The Heirs of Locksley Read online

  “His father,” she said wryly, with a lift in her brow that told just what she thought of their father. Mary hid a smile. “And what mischief is Lord Robin about these days?”

  “None at all,” Marian declared with perhaps too much force. “There has been too much trouble these last few years. We are hoping for calm.”

  Ursula said, “With a boy king and so many men of power hunting around him like foxes?” She shook her head with apparent disgust. “He is a poor king, at present. We will see what he does to get money, and how much like his father he is. Though I hear that he is pious, at least.”

  Mary’s heart went out to the young king. That one could never hear of him without hearing of his father, to grow up under a famous shadow . . . She understood this. Robin, at least, was not so universally hated as King John had been.

  Ursula waved off the serious discussion. “You are fine-looking girls, aren’t you? Oh, Marian, how far we’ve all come!”

  Mother Ursula showed them what parts of the convent she could. The chapel, of which she was very proud, and the gardens, which were bright and full of budding spring flowers. She and Marian chatted the whole time, gossiping about people Mary had never heard of. The abbey was much quieter than the town—the wall setting it apart made a difference, but it was more than that. Everyone seemed to move slower here. Even Eleanor seemed calmer.

  “Are you married yet, child?” Mother Ursula asked over her shoulder at the girls.

  How Mary hated that question. “Not yet, Mother,” Mary said, trying to mirror Marian’s easy, proper manners.

  “Soon, perhaps,” Marian said smoothly, diplomatically. “We’ve got our eye on someone.”

  Bloody William de Ros, why couldn’t he simply show himself?

  She turned back to Marian. “If either of your girls decides that their paths lie with God, I hope you’ll send them to me.”

  “Of course,” Marian said. Eleanor wrinkled her nose. Mother Ursula laughed.

  On leaving, Marian and Ursula embraced again, clasped hands, and made promises not to wait so long between visits. The abbess kissed Mary and Eleanor on their cheeks, said a blessing over them, and then they were back to the world of noise and chaos and sin.

  Marian explained, as they walked on. “We were at court together when we were young. She’s the daughter of an earl and didn’t much care for the idea of being married off as a political maneuver. Since she had plenty of sisters, she went to the convent instead. It suits her. It may not seem like a large realm, but she has power over it. She’s doing good work here, and that was all she wanted, to be able to do some good in the world, and not be a pawn.” Did Marian sound wistful?

  “Did you ever think of the convent?” Mary asked.

  “I did, but only when it was an alternative to marrying someone loathsome. Then your father came along.” Her gaze held a merry glint.

  One of their father’s men, who had been an outlaw with him years before, had been waiting outside and fell into step behind them. He had been watching them unobtrusively the whole errand, right up to the convent doors. Just in case.

  “All is well, Dav?” Marian asked.

  “It is, my lady. No trouble.”

  “It’s when we don’t expect it that trouble comes along, hm?” she observed, and Dav merely smiled. “So today, at least, all is well.”

  Eleanor clasped Mary’s arm, and Mary kissed her little sister’s head. All was well, at least for now.

  * * *

  The king called his barons and knights to swear fealty before the week was out. John half-expected his father to change his mind, to deal with the young king himself. But he didn’t, so he, Mary, and Eleanor arrived at the grand hall where Henry held court, dressed in their best and attempting to behave like they knew what they were doing. The place was crowded, thick with the smell of candles and sweat, and everyone looking over everyone else in a calculating way that made John’s spine twitch. Who was in favor, who wasn’t, and how the balance of power would shift in the years to come. How did one ever learn to read it all?

  John was now very glad that their mother had been so insistent that they learn French. It was the only language anyone spoke here, except for the occasional Latin. He already felt at a disadvantage, not knowing anyone. But at least he understood what they were saying.

  Mary was also studying the assemblage with a narrowed gaze and thoughtful frown.

  “Are you still looking for William de Ros?” John asked.

  She winced unhappily. “Is he here, do you think?”

  “I don’t know why you bother when you don’t even know what he looks like.”

  “His family arms are red with water bags on it. Maybe he’s wearing his arms.”

  John’s brow furrowed. “Heraldic water bags? What does that even look like? No lions or leaping stags or—”

  “Never mind.” How was it she was the most nervous of them all? It wasn’t like she’d have to actually speak to the king. Even Eleanor seemed settled, holding on to Mary’s arm and glancing around with wide, interested eyes.

  A herald called names. Lords approached and knelt before the king. Oaths were exchanged. Each meeting took only a minute or so. John ought to be remembering the names, as he realized he could not recall a single one he’d heard in the last ten minutes. Lady Marian would say he should mark each one and learn what he could about them, in case he needed the information later. Their mother was much better at court politics than all the rest of them put together; she should be the one here—

  And then there was only one name before theirs. He squared his shoulders. This would be simple; all would be well. “Here we are. He’ll hardly notice us and this will all be over.”

  “Are you well?” Mary asked their sister, who let go of her hand and clutched her skirt, standing up straight and proper. Her lips were locked in a tight line but she nodded. All these crowds, all these strangers, she must hate this, but she was being very brave. John tried to smile encouragingly but she was focused on the way ahead and did not see him.

  Then it was their turn. “Lord John of Locksley, with Lady Mary and Lady Eleanor,” the herald announced.

  The three siblings stood before King Henry.

  His chair was too large for him, and he gripped the ends of the arms as if he expected it to tip over. He sat rigidly, with determination. How this must be trying his patience. At his age, John had only wanted to ride and shoot and practice swordplay. Did King Henry ever do anything but sit in chairs and look serious?

  “My liege,” John said, and knelt at the place on the carpet that was scuffed from dozens of other knees. Behind him, he sensed Mary and Eleanor curtseying so deeply, they nearly touched the floor—they had spent the morning practicing. He had been paying enough attention to know what would follow: one of the bishops would tell him what he was swearing to, loyalty and tribute and all the rest. John would swear, the king would promise to follow the law and protect his servants, and then it would be over.

  Instead, a young voice interrupted.

  “Lord John of Locksley?” The king leaned forward in the great chair, curious, demanding.

  The hall fell silent. Everyone was staring at him. Absolutely everyone. John’s heartbeat seemed very loud all of the sudden.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” he said, making his voice clear. His French had an accent that was out of place in this court. He was so obviously English.

  “Your father is Robin of Locksley?” King Henry asked. Several of his councilors murmured among themselves and looked discomfited. They remembered that name well.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” He rather thought he knew what came next. The question was always the same.

  “Do you know archery?” Suddenly Henry was very much a boy, not a king.

  John smiled. He couldn’t not. This was familiar ground. He spoke to the boy, not the king. “I do. My father taught me.”

  Henry’s eyes lit up. Much murmuring gossip among the courtiers answered this, as he knew it would. Ever
yone knew the stories about his father.

  The king had a boyish smile to go with the smooth face and bright eyes. “We should like to see you shoot sometime.”

  John was surprised to note that he also spoke French with an English accent.

  “At your pleasure. But . . .” He glanced behind him. His sister would not thank him for this, even if he only spoke the truth. “I do not shoot so well as my sister, Lady Mary. Of all of us, she truly inherited my father’s gift.”

  “A lady archer!” Henry exclaimed. “Is it true?”

  Now all eyes were on Mary, and he could almost see her repressing the urge to throttle him, instead donning her most polite manners. She couldn’t be surprised that John threw her forward like this . . .

  “My brother flatters me, Your Grace,” she said properly, elegantly. “But yes, I do shoot.”

  “You will show us, yes?”

  “At your pleasure, Your Grace,” she answered. Oh, John would catch hell from her later.

  King Henry had bent the ear of the nearest councilor to him, a middle-aged bishop in a black coat, with dark eyes and a glaring manner. The councilor nodded, then King Henry did.

  He announced, “We will hold an archery contest. A simple affair, all in fun, on the tournament grounds. Tomorrow. We will see you there, and anyone of our court who wishes to test themselves against you, and see who is the best.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Mary said, curtseying even lower somehow. King Henry grinned happily.

  “Sire, the oaths,” one of the other bishops put in. They had almost forgotten the business at hand. So, oaths of fealty were exchanged, and finally a steward gestured the three of them away.

  They left the royal chamber and emerged in the hall outside, where the swarm of courtiers and attendants and hangers-on gathered, with much drinking and eating and talking and watching and scheming, and it was all just noise. Mary stopped and looked heavenward. Eleanor stood between them, grinning. She approved, at least.

  “Aren’t you going to yell at me?” John asked. “Tell me that was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, to draw the king’s attention like that—”

  Mary started walking again. “On the contrary, I think Mother and Father will be most impressed at how you found a way to curry favor. I’m rather impressed myself.”

  Well, that hadn’t been the reason at all; he’d only wanted to see if the boy would smile—“Then you don’t mind me throwing you into this?”

  “I don’t mind shooting before the king. But the way everyone stared at me like I’m some kind of . . . a trained dancing bear!”

  “People like dancing bears,” he offered.

  “John!”

  “We can’t escape Father’s reputation. We might as well use it, yes?”

  “Well, then, if we’re going to shoot in a contest tomorrow, we’d best hurry home and check our bows.”

  At least she’d stopped searching the crowd for William de Ros.

  * * *

  Once, four years earlier, Mary made an impossible shot, at dusk, in the forest, a hundred paces away from a line-thin target using a bad bow and worse arrow, her nose bleeding from where their kidnapper had struck her. She made the shot, just to spite the brute.

  She had only gotten better since. But practicing archery was usually what she did to avoid people, not put herself in the center of the entire kingdom’s attention. She decided she might as well make a spectacle of it, so when it came time to dress for the match, she wore a kirtle of Lincoln green.

  “Well,” her mother said when she saw. “You’ll leave them no doubt whose child you are.”

  “I have given up arguing over it,” she answered. “And if William de Ros is there, best he know what he’ll be getting right up front.”

  “Perhaps you should stop worrying so much about William de Ros.”

  “Truly, I’m no longer sure he exists.”

  “Oh, Mary. Have patience.”

  The travelers who had come to Westminster for the coronation filled all the inns and manors and beds in town, so many of those there to pay homage spilled out into encampments in the countryside. It seemed a second town had sprung up, the companies of dozens of England’s knights and lords clustered in tents and pavilions, carts and wagons. The baron of Locksley camped apart from the others, near a sparse woodland of undersized alders, closest thing to a forest for miles around but it would have to do.

  The whole company gathered to see them off. A good number of the Locksley stewards and tenants had been outlaws with Robin, back in the time of King Richard. They still kept watch over each other, as if they could not get out of the habit. The only ones missing were Brother Tuck, who had died when Eleanor was a baby, and Little John, who did not like to come out of Sherwood’s shadow for anything. Mary had grown up in that circle of safety and protection and trust—she was only starting to realize what that meant, to have a whole troop at one’s back. One could stand up to an awful lot of trouble.

  That she would have to leave the company, perhaps soon, was a thing she hadn’t much considered.

  “The green suits you, Mary,” Robin said, coming up from the back of the camp.

  “Will you not come and watch?” she asked.

  “I fear I would make you nervous if I did.”

  She thought a moment. “It might, yes. I’m sorry.”

  He came up and straightened a corner of her veil. “Never mind. I’ve seen you shoot plenty of times and will do again.”

  When John appeared, pulling a quiver over his shoulder, he was also dressed in Lincoln green, a belted tunic with brown leggings. A matched set, like they planned it this way. Mary slipped her own quiver over her shoulder, adjusting her veil around the strap. Will Scarlet, who served as the Locksley household’s steward, had looked over their arrows personally the night before and reassured her that she knew what she was about and had nothing to prove. She picked up her bow, as yet unstrung, from the nearby rack.

  “Well, look at you both,” Marian said, touching her fingers to her chin. “You have your arm guards? All your arrows counted? Extra bowstrings, you should have extra strings—”

  “Mother, we’ve checked everything three times over, we’re fine,” John said.

  “My lady, they will do very well,” Robin said, taking Marian’s hand.

  Now she looked like she was about to cry. “I am so very proud of you both.”

  Mary kissed her mother on the cheek and offered a smile. “It will all be over soon one way or another.”

  “Be easy, Mary, just this once,” Marian said.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Ready?” John asked her. She nodded and they set off, with the whole of the Locksley household looking after them. The weight of the regard was heavy. John, her little brother who was taller than she was now and had somehow started the barest shadow of a beard growing and seemed so terribly sure of himself, said, “She’s right, there’s nothing to worry about. We’re telling a story, that’s all.”

  “The story of Robin Hood? Are we supposed to be play-acting, then?”

  “Yes, in a sense.”

  Eleanor met them on the path into town, standing expectantly, hands clasped before her. She had a spindle and roving tucked in her belt, her veil was neat, she didn’t look at all out of place except that she wasn’t supposed to be here. She was supposed to be back at camp, with Beatrice and their mother.

  Mary sighed. “We talked about this. You shouldn’t come. It’ll be loud and crowded and—”

  Her sister tipped up her chin and marched ahead.

  “I’m not going to argue with her,” John said, shrugging, and followed her.

  And how was it that Eleanor managed to get her way so often when she didn’t even speak? This was going to be a long day, Mary feared.

  The royal household had put together as fine an archery pitch as Mary could imagine. A dozen butts spread out along the distant end of the field, newly painted, the target colors bright. The stands were filled with
the same rich and varied collection of lords and ladies as at the coronation, pages and attendants, banners fluttering over shaded viewing stands. All so pretty and lively. Were they supposed to bring attendants? Tables and chairs, silver platters full of food and drink?

  No, never mind, they were here to shoot.

  “There,” John said, looking over the gathering with a calculating eye. “There is the king, and I wager that’s his archery master.” A collection of men with bows and quivers had gathered on the ground near the middle of the viewing stand, where the largest of the banners flew, and the richest lords and ladies sat. In the middle of them all, a boy sat formally in an ornately carved chair. The king.

  The archery master, an older man wearing a baldric of royal red and gold, moved among them, taking names and looking at bows.

  “They’re all men,” Mary said. “I know I’m not the only woman in England who shoots. I thought . . . well.” She didn’t know what she thought.

  “It may only be that they’re not here today,” John said.

  He was sweet for trying to make her feel better.

  If Mary hoped they could slip in unnoticed, and that there would be a whole crowd of archers to lose herself among, she hoped in vain. Mary and her siblings appeared, and the crowd turned to watch. Maybe the green wasn’t such a good idea after all . . .

  “Trained bear,” she muttered.

  “Don’t forget to smile,” John said, touching his cap.

  Eleanor hesitated, bumping into Mary and clutching her skirt. Mary wanted to hiss that she’d warned her it would be like this, but she didn’t.

  “Can you find a quiet place to sit?” Mary asked. Preferably someplace no one would try to talk to her . . . Eleanor bit her lip and nodded. Gave Mary a quick kiss on the cheek for luck, which was heartening, and then she ran off to a spot on the grass near the end of the viewing stand, where some other young girls sat with sewing and spinning, that still had a good view of the field.

  A dozen men had come to shoot in the king’s contest. They looked over when the Locksley siblings approached, their gazes narrowed and appraising, their lips frowning or smirking. We must look like such children to them, Mary thought.