Read Online Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] by Lady of the Forest - Free Book Online Page B

calculated the cost of rebuilding as Huntington had, marveling at the depth of the earl’s coffers. Another part of him acknowledged the reason why he had fled: he couldn’t face the truth.
    He scrubbed at his blunt-featured, saturnine face, unmindful of the severity of his attentions to vulnerable flesh. Foremost in his mind was the sense of humiliation he’d felt as he’d discovered the woman gone, after sending him for wine.
    God, but it still pinched!
    It had occurred to him not to ask her to dance. He hadn’t really meant to, because she was beautiful, and he was not; and the grace he saw in her movements was alien to himself. A poor match, physically—and yet he could not keep his eyes from her, or the hope from his heart. And when he saw the sheriff dance with her, he knew he had to try. He could not bear to let deLacey prove superior in that, also.
    Gisbourne closed his eyes. I can’t be what they are. I was born a merchant’s son . . .” It niggled at his spirit. He had never been poor, but distinctly common . . . and likely to remain so, if he didn’t rectify it. Certainly his father had taken the first step for him, buying him the knighthood—but what was left to him? He could offer a woman nothing, save himself, and that was not so much. Not very much at all. Unless I had more. Unless I were more—somehow.
    A footstep scraped beside him. Gisbourne opened his eyes, half fearing it might be her, but it was a man, a stranger, clothed in velvet and brocade.
    The man arched a silvering brow as he saw Gisbourne and spoke a greeting in Norman French. Gisbourne answered in the same tongue automatically, responding as he would to his father even though the Saxons clung stubbornly to English, and realized the stranger was as Norman as he was. The accent was pure.
    And so they were kindred, recognizing one another. It made them easier with one another, quietly discussing the ugliness of English, and how difficult it was to conduct affairs of business in anything but the language of their homeland and the occasional Latin.
    Names and ranks were exchanged: the man was Gilbert de Pisan, seneschal to Prince John.
    Gisbourne’s response was instant. “But I too am seneschal! To the Sheriff of Nottingham; not so high as your lord, but there is some credit attached.” He gestured deprecatingly.
    De Pisan lifted a single shoulder in a slight, dismissive shrug. “The ways of the prince are not so different from anyone else’s, save he is heir to the throne. And like to be king, soon, if the Lionheart remains imprisoned.”
    There it was: opportunity. Gisbourne knew it instinctively. He could go no higher in deLacey’s service, unless deLacey attained higher office and Gisbourne was named his successor—which he believed unlikely—but there were other masters than the one he served.
    Now, he told himself. If you do nothing now, you have only yourself to blame.
    “I have some skill at stewardship,” he declared bluntly, eagerly, knowing no other way; he was not adept at diplomacy. “You have only to ask, and they will tell you. Nottingham Castle thrives under my care.”
    De Pisan shrugged again. “I have no doubt.”
    Self-consciousness flickered faintly; was the man patronizing him? Gisbourne forged ahead, knowing himself committed. “Yet a man such as I would be a fool to look askance at a place with a lord such as yours.”
    De Pisan’s smile was wintry. “Just now he has a seneschal.”
    Gisbourne was horrified. “No! No—I don’t mean to apply for your place. I mean only to tell you, and your lord, that if there is room for me in your household ...” It was not going well at all. He was not a clever man, but honest. And now it was too late. He steeled himself and took a deep breath. “I am accustomed to keeping secrets.”
    “Ah.” The wintry smile altered faintly, though wry amusement still underlay it. “So are we all, we who act the steward. Surely it is a high recommendation that you know