“You were right,” John said. “He’s lonely. His advisors watch him closely.”
“Who is the tall one in black? The French-born bishop who never lets the king out of his sight?” Mary asked.
“That is Peter des Roches, the Bishop of Winchester. No one outside of the court trusts him, but to his credit, I think he cares about the boy.”
“And the other one?” John asked. “The fair one with the big chain of office?”
“Hubert de Burgh, Chief Justiciar of England, appointed by the late King. He was King John’s man through and through.” Robin didn’t need to elaborate—the English barons might see de Burgh as one of their own, unlike des Roches, but Robin himself would never trust him. No wonder Robin of Locksley wanted to stay out of it all. The baron turned pensive. “Since William Marshal died, those two will be after each other for power. Marshal kept them in check—no one could argue with him. But now . . .” He shook his head.
“How do you deal with men like that?” John asked. “Henry is king but they hold the power, that much is clear.”
“Mostly, you stay out of their way,” Robin said.
“You’ll notice your father rarely follows his own advice.” Marian innocently stitched at a sleeve.
“They always meddle with me, not the other way around,” Robin protested.
“Yes, love.” She smiled sweetly.
“That doesn’t help,” John said. “I can try to curry favor with Henry all I like, until they shut the door. They don’t seem very enamored of the name of Locksley.” John narrowed his gaze accusingly at Robin.
Marian said, “I think what your father is saying is don’t try to curry favor. Rather, be honest and honorable. Just be yourself.”
“Yes, that is exactly what I’m saying. Listen to your mother. She’s much better at these things than I am.” The pair traded one of those adoring looks that always made the minstrels swoon.
Mary looked on, astonished. Just be himself? They had no idea what they’d just unleashed, did they?
* * *
Sneaking past Will Scarlet might be nearly impossible. In fact, if John could do that much, the rest of the plan would seem easy.
Will set a couple of his assistants to keep watch through the night—he did not call them guards, but that was what they were. The guards would be looking for people coming into camp, not out of camp, so that was something. Will himself would walk a circuit once more before he retired. If John waited until after that hour, it would be too late for what he intended. So, he had to sneak out before, even though it meant avoiding the watch.
After dark, the fire in the camp’s forecourt blazed, and Robin presided over a small gathering of old friends. Not the barons and would-be allies, the men of politics who wanted to strategize about where they stood with the new king and old charters and the like. That had happened earlier. This was different—these were the old foresters and former outlaws who had been with him in Sherwood a quarter-century before. John longed to sit among them and listen to stories, hoping for the ones he hadn’t heard before, the more harrowing tales and near misses and hardships that didn’t get sung about. There were two versions of what had happened, and they didn’t talk about the true version among outsiders. For all that he was Robin’s son, John would always be an outsider because he had not been there.
However much he wanted to, John didn’t stay, but pretended to go to bed and then crept to the back of the camp while Robin and Will Scarlet and Dav and the others had their attention on the fire and their cups of ale. Their tents blocked the light; he was able to stay in shadow and move slowly and quietly so as not to draw attention. His sisters were in their tent, and John didn’t want his silhouette splashing across the canvas. Mary would stop him. Eleanor would want to go with him.
Carefully then, he put space between himself and the camp. He reached the copse of trees, waited to see if any alarm was raised. Then he jogged out to the path that led to the palace.
The place was busy, even at this hour, with messengers and attendants coming and going, horses riding in and out. And yes, guards. But John was dressed well and looked like he belonged. He had merely to act like it, too, and to have a story ready if anyone stopped him and asked what he was doing here.
He hadn’t quite thought of a believable story yet. He could say he was some man’s squire, but which man? If he claimed to be a messenger, from whom was the message? And to whom, and what about? He would be asked all these things, and no excuse he thought of seemed reasonable.
Boldly, he walked past two sword-carrying guards at the gate in the palace’s outer courtyard. No one stopped him. Next, he made it through the stable yard, which was crowded enough John merely had to act like one of the stable hands, stewards, and young lords fussing over their hounds and horses.
Then he was inside, striding through a passageway that opened to a hall full of rowdy feasting. Losing himself here would be easy, though clearly these folk had far more rank and wealth than he. Dukes and earls, royal attendants, cousins of the king and all their hangers-on. Hooded falcons huddled on perches; hounds scrabbled for bones in the corners. He took a place by the stone wall and had a look around. If King Henry was here, he might be allowed to approach and even speak his plan to him outright. The high table stood at the back of the hall, but it was empty except for a handful of men clustered at one end, talking. One of them was the Bishop of Winchester, des Roches. Which meant that the king was currently unsupervised, perhaps. If John could just get to him . . .
The further into this rarefied realm he went, the less believable any lie he could tell to explain himself would be. He was already an intruder. He could almost hear Mary hissing at him, You will hang for this.
He was certain he wouldn’t. For today at least, because of the tournament, he had the king’s favor.
Moving out of the hall, he found a smaller courtyard with several doorways leading to different sets of chambers. He studied each of them, then approached the one that had armed guards standing by. Acting like he belonged here was harder than it had been when he was surrounded by other people and could use the noise and activity as a cover. Here, he walked down the corridor alone. He passed a serving woman with a tray. She took a quick glance at him; he ignored her because that was what would be expected. The guards marked his approach.
John stopped before them and announced himself. “I am Lord John of Locksley. His Grace the king has summoned me.” His tone was completely serious and offered no room for argument. Or rather, if they wanted to argue, they would have to do so with the king.
They might have done well to ask if King Henry had really summoned him, and why. But astonishingly, they didn’t question him at all. One of the guards nodded, went through the door behind him, and returned just a few moments later.
“His Grace is waiting for you, my lord,” he said, and stepped aside to gesture John through.