The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  Lord Randwulf tried to take control again, but it was difficult to do with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was Lady Servanne who offered up a sigh as she slipped her hand into his. “You really should try to hold your pride a little closer to your chest, my love.”

  He raised her hand, kissed it, and pressed it over his heart. “It already is as close as I can possibly hold it.”

  Brenna wrinkled her nose in Richard’s direction and walked around to take her place at the table, which happened to be only two seats away from Griffyn Renaud. She was aware of the pale jade eyes following her, but when she glanced over to challenge his impudence, he had already wisely turned away.

  He had to look away. It was either that or leave the table, which would only offer up more reason for her to be suspicious and hostile. In the forest, staring down the shaft of an arrow, all he had seen were those huge violet eyes, dark and sparkling with the desire to run him through. He had not doubted for a minute that she was fully capable of doing it, and the knowledge had tempered his anger, changed it to curiosity more than anything else.

  He could have overpowered her at any time, of course—at least, he told himself he could—though the demonstration with the longbow had certainly prompted him to err on the side of caution. He had called for only a small effort on Centaur’s part to unseat her, and the fact she not only remained on the stallion’s back but seemed damned accustomed to being there had kept him playing the game if only to find out who she was, where she had come from, how she had come by the skill and nerve needed to sneak up on him and disarm him like a petty thief.

  Discovering her to be the sister of Robert Wardieu and the daughter of La Seyne Sur Mer had explained a great deal.

  Discovering there was more to see beneath the forest grime than just suspicions and surly accusations had caught him off guard a second time, and he had found himself gawping at her like a fool. Her skin was smooth, flawless, and when her mouth was not flattened in a scowl it was proportioned lushly enough to evoke unhealthy thoughts in a man who had not sampled such earthly pleasures in an overly long time. He had only gained an impression of breasts beneath the mannish leather jerkin, but he could see now they were large enough and shapely enough to push impudently against the confining layers of silk. A small waist and narrow hips recalled the long, slender legs that had enough strength in them to hold the temper of a warhorse.

  What could they do with a man between them?

  He shifted uncomfortably on his seat. He had eaten a quantity of good, rich food and consumed far more wine than he normally permitted himself. He had to move, get away from all this stifling family camaraderie before it clogged his throat. Talk at the table had turned to the upcoming haslitude, and he knew he was expected to contribute to the enthusiasm and excitement, but frankly, he was not going to Gaillard to play any more games. And talk was just that: talk. The proof came when two men stared at each other through the slats of their visors and waited for the marshal to signal the joust to begin.

  “The only things in life which can be truly counted upon,” Robin was saying, “are one’s faith in God, in the lady you wed, and obedience to the laws of knighthood. The only truly great pleasure is to measure your strength in honorable combat with one of equal rank and birth. And I dare swear,” he added, raising his cup for a toast, “there is no sunset as lovely as the sharp, cutting edge of a sword.”

  “Aye!”

  “Hear, hear!”

  A chorus of similar sentiments gave the men an excuse to drain and refill their cups. It also signaled the end of a relatively long dinner hour, and the Wolf pushed painfully to his feet, amiably passing his hosting duties on to his sons. But instead of sitting back down when the lord and his lady wife had gone, Griffyn stretched his arms wide and feigned a hearty yawn.

  Robin noticed. “You have had a tiring day.”

  “My legs are unaccustomed to forced marches.”

  “Ahh yes, you mentioned the need earlier for a hot bath and a pair of helping hands.”

  “I am not pressed. It can wait until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” Robin said, grinning, “I plan to see what stuff you are made of. You will need a run or two to warm your blood before Gaillard. And I am curious to know if you are as good as I remember.”

  Griffyn smiled. “I would be more than happy to ease your curiosity, my lord, but I would fear the repercussions if I was too successful.”

  Robin followed his gaze to where Brenna was watching them both over the rim of her wine goblet. “You will have to excuse my sister. She is suspicious of all men by nature and even more so of strangers.”

  “The reward on your head?”

  “Partly because of that.” He nodded. “Assassins and spies have been sprouting up throughout the countryside like mushrooms, many of them well paid just to survive a night in the village.”

  Griffyn looked around, noting again the not altogether casual placement of guards at either end of the dais. “And she thinks I might be one or the other?”

  Robin spread his hands in a gesture of complaisance. “My father carries a reward of nearly ten thousand marks on his head, dead or alive. My stepbrother Eduard and I are not so valuable dead, but there are warrants and charges of treason that would pay a great deal to someone canny enough to bring us before the King of England to stand trial.”

  Renaud kept his face carefully blank as he looked over at Brenna. “Has your opinion of me changed at all, my lady?”

  “Once an opinion is formed,” she said evenly, “it requires a good deal of persuasion to change it.”

  “Should I take that as a personal challenge?”

  She shrugged. “Take it however you wish, sirrah. We have all survived quite well without your friendship thus far; it would serve no purpose to grovel for it now.”

  “Your lack of faith wounds me, demoiselle.”

  “I have no doubt you will endure without it.”

  Sandwiched between them, Sparrow chortled through a mouthful of sugared figs. “If you think to win a war of words with a woman, you have indeed been in the wilds of Burgundy overlong.”

  “In this, we concur,” Griffyn murmured, and turned to Robin again. “If I give my oath not to kill anyone or spy through any keyholes, could one of your men show me where I might put my head down for the night?”

  Robin laughed and beckoned to his squire, the fourteen-year-old son of a neighboring lord who had been fostered into his care to train for knighthood. “Timkin here will take you first to the bath house and see that you are provided with everything you need to ease the sting of my sister’s tongue. We have an excellent herb woman— Margery—with knuckles like small hammers and unguents that can burn away the most persistent aches. I myself will probably call upon her services later tonight.”

  “Why?” Sparrow demanded. “You seem hardy enough aside from the glowing egg on your head. How did it come to be there anyway? You were unmarked when you left my care this morning.”

  Robin touched the scabbed gash on his forehead. “ ’Tis nothing. A small clumsiness.”

  “Hah! A tree, no doubt, caught you looking the other way?”

  “Something like that.” Robin’s cheek gave another small twitch. “At any rate—”

  “At any rate you could have found better things to do a sennight before a tourney than running out your legs and cracking trees with your head. For that, you will belong to me on the morrow. I do not like the way you have been waving the lance thither and yon at the quintain; you missed the mark three times this week!”

  “Out of forty passes!”

  “Do you think you will have an easier time at Gaillard? Every clanking booby with a sword to rattle will be thrumping the challenge shield to have at you! One miss there will put your arse over the palisade and your teeth through your tongue before you can clap a hand to your face and decry the forty good passes that went before!”

  Robin cursed under his breath and shrugged at Griffyn. “You see wh
at I must endure? Escape while you have the chance and enjoy your solitude. Timkin, certes, has never been known to talk an ear off.”

  Verdelay offered no protest. He took his leave and followed the boy out of the great hall, half expecting the dwarf and a dozen guards to accompany them. As they stepped into the crisp night air, he looked about him with a fresh eye toward the castle’s defenses. There were sentries armed with swords and crossbows positioned every twenty paces or so along the wall-walks, and a fire blazing in the bailey, bright enough to wash out any shadows in front of the only way in and out of the keep. There was no need to keep him under heavy escort. His every move would be watched and noted by a score of anonymous faces above.

  Ten thousand marks was a lot of money. He was surprised he had made it this far without having to kill someone.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Brenna watched the dark knight leave the great hall and she was more convinced than ever that his smile was too shallow, his pale eyes too full of secrets. She was glad, in a way, that Robin had let him know of her suspicions; he would know also that she would be keeping a close watch over him even if no one else did.

  She finished her meal and her wine and snatched a last morsel of meat off a platter before it was taken away. Robin and Sparrow were squabbling over the details of the training practice in the morning, Eleanor had given her husband Erek a moon-eyed signal that had him begging his leave of the other knights and following her up the stairs to their chamber. Richard and Dag were engrossed in conversation, likely to do with the rosy-cheeked serving wench who kept casting long, inviting looks in their direction. The evening was winding down and as soon as the tables were emptied, pallets would be made by the fire and the sound of contented snoring would echo up to the rafters.

  Brenna glanced again at the landing. The bath house was located in a cluster of outbuildings next to the kitchens and laundry. The baths themselves were huge metal tubs set into the floor, lined with wood and heated by fires fed from below. It was late enough that Renaud probably had the place to himself, was probably sinking into the hot, waist-deep water now and leaning back to savor the rolling clouds of oak-scented steam. It was the custom in some noble houses for the hostess to formally bathe an important guest, and she wondered absently what Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay would do if she appeared beside the tub, lye soap and scrub brush in hand.

  Smiling at the thought of scouring away some of that bold arrogance, she made her excuses and started back toward her tower rooms. She was more tired than she cared to admit, and the notion of sinking into a soft feather mattress was too appealing to exchange for the brief pleasure it would give her to plague the Burgundian. There was one small task she did have to do first, however, and that was to see if the castle bowyer had finished the new longbow he had promised to have ready for her tonight. The one she had used today had fine balance and tremendous power in the seasoned yew, but he had been laboring for two weeks over a weapon he vowed would outstrip any thus far.

  She exited the keep through the narrow stone pentice—the covered stairwell that gave access to the living quarters—and shielded her eyes against the bright glare of the bonfire blazing across the draw. She could see no lights beyond in the armoury, no hunched silhouette bending over the worktable. She would see no bow either if she ventured inside, but that did not surprise her. Old Perigord was as sly and secretive as a fox, and she would not catch the smallest glimpse of it until it was finished and ready to fit to her hand.

  Some of the kitchen workers were taking a few minutes of ease after their long workday, and as Brenna walked across the draw, she veered toward the shadows, not wanting to intrude. The keen eye of one of the hostlers spied the white blur of her wimple and insisted she join them in sharing a cup a mead. This was not the usual behavior of most castle residents to their lords or their families. It was more the rule for humblies and common workers to fall fearfully silent and lower their eyes whenever their betters passed among them. The Wolf was harsh with his discipline and expected nothing less than a full day of honest work from his retainers, but there were no children dressed in rags in his demesne, no hollow-eyed peasants missing ears or hands or tongues. He was a fair and generous overlord, as were his sons and daughters in turn; he knew every man and woman by their name and would not have refused to share a tup, regardless if it was thin and sour as vinegar.

  Brenna accepted the warmed mead and complimented the brewer on its sweetness. Someone took up a lute and another started to sing, and before long there were dancers circling the fire, spinning and flirting and giving thanks for the day past. The fire was hot and sent columns of flame and glowing cinders up into the night sky. Brenna watched it for a time, watched the dancers with their bare feet and loose tunics, then reached up with impatient fingers to remove her veil and wimple. She shook out the long braid of her hair and, on a further impulse, pried her poor pinched feet out of the silk slippers. Feeling considerably less constricted, she slipped away into the shadows and circled around behind the clustered row of outbuildings. Waving to one of the sentries, she climbed up to the wall-walk and leaned between two cold stone teeth of the battlements to look out over the sleeping countryside.

  Sometimes, on a very clear night when there was no moon and the stars were smeared like crushed fireflies across the heavens, a faint glow could be seen in the direction of Eduard’s castle at Blois, less than thirty miles to the north and east.

  There was no moon this night, but there were clouds scudding low and fast across the tops of the trees. She could taste the faint metallic dampness on the breeze, which meant there was rain heading their way, and, as if to confirm her prediction, a strong, moist gust snatched her wimple off the stone where she had rested it and sent it in a ghostly flight over the wall.

  “Oh dear,” she murmured. “A dreadful shame.”

  She would have sent her veil and slippers flying after it, but she could feel eyes on her and knew the sentries would be frowning, wondering what pagan madness was in her blood tonight. Sighing, she turned and let the wind ruffle her hair as she took a last overview of the keep, the bailey, the night sky above. She descended the steep stairs again and, with half an eye searching out the only lighted building in the yard, started walking back to the keep.

  The enormous, muscular bulk of Margery, the castle herb woman, cut across the shadows in front of her. She was carrying her basket of oils and unguents and was clearly not in an amiable frame of mind. Her craggy features were grooved into a scowl and her ample bosoms heaved with the effort it took to climb the shallow incline toward the bath house.

  Brenna’s footsteps veered of their own accord and she followed like a silent, silk-clad wraith in the woman’s wake. She heard voices inside the bath house and recognized Timkin’s even before he emerged, hiding a wide grin behind his hand. She crept closer and saw that the tubs were empty. She heard a gruff voice protesting and another, equally gruff but far more militant, voice insisting that she had not been roused out of a warm bed for naught.

  Brenna tiptoed right up to the open door. Griffyn Renaud was lying facedown on a wide table, naked but for a strip of towelling draped across his buttocks. Margery’s large, gnarled hands were slapping pungent-smelling oil on his shoulders and back, prodding him when he attempted to move, pushing his head down on the padding of thick furs when he tried to tell her her services were not necessary.

  Brenna folded her arms across her chest and leaned on the door jamb, enjoying the knight’s discomfort. He was big, but Margery was bigger, with arms like truncheons and a body shaped like a sturdy pavilion. She had been tending the aches and bruises of the Wardieu men longer than Brenna could remember and was proud of her work. No black-haired devil was about to order her away, not when she had received specific orders from Lord Robert!

  Brenna was no stranger to the magic of oils and massages. Nor was she particularly shy or modest when it came to viewing a man’s naked body. Many a time she had joined Robin and her brothers—even Will—a
fter a long day in the practice fields and helped them off with their armour, or listened to their boasting and bickering while they bathed. Many a time as well they had been laid out on the tables like oiled fish while she, under Margery’s eagle eyes, had pounded, pummelled, and rubbed the tightness out of their bruised muscles. And if Griffyn Renaud was anything like her brothers, the manipulations would relax him almost into a state of semi consciousness where questions were asked and answered without the faintest attempt at evasion.

  Something, a stray lock of hair lifted by the wind, caused the herb woman to glance at the door, but Brenna was quick to press her finger over her mouth and shake her head. Some other wicked impulse bade her move on silent feet across the floor and wave a dismissing hand in Margery’s direction. She ignored the scowl on the woman’s face and hitched her oversleeves to sit high on her shoulders. She twisted her hair into a loose tail at the nape of her neck and bound it with the folded length of her veil, then poured a dollop of oil in her hands and rubbed them together to warm it.

  Margery, meanwhile, had worked most of the muscles across his shoulders and upper arms, and his protestations had faded into muffled groans of appreciation. Pacing herself to Margery’s rhythm, Brenna nodded the older woman away and smoothly took over the massage. His face was turned to the wall, half buried in the furs, and the one eye she could just glimpse was closed, the lashes laying on his cheek like fallen wings.

  She need not have worried about warming the oil in her hands first; his flesh gave off enough heat to liquefy lard. Her hands slid across the broad slabs of muscle, working the oil across the ridge of his shoulders and into the crook of his neck. She used her thumbs to push against the knots and tightness she found there, then stroked, kneaded, and manipulated each knuckle of his spine to pull out the adjoining tension. He had a terrific number of scars, she noted absently. They rippled by beneath her fingers like raised seams on a sheet of silk. Some were new, some old. Some were deep and long, and she lightened her touch as she traced their course; others were shallow and faded, crisscrossing behind the ribs as if … as if he had been lashed at some time in his youth.