Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (54 page)

Almost at once she regretted the question, since it reflected poorly on her good sense; Walter was, after all, Gisbourne’s assistant, and had more reason to be in his chamber than anyone else, most particularly herself.

But Walter seemed disinclined to remark upon it. “Lady Eleanor?”

“I’ve come to see Sir Guy.”

Walter nodded. “Aye, he’s here. And Brother Tuck.”

“Who?”

“Brother Tuck.” Walter swung the door open more widely. “Brother Hubert’s replacement.”

The monk was immensely fat, brown of hair and eyes, and obviously deeply concerned about something. He appeared to be on the verge of tears. Eleanor scowled at him briefly; her business was much more important, and she resented his presence.

She transferred her gaze from monk to seneschal. “Sir Guy. There is something we must address.”

Eleanor had never so much as approached him in the hall. That she approached him now in his
chamber
was unusual in the extreme; it put her at a decided disadvantage. She saw the bafflement, then comprehension. She had never considered Gisbourne capable of much thought beyond plaguing castle inhabitants with countless economies designed, she was quite certain, for the sole purpose of inconveniencing them. She distrusted his expression. She distrusted the glint in his eyes.

“Lady Eleanor,” he said. “Pray, do come in.”

She drew herself up rigidly. “This is a private matter.”

“I know.” He seemed to savor the moment. “Walter, I thank you for bringing Brother Tuck. I assure you, I’ll think upon your words.”

Eleanor stood aside as Walter and the fat monk departed, then moved into the room. She considered leaving the door open, then shrugged inwardly—what did it really matter?—and swung the door shut.

Gisbourne lay propped against pillows with his bandaged leg raised. She spared it an uninterested glance, then concentrated on the matter at hand. “Has my father approached you with regard to me?”

His dark face was wan, but the light in his eyes was bright. “Indeed he has.”

Eleanor folded her hands primly. “We would not be well matched.”

Gisbourne startled her by smiling widely. “No, we would not.”

It took her off stride. She dropped courtesy entirely, speaking bluntly. “I think it’s a perfectly despicable idea.”

“So do I.”

She frowned. This attitude was not at all what she had anticipated from him. “Why?”

“Because we do not suit.”

“No,” she agreed uncertainly. “I have told my father so—”

“You can tell your father nothing.” He shifted slightly, grimacing, then smiled faintly at her. “He would no more listen to me than listen to you. He has
decided;
therefore, it shall be so.”

She nodded. “We must see that it’s stopped.”

“I intend to.”

Suspicion bloomed. “How?”

“I have just come into some information that may prove valuable.”

“What did Walter tell you?” And then, more sharply, “What has that fat monk to do with anything?”

Gisbourne folded his hands across his belly. Save for the propped up leg and his disarray, he exuded the attitude of a man well contented with his lot—and his special knowledge. It infuriated her. “Your father,” he began simply, “has seen to it a man was hanged.”

She allowed her contempt to show. “He hangs men all the time, Gisbourne. He’s the sheriff.”

His stubbled face flushed dully. “He hanged the
wrong
man. Purposely. Merely to suit Prince John, so the prince would not learn that Scarlet had escaped.”

Eleanor laughed. “Wise man, my father—the prince could relieve him of his office for losing a man who killed four of his men.” Amusement died. “So, you’re suggesting you’ll inform Prince John of this?”

“No. I’m suggesting
we
inform your father we know all about it. There is no need to bring the prince into it. That might result in further difficulties.”

Eleanor nodded slowly.
Your own, no doubt.
“I see.” She spoke with clear preciseness. “You are willing to do this—you share all of this with me—simply because you want so badly
not
to marry me.”

He went very still. She was secretly amused to see his realization of how the truth might sound to her, whom he did not desire to marry. It was a damning admission to a woman who had the wit to use it to her advantage. He had destroyed himself, if she chose to pursue it.

Eleanor laughed. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I want you even less than you want me.” She eyed him pointedly, underscoring her distaste. “But there is something more. We must also prevent my father from marrying the FitzWalter girl.”

Color suffused his face. His dark eyes glittered. “Indeed,” he said quietly.

Abruptly, Eleanor knew. It filled her with helpless rage and envy—did every man alive want to take that woman to bed?—but she did not show it to him. “I won’t have it,” she said curtly. “I won’t have her here.”

“You won’t have to have her here.” Gisbourne resettled his leg. “I’ve spoken to the monk.”

Eleanor frowned. “What has the
monk
to do with this?”

Gisbourne laughed. “Everything.”

 

DeLacey lifted his goblet in tribute as his furious daughter departed. The solution was ideal. He should have thought of it before, except then he’d hoped for better in the Earl of Huntington’s son. Now that hope was gone, but she was here, and
Gisbourne
was here; the perfect solution was to give them to one another.

He grinned. He drank wine. Then his reverie was interrupted by a knock upon the door.

DeLacey swore frightfully—would they never leave him alone?—then waved a hand at the door that no one on the other side could see. “Come,” he called.

The door creaked. A hesitant voice told him he had a visitor.

Delacey sighed. “I have visitors all the time. I’m the sheriff.” He turned his head. “Who is it this time?”

“Lady Marian FitzWalter.”

“
Marian
...” He slammed down the goblet, heedless of spilled wine. “Send the monk to me at once.”

The servant was baffled. “My lord?”

“The monk, the
monk--
the fat man, Brother Tuck!”

“Aye, my lord.” The servant bowed himself out and tugged the door shut.

DeLacey stared fixedly into the distance. Then he pulled himself from the chair to thrust a victorious arm into the air. “Marian!” he exulted.

Thunderheads massed in the distance. The air tasted thick and cool: a mantle of steel and slate draped over the battlements of Huntington Castle.

The earl himself walked the walls proudly with Eustace de Vesci, Henry Bohun, and Geoffrey de Mandeville, pointing out certain modern refinements worked upon older fashions in parados and parapets in addition to machicolations, when Ralph brought him good news: the man who had just ridden so noisily into the inner bailey was his absent son, home at last.

The earl, who had maintained a calm facade regarding his son’s absence, thanked Ralph politely, sent him to direct his son to them, then turned quietly to the others. “Our plans may now proceed.”

De Vesci grunted. “So. Will he throw in his lot with us?”

The earl’s wispy white hair was ruffled in the breeze pregnant with incipient rain. “He is my son.”

“Sons do not always accede to their father’s wishes.” De Mandeville’s tone was dry. He stood at the square crenel notch between two upright merlons and surveyed the bailey below as Huntington’s heir dismounted. “The Old King might have lost his crown because of his sons... can you afford to be so certain yours will cooperate?”

“Henry’s sons fought among themselves because of overweening ambition and Angevin bad temper,” the earl retorted. “They were the Devil’s Brood, after all; each one feared the other might supplant him in matters of precedence—
this
situation is quite different.”

Henry Bohun, arms crossed, leaned idly against a merlon with the sky a glaucous tapestry behind him. “It would seem more realistic to expect your son to cooperate... after all, there is no telling how high he might rise as son-in-law to John.”

De Vesci swore. “Especially if John becomes king.”

“He will not,” de Mandeville declared. “Do you think the barons will accept him? Do you think the
people
will?”

Bohun shook his head. “The people will do as they’re told. They are sheep, nothing more... if John makes himself the bellwether, they’ll follow quickly enough.”

“But
we
will not,” de Vesci said. “By God, we will not.”

The earl smoothed his robe. “Ralph will bring him to us.”

 

Marian dismounted and handed off her mount in the bailey of Nottingham Castle, waiting impatiently as Joan did the same. The serving-woman was swathed in folds of wool, her older face concerned. She had spoken of rain repeatedly on the road from Ravenskeep, but Marian—convinced if she did not confront the sheriff now she would never find the courage to do it again—refused to consider turning back.

Wind curled into the bailey, snatching at her draped hood. Marian caught at the fabric, slid it back into place over hair brushed and braided, then ran over again in her mind the things she wanted to say, and how she intended to say them.

Marian led the way inside the hall, digging rigid fingers into the weave of her woolen mantle. She felt oddly hollow and fragile, like a bubble made of glass, tense with nerves and imaginings: she would prove weak, and give in; she would be unable to explain how she felt; she would play into his hands. But then she thought of how he had attempted to assume control of her future, and cold anger replenished her conviction.

Marian halted just inside and slipped her hood, telling a servant they desired to see the sheriff. “This won’t take long,” she told Joan firmly as the servant left, to convince herself as much as the woman, who understood none of it.

DeLacey came swiftly into the hall, holding out both hands in warm, disarming welcome. “Marian!” He came forward smoothly, glancing briefly at Joan, then back to Marian. His tone was perfectly normal. “I cannot tell you what a great pleasure this gives me. When I left Ravenskeep, I expected you to take much more time before arriving at your decision.”

He believes he’s won.
Astonished, Marian gazed at him; she thought she’d been clear at Ravenskeep.
He does--he simply assumes he’s won, because he
always
wins.
The knowledge appalled her. The audacity of William deLacey shattered her fear completely, leaving anger in its place. It pleased her to be angry. She could rely upon it.

“My lord, I fear you misunderstand.” She decided to say it all at once instead of dancing around it. “This is not intended as a social call, nor to bring you the answer you appear to believe was a foregone conclusion.”

“Marian.” His hands dropped. He glanced again at Joan. “Welcome to Nottingham Castle,” he said. “The kitchens lie there, behind the screen—I will send for you when your lady and I are done with our business.”

It was an abrupt dismissal. Marian opened her mouth to protest, but Joan merely nodded and turned away.
Don’t let him begin first.
“My lord—”

“Now.” DeLacey caught her hand and hooked it over his elbow, turning her toward the dais on which his chair and table sat. “You are out of temper, I see... forgive me, then, for being abrupt. Our meeting yesterday was upsetting, of course, and for that I am sorry. It has not been much beyond a year since your father died—”

Marian stopped short and jerked her arm free.
Don’t let him see you angry
...
he’ll use it as a weapon.
She knew him well now, well enough to seek out her own weapons in his eyes and posture. “This call has nothing to do with that.”

He swung toward her, cutting her off as he did so often, standing very close, too close, as if his nearness might intimidate her. “But of course it does. You know very well your father would have wanted us to marry—it merely upsets you that you appear to have no say in the matter.” He linked hands behind his back in an easy, unperturbed manner that did not fool her one bit. She was beginning to learn the signs of consternation: a tension in spine and shoulders, an intensity in his eyes, the faint, cool smile that betokened displeasure.

Don’t delay---“My
lord—”

He turned as if to walk away in idle reflection, then arrested the motion and swung back. “But Marian, when
does
a woman have say in the matter? And I say, why should she?” He gestured to dilute the brutal words. “I don’t mean to distress you, but women are fanciful creatures much given to unrealistic dreams... it is part of what makes men desire to protect them.” He was ineffably gentle. “I beg you, look at my daughter, if you will. Eleanor is well-nigh ungovernable, a spoiled, undisciplined woman who seeks only to gratify the dictates of her body.” He lifted his shoulders in a slight dismissive shrug; he had given up on shielding his daughter against the onslaughts of loose tongues. “Look what it has brought her,” he said evenly. “She is disgraced. Despoiled. No decent man will have her to wife.”

Marian wanted to laugh. It rang so false; for how long had she been deaf? With subtle derision, she suggested, “Except Gisbourne, of course.”

She saw a flicker of displeasure in his gaze. “Gisbourne does as I tell him.”

“Then he has no more freedom than Eleanor, or I.” She wet dry lips, feeling more certain of her course. He had given her the arrows; now she had only to aim and loose. “I think you depend too much upon your own designs, my lord. I think you dismiss even the idea that a woman might have her own feelings and preferences about such things as marriage—”

“Undoubtedly she
does,”
he interrupted, “but that is beside the point. The issue at hand is whether a woman can possibly understand that other things influence the decision to marry than merely the tender heart.” He gestured briefly, indicating a door leading out of the open hall. “Come with me. We will adjourn to my solar. This is best discussed in private.”

Marian did not move. “We will discuss it here.”

He turned back after a slight hesitation, lowering his arm. His displeasure intensified, but it did not touch his manner in obvious ways, only in the small ones she had learned to recognize. “Very well. Then let me be quite frank.” His smile was cool, his gaze intense. “For the moment we will make it a given: you may consider yourself a fair judge of whom you should marry.”

“Generous.” She wished she could swear like a man.

“Your situation echoes Eleanor’s to an alarming degree,” he told her bluntly. “Forgive my candor, but what man in England would choose to marry a despoiled daughter of a dead knight whose manor has fallen into disarray?”

He did not attack her personally. She had expected that, prepared to let his insinuation do no damage. But he had aimed at another target, and his skill at placing the arrow stung her sharply. “Ravenskeep has nothing to do with this!”

The passion of her response pleased him, which infuriated her. “But it does. You see?” He laughed softly. “Already you dismiss, womanlike, a very important aspect of marriage.” The laughter dropped away. His tone now was icy, promising no quarter in the battle for which she had begged. “Men of rank concern themselves with everything, Lady Marian. With a woman’s name, her rank, her family, her person, her holdings, her dowry. What have you to offer?”

She had lost ground by replying with heat to his mention of Ravenskeep.
Give him nothing
—
be a mirror—Reflect what
he
offers.
Marian smiled as coolly, displaying what she had learned. “What little I have to offer—despoiled as I am, shabby as Ravenskeep is—still appears to be more than enough to interest
you.”

She saw the blow go home, but did not rejoice. She would be a good mirror: glass, not polished steel, with chipped and ragged edges so as to trap an unwary hand.

He marshaled his offense swiftly, attempting another direction. “I cared very much for your father—”

“Oh,
don’t!”
she snapped, annoyed with herself that she had ever been such a fool as to believe in anything he said; equally annoyed with the man himself, who believed her so malleable. “This has nothing whatsoever to do with my father. This has to do with me.” Marian no longer cared who might hear. “And
you
, my lord.”

“Marian—”

It was her turn to cut him off. “Despoiled, am I? Very well, my lord—let me put it plainly: a despoiled woman may have lost her virtue, but she loses none of her sense. I am not a fool, despite your conviction otherwise, and you do not convince me to surrender my will to you. I know what you want. I know also it has very little to do with Ravenskeep, or my name.” Decisively, Marian shook her head. “I was ignorant for too long, blinded by innocence—did you count on that, my lord?—but no longer. I know what you want—I know
precisely
what you want”—she weighted her words with care—“and I refuse absolutely to give you any of it.”

Finally she had reached him. DeLacey’s face took flame. “By God—”

“No,” she said, “by me. This is
my
decision, not yours. I base it not on rank and name and holdings, but on one simple fact”—she leaned close, as he had, speaking with careful clarity so there would be no misunderstanding—“I have no desire—nor even the slightest intention—to bed with you.”

Marian waited unflinchingly, expecting perhaps to be struck, or shouted at, or otherwise abused. But the sheriff did none of those things. He turned slightly and raised his voice. “Walter!”

A man appeared hastily. “My lord?”

“Fetch Tuck,” deLacey commanded crisply. “Fetch my daughter. Fetch six men for guard duty.”

Walter was clearly baffled. “My lord—where?”

“Here,” deLacey declared. “At once, if you please. The Lady Marian and I have an issue to be settled.”

“Aye. Aye, my lord.” Walter disappeared.

“What issue?” she asked suspiciously. “I have settled my issue. And why men for guard duty?”

The sheriff sighed. “There are outlaws in Sherwood Forest. I would be a poor friend of your father if I did not see you safely home again.”

“See me
home--”
It was not at all what she expected.

“Of course,” he said quietly. “I am not a monster, Marian, no matter what you may believe. I leave the decision to you—” he smiled sadly, “—to prove my faith in you. You may stay the night, if you like, so you and your woman are not caught in the rain... or leave as soon as the guard arrives.”

Marian stared at him. “Did what I said mean nothing to you?”

“Indeed,
yes.
It meant everything.” His expression was oddly tranquil. “As you will see in a moment.”

 

Robin clattered into Huntington’s bailey, swung off the horse, then handed the reins over as a horseboy came running. “He’s warm,” Robin warned him. “Walk him first, then put him in deep bedding. I’ll not have him going home sore.”

The boy bobbed his head. “Aye, my lord.”

Robin briefly pressed the boy’s shoulder, then strode beyond him toward the keep. His mind was full of Marian and what he would say to his father.

“My lord.” It was Ralph, coming out of the shadowed door. “My lord, your father desires to see you.”

Robin stopped. “I imagine he does.” He smiled at the quiet man he’d known for all of his life. “I imagine he intends to chide me for disappearing as I did.”

Ralph reproached him gently. “My lord, you must admit you left him with no word.”

“I am not a boy anymore.”

“He knows that.”

“Does he?” Robin’s faint smile was dry. “Are you very certain, Ralph? Methinks he considers me not much older than six or seven.”

“Ten or twelve, my lord.” Ralph was unsmiling. “He places great faith in you.”

“Indeed.” Robin sighed. “Very well—where is he?”

Ralph indicated the earl’s direction. “There, on the wall.”

Robin looked. He squinted slightly: his father and three others were silhouetted against the ashen sky. “Who are those men with him?”

“I believe he would wish to tell you himself.”

“Ah. Of course.” Irritated, Robin was tempted to ignore the summons. He was full of Marian still, wanting nothing more than to tell his father about her. But to anger his father now would win him nothing. “Ralph—”He turned back, aware of rising tension and bitterness. “How do I get up there?” It was galling to admit he did not know.