“I didn’t learn a single thing from my father except how to make everyone furious.”
Cautiously, John said, “You didn’t know him well.”
“I can’t remember the last time I saw him before he died. He just . . . he was never there. I do remember once he came to look me over and said, ‘He’s very small, isn’t he?’ And I think it must have been Lord Peter who said, ‘He is a child, Your Grace.’ And my father said, ‘Show him to us again when he’s bigger.’ Then he died before I could get any bigger. Your father probably knew him better than I ever did.” Henry looked up at him, his brow furrowed. “What does Lord Robin say about my father?”
“I had better not tell you what Lord Robin says about your father.”
“Nobody liked him,” Henry said sullenly. “Even those who served him only did so to win power for themselves. They only serve me for the same reason.”
John did not think this was true. Not when the boy was so earnest and trying so hard to be likable. One must want to help him. “Your Grace, I think they serve you because that is what is best for England. If they are good men, that is.”
Henry’s expression remained screwed up and worried.
The sound of voices reached them, low and urgent. Henry flinched, searching, and John put a hand on his shoulder.
“Stay very, very still, sire,” he whispered. Both of them pressed close to the tree’s trunk and froze.
He spotted the men soon enough, three of them in heavy cloaks coming through the orchard, all hunched together. He couldn’t see much else, such as if they went armed or who they might be.
“ . . . by the water,” one of them said. “It must look as if he drowned.”
They seemed to be making for the river’s edge, past the cloister gardens.
“What of the letter? Have you put it with him?”
“In a moment—damn you, he’s slipping!”
Cursing at each other, they stumbled to a stop very near the tree where the boys watched. Henry grabbed John’s sleeve, his eyes round and his face gone pale. John had seen it.
The three cloaked men were carrying a body.
* * *
Mary had retired to the ladies’ tent for the evening when Eleanor rushed in, grabbed her arm in a panic, and pointed out.
“It’s John, isn’t it?” Mary asked. “He’s gone to do something stupid.” The youngest Locksley nodded, and Mary muttered, “I knew it. Well, I suppose we’ll have to go after him.”
Voices filled the camp’s front court, speaking low and punctuated by occasional laughter. What good would it do to announce to their parents that John had run off? It would create a stir that would embarrass them and perhaps get her brother in more trouble than he was already in—however much he might deserve it. Besides, she thought she knew exactly where John had gone. He’d never get away with what he had planned, if he was attempting what she feared.
“Out the back, yes?” Mary asked. Eleanor went to the front flap, glanced out to have a look, and nodded.
Mary looked around a moment. She was still in her kirtle but had pulled off her veil for the evening, leaving her dark hair braided down her back. She ought to cover her head if she was going out, but the stark white linen would only draw attention at night. Eleanor had abandoned hers much earlier in the day.
Besides, no one would see them, not if they were careful.
Pulling out a stake, she released one of the tent’s back flaps. The girls crept out, shut the flap behind them. No lanterns or torches lit this side of camp. Mary paused for her sight to adjust to the dark.
“Anything the matter, my ladies?”
Flinching, Mary touched her chest, near her suddenly pounding heart. Eleanor’s hands clutched her skirt. There stood Will Scarlet, arms crossed, standing at the next tent as if he had just paused to admire the stars in the sky.
Mary couldn’t come up with a reasonable lie, and Eleanor certainly wasn’t going to provide an explanation.
“John’s run off to do something foolish. We’re going to bring him back.”
Will straightened, concerned. “I didn’t see him leave. Are you sure?”
“Check his bed,” Mary said, scowling.