Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (6 page)

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.

While inwardly, unexpectedly, an emptiness was born.

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—”

“En
light
en 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 alien 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—”