The Heirs of Locksley Read online

  Her bow felt like an old friend, holding her hand.

  “Lord John! Lady Mary! Welcome!” the king called.

  John bowed deeply. “Your Grace, thank you for the opportunity to display our meager talents for you.”

  The chair, the ermine, the gold, the fluttering banners, all of it would make one forget this was an eager boy grinning back at them. We’re telling a story, John had said. And the king wanted a story. Well, then.

  She smiled, just like John asked, and kept her gaze down as she strung her bow and adjusted her arm guard. Let them stare; she didn’t need to stare back.

  The king came out to address the archers and the crowd. He looked back at his councilors, and the same dark-robed bishop who was always with him nodded encouragingly. There was an odd sense that this was a child playing at being king.

  But then his young voice, right on the edge of cracking, announced with determination, “For the winner, we have a gold ring from our own treasury!” He held up the ring, a gold band with a dark stone. There was cheering. Mary didn’t think of the ring, only of getting through this with her dignity intact.

  “Archers, take your marks!”

  Mary leaned close to John as they chose targets next to one another. “Promise me you will shoot your best and not throw the match because you think it’s funny to have people stare at me.”

  “Mary, I promise you with all my honor that I always shoot my best against you. You really are that good. You’re as good as Father.”

  She wasn’t. She could never be. The very fundamental definition of their father—at least in the stories—was his skill in archery. “We never saw him in his prime, when he was young and fighting the sheriff’s men in Sherwood. Do you ever think of that?”

  He turned pensive. “No.”

  “We will never be that good, not ever. I have never split an arrow.”

  “Then perhaps today’s the day for it.”

  Perhaps.

  “Lady Mary, you do not use a longbow like your father?” The question came from the archer on her left, Ranulf FitzHugh, the son of a baron from Essex.

  She looked up and down the line. Of the dozen men who’d come to shoot, two used Welsh-style longbows, including FitzHugh himself. Not even John used a longbow for this, though he could have.

  “No need to, my lord,” she answered. “I’m not shooting deer or sniping at Normans from two hundred paces, am I?”

  He chuckled nervously.

  John added, “Think you the targets will escape if you don’t strike them hard enough, my lord Ranulf?”

  Flustered, he said, “The use of the longbow requires special skill—”

  “Yes, it does,” John said. “But you must remember, it doesn’t matter how deep your shaft plunges if you can’t find your mark!”

  This was met with general, raucous laughter. Except from Ranulf, who turned away scowling.

  “Really, John,” Mary chastised, and this too was met with laughter. “You drag us any lower, we’ll need a shovel to get out of the mire.”

  “You let her talk to you that way?” a man from the viewing stand called to John.

  He called back, “If you don’t have an older sister, you’ll never understand! They’re supposed to harangue their little brothers!”

  With just a couple of quips and a ready laugh, John won over the crowd. Even the somber bishop smiled. Mary just had to follow his lead. She checked the crowd, found Eleanor sitting quietly, alert and interested. So, all was well there. John gave her an encouraging nod, which she returned.

  “Archers ready!” the master of the field called.

  Finally, she could be with herself, ignoring the other archers, the crowd, the king. Bow and arrow and target. This she knew. She wet a fingertip, raised it to the air, which was still, mostly. She nocked her arrow and drew.

  * * *

  Those who watched King Henry’s coronation archery tournament thought it was a joke at first, the two fresh-faced archers from Nottinghamshire acting like Robin Hood’s heirs, making jokes about shooting Normans—they glanced nervously at the king for guidance, wondering if they should laugh or be offended. It must have been a joke. Robin Hood was only a story.

  The boy was good; all could tell he knew his way with the bow, had likely been shooting all his life. But the girl was the only one to hit the target dead center. Then she did it again, and again. It seemed at first she must have split her own arrow—just like in the stories. But no, the latest arrow only shaved off some of the shaft of the previous.

  “Waste of a good arrow,” she muttered, when the page brought her arrows back and she studied the scarred shaft.

  She seemed a quiet young woman, tall and lovely, and those among the spectators who knew her mother agreed that she was very like her, if not as refined. That came from growing up in the northern wilds, away from civilizing influences.

  They shot a second set. Lady Mary once again made a tight cluster of arrows. The archery master cleared out half the archers, ordered the targets moved back. The two Locksley siblings remained, along with the surly man with the longbow, Ranulf FitzHugh, who kept glaring at the young lady.

  As they lined up, fingers on bowstrings, Ranulf shouted with sudden temper, “You should not be here! It’s an insult!”

  Likely, this was meant to make her flinch—the stewards and spectators nearby did. But she didn’t. She let out the tension in her bowstring and stared at him. Just stared, until he looked away.

  “Switch places with me, Mary,” John murmured.

  “It’s all right,” she replied. “Can’t let a little wind bother me, can I?”

  Ranulf shot badly that round. When the archery master culled the field again, he was cut. So was the Locksley boy. He didn’t seem to mind. Only three archers remained.

  The king called Lord John to him. The young man knelt at Henry’s feet.

  “How does she do it?” Henry asked him.

  One might have expected the son of Robin Hood to spin a tale, to say it was magic, their father’s spirit, the hand of God, some mysterious quality that only came from drinking the water of the springs that bubbled up in Sherwood Forest. He said nothing like this.

  “Watch, sire. You see, she stands solid. Nothing wavers. When she aims, the aim stays true. She moves the same every time, drawing to exactly the same point on her chin. Her feet never shift. Now see Master Gilbert there. He’s very good, but he isn’t so consistent. He doesn’t hold himself still. His hips swing, his shoulders buckle. He stands a little different each time, so he cannot make his arrows stay true. This might be enough for him to hit a broad target, bring down a stag if there’s no wind. He’s a willow, and Mary is an oak.” John would never admit his pride of Mary to her outright, but he would brag to anyone, outside her hearing.

  “I see it,” Henry said, wonderingly. “Have you just revealed to me the secret of Robin Hood’s shooting?”

  John chuckled. “The secret is practice, nothing more. Anyone could tell you that.”

  “She’s very good.”

  Mary had just released her sixth arrow this round, and John held his breath, hoping this one would split one of the others. But no. It merely tore off some of the previous arrow’s fletching. That would annoy her.

  “She once said that the sap of Sherwood Forest runs in the marrow of our bones. I think she’s right.”

  A few of those there, one or two of the older barons and their attendants, a couple of grizzled foresters who had come away from their northern woodlands, had once watched a different archery contest and couldn’t help but make comparisons. The girl’s father had been flashier, but this one—this one was steadier. If she were a boy, they might wish her for their own guard. Put her on the wall in a siege, no one would get past her.

  Ranulf kept calling out, shouting insults that grew harder to ignore. John watched the man closely, and when he picked up a small stone, hefting it as if meaning to throw it, he could no longer keep still.

  “I beg your
pardon, sire. I must leave you for a moment.” He didn’t wait for permission, which he should have done if he was being proper, but there wasn’t time. He went over and grabbed Ranulf’s wrist. The man was so startled, the stone dropped from his hand. “Can’t stand to have her win, is that it? Or are you so shamed at being outshot by a woman that you must hurt her?”

  “What—”

  He ought to call the man out. Draw swords, run him through right here for being churlish and unchivalrous and simply awful. But that would start something John likely couldn’t finish. That would be fighting this man on his own ground.

  “Never mind,” John said, and donned a sly grin. “Shame fades in time.” He patted the man’s cheek, just shy of a slap.

  “How dare you—” Ranulf batted away John’s arm and swung a punch. John managed to duck and drew back to drive a blow of his own in the man’s belly, but he was grabbed and hauled back. The king’s guards had intervened, two of them holding fast to John, two to Ranulf, keeping them apart. Gathered courtiers watched tensely, maybe even eagerly. John straightened and tried to look as contrite as possible.

  “All is well,” he murmured. “I apologize for the outburst.”

  Ranulf jerked himself from the guards’ grasps, and the crowd sighed. At a signal from the tall bishop in black, the guards stepped away. John kept a space between them, waiting to see what the other would do next. After a last glare, Ranulf made a quick bow to the king and stormed away.

  “Lord John, I see you have your father’s temper,” the bishop in black said, as if that ought to be an insult. His accent was decidedly French.

  A second councilor, the one most often seen at the king’s other shoulder, and never far away from the bishop in black, was a shorter, fairer man, with a heavy chain of office draped over his shoulders and unbowed by the weight of it.

  He looked the bishop up and down and said, “Our fierce young Englishmen must seem so troublesome to you, my lord bishop.”

  The bishop offered a thin, indulgent smile. “Only when they overdrink, as Englishmen are wont.”

  This was an argument that had nothing to with John, who was only a little baffled and thinking he was drawing too much of the wrong kind of attention. “My lords,” he said. “I really don’t have my father’s temper, but I do have his talent for talking too much and laughing when I shouldn’t.” To the king he said, “Your Grace, I am most sorry for disturbing your tournament.”

  “We cannot blame you for defending your sister, Lord John,” the boy said. John bowed, grateful for his understanding. Because yes, he would defend Mary, come what may. He just didn’t necessarily want Mary to know about it. Just now, Mary was so focused on the task at hand, she never noticed the altercation.

  John tried to think of some joke to lighten the mood, but his wit failed him. They turned back to watch the final round of shooting. Arrows sang, thumped into straw bales. Archers shaded their eyes to see targets. The master archer himself had to measure, to see who had scored best, and at last proclaimed Mary of Locksley the winner.

  * * *

  Mary only partly expected the Sheriff of Nottingham or someone like him to spring out from behind the viewing stands and declare that this had all been a trap and that she would now be arrested for something or other. Except these days, the Sheriff of Nottingham was a conscientious middle-aged man who was cordial to the Locksleys. Lady Marian and his wife often exchanged herbal concoctions.

  The master archer beamed at her, her rivals politely expressed their admiration, which she returned. All in all, Mary was a bit at a loss. Her shoulder ached. She rolled it back, wincing.

  “Well done, Mary,” John said, clapping her on the other shoulder. “You didn’t even let Ranulf get to you.”

  “He was rude,” she muttered.

  “Never mind him.”

  She studied the crowd, but Ranulf FitzHugh had disappeared, which was just as well. Then she smiled suddenly.

  “What?” John asked.

  “I’ve stopped trying to look for William de Ros. So, this did some good after all.”

  “I’m not sure he even exists.”

  “That’s what I think! Mother assured me he does—”

  Eleanor came pushing through the crowd, head down and determined, until she reached Mary and grabbed her arm, beaming. Then the king arrived among them and was as happy as any of them had seen him. A flurry of bows rippled out from him like a wave.

  “That was marvelous!” he exclaimed, face alight, grinning. “My lady, your prize!” Very proudly, he handed over the gold ring.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Mary said, bowing deeply, honored and blushing in spite of herself. The ring only fit on her thumb, so she put it there, and the king seemed so very pleased.

  “Your father must be proud of you. Is he here?”

  Mary said, “I’m afraid he had business elsewhere, but yes, I believe he’s proud of us.”

  “Lady Eleanor, you weren’t with your brother and sister among the archers,” the king said. “Do you shoot as well?”

  She shook her head shyly and hid behind Mary’s shoulder.

  “I beg your pardon, sire,” Mary said quickly, before the king could take offense. “Our sister doesn’t speak. She has no voice.”

  He raised a brow, interested. Perhaps skeptical. Mary had a sinking feeling then, that if this boy mocked Eleanor or caused her any hurt at all, she would knock him to the ground. John had stepped forward, probably with the same thought. They would both knock the boy down, and then they would all hang, so she desperately hoped Henry did nothing of the kind.

  “Why not?” he asked simply.

  Mary hesitated a moment, then nudged their sister forward, out of her shelter. “Ask her.”

  “Lady Eleanor, why don’t you speak?”

  The girl took a moment to gather herself, looking for all the world like someone deciding on what words to use. Then, she clenched her fists at her throat, squeezed her eyes tight, and it perfectly conveyed the idea of pain and choking. Of speech locked tightly away, never to escape. She flicked her fingers away, then settled her hands at her sides. Her voice scattered, dead. She pursed her lips and bowed her head.

  “Our sympathies to you,” he said.

  Her expression turned suddenly bright, blushing. This meaning too was somehow clear: she did not mind, it was just the way things were. One could not help but smile with her.

  “She does speak, in her own way,” John said. “She shoots as well. But she doesn’t much like crowds.”

  “Indeed.” Henry gazed out over the pitch again with wonder and frank longing. “We should have more contests like this. I wish I could shoot so well. Half so well.” He was definitely the boy now, not the king.

  John said, “It’s mostly a matter of practice—”

  “It’s more than that, you said so yourself,” Henry replied. “Though it’s true, I get very little chance to practice. It’s unseemly.” He frowned. That was someone else’s word for it, Mary wagered, eyeing the serious old men behind him. “I’ve never even climbed a tree,” the king sighed.

  “Really?” John said, astonished, and then thoughtful.

  The somber bishop, who was never far from the king—and who no doubt thought shooting arrows and climbing trees was unseemly—came forward, glancing at the Locksley children with a look of distaste.

  “Your Grace, we must away, if you please. There are important matters to attend to.” His accent marked him as French—from the continent. He gestured out of the pavilion.

  “Well, then,” King Henry said. “We hope to see you all again soon.”

  They bowed once again—it felt excessive, but then, one would rather bow too much than too little. But for just a moment there, he hadn’t seemed like the king.

  “Imagine,” John said, looking after them. “By right the most powerful man in England, and he’s called away to lessons. And never climbed a tree.”

  “Let’s go back to camp,” Mary said, putting her arm around
Eleanor’s shoulders. “I’ve had enough.”

  Mary had been thinking of how she was supposed to know if she liked William de Ros, when—if—she finally met him. Father had said she would not have to marry him if she didn’t like him. But how would she know, at one meeting? He could be on his best behavior for one meeting, and then turn horrible after they were married, once he had her and she would have to spend the rest of her life with him. Or she could always run away to Sherwood . . .

  She had begun to have some idea of how she might tell if she liked a man or not. Ranulf FitzHugh at the tournament—she would not marry him if he were the last man in the world. Many of the men at the tournament, ones who looked her up and down while wearing a scowl—she disliked them all. Many men were nice enough at the start; they had pretty manners and would bow and smile fondly at women—and then ignore them, as if they didn’t merit further attention. So, while they were not cruel, they were not . . . likable. She began to watch how men treated their servants and animals. Anyone weaker than they. Did they look their servants in the eye, speak kindly, or at least not cruelly? Did they pet their horses’ necks or take a moment to scratch their hounds’ ears? Did their animals cringe from them or seek out contact? She would contrive to watch William de Ros with a pack of hounds. Before she would let him add her to his kennel, ha.

  Some men were handsome, and she wanted to meet these men and hoped they were likable. She would see some young man, smiling as he rode by on a beautifully turned-out horse, or simply glancing over his shoulder in a certain way, and wish very much that that one was William de Ros . . . She determined that maybe she shouldn’t be thinking about men quite so much.

  She just wanted to know.

  Eleanor ran ahead. John was quiet, which made Mary suspicious.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked finally.

  After a thoughtful pause he said, “Best you don’t know.”

  “John—”

  He strode ahead, almost running like Eleanor, so he would not have to answer.

  At the Locksley encampment, Mother and her maid Beatrice sat by the fire with a basket of sewing. The baron was looking over some piece of leather tack for the horses with Will Scarlet.