“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.
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.