“Well, we’ll all be helping out. We need extra hands at the feast to be given in his honor,” Hannah said.
In his honor, Marian thought. She smelled a rat. Why would the sheriff, one of the most corrupt men in England, honor one of the most righteous men in England, the most faithful servant of King Richard and King Richard’s mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, with a feast?
“And the prince is to be here and all,” Ellie added.
Two rats! Marian thought, as Hannah chattered on. “It’s to be a big feast in the great hall—mummers, and the prince is bringing three jesters.”
Marian’s head was spinning. This, of course, was all she had hoped for—to serve at a grand feast. One did not find out where silver plate was kept by scrubbing bedsheets and the sheriff’s shirts or spending endless hours in the scullery doing all the messy kitchen work, from cutting worms out of potatoes to mopping up the blood from freshly butchered cattle. But there was more at stake here than just silver. Finally, she might have something to write the boys about! She was about to step onto the chessboard—bishop against bishop, prince against a checkmated king. Her mind had been swirling so fast that she nearly didn’t catch what Hannah said next. “What’s that?”
“I said that the abbess wants to meet all of us who be serving at the feast.”
“Abbess? What abbess?” Marian felt her heart skip a beat. The chessboard had suddenly turned deadly.
“The sheriff’s sister, the abbess of the abbey in Nottingham.”
Marian tried to speak, but no words came out.
“Marian, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I have seen a ghost! Marian thought. She took a deep breath and, recovering her voice, tried to look as normal as possible. “No, it’s just I didn’t know that the sheriff had a sister, a sister in the church. You know I’m not from around here.”
Hannah and Ellie snickered. “What’s so funny?” Marian asked.
“Well, some say she is not a sister of Christ either,” Hannah whispered.
“More like a lady friend of Prince John,” Ellie added. They giggled.
“But, Hannah, why isn’t planning the feast the steward’s job? He’s the one in charge of the great hall and all who serve there,” Marian asked. The steward was the highest ranking member of any castle’s staff and was charged with supervising not only the functions of the great hall but also those of the entire estate and household. He was no mere domestic servant, but frequently a knight. Sir Montgomery, the steward at Nottingham castle, was no exception. Marian had seen him strutting about in fine robes trimmed in fur.
Ellie replied, “The abbess likes everything just so. That’s why she wants more servants. All the silver and brass has to be polished. So I heard that we are all called in to meet the abbess in the steward’s chambers in the east tower within the hour.”
It is as Robin said, Marian thought. I am truly in the thick of it.
Chapter 18
A BIRTHDAY SURPRISE
Falconry is not simply for show; to have a hawk for carrying about on one’s wrist is not only senseless but vain. Hawks are spirited and independent by nature. Thus a falconer will do well to remember those qualities and appeal to them during training.
MARIAN TRIED TO PREPARE herself to look into the void of those terrible eyes. But she was not prepared to walk into the steward’s chamber and see the abbess flanked by Sir Guy of Gisborne, her mother’s murderer.
On the other side of the abbess was a man dressed in bishop’s robes. “Who’s that?” Marian whispered to Ellie. Surely the Bishop of Ely wouldn’t be present for the planning of the feast to honor him.
“The Bishop of Hereford—the very good friend of the sheriff.”
Marian felt her stomach turn. She swallowed and shut her eyes tightly against the nausea. Steady! Steady! she told herself. This is precisely why you are here. Gold and silver were suddenly secondary to what she might see and find out.
The steward had begun to address the fifty-odd servants who stood before him in the castle library when he was interrupted by the abbess. From the grim look on his face it was fairly obvious that the abbess had encroached on his domain.
“This is to be a grand feast,” she said, raising her hand and gracefully inscribing an arc in the air. Marian noticed that the abbess wore a large ring on her finger. Nothing fancy. No gemstones. But bigger than the simple gold ring that a nun received after her solemn vows signifying her marriage to Jesus Christ. “It is a feast in honor of King Richard’s chancellor, the Bishop of Ely.”
The abbess kept talking. Marian tried to listen closely but she could not stand to look at her or Sir Guy.
And now the abbess was talking about the gold platters on which the roasted swans would be served, as well as the ducks and the suckling pigs. In addition a boar and an ox were to be roasted, sliced, and served with apples. There were silver platters on which the sugar sculptures would be served, then cheeses and nuts. The best of wine was to be poured in the French gold goblets.
Marian suddenly remembered that her father had had a secret compartment in his chamber where he kept a few silver pieces and jewels. She thought of her mother’s Star of Jerusalem and felt a stitch in her heart when she remembered the flare of the white rays against the blue. If only the Star of Jerusalem had been tucked away and not on a chain around her mother’s neck. (Much of the Fitzwalter treasure had been hidden behind ledgers containing the castle records. If one pushed a scroll entitled Oat Yield, 1140–1170, the entire shelf mysteriously swung open. Perhaps this room, too, had a secret place.)
Marian began to examine the room as closely as she could from where she was standing. She scanned the innumerable shelves of books looking for titles that might not seem just right, books that might be out of place—and perhaps not be books at all, but a disguise for a secret compartment. She read the names on the book spines. Northumbria Tax Ledgers, Vassals of East Anglia, Collections of the Exchequer of Westminster. The titles held little meaning beyond showing that they were helpful tools for robbing the people. But then one title caught her eye. St. Basil’s Book of Prayer. Prayers and taxes! Not like bread and butter, Marian thought.
“Come on, Marian.” She felt Hannah pull her arm. “You’re in some dreamworld. We are to step forward and receive the bishop’s blessing.”
One by one the servants were quickly kneeling and kissing the bishop’s hand as he made the sign of the cross over their heads.
As Marian waited, a plump man dressed in the rough brown fabric came up to her side.
“Are you a bibliophile, mademoiselle?” He spoke with a slight French accent.
“A w-what?” Marian stammered.
“I noticed you perusing the sheriff’s library.”
Marian had a sudden sinking feeling. Why had she not been more careful? She looked at him shyly and, affecting her best rustic accent, said, “Oh sir, I never seen books before. I don’t know me letters. Can’t read but barely my name.”
“Really, my dear?” He bent forward slightly, and Marian took a step backward.
“Yes, sir, really. I be a scullery maid.” He looked down at her hands that, although rough, did not look anything close to the ruddy, coarse, and calloused hands of Ellie, who had spent most of her life scrubbing in noblemen’s castles.
Please, dear Lord, do not let me be found out. Please Lord.
“And what is your name child?”
“Marian, sir.”
“Well, I am Frere Tuck, or Friar Tuck, as you say in English. I’m an old acquaintance of Prince John’s mother.”
“Queen Eleanor?”
“Yes, my dear. But now I serve here in the chapel of Nottingham castle.”
“Oh” was all that Marian could think to say.
“Ah!” He nodded toward the Bishop of Hereford. It was her turn to kneel. Marian sank to her knees and was about to kiss the bishop’s hand when her eyes opened in horror. Yes, there was a ring—a bishop’s ring with its purple amethyst set in gold, s
ymbolic of the bishop’s vows of fidelity to the church, but on the little finger of the same hand there was a blazing jewel that put the dusty violet of the bishop’s stone to shame. In the very center of the ring was the Star of Jerusalem.
Marian closed her eyes and saw the blood dropping from the chain in the hand of Gisborne. Everything from that horrible day rushed back. The drops of blood from her mother’s throat, the pounding of the stones against the old mews tower, the frantic screeches of the birds, her father’s anguished sob: “My wife murdered, and now my hawks. What next? My king? Where is my king?” Marian felt her cheek hit the floor. But her last thought before she lost consciousness was Today is my birthday, my fourteenth birthday!
“She’s fainted…. She’s fainted.” The sound seemed to come from somewhere far away.
Someone was patting her face with a wet cloth. She did not want to open her eyes. “She’ll be fine…fine.” It was the soft, accented voice of the friar. She looked up. His large face was leaning over hers.
“I thought she looked kind of peaky out in the courtyard,” Hannah was saying.
“I’m—I’m fine. Don’t worry,” Marian said.
“Now what’s your name, child?” the friar asked.
“Mat—Marian. Marian Greenleaf.”
“Well, Marian Greenleaf, I think a sip of this might prove restorative.”
He took a flask out from a pouch in the folds of his robe, uncorked it, and put it to her lips. She took a tiny sip. It burned her throat, but it did revive her. “She’ll be right as rain,” the friar said.
“Oh, yes, I do want to serve at the feast,” Marian replied.
“Of course you do, my dear. Such a festive occasion it will be. The Bishop of Ely coming…” Then, under his breath, “Can King Richard be far behind?”
Chapter 19
A MESSAGE DELIVERED
A decoction of boiled rhubarb is an excellent cure for a cold. Yes, hawks like humans do get colds.
“ALL RIGHT, LITTLE. WHAT does the code say for the word sparrow? What would that be?” Robin was bent over the small piece of parchment that Marigold had flown back to the mews with. He had nearly exploded with excitement when Scarlet came into the tree hollow shouting, “A message! A message from our Maid Marian!”
“How do you spell it now?” Little asked.
“S-P-A-R-R-O-W,” Robin said.
Little took the code key. “It’s more than just one word. Let’s see.” Little wrinkled his brow and scratched letters with a twig in the dirt. “Oh, by the saints!” He exhaled softly.
“What is it?”
“The abbess. Double r translates to double b—she’s there at the castle. Wait, let me see the rest of that.” Little leaped up and snatched the parchment from Robin. Looking between it and the code key, he began scratching madly in the dirt. The other three boys hovered over his broad shoulders. “It says that the abbess is at the castle. She be the sister of the sheriff!”
“I knew she was no-good scum from the first time I ever laid eyes on her,” Scarlet blurted.
Little continued. “Marian says that the Bishop of Ely is coming and most likely Prince John.”
“That we knew already,” said Scarlet.
“Listen to this. They’re putting on a great feast. Mummers and all.”
“Mummers!” Scarlet said excitedly.
“That’s what she says.”
“She says she thinks she knows where to find the secret cabinet, but she’s been polishing silver and gold goblets for more than a day.” Robin’s eyes opened wide as Little John translated the code more rapidly now. “She says that she is sure that Richard is on his way home.”
Now the boys’ faces turned radiant.
“Then it’s true.” Little John looked up. “What we suspected is true.”
The boys all broke into a huge cheer. Slapping one another’s shoulders they hooted and hollered.
“I knew she’d come through. I knew our Marian would come through!” Robin said, his eyes dancing like two blue stars in the dimness. “Now I have an idea.” His face became very serious.
“What’s that?” Scarlet asked.
“You’re part of it, Scarlet. We have to get someone into the castle to help Marian. Scarlet, you’re the perfect person. You’re a juggler.”
“Aaah!” the two other boys said at once.
“Brilliant! Robin, just brilliant!” Rich said with a hush of admiration.
“But what do you say, Scarlet? Can you get into the castle?”
“Of course. I just have to find out which troupe of mummers is going. Most likely the Plowboys from east of Nottingham; I’ve played with them before. Shouldn’t be a problem. They always need a good juggler. And, of course, the ladies do love me.” Scarlet grinned.
“I’m sure you’ll quickly become a favorite of the abbess!” Robin replied.
Chapter 20
THE POISON RING
If a wild hawk is acquired at a very young age and never hunted, it must be taught to kill.
THE GREAT HALL WAS decked with banners, and hundreds of candles gleamed along the walls. There were heralds in velvet and gold cloth who marched into the hall with their horns to announce the honored guests. The guests were followed by their pages and squires, all turned out in their finest livery. It was a glittering array of plumed hats, gold and silver cloth, and velvet robes trimmed in fur. The women wore gowns with jewel-encrusted bodices. These were the lords and ladies who had survived by swearing allegiance to Prince John. Marian had never seen anything like it. And, in a country so poor that most people were starving, Marian marveled at a table laden with so much. Even in better times at the Fitzwalters’ castle for St. Stephen’s feast—the beginning of the celebration of the twelve days of Christmas—there had not been this much. There were two large boars and at least a half dozen suckling pigs. There were roasted swans with their feathers reattached, haunches of venison, and chicken with marybones, the marrow bones of veal and lamb. How Marian longed for a marybone. They were so rich that they were a meal in themselves.
One course after another was on the table, a dozen or more in all. Marian stood behind one of the footmen, who himself stood behind the guests on the east side of the long table. Her job was to fetch whatever he told her to bring. The footmen poured the wine and made sure every plate was kept full.
There were forty or more people at the table, including Prince John and the men and women of his court, including Sir Guy of Gisborne. Marian, of course, was not attending them in any way, but her footman, Edgar, served the Bishop of Ely. Edgar was not the brightest of footmen. Marian was surprised that the abbess had appointed him to attend this distinguished guest who, next to the prince, was the most significant person at the feast. The Bishop of Ely sat between Friar Tuck and the abbess. The Bishop of Hereford sat nearby, next to the sheriff and his wife. Every time the Hereford bishop lifted his wine goblet, Marian could see the blaze of the Star of Jerusalem. It incensed her. But she could not let her anger distract her. She must pay attention to Edgar, who was rather sloppy in his service and less than attentive. Marian had to remind him several times to refill the Bishop of Ely’s goblet as well as Friar Tuck’s.
The understeward gave the signal indicating that it was time for the dessert. It was a chestain, or chestnut pudding, sprinkled with blawn powder. Just carrying it in whetted Marian’s appetite, for the scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, and sugar were irresistible. It had been so long since she had tasted such treats.
The mummers would perform soon. The footmen had been instructed to extinguish most of the torches and candles, for the mummers themselves would be juggling with fire and spinning flame wheels as part of the performance. As Edgar stepped away to perform this task, Marian had a clear view of the abbess. The ring she wore was quite large. It appeared to Marian to resemble the type of crusader ring known as the Cross of the Holy Land, which was a locket mounted on a band and designed to carry a relic.
The great hall darkened. The shadow
y figures of the mummers could be spotted taking their places. In the dark sliver of time, between the torches’ extinguishing and the first mummers rushing in with their lighted juggling, Marian saw the abbess flick open the ring on her finger. Everyone else’s attention was now riveted on the jugglers’ fire clubs that were whizzing through the air like comets. But Marian froze as she saw the abbess take a pinch of a powdery substance from the ring and sprinkle it on top of the Bishop of Ely’s trifle. Amid the flashes of the fiery clubs, the oohs and aaahs of the audience, Marian realized what had just occurred. The abbess is poisoning the Bishop of Ely.
Marian realized that if the bishop ate it he would be doomed, yet she felt paralyzed. What was she to do? Edgar had not yet returned to his post and she had been left to hold the silver wine decanter. Soon the bishop would take his first bite. She stepped forward tentatively. What could she do? Her mind was blank. Then she felt herself trip. “Oh, Deus Vult!” she swore. She was crashing into the table. The pitcher slipped from her hands. There were yelps from the abbess, who jumped up, as well as from the bishop and Friar Tuck.
“Oh, forgive me! I don’t know what happened, your grace.” And that was the truth. Marian didn’t know what had happened.
“No harm done! No harm done!” Friar Tuck said, quickly using his sleeve to help to mop the bishop’s robe. The accident had not seemed to disturb the audience, who were entranced by the mummers’ increasingly daring stunts.
“Who are you, you clumsy girl?” The abbess was in a rage.
“It’s nothing, good lady, nothing. Don’t fault the child. She meant well, I am sure. No harm,” Friar Tuck said immediately.
Precisely. No harm, Marian thought as she looked down at the bishop’s plate.
“No harm,” repeated Friar Tuck. “Now why not clear that plate away, my dear. Throw out the trifle—no one wants wine-soaked trifle—can’t taste the blawn powder—the best part.” He chuckled and patted his own ample belly. “Bring the bishop a fresh one.”