The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  Robin stared. “Yes, well, I suppose that would make you a little on edge.”

  “They shrivel and burn as if a witch’s curse has been put upon them. Something evil is in the air. I suffered to know it the instant the chateau came into sight and never am I wrong. Never have my ballocks failed me. Take heed: something evil has come here and is lurking in the shadows waiting to strike.”

  Robin looked down at his hands and twisted the dragon ring, making the ruby eye flash in the firelight. “Two more days in this place and we are free to leave.”

  Sparrow snorted. “Two more days of keeping tempers cool and wits keen—a task that should earn me sainthood at the least. Well I know how this galls you, Cockerel, for it galls us all. But think. Think what must be done. When we have done it, aye, then we can return to this poxy turnip patch and you can pare the tongues from every swag-bellied rump sore who dared sneeze out the side of his mouth. Od’s blood, I will help wield the first blade myself! But only after we have brought our hearts safely home again.”

  Robin closed his eyes briefly and reached out his hand, laying it on Sparrow’s shoulder. “In truth, it was thoughts of Marienne that kept me in my seat last night, but do not stray too far from my side today, Puck. Use your knife again if need be, but do not let me forget my way.”

  Sparrow puffed his chest and nodded. “Worry not. With me on the one side and the level head of your sister on the other, we should be able to keep your buttocks firmly in your chair.” He peered over the fire at Brenna. “Should we not?”

  Brenna smiled hesitantly and nodded, knowing she had just spent the night proving she was the least level-headed of the lot.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The official events were well under way by late morning. By then the lords and ladies had broken their fasts in due style and ceremony, many of them barely recovered from the festivities the night before. Precisely at ten, heralds lined the parapets and blared a warning to all malingerers; criers read from scrolls of parchment listing the day’s activities. The jousting fields started to fill with spectators several hours before the first run between the more popular champions was scheduled to commence. The early courses were between the younger knights who, due to their eagerness and clumsiness, often provided the best blood sport of the tourney. These matches rarely went more than a single pass, and most of the victors trotted off the field, happy just to have survived.

  Strong attempts were made to safeguard against the actual danger of death on the field. But blunted or not, the tip of a lance striking square in the chest could stove the ribs inward and pierce the heart as easily as it could send the unfortunate recipient tipping out of his saddle to crack his spine under two hundredweight of armour.

  Judges were positioned at intervals along the field to signal fair or foul play. Most of the matches were random and usually drawn to avoid pairing known antagonists together, but there were also the personal challenges, like the one between Dag and Roald of Anjou, that kept the excitement of the crowds at a peak and sent waves of genteel maidens swooning en masse into the arms of their serving women.

  Everywhere lances were held aloft, their pennons fluttering in the wind. Men-at-arms stood an attentive guard around the perimeter of the jousting field. They wore full protective armour of cuir bouilli and held their pikes and bills at rigid attention to discourage any curious pedestrians from wandering onto the courses. Multicoloured silk pavilions had sprouted around the outside of the palisades overnight where knights dressed for combat and waited to hear their names called to the lists. Squires, pages, and servants hustled to and from these war pavilions laying out armour and weapons, inspecting all for minute flaws, expending copious amounts of spittle and oil in feverish attempts to have their lords gleaming brilliantly in the sunlight.

  The best of the best, the champions of France and Normandy were well known to their loyal followers. Wagers changed hands as fast as fleas when the names of the upcoming ranks of contestants were announced by the heralds, none so fast or feverish as those placed on the outcome of a contest between the Prince of Darkness and anyone foolish enough to challenge him.

  The object of so much speculation stood naked in all his muscular splendor, the light from the small iron brazier shivering over the solid plates of molded brawn. The strong, sloped column of his neck was held rigid, the eerie, colorless eyes stared straight ahead as Fulgrin finished the ceremonial bath and began rubbing him with oil of willow ash and camphor. In the background, they could hear the clash of steel and the roaring cheers of the crowd. Periodically, the ground beneath them reverberated with the impact of several tons’ worth of enraged horseflesh charging headlong down the tilting course.

  Fulgrin, noting his master was even more sullen than usual, peered up from behind the pillar of one limb and offered a scowl. “You could have earned us an extra five hundred marks by now had you roused yourself earlier.”

  “By day’s end, we will have earned more than enough to satisfy even your greed.”

  “My greed? I was not the one who consented to this unholy pact. I was quite content to remain in Orléans, for that matter, dining on rich foods and stroking the thighs of soft women.”

  Griffyn glared down. “You could try stroking a little softer now. I would appreciate having some skin left when you have finished.”

  “Hah! Oversensitive today, are we? Out all night like a cat, saddle-galled and foul-tempered this morning … dare I ask who the lucky wench was—or did you even trouble yourself to learn her name?”

  Griffyn twisted his lips in a prelude to answering but was forestalled by the sound of a woman’s voice outside the pavilion. She did not wait for the knave to announce her; she lifted the flap of the door and stepped inside, her crystalline eyes going directly and unabashedly to one of the more formidable muscles on Griffyn’s body.

  “Am I interrupting?”

  Griffyn did not trouble himself with a reply, nor did he make any attempt to shield himself from Solange de Sancerre’s intimate scrutiny as she strolled forward and walked a full, slow circle around him, close enough the diaphanous veiling she wore over her hair brushed his shoulders and tickled the powerful display of rock-hard flesh across his chest. Her gown of rich red samite had been fitted snugly to the voluptuous shape of her upper body and showed considerably more of the smooth white shoulders than was customary. Wresting the eye away from the ripe fullness of her breasts was a thick gold torque worn around the slender throat, the band a full three fingers in width and studded with rows of glittering gemstones. Circling her slender waist was a girdle of fine gold links fashioned to resemble chain mail, crossed in front to form a deep, shimmering vee over her belly.

  She finished her inspection and the startling green eyes lingered a moment on his face, before glancing at Fulgrin. “You may leave us, churl. I would speak a few moments alone with your master.”

  Fulgrin put his hands on his hips and would likely have challenged her business there had Griffyn not caught his eye and signaled him out the door.

  “An impudent devil,” she mused after he had gone. “I could teach him some manners, if you like.”

  Griffyn reached for his braies. “I thought it was agreed there would be no further contact between us.”

  “The agreement was between you and Bertrand,” she murmured. “I would never be so hasty as to promise such a thing.”

  She watched him step into the undergarment and draw it up to his waist, but before he could pull the thongs closed in front, her hands interceded and did the fastening for him. “Moreover, I thought it only hospitable to let you know someone was cheering you on.”

  She laid her hands flat on the granite plane of his belly and skimmed them upward, her fingers spread wide to fully appreciate the mass of solidly sculpted muscle. “I had hoped to see you at the grande fete last night.”

  “I prefer not to dine in the company of men I might kill on the morrow.”

  “An understandable aversion, though I have never suffer
ed for it myself.” She pursed her lips and continued skimming her hands across the powerful contours of his shoulders and down his arms. “Still, it would have been the perfect opportunity to rouse Robert Wardieu’s fighting ire. He was prickly as a thorn bush, especially after the younger brother had a gauntlet thrown in his face.”

  “I am surprised you did not arrange to have it thrown in his.”

  She smiled and let her fingers slide off his wrists and trace boldly onto his hips and around to the juncture of his thighs. “We thought to save that pleasure for you.”

  “How considerate.”

  Her smile widened and she gazed down. “Merde,” she breathed, “but you are a healthy enough beast. I may have to wager some coin on you myself.”

  “Was there something specific you came to see me about? I have my first match in less than an hour.”

  “Actually … or should I say specifically … Bertrand is worried that you might be losing some of your concentration.”

  “My concentration is fine.”

  “Nevertheless”—she leaned forward, sending her tongue in a swirling wet circle around his nipple—“he thought you might require a little extra incentive.”

  “You?” he asked mildly.

  She laughed and used her teeth to pinch the sensitive nub of flesh before she straightened. “What I would want to do with you, my lord, would take much more than an hour. No, he merely wanted me to show you this.”

  Still smiling, she watched his face intently as she unfastened the gold cords that bound the front closure of her tunic The crimson samite fairly popped wide over the straining swell of her breasts, revealing a layer of embroidered silk beneath. The garment was obviously too small for the task at hand, and most of the ribbons were tied at the outside limits, leaving wide gaps of flesh showing beneath. But there was no mistaking whose it was or where he had seen it last.

  The change in his expression was barely perceptible, but to someone accustomed to searching for the slightest betrayal of emotion, it brought forth an exaggerated sigh. “Not exactly my taste, what with all these wretched little ivy leaves and mawkish flowers, but the silk is of exceptional quality and I have no doubt the owner would be grateful for its return.”

  Griffyn’s eyes met hers and turned as cold as hoarfrost. “You have been following me.”

  “Not personally, no. I find riverbanks too cold and damp for comfort. But I understand it was a demonstration of vigor worthy of an appreciative audience.” She started to draw the silk cords tight over her bosom again. “Poor Gerome. He wore out three whores trying to ease his frustrations. He did so have his heart set on being the first to bed the Wardieu bitch. Tell me—” She looked up, her eyes sparkling with polite interest. “Was she a virgin still?”

  Griffyn forced himself to unclench his fists. “I hardly noticed. It was a pleasant diversion, nothing more.”

  “Nothing?”

  He reached for his shirt and sneered. “What were you expecting to hear? That we have pledged undying love and plan to marry within the week?”

  “God’s blood, I hope not. Gerome was vying for the privilege himself. An outlandish expectation, I agree,” she added dryly. “But he feels cuckolded nonetheless.”

  “Tell him my shield is hung in plain sight. I would be more than happy to oblige his wounded pride in the lists.”

  “Gerome prefers to seek his revenge in dark corners.”

  Griffyn nodded. “I will heed the warning.”

  “Heed this as well: Bertrand does not like surprises. This”—she plucked at the chemise before it disappeared beneath the samite—“came as a complete and unpleasant surprise.”

  “Tell him … it was merely a way of insuring Wardieu’s cooperation.”

  The green eyes narrowed. “His cooperation?”

  “Can you think of a better way to rouse the fighting ire of a brother than to boast of covering the sister?”

  She watched him warily as he thrust his arms into the sleeves of his shirt and pulled it over his head. “Are you saying … you deliberately seduced her?”

  “I am saying I dislike leaving things to chance. Now, unless you truly would like me to lose concentration”—he paused and stared meaningfully at the voluptuous shape of her breasts—“I suggest you let me finish making my preparations.”

  He turned his back, dismissing her with a coolness that might have been convincing had she not seen that initial, fleeting glimpse of shock in his eyes. The chemise had startled him, angered him, and unsettled him, and as Solange smoothed her tunic and preened the wings of her veil, she started toward the door of the pavilion.

  “It was indeed clever of you to provide such indelicate insurance,” she agreed. “Gerome, I think, would feel somewhat appeased if he could recount his midnight adventure to the gathered throngs. It would, of course, be done only if all else failed. But it would be done,” she assured him softly.

  She smiled at the look he cast back over his shoulder, then lifted aside the flap of the door and walked out into the sunlight.

  Fulgrin caused it to be shoved aside again a moment later as he hastened back inside. “Tell me she was the one who kept you out all night and I shall start hunting now for a new master.”

  “I would not willingly spend time with her unless I emptied her fangs of poison first,” Griffyn muttered, still staring at the door of the pavilion.

  Fulgrin peered at him closely. “I gather she was not here just to wish you luck?”

  “She was here … to make certain I was not suffering from a change of heart.”

  An eyebrow lifted cautiously. “She is under the impression you have a heart to change?”

  Griffyn only glared and thrust his legs into a pair of woolen hose. “Did you manage to find out anything about the Welshman?”

  “Ahh. A timely change of subject, as always.” He started to fasten the forty-odd leather points that held Griffyn’s hose snug to his thighs. “You did not give me much of a description: no nose, no ears, no fingers, no toes … but the braids helped. That and the fact some of Wardieu’s men have been discreetly asking after the whereabouts of a wool merchant named Dafydd ap lowerth.”

  “A wool merchant?”

  Fulgrin stood and helped Griffyn into the heavily padded aketon, tightening the crampons that ran down beneath the arms. “It seems he was once a guest at Château d’Amboise. A welcomed guest, so I gather, for he married one of the local widows and lived in the village until such time as his wife’s death sent him searching for some useful—albeit reckless—way to overcome his grief.”

  “Are you saying he was a spy for the Black Wolf?”

  He prodded a thigh forward into a pair of leather leggings. “Likely used to carry messages back and forth to England.”

  “Messages? Between Amboise and … ?”

  Fulgrin straightened and lowered his voice dramatically. “Pembroke.”

  Griffyn’s frown caused a deep furrow across his brow. It was the second time in as many days Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer’s name had been linked to William Marshal.

  “As for Bertrand Malagane’s interest in land in Lincoln, it appears to be genuine … unless there is some other reason you can conceive of why he would send Gerome de Saintonge to England.”

  “Saintonge is going to England? When?”

  “As soon as the last pennon flutters down over the field on the morrow. What is more, he has hand-picked his troop from the most bloodthirsty vultures his barracks have to offer, including Engelard Cigogni and Andrew de Chanceas—two of the worst carrion-feeding jackals ever to put their swords up for hire. This, of course”—he paused for effect and snapped the last buckle into place—“after they have slit your fine throat ear to ear.”

  Griffyn looked at him askance.

  “Truly. ’Tis likely why the count was so generous with his coin; he had no plans to leave you alive long enough to spend it. And before you scoff at the notion, kindly consider it was at great peril to the sanctity of my own throat tha
t I uncovered this information.”

  Griffyn had no intentions of scoffing; Fulgrin’s talents for gleaning knowledge from solid rock had ceased to amaze him long ago. It had also kept him alive more times than he could count.

  That Bertrand Malagane had already made plans for his demise came as no huge surprise; he was probably intending to show that he was so appalled and outraged by Robert Wardieu’s death, he had arranged to have the champion’s killer slain in retaliation. Moreover, he had probably also arranged to have it “discovered” that he, Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay, had been paid to kill Wardieu … and in good English sterling.

  “Shall I have the rouncies packed and ready for a hasty departure when you come off the field today?”

  Lost in thought, it took a moment for Griffyn to focus on Fulgrin’s face. “What?”

  “Leave? Rouncies? Tonight?”

  “Why would we do that?”

  “Oh … to keep the blood flowing through our veins, perhaps?”

  Griffyn frowned and signaled for his hauberk. “I am not worried about Cigogni or de Chanceas.”

  Fulgrin’s grunt was directed partly at the cavalier dismissal of the two most deadly and dangerous assassins in Normandy, and partly at the weight of the chain mail tunic as he strained to heft it over his master’s shoulders.

  “I am glad to hear you are not worried,” he muttered, and returned to the chest for the mail chausses, which he laced around his charge’s thighs and calves with less than his usually precise strokes. “I, of course, will sleep with both eyes open and knives clutched between all my fingers and toes, but I am glad to hear it will trouble you not at all.”

  “Certes, it will not trouble me tonight … since it would make no sense to kill either of us until after Wardieu is dead.”

  Fulgrin’s squint-eye watered slightly as he glared in fulminating silence at the tall knight. He helped him into his cuirass—a vest of inch-thick bullhide boiled in wax and molded to fit the shape of chest and back—then bracers for the upper and lower arms, greaves and sabatons to fit over the legs and boots, rounded aillettes for the shoulders that would deflect the force of all but the most powerful blows.