“I am well aware of your abilities to protect yourself,” he said, taking a firm grip on his patience. “But because you prefer to dress like a man and can wield a bow and arrow better than any soul alive—it does not make you any less inviolate to the cut of a sword blade. For Christ’s sake, woman, you could have been caught by Wardieu’s men. You and Sparrow both could have been dragged before the Dragon and used as fodder for his rage. Think you he would have spared you D’Aeth’s skill with iron tongs and hot coals? Think you Nicolaa de la Haye would not have recognized her own handiwork?”
Gil lifted a hand self-consciously to the scar that ran the length of her left cheek.
“It has been more than five years,” she said in a hushed voice. “The Bawd cannot possibly remember every face she has had plied with brands … there have been too many.”
For several long moments Gil wrestled with the spectre of her memories while Friar wrestled with the desire to take her in his arms and demand to know what had caused so much hatred to build inside her. It was not just the branding—a hideous enough reason in itself, for with her flame-coloured hair and her smile (when she dared show it) as wide and bright as a summer day, she would have been a rare, exquisite beauty. To Friar, all the physical perfection in the world could not have rivalled her courage, her pride, her strength of spirit. If he could just convince her of this, draw her out of her anger long enough to see she need not be alone in her suffering .
What then, he wondered. What good would come of it? What manner of promises could they make to one another when the probability of surviving another sennight was not even guaranteed?
“We all walk about with ghosts and demons on our shoulders,” he said finally, breaking the silence with a sigh. “At times I confess to a pressing need myself to throw back my head and bay at the moon. But then I think: What good would it do to turn as savage and bloodless as those who would only rejoice to see the work they have done in bringing us so low?”
“It would feel good,” Gil said flatly, coldly. “It would feel as good for me to see my arrow pierce the iron tankard of De la Haye’s heart, as it must have felt for you when you plunged your knife into the breast of the Bishop Mercier.”
“The situation was different,” Friar said slowly.
“Why? Because it was done in the heat of the moment while the girl he was raping and mutilating was still bleeding on the altar before him? Or because you, Alaric FitzAthelstan, were born of noble blood and it was the noble thing to do, to avenge the girl’s death?”
“I did not feel noble doing it,” he said quietly.
“But would you have felt human not doing it? Could you have lived with yourself? Could you have lived with the guilt of doing nothing to avenge her death?”
Alaric knew the answer even as he saw the hard glitter of satisfaction in Gil’s eyes. He reached out and grasped her by the shoulders, squeezing hard enough to cause the water trapped in her shirt to seep through his fingers.
“At least I did not keep the burden of pain to myself. I shared the guilt and the horror, and by doing so, was able to find peace within myself again.”
“There will be no peace for me until Nicolaa de la Haye is dead,” Gil insisted. “Just as there will be no peace for the Wolf until he sees the Dragon lying dead at his feet. Yet I do not see you cautioning him to make peace with himself. Nay! I see you doing everything in your power, risking everything you say you so solemnly hold to value … to help him in his quest!”
His grip tightened further. “I would help you too, if you would but let me.”
“I … do … not … want … your … help!” she fumed. “I do not want anyone’s help, only God’s—and then only to keep the aim of my arrow straight and true.”
Friar held the resolute stare for another full minute before he thrust her away with an explosive “Bah!” of frustration. It was no use. She was as stubborn as a mule and twice as thick-headed.
“Sparrow is not the only one who spites himself by thinking to punish the rest of the world. The stench of your self-pity would rival his any day, and I leave it to you gladly!”
Gil watched him stride out of the dull halo of light. He was almost to the edge of the fern-covered slope before she cried out and took a step after him.
“Alaric … please! You do not understand.”
“No,” he said, halting, his back still to the lantern light. “I do not understand. I have tried, Gil. God knows. But a man can only slam his head against a stone wall so many times before he realizes the one will give long before the other, and he should waste his efforts elsewhere.”
“I have never encouraged your … efforts,” she stammered.
“No. But they have always been yours for the asking.” He climbed up the slope and was swallowed in the darkness, leaving Gil Golden a black silhouette by the inky waters of the Silent Pool. He did not hear the tortured gasp that was his name, nor did he see the shining wetness of the tears that began to flow down her cheeks.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Servanne spent the next two days diligently avoiding all unnecessary contact with the Black Wolf. It was not a difficult goal to achieve since he had elected to stand guard throughout most of the first day, and had led a small party of men out to determine where the sheriff’s men were searching the forest. On the second day, he took Gil and two others out hunting and returned with a large buck, which was more than enough to replenish their food supplies. In the evenings she was forced to sit through the repeated mockery of a formal meal, but there again, she found him so preoccupied with other matters as to be generally uninterested in sparring with her.
Mutter and Stutter, the twin minstrels, were assigned as her personal guards and she went nowhere without the pair of them bickering good-naturedly a discreet few paces in her shadow. Not that there was anywhere to go outside of the ruined gardens and the Silent Pool—neither of which held any appeal for Servanne with their associated memories. And not that there was any pressing need to visit either place, for the weather had turned sullen and miserable, the sky an oppressive mass of unbroken cloud, which periodically spit torrents of water down upon the mouldy buildings in an earnest effort to make the unpleasantness of their surroundings even worse.
The walls dripped constantly. The birds who had made the refectory arches their homes for generations, screamed and quarreled incessantly, and made walking from one end of the hall to the other a hazardous roulette of bird droppings. The fires smoked blackly and could not hold a proper flame long enough to generate any real heat or relief from the damp. The chambers were cold and musty, and stank of animal excrement and decay.
On the fifth day of Servanne’s captivity, the sky was once again blue, albeit seen through the hazy, misty vapours of the forest steaming dry. She ventured gladly out into the courtyard after her morning prayers, thankful to feel the heat of the sun again on flesh that had grown wrinkled and clammy from dampness. The other members of the Wolf’s camp greeted the sunlight with the same enthusiasm and immediately went about setting up targets to practice their archery, quintains to sharpen the aim of lance and sword, and cordoned squares where men stripped to the waist and wrestled one another to stretch the lethargy out of cramped muscles. Even the huge war-horses were taken through their paces. The constant thunder of hooves and the trembling of the ground underfoot made one wonder if the crumbling masonry could withstand the abuse. But it held, apart from the odd startled stone, which was more than could be said for the field outside the main gates. It was left churned and pitted and trampled as if there had been a great battle fought on the common.
“It is just like being part of a tourney or a fair,” Biddy remarked with grudging admiration. “These scoundrels certainly do know what they are about.”
She was making a specific reference to Gil Golden, who had taken up a position at the far side of the courtyard, her back straight as a rod, her long legs braced apart, her bow prepared with such loving precision it could have been an extension of he
r own limbs.
“Now, my lady, you will see …” Mutter began.
“… a fine entertainment,” Stutter finished.
“For Gil Golden has no equal with a bow …”
“… although Sparrow tries daily to prove the claim false.”
“Think you, brother, one day he might succeed?” Mutter asked, his frown suggesting the question was of the utmost importance.
Stutter’s brows mirrored the concern. “Oh, nay, brother. As clever as our Sparrow might be in some ways, his faerie powers hold no sway on Gil’s bow arm. Watch.”
In the courtyard, Gil nocked an arrow and let it fly, sending it straight to the heart of the target—a small canvas sack filled with kernels of corn. The sack hung from a branch that grew over the wall at the opposite end of the monastery grounds, a distance of perhaps two hundred yards.
“Paugh! Where’s the challenge?” Sparrow demanded, sighting the skewered target from under the visor of his hand. “I could hit it myself, blindfolded.”
Gil lowered the bow and glared at the little man. “Your best is not my worst, and well you know it, Puck.”
“We will see about that,” Sparrow snorted and scampered across the courtyard to chase down the target. He loosened the string at the neck of the sack, spilling all but a spoonful of dry corn out onto the grass. Reduced in size to a boll no bigger than a child’s fist, Sparrow rehung it and, for an added test of skill, gave it a heave so that it careened back and forth like a drunken pendulum.
“Now, Master Boaster,” he shouted through cupped hands. “Earn your keep the hard way.”
Gil tracked the erratic pattern of the swinging sack for as long as it took to draw an arrow from her quiver and notch it to the bowstring—all of two seconds. She drew and snapped her fingers to release the arrow, then without waiting to see if it struck home, drew, nocked, and fired another.
Sparrow, standing alongside the swinging target, let off a startled squawk when the arrow struck at the widest point of the arc, impaling the sack to the wall a mere two inches from his pugged nose. The second arrow, hissssing so close upon the fletching of the first as to make the sound of their flights unbroken, was a stomach-lurching inch closer and carried away a lock of tightly curled brown hair in passing.
Gil’s grin was shared by every member of the band but one. With his eyes as round as his gaping mouth, Sparrow hastily retrieved his bow and quiver and scurried off into the tangle of the gardens, leaving gales of laughter following in his wake.
“Serves him right,” Biddy chuckled. She had not forgiven him his many sins of mischief-making—sins which had grown increasingly inventive in the close confines caused by the poor weather—and seeing Sparrow run in a circle, his ear tingling with wood-burn did her bosom a good turn.
Servanne was only partly attentive to Biddy’s gloating. Two new combatants were taking their place in the courtyard, drawing eyes and ears away from other activities as if the world had suddenly shrunken to a circle twelve feet round.
Friar and the Wolf were testing the weight and balance of their swords, the naked steel glinting in the sunlight as both men shrugged aside the precaution of using leather guards for the blades.
“Now, this should be worthy of a stopped heart or two,” Mutter confided to Biddy.
“Indeed,” Stutter added earnestly, “they have come close on occasion to stopping their own.”
“In the beginning, of course …”
“… Friar was no match for milord, not in strength or skill. But now …”
“… they are so evenly matched, the blades must cut close to the veriest edge of peril in order to declare the winner.”
“Peril in a pig’s bladder,” Biddy declared, glaring at the twins. “Surely the blades are dulled and the intents feigned.”
“Oh no,” Mutter assured her. “They draw blood quite regularly.”
“Tis how the men exchange their money back and forth, wagering on who has the meanest look in the eye that particular morning.”
“Today, methinks it is Friar,” Stutter added confidently. “He looks better rested.”
“He does look sleepy,” Mutter agreed, fishing in his tunic for a copper coin. “Too sleepy to oust milord.”
Stutter produced a copper of his own and the two sat happily clutching their wagers as the opening feints of the match began.
Servanne was compelled to glance up from the bits of straw she was absently plaiting in her hands. She had not formed any preferences, one way or the other, for any of these so-called outlaws, but of the lot of them, the Friar seemed the most considerate, the most genteel and level-headed. If not for the way he flaunted his disdain for the church, and for the lingering humiliation of having believed him to be a real monk, Servanne might almost have admitted a fondness for his wit, his charm, and most notably, his ability to hold his own against the Wolf’s arrogance and broodiness.
So it was, she watched and cheered secretly to see the Friar’s blade draw some of that blood from the Wolf’s bravado.
At first, he looked to be entirely outmatched against the Wolf’s brutish power and prowess, but with the opening cuts and slashes, it became quickly evident that what Friar lacked in muscle, he made up for in speed. The two men struck and lunged, thrust and feinted. Steel clanged and shrilled, the metallic clash of swords echoed within the walled confines of the courtyard. Beside her, Mutter clutched at Stutter’s arm when the Wolf’s blade came streaking down in a silvery arc, the light flaring along the polished surface as it met the Friar’s blade in a jarring impact. They both gasped and added their cheers to the others as the Friar pivoted on the heels of his feet, avoiding a slicing sweep across his flanks with barely the width of a prayer to spare.
Cords of muscle bulged and rippled in the Wolf’s arms. Beads of moisture slicked his brow and temples, darkening the unruly locks of chestnut hair where they whipped and lashed against cheek and throat. He wore only a loose-fitting shirt of lincoln green over his deerhide leggings; heat and concentration had already caused the cloth to cling in damp patches to the vast slabs of granite that bunched across his shoulders and chest. His hands gripped the sword as if they were born to it, wielding its power smoothly, effortlessly, never once breaking tension in the wrist or upper arm.
Servanne’s hands fell motionless on her lap, her throat was suddenly as dry as parchment—an oddly disturbing contrast to the rest of her body, which seemed to be drowning under a deluge of liquid warmth.
She had indeed tried hiding away in her chamber, pleading illness and fatigue to avoid his company, but not seeing him at all was somehow worse than having only the company of her memories to contend with. Memories could not be refuted, only embellished. His hands, his lips, the tempered hardness of his body … If he was there, in the flesh, she could always find things about him that annoyed her and thus enabled her to use her anger and contempt to defend against the frequent lapses in vigilance.
Mon Dieu, how she burned with shame each and every time she found the Wolf’s smouldering gaze upon her. How she ached with the knowledge of where his hands had been and what they had done. What did he think? What did he remember? Could it be one tenth … one hundredth part as devastating as what she agonized over each time she drew a breath or released it?
A resounding shriek of metal slicing along metal startled Servanne’s thoughts back to the sun-drenched courtyard. The two antagonists were crouched and stalking in a slow circle, their swords gripped double fisted, their faces tensed into murderous grins. There was blood dotting the Wolf’s sleeve and a row of cleanly severed thongs hanging where the front seam of his shirt had once been bound together. Sweat sleeked his hair; it streamed down his face and neck, and glistened from the breastplate of dark hair that clouded his chest. His flesh was undoubtedly hot. Steaming. Salty.
Servanne cleared her throat and sat a little straighter on the wooden stool. She was aware—acutely aware—of a heart that beat too fast, of blood racing too quickly and too warmly through ve
ins that ran alternately hot as fever, cold as ice. A knot of tension sat in her belly like a fist, growing and twisting upon itself until it seemed to be sapping the strength from her limbs as well as draining it from her chest.
Out in the courtyard, the two men rose up like rampant lions, their bodies clashing together, their blades crossing one over the other, locked in a tremendous outpouring of raw energy. The Wolf snarled an oath questioning Friar’s ancestry, and lunged mightily to throw his adversary off balance. Friar feinted to the left, his sword arcing off the Wolf’s with enough force to create a shower of sparks. Two clean, blunt strikes later and the blades crossed again, grinding in a screaming weal of flashing silver to lock again at the hilt guards.
“A draw?” Friar suggested through his clamped teeth.
“The third this month?”
“Fourth. But one I fear may be too violent for the more faint-hearted in the bower.”
The gray eyes flicked to the shade of the ancient yew. Servanne’s pale face registered first as a blur, then as a glaring, fundamental mistake any bowed-legged page should have been able to see through. But before he could correct the error, Friar had already taken advantage of the distraction to hook a foot around the Wolf’s ankle and thrust forward with his full weight. The two crashed heavily onto the ground in a churning cloud of dust and cartwheeling swords, and, when the curse-laden air cleared, the Wolf was flat on his back, his neck forced to an impossible arch by the biting tip of Friar’s dagger.
“Declare it, my lord!” he gasped triumphantly.
“An unfair win,” protested the Wolf.
“A win nonetheless. And by the same tack you used to best me but a month ago. Declare it, by God, or forfeit the need to shave for a week.”
The Wolf laughed. “A fair win, you black-robed bastard! Now heave off me, and give a shout for ale, else we both die of thirst before we have a chance to celebrate properly.”
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 18
