The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  “Eduard? And the marshal’s niece?” Eleanor leaned back. “Perhaps you should, indeed, start at the beginning. Marienne? Marienne … what is it?”

  The maid had gone suddenly rigid in the princess’s arms. She was staring past Eleanor’s shoulder—a shoulder that had moved a moment ago to reveal the black-clad figure standing in the doorway.

  Eleanor sensed a presence behind her and stiffened, her hands dropping and clasping together over her belly. “Marienne … please …?”

  “I am sorry, my lady,” she whispered. “I did not know …”

  “It was not Marienne’s fault,” Eduard said quietly. “I followed her from the Queen’s Tower.”

  Eleanor reacted visibly to the sound of his voice. She gripped the maid’s hands with a desperation that brought more tears flooding into Marienne’s eyes, and for the first time in memory, she wanted to curse Eduard FitzRandwulf d’Amboise to the very pits of hell.

  “Why?” Eleanor asked in a forced breath. “Why did you come here?”

  Eduard took another step into the room. Eleanor’s back was to him, but he could see how thin she had become, how shabby her tunic was, how dull and listless the long golden stream of her hair. “I wanted to know the reason why you would turn me away. I wanted to hear it from your own lips.”

  “Eduard, please,” she whispered. “Please … go away. I cannot bear for you to see me this way.”

  Eduard moved closer, his hands balled into fists by his sides. “Whereas I cannot bear to see you shunning me as if you put a greater faith in John’s promise of protection than you do in mine.”

  “Eduard—”

  “If you still want me to go, I will … but only if you look me in the eye and tell me it is what you want above all else.”

  Marienne stifled a sob as she leaped to her feet, and only Eleanor’s strong grasp on her hands stopped her from throwing herself on Eduard. It was still without any inkling of anything amiss that Eduard watched the Pearl of Brittany square her shoulders and pull herself up.

  It was without any sense of foreboding at all that he saw her turn slowly to face him, saw the candlelight and shadow cast a confusion of images over the face renowned as being the most beautiful in all of Christendom.

  Indeed, it still was.

  And Eduard’s heart soared for all of the two shocked, disbelieving gulps of air he needed to fully understand the reason she had not wanted to see him.

  Eleanor had refused to see him because she could not see anything at all.

  Her eyes had been gouged from the sockets and the lids cruelly seared shut.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Ariel de Clare sat on the edge of her seat during the nerve-wracking eternity that was supper. She flinched at every sudden sound and caught herself staring at the entrance to the great hall more times than she cared to recall. FitzRandwulf had not returned to her chambers before the summons had arrived calling her to the evening meal, nor had he made an appearance during any of the various courses of soups, stews, fish, fowl, or meat. Any moment she expected to see his bloodied, battered body thrown down the stairs. She only wished it would happen soon and be done with so she could at least put her eating knife to good effect and slice it through Gisbourne’s scrawny neck before she too was dragged away and thrown into some dark, vile donjon cell.

  She had barely touched a morsel of food to her lips, and not just because everything swam in puddles of mustard seed and garlic. She had been accorded the honour of sharing Guy of Gisbourne’s trencher, and even under normal circumstances she doubted she could have held her appetite past the first mouthful of partially chewed food that exploded across the table on a hearty guffaw of laughter from the governor’s lips. The man was a pig. His hands were everywhere—in the platter of fish, in the round of bread, in the bowl of lentils, in the crux of his armpit, scratching savagely.

  The company below the dais was even worse. They roared filthy epithets from one table to the next, followed by a volley of food if the remarks won no response. The men fondled their whores between courses of meat and pasties, and thought nothing of puking or pissing in plain sight of those above the salt if the urge came upon them. The women were coarse, black-toothed trulls who provided entertainment by clawing, pulling hair, and fighting with fists or knives if another trull looked too closely at a bulging groin. By meal’s end, most were drunk and oblivious to who or how many carried them off to a musty corner of the hall. And through it all, Gisbourne picked his teeth with the tip of his knife, or belched vaporous remains of the meal across Ariel’s face.

  She had decided, long before the first course had congealed on the wooden platters, that Gisbourne would lose the ability to void himself with any degree of comfort if his greasy fingers dared to stray anywhere near her lap. She gripped her knife like a weapon, wary of every smile and squinted glance that slid her way, not really aware until halfway through the meal that it was Robin earning the furtive glances, not her.

  The young man stood in loyal attendance by the side of Ariel’s chair, clearly appalled, to judge by his expression, that a castle directly under the control of the king of England could be peopled by such misfits and brutes. He did not know he was the object of such close, feral scrutiny. He thought it was accidental when Gisbourne’s hand brushed his thigh, even unto the third and fourth time it happened.

  Henry was not so naive, nor so patient with the governor’s growing interest in the squire. He tried distracting his host with questions and conversation, and when that failed to cool the hot stares, he sent Robin down to where Sedrick was on the verge of cracking heads, ostensibly to inquire after Lord Dafydd’s condition.

  Early on in the evening Gallworm had made a point of reporting to Gisbourne that the Welshman’s arm was indeed broken. The cut from the sliver appeared to be healing well enough, but the barber had recommended bleeding him to drain away the imbalance of body fluids collecting in the healthy arm, as well as a strong nostrum of inflammable water to rid him of any lingering fever. Thus, the Welsh knight was the luckiest member of the group, for though he was hung with leeches and forced to drink nostrums, he was left in the relative peace and quiet of the barracks.

  “You have another man in your party, do you not?” Gisbourne asked, his gaze following Robin over to where Sedrick sat. “Where is he?”

  Henry lowered his goblet and dried his lips on his cuff. “He … prefers his own company, my lord, and I have granted him leave to enjoy it.”

  Gisbourne’s head turned slowly toward Henry, his eyes as cold and flat as glass. “He does not appreciate our hospitality?”

  “On the contrary, he is most appreciative, as are we all. But if you will forgive my bluntness for saying it, I have developed a certain hesitancy with regards to leaving our possessions unattended. We have already had one unpleasant experience in our sojourn. Another would cause my uncle to question my capabilities.”

  “You think one of my men would dare to steal your valuables?” Gisbourne demanded. “That you would sit as an honoured guest at my table while some churl ransacks your belongings?” The dark eyes remained slitted through an ominous silence, then widened under a hearty laugh. “You are probably a wise man, Lord Henry, to take the precaution. I would not trust a single one of them not to steal the teeth out of my head if I were foolish enough to sleep with my mouth open. All except Brevant, of course. He would still steal them, but only to polish them and sell them back at a profit.”

  “In any case, I will have Robin send my man down when he escorts my sister back to her chambers.”

  “You are leaving us so soon, Lady Ariel?”

  “It has been a long, tiring day, Sir Guy. A tiring fortnight, to be sure, and I have been struggling to keep my eyes open since Compline. With your leave, of course, I would beg to be excused.”

  Her best, most obsequious smile, usually so effective against pretentious dolts like Guy of Gisbourne, was squandered to no effect, for he offered his own—equally transparent —and rose to his f
eet.

  “It would be my honour and my privilege to add mine own sword arm to your defense, my lady. We would not want to lose you to some villainy along the way.”

  Henry pushed to his feet in complete agreement. Unfortunately, the edge of his spur caught on a leg of the chair, sending it tipping over sideways so that it appeared as though he arose with far more haste and urgency than was his intent.

  “There, ah, is no need to trouble yourself, my lord. I shall accompany my sister; I am feeling the effects of a long day myself.”

  Gisbourne looked at him speculatively. A servant was righting the chair and it gave him an extra moment to note the glance Henry exchanged with Ariel. “You do not trust me to safeguard your sister’s virtue? Perhaps I should take insult, my lord. Perhaps I should indeed be questioning the whereabouts of your man, but for different reasons.”

  “Different reasons?”

  Gisbourne’s eyes glittered and dropped slowly down to the Pembroke lions emblazoned on Henry’s sleeve. He seemed to grow very still, as if he himself could not quite believe the connection his mind was trying to make, and when he glanced up again, it was to a point high on the wall of the great hall, undoubtedly in the general direction of a certain tower room.

  “You will forgive my bluntness for saying it, but I also have valuables that must be safeguarded,” he said evenly. “Captain Brevant! Yourself and four of your best, if you please. We will all escort Lady Ariel to her chambers and ensure no harm has befallen your man.”

  Trapped, Henry and Ariel could do nothing but allow themselves to be accompanied from the dais. Out of the corner of her eye, Ariel saw Sedrick surge to his feet, but on a sharp glance from Gisbourne, he was suddenly surrounded by the same guards who had been in jeopardy of having their heads crushed moments before, only now they were not laughing. Robin stood uncertainly by the table, his face pale and taut as he watched the De Clares being led away under armed guard.

  Gisbourne paused and looked back. “By all means, call your young man to accompany us,” he said to Ariel. “If the walls do indeed seethe with infamy, he would be better in our company.”

  The easier to lock us all together in the same cell? Ariel wondered.

  With her heart thudding in her throat, she attempted to smile at Robin as he joined them. She could tell by the look in his eyes that he was as anxious as she to know what Gisbourne would do when it was discovered Eduard had not been left standing guard. Would he sound the alarm and search for him? Would they search the princess’s tower and find him there, condemning them all to donjon cells deep beneath the bowels of the keep?

  Ariel had pondered, during the ride to the castle, if that was to be her last glimpse of the outer world. She wondered now if this was to be her last long walk without the weight of chains dragging at her ankles and chafing her wrists.

  There was no one standing guard at the entrance to the Queen’s Tower. No one stood outside or inside the door to the chambers assigned to Lord Henry. Gisbourne’s face betrayed no emotions as the inner bedchamber was searched and proclaimed empty; if anything, his expression became more thoughtful by the footstep, as if he was envisioning which methods of torture would loosen their tongues the quickest.

  “In the solar, perhaps,” he suggested magnanimously, waving to Brevant to lead the way up to Ariel’s apartments. The door was flung wide and he strode across the threshold of the small anteroom like Caesar striding over the seventh hill of Rome.

  “Such diligence,” he mused, casting an acerbic eye around the obviously dark and vacant chamber. “Where could he be, do you suppose?”

  “Perhaps he was called away,” Henry offered lamely. “Or—”

  “Or perhaps he had more pressing matters to attend to?”

  Gisbourne was watching both Ariel and Henry, like a cat waiting to pounce. So intent were all three not to be the first to falter under another’s stare, they did not see the door to the inner chamber open quietly beside them.

  Eduard FitzRandwulf was suddenly upon them, halted by the same look of surprise that jolted the others in the room.

  “My lords,” he said, his hand falling instantly to the hilt of his sword. “Is something amiss?”

  “Where have you been?” Gisbourne demanded, craning his neck to see past the knight’s broad shoulders. “What have you been doing?”

  Eduard’s eyes narrowed. “I assumed the Lady Ariel would appreciate a fire in her chamber, and since none of the castle servants appeared to hold the same considerations, I tended it myself.” He paused and addressed Henry as any indignant vassal might. “My lord, I can assure you no one has ventured near these rooms without my knowledge.”

  “I have every confidence this is so,” Henry said, his smile not quite as jaunty as normal. “And now that we are returned, you may avail yourself of the bountiful repast Lord Gisbourne has so graciously provided.”

  “I have already supped, my lord,” he said brusquely. “I would better spend the time in the stables ensuring the horses are readied to continue our journey.”

  “Continue?” Gisbourne frowned. “But you have only just arrived.”

  “We have been in Corfe three days now,” Henry said. “Which has put us three days behind in travel. My sister’s groom will be stalking the ramparts of Radnor like a hound in heat. And then there is the king himself, who will not be overly pleased to hear his orders have been delayed by a broken arm. He was most adamant the wedding should take place before month’s end.”

  “He is not known to go into rages at the sight of a pretty face. More’s the like, he would fly into a rage with me if I were to send you away in such miserable weather, under such haphazard conditions, and without benefit of a proper escort.”

  Henry paused, debating some inner point with himself before he took the governor’s arm and led him far enough away from the others to muffle the context of what he was about to confide in his ear. Gisbourne at first looked annoyed, then startled. He stared at Henry, whose flush of anger was not entirely put upon, then at Ariel—or, more specifically, Ariel’s belly. This time, when they bowed their heads together again, it was Gisbourne who did most of the talking, and Gisbourne who drew Henry further aside until they were out the door and on the landing. Eduard took Ariel by the arm and steered her gently, but firmly, toward the inner bedchamber. Robin was right behind her, showing a maturity that startled her as he drew a sword and made ready to shield her with his own body if necessary.

  Thankfully, it did not prove necessary, for after more muted conversation, only Henry and Eduard joined them in the chamber, with Henry delivering Gisbourne’s kind regards for a good night’s sleep.

  “He is gone?” she whispered. When Henry nodded assent, she felt the relief flood her entire body. “And will he let us leave without conditions?”

  Henry nodded again and Ariel slumped against the wall. “God in heaven, I thought sure he was going to insist we remain until the king arrived. What did you tell him to change his mind?”

  “I told him the king would not be too pleased to see you here, since the two of you had seen quite enough of each other already. So much so, in fact, you needed a husband right away. Thus the haste. Thus the furtiveness.”

  Ariel’s mouth dropped open. “You told him I was carrying the king’s bastard?”

  “It was the best I could think of on the moment,” Henry protested. “And not something he would find difficult to believe, especially since he said he found you to be testy and irritable company through supper.”

  Ariel spluttered, swore, spluttered again, and looked to Eduard for some support, but he was not even paying attention. He was standing in front of the hearth, one hand propped against the stone, his face bathed in the flickering glow from the fire. It was only then she remembered where he had been and who he had seen.

  “Were you able to find where the princess is being held? Were you able to speak to her?”

  Eduard did not take his eyes away from the flames. “I saw her. I spoke to her.�
��

  “And?” Henry demanded. “Have you discovered some clever means of removing her from this pesthole?”

  “I have discovered … she does not want to be removed. She … has expressed a heartfelt desire to stay.”

  “To stay?” Henry gasped. “Here? In Corfe?”

  Eduard seemed to require a few moments to steel himself before turning and meeting Henry’s astonished stare. “She claims the king has promised no further harm will befall her … and she claims she has no reason to doubt him.”

  “And you believe her?”

  “I believe … she does not want to run the risk of having us all stay here with her, in cells adjoining her own.”

  Henry took a moment for deliberation himself. He would not be the first to admit to a keen liking for the Wolf’s cub, or the first to eagerly present himself as a friend to the cool, distant knight. Notwithstanding this, he was genuinely firm in his respect for FitzRandwulf’s loyalties and convictions. He could see the man smashing tables and blackening eyes over an accusation of cowardice; he could see him spitting in the face of any man who dared question his concerns over his own personal safety. He could not see Eduard FitzRandwulf d’Amboise, the man, the knight, the silver-eyed warrior so calmly reporting the princess’s suggestion of a hasty retreat unless something else had happened. Something so terrible, so horrible, so frightening as to render even his considerable capacity for rage, impotent.

  There were ways, Henry knew, of utterly demoralizing and smashing the spirit of captives, making them come to regard their captors as saviours.

  “Has the king … done something to her mind?” Henry asked gently.

  Naked pain filled the daunting gray eyes, like blood filling an open wound. “If you are asking if he has done something to guarantee she is no longer a threat to his claim on the throne … the answer is yes. Moreover, he has also ensured she is no longer a consideration to anyone’s plans to incite a civil war in her name. If John were to choke on his own guilt, or fall on his own sword a dozen times, and if all other claimants as far removed as a tenth or twentieth bastard cousin suddenly fell ill and died of St. Anthony’s Fire … Eleanor of Brittany would not be the chosen candidate for queen.”