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Excerpt
There’s a new Sheriff in Nottingham . . .
A baron trapped by honor, a lady bound by loyalty, both caught in a trap set by a ruthless king . . .
Stripped of his lands and title for another man’s lie, Tré Devaux, Third Baron of Brayeton, is given a chance to win it all back if he accepts the post as High Sheriff of Nottingham. King John decrees his lands will be returned if Tré captures the Saxon outlaws haunting Sherwood Forest. Determined to regain his ancestral home, Tré vows to let no one thwart him, but he had not anticipated Lady Jane Neville, a captivating widow intent upon protecting the very outlaws he pursues.
Jane may be the widow of a Norman, but she is Saxon by birth and loyalty—and niece to the famed outlaw, Robin Hood. While her uncle may be gone, she cannot bear to see harm fall upon innocent Saxon villagers or the men Robin left behind. Jane didn’t expect to find honor in the new sheriff, nor did she dream she would lose her heart to him.
Passion flares between the baron and the lady, sweeping them into danger where they must choose between love and life . . .
Virginia Brown has written more than fifty historical and contemporary romance novels. Many of her books have been nominated for Romantic Times’ Reviewer’s Choice Award, Career Achievement Award for Love and Laughter, and Career Achievement Award for Adventure. She is also the author of the bestselling Dixie Diva mystery series and the acclaimed mainstream Southern drama/mystery,
Dark River Road, which won the national Epic e-Book Award.
"History and romance perfectly blended.” – Kathe Robin, RT Book Reviews
1
DARK EYES
REGARDED Tré steadily; rings flashed in torch and candlelight as the king
waved him forward. The chamber was near empty, save for a scribe and the king’s
steward.
Tré approached
the dais where John sat in an unkingly sprawl; he did not bow his head or bend
the knee, but stood silent and still while the king spoke to his steward. Heavy
tapestries covered the chamber’s walls, richly embroidered, a blur of red and
gold behind the dais.
It was cold;
Tré’s boots were muddy, but he had taken no time to don clean garments when
summoned by King John. In truth, be had been given no time to do more than
accompany the guard sent to escort him to Windsor, a dire omen that set his jaw
and his temper.
King John, Pell
Ewing—two men of the same ilk. Greedy, ruthless warlords. Nothing mattered to
them but their own goals. Not even the life of small child—whose loss he blamed
on king and earl as well as Saxon outlaws.
Over two
years since Aimée died—not so long ago. Yet a lifetime...
"Lord Devaux,Baron of Brayeton.”
The scribe’s
gruff announcement jerked him from harsh memory to the present. Tré looked up,
met the king’s gaze with a steady stare. John’s eyes narrowed slightly; thin
lips twisted at the blatant refusal to bend knee or head.
"You took
overlong to answer our summons, Brayeton.”
Petulance marked
the royal face and tone; one hand came to rest languidly upon the carved chair
arm. Tré stood silent. Tension thumped in his belly.
John’s
expression eased into a mocking smile. Jewels winked as he chewed a
fingernail, halted to say abruptly, "The Earl of Welburn has been deseisened of
his lands and title.”
Savage
exultation flared, but Tré did not allow it to show in his face or words.
"Indeed, sire.”
"Yea, indeed, my
lord of Brayeton.” The king leaned forward in his bolstered chair. "What say
you to that?”
"It is a grave
misfortune, sire.”
"A misfortune?”
John gave a bark of laughter that held no humor. "Misfortune for Ewing, or for
yourself?”
"I am not allied
with Pell Ewing, sire.”
"No, you are
not. Yet it has come to our attention of late that you have withdrawn
from our service. You paid knights’ fees and shield tax, but did not answer our
summons to Nottingham. Explain your reasons to our satisfaction.”
"My lands require much of my time, sire.” Salvation lay in half-truths; survival prompted him to remind the
king, "I have just returned from your campaign against the Welsh.”
It was waved
away as inconsequential. "We need more assurance of your loyalty. You have no
family, no hostages to offer us, only an oath of fealty that you have not yet
sworn.”
Tré held his
tongue; not even to avoid censure would he swear an oath he was not certain he
could keep. It would be treason should he break it. More danger lay in perjury
than in refusal.
The king’s
steward stepped forward, murmured in John’s ear, then stepped away.
Tension prickled down Tré’s spine; the new wound in his side throbbed, raw and unhealed,
a constant ache, compliments of a Welsh sword.
John turned
back, mouth curled in a nasty smile. "We have seized Welburn lands for the
crown. Ewing is your overlord, a proven traitor, alive only because he has fled
to Ireland. He named you as conspirator. Show me good cause to allow you to
remain free, my lord Brayeton.”
Anger sparked,
was swiftly tamped. "Sire, you are aware of my long feud with the Earl of
Welburn. Would you accuse me of treachery on his word alone?”
"Can you prove
your innocence?”
"I have not
heard specific charges, sire. If I am to be accused, I demand my rights as
baron to a trial before the Council of Barons.”
John regarded
him through hooded eyes; mockery tucked the corners of his mouth. "The council
meets at Nottingham Castle. As we just met in September, you will remain in our
custody until the next council meeting.”
A clank of
weapons and armor from the guards entering bespoke the king’s intent; Tré
tensed. Few men left Windsor’s dungeons alive.
Coolly, he said, "Sire, the Barons of Brayeton have served England’s kings since the time of the Conqueror.
Imprison me without trial, and you will earn the enmity of even your allies. Do
you court more enemies when you are beset on all sides?”
King John
frowned, glanced toward his steward again, and chewed his fingernail for a
moment. Then he sat back, narrow shoulders pressed against wood and gilt.
"Your lands are
forfeit until charges against you are put before the Council of Barons. Unless
you prefer prison, you may be of some use, my lord Brayeton. We are in need of
a high sheriff of Nottingham.”
Surprise and
outrage rendered Tré silent for a moment. Wily John—if he could not extract one
oath, he would secure another. An appointment to sheriff would bind him to
uphold the very laws he hated. A refusal would result in his imprisonment. He
sucked in a deep breath.
"I thought the
position occupied, sire.”
"Not,” the king
said harshly, "for long. Eustace de Lowdham has misjudged me. His greedy hand
plunders my taxes. He fails to catch the outlaws who poach Sherwood preserves
and steal from royal coffers. You have proven your worth in pursuit of the
Welsh—prove your worth as sheriff, and lands and title will be returned
to you in time.”
Tré’s eyes
narrowed; dust motes danced in gray bars of light filtering through the open
window. It was a subtle trap. Far easier for John
to be rid of an appointed official than to risk alienating all his baronsby eliminating one of their own without proven cause.
Disaster loomed.
Until this moment he had not known how complete was Welburn’s hatred of him.
Cunning earl, to destroy an enemy with a simple accusation—tempting a king who
coveted rich lands for his war against Philip of France and the pope.
Far better to
compromise than lose all....
Silence
stretched, grew heavy and dense. Impatient, John snapped, "Decide, my lord
Brayeton.”
Bitter words
burned his tongue: "If I am not trusted to be baron, am I trusted to be
sheriff?”
"A landless
baron wields little enough power. You will be a warning to those who consider
treason—evidence of our resolve, and our generosity in allowing you life and
liberty.”
The king
beckoned to his scribe, looked back at Tré. "Arrive in Nottingham before the
first Sunday of Lent. Serve us well, Devaux, and we shall reward thee well.
Fail us, and lose all.”
Devaux—I am
already stripped of title and rank.... He swallowed rage and unwise comment,
held his tongue when John’s eyes glittered with malicious satisfaction.
Brayeton Keep,
gone in the blink of an eye, seized for a false accusation. Now they belonged
to King John: the stone keep where he had been born, and a hillside where two
small graves lay beneath an old oak.
Aimée...
Memory veered from the sharp pain, barricaded itself behind familiar grayness: hollow, empty of soft
emotion, a vast desolation where it was safe. Where the anguish of loss could
not reach him.
Ad noctum—Into the darkness.
2
Nottingham
Castle—February 25, 1213
RAIN GLISTENED on
the domed helmets and chainmail of Norman soldiers entering Nottingham Castle
beneath the jagged iron teeth of the outer gate. Hooves pounded like brittle
thunder. Vapor rose from steaming hides of muscular coursers near as fierce as
their riders. The clatter of sheathed weapons was muffled but ominous. It was
suddenly loud in the outer bailey, a warning to those within that the unknown
would soon be upon them.
Jane, widow of
Hugh de Neville, drew the edges of her fur-trimmed mantle more closely around
her. Nervous fingers tugged at the hood to cover her hair. There had not been
time enough to don a wimple when word came that the new sheriff was near
Nottingham at last. It had taken too long to coax her cousin into readiness,
leaving her just enough time to club her own light brown hair into a plait and
tuck it beneath her hood as they hastened from nearby Gedling to the castle.
Rain misted her lashes. She blinked it away as she peered through the
drizzle and jostling crowd toward the approaching Normans.
A contingent
separated from the others to enter the middle bailey. A banner flew damply in
the wind, snapping like the crack of a whip above mailed heads to announce the
sheriff’s arrival. Tension knotted in her stomach, twisting. So close now.
Beside her,
Lissa made a sound of impatience and shoved roughly at the man in front of
them. "Oaf! Be’ware of where thou trod!”
"’Ere now!” the
man protested, but moved from her path. It opened up a hole in the throng, so
the cousins had a much better view.
It was more
crowded than Jane had anticipated; barons, freedmen, and merchants were allowed into the middle bailey to greet—or confront—the new sheriff. Saxon English and Norman French commingled in wanton
intercourse of language, one ancient, the other the speech of the Conqueror.
All of Nottingham had turned out. Now narrow streets held little more than cold
wind and dread as citizens packed into the castle bailey; their
collective support or resistance would be determined by the actions of the new
sheriff.
Shivering as
much from anticipation as the icy gusts that tugged at warm wool and skirts,
Jane craned to see as the Normans drew close enough for her to pick out individual
men instead of a blur of steel and arrogance.
Which one is
the high sheriff?
There was no
mace of office to identify him, no gold-linked chain of office worn around the
neck to mark him as the king’s man.
But as the
column of horsemen garbed in black and gold tunics slowed their mounts to a
walk, she knew. He was there, flanked by other Normans, yet
distinctly separate.
At her side,
Lissa heaved a long, appreciative sigh. "It has been a long time since I have
ridden something that big and magnificent...”
Jane shifted her
gaze from the Normans to her cousin. "I assume you mean the horse,” she
murmured, and Lissa laughed.
"I could be
speaking of the steed, of course—both are fine, muscular animals, sleek and
dark and dangerous.”
"Mind your
clacking tongue. Would you have others here remark upon your vulgar wit?”
A serene smile and shrug were ample evidence of Lissa’s indifference to the warning. Her silk wimple
fluttered in damp folds against her lovely face as her gaze returned to the
line of Normans. "Do you think he is Devaux?”
Jane knew which
man she meant without asking. Iron-shod hooves struck sparks on the uneven wet
stones as a splendid black steed pranced arrogantly
forward. The Norman in the saddle was even more impressive.
A negligent hand
curbed the restive gait of the courser before it trod upon eager citizens;
there was steel in the light grip that even the willful nature of the huge
beast recognized. Snorting, nostrils flared in dangerous crimson flowers, the
stallion obeyed the unspoken command and halted only a few feet from Jane. Her
gaze moved in wary fascination from courser to master.
An eloquent
centaur, spare of motion and expression, features devoid of all but regard for
the animal, he seemed not to see those crowded among the barracks and stone
walls of the bailey. The only sounds were the brisk rattle of military
accoutrements. Fraught with suspense, the abrupt absence of conversation paid
homage more to the bearing of the sheriff than to the apprehension of the
people.
She understood
completely.
Unencumbered by
heavy mail, broad shoulders and a thick chest were encased in a flowing surcoat
of ebony wool. Fine gilt tracery formed a stark pattern on the front, emblem of
his rank and heritage. Soot-black hair was neatly trimmed in Norman fashion;
rain-dampened strands fell forward over eyebrows that slashed across his
forehead. He had a strong face, angular as most Normans’, with high carved
cheekbones and a chiseled mouth that looked as if it had never known a smile.
Jane stirred
uneasily. Unexpected appreciation of his masculine features fluttered
briefly before she thrust it firmly aside. Pray, let him be different from
the last high sheriff....
She slipped one hand beneath her mantle, skimmed the rose-colored velvet of her cotte until her searching
fingers found and curled tightly around a length of finely wrought gold chain.
She drew the small gold cross at the chain’s end into her palm and rubbed her
thumb over the carved surface.
Since de
Lowdham’s departure, the undersheriff left to mete out justice in the Saxon
borough had been just as harsh. It did not bode well for Nottinghamshire
if this man proved to be as merciless as had been his predecessors.
The crowd
shifted, closed ranks to block her view of him; Jane rose to her toes to peer
over the heads in front of her. The tang of fresh horse droppings was on the
rising wind; spurs jangled, and curb chains clinked in brittle song. Servants’
rouncies snorted, pawed stone, backed into sumpters loaded with baggage. The
horseboys came running to take charge of the animals.
The spell that
had briefly gripped the crowd was broken, melded into chaotic babble. Anticipation
rose sharply as the high sheriff lifted his head to survey the bailey with a
raking glance. Arrogance was evident in every sharp angle and line of his
powerful frame. He looked competent—and ruthless.
Jane sucked in a
sharp, disappointed breath.
A horseboy held
on to the reins of the fractious courser as the sheriff dismounted, betraying a
slight stiffness of movement where she had expected more agility. Yet when he
turned to face the barons lined up like wet crows on a hedge row, he exhibited
no infirmity.
Slowly drawing
off his leather gauntlets, he surveyed them all with a lifted brow. "I did not
foresee such a welcome, my lords. To what do I owe this unexpected reception?”
The pretty
consonants and vowels of Norman French were more of a growl on his tongue, the
fluid language of the Conqueror bludgeoned into blunt inflection. Jane pushed
forward to stand behind a baron she had known since childhood. A silent glance
of disapproval was eloquent with his belief that females should remain in their
place. She ignored it, her attention on the sheriff.
His breath
formed frost clouds as Devaux waited for a reply. A brow angled sharply upward
when no one came forward to answer him.
"Is there no
spokesman?”
The drizzling
rain made a soft hissing sound. Norman knights shifted, weapons clanking. When
no Saxon summoned the courage to step forward or speak out, coarse laughter
rippled through the Norman ranks.
Devaux’s lip
curled in undisguised contempt. "So I thought. Get you home before the rains
reduce you to naught but sodden curs.”
It was the
shaming laughter from Norman ranks as much as the sheriff’s contempt that
prompted her; Jane elbowed past Gilbert of Oxton. Her voice rose to be heard
above the clank and clatter of the guards:
"My lord High Sheriff, we come to ask that you listen to our concerns and give us redress.”
Rising wind
muffled the words so that they sounded strangely distorted. Lord Oxton
turned to look at her. Chagrin was evident on pale, sharp features, his Saxon
English roughly familiar:
"Lady Neville,
’tis not necessary for you—”
"No, what you
mean is that it is not proper for a lady to speak out thusly.”
Impatient, she shrugged off the restraining hand he put on her arm. "Yet who
else will have the courage to speak if I do not? ’Tis certain none of these
brave barons can summon nerve enough.”
Her stinging
barbs found accurate marks. Several Saxon barons suffused with angry color, but
it was the sheriff who commanded her instant attention:
"Step forward,
my lady, so that I may view this Saxon with enough courage to demand
amends.”
His Saxon
English was fluent, a warning to any baron who might think Norman scorn of the
language gave them an advantage.
Jane tensed.
Dread coiled in her belly. It would be impossible to walk without stumbling;
sudden realization of the notice she had brought upon herself rendered her
immobile. Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, uncooperative and
clumsy.
But I am the
daughter of a valiant Saxon knight, widow of a Norman baron, and no man can
shame me unless I allow it—
Her chin
rose with a determined tilt. "Indeed, sir, ’tis not courage that prompts me to
speak, but justice.”
"Justice?” A
straight brow winged upward; the mouth she had thought too harsh to smile
tucked inward with wry humor. "A strange word to find on English lips.”
"Not so strange,
my lord, but certainly a word found too infrequently in Norman hearts.”
For an instant,
their gazes locked. Distracted, taut with uncertainty, Jane had a brief impression
of eyes as hard and green as emeralds; the wary gaze of a cat lurked
beneath a brush of wet black lashes.
"I find your
assertions intriguing, my lady.” The words were smooth, the voice a low rasp.
Rain hissed on stones and bare heads. "Such a mettlesome adherent of justice
requires an introduction. What is your family name?”
Hunting eyes, keen and watchful, waiting for
an answer and a misstep.... "My late husband was Hugh de
Neville, the king’s Baron of Ravenshed. My father was Rolf of Ashfield, loyal
knight to the Lionheart.”
"Neville was
your husband?” He paused, finally adding, "I knew him, Lady Neville. He was a
fine man and valiant knight in his day.”
"Yea, so he was,
sir. His death is most grievous.”
The words were
steady enough, though there was a curious crumbling inside as she said them.
Hugh’s loss had been painful but not unexpected. It was the desolation she had
not foreseen. There were times she felt so alone....
A low rumble of
thunder sounded in the distance. The rain began to worsen. It struck the bailey
with increasing force, pinging loudly against metal helmets and shields.
Devaux gave a
terse order for the barons to accompany him into the hall, then turned to Jane
and held out his arm.
"You will do me
the honor of being my guest, milady.”
It was not a
request but a demand. Though she bridled at his arrogance, she placed her hand
on his arm. Eyes followed her: Oxton’s angry, others’ shocked, Lissa’s round
with awe. Trapped, Jane did not betray her own dread.
Her slight
stature was dwarfed by the towering Norman. She had never felt more keenly
vulnerable than she did at that moment. Her fingers lay lightly on his sleeve;
beneath rich wool was ample evidence of taut muscles and strength. It was daunting,
a suddenly inescapable feeling of walking into a lion’s lair—no less daunting
than Nottingham Castle itself.
High curtain
walls of buff-colored sandstone fifteen feet thick rose in concentric circles
to protect a castle studded with gates and turrets. In daylight, crenelated
stone battlements resembled jagged teeth gnawing at the sky; at night, some
said ’twas the devil’s backbone.
A massive
precipice of sandstone provided the natural advantage of unscalable height.
Forbidding rock cliffs and the River Leen bounded the south side. Between the
River Leen and the River Trent in the distance lay only vast meadows, now
browned by winter sear and thin traces of snow—a bare expanse with no tree or
structure to obscure the view of possible enemy approach. The fortress was
intimidating, brooding over town and countryside like a great, hulking bird of
prey, slitted eyes keeping watch from high towers.
Tense, cold,
blinded by icy rain, Jane was grateful to see the great hall loom ahead. She
stumbled slightly on the bottom step. An arm immediately went around her waist
to steady her, then lingered. Imposing, silent beside her, Devaux’s strides
were lithe and sure as they ascended the steep, rain-slick stone steps and
moved into the stark shelter of the guard room.
Blinking rain
from her lashes, Jane dropped her hand from his arm and stood shivering. Her
rich mantle was sodden, clinging to her body in heavy folds. She pushed back
the hood, scraped a hand over wet, curling strands of hair fraying from her
plait, discomfited that she had not taken the time to garb herself properly.
She no doubt resembled an alewife, hardly a recommendation for her status as a
baron’s widow. Only a thin coronet of twisted gold wound with blue ribbons to
match her eyes held back wet hair from her forehead.
The guard room
was gloomy, close, smelling of rain and mud and dank stone. Lifting a hand, Devaux beckoned. A steward rushed forwardto remove the damp mantle from her shoulders as her cold fingers fumbled
to unfasten the clasp.
"Allow me,
milady,” the steward murmured and slid it from her shoulders before he turned
back to the sheriff. "My lord Sheriff, Sir Gervaise sends word that he awaits
your immediate presence in the antechamber.”
Brittle silence
was followed by a soft reply that did not disguise the steel beneath it: "Does
he. He will wait longer ere I heel like a hound. I will escort the lady to the
hall. Take her mantle to dry by the fire.”
Devaux turned,
his shadowed gaze studying Jane’s upturned face so intently that she had to
smother an inexplicable urge to smooth her hair. He unnerves me....
"It is warmer by
the fire, milady. Come. I will hear more of your complaints.”
Silent, she
inclined her head in an agreement she did not feel; disquiet stirred within her
at this separation from the barons.
"My mantle,” she
said, reaching for it when the steward turned to go; he held tight to it, gave
her a quick smile of apology.
"It will be
safe, milady. I shall not lay it too close to the flames.”
He was gone
before she could halt him, weaving swiftly through the throng of damp barons
and Norman guards now crowded inside. Devaux waited, an unsettling presence, a
solid wall of Norman hostility at its finest; she could not think how to
disentangle herself without insulting him, to her future detriment.
"Are you contemplating
ways to escape me, milady?”
Startled at his
astute observation, her head jerked up. Heated embarrassment burned her cheeks.
"Yes,” she said bluntly and was rewarded with a faint suggestion of a smile at
the corners of his hard mouth. His brow rose.
"Am I so hated,
then?”
"Only what you
represent, perhaps.”
"Which is law
and order. Would that Saxons could perceive the necessity for it.”
His sarcasm
stung; she drew in an angry breath. "It is not law and order which is so
detestable, but the arbitrary manner in which it is measured. Outlaws visit
devastation, yet roam free while honest citizens are gathered up and threatened
with imprisonment for life if they do not fight for a king who cares nothing
for them.”
"You do not
bandy words idly, I see.” Though sarcasm still tinged the remark, it was
diluted. He looked at her thoughtfully, then after a moment took her by the arm
again to move beyond the heavy curtain separating the guard room from the great
hall.
Cavernous, with
high ceilings and hazy light, the hall was crowded with barons and noise;
double doors were thrown wide to allow easy access. Trestle tables stacked
against the walls were being taken down and put into place by
beleaguered servants. She was cold without her mantle, the rose velvet cotte scant
protection against the chill. Her feet were wet, squelching on muddied rushes
and stone as she walked beside him.
At a gesture
from the sheriff, those by the fire abandoned a low bench; he waited until she
was seated before he sat beside her. It was warmer there, the pool of heat
welcome. Acutely aware of him beside her, she tugged the hem of her cotte up to
her ankles, wiggling her feet as the delicious warmth from the fire spread
under her skirts.
He adjusted his
sword, then stretched out long legs clad in tight-woven black chausses. Supple
calfskin boots rose to his knees. Tiny splinters of light caught in the gilt
emblem on a tunic shortened for riding; the embroidered shape of a raven was
recognizable now.
A
raven—Celtic symbol of darkness and despair...
The pleasant
smell of wind and leather mingled with the scent of wet wool as he turned to
look at her. Unexpectedly, her pulse began to race in a most unseemly manner at
his steady regard. The knot in her stomach tightened. Her lungs grew starved of
air, so that she had to breathe in deeply to fill them....He was most disconcerting.
"Who is your
escort today, milady?”
"My cousin. Lady
Dunham of Gedling.”
"Then you have
no protector.”
Danger loomed,
couched in the simple statement. "I was not aware I needed a protector here, my
lord Sheriff.”
A straight brow
rose. "Have you no mirror?”
There was subtle
mockery in the question, and to hide her sudden confusion she looked away from
him to survey her surroundings.
The hall had
changed little since last she had been there. Banners and huge iron rings of
candles were suspended from the high ceilings, which were buttressed by stone
columns. No woven hangings softened the walls; only shields and battle-axes
were displayed against stone. Thin, polished hides stretched over the high
windows allowed in ribbons of gray light, but torches set into a dozen metal
sconces provided the most illumination;
their indiscriminate sparks singed the skin, hair, and garments of those
too near them. Servants bustled down wide aisles, vanishing behind latticed
wood screens, only to reappear with platters of food for the long trestle
tables set at right angles to the dais. Somewhere a lute player coaxed bawdy
ballads from his instrument.
Clearly a
fortress and not a home; yet, if not for the uncertain hazards of the new high
sheriff, it might have been festive in those last days before Lent commenced.
Beside her,
Devaux shifted position. His strong hands were splayed on his knees. He was
brusque now, the mask of courtesy dropped. "You have grown suddenly timid,
milady. A Saxon trait. It is expected, but I thought better of you.”
Stung, she swung
her gaze to his face, openly stared at him. "I am not responsible for what you
expected, my lord Sheriff.”
"No.” The hard
line of his mouth eased. "You are not.”
He baited her.
She had risen to it far too easily, but would not give him the satisfaction of
looking away, of yielding to the demand for a submission she knew he required.
She would not be as the others, cowering under Norman rule. As he had said, It
is expected.
But it was more
difficult than she had imagined not to look away, to hold his gaze while he
willed her to yield ground. Silent struggle was freighted with determination
and something else, some small spark deep inside
that ignited a mute appreciation of masculine symmetry: wide-spacedeyes, a straight nose, well-formed lips, and clean-shaven angle of jaw that
projected stubborn determination. Ancient Northern forebears of his race had
left him the legacy of height and muscle.
Daunting, daunting man—fearsome in his pride, more dangerous in his
silence....
Still holding
her gaze, he said, "By Sunday next, the king has commanded that all English
ships return to their home ports. I am bade summon all who have done homage and
fealty to the king to meet with horses and arms at Dover by the close of
Easter. It is my duty to ensure that those within this sheriffdom join the king
or suffer reprisal.”
Her brow rose.
"Indeed, it should pain you greatly to visit new woes upon the land, my
lord High Sheriff—though I think it does not.”
After a short,
sizzling silence, Devaux said, "You intrigue me, Lady Neville.”
Her hands
clenched in rose velvet.
"Why? Because I
say what I think? Or is it because I spoke up when others would not?”
"Both. You
should be at home weaving cloth or governing servants, not meddling in the
affairs of men.”
His ridicule
stung, and she stiffened "The few servants I have left to me after the
conscriptions into royal service can weave without my supervision, but you are
right, my lord—I should be at home. It is evident I have wasted my time and
yours by coming here to plead for succor.”
"Not
necessarily.” There was an intensity to his gaze that took her breath away. "I
will weigh your pleas most carefully, milady. But do not mistake contemplation
for weakness. I tell you plainly that I am the king’s man, here to mete out
justice in his name and restore order to the shire.”
"That is all any
man or woman could require—justice. I pray that you are what you claim to be,
my lord Sheriff.”
"I claim to be
nothing.” His tone was flat and rough, his eyes narrowed slightly. "I was
appointed sheriff. I will do my duty as bade to by King John. It would behoove
these barons to believe that the king wishes them to be content. Should you
have occasion to relay that information to the unhappy barons with you, it
would be better for all.”
"I am not a
messenger, my lord.” Anger overrode caution as the first brief flare of hope
was quickly extinguished. Does he think me so naïve as to believe
that he has only the best interests of Saxons in mind? Tartly:
"I do not presume to tell others what to think, but expect them to make their
own judgments, just as I have done.”
Tense silence
lay between them, while in the hall, music rose from lute and harp; men laughed
and hounds barked. A log popped in the fire, sparks like tiny shooting stars
forming a glowing arc. She was aware of it all, as she was aware of her
thudding heart and slowly warming feet; paramount was the man before her, who held
in his hands the power of life, death, and freedom.
He rose to his
feet. A faint, ironic smile pressed at the corners of his mouth. "No, milady, I
see that you are not a messenger. A pity. It would save so much time and
trouble.”
"Perhaps, but I
doubt it would be to my advantage.”
This time his
smile was genuine. "You are as sharp-tongued as you are sharp-willed,
Lady Neville. I commend you for your spirit, if not your civility.”
She would have
answered sharply again but took a deep breath instead. Prudence now seemed the
wisest course.
"My lord
Sheriff.” The steward appeared, his cough a polite interruption. "Sir Gervaise
grows most anxious to meet with you as soon as possible.”
"No doubt. Lady
Neville will wait here for my return, Giles. See to her needs.” With that
unceremonious farewell, he was gone, stalking across the great hall with his
long, loose stride while she stared after him.
Another polite
cough snared her attention, and she heard Giles ask if she needed a cup of
wine.
"No. Bring my
mantle.”
A pause, then,
smoothly: "It will be brought to you upon my lord’s request. Shall I bring the
wine?”
"Yes. Bring the
wine.”
Uncertain,
angry, Jane sat with her feet still to the fire’s heat, torn between flight and
compliance. Any other time, she would have abandoned the hall despite his
order. Yet now she hesitated.
Conversation
ebbed and flowed in the crowded hall like sea tides, washing over her in
anonymous waves. Occasional laughter sounded sharp and strained. Only Normans
were at ease here in this hall barren of English pride.
Rich scents of
roasted meat teased the air and empty bellies; Jane gazed resentfully at long
tables set with lavish food and silver nefs shaped like ships. They thrived at
Ravenshed because she husbanded their food supply carefully; a meager harvest
could be ruinous. She always had enough food, and coin to buy more, yet the
freedmen who owed her rents would suffer grievously if she forced them to pay.
Taxes were too high, too frequent, on everything from bread to water to wood.
Her coffers were slowly draining of coin.
Across the hall,
Saxon barons stood uneasily in a loose group. Lords Oxton and Creighton looked
tense; there was no sign of her cousin, who had undoubtedly been sensible
enough to go home to Gedling. The sheriff’s men milled about with casual
deliberation. There was no overt threat, yet the air reeked of
intimidation, evidenced by mailed guards bearing heavy weapons, discreetly
stationed by the doors.
It was suddenly
overwhelming. Giles was gone to fetch her wine; no one seemed to notice her now
that the sheriff was absent. Jane rose from her seat before the fire with
unhurried grace. Her shoes were almost dry; her cloak could be forsaken. Rushes
crackled beneath her feet as she crossed the hall and left through
iron-fortified double doors.
Icy rain had
turned to snow, frosting stones and walls in white lace caps. The middle bailey
was filled with the sheriff’s men, black and gold livery stark against the
paler sandstone and snowy curtain. Intent upon warmth, food, and rest, none
gave her more than a second glance as she moved from the middle bailey through
the gatehouse, then across the expanse of outer bailey and high barbican that
guarded the outer moat and portcullis gate. She was free.
Nottingham
closed around her when she quit the castle. Vendors had begun to close their
stalls in Market Square. Her feet slid a bit on the steep grade leading from
castle rock. Dark alleys staggered between the half-timbered buildings that
hunched over streets softened by falling snow. The cold masked the strong
stench of offal, human and animal, that usually clogged the air. She heard the
Watch marching, boots crunching on icy mud as they patrolled the streets.
Shivering, she
waited in the shadows behind a leaning alehouse until they passed, then made
her way toward Goose Gate. In resonant tones, the bells in St. Mary’s tower
tolled, marking Nones. Winter light was sparse and weak, disappearing rapidly
in the waning of day.
She blew on her
hands to warm them, regretting the loss of her mantle. Gedling was less than a
mile past the town walls, but it would be a frigid walk once night fell. Her
darkening mood suffered as much from bitter realization as from the cold.
Nothing had
changed. Only drastic measures would save England from the king’s rapacious
demands... and from the new sheriff.
