Juliana Garnett (11 page)

Should disaster befall him, I am responsible
.…

A bitter truth, to know that she may well have cost a man his life, and certainly cost him hard-won amnesty.

The peaceful, familiar sounds of serenity mocked her. The night was calm, cool with soft winds that summoned memories of more pleasant times. She thought of her parents, dead since she was but thirteen years of age. A fever, swift and capricious, left behind a skinny, rebellious maid yet took robust parents and two healthy brothers. It had also left her a ward of the king; another twist of fate found him dead within a year after, victim of a chance arrow while besieging a castle in Châlus.

And when the Lionheart died, so too did, Robin’s heart and spirit
.…

Robin—beloved uncle, warrior-earl—left England and grieving niece behind to continue the Crusade for Richard.

A useless cause, noble in concept, villainous in deed. Anger still troubled her at times; men left, never to return, not knowing or caring what happened to those who loved them.

Yet, anger for past deeds was a vain emotion. It availed her nothing and only clouded bright memories. It was an emotion she could not afford to indulge, and in truth, the years had been kinder to her than she had expected.

Chosen for her by King Richard, Hugh de Neville had been a caring husband, though much older. She had been fifteen, he forty when they married; a loyal Norman knight and a Saxon maid, old enmity woven into a tapestry of hope for England. It had pleased Richard, thus pleasing Robin.

Yet no one ever listened when I said it did not please me
, the small, irritating voice reminded.

She could not really blame her uncle; he was duty bound to his king by love as well as honor. And it had been for the
best, as Hugh loved her and she had grown to love him. Perhaps Robin had been wise after all. Their marriage bound together the lands of Blidworth, Ravenshed, and Ashfield. A tidy parcel even with Blidworth now inherited by Hugh’s cousin; enough to lure more barons than she cared to consider when Hugh died. The year of mourning was nearly finished, and with it, the time granted to make a decision: nunnery or marriage.

Neither appealed to her.

Soon, she would have to choose. Perhaps Marian would give her advice.…

Chaaack! Chaack! Chack!

The familiar signal came abruptly, piercing the night and her reverie. A dog barked nearby, and others took up the baying chant. Hair prickled on the back of her neck; her hands tightened in her lap, the darning needle pricking her thumb.

From the shadows, Fiskin suddenly appeared; his face pale and indistinct, like a disembodied moon.

“Milady! Come quickly!”

“Is the gate locked?”

“Aye, ’tis locked and barred. Come. Come with me.”

Abandoning the mending, she followed Fiskin. He moved swiftly, almost running so that she had to lift the hem of her kirtle to keep up. Her breath came fast; she knew the path well, for it led to the orchard.

The apple, pear, and cherry trees smelled sweet; branches slapped at her in sharp rebuke when she failed to duck. Just ahead, Fiskin came to a stop at the back wall that circled the manor estate.

A large shadow separated from the rest, visible only by the distant glow of torch- and moonlight.

“Milady.…”

“John!” Relief flooded her. “You are safe.”

“For the moment.” His tone was wry, weary. “The Talbots are out. Hard on my heels. I dare not linger.”

She went to him, swiftly, taking his hands in hers though he shook his head and tried to avoid it. They were damp and sticky. Her heart thumped. “You are wounded.”

“It is nothing … the dogs. The sheriff’s men took Rowan and Shandy. I go to join Will and Alan. We were somehow betrayed. They narrowly escaped capture.”

She turned. “Fiskin, go quickly and bring food. Have Dena put in some salve and strips of clean linen as well. Fly swiftly now, for there is not much time.”

Little John gently pried loose her hands, and she heard grim satisfaction edge the words: “They nearly had me in the dales, but I killed one and wounded two … curse them. I have been fleeing the daylong since they found me in the hills above Newstead Abbey.”

“It is my fault you are hunted. I should have left you in Hathersage to live quietly, and not endangered you thus.”

“Milady.” Softly: “As lovely and dear to me as thou art, if I had not wanted to lend my aid to Will Scarlett, I would not have come. I knew the risks. I knew them twenty years ago, when I joined with Robin.”

“This is different. Robin is—not here.”

Silence fell, freighted with sorrow and acceptance. A heavy sigh slipped into the air between them. Little John made a gesture like a shrug and waved his arms in despair.

“Would that he had never gone on Crusade. We will never know what happened to him. Not even Lady Marian knows. If he had only lived.…”

Jane did not comment; the moment was steeped in sadness, then passed with the return of Fiskin.

Panting, he held out a heavy leather pouch. “Bread, cheese, salve, and linen, milady.” He sucked in a quick breath. “And half a roast chicken saved for pie.”

John laughed softly. “Dena knows me well. If she were not already wed—”

In the distance could be heard a faint, baying howl, and Jane pressed her hands against him. “Go,” she urged, “for I hear the Talbots give voice. If they have found your scent.…”

“They will lose it again unless they can swim.” John took the leather pouch, and in the glimmer of light through branches and shadow, his eyes glinted. “Be Brother Tuck still at Rufford Abbey?”

“When last I heard from him. Fly swiftly now, John Lyttle, and I will pray for thy safety.”

“See to thine, milady, for the sheriff is relentless. He has snared men this past week. He hunts dale and hill.”

“And the forest.”

At that, a soft laugh: “Nay, not Sherwood. The wood is too thick, and he knows it. Others—the outlaws who prey on innocents—have gone to ground in Thieves Wood. It would suit me well were the sheriff to arrest that scurrilous lot, for they ravage with random acts. ’Tis why I go to the caves.”

“May the Virgin keep thee safe, John Lyttle.”

He was gone. A soft farewell lingered on the breeze when he was on the other side of the wall, his seven-foot height mastering it with ease.

She waited in the shadows, but the belling of the hounds did not draw near. Night sounds were all she heard: the familiar lowing of sheep, rustle of birds, stomp of hoof. It was quiet again, safety in the barren night.

She returned to the garden bench and knelt, looking for the mending she had ignored earlier. It lay on grass damp with dew, and she sighed, shaking it. The bliaut made a snapping noise, suddenly loud.

A dog barked, and another, all the manor dogs taking up the chant. She rose to quiet them, then heard Edwin cursing, and halted. There was a yelp, a whine, and peace was restored.

Jane laughed softly. Her relief was mixed with anxiety for John’s safety; she prayed he would reach the caves. Salvation lay in Sherwood’s vastness.

Her kirtle hem was wet and cold against her ankles where it had dragged through the grass. Lifting her skirts in one hand, she cradled the mending under her arm and returned to the house.

Fiskin appeared again from the shadows beside the door; she started, almost dropped the mending.

“Must you do that, Fiskin? It is most annoying, when—”

Urgently: “Milady, riders approach!”

A cold chill pricked between her shoulder blades.

“You saw them?”

“Edwin—”

No other assurance was needed. Dena’s husband possessed a keen eye. She nodded.

“Alert the others. And send Edwin to me.”

Fiskin disappeared again, melting into the shadows like a wraith. When Edwin reached her, his broad face was creased with anxiety.

“Milady, it is Normans.”

“Normans?” The knot in her stomach twisted more tightly, but her voice was calm: “Summon Ulric and the others to guard the gate. You know what to do.”

“Aye, milady.”

They were after John, of course. Jane discarded a score of defenses as inadequate; she desperately wished that she were better at lying. It was not a thing that came readily to her. She prayed fervently that Devaux was not among these Normans. His cold eyes would pick apart her every half-truth, deboning it as efficiently as Dena picked clean a chicken for pie.

It was late; purple shadows had long since deepened to dense blue. Soon, the skies would be agleam with light even near midnight. But it was not yet the second week of May, and darkness fell before the Compline hour.

In the courtyard, Edwin and the stablemen assembled with crude weapons: scythes, pitchforks, and stout staves. Even Fiskin bore a weapon.

Jane waited at the manor house, outwardly composed while her insides churned with apprehension. She could see the gate from where she stood on the stone steps. It was sturdy oak, thick and well hinged, barred against intruders. It would not keep out determined men, but it would hinder them long enough to hide, should it be warranted.

A heavy thud of hooves on the moat bridge, then the pounding of a mailed fist on the gate rent the night. The dogs set up a racket again and were quickly hushed.

Fiskin opened the wicket with a fumbling hand and demanded querulously, “Who awaits there?”

The challenge was swiftly answered, and Jane, standing on the top step with hands clenched tightly in front of her, felt her stomach drop when the answer came curtly:

“The Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham. Stand aside, you
witless knaves, and yield entry. The sheriff is sore wounded and needs attention.”

Fiskin glanced around, and at a nod from Jane, Edwin bade him open the gate. The bar slid back with a grating protest. The gate swung open.

Men seemed to fill the night, their mail glinting in the wash of torchlight. Spurs rattled and sheathed swords clinked as some of the men dismounted. Jane sucked in a deep breath, her hands knotted so tightly that her fingers felt numb and cold.

Then she recognized Guy de Beaufort, his pale hair a beacon in a restless sea of shadow and silhouette.

“Lady Neville, we impose upon your hospitality.” Again, it was not a request but a demand.

“You said the sheriff is injured, Sir Guy.”

The men moved fully into the light; Devaux hung slackly between Guy and another man.

“He is, milady. We were close-by, so brought him here.”

There was nothing she could have said to stay them even if she had attempted it; she bade them bring Devaux into the manor house to be tended. He was only half-conscious, bare head hanging low and swaying from side to side.

“This way.” Jane indicated the steep, narrow staircase that led to the second-floor bedchambers.

Guy eyed it and shook his head. “Do you not have a place any closer? He weighs at least fifteen stone in all this armor, and feels more like twenty.”

“Bring him in here.”

They followed her to a small room used as a storage area near the back of the house. Dena scurried ahead and readied a rough pallet of bed linens and rags on the floor, and the sheriff was lowered gently.

“Where is the hurt?” Jane knelt beside him, her hands already swift efficiency as she tugged at the buckle of his sword belt. “I see no head wound.”

“His side. ’Tis an old wound, newly injured. No, this side—let me doff his armor or you will make it worse.”

Jane lifted a brow when he pushed her aside. “I am used to tending wounds, sir.”

“Perhaps, but not
his
wounds.” A swift frown bent toward
her as he deftly unfastened the leather sword belt and beckoned to a man-at-arms to assist him. “I know there is not a Saxon in all of Nottinghamshire who would not leap at the chance to do him in.”

“Probably not, but do not think me fool enough to do harm to him while he is here. I am not such a simpleton as to think you, or even the king, would allow that to pass without reprisal.”

Easing Tré free of the metal hauberk and coif with some effort, Guy let them drop in a clinking pile to the cold stone floor. He sat back on his heels and looked at Jane. Hazel eyes stared deeply into hers for a long moment, then a faint smile curved his lips.

“No, I suppose you are not that witless. His wound is grievous. Are you skilled?”

“As skilled as most women who must tend men foolish enough to wield sharp implements. Remove the rest of his garments while I fetch herbs. He is feverish.”

She rose to her feet, not waiting for his response as she left the storeroom. Dena and Enid came swiftly to her side, the older woman nervous, voice a low whisper:

“Milady … the Normans have two prisoners with them.”

Rowan and Shandy.
There was nothing she could do for them now.

“We must see to ourselves, Dena, and give no offense or we will end as badly. Hasten, for we have much to do.”

When Jane returned to the storeroom with her pouch of medicines, Dena bore a tray with cups and mortar and pestle; Enid brought a heavy cauldron of boiling water. They placed the items on the floor near the pallet, then withdrew to allow Jane near. She knelt once more beside the wounded sheriff.

He had been stripped to his braies. Divested of his garments, he looked younger than his years; unexpectedly vulnerable. His body bore the marks of his profession, healed scars from previous wounds crisscrossing his chest and belly like so many hedgerows. Yet it was the wound in his side that gained her immediate attention: the deep gash oozed corruption. She turned slightly.

“Enid, fetch a jug of old wine from the cellars. Fiskin is to bring me six eggs.”

Guy made an inarticulate sound. “Eggs? Do you feed him or heal him?”

“It draws poison and cools the fever of the flesh. Move back, sir. You are in my light.”

Guy swore softly, a curse in Norman French that brought up Jane’s head to stare at him so coldly that he flushed.

“Sir Guy, you brought him to be treated, did you not?”

“Only because we were close.”

“But you brought him here. Trust in my skills if not my loyalty. Feel free to watch. Do not get in my way lest ’tis your wont to bury the sheriff before a sennight passes.”