Juliana Garnett (29 page)

“Where is the outlaw Little John, Devaux?” He spat out a piece of nail. “Does he languish in Nottingham’s hospitality?”

Danger loomed. “Not yet, sire.”

“Not yet.” Thumb and fingers closed into a loose fist. “Do you even know if the outlaw still lives?”

“He lives, sire.” He thought of Captain Oliver, of the silver coin. All would not be lost if the lady was safe.

“On what authority do you have that information?”

Smoothly, with no hesitation: “A man of his height is not easily missed. We ran him to ground. In the fray, he killed some among us and escaped into the forest.”

“A different version from the tale I heard, Devaux. Some say you released the outlaws.”

“Do some say I dance naked on the church altar as well? I have heard inventive tales put about that would keep the priests busy a year if authors of the tales would confess to them.” A careless shrug and faint smile invited the king to share his amusement.

John laughed, a short bark of irreverent enjoyment. “I should like to see you dance naked on the church altar, my lord sheriff. It would certainly entertain the new Archbishop of Canterbury, I vow. Devil take Langton and his ilk.…”

Impious king … and a providential comparison to earn his amusement instead of his anger.

Rising from the bolstered chair, John moved to a window on the south wall that overlooked the King’s Meadows and the River Leen. Purple light smudged the horizon; it grew late. Soon the gates would be closed for the night and stragglers would not be admitted until morning.

John prowled the chamber, moved from window to window with hands clasped behind his back. “I came for the hunt. Before I leave for Clipstone, I want the outlaws hung.”

Dryly: “A court council usually pronounces sentence first, sire.”

An impatient wave of one hand disregarded such a trivial detail. “They will be hung to warn citizens of their own fates should Little John and his accomplices not be yielded up.” He paused, turned with a smirk. “You might have thought of it yourself, Devaux.”

“I have not your deft turn of mind, sire.”

“Nay, but you have a most facile tongue. I have not forgotten that.”

Silence fell; oil lamps sprayed light on walls and floor. The royal apartments were spacious, the king’s chamber comfortably furnished. Elaborate tapestries hung on the stone walls, moving slightly in drafts that came through an unshuttered east window.

“Your men approach the castle,” King John commented, indicating the window with a tilt of head, eyes gleaming with malice. “It should be most intriguing to learn of their recent activities.”

“It is hoped they please you, sire.”

“Ah, my lord sheriff, you have pleased me with your persistent efficiency, if not your compliant manner.”

“Compliance does not come easily to me.”

“Nor to me, Devaux.” Harsh laughter rang. “Nor to me. It is a trait we share, this refusal to bend. But I can sustain it, while you must one day bend the knee.”

This silence was dangerous; it settled coldly, like winter mist, a clinging shroud that bound his tongue. It was a gesture, no more, yet he could not bring himself to accept the king as overlord when he knew John only waited for the right moment to see him imprisoned and executed.

The rare privacy was interrupted at last when the king’s seneschal swung open the chamber door, shattering the silence. The king beckoned. “What is it, Gilbert?”

With smooth diplomacy and a practiced smile, Gilbert announced, “The sheriff’s troops have returned from Sherwood with outlaws taken prisoner, sire. They await his presence in hall.”

John turned, lifted a brow, eyed Tré for a long moment. “You have exceeded our expectations, Devaux.”

And mine
.…

“If you will grant me leave, sire.…” A significant pause, polite anticipation; he stepped away when the king gave an irritated flap of his hand. Dismissal.

“Go. If ’tis the outlaw Little John, we will have the execution early on the morrow, before I leave for Clipstone and my hunt.”

“It will be done as swiftly as possible, my liege.” Tré escaped into the corridor outside the royal apartments. The torches there sputtered; his boots sounded loud on the stone, echoing in hollow mockery with each step.

There had been no message from the troops in the wood. No word of outlaws or the men-at-arms who waited in the Sherwood environs to capture them. Only that single silver
coin from Oliver. His apprehension increased, magnified tenfold when he reached the middle bailey and recognized the scarlet and yellow livery of Gervaise Gaudet.

Fickle light glinted dully on stone and armor. The only men in black and gold were the guards he’d set; there was no sign of Oliver.

A subtle murmur at his elbow: “My lord sheriff.” He turned to see Giles. Shrewd eyes shifted from men-at-arms to him, a pointed glance. “They have taken more than outlaws.”

He gripped the hilt of his sword, voice even: “Where are these outlaws?”

“Sir Gervaise awaits the king’s presence in the hall.”

The press of men about them was constant; he saw in Giles’s face more than he wanted. Premonition sent a chill through him.

Amid the clatter of hooves and weapons, he heard raised voices. A bellow of rage was quickly muffled, then another shout of excitement rose. He moved toward the source, Giles at his heels.

Men parted when he pushed through, surly glances were shot his way. Vivid scarlet and yellow livery clustered around a cart. Mailed soldiers dragged several men in chains, but none was of great height. Bedraggled outlaws, mud streaked, weighted down in iron and defeat, were more pathetic than menacing. Unfamiliar faces stared at him resentfully before they were cuffed into moving along toward the motte at the south end of the middle bailey. Below the motte lay caves used as prison cells. Above lay the upper bailey and royal apartments.

Tré glanced at Giles, who repeated, “Sir Gervaise awaits the king in the hall, my lord. He has saved a special outlaw for King John’s diversion.”

Oblique as always, careful of listening ears, Giles was nearly as valuable as Guy. Loyal competence was scarce. If the steward sensed danger, Tré trusted his instincts: He did not need words to tell him whom Gaudet held prisoner.

23
 

Damp, bruised, shaking from anger as much as the cold, Jane perched on the edge of a bench near the fire. Warmth did not quite reach her, an inviting promise denied. But she would choke before she mentioned her discomfort.

Gaudet regarded her with hooded eyes, a faint smile on his mouth. A negligent wave of one hand summoned a servant to pour more wine into his cup.

“I would offer you libation, milady, but you have said you want nothing from me.” He took a sip, raised his brow, and paused with the cup at his lips. “You
did
say that, did you not, Lady Neville?”

Disdaining a reply, Jane stared at the wall behind the dais. Shields were displayed there, black and gold gleaming in torchlight; a raven with outspread wings and a lifted claw, beak open and ravaging, adorned a buckler hung over Tré Devaux’s chair. Shire courts were held there to try cases and levy fines and punishment; the high sheriff’s responsibility and duty. Would Tré believe Gaudet? He had more reason than most to assume her guilty.…

“A pity,” Sir Gervaise murmured, smiling at her swift glance of loathing. “It must be in the blood. Tainted by lawless inclinations … your uncle was famous for it, was he not? Ah, of
course he was. The king hated him, hates him still, no doubt, though he is long dead. Perhaps ’tis good you have not whelped more thugs to plague England.”

She felt the blood drain from her face; her hands clenched tightly in her lap, but she held her chin high and still. He would not see that his barb had struck its mark.

“Milady, have you no defense to offer?” Gaudet gazed at her over the rim of his cup, a faint smile still on his lips. “Your silence condemns you.”

Turning her head, she gazed at him with such utter contempt that he must have felt it; his hand tightened on the cup until his knuckles turned white. The smile faded, stretched into a taut line. He leaned forward, his words a low hiss:

“Sheriff’s leman! See how haughty you will be when the king hears of your crimes. Consorting with outlaws carries a grave penalty. Not as evil to the king as possession of his coffer, however.”

False accusation … he knows he lies. Yet I am guilty in a way. What will Tré do? He knows the truth that Gaudet does not—will he believe me in this, or think I came here to distract him from outlaws’ schemes?

“You should not have been so foolish, Lady Neville. To steal the king’s gold is worse than treason. He might have forgiven your alliance with outlaws. He will not forgive the theft of his money.”

A dull pounding started in her temples, trickled down to beat against her eyelids. She thought about Dena and Enid alone on the King’s Great Way, their terror and Dena’s frailty. At least Fiskin was safe, though no doubt bewildered by their disappearance from the verge.

A heinous deceit, concocted by the devil. A collusion with outlaws she did not know, accusation of crimes she did not commit: a well-planned fraud that might see her hanged.

Her neck ached; she held her head still, kept her back straight, refusing to yield to mounting panic. The great hall made her think of a chapel, with wide aisles and thick columns—she wanted to pray but had given her prayer beads to Fiskin. The distraction of the familiar beads to keep count of the pleas for her soul’s salvation would have helped.

A door banged behind her, weapons clanked, and Gaudet sat up a little straighter, his gaze shifting to the far end of the hall. The king?

Boots made a heavy sound on stone, crackled on rushes. “You usurp my authority and go too far, Gaudet.”

Tré
.…

She wanted to turn but didn’t dare. Would she see anger in his eyes? Disbelief?

“Do I, my lord high sheriff?” Mocking, but a curl of his lip and his tight tone marked his strain. “The king will not think so.”

“The king will not hear of it. Release her. She is the widow of a Norman baron, the daughter of a knight—a lady of consequence.”

Aware of him beside her, a blur of dark wool and anger, she sat very still. She recognized the tone: dangerous, warning couched in careful enunciation.

“She consorts with outlaws as well as other undesirable knaves, my lord high sheriff. But I believe you must already know that.”

Silence descended. She dared a swift glance at Tré. His hand fisted on the hilt of his sword; his features were impassive, revealing nothing of his thoughts.

“A peculiar accusation, Gaudet. How did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“It was easy enough when my men came upon her in the forest with them. They were dividing the king’s gold, stolen while we attended the tourney. You planned well, my lord. The lure of gold to outlaws, guards set to watch.” A pause, a soft laugh, and the observation: “A rare opportunity for Robin Hood’s niece.”

She felt Tré’s glance and gathering uncertainty; he must remember that day by the Cockpen Oak. Understandably, he would have doubts.

Breaking her silence, she looked up at him and said, “I am not guilty of his charges, my lord sheriff.”

An explosion of light in green eyes, quickly veiled by his dark lashes and a hitch of one shoulder in outward indifference. “Guilt or innocence will be decided by the courts, Lady Neville.”

Icy fear coalesced, settled in her lungs and heart so that each breath was torture.
If he will not believe me, I am lost … lost
.…

A hand descended onto her shoulder, fingers dug into wool and flesh, firmly but not unkindly.
A reprieve.
She dragged in air, stared at nothing, not quite daring to hope.

Above her head, she heard him say to Gaudet, “The lady is in my jurisdiction. I will see to her placement.”

Hope blossomed into relief—aborted when Gaudet surged to his feet.

“Nay, my lord sheriff, she is not. I have yielded her up to the king’s authority. King John has interests in the settlement of her lands.”

His hand tightened on her shoulder, urged her to rise before he took a sideways step and his hand fell away. “She will await the king’s pleasure in a guarded cell. I will personally escort her.”

“Do you think me such a fool?” Gaudet’s laugh was angry and astonished. “You will escort her to Sherwood in lieu of putting your whore in a cell—”

“Bide thy evil tongue, Gaudet, for it may yet find rest upon the floor with the hounds.”

Soft menace, vibrating fury—a challenge met.

Sheathed steel hissed free of restraint. Jane stepped back, mouth dry, heart hammering against her rib cage.

“Hold!” Imperious tone, royal intimidation rang over the hall as John preceded his seneschal down the wide aisles to confront them. Cold eyes regarded both men, swept over Jane with a flicker of interest, narrowed slightly. “Do you
dare
draw steel in my hall!”

Devaux lowered his blade, inclined his head toward the king. “A momentary diversion, sire.”

Cool recovery, urbane smile meant to placate, the mask in place again. Jane marveled at him. From fury to calm in the space of a heartbeat—how did he manage it?