The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  “Why?” Ariel blurted on a soft gasp. “What has the king done?”

  Eduard turned back to the fire without answering. His shoulders hunched forward as he lifted his other arm and braced it against the wall, allowing him to hang his head between. There was tension in his jaw, and tension in the veins that rose and throbbed like blue snakes in his throat. Tension enough to cause beads of sweat to form across his brow and temples and to glisten where they ran in a thin trickle down the side of his face.

  Ariel’s throat went dry. Without knowing why or how she bade them do so, her feet carried her slowly toward the fireside. He did not look up, although he must have been aware of her presence beside him. Nor did he acknowledge the pale, slender hand that reached out and touched his arm.

  “Eduard …? How can we help if we do not know what has happened?”

  He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Henry tried to get his sister’s attention from across the room, but she ignored him. She ignored everything and everyone as she realized, with a shock of incredulity, that the wetness dripping from Eduard’s chin was not all caused by sweat.

  She had never seen a grown man cry. Had certainly never imagined she would live to see evidence of such weakness in Eduard FitzRandwulf.

  Her own eyes blurred behind a stinging hot liquid and she moved her hand closer to his. “Eduard …? Can you not trust us?”

  The long, dark sweep of his lashes remained closed and Ariel could see there were two emotions waging war within him—immeasurable anguish and boundless fury. The one was causing the uncharacteristic flow of tears; the other had caused him to smash his fists into something hard enough and repeatedly enough to open the flesh on some of his knuckles to the bone.

  “My God,” she gasped, touching one ravaged hand with the tip of her fingers. “Eduard … what has happened?”

  The heavy fringe of lashes lifted slowly.

  “He has blinded her,” Eduard whispered raggedly. “He has had her eyes put out like those of a common beggar.”

  Ariel’s shock was complete. Behind her, she could hear Henry’s half-formed exclamation and Robin’s stunned cry, but the best she could manage, locked in the deathlike grip of Eduard’s eyes, was the slow, hot release of her breath.

  “He … the king … has blinded her?”

  “He had her eyes plucked out and the lids seared shut,” Eduard said harshly, “knowing full well the barons of England, regardless how loyal and sympathetic they might be to her plight, regardless how desperately they might search for a claimant to challenge his power … they would never put a blind, mutilated queen on the throne.”

  “My God,” Henry muttered. “We should have suspected something was amiss. He could not have her killed without raising a hue and cry, but by the same token, he could not have let her live as a threat. Is she … otherwise well?”

  FitzRandwulf sucked a deep, shaky breath into his lungs and straightened, taking Ariel’s hand into his own without thinking. “She is thinner, as is to be expected. And sadder. But her concerns are for our safety, not her own, showing her courage and spirit are still as strong and true as ever. She is also adamant about not returning to Brittany. She would prefer death by the king’s hand—or her own—before she would suffer the pity of her people or put them in the position of having to shun her.”

  “Then … is this to be the end of it?” Ariel asked. “Are we just to leave her here to rot in the king’s prison?”

  Eduard stared down into Ariel’s face, but it was Eleanor he saw standing before him, her beautiful, ravaged features tilted upward, her voice laden with the tears she was no longer able to shed.

  “There is no other way, Eduard. You must leave me here. You must forget me. You must all forget me and leave me to God’s will.”

  “God’s will,” Eduard rasped, crushing Ariel’s hand in his, “will not be done in this place. Not while I have a breath in my body.”

  “You will need more than breath, my lord,” said a gruff, grating voice from the doorway. “You will need guts and heart and more courage than I was able to gather.”

  Eduard dropped Ariel’s hand and reached for his sword, but Henry and Robin were both closer and quicker, their blades slashing through the air in streaks of gleaming steel.

  Jean de Brevant stood in the doorway, his massive shoulders almost touching both jambs, his head bent to avoid the lintel. He made no move toward his own sword, raising his hands deliberately away from his sides to prove he had no such intent.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” Henry demanded. “Have you come to gloat?”

  Brevant took a half-step inside the room, wanting only to straighten the crook in his neck, but Robin misread the action and moved in front of him, his sword raised to bar the captain’s path.

  The gesture earned only a scowl. “I came because I knew, by the look on the Scarred One’s face, he had been to the tower.”

  “You knew?” Henry spat. “You must also have known what he would find. Why did you not tell us? Why did you not forewarn us?”

  “Would you have come calmly over the draw if you had known, or would you have stormed it with blood in your eyes? Would you have humoured Gisbourne’s airs of grandeur or would you have treated him like a boil and lanced him at the first opportunity? As God is my witness, I did not think you would get this far. I never thought you would have the ballocks to ride through the gates let alone make plans to ride out again with Gisbourne’s prized possession in your grasp.”

  “Are you suggesting there is a way to ride out of Gorfe? There is a way to steal the princess out of here?”

  Brevant’s mighty chest swelled with the makings of a ripe curse, for Robin’s sword was still hovering near enough to threaten the hump of his Adam’s apple.

  “Not with two broken legs and a cracked skull, there isn’t,” he snarled, “and that is what this fine-tempered lad will have if he waves his blade a hair closer.”

  “Robin,” Eduard ordered quietly. “Let us hear what he has to say.”

  Reluctantly, and slowly enough to cause the reflected spires of firelight to dance and leap along the length of the polished steel, Robin obliged. He did not sheath the weapon, however, nor did he remove his eyes from the captain’s bullish face.

  “Are you suggesting there is a way to break a prisoner out of Gorfe?” Eduard asked again.

  “No,” Brevant said flatly. “I am suggesting no such thing. You try to break her out, you try to make a run through the gates, and your backs will be as prickled as a porcupine with crossbow bolts.”

  “Then what can we do, Captain Littlejohn?” Ariel asked softly. “Can you help us?”

  Glittering black eyes went to her face as if he was acknowledging her presence for the first time. “I can help you mount your horses so you can ride out of here, my lady. Calmly and openly under the eyes of the castle guard. I would stress the word calmly, for you would have an extra two riders in your group, but if the timing is right and the guards preoccupied with other matters … which they will be with all the preparations for the king’s arrival … you might just be able to get a league or two beyond crossbow range before an alarm is sounded.”

  “Explain,” Eduard demanded.

  Brevant nodded and pursed his lips. “Gisbourne has ordered the castle guard doubled—not unexpected after the fright you tickled him with tonight. By tomorrow night, he will double it again, leaving very few heads lying abed for too many hours at a time. I know these men. Ask too much of them, press too hard, and they start fighting among themselves, missing their whores and ale, not giving a hell-fired damn if God himself was expected to ride across the draw.”

  “Are you saying they would not question the appearance of an extra rider in our group?” Henry scoffed.

  “Two extra riders,” Brevant said. “The little maid goes too.”

  “Marienne!” Robin gasped. “Of course she goes with us; we would not think of leaving her behind.”

  Henry looked as
if he was about to scowl an objection but Robin and his sword had suddenly allied themselves in the camp of Jean de Brevant. “You cannot just leave her behind to suffer the governor’s wrath alone,” he protested. “I would sooner give her my place and take my chances here, with the captain.”

  Brevant glanced down and over his shoulder. “The captain will not be here, lad. He has had more than enough of the smell of this place. Besides”—the black, bottomless eyes looked at Eduard again—“as soon as the king discovers his castellan has been host to the son of the Black Wolf … he will undoubtedly loose the hounds of hell upon you. You will need an extra sword arm.”

  Startled, Eduard returned the calm stare. “You knew?”

  The giant offered a rare, wide grin. “I saw you run the lists once, in Bayonne. It brought me back to England with a healthy respect for the training grounds of Poitou and Anjou. Yours is a face hard to forget, despite the bearding and the armour of a humble graycloak.”

  “You could have earned your own weight in silver marks had you sold your knowledge to Gisbourne.”

  Brevant’s grin widened. “Aye, well, call me a fool. I would pay twice as much to see the look on Gisbourne’s face when he finds the lady’s cell empty.”

  Eduard nodded. “That makes nine of us all told. Exactly how belligerent do you think the guards will be?”

  “You leave them to me. Just be ready, within an hour’s notice, to be on your horses and waiting in the bailey.”

  “There is one other small problem,” Henry pointed out. “Gisbourne has insisted we have an escort as far as the Salisbury road. Will they not notice the addition of two extra members to our party?”

  “You are speaking of the king’s finest,” Brevant snorted disdainfully. “Find one among them who can count and I will find you a whore with three titties.”

  Henry’s brows lifted gently. “Have they no sense of direction either? Once we leave Corfe, we can have no witnesses to say which road we took or which direction we favoured.”

  “Have you ever seen a dead man point his finger one way or the other?” Brevant demanded.

  “Ahh. Indeed.” Henry glanced at Eduard and shrugged. “So much for leaving any doubt as to who has plucked the Pearl from the gilded cage.”

  “If you are squeamish,” Brevant grunted, “you can stay here and protest your innocence to Gisbourne. A day or two on the rack, if you are pitiable enough, he may believe what’s left of you … enough to toss you over the sea wall, where he disposes of most of his unwanted witnesses.”

  “How will we get the princess out of the tower?” Eduard wanted to know.

  “How will you convince her to come along?”

  “I will convince her,” Eduard promised steadfastly. “I will offer her something I know she cannot refuse now. Something she has wanted, needed, for a long time and is only now free to grasp with her whole heart and soul.”

  “Aye, well. If luck and God be with us, I can bring her here under the guise of taking her to the chapel. Once she is here, though, it will be up to you to either persuade her to come peacefully, or to knock her cold and pack her on a rouncie with the rest of your provisions.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Ariel hugged the folds of her cloak close around her shoulders, barely aware of the cold gusts of wind tearing at her hair, or the wet spray of rainwater blowing through the squared teeth of the battlement walls.

  She had taken the cat’s climb to the roof, needing time alone with her thoughts and her feelings, hoping to cleanse both with the cold, crisp air. On a sunny day, the view of the sea below would be breathtaking. This night, against stormy skies and the gray-green luminescence of a turbulent sea, she saw nothing but nature’s anger and frustration shadowing her own. Each howl of the wind, each hard tattoo of rain that beat on stone and mortar, each rumble and crash of the sea hurling itself against the craggy coastline found an echo in her own battered emotions.

  Not that anyone else cared.

  Henry had gone back to the great hall with the captain, hopefully to find Sedrick still in one piece. Robin had gone somewhere with FitzRandwulf … something about a rendezvous he had arranged earlier with the maid, Marienne. They had all gone, leaving her alone. Assuming she preferred it that way? Or assuming she knew they all had better things to do.

  FitzRandwulf obviously did, now that his Eleanor was on the verge of being his.

  I will offer her something I know she cannot refuse. Something she has wanted, needed, and is now free to grasp with her whole heart and soul.

  He would offer Eleanor himself, of course. As husband, lover, protector. And in truth, the Pearl of Brittany would have no reason to refuse him. She was no longer a claimant to the throne. The royal blood of kings and queens still flowed through her veins, but the work of a glowing hot iron had stripped her of her birthright, stripped her of any obstacles standing in the way of a union between her and the bastard son of the Black Wolf.

  How the sight of his beloved Eleanor must have shocked him! Eduard’s love for her was so pure, so noble; it went deeper than any emotion Ariel could ever conceive of a man having for a woman. Deeper than anything she could in any honesty ever hope to experience herself.

  Eduard FitzRandwulf d’Amboise had never professed to love her. He had never even led her to believe he liked her. He may have lusted after her a time or two, may even have had moments when the lure of soft female flesh had been too overwhelming for his rigid code of honour. But that was not love. It was a kiss stolen under the moonlight, or a challenge answered in kind. It was the effect of too much ale and a virile male body left too long craving something it thought was too far out of reach.

  Well, he could reach Eleanor of Brittany now. He could reach her and hold her and love her … and probably never spare another thought for Ariel de Clare, wife of some distant Welsh prince.

  Ariel leaned her brow against the cold, wet stone and knew the ache she was feeling inside would not as easily be forgotten, nor would it be assuaged by just any man. Most certainly not a man like Rhys ap Iorwerth, slayer of fawns.

  “Sweet Mary, Mother of God,” she whispered. “Why has this thing happened to me? Why now? Why with this man? Of all men … why did it have to be this one?”

  A gust of wind whipped the wet ribbons of her hair out behind her, snatching at the folds of her cloak and belling it like a sheet of canvas under full sail. Breathless, gulping air and tears and misery, she turned to seek the shadowy protection of the covered stairwell … and slammed abruptly into the wall of Eduard FitzRandwulf’s chest.

  “There you are,” he said, steadying her on her feet. “I know you told me you like storms, but is this not a little mad, even for you?”

  With a gasp, Ariel sobbed something unintelligible and spun out into the rain and wind again, running farther along the catwalk until she came to an arch of stairs that bridged the roof of one tower to the next. Before she could cross it, however, Eduard’s hands, then his arms circled her waist and brought her unceremoniously down again, pinning her against his body until she had kicked and squirmed and thrashed herself half into a frenzy.

  “Ariel? What in damnation—?”

  “Let me go! Take your filthy bastard’s hands off me and let me go You have what you want now. You have your Eleanor, your precious Pearl. You have your princess and I have my prince, and by God, we shall both be happy now because it is what we both want!”

  She was strong and lithe and was able to wriggle free, breaking for the steps again before Eduard could fully absorb the thrust of her words. He made a grab for her and missed, but her foot caught in a wet twist of her cloak, sending her down on one knee before she could recover and lunge for the steps. It was long enough for him to catch up to her and when he did, he lifted her bodily against his chest and held her there until he could turn and trap her between himself and the battlement wall.

  “Listen to me, Ariel,” he hissed against her ear. “You have to listen to me.”

  “I have listened
to you. I have listened and I have watched and I know how much you love her. I do not need to hear the words to know it.”

  “Ariel—!”

  “No!” She covered her ears with her hands and crumpled her eyes tightly shut, refusing to acknowledge his command for attention.

  The rain beat down on Eduard’s unprotected head and shoulders, soaking his hair, running in chilling rivulets down his throat and under his clothes. His hands gripped her shoulders and trembled with the desire to shake her, but instead, with a deliberate, gentle strength, he took hold of her wrists and pried her hands away from her ears.

  “Is that what you think? Do you think Eleanor and I …? That we are lovers?”

  Ariel kept her eyes adamantly shut against the lure of his voice. “I do not have to think anything. You told me you loved her. You said you had pledged your life to her. You carried her ring next to your heart just as she carried yours. And now you are risking all … everything … to save her! What else should I think?”

  Eduard found himself at a loss. His grip on her wrists tightened a moment, then sprang free entirely as he shoved his fingers into the wet, tangled mass of her hair. He forced her to tilt her head up, forced her to open her eyes, and meet the silvery gray intensity of his own.

  “You should think … hard … about the difference between loving someone you regard as a sister, or a cousin, or a sweet and gentle friend”—his fingers raked deeper, lifting her face higher—“and loving someone who burns their way into your heart and soul like a flame. I love Eleanor, yes. With all of my heart. She was the first true friend I ever had, and I am probably the only friend she has ever had. We traded rings a thousand years ago when she exacted a childhood promise from me to always be her champion, to always slay dragons in her name. We traded again tonight”—he paused and fished angrily beneath his tunic-“when she made me swear to let the one true beast who is her uncle live.”