“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.