Juliana Garnett (19 page)

Did Devaux seek her out—or warn her?

Fretful uncertainty dogged her; she was no good at this sort of thing, useless with double meanings and intrigue. So few she could trust—Little John and Tuck. Still, wiser heads to offer advice.

The leper’s bell jangled, sounding loud as she turned the plodding horse eastward from Ravenshed. Narrow lanes were deserted; there was no sign of soldiers or that she was being watched. The clink of bridle chains softly accompanied the bell bobbing against her back, both echoing in the darkness that blanketed the verge.

Jane was well away from Ravenshed when it grew lighter. The sun rose over hills and wood; gray melded to pearl, grew sharper, burned away the early mists shrouding the greenwood. Light warmed the road and her back, bright by the time she reached Bilsthorpe. The hamlet spread on a promontory, ringed with wood and silence. No one approached her as she passed through; few would approach a leper.

Finally the walls of Rufford Abbey hove into view; the gates were open. She dismounted, changed her leper’s garb for the simple robe of a penitent, and led the weary rouncy down the long track to the abbey. White-robed Cistercian monks worked busily; the abbey’s infirmary, stables, workshops, and wool mills helped sustain monks and lay brothers. With the king’s recent depredations against the church now ended, abbey life was returning to normal.

An order of silence allowed no conversation between monks and lay brothers. Visitors were required to keep their tongues while present.

It was a requirement Jane had no trouble meeting, as her voice would betray her gender should she speak.

There was no sign of Frère Tuck. She fingered alone outside the west wing. The lay brothers’ frater just off the kitchen separated it from the choir monks’ frater. A bell signaled the main meal, and lay brothers and monks entered the refectory. Tuck was not among them.

Disappointed, she gave in to her rumbling stomach and stepped into the vaulted chamber. Thin light threaded through stone-arched windows to illuminate gloom. No lamps were lit, or words spoken as lay brothers retrieved spoons from a carved niche in the wall and seated themselves at the long tables set up in a double row. In the south wall, another niche held a crucifix and a glowing candle.

A prayer was said; the silence was broken by the shuffling of
feet and clack of wooden spoons against bowls as they began to eat. While a monk read to them from the Holy Book, they ate silently; Latin words were a familiar drone.

She kept her head down. Thick circular pillars braced a groin-vaulted roof, graceful as angel wings. The stone floors were cold and damp, and she was grateful for the buskins warming her feet and legs. The pottage was thick and savory with leeks, turnips, and meat; brown bread and ale were provided.

The reading from the Holy Book ended with the meal. All rose and filed from the refectory in silence. Jane trailed behind. As she stepped into the light again, blinking at the sudden change, a hand took her elbow. The silent pressure of pudgy fingers guided her to one side, then back into an arched doorway.

A long, narrow parlor just off the frater closed around her; here there was conversation in low tones. Brothers sat on benches placed along the walls.

“Tuck!”

“Aye.” In a tone rusty from disuse, he reminded softly, “Here I am called Brother Robert. We have not much time. Talk is permitted only at certain hours, and only in here.”

“I must talk to Little John—can you take me to him?”

Consternation briefly creased Tuck’s round face; he hesitated, glanced around, then smiled. “Meet me after Nones by the church in Wellow.”

“I will be garbed as a leper—”

“Yea, I know.” Laughter edged his voice, a glimpse of the old Tuck she had once known. “A disguise that fools no one. I will find you after my duties are done.”

A thousand different thoughts crowded her mind; time passed slowly until she saw Tuck again, coming at last along the narrow track that led from the abbey to the tiny hamlet of Wellow. His stout frame was a familiar bulk, sandaled feet plodding the rutted road with confident grace despite his size. A grin split his face as he saw her waiting beside the rouncy.

“A leper with a horse. Most entertaining.”

She laughed softly. “A monk with a big belly is even more so.”

“Ah, it is a cross I bear most willingly.” Brown eyes regarded
her shrewdly, peering into the shadows of her hood. “Your beauty increases with the years.”

“And your tongue grows more glib. Tell me news of my aunt.”

He fell into step beside her. “Lady Marian—Sister Mary, now—is well. She is content to remain cloistered away from the secular world, yet at times the world invades even convents. She sends her blessings.”

Marian. Her aunt by marriage, wife to Robin. For years she had sought refuge in a nunnery, shut away from the world and contact with even those who loved her. Only Brother Tuck remained in touch with her, and that limited. Oddly, tears stung Jane’s eyes. Marian was her last link with family; all others were long dead.

Tuck gripped her arm, his voice kind. “Walesby is not far from here. The caves are close. I shall go with you.”

“A monk and a leper.” She laughed, though it had a taut sound to it. “We are an unlikely pair to pass notice.”

“Steady, my lady. You are made of sterner stuff than to wither now. Your mother would be fair proud of you, to see how strong and lovely you have grown.”

“My mother?” Memories returned, vague and frayed with time, blurred visions of a dark-haired woman who smelled of mint. “My mother would be horrified,” she said with a faint smile, “if she knew what I have done.”

“You speak of the fray at the Cockpen Oak.”

Wryly, she nodded. “Yea, I do. You have been told of it, I see.”

“Milady, all of England has heard of it by now, though few would guess the hooded outlaw who held the sheriff at bay with a single arrow is a slip of a maid, and not the return of a fabled hero.”

Amusement eased her brief gloom. “Lord Dunham swears Robin Hood has returned.”

“Yea, the tale spreads far from Sherwood. Even in the abbey we hear news. It must gall the sheriff to be so humbled.”

Startled, she realized that she had not thought of Devaux’s chagrin, only her own emotions. Of course it would shame him—he had been bested, not only by an outlaw but at an
awkward moment. Laughter at his expense would be far more humiliating than the escape of the outlaws.

It put him in a different light. Beneath his harsh exterior lay brief impulses of kindness; she had seen it, in the gentle hand that returned a kitten to its mother, in his patience with an elderly servant who tried even her patience at times, Could she have wronged him?

Oh, I do not know what to think … he confounds me with kisses, yet leaves without a word. Is he kind, or ruthless? Or is it all a farce? A pretense to gain his own ends?

Tuck put out a hand to guide her from a misstep in a rut, looked up with a smile. “You are much like your mother.”

“I am nothing like my mother.” Despair etched her tone. “She was a lady. My earliest memories of her are steeped in warnings that I would one day disgrace myself if I did not behave as a lady should. It seems she was right.”

Tuck fell silent; his breath was labored as he walked, footsteps heavy beside her light ones. Finally he said, “It is no disgrace to come to the aid of those being abused, my lady. Never forget that. Your mother would not have forgotten it.”

“No.” She inhaled the scent of wild roses and sweet creeper. “She would not have forgotten it.”

It was late afternoon when they reached the shallow River Maun where it wound lazily through sloping meadows dotted with poppies. A breeze made ripples in the grass like sea waves, a soft rustling sound. The warm sunlight and wind in her hair was a benediction; it eased her fears as she paused, listening to the murmur of the river beneath red sandstone bluffs. To one side was a deep, cool greenwood that separated Walesby from the river.

“The wooded path,” Tuck puffed, and pointed to the right where a stretch of thick trees parted slightly.

Jane pulled the rouncy to a halt. It blew noisily; the sound carried, brittle in the muffled silence of the wood. She leaned against the horse and felt heat beneath her palm.

“Which way lies the cave?”

“They will come for us.” Tuck bent slightly with his hands spread on his knees. “We will wait here.” He wore a rough
brown robe instead of the white wool of a Cistercian; it covered his ample frame to the ankles.

Folding her legs, Jane sat beneath a tree on a lush tussock of green, pushed back the hood to free her hair. Tuck moved to sit beside her, grunting as he lowered himself to the ground.

“I grow stiff with age and fat,” he muttered. Sweat made fine rivulets from his temples, wetting a dark fringe of hair beneath his tonsured pate. “It is as well that I am removed from secular life. I fear I would soon expire from exertion.”

Jane managed a smile. Tuck asked no questions, sensing, perhaps, that she would confide in him when ready. She plucked a sprig of grass; the leper bell chimed softly with her movement. The rouncy began to graze, blowing softly in the long grasses.

Rasping calls of wood pigeon and dove trilled among thick leaves. Tuck struggled to his feet, then held out his hand. “Don the leper’s hood, my lady.”

She took Tuck’s hand and rose to her feet, eased folds of hood over her head and tucked long hair beneath the wool.

It was not long before she heard the low hoot of an owl and then another. A glimpse of green leaf-shiver was swiftly followed by the parting of branches.

A man dressed in Lincoln green beckoned from the thick line of bushes and tall, waving tufts of grass. Unsmiling, unfamiliar, he looked from her to Tuck, then nodded.

“Leave the horse.”

Silent, he led them deeper into the trees, until the path narrowed and seemed to disappear. Birds twittered overhead; twigs snapped underfoot as they entered a tunnel of interwoven tree branches.

When they emerged, it was at the bottom of a steep slope. A raw red sandstone bluff rose abruptly like a crude fortress. Scarlet bursts of poppies crowned the bluff; blue forget-me-nots bunched beneath the trees. Violet blossoms of ground ivy lent a strong scent to the air.

Tuck sucked in huge gusts of air; his face was as red as the sandstone. She put a hand on his arm and he managed a grin and slight shake of his head.

“What ho!” came a laughing voice, “A fat monk!”

Wheezing: “Yea, and a lady. Watch thy evil tongue.”

Then John appeared; his broad frame rose out of nowhere in front of Jane, grinning when he recognized her. “The leper is our lady!”

She smiled. “Yea, a leper come to visit rogues and thieves. I am pleased to see thee safe, John Lyttle.”

“Aye, milady. Why would I not be safe?” A wide grin accompanied the hand John put out to help her navigate the slick, wet grass and rocks that edged the river. “This way—’tis sound footing here. Come along, Turtle Tuck. To the caves!”

The musty smell of damp earth swallowed them; as her eyes adjusted, she saw with some surprise that the cave was deep. Niches had been carved by time; layer upon layer of them in the soft sandstone provided natural hand holds and shelves for candles to be set. Fur pallets lay on the floor by the ashes of a fire.

Tuck’s wheezing reverberated from the striated walls. Candlelight licked them with a soft rosy glow. John paused, indicated a low shelf of soft rock with a wave of one hand.

“There are no bolsters, but ’tis not so bad a seat, milady.” His gaze shifted to Tuck; his grin widened. “Ye brought your own padding. What brings ye here afoot?”

“Penance,” Tuck gasped out as he sprawled on loose sandstone in a shower of sandy grit and pebbles. He took in a noisy gulp of air, blew it out again. “I have … not suffered … enough yet.”

Soft laughter met his complaint; John shook his head. “Then ye have come to the right place for penance, Brother Tuck. There are none of the comforts of home here.”

Beneath his light banter, Jane heard the wistful tone. She caught his eye when he glanced her way; his smile faded.

“What news of my home in Hathersage, milady? I fear it will be seized ere long, with me not there to protect it.”

There was no comfort she could offer. Regretful, she shook her head. “I have no news.”

Tuck’s wheezing eased. Tactfully, he said, “We bring news that will amuse you well enough, John Lyttle. ’Tis said that Robin Hood has returned, though we know ’twas our lady here
who confronted the sheriff. Rumor has it that outlaws will once more rule Sherwood.”

John’s eyes widened; he slapped a knee with delight, guffawed loudly. “Aye, and ’twas well worth being outlawed to see the look upon the sheriff’s face when our lady Jane held a bodkin arrowhead at his throat!”

“Ah, I regret I was not there.” Tuck shook his head, gave a lengthy sigh, spread fat fingers on his knees to lean forward. “But now there will be trouble. The king is to come to Nottingham.”

“ ’Tis not the king who scours wood and dales with his cutthroats.” Humor faded from John’s face. Huge hands curled into fists. His voice shook with rare ferocity. “I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

“There would only be another to replace him, possibly worse. Devaux is relentless, but not cruel.” Tuck frowned, rubbed at a crease over his nose with a pudgy finger.

Jane leaned forward, urgency creeping into her tone. “I did not dare send a messenger—I fear the king’s visit hides a deeper motive for the tourney.”

Parchment crackled as she withdrew the message she had received, fingers shook slightly as she smoothed it, offered it to Tuck. As John could not read, the monk read aloud: “It is required that Lady Neville of Ravenshed be present in Nottingham Castle on the twenty-first of June to attend a banquet and tournament in honor of His Royal Highness—”

Tuck halted, looked up, fingers crushing parchment in his indignation. “Honor a king who has scourged the church with fines, imprisoned clergy, defied the pope? A travesty! All of England has been under an interdict for four years because King John refused to approve Pope Innocent’s appointment of Stephen Langton as Archbishop of Canterbury—no priests have been allowed to conduct Mass, marriages, or even last rites, yet now we are to ignore these depredations and
honor
the king with a banquet? A perversion, I say!”