“He had reason,” Robert said tightly. “There are those in the army who would swear I lay with the king.”
The subject was highly distasteful. The earl said, “You told John he had mistaken you for the lute-player—”
“He had.” Robert was very pale, speaking with precision. “It was Blondel, not I—but the king and I were intimate in matters of the spirit. There are those who will say whatever they wish to say.”
The earl pressed an age-spotted hand against his chest. “My God, Robert—if the king sires no heir...”
“I find it doubtful he could, my lord. He has resided in a prison for nearly a year.”
“When he returns—”
“If he returns—is that not what you suggested?”
The earl’s breath ran short. “Kings understand they must sire heirs. It is imperative. He would not overlook that responsibility, Robert. I am certain of that.” He had to be certain of it. He could not deal with the suggestion of perversity.
“He married Berengaria for two reasons only, my lord.” Robert’s voice was unrelenting. “To stop his mother’s nagging—Ya Allah, can she nag!—and to gain allies for the Crusade from King Sancho of Navarre. Sancho would have done nothing until his daughter was safely wed... so Richard married her, my lord. In Cyprus, after he conquered it. Had Berengaria escaped the storm that drove her ship to Cyprus...” He shrugged implication. “Had Isaac Comnenus not insulted Richard by repeated discourtesies toward the future Queen of England, I doubt the wedding would have happened at all.” He shook his head deliberately. “England would be far better off if she ransomed her king at once.”
“There is no money,” Huntington insisted. “The taxes have bled us dry.” He saw his son’s eloquent glance around the chamber. Testily he declared, “The castle is built, Robert. I cannot tear it down again merely to please your outraged sensibilities.”
Robert’s smile was slight. “Blame not John for your vanity. You built this castle for you.”
“And who shall inherit it, then? You blame me for taking jewels you claim your mother left to you—is this not enough?” A trembling hand stabbed out in a sharp gesture encompassing the chamber. “Which of us shall live more years inside these walls?”
It hit home, he saw, in the blaze of shame and anger. “I never wanted these walls!”
“Robert. Robert—” The earl spread his hands. “Look at me. I am old. All of my children save you are dust in the ground. And you also, I feared, when word came of your capture—” He swallowed painfully. “I had no one left. No wife, no sons, no daughters... the only thing I had was the shell of this castle. It was my duty to fill it.”
The mask began to crack. “You began it before I left!”
Huntington nodded. “And I finished it in your name. It was all I had left, Robin.” The use of the nickname was deliberate. “Stone in place of flesh. Memories in place of reality—”
“But I never was here,” Robert cried. “If memories are what you desired, you should have stayed in Huntington Hall!”
The earl felt older yet. He had failed to make a man of his youngest, most fanciful son, who managed somehow to survive when none of the other boys did; it was God’s most telling irony that wondrous Huntington Castle be left to an utter fool.
Even the Crusade had not proved beneficial. Too soft, the earl reflected. Knighted or not, there is too much of his mother in him.
Fifty-Five
Tuck methodically gathered together his few belongings, trying to think of nothing but each individual motion as a ritual of blessedly simple requirements: first this, then this, then this. Once the ritual was completed he paid his final addresses to God in the tiny castle chapel. The prayers were difficult: a part of him felt vindicated that he had at last refused to follow the orders of a man obviously damned, and had saved a woman’s soul—and virtue—in the doing of it; but the other part of him quailed beneath the knowledge his religious vocation was doomed. A single letter to Abbot Martin would destroy his career, and he had no doubt the sheriff would send that letter.
Ponderously Tuck made his way through the hall to the keep door. It was there a woman met him: the sheriffs daughter, Eleanor, who gave him a basket containing wrapped parcels. Food, she told him, and then directed him to wait outside the southern gatehouse after he had passed through.
Curiosity dissipated the dullness of his despair. He would never again accept anything at face value. “Why?”
Eleanor cast a brief glance over her shoulder, clearly irritated by the delay his question caused. “Do as I say,” she snapped, as autocratic as her father, with less subtlety. “There is good reason, I promise you... after what you have already done, this won’t prove a worthless task.” Her mouth was a grim, fixed line in the sallow sullenness of her expression. “I do this for myself, but it will reflect well upon me regardless... remind God of that tonight, in your prayers.”
He was confused. “Lady—”
“Just go,” she hissed. “Wait beyond the gate, as I told you.” Then, acidly, “Have you anything better to do?”
He had not, of course. Tuck nodded glumly and exited the keep.
DeLacey assumed an appropriately concerned expression as he faced Marian’s attendant, the woman named Joan, behind the screen dividing hall from kitchen passageway. “So you see, I think it best she remain here until she is fully recovered. A slight fever only, but these things can prove dangerous if left untended.”
Joan’s frown betokened a difficulty. “She felt well enough earlier.”
“I have known fevers to come on very quickly,” he said calmly, as yet unruffled; he had dealt with worse than she. “It really is best if you go back.”
“But shouldn’t you let me tend her? She knows me, and would be more comfortable with me beside her.”
DeLacey shook his head. He lied very well, because he took care to tell as much of the truth as possible, phrasing it in such a way as to put the woman at ease. “The Lady Marian is more concerned that Ravenskeep be put into proper order after the storm. She had not intended to remain here, of course... now she must, and she fears the villeins might succumb to idleness while she is away.” He knew her villeins were idle, judging by the condition of the manor; he knew also Marian had not intended to stay after delivering her message.
All was confirmed in the woman’s eyes. “Roger,” she muttered grimly. “With so much work facing him, he’ll likely run away again.”
Inwardly he rejoiced. “There now, do you see? It will set her mind at ease if she knows you are there to oversee matters.”
Twin lines knitted Joan’s brows. “She caught it from him, I’ll wager.”
DeLacey frowned. “From whom?” A genuine fever, then, and probably a villein’s; possibly even difficult Roger. Marian was one of those who took too personal an interest in how her peasants fared. Another reason why she will do better married to me.
“Sir Robert,” the woman answered. “He stayed the night with fever after he brought her back from the boar hunt.” Blue eyes were guileless; the woman spoke a version of the truth with no hint of special knowledge.
“Sir Robert of Locksley?”
“Aye, my lord. He left only this morning—she decided not long after to come here.”
The timing was exquisite, too definitive for coincidence. He had never anticipated convincing Marian to marry him would be easy, but now he understood completely the newfound conviction that gave her the strength to oppose him even against her father’s wishes.
She fancies herself in love.
He had known it from the first, from the moment he learned from Archaumbault that it was Locksley who had effected her rescue, Locksley who escorted her back to Ravenskeep. Had it not been for John’s poorly timed arrival at Nottingham Castle, he might have been able to assume the role of the rescuer, supplanting the heroic Sir Robert.
Cold fury abraded his soul, but deLacey showed none of it to Joan. “I thank you for your concern; I will see to it your
lady is told how reluctant you were to leave her. But I think it best. It may rain at any moment. She would be very foolish to court danger by riding home in poor weather.”
Troubled, Joan nodded. “They’ll have need of me there.”
“To put—Roger—?” she nodded, “in his place, no doubt.” His tone was dry. “Some villeins are fools not to accept their place.”
“He’s a troublemaker,” she conceded. “I’ve no use for a man like him; I told my lady many times she should send him off, but she refuses.”
“She is tender-hearted.” A light touch on the woman’s arm turned her toward the kitchens. “Please, have a meal packed so you may sup on the road. Your horse is being readied. I’ll send a man with you.”
Joan’s eyes were avid. “You’ll send for me if she worsens?”
“At once,” he assured her warmly.
Abraham the Jew was a kind man of infinite patience who bore ill will toward no man because he believed it reflected poorly on his faith. Why give a Christian the satisfaction of claiming his belief in Jewish perfidy was proved by bad behavior? It was a far more telling blow, Abraham felt, to show kindness to his tormentors, because the resultant frustration was in its way a subtle sort of retribution.
Most galling, he knew, was that so very many Christian nobles were required to borrow money, and to pay the loan back with interest that benefited Jews. They were willing enough to go into debt over this petty trifle or that, but utterly unwilling to understand that usury was a business, not a personal affront. And certainly not the sort of heinous transgression punishable by insults and physical harm. Abraham himself was known as a fair man—for a Jew—who did not unnecessarily trouble a man for payment even when it was past due. He even forgave some debts; he saw no sense, for instance, in asking a poor widow to pay for her dead husband’s folly.
Sir Robert of Locksley—Robin, he had said quietly—poked the leather pouch on the table between them with a rigid finger. His mouth was a thin, grim line. “Not enough, then.”
In an attempt to mask much, the tone betrayed all. Abraham, who understood more of empathy and sympathy than most because his business bared a man’s soul, felt sincere compassion. Gently he said, “I pray you, my young lord, consider it not as a matter of amount, but a matter of business. The jewels were not given to me as surety against later payment in coin, but as partial payment of themselves.”
The fair face blanched paler. “You sold them.”
Abraham made a practiced gesture of helplessness that was, in this case, genuine. “There are circumstances when all a client may offer is something of the family—silver plate, jewelry—which serves me only as a means of discharging a debt, not as a personal item. Therefore if someone expresses an interest in purchasing the item, I accept the transaction.”
Robin nodded tightly. “I understand.”
Without question, Abraham knew; some of them did. “I am sorry, my lord.” He truly was. There were those who came to him with glib falsehoods designed to win his trust or his compassion, but he had trained himself very young to distinguish between truth and falsehood. Huntington’s heir told the truth, but expected no largesse. He intended to buy back his legacy. “There is nothing I can do.”
Robin nodded again. “They were not for me,” he said quietly. “Yes, originally—she meant them for my wife, when I married—but not now. I intended to send them to Chancellor Longchamp, for the king’s ransom.”
“Ah.” First a start of surprise, then Abraham suppressed the accompanying twinge of dismay that threatened to alter the professional neutrality of his tone. Mildly he said, “Then you would do better to give your money to the sheriff.”
“Then one might suppose William deLacey has replaced Longchamp as chancellor.”
The response surprised the Jew. He had not heard cynicism in the young man’s tone before. “No, my lord,” Abraham demurred politely, “but one might suggest the sheriff has of late become overzealous on Longchamp’s behalf.” Exasperation showed a little; he squashed it without compunction. “Were you to give me that purse in exchange for the jewelry, the sheriff would soon have both.” He gazed steadily at Robin, making no excuses; offering no apology for his unprofessional candor. “In three days’ time, I am told; he put it to me quite plainly.”
Robin had no reluctance to state what he believed; but then he was Christian, and could, and his station gave him full blessing. “I would not wager a penny that this collection would go to London. More likely into deLacey’s coffers...” He frowned, eyes narrowing. “Or perhaps into John’s.” His gaze sharpened. “We spoke of this before.”
“Indeed.” Abraham was determined to remain noncommital. It served no Jew to publicly state an opinion on matters of policy. Christian sensibilities took offense so easily.
The young knight—so young! War is indeed harsh—sighed wearily and rubbed his brow, baring the knurled gouge that bespoke a head injury of some seriousness. But at least he had survived, Abraham reflected; many Crusaders had not.
Robin reached for the purse. “Then I will take it back and keep it for myself—” But he broke off, staring fixedly at Abraham. “You have collected coin for the king’s ransom before...” the Jew nodded “—what if you were to send your money to London, to Longchamp himself, instead of to the sheriff?”
Abraham shrugged. “We would be punished, my lord. And Longchamp would never know.”
“Then pay only part of what is due. Set part aside, and send that to London.” Robin picked up the purse, moved his hand closer to Abraham, then smacked the leather pouch back down with a metallic clink of finality. “The sheriff need never know.”
Abraham smiled sadly. “We can be searched at any time, and our property seized.”
Robin shook his head. “You must do business with your brother Jews in London... that is where Longchamp rules in Richard’s stead.”
“Of course, my lord. Regularly.”
“Does the sheriff interfere with those shipments?”
“Not so long as we pay the taxes in good time.”
“Then pay them.” Robin pushed back his stool and rose. The rushlight was kind to his coloring; a Michael, Abraham reflected, or perhaps a Gabriel, fair hair shining. With a single outstretched finger, Robin indicated the purse. “Set that aside, Abraham. When I have brought you more, you must send it to William Longchamp.”
Abraham gestured helplessness. “All well and good, my lord—but how are you to get more?”
Robin’s expression was hard. “My father stole from me. I shall do him the same favor.”
Gisbourne started out of his doze when someone—or something—knocked sharply on his door. He thrust a hand through the disarray of his hair, pushed himself up against the bolsters and resettled his leg, then called for whoever it was to enter.
Eleanor came in with crude crutches in her hands.
He understood instantly. “No.”
“You must.” She swung the door closed with a foot. “He put her under guard.”
He eyed the crutches with dismay. He recalled all too clearly how the cart ride had hurt, and the transfer from cart to bed. “The guards won’t listen to me.”
“One man,” she said. “Before God, are you that incompetent? You are seneschal, Gisbourne ... you may not be a man to inspire much personal devotion, but you have some authority here.” She held out the crutches, thumping the knobbed ends of the sticks against the floor. “If you concoct a plausible falsehood, the man will believe you. You should realize that. Have you learned nothing from my father?”
He chewed at a thumbnail.
Eleanor thumped the crutches again. “The monk did his part. Now you must do yours.”
He wiped his sweating face. “I am hardly dressed properly to convince anyone of anything.”
Eleanor propped the crutches against the door and strode to his single trunk, from which she pulled a fresh bliaut. She threw it at him. “There,” she said venomously. “Do you wish me to put it on you?”
His face flamed. “No.”
“Good. I prefer to undress men.” She snatched up the crutches and leaned them against his bed. “Don’t delay, Gisbourne. The monk is waiting for her. I want Marian FitzWalter gone from here immediately.” Her eyes were angry, he saw; she hated her that much. “If it convinces you, Gisbourne, this service will most assuredly commend you to her. What imprisoned woman would not look with favor upon the man who helped her escape?”
He had not thought of it that way. Hastily he reached out for the bliaut even as Eleanor laughed.
Nottingham was still a quagmire. Robin, watching where he allowed the horse to step as he traded the Jewish Quarter for Market Square, reined in sharply as a slight figure darted from an alley directly into his path. A deft hand caught at the reins.
“Much!” Robin leaned forward urgently. “Don’t show yourself like this!”
The boy grinned, displaying residual grease left over from a meat pasty. He stepped around the horse and caught at the stirrup, holding up a bunched fist. “Ro-bin.”
Robin reached down. A purse with leather thongs sliced through was put into his hand. “Much—”
But the boy merely grinned more broadly. “Lionheart.”
“Much, wait...” He swung down from the horse. “Here—come with me.” He led his mount into the alley with Much following. There he stood against a building with the horse serving as a shield for them both. Robin held out the purse. “How often do you do this?”
Much shrugged guileless ignorance.
Robin hid a smile. “And if I told you not to, you would do it anyway?”
The boy’s dark eyes glinted. A sullen look altered his face from bright alertness to withdrawal. Thin shoulders hunched.
Robin, who knew a mask when he saw one, shook his head. “No, Much—I am not your father. I will not tell you what to do—or what not to do.” He smiled crookedly as the boy’s expression relaxed. “If you want to serve the Lionheart, who am I to say you nay? And Richard needs the money; I doubt he will object.” He glanced out at Market Square, taking care they were not seen. “Much.” He was serious now, and saw that the boy knew it. “There is a man, a Jew, called Abraham. He’s a moneylender. Do you know him?”
Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] Page 59