The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  He lowered his gaze and stared at the dragon ring for a long moment, turning it over and over in his fingers so that the gold glittered and the ruby flashed.

  “No,” he admitted softly. “I never doubted her skill nor thought twice to have her fighting under the black and gold. Perhaps if I did, however, she would be with us still.”

  “Or perhaps, if you had let me go with her, I might have stopped that last arrow before it struck.”

  The silence, heavy as water, stretched almost a full minute more before the Wolf raised his leonine head and sought his wife’s shimmering blue eyes. Servanne simply stared back, too terrified to move or even breathe until he looked away again and turned to Robin.

  “She would be your responsibility. Would you want to accept it?”

  The heir to Amboise pursed his lips thoughtfully. “When I was but thirteen and freshly squired to Eduard, I have no doubt you asked him the same question, this despite the odds of our returning from England were slim at best.”

  “The circumstances were hardly comparable.”

  “Indeed they were not, for we traveled on open roads and trusted Eduard’s sword arm to see us through any chance encounters with the king’s men. I barely had the strength in my arms to lift a sword, let alone wield it with any accuracy, and the only sure target I could hit with an arrow was a tree ten paces away and twenty paces wide.” He paused and met Brenna’s gaze over his father’s head. “When we travel to Nottingham, we will have to keep to the forests and let no one be the wiser for our passing. Will is fully capable of guiding us, but a man with two keen eyes surely sees better than a man with only one. As for her ability to handle herself at close quarters with sword or knife, look to the scar on Richard’s chin and ask him the truth of how he came by it.”

  Richard frowned and raised his hand self-consciously to stroke his beard. “A minor skirmish in the practice yards. Hardly worth mentioning then or now.”

  Dag grinned and fisted his brother on the shoulder. “You squealed like a pig and bled like a leaky gourd. Moreover, if anyone would care to ask my opinion, I would give a hearty aye! to Bren coming with us. I, for one, have no love of forests or itchy-fingered outlaws and the sooner we are led in and led out again, the happier I will be.”

  Sparrow harrumphed noisily and flared his nostrils wide enough to take in all the air in the room. “Does no one give a cod’s tooth about my opinion?”

  “No,” Littlejohn retorted dryly. “But we know you will offer it anyway.”

  The little man planted his hands on his hips and glared at the captain of the guard. “Fine. Then you will not get it. Not if you scorched my tongue and roasted my feet over hot coals!”

  Lord Randwulf sighed. “Sparrow … save us the trouble of stoking the fires. I gather you are not in favor of Brenna going?”

  The seneschal set his mouth in a twist that clearly questioned the sanity of such a thing even being debated. “I was not in favor of her going to Gaillard. Why should it tickle me now to think of her venturing into the viper’s nest in the company of addle-wits and love-sick buffoons?”

  Lord Randwulf's eyes narrowed. “Because she will have you watching over her, and I can think of no better guardian offhand … can you?”

  Sparrow opened his mouth, then clamped it shut again. If Brenna had a thought to smile or give a whoop of excitement, the notion was stifled on one glance from the slitted agate eyes. His cheeks were flushed red with his opinion that everyone in the room had finally gone completely and absolutely mad, but he stood with his arms crossed over his barrel chest to warn and threaten her that this selfsame madness was not contagious. Further, that it would not only be his duty, but his pleasure, to watch her like a hawk and breathe down her neck like a foul gust of wind if she took one foot off the beaten path.

  Lord Randwulf fared little better, although the eyes staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and horror were a bright cornflower blue.

  “If that is everything,” he said, the strain telling on his face, “I suggest we meet again in the morning, hopefully with clearer heads and cooler thoughts. Alaric … I beg you stay the night. You will be no help to any of us if your horse trips over a root and flattens you in the dark. Ariel will think of something to tell Eduard if he notices your absence.”

  FitzAthelstan nodded.

  “Robin, Dag, Richard … Brenna—” His gaze touched each of them in turn. “I do not envy you the task you have before you, but by God’s grace, your eagerness to do it fills me with pride. If I were but a younger man …” He stopped and lowered his head a moment, then, with an effort, took up the stout walking stick and held his arm out to his wife. “Come. Help this old fool to his feet. Judging by the look in your eye, you have more to say to me; best it be said in the privacy of our own chamber.”

  Lady Servanne walked with him to the door. Outside in the corridor, she was the one whose steps faltered, and she had to sag against her husband’s strong arm for support until they were safely out of earshot.

  “How could I have refused her?” he asked gently.

  “You could have said no.”

  “It was Robin’s decision. What is more, I do not think she would have obeyed either one of us had we refused her. And she was right: there is too much of her mother inside her—and you were never one to obey an order you disliked.”

  “Do not even think,” she scolded, her throat swollen with unshed tears, “to credit me for the smallest part of her mulishness. Eleanor and Isobel were my daughters; Brenna was always yours.”

  “In that case—” He tucked a finger under her chin and kissed her tenderly, passionately on the lips. “You need not worry overmuch. She will come back to you, as I always did. And we can only pity whoever tries to stand in her way.”

  PART TWO

  Château Gaillard

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Château Gaillard had been the crowning achievement of King Richard’s reign. Built by the supreme warrior of his time, with a master’s knowledge of siege-craft and the fortifications required to repel them, it represented the efforts of the Angevin kings of England to conquer the Vexin—the territories between Rouen and Paris—and the determination of the House of Capet, ruled by Philip of France, to oust the Angevins from Normandy. Richard had situated Gaillard to command the crossing of the River Seine at Les Andelys, and command the river it did, dominating the skyline for ten miles in all directions. He had set out to construct a castle as invincible as he believed himself to be, and for the last eighteen months of his life, his boast—that he could hold his “saucy child” even if its walls had been made of butter—held true. But in April of 1199, the invincible Lionheart died of an arrow wound in his shoulder, a chance shot fired by an insolent bowman from the parapets of Chalus. And nearly five years to the day and month later, besieged and beleaguered under John’s disastrous military leadership, Gaillard was surrendered to the French, her mighty walls breached by an inventive troop of men who entered through the drains of the latrines.

  It was, nonetheless, an impressive fortification. Positioned atop the summit of a precipitous hill three hundred feet above the River Seine, the defenses consisted of three huge and distinct baileys enclosed by sheer, buttressed walls ten feet thick with circular towers situated every forty feet around the circumference. The first defense, the outer ward, was shaped like a wedge to take advantage of every last foot of the crag. The walls were high and sheer, with rounded towers and stone machicolations—extensions of the upper battlements with traps in the floor for dropping missiles, boiling oil, or buckets of red-hot sand. Surrounded completely by a deep, dry moat, this outer bailey afforded the only access into the castle from a steep and narrow approach that led up from the village of Les Andelys. The portcullis was the largest and heaviest constructed to that date, yet could be lowered within a few seconds of knocking away the chock-blocks to release the winch. A second draw joined the outer to the middle bailey and was just as heavily fortified by enormous barbican gatehou
ses, which, if under attack, could drop another massive portcullis gate and trap the attackers on the bridge, there to be shot from above like chickens in a pen.

  The inner curtain wall rose up from a ledge of rock forty feet below the level of the middle bailey and had no proper guard towers. None were needed. The wall itself was twenty feet thick at its widest point and could be attacked or even partially destroyed without serious consequences to the rest of the structure. Inside this inner wall was the sixty-foot-high elliptical keep, its upper stories strengthened with tapering spurs and its foundation battered—sloped outward—for greater strength. Gray and lichen-covered, the keep stood with its back to the edge of the cliffs, with nary a window or door located below the second story. Entry was gained by a wooden staircase, which could easily be raised or destroyed to prevent access. Built purely for observation and as a last defense, there were no wall chambers or living quarters. Family apartments, great hall, and other domestic structures were located in buildings constructed in the courtyard and in sturdy stone outbuildings built along the inner walls.

  Blame for the loss of Château Gaillard and the loss of nearly every other English possession in Normandy lay squarely upon King John’s weak and spineless shoulders. Now, more than eleven years after he had taken the crown and set it upon his own head, the chateau was a magnificent and impregnable testament to King Philip’s ever-strengthening control over Normandy, Brittany, and the Aquitaine. Despite several abysmal and failed attempts by John Plantagenet to regain possession of the Angevin legacy, Philip’s armies were firmly entrenched, and the dukes, counts, and barons were pleased to pledge him homage in exchange for retaining their lands and titles. Even in the formerly intensely loyal regions of Touraine, Poitou, and Anjou, the nobles could no longer see the benefit of supporting a king who had abandoned them time and time again. John’s numerous betrayals, his many tail-tucking retreats across the Channel, and his propensity for hiring black-souled mercenaries to keep his barons in line lost him old loyalties every day.

  It was said by some that the ghost of Richard the Lion-heart haunted the battlements of Château Gaillard at night. Some swore they heard the long, gut-wrenching laments, the curses sent out across the land, across the moonlit sea to where his fatuous, treacherous brother ruled with such arrogant disregard for the loss of the Angevin heritage.

  And on nights when the moon was too terrified to appear, when the stone ramparts were as cold and black as a tomb, Richard’s form, clad in full mail armour, could be seen stalking the roof of the citadel, the legendary sword Excalibur clutched in his hand promising vengeance on all those who had forsaken his kingdom.

  Lady Brenna Wardieu smoothed a hand along her stallion’s neck, wondering what had spooked him. She had seen similarly nervous prancing steps from her brothers’ horses up ahead and credited it to the enormous shadows thrown by the walls of Château Gaillard. The road they were on as they made their approach to the gates wound its way up the sheer slope like a snake. It had been designed deliberately without any continuously straight lengths to deter the use of any heavy siege machines that might otherwise be rolled into place to breach the fortifications. The road itself was narrow, the banks steep, and as they climbed, they could look down upon broken carts and the occasional dead rouncie who had lost its footing and slid over the edge.

  With her gloved hands tight on the reins, Brenna sat back and gave her head a small toss to clear away the stray locks of hair that had blown forward across her face. She wore no headpiece or wimple, no feminine frills of any kind, preferring her doeskin leggings and a soft woolen shirt beneath a quilted surcoat of fine black velvet. Her brothers had barely batted an eye at her appearance this morning, but she knew if her mother or sisters had accompanied them and if the occasion had been normal, with no underlying currents of tension or urgency, they would have wrung their hands in despair. But there was nothing normal about this venture. Robin was sullen and close-mouthed. Richard and Dag had gone the entire two days since their departure from Amboise without once pulling Sparrow’s nose or testing the aim of his arblaster. Littlejohn was still with them, but it was his intention to see them secured in their encampment, then wait for cover of darkness to ride on ahead to Le Havre and arrange their passage across the Channel.

  There was one other late addition to their group. Geoffrey LaFer had quietly offered his services to Lord Randwulf, as had his brother Erek, both hoping to repay in some small part the willingness with which the Wardieus had welcomed them into their family. Since Geoffrey had been slated to participate in the mêlée anyway, his sword was gratefully accepted. Erek, younger by some two years and nursing a gouged leg he had earned at Roche-au-Moine, was given instead the temporary duty of filling in for Littlejohn as captain of the guard at Amboise. It was no small responsibility and he was flattered by the honor, though his face had been long and solemn as he watched the others ride away from the chateau.

  Brenna was both tense and excited. It was odd how she had so looked forward to attending the tournament, but now that they were here, it had become something merely to endure before the real adventure could begin. It would be her first time on a ship, her first time in the damp, mysterious reaches of England. She had heard enough stories to know it was a rainy, forlorn place where the people were short and dark and barbaric in their customs—those in the far north of Scotland still dressed in furs and walked about half naked. Food was cooked without spices or sauces and was usually rancid for lack of proper preserving. The wine was pitifully thin and closer to vinegar than water; the ale was black and tasteless. She would have to eat and drink her fill at Gaillard, for the taste of richly seasoned meats and fine, sweet pastries would have to linger for several weeks until they were home again.

  They cleared the drawbridge and were coming under the shadow of the enormous sixty-foot curtain wall, exchanging the glare of bright sunlight for the more oppressing gloom of the tunnelled entrance to Château Gaillard. The black iron spikes of the outer portcullis were thick as a man’s wrist and vibrated ominously at their passage. The sharpened teeth hovered no more than a hand’s width above the tallest head and could, if released in the urgency of an attack, be driven a foot or more into the ground on impact. The stone walls were mussed where the broken light from the grating high above never warmed the earth below. Countless slides of mud and thousands of footsteps had packed the ground as hard as rock, causing the horses’ hooves to clatter like an old woman’s teeth. Long defensive slits—meurtrieres—cut in the walls of the gateway barbican had eyes behind them, watchers who marked every rider and could, at a moment’s notice, drop both gates and trap unwanted trespassers in between.

  In keeping with polite custom, the main party from Amboise would pay their respects to their host upon their arrival. The bulk of their escort, comprised of four-score knights, servants, and attendants, had broken away at the base of the slope and, by nightfall, would have constructed a sturdy encampment of tents and pavilions on the meadows below. It was Robin’s habit, as it had been his father’s and Eduard’s, rarely to accept the hospitality of lodgings inside the castle itself. It was not that he did not trust the king’s custodian, Bertrand Malagane; it was simply a matter of his preferring to have all four flanks guarded by his own men. Castles were riddled with secret passageways and dark, deep donjons where a man could scream himself hoarse and never be heard. Nor was the Amboise camp the only one flowering on the common fields below the castle. Because of the sheer number of participants in the tournament, there were tents, pavilions, even pens and makeshift canvas stables for the horses being erected in every available open space. At dusk, when the cooking fires were lit, the slopes would come alive with twinkling lights and the bellies of the low-lying clouds would glow red with their reflection.

  Most of the events for the tourney would be held in the flat meadow at the base of the slope. Men had been hard at work for the past several days building bowers and erecting palisades for the jousting arenas, and there was a c
onstant stream of carpenters and labourers moving to and from the castle to the common.

  They rode through the outer bailey with the smell of coal fires and raw bog iron stinging their nostrils. A vast temporary armoury had been set up around the base of the walls where smithies stoked their fires and hammered sheets of red-hot iron while armourers toiled over swords, pikes, lances, and chain mail. Few looked up from their work, for they were paid by the piece and, if dexterous enough, could earn sufficient coin to see their families through the harsh winter months ahead.

  Across the second moat and drawbridge was the middle bailey, crowded near to bursting with booths and stalls where every conceivable necessity or fancy was on display for sale. The huge common had been turned into a marketplace with vendors and peddlers hawking everything from ribbons and baubles to boiled eels threaded through the gills and sold by the stickful. Tinkers’ wares were hung on hooks and piled on tables. The din was overwhelming as every price was scoffed at and haggled over, every knight, lord, and lady vied for the sweetest pastries, the stoutest mug of ale, the brightest bit of tinsel. At one end were the low buildings that housed the barracks where the soldiers and men-at-arms were garrisoned. At the other were the pens where fat cows and sheep waited to be slaughtered and roasted for the coming feasts, where peacocks strutted in the supposed impunity of their green-and-blue finery before they, like the flocks of hapless chickens and geese, were caught and carried squawking to the kitchens inside.

  The sights, the sounds, the colors, the enthusiasm were contagious, and Brenna found herself smiling despite the grim looks on her brothers’ faces. She dearly loved her life at Amboise, but there were times when she missed the bustle and confusion of big cities and towns. She even missed—though she would carve her own tongue out of her head before she would admit it to anyone else—the openly admiring glances from swarthy-faced knights and handsome chevaliers, earls and counts, even a prince or two, identifiable by the crests emblazoned on their tunics and pennons. Gathered here were the elite of Norman knighthood. They were all fighting men come to show off their skills and prowess, all come to train and practice for war in the closest thing to actual mortal combat they could devise. Their swords would be blunted and their lances fitted with coronals—crown-shaped caps with three curved points to deflect the force of a blow. But this was not to say the lists were safe or that deaths were uncommon. Far from it. Tournaments were often used to settle personal grievances between rivals. A match could be declared à outrance if both opponents agreed to unblunted weapons. Even à plaisance, a lance could splinter and skewer a man, or a blow from a dulled sword could hack with enough force to find a vulnerable weakness in armour.