The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  Eduard lifted a hand and touched it to the side of her neck. Ariel froze at the contact and the fiery brightness that had begun to fade from her breasts returned with a vengeance, spreading upward to where the backs of his fingers gently eased aside the edge of her shirt and held it away from the red, angry rash on her shoulder.

  “Why did you not tell someone the clothing was too coarse against your skin?” he asked with a small frown.

  “Should I also have told them the horse was too clumsy, the weather too cold, the ground too wet and lumpy?”

  “Requesting to have the skin saved from being chafed from the bone is hardly an admission of weakness.”

  Ariel held his gaze for a long moment, then shrugged away his concern with a slight roll of her shoulder. “Would that we were all like you, sirrah: open and honest with your admissions at all times.”

  Eduard met the sarcasm with another frown. “In what way have I been dishonest?”

  “Oh … in the way you think of me, for one thing.”

  “My lady … I think of you in the manner which I am bound by oath and honour to think of you—as Lady Ariel de Clare, niece to the Earl of Pembroke, intended bride to Prince Rhys ap Iorwerth of Gwynedd.”

  “How very proper of you,” she murmured.

  “To think of you in any other way would be … rather improper of me, would it not?”

  “There would be nothing improper in treating me as if I had a brain in my head and a spine in my back. Pushing me behind trees to hide and speaking of nothing more sinister than the weather when I am in your company does more to prick my temper than any ten challenges to prove myself equal.”

  “Henry did warn me you had no love for bird songs,” he mused.

  “Nor do I have a love for riddles,” she said flatly. “Or secrets.”

  “Secrets, my lady?”

  “Secrets. Whispered confidences. Conversations that cease abruptly when I come near. Sketched pictures in the dirt that a boot discreetly scrubs away before I look too closely.” For a moment, just a moment, she thought she had caught FitzRandwulf off guard with the charges and her unexpected success emboldened her. “You see? I am neither blind nor stupid, and if you are plotting something that involves me in any way, I have a right to know.”

  “My lady …” He spoke slowly to give himself time to adapt to her quickness. “The only plotting that involves you has to do with the oath we gave your uncle to see you into the happy arms of your groom unhurt, unblemished, untouched. If we whisper among ourselves, it is because we discuss the ways and means of doing so without causing you undue concern. If we draw lines in the dirt and erase them, it is from force of habit, nothing more. With spies lurking behind every tree and beneath every rock, it has become necessary to keep a private thought private.”

  “So now you accuse me of being a spy?”

  “No. No, of course I do not think you are a spy …”

  “Yet you do not trust me?”

  The steely eyes widened guilelessly. “Demoiselle, you wound me. I had thought there was a possibility we could become fast friends.”

  “Friends?” she scoffed. “You dream, my lord.”

  “And you imagine conspiracies where there are none.”

  “Are there not?” She allowed her smirk to tell him she believed him as much as she believed pigs could fly. “Why did you not tell me you were acquainted with my intended groom?”

  “lorwerth? I have no knowledge of the man other than what his brother lets slip.”

  “Not that groom,” she said irritably. “The other one … Reginald de Braose.”

  Ariel had struck a second, unexpected blow to his composure, undermining it enough to put a sudden tautness in his jaw and bring to life a fine blue vein that throbbed in his temple.

  “Where the devil did you hear about De Braose?” he asked harshly.

  “Does it matter? The point is, I did not hear it from you, which I find odd in the extreme, considering how earnest you pretended to be that night on the ramparts … how very apologetic you were for the misunderstanding in the armoury … how very forgiving you were even after I called you a bastard in front of your peers.”

  “I am a bastard, my lady,” he said, bowing sardonically.

  “You are also adept at changing subjects when you do not wish to discuss them.”

  Eduard smiled faintly and turned his head enough for the light to glint gold on his lashes and to trace over the puckered flesh of the scarred cheek. “You are absolutely correct, my lady: I have no wish to discuss Reginald de Braose with you.”

  “Why? Because of what he did to your face? Or because he is somehow a part of the other reason why you are going back to England?”

  “Other reason?” he asked carefully.

  “My uncle tried to tell me your presence on this journey was crucial because of your familiarity with the land and your friendship with the rebel lords of Brittany. As such, it was a reasonable explanation, yet lacking several merits.”

  Eduard crossed his arms over his chest and found himself almost as intrigued with the way her mouth formed the words as with the words themselves.

  “Go on,” he urged. “You have won my complete attention.”

  “The first incongruity,” she said evenly, “is that you have not, by your own admission, been back to England in thirteen years. Not since your father rescued you from the donjons of Bloodmoor Keep.”

  Eduard’s gaze made the slow climb from her mouth to her eyes. “Robin,” he mused. “I am glad he has been keeping you entertained with our family history.”

  “Some of it I knew already, but he is justifiably proud of his father and half brother, although it would be difficult for him to feel otherwise, I would venture to say, even if only half of the accomplishments he credits you are true.”

  “You are too kind,” he murmured dryly. “And is that your dilemma? Do you find these stories hard to believe?”

  “Not at all. I believe every one of them. If anything, I find it difficult to believe you would ever want to set foot in England again—for any reason. And please, do not patronize me by quoting any more oaths of honour. An oath to see me safely to the coast at St. Malo would have been sufficient. An oath from Henry and Sedrick to see me the rest of the way across the Channel and into England would have been equally sufficient.”

  “A fair point to argue,” he admitted, “but hardly enough proof to condemn us as plotters and conspirators.”

  “I have more.”

  “I am, dear lady, breathless with anticipation.”

  “Breathe a little longer, my lord,” she pleaded sweetly, “and I will tell you what I see before me. I see a man who has no love of England or its king … truth or falsehood?”

  “Truth,” he admitted after a moment.

  She copied his stance, folding her arms over her chest and squaring her shoulders. “I also see a man who has—also by his own admission—no vast knowledge of England’s roads and byways.”

  “North is north in any country,” he reminded her. “What is more, your brother has been scratching out such faithful maps these past few nights, I feel I could find my way to Gwynedd … or Radnor … with my helm on backwards.”

  Ariel dismissed his sarcasm with an airy wave of her hand. “I also see a man who has only the prospect of being entertained in one of the king’s prisons as his reward for being recognized or caught on the other side of the Channel. I see all of this and I am forced to wonder why you would do it. I am driven to wonder what other reason is taking you so far from a home and a battlefield where your vaunted talents could be put to better use. I had thought revenge to be part of the motive when I first heard of the connection—dare I say coincidence—with De Braose. But no. Somehow it seems too petty an impulse, too lacking in the glory befitting such a noble champion.”

  Only Eduard’s jaw flexed in response to her sarcasm and he wondered how someone could change from being an object of lust one moment to an object sorely in want of a good sha
king the next. His hand did shoot out, but not to strike or throttle. He had caught sight of Robin returning to the pilgrim’s hall and wanted to halt the boy before he came close enough to interrupt.

  He need not have worried. Robin, catching one look at the expression on his brother’s face, did an abrupt turnabout, veering over to where Sedrick and Lord Dafydd were finally celebrating some success with the smouldering pile of kindling and pine knots.

  Eduard, meanwhile, continued to regard Ariel de Clare with a calmness that belied the very fine thread his patience was stretched upon. He was not a man to suffer too many questions where either his motives or his honour was concerned. Nor was he wont to offer endless explanations where one should have sufficed, especially to a green-eyed minx who was proving to be far too clever for her own good.

  He had not deliberately kept De Braose’s name to himself; he simply had not thought it important enough to mention to her, not when there was so little likelihood of either of them coming face to face with their mutual nemesis. Nor had he been particularly enamoured of the earl’s notion to keep his niece in the dark as to their real intentions. He believed a man —or woman—walking into danger should not do so blindly, and using Ariel de Glare to shield their attempt to rescue Princess Eleanor from the king’s prison was about as dangerous a situation as he could envision. She would have to be told eventually, of course. Even the Welshman would have to know eventually, but because it had been the earl’s express wish to delay the telling until it was absolutely necessary, Eduard was, in turn, bound to maintain the charade as long as possible. Even at the expense of his patience.

  “Has it not occurred to you, Lady Ariel, that I may indeed have very good reasons for returning to England; that those reasons may not have anything whatsoever to do with you or your overabundance of grooms; that those reasons might be private and personal?”

  “Where a man is concerned, anything private or personal usually has to do with a woman. Is that what you want me to believe?” she scoffed. “That you are going to England because of a woman?”

  Flung from her lips as a casual mockery, Ariel was surprised to see a distinct tightness alter the shape of FitzRandwulf’s jaw. Already iron-hard, it tensed even further so that each sinew was ominously well defined and the mottling of scar tissue stood out white and rigid. His eyes took on a glow not unlike the embers of a fire, burning away the thin veneer of politeness, and leaving only the cold gray ash of contempt in its wake.

  Ariel, puffed with her own smug assurances, felt the strength of them leak out of her, deflating her composure as surely as if a knife had been thrust into a bubble of dough.

  He was going to England because of a woman!

  She was not quite certain why the idea should have shocked her, she only knew it did. Shocked … or unsettled … in truth she knew not which, but she found her gaze falling instinctively to the broad, muscled wall of his chest. The ring was not visible through the dark mat of hair that filled the open vee of his shirt, but she could sense it hanging there, ornate and delicate, warmed by the animal heat of his flesh.

  “Is it so outlandish a thought, my lady?”

  “N-no, of course not.”

  “Or do you find it beyond belief that you might not be the prime consideration in everyone’s mind?”

  She met the accusation with a hot flush of mortification, for he was smiling. Grinning, actually, even as he mocked her vanity and arrogance.

  “Was there anything else you wanted to know?” he asked solicitously.

  Ariel took refuge behind the rapid lowering of her lashes, and clasped her hands tightly together. “No. No, there is nothing else.”

  Eduard beckoned for Robin to join them. “Hold a blanket for Lady Ariel while she strips out of these wet clothes. When she is dry, fetch some of Biddy’s unguent out of my saddle pack and see that she applies it thickly over any rashes.” He paused in his instructions and glanced at Ariel. “Unless of course you would prefer me to oversee the application myself. I would, naturally, be most happy to render my full and undivided attention.”

  Heat flared in Ariel’s cheeks again as the wolfish smile broadened. Part of her knew enough to be outraged by the suggestion; another part of her shivered through a sudden image of those big, powerful hands slicked with oil, skimming over her flesh.

  She blinked. “I am sure I can manage on my own. Thank you.”

  He offered an exaggerated bow and strode away to rejoin the others in front of the budding fire. Ariel waited until he was too far to hear the words she mouthed under her breath, then turned and plumped herself down on a low, three-legged stool.

  Robin had heard quite clearly and stood staring, a bundle of clothing in one hand and a goblet of mulled wine in the other.

  “Have … you and Eduard argued?”

  The again was unspoken, but loudly implied.

  “Your brother does not argue,” she snapped. “He prefers to exchange insults.”

  “My lord brother has never been a man to say twenty words where one is sufficient, and so he sometimes seems more … brusque than he really intends to be. He does have a great deal on his mind.”

  “We all have a great deal on our minds,” she countered. “But we do not all walk around acting saddle-galled, as if parts of our bodies were held in a constant crush.”

  Robin’s mouth trembled as he tried unsuccessfully to contain a grin. “If he appears impatient at times, it usually means he is impatient with himself.”

  Ariel accepted the wine goblet he offered and sipped at the spicy-sweet contents while she glared at the three shadowy figures in front of the fire. FitzRandwulf’s silhouette was unmistakable with his long legs braced wide apart and his shoulders blotting out a fair portion of the view.

  “At any rate, it is better than the black moods he used to suffer.”

  Ariel dragged her eyes away from the fire. “Black moods?”

  “Oh aye, my lady. He used to have dreadful nightmares. Horrible ones that left him white and shaking in the mornings. Even now, you will notice, he does not sleep overmuch. An hour or two at a time, rarely any longer. It … had to do with what happened to him when he was younger. When he lived in England with the man he thought was his father, and where he was beaten and tortured. Why … he bears a scar this long” —Robin held his hands a foot apart—“where the Dragon thrust a knife into Eduard’s thigh and tried to make him betray our real father. And his mother … !” Robin shook his head like someone who has never known anything but absolute love and respect. “Biddy told me she was the most malefic woman who ever lived. She bathed in blood and used to torture people for the sheer fun of it. She laughed while the Dragon cut into Eduard’s flesh. She laughed and entreated him to stab again, and again. Biddy saw it all. She was there. And so was my mother, Lady Servanne, and Lady Gillian, and Sparrow, and Friar …”

  He stopped, for he could see his credibility was beginning to drain away along with the wine in Lady Ariel’s goblet.

  “It is true,” he insisted quietly. “You could ask Eduard himself, except that he tends to blacken eyes and break heads at the very mention of the name Nicolaa de la Have.”

  Ariel lowered the goblet slowly from her lips. Even in as remote a place as Milford Haven, the name of Nicolaa de la Haye was synonymous with death and evil. Mothers invoked her spirit to frighten their children into obedience. Bards cast her as the witch or the sorceress or the bride of the anti-Christ when they retold tales spawned in the dark mists of Lincolnshire. Ariel had not thought someone so hellish had actually existed.

  “Nicolaa de la Haye was Lord Eduard’s mother?” she asked in a fascinated whisper.

  Robin glanced over his shoulder and showed the first signs of reluctance, as if he might have said too much already. “Aye, my lady. He bears the scars of her motherly affection to prove it. You … will not tell him I told you? You will not say anything …?”

  “No. No, of course not, Robin. Ease yourself. I will say nothing.”

 
“Thank you, my lady,” he murmured, not sounding the least convinced.

  “Robin …” She waited until he looked over at her. “I swear it on our friendship: I will say nothing. In fact …” She straightened and set the goblet aside. “I have forgotten it already. What were we talking about? Oh yes, I have it now. Blankets. You were going to fetch blankets so I could change out of these wet clothes before I freeze to death.”

  Robin smiled gratefully. “Yes, my lady. I shall fetch them right away.”

  While Robin was kneeling over one of the saddle packs, Ariel’s eyes strayed back to the fireside. A man born of a sorceress who had mated with a wolf and a dragon: this was the man her uncle had entrusted her safety to. A man who suffered black moods and nightmares.

  It would be sheer luck if she did not have nightmares this night, for although she had promised Robin she would speak no more of it, it would be almost impossible not to think about it.

  As quiet as the forest had been, with only the sound of the wind sifting through the trees, the abbey was like a tomb. Ariel lay in her straw-filled pallet with her eyes wide open, the very pores of her skin wide open as well, steeped in the silence of holy reverence. Sedrick had stoked the fire high before retiring to his own pallet, but the logs had been too damp to sustain a blaze for long and, apart from the odd crackle and hiss, it smouldered disconsolately in the grate.

  Ariel had consumed rather a large quantity of wine after her confrontation with FitzRandwulf. Combined with the subsequent revelations by Robin, she filled her cup several times and eventually tottered to her bed with the room canting on a distinct angle downward.