This was an argument that had nothing to with John, who was only a little baffled and thinking he was drawing too much of the wrong kind of attention. “My lords,” he said. “I really don’t have my father’s temper, but I do have his talent for talking too much and laughing when I shouldn’t.” To the king he said, “Your Grace, I am most sorry for disturbing your tournament.”
“We cannot blame you for defending your sister, Lord John,” the boy said. John bowed, grateful for his understanding. Because yes, he would defend Mary, come what may. He just didn’t necessarily want Mary to know about it. Just now, Mary was so focused on the task at hand, she never noticed the altercation.
John tried to think of some joke to lighten the mood, but his wit failed him. They turned back to watch the final round of shooting. Arrows sang, thumped into straw bales. Archers shaded their eyes to see targets. The master archer himself had to measure, to see who had scored best, and at last proclaimed Mary of Locksley the winner.
* * *
Mary only partly expected the Sheriff of Nottingham or someone like him to spring out from behind the viewing stands and declare that this had all been a trap and that she would now be arrested for something or other. Except these days, the Sheriff of Nottingham was a conscientious middle-aged man who was cordial to the Locksleys. Lady Marian and his wife often exchanged herbal concoctions.
The master archer beamed at her, her rivals politely expressed their admiration, which she returned. All in all, Mary was a bit at a loss. Her shoulder ached. She rolled it back, wincing.
“Well done, Mary,” John said, clapping her on the other shoulder. “You didn’t even let Ranulf get to you.”
“He was rude,” she muttered.
“Never mind him.”
She studied the crowd, but Ranulf FitzHugh had disappeared, which was just as well. Then she smiled suddenly.
“What?” John asked.
“I’ve stopped trying to look for William de Ros. So, this did some good after all.”
“I’m not sure he even exists.”
“That’s what I think! Mother assured me he does—”
Eleanor came pushing through the crowd, head down and determined, until she reached Mary and grabbed her arm, beaming. Then the king arrived among them and was as happy as any of them had seen him. A flurry of bows rippled out from him like a wave.
“That was marvelous!” he exclaimed, face alight, grinning. “My lady, your prize!” Very proudly, he handed over the gold ring.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Mary said, bowing deeply, honored and blushing in spite of herself. The ring only fit on her thumb, so she put it there, and the king seemed so very pleased.
“Your father must be proud of you. Is he here?”
Mary said, “I’m afraid he had business elsewhere, but yes, I believe he’s proud of us.”
“Lady Eleanor, you weren’t with your brother and sister among the archers,” the king said. “Do you shoot as well?”
She shook her head shyly and hid behind Mary’s shoulder.
“I beg your pardon, sire,” Mary said quickly, before the king could take offense. “Our sister doesn’t speak. She has no voice.”
He raised a brow, interested. Perhaps skeptical. Mary had a sinking feeling then, that if this boy mocked Eleanor or caused her any hurt at all, she would knock him to the ground. John had stepped forward, probably with the same thought. They would both knock the boy down, and then they would all hang, so she desperately hoped Henry did nothing of the kind.
“Why not?” he asked simply.
Mary hesitated a moment, then nudged their sister forward, out of her shelter. “Ask her.”
“Lady Eleanor, why don’t you speak?”
The girl took a moment to gather herself, looking for all the world like someone deciding on what words to use. Then, she clenched her fists at her throat, squeezed her eyes tight, and it perfectly conveyed the idea of pain and choking. Of speech locked tightly away, never to escape. She flicked her fingers away, then settled her hands at her sides. Her voice scattered, dead. She pursed her lips and bowed her head.
“Our sympathies to you,” he said.
Her expression turned suddenly bright, blushing. This meaning too was somehow clear: she did not mind, it was just the way things were. One could not help but smile with her.
“She does speak, in her own way,” John said. “She shoots as well. But she doesn’t much like crowds.”