Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 02] by Lady of Sherwood

he relinquished his grasp. At his whim. “By your silence, Lady Marian, I assume the answer is no. Why then are you here?”
    “The earl is ill,” she answered tightly.
    “So he is. But not so as you might fear he will die, thereby permitting entrance into a place that is expressly denied to you.” He studied her pointedly. “Unless you have come to relinquish your claim on his son? Surely even you would do so, if only so the boy might see his father again. It is a sad state of affairs when a man”s affection for a woman turns him from his father.”
    “And his legacy?” she asked tartly. “Oh, Sheriff, do not bestir yourself on Robin’s behalf. He lives as he wishes. He lives where he wishes.”
    “And forfeits a title. A castle.”
    “And he would gladly trade both if it would keep the king alive!”
    She meant to go past him. He caught her arm again, trapped it. Swung her to face him, so roughly her hood slid off her head to puddle across her shoulders. “You know about the king?”
    “Robin is even now on his way to France.” Bleakness flickered in her eyes as her arm went slack in his grip. “The king sent for him.”
    DeLacey released her. The earl knew. Locksley knew. Marian knew. How many others?
    Prince John? He was in Brittany, visiting his nephew, Arthur.
    The king was dying, and John was with Arthur.
    “My God,” the sheriff murmured. “John will have him killed.”
    “ Robin? ”
    “No . . . no, of course not. Locksley has nothing to do with this.” DeLacey scowled at her, then tempered it into casual concern as his thoughts worked it out. “You became a ward of the Crown on the death of your father.”
    “I was,” she said guardedly. “The king released me of that.”
    “And pardoned murder, thievery, rape, and other such activities as might earn a man a hanging.” His smile now was cold. “If John becomes king, as he is certain to do, he may have other ideas. Pardons may be revoked. Unmarried daughters of dead knights may have their lands—and the disposition of their hands— claimed by the Crown.”
    Color flared in her face again. “And will that be your advice to the new sovereign?”
    “That shall be for the ears of the new sovereign, whomever he may be” deLacey answered smoothly. “But my advice to you is to consider that your circumstances may be about to change.”
    Before she could speak again—if indeed she meant to—he turned once more to his horse. This time he permitted the boy to offer him a proper leg up, and swept his cloak across the saddle as he settled and slid his right foot into the stirrup. The reins were supple in his gloved hands.
    William deLacey smiled, inclined his head to her with all lordly courtesy, and rode out of Huntington Castle. There was much to do, far more than had been on his plate an hour before. Knowledge of Richard’s imminent death altered everything. The world would be unmade, then remade in another king’s image.
    He had told the earl nothing of his thoughts, his preferences. But he knew very well his only chance to retain his office and power was to support Prince John. Arthur of Brittany was a boy; he would be surrounded by ambitious women, and Bretons who had neither love for nor understanding of England. But John, John was eminently preferable. The Count of Mortain and the High Sheriff of Nottingham had already established a rapport.
    Now was the time to solidify it.
     
    Marian offered the earl’s steward nothing but courtesy—yet seasoned it with consistency. She would see the earl, she said. Repeatedly. To offer him comfort.
    Ralph’s expression suggested that her presence would offer no such thing to the earl, though he said nothing of it. Merely explained the earl was ill and could receive no visitors.
    “He has received the sheriff,” she countered calmly.
    “Lady, I do apologize, but I fear—”
    She interrupted. “You fear nothing save your master’s displeasure. And indeed he shall be displeased when he