“So…” I looked down at the paper again, annoyed at the useless lines of ink. “What good is a letter if neither of us can read it?”
Laurel rolled her eyes, got off the bed, and snatched the parchment out of my hands. “You can read who it’s addressed to, can’t you?”
“To Prince John,” I answered. Any fool could tell that much.
She flourished the letter in front of me. “And who do you know that would write to Prince John in French?”
The implication dawned on me, and I was irritated that it had taken me so long to understand. I glanced toward the bottom of the page, where a very artistic and loopy signature sprawled across the parchment. The first letter stood out clearly.
P.
Of course.
“King Philip,” I said.
Laurel rolled up the paper and swatted it lightly across my hair. “I knew you would get there eventually. Now all we have to do is hand this off to James. Friar Tuck speaks French, and James can get it to him to be translated.”
I held out my hand to take it. Laurel nearly placed the letter in my palm, then snatched it back at the last second. “If you give it to James, you have to give me credit. I was the one who rummaged around in muck to find it and scraped food off it.”
“I would never dream of taking credit for your muck-rummaging,” I said dryly.
“I’m only letting you hand it in because it is your turn to meet James tomorrow night. If I’d found it earlier today, I would’ve given it to him myself.”
“Not everything is a competition.”
Laurel grinned. “If it were, I’d win.”
“Yes, I remember how well you did when it was you against me all those times you ran away from camp. How many of our fights did you win? None, last I recall.”
Laurel poked me in the chest. “You got lucky all those times. Want to go another round to be sure?”
I caught her hands and kissed her again. “No. I already won.”
Her fingers curled briefly around mine, and for a moment I closed my eyes, reveling that I had Laurel. She had chosen me. Then she gave my hand a squeeze and slipped away. “Get that to James without losing it, Sheriff. I went through a lot of unpleasantness to find it.”
“I am sure your heroic sacrifice will be remembered.”
“It had better be.”
The next day,I met with Prince John in his private quarters and found that he was in an unusually agitated mood all morning. Papers lay scattered across his desk, and more than one had been torn in frustration. His hair was slightly disordered, his robe hung loose at one shoulder, and every servant who came near the door did so in the same way they might approach a wild animal. He yelled at anyone who interrupted him, snapped over the smallest delays, and muttered to himself while pacing between the table and the hearth.
I didn’t comment on his volatility even once.
From past experience with my father, I knew it was best to let tempers burn themselves down when possible. No angry man wanted an answer. They only wanted a target.
Prince John cast several aggravated glances at me, as if he was irritated that I refused to give him a reason to direct his anger at me, but I calmly ignored the glowering and continued writing out list after list of supplies needed before my men would be battle-ready, from weapons to armor to emergency rations to carry with us.
Prince John huffed and leaned over the parchment to inspect my list. “You wrote down wooden beams twice.”
“So I did,” I said, adding additional notes to each entry. “The first set of wooden beams is to build barricades and fortify our stronghold. The second set is to create catapults.”
Prince John grunted just as a knock sounded at the door and a woman called, “Maid service.”
“Come in,” John snapped.
A girl entered the room. She had curly blonde hair and a round, pleasant face. Her clothing was the same as that worn by the other serving girls, except she had added little pink bows to the corners of her apron pockets. She curtsied quickly, then began moving about the room with a feather duster, keeping her head lowered and her movements careful.
I recognized her only vaguely as one of the maids who tended the private rooms. She might have been the same one Laurel had mentioned, the one who could not read and whose work Laurel had offered to help with. The thought made me glance at her again.
