The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  Henry frowned, but he was not in any mood to argue now, not with the daylight waning and the gloom becoming less wholesome by the minute. He hailed a burly looking scoundrel from a doorway nearby and held up a silver coin.

  “This is yours, fellow, if you will stand with the horses and guard against any curious hands straying too near.”

  The man nodded and grinned through a blackened grate of broken teeth. “Not so much as a finger, my fine lord, or you will have it on your plate come morning.”

  “My companions and I will fetch your fingers, along with your heart and eyes if you make the mistake of being too curious yourself.”

  The lout glanced at Sedrick, who looked big enough and powerful enough to do the fetching himself, without aid of a knife or sword, and he nodded again.

  Henry girded himself and led the way.

  Inside, the cramped taproom was gloomy from lack of light. There were no windows and the only dim illumination came from a meagre supply of tallow candles smoking on the tabletops. The stench was like nothing Ariel had ever choked on before and she lifted her hand to cover her nose and mouth, preferring the leather smell of her gloves.

  When her eyes adjusted to the amber-toned shadows, she could see crudely built trestles and benches lining three of the walls. Along the fourth was a counter consisting of a warped board propped between two oak casks. A blowsy, amazingly buxom barmaid stood behind it exchanging ribald comments with a patron who was evidently haggling over the price of something more than ale. There were other, dark, surly looking characters seated at the tables. Their voices, likened to a low droning of bees, fell silent the moment the three knights came through the door. Ariel felt the chill of a dozen pairs of watery eyes questioning their presence in this swineherds’ paradise. Some of them, she guessed, had never ventured more than a stone’s throw from these walls and could not begin to understand why anyone beyond their fetid little community would venture in.

  Others might have chosen this place deliberately as being a low enough and sordid enough stew to bypass any close inspection. These were men who would slit a throat for a penny and not care if the throat was noble or common.

  The wench behind the counter was not so impartial. Seeing Henry start to walk toward her, she gave the already loosened laces across her bodice an enthusiastic tug and swatted away the hands of the dullard who had been pestering her.

  “Oui, monsieur? And what might your pleasure be on such a fine, lusty evening as this?”

  “A tankard of ale to wash the dust from our throats,” Henry said, his words slowing noticeably as the truly awesome size of her bosoms came into the light. Fully as large as two ripe melons, they earned as hard a stare as the large, fat cockroach that lay belly-up on the counter. “And a word with the innkeeper, if you please.”

  “Monsieur Valois is not here,” the wench laughed. “He has spent the last few nights fettered in iron bracelets for smashing a bottle over the head of one of the justicar’s lackeys.” She leaned farther over the counter, crushing the hapless roach under the smothering weight of her breasts. “My name is Lizabelle. Is there nothing I can help you with?”

  “There … might be,” Henry agreed cautiously.

  “Speak, monsieur, and it is yours.”

  “Have you any rooms to let for the night?”

  Lizabelle grinned. “For the whole night, monsieur?”

  “If it is not too much trouble.”

  “It is never any trouble, m’sieur. In fact, it would be my very great pleasure to accommodate you”—she took a deep enough breath to send a brown, puckered nipple popping over the neck of her bodice—“so long as you have the coin to pay.”

  “I have the password,” Henry assured her, lowering his voice. “A outrance. I was told it would provide us with all our needs.”

  “Password, m’sieur?” she asked guardedly. “No coin?”

  “I have coin, which I will not grudge parting with for fair value.”

  “I am relieved to hear it, m’sieur, but just in case—” In a wink, her grin disappeared and her hand came up from beneath the counter, the sharp glint of a dagger flashing in her fist. Henry jerked back, but not fast enough to completely avoid the needle-like point. It slashed a thin red line along the side of his jaw and came back for a second stroke, but by then he had moved out of her reach … into the grasping clutches of the two burly men who had obviously been waiting for a signal to close in behind him.

  Each grabbed an arm, preventing him from drawing sword or knife. A wild glance over his shoulder found Sedrick in similar straits, swarmed by half a dozen stout men at least, all of them straining mightily to bring the roaring giant to his knees.

  Ariel, standing a little to the side and behind, had seen the men shifting stealthily into position, but before she could shout a warning, a thick, sour-tasting hand had clamped itself over her mouth and an arm had circled her waist, lifting her and dragging her back into the corner. Kicking and flailing, she watched as Henry was disarmed of his weapons and flung so hard against the wall, his brow cracked against the solid planking. Dazed, he wavered on his feet and staggered a half-turn before stumbling into one of the trestle tables. Tankards, ewers, and chunks of stale bread were scattered across the floor as one of his attackers started beating him with a wooden truncheon. Hampered by the weight of his armour, and with his brain still spinning from the contact with the wall, Henry floundered under the rain of heavy blows, barely aware of a second man searching his clothes for a purse or money belt.

  Sedrick lunged like a mastiff, carrying the shouting wave of assailants with him. He managed to wrestle an arm free and sent one of his attackers flying over the wooden counter to land squarely in the upflung arms of the shrieking Lizabelle. The impact sent them both caroming backwards into a rack of crocks and tankards. One of the swarm broke away and took up an oak bench, swinging it at Sedrick’s head, but a shout brought Dafydd ap Iorwerth plunging out of the shadows, his sword drawn and wrested away from the men who had not been quick enough to bring him to ground. The villain saw the blade coming and blocked it with the bench. The steel bit deep into the wood, lodging there solidly enough that he was able to twist it out of Dafydd’s grip. Two more villains leaped on him from behind while the lout with the bench swung it again, slamming it over Dafydd’s outstretched arm with a resounding craaaak!

  Robin, meanwhile, had sailed to Ariel’s aid, but managed only a bloodcurdling promise of chivalrous revenge before a pewter tankard knocked the words and the sense out of his head. While he reeled blindly toward the door, Ariel kicked and clawed and gouged for her captor’s eyes and ears. She twisted and turned like a slippery eel, using the wooden soles of her shoes to good advantage, barking his shins time and time again until a curse made him loosen his grip. The respite was brief. Something solid slammed into the side of her face— a fist or a cudgel, it had the same effect—and her world exploded in a burst of white light. It struck again, carrying her hat away with it, and she could not be certain if it was the redness of her hair spilling over her face, or the red of her own blood.

  Discovering it was a woman he held, the man paused a moment in confusion and surprise—a moment too long and a surprise so absorbing he failed to see the door of the tavern smash open and a tall, mail-clad arbiter enter the arena.

  Dispensing judgement and justice on every thrust of his sword, he sent two men screaming into the shadows, clutching at severed clothing and spurts of gushing blood. A third forfeited the ability to scream at all as the blade slivered through his throat. He spun in a spray of blood and scattered the men clinging steadfastly to Sedrick. They saw the sword and the steely-eyed demon knight who wielded it, and they abandoned their attack to bolt for the door.

  The sword flashed several more times, striking flesh with the impact of a hatchet biting into wood. Ariel felt the pressure around her waist spring free and she folded into a small heap on the floor. Her vision dimmed behind a wall of pain. A warm, wet liquid was running between her f
ingers and down her hand, and she feared to let go of her head lest it fall off and be trampled underfoot.

  The door swung wide a second time and the flare of light revealed a scene from Bedlam. There was blood splattered everywhere. Bodies of the slain and wounded men lay twitching on the floor; broken crockery and dark puddles of ale littered the area, heaviest around the groaning bulk of Lizabelle and her unconscious accomplice. The light also touched briefly on Eduard FitzRandwulf’s visored helm, showing a brief glimpse of eyes that were neither gray nor blue, but washed of colour by the heat of battle.

  Caught in the light, a second newcomer was silhouetted in the doorway. His diminutive form was brushed aside by a pair of fleeing villains, and Sparrow spared but a fleeting breath on a graphic oath before he unslung his harp-shaped arblaster from his shoulder and let fly a speedily armed quarrel after the departing culprits. The tip of the arrow punched into a well-rounded buttock and, with a squawk of glee, the wood sprite fit another short, stubby bolt to the bow and set off in further pursuit.

  The door swung shut behind him but Eduard had stared at the opening long enough to lose concentration. An assailant came up behind him, a dagger driving for the opened slit under the sleeve of mail. It was Iorwerth’s shout that brought Eduard spinning around, his sword cutting cleanly through the villain’s bony elbow. The forearm split away and cartwheeled into the shadows in a burst of blood, the hand still clutched around the hilt of the knife.

  The man screamed. His eyes bulged and his remaining hand reached quickly to clutch the stump of his arm as he lurched for the door and ran out into the street. He made one full turn, spraying the cobbles with blood, before he stumbled off down one of the laneways, scattering the onlookers who had been drawn by the sights and sounds.

  Eduard remained tense, his body poised to meet the next threat, but there were none. All who could run had done so. Those who could not dragged themselves, groaning, into the darkest, blackest shadows.

  Eduard saw Robin leaning against the wall and reached him in a single stride.

  “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  Robin shook his head and cursed his own ineptness. “Lady Ariel …?”

  Sedrick was slouched over one of the tables, groaning and swearing with equal aplomb. Lord Henry was in the process of trying to find his balance and swayed on his feet like an Infidel drunk on Christian blood. The Welshman sat in a dazed crumple against the wall, his face as pale as ash behind the beard, a bloodied arm cradled against his chest.

  And Ariel …

  Eduard whirled around, his eyes probing the shadows, identifying the bodies. Lady Ariel de Clare was nowhere to be seen in the haze of disturbed dust but before Eduard could broaden his search, Sparrow came crashing through the door with enough self-importance to send FitzRandwulf into a wary crouch again.

  “Poxy scullions,” he announced disgustedly. “One ran this way, one ran that.” A pudgy hand waved side to side to supplement the telling with a visual description. “Both were heavier with iron for their trouble, however,” he added, chuckling as he patted his arblaster, “and neither too likely to walk so upright or so fast in the days to come. Well then what is this? Maledictions, but we leave you on your own for half a day and see what trouble you find yourselves!”

  Sedrick glanced over and snarled, “Where the devil did ye come from?”

  “From the bowels of your conscience, it seems,” Sparrow answered blithely. “Not a moment too soon, I warrant. Three hulking great oafs and …” He looked around and grew noticeably still. “Has someone gone a-missing?”

  Eduard had already detected movement behind him and was stalking toward the back of the tavern.

  “Lady Ariel?”

  There was no answer. He sheathed his sword and crouched down on one knee, the dull light from a candle reflecting off his chain mail. He had to bend his head to peer under the table, and there he followed the curled end of a shiny red braid until he found himself staring into a pair of accusingly dark emerald eyes.

  “It is quite safe to come out now, my lady,” he said, extending his hand. “The excitement is all over.”

  She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a slur on his heritage and Eduard arched his brow. “I am glad to see your spirits have not been sent into hiding. Now take my hand and let me bring you out of there before the rats take to liking your company.”

  “Go to the devil,” she said and batted his hand away.

  He sighed and reached forward with both hands, grasping her by the shoulders and lifting her up and onto a seat on the edge of the table. He was about to comment on her sense of gratitude when he saw the blood streaking down her temple and cheek.

  The shock delayed him a moment and he found himself needing to take a strong breath before he angled her head gently into the candlelight. He stripped off his gauntlets and carefully pushed aside the hair that had been glued flat with all the blood, and, after a few tentative probings of the area with his fingertips, was assured the wound was not life-threatening.

  “’Tis only a small cut,” he announced. “Not half so bad as the amount of blood might suggest.”

  Ariel saw no reason to rejoice. The pain was excruciating. Her stomach had already taken several violent turns and was threatening to rise up her gorge if the room did not stop spinning.

  “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  “False concern … does not become you,” she whispered tautly. “We might all have been killed.”

  “If you had been killed, my lady, it would have been because your brother could not distinguish the difference between fighting cocks and red hens.”

  Ariel attempted to glare up at him, but closed her eyes when he split in two and began slewing sideways. “Nonetheless, two ambushes in as many days … it does not bespeak high praise for your abilities to protect anyone.”

  Eduard suffered her sarcasm, but only because she was bleeding already. “Are you able to walk?”

  “Away from you? Gladly.”

  “Away from here will have to suffice for the time being,” he countered smoothly, “unless you would prefer to remain and address your complaints to the local justicar?”

  Ariel opened her mouth to respond, but the sickening stabs of pain she had been fighting sent a sudden, hot bubble of vomit up her throat. She swallowed it on a sour gasp and reached out a hand for support, clutching at a fistful of Eduard’s gypon.

  “My lady …?”

  She managed to tilt her head up toward the dark, frowning visage and fought the spinning mass of bright pinwheels for as long as she could before her pride crumpled.

  “It … hurts,” she sobbed raggedly. “It … hurts too much to bear.”

  She heard FitzRandwulf murmur something, but the words were too far away to hear. Closer and more importantly, she found herself suddenly cradled against a body that wore a hard casing of armour and leather—neither of which should have been soothing or comforting, but were both. She knew he lifted her into his arms because there was no longer any need to fight for her balance or steady herself against the swimming motion of the walls and floor. All she had to do was curl her arms around the strong column of his neck and burrow into the safety of his embrace.

  Dimly, she was aware of the deep vibration of his voice as he called to Sedrick and Henry to help Dafydd out of the tavern. Henry’s face loomed in front of her for a moment, but it was an easy enough thing to do to transfer the blame to his shoulders, and she turned her face away, refusing to acknowledge his concern or his offer to carry her out to the horses. She heard Robin’s voice and Sparrow’s squawks of distress, and then they were out in the street in the midst of another minor storm of noise and shouting.

  FitzRandwulf’s voice conquered them all. He was still a formidable threat, even with his arms full of fainting woman, and the crowd parted, giving them access to their horses.

  Ariel was not sure how far they rode or in what direction. She was not even sure how FitzRandwulf managed to swing h
imself up onto Lucifer’s back without once loosening his grip or tipping her over on her head. If anything, she felt molded to his body, as if he had taken her as a part of himself, absorbing any movements that would cause her pain or discomfort. She must have drifted out of consciousness for a while, for when she woke again, there was no light at all in the sky and she feared the blows on her head had blinded her. A cry sent her fingers across her brow, and in so doing, she pushed aside the heavy curtain of her hair that had blown over her face. Still later, she stirred when she realized she was being carried again, this time into a blur of brightly flickering tapers. She had a vague impression of a clean, well-lit room with whitewashed walls and a large, roaring fire in the hearth, more voices, none of them familiar, making her press herself closer to Eduard’s body, unmindful of the sharp edges of mail that imprinted on her skin.

  Carrying her as if she weighed nothing, he mounted a narrow flight of stairs two at a time, shouting at someone behind him to bring water and bandages. Ariel groaned softly and tried to bury her head deeper into the crook of his neck, but although he had removed his helm and loosened his mail hood, there were too many rough edges and the dark mane of his hair seemed too impossibly high to reach. The underside of his chin was not, however, and she found her lips touching his flesh, tasting the salt and heat and bold, heady maleness of him. When he shouted again, she recoiled with a shiver that took the heat away from her lips.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Are you in pain?”

  “Too loud,” she gasped.

  “Too loud?”

  “Your voice. When you shout, it is so loud … it makes my feet ache.”

  Eduard was taken aback. “Forgive me, my lady. I was more concerned for your head than your feet.”

  “My head is broken,” she moaned pitifully. “There is no hope for it.”

  “There is always hope for something so hard,” he assured her with a wry smile.