Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 02] (12 page)

“A jest.”

“Or perhaps a game.”

“But they did rob you.”

“No, my lord. Not of my purse, my ring, or my horse. Only—of time.”

“This is preposterous,” deLacey murmured. “Why should they stop a royal messenger to begin with, and then, when they do, why merely detain him?” He looked piercingly at the man. “Did you tell them the message you carry?”

Gerard, plainly offended, replied sharply. “My duty does not lie in discussing such things with outlaws.” He paused, then went on with a diffidence deLacey suspected was false. “Perhaps you might learn why they detained me once you have caught them.”

DeLacey scowled at the subtle suggestion as to how he should tend his duty. “Indeed.” He rose, indicated the door. “As you have already eaten, I’ll not keep you any longer.”

Gerard took the hint and bowed himself out.

“Huntington.” DeLacey tapped fingers against the chair arm as he sank down again. “You”ll be bound to the earl next, I’ll warrant . . . and in the meantime, I think I shall make it
my
duty to hold the tax money here until we know just who shall be king in Richard’s place.”

But there was another duty, also, a puzzle to be solved. He pondered it, sorting out possibilities. A particularly astonishing one presented itself to him, but he dismissed it instantly as wholly ridiculous.

Until it presented itself again.

DeLacey swore. It was indeed possible. They had done worse before.

But why? Why now? Why detain a royal messenger who carried word of the king’s death?

DeLacey swore again, with more vehemence. He lacked information, and he knew of only one way to gain it. Only one way to
dependably
gain it, where highborn accent and manners might otherwise obfuscate, and a woman would apply her beauty to intentionally mislead. Other men might fall prey; other men
had,
including Sir Guy of Gisbourne. William deLacey would not.

The sheriff departed the chair, the chamber, even the hall, and went out to have his horse fetched up from the stable.

Marian came to awareness in a haze of pain so intense her body was soaked with sweat.

“When she wakens,” someone was saying, “give her the poppy syrup. She’ll want it.”

“Salve,”someone else said. “ ’Twill help the hand heal.”

“Privacy!”
That was Joan. “Let her be, will you? I’ll have the tending of her.”

Marian opened her eyes and found them all gathered around the bed she shared with Robin in the room under the eaves. The bed was empty, save for herself. But the room was filled with men.

“My poor lady . . .” Joan sat on the edge of the bed and wiped her brow with a cool, damp cloth.

Marian felt all her muscles knot themselves one upon another. Her hand was afire beneath bandaging. “Will . . .” she croaked.

“Had to,” he said before she could even ask him. “ ’Twould take months to heal with stitches, because you’d always be using your hand even when you meant not to.”

“Then why—?”It took too much effort to finish, though he seemed to understand the incomplete question well enough.

“Distraction,” he told her. “You’d be thinking about Joan and her needle and her thread. So Much could get the knife blade on you before you knew.”

“Whoreson,” she said.

Brother Tuck and Joan drew in simultaneous gasps of shock. Little John was equally astonished, though less noisy about it; Will Scarlet grinned, and Alan began to laugh.

“Why are
all
of you here?” she asked, still sweating.

“You screamed,” Tuck answered.

“Screamed?”

“I heard you clear out in the sheep meadow,” Little John said.

Marian was appalled. “Out there?”

“Well, I
was
coming in,” he explained. “ ’Twasn’t so far as all that.”

Alan’s eyes were bright. “I see they have perverted you, Lady Marian. Such fine speech for a knight’s daughter!”

She squeezed her eyes tightly closed. “Hurts—”

“Poppy syrup,” Scarlet said sharply.

“Much went for it,” Little John said. “And a spoon.”

She opened her eyes again. “Did I swoon?”

“Screamed, swore, and swooned,” Scarlet confirmed. “Alan’s right. You’re no more the fine lady.”

“I wasn’t that,” she managed, “the moment after you stole me from the fair.”

Little John smiled, but it faded quickly. “Should we send for Robin?”

“No,” Marian answered at once. “His father is truly ill. This is . . .” She gazed upon the bandaged hand. “This is inconvenience.”

The giant did not look convinced. “He’d want to know.”

“He
will
know, John—when he’s back of his own time.”

Joan pressed the cool cloth against her damp brow. “Lady, no need to spend your strength on talk.”

Marian intended to answer, but she held her tongue as she and everyone else heard the pounding on the stairs. Much burst into the little room, stoppered vial in one hand and spoon clutched in the other. But he had no time for that. “Sheriff!”

Alan swore with considerable inventiveness in French and English.

“How far?” Little John asked sharply.

“Soldiers with him?” Scarlet demanded.

“Manor road,” Much answered. “Alone.”

The red-bearded giant bobbed his head. “That’s something.”

“But I shall fetch my lute and go regardless,” Alan said, turning hastily to the door. “He may be after parts of me I’d rather be keeping.”

Marian frowned, working it out despite the nagging pain. The sheriff was coming alone. He was not there to arrest any of them. The pardon yet stood.

“All of you save Alan,” Marian croaked. “All of you return to what you were doing. Let him see you industrious.”

“But there’s you,” Little John protested.

She smiled briefly “He is hardly coming to arrest
me.”

Scarlet lifted brows. “How do you know that?”

“The pardon was for stealing the tax shipment,” she said. “But the sheriff wants Alan for something entirely different, and it is unrelated to the theft or the pardon.”

“So we are safe,” Little John declared, though there was a note of doubt in his tone.

“For now,” she agreed. “He doesn’t know
we
know the king is dead. He is here to talk, not arrest. Give him no reason to doubt your intent.”

Alan was gone, but no one else moved.

Marian sat up, cradled the injured hand against her breasts, and moved to swing her legs over the edge of the bed, provoking an alarmed remonstration from Joan. Tuck said something as well, but she could sort out none of it through the grayness in her head. From very far away she heard a pinched voice. “Must I shoo you from my room like a stubborn cat?”

“I’m staying,” Tuck declared. “What better duty would I have than seeing to your welfare?”

Scarlet, muttering, slipped out. Little John, catching hold of Much’s tunic, dragged the boy from the room and aimed him down the stairs, but not before she saw the pallor of Much’s face and the worry in the giant’s eyes.

Marian collapsed against the pillows. “What
does
deLacey want?”

Tuck produced the vial and spoon Much had brought. “You’ll not be seeing him to find out, Lady Marian. We’ll send him away.”

But Marian knew better. William deLacey was not a man to be sent away from anywhere he wished to be. “If the pardon
is
revoked—”

“Then the others will be safe at Locksley,” Tuck soothed. “ ’Tis why Robin suggested it, aye, lady? But if the sheriff were bent on capture, he’d have brought soldiers.”

If she thought about deLacey and the safety of the others, she diverted some of the pain. “I don’t trust him,” she said tightly. “Not him.”

Tuck unstoppered the vial, tipped it to pour a spoonful of its contents, handed the vial to Joan. “Lady, take a swallow of this. You need to rest. The hand will heal more quickly.”

The sweat was drying now, but she felt as if a coal had taken up residence in her palm. She focused on the sheriff so as to distract herself. “I should speak with him.”

Tuck insisted, and at last she allowed him to pour the syrup into her mouth. It tasted sickly sweet, and had a sharp pungency. Marian swallowed, then asked for water to wash it down. Tuck provided it.

She plucked at the bandaging shielding her hand, trying to peel away the wrappings. When Joan questioned her, Marian answered, “I want to see it.”

“ ’Tis whole,” Joan assured her. “I’ll not forgive him for burning you that way with no warning, but I swear, lady, the hand is whole. There’ll be a scar across your palm, but you’ll have the use of it.”

“Later,” Tuck suggested, urging the invasive fingers away from the cloth. ”Sleep, Lady Marian. We’ll keep the wolf of Nottingham from our door.“

Our door.
Weakly, Marian smiled. It pleased her they all felt so comfortable at Ravenskeep. When she had first offered them her roof five years before, she had not been certain any of them would accept; nor, if they had, that any of them would remain. But only Alan had gone at last, as was required of itinerant minstrelsy. Not for him was the patronage of a high lord who’d give him a permanent place in his household. Alan had forfeited such when he’d slept with William deLacey’s daughter. It was vital he not be known, lest the sheriff have him taken, and thus he limited himself to inns along the roadways. But everyone else had stayed on at Ravenskeep.

The first shock of the wound and cautery was passing. Marian felt weak, shaky, and oddly restless because the body was so offended, but she was also aware of an element of relief. The others were safe. And Robin was elsewhere. It was entirely possible deLacey’s mission, whatever it might be, was rendered futile before he even appeared.

Marian therefore allowed herself to relax. The poppy syrup, given leave to do its work without the hindrance of too-busy thoughts and an overabundance of worries, overwhelmed her senses and carried her away.

 

Ralph met him as Robin came in from out of doors. In his haste to see his father, he hadn’t marked how the steward’s hair was beginning to gray. Ralph was no longer young, but he retained the quiet competence and trustworthiness that made him indispensable to the Earl of Huntington. “Sir Robert, forgive me, but I am laying in stores for the larders, as the earl is expecting guests. Shall you be staying on?”

Robin had originally intended to ride to Locksley and visit overnight before continuing on to Ravenskeep after seeing his father. His realization upon the sentry-walk that the earl was likely dying had made him reconsider. But—guests? “Should he have anyone in when he is so ill?”

“He did send for them, Sir Robert. He expects to see them regardless.”

“Who is coming?”

“The earls of Alnwick, Essex, and Hereford.” Ralph smiled faintly. “Old friends.”

Old friends—and equally old conspirators. Robin was stunned. “In God’s name,” he blurted, “what does he plan
now?”

Not a muscle twitched in the steward’s calm face. “Forgive me, Sir Robert, but—”

“ ‘But’ nothing, Ralph! If he’s having those three lords in, he is plotting something. You know it. Don’t prevaricate with me.”

Ralph said diffidently, “I trust Sir Robert recalls I am his father’s man.”

Sir Robert did recall. He would get nothing from the steward that was not in his father’s interests—or under his father’s control. “Have they been here in the last five years?”

“They are your father’s friends, Sir Robert—”

“Friends and peers,” Robin said curtly, aware of a rising sense of apprehension. “That I know, Ralph. Answer the question.”

“They have each of them been here.”

“Together?”

Ralph’s expression suggested he preferred not to answer. Which was answer in itself.

Robin scowled. “The last time Eustace de Vesci, Henry Bohun, and Geoffrey de Mandeville were here together in my father’s company, they planned to stop John from taking the crown while Richard was imprisoned. Well, Richard is no longer imprisoned; Richard is
dead—
and John is very likely to be king.” There was no confirmation in Ralph’s face or eyes, merely immense patience. “Damn you,” Robin said, furious, “do you realize what this could do to him?”

“My lord earl sets his own course. Always.”

“Even if it kills him?” Frustration and futility welled up. Robin scraped a stiff-fingered hand through his hair and yanked at it as if the offense to his scalp might somehow alter the moment. “Do you not see, Ralph?—if John
does
become king, such plotting is treason. My father will be executed, his title and lands forfeited to the Crown . . .” He cast a beseeching look at the steward. “Is this what you wish him to risk?”

“He will forfeit his title and lands only if he has no son to inherit them.” Ralph’s voice was steady. “He risked you, and lost you, Robin. There is no reason he should not now risk a title and lands you have no wish to inherit.”

He did not miss the slip into familiarity. “And if John is stopped and Arthur of Brittany becomes king instead?”

Ralph’s tone was dry as chalk. “Then certainly the earl will retain his title and holdings. Treason is not treason if your side wins.”

Robin shook his head, muttering a particularly vehement army oath he had learned on Crusade.

“He believes it vital for the welfare of the realm, Sir Robert,” Ralph insisted. “Just as you did when you went on Crusade.”

Ya Allah,
but Ralph was as skilled with words and intonations as his father! “I did not risk being charged with treason.”

“You risked being killed, and very nearly were.” The steward shrugged. “Battles are fought in many different ways on many different grounds, my lord. You did what you felt was best for England and her king. Your father does as well.”

“By plotting treason against a prince?”

“That prince plotted the same against his own brother.”

Robin began to wonder if beating his head against the wall might lead him to comprehend. As it was, he was firmly convinced his father, Ralph, and various earls had gone completely mad.

Or perhaps he should beat
their
heads against the wall.

“Last time he meant to marry me to John’s bastard daughter,” he said darkly. “What is he plotting for me this time?”

Ralph’s surprise was unfeigned. “But you have no part in this, my lord.”

“I am here, am I not?”

“But not at his command.”

Robin felt very near to grabbing handfuls of Ralph’s tunic and slamming him into a wall. “Damn you, speak plainly with me! You know he desires something of me. Now that I am here, he will plot his plots and involve me in them.” He scowled. “What does he want of me?”

“Merely to be,” the steward said, “what you were born to be.”

He wanted to laugh, but it was unconnected to humor. “I was born a third son. I was never meant to be heir.”

“That is true,” Ralph agreed quietly after a moment.

“Did he send word to Marian so that she would urge me to come?”

“Not through me.”

“Did you send word to her in my father’s place?”

“I did not.”

He scowled. “Then how in the name of all the saints did she find out?”

“A messenger arrived from the king. You were summoned to France. But you were not here, and he was sent on to Ravenskeep.”

“Where Marian received the message.” Robin nodded; he had been en route to France with Mercardier. “And so she learned my father was ill.”

With great care so as not to shade his tone with anything other than simple truth, Ralph explained, “She was not sent for, nor was she brought. She simply came of her own accord.”

It was preposterous that Marian should do such a thing, and yet wholly like her. She knew she was not welcome at Huntington Castle. Yet the earl was ill, and so she came.