The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  Friar navigated them successfully to the rear portal of one of the buildings linked to the main keep. It was the exit used by the servants and it was here Friar ushered her into a tiny storeroom and mouthed a few choice words as he struck tinder to flint, finally creating enough sparks to light a small candle. In the interim between begging her leave of the company in the great hall, and pacing anxiously in her solar until Friar came to fetch her, Servanne had prudently changed the ornately embroidered velvet tunic and silk train for a plainer garment of dark wool. She had removed her wimple as well and left her hair in a single thick braid trailing down her back. Now, to further disguise her against recognition by the guards, Friar handed her a voluminous cloak made from the same moth-gray horsehair Gil and the others had been wearing.

  “A more fetching cleric, I cannot imagine,” Friar said with a comforting smile. “I have already passed through the sentries once tonight, so there should be no difficulty in gaining the outer bailey. What is more, since the celebrations have not been restricted to the great hall, there should be enough noise and revelry outside the keep to cover our tracks. Ready?”

  Servanne nodded and raised her chin so that Alaric could fasten the cloak properly in place. A final adjustment of the spacious hood, and Friar blew out the candle. When the glaring yellow blotches had faded from his vision, he took Servanne by the hand and cautiously led her out into the corridor.

  The sight of two more cowled figures gave her heart a momentary start, but when a distant torchlight assured her she was not seeing double, she nodded a faint greeting to Mutter and Stutter, and felt safer for their quiet presence behind them. Two more “monks” joined them outside the portal, and a third pair, including Gil Golden, fell into step near the gates to the outer bailey.

  The guards at the first barbican tower scarcely paid heed to the cloaked figures who crossed the footbridge. There were huge fires blazing in every corner of the common, and flickering torches thrust into niches every few paces along the walls. Sentries paced the ramparts up above, but they were not too concerned with anyone already granted entry to the inner grounds. There was even the squeal of a woman’s laughter from somewhere high up, showing exactly how interested they were in the pedestrian traffic below.

  The second bailey was not quite as brightly lit, but it appeared as if everyone in this tiny, self-contained village was out in force, drunk on cheap ale and anticipation of the next day’s events. Alaric’s dark cowl and glinting crucifix won them an amiable passage through the gloomy, musty labyrinth of laneways and workshops. Visiting knights had left their retinues of men-at-arms to be housed in the small, crowded barracks that lined the walls, and they had been quick to find the whores who were willing to do the most for the least amount of coin. Goliards and minstrels, practicing for the day of the tournament, put on impromptu shows by firelight and there was singing and dancing in nearly every lane they passed.

  It was a far different scene from the image Servanne retained of the day of her arrival at Bloodmoor. These people smiled and laughed, and were not afraid to meet one another in the eye. Even the guards who patrolled the bailey in pairs, stopped to appreciate a daring acrobatic feat, or to sample a taste of sizzling meat roasting on a small grill.

  There were heady scents in the air as well. The bakers along bakers’ row were bending non-stop over their ovens in hope of meeting the morrow’s demand for bread, biscuits, and pastries. In the butchers’ quarters, hogs, lambs, goats, and chickens were being slaughtered, skinned, and plucked in preparation for the banquet that would follow the tournament, as well as the feast to culminate the wedding. In the armourers’ alley, contrasting the sweet smells, squires had set up booths and pavilions decorated with their lord’s crests and pennants. Forges burned and smoked oily fumes into the night air as grease- and sweat-stained smithies worked over anvils, bribed with handfuls of copper zechins into making repairs to horseshoes, lances, or shields. Squires were overseeing the repairs, and would undoubtedly work well into the small hours polishing and oiling suits of chain mail. The loser of each match had to forfeit his armour and horse to the winning knight, and it was a matter of pride that, win or lose, a knight’s equipment should bear no spot of rust or broken link of steel.

  Servanne was beginning to feel the tension in her legs long before Alaric slowed his pace and lifted a cautionary finger to his lips. They had left the noise of hammers and toilers well behind and entered a darker, quieter sector of the bailey. Servanne had no idea where they were, no idea the grounds were so vast and sprawling. She pressed into the deeper shadows as instructed and wondered how Alaric seemed to know the right twists and turns to make. But then she recalled—the Wolf had grown up within these walls. After fifteen years, if he remembered overgrown forest paths and lost monasteries, he would have no difficulty remembering the nooks and crannies of the place he had called home.

  In the gloom, the nook where Alaric had brought her was about as isolated and dismal as it possibly could be—and for good reason. With a small start, Servanne identified the sketch hung on the sign over the door, and realized it was where shrouds and coffins were made for the unluckier castle residents.

  “Dear God,” she whispered, pulling instinctively away.

  “Even God has the courtesy to stay away from here tonight,” Alaric said, catching her arm and squeezing it gently for moral support. “It was the safest place we could think of for a meeting. Even so … be brief, my lady. Gil and the others will keep a sharp eye out for intruders; I shall wander back toward the psaltery and wait for you there. Go now, and have a care to make some small noise before you reach the door, or you will feel the bite of a knife between your shoulders before you can correct the oversight. Keep well to the deepest part of the shadows …”

  Servanne drew a deep breath to bolster her courage and crossed the last moonlit patch of ground. Her footsteps crunched over straw and hay and she made no attempt to dampen the sound, chilled by Alaric’s warning. She paused before the low-slung door a moment and offered a heartfelt prayer to any saint who might not have already completely forsaken her. She debated knocking, but a further thought saw her simply lift the crude wooden latch and step tentatively inside.

  Dust was as thick as fog in the interior of the stone and thatch hut, and it took her eyes several seconds to adjust to the feeble amber light cast by a guttering taper. Another quelling bubble of panic rose in her chest, for the gloom was dense enough to conceal man or beast, and, since she was not certain which of the two she should expect to see here tonight, she did not rush eagerly to meet her fate.

  He was there, in the darkest of the shadows, his form slowly emerging from the strangely selective light. He was leaning against the far wall, his arms folded over his chest, observing her calmly and casually, as if it was a nightly occurrence to arrange meetings with noblewomen in a room where mourning shrouds and coffins guarded the silence.

  “You wanted to see me?” he asked in a gritty, spine-scratching growl.

  “You are … Lord La Seyne?”

  His response was a long and expressive sigh that warned of little patience for unnecessary questions. He unfolded his arms and Servanne understood why there was a glaring lack of form to give him substance: he was dressed all in black. His fists were gloved in black leather, his jerkin and doublet were quilted out of black wool, studded with tiny silver bosses along the seams and at each junction of the bold squares. His shirt, leggings, and tall knee boots were black as well, and above the band of rolled hide that comprised the collar of his doublet, the gleam of black silk set Servanne’s heart fluttering within her breast. At the sight of the mask, despite her resolve to speak her piece, her foot took a reflexive step back toward the door.

  “State your business, Lady de Briscourt,” he rasped. “I have no time for womanly vapours.”

  “Th-the Black Wolf of Lincoln told me to seek you out if I needed help,” she said haltingly.

  “And? Do you require help?”

  “He
lp … yes. But not for myself.”

  There was a slight pause before a breath carried a further question to her. “Do you think of me as a charity, offering solace to all the downtrodden?”

  Servanne bowed her head for a brief moment, and when she looked up again, her eyes were bright and steady, her voice without tremor.

  “I would ask your help for Lord Wardieu. I am informed he plans to take your place on the field tomorrow at the tournament.”

  “Lord … Wardieu?”

  “Lord Lucien Wardieu. The real Lord Lucien Wardieu. The man who calls himself the Black Wolf of Lincoln … and your friend, if I am not mistaken.”

  “I make a point of having no friends,” La Seyne snarled.

  “Then you should advise Lord Wardieu of your feelings, for he speaks very highly of you.”

  The bright glitter of his eyes narrowed behind the slits in the black silk. “I was informed you did not believe his story.”

  “True enough. I did not. Not in the beginning.”

  “But you do now?” he sneered. “May I ask what brought about such a miraculous change of heart?”

  “You may mock me, sir,” she said quietly. “And you may scorn a woman’s fickle nature, but I assure you, the … change of heart … as you call it, was not come by easily, nor was it wrought without a great deal of thought to the consequences. You have come to Bloodmoor to rescue the Princess Eleanor. I have come to you in the hope you will also rescue Lord Lucien.”

  The knight took a deep breath. “Lucien is a capable fellow. He needs not my help to split a bastard brother from a saddle.”

  “Do you honestly think Prince John would allow him to savour such a victory should it come his way?”

  “It is the victory he seeks,” La Seyne said slowly. “What comes after … is of no importance. What comes after, he will deal with after.”

  “Alone? In a field surrounded by John’s men and the Dragon’s paid mercenaries? There will be nothing to deal with, my lord, for a single cold command will loose a hundred arrows from a hundred bows, and he will be dead with little of the chivalry and honour he claims to hold so dear.”

  The pauses were growing longer, the shadowy details of La Seyne’s figure were becoming more distinct. Now she could not only see the shape of his mask, but the way the force of each shallow breath caused the silk to swell and recede against his mouth.

  “Women should stay clear of war and politics—they understand neither. In the first place, Lord Lucien will not be alone. I have a hundred stout, loyal men of my own to ensure those arrows are not fired.”

  “De Gournay is Prince John’s ally—his champion! He will not sit idly by while a man they both plotted to discredit attempts to prove them frauds and murderers.”

  “God and the king must judge the weight of John’s greed. Lucien’s quarrel is with his brother.”

  “It is a quarrel John will not tolerate in silence.”

  The silk flared again. “He will if he is faced with the choice of either recognizing Lucien Wardieu as the rightful heir of the De Gournay title, or having his own crime of kidnapping and attempted murder revealed before witnesses. It was Lackland’s arrogance to suppose he would be safer making the exchange for the Princess Eleanor at Bloodmoor, surrounded by his most trusted allies. It is that same arrogance which will force him to maintain his silence while his champion is challenged for his crimes. To be sure, he will pretend to be suitably shocked at De Gournay’s duplicity, but unless he wants the princess to point an accusing finger at her uncle’s royal intrigues, he will support the man who wins on the field tomorrow.”

  “Are you so sure Lucien will win?”

  “Your confidence is overwhelming, my lady,” he said dryly. “You do not think he will?”

  “I think you are a better match for Etienne Wardieu. You have the trophies and the reputation to prove it.”

  “Lucien is no mean squirrel in the lists; he has tipped a fox or two out of the saddle before now.”

  “But not so many as you, Lord Randwulf.”

  The hooded face turned away for the length of a ripe curse, then looked back. “A man must avenge his honour at any cost,” he hissed. “It is the code by which a knight lives. Take it away and he is nothing. Ask another to interfere, and he is less than nothing.”

  “I am not asking you to interfere, my lord. I am asking … nay, begging you to save his life.”

  “How?”

  “By taking to the field yourself tomorrow. You could kill Etienne Wardieu with impunity—another challenge, another trophy to add to your armoury. I have seen the pain in Lucien’s eyes when he speaks of his brother’s treachery. Regardless of the justification, where there was once love, there would be immeasurable guilt should he be the one to take his brother’s life.”

  The Scourge of Mirebeau was silent so long Servanne felt a trickle of sweat form between her breasts.

  “You speak as if you care what happens to the rogue,” he said with quiet intensity.

  “I … suppose I do,” she admitted in a whisper. “In a way.”

  La Seyne took a sudden step away from the wall and Servanne, not expecting the movement, flinched back with a small cry of alarm. He was as tall as a pillar and massive with the brawn and muscle of a fighting man. As he walked closer, he flexed his gauntleted hands, and the fingers that crushed the morsel of straw looked as if they could crush her bones with as little effort.

  “In what way, madam? Do you care because you now believe his claim and would not want to lose what you so nearly have within your grasp here at Bloodmoor?”

  “Lands and titles mean nothing to me!” she insisted.

  “No? Is that why you rushed so eagerly to answer the Dragon’s summons, barely a month after your husband’s death?”

  “I … had no choice! I was commanded by royal decree!”

  “You had a choice in the forest. You could have refused to go with Wardieu.”

  “I was given no such choice!” she cried adamantly. “Had I been given one, think you I would be here now?”

  “I do not know,” La Seyne said bluntly. “Would you?”

  Servanne opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again, stunned by the echo of her own words. She heard them again, breaking down the barrier of her pride, and the echo grew louder and louder, the words and their meaning pounding within her breast like a smithy’s hammer.

  “No,” she said softly, her eyes filling with tears. “No, I would not be here, monseigneur. I believe … I would quite happily have stayed in the forest with him, had he offered me the chance, with no complaint, no second thoughts as to what I would be forsaking. Nay, I would go there with him now, if you could but convince him of his folly. I would willingly follow him to Normandy or France, or any of a dozen foreign countries.”

  “And what if he does not want your company?” La Seyne growled, drawing close enough to startle Servanne’s heart higher in her throat.

  “I—I would follow him anyway,” she maintained. “I would content myself just to be near him.”

  Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer stared at her for a long, throbbing moment before breaking the tension with a low, unsteady laugh. “No. No, my lady, by the look of this new revelation dawning in your eyes, I do not think you would be content with anything less than iron chains binding you together hip and thigh.”

  Servanne returned his stare. His voice had lapsed from its forced gruffness, and the laugh … the laugh was familiar enough to raise a spray of gooseflesh along her arms.

  Without thinking, she lifted her hand toward the mask, but the gloved fingers were just as swift to close around her wrist and halt the motion.

  “I would see your face, monseigneur,” she whispered.

  “You would not like what you saw.”

  “I like it less being laughed at and ridiculed by a man too cowardly to reveal his own faults to the world.”

  The fingers clamped tighter around her wrist, causing a shiver of pain to set the stubbornness on
her mouth. But he released her before the pain became too real, and with no further warning or protest, bowed his head and removed the black silk mask.

  The light from the taper was on his profile, etching a square jaw with several days’ worth of dark stubble blunting it. His hair curled in thick chestnut whorls against his cheeks and throat; his eyes were long-lashed and gray as a turbulent winter sky. There were no scars, no deformities to cringe from. Only a single, partly scabbed slash across one cheek that seemed to add, not detract, from the wild, wolfish beauty of him.

  “You!” she gasped, her icy fingers slipping from her mouth to cover the loudly drumming beat of her heart. She could scarcely breathe for the impact he had upon her senses. It struck her like a fist—the realization he was here, standing in front of her, pretending to be someone he was not, listening to her concerns and confessions, mocking the very emotions which had become her only thread to sanity.

  “You!” she cried. “How dare you not reveal yourself! How dare you lead me on and goad me into saying things … things that were not meant for you to hear!”

  The Wolf glanced past her shoulder to the open door. “The rest of the castle is not meant to hear them either,” he murmured wryly and moved around behind her to close the creaking wood panel.

  She whirled to confront him. “How dare you trick me! Where is La Seyne?”

  “He is here.”

  “Where? Listening somewhere in the shadows so that you might both share a hearty laugh at my expense?”

  “It was not my intention to trick you, nor am I laughing at anything you have said.”

  “Where is La Seyne Sur Mer?” she demanded, stamping her foot to ward off the threat of tears.

  The Wolf saw them shining behind her eyes, and, after waging a minor war with what was left of his common sense, he took up her hand in his and laid the black silk hood across her palm.

  “You once asked how I could move from place to place without fear of someone recognizing me.” He glanced down and enclosed her hand, hood and all, in his. “The mask was an affectation at first. It was necessary for me to earn enough wealth and respect to win back my independence—a disguise seemed the most obvious solution to my problems, since there was still a charge of murder and treason standing against the Wardieu name.”