The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

“Your protection? Your word?” she scoffed. “And just who might you be, wolf’s head? You who dare to challenge the authority of Lucien Wardieu, Baron de Gournay!”

  The outlaw moved closer, taking the mare’s bridle in his hand to guard against any attempt by her rider to bolt.

  “The name the sheriff has chosen to give me in explaining the lax condition of his spine is … the Black Wolf of Lincoln.” He paused to watch the effect of his words ripple through the ranks of his rapt audience. “The name given me by God is … Lucien Wardieu, Baron de Gournay.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Servanne no longer saw the beauty of the greenwood. The air no longer felt crisp and clean; rather it was cold and damp and chilled her to the bone even through the heavy layers of her clothing. She no longer paid heed to the tall, stately oaks, nor did she admire the dancing shafts of sunlight or the silvery burble of a meandering stream. She sat erect on Undine’s back, her face a mask of outrage and disbelief. Relieved of the reins by the outlaw leader who now led her horse through the forest, her hands were clasped together over the frontpiece of her saddle, the knuckles white and straining with repressed anger.

  She had been stunned speechless by the outlaw’s preposterous claim. Lucien Wardieu indeed! But before she could recover her faculties and demand explanations, his curt commands had set the scrofulous band of followers into motion. Within moments, she and Biddy were culled from the others and led into the forest. Everything of value had been stripped from the wagons and transferred onto the backs of the pack horses, as had the bulk of the guards’ weapons and armour. The outlaw had given the wounded Sir Roger de Chesnai a small, canvas-wrapped packet and a message to be delivered to Bloodmoor Keep—obviously a demand for ransom and proof that the hostage was in safekeeping.

  The effrontery of the man was not to be believed! Periodically Servanne’s gaze would stray from the path ahead to launch unseen poisoned darts into the broad back of the wolf’s head who dared to call himself Lucien Wardieu. She had already given him a host of truer appellations—madman, poseur, traitor, charlatan, impostor, bedlamite, crack-brain …

  Each seething glance resulted in a new term to describe an audacity that was beyond belief. Who, in all of England, did not know the great golden countenance of the real Baron de Gournay? What man or woman in possession of all their senses could believe for one instant that this coarse, ill-bred, unkempt, murderous creature of the forest belonged at the same table with kings and queens? The mere notion of such a ruffian even being permitted into the servants’ gallery was preposterous. The stables, perhaps. The pigsty or the muck pit where the refuse from the castle latrines was collected … maybe. But as liege lord of the castle itself? As baron lord of Bloodmoor Keep?

  The snort of disdain she was unable to repress caused the dark chestnut head to turn slightly. A wry smile suggested he had felt every barb and intercepted every thought that had passed through her head over the last two hours, and the sight of it fueled her anger a notch higher.

  “The scenery displeases you, my lady? You see stretched before you nature at its very peak. She offers here a tranquility and solitude found nowhere else; a wild purity shared only by other virgins who have not yet experienced the taint of man’s interference.”

  “She bears your taint, wolf’s head,” Servanne remarked dryly. “And that must surely spoil her for all others.”

  “Ahh. Spoken with the true sentiment of wedded bliss. Might I assume your previous marriage left something to be desired?”

  Servanne’s eyes flashed blue fire. “You may presume nothing whatsoever. My marriages—past or future—are no concern of yours. How dare you even speak to me of them, or of anything else for that matter. There is nothing your twisted tongue could say to me that could be of the least interest, and I insist you do not insult me with it again.”

  The outlaw’s broad shoulders shrugged beneath the black wolf’s pelts. “A greater hardship on you, I fear, for I have yet to encounter a woman who could maintain as good a silence as a man. Especially not when her brain is overtaxed with righteous fervour.”

  Servanne opened her mouth with a ready retort, saw the mockingly expectant brow arch in her direction, and pressed her lips tautly together again. She averted her gaze and stared straight ahead, but the resentment that bubbled within her could not be as easily diverted.

  “I have seen Lord Lucien with mine own eyes,” she declared stridently. “How dare you presume to mock him.”

  “Do I mock him, my lady? I thought you would be flattered I envied his choice of brides.”

  “Flattered!” Her voice was brittle with anger. “You could flatter us both by dropping dead this instant and saving the baron the trouble of rooting you out later! As for envying his choice of brides, I would sooner win the praise of a crimp-kneed, foul-breathed Saracen infidel than possess one attribute the likes of you would find appealing! I would sooner an arrow pierce my heart and rend it in two than find myself the object of a wolf’s envy!”

  The Black Wolf studied the flushed features of his hostage a moment longer before dropping the reins of her horse and unslinging his bow from his shoulder. With her tongue stuck fast to the roof of her mouth and the echo of Biddy’s shrill screech reverberating along her spine, Servanne watched in horror as the outlaw braced his long legs wide apart, swung the grip of the bow from hip to shoulder, and sighted along the shaft of an arrow. At the last possible instant he corrected the aim so that when he snapped his fingers to release the missile, it did not pierce the wildly beating thing that sought to escape her breast, but hummmm-ed in a long, sweeping arc over Servanne’s head and disappeared somewhere in the trees beyond.

  The silence that followed was complete enough to hear the low droning of a swarm of bees in the distance. It was complete enough to hear the swish of Undine’s tail as she chased away an annoying gnat. Complete enough that when a clean, sharp fff-bunggg left the quivering shaft of a returned arrow buried in a nearby tree trunk, both women nearly lifted off their saddles in fright.

  “If ye’d asked,” drawled the burly Welshman as he ambled by, “I would have given the signal myself, milord, and saved ye the bother.”

  “No bother,” the outlaw replied smoothly, reslinging his bow, his eyes still locked fast to Servanne’s. He took up the fallen reins and gave way to a faint, wry smile as he led her horse forward again.

  Servanne’s heart was still pounding against her breastbone, her senses still recovering from the shock of the outlaw’s twisted sense of humour. They were recovering from something else as well, an oddity she had not noticed earlier in the excitement of the ambush.

  The wolf’s head shot with his left hand!

  Confirming the startling discovery, she saw that he wore his sword slung on his right hip—giving ready access for the left hand—and wore his quiver of arrows tilted to the left shoulder.

  A child of Satan! Bastard spawn of the Devil himself! Everyone knew a left-handed man was born with the curse of Lucifer on his soul—as if she had needed any further proof of his perfidiousness!

  “Not much farther to camp now, my lady,” he was saying. “From the smell of it, I would guess we are having fresh venison in honour of your presence.”

  Servanne smelled nothing except an admission of blatant guilt from a boastful poacher: another crime to add to his growing list. A man’s life was forfeit if he was caught killing one of the king’s deer. He was first blinded, then tortured over a slow fire until his skin blistered and fell off in great black flakes. He was then hung, drawn, and quartered by way of an example to others. A fitting demise for such a barbarian as this wolf, she mused.

  “You may be assured, sirrah,” she declared evenly, “I would rather waste away to a shell of skin and bone than defile the king’s law by eating his royal due. You and your men may well choke on your treasonous repast if you so choose, but Mistress Bidwell and myself should die first.”

  Biddy gave a ram’s snort of approval; the outlaw scoffed derisively. “A
nother sight mine eyes would ransom kingdoms to see: a dimpled cheek without the sheen of sweet grease upon it; a slender hand not first into the pot of roasted pheasant; a dainty belly not groaning with complaint after being stuffed to the chin with capon, pasties, and pies.”

  An unsubtle and prolonged rumble of agreement stirred in Servanne’s stomach, reminding her she had not eaten since early morning, and that an unsatisfying meal of black bread and sour ale.

  “And then there are the sweetmeats,” contributed a voice from the staggered band of outlaws. “Our own goodwife Mab prepares some of the tastiest creations that have ever crossed these lips. What say you, lads?” The question was aimed generally over his shoulder. “Has Mab any equal this side of the Channel?”

  “Bless the stars that found her for us,” came a jovial reply. “Or mayhap just bless Gil Golden for bringing her out of Lincoln with our last purchase of arrowheads!”

  A round of solid backslapping sent Servanne’s gaze across to the man who had perfunctorily shot an arrow into Sir Roger de Chesnai’s thigh. He had a smooth, aquiline profile that suggested a far easier life lay behind than the one ahead. His shoulders were square and straight, if a little sparse of bulk; his legs were long and agile enough to swallow the wooded miles without visible effort. Copper-coloured locks capped his head like woolen fleece, cropped short beneath the jaunty green felt hat he wore slouched forward over his brow. His eyes were a blend of greens and golds and spicy brown flecks, and a webbing of fine lines at the corners intimated a man of easy nature and good humour. The long, ragged scar that distorted his left cheek implied it was not always so. The disfigurement in no way detracted from his handsomeness, but it did confirm the fact he was a branded thief, and would have as easily aimed for Sir Roger’s heart as his thigh.

  Servanne was distracted from further observations by a sudden burst of sound and activity from the woods up ahead. From high, high up in the boughs of a tree came a swoosh of air and a curled knot of flying hair and shrieking laughter. Detaching itself from the swinging vine with a whoop, the tiny figure splayed arms and legs wide, his clothes pocketing the wind to break the impact of his body slamming into that of the Black Wolf of Lincoln. As it was, the outlaw was jolted back off his feet and required several paces to reclaim his balance. Servanne’s horse balked indignantly; Biddy muttered an oath which earned stares and grins from the nearby foresters.

  “Sparrow!” spat the Wolf with a not altogether feigned grimace of displeasure. “By Christ’s pricking thorns, one of these days I will step out of the way and let you sail clear on past into perdition!”

  The squirming bundle disentangled itself from the torso of the outlaw and sprang onto the ground beside him. The man … dwarf … child … was barely tall enough to see the top of the Wolf’s belt. Thin as a reed, as tanned as a roasted nut, he … or she … had huge, shining black eyes that seemed at once too large for the round, elfin face, and far too knowledgeable for such a mischievous grin.

  Servanne blinked, and blinked again. She had heard fables of such creatures living in the forests; wood elves who were several centuries old, kept young and childlike through pagan rites and rituals. She had never truly believed in such tales of magic and witchcraft, of course. Magic was only for the eyes and ears of the superstitious, and as for witches and warlocks …

  She found herself staring at the outlaw leader again, her mouth as dry as parched wheat.

  “So so so.” Sparrow’s voice was as delicately pitched as a woman’s. “So this was to be the Dragon’s new plaything. There is not much to her, is there? But then I suppose such a child would be a welcome change from being clamped between the iron thighs of Nicolaa de la Haye. You sent our demands on ahead?”

  “We accomplished what we set out to do,” the Wolf responded. “And you? You found the sheriff?”

  “He was waiting at the fens, just as you predicted,” Sparrow nodded, grinning. “He and most of the guard from Lincoln Castle. Slutching fools! Another half league into the forest and they might have upset our plans.”

  “They might have tried,” the outlaw replied lightly. “But I am inclined to think a few well spent arrows would have had De la Haye and his men bolting for cover regardless if it had been Richard’s intended bride, Berengaria, he had been sent to meet.”

  “The sheriff should know by now to leave such matters to his wife. The Bawd Nicolaa would have stayed and fought us with pleasure.”

  “The rest of our men? They made it back without incident?”

  “Bah! Old Noddypeak did not even know we had him in bowshot. Mind, he kept scritching and scratching at the back of his neck”—Sparrow gave an imitation of the sheriff scratching nervously—“and shaking off the waterfalls of sweat he leaked”—lie shook himself all over, like a dog emerging from a pond—“so I suspect he was not entirely without grand expectations.”

  “A pity we had to disappoint him.”

  “Aye,” Sparrow sighed. “The lads had him sighted on their arrow tips every blink of the way.”

  “They will have him again, when the timing better suits our needs. Right now, Onfroi de la Haye is of more use to us alive than dead.”

  “Aye, my lord,” the little man said, “So you keep telling us.”

  “So it shall be,” the Wolf insisted. “The Sheriff of Lincoln is a fool, a weak incompetent puppet; one whose every move we can predict and anticipate with laughable ease. Put someone else in his stead—his sweet wife, for example—and we would see her quenching her thirst for blood in ways we have not even thought of yet.”

  “No shy blanchflower, our Bawd,” the gnome agreed.

  “And if anyone other than myself makes a target of her brass-tipped breasts”—the tall, copper-haired outlaw stepped quietly forward—“they will have me to answer to.”

  Sparrow looked up and, although Servanne could not swear to it, she thought the bold little elf edged a cautious inch closer to the protective bulk of the Black Wolf. “I am not forgetting, Gil of the Golden Eyes. Not wanting to feel the sting of your arrows either. She’s yours, all yours, and welcome to her. God’s teeth, but we are touchy about it, are we not? Not enough Norman blood shed to wet your arrows? Ho! Still most a quiver full, I see. And a string as slack as Lack Jack’s back.”

  Gil Golden smiled slowly, ominously. “Easily enough remedied. A daub of sparrow blood should turn the trick.”

  “You would have to catch me first, you great lumbering hulk!”

  Quick as a wink, the tiny man darted forward, planted a flying kick on Gil’s shin and vanished behind a solid wall of alder bushes. His tinkling laughter, first in the alders, then beside them, then far above in an arching tangle of hawthorns indicated with what unsettling swiftness he could move, and also why he bore the name Sparrow. Moreover, before the cursing outlaw could finish hopping a circle on his uninjured leg, an arrow no longer than a man’s palm zipped through the air and carried away Gil’s prized green felt hat.

  “That cuts it!” Gil swore. “The wretched puck is going to pay dearly for it this time.”

  “Are ye already forgetting what happened the last time?” roared Robert the Welshman. “It were not only yer hat what got a hole in it, but yer breeks and butt as well!”

  Gil’s eyes narrowed. “My thanks for reminding me. When I catch him, I will pin both his ears back for the leather he owes me.”

  The other foresters guffawed openly and began fishing in belts and sleeves for copper coins.

  “A denier says Gil Golden wins this round,” the Welshman wagered, doffing his cap and dropping the coin into the crown. A score or more coins clinked good-naturedly into the pot, some with an “aye” attached, some with a “nay.” Even the two captive ladies found smiles wanting to come to their lips as they watched the agile huntsman stalk into the woods in pursuit of his diminutive quarry. Servanne caught hers just in time when she realized the icy-gray eyes of the outlaw leader were observing her.

  “It appears, Biddy,” she murmured brusquely, �
�these children have no grasp of the seriousness of their crimes.”

  The Wolf moved closer, his eyes glinting in the afternoon sunlight. “You should be thankful, my lady, we are still able to see some humour in the world around us.”

  “Humour, sirrah? In murder and kidnapping? Pray, you will forgive me if I do not share your amusement.”

  “You say the word murder as if we were the only ones guilty of it.”

  “I saw none of your men lying dead on the road, victims of a cold-blooded ambush.”

  “Ambushes are rarely warm affairs, nor do they lend themselves to a fanfare of trumpets.”

  “You mock me, sir,” she said coldly.

  “I mock your ignorance, madam. I mock your inability to see past the tip of your nose … although it is held so high, I should not wonder at the difficulty.”

  Servanne felt the redness creeping up to her brow. “I am not distressed. Your own nose, wolf’s head, has been sniffing up dung heaps so long it cannot distinguish fair from foul.”

  Intrigued despite himself, the Wolf studied the square set to the young widow’s jaw and pondered how the pearly row of small, even teeth had remained intact all these years. His own hands tingled with the urge to curl about her throat and rattle a few loose.

  “Methinks I have been away from England too long,” he mused, the slanted grin barely moving around the words. “Too long for such haughtiness and greed as I see in some to be the cause of such misery as I see in others … or are you blind as well to the starvation, the cruelty, the beatings, cripplings, and degradations to be found in every town and village throughout the kingdom?”

  “If a man starves, it is because he is too lazy to work the fields. If he is punished, it is because he has committed some offense against the crown. As for the haughtiness and greed of which you speak, I suggest the worst offender is the cur of the forest who aspires to gain his wealth and recognition through thievery and murder … or do your own eyes suffer some difficulty in seeing the irony of your piousness?”