The Heirs of Locksley Read online

  Eleanor had already taken up a seat by Marian, who brightened when the others arrived. “How was it?”

  “Mary won,” John said, and they responded with a generally embarrassing hurrah.

  “Well done!” Robin said.

  “I didn’t split it but I got close.” She drew the gouged arrow from her quiver and tossed it to him.

  Robin caught it and traced the wound in the shaft. “One of these days, you’ll split one.”

  “Seems a waste of a good arrow to me,” she said, hanging up her gear on the rack. She sat by the fire and accepted a cup of wine from Beatrice.

  “Always the practical one,” he said, laughing. “And what do you make of our young king?”

  She hesitated. She had a lot of thoughts about the king and wasn’t sure which was the most important. “He was kind to Eleanor,” she said finally.

  Robin was taken aback. “Well, that is something.”

  “You were right,” John said. “He’s lonely. His advisors watch him closely.”

  “Who is the tall one in black? The French-born bishop who never lets the king out of his sight?” Mary asked.

  “That is Peter des Roches, the Bishop of Winchester. No one outside of the court trusts him, but to his credit, I think he cares about the boy.”

  “And the other one?” John asked. “The fair one with the big chain of office?”

  “Hubert de Burgh, Chief Justiciar of England, appointed by the late King. He was King John’s man through and through.” Robin didn’t need to elaborate—the English barons might see de Burgh as one of their own, unlike des Roches, but Robin himself would never trust him. No wonder Robin of Locksley wanted to stay out of it all. The baron turned pensive. “Since William Marshal died, those two will be after each other for power. Marshal kept them in check—no one could argue with him. But now . . .” He shook his head.

  “How do you deal with men like that?” John asked. “Henry is king but they hold the power, that much is clear.”

  “Mostly, you stay out of their way,” Robin said.

  “You’ll notice your father rarely follows his own advice.” Marian innocently stitched at a sleeve.

  “They always meddle with me, not the other way around,” Robin protested.

  “Yes, love.” She smiled sweetly.

  “That doesn’t help,” John said. “I can try to curry favor with Henry all I like, until they shut the door. They don’t seem very enamored of the name of Locksley.” John narrowed his gaze accusingly at Robin.

  Marian said, “I think what your father is saying is don’t try to curry favor. Rather, be honest and honorable. Just be yourself.”

  “Yes, that is exactly what I’m saying. Listen to your mother. She’s much better at these things than I am.” The pair traded one of those adoring looks that always made the minstrels swoon.

  Mary looked on, astonished. Just be himself? They had no idea what they’d just unleashed, did they?

  * * *

  Sneaking past Will Scarlet might be nearly impossible. In fact, if John could do that much, the rest of the plan would seem easy.

  Will set a couple of his assistants to keep watch through the night—he did not call them guards, but that was what they were. The guards would be looking for people coming into camp, not out of camp, so that was something. Will himself would walk a circuit once more before he retired. If John waited until after that hour, it would be too late for what he intended. So, he had to sneak out before, even though it meant avoiding the watch.

  After dark, the fire in the camp’s forecourt blazed, and Robin presided over a small gathering of old friends. Not the barons and would-be allies, the men of politics who wanted to strategize about where they stood with the new king and old charters and the like. That had happened earlier. This was different—these were the old foresters and former outlaws who had been with him in Sherwood a quarter-century before. John longed to sit among them and listen to stories, hoping for the ones he hadn’t heard before, the more harrowing tales and near misses and hardships that didn’t get sung about. There were two versions of what had happened, and they didn’t talk about the true version among outsiders. For all that he was Robin’s son, John would always be an outsider because he had not been there.

  However much he wanted to, John didn’t stay, but pretended to go to bed and then crept to the back of the camp while Robin and Will Scarlet and Dav and the others had their attention on the fire and their cups of ale. Their tents blocked the light; he was able to stay in shadow and move slowly and quietly so as not to draw attention. His sisters were in their tent, and John didn’t want his silhouette splashing across the canvas. Mary would stop him. Eleanor would want to go with him.

  Carefully then, he put space between himself and the camp. He reached the copse of trees, waited to see if any alarm was raised. Then he jogged out to the path that led to the palace.

  The place was busy, even at this hour, with messengers and attendants coming and going, horses riding in and out. And yes, guards. But John was dressed well and looked like he belonged. He had merely to act like it, too, and to have a story ready if anyone stopped him and asked what he was doing here.

  He hadn’t quite thought of a believable story yet. He could say he was some man’s squire, but which man? If he claimed to be a messenger, from whom was the message? And to whom, and what about? He would be asked all these things, and no excuse he thought of seemed reasonable.

  Boldly, he walked past two sword-carrying guards at the gate in the palace’s outer courtyard. No one stopped him. Next, he made it through the stable yard, which was crowded enough John merely had to act like one of the stable hands, stewards, and young lords fussing over their hounds and horses.

  Then he was inside, striding through a passageway that opened to a hall full of rowdy feasting. Losing himself here would be easy, though clearly these folk had far more rank and wealth than he. Dukes and earls, royal attendants, cousins of the king and all their hangers-on. Hooded falcons huddled on perches; hounds scrabbled for bones in the corners. He took a place by the stone wall and had a look around. If King Henry was here, he might be allowed to approach and even speak his plan to him outright. The high table stood at the back of the hall, but it was empty except for a handful of men clustered at one end, talking. One of them was the Bishop of Winchester, des Roches. Which meant that the king was currently unsupervised, perhaps. If John could just get to him . . .

  The further into this rarefied realm he went, the less believable any lie he could tell to explain himself would be. He was already an intruder. He could almost hear Mary hissing at him, You will hang for this.

  He was certain he wouldn’t. For today at least, because of the tournament, he had the king’s favor.

  Moving out of the hall, he found a smaller courtyard with several doorways leading to different sets of chambers. He studied each of them, then approached the one that had armed guards standing by. Acting like he belonged here was harder than it had been when he was surrounded by other people and could use the noise and activity as a cover. Here, he walked down the corridor alone. He passed a serving woman with a tray. She took a quick glance at him; he ignored her because that was what would be expected. The guards marked his approach.

  John stopped before them and announced himself. “I am Lord John of Locksley. His Grace the king has summoned me.” His tone was completely serious and offered no room for argument. Or rather, if they wanted to argue, they would have to do so with the king.

  They might have done well to ask if King Henry had really summoned him, and why. But astonishingly, they didn’t question him at all. One of the guards nodded, went through the door behind him, and returned just a few moments later.

  “His Grace is waiting for you, my lord,” he said, and stepped aside to gesture John through.

  Praise be to God, this might actually work. Or he would hang for it. Trying to strike a balance between confidence and caution, he entered King Henry’s chamber.
br />   The room was small but richly furnished and warm, with a blazing hearth and many candles, tapestries on the wall and seats with cushions. The windows were high and narrow, and another door likely led to the bedchamber. Henry sat in this front room, next to a table which held a platter with a mostly eaten meal and a jug of wine. He was dressed simply, compared to how he’d been over the last several days. A wool tunic with fine trim over a linen shift, a fur-lined coat. No crown or circlet on his head. A serving boy was there tending the fire, and Henry said to him, “You may go.”

  The boy bowed and fled out the door John had just entered. The king studied him, and John prepared to apologize profusely.

  “Lord John,” Henry said evenly.

  “Your Grace,” he said, bowing as formally and graciously as he knew how. Which he feared was not very. The king remained silent. “Sire—you might need to have a word with your guards. That was a lot easier than it should have been.”

  “What was a lot easier?”

  “Um. Getting in here. I only wanted to see if I could, just to have a word with you. I must have looked really harmless, which is sort of discouraging if I think about it—”

  “Lord John, why are you here?” The boy sounded ancient and careworn. John ought to apologize and leave. For all he knew, the king had given the guard instructions to return with half the army and all the knights and bishops besides . . .

  Instead, John smiled slyly and said, “Mischief.”

  Henry’s frown remained, but only for a moment. Then his eyes lit. “Oh? What sort of mischief?”

  “There is a very fine orchard behind the cloister gardens. The trees there may not be the best for climbing. But they are climbable.”

  Henry stared. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Even better.”

  Gaze narrowed, he sat back, obviously thinking. “So, you came here, entered my chamber under false pretenses, and are proposing we sneak out without guards or attendants or anything, just so we can climb trees in the orchard in the middle of the night?”

  “Yes, exactly.” The worst would have been if Henry had been baffled and totally unwilling, and John would have had to creep away in shame.

  “I’m not allowed to go out without at least a guard. Or at all, after dark.”

  “If I find us a way to sneak out of here, can you promise me I won’t hang for it if we’re caught?”

  “If you promise me you weren’t sent by the King of France to kidnap me for ransom.”

  “My liege, no, of course not—Wait, have the French actually tried that?”

  “There have been spies,” he said darkly.

  John sympathized deeply. No wonder Henry was so serious. “I promise you I’m not a spy. I only thought it was awful that you’d never climbed a tree.”

  Henry stood and smoothed out his tunic in a practiced gesture. “Well then, Lord John. I would like to climb a tree.”

  “Very good, sire.” He made a quick circuit of the chamber. The windows here were too high and narrow. The next room, which was even smaller, didn’t have windows at all, only a brazier and a sleeping box with mussed-up blankets. But there was a second door, small and cupboard-like. An escape route.

  Henry watched him studying the room’s layout. “Perhaps we could summon the serving boy, and we could trade clothes and I walk out—”

  “What sort of punishment would he receive, if he were discovered?” John asked.

  Henry said, “Whipped and turned out.”

  “Then no, we must risk only ourselves,” John said. “Where does this door go?”

  “To the next hall.”

  It was the sort of door to let a mistress come and go unseen, but John didn’t mention that. “You ever try sneaking out?”

  “Only to go to chapel, and only when there aren’t so many people around.”

  How somber a boy did one have to be to sneak out to go to chapel? That was a question for another time. Carefully, John tried the door, hoping it was not secured from the outside. But that would make it a terrible bolt-hole. It swung inward, and he eased it open an inch or two. Darkness lay outside—because the door was hidden behind a tapestry. Which meant perhaps it was not being watched.

  They needed to get outside as quickly as possible, preferably in a way that no one would see them. How far did the boy’s authority really go? Couldn’t he simply order anyone he saw to let them go? And they would report back to de Burgh or des Roches. Somehow, getting by on the orders of the king felt like cheating. How much more fun to get away without anyone seeing them at all?

  “Give me a minute, sire. Wait here, I will return.”

  Around the near corner, the guards stood watch at the main door. John avoided them, turning the other way. He moved quickly, with purpose, listening closely for voices. At the next corner, an archway exited to a walk that led to the abbey grounds.

  He returned to the tapestry, where Henry was waiting, eagerly gripping the edge of the door. Now John had only to tell the King of England what to do. No, not the king. A co-conspirator.

  He spoke softly. “Your Grace, we must move quickly but without rushing. We walk with purpose, so no one who sees us will think of stopping us.”

  “But we do have a purpose.”

  “Yes, but we want to avoid looking guilty about it. We want to look like we’re not sneaking.”

  “Ah.”

  “We walk down the center of the corridor, just two young lords out for a stroll. Do you have a cap? And leave the cloak behind, it’ll only get in the way.”

  Grinning now, Henry did all this, put on a dark nondescript cap and left the cloak on the bed. Oh, God, John really was going to hang for this. He was corrupting the king. He quickly put the thought aside and moved on.

  As it happened, Henry was good at following instructions. John thought back to the coronation, the boy sitting so properly, speaking so properly, never wavering through the precise drudgery of the ritual. Suddenly, John wondered if he was doing the king a great service, teaching him to rebel. Just a little.

  More quickly than John expected, they were outside. The night was cool and damp, the sky heavy but without rain. The sounds of revelry from the front of the palace drifted over, the light of torches turning the hazy air orange. But on this side, all was dark and peaceful. The abbey church loomed, a few faint lights shining through glass windows. Ahead, gardens and the abbey’s stone walls. Beyond, orchards and pastures.

  The young king paused a moment, looking up and around. He stretched his arms, shuddered like a horse shaking off a harness.

  “This way, sire,” John said, and nodded to a packed-dirt path leading into the darkness. Then they ran.

  The nighttime orchard was nothing like Sherwood. The pale trees were lined up in neat rows; the ground beneath them was well groomed. The branches were full of new spring leaves and budding flowers. The foliage was thin enough, hiding would be more difficult. No mind; they wouldn’t be here long. Just an hour or so, until the king grew cold and had his fill of this small adventure.

  “The trick is to find a low branch, but not too low. One you can reach by jumping and is strong enough to take your weight.” He found a likely tree, one with lots of spreading branches that would be easy enough to climb. John jumped up to it, a foot on the trunk, a hand on one branch, using momentum to propel himself upward. He paused, standing on a branch, holding the one above it.

  The king looked back up at him, face screwed up, clearly daunted.

  “Just try,” John said.

  “You’ve been doing this your whole life. You must have been born in a tree.”

  John laughed. “My mother would not have put up with that.”

  Henry pushed up his sleeves, which promptly slipped back down, and reached for the first branch. He moved slowly, methodically, struggled to pull himself up, but then got an arm over, then swung a leg, and suddenly he was straddling the branch, gazing around in amazement.

  John climbed to the next branch up to give him
more room. Henry stood—carefully, keeping a hand on the trunk—and followed John up. They were a dozen feet off the ground now, and through the tree’s branches had a sweeping view of the church and village, and the wide sparkling stretch of the Thames beyond.

  “You’ll have to come to Sherwood and see the old oaks,” John said. “You could build a whole village in the trees there.”

  “The stories make more sense now,” Henry said. “If the foresters don’t look up, they’d never see you here. Standing still, dressed in green, you’d look like just another branch.”

  “I’ll tell you a secret: they hardly ever look up. It’s magical.”

  “Did your father teach you to climb trees?”

  John furrowed his brow. He couldn’t remember not climbing trees. “I don’t really remember. He mostly just set us loose. I’d follow Mary around—she loves the forest. It drove me mad when she went off to the woods and left me behind.”

  “I didn’t learn a single thing from my father except how to make everyone furious.”

  Cautiously, John said, “You didn’t know him well.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I saw him before he died. He just . . . he was never there. I do remember once he came to look me over and said, ‘He’s very small, isn’t he?’ And I think it must have been Lord Peter who said, ‘He is a child, Your Grace.’ And my father said, ‘Show him to us again when he’s bigger.’ Then he died before I could get any bigger. Your father probably knew him better than I ever did.” Henry looked up at him, his brow furrowed. “What does Lord Robin say about my father?”

  “I had better not tell you what Lord Robin says about your father.”

  “Nobody liked him,” Henry said sullenly. “Even those who served him only did so to win power for themselves. They only serve me for the same reason.”

  John did not think this was true. Not when the boy was so earnest and trying so hard to be likable. One must want to help him. “Your Grace, I think they serve you because that is what is best for England. If they are good men, that is.”