“Do you see this, friend?” Eduard asked, holding up a small leather pouch. He shook it once to let the sound of coins silence the heaving catacombs, then loosed the string and spilled the contents in his palm to let the black eyes catch sight of the gold.
With his other hand he tugged at the cord around his neck and snapped it free, then fished the ring up over the thickness of his clothes.
“I will put these coins into your hand tonight and an equal sum tomorrow night when you bring me proof this ring was delivered into the right hands.”
“A ring?” Brevant frowned. “By all the saints—”
“It is a small and insignificant thing. You could hide it in your cheek if you had to and simply spit it on the floor where a keen eye might find it. If it is found, an equally simple exchange would occur the next time you passed that spot. For your trouble, I will make you a very rich man.”
Brevant looked at the ring, then at the coins. “What manner of proof will I be expected to carry out?”
“Be assured, the danger is no greater to you than this.”
The captain snarled deep in his throat. Quicker than Eduard expected a man of his size to move, the ring, the coins, and the mountainous bulk disappeared along the deep crevice of shadow formed between two cottages.
He cast a sharp eye around him, wary of any sounds or movements that might indicate they had been observed or the captain followed. There was nothing. His heart was beating hard in his chest and there was still a smarting line of abraded flesh where the ring had dragged summarily through hair and skin in his haste to remove it. But it was done. Contact had been initiated. It only remained to tickle the giant’s greed long enough to come up with a plan to rescue Eleanor.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“The donjons, if I recall correctly, are located in the north end of the bailey,” said Henry de Clare. “The fact that Brevant specifically mentioned a tower cell means the princess is likely being confined above ground, and for that much, at least, we can be thankful. The main donjons are beneath the Constable’s Tower, in a labyrinth of tunnels and cells carved into the solid rock. Getting someone out of there would be like … like coaxing Sedrick backways through a mouse hole.”
Henry looked at each solemn face gathered around the table, pausing over the two he had least expected to see there when the journey had begun. When FitzRandwulf had told him about Ariel’s wild accusations to do with jewel thefts, he had agreed Eduard had been left with no choice but to tell her the truth. He was not as convinced she should have accompanied them to Corfe, but what other choice did they have? They would not have been able to rest any easier with her out of their sight once she knew what they were about. Short of staking her down hand and foot, he doubted they could have kept her away.
He had agreed, no less reluctantly, on the need to include Dafydd ap Iorwerth and Robin in their confidence. The former had listened and accepted their intentions with little more than a curse and a hard glare at his own broken arm; the latter had been almost too excited to keep a dry eye.
“I knew it!” Robin had cried, looking at his brother with pride bristling from every pore. “I knew you would come after her! I knew you could not, in the name of chivalry and honour, abandon our princess to her fate.”
Eduard had smiled dryly and avoided making contact with Ariel’s eyes. Sparrow had snorted something about reading too much poetry and becoming addled by too many faery stories, which had set the pair of them, squire and seneschal, arguing over the principles of knighthood.
“These towers,” Eduard asked, fresh from his encounter with Jean de Brevant, “they have only one way in and one way out, I suppose?”
Henry shrugged. “Unless you are a bird and can fly up to the windows, aye. Only the one entry way.”
“When I was a child,” Robin said wryly, “I used to believe Sparrow could fly.”
“With vines between my toes and the wind at my back, I can indeed fly almost anywhere,” Sparrow agreed belligerently. “But these walls are bare and smooth, and the only wind is the devil’s breath. Not even I, Young Staunch, could live up to such expectations.”
“There are passageways connecting each tower,” Henry added, leaning over the table and sketching an invisible diagram with his finger. “Access tunnels for the guards and porters.”
“Porters?”
“Food carriers, dung collectors, the whores who move back and forth from one barracks to the next. Each tower has its own forebuilding and guardroom—” He sketched both roughly. “The postings change—while I was there, at any rate —thrice per deum, with most of those who come off duty going only so far as the nearest gaming table or barrel of ale. If there is any weakness at all, it is during this changing of guards, when one is perhaps arguing with another over a toss of the dice, or a man has had a particularly good whore beneath him and grudges the need to hurry away.” He cocked an eyebrow in Ariel’s direction and smiled tightly. “My pardons for my bluntness, sister dear, but you did insist we not curb our tongues on your account.”
“I must suppose it is only the voice of experience speaking,” she allowed, returning his smirk with equal aplomb.
Sedrick sighed. “Aye, well, experience or no, all of this will be for naught if Brevant brings a troop of guards with him the next time ye meet. How do ye know ye can trust him? How do ye know he is not, even as we speak, spilling his guts to the governor and setting a pretty trap for us all? He sounded none too happy to be dealing with ye.”
“How he sounded and how he looked at the gold were two different matters,” Eduard remarked. “A man honest in his greed will usually be honest in his dealings until the purse runs dry. Moreover, the marshal seemed confident we could keep him on our side, and that should be reason enough.”
“Brevant,” Ariel murmured, glancing at Henry. “Why does the name sound familiar?”
“Because we have been using it freely this past hour?” her brother suggested wanly.
Ariel frowned. Something was there, nagging at the edge of her memory, but Sedrick was speaking again and it slipped out of reach.
“On our side or not, eager for our gold or not, if he has balked over such a trifling thing as carrying a trinket inside his cheek, how do ye plan to convince him to carry us?”
“Mayhap he will not have to carry us at all,” Sparrow said. “Merely stand aside as we pass. We still have the marshal’s letters, do we not, or were they lost in Rennes with the nags?”
“We still have them,” Eduard admitted grimly.
“Well then? Why were they written if not to be read?”
“What letters?” Dafydd asked, bewildered.
“My uncle anticipated we might encounter some difficulties along the way,” Henry explained. “He wrote letters to state we travelled under his seal of protection. They also state we are en route to Radnor Castle, there to unite my suitably demured sister with her intended groom, Reginald de Braose.”
“Braose?”
Sparrow dismissed the Welshman’s exclamation with a flick of his wrist. “Keep your tongue in your mouth, Cyril. The letters were meant to be shown only in an emergency, and only if the king’s men took to putting their noses too close to our business. Radnor lies in the path of our true destination and would lead any suspicious minds into believing we were following the king’s writ. Besides, is your brother not supposed to be meeting us at a rendezvous well to the good of the road that would carry us to Radnor?”
Dafydd nodded. “He was instructed by the earl marshal to be waiting for us at Gloucester.”
“Do you have doubts he will be unable to follow his instructions?” Sparrow demanded.
“He will be there,” Dafydd said grimly.
“With his men?”
“With his men, aye.”
“Well then?”
“Well then,” Ariel interrupted impatiently, not wanting to dwell on the merits of Rhys ap Iorwerth’s reliability or eagerness. “These letters—do you think they would get us through t
he gates of Corfe?”
Sparrow, who had for the most part managed to avoid, in all their days of travel, asking or answering a direct question of Ariel de Glare, scratched furiously at his mop of short black curls and screwed his face into a frown. He had his own reasons for disapproving of the marshal’s niece being included in their discussions, but since it appeared as if she might have to play a crucial role, he would have to wait for a more prudent time to vent them.
“Aye,” he grumbled, chewing back his reluctance. “They might. This hovel is not exactly of princely standards and the castellan might be convinced of the benefits of inviting one of the king’s wards to bide a night or two under his protection.”
“You do not have to agree to it,” Eduard cut in, his voice as sharp as a knife. “In fact, you would be showing the greater amount of common sense to refuse. The risks are immeasurable and there is no means to vouchsafe we will be let out again, even supposing we are let in.”
Ariel was well aware of the reason for the resentful mood around the table. She was here against their better judgement, proving to be pivotal to their plans, and there did not seem to be a damned thing any of them could do about it.
Her cool, steady gaze touched on each face in turn before settling on FitzRandwulf’s. “Did any of you consult your common sense before setting forth on this venture? To my mind, there is no greater risk one can take in life than the one that proves you to be a coward.”
Henry chuckled wryly. “Spoken like a true De Clare.”
“Did you think I would refuse?”
“On the contrary, Puss. I somehow expected you to be the first one through the gates. I, for one, will be right on your heels. After all”—he cast a wink in Robin’s direction—“we have a damosel in distress to rescue, do we not?”
Robin grinned and Sedrick scowled. “When do ye expect to hear from this rogue, Brevant, again?”
It was a moment before Eduard could drag his eyes away from Ariel, and when he did, he shook his head. “No mention was made of a time or place, but I imagine he will find me the same way he found me tonight.”
“If so, you will have no gullet left by week’s end,” Sparrow snorted, eyeing the bloodied cut.
“A chance I will have to take.”
“Less so if there is another pair of eyes watching your back at all times.”
“Aye, and yer purse,” Sedrick added, not convinced a bribe ensured loyalty.
“I have no objections to having a friendly shadow behind me,” Eduard agreed. “So long as the shadow remains well out of sight.”
“When have you ever seen me when I have not wanted to be seen?” Sparrow demanded. “To judge by the description you gave, I could crouch in the shadow of the knave’s knees and he would not be able to see me from such heights.”
Ariel’s hand thumped the table with such vigor it sent the wood sprite jumping in his skin.
“‘His name was Jean Brevant,’” she quoted, “‘but since he was taller and broader than most trees, the men just called him Littlejohn. As big as thunder, he was, able to take ten men down with a single swing of his arm, yet helpless to do aught but weep like a babe when he found his wife dead from a birthing fever. Just a tiny thing she was too. Lively as a may-bug, all curly brown hair and laughing eyes. He never laughed after that and was sent to do service in some godforsaken castle in Purbeck.’”
Ariel leaned back in her chair and smiled triumphantly. “I knew I had heard the name before. Do you not remember, Henry? Uncle Will and Lady Isabella were sitting in front of the hearth one night and he was recounting stories of this brave man and that; stories he knew would bring a tear to Aunt’s eyes and make her forgive him his long absences.”
“I confess the memory escapes me,” Henry said slowly. “But the description would seem to fit: a man as big as thunder …”
“… sent to a godforsaken castle in Purbeck. It must be the same man. How else would Uncle Will know he would help us?”
“He has not helped us yet,” Henry pointed out. “And may not, just because he mourns a dead wife.”
“Saints aggrieve me,” Sparrow muttered and peered hard at Ariel. “Did you quoth the earl marshal as saying the wife was possessed of a lively eye and curly brown hair?”
“As best as I can recall it, yes, but—”
Sparrow was already glaring intently at Eduard. “Think you: what does the little maid, Marienne, look like? Is she not here, in Corfe, loyal unto the death to our valiant Pearl? Did the marshal also not say she would be of some value to us in this venture?”
Robin gave a small gasp and felt the blood drain out of his face. “Marienne is here? In Corfe?”
“Who is Marienne?” Dafydd asked, floundering in the dark for the second time.
“The princess’s personal maid,” Eduard answered. “And possibly the very thing we need to help us gentle a giant.”
Marienne bowed her head to receive Father Wilfred’s droned benediction and a corkscrew of gleaming brown hair fell forward over her shoulder. She was kneeling behind her mistress and it was nearly driving her mad to know the burly captain was standing behind them both, less than a pace away. Her belly quaked with nervous anticipation and her skin felt sheathed in ice. She had risked only a single glance in his direction when she and Eleanor had first descended the tower steps, but his expression had betrayed nothing. His stance was casual, almost bored. Yet she sensed he had something of grave import to tell her; she knew it by the way her knees knocked and her chin refused to stop quivering.
“Dieu vous benisse” said the priest, making the sign of the cross over Eleanor’s bowed head. Marienne hastened forward to help her off her knees, earning a gentle smile of thanks in return. The two guardsmen—one of whom had scratched at his crotch and the other his nose throughout the entire proceedings—waited for the princess to begin the steep climb back up to her cell, then fell into step behind the priest, scratching and picking their way along the dimly lit corridor.
Marienne delayed as long as she dared before putting her foot to the bottom step. She had begun to think her intuition had been wrong when she felt Brevant brush past her, too close for it to be entirely accidental. She went off balance and would have fallen if not for the huge, hairy paw that caught her. When she straightened, she was holding something small and hard in her closed palm.
“From the Scarred One,” he murmured. “He says he wants proof I gave it to you.”
Marienne opened her fist but the ring was not familiar to her. It was sized for a woman’s finger, intricate enough in design to belong to royalty.
“What manner of proof does he want?”
“He says he will know it when he sees it.”
Marienne’s eyes danced with excitement as she looked up at him. “May I give you this proof tonight, after I have spoken with my lady?”
Brevant nodded and was rewarded with the sight of a brighter, wider smile than had been seen inside these glum walls in more years than he could remember. He stood for a long time after the hem of her tunic had flashed out of sight in the gloom of the stairwell, and, for as long as the image remained burning on his mind, he almost smiled back.
Marienne caught up to the princess halfway between landings, and nowhere near a source of light. Too eager to wait for either, she called out in an urgent whisper, “Your Highness, wait. Take this”—she pressed the ring into Eleanor’s hand— “and tell me if you know it.”
Eleanor frowned and ran her fingers around the surface of the gold circlet. “No. No, I—” She stopped and held the ring higher. She rubbed it harder and traced the distinctive filigree with the pad of her thumb before she gasped and slipped it over the smallest finger of her right hand. It was a perfect fit.
She reached out across the darkness and gripped Marienne’s shoulders. “Where did you get it? Where did it come from? Dear God … Eduard! Where is he? Have you seen him? Have you spoken to him?”
“No, I have not seen or spoken to him myself, my lady, but th
e captain has. He told me yesterday—whisht!” She stopped and bit her lip, glancing back down into the darkness. “The walls may have ears, my lady. We should say no more until we are behind our own door.”
Eleanor’s grip tightened briefly, but she could see the reason for caution and practically dragged her young maid up the winding stairs behind her. Safe in the isolation of the tower room, they closed the heavy door and took the further precaution of sitting in the farthest corner of the solar, near the prayer nave.
“Tell me,” Eleanor commanded. “Tell me everything.”
“There is not much to tell, for ’twas only a chance remark yesterday that first caught my ear.”
“What did he say? What exactly did he say?”
“He said … exactly … that a group of graycloaks were passing through the village and had decided to lodge at the inn while one of their party was tended by an herb woman.”
“One of them is injured?” Eleanor gasped. “Or possibly using it as a ruse.”
“And? Was that all he said?”
“Not all, my lady. He also said … one of the knights bore a scar on his cheek.”
Eleanor squeezed Marienne’s hands so tightly, the maid thought her fingers might pop apart at the joints. The princess turned toward the crucifix that hung in the nave and made soft, choking sounds, as if she did not know whether to laugh or to cry.
“He has come. Dear, sweet Eduard … he has come. Oh but … Jesu, Jesu …” She whirled back around and gripped Marienne’s hands more ferociously. “Why has he come? What does he think he can do? If the king’s men discover who he is, or … or if they even suspect … !”
“Do not distress yourself, my lady,” Marienne said. “Lord FitzRandwulf is no pudding-head. He is the bravest, boldest knight in all of Christendom—he will not have come without a clever plan to rescue you!”
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 73
