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.
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?