Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 02] (5 page)

Marian smiled faintly, glad she was able. “Ill or no, he would say the same.
And
expect you to repeat it.”

He nodded, bowed again, was gone.

With exceptional control, she took up the mug. The scent of cinnamon and cloves faded as the liquid cooled. She contemplated its surface a moment.

Joan, who had come in with the messenger, spat into the rushes. “That for the earl!”

Marian smiled sourly. “Ah, but he is ill.”

“As he should be, with that black soul.” Joan paused. “
Has
he a soul?”

“Then perhaps I should go and see,” Marian said lightly.

Joan was astonished. “What, go there? To Huntington? But, Lady Marian—why? He will only speak evil things of you!”

“Of me, yes,” Marian agreed. “But also
to
me, which is somewhat preferable to having them said to others.”

“You’ll beard him!” Joan began to grin. “You’ll beard the old fool in his own den, so you will.” She exchanged gleeful glances with Cook and the others. “Aye, Lady Marian, you’ll shut his mouth for him in good time.”

“Oh, I think not. But surely I can inquire as to his health, and whether I may be of aid in any way.” She handed Cook the cooled cider. “After all, I was reared to be kind to less fortunate souls.”

Joan was transfixed. “What will you do?”

“Visit the earl,” Marian answered serenely, “and offer him my company in his hour of need.”

 

William deLacey was most displeased. He was a man capable of adjudicating all that happened within his shire without quibble or hesitation, seeing to it that the folk in this portion of the king’s realm did as they were meant. It was a duty he took seriously and performed most assiduously, satisfied that no doubt could be attached to his acceptance of responsibility.

But he doubted himself, his sanity, when his daughter made her presence felt within his world.

DeLacey, outside the mews, carefully placed the young hawk onto its weathering block so as not to tangle the jesses, then took his daughter’s arm and marched her away before she could disturb any of the birds. And he knew she would; she had that look in her eye.

DeLacey muttered a brief prayer for patience, then plopped her down on a bench in the shade of an outbuilding wall. “What is it
this
time?”

“What it always is,” Eleanor answered. “Gisbourne.”

DeLacey’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

His daughter attempted to look demure and sound hesitant. She was convincing in neither effort. “He will not do his duty by me.”

This was wholly unexpected. The sheriff stared. “You come to me with this? This?” It was preposterous. “Good Christ, Eleanor, this is not my responsibility! You would have me order your husband to sleep with his wife?”

“It is God’ law,” she said, “that a man should service his wife.”

DeLacey barked a harsh laugh. “Like a prize bull, is that it? Christ, Eleanor—this is between you and Gisbourne. It belongs in the bedchamber, not in my hall.”

“God’slaw,” she repeated.

“I am the king’s servant,” he countered. “Not God’s. Seek a priest if you wish to involve the Lord.”

She fixed a steady gaze on him. “You gave him his position. You gave him
me.
”

“Because you were with child!” deLacey shouted, not caring who heard. “God only knows whose child it is—certainly not Gisbourne’s, if I am to believe
this
folly—”

“The minstrel’s,” Eleanor, interrupting, replied evenly. “The one who forced me.”

It well could be, deLacey reflected. The child was nearly five years old, fair-haired and blue-eyed, while his mother was brown in both. But Eleanor’s mother had also been fair, so he could not swear the child who bore Gisbourne’s name was of the minstrel’s begetting.

“Forced you,” he said in disgust. “You know what is said of that.”

“But you silenced them,” Eleanor reminded him, “by marrying me in all haste to the first man you could find.” Her mouth twisted in disdain. “Surely there was someone else—”

He cut her off. “I had planned to marry you to the Earl of Huntington’s son. But after you and the minstrel were discovered, the chance for that was gone.”

“He forced me,” Eleanor said. “And so did you. Forced me to marry Gisbourne.”

“Would you have been more content had I sent you to the Marches where you could have wed a wild Welshman?”

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “perhaps he might have had more appetite for his marriage bed.”

His own appetite was for departure. He found a reason, and told her. “I have business with the earl,” deLacey said. “If you are wanting for your husband’s affections, perhaps you might offer him more than the edge of your tongue.”

The Earl of Huntington watched as his steward, Ralph, carefully sanded the parchment, then sealed it with wax. Ralph neatly pressed the earl’s signet ring into the ruby dollop, removed it, inspected the impression, let the wax dry. It was the third such letter he had drafted for his master this afternoon; two others, sealed, lay on the table. They bore names already inscribed on them:
Eustace de Vesci
and
Henry Bohun,
lords of Alnwick and Hereford. Ralph inked the quill again, and with a clear, tidy hand inscribed the third and last letter:
Geoffrey de Mandeville,
who was Earl of Essex and the king’s Justiciar.

The Earl of Huntington’s mouth crimped. It was likely de Mandeville would lose the latter position, to be replaced by another. Such things were common when the crown passed from one royal head to another.

Ralph, gathering up all three letters, looked to his master for orders. The earl nodded. “See to it,” he rasped hoarsely. “As soon as may be.”

“My lord.” Ralph bowed himself out of the sickroom.

And so it begins. Again.
The earl coughed, then pulled testily at the bedclothes, settling them higher about his chest. He detested being ill at this time, when all of England would soon be in turmoil. He had no time for such things as fevers and recalcitrant lungs when great works required doing, such things as he now embarked upon. He and the others had been in close contact years before, when John, the Count of Mortain, had threatened his captured brother’s throne. Richard’s ransoming had brought him home again to England, where he had chastised John for his folly, sold suspended offices to find money for renewed warfare, and then was gone again. John had since behaved himself, but the earl knew that would soon change. Once Richard died, in all likelihood John would become king.

Unless he and men like him, men of powerful titles and wealthy houses, took steps to ensure John did not become king. And that if he should, to do what was necessary to protect certain interests John had never endorsed as his own.

England was, the earl believed, on the brink of disaster. Such times required haste and hard decisions.

He closed his eyes and would have given himself over to rest, save someone knocked briefly at the door, then opened it. Ralph again, though the letters were not in evidence.

“My lord,” the steward said, “the sheriff is here. Shall I tell him you are indisposed?”

“DeLacey?” The earl frowned. “What does he want?”

Ralph deferred his unnecessary answer with a courteous question. “Shall I show him in, my lord?”

Huntington considered declining—he found William deLacey frequently tedious—but in view of events, perhaps it would be best to see the sheriff. It was time to learn men’s hearts and minds, so they could be made use of—or controlled in other ways.

“Have him in,” he told Ralph. “Bring wine, and water.”

“My lord.” Ralph bowed himself out.

In a matter of moments deLacey was shown into the earl‘’s room, and a page brought wine and water. The sheriff, silvering dark hair windblown from his ride, brought the scent of horse and the chill of dampness into the room. Huntington coughed.

DeLacey was unctuous. “My lord, may I tender my most felicitous wishes for a hasty recovery?”

The earl eyed the man, then waved him into the chair beside the small table still holding inkpot, quill, wax, and parchment. He saw the sheriff note the signs of recent scrivening, though he smoothed his face into a mask of solicitude.

“You may tender more than felicitous wishes,” the earl said plainly. “You may tender me your opinion.”

The sheriff was clearly startled by the blunt invitation, but offered immediate acquiescence. “Of course, my lord. On what do you wish me to offer an opinion?”

“Your heart,” the earl declared.

DeLacey blinked. “My lord—?”

“You are Richard’s man,” Huntington stated. “You have paid him for your office so you belong to him.”

Color moved thickly in deLacey’s face. Brown eyes flickered momentarily before becoming opaque in poor light. “So I am, my lord,” he said tonelessly, “and so I did.”

“Therefore I require assurances of your heart, deLacey. Is it Richard’s as much as your money is his?”

Clearly at sea, the sheriff took great care with his words. “I am of course loyal to the Crown, my lord—”

Huntington interrupted. “I am not speaking of the Crown just now. I am speaking of Richard Plantagenet.”

DeLacey surrendered prevarication and careful courtesy. “Of what are we speaking, my lord? Am I Richard’s man? Yes; as you pointed out, I paid him to retain my office when he might have stripped me of it. But I was certainly not alone in this; he demanded it of many when he returned from imprisonment. Do I resent it?” The sheriff’s mouth hooked briefly. “I resent the necessity, but not the man who demanded it.”

“You supported the Count of Mortain, I believe, when last he was here.”

DeLacey opened his mouth. Shut it. Began again. “My lord, may I be frank?”

“If you would not waste my time.”

William deLacey said, “I owe my office to the king’s pleasure. Only a fool endangers it by rebelling against that pleasure.”

“And if the crown is contested?”

A brief startled frown marred the sheriff’s brow. “Contested, my lord? In what way? Prince John will not attempt to overset his brother.” Unspoken was the knowledge John had once tried precisely that while the king was imprisoned in Germany, and had failed abysmally.

The earl gazed penetratingly at the other man. “There is the boy in Brittany.”

“Arthur? Yes, of course—but what has he to do with my office?”

“Your office may become his pleasure.”

DeLacey made a brief dismissive sound—he knew of no reason they should speculate without cause—then sealed his mouth closed. A muscle twitched along his jaw. Curiosity was rampant, but his lack of response confirmed his unwillingness to commit himself, or be led into hasty—and potentially incorrect—conclusions.

Tedious betimes, but never a fool.
Huntington smiled. “So you may well wonder. But the succession is muddy at best. There is neither law nor precedence requiring a childless king’s youngest brother to inherit before the king’s nephew, if that nephew be sired by the next oldest brother.”

“Geoffrey,” the sheriff murmured, thinking swiftly.

“Were Geoffrey alive, he would be heir, as Richard has no sons. But though Geoffrey is dead, he
did
sire a son. And there are those who will argue Arthur has more right to the throne than John.”

The sheriff’s face had taken on a peculiar waxy pallor as he came to realize what the true point of discussion was. “My lord earl . . . may I ask
you
to be frank?”

And now the moment was here. Huntington relayed the truth without embellishment, without emotion. “The king is dying in France. He may already be dead. Therefore England is at risk.”

It confirmed deLacey’s suspicions as well as his concern for his personal welfare. “But he will name an heir!”

“If he is able, he will. According to the royal messenger, the king had not yet done so.”

Even deLacey’s lips were pale. “My God. My God.”

“Therefore I ask you again: are you Richard’s man? Or your own?”

DeLacey, his breathing quick and shallow, took up the pitcher of wine and poured his cup full. His hand trembled.

“Is it so terribly difficult,” Huntington inquired icily, “to know your own mind? Or do you predicate every decision on how best it serves yourself?”

DeLacey drank deeply, then set the cup down with a decisive thump. Wine smeared the rim of his upper lip. The edge of his hand removed it. “Arthur of Brittany is a boy.”

“His mother is no fool. And there is, as always, his grandmother to consider. Eleanor of Aquitaine may wish to be queen again.”

“John is her son.”

“If you are a woman, Sheriff, and you have the appetite to rule as well as the wherewithal to do so, whom would
you
support?”

DeLacey’s answer was immediate. “John would never permit her to rule.”

“Even so. Therefore we are left with a choice: John, who is a man grown somewhat acquainted with rulership—and who is not so incapable of ordering a realm as his enemies might suppose—and Arthur, who is yet young but surrounded by ambitious and powerful women, among them one who has already been England’s queen.” And France’s, but France was, at this particular moment, unimportant. Only
after
England embraced a new king would the matter of France take precedence again.

“But if the king names an heir before he dies . . .”

“If. And even then there is no certainty his choice may keep the throne. Kings have lost them before.”

“I must think,” deLacey blurted.

“Indeed,” the earl said. “I suggest you do so. With all great haste and diligence, for time is not precisely a collaborator in this matter.”

The sheriff rose. He steadied himself with one hand pressed against the table. “My lord, may I inquire as to
your
heart?”

“You may not,”Huntington replied imperturbably. “But you may leave. After you have poured and presented me with water.”

Grim-faced, deLacey performed both duties. Then he backed out of the chamber with a stiff inclination of his head.

Huntington drank deeply, bathing an unhappy throat to prevent an explosion of coughing. Then, still gripping the cup in both hands, he smiled satisfaction at the closed door now empty of the sheriff.

It did not matter which way the man jumped, any more than it mattered how the frogs in the lily pond leaped. What mattered was
knowing
which way—and when—deLacey intended to go, so as not to trip over an obstacle when least expecting it.

 

With movements abrupt and discourteous, William deLacey snatched leather gloves out of the servant’s hand and tugged them on. Even as the servant attempted to settle his cloak over his shoulders, the sheriff swore and yanked the fabric away, pinning it himself even as he clumped in heavy riding boots out of the hall into the stableyard. He shouted for his horse; it was brought immediately. DeLacey caught rein and stirrup leather and prepared to swing up, but the clatter of incoming horses briefly distracted him. With one foot hovering and a horseboy poised to offer him a leg up, he paused long enough to recognize the first rider and immediately set his foot down again. He paid no attention to the horseboy now deprived of duty, and curtly told the other at his mount’s head to tend it yet.

She was cloaked and hooded, but tendrils of black hair had escaped captivity to frame the rim of her hood and the face within. Roses lived in her cheeks. She had not yet seen him, did not yet know he was there, and thus her expression was open and enchanting. For a moment deLacey wished he might permit her to remain ignorant of his presence—it would retain the expression and grace—but he had no time for it.

He stepped to her horse and caught the rein before the scurrying horseboy did. “Marian.”

Her attention had not been on the man, but on the boy. Now she saw him, and he marked how the grace transmuted itself to stiffness, how the set of her mouth tightened into displeasure. Blue eyes were chill as she gazed down upon him, making no effort now to dismount, because to do so would put her into his arms. Behind her came a companion, one of the Ravenskeep women, whose startled expression gave far more away than Marian’s measured mask.

He had no business with her, but it amused him to avail himself of her. Her choice was to stay on the horse, or allow him to aid her. So he made that his business.

Plainly annoyed, Marian eventually dismounted with his assistance. This close, he smelled her perfume: a tracery of roses and cloves. She was petite, delicate, fragile—and yet a woman of tougher temperament he had never known.

Except perhaps Eleanor of Aquitaine, whom he had met once, and briefly. But Eleanor was a queen, a woman born to rule men. Marian wished, apparently, to rule herself.

“A question,” he said.

Marian waited for him to release her gloved hand. When he did not, she tugged it free. Her mouth was a tight seam now, her jaw sharp as steel. In five years her beauty had matured, but the absence of innocent girlhood did not trouble him. Now he would learn if it troubled her.

“A question,” he repeated. “Has he married you yet?”

The pallor of her features was transmuted to blazing color. He thought she might strike him a blow in the face, but she forebore.

“A fair question”—he caught her arm as she made to move beyond him to the steps—“since you have arrived at his father’s home. It is my understanding you are denied that particular pleasure. Therefore I assume he
has
married you, and I should wish you happy?” Marian attempted to snatch her arm out of his grasp. She failed. That much he could ensure; he was far stronger than she. And then, with a polite smile, he relinquished his grasp. At
his
whim. “By your silence, Lady Marian, I assume the answer is no. Why then are you here?”

“The earl is ill,” she answered tightly.

“So he is. But not so as you might fear he will die, thereby permitting entrance into a place that is expressly denied to you.” He studied her pointedly. “Unless you have come to relinquish your claim on his son? Surely even you would do so, if only so the boy might see his father again. It is a sad state of affairs when a man”s affection for a woman turns him from his father.”

“And his legacy?” she asked tartly. “Oh, Sheriff, do not bestir yourself on Robin’s behalf. He lives as he wishes. He lives
where
he wishes.”

“And forfeits a title. A castle.”

“And he would gladly trade both if it would keep the king alive!”

She meant to go past him. He caught her arm again, trapped it. Swung her to face him, so roughly her hood slid off her head to puddle across her shoulders. “You know about the king?”