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

an indirect way. Rumor said he had been raised up from penury by Berengaria herself; only later had Blondel made his way into Richard’s service.
    “There was a song, my lord—a campaign song. One of the king’s favorites. When he was lost, Blondel took it upon himself to travel the lands, following rumors of imprisoned sovereigns—it is said Richard heard the song in his cell, answered it, and so was discovered.”
    John studied Locksley intently, weighing words. But when he answered he did not question the story. “ ‘Richard’?” he asked softly.
    Locksley’s mouth tightened. “The king, my lord.”
    “He allowed you use of his Christian name?”
    “In battle, my lord, such things as rank are often superseded by the familiarity of comradeship—”
    “Blondel,” John said clearly. “It was a lute-player in his bed . . . and not a newly-knighted stripling with a tongue too smooth for his mouth?”
    Locksley inclined his head. “You need only ask for the truth of Blondel’s appearance—”
    “I need only ask for his presence. Be certain I shall.” John flicked an imperative hand, then turned to the earl. “What entertainments have you for this evening? We are in mind to be suitably honored—and suitably entertained.”
    The earl drew breath to answer as his son, duly dismissed, departed the chamber in silence.
     
    The trembling lute note died away, sighing into silence of unrequited love. Alain, also called Alan, smiled in bittersweet appeal at the woman so close to him. Just so —he had smiled in precisely that manner hundreds of times before. “A sad song, lady. Perhaps a livelier one would appeal more to your taste?”
    She was flushed and dark of eye, clearly aroused. Too much wine to fuel the passion, he reflected, as the tip of her tongue breeched parted lips to moisten them. He would enjoy the first tumble, before the wine caught up.
    She was trembling, strung to breaking with need. He saw the nakedness of it and the weakness of her will. Easier, he knew. Easier than the others, who played the game with tighter rules, requiring infinite patience. At times, he preferred it; this time, he did not. She was the daughter of the Sheriff of Nottingham, a man of some power. Wiser by far to tumble her quickly and then look to other game.
    “Songs have their places,” she told him huskily. “But there is more to living than music.”
    “Is there?” Languidly, he stroked lute strings. Down the neck to the belly with a gentle, long-fingered hand—as he would caress a woman. “Pray, lady, I am but a poor man hoping to share his talent . . . music has been my life. I am unaccustomed to other entertainments and certain—civilities.”
    Eleanor deLacey touched a seemingly idle finger to a plump lower lip, reshaping the line of her mouth. Her eyes were black in dim light. “There are those who can offer instruction.”
    He smiled. “Indeed.”
    She removed her finger, swaying forward slightly. “Have you a room?”
    He shook his head. “The hall floor shall be my bed.” It was customary during overcrowded feasts. Men such as Prince John or the sheriff would have chambers, but most would put blankets in the rushes, slapping away the dogs.
    Her mouth crimped in faint annoyance. “Nor have I one to myself. I must share . . .” But she let it go, glancing birdlike around the hall. Subterfuge was not her gift. “There are other arrangements.”
    “Of course.”
    She leaned closer yet. “Find us a room.”
    He affected a sigh. “I have no coin, Lady . . . I can hardly bribe a man to leave when there is nothing in it for him.” Of course, if the woman were willing to accommodate them both, there would be no problem at all. In the past it had proved an efficacious way, but he was not so certain of Eleanor deLacey. Women who drank were unpredictable, subject to flights of fancy.
    She clenched teeth. “Find a room,” she hissed. And then, on another note entirely: “My father. I must go.”
    And