While inwardly, unexpectedly, an emptiness was born.
Five
The Earl of Huntington eyed his son in apprehension. Robert was not, the earl felt, paying proper heed to John’s temper; in fact, he was not paying heed to anything. Certainly not to his father, who had tried and failed discreetly to signal the need for careful voyaging; nor to John himself, currently peering from beneath scowling dark brows in squinty-eyed intensity at the young man only just returned from Crusade.
“Well?” John snapped.
The earl held his breath as his son turned from the door. Locksley’s face was devoid of expression. “Well?” he echoed.
Has he gone mad, to treat John this way? Huntington’s lips jerked in a brief rictus as he grimaced distaste sharply, giving away his concern. Fortunately John was not looking at him, but at his son.
Not known as a patient man, or one much given to tolerance, the Count of Mortain displayed his intemperate ill-humor. “My brother,” he declared between clenched teeth. “You said you had been with him.”
Locksley inclined his head. A lock of pale hair forsook his back and fell forward across his shoulder, shielding the oblique line of one cheekbone and lower jaw. “So I was, my lord. In the Holy Land.”
The earl pressed a hand against his heart, which beat somewhat irregularly beneath costly cloth. Did Robert think any small favor the king had bestowed upon him thousands of miles away might render him inviolate to John’s more immediate wrath? Everyone knew John was unpredictable, petty, vindictive . . . and completely indifferent to his eldest brother’s wishes.
Be calm, he told himself. No good is gained by assumption before its due time. Inwardly he nodded. In charity, perhaps his son didn’t know about John Lackland. Before departing Robert had not been much concerned with court intrigue or the growing discontent among the peers whom his father counted as friends and companions. He had always been a quiet, private boy, much given to disappearing into forgotten chambers in the old hall, or into the nearby wood. Robert had eschewed many of the interests other heirs slavishly followed—but then, Robert had never been quite like any of the others, ever; too much of his mother in him.
But he was not now like his mother or anyone the earl recognized, so cold-eyed and masked. This is not the boy I knew . . . It registered somewhat sluggishly, with slow acknowledgment. Private, yes; secretive, often; but not this overwhelming inwardness.
“My brother,” John repeated. “When did you see him last?”
Locksley’s eyes flickered minutely. “Before I sailed for England.”
John’s gaze narrowed unattractively; he had little flesh to spare across the thin bridge of his nose. “Before he fell into Leopold’s Austrian hands, and thence into German Henry’s.”
“Just so, my lord.”
In an idleness belied by an underlying intensity, John smiled coolly. “What did he say, my brother? The last time you saw him?”
For the first time the earl became aware of the scar winding the underside of his son’s jaw. Not new, not old; obvious now only because Robert’s color had altered, if only minutely. And then it faded, and the scar was gone, and Locksley was answering quietly. “Many things, my lord. Issuing orders, discussing strategy—”
“With you?”
Locksley paused a moment, then let the insinuation pass. “He spoke with many of us, my lord. I was honored to share his confidence on many occasions . . . it was his way, my lord, to gather men to his presence to see what they thought of certain situations—”
“ ‘Certain situations,’ ”John again cut in. He rubbed idly at his lower lip, weighing Locksley’s expression, then smiled and paced away from the earl and his son. Eventually he swung back. The swaying, slurring vulgarian was abruptly replaced with a cunning intentness and pointed declaration. “We all know what kind of ‘confidences’ my brother shared, do we not? Am I then to believe you were one of his—especial companions?”
Sweat tickled the earl’s upper lip. He rubbed at it in distracted annoyance, staring worriedly at his son. He desired very much to interupt, but recognized the baleful light in John’s eyes: he was a hound upon the scent, and nothing would turn him back.
Locksley’s quiet tone was uninflected. “There were many of us he called ‘friend,’ my lord. Does he not call his brother such?”
John was undeterred. His voice was a whip-crack. “He has a wife, and yet no child. Certain reports say Berengaria is barren—while others say it is no fault of hers; that a woman can hardly be expected to conceive when she is yet a maiden. A married maiden, Locksley!”
The shout echoed in the chamber. The earl drew a careful breath and looked at his son. Let him be circumspect. Let him remember there is no need for battlefield manners here, nor a tongue too sharp for John’s unpredictable taste.
Locksley stood very still, strangely at ease. Collected, the earl thought, as if he considered this dalliance with words, albeit a dangerous one, as much a battle as anything he had faced in the Holy Land. “It was his greatest regret, that there was no heir for England.”
The earl caught his breath in an undetectable jolt of surprise. He was adept at reading the truths behind purposeful falsehoods and approved of Robert’s shrewd, layered answer, but was nonetheless taken aback at the magnitude of the undertaking. Perhaps Robert had learned statecraft and intrigue—often one and the same—while on Crusade. In between killing Saracens.
“No heir?” John hissed. “Of course there is an heir! I am heir, by grace of God, two dead brothers, a harridan for a mother, and a fool for a father who named Richard instead of me—” And then he stopped, very black of face, shaking with rage, and let the shouting die. He smiled at Locksley, color fading slowly, abruptly calm once more. He smoothed the soiled fabric of his costly clothing, touching the heavy chain of office. “There is an heir, of course. He must have meant no blood of his own blood—no seed of his own loins . . .” The tone thinned, sharpened, as the topic was altered. “Has he loins, do you think?”
The earl held his breath. He had seen that look before: probing, precariously tumescent; had heard that tone before, elaborate provocation. Clearly, John walked the edge. A single word could push him off, and then everyone would suffer.
Locksley did not hesitate. “Men call him a bull, my lord.”
The words hung in the air. The earl began to breathe again, shallowly, and waited for John’s reaction.
Dark eyes narrowed. Then John arched a single brow. “What do you call him?”
Locksley inclined his head. “King of England, my lord.”
“Damn you.” John’s tone was malevolent. “Damn your pretty face and prettier mouth—I want the truth from you!” He lurched forward a step, clutching the chain of office so hard his knuckles shone white. “Do you think I am a fool? Do you think I have no resources? Do you think I haven’t heard?”
“Heard, my lord?” Pale brows rose. “Forgive me, but I have been away for two years. Perhaps you could enlighten me—”
“Enlighten you!” In three strides, John stood before Locksley. “They say he sleeps with boys. And you were one of them!”
Sunset gilded the walls of Huntington’s castle, playing hop-rock with crenelations and coy arrow-loops. Sir Guy of Gisbourne, sweat drying in the dusk, paused outside the exterior door leading to the inner ward and leaned against the masonry wall. Part of him automatically calculated the cost of rebuilding as Huntington had, marveling at the depth of the earl’s coffers. Another part of him acknowledged the reason why he had fled: he couldn’t face the truth.
He scrubbed at his blunt-featured, saturnine face, unmindful of the severity of his attentions to vulnerable flesh. Foremost in his mind was the sense of humiliation he’d felt as he’d discovered the woman gone, after sending him for wine.
God, but it still pinched!
It had occurred to him not to ask her to dance. He hadn’t really meant to, because she was beautiful, and he was not; and the grace he saw in her movements was alie
n to himself. A poor match, physically—and yet he could not keep his eyes from her, or the hope from his heart. And when he saw the sheriff dance with her, he knew he had to try. He could not bear to let deLacey prove superior in that, also.
Gisbourne closed his eyes. I can’t be what they are. I was born a merchant’s son . . .” It niggled at his spirit. He had never been poor, but distinctly common . . . and likely to remain so, if he didn’t rectify it. Certainly his father had taken the first step for him, buying him the knighthood—but what was left to him? He could offer a woman nothing, save himself, and that was not so much. Not very much at all. Unless I had more. Unless I were more—somehow.
A footstep scraped beside him. Gisbourne opened his eyes, half fearing it might be her, but it was a man, a stranger, clothed in velvet and brocade.
The man arched a silvering brow as he saw Gisbourne and spoke a greeting in Norman French. Gisbourne answered in the same tongue automatically, responding as he would to his father even though the Saxons clung stubbornly to English, and realized the stranger was as Norman as he was. The accent was pure.
And so they were kindred, recognizing one another. It made them easier with one another, quietly discussing the ugliness of English, and how difficult it was to conduct affairs of business in anything but the language of their homeland and the occasional Latin.
Names and ranks were exchanged: the man was Gilbert de Pisan, seneschal to Prince John.
Gisbourne’s response was instant. “But I too am seneschal! To the Sheriff of Nottingham; not so high as your lord, but there is some credit attached.” He gestured deprecatingly.
De Pisan lifted a single shoulder in a slight, dismissive shrug. “The ways of the prince are not so different from anyone else’s, save he is heir to the throne. And like to be king, soon, if the Lionheart remains imprisoned.”
There it was: opportunity. Gisbourne knew it instinctively. He could go no higher in deLacey’s service, unless deLacey attained higher office and Gisbourne was named his successor—which he believed unlikely—but there were other masters than the one he served.
Now, he told himself. If you do nothing now, you have only yourself to blame.
“I have some skill at stewardship,” he declared bluntly, eagerly, knowing no other way; he was not adept at diplomacy. “You have only to ask, and they will tell you. Nottingham Castle thrives under my care.”
De Pisan shrugged again. “I have no doubt.”
Self-consciousness flickered faintly; was the man patronizing him? Gisbourne forged ahead, knowing himself committed. “Yet a man such as I would be a fool to look askance at a place with a lord such as yours.”
De Pisan’s smile was wintry. “Just now he has a seneschal.”
Gisbourne was horrified. “No! No—I don’t mean to apply for your place. I mean only to tell you, and your lord, that if there is room for me in your household ...” It was not going well at all. He was not a clever man, but honest. And now it was too late. He steeled himself and took a deep breath. “I am accustomed to keeping secrets.”
“Ah.” The wintry smile altered faintly, though wry amusement still underlay it. “So are we all, we who act the steward. Surely it is a high recommendation that you know when—and when not—to speak.”
Gisbourne nodded vigorously.
De Pisan lifted a languid hand and gestured idly. “Perhaps. I promise nothing. Be certain I shall tell the prince.”
“That is all I can hope for.”
Gilbert de Pisan eyed Gisbourne a moment. “Indeed.”
John’s clear insinuation regarding Locksley’s appetites shook the earl soundly. Huntington gagged hoarsely, reaching unsteadily for a chair back. “My lord, I beg you—”
“Silence!” John snapped. “This is no idle accusation, Huntington—I am surprised you yourself have not heard it.”
The earl pressed a hand against his chest, breathing noisily. “I—have heard nothing, my lord . . . nothing of the sort—”
“My lord Count.” It was Locksley, with faultless courtesy. “If you will permit me to inquire as to the exact nature of your information—”
“I told you,” John declared. “Do you wish me to divulge my sources? Do you think me so witless as that?”
“No, my lord. I think the information your sources have given you may be incomplete.”
“How ‘incomplete?’ In nature? They say he sleeps with boys. Do you forget I am his brother? It wasn’t kitchen maids he tumbled—”
In disbelief Huntington heard his son break into John’s diatribe quietly, but decisively. “My lord, the information was incomplete.”
“How incomplete?”
Locksley drew breath. “Did the sources mention me by name?”
John leaned forward and grabbed a lock of white-blond hair, shutting it up in a tight fist. “It was told to me, Locksley: a man of fair mien and fairer hair shared my brother’s bed.”
Locksley’s jaw muscles bunched, then released. “Blondel.”
John’s eyes narrowed. “What are you mouthing now?”
“A name, my lord.” Locksley made no attempt to dislodge his hair from the royal fist. “Blondel. A minstrel. A lute-player, my lord.”
“And does this lute-player”—John made it an epithet—“also boast hair this fair?”
“Yes, my lord. It was often remarked upon that the king had raised up two men of such fairness—”
“Raised up?” John pulled Locksley close. He was considerably shorter, which required him to tilt his head back against padded shoulders. “How did my brother the king raise you up?”
“He knighted me, my lord.”
John released the captured hair abruptly. “Knighted you, did he? And are we Sir Robert, now?”
“Yes, my lord. By the grace of God—and the King of England.”
John made no answer at once. The blackness had faded from his countenance, leaving him wan, sickly, drained. Dark smudges encircled his eyes. “And Huntington’s heir, to boot.”
The tone was oddly hoarse, lacking vitality. It was, in a way, resignation; the earl realized, in that moment, John needed Huntington—and all the earldom represented—badly. For income, if nothing else. And influence. And power. John was not king. John was not even officially Richard’s heir, not while the marriage to Berengaria of Navarre, however unproductive it might be, promised a potential true-born heir. John needed them all.
Locksley flicked a glance at his father. “Unless he declares otherwise.”
The earl summoned a faint smile that masqueraded as paternal indulgence, suppressing the flutter of rising acknowledgment: John needs us. “Considering the king himself has knighted you, only a fool would declare otherwise—”
“And are you not a fool?” John was intent once more, summoning reserves as he still scented the hunt. “No, of course not; not our Huntington . . . they say you are the power of Nottinghamshire.”
“No, my lord.” The earl bowed respectfully. “That, of course, is yourself.”
“So should you both recall it.” John looked back at Locksley. “This Blondel—does he yet live?”
“I believe so. It was he who found the king in Germany.”
“A lute-player?”
Privately the earl questioned the abilities of John’s informants. Even he had heard of Blondel, if in an indirect way. Rumor said he had been raised up from penury by Berengaria herself; only later had Blondel made his way into Richard’s service.
“There was a song, my lord—a campaign song. One of the king’s favorites. When he was lost, Blondel took it upon himself to travel the lands, following rumors of imprisoned sovereigns—it is said Richard heard the song in his cell, answered it, and so was discovered.”
John studied Locksley intently, weighing words. But when he answered he did not question the story. “ ‘Richard’?” he asked softly.
Locksley’s mouth tightened. “The king, my lord.”
“He allowed you use of his Christian name?”
&nbs
p; “In battle, my lord, such things as rank are often superseded by the familiarity of comradeship—”
“Blondel,” John said clearly. “It was a lute-player in his bed . . . and not a newly-knighted stripling with a tongue too smooth for his mouth?”
Locksley inclined his head. “You need only ask for the truth of Blondel’s appearance—”
“I need only ask for his presence. Be certain I shall.” John flicked an imperative hand, then turned to the earl. “What entertainments have you for this evening? We are in mind to be suitably honored—and suitably entertained.”
The earl drew breath to answer as his son, duly dismissed, departed the chamber in silence.
The trembling lute note died away, sighing into silence of unrequited love. Alain, also called Alan, smiled in bittersweet appeal at the woman so close to him. Just so—he had smiled in precisely that manner hundreds of times before. “A sad song, lady. Perhaps a livelier one would appeal more to your taste?”
She was flushed and dark of eye, clearly aroused. Too much wine to fuel the passion, he reflected, as the tip of her tongue breeched parted lips to moisten them. He would enjoy the first tumble, before the wine caught up.
She was trembling, strung to breaking with need. He saw the nakedness of it and the weakness of her will. Easier, he knew. Easier than the others, who played the game with tighter rules, requiring infinite patience. At times, he preferred it; this time, he did not. She was the daughter of the Sheriff of Nottingham, a man of some power. Wiser by far to tumble her quickly and then look to other game.
“Songs have their places,” she told him huskily. “But there is more to living than music.”
“Is there?” Languidly, he stroked lute strings. Down the neck to the belly with a gentle, long-fingered hand—as he would caress a woman. “Pray, lady, I am but a poor man hoping to share his talent . . . music has been my life. I am unaccustomed to other entertainments and certain—civilities.”
Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] Page 6
