Summerwode, p.42
Summerwode, page 42
part #4 of The Books of the Wode Series
Several mutters—too low to pick out, but their tone nevertheless obvious—came from the noblewomen. All but one of them were younger than Marion herself. All maintained blissful ignorance of the fact, stolidly superior to That Outlaw Wench in both comportment and dress. This despite years of novice discipline insuring some familiarity with the former, and the Queen providing Marion with a new and lovely example of the latter.
The bliaut and crème linen underkirtles were the most sumptuous things Marion had ever felt against her skin. Nowt against her warm green one, mind, but this was spun thin as gossamer, of a rich, woad-deep hue that turned her clear grey eyes nigh blue. She knew, for she’d checked in the Queen’s silver mirror.
If only the lads could see her, polished like a pearl. If only she could see to the same for them, somehow.
The Queen, meanwhile, continued to toss words like stones into a still pool. “He is considering my request, it seems, by testing your brother’s mettle.”
“How thoroughly unexpected.” There was a very real affection in the statement, however wry, from the woman watching the chess match.
“Joanna,” Eleanor warned, and her youngest daughter smiled.
“Maman, you know what I mean.” Joanna, former Queen of Sicily, obviously knew the regal realities of public expectations. In privacy, however, she chose comfort over stateliness, perched cross-legged on one of the trunks like a young lass. Her midnight-blue skirts, of a wool that gleamed like good health, were gathered and bunched to show one embroidered leather slipper.
“Indeed I do.” The admonition lingered with a glance—just as fond, then Eleanor continued, “I have given my word, Marion, that your Templar Knight will regain his honours—”
Another mutter from the pucelles, this one plainer, no doubt directed towards the pronoun preceding “Templar Knight.” The cheek of an outlaw slut to even think upon wooing a handsome Templar! Still, it was not vocal enough for Eleanor to take notice. So, Marion thought with a tiny smirk, even noblewomen resorted to the least of peasant devices.
“—and that your brother and his men shall gain a fair pardon. I have not forgotten any of it. Indeed, I’ve spoken to the King.”
“Several times,” Joanna put in helpfully.
“The King has many things to consider”—Eleanor threw another reproving glance in Joanna’s direction—“over the next days, but I’ve no doubt he shall grant my requests.”
No doubt. Marion smoothed callused fingers against her skirts, once again marvelling over not only the wool’s silken nap, but the equally flawless weave of Eleanor’s resolve.
“Marion, your tongue is altogether more silent than I remember. Lucia.” Eleanor gave a wave of her fan towards the pucelles. “Kindly fetch the chess piece.”
Lucia gave a twitch at her brocaded skirts and glided over. Still graceful, she ducked down and retrieved the pawn, brought it over, and extended it, not to Marion, but her Queen. To a demure dip of head and knee, Lucia added a sullen tuck of her rouged lips towards Marion’s place of honour, as well as a smooth of her hair, unbound and sleek as a raven’s wing.
Marion was yet again reminded she was nowt but a peasant—a redheaded one, at that, with said hair thick as a pony’s mane, and kinky-fuzzy from an insistent combing out by one of the Queen’s maidservants. This despite Marion’s attempt to explain what she and her brother had long ago realised: dry brushing curly hair merely meant one ended up resembling a deranged milkweed puff. Marion had resorted to confining the worst of it back from her face in a fashion disaster born of desperation: braids and a head wrap, from which the ends of her hair poufed nigh wide as her shoulders. She felt like a dowdy peasant matron next to Eleanor’s elegant veil and barbette, or Joanna’s veil and long, lovely braids.
Or those equally well-coiffed, snooty maidens.
“I’m merely trying to keep up with your chess game, Madam.”
Eleanor chuckled and waved Lucia back to her place, onto fresh game as she contemplated the pawn, turning it back and forth in long, beringed fingers. “So to the men.” With a sudden snort, Eleanor inverted her hand and snapped the pawn onto the board with a loud crack. “Yet a woman needs more security in our world, non? I must think upon this. It’s still your move.”
Marion, perusing the board whilst awaiting the Queen’s pleasure, moved her chevalier to block the Queen’s donjon.
“You meant for me to take that pawn, I see.” Eleanor’s mouth twisted sideways thoughtfully. “Merciful saints, but you are altogether too good at this little game. Nay”—she waved the fan as Marion started to speak—“no apologies. It is a relief to engage in a battle of wits with someone armed for ’t. My daughter is the only other here to challenge me.” A surreptitious roll of eyes towards the pucelles, and a smile for Joanna. The latter faded as Eleanor once again peered at Marion. “Hm. That dress will do. But the slippers are too small, I see.”
Marion gave a self-conscious tuck of her bare toes beneath the embroidered hem of her skirts. The kicked-off slippers told their tale regardless. “I can’t thank you enough, my Qu—”
“Lady Cecily has feet sizeable enough to match any barefoot peasant.” Eleanor continued her impartial scourge of egos by shying a few more words-cum-stones to ripple and sink. “Cecily, my dear, can you contrive to loan our Marion a pair of reasonably handsome slippers until we find ones to fit?”
“Yes, Madam,” Cecily vowed meekly enough. The sideswipe of glare Marion-ward, however, gave due cause to ensure said slippers didn’t come with a dead rat—or a live snake—tucked within.
Was Eleanor trying to fetch Marion into trouble?
Or mayhap Eleanor considered Marion well up to the task. Marion let another barely perceptible smirk tic her lip, well-hidden by the pouf of overly brushed curls. She was taller than any of them, to be sure, and her arms overlain with archer’s muscles. Robyn had always maintained she’d a fearful right cross. And did any of the whey-faced maidens fancy poison, Marion was skilled enough a wortwife to sniff it out. Well, most of them, anyway.
“And Joanna? Can you have that lovely girl with the clever fingers see to Marion’s hair? It’s”—another frown, and for Eleanor, remarkable tact—“extraordinary. However did you achieve such a… look?”
“A combing out at the hands of an overzealous maidservant, Madam.” Marion tucked a random bit of fluff behind one ear—to no avail. “Nowt a proper bucket of water wain’t cure.”
Joanna was smiling—ah, she had a bit of curl to her hair. Marion could see it, escaping beneath her silk veil where it wasn’t contained in those long, gorgeous, and golden braids.
Eleanor tapped one well-buffed fingernail upon the chessboard, used it to scoot a carved donjon along its path. “We will need to have you looking your best when you stand to serve me at the coming feast.”
“At… the high table?” The ripples from those so-casual “stones” seemed set to swamp the chair Marion occupied, akin to a leaky boat. The irate whispers of the pucelles made it plain they would not so much as offer That Outlaw Wench a paddle.
“Indeed. The presence of your Templar and your brother—indeed, all his men—has been requested. That is, if my son remembers to tender the invitation amidst his excitement of killing God’s creatures.”
Marion recollected her wits, bowed her head. “I am pleased, my Queen, and grateful for such an honour.”
“We’ll see how grateful you are if His Eminence of Canterbury drinks too much and spills wine on that gown.” Eleanor winked, grinning. “Not to mention, I should think you’ve earned the right to let someone else cook for those ruffians of yours for the once.”
This time Marion didn’t bother to halt her chuckle.
“Which brings me to another matter. Do you think your brother needs be reminded that he and his men should be well attired? I’ve no doubts they’ve stolen adequate clothing for such an occasion.”
This time, Marion laughed. No doubts, indeed. “Gilbert will keep them on task, Madam.” When Eleanor looked puzzled, she reminded, “The manor-bred archer; the one who procured the horses for us near Cadeby, seeing to your escape from Blyth.”
“Ah, yes. That lad did seem to have an eye to his appearance. That’s a relief. As it is, I’ll likely have to persuade my eldest with a horsewhip to shuck his hunting clothes. Men are such babies, are they not?”
This time, every woman present was in open agreement. Agreeable silence fell as the Queen continued the game. The pucelle plying the needle started to sing in a pleasant-enough voice; several joined her whilst Joanna checked and refilled her mother’s cup.
“Where is Blondel?” Lucia wanted to know. “I miss his playing.”
“Likely pouting.” Joanna shrugged. “His fair lion is off hunting new game.”
“That”—Eleanor slid a quelling gaze—“will be enough of that. In fact, Joanna”—another wave of the fan—“why don’t you take Marion into our bedchamber, find her something nice for her hair, some jewellery, a decent necklace. If she’s to wait on me at Council, she’ll need to look the part. Not to mention”—a severe scowl at the board—“she’s trouncing me round, here. Both of you, be good girls and save my dignity. Later we’ll have another game. I’ll need a chance for revenge.”
- XXII -
IT WAS a winnowed-down party, in truth, that Robyn led to the nearest and clearest pool. Only a guard or two—though Robyn knew there were more lurking about. Four at least, that he could hear. And smell.
And the silent trio lurking outside any notice but his own: John, Gilbert, and Will. They weren’t about to let Robyn wander alone in such company.
The King was no proper woodsman, striding though the brush as if he owned it. Well, then, Gamelyn would say he did, in deed if not in truth. Which made Robyn want to go back to the Lodge and clout him one, just because.
But neither was Richard stupid. After several furlongs of crashing through and making enough noise to scare the game for a mile broad—and after nearly running up Robyn’s heels for a fifth time—he seemed to realise the quiet hesitation was not some put-upon jape just to annoy him. By the time they reached the stream-fed pond, he was taking note of Robyn’s silent footfalls and gliding passage, of the darting gaze and ever-present tension Robyn could no more purge from his being than stop breathing—and wasn’t about to, with a Frank at his back.
And said back kept itching, mind, not liking that it was turned towards sommat it considered enemy, nowt but.
Robyn gave it a scratch by turning, gesturing the King should go on ahead.
The King was watching him, eyes narrowed. Soon as Robyn turned, the odd, intent look was replaced by a charming grin. With a Frankish shout to one of the guards following, King Richard muscled past Robyn, brash and subtle as a slap in the face, making Robyn wonder if he’d somehow imagined that earlier regard.
Wondered why he would, at that, and what it meant if he hadn’t.
His shoulder blades gave another fierce itch. He must be mad, roaming the Wode with a Motherless lot who’d just as soon see him hang. Sodding noblemen…
Save for one ginger-haired Templar who Robyn really, really wished were nearby about now. Only Gamelyn was right not to be. Snit or no, swimming together almost always led to some sweaty fun for afters. In fact, the snit might make the fun all the better, at that.
Bloody damn, but just the contemplating was giving Robyn a proper unhealthy reaction to sprout in the company of Christians.
An owl gave a soft hoo-hoo from an oak an arrow’s flight away—’twere no owl, truly, but his little John asking All well? Robyn didn’t glance upward, though he wanted to; instead he scratched at his head, brows quirking, then ran his hand down his face to further the thought: Well enough, but what the hell? Then a hand shielding his eyes, ostensibly peering after the King beneath a stray bit of sun, but with two fingers curled: Keep watch.
The visible brace of soldiers pushed past Robyn, following their liege lord and unaware of their outlaw guard dogs. Robyn smiled despite the shove he was damned sure the first one had meant. A few well-aimed arrows could take out the sod, did Robyn so much as twitch.
He paused, thought hard about twitching—a proper hex-breath might also solve a few problems, at that.
But the King was already shrugging from his clothes, with a curt motion indicating Robyn to do likewise. Whilst the careless superiority of it galled, it also meant trust, of a kind.
It wasn’t on, to bewitch any animal to a snare.
So Robyn merely followed and, at least a stone’s throw from his royal bathing partner, started to strip down. Hesitated, as the King’s gaze moved to him, narrowed.
It was altogether… unsound, the hesitation.
Or not, the Horned Lord whispered behind his eyes. Have you so soon forgotten lessons well learned in childhood? You chided the singer for fearing death, but neither should you needlessly court such. And you well could here, my own. Heed the Oak: take care.
Robyn shivered beneath the heated presence—and he didn’t particularly care for his reaction to that either, like some cur welcoming the snap of the leash. True enough, though: hesitation could save one’s neck. Wariness could dodge a crippling blow. Keep your eyes down, head bowed, not even a suggestion of challenge… for sure as the breeze drifted with spring’s coming, some arsy nobleman full of balls and piss would take it up just to prove a point.
Robyn blew the forelock from his eyes and shucked from his garb—save, of course, the skinning knife strapped to his calf. The quillion dagger still bided absent from his hip, its own type of phantom pain. All the while, he abided vigilant for something he didn’t quite fathom. The chill water, bloody welcome, submerged vagrant thoughts and shuddered the blood to roaring within his veins. Robyn dove several times, otter-quick, and on the fourth heard, underwater, a huge splash from down the bank. The resultant shout meeting his ears as he surfaced was, surprisingly, a pleasurable one.
“Quelle bonne idée, maître d’arcs!” the King bellowed, exploding upward and shaking the water from his mane like a great yellow dog. “Ce sont des vies!” A grin, genuine and wide, flung Robyn’s way.
Well, then, it seemed Himself approved. Robyn would keep his head for a bit at least. And watch his back the while.
“Aye, milord King. Whats’mever you said.” Robyn waded into the shallows, grabbing at several clumps of grass. Soon he’d enough, and with a few quick twists and knots, he’d a wisp fit for scrubbing human or horse hide.
Meanwhile King Richard, with head cocked curiously waded closer. Robyn’s fingers faltered, his gaze sliding sideways, wary. Richard babbled some more Frank, midspeech trailed off with a shrug and chagrined mutter, then pointed at the wisp of grass. Shook his head.
Mayhap kings didn’t use such things. Robyn held it up to demonstrate, scrubbing at his armpit.
Richard frowned, then chuckled, shook his head, once again let out a bellow that would—aye and again—chase any game to the farthest reaches.
Robyn winced and put finger to lips, hissed for quiet. Instinctive, but likely not sommat one should tell a king.
This one blinked, stared at him. It was not pleasant.
Robyn reacted the only way he could. He pointed around at the forest, made several gestures with his fingers. Hunting signs between he and his men, but accurate mimicry of the animals’ movements.
Richard’s eyes turned from frosty to understanding, then amusement as he made quick imitation of the gestures. “Je comprends. Lapin. Cerf. Effrayer!” The last was with a flung-out hand.
Robyn nodded, hoping he wasn’t agreeing to fling himself on some pike.
“Mon roi!” A shout from one of the guards, wielding a small bag like a flail.
Richard whirled and shushed the guard, a finger to his lips. Robyn couldn’t help but chuckle.
The chastened guard dug in the bag and tossed a small round to his liege; Richard caught it—a feat in itself, it proved, to catch soap with wet hands. Robyn grinned again, and when it was offered, shook his head.
“Merci, mon roi.” He knew that much, at least, even if Gamelyn always insisted the clip of Yorkshire mixed with Barrow lilt didn’t sit terribly well with the bite of Frankish. Robyn reverted to hand signs: the deer, then a tap to his nose and a sniff, then a brandish of the sweetgrass wisp at one furry armpit.
Again, from the smell of that fancy soap, the deer wouldn’t have to hear them coming.
“Ah,” said Richard, and held out an imperious hand.
No help for it, then; Robyn would have to twist another, that was plain.
V
There had been a lot of what surely translated to ’Tisn’t safe, milords and This is no goodly way to hunt, my lieges, but the more protests were made, the more the King seemed set on this path. Indeed more Frank bull than any lion. Whatever hopes Robyn entertained of Richard abandoning the novelty of hunting with outlaws as opposed to merely hunting them were swiftly fading.
Robyn didn’t want to be here. He wanted his own place and people and a meal. Wanted some head-clearing conversation with Marion, to kiss or punch Gamelyn—either’d do about now. Wanted to curl up beside John, swap affectionate insults with his lads… Something. Anything other than babying this butcher of a Frank bull through the forest for some unfathomable, pissed-up-proud reason.
Robyn supposed he should merely be thankful there was, after all, no need to wrap the King in wool batting. He didn’t even have to wonder if the soldiers would trip over their armour—which soldiers inevitably did, in Robyn’s experience—because the soldiers didn’t come.
No wonder the Franks howled as if they were birthing a twin breech. Their liege insisted upon going hunting with a notorious wolfshead and only a few besides.
One of those few ended up being another outlaw. Despite Robyn’s firm gestures of negation, John had materialised at the hunt’s beginnings. Only the two foresters—a middle-aged man and his half-grown son—had noticed at first; aye, and his little John was that quiet. But it wasn’t a few steps longer that the burly Frank mercenary upon whom Gamelyn had kept a wary eye—Mercadier, wasn’t it?—also noticed the addition to their ranks. Some woodland craft to him, then, and a light stalk for all his bulk. His murmur to the king roused a glance and frown John’s way, but nothing further than an accepting shrug. The forester settled in well enough, not enough brass in him to dare judge a king’s company. The son was overeager, yet showed with every careful step how well he’d learned his father’s craft. It gave Robyn a spare, aching thought for his own da, dead with Loxley.
