The coif was slightly askew, as if she hastened, baring much of a milky brow. Braided black hair spilled free of containment, falling over a shoulder to dangle below a breast. She paused at the bottom of the stair, extended a slender arm, and put out a hand to her companion—an old, fat, stiff-moving woman, not worthy of his time—then glanced quickly around the hall.
She did not look up, only around. And Alan, somewhat abruptly,
wanted
her to look up. He leaned down, gripping wood, and whistled as for a hound.
Once. A soft sound that nonetheless carried. She heard it, followed it, glanced up, mouth parting, clearly startled. He saw the pure piquancy of features and the clarity of bone, the tilted set of wide blue eyes, the slant of crow-black, upswept brows beneath the white band of coif.
Their eyes met. Color bloomed in her face. She turned quickly, caught at the old woman, and hastened her out of the hall.
Alan clutched the balustrade. He had known the night before that she was beautiful. He had known the night before she was fodder for a song. But now, seeing her caught in midstride, swaddled in summer mantle, obviously in flight—Daphne from Apollo—he found his Muse even more demanding than before.
She was made for a song.
“You will be late,” a voice said.
Alan jerked upright and turned stiffly to face the man. What struck him first was the change from darkness to daylight: the face, the eyes, the hair . . . fair, so
very
fair, while she was blackest black . . . Knowledge flowed sluggishly in.
God, it is the earl’s son.
He nearly stammered. “My lord?”
“You will be late.” A clear baritone, hiding nuance with matter-of-factness.
Alan tugged at his tunic, feeling the weight of lute hung belly-heavy and somewhat haphazardly aslant his spine. “I had not intended to go.”
One fair brow arched beneath pale hair. “Why not? Does the count not require music when he breaks his fast?”
Alan gestured deprecation. “Nothing was said, my lord—” And then hope surged. If he were able to go after all, doubtless there would be more reward in it. “Do
you
require it?”
Robert of Locksley, dressed in uncompromising dark green and a touch of brown—tunic, leather jerkin, hosen—shrugged negligently. But the eyes were not so compliant, nor entirely
there.
“What I require has little to do with music.”
I
don’t follow him . . .
But Alan dismissed it, summoning his notorious charm, meaning to hold Locksley until an invitation was extended. He had done it many times, with men and women alike. Men as well as women were helpless before unfettered flattery and the unmatched skill of a practiced minstrel.
First the prelude: “Ah, but there you err, my lord. I am but a poor minstrel with little skill, save for an ear of unsurpassing acuity—yet I hear the rich timbre in your tone. I’ll wager you could pluck a lady’s heart from her breast with your song, were you to honor her so.”
Immune, Locksley did not so much as smile. “I leave that to you.”
It was decisive, providing no room for maneuvering. Short of grasping Locksley’s arm, Alan could do nothing but give way gracefully. And so he did, stepping aside as Locksley moved by him. He inclined his head briefly in tribute to the other’s rank, but lifted it almost immediately to watch the earl’s son go. When Locksley was out of sight, the minstrel swore softly. Nothing for it, today, but to wait for the hunt to end.
“Is he gone?”
Alan turned swiftly and rearranged his expression. “Fairest Eleanor!” Just the right tone, he thought; color surged into her face.
“Dearest Alain.” She was dressed unremarkably, with bundled hair hidden by linen. The sallow, plain features underscored the clarity and beauty of the other coif-rimmed face he’d seen.
“Dearest
Alain—I must go on the hunt. But given the first opportunity, I will slip away and come back to you.”
“Here?” And then cursed himself for his laggardness; of
course
she meant here. He smiled, took the outstretched hand, pressed a kiss upon it. “Fairest Eleanor, I shall be counting the hours as I wait.”
The smile was intensely suggestive. “Don’t count so many—I’ll come straight back as soon as I break off. It shouldn’t take too long.... My father will be much too busy trying to impress the earl or the count—or possibly both at once, if he can contrive it—and won’t even notice when I leave.” She impressed her body upon his own and reached between his legs, unmindful of the openness of the narrow, unscreened gallery stretching across the hall. “Make me a song,” she whispered. “Make one just for me.”
Alan, bending to kiss her parted mouth, wondered how he could transform the newly conceived song for the other woman into one for Eleanor.
But his consternation was brief. His experience was vast.
Sir Guy of Gisbourne, summoned somewhat imperiously by Gilbert de Pisan as the first oliphant sounded, relieved himself with alacrity, dressed even more hastily, and accompanied the count’s steward willingly enough, though he had no idea why de Pisan might want him. He merely went as bidden because he was accustomed to doing the bidding of others; it was reflexive. Authority spoke. It was not something of which he was proud, but at least no one could fault his dedication to duty.
He knew no one would. No one cared enough.
Gisbourne was brought up short at a chamber door flanked by armed men and realized, with some surprise and more unsettlement, he was not brought to see de Pisan but de Pisan’s lord. “Briefly,” John’s seneschal warned. “And disagree with nothing. My lord count and mornings do not often agree.” Something like contempt passed through de Pisan’s eyes. His smile was faintly derisive; he unlatched the door and paused with fingertips resting on wood. “You understand my lord count is the man to whom England looks while the king is imprisoned.”
Gisbourne, skilled with accounting and administration, did not claim to be courtier or diplomat; words were not his skill. But he had attended the sheriff long enough to understand implication, even couched in falsehood. “Of course,” he agreed stolidly, thinking ahead to the chamber housing the king’s brother. He would agree with whatever de Pisan said. His experience was vast.
“I knew you were a man of sound judgment,” de Pisan murmured. “I have told my lord so.”
“Told—him?” Gisbourne lingered between corridor and chamber.
“Of course.” The mask was bland. “Did you not ask that I commend you to him? I have done so.”
Gisbourne nearly stammered his thanks. Then, as de Pisan waved him on, he crossed into the chamber and came face-to-face for the first time in his life with England’s sanguine savior.
Or the man who would
like
to be.
Nine
Prince John smiled a measured welcome as body servants labored to attire him. Gisbourne counted three men, deftly adorning their slightly built lord with bliaut, chausses, tunic, padded surcoat, belt, boots, and myriad ornamentation. Through it all John stood loose-limbed and malleable, letting them beautify him.
He doesn’t look discomfited by morning.
Gisbourne bowed.
He looks alert as a hunting hound.
“Ah,” the count said. “I was so hoping you’d come.”
Gisbourne, straightening, wondered if any man would refuse.
“Do you hunt boar?” John inquired.
Gisbourne did not answer at once. He was transfixed by the knowledge of whom he faced, by his wholly unanticipated closeness to sovereignty. He had not aspired so high; he had merely desired knighthood because it lay within the realm of possibility, as Richard sold off the chivalry of England. But this was impossible. This was preposterous. He, Guy of Gisbourne, never mind the “Sir,” stood in the same chamber—to which he had been
summoned
—with Prince John of England, who might one day be king himself.
He didn’t
look
like a king, Gisbourne reflected. He didn’t much look like a prince, either, except for his richness of dress. He was small, dark of hair and eyes, swarthy of complexion. His nose was a trifle too long, and the negligible width of shoulders beneath the careful padding was no broader than slim hips.
He looks like a bird, beak and all.
But Gisbourne shook it away. Boar, John had said. Did he hunt boar? “My lord, yes. I have. And
will,
today, as you have invited. If there is boar, this time of year.” He paused, briefly horrified. “I mean—of
course
there will be boar.” Gisbourne cursed himself, wishing he had deLacey’s unflappable temperament. He would know what to say, and how to say it. “There will be, of course. Boar.”
“Of course.” John tightened a ring on one finger as his body servants clustered around, arranging folds, tying ties, settling heavy, embroidered sleeves. “God grant we all have good luck.”
Gisbourne nodded mechanically.
He is narrow between the eyes, like a horse with a small brain.
But from what he had heard, Neither John’s brain nor his ambitions were undersized. “Yes, my lord. God grant.”
“I had you brought here because there is something I must ask. It regards your employer.” John’s expression was tranquil. “It is my task, you know, to administer my brother’s realm while the king is imprisoned.”
There was a peculiar pause. Gisbourne rushed to fill the poised, expectant waiting. “Yes, my lord.”
“Therefore I must take measures to insure the welfare of all the shires—no, not
that
one, you fool . . . this one!” John snatched a ring from one of the body servants and thrust it onto a finger. He contemplated the choice, then nodded once and returned his attention to Gisbourne. “I believe you may know William deLacey best of all, Sir Guy. What say you?”
Dampness stained the sleeves of Gisbourne’s undertunic. He cursed his nervousness. “My lord, it would seem so—I am his steward, and am privy to his business.”
John selected another ring. The emerald glistened richly. “He is a modest man, your sheriff, as becomes a man of taste—we would have him content in his office, so he may continue to serve us as well as can be expected from a man of his talent.” Gisbourne did not miss the shift to the royal “we.” John admired the emerald, and the slim hand that wore it. “Therefore we are at some pains to discover the true ambition of our most loyal servants, so we may reward them accordingly.” Dark eyes glittered briefly as he lifted eyelids fractionally to hold Gisbourne’s gaze. “Is there something he desires above all else? Something within our power to grant?”
Gisbourne thought frantically. He knew very well deLacey wanted power and preferment, but so did everyone else. For that matter so did he; what could he tell Prince John that might set him apart, marking him, Gisbourne, as an attentive man, alert to his lord’s desires more than other men?
Hastily Gisbourne brushed at the dampness stippling his upper lip and struck at the first option. “His daughter, my lord.”
John’s brows arched eloquent inquiry.
“His daughter,” Gisbourne repeated, “married to Huntington’s son.”
“To Huntington’s son? Locksley?”
“He’s the only son he has. The earl, I mean.” Gisbourne cleared his throat. “Eleanor, my lord. To Robert of Locksley.”
“A worthy, if ambitious, alliance.” John’s expression was closed. “The earl is a powerful man.”
“She’s the only one left, my lord. He’s married off all the others. He was despairing of a match, until Locksley came home.” Gisbourne shrugged, affecting nonchalance; he felt far from it. “She’s old for it—twenty-three, my lord—but not so bad a match.”
“The earl might look higher. He is Huntington.” John’s smile was fleeting. “And the sheriff might look lower, to a faithful steward. Who is nonetheless a knight, and due certain respect.”
It was fact. Gisbourne said nothing. It was not for him to decide. But the idea, abruptly born, altered to a possibility and a blossoming promise: a dream of something more.
If he means to give me a woman
...
John shrugged off the hands of his servants, waving them away. His eyes were red-rimmed but alert: “You have our gratitude,” he said lightly. “There must be something we can reward your loyalty with . . .”
Gisbourne sucked in air through constricted lungs. “My lord—if I may ask—”
John waved a ring-crusted hand. “I hereby declare you may have the first thrust today when the huntsmen have rousted the boar.”
Gisbourne had wanted much more. He had hoped for more, for the one whose name he did not know, but whose face had filled his dreams. “Thank you, my lord. My lord—” But England’s savior was gone. So were Gisbourne’s hopes.
“Boar?” The huntsman nearly gaped. “But—it’s spring!”
The earl grimaced in disgust. “Given the opportunity, I daresay our dear count would change the season to suit him.”
The huntsman’s tone was dry. He was not serf or servant, but a man of skill and repute, well paid by the earl. It gave him a little freedom. “Can he conjure boar?”
Huntington glanced around the bailey, marking the milling throng awaiting mounts as hostlers brought them from stables. “I believe he expects us to do it for him.” The earl closed his eyes and sighed, squeezing the prominent bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Do your best, Dickon. Send out extra beaters and rob the kennels, as you see fit ... this man may one day be our king.”
“What of the untried alaunts? They are young dogs, worth bringing along properly . . .” The huntsman gestured submission even as he counseled defiance. “Your kennels are the finest in Nottinghamshire, my lord. It would be a shame to destroy the promise of years to come.”
The earl’s fine white hair glistened in new sunlight. “Would you have me defy him, then?”
“Let it be stag,” Dickon suggested. “There is stag aplenty . . . we needn’t risk the alaunts, but set lymers and brachets on him—”
The earl flicked a speck of dust from the sleeve of embroidered surcoat. Another more attentive glance around the bailey acquainted him with its fitness to host so many. “I shall have new livery for the porters and men-at-arms ...” His attention returned to Dickon. “He said boar.”
The huntsman gave in. “Yes, my lord. Boar. But—” He gestured helplessness. “And if there is no boar?”
“We will of course be breaking our fast in the fields . . . I will have the kitchens delay as long as possible, then do my best to make the meal last as long as possible. But if neither ploy is successful ...” Huntington sighed heavily and cast a scowling glance across his shoulder. “Then beat out every stag you can find and send it down upon us. A veritable
flood
of stag.” Without much conviction, he added, “And if we are fortunate, perhaps a well-placed hoof will rid us—and England—of our mutual trouble before it sucks us dry.”
The huntsman smiled, then disguised it behind a hand. “Treason, my lord.”
Huntington’s answering smile was wintry. “No more than John’s attempt to sever his brother from the crown.”
The day promised well, if the morning was any indication. But Marian paid scant attention to the sky and the weather, thinking instead of how best to have horses brought out for them, in the midst of so much preparation, without becoming a part of the hunt. She held her chemise and mantle close, wending through guests, following directions given by one of the household servants. It might have been easy enough, were the bailey untenanted, but so many people milled and clustered, on foot and on horseback, that it was difficult to hold to a particular line.
Fat Matilda, wheezing, thrust out a pointing hand. “There. See? The earl.”
Marian followed the gesture. “Busy,” she said, and adroitly avoided the nearest knot of Huntington Castle’s guests. “Do you expect me to simply walk up and interrupt his conversation?”
Matilda followed in her mistress’s determined wake, clutching impotently at the voluminous robe. “You’re a knight’s daughter, my girl—not a common scullery maid.”
“You forget...” Marian wound her way through the crowd, wishing she’d waited a little longer. “To the Earl of Huntington, I’m not much more.”
Matilda was affronted. “You’re Sir Hugh FitzWalter’s daughter! No shame in that, my girl. He was a fine man, your father was, and worth a moment of the earl’s time.”
“Yes,” Marian agreed. “A fine man indeed, but—” She turned sharply to face the woman. “Why is it so important? Can’t I just go home? Can’t I just
leave?”
Swaddled in gray wool, Matilda was warm and flushed. She wobbled to a stop, mopped her chin, gazed at her mistress’s face. Tears glittered in Marian’s eyes, but did not overflow. Matilda knew she hated to cry.
The old woman blotted her brow beneath the damp coif, the folds of throat-flesh and wimple. “Your mother wanted me to see to it you grew up fine, Lady Marian. She said so before she died.”
The voice, with effort, was steady. “I have grown up very well, Matilda. You have done an admirable job.”
“Your father wanted me to see to it you were looked after while he was gone. And now that he’s dead—” Unexpectedly, tears brimmed in Matilda’s eyes also. Her voice was thick. “I want to do right by you.”
“You have,” Marian said. “And you will. But leaving now, without disturbing the earl, is not so important a thing to set us at odds.”
“Leaving
now?
Why?” The hand slipped under an elbow. “Pray, my lady, don’t desert me. My day would be quite destroyed.”
William deLacey’s grasp was gentle on her elbow, but Marian stepped aside, removing her arm from his fingers with a murmured comment. “All these people...” She sought for and found an excuse. “I have been isolated this past year, in my grief—I find myself discommoded by such great numbers.”
“And so you run? The daughter of Hugh FitzWalter?” DeLacey shook his head. Morning light touched the tracery of silver in his wavy brown hair. “That is not like the brave maid I know.”
“So
I
told her, my lord.” Matilda ignored Marian’s pointed glance. “What she needs is to be out of doors with everyone.”
“Then we are in complete agreement.” DeLacey’s smile was easy. “If I promised to look after her, would you leave her to me? You know me, Matilda—I will be at some pains to make certain she is well.”
The old nurse dipped an ungainly curtsy. “Of course, my lord. And I don’t mind admitting I’d just as soon rest my bones a while longer.”
Marian gritted teeth, smiling through them with effort. “Matilda—”
But deLacey was too quick, too smooth. “But of course, Matilda. Go in to breakfast in the kitchens. I will tend her welfare myself.”
Another unbalanced curtsey. “Thank you, my lord. I know you’ll do your best.”
“Wait—” Marian reached out, but deLacey had her arm again and was turning her away. Matilda, smiling, swung ponderously toward the keep and breasted the crowd.
Marian opened her mouth to chide deLacey. But the sheriff was deftly escorting her through the throng, murmuring greetings as they went. He made no attempt to lend her his attention until they stood near the inner curtain wall, by the gate leading into the outer ward. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I had no wish to deprive my day of your beauty.”
“Stop it,” Marian said.
He laughed. “Am I found out? Do you grow weary of pursuit?”
“I grow weary of manipulation.”
He laughed again in honest admiration. “I should know better. Hugh was never one for prevarication, either—why should his daughter be?” He tucked her hand into his elbow. “Come now, Marian—”
She removed her hand, clasping fingers behind her back. “Stop that, also.”
DeLacey’s expression was suddenly wary: a hound aware of a new—and possibly hazardous—scent. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“Surely not,” she retorted. “You? I think: never.”
He smiled. “Very well. What would you have me say?”
“The truth.”
That you know very well my father wants us to marry.
But she did not dare suggest it, in case he
didn’t
know.
“The truth is difficult for a man such as I.” DeLacey, clearly, was unperturbed by her expectations and no more willing to give up the game than she was to play. He simply changed the rules. “But here it is, ungarnished: I would like you to accompany me on the hunt today.” He paused. “Is that so cruel a wish?”
She was forced to admit she supposed it was not.
He nodded. “Good. Here, step away—the hunt prepares to leave.”
Purposefully he pulled her out of harm’s way as mounted guests vacated the inner bailey for the outer, and the forested chases beyond. The noise was clamorous: leashed hounds belling and barking, horse hooves clattering, men shouting to one another, women laughing shrilly, the oliphant winding again.