Robin strained so hard to pull his knots apart, he could feel the sweat beading across his upper lip. He sawed his ankles back and forth, winning some slackness there, but whoever had caught and tied him had taken no chances in losing him.
He collapsed a moment, wheezing noisily through his nose. His back was up against a stone wall but he could find no rough edges, nothing that might snag or pick into the cords. His knife and falchion were gone, naturally. He had his teeth if he could get to them. And if he could get to them in time.
Surely someone was due to come out and check on him again. With sweat on his face and a heartbeat that banged like an ironmonger working on his anvil, he could not hope to trick the next clammy hand that poked and prodded.
A volley of muted laughter spurred Robin into a burst of furious activity. He stretched his arms down and rounded them as much as they would go in an effort to wriggle his hips through the loop they made. He got stuck halfway through and rolled hard enough to bang his knee on the wall, but he persevered, grunting, straining, sweating his hips, then his legs and feet through.
He tore at the blindfold first and tossed it aside, then uncorked the filthy gag from his mouth, hawking and spitting twice to rid himself of the spurious taste. He had guessed— correctly—that he was in a small room adjoining Gisbourne’s main quarters. It proved to be no larger than a hound’s room, and indeed, from the smell of the floor and stains in the corners, he half-expected to see the bristled face of a wolfhound standing guard over him.
Wary of the closed door only a few paces away, he brought his wrists to his mouth and started chewing on the knots in the jute, widening his visual search as he did so, hunting for anything that could be used as a weapon.
There was nothing. Not even a stick of furniture to break over someone’s head. The walls were bare stone with iron cressets bolted into the mortar. The room was lit by thick wax candles, not torches, one on either side of the doorway. The ceiling was high, rising in an arch that was probably continued in the main chamber. No door blocked the exit to the stairs, which were wide and well lit to ensure a safe descent. The upper reaches were naturally gloomier, with the walls and beams mossed with the ghostly weavings of a colony of spiders.
Robin was gaining some success with the knots when he heard a dull thud on the far side of the door. It swung open a few seconds later and a woman came staggering out, a hand massaging the shoulder she had just bounced off the wall.
“Well then? Awake at last, are ye? Oooooo”—she stumbled closer, squinting her eyes to see through the drunken haze—“ee said ye were a pretty one, and so ye are. Pretty enough to eat,” she added, grinning lewdly around a slick set of gums marked by a few stubs of teeth.
Robin pushed himself upright and sat with his back braced against the wall. The woman was big and blowsy, naked as the day she was born, with breasts like great heavy dugs that hung to her waist and juddered with each move she made.
Robin found enough spit to moisten his lips. “Untie me,” he whispered. “Untie me and I will make it worth your while.”
“Untie ye?” she screeched. “Nowt bluddy likely, sweet. Truth is, ee’s going to want ye tied even more, hand and foot to the bed posties so’s ee can do his best and his worst all of a time. When it’s my turn, though, mayhap then I’ll untie ye. But only if ye make it well worth my while.”
Robin muttered something under his breath and she swayed closer to hear, close enough for him to reach up and grab her by the greasy shanks of her hair and bring her head slamming forward into the stone wall. A grunt brought her down like a felled tree and set her mountainous rolls of soft white flesh sprawling over Robin’s legs. He struggled and kicked to free himself, and in doing so, slipped his ankles loose of their binding.
He was up on one knee and set to run for the stairs when another naked body appeared in the open doorway. It was Gisbourne. Once a formidable champion in the lists, he could still boast a muscular toughness; the sword he held to Robin’s throat did not waver by so much as a hair’s breadth even as he increased the pressure upward, forcing Robin to scrape and push himself to his feet.
“Surely you were not planning to leave so soon, were you?” he asked silkily. “And what have you done to poor Grisella? She was so looking forward to your company … as was I.”
“Not in this lifetime, my lord,” Robin hissed through a clenched jaw.
Gisbourne’s eyes widened and the point of his blade dug deeper, forcing Robin to stretch his neck to the limit.
“A lad with spirit,” he said, shuddering over the words. “I like that. So many come to me wailing and weeping … they bleat like little lambs and keen for their mothers … and usually spoil it all by falling into a dead faint. You do not look like the fainting type, Robin-in-the-hood. You look like the type who will fight me, aye”—he grinned—“right to the end. It would be a shame if I had to curb some of that fight from the outset. It would have to be a shame to have to slit a hole in your belly and lead you inside by your entrails … but I assure you, I will do it. And if I do, I can also assure you, you will come with me most willingly.”
Robin swallowed against the pressure of the blade and felt the edge nick into his skin. The thought was there, as pure and clear as the blue of his eyes, that all he had to do was lunge forward and the blade would open his jugular. But his eyes flicked briefly to the open landing at the top of the stairs, and the thought of death was replaced by the need to live. He met Gisbourne’s lazy stare again and offered a small nod of assent.
“How very astute of you,” Gisbourne breathed. He drew the sword back enough to challenge the look in Robin’s eye, and when nothing came of it, he withdrew the threat further and waved it toward the door. “After you, cheri.”
Robin took a step, then brought his hands up in front of him, reaching to catch the hilt of the dagger Eduard tossed him.
Gisbourne swung around to block the throw, but too late. As startled as he was to see the flash of steel streak past him, he was doubly staggered to see Eduard FitzRandwulf looming at the top of the stairs, his dark hair thrown forward over his brow, his scarred cheek pleated with a menacing grin. “What the—? Guards! Guards!”
Sir Guy looked expectantly down the stairwell but Eduard only shook his head. “Shout all you want, Gisbourne. They cannot hear you.”
The governor slashed his sword toward the landing and met cold steel for his trouble. Another thrust and sparks flew the length of both blades as they sliced together, venting fury to the hilts. Gisbourne whirled on the balls of his bare feet, his sword gripped in white-knuckled fists, swinging it like a hatchet at the level of Eduard’s knees. FitzRandwulf cleared the arc easily and parried with a backhanded cut that turned the governor far enough off balance to allow Eduard to kick out and plant a boot in the back of Gisbourne’s thighs.
Sir Guy’s legs went out from under him and he landed heavily on his knees, skidding several feet on the rough stone, leaving two streaks of skin and blood in his wake. He roared with the pain and scrambled back onto his feet, but by then Robin had severed through the rest of his bindings and was able to put the dagger to better use, jabbing it up and under Gisbourne’s chin, reversing their positions of only moments ago by making him dance backward to the wall and stand on tiptoes, his neck strained in a painful arch, his eyes bulging.
Gisbourne’s hand sprang open and he dropped his sword with a metallic clang that bounced a time or two off the stone walls before fading to a dull ring.
“How dare you raise a knife to me, boy. Move it now. At once. And perhaps I will let you live.”
Robin nudged the steel tip higher. His face took on a terrible maturity; his eyes burned with blue flames, contempt and revulsion aged him swiftly and savagely beyond his fourteen years. Having looked death in the face and knowing there was nothing to fear there, he could look a paltry creature like Guy of Gisbourne in the eye and scorn him. He could hate him too, not just for what he’d almost done to him, but for the delight he took in
doing it to others.
Eduard was not unaware of the changes that had come over his young brother. If anything, he saw himself standing there, his thigh opened to the bone by the Dragon’s blade, and he knew Robin was angry enough, sickened enough, to kill Gisbourne just as he could have killed Etienne Wardieu. He also knew that killing Gisbourne would make the loss of Robin’s youth irretrievable, and for that reason alone, Eduard reached out a hand and laid it on his brother’s arm.
“See if you can drag yon hub of womanly beauty into the bedchamber while I settle a few matters with Sir Guy.”
Robin swallowed, brought the tremors in his arm under control, and nodded stiffly, lowering the knife by slow degrees as if it was the most difficult thing he had ever forced himself to do.
Gisbourne waited until the knife was safely lowered to the boy’s side before he straightened and glared fiercely at Eduard —a difficult thing to do stark naked and grayer than the cobwebs that floated overhead.
“Enjoy this moment while you can,” he spat, “for you are both dead men.”
“But still able to walk and talk,” Eduard said with narrowed eyes. “Which is somewhat more than you will be able to do with”—he glanced askance at Robin—“what was it Little-john said?”
Robin looked startled a moment, then quoted, “Not with two broken legs and a cracked skull.”
“Ahh. So it was. And so it shall be,” he added softly.
Gisbourne saw FitzRandwulf lift his sword and watched in horror as the mighty shoulders put their all into a swooping swing. An instant later, Gisbourne’s senses exploded in a starburst of pain as the flat of the heavy blade smashed across both bleeding kneecaps. Robin had adroitly stepped aside to avoid the blur of steel, but as Gisbourne’s arms flailed and his body began to pitch forward, it did so in Robin’s direction. A reflex action brought the lad’s hands upward to fend off the possibility of catching Gisbourne and saving him from an unchecked fall. The dagger he clutched came up at the same time, and as Sir Guy plunged forward, the well-honed edge slithered between his thighs, met a limp protrusion of unresisting flesh, and sliced it off without undue strain on Robin’s wrist or … after the fact … his conscience.
Sir Guy’s scream was bloodcurdling enough to prompt a curse from Eduard’s lips as he swung his sword again, this time bringing the blunted end of the hilt smashing against Gisbourne’s temple, with enough force to send the black eyes rolling up beneath the lids, vouchsafing his inability to sound any alarms for the rest of the day.
The two brothers stood side by side, staring down at the broken sprawl of Gisbourne’s body, both of them wincing at the damage wrought by Robin’s dagger.
“Killing him would have sufficed, little brother,” Eduard mused.
Robin drew a shaky breath and flung the bloodied knife onto the floor. “At least he will have something to remember me by.”
“Remember you? I would hasten to suggest you never cross his path again. I would also suggest we waste no more time in pleasantries. Hopefully, by the time we hide these two and return to our own chambers, Eleanor and Marienne will be there, waiting for us.”
Robin nodded, managing to hold down his gorge while they dragged Gisbourne and the whore into the bedchamber and arranged them under blankets and furs to look as if they slept in blissful exhaustion. There was a deal of blood on the floor of the anteroom, but it could not be helped. A last glance and Eduard pulled the door shut behind them, clapping his arm around Robin’s shoulders as they headed swiftly for the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After Henry, Eduard, and Brevant had left her, Ariel made a quick search for spare clothing and came up with what she supposed would have to do for two complete outfits. She took Eduard’s only extra shirt back to her chambers with the rest of the bundled clothing, and for some inexplicable reason, felt better for wearing it in place of her own long linen bluet. She did not have much in the way of spare belongings herself, only the velvet gown and silken undertunic she had ruined in the rain last night. Both had been torn by haste and rough treatment and, rather than simply leave them by the hearth or pack them to have to explain their condition at a later date, she rolled them in a tight ball and thrust them into the fire. A few sticks of kindling and a spill of candle wax supplemented the curling heat from the bed of coals, and she finished dressing in the bright blaze of the burning garments.
Her hair required the perseverance and vocabulary of a Flemish foot soldier to unsnarl and tame into a manageable braid. The heat of sheer frustration was still fuming in her cheeks when the outer chamber echoed with the sound of hurried footsteps. Henry was back to collect their equipment and, barely a minute later, Captain Brevant arrived, striding into her bedchamber with two slender, clinging shapes in his shadow.
“My lady; I see you have responded well to the need for haste. As you can see, I have accomplished the first half of my task. My lord”—he looked to Henry—“you have seen to the horses?”
Henry nodded. “Sedrick has it well in hand. I came back to see if I could be of further use.”
“You can,” Brevant grunted. “You can guard our charges until the final preparations are made. My lady—were you able to find suitable clothing?”
Ariel moistened her lips and glanced at the bed, where she had deposited her scavenged findings.
“Good,” Brevant nodded. “I will leave you to it then. As soon as all is ready below, I will return to fetch you. Remain here until I do so.”
Marienne, hailed from a troubled, anxious sleep, flinched aside as Captain Brevant exited the room as abruptly as he had entered. She looked even younger, paler than she had the first time Ariel had seen her, and the folds of her worn, patched night tunic trembled visibly against her body.
The second figure could not flinch from what she could not see, but she shook with equal vigor, her fear the result of being roused from her tower and led she knew not where for a purpose which had not yet been explained. She knew it had been Jean de Brevant coaxing her to haste and silence, and she knew Marienne was blatantly terrified. Part of the reason for their terror and uncertainty was that they had not made their way to this place without incident. Twice they had been cautioned to press into a corner of the passageway while Brevant’s sword had made short work of queries by other guards as to where they were going at such an ungodly hour.
Eleanor could also smell the rank odour of scorched velvet, mingled with the vague, distinctly feminine scent of rose-water.
“May I presume … I am in the company of Lady Ariel de Clare?” she asked tremulously.
Ariel’s first response was to nod, since her tongue had decided to remain stubbornly clamped between her teeth. It was difficult to find the words to say, having at last come face to face with the woman she had regarded as her strongest competition for Eduard’s affections … the woman widely acclaimed to be the most beautiful creature in the realm.
She could see why. Regal, noble features bespoke the bloodlines of kings and queens. All of mankind would have had to be blinded not to recognize the golden-haired niece of Richard the Lionheart, granddaughter of Henry Secund and Eleanor of Aquitaine, last of the true Angevin princesses, and, through no misfault of her own, the rightful queen of England. Despite her eyes being so hideously sealed shut, Eleanor radiated delicacy and grace. A man would have to have been a fool not to love her and a king equally foolish not to envy and fear her.
Even Henry, who was handsome enough to rarely find himself wanting for the company of a beautiful woman, stood mute in the shadows, awed by the light that seemed to emanate from within the slender form of Eleanor of Brittany.
“Your Highness,” Ariel murmured, forcing her legs to carry her forward. She started to drop down onto her knees, but Eleanor was quick to halt her.
“Please. There is no longer any need to kneel before me. I am a charity ward of mine uncle’s now, due nothing more than a common greeting.”
Ariel glanced at Marienne, who was bravely trying to hold b
ack the watershed of tears brimming along her lashes. The task was rendered impossible as Robin came bounding through the door with the impact of a gust of wind, sweeping the young maid off her feet and spinning her so high, her legs were bared to the thighs. He was out of breath from running up the stairs, but as he brought Marienne to ground and held her close against his body, he beamed a wide smile over the top of her head.
“Highness … Lady Ariel … Eduard and I met Captain Littlejohn on the stairs.”
“You are both … all right?” Ariel gasped.
“Aye, my lady. Right and ready.”
“Ready for what?” Eleanor pleaded. “What is happening? Why was I brought here?”
“Your Grace,” Robin explained, “we are taking you away from this hellish place. Eduard tells me Lord Sedrick is in the yards now, saddling horses. Lord Dafydd is purloining foodstuffs, and—”
“What do you mean you are taking me away?” Eleanor recoiled with surprise, stumbling back until she met abruptly with the wall. “And who are these lords you mention? I am familiar with none of them.”
Henry was bestirred to step forward. “If I may, Highness … my name is Henry de Glare, and I am brother to Lady Ariel. Lord Sedrick of Grantham is a loyal vassal of our uncle, William the Marshal, and Lord Dafydd ap Iorwerth is … is a Welshman, come with us from Pembroke to Paris and now to here. We are all here in the marshal’s service and with Lord Eduard FitzRandwulf’s guidance.”
The princess raised a trembling hand to her temple. “But … I told Eduard … I wanted no part of a rescue. The king—”
“The king is docking his ship even as we dither and dally, Your Highness,” Robin said. “And when have you ever known my lord brother to do aught he was told, especially if he was told it was impossible?”
“But …” Eleanor’s hand fell from her temple and gripped the crucifix that hung around her neck. “I have accepted my fate. Marienne, yes, take her and leave if it is at all possible, but I must stay here. The king will never let me go free.”
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 81
