XXXII. Retford to Laxton
The Moot Hall of Retford had begun life as a motte and bailey fortification. The ditch around the steep scarp remained. What might once have been a drawbridge was now just a walkway. The hall looked to be a modified wooden keep sitting atop the mound, thatched roof visible behind the crenellations at the top. The castle was now given over to meetings of such entities as the forty-days court and other legal proceedings. That nothing in particular appeared to be going on did not strike Thomas as odd. He didn’t know what to expect, but assumed a Woodmote court would have a backlog of matters to hear.
Little John said he preferred to stay with the horses. His name might be all too familiar to members of such a court. There were owed fees at the very least.
It wasn’t until Thomas had climbed the steps and entered, to find no sign of a court in attendance at all, that he became concerned. The table where the judges would sit was obvious across the room, but unoccupied. Isabella ought to be here right now, weighing in sharply against the three men accused of illegal pannage, her arguments irrefutable, damning.
Instead, he found one young man with bowl-cut hair at work at a small table outfitted with an inkpot and dozens of papers, copying a document and acting as if he hadn’t come in. He asked where Lady Isabella Birkin might be found.
The young clerk paused, looked up at him with some annoyance, and replied, “Gone home,” then went back to his transcription.
“What do you mean, ‘gone home’? Where?”
The clerk held his stylus up, pausing between words. “That would be Laxton Castle, yes?” he said. “Left for it this morning after the fiasco.” He returned to his copying.
Increasingly irritated by the uninformative answers, Thomas snatched the stylus out of the scrivener’s hand. Ink spattered on the document. “What fiasco? What happened to the case of pannage?”
“Thrown out. The accused trio produced a document”—he pushed through those he had and dangled one in the air—“granting them permission to herd their pigs onto the King’s land. Thereby maintained their innocence, they did.”
“And Lady Isabella accepted that evidence?”
“Well, she had to, didn’t she?” he said. “The document was written and signed by her husband.”
“What?”
“See for yourself. His signature and seal.”
Thomas slid the page over. As the scrivener claimed, it read like a legal document granting the parties full rights to graze their pigs, signed with a flourish and below that wax imprinted with a signet. If he’d known nothing of the matter, he would have believed it, too. He said, “But Robert D’Everingham has no legal standing to grant such permission.”
The clerk grinned. “And that’s what propelled her home, good sir. The accused insisted they’d no way of knowing that. Her ’usband, he misrepresented himself as a Keeper of Sherwood. So it become a matter of a dispute between Warden and him. The court, it suspended, and she departed with such speed, all her companions were caught off guard. I can tell you, her ire all but set the room ablaze. I wouldn’t want to be her ’usband for nothing.”
A pall of foreboding wrung the irritation out of Thomas. “Believe me,” he said, handing back the stylus, “you wouldn’t want to be him anytime at all. The other foresters—did they ride out with her?”
“After her, more like.”
“And how long ago was this?”
“Oh, hours nah. It were the first business took up by court this morning.”
Little John was surprised at how huge an estate Laxton proved to be, the entire settlement bordered by both an outer ditch and a low curtain wall, which in turn framed a second smaller curtain wall containing what were likely the original settlement houses. At the far end, its gatehouse opened to the motte on which Laxton castle itself perched—a round shell keep enclosing a two-story hall and other smaller stone buildings within. Their thatch roofs peeked over the keep wall. Defensively, it was the very opposite of the King’s Houses.
The road led straight through the larger main gate to the second enclosure. On either side stood smaller houses, most with attached crofts, reminding him both of Clipstone and of the small vill in Barnsdale where his own brother and family dwelled. The people toiling in the crofts paused to watch as the two of them rode by. They looked like people everywhere.
John and Thomas rode on into the smaller enclosure where they dismounted. Stable and paddock were part of that smaller yard. In the stable, John identified horses belonging to the Keepers, horses that had pursued him on more than one occasion. So, they’d arrived in timely fashion. All the way from Retford, Robyn had spoken of his worries regarding Lady Isabella, how her husband was surely another of those walkers like the prelate had been, and more treacherous than she appreciated for that, and how he hoped the others had caught up with her before she reached Laxton. Now he was saying nothing at all, but at least it appeared they had accompanied her.
One of the villeins in the yard scurried off through the gate and up the slope to announce their arrival. Robyn, unable to stand still, paced the yard.
Instead of D’Everingham it was Lady Isabella herself who descended from the motte to greet them, although John did not recognize her until she was crossing the yard. He’d never seen her in such finery before. She wore a blue surcoat, white gown, and a pale yellow mantle trimmed in fur. On her head a crespine of gold wire held her hair, a narrow fillet and barbette securing the wire frame. She walked boldly up to Robyn, took him by the face, and kissed him deeply. A little embarrassed and surprised, John looked around, and noticed how the other villeins were gawking. It seemed they’d never seen such behavior in their mistress before, either. The unnaturalness of it shook even Robyn. He stepped back from her, though he must have been pleased to find her safe.
“I feared,” he said, “you had either killed your husband or he you.”
She laughed. “As you can see, neither,” she replied. She could not keep from touching him, and ran her hands over his shoulders, then down his arms as though one touch invited another and another. “We have resolved our disagreement—that is, he apologized for his part and I for mine.”
“Yours? What part of your outrage owes him an apology? He usurped your authority as if it was his own.” Even John could see how this made no sense. The lady seemed herself somewhat ill at ease, and he wondered if she had struck a bargain of some sort with her husband to protect her lover. Her unease caused John to look up at the walls around them; he half expected to see armed bowmen taking aim, but there were none. Still, nothing about this was quite right.
“The others, then, caught you up before you rode this far?”
“Oh, they’ve come and gone.” Robyn didn’t react, but John couldn’t help glancing again at the stabled horses, a look she must have identified, because she added, “We gave them fresh horses back to Clipstone.”
“The Keepers without you?” Disbelief dripped from the question. “That’s positively inaudita, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes. Certainly.” John wondered what that exchange meant. It seemed to mean something to Robyn, though not to her. She continued, “Once they understood that Robert posed no threat to me and that I would remain to await you, my dear, they rode off. I told them to go. They should not be on the road at night. And it allows Adam an opportunity to lead.” She lifted her arms. “You see? Robert has his pursuits, and I have mine.” This last was barely shy of an invitation. Even he heard that, and found it odd, given how angry she had been with Robyn at the abbey. “But come, both of you, it’s well past midday. You’ll be hungry if you rode as hard from Retford as your horses indicate. Come meet the capricious Robert, fill your bellies, and spend the night. We’ll return to Clipstone in the morning.” She gestured for two of the serfs to come take the horses.
They handed off their horses to a bent-backed old man. Robyn lingered a moment. He insisted they collect their bows and other possessions.
“Oh, you’ve no need of all that,” Isabella insisted.
Robyn replied that it was better to know they were at hand than not. “No telling who besides three pig farmers would like to skin your husband alive,” he said. He belted his quiver and shouldered the empty mason’s tool pouch. John grabbed his staff.
She laughed, but it was an uneven sound.
With everything to hand, they followed her through the gatehouse and up the steps to the keep.
Robert D’Everingham had a pitcher of wine brought into the hall. He was already drinking from a full goblet. He watched intently as they each accepted theirs and a servant poured for them. Isabella passed him to sit, and he reached out with one hand to grope her. She twisted away from his grasp and slapped his hand away. In that moment, Robyn looked to Little John and gave his head a small shake. John wasn’t sure if it was a sign not to drink the wine or disgust with their host’s rude behavior. D’Everingham laughed, while Isabella gave John and Robyn a look that seemed to say “What can I do? This is who he is.”
They sat at a table that could have served ten. D’Everingham preferred to stand. He was slightly taller than Robyn and soft, a man who had never toiled in fields or fought in battles—not fat but someone who’d known much comfort. His curling hair was a blond so pale that it looked almost white, his beard a darker, straw color.
He walked around as he spoke, as if making a great speech. “My wife claims you’re an astonishing bowman. Says you split another’s arrow straight down the middle.”
“Then she exaggerates my talents.” Robyn set down his wine as if he’d just drunk from the goblet.
D’Everingham scrutinized Isabella. “Does she? Well, I’m not at all surprised. She exaggerates all sorts of things about me, as well. And you”—he turned to point at Little John—“I hear that you shot and killed some sort of creature—a demon, was it?” He swiveled for confirmation from his wife. “Yes, my old friend sheriff Passelewe of Nottingham claimed it was on the King’s Great Way. Demon disguised as a bishop no less.” This seemed to amuse him. “Hardly much difference there, really.” He took a large drink of his wine. “Tell me, how did you recognize the . . . irregularity?” He bared his teeth in a grin.
It was evident that Robyn wanted to retrieve his bow from the chamber where they’d laid their things and murder the man. John paid that more heed as he answered. “I recognized nowt of the man, who were no man at all as it ended.”
D’Everingham stared at him for a moment, then slapped his thigh, laughing harder. “So, for all you knew right then, you shot an actual bishop! Why, any other outcome, they’d have you drawn and quartered in Nottingham.”
“Was jammy, aye.”
“I’m sorry. Jammy?”
“He means he was lucky,” Robyn explained.
To Little John it looked as if Lady Isabella also wanted her husband to vanish, no doubt so she could spend time with Robyn. He couldn’t make out if she was playing some part to keep her husband at bay. She was definitely not acting like the Lady Isabella of yesterday.
Then two maidens arrived from the kitchen next door, carrying a board of sliced venison and large boule of bread, and bandy-legged D’Everingham wove his way back to the table. He set down his goblet, but then approached the nearest maid from behind. He took her by the hips and ground himself against her. As he turned the girl around to slobber a kiss in the vicinity of her mouth, Isabella made straight for him, passing by Robyn who, in that moment, leaned over and switched his goblet with D’Everingham’s.
Even as Isabella reached her husband, he was clutching for the edge of the table. The girl had kneed him in the bollocks. John couldn’t help guffawing. The girl ran from the room while D’Everingham, half doubled over, muttered painfully, “Feisty.” No doubt there would be trouble for the girl, unless his lordship was so in his cups he wouldn’t remember the specifics of this later. But the man righted himself and insisted, “Come on, come on. Food’s near chilled being carried here from the kitchen.” He swiped up Robyn’s traded goblet and drank deeply. “Sit,” he said, “and where’s the sauce for the meat, Edme?” The remaining serving girl raced off to retrieve it.
Robyn pretended nothing out of the ordinary had happened, picking up the conversation as if they’d only paused momentarily. “So, Adam led the return to the King’s Houses? I’m a little surprised.”
“Why so?” Isabella answered. “He has witnessed enough of his father’s exemplary behavior already.” She cut D’Everingham a sharp look, but he was paying no attention. “There was nothing for him to learn here. He wants more authority. So I gave him some.” She watched her husband shakily take another deep draught of wine as the girl Edme returned with whatever sauce had been prepared. She set it down on the corner of the long table and fled before D’Everingham even noticed.
Robyn said, “’Tis a wonder you have any servants at all.”
“They are well compensated for his excesses.”
“They must be quite wealthy.”
Lady Isabella laughed.
Thirst got the better of John then. Robyn was drinking now, and he decided he would trust the wine, too. His host had drunk now from two different goblets and was still upright. He enjoyed a deep drink from his goblet, stopping only when the sediment rose to the top. Even so, it tasted sweet.
D’Everingham, overcoming his discomfort, stabbed at a slice of meat, and gnawed on it. He stared wickedly at John. “Jammy,” he said, and shook his head, chuckling.
It was half an hour before he fell out of his chair. John thought his host had simply drunk too much wine until he stood to help Robyn lift the man back up, and the room began to echo strangely, the crackling of the small fire became very loud, and suddenly it was Robyn bracing him and saying, “Come on, John.” They abandoned D’Everingham and Isabella to their servants. Robyn muttered some apology, and then they wobbled together from the great hall to the chamber Lady Isabella had shown them upon arrival. It seemed suddenly that he was lying down, no memory of passing through the doorway, and Robyn was saying, “It won’t kill you, I think.”
Then, oddest of all, Robyn fell down next to him, sound asleep.
“Sleep, sleep, sleep,” said someone from the doorway who sounded a great deal like the lady herself. Obeying her command was the easiest thing in the world. The last sound he heard was the door closing.