All the men, John’s and the baron’s, ceased in a heartbeat. In the sudden silence, there was only the harsh sound of men breathing fast and hard, the steely sharp scrape of a sword tip swiping the floor or some overturned vessel.
“Where is the prince?” the Marshal asked tonelessly.
From the dais, Prince John made a distressed sound. “Finally, Marshal, you show up somewhere you are actually needed.” He pointed wildly at the bleeding body of Sherwood. “Sherwood was trying to start a rebellion.”
“Was he?” the Marshal said slowly. “How like you he is.”
“Watch you tongue, old man,” John snarled. “It is by my efforts he was stopped.”
“Indeed?” The Marshal examined the frozen sea of battle, honing in on Fáelán and the others by the far corner, then looked back to the prince. “Word has arrived for you from the French king.”
The prince started, and a guilty flush rose up on his thin cheeks. “What does it say?”
The Marshal made a show of innocence. “How would I know? ’Twas for you. Here.” He held up a sealed fold of parchment.
John hurried off the dais and snatched it, examined the seal, then broke it with bony fingers, and leaned down to the ruddy light from the trough fire to read. His hand began to tremble, but a moment later, he looked up with a grin.
“Come,” he waved to his men. “We have bigger deeds to manage.” He strode out of the room, pausing to hiss in the Marshal’s ear as he passed by, “Time to start watching your tongue, Pembroke, ere you find yourself with a new ruler, and new rules.”
“It will be a cold day in hell when you rule me, my lord,” he replied with a low, mocking bow.
John snarled something indecipherable and swept out of the hall, his men in his wake. The Marshal turned to the room and the frozen scene of battle, Sherwood’s men with their swords, the cluster of outlaws backed to the door.
He descended the stairs at a measured pace, his bootheels scraping on stone. He kept his eye on Fáelán until he hit the floor of the hall, then turned his chin over his shoulder and said quietly to his men, “Disarm them.”
They moved toward Fáelán and his brothers, and the Marshal made a sound. They stopped short.
“Not them. Them.” He pointed to Sherwood’s men.
Sherwood’s soldiers’ jaws dropped, but the earl’s men simply reversed course and began taking weapons off them.
“Just disarm them and let me question them, then they may go free,” the Marshal ordered. He looked down the shadowy hall and nodded at Fáelán.
In the corner, Fáe released a long breath, then looked behind him and tipped his head the barest inch to the side.
Rowan straightened his spine as he sheathed his sword. Máel kept his out. At another glance from Fáelán, they spread out and began examining the riches of Sherwood’s abode, while the soldiers were tied up in ropes and marched out of the hall.
The Marshal picked his way over to Fáelán, who was wiping down his blade while his men went over Sherwood’s house, stripping it down of anything of value. As the Marshal watched, Máel shoved a golden goblet into a bag.
“Shopping, are you?” the Marshal asked.
Fáe glanced at his men, then went back to wiping his blade. “Paying them for a job well done.”
“It was well-done,” the Marshal agreed. “Why are you not taking anything for yourself?”
He shrugged. “None of it appeals. In any event, they render to me a quarter of their haul, so I will be recompensed.”
The Marshal nodded somberly as he watched the outlaws. “I never thought I’d get word from a Rardove about treachery lurking in the royal family. Last I looked, the Rardove’s were committed enemies to the English crown.”
“Look again: they still are.”
The Marshal grunted softly. “Then why did you send word for me to come here, telling of some joined treachery between Sherwood and the prince?”
“Because I do not like any of you. The more mayhem between you all, the better for me.”
“Ah. So I should still fear your outlawry?”
“You should fear everything about me.”