Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (14 page)

“Damn you,” he muttered, before the blow broke his lips on his teeth.

 

William deLacey carried out his duties, such as they were in another’s castle, then sought refuge in solitude, in the dimness of newborn twilight, the gloom of wan candlelight. Anger now was spent, the fury burned out. He was a shell of flesh over bone newly brittled by the knowledge of what she had cost him.

“Eleanor,” he murmured, and collapsed onto the sole chair.

The chamber was small, very private; the earl, saying nothing, had seen fit to send him to it, to give him his time alone before he was made to face the others, to hear the first of rampant rumors to which the scene would soon give birth.

He slumped, lax of limb, gazing blindly into the gloom, then gathered himself and rose, walking quietly to the table, and poured himself wine. He was distantly pleased to see his hands shook only a little.

He raised the cup in the air, as if in tribute. “To Eleanor,” he rasped, “who has taught me, only today, to discount no piece in the game, lest it prove itself more important than anyone had foreseen.”

A knock sounded. He was instantly furious, outraged that anyone would dare come to him now, when he had given orders he not be disturbed. But the anger faded. He was weary, too drained.

“Lord Sheriff?” A servant’s voice. “The Lady Marian to see you.”

Marian.
Here? Now?
He strode to the door and unlatched it, then pulled it open into the room.

Marian, here and now, unattended by her nurse. In the dimness her eyes were enormous, black pupils ringed by blue irises. The light from corridor cressets and from candle racks behind him were merciless in their attentions, yet imputed no flaw to her. She stood quietly before him, hands folded against her skirts, locked over the embroidered girdle wound twice around her slim waist.

It was most irregular, but he did not damn her for it. She took his breath away.

DeLacey moved aside. It took effort to speak evenly, giving nothing away of his thoughts. “Will you come in?”

She shook her head. She had combed and tidied her hair, though as yet it remained uncoiffed, confined only in a single thick braid hanging across one shoulder to dangle at her waist. The creased kirtle, he marked absently, was spotted with dark-dried blood. She had taken no time to change, which meant she counted very important the thing she had come to say.

DeLacey flicked a glance at the servant, who stood with eyes averted. “Come in,” he told her quietly. “If it concerned you what people thought, you would have brought your woman.”

It was a telling blow. He saw the flicker of acknowledgment in her eyes, the faint tightening of her mouth. She stepped inside, and he shut the door behind her.

“Wine?”

Again she shook her head. She was clearly ill at ease, yet just as clearly determined to say what she’d come to say, no matter what he thought.

That told him a thing or two. He used it to his advantage, as he always did. “You are your father’s daughter, and predictable in your heart. You’ve come to plead for the minstrel.”

Color bloomed in her face, staining the exquisite cheekbones. Her voice was low and courteous, but he heard the spark in the tone that underlay the smoke. “What they’re saying about the sentence—it isn’t true, is it?”

He turned his back on her and moved away, still holding the goblet of wine. He turned back, smiling grimly. “I have the authority.”

Plainly, she had disbelieved the rumor. She had not truly believed he would carry out such a sentence. It touched him, if very briefly, that she could see him for something other than the man he knew himself to be. A
pity,
he thought, that
I
must disabuse her.

Marian took a breath. “But—”

“But.” He overrode her, softening it with a smile; dismissed that a moment later. “What would you have me do? I am the lord high sheriff ... and the woman is my daughter.”

He waited, giving her time, giving her truth, and the chance to comprehend it. And so she did. She gazed at him a long moment, weighing words and tone and expression. He, who knew how to judge by such things, saw she did as well, if by instinct rather than guile.

The color drained from her face. Her hands gripped the girdle, as if it might give her strength. “My lord...” Then words, like her color, faded. He saw the muscle jump in her jaw, the faint line across her brow, the minute squaring of her shoulders. And the lifting of her chin. Quietly she said, with eloquent clarity, what no one else would dare. “You have no cause.”

“Ah.” He wanted to smile, to laugh and say he knew very well what she meant, and how much it had cost her to come so close to declaring it. She was loyal and tender-hearted, hesitant to hurt even a man she now questioned, curious as to his intent. But he would not let it dissuade him. She had no conception as yet of what the world was like. “That is not what my daughter says.”

She avoided it. She would not accuse Eleanor of lying. Instead, she relied on a different accusation, on arguing the method. “What you mean to do is barbaric.”

He lifted one shoulder slightly. “It lies within my authority.”

Passion flared, and color. “That doesn’t make it
right!”

DeLacey sipped his wine. “The minstrel is fortunate I take no more than his tongue.”

“My lord—” She gritted teeth. “He loses more than your daughter did.”

“Ah.” His grasp on the goblet tightened. “Be candid with me, Marian—say what you came to say.”

“I—” But she couldn’t. “You already know the truth.”

“Do I?” He smiled. “For the sake of argument, I’ll agree. But do not come before me, fired with righteous indignation, and tell me she lost nothing.”

“Eleanor lost nothing more than she willingly
gave—”

He cut her off. “Not that. That she lost long ago. I speak of other things. I speak of her future.” Anger flared anew. “I speak of security, and wealth, and rank and privilege.”

“All of the things
you
want!”

The accusation rang in the chamber. For one brief instant it startled and intrigued him that
she
would challenge him so, and then the anger took over. She didn’t understand. She
couldn’t
understand. Therefore he would take pains to explain it in terms she could comprehend.

He flung the cup aside, spraying wine across the chamber. It silenced her at once. “Would you have me call her a liar before everyone in the castle?” He took a single step toward her. “Would you have me proclaim her dishonor predates what happened today?” Yet another stride. “Would you have me destroy my own daughter for the sake of a
jongleur?”

She pressed trembling hands into the weave of her skirts, yet no less determined for all his passion had startled her. “I would have you treat him fairly, as is due an innocent man.”

DeLacey laughed aloud: blatant, blinding contempt. “Innocent, is he? Alan of the Dales? That is his name, Marian... he is a minstrel of some repute, though little of that comes of skill. A passing fair musician ... but better by far in bed!”

He stood just before her, trembling now with anger, with suppressed humiliation, thwarted ambitions, the knowledge he was trapped within a web of his own spinning. He had agreed to betray his king to further his daughter’s future, so his own might be secured, and Prince John had accepted, for reasons of his own.
He
wouldn’t care that the price he had promised deLacey was no longer possible.

The bed I must lie in is no longer to my taste.
Desperation and futility took possession of his soul. And in that moment, against his will, he let Marian see what he was. He let her see that even though he knew full well what his daughter had done, he could not and would not agree to alter the minstrel’s sentence.

“If this is for pride—” she began.

He caught her shoulders cruelly, startling her with his strength. “For pride, and much, much more! Do you know what she has done? She has cost me Huntington’s son! Do you think he will have her now? Do you think any man of rank will take to wife a despoiled woman?”

Marian stood her ground. “Is that worth a man’s tongue?”

He let her go so quickly she nearly staggered. “Other fathers might thank me. Certainly your father would.”

“My
father!”

“What if it had been you? What if his blandishments had won more from you than you were willing to give?”

“I would never—”

“A woman cannot say what she would never do.”

It silenced her utterly.

DeLacey reached out and touched a strand of her hair. “You can’t know,” he said quietly. “No one can, until it happens. Until he is faced with the moment itself, with the decision he must make, no matter the truth of it. I never claimed to be kind, because there is very little room for kindness in a sheriffs duties ... but I am a consistent man.” The hand slipped down the lock of hair to gently cup her face. “I hold the power of life and death in the seal of my office,” he whispered raggedly, “and all I need do is affix it to the parchment. That, Marian, is power. But power must be balanced. Power must be used. Power must be displayed so that others learn its worth.”

She was very white of face. “An example, then.”

“A lesson.” He took his hand away, freeing her face, her hair. “You had best hope he learns it, or forfeit more than a tongue.”

Desperation ravaged her face. “But you rob him of his future!”

She couldn’t understand. DeLacey’s mouth crimped. “As he robbed my daughter of hers.”

She stared at him blindly, for longer than he could bear. Then her hand touched her mouth, fingers trembling. And the other, meeting the first, fingertip to fingertip, as if she meant to pray. “Oh,” she said on a rushing breath, gusting into her palms. A second breathy
“Oh,”
and then she was gone, tugging open the door, to leave him alone again.

DeLacey nodded stiffly as the door was shut. He understood. He knew. He was adept at reading people. He was a practical man, who knew how to judge them all, and how to use what they gave him, freely offered or no, in word and deed and posture.

Even in the eyes.

He turned stiffly and moved to the chair, then sat himself down upon it. He closed his eyes very tightly, willing himself to be still.

DeLacey understood. He only wished she could. “Forgive me,” he murmured in the pallor of the room.

Just outside the sheriff’s door, Marian stopped short. She was vaguely aware of the servant asking something, but she paid him no attention. All she could do was stand rigidly, staring blindly at the corridor wall facing her, and hug herself against the bone-deep chill of realization:
He is going to cut off that poor man’s tongue, and all for a lie!

It was to her more than unbelievable, more than barbaric, more than unfair. It was the betrayal of her faith in a man and a system she had been brought up to believe in, knowing no other way, and to whom she could turn in the face of adversity, when her father was on Crusade and later after his death.

She had known deLacey all her life, if not well; he was her father’s friend, not hers, and therefore once she had reached adulthood the relationship between them was limited to normal courtesies. But there had never been a reason to think badly of the sheriff, or to question his actions. It had never occurred to her that he could be so wrong, so
ruthless,
as to make a man mute who depended on his tongue to put food into his mouth and clothing on his back.

For the sake of a wanton daughter who had, in all probability, been the pursuer, not the prey.

Marian shivered. She was sick at heart and in belly; she wanted nothing more than to go to bed, pull the covers over her head, and wake up in the morning with unpleasantness erased.

But that was the coward’s way. That was the way of a woman who had no spine.

“Eleanor,” she murmured, recalling who had said it. And then she knew what to do.

 

Prince John, bored after the botched hunt, desired a tour of the earl’s new castle. It mattered little to him that the sun had set and twilight was swiftly turning to dark. Having fixed his mind on the thing, he sent a servant to the earl to order—no,
request
—that Huntington conduct the tour personally. Because, John said, the castle was in itself the earl’s idea, and therefore no one else was better suited to point out its strengths.

He needed to learn its strengths. He needed to learn how they might be used against him, but mostly he wanted to bind the earl to England’s prince rather than to England’s king, if such a thing could be done. The barons, John knew, were not overmuch pleased by his taxation policies.

Huntington escorted John out of doors, to the inner ward, into the gatehouse, up the narrow coil of stairs to the sentry-walk along the inner curtain-wall. From there a man could look into the outer bailey, marking its organization, as well as the outer curtain-wall with its towered corners and portcullised main gate. And he could just as easily look the other way into the inner bailey, or ward, to make note of the stone keep and its apparent strengths.

They walked the wall slowly, talking desultorily about architecture and improvements in personal quarters with the coming of Norman castles, halls, and manors—wisely, the earl did not mention that the arrival of Norman castles was forced upon England by the man who had conquered her; John’s heritage was, after all, Norman—and before long the prince felt he had lured his host into the proper frame of mind to entertain a new notion.

John paused at one of the crenelations, a notch in the wall most resembling a squared-off tooth warded on either side by the taller sections called merlons, and leaned between them, resting elbows on the crenel lip. He nodded approvingly. “A fine castle indeed. Well thought-out and built.”

Huntington stood quietly next to John, surveying the outer bailey with a keen eye. The watch was lighting torches. “Thank you, my lord.”

Sidelong, John assessed the man. Old, growing older, but still strong enough, still vital enough, still immensely powerful. It would not do to dismiss Huntington because of white hair and wrinkles. The man was not a fool, and not likely to fall for simple tricks in conversation. “A pity,” John remarked. “So easily is a man undone by the folly of his children.”

The earl stiffened minutely. “Yes, my lord. A pity.”

“No doubt the sheriff had hoped for a fine match.” John leaned out, peering down at massive brickwork. “It’s only natural, after all—so much is achieved through wise alliances ... though I’ve heard she is his last of several daughters, and therefore this will not destroy his inclinations for improvement.” He scratched idly at stone with a fingernail. “Other men are not as fortunate. You, of course, have a son—but only one.”

“There were others, but all died. He was the only one who survived.” The earl nodded. “Yes, I am fortunate. God saw fit to return him to me whole.”

“And a hero.” John smiled. “No doubt my brother placed much trust in him.” He did not speak again of perversity; his goal now was different.

The earl’s expression was guarded. “I believe he is worth that trust, my lord.”

“But of course!” John’s gesture was deprecating, dismissive of the need to state the obvious. “And now you are faced with a task similar to the sheriff’s: of finding a proper match for your remaining child.”

Huntington did not respond instantly. Behind the bland mask, John knew, the shrewd brain was working rapidly.

“Of course, it will not be a simple matter,” John continued. “Huntington is an old name, a fine house ... you can hardly accept the first girl offered. Unless, of course, she were as worthy as your son.”

Huntington was very still. “It will be a decision worth making in its own time.”

“Of course. But he is of an age ... and you are faced with what all men face: the necessity of putting your house in order as the old enemy approaches.” John turned his back on the outer bailey and folded his arms, leaning against crenel notch. “You don’t strike me as a man who will allow death to catch him unaware. No doubt you have plans for your son and his future.”

“In good time, my lord, I will suggest—”

Quietly, John cut him off. “I understand your plight. I, too have children, albeit they are bastards. But they
are
children of royal loins, and therefore more important than mere casual by-blows might be ...” Dark eyes glinted in wan torchlight. “My daughter, Joanna—a fine, bright-spirited girl ... young yet, but a delight.” He let it rest a moment. “But, as you say, in good time.”

There. It was done. The bait, duly dangled, would eventually be taken.

 

Alan was allowed to dress himself before the guards took him deep into the castle foundations and introduced him to the earl’s new dungeon. He was briefly grateful for that much; a man’s pride, much bruised by false accusation, is nonetheless more battered when the body remains unclothed. He had pulled on hosen and shirt, but was allowed nothing more. Barefoot, lacking his fine brocaded tunic—and his lute—he was escorted from the chamber so quickly converted from intimacy to Guy of Gisbourne’s hospital room, and unceremoniously urged to descend the wooden ladder into the dirt-floored cell below.

Alan sat in the dark and gingerly tested his split lip, first with a careful tongue, then with his fingertip. They had not chained him or bound him. He was simply confined in an otherwise empty pocket lying deep beneath the supports of the castle. Far over his head the trapdoor was closed and bolted. The guards had, of course, withdrawn the ladder as soon as he’d descended.

It was cool and damp, even in spring; in winter it must be very cold. Another small thing for which to be grateful.

He shut his eyes a moment, trying to quell the sudden surge of panic. It did not please him to know himself the inaugural inhabitant of Huntington Castle’s dungeon. It pleased him less to know he deserved no part of the treatment. But he was wise enough to hold his tongue in front of Eleanor, in front of Eleanor’s father, because accusing the sheriffs daughter of wantonness before witnesses would earn him more than the single blow deLacey had meted out.

Better he speak to the earl, were he allowed to do so. Huntington did not strike him as a fool, and it was possible he might be able to convince the earl that while indeed he and Eleanor had made the beast with two backs, it had been a willing liaison. Huntington was powerful; surely he would have some influence with the sheriff.

Unless, of course, the earl felt his courtesy had been sorely abused by a traveling minstrel, and made no move to suggest leniency.

Alan drew up his legs and hugged rigid knees, pressing his brow against them as if the pressure might chase away the seriousness of his situation. He had run the risk before, aware that were he ever caught by husband or betrothed, he might well be beaten to death on the spot. But risk was a part of the enjoyment, a fillip to the encounter; he had never seriously considered the consequences.

Now he considered them. Apprehension made him sweat.

He lifted his head and stared wide-eyed into darkness, digging fingernails through hose into the flesh of his shins. If he could speak to Eleanor ... if he could
speak
to her, and convince her to go to her father, to tell the truth, to explain what had happened ...

But futility swamped the thought. He doubted she’d recant. He’d never known a daughter willing to tell her father the truth about her sexual experience when a lie would improve her state.

It wouldn’t be
death,
would it? Would they kill him for such a thing? Would Eleanor allow it?

He slumped against the wall as the dragon of speculation moved sluggishly in his bowels. The shudder that wracked his body had nothing to do with cold, damp stone.

“God,” he begged aloud, “please don’t let me die. Please don’t let them
kill
me—”

It did not occur to Alan there were other punishments a musician might find worse.

 

Marian shut the door behind her with a definitive thump. The sleeping chamber she and others had inhabited the night before was empty of women save the one she most wanted to see. “Tell him the truth,” she said. “Go to your father
now
and tell him the truth.”

Eleanor’s kirtle was soiled and crumpled. Her unbound brown hair hung lankly on either side of her sallow face. It did not hide the state of her mouth, swollen from Alan’s attentions, or the dusty bruise staining her throat.

She had risen as Marian entered and now stood rigidly five paces away. She was clearly taken aback by the strength of Marian’s determination, but her astonishment altered almost immediately to aggression, as did her posture. One hand rose to strike as Eleanor crossed over to Marian, but Marian quickly moved into the woman, catching her by both shoulders with flattened palms, and stiff-armed her back, knocking her so off balance Eleanor’s feet became entangled with the nearest mattress. Eleanor sat down unceremoniously, staring up in shock and outrage. “How dare you—”

“How dare
you?”
Marian countered, cutting her off. “Do you expect me to believe the man you were so hot after forced you against your will? Do you expect me to say nothing at all when they haul him out of the dungeon and cut out his tongue?”

“You told my—”

“I told him nothing!” Marian cried. “I honored my promise to you, woman to woman—”

“You went running to him the moment my back was turned—”

“When?” Marian challenged. “You were barely gone from the hunt when Guy of Gisbourne was hurt! Do you think in the midst of that, I took time to beg your father’s indulgence while I told him a little thing about his daughter’s sleeping habits?”

“He wouldn’t have known!” Eleanor retorted. “How could he have come back so soon? How could he have known—”

“He didn’t know,” Marian snapped. “Nobody knew anything at all about you, because I doubt anyone cared. Your father came back—they
all
came back!—because Gisbourne was badly hurt. Didn’t you see that? Didn’t you see all the blood when they carried him into the chamber?” Eleanor’s expression was stolidly arrogant. Marian wanted to swear. “But no, of course not—you were too busy trying to cover up your nakedness and accusing an innocent man of rape!”

The expression altered from arrogance to anger. Hectic color clouded Eleanor’s cheeks. “You told him. You helped him set a trap. You can lie to me all you want, but I know better. You’re jealous of me. You’ve never slept with a man because you have no spine, and this is how you strike back—”

Marian’s breathy laugh was of disbelief, not amusement. “My God, Eleanor—have you listened to yourself? You sit here before me and spew vile lies—”

Eleanor jumped to her feet.
“You’re
the one spewing lies! You thought you’d ingratiate yourself with my father, so you went to him and told him about Alan, about
me
—”

“No.” Marian shook her head. “Oh, I doubt he was surprised to find you rutting with a man in secret, but he didn’t know which one it might be. My
God,
Eleanor—you heard those women this morning! They knew perfectly well what you were doing. And you took no pains to dissuade them of it!”

Color stained Eleanor’s face. “You’re like all the rest. You lock away your virginity and accuse me of being a whore just because I have the courage to enjoy my body.”

Marian shook her head. “You may sleep wherever you like—
I’ll
say nothing about it!—but you can’t turn your back on an innocent man. Pay the price, Eleanor. Go to your father and tell him the truth. I doubt he’ll cut out
your
tongue.”

Eleanor’s eyes glittered. She lifted her chin. “Don’t fool yourself by thinking I’ll forget what you’ve done to me.”

Marian wanted to crack a hand across the smug, self-righteous face. “I don’t care what you think about me. Curse me in your prayers, if it gives you pleasure. But don’t let them mutilate an innocent man.”

Eleanor said nothing.

Desperation was swift-rising and painful. Marian began to realize she was no more capable of convincing the daughter than she was of convincing the father. “Eleanor—
please!”