“I have asked nothing of you. Commanded nothing of you. Demanded nothing of you—” He raised a silencing hand before his son could interrupt to dispute the matter. “In five years.”
Now the answer was different. There were no grounds for dispute. “You have not,” Robert confirmed with obvious reluctance.
“Nor do I do so now. Save for one thing.”
The faint smile was bitter.
Huntington stirred beneath the bed linens. With one aching hand he groomed the coverlet. In a muted voice, he said, “Tell me what you would have me be.”
This was unexpected. His son stared at him, plainly taken aback.
And again: “If you could make me into the father you would have preferred, what man would I be?”
His son remained mute, and rigid as the chair.
“Tell me, Robin. The truth. How could I have done better?”
At the name his mother had bestowed and others used freely, lids flickered briefly. Something moved in the hazel eyes, something kindled, blazed, then was abruptly extinguished. He was not yet weaned. Not yet won.
“I have been true to myself,” Huntington explained. “I have done what I believed necessary for the good of the family. Means and methods do not always agree with the designs and desires of others; they did not agree with you.”
“They did not.”
Huntington drew in an uneven breath. “If I have wronged you, Robin, I do apologize.”
So profoundly shocked was his son by the statement that he was entirely incapable of speech. He blanched white as the finest bed linen. Eyes transformed themselves to opacity. Even his lips, as they slackened, were pale.
“It is my deepest regret,” Huntington said, “that we have lost so many years.”
After a moment Robert managed speech. “All of them.”
Protest rose to the earl’s lips—surely not all of them; had there not been a time when he and the boy were in accord?—but he swallowed it and deferred. “All of them?”
His son rose. Somewhat unsteadily he wandered to the deep-cut window embrasure and stood there, his back to the room, to his father. His arms were folded against his chest as if he hugged himself. And perhaps he did. He seemed oddly reduced, undone by the admission. He set his brow against the stone.
Even his words were sluggish. “I wish . . .”
The earl waited.
“I wish you might have said this to my mother.”
Huntington asked, “How do you know I did not?”
Robert turned. His body trembled with avid tension. “Did you?” The earl said nothing.
“Did you?”
“I did not,” Huntington said. “That, too, I regret. And so I make amends to you. For you . . . and for her.”
His son yet hugged himself. He collapsed against the wall beside the embrasure, wincing slightly, and stared into the pallor of candlelight. There was, the earl saw, a sheen of tears in his eyes.
The time is now. “Forgive me,” Huntington said, “but I tire easily. Perhaps you will come back later?”
Robert, yet lost, stared at him blankly.
“Later,” the earl said, and reached for wine with trembling hands.
Robert, stirring laggardly from his reverie, hastily took up the cup from the bedside table and set it into his father’s hands. Fingers briefly brushed. The earl reflected it was the first time they had touched one another in more than two decades.
“Send Ralph to me,” Huntington said hoarsely.
“You should rest.”
The earl sipped wine; indeed, that much was true. The weakness was unfeigned. “And so I shall . . . but there is a matter Ralph must tend first.”
“Let me.”
Huntington considered it, let the consideration show; then smiled faintly and shook his head. “Ralph is more familiar with the household and with my business.”
Then came the words he had sacrificed dignity for: “Ralph has been more of a son than I.”
The earl gazed into the cup and forbore to offer answer, which was answer of itself.
The door thumped closed. Huntington bared his teeth in a brief, feral grin, and drank to his victory.
William deLacey, deep in his dungeon, left off his labors over the Exchequer cloth and cast a murderous glare at Sir Guy of Gisbourne, who stood in the door he had just unlocked and opened to announce a visitor. Belatedly. “Where is he?”
Gisbourne raised his brows. “In the kitchens, of course. He has ridden hard on his errand; I sent him there for food and drink.”
“It might have waited,” deLacey said between his teeth. “It should have waited until after he had given his message to me.”
“You said you were not to be disturbed.” Gisbourne paused. “You said it twice.”
The sheriff lost the remains of his patience. “I am always to be disturbed for the king’s messenger, you fool!” Particularly as it was very likely the word the man carried was of the king’s death. But then, Gisbourne was not aware of that. So far as deLacey knew, only he, the Earl of Huntington, and the miscreants at Ravenskeep were privy to the news of Richard’s impending death.
“Fetch him to the hall,” the sheriff said in irritation, folding up the painted cloth. “I shall meet him there.” He stowed the Exchequer behind one of the coin chests, then stomped out of the cell with Gisbourne in tow, taking care to lock the door before he put the key into the pouch at his belt. As steward, Gisbourne had a complete set of keys that fit every lock within and without the castle, but deLacey preferred to carry a few of the most vital on his person. “Did he indicate any manner of haste?”
Gisbourne’s breathing was loud as he followed deLacey up the stairs. “He had ridden hard, my lord, and had little breath left to speak. Beyond asking for you, he said nothing—although . . .”
“Although?”
Gisbourne’s tone sounded abashed. “He did insist it wasn’t necessary that he should be fed immediately.”
“But you saw to it he was ushered into the kitchens regardless.”
“Your orders had made it clear—”
“My orders are that I should be apprised of any royal messenger at any hour of the day or night!”
“And I know that,” Gisbourne observed with stolid persistence. Then added, “Now.”
DeLacey stopped so short upon the stair that Gisbourne nearly slipped. The sheriff looked over his shoulder, considering the entertaining possibility of shoving his steward down the stairs so he might never have to deal with his exasperating truculence again. But Gisbourne was by nature uniquely suited to his stewardship, and deLacey needed him until he could find another.
There was also the small matter of Gisbourne being his son-in-law, and the father—well, save for one, possibly—of the sheriff’s grandchildren, though he doubted Eleanor would care if her husband lived or died. He had insisted upon the marriage as much to annoy his daughter as to deflect the shame of her out-of-wedlock pregnancy.
DeLacey, still stopped upon the stairs, reconsidered the setting for the meeting. “Bring the messenger to my solar instead.”
“My lord?”
“This may be better done in private.” He began climbing again. Better done in private so I might consider how best to react with only a single man as witness. Because no one knew, nor could one surmise, how the politics would play themselves out over the next few months.
DeLacey grimaced. The king was dead. Long live the king.
John, surely.
Or possibly Arthur.
“Money,” deLacey muttered. “Money bought Richard out of imprisonment. And money shall make us a new king.”
“My lord?”
“Never mind, Gisbourne. Just send the messenger to me at once.”
The truculence and slyness had vanished. Gisbourne, too, was working out the potential ramifications of the royal messenger’s unexpected visit. “Yes, my lord.”
John. Surely.
But possibly not.
DeLacey wondered wha
t sort of reception the erstwhile Count of Mortain would give his letter offering support.
“Money,” he muttered again.
This time Gisbourne was mute.
When Much arrived beside her, Marian was engaged in trimming back rose canes weighted with voluminous blossoms. The postern gate was nearly obscured by a tangle of canes and stems, and Will Scarlet had already complained of thorns snagging and shredding his tunic whenever he used the gate; his fear now, he said lugubriously, was that an eye might be next. Marian took the hint.
Much was taller now than she, though she thought it likely he weighed less. His growth had come quickly, too quickly for grace; and that had always been Much’s gift. He was all pimples and knees and elbows and spindly bones, and would remain so until his body became reacquainted with itself; though, from the look of him, there existed the possibility that physical symmetry might not reoccur until the next century.
Marian eyed him, marking a tangible if subtle anxiety, but knew better than to ask him directly what was on his mind. Much was far more likely to answer that sort of question when she asked an entirely different kind on a completely separate topic. But then, so were most of the men she knew.
As she worked on a notably woody cane, Marian took care to keep accusation or irony from her tone. “Did you put the stolen horse in the sheriff’s stable?”
Much nodded.
But tactics failed as her normal nature reasserted itself. “Foolishness,” she murmured, thinking an ax might be better for this particular cane.
“Robin said.”
“I know Robin said. But Robin, much as I love him, isn’t always right.” She caught a glimpse of disbelief on the pimpled face. “Well, he isn’t! I realize he’s your hero, but—”
“Lionheart,” Much said; his tone implied nothing more was required to make his opinion known.
Marian sighed. “I suppose in his way he is a little like the Lionheart. But even the king can be a fool occasionally, and let pride defeat him.” She felt the wrench within her heart; England’s hero-king was gone. “You might have been caught, Much—”
“No.”
“Yes. You were caught once, were you not?—and right in front of me!”
His face reddened with shame. He recalled it as well as she: their first introduction in Nottingham, as the sheriff caught the simpleton boy attempting to steal his own purse. Much had nearly lost a hand for it; and still might, if deLacey had cause to catch him again. Or if the pardon were revoked.
But she knew his shame was not inspired by his thievery. It was because he had been caught, and right in front of her.
She gave up temporarily on the one defiant cane and turned to others less inclined to defeat her efforts, dropping them to the pile at her feet. A new tactic occurred. “If Robin told you not to steal, would you stop?”
“Didn’t steal,” he declared. “Horse already was stolen.”
Marian grimaced; in point of fact, he was correct. “Setting aside that horse for the moment, what about the purses you cut in Nottingham?—and don’t lie, Much. I know you still do it.”
He refused to meet her eyes. Instead, he gazed very hard at the pile of discarded canes from under a swathe of lank hair.
“I know you stole for the king,” Marian said patiently. “For the Lionheart, when he was imprisoned in Germany. So did Robin and the others when they took the tax money. But that time is past, Much. There is no need for such. You have a home with us.”
“Not now,” he muttered.
She stopped cutting roses. “What do you mean?”
His mouth was mutinous. “Locksley.”
Now Marian understood. “I know, Much . . . but it isn’t safe here. Not now. Not until we know what the sheriff might do. You are all of you better off away from Ravenskeep.”
Much glared at her. “Home.”
It was, she knew, the ultimate compliment, that he cared so much about Ravenskeep and the others. They had become a family. “It need not be forever,” she told him. “Perhaps only a few weeks. But it is the only choice, for now. You will be safe there.”
“Here.”
Marian shook her head. “Everyone is going. Will, Tuck, Little John—even Alan, if he chooses to stay awhile.”
“Robin?”
Inwardly she flinched. “Robin will undoubtedly spend time at Locksley. It is his manor, his village.”
His eyes were fixed on hers. “Marian comes?”
She sighed. “Marian stays.”
“Marian comes!”
“I will visit,” she said. “But Ravenskeep is my home, my responsibility. I cannot simply leave it.”
He mimicked her slyly: “Only a few weeks.”
Marian attacked the enemy cane again with renewed determination. “I will visit,” she repeated “But I must live here.”
Much considered that. “Robin there. Marian here.” He scowled. “Not family in two places.”
No, it was not family with Robin there and Marian here, and she did not know how to explain to him precisely how she would manage, because she was not certain she could. She had been completely honest with Robin in saying she had done well enough without the others, even without him—but that had been before she had fallen irretrievably in love with him.
Husbands died, making widows of their wives. Lovers died, or left. She had managed alone since her father’s death. But she could not envision, now, living without Robin.
The stubborn cane at last succumbed to her knife when she least expected it. But Marian, watching in a detached sense of shock as blood gushed from her gashed palm, was certain no physical wound could hurt as much as the wound left behind by a person’s death or departure.
Ten
Robin wandered out onto the sentry-walk skirting the curtain wall of the castle. It was necessary to get out of the huge hall, out of the heavy stone chambers; his spirit was not made to be housed within the gloom, but to soar with the sun. He wondered how much of that had to do with the imprisonment he had endured in the Holy Land. He would have thought he’d had his fill of the sun on Crusade, where men in armor collapsed from the heat of it. But England boasted a much gentler sun, where gray days pervaded, and men need not wince beneath a nearly physical oppression.
He smiled at a quick-striking memory: Once, giving way to whimsy just before supper, he had told Marian that riding to war in the Holy Land had gained him tremendous sympathy for the haunch of meat searing over the kitchen fire, and perhaps they ought not eat it after all. But she merely said she was very hungry, thank you, and would not let his overrefined sensibilities deflect her from her goal, which was to fill her mouth and belly with succulent boar, and the Saracen sun be damned. Her view had appalled Brother Tuck—it was unlike Marian to swear—but amused everyone else once they got over the surprise.
Robin grinned, then stopped to lean against the wall, hooking elbows over its rim. Just now the day was not gray, but blue; the rain at last had gone, the ground was drying, and his skin reveled in the pre-spring light. It occurred to him that he was very, very lucky. There was Marian, with whom he would be content anywhere in the world, even among, he believed, the Saracen; there were two halls he felt comfortable in, one of which was his; there was enough money to live. And in the spirit of comradeship, the kind forged in war and shared danger, there existed bonds with men whom others might name worthless, but he counted as friends.
There even seemed to be a wholly unexpected chance he and his father might yet understand one another, or at least find a degree of respect for one another’s opinions and inclinations.
And that was miracle in itself, that he could even consider a peace between them. For more than two decades they had been at war. He was not the kind of son the earl wanted, but for years it hadn’t mattered. There were older brothers, an oldest brother who would be earl in his father’s place. Young Robert—Robin, to his mother—was but a third son, and insignificant. He did not matter. And so his mother had had the tending of him, encouragin
g flights of fancy. The earl, well satisfied with his two oldest sons, did not interfere. Young Robin had known him only as a cold, austere, and overly precise man who was to be called at all times under any circumstances my lord Father, and who was to be obeyed without question. Without even an inkling of a question.
Robin had rebelled. Frequently.
His father punished him, of course. His brothers took pleasure in it: the youngest of them, their mother’s favored child, was out of favor with their father. Alice, Countess Huntington, had despaired, urging him to do as his father wished; and yet she had also given her son the freedom to let him dream his dreams in private, in his head, where his father could not find him, nor his brothers.
And then his brothers and mother had died. First Henry, the middle son, of a fever that swept the countryside one summer. Then William, the oldest, the heir, who fell from his horse a year later and cracked open his skull. His mother, bearing a late child two years after that, had bled too heavily of it. Neither she nor the girl survived.
And then there was only Robin.
And now there was only Robin.
Without conscious thought he blurted, “He is dying.” And knew, abruptly and with all the certainty of his soul, that it wasn’t borrowed trouble, it wasn’t a flight of fancy.
Merely truth.
He had said it to Marian: one moment, and the world changed.
The king was dead. The earl was dying.
He wants me back.
Because there was only Robin.
An earl without issue, or an earl with a living, legitimate, but disinherited son, surrendered his lands, title, and wealth to the Crown on his death. The Earl of Huntington, who had worked so hard to keep John from becoming king when Richard was imprisoned, would never countenance John gaining his lands.
Robin felt the stone beneath his hands. It was cold. It was dead. It was not anything he aspired to, nor would have built, particularly at the cost of razing Huntington Hall, which he had loved. But his father had razed the hall, his father had built the castle, and now his ether required a son to inherit all of it.
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