Juliana Garnett (16 page)

The hall was illuminated by the hazy glow of candle racks; shadows of gold and jet danced on whitewashed walls. It was quiet, empty, save for Jane and Lissa.

Softly, so that her voice would not carry beyond the hall, Jane murmured, “Lissa, what were you thinking?”

A wool-clad shoulder lifted in a shrug. “It was amusing, and I have been bored of late.”

She sounded petulant. Faint signs of discontent edged her tone and brow. “Sir Guy is handsome and young, not like Walter at all.” She leaned forward; anger replaced the petulance. “At least he is not some blowsy tavern slut, such as those Walter favors.”

That was the crux of it. Jane did not reply for a moment because there was nothing she could say to refute her cousin’s accusation. It was well known that Walter of Dunham preferred low company to that of his young wife.

At last she said with a helpless wave of one hand, “You may have erred in this. Sir Guy is not some doting swain who will languish upon your whim. He is Norman, and a knight. It would be unwise to dally with him as you have with others.”

A soft laugh with the comment, “He is a man like all the others.”

“No, Lissa.
Not
like all the others. You dallied with mere boys. Guy de Beaufort is the sheriff’s trusted man. He is no beardless youth to despair at your frown, weep at your anger.
There will be no love sonnets written in praise of your golden hair and breasts like pears, no songs sung beneath your bower in hopes that you will bestow upon him the favor of a single smile. You have misjudged your man this time.”

“I think not.” In the denial crouched uncertainty, and Jane pressed her advantage.

“Leave him be, Lissa. He is not like to fall in love with you.”

“And what would you know of love?” Lissa’s brow arched; her mouth tightened. “You are a widow in mourning for your dead husband and wasted youth. You have not known love, nor are you likely to. For you will be the nunnery or another loveless marriage. It is all the choice left to women unless they seize the moment and take what pleasures they may.”

“As you have done?” Stung, as much by the truth as the cruelty of her cousin’s words, Jane continued, “I see no joy in your life, but only unhappiness. With every man you take, do you find joy as well as pleasure? I think not.”

Lissa’s lower lip quivered; a glaze of tears silvered her eyes. “No …” husky, pained, “I have no joy in my life. It only seems fair for me to take what few moments of stolen pleasure I can.”

A sigh escaped as Jane leaned forward to embrace Lissa. They clung for a moment, then parted, awkward and uncertain.

“I understand,” Jane said at last. “I do. I just—worry about you.” She took Lissa’s hand between her own, held it fast. “You are dear to me. I want no harm to come to you.”

A pause; then, in a rush of words: “I fret for your safety as well, Jane. Devaux means trouble for you. Why else would he be here?”

Because she could not confide the truth without endangering others, Jane shook her head. “The sheriff will leave when his wound is healed.”

“Yet—” Lissa frowned, blurted, “He asks too many questions. There are rumors, Jane. Rumors that Robin Hood has returned.”

“Returned?” Jane stared at her, swallowed a laugh when Lissa swore it was true.

“Walter told me it was Robin Hood who held the sheriff at bay by the Cockpen Oak—he heard it from a man who was there.”

“One of the outlaws?” Jane shook her head. “It is only a wish, not the truth.”

“How can you be so certain?” Lissa’s eyes narrowed. “Did the sheriff tell you?”

“He does not tell, he demands to know. If it were true, he would not be asking us if Robin Hood is alive.”

“Oh.” Lissa sounded disappointed. “I suppose that is true. A pity. England could use a champion right now.”

Silence fell between them, an easier silence now than before. Candles flickered, smelling of the herbs Jane put in the molds to lend them sweet scent; she must gather more. Her supply had dwindled since the sheriff’s arrival. He lingered yet. When would he leave?

He should depart Ravenshed soon. His wound was near healed, his strength returning. Heat rose in her face and throat, as it always did when she recalled his kiss. Scalding illumination, a rare discovery of the lack in her life. Never had she been kissed as he had kissed her. Never.

At first Hugh had been careful with a young, untried maid; when she was older and more desirous of ardor, the pattern of their lives was set. It was a lack she had never felt keenly until now. Until now, when she recognized all that was missing from her life, and added another regret to the growing list.

She sat calmly in the familiar closeness of her hall, as alien in her own body as if she were in a strange land. How different her life might have been … and yet, she should not waste time on empty regrets. It availed her nothing.

Flames danced on the hearth; orange, red, and blue tongues greedily gnawed oak to charred embers.

On the morrow, she would go out to gather more herbs. While she did, perhaps she would bring in some sprigs of ivy to garnish the house. Dena swore that the plant guarded against evil and protected those within. It was foolish to believe in such tales, but then, in these times, it could not hurt to err on the side of caution.

A sudden draft bent the flames and made a peculiar hollow
moan in the chimney. Jane shivered. Dena would say it was the
bean sidhe’s
warning, and that it presaged a death.

She thought of Little John. Tré Devaux meant to hunt him like a wild hart, run him to ground and take him alive. Yet he would be taken only to be hanged, a warning to all in Nottinghamshire that outlaws were marked for death.

There was nothing she could do to stop it. Nothing.

13
 

Restive, chafing at enforced inactivity, Tré paced the floor of the small chamber that overlooked the courtyard. He had counted the floor planks—sixteen from bed to window, attended by as many creaks of his weight on wood.

His mouth twisted. Reduced to counting planks, the idle desperation of an invalid.

Invalid in name only now; his strength had gradually returned, though he was plagued by bouts of irritating weakness.

“On the morrow,” he said to Guy, sprawled in the flimsy frame of a chair, “I will be hale enough to sit a horse. I have been absent an entire sennight—seven nights in which Gaudet has had full rein. It is long enough.”

Scrubbing at his jaw with one hand, Guy lifted a brow. “Yet Gaudet’s daily courier assures you he has all well in hand, and that you are to tarry as long as you need.”

“That alone makes it imperative that I get back before he sells the mace of office.” His gaze came to rest on Guy; a gold-tinged brow and wide grin mocked him, and his tension eased. “He has no doubt changed the locks on all the doors.”

Guy laughed softly. “Not even Gaudet is so foolish.”

“No.” He glanced out the window; sunlight graced the day. “Yet if he could find a way to be rid of me, he would do so.”

“If he could find a way.” Guy rose from the chair, stretched lazily like a great tomcat, then scratched his chest with an idle hand. “But there is no way for him to rid himself of you. He is still under King John’s sharp eye.”

“As am I,” Tré pointed out dryly. “Gaudet would take advantage quickly enough, should the chance arise.”

“Assuredly. Yet we have imprisoned outlaws, you raised the taxes and men John demanded, and have kept the barons quiet. What more could the king ask?”

Silence fell; Tré leaned a shoulder against the wood frame of the window. A warm breeze filtered through the open shutters. He shrugged.

“With John, all can—and no doubt will—be asked. He waits only for a mistake to seize the moment and have me arrested.” He raked a hand through his hair, shook away stiffness in his side. “The last message from him demanded that I arrest and execute the Sherwood outlaws.”

“No doubt Gaudet sent him word of the disaster at the Cockpen Oak.”

“It would suit him well to see me fall.” A patch of sunlight shifted on the far wall; he watched it for a moment. “Now that the pope has offered King John a compromise, the interdict will be lifted.”

“So the king will be once more reconciled with the church, and give up his war against Philip of France?” Guy shook his head. “He only purchases time to plot.”

John had no qualms about breaking faith with church or pontiff, if it suited his needs. On the surface, the king’s truce with Rome was beneficial to all. Yet it smacked of subterfuge.

He glanced at Guy. “What men are left here?”

“All but those under Oliver’s command. Word from him is reassuring. Nottingham is quiet for the moment.” Guy joined him at the window, glanced out, and leaned an arm on the wall beside the frame. “I think it too fine a day to waste inside. Nottingham is the morrow. Today, we are here. What say you to a tour of the garden?”

“A tour of the—” Tré lifted a brow, followed Guy’s gaze, then shook his head. “Go, if you must. I linger here.”

In an instant he was gone, the oak door left ajar behind him.
Tré’s gaze shifted back to the courtyard below his window. It had rained the three days past, but today it was clear and bright; a soft sun spread abundant light on field, wood—and the lady in the courtyard.

Lady Dunham occupied a bench beneath a stone wall that staggered crookedly around the courtyard. Bright blue garb was a merry splash of color against drab, gray stones, an invitation in silk. With a tilt of her head and a smile, she welcomed Guy to the bench, sliding to make room for him beside her.

So much alike, the two of them, both fair-haired and comely, with easy manners. Amusing company, with jests and light words, a diversion from long hours spent in compelled inertia while healing.

Far different from Lady Neville, with her sharp tongue. The memory still burned:

“I pity you for your empty soul.…”

In that instant, he had seen himself as she saw him: a husk of a man, only going through the motions of life. It was an illuminating discovery.

He scraped a hand over his jaw; beard stubble rasped beneath his palm. He needed a shave. His hair was too long. No matter how much mint he chewed, he could not rid his mouth of a bitter taste.

No matter what else he thought about, he could not rid his mind of her haunting accusation.…

Abruptly, he wheeled about. A tour of the garden was preferable to being alone with his memories. Guy would have to suffer his company. He snatched up a jerkin, soft leather of dark green that had been produced for him in lieu of leather hauberk or mail. He did not want to think about who had worn it before; it was better than discomfort or nakedness.

Descent of the narrow staircase was a bit shakier than he had considered it would be; too much time abed had left him weak. He moved through the empty hall; the doorway loomed just ahead.

He paused on the threshold. Sunlight hit him with blinding intensity. After so many days inside, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the onslaught. A fresh breeze carried the fragrance
of roses and mint; chickens clucked busily; new lambs bleated.

Mundane details, ordinary life far removed from kings and castles. Peace and promise of life’s renewal replaced strife and intrigue; it could become a habit, if he allowed it. But he could not. His life was not one of rural peace. Even if he wanted to retreat, the king would never allow it, never trust him not to raise arms in rebellion against him, as his overlord had done.

A hand shaded his eyes as he moved down the steps and across the courtyard. Guy smiled welcome, a little wryly, while Lady Dunham watched his approach with wary eyes. She cradled a lute in her lap.

His hand dropped from his eyes; he acknowledged Guy’s greeting before his gaze shifted to the lady. It was an awkward moment that begged for ordinary comment: “Do you play the lute, Lady Dunham?”

“Yea, my lord high sheriff, I do play. I am most adept at ballads, should you care to—”

Guy jerked to his feet; he held out a hand to the lady. “You do not want to abuse an invalid, Lady Dunham. Come. You promised me a walk in the garden.”

A faint, mysterious smile curved the lady’s mouth as she rose gracefully. “Very well, Sir Guy. I think you will enjoy a stroll among the roses after all.”

Slightly bemused by Guy’s uncharacteristic gruffness, Tré watched as they turned toward the garden at the side of the house. It had not escaped his notice in the past days that the lady had taken up with his knight; it was not a matter of concern to him, save that the lady was wed to a Saxon baron. Guy could be trusted not to be a fool. It was the unknown quality of the lady that might prove troublesome.

Across the courtyard by the stables, several of his men worked at repairing harness and cleaning their weapons. Guy had set them to worthwhile tasks to occupy their time and keep them from restlessness. Boredom was often the bane of a soldier’s life. As it was his, of late.

Tré followed a narrow path at a right angle from the house,
entering the garden plot behind the kitchens. A soft wind carried the aromatic scent of rue. Lush new vines of peas and beans clambered over poles crossed and tied to bear the weight. Next to these, straight furrows of colewort nudged spindly stems of tansy and angelica, both herbs strong scented, as was the sweet mint drooped over whitish rock borders.