Juliana Garnett (35 page)

“Be swift, my lords, for we have not much time while I distract the priest with my learned conversation.”

Gilbert of Oxton knelt in an attitude of prayer, with Lord Creighton stiffly at his side, both men ill at ease and anxious.

“What news, my lords?” Tré bent beside them, three barons in prayer, guarded by a knight.

“King John met with the justiciar and all the bishops of Winchester on August 4 at Saint Albans. Peace has been proclaimed to all, with strict adherence to the charter laws set out
by King Henry.” Oxton paused, mouth twisted wryly. “He also enjoined the disuse of evil customs by sheriffs, foresters, and other officers of the crown, as they value limbs and lives, to commit no more extortions and wrongs as they have been wont to do.”

“A noble endeavor,” Tré said dryly. “Does Gaudet obey?”

“He does not,” Creighton growled. Age and anger sat uneasily on the barons head. Gnarled hands knotted with impotent fury. “New taxes have been levied, more monies demanded. It is at the king’s instigation, though he feigns innocence.”

Oxton raked a hand through his red hair. “The king committed the government to the justiciar and the Bishop of Winchester in anticipation of his absence from England to fight in Poitou against the French. Now his body of knights refuses to join him. They plead expense already lost in his effort, but John will not pay. That is not all—the northern barons refuse as well. They assert that according to the tenure of their lands, they are not bound to the king in his invasion in France. John sailed to Jersey, but when no one followed, he soon returned in a mighty rage, cursing the day and hour when he consented to the peace.” Oxton smiled. “He claims he has been deceived, made a gazing-stock for nothing.”

Tré laughed softly; the sound was swallowed in scented gloom, echoed by Guy at his side. “Then the time is ripe to act.”

“Yea, my lord, if you hurry.” Oxton sucked in a deep breath, exchanged glances with Creighton, and offered a taut smile. “We are behind you, with Adam de Lincoln, Sir Walter Foliot, and Thomas de Gray. We will swear that Lord Dunham lies, a fabrication concocted to further his aims with regard to Gaudet. There is no loyalty in Walter of Gedling—he will throw Gaudet to the Angevin wolf at a moment’s notice if he is cornered. We have only to reduce Gaudet, and we have Dunham in check.”

“We needs make haste, while the king rides north with his mercenaries and foreign host to bring the northern rebels to obedience,” Creighton muttered.

“Yea,” Oxton agreed, “but first Gaudet.” He flicked a glance at Tré. “The Council of Barons is to be held in two days’ time. We stand ready to lend aid when you give the word.”

“I am ready, my lords.” He glanced at Guy, saw the same emotion in his eyes: anticipation.

Nottingham Castle towered above the town. Familiar walls of sandstone were a formidable barrier. Tré sat with Guy in Pilgrim’s Inn below the fortress, sipped ale from a tankard and waited. Had Oliver received his message? Would the captain risk all to lend aid? It would soon be seen.

Beside him, Guy shifted impatiently, growled an oath at the delay that grated on tempers and tolerance. The clang of iron against stone was steady as two soldiers in Gaudet’s livery played at ringing the bull. A bull’s nose ring dangled at the end of a long rope attached to the ceiling; flung hard, it sped toward the target on the wall.

“Join the game,” Tré said, and smiled tightly at Guy’s swift, incredulous glance.

One of the soldiers swung the ring again; it whipped through the air, nicked the bull’s horn that curved up from a wood brace fastened to the wall, fell away to a groan of disgust. Coin clinked, a wager was won, and the other man stepped to take ring in hand. It looped neatly on the horn at the first try.

Beyond the ward room lay a rear chamber nestled behind a natural chimney of rock. A secret entrance led to passages carved by time and men, conjoining the network of caves.

“Distract them,” Tré murmured, “then join us.”

Guy nodded. He rose from the bench, walked toward the men, inconspicuous in the rough garments of a woodsman they wore as disguises. He had no noticeable weapons, save a dagger on his belt.

While he engaged the soldiers in a wager, boasting of his prowess yet handling the ring with clumsy hands, Tré slipped unnoticed from the ward room and around the rough rock that formed the chimney. Darkness claimed him; he ran a hand over the surface of the wall, found the latch of the door, opened it, and stepped inside.

Furtive noises like those of scuffling rats drifted down the passage. He waited, breath heavy with anticipation. Everything rested on subduing Gaudet. If he failed in that, he lost all.

He thought of Jane, safe in Sherwood. For now. If he failed, Oxton had sworn to her security.

“I will see to her, my lord,” Gilbert had promised with quiet dignity. “Long have I—admired the lady.”

It was a burden eased, the knowledge that Jane would be safe.

The door creaked open at last, Guy slipped inside. “I lost my last coin,” he muttered, grimaced as the door shut behind him, closing out the light.

The blackness was heavy as they felt along the walls of the passages that honeycombed the rock. There was a steep slope beneath their feet; grit whispered free as boots gained purchase in the dark.

At last, light broke over them, gray and welcome, as they emerged in the tower. Tré glanced at Guy, noted sweat and strain on his brow.

“Now we shall see if we have a chance to live beyond the sun’s setting,” he said softly, smiled at Guy’s soft oath.

The bailey was strangely deserted, with guards atop the walls but no activity near the royal apartments. With the king’s departure had gone his vast retinue, leaving behind a welcome silence.

They made their way along the walls, keeping to shadow but with a casual demeanor designed to avoid suspicion. The steep rise of stairs that led to the middle bailey gleamed in the soft light as they descended.

The gatehouse loomed, manned by guards; grim obstacle if Oliver wisely looked to his own neck and abstained from involvement in the fray.

A guard moved from the shadows, pike held across his chest; Tré paused. “Oliver,” he said, and the man nodded and grinned, stepping aside to grant them access to the middle bailey and the great hall.

Oliver had not failed him. He would yet win all.…

Oliver stepped from an alcove near the hall. “Your swords, my lord.”

Tré met the captain’s eyes as he took the weapon held out to him. “Should I win the day, George Oliver, you will find honor and security within my halls.”

A fleeting grin squared the captain’s mouth; blue eyes honest and intelligent met his with candor. “My wife will be most pleased to hear it, my lord. Kath has been pining for a quieter life in the country.”

As he buckled on his sword, Guy laughed softly. “It is not a quiet life he promises you, Oliver, but a long struggle ere that day should come.”

“It is the way of the world, Sir Guy. A man must work for great reward.”

Hefting his sword, Tré said, “Let us go to claim that reward from Gaudet.”

Men crowded the great hall; barons come to attend the council were attended by men-at-arms, more than the usual number. Tré recognized Oxton’s men, Adam de Lincoln, Foliot, and Creighton among Gaudet’s livery. They had kept their promise to him, Saxon barons and Norman, united behind him against common foes—King John and Sir Gervaise Gaudet.

Hoods pulled over their heads, he and Guy threaded a path through the throng. Gaudet sat at the high table on the dais, with Lord Dunham at one side and the Abbot of Croxdale at the other. The mace of office glittered in the light from torches and high windows.

In his element, Gaudet presided over the gathering with a lordly arrogance unsuited to a man of his rank. Scarlet and yellow tunic, a bright splash of color, set him apart from the more soberly clad Dunham and the stark-robed abbot. Jeweled rings glinted; the chain of office around his neck chimed with his movements. A brilliantly plumed bird, gaudy and dangerous.

Barons parted, granted Tré passage with silent permission. He paused by a thick stone column, waited until Gaudet finished speaking in low tones to the abbot and turned to look out at the assemblage.

Then he stepped forward, voice loud in the sudden hush:
“Sir Gervaise, what of the charges brought against you that you have colluded with a baron to defraud the king’s coffers?”

Gaudet tensed, glared into the crowd to identify the speaker. “There have been no such charges brought against me. Who speaks?”

“What of charges that you falsely swore against a baron to the king,” Tré said then, ignoring Gaudet’s question, “and bore false witness against a baron’s widow to gain her properties? Properties that belong to the church as well, it is said—a crime against man and God.”

Fury marked Gaudet’s face. He surged to his feet. “Guards! Find me this man!”

Abandoning the stone column, Tré moved through the crowd to stand near the dais, Guy close behind. Guards used pike and staff to push through tightly packed men, earning harsh looks and muttered oaths.

Oxton signaled for Gaudet’s attention. “What of these charges, my lord high sheriff? Do they bear weight?”

“Lies! Vicious lies levied by a man too cowardly to show himself to me or to you—”

Relentless, Oxton pursued it: “Yet I recall the former high sheriff, a baron by right of investiture, denied his rights by law to a trial before justiciar and council.”

“My lord Oxton,” Dunham leaned forward, a dangerous glint in his eyes, “your memory is impaired. I was here that day, and Devaux waived his rights by agreement to a trial by combat.”

“Nay, my lord Dunham,” Creighton said then, voice firm to rise above the noise of guards moving about the hall, “it is not as you say. We were many of us here that day, and know full well that Lord Devaux was denied by the king his right to trial before justiciar or even the church. As was Lady Neville, a widow whose dower lands were left to the church despite the king’s dispute.”

The abbot turned to Dunham and Gaudet, vexation on his face. “Can this be true? I insist that these charges be answered more fully—”

“Do not be duped by the charges of two men with their own
interests,” Gaudet snapped. “Gilbert of Oxton is known to lust for the widow, even though she consorts with the outlaws of Sherwood. Her uncle was Robin Hood, monseigneur, a wolf’s head, and hardly fit recommendation for her character.”

Standing quietly, Tré bided his time; the abbot weighed charges and countercharges, while controversy raged among the barons in the hall. A faint smile pressed his mouth. Another council erupting in argument: normal procedure, in his experience.

Impotent, furious, Gaudet stood behind the table and glared out over the barons. It was obvious that the tide of opinion had turned against him, Saxon barons uniting with Norman in a cause that threatened their personal as well as political lives. If the king could flout the authority of the church in his condemnation of a single Norman baron, so could it happen to any baron there who earned his displeasure.

“Merde!”
Guy muttered at his side, and Tré turned to follow his gaze.

Before either man could move, a female voice rang out in clear tones: “My lords! I bring proof to bear in this cause!”

Gaudet and Dunham turned in unison, incredulity marking their faces. Sir Gervaise recovered first, snapped out an order to remove the lady from the hall, but was swiftly vetoed by the abbot.

“Come forward, my lady, and identify yourself before you render to us this proof you bear.”

Tré felt Guy stiffen; he knew the cause.

Moving through the crowd, heedless of the stares, the lady halted before the dais; her beautiful head was held high.

“I am Lady Dunham—wife to Walter of Gedling, Lord Dunham, now sitting at the high sheriff’s side. Monseigneur, I bring proof and complaint, with a request for your grace.”

“Present it, my lady.” The abbot gave a sharp gesture when Gaudet protested, fixing him with a cold glare. “This is a matter of church as well as crown, as it involves lands deeded to the church. It would behoove you, Sir Gervaise, to heed my counsel and allow me to proceed unhindered.”

Disbelieving, Tré watched as Lissa gave to the abbot a
much-folded scrap of parchment, bearing, she said, written proof of her husband’s plot with Gaudet, and his seal. She did not glance at her husband, though he glowered menacingly.

When the abbot finished reading, he glanced up at the lady. “You bear witness against your husband?”

“I plead succor from the church, monseigneur. Grant me the privilege of sanctuary in a nunnery, for my dower lands. I seek refuge from the harsh hands of my husband, a man of no honor, a traitor to crown and God.”

It was a telling speech. He heard Guy inhale sharply when the abbot granted her petition to enter a nunnery. It was unlikely that the church would refuse ample donation for admission to cloistered walls. Unhappy lady. Perhaps she would find the peace she yearned for within serene walls devoted to prayer instead of conflict.

“It is our decision,” the abbot intoned, “that the matter of Lord Devaux be reconsidered. I repudiate charges against him, and refer the matter to a council of his peers, to be heard before the chief justiciar of this land at a time agreeable to all.”

For a moment, Dunham and Gaudet did not speak, then the Saxon baron bowed his head in acceptance, though his eyes glittered with malice. “At your command, monseigneur, it will be so.”

Gaudet was not so easily won, but at a quick word from Dunham gave grudging assent. A vote was taken among the barons, carried by a majority, and Gilbert of Oxton found Tré in the press of men swarming in the aisles.

“It is done, my lord. No justiciar will convict you. There is no proof of guilt—not with barons prepared to swear you innocent of circumstances.”

Tré met his gaze, nodded. “Now we fight a common enemy, Lord Oxton, though before it was Saxon against Norman.”

A faint smile flickered on Oxton’s mouth. “Yea, for the sake of your lady, all has changed.” He paused, said softly, “If I had not seen with mine own eyes your defiance of the king even in certain knowledge of your death for freeing her, I may not have thought you worthy of her.”