Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] by Lady of the Forest Read Free Book Online Page A

better were forthcoming. That better existed, he knew; he had seen several already, but a rare few had entered the game, playing the proper parts. It left him now with this one.
    “Fair Eleanor,” he murmured, and saw the answering color blooming in her face, the glint in dark brown eyes. Lips broke, then parted. Her slight overbite intrigued him. “Fair Eleanor, my sweet—I shall make a song just for you.”
    So easy, she was. Like so many other women. Lowborn or highborn, women were all the same. Give them a smile, a song; the bedding soon would follow.
    Fair Eleanor—who wasn’t—met him look for look. “Alain,” she murmured back, with a throaty Norman inflection learned from her father.
    Alain, in Norman French; in English, unadorned Alan. One and the same, to him. He didn’t care what they called him, any of them: Norman, Saxon, French. So long as the women filled his bed, and the men filled his purse.
    He plucked a single note upon his English lute. “Fairest Eleanor,” he murmured, letting her languish on his look. Smiling, he sang.
     
    The earl of Huntington put one hand on Marian’s arm and pushed her bodily aside, making room for the newest arrival: Prince John, Count of Mortain, brother to the king. She stumbled, but the sheriff caught her neatly and pulled her out of the way.
    John, called Softsword or Lackland when not cursed roundly, came unsteadily into the room aclatter with a heavy chain of office and jeweled ornaments. He was dark-eyed, dark-haired, small, narrow of shoulder and in the space between his eyes. His color was very high and his breath stank of wine. The voice was thick and slurred. “Are you having a feast without inviting me? ”
    It was all at once obvious the Count of Mortain was deeply in his cups. The earl, a powerful peer in his own right, was clearly irritated; just as clearly he desired not to show it. He displayed a polite—and politic—smile as he shut the door. “My lord, I understood you were in London.”
    “Was,” John declared, swaying slightly, until he hitched himself upright. “Now I am here. With or without an invitation.” His glassy dark eyes went beyond the earl to the sheriff, at whom he raised a negligent forefinger in barest greeting—deLacey grimaced minutely—then paused on Marian’s face. And brightened perceptibly, focusing abruptly. “Huntington—is this your daughter? ”
    Marian’s skin tightened. She stared blankly back at John, transfixed by his expression.
    The earl barely glanced at her. “No, my lord. She is not.”
    “But—” A royal hand waved irresolutely, seeking the proper answer. “Certainly not your wife! Or have you taken to robbing cradles?” His smile displayed bad teeth. “Worth robbing, in this case. Is she?”
    Marian felt exposed, stripped naked before the prince. She was cold, then hot, wanting nothing more than to take herself out of the chamber, or fade inconspicuously back into the shadows. This was nothing for which she could have prepared herself, this assault by way of implication and assumption. She felt sick, unsettled, stunned, and desperate for escape. If I ignore him—if I avoid his eyes —Clenching teeth painfully, she stared hard at the chain of office dangling from John’s shoulders.
    Huntington did not smile. “No, my lord. My lady wife is deceased.”
    John’s wavering focus sharpened. “Ah. How convenient ... neither a wife nor a daughter—” He moved forward, smiling warmly at Marian. It did not improve his breath. “What is your name?”
    Make him forget, she appealed. Distract his attention----do something, anything ... please don’t let it go any farther ...
    Smoothly, the sheriff interposed an answer before Marian had to. “Lady Marian,” he said quietly. “Of Ravenskeep Manor, near to Nottingham.”
    John glared at him. “I was just there. You were here. But I could go back. It’s mine, after all ... and all the taxes, too.”
    So the poor complained, and many of the