On the fourth day of the march to Wales, King John’s host entered Leicestershire, turning northeast from Watling Street onto Fosse Way at High Cross Hill. The Clares of Hertfordshire, Veres of Oxfordshire, Bigods of Norfolk, and Dunkelds of Huntingdon added their East Anglian levies; marching with the Fitzwalters, Mandevilles, Montfichets, and Valognes in the vanguard. The center was composed of the Arundels, Ferrers, and Warennes, as well as crowntroops culled from the royal shires of Suffolk, Bedfordshire, and Northhamptonshire. The kingsmen, crowntroops, Longsword’s retinue, and siege train made up the rear.
While the mass of troops, knights, and barons remained in Roman walled Leicester, a score of lords and ladies continued north to Sayer Quincy’s more secure Mountsorrel. Perched atop a high, steep crag overlooking the River Soar, the fortress included three walled baileys and an octagonal keep with a stunning view of Leicester and countryside. Long considered a ‘Little Nottingham’, it was the best situated and defended castle in all the shire.
They were greeted first by the shirelords, including Nicholas Verdun. Awaiting them on the steps of the Great Keep was dowager Lady Petronilla, her daughter Lady Marjorie Beaumont of Leicester, and Lady Alice Fitzwalter. The banners of House Beaumont and House Quincy flew from the barbican: a white lilly on a red field, and seven golden diamonds on a red field. Sayer gave his wife, Marjorie, a warm kiss and hug, followed closely by their grown sons Rob and Roger.
“I thought you were bringing Gannora and the girls.” Alice pouted and patted Fitzwalter’s chest as he hugged his sister.
Fitzwalter shrugged and opened his arms, “She decided to return to Bennington and the girls didn’t want to leave her alone.”
“Brother,” Alice slit her eyes suspiciously.
“I hope she’s feeling well, is everything okay?” Marjorie wondered as Fitzwalter greeted her with a hug too.
Sayer wrapped her about the waist, giving her warning eyes. “She’s alright, love, had a bad shock is all.”
“I’ll fill you in tonight,” Rob de Quincy’s petite wife, Hawise Blunville, confided not too quietly.
“Should I ask about your father and mother?” Marjorie looked to Geoff and Will Mandeville as Fitzwalter gave Petronilla the Kiss of Peace.
“I need wine, lots of it,” Geoff muttered and headed into the keep.
“Same story,” Will gave Marjorie her hug, “Not a good one.”
“What’s John done now?” Petronilla crowed. She’d born Earl Beaumont of Leicester five children and outlived all of them save Marjorie. During Henry’s reign, Petronilla rebelled alongside her husband; so strong willed, she rode into battle beside him wearing mail, shield, and mace. Even the awe inspiring Queen Eleanor hadn’t rebelled so much against a woman’s place.
Will shook his head and grinned, “Nothing gets by you does it, m’dame?”
“Your brother did,” Petronilla groused, “Didn’t even get my kiss.”
“How about I double up?”
“Hmmmm, I suppose that’ll do.” Petronilla offered her withered cheek. “Liam, where’s my granddaughter Lora, tis been too long!”
“I am right here, grandmamma,” Lora squeezed between her much older Norman-Scots husband and Will.
Sir Harcourt the Kingsteward let go his wife Lady Orabelle de Quincy and bowed profusely to Petronilla, kissing her fingers. “Good to see you again, but if you don’t mind, Madame Beaumont, I’d like to insure Mountsorrel is prepared for a Crown visit.”
“We have seen to everything, but don’t shirk your duty, my ring son,” Petronilla assured Harcourt.
“I thank you for understanding,” Harcourt kissed her fingers again then sought out their castellan.
As the royal entourage arrived, all the lords greeted the ladies of Leicester politely, but something was amiss. Despite all their best efforts, dinner in the great hall was quiet and restrained. They’d even hired the popular new minstrel group, the Cocksures. The following morning, as the lords assembled in the upper bailey for the march to Nottingham, King John decided he’d take the vanguard and the East Anglians should hold the rear. Mounted and surrounded by his usual cabal, John bid goodbye to the Beaumonts.
“As always m’ladies, you proved most gracious hostesses,” John acknowledged. Dark grey clouds lurked in the northern skyline, so the king was wearing his poodle cloak Lusignan’s Folly; the fur keeping its oily, curled sheen to defend against dampness.
“Thank you kindly, majesty, you are always welcome here,” Lady Marjorie curtsied.
“Unfortunately, your cousin Simon Montfort had the gall to invade our county of Agenais in Aquitaine for his little Heretics Crusade. We might have been willing to overlook such . . . zeal had he not claimed it in the name of King Philippe.”
“We heard,” Lady Petronilla agreed guardedly. “Montfort was always a . . . willful child.”
Marjorie glanced at her husband, backed by the Fitzwalters, Clares, Mandevilles, and Cheshire sisters on the stone steps of the keep.
“We are compelled to question whether or not English silver helps fund his attacks on our lands,” The king accused nonchalantly. “He does share the Earl’s Third of the shire courts and is due half the income of House Beaumont.”
“I can assure you tis not the case, majesty. . .” Lady Marjorie began, but Peter cut her off.
“Montfort is a traitor tainted with traitor’s blood. As such, our majesty has seen the necessity of placing Leicester under the stewardship of a kingsman,” Peter explained with relish, “Longsword is evicting your castellan, troops, and staff from Liecester Castle even as we speak. Out of the kindness of his heart, his highness allows you to keep Mountsorrel for the time being. Tis all necessary for the security of the kingdom.”
“What insult is this, majesty?” Sayer stepped forward as his wife wilted in confusion. “Montfort hasn’t been in the kingdom for six years. He doesn’t even claim the lordship, titles himself Count of Everaux after his Norman father. Why are we being punished for my wife’s cousin’s mistake? My lord this is preposterous!”
“The king must take all the necessary precautions,” Peter smiled devilishly.
“How would we even support him if we wanted to?” Sayer asked. “English ships are forbidden travelling to France, would be set upon by the English and French Navies alike.”
“Not to mention the Black Monk,” Fitzwalter bolstered Sayer.
John stared at Fitzwalter, “There are those with ties to House Beaumont that have access to ships, Normandy, Rouen, Paris even.”
“So Agenais is my fault too?” Fitzwalter complained, “I suppose I’m aiding the Welsh and Irish as well.”
“Are you?” John baited.
Fitzwalter made to bluster but Sayer smacked his hand against the baron’s chest.
“Until the king deems it appropriate to return Leicester to House Beaumont,” Peter announced regally, “the steward of Leicester castle and custodian of Montfort’s half of the Beaumont Honour shall be Sir Oliver Fitzroy.”
King John sighed, “These are troubling times for all us, but we must endure the trifles, mustn’t we? Safety first. . .”
“Sire, this is an outrage!” Sayer vented. “With all due respect, your Bastard Boy has learned the art of war well under Fawkes de Breaute, but he knows nothing of lordship. He’s never ruled anything more than a band of men-at-arms.”
“You insult my honor, sir!” Oliver gripped his sword from horseback.
King John’s eyes slit, “Tis time he learned.”
Robert was loading his chest onto one of the chancellor’s wagons. Gripping the secret pouch under his robe, he thought of the day at the Temple when he and Peter met Savaric and Maud.
‘Simon will pay for Agenais. I will see to that,’ Peter said, or perhaps he meant any worthy scapegoat.
Frail and elderly Petronilla fainted. Her head knocked loudly against the stone steps as she fell.
“Mama!” Marjorie cried out.
Lora and Orabelle screamed.
“Non!” Sayer shouted and rushed to Petronilla.
“Granma!” Rob and Roger de Quincy joined their father.
“Mama! Mama! Non! Wake up! Sayer, is she okay? Mama!” Marjorie grew more hysterical the longer Petronilla remained unconscious.
Orabelle, Lora, and Hawise tried calming her down. Hawise’s sister Agnes paled with nausea and their sister Mabel tried comforting her. Sayer picked up Petronilla as if she were a faggot of sticks and headed inside, her head lolling sickeningly against his shoulder. Blood was staining her white wimple. The Quincy’s and their loved ones rushed inside.
Harcourt looked pained with the certainty whatever he did was letting someone down. Queen Isabelle, Maud, and the Scottish princesses sat horrified upon their palfreys. Prince Alexander of Scotland, his uncle Earl David of Huntingdon, and the East Anglians looked disgusted. Lord Neville was embarrassed and Nicholas Verdun shocked. Even Arundel and Fat Ferrers seemed uncomfortable witnesses. Warenne was raping John’s squire, Bill Marshal, with his eyes.
King John allowed a hint of concern to soften his eyes, “We can leave our doctor. That was . . . unfortunate.”
“You’ve done enough,” Fitzwalter quipped curtly.
John spurred his horse through the bailey. Peter looked satisfied and Oliver triumphant.
“We’ll see you in Nottingham,” Fawkes grinned from atop his warhorse.
. . .
Bill Marshal shook Robert awake.
“What?” He asked with one eye half-opened, his hand instinctively grabbing the royal seal. Robert was sleeping in the cushioned window seat of the Queen’s Drawing Room in the Black Tower of Nottingham Castle. His small chest and bag of spare clothes were curled behind him. He was sharing the room with his fellow clerics Jeffrey, Harry, Ned, and the new kid Samwell. The early morning Compline bell just finished tolling and the tapers were burning low.
“The Rock . . .” Bill Marshal yawned and pointed.
Robert noticed the door to the Queens Bedroom was open. Isabelle was in the King’s bed and generously allowed Peter to take hers.
“I’ll be right there,” Robert groaned.
He walked right in. Young Nate Fitzroy was snoring and drooling atop the Lord Chancellor’s private chest. Peter was pulling on a pair of loose woolen hose. The gold Chancellor’s seal swayed upon his hairy chest. A woman was sleeping naked on her belly in the bed. A snatch of orange fuzz held Robert’s attention.
“We’re leaving,” Peter said as he hacked and sniffled.
“Wha. . . now? The king said we rest here four days,” Robert protested.
The horses and men were worn out from hard marching. The leg to Nottingham took forever in heavy rain and thick mud.
“The host isn’t going anywhere, we are,” Peter grumbled.
“Where?” Robert asked as he stood by the warm coals in the brazier. He’d been looking forward to drying his robes today.
“Our majesty has decided to take a hunting party into Sherwood Forest. We may need your quill.” Peter stuck his hand under the covers and absently pulled on a bright yellow tunic embroidered with pink and orange butterflies.
“In the woods?” Robert chuckled.
Peter growled then plopped back on the bed and smacked the sleeping woman’s milky smooth arse. “Wake up Delilah! Get out of bed or service the man who takes my place. The choice is yours.”
. . .
“Here they come,” Longsword announced.
Across the grassy meadow, a dozen or so deer bolted from the woods, frightened by the drumming and horns behind them. The ranger of Sherwood Forest had his men set up netting all along the southern half of the meadow to prevent the deer escaping. The king and his companions stood tall on a wooden tower built for this sole purpose. John took the first shot with an enormous crossbow and hit the eight point buck with a bolt to the neck. The others let loose their arrows one at a time to comment and joke on each other’s bowmanship.
“What’s that still out there?” The king asked as something rooted around in the underbrush on the far side of the meadow.
“A boar,” The ranger acknowledged.
“I’ll give you a Pound if you can drop it with one shot,” John dared the ranger.
“Very well,” The ranger said and called for his bow.
“That’s some bow,” Prince Alexander said as the ranger strung it up. With the bowstring pulling the ends taught, it was nearly as tall as the man.
“Tis Welsh,” The king, Longsword, and Ranulf of Chester said in unison.
Without a word, the ranger wet his finger and raised it in the air. He pulled back the bow to his cheek and kept it there while waiting for a clean shot.
“A Mark says he’ll never make it,” Fat Ferrers of Derby offered.
“Taken,” Warenne of Surrey took the bet.
“Your majesty, Earl Ferrers,” Hugh Neville gathered their attention, “You’re wagers are ill advised.”
John chuckled, “Pride comes before the fall, Hugh.”
Robert was amazed at the ranger’s strength keeping the string pulled back, the longbow steady. The ranger released his arrow. They saw it rise, ark, and fall across the meadow. It struck the boar in the head and the animal fell instantly.
“What a shot!” John roared.
“Fie!” Ferrers cursed and pulled some dried cherries from his purse.
“I warned you,” Hugh laughed and twisted his grey moustache.
“The easiest Mark I ever made,” Warenne took a cherry from Ferrer’s palm.
Four years wage.
Robert sighed.
“Some of my men were ambushed near the Gwynedd border not a fortnight ago,” Count Ranulf of Chester said as he watched the boar bleed out. The most powerful lord in the Plantagenet realm, Ranulf was cousin to the king; keeping his own court, treasury, and shire officers in Cheshire. Unlike the rest of the realm, the freemen and barons of Cheshire gave their oath of alliegance to him alone. As John’s trust in other great lords such as Marshal and Braose rose and fell, Ranulf’s remained constant. “Twas a band of brigands called the Longeyes, and even Prince Llewellyn despises them. Anywho, they were loosing longbows from a wooded hillside and a young knight, Sir Brandon, was struck off his horse. When they brought him back to Chester he was barely alive. The arrow had pierced his shield, mail sleeve, and arm, pinning them to his body. Tis what we can expect in Wales, gentlemen.”
“Did he pull through?” Fat Ferrers asked as he munched on half a dozen cherries at once.
“Non,” Short Ranulf settled dark brown eyes on the king, “The Longeyes coat their arrowheads in some kind of poisonous shite. He died of blood poisoning.”
“Robert, write this man a receipt for one Pound, payable from the Treasury at Nottingham,” King John shot an order.
“For certes, majesty,” Robert agreed, thankful he’d brought writing board, ink, pen, and parchment into the woods after all. He dug into his hempen satchel to begin his task.
“And who taught you to make such a fantastic shot?” King John asked the ranger.
“The Longeyes,” Ferrers joked but neither John, Longsword, or Ranulf laughed.
“My father,” He replied quietly.
“And who might that be?” King John raised an eyebrow.
“Robert of Sherwood,” The ranger replied.
John’s faced dried wooden, “I see. Is he still alive?”
“Non,” Robin of Clipstone replied.
“God rest his soul,” King John said with hollow sincerity.
“And that of your brother the Lionheart,” Robin answered.
A generation ago, Robert of Sherwood was the Forest Ranger. When King Richard held a great Crusading Tourney, Sherwood won the archery contest, earning him the duty of Lionheart’s captain of Crown archers. He gained Richard’s respect on crusade, but unable to retake Jerusalem, Lionheart and his army sailed homewards. All they’d really managed to do was re-establish a diminished crusader kingdom based around the port of Acre.
Unfortunately for Richard, he made an enemy of Duke Leopold of Austria while on crusade and was captured by him while returning home through the Holy Roman Empire. Hungry for the throne, Prince John declared Richard dead and proclaimed himself King of England. Unfortunately for John, neither his mother dowager Queen Eleanor, Richard’s Crownstewards, nor his nephew and heir, Duke Arthur of Brittany concurred. When Duke Leopold handed Richard over to Kaiser Heinrik, John worked with King Philippe of France to prevent the kaiser’s ransom from being paid.
Sherwood and the rest of the army returned to England dumbfounded. Prince John’s sheriff was in control of Nottingham and refused to return Robert his family office. He’d already taken possession of Clipstone manor, the family home and royal hunting lodge deep in the heart of Sherwood Forest. The sheriff’s cousin had evicted Robert’s family, taking the office and residence for himself.
The sheriff then tried to arrest Robert but he escaped into the forest. In Sherwood, he proved a devilish adversary alongside his old foresters and the hoods Little John and Will Scarlet, whose vagabonds controlled vast stretches of the forest. When Lionheart finally returned to England, he laid siege to Nottingham castle and Robert of Sherwood emerged from the forest. It was a joyous reunion between the king and his old captain of archers. With Count Ranulf and Geoffrey Fitzpeter, they bashed down the walls of the outer bailey and took the barbican.
King Richard hanged his prisoners before the rest of the garrison’s eyes, and the sheriff surrendered. Prince John’s first bid for the kingdom ended on his brother’s gallows in Nottingham that day. Lionheart held a great council at Clipstone and returned Sherwood’s office to the family. John returned to Nottingham many times since then, but never inquired about the fate of Robert of Sherwood, and never ventured into the forest until today.
“The receipt,” King John ordered tightly.
Robert was dabbing the quill in the ink pot, which was resting in its indentation next to the parchment groove on his wooden writing tablet. “Coming, sire.”
. . .
While the foresters hauled the felled dear and boar, John and his companions retired under Major Oak; a giant and ancient tree used as a venerated meeting spot by the Celts and Anglo-Saxons. Sir Russell the Kingsword and a handful of crownguards kept watch.
“Ranulf, how goes it against Llewellyn in Gwynedd?” King John asked.
“He’s retaken all but two castles, sire. The fighting is fierce. No prisoners taken on either side. The damn Longeyes aren’t helping matters either,” Ranulf said bluntly, then grinned at Peter. “And if I were you, Lord Chancellor, I’d stay away from Gwynedd in that tunic. The Longeyes will spot you a league away.”
Everyone chuckled but Peter, who sneered at them all.
“I swear that juicy purse rode me blind.” Peter pointed an accusing finger at Robert, “And you should have told me.”
Robert shrugged, “Who am I to question m’lords love of butterflies?”
The chuckles grew to laughter, while Peter nodded, “Oui, who indeed?”
“And how does Fawkes’ brother fair in the middle marches?” Longsword refocused them.
“The same,” Ranulf surmised sourly. “He’s quelled the highlanders in Glamorgan, but Deheubarth and Gwent are all in flames. At least Earl Marshal’s men in Pembroke and Chepstow are holding there own.”
“Marshal would have their hides if they didn’t,” Hugh started to laugh, then cut it short.
“And how fairs Bohun’s fight in Powys?” John required.
“No better,” Ranulf spat. “Have you word from Germania?”
“Oui,” John admitted, “Hendrik of Brabant is too busy with his feud against the archbishop of Liege, and my nephew Kaiser Otto. . . well, his virgin bride Beatrix is dead.”
“Dead, didn’t they just marry?” Fat Ferrers asked as he munched cut slices of cheddar and passed them out.
“He was too much for her,” Peter laughed, but no one joined in and John scowled him down.
“Whatever he hoped to gain by marrying the Hohenstuafen heiress is lost. Making matters worse, Frederick Hohenstaufen has crossed the Alps into southern Germania with an army of Sicilians, Romans, and Pope Innocent’s blessing.”
“So the war in Germania is far from over,” Arundel offered the obvious.
“And what of the levies assembled in Chester?” John refocused.
“I’ve received word a thousand Scottish sergeants are soon to arrive,” Ranulf said, “The Crown levies from Lancashire and Westmoreland are camped out, but there are still no arrivals from Northumbria. The first I’ve seen of any of them was Eustace Vescy here in Nottingham.”
“Bloody Northumbrians. . . a thousand Scotsmen you said?” King John was perturbed as he turned to Prince Alexander and his uncle Earl David of Huntingdon. “I wanted fifteen hundred.”
Young Alexander ground his teeth. “The Danes are raiding north of Edinborough. We can spare a thousand, m’lord.”
“Majesty,” Peter correceted the Scots prince.
“Miserable sheepshagging haggus eaters,” Warenne cursed. “We’d be better off had the Romans built Hadrian’s Wall a thousand feet tall.”
Prince Alexander stiffened at the words. He walked right up to Warenne sitting on a massive root.
“You insult my honor.” Alexander quickly drew out his dagger and slashed it across Warenne’s left cheek.
“Stupid little cunt faced welp! I’ll kill you!” Warenne screamed as he pulled a bloody hand away from his face. He launched himself at the boy, catching the prince’s right hand by the wrist as Alexander stabbed again. Warenne punched him hard in the face with a right hook, knocking Alexander to the ground, then pounced on him.
“Get him! Ha! Ha!” Ferrer’s cheered and his massive belly billowed. “A Mark says Warenne beats him just shy of Hell! What say you David?”
“Idiot!” David shouted at his royal nephew.
Ranulf sighed and Longsword shook his head at the futility. Peter watched with a bemused smile. Robert and the squires looked on in shock. Ranulf’s squire, Jon le Scot, lunged at Warenne’s back but the Count of Chester caught him by the collar of his tunic, jerking him with both hands. The youth fell on his back.
“Easy nephew,” Ranulf warned him, “Tisn’t your fight.”
“Listen to him, son!” David pointed at his boy, heir to both his father and uncle’s estates.
“Enough,” King John waved a disgruntled hand their way.
Arundel and David rushed to Warenne. Grabbing him by the arms, they pulled the berserk lord off bloody faced Alexander. His hair was nearly as dark the blood.
“Let go of me you bastards! His life is mine! Trial by combat! I demand a duel! Trial by combat!” Warenne struggled against Arundel and David.
“Stop it!” King John commanded, “By God’s left bollocks, I said stop it!”
Warenne eased up, Alex rolled onto his side and spit a bloody tooth onto the ground. His lips were cracked, nose bleeding, and left eye swelling shut.
“I’m sick of all this bickering and backstabbing!” King John raged. “The Welsh betrayal, Irish shenanigans, slack Scots, the Germans refuse me, the Northumbrians ignore me, my East Anglians defame me, and you would rather bait one another for bloodsport? Satan on his throne has fewer enemies than me!”
The crowd under the huge oak grew quiet. King John was working himself into a serious Plantagenet coniption, pacing as if he didn’t have gout in his ankle, his hands clenching and unclenching, fiery spots broiling his face. He cursed and ranted in Occitan, the tongue of his mother, a sign John was delving into a deep, unforgiving rage. They’d seen this play out before and it rarely ended well.
“I swear if none of my subjects will respect me, then all of them will fear me!” John shouted in Angevin French, swinging his arms as if he were the one brawling. “I see now! I see the truth! I must provide another example for all to understand what awaits the treacherous and treasonous!”
It was never good when John dropped the royal ‘we’ discussing politics. He walked up to Warenne, put his hand on his cousin’s cheek, then showed everyone his bloody palm.
“Blood is all anyone seems to understand anymore.” John shouted, “Very well then, bloodsport it is!”
There was a tense silence as the king wiped his hand on Warenne’s velvet jerkin.
“What sort of example do you have in mind, sire?” Peter finally asked.
. . .
“If the king wishes to see you, my lady, he’ll send word,” Thoryn Beefeater told Maud for the third time.
The door to the Black Tower’s small solar remained shut.
“Fine then, be that way,” Maud shot an angry pout at him, crossed her arms, and huffed back into the heart of the solar.
She scanned everyone present but didn’t know the fiercely handsome Baron Albiny of Belvoir, wrinkly Earl David, scary Earl Warenne, or boisterous Lord Forz of Holderness. Ricardus Marsh stared at her like a goat in rut, and Ralfus was immune to her wiles. For the first time in England, Maud felt as she did at Fontevrault, insignificant. Then some chamber maids over by the tables moved and Maud noticed Robert de London moping by another cleric.
“Robert,” She whispered and arrowed at him.
“Tell me these horrible rumors aren’t true,” Maud said as she walked up to Robert and his friend. Jeffrey froze at sight of her. The cup in Robert’s right hand trembled, while his left strayed to the parchment with the royal seal on the table. She noticed his royal seal was silver instead of the usual bronze.
“Maud, this is Clerk Jeffrey of the Exchequer,” Robert sighed, “Jeffrey, this is Princess Maud Fitzroy.”
“How do you do, Jeffrey?” She asked politely while he stared at her. She’d braided her thick black hair into a tail, and was wearing a white linen undershirt beneath a dark blue tunic with silver stars embroidered all over it. She wore silver earrings and the ruby necklace hung from her neck.
Jeffrey gulped and Robert kicked him in the shin.
“Oh,” Jeffrey shook himself coherent. “I’m . . . quite busy actually. I should leave now.”
Robert poured her a cup of mead as Jeffrey stumbled off.
“Papa won’t see me and I refuse to believe the rumors, Robert. Why do people say such terrible things? And why won’t papa see me?” Maud asked as she accepted the cup.
Robert poured himself more ale. “Do you want the ugly truth or a pretty lie?”
She squinted and crossed her arms again, “He wouldn’t do such a thing. He just wouldn’t. I know.”
“He may be your father, but he’s also a king surrounded by his enemies,” Robert said, guzzling a third of the cup. “Maud, I know you’ve grown up in a French nunnery, but surely you’ve heard the stories? At St Bart’s, the monks told them at bedtime to keep us in line.”
Robert raised his hands half menacingly.
“Be good boys or John will come and get you,” He whispered.
“But that’s just it. They’re stories made up by jealous rivals,” Maud convinced herself.
Robert shook his head slowly.
“Well we’ve got to do something, we’ve got to . . .” Maud started, but Robert cut her off.
“Maud, listen to me. All of your father’s closest councilors advised against it, all of them. He won’t listen. If the king’s most trusted companions cannot change his mind, what makes you think we can?”
“So tis true?” She asked, momentarily stunned.
Robert passed the parchment to her. He’d written it in the French vulgate of Latin. With each line Maud broke down a little more. Her shoulders slumped. When Maud looked up tears were streaming down her face. “Tis horrible, Robert. I . . . I can’t . . .”
Robert sighed, sloshed back another third of his ale, and looked sadly at Maud. “I must bid you farewell. I’ve been given a task.”
“What must you do?” Her chin trembled delicately.
Robert looked deep into those stormy grey eyes so like John’s. “I’m to tell the lords gathered in the borough. I’ve been elevated again. You may congratulate me upon becoming the king’s new herald.”
Maud sniffled, “Congratulations, Robert.”
Robert smirked. “Be careful what you ask for, lest you get it.”
Maud seemed struck by the words. Her brows furrowed and she asked, “Robert, what happened to the last herald? Papa hasn’t had one since I arrived.”
Robert drained his cup and set it on the table, “The king sent him across the Channel to parlay with Archbishop Langton, but he decided to stay in Normandy with the exiles.”
“Oh,” Maud replied.”
“He died of a very sudden illness, very sudden,” Robert said no more.
“Oh,” Maud breathed as quiet as a mouse.
“Very well then,” Robert fidgeted with his silver Plantagenet lion.
“Before you go, may I venture a question?” Maud asked.
“For certes,” Robert shrugged.
“Will you see Baron Fitzwalter?” Maud wondered.
“He will most likely be there,” Robert commented suspiciously.
“Take me with you,” Maud said breathlessly.
“What? I can’t do that. Tis impossible, unthinkable, bloody rubbish.”
Maud stared at him with those sad eyes. She reached out, brushed soft fingers against his, covered covertly by her dress and his robe.
“The king would flay me alive,” Robert refused again.
Maud smiled and cocked her head. Somehow, her eyes brightened. A tear still clung to her silky cheek. The familiar ruby showed brilliantly between her perky bosoms.
“Please?”