“Rescue me?” Eleanor cried aghast. “Surely not! Surely he cannot be thinking … ! He would not try … ! He has not come to take me back to Brittany!”
Marienne looked puzzled. “Surely that is exactly why he has come, my lady. Brittany is your home. He has come … to take you home.”
“Dear Mother Mary,” Eleanor whispered, so weakened by the thought that she slipped down onto her knees. Her hands shook visibly as she ran them down the front of her gown, from breasts to belly, and when she raised them again, the tiny silver cross of her rosary beads was caught around her fingers. “I cannot go back to Brittany,” she gasped. “Not like this. My uncle sought to shame me, and he has succeeded. I cannot go back to Brittany! I cannot let Eduard see me like this! It would … kill him.”
“If he kills anyone, it will be the king,” Marienne declared savagely. “And good riddance to him! As for the people of Brittany, they love you. They will never stop loving you, nor can they blame you for the king’s perversions. They will be thankful enough you are still alive and not … not …”
“Not lying in a watery grave like my poor Arthur? Sometimes … I think I would have been better off beside him. At least then he would not have been alone, and I … I would not have had to bear the shame of Angevin lust and greed.”
“Your Highness, you must not speak this way. Lord Eduard has come to rescue you, to save you from this place, and from the king’s madness.”
“Then he has wasted his time, for there is no rescue possible for me, only sanctuary, and this the king has already provided for me.”
“Here? In Corfe? You would be content to remain the rest of your days here?”
“The king has promised me I will not. Corfe is but a temporary accommodation while I … while I adjust to my condition,” she finished in a whisper.
“You would still believe him? After all he has done to you … the degradation he has forced upon you?”
“He did it to ensure I could never be a threat to his crown. In that he has succeeded, for I could never be queen now, never”—the words caught in her throat and took all of her strength to sob free—“be looked upon with anything but pity and derision.”
“Lord FitzRandwulf will only look upon you with love,” Marienne insisted. “Just as I do.”
“No!” Eleanor said fiercely. “No, he must never look upon me at all! He must be persuaded to go away from here and leave me to my own fate. He must be convinced this is what I want.”
“But … how, my lady? He will not believe the word of a gaoler, regardless of what proof Brevant gives him. He will not believe this is what you have said or what you want unless he hears it from your own lips.”
“You must find a way. You must convince him I am better left forgotten, for I could not bear to even imagine the look on his face if he should see me like this.”
Eleanor bowed her head and turned her body into the nave. She clasped her hands around her beads and pressed them to her lips, praying fervently between soft, muffled sobs. Watching her, Marienne thought her heart would surely break under this new burden of sorrow.
It was not fair. It simply was not fair that someone so proud, so lovely, so virtuous should have to spend the rest of her days with her head bent in shame.
Hoping to find a measure of the courage her princess possessed, Marienne took to her knees alongside her and appealed to the Blessed Virgin for guidance. She prayed all day as she went about her chores and later that evening, when she again bumped into Captain Brevant and felt for the warmth of his large hand, she whispered her message, knowing full well it would take more than just a humble miracle to turn Eduard FitzRandwulf away from Corfe Castle.
“What do you mean she wants nothing more to do with me?” Eduard demanded, his anger rising swift and sharp to the surface.
“I am not the one to know what she means,” Brevant snarled by way of an answer. “I only know she gave me this”— he shoved something round and heavy into Eduard’s hand and withdrew his own as if the object had been glowing red hot and he was glad to be rid of it—“and sent a plea that you leave her to the fate God has chosen for her. Those were her words according to the Little One, and God curse my tongue for agreeing to carry them at all. Take my advice and do as she asks. The king is expected to sail from Cherbourg before the week’s end. He will be stopping here before he makes for Portsmouth and you would be smart to have moved your ugly faces a hundred miles from here by then.”
Eduard curled his fist around the ring Brevant had given him. He had no need to look at it, for he knew it was his own, wrought of gold and crested with the La Seyne Sur Mer device of a snarling wolf. News of the king’s imminent arrival came as a surprise. If it was true—and he had no reason to believe it was not—they had no more time to waste weighing the risks. They would have to take a few.
“I want you to inform your governor we are here.”
“Eh? Inform him you are here?” Brevant was stunned. “Are you mad?”
“We are all a little mad, my friend, some more than others is all. You have told us it is impossible to get inside the castle walls by stealth or force. It remains, therefore, the only other way is by invitation.”
“Invitation? You expect him to invite you into the castle as his guests?”
“I would expect him, as the king’s representative, to extend the offer of hospitable lodgings to Lady Ariel de Clare and her brother, Lord Henry de Clare, niece and nephew to William of Pembroke, Earl Marshal of England.”
The giant’s jaw sagged open and his eyes bulged. “You want me to carry him a tale like that?”
“He must already know there are strangers in the village; it can only do you credit to go to him with the lord and lady’s identity and inform him they are in possession of letters, signed by the earl himself, granting her safe conduct and all due courtesies on her journey north to be united with her groom, the king’s own loyal vassal, Sir Reginald de Braose.”
Brevant grasped the hilt of his sword in a hand that could have crushed it. “You are mad, my bold fellow. Old Swill has no sense of humour and if he thinks, for one instant, the letters are a ruse and the lady is none other than Mistress Waycock from Strumpet Row—”
“The letters are genuine,” Eduard said evenly. “As will be Lord Henry’s wrath if he hears you have called his sister, the earl’s niece, a whore.”
Brevant expelled all the air from his lungs, sending a wave of heat blasting past Eduard’s face. “Perhaps you have no knowledge of the man who governs Corfe Castle. I do not call him Old Swill out of fondness, but because of the quantities of ale and wine he consumes each day in order to sleep through the screams of his prisoners at night. He was once one of John’s champions, you see, who gained some prominence in the lists as a man who rarely carried a blunted sword into matches and who had no qualms about striking a man when his back was turned if it was the easy way to victory. He also managed to expand his holdings in Nottinghamshire through several favours he did for the then prince regent—a few quiet assassinations for parcels of land here and there—and set his ambitions toward becoming sheriff.
“When Prince John became King John, our bold but foolish Sir Guy of Gisbourne jokingly made reference to some of these past favours he had done, fully expecting his services would be rewarded by his appointment to the king’s judiciary court. He was appointed here instead, with the promise of Nottingham’s seat if he could prove both his deservedness and his ability to keep his mouth firmly shut.” Brevant paused and drew another deep breath as if to cleanse his lungs of some unknown foulness. “Gisbourne has been governor here at Corfe for two years, and has been striving to win his way back into the king’s good graces ever since. He is especially vindictive and especially creative if he thinks he has a victim in his claws whose screams of agony would put a smile on the king’s face.”
Eduard’s pulse was hammering in his throat. “This Gisbourne … he has not been near the guest in the tower cell, has he?”
�
�No. Not because he does not think the king would grin ear to ear, but because … he is not so foolish as to think he would sleep long without a knife cutting across his throat if he did dare to go near her.”
Eduard felt a mild flush of encouragement. It was not much, but it was an indication that there was a vulnerable chink in Brevant’s armour. If he could widen that chink, expose more of that vulnerability, maybe … just maybe there was a way to help Eleanor.
“Will you do it? Will you present our letters to Gisbourne?”
Brevant looked away and snarled. “If I did …if, mind … just how long would you be planning to play fancy with Gisbourne’s hospitality?”
“If the king is expected in four days’ time, we will be gone in three.”
Brevant rumbled again and turned, pacing several ground-shaking steps into the shadows before stopping and pacing back. “Once inside … what then? What do you plan to do?”
“The maid—Marienne—she is not a prisoner, is she? Can she move freely about the castle?”
“Aye,” Brevant nodded warily. “What of it?”
“I would see her then, and speak to her face to face. If I am convinced the one she serves is genuinely content with her fate, I will say or do nothing more.”
It was on the tip of Brevant’s tongue to tell the rogue knight exactly why the lady would probably prefer to stay where she was, but it was not his place to reveal such things. Moreover he suspected even if he did tell the rogue of the lady’s plight, he would only tear a hole in the walls block by block to get at her to see the truth for himself. Let him come into Corfe, Brevant decided. Let him come and see for himself, if that was what he wanted … if he dared.
“Be ready by noon tomorrow,” he advised. “If Gisbourne takes the bait, I will come for you then. If noon passes and you have only your cap in your hand, I want your word you will put it on your head and ride out of Corfe without looking back.”
Eduard was loathe to be bound by any more oaths, but the giant was adamant.
“Your word, my lord,” Brevant demanded quietly. “Or this goes no further.”
“You have my word. We will quit the inn one way or another by midday tomorrow.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ariel stretched, from the tips of her fingers to the ends of her toes, feeling every muscle pull and tauten, every knuckle of her spine straighten and nudge its neighbour awake. It was still gloomy in the room; the sky outside the tiny casement window was tardy in relinquishing the night.
Ariel turned her head slowly, wary of the sounds of the other sleepers around her. The inn only had the one room and one large bed that could have slept six head to toe if they were friendly. For the second night in a row, Ariel had been given the whole thing to herself, while the men had claimed various sections of the floor.
She had heard rain spattering the horn panes of the window during the night, and she could smell the dampness in the thatch overhead. It was even damper, she supposed, because the window was open a crack, but she was not of a mind to tell the man standing there to close the shutters and keep the chill to himself.
The last glimpse she had had of FitzRandwulf, he had been standing in the same position. He must have moved some time during the night, for his quilted leather gambeson had been removed and replaced with a rust-coloured jerkin. His profile was the same: hard and angular. The hand that rested on the shutter caught what light was blooming through the cracks, giving the veins and fine bones a raised pattern of shadows and planes, causing the signet ring he now wore on his thumb to glow blood red.
Ariel squeezed her eyes closed, but it was no use. The image of his hands, the memory of those hands boldly stroking over her body, would not be chased away. If anything, the memory caused little shivers to spread through her body, rippling across the surface of her skin, bringing on changes, disturbances everywhere. There was gooseflesh on her arms, but she was not cold. There was a shimmering weakness in her limbs, but she was not standing. Ribbons of heat, as unsettling as the pinprick shivers started to flutter in the valley between her thighs—a queer sensation, smooth and sharp at the same time, and it made her want to press her thighs together to keep the ribbons from uncoiling.
How could she have let him do such a thing to her? Surely it was a sin to allow a man such freedoms? And an even greater sin to enjoy them? He had certainly known just what to touch and how to touch it, and it made her wonder … if he had not stopped himself … what other skills he would have shared.
This time she did shake the thoughts away. Quietly, carefully so as not to disturb the others, she gathered the folds of the blanket around her shoulders and sat on the edge of the bed. FitzRandwulf’s head had turned slightly to indicate he had detected the movement, but he did not look in her direction or move so much as a muscle anywhere else on his body.
Ariel glanced around the room. Sedrick and Henry were stretched along the floor on either side of the door, their faces to the wall, their arms folded over their chests as they slept. Robin was in a youthful sprawl, his mouth open, his hood folded forward almost to his nose, shading the upper half of his face. Sparrow was curled beside him, his hat crushed beneath his head as a pillow, his arblaster hugged against his body for comfort. The Welshman was partially hidden by the corner of the bed; all she could see were his feet, clad in their fine gray doeskin boots.
She stood, drawing the blanket higher around her chin. They had all slept fully clothed save for the bulkiest layers of armour, and she was careful how she put her boots to the floor, not wanting to waken anyone with a clumsy misstep. Apart from the tails of the blanket, which whispered softly where they dragged over the floorboards, she came up beside FitzRandwulf without a sound.
“What Robin told me must be true,” she said on a hushed breath. “He said you never sleep.”
The pewter-coloured eyes lingered on the scene outside the window, and she wondered if perhaps he hadn’t even heard her. But he had. It just took him a moment to steel himself to look down at her—something he was hoping he could do without giving himself away.
There were soft pink creases on her cheek where she had lain on a fold of the blanket. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and her hair— Damn all the saints who strove to torment what few hours he did manage to sleep with thoughts of all that copper fire spread beneath a pale white body. Now it lay in a loosely plaited rope over her shoulder, with sprays and errant curls flying every which way around her face, making his fingers itch with the need to reach out and tuck it back behind her ears.
He turned to look back out the window again, judging it to be safer.
“I sleep when I need to, for as long as I need to. I had no idea my habits warranted discussion.”
Whether it was because he was not a man accustomed to whispering, or because she had somehow touched an open nerve, his answer came out harsher than she expected and the ribbons in her belly shrivelled into a tight knot.
“We were not discussing, we were only … talking, and … oh … never mind. Talking is another thing I am well aware you do not do with any great fondness. Forgive me if I disturbed you.”
She did not even gain a step when she felt his hand on her arm, stopping her. His hand remained through an awkward silence before easing away and falling to his side again.
“You were not disturbing me,” he assured her quietly.
Go or stay, it was a difficult choice to make, but she retraced the step she had taken and even added another that she might crane her neck and see out the small, boxlike window. There was not much to view apart from the tall, looming silhouette of Corfe Castle crouched on the hill. The sky was gray and dirty, promising more rain before cock’s crow. Smoke and fog combined in viscous layers, opaque and undulant, like rivers of slow-moving cream that sought to fill the hollows where the village sat. It was eerie and ominous, but not worth staring at for hours on end. Especially not if someone was plagued by nightmares of another tall, bleak castle and the horrors it contained.
She wi
shed she had the nerve to ask him about it, about his years at Bloodmoor Keep and his dam, Nicolaa de la Have. There were so many dark secrets cloaked behind the brooding gray eyes, so many painful memories he must fight with, every day, just to survive to see another.
A lesser creature, battling these demons within, might have thrown up his hands when confronted with the formidable walls of Corfe. A far nobler coward might have cut his losses, assumed his duty done, and slinked away, striking back across the Channel before any hint of an alarm was raised.
Not Eduard FitzRandwulf d’Amboise. Not the son of the Black Wolf. Not even the very real possibility of being caught and stretched out on another torturer’s table would turn him away. Not when the woman he loved was held prisoner inside those walls.
Ariel bowed her head and studied her hands.
“Do you suppose Brevant will have convinced the governor to admit us?”
Eduard offered a casual shrug. “He seems a persuasive sort, if the mood is upon him.”
Ariel closed her eyes, aware of how close he stood, how sensual the vibration of his voice against her neck. She wished she could lean back and feel his arms wrapping around her. She wished he would hold her again, just once more, so she would know what it was like to feel safe and warm and protected.
“There is still time for you to change your mind if you are having second thoughts,” he said softly. “No one will think any the less of you.”
“I have not changed my mind. And I would think less of me, even if no one else did.”
She did not look at him but she knew his eyes had not left her face. She knew also that if she did look up, she would doubtless make a fool of herself again, for he could read her thoughts with such ease, he could probably see her confusion, see the havoc he had wrought on her senses, on her perceptions. Words, oaths, resolutions, promises … noble blood, bastard blood … what did any of it mean beside a man who kissed like fire and brought ecstasy with a touch of his hand?
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 74
