The Heirs of Locksley (The Robin Hood Stories 2)

“My lord Pembroke,” Robin said expansively as the man stopped a few paces away.

“My lord Locksley,” he replied evenly. He and all his men glared. John watched even more eagerly now—the second earl of Pembroke, William Marshal, the son of the famous William Marshal. This was the man who had probably ordered the kidnapping of John and his sisters four-odd years earlier. He had thought to win favor by taking hostages that would ensure Robin of Locksley’s compliance during the baronial rebellions. Robin had sent back the would-be kidnappers with arrows in their throats. There had been some to-do over the deaths; the young William Marshal had denied any involvement in the plot, but enough of a question on that score was raised that no murder charges had been brought against Robin. Either both of them had committed mortal insult, or neither of them had, and that was that, and now here they were.

“I was very sorry to hear of your father’s passing, my lord,” Robin said. “We will not see his like again.”

The younger William Marshal seemed unconvinced, studying Robin with a frown. “Thank you. This is your son?” His gaze shifted, giving the boy a skeptical look.

“This is John, yes.”

“My lord,” John said politely. And because he couldn’t resist: “I understand we missed a chance to meet several years ago.” If the kidnappers had succeeded, he and the girls would have been delivered to this man’s feet. John was glad to be taller now than he had been, to look the man in the eye, or close to it.

Pembroke’s gaze narrowed. “It’s just as well. These are . . . happier days for such a meeting.”

“Indeed,” Robin said, and gave his son a sidelong glance. “Let’s hope they remain so.”

“A good day to you, my lord.” Pembroke inclined his head and turned to leave. Each of his men seemed determined to glare extra hard at Robin, as if that would affect him at all.

“And you!” Robin called after them.

“Is he going to cause trouble?” John asked.

Robin shook his head. “I think any trouble with him died with the old king. But watch your back.”

Will Scarlet sauntered over. “It’s always the really well-dressed ones with the sourest looks, isn’t it?”

“We are all loyal subjects of the king,” Robin murmured. “I will just keep telling myself that.”

John had the sudden thought that his father’s pushing him into this world was akin to being thrown to wolves. He really ought to learn to keep his mouth shut better if he was going to manage.

* * *

Rather than follow Robin and John back to camp, Mary and Eleanor went with their mother on an errand. She led them confidently around the church, past the abbey, and to a set of timber-frame buildings clustered together behind their own wall. One could see the high stone bell tower of a chapel beyond, and the thatched roofs of houses and

outbuildings. Mary gave her mother a confused look. Eleanor’s look was even more confused, growing apprehensive, and she held back. There had been some talk of Eleanor taking vows, but nothing serious, and Mary didn’t think their mother would simply . . . deposit her at a convent without discussion.

“Don’t worry,” Marian told them with a happy smile. Open and honest, unlike her circumspect, diplomatic manner. “I’m visiting an old friend.”

An ironbound door marked the entrance. Marian knocked, and a coifed and veiled woman answered. “I’m here to see Mother Ursula, please. It’s Lady Marian.”

“Yes, my lady, please come in.”

The door opened, and the three of them entered the grounds.

The convent’s front yard was a place of refuge and charity, filled with the poor and crippled and struggling, gaunt of face and dressed in rags, crutches tucked under arms. Eyes bandaged, limbs missing. Suffering. Mary’s first response was to draw back, look away. Eleanor took her hand and squeezed. It was helplessness, not disgust, that made her want to turn away. At Locksley, they could take in their own people, help them as they needed. But here in town, so close to London, there were so many . . .

A bustling woman, plump and energetic, wearing a nun’s dark habit, wooden cross swinging on her chest, came into the yard. With all the fabric around her face, judging her age was difficult, but Mary guessed that Mother Ursula was close to Marian’s age.

“Mother Abbess,” Marian said warmly, holding out her hands, which the abbess clasped.

“Marian, how wonderful to see you!”

They embraced. Yes, old friends.

“You don’t look a bit older, do you?” the abbess said.

“I certainly feel older. I’ve brought a small offering. Just a bit to help.” She drew a pouch from her sleeve, pressed it into Ursula’s hands.

“Bless you, my dear. We will put this to good use and say prayers for you and yours.” Her gaze turned to study the girls. “These are your daughters?”