The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  With a start, she became aware of how close she was standing to her tormentor. Her fingers were curled around shanks of gleaming black fur; his hands were still resting on her shoulders, the intimacy of the contact hidden from view by the flowing mass of her hair, but one that was felt most disconcertingly throughout every inch of her trembling flesh.

  His potent maleness was unsettling; more so when a vivid picture of him flashed into her mind and remained there—a picture of him standing naked in the knee-deep water of the Silent Pool, his flesh steaming, his muscles rippling beneath the sheath of taut skin.

  Conscious of the fact that he seemed to have little difficulty in reading her thoughts, Servanne quickly lowered her lashes and extricated herself from his embrace. As before, she missed the flicker of colour that came and went in his eyes, nor did she see the way his fingers curled and hoarded the distinct, tingling memory of her warmth.

  “I would like to return to my chamber now,” she said.

  “Whereas I would enjoy your company beside me at the table again.”

  “I am not hungry.”

  “I am. And unless you would care to see my appetite roused for more than food, you would be wise not to attempt to defy me in this.”

  Servanne looked up. The promise was there for a blind man to see, as was the disturbing realization it had only been by the slenderest thread of chance she had awakened alone in her bed.

  “I … should at least like to make myself more presentable,” she said tremulously, reaching up with an unsteady hand to smooth the flown wisps of her hair.

  “You are more than presentable just the way you are,” he insisted, extending an arm in a mockingly gallant gesture.

  Servanne doubted she could touch him again and come away unscathed. She gathered the folds of her skirt and cloak in her hands to lift them clear of the fouled rushes on the floor, and, with as much indifference as she could put into the tilt of her chin, preceded him to the raised dais.

  The meal progressed as it had the previous evening, the exception being that Servanne shared her settings with the outlaw leader rather than with Sparrow. The latter, happily taking on a joint of mutton almost as large as he was, kept the conversation light and easy, but though he tried his valiant best, failed to win a smile from their silvery-haired hostage. He assumed it was because she had overheard Sigurd’s report, delivered halfway through the meal, that there was indeed a new player in the game of hide and seek. While he was not far wrong in his guess, he was not exactly right, either. For every one thought Servanne had concerning the whereabouts of the Baron de Gournay, she had three for the man who sat on her right-hand side—the man who met her gaze each time without a hint of shame, or guilt, or regret; just the infuriatingly smug self-assurance of someone who believes his way is the only way.

  “Who are you?” she asked quietly. “Why have you come to Lincoln?”

  “I have already told you who I am.”

  “You have not told me why I should believe you.”

  He seemed to want to smile at that. “Have I ever lied to you?”

  He was looking at her, into her, through her, and Servanne felt the flesh across her breasts and belly tighten, as if left on a tanner’s rack too long. “As far as I know, you have lied to me about everything.”

  “Everything?” he asked, his thigh brushing not-so-accidentally against hers.

  Servanne shifted on her stool and laced her fingers tightly together on her lap. “You have lied about who you are, and what you are,” she insisted softly. “You hide behind the lincoln-green badge of an outlaw, yet your motives for being here in these woods have nothing to do with bettering the conditions of the poor, or righting injustices committed in the king’s name, or fighting against oppression—real or imagined. You have gathered about you a few local villagers to give some credence to the charade, but you are not from these parts. I doubt you have been in England as long as it took to grow the hair past your collar—or long enough to know there have been no black wolves in Britain since King Henry laid a high bounty on their pelts. Certainly not enough to fashion so fine a mantle, or be willing to throw so casually on a bed.”

  The Wolf was mildly taken aback; moderately impressed. After some consideration for the surprised silence that had fallen over the other outlaws seated on the dais, he carefully wiped the blade of his eating knife clean, sheathed it, and stood up, indicating the door with a tilt of his head. “Come. Walk with me. There is but a half moon tonight, perhaps enough to hint at what the gardens may once have held.”

  “Absolutely not!” she gasped, horrified at the suggestion.

  The Wolf gave her a moment to reconsider of her own accord, then leaned over close enough that his words went no further than her pink-tipped ears. “You can either walk with me now, or lie with me later; the choice is yours where we take a few words of private conversation.”

  The mist was more pervasive out-of-doors. Thick, opalescent sheets of it swirled at knee level over the slick cobbles, masking the weed and rot, the neglect, and the decay. There were no torches lit outside the hall, but as Servanne’s eyes adjusted to the faint light of the crescent moon, she could see the vague outlines of the other ruined buildings, the stone cistern in the centre of the court, the vine-covered arches that formed a narrow walkway leading toward the chapel. She was thankful for Biddy’s warm woolen cloak, and drew it close about her shoulders. Tiny droplets of mist clung to her face and throat, and coated her hair like a fine-spun silver web.

  “The gardens are this way,” said the Black Wolf, walking toward the arches. “If you look closely enough, you can still find the odd wild rosebush growing amongst the bracken.”

  How vitally important to know, Servanne thought angrily, stepping around a jagged gap in the stone cobbles. She stretched her arm out for balance, startled slightly when she felt his huge, warm hand take hold of hers. Rather than jerk it away and appear twice the fool, she permitted the infringement until the footing was once again solid beneath her. A short distance into the steeped silence of the ancient gardens, she balked completely, refusing to go another step in the company of a man whom she had every reason to believe would kill her without hesitation if the situation arose.

  “Who are you?” she asked again. “And why have you come to Lincoln?”

  He stopped on the path just ahead of her and slowly turned around. “My name is Lucien Wardieu,” he said quietly. “And I have come home.”

  “You say you are Lucien Wardieu, but if you are, why do you hide here in the forest like a common outlaw? Who is the man who is now residing in Bloodmoor Keep? Why has he taken your name if it does not belong to him? And how has he managed to keep it all these years without anyone challenging his identity before now?”

  The Wolf crossed his arms over his massive chest and leaned back against one of the arches.

  “A great many questions, my lady. Are you sincere in wanting to know the answers?”

  “I want to know the truth,” she said evenly.

  “The truth should not require proof, and a man should not have to prove who he is if he swears to that truth upon his honour. I know who I am. So does the impostor residing at Bloodmoor Keep.”

  “That … impostor, as you call him … has ridden to war with Richard the Lionheart.”

  “I do not doubt he has.”

  “Prince John trusts and confides in him.”

  “You would use such a recommendation to vouchsafe a man’s character?” he scoffed.

  “It has even been whispered that if John ascends to the throne, he will be sufficiently indebted to the Baron de Gournay to appoint him chancellor, or marshal!”

  “John Lackland does not bear up well under debts; he prefers to hire assassins to repay them. As for his ascending the throne—how do these whisperers of yours say he will overcome the annoying matter of Prince Arthur of Brittany?”

  Servanne bit her lips, sensing yet another verbal trap looming before her like a snake pit. Of King Henry’s five
sons, only Richard—the eldest—and John, the youngest, were still alive. Geoffrey, next to youngest, had died several years ago, but had left as his heirs, a son and a daughter. Since he would have been in line to the throne after Richard, the right of succession would naturally pass to his son Arthur upon the king’s death, and after him, his sister, Princess Eleanor.

  The snakes in the pit writhed a little closer as Servanne offered lamely, “But Arthur is only a child. Prince John would never—” She stopped again, catching the treasonous thought before it took on substance.

  The Wolf held no such reservations.

  “John would never kill his own nephew? My dear deluded lady: Prince John of the Soft Sword would kill his mother, his wife, his own children if he thought their removal would win him the crown of England. How long do you suppose Richard would have survived poison in his cup if he were not already hell-bent on killing himself on the end of some infidel’s sword?”

  “I do not believe you,” she said without much conviction. “Not about Prince Arthur, at any rate. And besides, he is quite safe with his grandmother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, in Brittany. She would never allow any harm to befall him, most decidedly not at the hand of her own son!”

  The Wolf looked away, looked up at the slivered moon for a long moment, then looked back at Servanne. “What if I were to tell you an attempt has already been made on the prince’s life? What if I told you he and his sister were kidnapped from the dowager queen’s castle at Mirebeau four months ago?”

  “Kidnapped?”

  “Stolen away in the middle of the night under the eyes and ears of a thousand of Eleanor’s most trusted guards. It took a full week just to discover how the kidnapping was done—a rather cleverly executed gambit, I might add. Two men shinnied up the small tower that carries the castle wastes down into the moat. Someone should have smelled the pair about their task if nothing else, but alas, no one did, and the children were smuggled out the same way.

  “Luckily,” he continued with a sigh, “their escape from Brittany was not so well planned or executed, and Arthur was safely retrieved before he could be put on board a ship for England. One of the men involved in the kidnapping was taken alive and revealed quite an interesting tale to his, ah, inquisitor. The more questions that were asked, the more answers were received, and in the end, most of the pieces of the puzzle made sense once they were fit into place.”

  “No! It makes no sense at all!” she cried. “Why would anyone want to kidnap the prince? He is but a child.”

  “A child first in line to the throne,” the Wolf reminded her. “Keeping him prisoner, or better yet, bending his mind enough to eventually have him judged insane, or incompetent to rule … John would be the natural choice to assume the throne in his stead.”

  “You are forgetting the Princess Eleanor.”

  “The sister of a mad prince? Hardly a likely candidate.”

  “So you think John was behind it?”

  “No one else would have half so much to gain.”

  Thrust and counterthrust. Talking to him was like taking a lesson in swordplay.

  “Has the queen challenged John with the accusation?” she asked.

  “Challenge a ferret to explain the feathers stuck to his mouth? What good would come of it, especially when the chick came to no harm?”

  Servanne’s brows drew together in a frown. “You speak with a great deal of liberty and familiarity. I hope … I trust you are not daring to imply that you hold the queen’s confidence?”

  “Me, my lady? By your own words a rogue and wolf’s head?”

  “A rogue most certainly,” she said carefully. “But as I said before, no more born to the forest than I was. I may not know who you are, sirrah, but I do know what you are, and have known from the instant you stood your challenge to us on the road.”

  “Have you now,” he mused, his eyes catching an eerie reflection from the moon. “Suppose you tell me what you know … or think you know.”

  “Will you tell me if I am right?”

  “That depends on how right you are.”

  Parry, and thrust. Servanne accepted the challenge, however, knowing this was as close as she was likely to come to a confession, or an admission.

  Mimicking his arrogant stance, she crossed her arms over her chest and slowly walked a half-circle around him, inspecting the powerful body with a detachment better suited to choosing livestock at a fair.

  “Throughout most of my life I have watched knights training and fighting,” she began. “I know the musculature of a well-practiced sword arm, and the look of limbs that are more accustomed to feeling horseflesh between them than soft deerhide. Your arms and shoulders have been thickened against the constant chafing of heavy chain-mail armour, and the scars I saw on your body this morning were not earned in a forest or on a farm, but on a battlefield, and in the tournament lists.”

  He said nothing to either confirm or deny her observations, and Servanne continued even more boldly.

  “You carry your years well,” she said, glancing speculatively up at the shadowed face. “But there are more behind you, methinks, than ahead. Five and thirty, I should guess.”

  “Too close by three to the grave,” he chided dryly, “But commendable.”

  “Take away at least twenty of those years for the time it took you to earn your spurs, and that leaves … mmm … twelve full of mysteries to solve. Too many, I think, for one quick judgment, but shall I pick one or two for consideration?”

  “I confess, I am intrigued, madam. Pray go on.”

  “Will you acknowledge your knighthood?”

  “Will it change your opinion of me if I do?”

  “Not one wit.”

  “Then I acknowledge it,” he grinned, bowing to her cleverness.

  “And yet,” she murmured, almost to herself, “You are well schooled in the use of a bow—not a common weapon for a knight. In fact, I rather thought nobles disdained any knowledge of archery beyond the value of entertainment.”

  “The result of a physic’s wisdom,” he conceded, shrugging his broad shoulders. “He had some idea the drawing of a bowstring would quicker restore the strength to my arms while I recovered from my wounds.”

  Servanne spared a thought for the incredible corded tautness of his muscles and applauded the physician’s judgment.

  “And your men? Were they all recovering from wounds as well?”

  “Wounded vanity, perhaps. They are a competitive lot and would not see their captain with a skill better than they possessed.”

  “Captain?” she asked, pouncing on the slip. “Past rank, or present?”

  The Wolf took too long to answer, which was all the answer Servanne required to feel a surge of triumph.

  “That you have been on Crusade is scarcely worth the breath to debate, but I would hesitate to put forth the suggestion that any infidel could have wrought such damage as in the scars I saw today.”

  “You question their skill as worthy opponents?”

  “Oh, I have no doubt they are most worthy; both savage and dangerous, as well as fearsomely skilled fighters, else King Richard would have laid their army to dust years ago. But to fight you, my lord wolf’s head, they would have to have the added skill and knowledge of how to attack a man who favours the left hand. Most soldiers never encounter a left-handed opponent in a lifetime of battle and thus are rarely able to defend an attack, let alone overcome an enemy with your skill and strength. No. Whoever left his mark upon you knew exactly what he was doing. He knew where your weakest, most vulnerable points lay, and he struck at them with relentless accuracy. Moreover, he would have had to have been almost your equal in size and skill to have done as much damage as he did and live to walk away.”

  The Wolf frowned with genuine curiosity. “What the devil leads you to suppose he lived?”

  “When you were bathing, you were very meticulous about touching upon each scar—a ritual of some sort, I imagine. Men do not continually refresh the memory of wou
nds delivered by dead men, only those delivered by enemies upon whom they might still seek revenge.”

  The Wolf fell silent. And waited.

  “Therefore,” she concluded, “we now have a man who was—or is—of the order; a man who makes vague claims to be engaged in the honourable service of Eleanor of Aquitaine, yet who definitely took a dishonourable foray into kidnapping so that he might … what? Revenge himself upon an old enemy? An enemy he claims has stolen his name and birthright?” Servanne stopped and glanced up in the darkness. “You call this supposed usurper by the none-too-amiable appelation of Dragon. What was he once called … friend?”

  The Wolf shook his head slowly, too far into the battle to sound a retreat.

  “Worse than that, my lady,” he said with frightening intensity. “He was once called brother.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Brother?”

  “Bastard born, but nonetheless of the same blood.”

  Servanne stared. She had expected almost anything but this, and yet … the fact that they were brothers would explain a great deal. It would also present looming gaps in reason and understanding.

  “Why?” she whispered. “How …?”

  “I told you one of the kidnappers was very cooperative? When pressed into revealing where they were to take the children in England, he indicated a castle in Lincolnshire—a castle on a cliff with a golden-haired dragon as master.”

  “Bloodmoor,” she gasped.

  “Until that moment, I had no idea Etienne was still alive.” The Wolf paused and plucked a leaf from a nearby vine, then started to tear it into tiny shreds as he continued. “I have not set foot in England for nearly half a lifetime because so far as I knew, the De Gournay titles and estates had been stripped away years ago and dispersed against a charge of high treason.”

  “Treason!”

  “A charge as false as my brother’s heart,” he said savagely. “But one that went uncontested while my father was deliberately starved to death in a traitor’s cell. I had heard Etienne had died as well, a result of his conniving and greed, and had no reason to question his demise. I welcomed it, in fact, for it freed me to forget who I was and make a new life elsewhere. As it was, I was laid up some twenty months at a stinking desert oasis while these wounds you so expertly assessed healed. Another three years and more were spent gaining back memories the sun and fever had scorched from my brain. By the time I rejoined the living, Normandy had become my home and I was quite content to keep it that way. I sold my services to the kings and queens of Europe. I fought their wars, led their armies into battle, and won a reputation for myself as”—he stopped, seeming to reshape the words in midair before they tripped off his tongue—“as a rogue knight who would sell his sword to anyone with enough gold to pay.”