Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01]

by Lady of the Forest

  It was all at once obvious the Count of Mortain was deeply in his cups. The earl, a powerful peer in his own right, was clearly irritated; just as clearly he desired not to show it. He displayed a polite—and politic—smile as he shut the door. “My lord, I understood you were in London.”

  “Was,” John declared, swaying slightly, until he hitched himself upright. “Now I am here. With or without an invitation.” His glassy dark eyes went beyond the earl to the sheriff, at whom he raised a negligent forefinger in barest greeting—deLacey grimaced minutely—then paused on Marian’s face. And brightened perceptibly, focusing abruptly. “Huntington—is this your daughter?”

  Marian’s skin tightened. She stared blankly back at John, transfixed by his expression.

  The earl barely glanced at her. “No, my lord. She is not.”

  “But—” A royal hand waved irresolutely, seeking the proper answer. “Certainly not your wife! Or have you taken to robbing cradles?” His smile displayed bad teeth. “Worth robbing, in this case. Is she?”

  Marian felt exposed, stripped naked before the prince. She was cold, then hot, wanting nothing more than to take herself out of the chamber, or fade inconspicuously back into the shadows. This was nothing for which she could have prepared herself, this assault by way of implication and assumption. She felt sick, unsettled, stunned, and desperate for escape. If I ignore him—if I avoid his eyes—Clenching teeth painfully, she stared hard at the chain of office dangling from John’s shoulders.

  Huntington did not smile. “No, my lord. My lady wife is deceased.”

  John’s wavering focus sharpened. “Ah. How convenient ... neither a wife nor a daughter—” He moved forward, smiling warmly at Marian. It did not improve his breath. “What is your name?”

  Make him forget, she appealed. Distract his attention----do something, anything ... please don’t let it go any farther ...

  Smoothly, the sheriff interposed an answer before Marian had to. “Lady Marian,” he said quietly. “Of Ravenskeep Manor, near to Nottingham.”

  John glared at him. “I was just there. You were here. But I could go back. It’s mine, after all ... and all the taxes, too.”

  So the poor complained, and many of the merchants. Again the sheriff spoke easily. “My lord, the Lady Marian is only just recovering from mourning her father’s death.”

  John’s dark eyes flickered. “Dead, is he? How did he die?”

  He was close, too close. She could smell the bad teeth, sour wine, soiled clothing. She had never before met any man so closely linked to supreme royalty, and yet she could not believe, in good conscience, John was a king’s son. Were they not taught better manners?

  John’s gaze narrowed when she did not answer at once. “How did your father die? Poaching the king’s deer, was it?”

  It was hideous. He provoked purposely, crudely, seeking chinks in armor so he could rend it, then mend it, reaping a woman’s regard. But to suggest such a crime ... Marian felt the shock vibrate through the chamber, understanding it too well. Poachers were common outlaws often purposefully maimed or executed for their crimes. To suggest an English knight was guilty of the same was too much for anyone.

  Save apparently for John, who awaited an answer.

  Marian cleared her throat, petitioning God for courage and patience. “On Crusade, my lord ... with your brother the king.”

  John laughed, then gestured expansively, sketching an ironic and sloppy cross against forehead, abdomen, chest. “How inspiring. Surely God will reward him for piety and duty.” Dark eyes did not smile, if the wine-darkened mouth did. “And just out of mourning, are we?” He took one of her hands and tucked it into his arm. “Shall we not waste time?”

  “My lord—” She was helpless and apprehensive. This was the king’s brother, powerful in his own right; it was entirely possible John could, beneath the earl’s roof, do exactly as he desired. “My lord, if it please you, I beg you to let me go—”

  “What would please me, lady, is to take you off to bed.” The slurred tone now was steadier, fixed upon a goal. “Have you a bed, Huntington? And free of local vermin?”

  Eleanor leaned closer as the minstrel sang to her. I have him. He’s mine. She smiled, displaying overbite, promising him full pleasure. She saw no sense in playing coy or delaying what she wanted. And while her father had taken cruel pains to point out she was no beauty, she had not yet met a man who would refuse to lie with her. She was plain, perhaps, but lush, with a body made for bedsport and the temperament to want it.

  Others still gathered: matronly women overcome by his blandishments; two or three young wives who had only recently discovered true romance was confined to songs and poetry; a handful of young girls much taken with Alan’s Saxon beauty. He was fair, like Robert of Locksley, but with richer, deeper tones in hair, skin, eyes. Curls tangled on velvet-clad shoulders. A smile lingered in blue eyes. Long, supple fingers caressed the strings of his lute.

  Eleanor’s breath ran ragged. Why must the game last so long? Why not end it now, and tend to our bodies’ needs?

  The shock of John’s bluntness and vulgarity overcame the knowledge of who he was, though Marian’s natural inclination was to give way to a prince of England. She could withstand what he said of her, no matter how vulgar, no matter how blatant, but to so insult her father roused her to defense.

  Apprehension dissipated beneath unexpectedly firm resolve. She jerked her arm free. “My lord—no.”

  The chamber went very quiet. John stared at her from bloodshot eyes. His chancy temper was legendary. “By God—you refuse?”

  She coaxed anger and outrage higher to maintain the newfound resolve. She did not resort to displaying either of the former, knowing it too risky, but she did bestow upon John a declaration allowing no doubt as to its intention. “My lord, if it pleases you ... I am a decent unmarried woman only just out of mourning—”

  “And I am heir to the throne of England.” John’s tone was cold as ice. He stood firmly now, legs spread to steady himself, narrow shoulders thrown back. He had come in a drunkard and was no better now, but had assumed, in an instant, an air and poise of womb-birthed royalty. Dark eyes glittered as color stained his face. He was Angevin-born and bred; one of the Devil’s Brood. Everyone in England knew he suffered fools not at all, and tolerated no refusals when his mind was made up. Rumor said he was known, when enraged, to throw himself to the floor, rolling in the rushes and foaming at the mouth.

  But he did neither now. He simply waited for her to respond.

  It was Robert of Locksley instead, speaking for the first time since John’s entrance. “My lord, I invited the Lady Marian into this chamber to hear news of her father. I was with him when he died, and I brought her his final wishes. Surely a man of your sensitivity understands that a young woman having only just heard such distressing news might wish to spend time alone.” He paused. “Unless the count is fond of tears ... ?”

  John stared back at her. Some of the intensity faded. He was, after all, drunk. “Will you cry? Will there be tears?”

  “Yes,” she answered at once, knowing how men despised tears.

  He loomed close again, bestowing upon her the full effects of sour wine and bad teeth. “Then perhaps you will let me dry them.”

  She recoiled involuntarily, aware of the sheriffs hand in the small of her back. Men everywhere: before her, beside her, behind her.

  “By God,” John breathed, “you’re the prettiest piece I’ve seen in months.” He reached out a ring-weighted hand and pulled free a lock of black hair, then put the other hand on a breast.

  Humiliated, Marian jerked away from the sheriff. If she could get past John, the door was close at hand. She had only to get through it, and lose herself in the crowd.

  John laughed and reached out to catch a hand. She pulled it away, twisted aside; her back was to the door. Before her stood four men: the earl, the sheriff, John ... and Robert of Locksley.

  They stared at her, to a man. What they
saw she knew: a bodice pulled awry, face flushed from shame, coif knocked slightly askew, and a lock of black hair now freed by a questing male hand. She, who had been treated with respect and honor all of her life, now looked on the dual faces of man: one carved out of power, the other of fleshly desire.

  John was the worst. What he wanted was obvious, so blatant as to strip her before them all. But he was in his cups, and a prince of England; no doubt he took a woman the moment he saw her, if such was his whim. Then the earl: cold-eyed, cold-faced man, staring at her now as something other than a woman come to greet his son, but a woman made for a bed. Not his own, never. But did she want his son’s?

  And the sheriff, preeminently eloquent yet now silent, gaze unwavering. She could not discern his thoughts. She could not separate her judgment of him from the knowledge that her father desired her to marry him.

  Lastly, Robert of Locksley.

  It was in his eyes she saw the comprehension and the brief, unexpected compassion. To the others she was game; John had made her so. His crudeness had stripped away any pretense of chivalry or decency, discarding dignity and discretion in one moment’s burgeoning lust. Women, no doubt, queued up outside the bedchamber door to share Prince John’s bed in hopes for a jewel or coin. But she would not. And Locksley, looking at her, surely realized it. He could see it in her eyes; she could see herself in his.

  “By God,” John whispered, “there’s enough for all of us.”

  What little remained of Marian’s self-control snapped. Shame flooded her. She turned stiffly, unhooked the latch, and jerked the door open. Even as John began to protest she fled the crowded chamber.

  Faintly she heard the words couched in Locksley’s quiet voice: “My lord, I was with your brother. Is there anything I can tell you?”

  It was, she knew, for her sake. And she blessed him for it.

  Gisbourne gulped too much wine, hiding humiliation in the resultant blurriness. The woman had run from him like a hare from the hound. Was he so bad, then? Was he not worth speaking to? He believed he had been polite, using softer words than was his wont. But he had no personal experience with ladies of high station save to act in the sheriffs stead, and then only briefly. He was to them merely an extension of the sheriffs office, acting on deLacey’s behalf; this time, with this woman, he had acted on his own, spoken on his own, hoped his own hopes without recourse to his service.

  And she had run from him.

  Gisbourne drank wine, tasting only bitterness. Her flight did not make him hate her, nor did it cool his ardor. If anything, he knew now how much he truly desired her, having seen her so close as to smell the tang of her scent; to mark the flawlessness of her skin, the richness of her hair, the glory of Celt-blue eyes.

  He sweated. I must have done something. I must have said something. But he could not think what. Please God, he begged, let me find the way. Give me the words, bestow upon me the manner, send me the aid I need. I swear, I mean her honor. Abruptly he broke it off. The wine in his goblet was gone. Only the dregs remained, and he had no more taste for them. What he required was air.

  Gisbourne, swearing, sweating, shoved the empty goblet at a servant and hastened from the hall.

  Marian made her way back through the celebrants, blinking away the hot tears of humiliation. Each pair of eyes slewed in her direction, each faint smile directed at her, every whisper spoke of her—and yet she knew it was untrue. Still, it was worth discussion; she had been the lone woman in a chamber full of men. Wealthy, powerful men. And all of them unmarried.

  Heat bathed her flesh. She wanted nothing more than to order her mount saddled so she could return home, but that would require an explanation to her host, the earl, and she could not face him just yet. Not so soon, before so many people. Certainly not as he spoke with Prince John. So instead she would retire to the room she was meant to share with other women guests at evening’s end, and make good her escape there. Where she could, God willing, rid herself of the profound distaste John had engendered.

  William deLacey prevented her. On her heels he followed, and as she made her way out of the hall he stopped her in an alcove. “Marian—”

  She faced him angrily. “Can’t you let me go? Have I not been humiliated enough?”

  “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “John is—difficult.”

  Tears threatened again. “He is a rutting boar,” she declared, overcome by a painful humiliation that gave way to anger, “and someone should castrate him!”

  The sheriff squeezed her arm briefly, comfortingly. It was a gesture she would not have questioned, before. But now the subtle intimacies were no longer so subtle; they were replete with potentials she did not wish to consider. Locksley’s news had altered her awareness from innocence into mistrust. “Undoubtedly someone will draw the temper from his sword, one day—although they say he has none.” DeLacey smiled, striving for the joke. “Perhaps his brother the king, if he ever returns to England.”

  She did not wish to speak of John or his brother the king. What she wished was to leave, but as she turned to go deLacey’s hand on her arm prevented her.

  “Marian, wait.”

  She turned stiffly, irritated by his continued use of her given name. It had not bothered her before, because he was of her father’s age and due the familiarity of an elder to the young, but the news from Locksley cast William deLacey into an entirely different light. He was no longer merely the sheriff, friend to Hugh FitzWalter, but also a man who might well become her husband. Marriage vows would make him privy to much more than her name.

  “Marian, I beg you—share some time with me. Let us forget John and speak of pleasanter things.”

  She was wary. Pleasanter things . . . such as marriage? Does he know? she wondered bleakly. Did he speak of me to my father? Did Locksley say anything?

  DeLacey smiled, gestured for a servant, took two goblets of wine from the offered tray. One he handed to her without asking if she wanted it. Yet another irritation; she scowled into the goblet.

  “Come,” he said gently, “I know it must be difficult to hear about your father after so much grief, but there is no sense in crying. Why spoil your pretty face?”

  Her tone was deliberate. “Now you sound like John.”

  His smile dropped away. “I merely meant to flatter you for the sake of flattery. Do not hone your tongue on me, when I used mine in your defense.”

  So he had. He had tried to turn John’s attention to something other than bed. Marian drew in a deep breath and released it, mastering herself. “I thank you for your kindness and your words about my father, but I prefer another subject.”

  Mild surprise transformed his urbane features, but a smile banished the moment. He drank a sip or two, then looked out into the hall. “Very well,” he said. Then, somewhat tightly, “There is Eleanor. Wasting her time on the minstrel.”

  Marian saw that indeed the sheriffs daughter lingered very near the minstrel. But so did other ladies. It was not an uncommon occurrence with handsome, eloquent minstrels so knowledgeable of the world and as knowledgeable of women. It was expected. It was part of a minstrel’s function.

  “It will be difficult, but not impossible. It will take time, of course ... and a generous dowry . . .” DeLacey frowned absently. “If only I knew him better.”

  Her attention diverted from John’s crudeness or her father’s apparent wishes, Marian turned back to the sheriff. “Locksley, or the earl?”

  “The earl, of course—Locksley doesn’t matter. No, I speak of discovering the earl’s appetites . . .” The sheriff glanced at her sidelong, assessing her expression, and smiled. “If you wonder why I speak of such things to you, it is because, in some respects, you are very like your father. He and I shared similar ideas . . . I found it easy to speak with him. And easier, with you; a man would be a fool to deny himself the company of a woman such as Marian of Ravenskeep, even for a moment.”

  Apprehension welled. He does know. This isn’t because of John—he knows
/>
  ... Marian gritted teeth. Why not simply say it?

  He shook his head patiently. “It is difficult for me, you know. Your father held Ravenskeep, and now it passes to you. But I am merely a servant . . . if I am to rise in this life, I must use what I have at hand.”

  Tension increased, but Marian forced an easy, guileless tone. “Such as marriages, my lord?”

  He did not bite immediately. “If Eleanor marries Locksley, we are both set for life. It is attractive, I confess . . . but am I wrong to want security for my daughter? Or even for myself?”

  Here it is. She gripped the goblet and waited. She knew it would come any moment, the declaration that he knew what her father wanted. Had deLacey known all along, waiting for the time he considered most suitable? Or perhaps Locksley had told him, and now he merely moved to secure her?

  The sheriff’s smile was pleasant. “A woman of your holdings has no need for Locksley’s wealth.”

  It was not remotely what she expected. She very nearly laughed as tension abruptly dissipated, leaving her strangely giddy. “Lord Sheriff, I promise you, what we spoke about, Robert and I, had nothing to do with alliances. Only with my father.” Smiling, she glanced out into the hall where Eleanor stood beside the minstrel. “If you are concerned that my presence might deter a betrothal between Eleanor and the earl’s son, be assured I play no part in it. Do whatever you like to make the marriage come off.”

  DeLacey’s smile was odd as he gazed at her. He shook his head slightly. “Poor Eleanor . . . I fear she would be defeated before she reached the field.”

  It made no sense at all. “My lord—”

  Smoothly he interrupted, “I think they will make a fine couple. Do you not agree?”

  Marian thought of Robert of Locksley, of whom she knew too little. And of Eleanor deLacey, of whom she knew more than she liked. “Of course,” she murmured politely.