The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  He leaned against the stone blocks and wondered again at the wisdom of using her as a shield for their activities. He wondered even more at Lord Henry’s obvious discomfort with the situation—a discomfort that was not, he suspected, caused entirely out of fear for her actual safety, but more for her temper, obstinance, and single-mindedness.

  Sparrow had been the least reluctant to point out that, if caught in any compromising positions, most women were wont to reveal far more information than any casual questions warranted. In fact, they tended to chatter on and on like magpies until the head ached and the fingers longed to throttle. Both Henry and the lord marshal had come to Lady Ariel’s defense on the charges of chattering and revealing, but they seemed generally and uncomfortably to agree that she had a mind of her own and would not hesitate to plague them with arguments, suggestions, even conditions against her participation in any adventure, regardless of the possible perils.

  Not exactly an encouraging testament from either brother or uncle.

  As for Eduard’s opinion of women …? With very few exceptions, he considered them to be cold-hearted, light-headed, and ruthlessly conniving when it came to furthering their own ambitions. Wealth, influence, and power were what put smiles on their faces; greed and a shrewd sense of survival were the prerequisites that put them in the beds of men they might otherwise shun like lepers … or bastards.

  Most tended to share Lady Ariel’s opinion of bastards and rarely saw any advantage in marrying one, regardless of whose by-blow he might be. Eduard, in no particularly frenzied haste to bind himself to a wife and breed fine “respectable” sons to succeed him, saw no reason to expend any untoward effort in changing their minds. He was not averse to finding himself in the bed of some noble beauty—he was usually given a flurry of invitations to do so after each display of his talents on a jousting field. It amused him to display his talents elsewhere, and to leave those same beauties decrying the lack in their own husband’s skills. For the most part, however, he preferred to keep his distance from the nobility. It suited him to have women like Gabrielle, who made no demands on his time or affections. Most of all, it suited him to have emotional ties to none but his family … and Eleanor.

  Eleanor of Brittany was a beauty among beauties, chaste in body and spirit. A fragile heart who could not find it in her soul to think evil of anyone. Not her mother Constance, who had urged Arthur to form the ill-fated alliance with France; not Philip, who had betrothed her to his son, the Dauphin, only to renege when it seemed likely Arthur’s quest for the throne would fail. She had not even seen the madness in Arthur’s plan to attack Mirebeau, or the insanity of accompanying him, knowing … knowing that failure—and it was inevitable he would fail—would mean imprisonment and possibly death.

  Standing in the Wolf’s war pavilion, with the torch lights flickering over the proud features of the last true Plantagenet prince and princess, Lord Randwulf had tried speaking to her like the father she did not have. He had advised her to come away with him and wait to see how the king’s mood would swing. For Arthur, there had been no such option, but for Eleanor, there had been a chance to get away, protected by the might and sword of Amboise. Randwulf had left Eduard to talk to her, to try to convince her of the folly of remaining a brave front by her brother’s side, but she had only smiled and pressed herself into the comforting arms of his friendship, and assured him she was not afraid. It was her duty and her honour to remain with Arthur, to give him what strength she could to see him through the humiliation of renouncing his claim forever.

  Eduard’s hands had been tied. He had watched Eleanor and Arthur led away and he had been unable to help either one of them. Now, however, with proof her uncle was breaking his word by taking her back to England to remain his prisoner indefinitely, with or without the marshal’s sanction, Eduard would have gone after her. Without or without the cooperation of the marshal’s niece, he was going to free Eleanor and, Lord Gwynwynwyn of Powys be damned, he was going to bring her back home to Brittany.

  The wind gusted and Ariel’s footsteps slowed again. She turned her head slightly and stood as still as a statue, so close to Eduard FitzRandwulf that a long stride would have put her within arm’s reach. The same husky, masculine scent that had swamped her senses throughout the evening meal came to her now; the scent of woodsmoke and leather and crisp wintery sunshine.

  Startled to discover she was not alone on the rooftop, and increasingly certain of the identity of the interloper, Ariel fought a sudden urge to turn and flee back to the safety of her cramped bedchamber. She fought it and conquered it, forcing herself to stand calmly in the whirling breezes, her eyes searching the midnight shadows until she located a shape that was not a part of the wall.

  “Is it always your custom, sirrah, to spy from crevices and darkened hallways?”

  Lightning flashed overhead, giving brief substance to the niche where Eduard stood. His shoulder was against the wall, one of his booted feet was raised and propped on a wooden joist that protruded from the mortar. He returned her stare impassively, looking anything but chagrined or embarrassed.

  “Is it always your custom to wander where you are not invited?”

  Ariel bristled at the wry retort. She was doing nothing wrong, breaching no protocol. Surely she needed no one’s permission to seek a breath of fresh air. “Are the rooftops private, then? If so, the doors should have been barred and a guard placed at the exit.”

  “I somehow doubt that would have held you,” he murmured.

  Ariel could not see him clearly through the gloom, but she caught the dull glint of the sword he wore at his hip, and of the buckles and studs that ornamented his surcoat. His hair was curled forward over his cheeks and throat like strokes of black ink; he looked dark and dangerous and none too concerned to find her alone on a stormy rooftop.

  He shifted forward suddenly, straightening from the wall, and Ariel was startled into taking a step back, a reaction that brought forth a weary sigh from the shadows.

  “My lady … is it possible we started out on the wrong footing this afternoon? Can you have imagined me to be more of an enemy than I am?”

  It was possible, Ariel conceded. But not probable. He had mocked her and made her the brunt of his amusement. He had grabbed her and laid his lecherous hands on her, begging her pardon only upon learning her identity. He was obviously accustomed to having his attentions returned eagerly by every wench who took his fancy, tumbling them at will or want.

  On the other hand …

  On the other hand, had they met for the first time in the great hall, would she have been so hasty to read insolence and sarcasm behind each glance or action? Would she have baited him at every turn of phrase? Or deliberately provoked him into returning her every barb and insult in kind?

  Had she first met this brooding, dark-haired knight in the bustling atmosphere of the great hall, with his pewter gray eyes and heart-ravaging smile, would she not have taken his solicitousness at the meal table as flattery?

  Ariel chewed thoughtfully on her lip. “You are right, Sir Knight. Perhaps I was somewhat rude this evening—with good cause, though, you will admit. ’Tis not often I am groped and fondled by a complete stranger.”

  He bowed slightly. “I assure you, Lady Ariel, ’tis not normally my habit to grope or fondle without invitation.”

  “Well … I suppose I should apologize for being in the armoury. I … took a wrong turn and simply followed the light.”

  “An understandable error.”

  “And since I was there, I did not think there would be any harm in looking.”

  “None whatsoever,” he agreed. “In truth, those were my very sentiments. I might not have even intruded had you not tried to slice off my leg with a targe.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “So it was, and no harm done.”

  Ariel regarded him narrowly. Was he mocking her again?

  He was certainly waiting for whatever gem might fall next from her lips and she
looked up at the sky, over the ramparts towards the river, anywhere but up into his face.

  “I … could not sleep and thought a walk might tire me. I suppose, with the rain feeling so close, I should return now.”

  Without waiting for his reply she started to retrace her steps and was startled again to hear his long strides drawing him abreast.

  “I confess I was surprised to see anyone else venturing forth in this weather, and at such a late hour. Is your room not to your liking?”

  “The room is fine,” she said quickly. “As to the weather, I enjoy stormy skies. Tonight especially, it … suits my mood.”

  “Ahh. Yes. Your uncle did mention you were a little out of sorts with the entire world these days.”

  She stopped so suddenly the hem of her mantle creamed around her ankles, and Eduard carried forward several more steps before noticing he walked alone.

  “So. He discussed me, did he?”

  FitzRandwulf bought an awkward moment of respite by walking back to her side. “He … mentioned why you were here, in Normandy. That you were not pleased with the king’s writ.”

  Ariel planted her hands on her waist. “He discussed my marriage with you?”

  “Only in passing. And only by way of explaining why you are here, defying the king’s decree.”

  “I am not defying him. I am refusing him.”

  “You are not pleased with his choice of husbands?”

  “Not pleased? Not pleased?” She held her temper in check with a visible effort. “Why, I am delirious with joy. Why should I not be? Marriage to a gaoler’s son—a rough-handed, large-nosed, bull-legged churl with the manners and odour of a wild boar—” She smiled sweetly. “How could I be anything but blissfully delighted with my sovereign’s keen interest in my future happiness?”

  Eduard hid his own smile even though he doubted she could see it. “I gather you have met the happy groom?”

  “I certainly have not,” she snapped. “Nor have I any intentions of doing so.”

  “Not even if the king commands it?”

  “Not even if the king takes me by the heels and drags me to an audience!”

  “Are you not worried your refusal might put your uncle in a worrisome position?”

  Ariel whirled around and glared over the parapet, her hands small and white where they gripped the stone casement. “My uncle is the Marshal of England. He is accustomed to being in worrisome positions. I cannot believe for one instant he would take the king’s defense over mine.”

  “He may not have a choice in the matter,” Eduard offered gently.

  “My uncle has never lacked for choices. Nor has he ever backed away from John Softsword in fear. Did you know”— she turned and confronted Eduard with a sparkle of pride in her eyes—“the king once dared to question my uncle’s loyalty before the court. My uncle! The man who made him king! And when my lord marshal demanded the Plantagenet usurper settle the matter by sword … not one of John’s so-called champions dared to pick up the gauntlet. Nay, they all turned their faces and lowered their eyes, and their knees made such a knocking sound in the audience chamber, the king had to shout his recantation to have it heard above the din.”

  Ariel lifted her chin and presented her shoulder to Eduard again. “When I marry, it will not be to some bung-nosed, sin-born gaoler’s son. It will be to an earl, at the very least! A landed baron, a palatine of equal or greater rank than my uncle.”

  Eduard chose not to remind her of his own sin-born heritage, but he could not resist mentioning, “A Welsh prince, perhaps?”

  “Saints seize me!” she cried, whirling on him once more. “Was there nothing about me that went undiscussed?”

  Eduard hesitated, knowing it was neither his place nor his desire to reveal her uncle’s intentions. “I am certain the earl mentioned it only because he thought you found the prince a more deserving match than the son of a … a common routier.”

  Ariel watched his mouth form the words. He was out of the shadows now and she could see his features much more clearly. It was a fascinating mouth, full in shape and rather more sensual sculpted by the stormy half-light. Further tricks of the uncertain sky drew her eye to the vertical cleft that divided the strong chin, and to the absurdly long lashes any woman would have drawn teeth to possess. Indeed, it was a shame about the scar. Without it … or even with it …

  She looked abruptly away and swallowed hard. “Anything would be preferable to a gaoler’s son, but yes, I did suggest to my uncle that Lord Rhys ap Iorwerth would be more acceptable. He was”—she curled the fleshy pad of her lip between her teeth and made a hasty correction—“he is certainly my first choice amongst the many suitors my aunt and uncle have proposed. He is handsome. Charming. A prince, for mercy’s sake.”

  “The husband of every maiden’s dreams,” he concluded wryly.

  Ariel’s jaw snapped shut. “The thought amuses you, does it?”

  “My lady?”

  “The notion of my marrying a prince,” she said tautly, glaring up at him. “You find it laughable?”

  “I am not laughing.”

  “But you do have an opinion.”

  “My opinion, my lady”—he paused and watched a lick of shiny red hair blow across the lush pout of her lips—“is that I have no opinions whatsoever when it comes to marriage. Only that I would be content unto death to remain well out of it.”

  “You have no lady love?”

  “No.”

  “Never craved one?”

  “The very notion of craving a wife—”

  “I did not say wife, I said lady love. Have you never been in love?”

  “Craving … and loving … are two entirely different matters,” he said, wondering how the devil he had become trapped in this conversation. “Neither of which, I am happy to recount, have plagued me to the point of sleeplessness.”

  His answer was sharp and perfunctory, meant to discourage any further probings. Naturally, it had the opposite effect on Ariel and she had to stop herself from openly speculating on what kind of woman would earn the affections of this scarred, enigmatic knight. He was a bastard, true enough, but there were many households where five and six daughters needed husbands, where the youngest and least dowered would look only too readily on a union with the D’Amboise name. Had his aim been too high, perhaps? Was it the reverse of her own situation, where she, being of noble blood, would not be expected to marry below the salt, regardless if the groom was selected by the king or by the pope himself?

  She sighed, the importance of Eduard’s situation, real or imagined, being supplanted by the desperation of her own.

  “I suppose I am partly to blame for what has happened,” she said miserably. “I should have heeded my aunt’s advice and paid more serious attention to the parade of suitors who have called at Pembroke. There have been so many,” she added sardonically, “’tis a certainty more than a few would have passing acquaintance with the king. Perhaps … I should have made myself so horribly unappealing, no man would have taken an interest in me. No man would have touched me, through craving or loving.”

  As if on cue, a long, silky strand of her hair escaped her hood and slithered past his cheek. It was very shiny and very metallic, also the only thing about her that retained any colour other than blue or black. As he reached up to disentangle it from his shoulder and sleeve, he remembered all too vividly how it had looked that afternoon—a crushing abundance of pure flame, red and gold. Unlike anything he had ever seen before.

  Unlike anything he imagined he would see again.

  Thus distracted, he was taking so long to offer the expected and chivalrous reassurances that nothing she could do short of boiling her face in oil and studding it with iron spikes could render a man anything less than speechless with her beauty, she was forced to glare up at him again.

  “Unless, of course,” she said in a brittle voice, “I am already so ugly I should expect nothing better than a gaoler’s son?”

  Eduard met the dark
sparkle of her eyes. “I hardly think you need fear that, my lady.”

  “Do you not? Was that why you thought to steal a kiss from me earlier today … because you thought me to be so beautiful?”

  Beautiful, Eduard mused. Half-naked. Delectably defiant. A grin pulled at his mouth as he considered all of these reasons. “In truth, I might have thought to steal more than one had you not put me in my proper place.”

  Now she knew he was mocking her, and Ariel felt the heat rise in her blood. “Just because you have been put in your place … does this mean you no longer find me desirable?”

  Eduard’s gaze roved over the shape of her face, lingering on the full, pouting lips before sliding lower. The swirling wind grasped at the opportunity for mischief and swept the hood of her mantle off her head and sent the fluttering wings of wool ballooning out behind her. The blanchet she wore beneath was pale and shapeless, but the wind molded it to her body like water, and the linen glowed almost silver in the glowering light. A second gust filled the air with long, rippling drifts of her hair. It clouded her face and shoulders; sleek, curling ribbons of it were flung across the gap between them, the strands clinging to his shoulders, tangling with his own dark mane.

  Despite his opinion of her being a spoiled, sharp-tongued brat who deserved to be bound to a dung collector to learn humility, Eduard could not in all honesty deny the response she aroused in his body. She was a beauty, and he was no monk. His blood began to flow slowly and sluggishly, just as it did in the still moments before a battle. There was a heaviness in the pit of his belly, an expanding and swelling that not only took him by surprise, but prompted him to step forward, not back, and to meet the bright challenge in her eyes.

  He lifted his hands and caught two slippery fistfuls of her hair, gathering them back out of the wind, trapping them at the nape of her neck.

  “Would you like me to find you desirable?” he inquired softly.

  Ariel’s mouth dropped open. An odd, giddy rush of hot blood flooded her limbs as she found herself staring up into eyes as dark and turbulent as the sky overhead.