The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Brenna heard voices nearby and they wakened her. At first she did not know where she was, she was only aware of a strong, warm body curved around her and deep, even breathing against her nape. She was curled like a child in his strong arms, shoulders to chest, back to belly, rump to hip, cradled there in the languid fatigue that had claimed them both. Some time during the night he had covered them loosely with their discarded clothing, but she did not notice the cool air where it touched her exposed skin; it was a welcome relief after the extravagance of heat and energy they had expended. She had not fainted, but she had come perilously close on more than one occasion when the sheer magnitude of her pleasure had become almost too much to bear.

  The voices faded and Brenna risked lifting her head to peek over the thick wall of grass. She was shocked to see a watery blue film of light along the horizon and to realize the voices she had heard belonged to early risers, not late revellers.

  She glanced down at Griffyn and his eyes were open, waiting.

  “I have to go,” she gasped. “I have to get back to camp before I am missed … if I have not been already.”

  She scrambled to sort out the various articles of clothing and cursed when she could not find her chemise among the scattered trappings. She dressed without it, shivering when the coarse linen of her shirt chafed skin that had become far too sensitive to the slightest touch. Her hair flew in an untamed mass of curls over her shoulders; she made a few futile attempts to comb it with her fingers before giving up and cursing it back into a tail.

  “Here,” he said, “let me help.”

  “I can do it myself,” she insisted, recoiling from his hands.

  He watched her fumble with the laces of her surcoat and when all she managed to do was tangle them in knots, he gently grasped hold of her wrists and moved them away, then took up the thongs himself and fastened them with silent efficiency.

  “I had best walk you back.”

  “No!” She looked up in mild horror. “No. My God, what would Robin or the others think if they saw us together?”

  He stared at her a moment, as if she had reached out unexpectedly and cut him with a knife. As if, after the night they had just spent together, he was surprised she still had the arrogance to remind him of his unsuitability to be the lover of a nobleman’s daughter.

  “Forgive me, my lady,” he murmured, bowing. “I forgot myself.”

  “I did not mean that the way it sounded,” she said quickly. “I only meant…”

  “I know what you meant. And you are absolutely right. Your brother would likely kill both of us if he knew.”

  He finished tying off the last knot and gave her a perfunctory smile as he bent over to retrieve his own clothes. He had pulled on his braies and hose but was still magnificently bare from the waist up, and as she watched him push his arms into the sleeves of his shirt, all she wanted to do was lean into his heat again, feel those arms go around her that they might protect her against the waves of anxiety and guilt that were threatening to overwhelm her. As it was, she could hardly believe it had not just been some wild, other-worldly dream she had experienced and she would waken and find it had not really happened. She had not really crept away from camp. She had not really allowed him to seduce her and then given so freely of herself, doing things … begging to have things done that would, indeed, keep her pink with mortification all day long.

  “Perhaps this should not have happened,” she agreed on a ragged whisper. “But I am not sorry it did. I do not regret a single moment of last night… I… I only wish …”

  He stopped tugging on the hem of his shirt and glanced at her intently. “You wish what?”

  “I wish …” She moistened her lips and glanced at the growing bloom of dawn light. “I wish we had more time. I wish … we had the chance to know each other better.”

  He seemed surprised. “Why? I thought you had already made up your mind as to who and what I was—a common mercenary with few scruples and no conscience. Good God,” he muttered through a half smile, “you were not expecting more from me, were you? You were not expecting me to turn out to be something more than what I am?”

  Her heart tripped over a single poignant beat and she had to look away, look down at her hands, look over at the flattened grass that marked her initiation into all these strange new emotions surfacing within her. She was not expecting anything from him at all and was certainly under no illusions of any obligations owed. In two days’ time they would be going their separate ways, and the likelihood of ever seeing one another again was too remote to even contemplate. But she did not want to think about that, not with her body aching in places it had never ached before, wanting more of what she had never wanted before.

  “I warrant it would be easier to change a stone into pudding,” she whispered. “And yet I do not think there is anything common about you at all. Confusing, confounding, vexatious, yes, but not common.”

  “Is that a compliment… or a complaint?”

  “Neither,” she admitted honestly. “And both.”

  He looked away across the meadow, toward the multitude of fluttering pennons that marked the boundaries of the jousting fields—anywhere to avoid the shy confusion shimmering in the violet of her eyes.

  “Well, rest assured,” he said at length, “you will undoubtedly return to your original opinion of me before the day is through.”

  She was startled by the pronouncement, even more so by the anger that sawed across his voice as he said it.

  “And now you had best go. Before your brothers send out a search party.”

  Her heart stumbled again at the gruffness in his voice, but knowing it was not an idle warning, she struggled with her hair a few more moments and gave her belt a final adjustment. When she turned away, about to follow the bank back to the Amboise encampment, she heard him curse and felt his hands on her shoulders.

  “Brenna—”

  “Yes?”

  He was studying her face by the growing light, memorizing it almost, as if he might never see it again, and although his lips were parted and there was some kind of dilemma waging a small war in his eyes, he only clamped his jaw tight again and let his hands fall away from her shoulders. “Are you certain you do not want me to walk you back?”

  She shook her head. “Half the camp is likely awake by now. If I am lucky, I can convince them I was only gone a few minutes to the river.”

  He nodded. “Well then…”

  “Well then,” she whispered, still fighting the tremor in her chin. On impulse, she leaned forward and kissed him, not very hard and not very well. She turned then and started running back along the riverbank, not stopping until she was directly below the sea of black-and-gold pennons.

  She was just wading her way through the thick fringe of reeds when Sparrow’s head popped up above the grasses.

  “You are not in your tent,” he charged.

  “I needed a few moments of privacy.”

  “To do what? And why so privately you could not call out to the guard?”

  “Because I was only gone a few minutes and it becomes tiresome to have someone watching over your shoulder every time you crouch down in the bushes! As well you should know,” she added, pointing to where the rucked-up hem of his tunic exposed the gap in his leggings.

  Red-faced, he cursed and spun on his heels, tugging at hems and closures until his appearance was restored. By then she had walked past him and gained the top of the embankment.

  “You willfully disobeyed an order,” he persisted. “I could have you sent home.”

  “You could.” She sighed. “But you won’t.”

  “Ho, ho! And why would I not?”

  She stopped and turned and the two glared at one another, hands on waists, mouths set, eyes flashing warnings.

  “Because Robin needs me,” she said finally. “And anything Robin needs, Robin gets, whether it sits well with you or not, whether it serves him well or not, whether it costs the
sun, the moon, the stars, and all the heavens above or not. The rest of us”—she waved a hand to include the camp and everyone in it—“could beg a cup of water from you to ease a parched throat and we would be hard-pressed to get it, but if Robin wanted the merest drop, you would cross deserts and mountains and fight your way through hostile armies to fetch it for him.”

  “Ho,” he said in a softer voice, his chest deflating and his arms wilting down by his sides. “And where is this coming from? Never have I ever denied any of you anything you asked of me.”

  “No. But you sit in judgment over us and search for the smallest flaw to pounce upon, whereas Robin … Robin shines in your eyes like a bright light. He could be missing from his tent for days and come back with some tale of picking daisies and you would not question him.”

  “Only because if he said he was picking daisies, likely he was picking daisies. The rest of you”—Sparrow’s eyes glinted and his hands crept back up to his hips—“would as likely be out picking trouble and tell me it was daisies.”

  Brenna was too close to tears to argue. And Sparrow, knowing she had a fine temper and a foot to stamp it with, saw the water in the corners of her eyes and melted again.

  “It is Dagobert,” he concluded grimly. “You are worried about him?”

  “Dag?”

  “The joust. The lummock who challenged him at the fete last night.”

  Brenna had no idea what he was talking about, but it was easier to pretend she did, for it diverted Sparrow’s thoughts immediately.

  “The whole chateau has been abuzz with the news that Robin is injured and will only fight in the mêlée, yet this crackbrain struts forth and challenges Dagobert to answer for an insult delivered to his former harlot, who has only recently become his lady by virtue of poisoning the wife and breeding up a brat to offer as heir!”

  It sounded like just another of Dag’s indiscretions and Brenna sighed. “Could he not refuse? He is not even registered in the roles; he did not have to accept the challenge.”

  Sparrow scowled again. “Name one member of this accursed family who would refuse to fight after a glove is thrown at the feet and an insult at the face?”

  He had a point and she frowned. “Who is this fool?”

  “Roald of Anjou. The larded codshead with ears so big he sleeps on the one and uses the other as a blanket. Hopefully the size of them will help him listen to reason, for Richard and Geoffrey have gone to see if there is some other way to cool his blood and appease his wounded heart. Hark! Behold the young wastrel himself,” he said, hooking a thumb to show where Dag was standing with Robin by a fire pit. “Laying his burdens on someone who has not the first notion of what would drive a man to such foolish lengths.”

  Brenna looked down at him in shock, certain she had misinterpreted his meaning. “Are you saying that Robin has never … that he is still… ?”

  “Chaste? By Cyril’s sword he is indeed, ever since he pledged to remain so on the meadow outside Kirklees Abbey. And there, you see? I have not been able to get him everything he wants, for he has wanted only Marienne FitzWilliam lo these many years of watching his two addled brothers swive every wench in sight.”

  He strode on ahead in a kick of dust, letting her know he was still smarting from her accusation, and for all of two seconds Brenna was sorry she had said it. But then her gaze was drawn to Robin’s handsome face glowing in the firelight, and she forgot everything as she pondered the impossibility of anyone ever guessing her big virile brother, defender and champion of all Europe, was a virgin.

  Her footsteps slowed as she approached the fire but her brothers barely looked up to acknowledge her presence.

  “You are up and about early” was Robin’s only comment.

  “I… could not sleep,” she answered truthfully enough.

  “You heard about Dag?”

  She nodded. “Sparrow told me. What are you going to do?”

  “Fight the bastard, of course.” Dag grunted. “And tup his trull of a wife when I am finished.”

  Robin frowned. “He is not so easy to unseat as he looks, despite the size of his girth. I know. I fought him in LeMans last summer and came away with more than a few loosened buckles. He is as sly as a weasel and aims high, for the collar. If he happens to hit the visor—which is an illegal foul—he cries his innocence and claims his grip faltered.”

  “Charming. How do I block him?”

  “Your only chance is to hit him equally hard and high. Let him know on the first pass that you are aiming for the visor without pretense; surprise him thus and you may be able to unsettle his wits enough to make his grip truly falter.”

  “When he does, you drop the lance and aim for the gut,” Sparrow advised, smacking his belly to show the exact spot, just under the breastbone. “Drive the air out of him and the excess suet he carries will do the rest.”

  The crunch of bootsteps brought their heads swinging around as Richard and Geoffrey LaFer emerged from between a row of tents.

  “By the happy looks on your faces, I gather the appeal did not go well?” Robin asked.

  “Anjou’s father sends his apologies for his son’s rashness,” Richard said concisely, “and asks if Dag would care to defer the match to a more convenient time and place. He asked it with a grin on his face and a tickle in his throat that made him cough loudly enough for anyone within bowshot to overhear the conversation.”

  Sparrow rolled his eyes heavenward as if he knew what was coming next, and Richard, for his part, did not disappoint.

  “I told him to defer his apology up his arse, that I was only come to recommend the skills of a good coffin-maker.”

  Sparrow glared at the normally level-headed Geoffrey LaFer. “And you, Brain-Biter? Where were you whilst the happy exchange was taking place?”

  “I was seeing to our family’s interests.” Geoffrey held his hands out to warm them over the fire. “I took the liberty of wagering four hundred marks against the possibility of Anjou remaining in his saddle beyond two passes.”

  Sparrow groaned while Dag gaped at his brother, then his brother-in-law. “Two passes! The fellow is an ox! He has to send to Flanders for horses large enough to carry his weight.”

  “And a helm big enough to hold his ears,” Sparrow added glumly.

  “The perfect target,” Richard said, giving Dag a hearty clap on the shoulder. “Be of good cheer, little brother; it could have been worse. It could have been the Prince of Darkness who took offense at where you put your pisser.” He looked up as Robin cleared his throat and saw Brenna half hidden by the smoke and shadows. “Bren! Forgive my candor, I did not see you standing there.” His gaze raked the length of her surcoat and leggings, and Brenna felt the skin start to shrink everywhere on her body. Her hair was a mess, her clothing rumpled and dampened beyond what a few moments by the river would have allowed; her lips felt red and swollen to twice their size. She was certain there must be some outward sign of lost virtue, and if anyone had eyes sharp enough to notice those signs, it was Richard.

  “Surely you are not attending the day dressed like that?” he asked. “You know, of course, we are expected to sit in the royal bower with Prince Louis and the Count of Saintonge.”

  “I was merely delaying the horror of a wimple for as long as possible,” she said on a soft expulsion of breath.

  “Even bound in linen, you will draw the eye of every warm-blooded churl on the field,” Lord Geoffrey predicted gallantly. “You had best bring an extra pair of sleeves to toss to the poor swains.”

  “Very funny,” she muttered, and Robin reached out to tug on a loose curl.

  “Come now, it will not be so bad as all that. You have borne up under silks and velvets before. Just remember to keep your knife handy. Gerome de Saintonge will likely be vying for a seat near you in the dais.”

  She cursed with enough eloquence to cause all four men to clear their throats and take their teasing elsewhere.

  Richard draped an arm over his younger brother’s sh
oulder. “Four hundred marks is a deal of money, brother dear. We had best get your armour sorted out and start discussing strategies. Rob?”

  “I will be along in a minute.”

  Geoffrey crowded Dag on the other side, and together he and Richard led him off. Sparrow lingered behind as well, his agate eyes burning as hot as the flames.

  “All right, what is it, Puck?” Robin sighed. “You are hopping from one foot to the other as if the ground was a bed of coals beneath you.”

  “Richard’s tongue often gets in the way of his brain, but this time he has raised an interesting question. Why is it this vaunted Prince of Doom-and-Gloom has not put forth a challenge against the Wardieu name?”

  Robin frowned. “Perhaps he has more couth than Roald of Anjou.”

  “Bah! In a hen’s noseful! He has no more couth than a copper groat. And I do not think he has come all the way from Rome to wave his lance at dolts and nithings.”

  “Well, what would you have me do?” Robin asked mildly. “Ask him why he has not come forth? Ask him why he was not among those who gawped and snickered and whispered behind raised hands last night? I will do it, by God. Put me before him and I will do it, for I would sooner gall myself on a barrel of vinegar as share one more false toast with some oaf who wishes me improved health!”

  Sparrow snorted. “Indeed, was it not for my knife being as sharp as it was, the lot of you would have been throwing gauntlets hither and thither at every cock in sight.”

  “He actually stabbed me,” Robin said to Brenna. “He stabbed me and drew blood.”

  “’Twas only a prick in the thigh. And only because you were wanting help with your wits. You knew before we came that your injury would be the source of much tongue-wagging. You also knew there would be suggestions that your ribs were troubled more because of the presence of this unholy paladin than an errant tusk of a boar.”

  “I survived the night, did I not?” Robin said tautly.

  “You survived it. I did not. My ballocks are itching as if I had a cruck full of fleas roosting there.”