulent, fatuous fool, who once was a monk but shall end his days as nothing.”

  Tuck’s eyes filled with tears, but his gaze held steady. “Indeed,” he said unevenly. “I should have refused you before.”

  DeLacey turned to the liveried guard. “Escort the Lady Marian to private chambers, and leave one of your number outside the door at all times.” He cast her a pitying glance. “Your behavior merely proves that you require a man’s guidance. Your father would be appalled.”

  Marian was furious. “By your behavior, yes—”

  “Take her,” he told the guard. “Lodge her most comfortably.” He waved fingers in Tuck’s direction, as if flicking off a distasteful substance. “Go,” he said softly. “Be assured Abbot Martin will be informed.”

  A glint of rebellion flashed briefly in the monk’s bovine eyes. “Have you anyone here who can write?”

  DeLacey laughed. “There is always Gisbourne. There will always be a Gisbourne.”

  The earl paused silently in the open doorway, watching his son. That Robert was as yet unaware of his presence was obvious, or surely he would have instantly stopped the haphazard excavation of his trunks. Lids were raised on several, leaning against brick walls; contents spilled over the sides and out onto the floor; a pile of personal items was left in the center of the bed, heaped in disarray.

  The untidiness offended the earl. Did the boy learn nothing of neatness while on Crusade?

  “Robert.” His lips thinned; he had come to speak of something else, but this was a beginning. It had never been easy to talk with his son as a boy; it was less easy now. “What are you doing?”

  Startled, Robert stopped digging at once and jerked his head upright, swinging on his knees to stare blankly at his father. The earl marked all over again the bruises on his son’s face, and the alteration of his expression from annoyed concentration to a rigid, frozen mask in which only the eyes were alive.

  “Looking for something,” Robert answered. Then, with infinite clarity, “Something of mine is missing.”

  “Nothing is missing,” the earl retorted, irritated by the disarray that did not appear to disturb his son. “All was moved here from Huntington Hall. If you have lost something, it is due more to your habitual sloppiness than any inefficiency on the part of the servants.”

  Robert cast the open trunks a shuttered glance, and spared another for the pile of clothing in the center of his bed. Then his gaze returned to his father. “My mother’s jewels are missing.”

  The earl blinked. He had not thought of the jewels in some time, nor the woman who had worn them. “Certainly not,” he said crisply. “Do not lay blame where none is due; it is not appropriate behavior for men of rank.” A gentle rebuke only. “I disposed of the jewels some time ago. Two years, in fact.”

  “Disposed—” Robert blanched very pale. The scar along his jaw stood out plainly. “By what right did you do that?”

  The earl impatiently reminded his son of the ordering of their lives. “By the right of a husband, to whom all possessions pass upon the marriage sacrament.”

  Robert’s hands gripped the trunk tightly. “She left her jewelry to me, to be bestowed upon the woman I marry.”

  Huntington permitted himself the luxury of faint contempt in order to make a point. “Do you believe Prince John will not provide better for his daughter than a handful of trumpery jewels?”

  For a long moment Robert did not respond. Then he said in a deadly tone, “They were hers.” The bruises showed uglier against the pallor of anger. “When she died, they became mine; she told me so, my lord. She told me before she died.”

  Probably she had; it was very like her to impetuously give away something that belonged to her husband. “She was always too tender-hearted.” The earl shook his head, smoothing the drape of his robe. “What does it matter, Robert? If you require money, you need only ask.”

  “Very well.” The tone was dry. “Give me the loan of one hundred thousand marks.”

  “One hundred thousand!” The earl nearly gaped, but recovered himself in time to gaze sternly at his recalcitrant heir. “What is this babble, Robert? Have you gone mad?”

  “Not for me, my lord. To buy back the King of England.”

  It was utterly preposterous. Did the boy learn nothing at all of reality while in the Holy Land? “A flight of fancy, Robert,” he said heavily, intending to squash it flat. “Do you think I have given nothing toward the ransom? Do you think the Huntington coffers are bottomless?”

  “Indeed, no. That is obvious, if you are moved to sell off what is not yours.” Robert slammed down the trunk lid and got to his feet. “My lord, if you will excuse me—it will take some time to put order to my chamber.”

  The dismissal was obvious. He’s learned that of me, at least, the earl reflected. “Robert, the Jews are not always the most patient of men—”

  “So you gave them my mother’s jewels as partial payment.”

  He had permitted the boy much latitude since his return. It is time Robert recalls who the master is. “I do as I see fit, with no seed of my loins rearing up to say me nay.”

  The contempt was brief, but plain. “No, my lord.”

  Anger flared dully within Huntington’s narrow chest. “By God—do you question me yet? What I do, I do for England!”

  “If your quarrel is with Prince John, would it not be more prudent to spend money on the king’s return instead of on useless symbols?” Robert gestured with a hand. “The cost of this castle might have paid more than half the ransom.”

  The earl was truly annoyed. “This castle was begun before Richard was captured,” he retorted. “It was begun before you left on Crusade, which you well know. These things take time.”

  Robert’s face was tense. “Marrying me to John’s bastard will not aid England.”

  “Is that it?” The earl’s laugh was harsh. �
�Are we to that? By God, Robert, you are but a mummer in this play.” He shook his head and sighed. “You assume the worst and respond without considering all the facts.”

  “My lord—”

  “If John believes you the best match for his bastard, we would be a fool to say him nay. There is every chance the king may not return, leaving his brother to rule in his stead—”

  “Why do you say the king may not return?”

  “Because, given the opportunity—which he will concoct himself!—John will buy Henry’s willingness to keep King Richard imprisoned.” The earl was truly exasperated. How can a son of my loins be so naive? “By God, Robert—use your wits... John is a ruthless, ambitious man who wants to rule England! He will destroy whomever he must to win the throne, but he knows very well that while Richard lives he cannot... and since the king is now married, John must move very quickly to usurp the throne before an heir is born. It should be no surprise to you that he seeks to ingratiate himself with the finest families in England—he needs us! If enough of us moved to thwart him, we could bring him down.”

  “Then it is a true conspiracy.”

  “John would see it as such. Richard would applaud it; it is designed to keep his realm whole.” The earl shook his head. “Much has happened while you were gone.”

  “Indeed, so it would seem.” Bleakness replaced Robert’s anger. “England is in greater danger than you believe. If there is no male heir, Richard will have to leave England to his brother.”

  “Naturally the king will see to it there is a son,” the earl declared. “Undoubtedly it will be one of the first orders of business.”

  The answering silence was loud.

  The implication infuriated the earl. “By God, Robert, you would have me think—” He broke off, dismay tempered by outrage. “Are you suggesting there is truth to that ridiculous rumor?” His face contorted. “That is a scurrilous falsehood put forth by John to discredit the king! You should know that better than anyone, Robert. Did the prince not accuse you of basest infamy?”