Free Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] by Lady of the Forest

when—and when not —to speak.”
    Gisbourne nodded vigorously.
    De Pisan lifted a languid hand and gestured idly. “Perhaps. I promise nothing. Be certain I shall tell the prince.”
    “That is all I can hope for.”
    Gilbert de Pisan eyed Gisbourne a moment. “Indeed.”
     
    John’s clear insinuation regarding Locksley’s appetites shook the earl soundly. Huntington gagged hoarsely, reaching unsteadily for a chair back. “My lord, I beg you—”
    “Silence!” John snapped. “This is no idle accusation, Huntington—I am surprised you yourself have not heard it.”
    The earl pressed a hand against his chest, breathing noisily. “I—have heard nothing, my lord . . . nothing of the sort—”
    “My lord Count.” It was Locksley, with faultless courtesy. “If you will permit me to inquire as to the exact nature of your information—”
    “I told you,” John declared. “Do you wish me to divulge my sources? Do you think me so witless as that?”
    “No, my lord. I think the information your sources have given you may be incomplete.”
    “How ‘incomplete?’ In nature? They say he sleeps with boys. Do you forget I am his brother? It wasn’t kitchen maids he tumbled—”
    In disbelief Huntington heard his son break into John’s diatribe quietly, but decisively. “My lord, the information was incomplete.”
    “How incomplete?”
    Locksley drew breath. “Did the sources mention me by name?”
    John leaned forward and grabbed a lock of white-blond hair, shutting it up in a tight fist. “It was told to me, Locksley: a man of fair mien and fairer hair shared my brother’s bed.”
    Locksley’s jaw muscles bunched, then released. “Blondel.”
    John’s eyes narrowed. “What are you mouthing now?”
    “A name, my lord.” Locksley made no attempt to dislodge his hair from the royal fist. “Blondel. A minstrel. A lute-player, my lord.”
    “And does this lute-player” —John made it an epithet—“also boast hair this fair?”
    “Yes, my lord. It was often remarked upon that the king had raised up two men of such fairness—”
    “Raised up?” John pulled Locksley close. He was considerably shorter, which required him to tilt his head back against padded shoulders. “How did my brother the king raise you up?”
    “He knighted me, my lord.”
    John released the captured hair abruptly. “Knighted you, did he? And are we Sir Robert, now?”
    “Yes, my lord. By the grace of God—and the King of England.”
    John made no answer at once. The blackness had faded from his countenance, leaving him wan, sickly, drained. Dark smudges encircled his eyes. “And Huntington’s heir, to boot.”
    The tone was oddly hoarse, lacking vitality. It was, in a way, resignation; the earl realized, in that moment, John needed Huntington—and all the earldom represented—badly. For income, if nothing else. And influence. And power. John was not king. John was not even officially Richard’s heir, not while the marriage to Berengaria of Navarre, however unproductive it might be, promised a potential true-born heir. John needed them all.
    Locksley flicked a glance at his father. “Unless he declares otherwise.”
    The earl summoned a faint smile that masqueraded as paternal indulgence, suppressing the flutter of rising acknowledgment: John needs us. “Considering the king himself has knighted you, only a fool would declare otherwise—”
    “And are you not a fool?” John was intent once more, summoning reserves as he still scented the hunt. “No, of course not; not our Huntington . . . they say you are the power of Nottinghamshire.”
    “No, my lord.” The earl bowed respectfully. “That, of course, is yourself.”
    “So should you both recall it.” John looked back at Locksley. “This Blondel—does he yet live?”
    “I believe so. It was he who found the king in Germany.”
    “A lute-player?”
    Privately the earl questioned the abilities of John’s informants. Even he had heard of Blondel, if in