Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] (58 page)

Distressed, he shook his head. “No, Lady—”

“A horse is not so different from a mule.” Though inwardly she rebuked herself for lying to a monk. “I’ll lead, Brother—but I beg you, please make haste. I want to get to Huntington as soon as possible.”

Tuck paused in the act of lifting the reins over the chestnut’s head. “Huntington? I thought we were bound for Ravenskeep. Sir Guy told me so.”

“Sir Guy was mistaken.” Marian looked again at the gate. “Ravenskeep is the first place the sheriff will go.”

With effort, Tuck stuffed a sandaled foot into the stirrup, caught great handfuls of mane and rein, and dragged himself upward as the gelding first staggered, then spread his legs and grunted.
“Lady—”

“Hurry, Brother Tuck.” She did not feel it wise to tell him she feared if he lingered longer between the saddle and the ground, he would pull the chestnut over.

“Aye—” He heaved himself up into the saddle, grasping uncertainly at a cassock that, stretched across saddle, bared an alarming expanse of thick ankles and thicker, hairier legs. His face burned red from exertion or embarrassment; she could not predict which. Perhaps it was both. In a muffled tone he asked, “How far is Huntington, Lady Marian?”

“Not so far.” Yet another lie; to him, it would take forever and cause much discomfort. “Come,” she said guiltily, “Huntington is this way.”

Gisbourne roused as hands clasped his shoulders and levered him into a sitting position. The pain was excruciating. He opened his mouth to yell, but forbore as he focused upon the sheriff’s rigid face.

“Well?” deLacey asked. He stood in the doorway while the guard knelt on the floor and hoisted Sir Guy upright.

Gisbourne knew that tone: ice-cold and oddly flat, curiously lifeless, as if the only emotion in the man was utter indifference. It was a deadly assumption Gisbourne knew better than to make. Such miscalculation had cost other men their lives.

In a pain-drugged bewilderment not entirely feigned, he passed a trembling hand across his face. “My lord—”

“Well,
Gisbourne?”

“My lord—I—” He licked his lips. “She
tripped
me, my lord... she knocked my crutches aside!”

DeLacey did not spare the crutches so much as a glance. “I see that, Gisbourne. I have no doubt it was incredibly painful. What I
do
doubt is your reason for being here at all.”

Gisbourne breathed heavily. His wound was afire. “I came to thank her, my lord—”

“Thank
her!”

“—and to pay my respects... she was kind to me at Huntington after the boar hunt.”

DeLacey’s face was taut as a drumhead, the bones of his nose cutting flesh. White indentations bracketed the corners of his mouth. “Surely it might have waited, Gisbourne ... until your wound was less painful, certainly. It distresses me to see you in so much discomfort.”

Gisbourne clamped shut his mouth on the retort he longed to make. Instead, he ventured a sickly smile. “As always, you have my best interests at heart... my lord, the truth is I heard she was ill—”

DeLacey’s tone sharpened. “What?”

“Ill, my lord.” He blinked guilelessly. “Servants’ gossip, of course ... I know I should not listen, but when I heard it was the Lady Marian ...” He coughed weakly and reached a hand toward his wound, as if to soothe it by touch. “All I meant—all I
wished
—was to thank her for her kindness, and tell her I hoped her own discomfort would pass.” He swallowed painfully, then opened his eyes very wide. “She wasn’t ill at all! She must have
feigned
it ... but why would she do such a thing?”

DeLacey’s eyes glittered. “Women are capricious.” He glanced at the guard. “Assist Sir Guy back to his room. He has been ill-used.”

Gisbourne slumped back in relief as the sheriff departed, the better to hide the smile that threatened to betray the truth.
I have beaten him at last.

The guard’s grip was painful. “A pretty piece,” he murmured. “I don’t blame you, Sir Guy.”

His eyes popped open.
“What—?”

“The woman, Sir Guy; I don’t doubt she’ll thank you in your bed for keeping her out of the sheriff’s. I knew what you meant to do when you sent me off to relieve myself.” He hoisted Gisbourne up. “But don’t worry yourself—if you keep my purse well-filled, I’ll say naught of it to the sheriff.”

 

Robin reined in on the hillock overlooking Huntington Castle. He was no more fond of it at this moment than he had been the very first, when he had come home to a strange keep after two years in the Holy Land. England was alien then, soft and cool and wet, while the blood burning in his veins was thinned by heat and sun.

England was no longer alien, but Huntington Castle was. The lord within it, unfortunately, was exactly as expected; exactly as he had been for all of Robin’s life.

“An English winter,” he murmured. “Cold and unforgiving, with a bitter wind in his mouth.” His mother had been much different, too kind a soul for the earl. She had dwindled and wasted away in the frigidity of his spirit.

A frieze of pewter clouds was hung against the sky as backdrop to the castle, with a smudgy tree line for a border. Rain began to fall: a misty spring drizzle that turned the world opaque. Robin resettled his mantle, then spurred his horse into a gallop. His angle was oblique: instead of riding to the castle he skirted the curtain-wall and continued on around it. Just over the hill behind, flanked by oak and elder, lay the hall that was his home. It was there he would go, to pay his respects to his mother before returning to his father.

 

The Earl of Huntington sat at table with powerful friends, supping on sweet red deer that was, within the bounds of vert and venison granted decades before, legal for him to serve. It was a privilege of which he was most proud, and was keenly aware of how the others viewed it.

He lifted his silver goblet. “Now then, we have drunk to the king’s health numerous times... shall we drink to a healthy heir?”

De Vesci snickered. Henry Bohun raised an eyebrow slightly, while Geoffrey de Mandeville’s color deepened. Nonetheless the aging Earl of Essex caught up his goblet. “Say you so, Robert! To a fine and healthy heir, God willing!”

“And to the queen’s fertility.” Bohun’s tone was dryly circumspect.

De Vesci snickered again.
“If
the king is so moved—”

“Eustace!” Huntington snapped. “I will not countenance sly innuendo and unfounded rumor in my hall.”

“Unfounded—”
de Vesci began in disbelief. “Methinks—”

“Eustace.” Bohun lifted a warning finger. “We are guests in this man’s hall.”

De Vesci subsided in sour humor as Ralph glided into the hall and came to stand at the earl’s side. “My lord. A visitor has arrived, much harried from wind and rain.”

Huntington glanced at the others as they stiffened. “One of us, Ralph?”

“No, my lord.”

Relaxing, the earl flicked eloquent fingers. “Send him to the kitchens, then. I’ll see him later, if it concerns me.”

“It may concern you, my lord. But only one of them is a man; a monk. The other is a woman.”

De Vesci grinned. “Have her in, Ralph. A woman’s company sweetens a meal.”

Delicately, Ralph ignored Alnwick. “My lord, it is the Lady Marian FitzWalter.”

The earl frowned. “Marian Fitz—” He lurched upright. “Marian
Fitz Walter!
By God . . .” But he broke it off, stiffly resuming his seat before the astonished countenances of his companions. “And a monk, you say?”

“A Benedictine, my lord. Brother Tuck.”

“Well.” Huntington chewed a morsel of venison. “At least she has the good sense to admit she requires absolution.” He glanced the length of the table and took note of three attentive faces. With grave deliberation, he looked back at Ralph. “Have them in, then. He may have a bench in here later; she may sleep with the kitchen girls.”

De Vesci blurted his shock. “A knight’s daughter, my lord? Surely she deserves better!”

The earl faced him down with a cold stare. “The woman is despoiled. An escaped murderer carried her off to Sherwood Forest . . . would you care to wager how many outlaws made use of her?”

De Vesci guffawed crudely. “Who would have the courage to ask her?”

Geoffrey de Mandeville frowned disapproval. “Surely this is a most unfortunate circumstance, Robert . . . I met her father once, when old King Henry knighted him. He was a good and gentle man—I find it appalling that she is relegated to such disparagement through no fault of her own.”

“Perhaps so,” Huntington conceded acidly. “But would you have her at table now, as we plot to bring down a royal prince?”

De Vesci grinned. “Not at table, perhaps—but later, in my bed—?”

Bohun shook his head. “Crudity has no place here.”

“No,” de Mandeville agreed with pronounced asperity.

Huntington looked at Ralph. “Send them to the chapel, as I assume both are in need of it. I’ll see the woman later; she must have come for some reason.”

Ralph bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

The earl nodded dismissal. “Tell the kitchens to send them food.”

Eleanor opened the chamber door without bothering to knock because she did not particularly care if Gisbourne desired to see her or not; she had business with him and intended to settle it. She thumped the door closed with finality and crossed swiftly to the narrow bed on which he slept, her slippered feet scraping on beaten earth. He was asleep, twitching like a dog, mouth open slackly so that labored breathing issued forth.

He was gray of face and stubbled, with hollows in his cheeks. No doubt the leg hurt, but that was beside the point. There were matters to discuss. “Gisbourne.”

He awoke at once, all stiff and flailing and awkward, much like a startled dog. Dark eyes were briefly white-rimmed, then his breathing settled again and he slumped back against the pillows. He shoved a trembling hand through lank hair. “What do you want?”

“We must take steps to make certain the guard is dealt with.”

His bleary expression turned sullen. “I have no money to buy his silence.”

Eleanor shrugged elegant disdain. “Then kill him.”

His face went white, then red. He bared his teeth like a cornered hound. “
You
kill him. You’ve spent much of your life intriguing to get whatever you want without regard to the harm you do. If you think he should be killed,
you
arrange the deed!” It was his turn to show contempt. “You are your father’s daughter, after all; he will admire your handiwork.”

Eleanor sighed, folding her mouth up small. “Very well, Gisbourne.” She walked quietly to the door, then paused with her hand on the latch. “You believe yourself a good man, do you not? A man unlike my father?” He offered no answer, of course; but then, she did not expect it. “You both want the woman. You both connive for the woman. You both intend to have her regardless of what is required, to the point of betraying your king—and yourselves—to satisfy your loins.” Eleanor shook her head and tugged open the door. “The devil does not distinguish the
degree
of the sin, Gisbourne. He merely profits from what is done in the taking of your soul.”

 

The chapel at Huntington Castle was larger than Nottingham’s, with more inherent elegance. The walls were plastered and whitewashed, which brightened the chapel considerably. It smelled damp from rain, but fresh, scented by beeswax candles and herb-strewn rushes. Soaring stone arches and vaults and molded ribs replaced thick, ungraceful columns, so that the roof was high and spacious; one entire wall was filled with a wide stone bench, divided into individual seats: the sedilia, for the priest, his deacon, and others, each seat framed by delicate, elaborate arches.

“A wealthy man,” Tuck murmured.

Marian, who held the tray of food brought to them by one of the kitchen servants, was less impressed by the chapel. She knew the earl was wealthy. She suspected
he
knew all about her abduction and subsequent—if hypothetical—defilement; being sent off to wait in the chapel until his pleasure permitted them to come out was a succinct and eloquent comment upon her status, and did not commend him to her.

“Yes,” she said dryly. “And generous, one may say, if one is inclined to speak.” She was not. She set the tray down on the nearest bench, then put up her hands to her wind-lashed hair. Strands had come loose in the ride, and rain had crept inside her hood. She was damp, mussed, self conscious, and embarrassed; she had been certain Robin would receive them. She had not once considered what the earl himself might do.

Marian shut her eyes, feeling heat steal up to her hairline.
This is not a man who will allow his son to dirty his thoughts with me, let alone his body.
Tears stung as she opened her eyes, glaring balefully at the food to keep them from spilling over. She had not cried before William deLacey; why would she cry now?
I will tell him everything, from Sherwood to the sheriff. But I will not lay a wager that it will do any good.

Tuck genuflected, then approached the altar. Marian watched despondently as he lowered himself to his broad knees, his shoulders collapsing inwardly as he bowed his head and clasped his hands. He murmured inaudible prayers.

He is sore from the ride, poor man.
Marian sat down next to the tray, slipping out of her damp mantle. Anxiety gnawed at her. If Robin was not at Huntington, what were they to do? And where
was
he?
He said he was bound for home.

“Lady Marian?” Tuck was done with his prayers. “What will you tell the earl?”

She had expected the question eventually. Marian sighed. “I had intended to tell him little. It isn’t
his
help I sought . . . I came here for his son.”

Tuck’s baffled gaze betrayed incomprehension.

Why not tell him all?
“Sir Robert of Locksley. Robin.” She smiled, still ducking the whole truth. “He is just home from Crusade.”

The monk brightened. “Did he see Jerusalem? Did he pray at the Holy Sepulchre?” His face was alight. “Oh Lady, what joy that would be ... to see the tomb from which our Lord Jesus rose . . .” His face relaxed, smoothing into tranquility, and she realized the sheriffs actions were as disturbing to him as they had been to her, and somehow as threatening.

“What did he mean?” she asked, recalling deLacey’s words. “The sheriff, when he said he would write to the abbot—that was more than merely babble. What did he mean, Brother? What threat did he make you?”

Tuck’s eyes opened. The transfiguring light died from his face. “He will see me turned out of the abbey. He will have me dismissed from the order.”

Marian was appalled. “Can he do that? He is a
secular
authority—he cannot, can he? His office is temporal, not spiritual.”

Tuck sighed heavily, face sagging. “I have been but recently convinced that a man such as the sheriff may accomplish many things I once believed impossible. As he reminded me, there is intrigue even in the Church....” He sat down heavily on the bench beside hers, clasping in spatulate hands the crucifix depending from his rope belt. “Lady Marian, I must trust to God. What I did was right. If I am dismissed from orders, my vocation will be ended—but certainly not God’s knowledge that what I did was proper.” He shook his head decisively. “I should have defied him sooner.”

He meant the sheriff, she realized, not God. She could not imagine Tuck defying God in anything. “You are a good man,” she told him, distressed that the words did not adequately convey what she felt. “Few people are able to defy William deLacey; if they do, it is at their peril. He will take his retribution.”

Tuck’s dark eyes were worried. “Lady—what could he do to you?”

“Little, now.” Her conviction offered an unanticipated relief. It buoyed her spirits. “He could not discredit me; that is already done. He can’t take Ravenskeep, because it is part of me and I am the king’s ward. He can’t surprise me again with a forced wedding, because he knows I am forewarned. He cannot go to my father and simply demand my hand, because my father is dead.” She smiled wanly. “I am safe, Brother Tuck. Certainly safer than you.”

His gaze was steady. “Then why are we here instead of at Ravenskeep?”

She had not believed him so astute. “Because I am a coward,” she admitted hollowly. “And because I am in love.”

“Love?” Tuck echoed. His entire demeanor changed. He smiled beatifically, a smile like those on the carvings of saints’ effigies in one of the great cathedrals. For the first time she believed him a man appropriate to his office. He sketched the sign of the cross. “God keep you, Lady Marian. Love is a wondrous thing.”

Her mouth crimped tightly. “Love is a
frightening
thing.”

He was astounded. “Why? I have heard the songs, Lady Marian—isn’t love what people crave?”

“Indeed, when one can afford to love.” She did not like the cynical tone of her voice. “I am not so certain I can.”

“Why not?” He gestured expansively, encompassing the chapel. “Love is pure, Lady Marian.
God
is love.”

Marian laughed softly. “But the Earl of Huntington, despite what he may believe, is not God.”

“No, of course not.” Tuck took it literally and answered in kind. “But surely a man who causes a chapel such as this to be built understands true devotion.”

“Perhaps.”
But probably not.
She picked at the weave of her mantle. “A man who rules his son understands only himself. Certainly not the wishes—or needs—of others, most especially not those of despoiled women.”

Illumination lighted his face, then died away. “Oh,” Tuck said glumly.

Marian nodded agreement.

 

DeLacey chewed vigorously as his daughter approached the table. He was grateful his appetite was sound, for surely a woman of such sallow coloring and sullen demeanor would put another off his feed.

He drank wine to wash down the partridge, eyeing her over the rim of the cup. She waited demurely enough, hands folded into her kirtle.
Yellow again,
he reflected.
My birds have better taste.

“My lord.” She held her head very still on the column of her neck. “My lord, there is a matter we should address.”

“One among many, no doubt.” He bit off another chunk of thyme-stuffed fowl. “Which one is this?”

Only the briefest tic of a muscle in her jaw betrayed her irritation. “It has to do with a man’s willingness to neglect his duty, my lord, merely to please a physical need.”

He laughed. “You refer to me?”

Color splotched her face. “Certainly not, my lord. I would never criticize you.”

He snickered rudely. “The faeries are out, I see—surely they have put a changeling tongue into my daughter’s mouth.”

She took a lurching step forward, then stopped short, a contrivance of subtle unspoken language that might have fooled another man, but he was well-versed in such things. “My lord, I beg you . . . this is serious. It has to do with the man who left Marian FitzWalter’s door unguarded.”

Laughing softly, deLacey tossed a bone down on the trencher and sat back in his chair, flicking fingers free of debris. “Yes, Eleanor. Pray tell me all.”

Color climbed higher in her face. “He came to me, my lord. He made lewd suggestions.”

“Which you accepted with alacrity, no doubt.”

Brown eyes glittered briefly, but she was not provoked. “No, of course not.” In a rush, she said, “I am ashamed—”

“Eleanor.” He cut her off succinctly. “Eleanor, you have been ashamed of nothing since the day your mother whelped you. Say what you have to say, and discard embellishments.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Did you lure the guard away?”

“Give me credit for taste,” she snapped. “He is a
soldier,
nothing more ... I take my men from better.”

“Ah. Forgive me.” He grinned. “So, you are accusing this mere soldier of improper behavior.”

“He made lewd suggestions to me.”

“And why not? Your reputation is entrenched.” He sighed, weary of the wordplay. “I assume you want him punished.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “You were quick enough to sentence the minstrel to maiming! Why not this man?”

“Because you
want
him to be punished. That leads me to wonder why.” He tapped fingertips upon the chair arm. “Shall I have him in, Eleanor? Let you accuse him to his face, to judge the truth of the matter?”

Eleanor’s glare was deadly. “Do have him in, my lord. I enjoy listening to lies.”

“The better to improve your own.” He smiled thinly. “Very well, we’ll have the man in.” DeLacey raised his voice. “
Walter!
Bring in the unfortunate wretch!”

Eleanor’s teeth clenched. “You’ve questioned him already.”

“Yes, of course, immediately after he put Gisbourne to bed.” He was indulgence personified. “But we’ll try him once again just to content you.”

His daughter made no comment. DeLacey consumed more partridge, drank more wine, and sat back, sated, as Walter and two other soldiers brought in the unfortunate man.

DeLacey watched Eleanor as she deigned to cast the man a condescending glance, then stiffened into immobility. “There,” he murmured, “you see? Already maimed for you.”

And he was. Shortly after determining the man had deserted his post—the reason was unimportant—the sheriff had ordered both hands cut off.

A somber soldier on either side held up the former guard. The stumps had been cauterized, but the linen wraps were bloody. Without the aid of the others the guard would have swooned.

DeLacey looked at his daughter. “He tried to blame Gisbourne. He did not mention you.” He waved the soldiers out, along with white-faced Walter and their incoherent burden. “You see, Eleanor—” he paused thoughtfully, to make certain he had her full attention; what he intended to tell her was an important lesson, “for all of Gisbourne’s faults, he is a competent seneschal. A man in my position cannot blithely dismiss someone who offers good value for his keep. But someone had to be punished. Someone must always be punished.” He thrust himself up from the chair. “And now I am away. The lady has had long enough—I am bound for Ravenskeep.” He paused beside his daughter, then leaned very close to speak into her ear. “I will have her, Eleanor. One way or another.” His voice dropped to a whisper that ruffled the hair over her ear. “And Gisbourne will have
you
.”

 

The rain slanted obliquely as Robin rode over the swell of a hill into the pocket below, where Huntington Hall stood.

He drew up sharply.

Had
stood.

The horse snorted wetly, shaking rain out of its ears. Its mane straggled down its neck in horsehair rivulets, dripping onto the soaked grass.

A shudder wracked Robin. Transfixed, he stared mutely, deaf to the world, unperturbed by somber drizzle because he felt none of it.