Juliana Garnett (30 page)

“Diversion, Devaux? Naked swords in my hall is hardly a diversion.” John eyed Gaudet, slower to regain his composure at the interruption, fury still simmering in his eyes and rigid posture. “Where is this dangerous outlaw you have brought to
heel, Sir Gervaise? Gilbert tells me you have succeeded where Devaux has not, and have Robin Hood’s man in custody.”

“Not his man, sire.” Gaudet sheathed his sword with a brittle clink of steel and iron. “I have Robin Hood’s niece, taken in an act of felony.”

The king’s gaze shifted to Jane, lingered with both malice and amusement. “This lady? You seem familiar to us. How do we know you?”

More calmly than she had thought she could, she replied, “I am Lady Neville of Ravenshed, sire.”

“Hugh de Neville’s widow?” Surprise marked his face, a brief flicker quickly suppressed. “Ah, your lands lie within the boundaries of the royal forest. Very close to Clipstone, as I recall. Your lands are now in trust for the church, are they not?”

“Mine in perpetuity, sire.”

“But no issue. A widow without heirs.” The king smiled. “An unfortunate event.”

“Yea, sire, so it is.”

“Not as unfortunate as the charges Sir Gervaise has levied against you, however.” A negligent lift of his hand, and his seneschal put a goblet of wine in it. Jewels gleamed on the bowl and stem, winked in torchlight when he drank.

Jane waited, mimicked Tré’s indifference with hands folded in front of her and face devoid of expression. It cost her dearly; knotted stomach muscles twisted painfully, lungs ached for elusive air. A glimpse of other barons moving behind the king was scant relief.

“Such a pretty neck to wear a hemp necklace,” John commented as he lowered his cup.

“Hardly necessary, sire,” Tré said with a trace of amusement. “Danger lies more in error than in truth. I doubt the lady capable of bearing a heavy coffer from chamber to cart.”

Stroking his upper lip with one finger, the king nodded agreement. “Doubtless. Did you find accomplices with her, Sir Gervaise? Robin Hood’s men?”

“Yea, sire. Seven stout men, outlaws all. Four were slain, three survive to hang.”

“And Little John?”

“My men are in pursuit.”

“Excellent. Perhaps we misjudged your abilities. It seems that you have managed well, Gaudet.”

As the king smiled, with spite in his eyes and tone, Tré’s steward begged leave to speak to his lord.

“Grant pardon for the interruption, my lord sheriff,” Giles said smoothly, eyes downcast, “but there is no room for the men Sir Gervaise arrested. The cells are filled with outlaws you brought in to await trial.”

Timely intervention, subtle disclosure to remind the king of Devaux’s efficiency. Jane regarded Giles warmly.

Gaudet scowled. The king turned toward the dais. “It is late. We are weary. This will be finished on the morrow ere we leave for the royal hunt at Clipstone. Time is scant in these days when barons swear false oaths and commit treason. Gilbert, see the lady to a cell.” He paused, fixed Tré with a pointed gaze. “It is expected that she will be confessed and shriven before the morrow. Find a priest to hear her confession.”

“She cannot be condemned without trial, sire.”

Swinging about, astonishment and rage marred John’s face as he regarded his sheriff. “Do you dare admonish us?”

“Nay, sire. I state the obvious with great respect, but vast reservations. Flimsy evidence has been given. Gaudet seeks to mislead you.”

Padded shoulders drew up stiffly. “We will decide that.”

“I trust when Abbot Thomas arrives, he will be generous enough to lend spiritual guidance and experience of canon law to aid your decision.”

Blood pounded in Jane’s ears; disaster yawned, a vain attempt to thwart the king that could earn enmity for Tré. She longed to touch him, draw strength from his urbane defiance.

Reminder of the church’s new encroachment into English law was not lost on King John. His jaw set. “It is possible he would be persuaded to do so, but he does not arrive until the feast of Saint John’s. We have decided to leave early.”

“I am certain the abbot will be most grieved to learn that his counsel in the matter of a widow’s fate and inheritance is unwanted.”

It was implication more than content that snared the king’s
attention and earned his displeasure. But the kernel of truth was unavoidable and chafing: The church had an interest in Neville lands as well.

Cold reply, deadly menace: “You importune us, Devaux.”

“My apologies, sire. I meant only to lessen your burden and save you from the abbot’s disapproval.”

A facile explanation, a bland countenance that earned John’s narrowed regard and grudging compliance. Abruptly, the king shifted his position.

“Your generosity and dedication earn our admiration.” The smile was as patently false as his words, a sop to the barons milling near. “It will not be necessary. We are able to do our royal duty, and will value the abbot’s counsel should he arrive in time.”

Tré bowed his head in acceptance of the king’s edict. “It will be as you will it, sire.”

“Of that, there is no doubt.” John’s smile was tight. He yawned and covered his mouth with a ring-bedecked hand. “We wish to be gone from here by the time Prime bells are rung. Assemble the court and have them ready after Lauds. It should not take long to hear evidence against outlaws caught in the full flush of crime. They can hang while we break our fast.”

Callous even for John, this further revelation of his character earned a murmur and rustle among the barons.

Attuned to the mood, the king adapted; sanguine sarcasm edged his decree: “To soothe your offended sensibilities, Devaux, if found guilty, the lady will not hang. It would reflect ill upon the court should the widow of a Norman baron meet the same fate as villeins and outlaws. In our mercy, we will allow the lady to offer penance in a royal dungeon, much as Maud de Braose was permitted to do.”

Jane fought a wave of weakness. Classic John: devious, cruel, offering ruin in the guise of leniency. She was to be starved to death, as the Countess de Braose had been.

King John said into tense silence, “Lady Neville, you were found consorting with known outlaws. The penalty for that is death. Can you prove your innocence?”

Desperation lent her strength. “Am I to be presumed guilty
without trial, sire? I am the daughter of a knight, a Norman baron’s widow. By law, I am given the chance to plead my innocence before the justiciar.”

Invoking the reminder of the law should have swayed the king; greed was too great an influence. Dark eyes glittered. She felt Tré shift beside her, muscles tensed.

John’s mandate was harsh: “There will be an inquisition on the morrow, Lady Neville. You may plead your case before
our
justice. When it is done, you will be sentenced.”

An angry mutter rippled through the Saxon barons within hearing; Gilbert of Oxton pushed through the crowd. Indignation creased his face as he came to a halt.

“Sire, I do protest. Would you so insult her rank as well as her character by denying her lawful rights?”

John was undaunted. His tone was that of a snarling wolf; feral eyes pierced red-haired Oxton with hot scrutiny. “
We
have been insulted by outlaws long enough. If Robin Hood’s niece brought this shame upon her head, then she will face the consequences. What of you? Do you desire to take her place—or perhaps join her?”

Oxton paled, but did not retreat. “Nay, sire. Neither do I wish to see her unjustly condemned.”

“That is what an inquisition will determine. Even Saxon law allows for that.”

Inquisition
. Just the word was enough to provoke stark fear. Hot rods, metal spikes, submersion in water to prove her innocence—if she survived.

Through the mad beating of her heart, Jane heard Tré Devaux voice acquiescence to the king’s verdict. Slowly, she turned to look at him, but his face was turned away. Disbelieving, her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth in mute terror as Tré offered the king advice.

“Let Abbot Thomas preside at the inquisition, sire,” he said calmly. “No man can then say you are to blame for Lady Neville’s fate.”

“A pretty turn of mind, Devaux. We are tempted to wait upon the abbot’s arrival.” A pause, a cunning smile. “But if we allow Sir Gervaise to conduct the ritual, we detach from any blame and do not involve abbots in temporal matters.”

A sharp order summoned the guard. Jane was flanked by men-at-arms with eyes hidden behind noseguards of steel helms. She gathered her dignity around her like a shield, held her head high as she turned to go with them.

Gilbert of Oxton still offered futile protests; his face was a smear of white, red hair standing up like the teeth of a comb on his head. All was a jumble of sound, a blur of motion and sickening defeat.

Silent, still as the stone columns that held up the high roof, Tré Devaux offered no more argument for her reprieve. Had he abandoned her? She dredged up her courage and looked full into his face—and was glad she did.

24
 

Shadows lounged like indolent beasts in corners, ranged in corridors, slunk across the middle bailey. Posted guards were solitary figures on the castle walls, phantoms silhouetted against an occasional flare of torch. Gates were closed, no one allowed to enter until dawn; the silence was thick, with all abed.

A faint echo of boots on stone broke the dense hush; Tré paused, frowned, swore softly when he recognized the wraith that separated from deep shadow. He waited until the specter reached him before he spoke, his voice a low rasp:

“What madness summons you from a deathbed?”

Shaky laughter trembled in the air; Guy passed under a fitful spray of moonlight, was reclaimed by shadows. A gleam of pale hair anchored him against the darker wall.

“I knew I would find you here. You go to free her.”

He did not bother to acknowledge the accuracy of the statement; time was fleeting. Bluntly, motivated by truth as well as concern, he said, “Begone back to your pallet. You will hinder me, Guy.”

“Surly knave.” The feeble attempt at humor faded. “You need me.”

“I need a whole man, not a half.”

“There is enough of me left to lend aid. I am wounded, not dead.”

“That can change swiftly enough if we are discovered. You cannot wield a sword, or even defend yourself against the guards.”

Guy snapped, “I can slow them with my lifeless body!”

Tré laughed, a wry sound in the dark. “Yea, or you can astound them with your lunacy.”

“The king is right—you have a most facile tongue.” He shifted, his grin wavering in the gloom. “It will do you no good with me. I have an interest in this as well.”

Thin light picked out the linen binding his left shoulder and arm. The hand was thickly wrapped where he had taken the brunt of Sir Alfric’s thrust.

Holding up the hand, he added grimly, “It is a wonder I have all my fingers, and may lose one still. Yea, I have a keen interest in thwarting Gervaise Gaudet and his hellish cousin.”

Tré nodded, glanced toward the postern door that led to the upper bailey. “If you will not listen to reason, I can use you to distract the guard.”

“I will distract him with a dagger, if he is Gaudet’s man.”

“God willing, he will be my man, not the king’s guard. We may hang with the outlaws on the morrow.”

Keys clanked; the metallic rasp of lock and tumblers was overloud in the hushed night, as was the creak of unoiled hinges as the door swung open. Cut deep into the foundations of sandstone, bolstered by limestone, damp natural caverns provided ample storage for both prisoners and supplies. Steep stairs led to a newly built undercroft with two stone arches; three guards were posted beneath smoking torches at the far end, with an excellent view of the stairs.

Sound carried in the cavern. Silent, Tré knelt in the dark at the top of the stairs to listen as the guards discussed wenches and dicing almost in the same breath. He shared a quick glance of amusement with Guy; soldiers’ conversations rarely varied. The sound of rattling dice echoed. He considered the situation carefully, but there was only one conclusion:

Secrecy was impossible.

These were the king’s guards, not his own men, who would never question his command. He felt Guy stir at his side, knew he had come to the same realization.

By releasing Jane, he risked all. The king was no fool. Defying John would earn him a slow and painful death. Yet, if he left her there, it would end the same. He had been dying by slow degrees since Aimée had been killed—until he met Jane of Ravenshed. Lovely lady … she had saved him once with her healing hands. Once more with love.

Now he would save her.

Guy put a hand on his arm, shook his head. He met his sworn knight’s anguished gaze, smiled tightly. There was really no other choice he could make.

Softly: “Are you my liege man, Guy de Beaufort?”

Stricken, apprehension glinting in hazel eyes, Guy gave a brief nod of his head. His reply was a hoarse whisper: “Yea, you know I am.”

“You have always obeyed me. Do so now. Go back to your pallet and do not rise until it is done. Plead ignorance. I want no blame to fall upon you for what I do. First, swear to me you will watch over my lady when I am dead.”