“Raised up?” John pulled Locksley close. He was considerably shorter, which required him to tilt his head back against padded shoulders. “How did my brother the king
raise you up?”
“He knighted me, my lord.”
John released the captured hair abruptly. “Knighted you, did he? And are we
Sir
Robert, now?”
“Yes, my lord. By the grace of God—and the King of England.”
John made no answer at once. The blackness had faded from his countenance, leaving him wan, sickly, drained. Dark smudges encircled his eyes. “And Huntington’s heir, to boot.”
The tone was oddly hoarse, lacking vitality. It was, in a way, resignation; the earl realized, in that moment, John needed Huntington—and all the earldom represented—badly. For income, if nothing else. And influence. And power. John was not king. John was not even officially Richard’s heir, not while the marriage to Berengaria of Navarre, however unproductive it might be, promised a potential true-born heir. John needed them all.
Locksley flicked a glance at his father. “Unless he declares otherwise.”
The earl summoned a faint smile that masqueraded as paternal indulgence, suppressing the flutter of rising acknowledgment:
John needs us.
“Considering the king himself has knighted you, only a fool would declare otherwise—”
“And are you not a fool?” John was intent once more, summoning reserves as he still scented the hunt. “No, of course not; not our Huntington . . . they say you are the power of Nottinghamshire.”
“No, my lord.” The earl bowed respectfully. “That, of course, is yourself.”
“So should you both recall it.” John looked back at Locksley. “This Blondel—does he yet live?”
“I believe so. It was he who found the king in Germany.”
“A
lute-player?”
Privately the earl questioned the abilities of John’s informants. Even
he
had heard of Blondel, if in an indirect way. Rumor said he had been raised up from penury by Berengaria herself; only later had Blondel made his way into Richard’s service.
“There was a song, my lord—a campaign song. One of the king’s favorites. When he was lost, Blondel took it upon himself to travel the lands, following rumors of imprisoned sovereigns—it is said Richard heard the song in his cell, answered it, and so was discovered.”
John studied Locksley intently, weighing words. But when he answered he did not question the story. “ ‘Richard’?” he asked softly.
Locksley’s mouth tightened. “The king, my lord.”
“He allowed you use of his Christian name?”
“In battle, my lord, such things as rank are often superseded by the familiarity of comradeship—”
“Blondel,” John said clearly. “It was a
lute-player
in his bed . . . and not a newly-knighted stripling with a tongue too smooth for his mouth?”
Locksley inclined his head. “You need only ask for the truth of Blondel’s appearance—”
“I need only ask for his
presence.
Be certain I shall.” John flicked an imperative hand, then turned to the earl. “What entertainments have you for this evening? We are in mind to be suitably honored—and suitably entertained.”
The earl drew breath to answer as his son, duly dismissed, departed the chamber in silence.
The trembling lute note died away, sighing into silence of unrequited love. Alain, also called Alan, smiled in bittersweet appeal at the woman so close to him. Just
so
—he had smiled in precisely that manner hundreds of times before. “A sad song, lady. Perhaps a livelier one would appeal more to your taste?”
She was flushed and dark of eye, clearly aroused. Too much wine to fuel the passion, he reflected, as the tip of her tongue breeched parted lips to moisten them. He would enjoy the first tumble, before the wine caught up.
She was trembling, strung to breaking with need. He saw the nakedness of it and the weakness of her will. Easier, he knew. Easier than the others, who played the game with tighter rules, requiring infinite patience. At times, he preferred it; this time, he did not. She was the daughter of the Sheriff of Nottingham, a man of some power. Wiser by far to tumble her quickly and then look to other game.
“Songs have their places,” she told him huskily. “But there is more to living than music.”
“Is there?” Languidly, he stroked lute strings. Down the neck to the belly with a gentle, long-fingered hand—as he would caress a woman. “Pray, lady, I am but a poor man hoping to share his talent . . . music has
been
my life. I am unaccustomed to other entertainments and certain—civilities.”
Eleanor deLacey touched a seemingly idle finger to a plump lower lip, reshaping the line of her mouth. Her eyes were black in dim light. “There are those who can offer instruction.”
He smiled. “Indeed.”
She removed her finger, swaying forward slightly. “Have you a room?”
He shook his head. “The hall floor shall be my bed.” It was customary during overcrowded feasts. Men such as Prince John or the sheriff would have chambers, but most would put blankets in the rushes, slapping away the dogs.
Her mouth crimped in faint annoyance. “Nor have I one to myself. I must
share . . .”
But she let it go, glancing birdlike around the hall. Subterfuge was not her gift. “There are other arrangements.”
“Of course.”
She leaned closer yet. “Find us a room.”
He affected a sigh. “I have no coin, Lady . . . I can hardly bribe a man to leave when there is nothing in it for him.” Of course, if the woman were willing to accommodate them
both,
there would be no problem at all. In the past it had proved an efficacious way, but he was not so certain of Eleanor deLacey. Women who drank were unpredictable, subject to flights of fancy.
She clenched teeth. “Find a
room,”
she hissed. And then, on another note entirely: “My father. I must go.”
And so she went in an unsteady sweep of skirts as the minstrel contemplated his task. Such things were not impossible. He doubted he would find it difficult to locate an appropriate room, as certainly other men would be pursuing other women, thereby leaving
someone’s
chambers available for the taking.
Alan smiled furtive anticipation. As the sheriff approached, he began another song.
Six
The chamber was cool, quiet, dim, and untenanted save for one. Along each wall blanket-wrapped straw pallets butted their heads against stone, offering lumpy but adequate rest; even in the earl’s sprawling castle there were too many to house comfortably with proper beds and pillows. But such was often the way even of nobility, stretching hall and castle corners to offer traditional hospitality. Ravenskeep, merely a manor, could not house even a half of the throng crowding beneath the earl’s roof.
A single lamp nearby spilled dull illumination, limning the contours of concentration in the angles of Marian’s face and robbing it of repose. She stretched limply atop a nubby woolen blanket, contemplating the shadows of thick rafter slabs looming far over her head. In seeming idleness she braided and rebraided a thick lock of black hair.
She recalled in childhood her father hosting friends in Ravenskeep, before her brother, then mother, died, but not so many as to put out the household, or necessitate turning the main hall into a bedchamber. A host must find places for his guests to sleep; that was customary. What was
not
customary, was the sheer multitude here tonight: The earl had invited hundreds of people to feast his son’s return, and that many had arrived.
She smiled briefly. In charity, she supposed not
all
of them had arrived; surely there were those who could not attend. And yet she supposed many of them had come less out of true good wishes than expediency. Huntington was a powerful, wealthy nobleman whose holdings stretched wide, as did his influence. He and others like him ruled England in Richard’s stead, albeit unofficially. No matter what Prince John believed.
Inwardly she squirmed as she gripped the braided lock. It made her hot to think of John’s behavior and hotter still to recall the witnesses. Bad enough, she thought, that the sheriff had to see her treated so badly, so provocatively; worse when she knew full well he wanted to marry her, and that her father desired it.
Had
desired it. Sir Hugh of Ravenskeep was no longer in any position to desire anything.
Marian clenched her teeth and threw aside the crimped braid, wedging her temples between two palms as she scowled at the rafters. “How
could
he?” she asked aloud. “How could he decide such a thing during his absence, and then send word through
Huntington’s
son?”
That troubled her nearly as much. She had come of private, close-knit kin, desirous of keeping things to themselves. That her father had seen fit to send word regarding such a personal matter without consulting her beforehand was unsettling, particularly in the way he had employed, but his instrument of communication was far worse.
Marian let both arms flop down and squinched shut her eyes. “Why did he have to do it?”
Because he had had little choice. What else was a man to do as he labored in the name of Christ?
It was clear, even behind tightly shut lids. Darkness hid nothing of the harsh truth. She was the sole holder of Ravenskeep, by English law, and yet the protection of that law offered a woman little. It lasted until she married, at which time her property passed to her husband. Yet if she tried to remain
un
married, refusing frequent and persistent suitors, she became therefore a target to the Church, which would suggest to the Crown she marry Christ, so the Church could benefit from her holdings.
It was not at all unusual for a father to make provisions for his daughter’s future before going on Crusade. That he had said nothing to that daughter was a cause for pain, because she believed herself privy to everything in his mind. He had said so, once, after her mother had died.
But a man might change his mind on the eve of going to war.
Now that he was dead and her official mourning finished, she was subject to pursuit. And she would be pursued. Ravenskeep was hers, until she married. It was entirely possible that within a week, a man would come to call. If not sooner.
Noise: a door unlatched and pushed open on the expulsion of impatient, unsteady breath. “Already?” Marian murmured, sitting up to face the door.
The earl turned to Prince John as Locksley left. “My lord, I must apologize for my son’s behavior—”
John cut him off, waving an imperative hand. “Never mind him. Who was that
girl?”
It took the earl a moment to recall the young woman. His mouth tightened. “Precisely that, my lord: a girl. Her father was Sir Hugh FitzWalter. He died on Crusade.”
John leaned forward slightly. “She is not wed?”
“No, my lord.”
Brows arched speculatively, then snapped together once more. “Then who is her protector?”
The earl kept his voice even. “Your brother the king, my lord.”
For a moment only, John’s expression was blank. Then the scowl returned. “No, no, you fool—I mean, whose mistress is she? Yours?”
It was outrageous. The earl’s face tightened. “No, my lord.”
One dark brow shot upward as the definitive undertone caught John’s attention. He placed a hand across his heart in mock astonishment. “What? Too high for the girl?” He laughed, showing bad teeth. “A fool, then, in truth . . . she looks properly ripe for the bedding.” He fingered his chain of office, chiming link against link. Lamplight glittered off rings. “Is she no one’s, then?”
The earl’s tone was severe. “She is in wardship to the Crown, my lord. I believe such women are required to be chaste.”
“At least until the Crown decides to
relieve
them of that chastity.” John’s expression was speculative. “God knows Richard will never do it ...” He chewed his bottom lip, eyes narrowed. “Has she lands?”
“Ravenskeep Manor, my lord. Near to Sherwood Forest. The lands are privately held, bequeathed to the family by the Conqueror, after Hastings.”
“Then the revenues aren’t mine . . .” John nodded thoughtfully. “She is valuable for her holdings, if naught else—though any man with eyes and cock would neglect to think of anything other than bedding her.” He scratched through costly clothing to the itch beneath. “No wonder she’s in wardship. Richard knows what’s good for the treasury, if not what’s good for his cock.” Small eyes narrowed. “But as I myself
am
the Crown, in all but name . . .” He thought about it, sighed, plopped himself down sloppily into the nearest chair. “Money is scarce, these days. With Henry requiring ransom . . .” He slewed a look at the Earl. “But of course it will be paid.”
“Of course,” the earl murmured.
John’s assessment was blatant. “Because all England wants her warrior-king safe, does she not?”
“Yes, my lord. All England.”
The assessment was done. John’s attention wandered. Then his expression darkened. “How am
I
to live if all the money goes to the ransom?”
The earl smoothed the weave of his surcoat, thinking about his castle. Thank God the rebuilding was completed, the masons all paid. All too obviously, John was fishing for money. “My lord, the Crusade has drained England badly. But she looks after her own. I’m certain you will be cared for in the manner you prefer.”
John grunted. “I doubt it.” Then he waved a hand. “Oh, do sit down. There is drinking to be done.”
Huntington lingered a moment.
This is my home, not his.
But he did as he was bade.
Marian relaxed as the door opened fully. The intruder was a woman, and therefore no intruder.
The newcomer stopped dead in the doorway. “Who is it? Who is there?” Her tone was strident, alarmed. She squinted through bad light. “Is there someone here?”
Marian shifted on doubled knees, moving more clearly into wan, smoky lightfall. “Marian of Ravenskeep.”
“Marian of—? Oh.” The tone conveyed a rush of released tension, renewed impatience, negligent acknowledgment. “I forgot you were here.” The woman moved into the chamber and shut the door. “I should know better—
everyone
is here.”
“Eleanor?” Marian gathered herself as the woman wavered unsteadily. “Are you well?”
Eleanor deLacey’s plain face burst into exuberant, bouyant delight. She crossed both hands against her bosom, as if to still its breathless heaving, or to revel in its unalloyed presumption of passion. “Better,” she whispered huskily.
“Better
than well . . .” She moved forward dreamily, into the frayed edges of the sphere of weak light.
“You
saw him. Didn’t you? Didn’t you see him there?”
Marian, thinking of the sheriffs matrimonial plans for his daughter, nodded. Privately she wondered how anyone could ask such a question; the earl had made such a spectacle out of his son that no one could have missed him.
Eleanor sighed noisily, high-colored and heavy-lidded. “Is he not
magnificent?”
Marian’s smile went crooked, hooking to irony, as did her amusement. Better that Eleanor at least admire her husband-to-be than despise him utterly. “He is—magnificent.” If in a hard-edged, taut-wound way.
“And such
music . . .”
Eleanor stumbled over the edge of a blanket-swathed straw pallet, caught her balance with an outflung hand, then swooped down upon the bedding. On hands and knees, skirts rumpled, she leaned forward, sharing a confidence. “I think he is the most gifted
jongleur
I have ever heard.”
“The
minstrel
—” Seeing the sudden alertness in Eleanor’s eyes, Marian altered her answer. “Of course! As you say, he is magnificent . . . although I’m quite certain you have been privileged to hear more musicians than I.”
Eleanor relaxed minutely, eyeing her sidelong. “Probably,” she agreed, then sat back upon her heels. Something blossomed in her dark eyes. After a speculative moment she began to roll slightly from side to side, shifting hips in an odd, loose-jointed rhythm. “I have heard none better,” she declared, less effusively but with no less conviction. “And when the Earl is done with him, I will have my father hire him.”
Marian was oddly fascinated by Eleanor’s odd, repetitive rocking motion as she sat upon her heels. She saw the bloom of color in the woman’s face, the slackening of her mouth. “Perhaps the minstrel would be a good addition to your household,” Marian agreed, the answer being the easiest to offer. She doubted Eleanor would pay much mind to anything she heard, unless it fit within the confines of whatever momentary thought occupied her, which seemed, for the moment, to be connected to her movements.
“Magnificent,” Eleanor murmured. “And if he can find us a room ...” Dark eyes widened abruptly as she recalled her circumstances.
“Who
are you?”
“Marian,” she said patiently; she smelled the wine on the woman. “Of Ravenskeep. Sir Hugh’s daughter.”
“Oh. He’s the dead one.” Eleanor stopped rocking her hips. Briefly she stretched her neck taut, clutching her skirts, then sighed gustily and focused once more on Marian. “We should be friends in this. This is of my
own
choosing, not my father’s choosing for me.
You
understand.” Her gaze was very intent. “Your father’s dead, which means you’re free—but how would
you
feel if your father had the disposing of you?”
Marian’s mouth twisted.
“How would you like it?” Eleanor repeated. “Men lie with whatever woman they will, dipping their tallow ten times a day. But women? We are not supposed to like it. We are to be virtuous, and docile, spreading our legs only for a husband—or two, or three, or four. A
duty,
we are told—and no thought given to us.” She grimaced. “There is nothing for us but marriage. And even
that
is not our own choosing!”
Marian stared at her. Eleanor was blunt-boned, brown of hair, brown of eyes, with skin tending to sallow. And yet now, flushed with the passion of her words, with eyes alight and mouth slack, she was something more. Something somehow
confusing.
“No,” Marian said finally. “We’re not given leave to choose.”
Eleanor bared her overbite briefly in a fierce, feral clenching. “He would not have this minstrel in my bed, given the choice. He would have
no
man in my bed, save the one to which he gives his leave—and I have nothing to say. Do you call this fair?”
Marian politely offered answer, merely to keep the peace. “No, it isn’t fair.”
“But I will
have
this minstrel—I will!—and there is nothing the Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham can do to stop me.” She gazed fiercely at Marian. “Unless you tell him.”
This, then, was her point. For the third time, quietly, “No.”
Eleanor stared hard at her. “Promise me that. A woman to a woman. No man to meddle with us.”
Marian wet her lips. She knew wine when she smelled it, drunkenness when she heard and saw it. But her heart knew an unexpected agreement with Eleanor, a desire for freedom, in choice as well as men. “I promise, woman to woman, I will say nothing of this to your father.”
Eleanor weighed her words avidly, poised like a doe set to leap. One hand traced her breasts, another tucked down in the dip of skirt between her legs. “Have you been bedded yet?”
Against her will, Marian felt heat rise into her face. It was all the answer Eleanor required.
“No.” The woman’s dark eyes narrowed speculatively a moment, glinting renewed apprehension. Then it faded. She smiled, but there was nothing of humor in it. “Then you can’t know. What I said, about not being
allowed
—it’s always like that, for us. Let men do the sowing of seed ... it is for the women to reap the harvest nine months later. But let her
enjoy
it? Let her dare admit it gives her pleasure?” She squeezed a nipple until it stood out. “They would name us whores, all of us. And stone us from our houses.”
Struck dumb, Marian waited, damp palms splayed across knees. She saw something of John’s avid need in Eleanor’s eyes, as he had looked upon her in the chamber before the other men.