The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  “Skewer Gisbourne?” Alaric inquired mildly.

  “He vexes me.”

  “An adequate enough reason, by any measure,” the Wolf murmured. “Yet you do not seem happy with this solution, my old friend. Is there more?”

  “You know what I know,” Alaric replied, shrugging.

  Lord Randwulf’s slate-gray eyes did not waver. “Indeed. And you have had twelve extra hours to contemplate our course from every approach. The plight of a kingdom could have been decided in that time.”

  “You give me too much credit. A small duchy, perhaps.”

  “Then tell me what has you frowning.”

  Alaric took a deep breath. “We have the ring, we know who sent it. We have the message, we know who sent that as well. We do not know who has Henry or if he has revealed the whereabouts yet of the princess.”

  “He would never reveal it,” Robin insisted. “They could peel the flesh from his body strip by strip and he would not betray her.”

  “Pain is a formidable tool.”

  “So is love, and Lord Henry loves Eleanor. He would not betray her.”

  “Not intentionally, no. But the very fact he has remained in Nottingham all these years living off the land like a common peasant when he could have come here with his sister and lived a life of comfort and ease … it would give more than one man pause to ask the question why.”

  “If they discovered who he was,” Robin pointed out. “According to Marienne, he has become so adept at changing his appearance, there are times he comes right up beside her disguised as a beggar or a cripple and she feels enough pity to drop an alm in his cup. I grant you, Guy de Gisbourne might know him if they stood shoulder to shoulder together in a room and Henry was stripped of all subterfuge, but otherelse, he would have no reason to doubt the assassin he sent here ten years ago was anything but successful. Thanks to Dafydd ap Iowerth suffering to take an arrow in his shoulder, both the king and Gisbourne believe Henry de Clare is dead. If this was not the case, if the ruse was discovered, we would have been apprised long before now.”

  “Which leaves us with FitzWalter and his barons, or the Earl of Pembroke,” the Wolf mused.

  Alaric pursed his lips. “If FitzWalter had Lord Henry, either as a guest or a prisoner, he would not be able to keep it secret for long.”

  “And the earl?”

  “If it is William Marshal’s doing, he is putting you in a more unconscionable position than I would have thought him capable, regardless of his own vows and oaths.”

  “Explain.”

  “You have pledged your sword to Philip of France. If you—or any of your sons—are seen now to rush to the aid of a claimant to the English throne, you risk not only a charge of treason, but the loss of your lands, your titles, your wealth … even your life.”

  “I have risked all before.”

  “I know you have. And so does he. That is why I do not think he would deliberately press you again. Moreover, there is Marienne. She may be base-born, but she is his daughter and I do not believe he would cast her to the devil, regardless of his vows.”

  Sparrow splayed his fingers in a gesture of disgust. “You argue against yourself! Not this one but that one, not that one but this one. My head aches with all this hither thither. Which one is it?”

  Alaric did not answer the mercurial seneschal at once, but turned and walked to the fireplace. He stood bathed in the yellow glare for a full minute before sharing his thoughts aloud. “If it is not the earl, then he will be as concerned as we are, for his part in concealing her all these years would be sure to come out if she was taken. At the same time, his web of spies is nearly as broad and sticky as the king’s; if he does not have Henry, he might well know who does. When is Dafydd due back in Normandy?”

  “He was just here, not a sennight ago,” Robin said. “He will not return for another three weeks, at least.”

  “If the earl knows something, he will send someone we trust; he will send the information back with Dafydd ap Iowerth.”

  Robin looked aghast at his father. “Surely you are not going to suggest we wait three more weeks!”

  “I doubt you will have to wait three more days,” Alaric said, turning his head. “The Marshal knows you will be attending the tournament at Gaillard. If he has information, he will arrange to pass it to you there.”

  “You think”—Robin nearly choked at the idea—“I would attend a tournament when there are lives in danger?”

  “I think you have no choice,” Will said quietly. “Half of Christendom will be attending, including half the spies in the employ of both the French and English kings. The other half will be doing what they normally do, watching the ports and noting who crosses from one side of the Channel to the other, watching certain lords and nobles to see where they go, who they meet, which way their loyalties might call them if and when Philip decides to invade England in force.”

  Alaric applauded his son’s insight. “Should the vaunted champion from Amboise not show up at Gaillard to defend his title, should the Wardieu brothers not participate in a melee that has been the talk of two provinces for several months, and should the lot of them be seen boarding a ship bound for England … ?”

  “We would have more leeches on our heels than leaves on a tree,” Sparrow predicted glumly.

  “There is, ah, one other small thing,” Will ventured hesitantly. “Assuming we still attend the tourney, I do not think Robin should participate in anything other than the melee.”

  “Not participate?” Robin whirled around. “What further madness is this?”

  “Normally, it would not warrant caution, for few are foolish enough to offer up a challenge anyway, but … if there is the smallest possibility of injury, I think it must be avoided at all costs.”

  “I have never declined a challenge yet out of fear of injury and am not about to do so now,” Robin declared. “Furthermore, in my present mood, I would gladly take all comers and turn them into kindling!”

  “What if that same mood blinds you and you make an inadvertent slip? What if there is someone present at Gaillard who could match you through twenty-three courses and be determined to oust you on the twenty-fourth?”

  “Griffyn Renaud.” Dag whistled softly under his breath. “With the timing of the devil himself.”

  “Did you not just argue that I must attend the tourney to waylay suspicions?” Robin reminded them all icily. “Now you want me to play the coward?”

  “You can claim a legitimate injury,” Will said softly. “You can claim the broken ribs and let a surgeon examine you beforehand if there is any question of courage.”

  “Ribs?” Sparrow’s ears perked. “What broken ribs?”

  “Yesterday in the forest,” Will explained over Robin’s curses. “When the boar cornered him—”

  Sparrow was by Robin’s side before Will finished speaking, unfastening belts and lifting tunic hems before he could be stopped. The ribs were bound in strips of cloth but they fell by the wayside and when the entire midsection was exposed in all its black-and-blue splendor, the little man gave out a cry and clutched a fist to his heart.

  “When were you planning to own to this?” he demanded. “When the bone pierced through the skin?”

  “The ribs are not broken,” Robin argued. “Merely bruised. I scarcely feel it now and, in a sennight, will likely not even remember the mark is there.”

  Sparrow glared and, without warning, jabbed a finger into the bluest part of the bruise. Robin yelped and doubled over with the pain, the color draining from his face for the few seconds it took to recover and shove Sparrow’s hands away.

  “A single blow from a lance, aimed true,” said Will, “would not only finish the job the boar began, but end all possibility of your being any use to the princess and Marienne.”

  “Perhaps we could appeal to Renaud,” Dag suggested. “He seems a likable enough fellow.”

  “When you are dicing over whores, perhaps,” Will agreed. “But he has not come a
ll the way from Burgundy to simply sit in the bowers and watch the spectacle. And even if we could get him to agree, there is the other, the rumor we have heard that the Prince of Darkness has been invited to attend as Prince Louis’s champion.”

  “Perhaps the two will challenge each other and solve the problem for us,” Richard mused, still prickly over the business with Tansy.

  “We cannot count on anyone outside of this room solving any of our problems,” the Wolf stated flatly. “I agree with Will, Robin. You will have to restrict yourself to the melee, where there will be others there to watch your back.”

  Robin curled his long fingers around the back of a solid oak chair and squeezed until the knuckles turned white. When he looked from one tense face to the next and saw agreement etched reluctantly on all of them, he cursed and swung the chair so hard, it hit the wall and split in two. Not satisfied, he picked the backless seat up by the legs and smashed it once, twice, thrice against the stone wall until he held only two splintered sticks and a portion of board in his fists.

  “Indeed,” Sparrow muttered. “Such antics should help heal the ribs.”

  Panting, red with impotent fury, Robin raked his hands through his hair and paced back and forth before the fire.

  “As to the matter of time,” the Wolf said, watching his son with one wary eye while prompting Alaric to continue with the other.

  “Even assuming the worst has happened,” said FitzAthelstan, “that Henry is dead and the princess’s whereabouts have been discovered, I believe we still have a safe margin. Marienne knows full well what to do; she has been instructed a thousand times over. She will keep the princess safe by claiming their right, under Canon Law, to sanctuary on holy ground. Any man or woman, be they guilty of the most heinous crimes, is entitled to seek refuge under the roof of the church, where their safety is guaranteed for forty days and forty nights. Not even the king would dare violate the laws of sanctuary, not unless he wanted to see England plunged into another six-year interdict, and not unless he wanted to lose all semblance of Rome’s support.”

  “The message is three weeks old,” Robin reiterated through the grating of his teeth.

  “Twenty-one days,” Will agreed, “assuming they were forced to claim sanctuary the instant the ring was sent. And if that was the case, we surely would have heard by now, for all of England would have been abuzz with the news and Louis himself would have cancelled the tourney at Gaillard so he could prepare his army to invade at once.”

  “Gaillard,” the Wolf said flatly. “The tournament is but three days long?”

  “We will need at least that much time to make arrangements for safe—and discreet—passage across the Channel.”

  The towering Jean de Brevant, a silent, glowering figure until now, looked over and nodded. “My cousin smuggles wine out of Fecamp; I am sure I could convince him to smuggle a small group of worthies coming home from a long pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I will only need to know how many cowls to procure.”

  One after the other, without hesitation, Robin, Richard, Dag, Sparrow, and Will drew their daggers and stuck them, point down, in the top of the wooden table. Only Will’s hand lingered on the hilt while he looked askance at Lord Randwulf.

  “With your permission, of course, my lord.”

  “You have it gladly. I have no doubt they will need the guidance of at least one level head.”

  A last dagger, longer and sharper than the rest, sank into the wood a full inch deeper than the others. As captain of the castle guard, Jean de Brevant’s presence at Château d’Amboise was not to be lightly dismissed. As a seven-foot pillar of muscle and belligerence, however, his sword at Robin’s back would be indispensable.

  Moreover, “I was born in Nottinghamshire,” he growled. “I know the forests and villages well.”

  Lord Randwulf nodded again. “I warrant I can hold the castle walls for a fortnight while you are gone.”

  A seventh dagger pierced the top of the table, thrown the same instant the arched oaken door swung wide.

  Sparrow’s hands moved in an instinctive blur, as did Littlejohn’s and Robin’s. In less time than it took for the shock to register on everyone’s face, Brenna was surrounded by the glitter of unsheathed knives and swords.

  “You will need more than just a level head and a strong sword arm to guide you,” she said calmly, stepping into the full light. “You will need someone with a knowledge of forest paths who can move with skill and stealth and shoot the eye out of a running squirrel at a hundred paces.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Growling a curse, Littlejohn pushed swiftly past her to check the shadows outside in the corridor lest there were a dozen more eyes and ears pinned to the keyhole.

  “Christ Jesus, Bren,” Will said under his breath. “I warned you one day you would be caught listening to something you should not hear.”

  “Why should I not hear it?” she demanded. “Why should I not know when my family is facing grave danger? Am I so flighty and untrustworthy? Do you think me so inept or such a useless weakling I would not be able to help?”

  “No one thinks you either weak or inept,” her father said, barely recovered from the shock of her unexpected appearance. “Nor was it a matter of trust. It was for your own safety these things were kept from you.”

  “They were not kept well,” she said, looking pointedly at the dragon ring. “Mistress Biddy told me all the tales of how the Black Wolf ventured to England to fight his bastard brother and rescue his intended bride from the Dragon’s lair. She told me how he defied a king and fought a mighty tournament to bring the regent of England to his knees, earning his wrath and enmity forever. She also told me how he saved the son he never knew he had, and how he brought that son home to Amboise and trained him to be a great knight.”

  “Old Blister,” Sparrow grumbled in disgust. “Never was she happy keeping one lip fastened to the other.”

  Brenna looked accusingly in his direction. “She never said a word against you that was not coated with love and admiration. It was you, she said, who risked all to rescue my father and Eduard from the Dragon’s donjons, and you who returned to England years later and took an arrow in the heart to delay the king’s troops long enough for Eduard to deliver the princess from Gisbourne’s clutches at Corfe Castle.”

  “Well, in that she only spoke the truth, of course, but—”

  “But she had no right speaking of it at all.” The Wolfs slate-gray eyes bored into Sparrow like two glowing coals, deflating the woodsprite’s conceit before it had the chance to puff his chest completely.

  “But she did,” Brenna said quietly. “She told me most everything, even the part Lady Gillian played in it all.”

  “Dear God …” Lady Servanne whispered, standing slowly, her hands clutched over her heart. “NO, you cannot be suggesting … ?”

  “That I be allowed to go with Robin and the others? That is exactly what I am suggesting.”

  Her mother came forward out of the shadows. “Brenna … you do not know what you are saying. This is not another escapade in the forest, not just a game of chance.”

  “It is not a game at all, Mother. I know this.”

  “You know. You know! What do you know? Yes, you can creep through the forest and shoot the eye out of a running squirrel at a hundred paces, but you will not be hunting squirrels in Nottingham! You will be hunting—and hunted by—the king’s men, shooting at them if it is necessary, killing them if it is necessary.” She paused and tears began to silver her eyes. “I loved Gil too. I loved her as dearly as a sister, and yes, I admired her courage, her boldness, her ability to meet danger in the face and spit in its eye. But I never wanted that for you. Never. Yet I have had to watch in utter terror as you grew into the very image of that same courage and boldness, and I have not known how to stop it. I have tried. God help me, I have tried. Tried and failed.”

  Brenna hastened to her mother’s side and clasped her trembling hands. “You have not failed, Mother. Never t
hink that. And never think that all of my boldness and courage has come from Lady Gillian alone. Biddy told me how you stood up to the Dragon Wardieu. She told me how you entered his lair and defied him despite the fact you knew he would kill you for it.”

  Servanne’s eyes filled helplessly and she looked at her husband. “I… had no choice.”

  “Because to stand by and do nothing would have been worse than death. Mother… you would not let me go with Robin and the others in the spring because you said I was too young and it was too dangerous and I was needed here. Well, I am not too young to make my own choices anymore. There is danger everywhere. And I am needed, yes, but not here. I know you are thinking of Lady Gillian, and I know you loved her as desperately as you love me … but could you have imagined her happy sitting at home in front of a warm hearth while the family she loved above all else was fighting for her honor and safety?”

  Still clutching her mother’s ice-cold hands, she turned to Lord Alaric “Forgive me my bluntness, Friar, but could you have imagined her happier dying any other way? She rode by your side for twenty years; would you have thought to deny her the right to accompany you? Nay, if you were to look back on those twenty years, could you imagine what it might have been like were she not by your side?”

  Alaric pursed his lips and looked down at his own hands, which were not as steady as he might have liked them to be.

  “I know what it is like without her now,” he said quietly. “But no, I could not have denied her.”

  “Father?” Her courage faltered slightly but she met the smoldering gray eyes directly. “If I were a son, not a daughter, would you even hesitate to let me go? Did you ever once hesitate to call upon Lady Gillian’s bow arm when it was needed?”