Robin Hood (24 page)

T
he more Eleanor considered what Marshal had told her, the more she came to see that she could not be the one to deliver these tidings to John. His suspicions of her ran too deep, and she supposed that was her fault. She had not been a loving mother with any of her children; such was not in her nature. More to the point, she had made little effort to hide her disappointment in John, or her preference for Richard. It was small wonder her youngest hated her.

And so she had no choice but to swallow her pride and call on the one person she knew could help her, the one person John trusted above all others.

Once she finally sent word, she did not have to wait long for a reply.

As before, Eleanor was struck by how pretty Princess Isabella was. She wore a satin dress of beige, printed in blue and embroidered with gold at the neck and sleeves. She had a tiara in her hair, a
looping necklace of diamonds at her throat, and rings on several of her fingers, so that she appeared to sparkle with the light of the candles that illuminated Eleanor's room.

Watching the girl watch her, Eleanor again had the sense that the princess felt intimidated in her presence. She had to resist the urge to relish the feeling. She had called the girl here in order to enlist her help; she had to remember that. But she also couldn't help but remind herself that the father of her first husband was this child's great grandfather. Between the two of them, they had witnessed the sweep of Europe's history over the past sixty years.

Eleanor had never been good at begging for help from others. She took it as a sign of how far she had fallen and how desperate matters had grown that she should be so dependent on this… child.

She had no choice, though, so she plunged in. “My son has an enemy in his court, closer to him than any friend. An English traitor, a paid agent for France.”

The girl's eyes widened in what Eleanor took to be unfeigned surprise, but her voice when she spoke remained even. “You know this for certain?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Eleanor took a breath. They had reached the crux of the matter, though Isabella couldn't have known this. To win the girl's trust she had to be as forthright as possible. But the same truth she shared with the princess here, could well keep John from acting, if the girl betrayed her confidence.

“The treachery has been discovered by the only man among us whose wisdom I respect. And the king has banished him from his presence.”

“William Marshal?” Isabella said, without missing a beat.

Clever indeed.

“William Marshal.” Eleanor placed her cup on the table and stepped closer to the fire, her arms crossed over her chest. “Marshal lost his office, but kept his informants—sightings reported, letters intercepted— and he kept his eyes and ears open on his travels. He has no doubt. England is in danger, and one man is at the center of the plot.” She turned to look at the girl, who still sat, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. “Tell me, do you trust me?”

“All my trust is in John,” Isabella said. “If I had more to give, I might give it to you.”

A reflexive smile touched Eleanor's face and vanished. “I envy you. I have trust for no one. But this time there is too much at risk to ignore Marshal's warning.” She hesitated, but only for an instant. “The traitor is Godfrey. He has gone north to provoke the barons against the Throne. While England is at war with itself, the French army will land unopposed, and—”

“Why are you telling me, when you must tell the king?” Isabella broke in.

“Because it is you who must do that,” Eleanor told her. The girl blanched, and Eleanor felt a pang of sympathy for her. She moved ruthlessly to crush it. The realm was at risk; either the girl was true to John and would do as Eleanor told her, or she wouldn't and all would be lost. Either way, compassion was not something they could afford just then.

She pressed on. “Tell King John that you have received word from France—from Philip himself, if you like—to return home to safety, and why.”

“Why not tell him the truth?” the princess asked, her composure clearly shaken. “That William Marshal—”

“A mother he distrusts, bringing him the word of a man in disfavor?” Eleanor shook her head, smiling sadly. “No. If you hope to be queen, you must save John and England.”

Isabella sat for a long time, saying nothing, gazing into the flames, seeming to consider what Eleanor had said. At last, still silent, she stood, dropped a quick curtsy, and left the chamber. Eleanor could but hope that she had managed to convince the girl.

J
OHN SAT SPRAWLED
in a low chair, his back to the fire blazing in his hearth, a sconce of burning candles beside the fireplace, the rest of his throne room in shadow. His evening meal sat on the table beside him, forgotten for the moment. Isabella had knocked at his door moments before, and at his summons to enter, had stepped into the chamber tentatively, as if afraid to speak with him. She had looked first to the throne and, not seeing him there, had turned a full circle before spotting him by the fire.

Still she had kept her distance, and at first he had found her diffidence charming. He had to remind himself sometimes that she was still but a girl, beautiful and alluring though she was.

But then, her words began to reach him. She had not come to chat idly or to seduce. She spoke of things she shouldn't have known; things that couldn't possibly be true. Listening, staring at her, John raised a hand to his face and began to rub it over his mouth. The other hand balled itself into a fist. And still the words rolled over him, like breakers blown onto shore
by a winter storm. His mother, Godfrey, the northern barons. His heart pounded; his chest heaved with each breath.

Her face a mask of worry, Isabella came forward at last, dropping to her knees in front of him and taking his fist in her hands. And still she tried to explain.

He thrust himself out of his chair, yanking his hand free of her grasp. At first he paced, his rage building with every step, until he could no longer contain it. He swept everything off the table with a single violent gesture, roaring his frustration.

“Godfrey! Bloody Judas!”

Glasses smashed against a stone pillar, a pitcher of wine shattered on the floor, leaving a dark stain that glistened in the candlelight like blood. He grabbed hold of the table and threw it over, the wood cracking loudly. Isabella cowered beside his chair, but at that moment he didn't care.

He wanted to rage at his mother and at Marshal. Who were they to meddle in his affairs? Richard was dead; the realm was his now! Didn't they understand that?

But he knew that he wasn't really angry with them. It was Godfrey! The man had betrayed him! He wanted to deny it, but his heart told him it was true. Marshal had been a part of the royal house for longer than John had been alive. Godfrey, on the other hand, had been John's man from the start. John himself had brought him into the White Tower. He had been weak and foolish. Godfrey had known exactly what he wanted to hear, and like a fool John had mistaken the man's truckling for wisdom. Now he was paying the price.

The worst part of it was that his mother had known, and had tried to warn him. So had Marshal. Yes, he
wanted to rail at them, but their only crime was that they were smarter than he was. They had seen this coming and he had not. The irony was as bitter as tansy; he nearly gagged on it.

His anger had spent itself. He took a long breath and looked at Isabella once more. She was watching him, holding a dagger in her hand, its tip pressed at her breast, nearly breaking the skin just over her heart. She held his gaze as he walked to where she stood. She let him take hold of the handle of the dagger, offering him her life for the tidings she had brought.

John's hand trembled as he closed his fingers over the hilt, and for just an instant he considered how easy it would be to slide the blade home. His eyes brimmed and he felt a tear slide down his cheek. Still she looked into his eyes, so brave, so willing to accept whatever fate he chose for her. He had never known that anyone could love him this much.

He let go of the dagger and it fell to the floor, clattering harmlessly.

He touched her face with the hand that had held the knife. “There was never a beauty so wise, nor a counselor so beautiful.” He kissed her softly on the lips. “Nor a wife as loyal.”

John's tears flowed freely now. He took Isabella in his arms and kissed her again, deeply, passionately, clinging to her as if he might never let her go. And she kissed him back, her ardor a match for his.

W
ILLIAM
M
ARSHAL WATCHED
as horse and rider turned another circle in the riding ring, the bay stepping gracefully, the man sitting him deftly applying pressure with the reins. First he coaxed the horse to a canter, then to a trot, then down to a walk. He made the
beast step high, then dance to the side. William turned with them, occasionally offering a bit of instruction or a word of encouragement. Mostly though, he watched, enjoying the click of hooves and the smell of hay and horses. It had been too long since Marshal had spent time with his horses and with his people. He had spent too many years in the royal court; he had been too ensconced in politics and intrigue.

Horses, he realized, were not unlike kings. The secret was making them think that they were in control, even when they weren't. A horse would buck and rear under too heavy a hand, just as a king might ignore counsel given too adamantly. Marshal smiled ruefully at the thought. Perhaps he had learned that lesson a bit too late.

He watched as the rider steered the bay around the ring once more, making the horse step high again. As the man completed the turn, Marshal saw a group of riders approaching from the direction of the White Tower. It took him a moment to realize that the king himself rode at the fore.

Reaching the ring, John dismounted and shouted, “Marshal!” sounding panicked, even desperate.

Marshal faced the king, but remained in the ring, his rider now dancing the horse in place.

“Your Majesty,” he said, his voice as calm as John's had been fraught.

“Keep that animal still! It hasn't got the palsy!”

The rider reined the horse to a stop and patted it gently on the neck. William watched John, trying to make sense of his presence here and what he had said.

“Do you think I haven't noticed how you have deserted me?” the king asked, sounding like a spoiled child.

Marshal frowned. “If Your Majesty recalls our last conversation—”

John's eyes blazed and he cut Marshal off with a sharp gesture. “At our last conversation, Philip of France was not coming our way with an invasion fleet!” He inhaled deeply, composing himself with a visible effort. “My friend Godfrey is not the friend I thought he was. Stirring up the barons against
me.
Coming south with an army. How dare they!”

“Sire,” Marshal said, keeping his voice level in hopes of calming the king. “Forgotten men are dangerous men. The barons must be told that when the French come, we are all Englishmen together. Let us ride north to meet them. Wiser kings know they must let men look them in the eye, hear their voice, break bread with them. The barons need leadership.”

Clearly, John heard him. He appeared to consider Marshal's words. But the truth was, John was no more a statesman than his brother, and he was far less of a warrior. He had too much pride to do what Marshal asked of him, and he was too afraid of the threat posed by the barons and the French to stay his sword. Godfrey's betrayal and all that his plotting had wrought demanded more courage, wisdom, and subtlety than John possessed. Marshal knew this, and he suspected that the king himself did as well.

“They march against their king!” John said, giving in to his anger and his fear. “I'll meet them with my militia's pikes in their gizzards! You've lost your touch, Marshal.”

The king spurred his mount to a gallop and led his entourage back toward the Tower.

Marshal watched him go, frustrated with himself as much as with John. The king had come to him!
And he hadn't found the right words to sway him from what would prove a disastrous course.