Robert of Locksley held her reins and the remains of her coif. He offered neither to her.
His expression was, if briefly, an exquisite blend of perfect stillness and assessment, of compassion for her embarrassment and comprehension of the cause. Then it passed, and the mask replaced it, altering his face, his eyes, his posture.
She felt at the braid, acutely aware of its disarray. Hastily she jerked down her skirts, attempting to cover her bared leg, but the fabric was caught between her thigh and the saddle. To free it might cause more dishabille; hot-faced, she snatched at her mantle and dragged it over her leg, leaving only her foot and ankle bared. Far too much, but better than before. “I’m going,” she blurted out, to fill the awkward silence.
The voice was quiet. “The boar will be much impressed.”
Her response was immediate, and wholly honest. “No—I meant I’m going home. Who wants to go with them?”
Something flickered in hazel eyes. “Indeed.”
“I’m going home,” she repeated. “After last night—” She hadn’t meant to speak of it. Neither he nor the others required reminding, yet now she had done it. Humiliation burned anew in the tight emptiness of her stomach. “I’m just ... going.”
“Going home,” he said, “has its appeal. But never put faith in it, lest—” He broke off, bent, caught up the ruined coif, and put it into her lax hand. The mask was in place.
Behind them, hooves clattered. “Marian of Ravenskeep!” It was Eleanor deLacey, harried and hasty. “I am late—much too late ... ride out with me, will you? Before he sends back for me.”
“But I was...” Marian let it go. Clearly Eleanor had no intention of releasing the woman companion she required for propriety’s sake, and Marian’s own furtive bid for escape had failed ignominiously. “Of course,” she said, resigned.
“Good.” Eleanor, mounted on a mettlesome gray mare, glanced down at Locksley. Her expression was one of impatience and barely concealed intent. “Had you better not hurry? You are the guest of honor.” But she didn’t wait for an answer, gazing at Marian again. Her expression stilled, then relaxed. She smiled acknowledgment, marking Marian’s bunched kirtle and fallen coif. “Ah,” she said. “Then I will need no excuses.” But the brief comradeship fled quickly. “Hurry up,” she urged.
Grimly Marian leaned forward and at last caught a handful of the offending kirtle fabric. She jerked it down into place.
“Good.” Eleanor leaned and slapped her hand against the rump of Marian’s horse. “Let us go, if you please.”
Marian scrabbled to catch the loose reins as her mount sprang forward. The coif, forgotten, fell from her hands to spill the once-pristine linen against the grimy cobblestones.
Locksley bent once more, once more caught up the coif, and rose to stare after her. Her black hair in its loosening braid was a Crusader’s banner in the daylight, snapping in the freshening wind.
FitzWalter’s daughter.
He looked again at the coif, crimping the linen in both hands and twisting it through his fingers.
Blood filled the cloth, spilling over onto his hands. Warm, crimson blood, running out of the cracks between fingers to splatter onto stone in a broken necklet of ruby drops.
A tremor wracked his body. Sweat bathed him briefly, then dried slowly. He stilled his breath with effort. When he looked at the cloth again it was clean and white and pure. “Let me forget,” he begged, knowing he never would, knowing he never could, and he let the linen fall, calling grimly for his horse.
Ten
Breakfast was haphazard. The guests clustered in tight knots as the morning mist dispersed in the infant sunlight, laughing and talking while servants held restive horses nearby or spread linen cloths on the still-damp ground, or milled around aimlessly awaiting someone’s command as to what to do while they waited for food and drink. The huntsmen, beaters, and excited hounds were conspicuously absent, combing the nearby wooded chase for the spoor of an appropriate boar.
When at last the lumbering wagons brought bread, cheese, and wine out from the castle to the meadow, appetites were well-engaged. Huntington apologized elegantly for the laggardness of his kitchen help and waited upon Prince John himself with meticulous precision as the others set to.
The Count of Mortain did not deign to sit upon the ground, cloth-draped or no; one of the wagons had also brought him plump cushions and his personal chair. Mounted, he waited until the chair was placed on the ground, steadied, and brushed clean. When told the chair was ready, John dismounted and accepted his first cup of the day, albeit it was tasted first, and sat down. Thus ensconced, he also accepted a chunk of still-warm bread, inspected it, then began picking out pieces he found unappealing and flinging them onto the ground. Crumbs and thumb-sized pieces freely littered the cloth serving as a carpet against the encroachment of grass.
John gathered to his personal cluster those servants he required, and certain other men: Gilbert de Pisan, William deLacey, the Earl of Huntington. Then, taking mute measure of them all, letting them wait on his pleasure, he waved away from the immediate vicinity everyone but his cupbearer, a boy with a salver of bread and cheese, and the earl.
“A stool,” John said idly. After a brief delay, a stool appeared. The prince watched as Huntington seated himself. Dark eyes glittered balefully as Henry’s youngest son gestured for a fresh cup. “I should see to it my steward punishes the lazy villeins who shirk their duties, were breakfast served me so late.”
“And so shall I, my lord.” The earl, now seated, waited composedly as one of John’s tasters tested the freshly poured wine, then handed the gem-studded cup to the glowering prince. “But one must realize that the arrival of a personage such as yourself can occasionally cause disarray within the household staff. They want so badly to please you, my lord—but too much wanting, no matter how earnest the desire, can result in ineptitude.”
The shrewd Angevin eyes narrowed appraisingly over the gem-weighted rim of the cup, measuring the comment’s intent. Was the latter meant for him? Did the earl begin the game?
Huntington’s expression matched his manner: an annoying and perfect tranquility.
John grunted, shrugging, and drank wine. Then he lowered the heavy cup and gazed directly at the earl. Casually he observed, “One might also find it somewhat difficult for peasants to adapt to life in a castle.”
Huntington didn’t flinch. “Just so, my lord.”
John bit off a hunk of bread, chewed, swallowed. “Why did you build a castle?”
The earl ate cheese, bread, drank wine. Quietly he said, “Because I could.”
It was bald, and defiantly blatant: a sword, freshly honed, set on the ground between them, waiting for the hand that would dare to take it up. And yet no one need do it. One needed merely to judge its worth, the possibilities, and let it alone, knowing where it was, in case one required it.
Color rose in John’s narrow face, a splotchy network of angry webbing. But it faded away almost immediately to white, leaving bruised-looking, tissue-fine flesh beneath reddened eyes. Gemstones glittered as rigid fingers shredded bread more rapidly yet.
John’s tone was peculiar. “An old name, Huntington—an old, Saxon name. Yet you build a Norman castle.”
The earl smiled faintly. “I am persuaded the Normans build the best castles of all, my lord. They are well-nigh impregnable. Why should one not build the best, if one has the means to achieve it?”
John’s jaw was tight. “Indeed.” He picked viciously at the bread, flicked crumbs away, then smiled benignly. “Of course, the timing was perhaps unfortunate. The coin spent on the castle might better now be spent on my brother’s ransom.”
“No doubt, my lord. But Huntington Castle was begun in your father’s lifetime.”
“My father’s lifetime, here, was one of abundant peace.” With a fingernail, John dislodged a hard bit of cheese from between bad teeth. His tone was exquisitely dry. “That is to say, civil peace throughout England. Domestic peace
within the household was quite another thing entirely.”
The earl spread his hands. “Only a fool puts his faith in a parchment roof when the weather is bound to change for the worse.” He paused delicately. “I prefer stone.”
“Which might lead one to wonder if, in using stone, one was merely pleasing a personal conceit, or if one was peculiarly perspicacious with regard to the future.” John waved a man to cut his cheese up into smaller, bite-sized pieces, then began to eat them one right after another, with little time for chewing. “Huntington is not a coastal holding, nor does it sit on the Welsh or Scottish border. Therefore one wonders why a castle at all.”
The earl drank wine from a cup less ostentatious than the prince’s, then set it aside. “As you suggested, my lord: a personal conceit. One man’s way of leaving his stamp on the realm.”
John ate cheese, lids lowered. “Some men might look to sons for that.”
Huntington smiled calmly. “I look to both.”
Heavy lids lifted. “He will need sons himself.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“And a woman to wed.” The prince turned idly and flashed a glance at deLacey, sitting very close by. That the sheriff had heard, John knew; he was tight around the mouth. The prince smiled disingenuously and signaled for more wine. “Ah, but we have time. He is yet a young man, and there are women aplenty.”
Eleanor viciously speared a chunk of cheese with the small meat knife. “Why must we wait so long? Why not have this benighted hunt begun?”
Marian, wishing she could sit elsewhere but trapped for the time being, labored to sound courteous as she tamed her wind-whipped braid. “The earl has sent out huntsmen and beaters. If there is no boar to be found, there is no hunt to begin.”
Eleanor gulped her cheese. “I can hardly slip away as we sit here spread out across the meadow like an ocean made of bodies; my father would see me.”
Marian, still braiding, sighed. “Yes.”
“He’s over there right now, hanging on to Prince John’s and the earl’s skirts...” The tone was contemptuous. “If he would for one moment stop thinking of himself, and think instead of me—of what I want, I mean, not of what he wants for me.” She carved another chunk of cheese, married it to bread. “He could wed me to Alain, and I would be content.” She paused, considering it, then shrugged lightly. “For a while. But jongleurs have need of the road, and I would stay at home.” The slow smile was suggestive. “Where married women have more freedom than unmarried ones.”
Marian made no answer as she tied off the braid, then carefully carved cheese and sliced bread as she thought about Eleanor’s words. DeLacey’s daughter was solely caught up in the minstrel, wholly ignorant of other possibilities, as if only the moment mattered.
Eleanor’s tone altered. “What is he doing? There—you see? Gisbourne!” She jabbed the meat-knife into the air. “He’s just standing there, staring...” Then she laughed, even as Marian twisted her head to look, and cut another chunk of cheese. “As well he might, our Sir Guy—I think this hunt is very much out of his ken. His knighthood was bought, not earned—better he were back in Nottingham Castle seeing to his sums. It’s the only thing he’s good for.” She chewed vigorously, thinking, and then her attention shifted abruptly. “Better I were back in Huntington Castle, seeing to my Alain.”
Marian wondered what Eleanor might say if she knew her father was angling for a much larger fish. Surely Robert of Locksley was the much better catch, but he was her father’s choice; possibly, Eleanor would reject whatever man the sheriff suggested—for spite if for nothing else.
I don’t want—She broke off the unbidden thought, astonished by the intensity of her reaction. Where had it come from? And then she dismissed it, acknowledging only the realization, the startling conviction. I don’t want Eleanor deLacey to marry the earl’s son.
Guy of Gisbourne stood rigidly at the very edge of the groundcloth, clutching a pewter cup redolent of spiced wine. Meticulous in his placement of feet and person, he did not allow even so much as a booted toe to touch the cloth. He had drunk more than he’d eaten, but his head was amazingly clear, perhaps more clear than ever it had been. He understood for the first time in his life that a man such as he would have to take specific measures if he were to rise in the world.
There. There she was. With Eleanor deLacey.
He believed himself a prudent, fair-minded, assiduous man, dedicated to details. That most people found such details—and the men who tended them—tedious in the extreme, he knew; he was neither well regarded nor well liked in Nottingham Castle, because it was to him all the dirty work fell. The sheriff might well be the man who gave the order for this to be done, or that, but it was up to Guy of Gisbourne to see the orders were carried out.
Doggedly content with his place in deLacey’s household, intensely careful in his work, he had anticipated little advancement in the way of his service, until he met Gilbert de Pisan. Then he had acknowledged other potentials, including his own.
A realm was not run on the deeds of heroes alone. There were details to attend to; offices to administer. Hadn’t deLacey taken him into his service because he needed an able steward to help him run Nottinghamshire? And was it so very different from running a realm?
Gisbourne set his teeth. There was room for a man like him within the prince’s service. Gilbert de Pisan had implied it; the prince himself had confirmed it.
He was the sheriffs man. Could he also be the prince’s? Was it possible—
Oh God. Eleanor had seen him. Eleanor was pointing him out to her companion, who turned and looked his way.
Gisbourne froze. He lingered painfully on the threshold of retreat and holding his place, wishing he had the quickness of wit to know what to do. Should he bow? Smile? Nod? Or ignore them entirely? Should he—no, never mind. They were no longer looking at him.
Sweat ran from his armpits. Gisbourne, standing so rigidly on the precise edge of the groundcloth, shut his eyes. He was not the sort of man a mature widow of some standing would consider for an alliance; nor was he the kind of man a highborn father looked to for his daughter, desiring to link like rank to like, or to improve his family’s standing.
Which left him like a pebble kicked to lodge between a crack: entirely insignificant, and likely missed by no one.
But she belonged to no man, because her father was dead.
From the depths of Huntington Chase, a horn wound. The pure notes carried clearly on morning air, as did the frantic belling of the hounds and shouts from beaters and huntsmen. On the heels of the noise other voices joined the tumult, as men and women jumped up from damp, crumpled linen and shouted for mounts, kicking over forgotten wine to stain the grass-soiled groundcloth.
The earl, spying his huntsman, took leave of the prince and made his way through the animated throng to stand aside of the ruined groundcloth, peering at the wood beyond. “Well?” he asked quietly, as horses were led by them. “Boar or stag?”
The huntsman presented the bell of his oliphant, displaying droppings. “Fresh fumes,” he said. “A large print, but not too heavy, and tusk marks on the trees; a young male, my lord.” The huntsman’s face was solemn as he lowered his voice. “Are you wanting such for him?”
Huntington didn’t smile. “He said boar, Dickon. I think we should give him boar.” He spared a glance over his shoulder to John’s chair, being loaded onto the wagon, and to John himself, being assisted onto his horse. “I doubt our lord Softsword will have a firmer spear.”
Eleanor sprang to her feet as the oliphant sounded. “Now!” she exclaimed. “Now I can go!”
Marian, pulling skirts out of the way as she rose, reached out a staying hand as Eleanor turned to call for her mount. “What if he asks for you later?”
The sheriffs daughter caught impatiently at the reins as the mare was brought. “He won’t want me. Who am I to him? He’s much too busy trying to worm his way into Prince John’s good graces...” With little help from the
horseboy she flung herself into the saddle, hooking her feet and knee into their proper places. “I can’t go at once—we must ride into the wood first, and then I’ll turn back.” Imperiously, Eleanor waved away the horseboy as the mare stomped and tossed her head, flinging foam into the air. “He won’t ask, but if he does—tell him nothing! Remember the promise you made.”
A horseboy offered reins and a hand up to Marian, who lingered on the ground. “Eleanor—I think—”
Eleanor leaned down. “Come now, or don’t, as you choose. But this is the only way I know of doing as I please, instead of letting him rule my life.” The mare stomped and pawed, longing to run with the others heading toward the wood. Eleanor’s hands were firm, very nearly rough, but their competence was undeniable.
Marian made no answer.
Contempt flared briefly and was extinguished by something instead very close to pity. “You can’t, can you?” Eleanor asked. “You can’t say no to the man. You haven’t the spine for it.”
And then she was gone, racing toward the wood, digging divots from damp turf. Marian, left behind, scraped mud blotches from her face, feeling the cool sting even after her burning face was clean.
She stared angrily after Eleanor, thinking not of the woman’s father but of Huntington’s son. “Haven’t the spine,” she murmured. “Then perhaps it’s time I grew one!”
Prince John rode as far as the edge of the wood, where he then ordered his chair unloaded, and dismounted. Once the chair was prepared, he sat himself upon it.
The hunting party, already insinuating itself within the thickly wooded chase, devolved into mass confusion as prospective hunters fell back nearly as one, fighting once more through untamed forest, attempting to locate the man who was, in his brother’s absence, likely to wear the crown.
Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] Page 11
