The Heirs of Locksley Read online

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  For Claude and Basil

  MARY OF LOCKSLEY WAS not important enough to have a very good view of the coronation, but she had a better view than most, halfway down the nave in the church at Westminster. So much finery, so much gold, blinding wealth and pomp, a great stone hall full of arches and pillars and a soaring timber roof. The cathedral at Canterbury was larger, she’d been told, but she wasn’t sure she believed it. In the center of it all, the king, surrounded by bishops and councilors and all the great lords of England. Mary’s father was only a baron and one of the former rebel barons at that, so she stood with the rest of the crowd to look on. Eleanor, her youngest sibling, stood on her toes trying to see until their mother put a hand on her shoulder and she settled. John, the middle child, stood shoulder to shoulder with their father.

  John had turned more serious these last couple of years. The recent war had come almost to their doorstep. Many of the rebel barons had supported the French invasion in an attempt to depose King John. For once, their father hadn’t picked sides—he hated King John, but a French king wouldn’t have been any better, he insisted. For a time, they thought they would have to fortify Locksley Manor against one army or the other. Then, in the middle of it all, King John died.

  “How is it possible I outlive him?” Robin of Locksley had murmured when the news reached them. The two had been enemies all their lives, yet somehow the news of the king’s death had made Robin sad. Mary hadn’t understood.

  “He can’t hurt you now,” Lady Marian had reassured him.

  “Oh, but he can,” Robin answered with a harsh laugh. “We’ll see what the son is like.”

  The war had ended, the invasion had been thwarted, and a second, formal coronation was held to establish the young king’s rightful place on the throne. King Henry III was now thirteen years old, thin and somber, overwhelmed by the azure mantle on his shoulders and gleaming crown that the Archbishop of Canterbury settled on his head and straight reddish hair, neatly trimmed. His voice was small as he made his oaths, but unwavering, serious. So serious. He never once smiled.

  “He’s so young,” murmured Marian. “I knew he was young, but to see it. I want to feed him biscuits and make sure he has a warm cloak.”

  Robin smiled and hushed her.

  Despite a thought that she should pay close attention so she could tell the story of this to her children, assuming she ever had any, Mary’s attention kept wandering to the attendant gathering, the lords and ladies of England, looking for a young man of about the right age, but since she had no idea what he looked like, she couldn’t know if he was here.

  Then it was all finished and the gathering broke apart, the sea of people pushing back toward the doors. The councilors and great men clustered around the king, who vanished behind a sea of finely dyed wool and glittering trim.

  “Is William de Ros here?” she asked her father, trying not to sound too interested. Merely curious. Casually curious.

  “No, I don’t think so. The de Roses must have been delayed,” Robin said. Mary blew out a sigh. “Don’t worry, you’ll get to meet young William this time. In just a few days, I’m sure.”

  He’d been saying that for years, since she was sixteen. She was twenty now. William de Ros was the man her father wanted her to marry. Hoped she would marry. Something. She had said she would agree to it if she liked him, but she would have to meet him first. Not that she knew how to tell whether she would like him or not. Did it even matter? She would have to marry someone, wouldn’t she? She simply wanted to be able to decide, one way or another.

  It was all very frustrating, like walking a dark forest path with no idea of the destination.

  Marian touched her shoulder. “Mary, will you take Eleanor outside? The crowd is too much, I think.”

  Her sister’s gaze was downcast and she rubbed her fingers together as if she spun wool, but she’d left her spindle behind and so had nothing but the movement. It was a sign she was getting nervous and unhappy. She’d been fascinated with the proceedings right up until she wasn’t, when the ritual and ceremony, and thus the order of it all, ended. Mary offered her hand, which her sister took with both her own. The elder sister made herself a shield to push through the crowd until they reached the side of the church, which had fewer people, and from there they could flee out the transept doors. Some of the clergy gathered there raised their eyebrows at them, but they moved quickly and with purpose and no one stopped them. Besides, one veiled woman looked much like another. They could pretend they were nuns.

  Suddenly, they emerged to sunlight, fresh air, and relative quiet. Mary hadn’t realized her own shoulders ached from holding herself so formally for so long.

  “Well then, is that better?”

  Eleanor sighed and leaned into Mary, but she still would not look up and went back to rubbing her hands nervously.

  On this side of the church, an herb garden and walkway led to the cloisters. Beyond the church, moving away from the confluence of the Rivers Thames and Tyburn, was the palace and village of Westminster, where a great fair had sprung up as an excuse to celebrate the coronation. Musicians played, acrobats performed, women sold mulled wine and meat pies from carts. The day had been full of ceremony for the high-born, but for everyone else it was a festival. And a bit further down the river, London, with all its noise and bustle, tall buildings and tangles of streets, and so many people. There was no escaping the people. They’d have to go miles to find a forest.

  It was all so different from home.

  She found a low garden wall to sit on while they waited for the others. Finally, Eleanor was herself enough to look up.

  “I suppose being left at home would have been harder for you than coming here and putting up with all this,” Mary said absently. “I’m not sure I like it. It’s well enough to visit a town, but I miss Sherwood.” Eleanor nodded. She never spoke, not a word. People ignored her, discounted her, thought her stupid. But Mary was sure that her sister saw everything, noticed everything. Sometimes, she’d give much to know what Eleanor was thinking. She looked over the abbey garden behind them. “You might like a convent. No crowds, little noise.” Eleanor wrinkled her nose and shook her head. Not very pious, that one, but the priest who heard their confessions assured them that though she could not speak, he could tell that Eleanor was contrite and so absolved her of whatever sins a thirteen-year-old girl might commit.

  God must take special care to look after one such as Eleanor; Mary was sure of it.

  A commotion rose up at the transept door, and there emerged onto the path a crowd of liveried attendants, pages with cups and cloaks, bishops with their mitres, dukes and lords with collars of state, and in the middle of them all a tall, thin boy. All processed this way. Mary quickly tugged Eleanor to her feet. “Here, curtsey now, hurry.”

  As the king and his company passed by, Mary curtseyed deep, her face down. Kept her arm across Eleanor’s shoulders to make sure she did likewise. She did steal one quick glance. Eleanor was doing just the same, curiosity getting the better of
both of them, though they’d have done better to go unnoticed.

  In that moment King Henry looked over, caught her gaze. She nearly choked. What was the penalty for accidentally looking at the king? Well, nothing for it but to smile—so Mary offered a quick smile. King Henry smiled back, just as quick, before turning his attention to the path as his lords and bishops marched him onward, back to the sprawling palace.

  “Well, what about that?” Mary said, after the commotion had passed by and she and Eleanor straightened to look after it. Eleanor was smiling, which meant she liked the boy king. Eleanor didn’t like many people. Like as not, though, that was as close as any of them would get to him their whole lives. That was a story to tell her children.

  * * *

  Moments like this, John knew all the old stories about Robin the outlaw were true. Even now, his father behaved like a man who had lived with a sword at his throat for years. He kept his back to the wall, and when there wasn’t a wall or a good solid oak to shelter by, he never settled.

  “Where are they?” Robin said, keeping to the edge of the festival crowd. He searched his surroundings with a focused manner that was disconcerting, as if he expected a fight to break out and needed to predict where the first blow would come from.

  “I sent them out the side door. Eleanor needed air,” Marian answered. She took Robin’s arm, and it wasn’t for herself; it was to steady him.

  “Ah,” Robin said, and continued to search for enemies.

  “There they are,” Marian announced and went off to meet the two figures walking arm in arm from the church. Their veils fluttered, their skirts rippled. Mary was a woman grown, John was startled to see, though honestly she had always seemed old and staid to him. She was taller than their mother, otherwise almost her picture, with dark chestnut hair braided up and a bright face. Eleanor would be their triplet in a few more years, though her hair was light. John wondered what he looked like, standing next to his father. Still a foolish lanky boy, no doubt, his coat too big and his shoes too small. He had no beard to speak of yet.

  John started to go with his mother, when Robin called to him. “A word, John.”

  Robin turned all that intense attention on his son, and John felt the weight of it though he tried very hard to not show it. He was aware of steeling his shoulders so they would not seem to bend. To be this man’s heir . . .

  “Yes, sir?” John said.

  His father put a hand on his shoulder. “When the time comes, you will go swear fealty to the king on my behalf, as my heir.”

  “I will? But . . . why?”

  “Did you notice?” Robin of Locksley said. “The young king is surrounded by old men. His father’s men, old councilors and bishops. Until he comes of age, they’re the ones ruling the kingdom. The king—he will need friends close to his own age. And you will need to get to know him. God willing, you will be dealing with each other as liege lord and vassal for decades to come. All those old men—and me—will be dead sooner rather than later. King Henry will need friends. Do you understand?”

  To his own shock, John thought he did, and this worried him. He was used to not understanding much of anything beyond which end of a sword or arrow was meant to go into the enemy. But maybe that applied here after all, in a manner of speaking. “This is about politics.”

  “Yes. And about a young boy who looks as if he could use a friend or two. Your sisters will go with you. You’ll all make a pretty picture, I wager. It should catch his attention. I’m not asking you to scheme or plot. Just . . . be his friend, if it turns out he wants one.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand, I think.”

  “Besides, I would only be a distraction.” He grinned and winked. Ah yes, the old king’s men would remember Robin, wouldn’t they?

  “You want Mary along so she’ll kick me in the ankle when I say something stupid,” John said.

  Robin laughed. “You see, my lad, you know exactly what you’re about.” He ruffled his son’s hair—had to reach up to do that; John had gotten that tall, at least.

  It wasn’t facing the king, pledging fealty, or the formality that gave John pause. It was all the old men around the king, as Robin had said. They would not take John seriously. He had done nothing to prove himself. He had nothing to recommend himself, except for who his father was.

  He did not like this talk of Robin being gone one day. Then all would fall to John.

  “What’s this?” Robin murmured.

  A group of men approached. The one in the lead, a solidly built man with a trimmed brown beard and glaring eyes, older than John but not nearly as old as Robin, was richly dressed, a red mantle over an embroidered coat, with gold clasps, a fine leather belt and shoes. With him were a handful of knights and squires, swords at their belts and steel in their gazes.

  Robin glanced across the square, gave a bare nod. His oldest friend, Will Scarlet, was there, a tall silver-haired man in plain tunic, unassuming by intention. He leaned up against the corner of a shop, supposedly watching a juggler. He nodded back but stayed where he was, alert, unobtrusive.

  John wasn’t as good with heraldry and faces as Mary was. Who was this man?

  “My lord Pembroke,” Robin said expansively as the man stopped a few paces away.

  “My lord Locksley,” he replied evenly. He and all his men glared. John watched even more eagerly now—the second earl of Pembroke, William Marshal, the son of the famous William Marshal. This was the man who had probably ordered the kidnapping of John and his sisters four-odd years earlier. He had thought to win favor by taking hostages that would ensure Robin of Locksley’s compliance during the baronial rebellions. Robin had sent back the would-be kidnappers with arrows in their throats. There had been some to-do over the deaths; the young William Marshal had denied any involvement in the plot, but enough of a question on that score was raised that no murder charges had been brought against Robin. Either both of them had committed mortal insult, or neither of them had, and that was that, and now here they were.

  “I was very sorry to hear of your father’s passing, my lord,” Robin said. “We will not see his like again.”

  The younger William Marshal seemed unconvinced, studying Robin with a frown. “Thank you. This is your son?” His gaze shifted, giving the boy a skeptical look.

  “This is John, yes.”

  “My lord,” John said politely. And because he couldn’t resist: “I understand we missed a chance to meet several years ago.” If the kidnappers had succeeded, he and the girls would have been delivered to this man’s feet. John was glad to be taller now than he had been, to look the man in the eye, or close to it.

  Pembroke’s gaze narrowed. “It’s just as well. These are . . . happier days for such a meeting.”

  “Indeed,” Robin said, and gave his son a sidelong glance. “Let’s hope they remain so.”

  “A good day to you, my lord.” Pembroke inclined his head and turned to leave. Each of his men seemed determined to glare extra hard at Robin, as if that would affect him at all.

  “And you!” Robin called after them.

  “Is he going to cause trouble?” John asked.

  Robin shook his head. “I think any trouble with him died with the old king. But watch your back.”

  Will Scarlet sauntered over. “It’s always the really well-dressed ones with the sourest looks, isn’t it?”

  “We are all loyal subjects of the king,” Robin murmured. “I will just keep telling myself that.”

  John had the sudden thought that his father’s pushing him into this world was akin to being thrown to wolves. He really ought to learn to keep his mouth shut better if he was going to manage.

  * * *

  Rather than follow Robin and John back to camp, Mary and Eleanor went with their mother on an errand. She led them confidently around the church, past the abbey, and to a set of timber-frame buildings clustered together behind their own wall. One could see the high stone bell tower of a chapel beyond, and the thatched roofs of houses and
outbuildings. Mary gave her mother a confused look. Eleanor’s look was even more confused, growing apprehensive, and she held back. There had been some talk of Eleanor taking vows, but nothing serious, and Mary didn’t think their mother would simply . . . deposit her at a convent without discussion.

  “Don’t worry,” Marian told them with a happy smile. Open and honest, unlike her circumspect, diplomatic manner. “I’m visiting an old friend.”

  An ironbound door marked the entrance. Marian knocked, and a coifed and veiled woman answered. “I’m here to see Mother Ursula, please. It’s Lady Marian.”

  “Yes, my lady, please come in.”

  The door opened, and the three of them entered the grounds.

  The convent’s front yard was a place of refuge and charity, filled with the poor and crippled and struggling, gaunt of face and dressed in rags, crutches tucked under arms. Eyes bandaged, limbs missing. Suffering. Mary’s first response was to draw back, look away. Eleanor took her hand and squeezed. It was helplessness, not disgust, that made her want to turn away. At Locksley, they could take in their own people, help them as they needed. But here in town, so close to London, there were so many . . .

  A bustling woman, plump and energetic, wearing a nun’s dark habit, wooden cross swinging on her chest, came into the yard. With all the fabric around her face, judging her age was difficult, but Mary guessed that Mother Ursula was close to Marian’s age.

  “Mother Abbess,” Marian said warmly, holding out her hands, which the abbess clasped.

  “Marian, how wonderful to see you!”

  They embraced. Yes, old friends.

  “You don’t look a bit older, do you?” the abbess said.

  “I certainly feel older. I’ve brought a small offering. Just a bit to help.” She drew a pouch from her sleeve, pressed it into Ursula’s hands.

  “Bless you, my dear. We will put this to good use and say prayers for you and yours.” Her gaze turned to study the girls. “These are your daughters?”

  “Mary and Eleanor. I have a boy in the middle. He’s with his father.”