Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (5 page)

He heard the quiet derision in her tone. For the moment his eyes were bright, but with anger rather than humor. “Rank had nothing to do with it,” he answered curtly. “When a man saves another man’s life on the battlefield, such things no longer matter.”

Tightly, she reminded him, “The Lionheart made you a knight.”

“I said, it does not matter.” He gritted his teeth, flexing muscle in his jaws. Color stood in his face. He was so fair, it showed easily—and then she saw the scar.

It was thin, jagged, ugly, tracing its way from his right earlobe along the line of his jaw to curve upward, only briefly, at the point of his chin. There it ended as abruptly as it began. It was almost nonexistent: a seam of uneven stitching. Someone had cut him badly. Someone had sewn him up. It was not a new scar, but one she did not recall.
He has been gone two years ... war remakes us all.
“It does not matter,” she told him, tearing her eyes from the scar.

His color faded. The scar disappeared, unless she looked for it. “Forgive me,” he said roughly. “I have not been with women of decency for too long ... I have forgotten all the words.” The jaw muscles flexed again.

It was hard for him to say that.
Marian smiled faintly. “They will come back to you. Now, as for the letter ... ?”

“I wrote it, because he asked it ... and because I wanted to tell you myself. I felt it only just, that the man who saved my life was well worth my own labor.” His helpless gesture was awkward. “It was all I could do for him.”

Grief renewed itself. “I was told he died in battle.”

“He died at Richard’s feet.”

Richard. Not the king. Not the Lionheart. Not even
“
my lord.
” Marian wanted to cry again but refused to do it here, where Locksley would see. Her mouth felt slow and stiff. “If it pleases a man to die, he must have known great pride. He thought very highly of his king.”

“So do we all.” But the tone held an odd undercurrent. “He died at Richard’s feet because I was not in my place.”

She stared blankly, wanting not to comprehend; afraid she did all too well. “I don’t understand.”

The gaze did not waver, nor did the bitterness. But he did not mean it for her. “You understand it very well; I can see it in your eyes.” The line of his mouth grew taut. “But you are too well reared—you would rather not say it for the sake of courtesy.”

It was true, but irrelevant. Marian swallowed heavily, making herself go slowly. Maintaining precarious control. “Are you saying, then, he died because of you?”

“No.” The pale eyes, oddly, were black. “Not because of me, but because of what happened
to
me.” The voice was exceedingly harsh. “He died because he took my place at Richard’s side.”

“Your place,” she said. Then, with quiet directness, because she could not help herself, “Why were you not in it?”

Self-contempt was unmistakable. “Because a Saracen warlord had already captured me.”

She saw it clearly, paraded before her mind’s eye. “And so my father took your place. To protect his king. To keep the Lionheart safe.” Grief briefly spasmed in her face; she suppressed it with effort, knowing instinctively this man would despise helplessness, or what he perceived as a woman’s weakness. “And did he not do so, my lord? Did he not protect his king? The Lionheart yet lives.”

“In prison,” he said grimly. “In Henry’s German fortress.”

Anger blazed forth. “At least he
lives!
My father is dead a year!”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. He offered her no answer.

Marian drew breath, trying to steady her voice. She had expected something other than anger, the quiet but powerful anger: this was an earl’s son. No doubt he had expected something else also, accustomed to deference. But she was already begun. “If he died at Richard’s feet, with you already captured, how did you know to write?”

“He had asked me that morning. We shared a cup of wine.” The scar writhed briefly. “Whether he knew, I cannot say. It is thought some men know the hour of their death ... all I can tell you is he asked me, on my honor, to write you should he die.”

The old pain was new again, exquisite in resoluteness. She could not help but murmur, “This is the worst yet.”

“No,” he answered tightly. “I saw him die. In
my
place, he died ... while Saladin made me watch.”

“Saladin.” She stared. “The Saracen himself?”

“Salah al-Din. Salah al-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub.” The name, abruptly, was foreign,
more
foreign, with a different pronunciation; an alien phraseology she realized was, to him, proper and correct, and all too familiar. Not slurred and run together, as English tongues said it. As she herself had, not knowing any better.

Salah al-Din. Saladin himself, the Lionheart’s devoted foe.

The jaw muscle twitched again, as if Locksley himself heard the difference echoing in a chamber very far from the Holy Land. He raked a hand through his hair. “Helmless, I am not easily missed. Richard kept me by his side—” He cut himself off, then continued. “The Saracens learned very quickly to look for me if they wanted Richard. Richard was the target. Richard was the goal. Once we knew it, I protested”—again the scar writhed—“but Richard would not hear of it. I was his
banner
...” Locksley’s tone was ugly. “They took me, then killed your father as he tried to fill the hole.”

It occurred to her somewhat laggardly that men in the throes of great guilt often lie about their actions. She did not doubt her father died as Locksley told her. She did not even doubt the truth of his explanation. What she doubted was that no matter what he said, the son of an earl would hardly take the time to write to a knight’s daughter. Particularly if, as he said, he was taken prisoner.

Marian cleared her throat, purposefully smoothing heavy skirt folds to hide the trembling of anger in her fingers. “If you were captured just prior to my father’s death, how were you able to write?”

Eyes narrowed. “I did not write at once. It had to wait, as did my ransom ... I wrote when I was free.”

“How long ago?”

He shrugged. “Eight months, perhaps nine.”

“Eight months! You have been free that long, yet only now come home?”

The jagged scar whitened. “I went to the Holy Land on Crusade. I swore oaths, Lady Marian.... Regardless of the circumstances, I do not easily forswear myself. I stayed as long as Richard needed me—” Abruptly, he altered the sentence. “When my service was completed, I set sail for England.”

She drew breath, seeking strength and self-control, and recaptured courtesy. “So,” she said quietly, “now your task is done. Your letter went astray, but the messenger has not.”

The scar burned whiter still. “The messenger
has,
” he said. “Very much astray, and cannot find his way back.”

She stared openly, startled out of her personal reverie by the nuances of his tone, by the intensity of his emotion. And was equally surprised he would show it so plainly to her. “My lord—”

“There is one more thing,” he told her. “I wrote it in the letter, but the letter has gone astray. And so I will say it myself.” He looked past her to the door, shut for privacy. Then the gaze returned to her. “Your father said to tell you he can think of no better man. He wanted you to marry the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

The knock on the door was loud. Marian did not move.
He wouldn’t ... my father? Would he?

Locksley, turning from her, lifted the latch, then stepped aside as the door was pushed open with uncompromising force. The earl himself came through, clearly irritated. His expression was black until he saw Marian. He transformed it instantly into a bland, urbane mask. She was nothing at all to him, merely a nameless woman, but peers of the realm divulged nothing to those of lesser rank.

In view of the news from Locksley, the presumption made her angry. But she said nothing at all. Behind the earl stood the sheriff. She would keep her emotions in check, even as Huntington did.

“Robert,” the earl said mildly, “there are guests who wish to see you.”

Locksley’s face, too, was masked. “They saw me.”

The earl’s frown was fleeting. He glanced briefly at Marian, assessed her judgment of Locksley’s answer, then smiled paternally at his son to make light of the matter. “I understand what it must be like to share the company of an Englishwoman again ... but you must recall our purpose here, Robert. You can hardly hide yourself away when so many have come in your honor.”

Marian looked more closely at the earl. Nothing in his face belied the intent of his words or the cordiality of his tone, but she was struck nonetheless by his lack of comprehension. Clearly he thought only of himself and his own plans for the feast, not of the guest of honor.

She glanced back at Locksley, marking the subtle tautness of jaw, the guardedness of his eyes. Surely the earl could see it. Surely the earl realized this was not what Locksley wanted; that he desired to be elsewhere, in different circumstances.

Plainly, the earl saw nothing of the kind. Merely his son alone with a woman, and not one to whom Huntington aspired to link his heir.

He is blind,
Marian thought in shock.
He looks at his son and sees nothing, only the boy who went away. He does not know what he faces ... he does not know
whom
he faces.

“Marian.” Now the sheriff spoke. “Marian, surely you cannot deny me the pleasure of another dance.”

Inconsequentially, it amused her.
Surely I cannot deny your daughter the chance to catch Locksley.
Marian smiled politely. “No more dancing, I pray. Sir Robert brought me news of my father and thought it best divulged in private; he is a most discerning man, well cognizant of my grief. Now, if you will excuse me—?”
There,
she thought, smiling privately,
let them chew on that.

But her satisfaction faded. Even as she attempted to slip out the door, commotion beyond raged. She heard shouting, some form of declaration—or was it a presentation?—and then the crowds within the great hall were falling back, bumping into one another; or standing in place, bowing and curtseying.

“What now?” the earl demanded irritably as the sheriff moved aside. “By God, what is all this noise—?” And then he halted abruptly, bowing. “Prince John!”

 

He had her, the minstrel knew. Or
could
have her, if he wanted her; if he so much as suggested. He had grown adept over the years at judging the moment—and the woman’s willingness. This one was his.

But did he want her? Perhaps. If none better were forthcoming. That better existed, he knew; he had seen several already, but a rare few had entered the game, playing the proper parts. It left him now with this one.

“Fair Eleanor,” he murmured, and saw the answering color blooming in her face, the glint in dark brown eyes. Lips broke, then parted. Her slight overbite intrigued him. “Fair Eleanor, my sweet—I shall make a song just for you.”

So easy, she was. Like so many other women. Lowborn or highborn, women were all the same. Give them a smile, a song; the bedding soon would follow.

Fair Eleanor—who wasn’t—met him look for look. “Alain,” she murmured back, with a throaty Norman inflection learned from her father.

Alain, in Norman French; in English, unadorned Alan. One and the same, to him. He didn’t care what they called him, any of them: Norman, Saxon, French. So long as the women filled his bed, and the men filled his purse.

He plucked a single note upon his English lute. “Fairest Eleanor,” he murmured, letting her languish on his look. Smiling, he sang.

 

The earl of Huntington put one hand on Marian’s arm and pushed her bodily aside, making room for the newest arrival: Prince John, Count of Mortain, brother to the king. She stumbled, but the sheriff caught her neatly and pulled her out of the way.

John, called Softsword or Lackland when not cursed roundly, came unsteadily into the room aclatter with a heavy chain of office and jeweled ornaments. He was dark-eyed, dark-haired, small, narrow of shoulder and in the space between his eyes. His color was very high and his breath stank of wine. The voice was thick and slurred. “Are you having a feast without inviting
me?
”

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?