Juliana Garnett (38 page)

“It grows cold, milady,” Fiskin said as he took the palfrey’s reins. “We have visitors.”

Curiosity was tempered with dismay; her mood did not lend itself to civility these days and was a constant drain on fading reserves of strength. Now she noted an air of activity overlooked before: men, swathed in layers of wool to keep out the winter’s cold, milling near the stables.

“Who is it, Fiskin?”

But he was already at Robin’s side, adulation for the famed outlaw earl a constant gleam in blue eyes. Jane stifled a sigh. Head ducked against the wind, she mounted the stairs to the hall.

Warm air washed over her as the door opened, rich with the smell of spices and comfort. Dena scolded, not unkindly, bustled about to take her mantle and brush away the snow.

“Go and sit by the fire, milady. The Lady Marian awaits thee.”

Marian. Still beautiful, still elegant, possessed of the same serenity Robin had found. Years in a nunnery had only deepened her faith, sheltered her from life’s harshest blows, and lent her more grace. Jane almost envied her for it.

“Do not overtire yourself, Dena,” she said as she allowed the older woman to direct her to the hall. It was a futile reminder. Dena ignored all reprimands and set about her duties as if she were still a maid, despite her frailty of body. Her spirit was strong, and that might yet keep her well.

Jane recognized the broad form seated on a bench near the hearth, heard the laughter, and her steps quickened.

“Tuck! And Little John—you are all here!”

They rose, Tuck, John, Will, even Alan of the Dales, a familiar lute in his hand.

“It nears
Christes Masse
, and I am to say the Mass at Blidworth this year,” Tuck said with a laugh. “You did not think I would fail to pay respects while so close-by?”

New wine redolent of spices was brought on a tray, Enid smiling at her mother’s side. Logs spat smoke and sparks up the chimney, spread warmth in a pool to encompass those on benches. Shadows of gold and gray danced on whitewashed walls. Alan strummed his lute, sang of the fame of an outlawed earl and his lovely lady, to the amusement of all.

Candles burned low, lamps hissed as wicks shortened; a sudden draft bent flames, lifted a dog’s head to stare down the length of the hall. Scrambling up, it bayed, undulating tones that riveted those in the hall.

Jane turned, rose from the bench even as the men became alert and tense. Shadows shifted, a voice mocked:

“A merry band, loud as jackdaws and not so lovely to the ears.”

Light glinted on gold hair, caught the faint gleam of steel, then washed over the familiar knight as he stepped from the shadows to quiet the baying dogs.

“Sir Guy, you defame us,” Robin said, laughing. “Alan may well be grieved to hear your opinion.”

Laughter and greetings drifted around her as Jane stood still, waiting, her heart in her throat. Another shadow moved behind Guy, stepped into the light, and she moved instinctively over crackling rushes.

Tré caught her. He held her tightly, smelling of wind and snow. His face was cold, his breath warm against her cheek.

Neither of them spoke; it was enough to embrace. She felt his muscles shift beneath her hands, turned her head to look at him, saw his smile with a painful clutch in her chest. Her tongue would not form the words she longed to say; prayers of relief, pleas that he never leave her side again, vows of love lingered in her heart.

“You are well come, my lord,” she said instead, and put her palm against his cheek. “You have been missed.”

“Have I?” Intensity vibrated, low and intimate, in his voice and in his touch. “It is good to be here.”

“I have longed for the sight of you.…”

He put his palm atop her hand, held it to his cheek. “I bring a message from your lady cousin.”

“Lissa is well? Does she—”

“Well enough.” He glanced toward Guy, a slight shake of his head, then: “She says to tell you she searches for peace as you once told her to do.”

Painful memory, Lissa’s miserable face, her own earnest pleas that she seek peace within instead of without … heeded now at last. “I pray she finds it, though I never thought it would be in a nunnery.”

“Safer there for her than where Dunham might yet reach her.” Tré’s eyes briefly clouded; another glance at Guy told much. “She retreats from more than her husband, I think.”

Jane understood. Though Guy smiled and jested, there was an emptiness about him now, as if he had suffered great loss. Perhaps Lissa meant more to him than he admitted.

“Come, milady,” Tuck said behind her, “let us greet him as well, ere we grow old.”

“Too late for that, Brother Tuck.” Tré looked up with a glance and smile. “But not too late for news I bring.”

“Come and sit by the fire,” Robin invited, “and share it with us.”

Tré did not release his grip on Jane, but swept her with him toward the fire, holding her tightly at his side as he shrugged out of his mantle and accepted a proffered cup of hot spiced wine. Cinnamon and ginger seasoned the air, rich and tempting.

Anxious, she scanned Tré for evidence of new hurts but saw none. A quick glance at Guy reassured her that they were both fit and hale. Some of her tension eased, cautious relief creeping in to replace it.

Tré lowered his cup, nodded greeting at these men he had once pursued with grim determination.

“John has at last agreed to repay what is owed. Two sets of commissioners have been appointed, one by the crown, one by the pope, to review the amount of damages the crown must pay to wronged barons.”

Lady Marian gasped, turned to Robin with hope shining in her eyes and face. “Huntington can be rebuilt, Robin!”

“Aye.” An indulgent smile, a glance at Tré, a speculative lift of his brow. “So it seems. What of you, my lord Devaux? Are your lands secure?”

“They are. I have set Captain Oliver to hold Brayeton until our return. He is a worthy castellan, and Giles is well used to stewardship.” He paused, glanced again at Guy with a faint smile. “I have granted one of my holdings to my loyal knight, in gratitude for his service. Behold Guy de Beaufort, Lord of Ravenscar.”

Guy accepted their accolades with a grave nod of his head; hazel eyes gleamed in the soft light, a sardonic smile curled his mouth. “My lord Devaux claims gratitude, yet renders to me lands and title he knows I will have to fight the king to keep. He only seeks more northern barons to lend weight to a common cause.”

“And will you fight the king should it come to that, Sir—Lord Ravenscar?” Robin asked, tone light but freighted with significance.

“Yea, it will come to that and I will fight.” A pause, then softly: “The king does not end his oppression. He has shown his contempt for barons and country by reinstating men proven to be lawless. Eustace de Lowdham is High Sheriff of Nottingham again, FitzWalter and de Vesci restored to their lands as well. The Charter of Liberties promised by King Henry is ignored, and the archbishop frets. Yea, there will be rebellion, you may count on that.”

In the ensuing silence, Tuck leaned forward, round face troubled as he asked, “Yet what of northern barons who have sworn again to John? Will they once more forswear their oaths and rebel?”

It was Tré who answered, tone grim: “Yea, as some have done already. Faithless overlords risk much by premature action—John waits like a hawk for a mistake.”

An unanswered question hovered, the moment stretching as Jane waited for the subject to be broached. In this dubious peace, Tré risked losing all if he pursued Welburn.

He glanced down at her, eyes a narrow green beneath his lashes. “I have a new overlord.”

Silence greeted the news; her heart dropped. Fragile peace destroyed, another weapon lent the king to use against him now.…

Knuckles bleached white, her hands gripped tightly in her lap. She heard him, as if from a distance, the familiar rasping tone dear to her now, say, “For overlong I thought of vengeance. I lived it, breathed it. It was meat and drink to me, and I meant to kill Ewing for what he had caused.”

It was so quiet in the hall that the popping of a log was like a crack of lightning; Marian jumped, gasped.

“But it would not bring back Aimée. Once, that would not have mattered to me.” He looked at Jane, held her gaze. “Now I would not risk my future for what is past.”

Tears stung her eyes; her throat ached. Shaky hope rose to form a question, but he answered it before it was asked.

“It seems,” Tré continued softly, “that Pell Ewing fled the king’s grace once more after being found involved in a plot, and seeks refuge in France. I find it interesting that Lord Dunham is also under indictment for his part in it.”

Silence settled; Guy leaned forward, humor curved his mouth. “Are you not going to ask who his new overlord is to be, milady? It involves you as well.”

Relief that Tré had not killed Welburn erased any other concern, but she nodded. “Yea, it would be intriguing to hear what baron will now have Welburn’s lands.”

“They have been granted to the man who petitioned the king for them as a payment for loss of lands and castle—the Earl of Huntington.”

For a moment, Jane did not move. Disbelieving, her gaze shot to Robin; he smiled, hitched a shoulder. “I seek to expand my holdings, and Yorkshire is lovely, I am told. Is that not what you told me, Lord Devaux?”

“Yea, and I did not lie. Yorkshire is most lovely, near as lovely as Sherwood.”

Tré rose to his feet, held out a hand. “Milady, with the interdict ended, marriages can once more be performed by priest
and monk. If Brother Tuck is willing, I would wed thee on Christmas Day.”

No hesitation: “Yea, my lord, I will wed thee before man and God.”

His hand closed around her fingers, held tightly. “Before man and God, Jane of Ravenshed, I swear my love.”

Bleak sunlight pierced scudding clouds to play over the steps of Saint Mary’s Church in Edwinstowe. Sentiment brought them there to wed; Robin had wed his lady Marian on those very steps.

Holly and ivy wreathed Jane’s head, tucked into a silk band that dipped over her brow. Clad in a blue gown that flowed around her body, she looked more lovely than Tré had ever seen her.

Tuck cleared his throat, almost regal in his clerical robes. “Then let him come who is to give away the bride.…”

Robin, garbed in the raiment of an earl, came forward with Jane on his arm. She looked at Tré, eyes blue-shadowed beneath her lashes, love gleaming so that his heart pounded loudly, nearly drowning out the wedding liturgy.

“… And let him take her by the right hand, and let him give her to the man as his lawful wife, with her hand uncovered, as she is a widow.”

Solemnly, Robin placed Jane’s right hand in Tré’s; long fingers, bare and lovely, trembled on his wrist. She held his gaze, and he saw in her eyes his past and his future. It made him clumsy, so that he fumbled as he slipped the gold band on and off three successive fingers of Jane’s right hand, as required by ritual—in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost—then finally slid it onto her left hand and held her fingers tightly in his.

The smell of mint pervaded his senses and prevailed over the spicy scent of spruce trees beside the church. It was calming. Now the words came easily to him, the pledge heartfelt:

“With this ring I thee wed, with this gold I thee honor, and with this dowry I thee endow.…”

Jane knelt at his feet, head bent, glorious hair gleaming in the morning sunlight. He lifted her up, held her hand in his to take her into the church for the blessing.

Shrouded in silence and incense and surrounded by former outlaws, they were united forever. Later would come the blessing of the wedding chamber, the marriage bed that would seal them as wedded in the eyes of the church.

Necessary rituals for man and God, but not for him. He had sworn to Jane of Ravenshed long before now, in his heart and soul. Nothing else was required to make his contentment complete.

Outside the church waited Jane’s loyal household; they waved sheaves of wheat in blessing, a sign of fruitfulness as benediction for the marriage. Oxton and Creighton stood on the fringes of the crowd, signifying with mute presence their approval.

Tré lifted Jane onto the back of her snow-white palfrey, bedecked for the occasion in garlands of late flowers and wheat. With his hands still about her waist, he looked up at her, cleared his throat of sudden emotion, and sought a light note to the solemn moment.

“Perhaps Tuck should have made you swear not to take up arms against me again, Lady Devaux. I find you formidable.”

“Do you, my lord husband?” A smile wavered on her lips, eyes a bright sheen in winter sun. “As I do find you to be. I pray our son does not have your daunting nature.”

“Should we have a son, I am certain he would have his mother’s sweet temper.”

“Son or daughter, my lord, we will know by Midsummer’s Day.”

For a moment he stood frozen, looking up at her, at the uncertain smile on her mouth and the hope in her eyes. “You are certain of this?”

“Yea, my heart. ’Tis my wedding gift to you … a child of our love.”

A lute strummed softly, chords rippling through the air as Alan began to sing.

It was a promise made and kept, a new beginning for both of them—for all of them.

TO MY READERS