The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  Brenna clawed and scratched and kicked out with the heels of her boots, but the Fleming only laughed. She tried to reach her dagger but the second man had already snatched it out of her belt along with her money purse. There was a brief scuffle while the injured freebooter rushed forward to try to take the purse from his comrade, but Brenna could not use the distraction to her advantage. She was too busy trying to breathe. Her throat was being crushed and her arm nearly ripped out of the socket. She could neither scream nor loosen the Fleming’s grip even though her nails gouged his flesh and tore bloody strips into his hands and forearms.

  “Aye.” He grunted. “Fight as much as you like, lass. I like my cats to bite and scratch so long as they know they will receive like treatment in return.”

  His breath was hot and fetid where it rasped against her cheek, and his tongue left her chin coated with slime where he dragged it over her skin, trying to steal a kiss. Her lungs were burning and her vision was clouding over with huge black splotches. She was numbly aware of someone taking hold of her ankles and prying them apart as they carried her into the deeper shadows.

  Something bright and silvery flashed in front of her dimming eyes and she heard the Fleming scream in her ear. The pressure around her neck relented enough for her to gasp at a breath but before she could fully fill her lungs, she was flung forward onto a heap of old rags and rotted food scraps.

  Choking, sobbing for air, she scrambled onto her knees and turned in time to see the looming silhouette of a man step into the circle of sunlight. His sword flashed again and one of the villains reeled sideways, his hands clutched over his belly to catch his entrails before they spilled out onto the ground. The second man was stopped by a hammer-like fist that shattered his nose and sent splinters of bone back into his brain.

  The Fleming, seeing his friends fall, snarled and lunged. He managed to get a hand around a fistful of Griffyn Renaud’s surcoat before it was hacked free, whereupon blood gouted in a hot stream from the severed wrist and the thief screamed again. The sound was cut brutally short, finishing with a bloody gurgle as he crashed onto the ground, his neck split open from ear to ear.

  The entire encounter had taken less than a minute, not even long enough for Brenna to catch her breath and restore her senses. Griffyn cast around until he found her sword, dagger, and money purse, then scooped her up into his arms and carried her away from the scene of carnage. With tears of pain streaming down her cheeks, she buried her face in the crook of his throat and held fast to his broad shoulders until he found a place free of two-and four-legged vermin and set her down on an overturned crate. Even then she was reluctant to let go. He let her cling to him a little longer before carefully easing her arms down from around his neck.

  He looked into her eyes, at the colors and patterns that formed a nimbus around the dark centers, the vibrant blue shot through with deeper violet arrowheads. He brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek and because he could think of nothing else to do to stop her lips from trembling, he kissed them.

  The caress was ravishingly gentle and she made no move to avoid it. It was such a shocking contrast to the explosive violence she had just witnessed, she very nearly encouraged it to continue long past what might have been explained away as a brief lapse of judgment. But she recovered and pulled away. And he sat back on his heels, seeming to need a moment himself to remember where they were.

  “I thought you said you knew how to take care of yourself,” he chided, not unkindly.

  “I do. They just… caught me by surprise.”

  “Offal like that are not usually known for issuing polite challenges beforehand.”

  She looked up at him, regarding him solemnly through huge, swimming eyes. “You might have been killed.”

  “I am not that easy to kill,” he assured her, and because his hands were aching to draw her back against his body, he removed the temptation by standing and fetching a dipper of water from a nearby bucket. He held it to her lips and bade her drink a few sips, then took up a scrap of linen and gently bathed the red marks glowering down the length of her throat.

  “My sword?”

  “I have it.”

  “My money?”

  “Right here.”

  She bowed her head and sighed, and Griffyn gave her a few more minutes. He need a few himself, for he could not have said what made him follow her. He had seen her turn and dart away into the crowd and his first instinct had been to let her go; he did not need to pursue trouble when it so obviously wanted to avoid him. But he was also all too familiar with the types of men who moved among the shadows and waited for those who wandered too far from the crowds. So he had cursed aside his own better judgment and tracked her, and for wont of not listening to those damned warning bells that were clanging in his head like broken armour, there were three dead men in the lee of the wall and here he was, a breath away from kissing her again and opening himself up to all manner of unwanted complications.

  “I suppose you expect me to thank you,” she said in a whispery voice.

  “A simple pledge of undying gratitude—along with the soul of your firstborn child—should do nicely.”

  She looked up and scowled at the magnificence of his grin.

  “Thank you,” she muttered.

  “I am ever your humble servant, my lady,” he responded, bowing.

  She stood up—not entirely unassisted—and resheathed her sword and dagger, and tied her money purse to her belt, tucking it back beneath the leather. She gave her throat a final, tender massage to insure it was working properly, then squared her shoulders and smoothed back the flown wisps of her hair.

  “Sparrow and Littlejohn are undoubtedly laying waste to the bailey by now. They have already lectured me once for straying out of their sight.”

  “They are wise men, you should heed their advice. This is not the place to wander off alone. But perhaps … if you return in my company, they will not take as much exception to your sudden disappearance.”

  “I rather think they would take more.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself, but it would seem a better strategy to be able to chide them for losing sight of you instead of them discovering you emerging alone from an alley frequented by whores and sodomites.”

  Brenna flinched forward as if the crate she had been sitting on was crawling with contagion.

  “This way, I believe,” he said casually, indicating a narrow alley with his hand.

  She went ahead, for the gap was not wide enough for two to walk abreast. She could feel the mocking heat of his elf-shot eyes between her shoulder blades and she was suddenly self-conscious about the tightness of her leggings and the shortness of her tunic. The taste of his mouth was still warm on hers and the memory of how it chanced to be so caused her to stop and turn without warning.

  “Despite what has just happened, sirrah, I have absolutely no wish to renew our acquaintance. I find your character unappealing, your manner unnerving, and … and your profession unworthy. What happened at Amboise …” She stopped and started again. “What happened at Amboise was an unconscionable lapse on my part—”

  “On which occasion?” he interrupted politely. “When I was naked in the bath house or you were very nearly so on the common?”

  The breath rushed out of her lungs around an exasperated oath. “There! You see? I cannot even attempt a civil conversation without you reminding me when you were naked and I was naked and—”

  “Almost naked.”

  “What?”

  “You were almost naked,” he murmured, lifting a finger to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. “To my profound regret, I might add.”

  She swatted his hand aside. “If you had a shred of decency in you, you would not ever speak of either occurrence again!”

  “And? If I can boast of no such shreds? If I can boast only of extremely pleasurable memories and lingering thoughts of what might have happened had we not been interrupted?”

  “Nothing,” she gasped. “Noth
ing would have happened! And if that is all you can recall, then you are indeed an ill-mannered rogue and I see no reason to ever speak to you again!”

  She whirled and stormed into the thickening crowd but got no farther than the mouth of alleyway before she came to another abrupt halt and spun around again, voluntarily seeking to press herself against the shield of Griffyn’s chest.

  “God love me,” she moaned. “Not now!”

  Finding himself suddenly with an armful of cursing womanhood, he frowned and tipped his head down in an attempt to see her face.

  “My lady? Something else is amiss?”

  “It is him. It is the oaf. Of all the wretched times and places …” She grasped two fistfuls of Renaud’s surcoat and physically wheeled him around so that his back was to the crowd and she could peek out from behind the safety of his broad shoulder. “I cannot possibly bear it now. I simply cannot!”

  “What… or should I say who can you not bear?”

  “Him! The big yellow-haired brute in the gold tunic. Gerome de Saintonge.”

  “Ahh.” The sparks of amusement that had unwittingly flared in the pale green eyes lingered for as long as it took him to spot the designated oaf. “Not a friend of yours, I take it?”

  “A friend? A fiend is more like it. A brute. A beast. A lecher with unclean habits and hands that never relent in seeking to go where they are not wanted.”

  The luminous eyes narrowed and he glanced back over his shoulder. Saintonge was broad-boned and thickly muscled, with a flat round face pitted with too small eyes and a wide sloppy mouth that resembled two slices of uncooked liver. A surplus of copper freckles and body hair ran down his arms and wrists, flowing onto the backs of his fingers, one of which was missing, bitten off at the knuckle. “He looks to be a lusty enough fellow.”

  “Lusty? He is more than lusty, he is perverse. And too thick-headed to take no for an answer despite the number of times I have shouted it in his face.”

  “He has designs on marrying you?”

  She glared up again. “You say that as if it would be the last step before taking poison or falling on your own sword!”

  “I assure you, that was not…” He stopped and frowned, but his mouth was quivering to let loose with another grin. “I gather you have refused his petition?”

  “Refused him? I showed him my sword the last time he came keening at the gates of Amboise. Good Christ, he is coming this way!”

  She tried to push out of his arms and dart back into the alley but Griffyn caught her and led her off to one side instead. “He is not coming this way, he has not even seen you. FitzAthelstan, on the other hand, has. Here—” He took her by the arm and steered her gently toward a booth filled with colored ribbands and scarves. “Try to look as engrossed in the frippery as these other women do. This one, I think,” he said, and held up a length of gossamer-sheer silk shaded the exact violet hue of her eyes.

  She opened her mouth to tell him precisely where he could stuff the length of silk when she saw Will poke Robin’s arm and point in their direction. Her half-formed retort curved into a less than sincere smile and she was forced to endure Renaud’s company until her brother joined them.

  He glared at Brenna, then held out his hand and offered Griffyn a half-relieved, half-puzzled greeting. “I see you managed to make your way to Gaillard without further incident. I see you found my sister as well.”

  “Found her? I did not know she had been lost. In fact, we have been wandering from booth to booth for some time with me trying unsuccessfully to convince her to accept some small token of my thanks for your family’s hospitality.”

  Robin looked from Griffyn to Brenna to the soft lavender silk scarf. “You would have better luck visiting the armourer’s row and offering to buy her arrowheads or goose feathers.”

  “I will keep that in mind for the next time.”

  Brenna clenched her fist around the scarf, mentally adding deafness to his list of character deficiencies, for had she not just finished telling him there would be no next time? There should not even have been a this time but for her own foolish behavior. It was bad enough just to be indebted to such a man as Griffyn Renaud for rescuing her.

  She stole a sidelong glance at the dark knight as he and Robin were conversing. The breeze was plucking at fine strands of jet-black hair and curling them forward over his cheeks. The sun was lighting his face like an artist brandishing some divine creation, and she could not deny he was by far and away the most dangerously handsome rogue under the wide blue sky. If she needed any further proof, it was in the eyes of the men and women who passed by. Women stared openly, first at his face, then at the fit of his hose and the bulge of muscles across his chest and thighs. Men marked him with a keen eye to the powerful set of his body, doubtless wondering if he intended to offer himself in the lists and what it might take in strength and skill to unhorse him.

  Ill mannered, unprincipled, and untrustworthy perhaps … but he was a superb presentation of confidence and raw sensuality. She imagined most women would have her dragged off to Bedlam for shunning him.

  “Lord Robert!”

  The name was shrieked not a foot from Brenna’s ear, causing her to jump half out of her skin.

  “Lord Robert Wardieu d’Amboise! You scoundrel! You are come at last!” A short, round, violently effeminate man capered his way past several tittering ladies and bowed over a gracefully pointed toe as he presented himself before Robin. “Indeed, how we were hoping you would grace us with your presence and look you now … my heart is simply squeezed with pleasure!”

  Brenna’s eyes widened to the size of medallions as she beheld the extraordinary little man, for he was easily as expansive around the girth as he was tall. Far from being shy about it, he wore his prodigiousness like a gaudy boast; his hose were bright yellow, his tunic an outrageous blue-and-orange mottle with full slashed sleeves in stripes of red and purple. A feathered cap was perched jauntily on the large, doughy ball of his head, while a collar trimmed flamboyantly in silk tassels circled the multiple levels of chins. A bulbous nose twitched constantly as if sniffing for food, while two bright eyes flirted outrageously with every well-shaped pair of buttocks that passed, regardless if those buttocks were male or female.

  They were glittering delightedly now as they flitted between Robin and Griffyn, the latter looking suddenly like an eight-point buck cornered by a line of archers.

  “Rollo, you hoary rogue,” Robin said, laughing. “Is business so good it brings you all the way from Tuscany?”

  “My dearest friend, it is so good, it would bring me from the walls of Jerusalem, were I there on my knees praying for salvation. Your father did not come? A ravaging shame. Nor the lusty Eduard? How cruel.” His hands fluttered in small ecstasies under his chins. “And yet I see we have a bold new face with us—a face with which, in God’s truth, I am appalled to admit I am unfamiliar.”

  Robin pursed his lips to conceal his smile. “Rollo d’Albini … Lord Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay. If he is unfamiliar, it is because he has been buried in the mountains of Burgundy these past few years.” While the rotund little man flourished another bow Robin explained, “Rollo is acting Master of the Tournament. His presence is deemed a necessity at any event worthy of note, for he is generally acknowledged to organize the most exciting and extravagant pas d’armes in all of Europe.”

  “You are so kind.” D’Albini tittered modestly. “I merely share my knowledge of what I know best: good food, good wine, good entertainment. My jongleurs perform for kings and queens, and my pastry-makers”—he stopped and rolled his eyes in an expression of utter heart-stopping bliss—“have no equal anywhere, as I can adequately attend. But this, I feel”—he waved a bejewelled hand to encompass the teeming bailey—“will be my finest hour yet. L’Emprise de la Gueule de Dragon … is that not simply delicious? Does the name alone not just bring the thrill of terror to your soul?”

  “I quaked when I heard it,” Robin agreed.

  “Fully
half a hundred knights thus far have entered for single-combat matches,” he effused. “Including”—he paused for dramatic effect—“the Prince of Darkness himself.”

  Robin’s smile hardened instantly. “He is here? You have seen him?”

  “With mine own eyes! And oh! What a sight he was too! There—” He pointed a finger crusted with rubies toward the rows of pennons flying over the registration booth. “The falcon, gold on vert. He signed the role yesterday and, in a most extraordinary manner, declared he would entertain only three challenges. Three of his choosing, mind! Can you imagine it? The moneylenders are in an absolute frenzy, wondering which three he will accept. Ivo has smote for him already, as has that big brute, Draco the Hun, along with four or five other reckless souls who have no real wish to fight him but strike his shield anyway, knowing he will not waste his chaff on them, but they can still boast their willingness.” He paused and screwed his eyes to slits as he peered myopically at Griffyn again. “Burgundy, did you say? Would I be erred in surmising you might have some additional knowledge of this princely rogue seeing as you both hail from the eastern provinces?”

  “I have never watched him fight,” Griffyn said.

  “Nor fought him yourself?”

  “No. No, I have never fought him myself.”

  “Mmm. No doubt you had your reasons.” The tone of dismissal was not exactly flattering to a knight’s character, but if Griffyn took it as an insult, he gave no sign.

  “And yet, all is not lost,” Rollo continued, switching his focus back to Robin, “for surely you intend to take affront at the very notion of such a knavish lout dictating whom he will fight and whom he will not? Surely you intend to give his shield the mightiest clout of all!”

  “I am come only to enter the melee,” Robin said slowly.