“Indeed.” Henry gazed out over the pitch again with wonder and frank longing. “We should have more contests like this. I wish I could shoot so well. Half so well.” He was definitely the boy now, not the king.
John said, “It’s mostly a matter of practice—”
“It’s more than that, you said so yourself,” Henry replied. “Though it’s true, I get very little chance to practice. It’s unseemly.” He frowned. That was someone else’s word for it, Mary wagered, eyeing the serious old men behind him. “I’ve never even climbed a tree,” the king sighed.
“Really?” John said, astonished, and then thoughtful.
The somber bishop, who was never far from the king—and who no doubt thought shooting arrows and climbing trees was unseemly—came forward, glancing at the Locksley children with a look of distaste.
“Your Grace, we must away, if you please. There are important matters to attend to.” His accent marked him as French—from the continent. He gestured out of the pavilion.
“Well, then,” King Henry said. “We hope to see you all again soon.”
They bowed once again—it felt excessive, but then, one would rather bow too much than too little. But for just a moment there, he hadn’t seemed like the king.
“Imagine,” John said, looking after them. “By right the most powerful man in England, and he’s called away to lessons. And never climbed a tree.”
“Let’s go back to camp,” Mary said, putting her arm around
Eleanor’s shoulders. “I’ve had enough.”
Mary had been thinking of how she was supposed to know if she liked William de Ros, when—if—she finally met him. Father had said she would not have to marry him if she didn’t like him. But how would she know, at one meeting? He could be on his best behavior for one meeting, and then turn horrible after they were married, once he had her and she would have to spend the rest of her life with him. Or she could always run away to Sherwood . . .
She had begun to have some idea of how she might tell if she liked a man or not. Ranulf FitzHugh at the tournament—she would not marry him if he were the last man in the world. Many of the men at the tournament, ones who looked her up and down while wearing a scowl—she disliked them all. Many men were nice enough at the start; they had pretty manners and would bow and smile fondly at women—and then ignore them, as if they didn’t merit further attention. So, while they were not cruel, they were not . . . likable. She began to watch how men treated their servants and animals. Anyone weaker than they. Did they look their servants in the eye, speak kindly, or at least not cruelly? Did they pet their horses’ necks or take a moment to scratch their hounds’ ears? Did their animals cringe from them or seek out contact? She would contrive to watch William de Ros with a pack of hounds. Before she would let him add her to his kennel, ha.
Some men were handsome, and she wanted to meet these men and hoped they were likable. She would see some young man, smiling as he rode by on a beautifully turned-out horse, or simply glancing over his shoulder in a certain way, and wish very much that that one was William de Ros . . . She determined that maybe she shouldn’t be thinking about men quite so much.
She just wanted to know.
Eleanor ran ahead. John was quiet, which made Mary suspicious.
“What are you thinking?” she asked finally.
After a thoughtful pause he said, “Best you don’t know.”
“John—”
He strode ahead, almost running like Eleanor, so he would not have to answer.
At the Locksley encampment, Mother and her maid Beatrice sat by the fire with a basket of sewing. The baron was looking over some piece of leather tack for the horses with Will Scarlet.
Eleanor had already taken up a seat by Marian, who brightened when the others arrived. “How was it?”
“Mary won,” John said, and they responded with a generally embarrassing hurrah.
“Well done!” Robin said.
“I didn’t split it but I got close.” She drew the gouged arrow from her quiver and tossed it to him.
Robin caught it and traced the wound in the shaft. “One of these days, you’ll split one.”
“Seems a waste of a good arrow to me,” she said, hanging up her gear on the rack. She sat by the fire and accepted a cup of wine from Beatrice.
“Always the practical one,” he said, laughing. “And what do you make of our young king?”
She hesitated. She had a lot of thoughts about the king and wasn’t sure which was the most important. “He was kind to Eleanor,” she said finally.
Robin was taken aback. “Well, that is something.”