The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  The crowd jeered again at the implied slur against their favourite's courage, and whether he would have liked to embrace the offer or not, honor forced Savaric to refuse it. The marshal returned to his seat and raised the couvre-chef … and without further adieu, dropped it.

  The two destriers broke evenly from the line, but the Prince of Darkness’s steed was obviously superior in speed and sheer thundering fury. He ran with his head forward and his silks streaming, so swift to gain full gallop, he carried the contest into Savaric’s half of the course and was on him before the knight had his lance fully raised and steadied. The squared tip of the paladin’s lance slammed directly into the flat of Savaric’s shield and jerked him back with such force, the raised backing of his saddle snapped and sent buckles flying off in all directions. Savaric himself was lifted into the air and seemed to hang there, suspended at the end of his opponent’s lance for several rampaging paces, finally falling in such a crump of dust and cracking metal, the crowd continued to hold its breath, to sit in stunned silence as if they could not believe their eyes.

  “He made it look as if he was plucking a fly off a piece of meat,” Richard murmured.

  “A dead fly,” Sparrow agreed. “Deader now than before, I warrant.”

  Robin was on his feet. Savaric had not yet moved so much as an arm or leg. The attendants ran out bearing a litter between them, and some of the gawping tension in the crowd was transferred to the almost casual manner in which the Prince of Darkness cantered to the end of the course and turned into the recet without looking back, as if he needed no judges or cheers to confirm the results.

  It was a win. It was also the first serious injury of the tournament.

  Robin’s gaze remained fixed on the dark knight and the frown tightened across his brow as Malagane lifted his wine cup in a salute.

  “Have you ever seen so straight a lance, so determined a course? God’s blood, I dare swear we could declare him champion now and save a deal of broken bones and barber’s fees.”

  The proclamation won a laugh from the Dauphin and several of the other guests.

  “Who does he fight next?” Solange inquired, feigning a yawn.

  “The Castilian, Pedro the Cruel,” another provided helpfully.

  “Unless, of course, he has injured himself since his boastings last night,” said a familiar voice.

  Robin’s gaze was pulled away from the field and settled on the grinning face of Gerome de Saintonge. Sparrow, sensing trouble in the air, moved closer to Robin and curled his hand around the hilt of his eating knife.

  “Sit you down,” he hissed. “The man is offal. Dung. Wormrot. He is a frog turd, not worthy of being scraped from your boot!”

  There was a call for fresh wine to fill the Dauphin’s cup, and Sparrow took advantage of the distraction to tug openly on Robin’s tunic and literally haul him back down onto his seat.

  On the field, meanwhile, another pair of combatants were beginning their progress, neither of them drawing more than a polite spattering of applause from the spectators. The entire crowd seemed poised on the edge of their seats, waiting in breathless anticipation for another chance to see the Prince of Darkness in action. He had not left the enclosure after his match, which signified another upcoming in short order. His squire was with him and a handler for the horse, but overall he looked confident, almost a little bored as he watched the pageantry.

  Brenna could not have said who the challengers were, what colors they wore, how many passes they made or who emerged the victor. She shared Sparrow’s uneasiness, especially when she looked around at one point and saw that Will had joined them on the dais, but instead of taking the empty seat she indicated, he shook his head and remained at the rear, staring hard at two men who were lounging against the barricades. Their faces were not familiar to Brenna, but they obviously were to Will, for he stood as tense as a bloodhound, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

  The crowd broke her concentration again as a general stir and swelling of noise indicated the interim match was over and the Castilian was entering the tilting grounds. His horse was caparisoned in gold and blue, a magnificent roan with thickly feathered fetlocks and a high, proud step. His armour was gilded and ornamented in the Spanish style, complete with a tall, sky-blue cluster of ostrich plumes in his helm. He had dark, intense eyes that glowered boldly through the raised window of his visor as he passed the dais, and when he stopped in front of the Bower of Beauty, he dipped his lance like an accusing finger toward his betrothed, a petite, ashen-faced girl of no more than fourteen years who could only stare in terror at the dark knight waiting at the far end of the field. She tried to tie a length of purple scarf to the end of her lover’s lance, but her hand shook so badly, the silk slipped and drifted to the ground.

  The crowd gasped and groaned, for it was a bad omen. The girl fainted into a crush of sympathetic arms, and it was just as well she remained unconscious during the next ten minutes, for her affianced fared no better than Savaric de Mauleon. The Prince of Darkness struck him hard and high on the first pass, the tip of his lance catching the Castilian at the base of his helm, shattering his collarbone and nearly ripping his head from his shoulders.

  A third challenger managed to remain astride for two passes, but only because his destrier veered at the last minute—which earned resounding jeers from the spectators and a subtle shift of favor toward the champion from the east. The shift became stronger with the next blare of trumpets, for Draco the Hun was well known for his underhanded tricks and fouls, and was rarely anyone’s favorite. He gave the Prince his best challenge thus far, stretching the joust into three passes, but even then, there was a sense that he was only being toyed with, like a mouse being tossed around by a cat to prolong the pleasure and the play. And in the end, he went the way of the others, carried off the field on a litter dripping blood. By the time it was Ivo the Crippler’s turn to enter the tilt, the crowd was on its feet, stamping and cheering for their awesome new champion.

  By this time also Robin was tight-lipped and white with frustration. Richard was in little better condition, and Dag, who had joined them in the dais after stripping out of his armour, merely sat shaking his head each time the judges ignored an obvious foul. Many more flagons of wine had been consumed in the royal bower and the snickers were growing louder, the glances bolder, the questions more brazen as the Wardieus were consulted on the methods they might have used to unseat the usurper—had they been disposed to fight him, that is.

  For this, his sixth and final joust of the afternoon, the Prince of Darkness acquiesced to the demands of the screaming spectators and took a full progress around the enclosure, his silks rippling like green fire under the late sun, the gold threads of the falcon almost blinding where it flew on his breast and shield.

  He had changed horses after his last bout, and it was not until he had rounded the far end of the palisades and started down toward the royal dais that Brenna found herself staring more at the beast than the man. The main body of the destrier was concealed beneath the cloths and armoured padding, but it could be seen that this charger, like his last, had been gray in color—not uncommon in itself. But what drew her attention now, and what shocked her like a bucket of ice-cold water thrown on a hot day, was the sight of the single snow-white cuff banding the left foreleg.

  Desperate to be mistaken, frantic to be somehow faulty in her memory, she looked up at the knight’s visored face as he drew abreast. The steel of the helm creaked softly as he turned to face the honoured guests. He eased back on the reins and slowed his destrier to a prancing halt, and while every eye in the bowers watched and every breath was held in anticipation, he raised a gauntleted hand and lifted the slotted visor enough to reveal the two black slashes of his eyebrows and the luminous, ice-washed eyes below.

  “God’s day to you, my lords … ladies,” Griffyn said casually. “I trust you are all enjoying the spectacle thus far.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Robin was p
lainly stunned.

  Brenna would swear later that her heart simply stopped, for she felt nothing. She felt nothing, saw nothing, thought of nothing in those first few shocking moments other than there must be some horrible mistake. It could not be Griffyn Renaud. It could not be him staring out from beneath the visored helm of the Prince of Darkness.

  Her lungs finally insisted on air, though she was unaware of having deprived them. It went to her head in a dizzying rush and she felt as if everything were suddenly submerged in a clear liquid. The sounds from the crowd were muted and dull; the fluttering of the pennons around the enclosure slowed to precise, articulated waves. And Griffyn’s voice, when it next came through the barrier of the helm, sounded deep and heavy, garbled by that same liquid distortion.

  “You comported yourself well,” he was saying to Dag. “Pray accept my compliments.”

  None of the Wardieu brothers was yet capable of civil speech, but Sparrow suffered no such impairment.

  “I knew it! I knew there was something of the sly fox in you the moment mine eyes clapped upon you!”

  “Christ Jesus,” Richard managed, both awed and angered. “You might have said something.”

  The pale eyes flicked from one tense face to the next, lingering on Brenna’s a moment before returning to Robin. “As I recall, I did. I said at Amboise it would make for an interesting rematch. Instead”—he looked toward the recet where Ivo the Crippler was concluding his progress—“I must content myself with green striplings and larded collops who throw themselves at my lance for the sheer sake of saying they have done so.”

  “An easy day’s work for you, I should think,” Robin said through his teeth. “You have broken enough bones to earn your six hundred marks.”

  Metal creaked again. “Did my ears hear it wrong when you said the only true pleasure in life comes when you test your mettle in honorable combat with one of equal strength and merit? Is it only a pleasure for you, then, and simple greed for the rest of us?”

  Robin flushed. “None of these men is your equal.”

  “None … with the possible exception of yourself,” Griffyn countered smoothly. “And how unfortunate that you were injured, for we shall never know who would have prevailed.”

  Sparrow surged forward, stopped from leaping over the barrier by a rail that guarded against such rashness. “Injured or not he could skewer you like a pullet! With one arm strapped to his side he could have you hanging off his lance like gulled tripe! He could have you filleted and fustioned and smiling out the back of your neck for want of a spine!”

  The pale eyes narrowed but it was Bertrand Malagane who turned and addressed the remark. “Bold words, dwarf. Do you issue this challenge on your own behalf, or do you speak for Lord Robert?”

  Sparrow’s mouth opened, closed, opened again in a good imitation of a fish as he realized what he had said and the horror of it caused every droplet of elfin blood to drain out of his face. It was Richard, whose temper had been held in check by the slenderest of threads anyway, who came to his rescue, exploding to his feet with a curse.

  “You may consider it came from me, my lord, to be answered at your earliest convenience.”

  “Not before he answers me,” said Dag, leaping up beside his brother.

  “And me,” insisted Geoffrey LaFer, standing alongside.

  “God’s good grace,” observed a startled Prince Louis as he swivelled around in his chair. “A veritable floodtide of avengers, and at such a late hour.”

  “Indeed,” said Malagane, the satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “A pity we are losing the afternoon light.”

  “Tomorrow will be soon enough,” Richard spat. “If the bastard accepts.”

  “No!” Brenna cried, jumping up. “For God’s sake, no!” She looked at Griffyn, appealing to him with eyes like two pools of drowning violets. “You know full well it would not be a fair contest. How can you be so cold-blooded? How can you willingly take advantage after … after everything that has happened?”

  “Has something happened we do not know about?” Solange inquired innocently.

  The pale eyes were briefly distracted by the movement of Solange de Sancerre’s hand as she toyed with the end of a ribbon peeping over the edge of her bodice, but they were hard as ice as they returned to answer Brenna’s charge. “It was not I who offered the first insult, my lady, nor issued the first challenge. But I would be willing to entertain an apology if your brothers would care to withdraw … ?”

  “As well they should,” the Dauphin observed over a wine-sodden laugh. “For who will fight the battle royale on the morrow if all of Amboise’s armour lies trampled in the dust?”

  Richard reached a hand to his sword. He was almost beyond reason now and killing royalty scarcely warranted a thought. Only Robin’s fingers closing around his wrist prevented him from drawing.

  “We can settle both matters at the same time, if it is acceptable to all. Sir Hugh—” Robin’s steely gray eyes sought out the brusque-faced baron from Luisignan. “The dispute we have arranged to settle on the morrow … would it not be served as well through a single-combat match?”

  Hugh the Brown, as he was known, glowered from Robin’s face to Louis’s, for an insult against the Amboise honor was like an insult to chivalry itself.

  “Honor would be well served,” he agreed gruffly. “Though I would be reluctant to claim such a champion for our side”—he glared at Griffyn—“and will not warranty his horse or armour should he lose.”

  Renaud’s only reaction to the snub was a slight twist to the mouth. “Am I at least to have the privilege of knowing which of the Amboise challengers I will be meeting on the morrow?”

  The surrounding crowd, unable to hear the exchange but fully aware something of vast importance was taking place, had grown still enough to resemble figures painted on wooden boards. And silent enough for Brenna to hear the roaring of blood in her veins as Robin turned his face into the westering sun and let the last slanted rays reflect the fire in his eyes.

  “You may meet as many of them as you like,” he said evenly, “if you are still in your saddle after I have finished with you.”

  “No!” Brenna gasped softly. “Robin, no—”

  It took almost a full thirty seconds for the buzz of whispers to spread outward from the royal bower and ripple its way around the entire enclosure. The spectators continued to watch in shock as Griffyn tipped his head slightly and touched a mailed forefinger to his helm in a mocking salute before he lowered his visor again and spurred Centurion toward his recet.

  Brenna could scarcely believe what she had seen and heard. Sparrow was still red-faced and squirming. Richard and Geoffrey were arguing with Robin, who in turn ignored them and focused all his attention on Griffyn Renaud as he prepared himself to face Ivo. If anything, he looked more at ease than he had since they had departed Amboise.

  “You cannot go through with it,” Brenna whispered, touching his arm.

  He covered her hand with his and squeezed it reassuringly as the challengers set themselves in the lists. Where Ivo fidgeted with shield, reins, and the grip of his lance, Griffyn sat his mount easily, man and horse seemingly carved from stone. He held his lance hooked in the crook of his arm with the point touching the earth so as to save strength while he waited for the heralds to blast their lily-mouthed trumpets and the judge to lift the couvre-chef.

  “You cannot do this,” Brenna whispered again, her voice raw with emotion.

  “It is done already,” Robin said, narrowing his eyes against the russet glare of the sun.

  Brenna swallowed hard but still felt physically ill; the acid taste of bile rose at the back of her throat, thickened by the smell of leather and iron, sweat and sticky-sweet ambergris.

  The crowd quieted. At the far end of the enclosure, Griffyn Renaud raised the point of his lance and, as the square of white linen fell from the marshal’s hand, dug in his spurs.

  It took four men to carry the litter from the field, and the cruel
jest followed that he would no longer be known as Ivo the Crippler, but Ivo the Crippled.

  Griffyn had won the day, as was expected, finishing with hardly more than a few scrapes and bruises to show for the effort. His arms ached dully from the strain of balancing the weight of the lance, but it was a familiar ache and would be gone by morning. His spine let him know it had supported the equivalent of a well-fed man on his shoulders for most of the long afternoon, and each bony knuckle cracked thankfully as he stripped to bare flesh and bathed in a steaming hot tub. Fulgrin’s knowing fingers massaged every joint, muscle, and tendon with a vigor that nearly brought tears to his eyes, but when he was finished, Griffyn could stand and walk and bend without once tightening his jaw in discomfort.

  He dressed again in his plain hose and green surcoat, and because few had actually had a close look at his face, he was able to slip unobtrusively away from the area of the jousting fields and mingle with the common crowds. The day’s activities ended with the dusk and there was already a mass migration back up to the chateau where there would be a second raucous night of feasting, drinking, and celebrating. Griffyn had declined all three of Malagane’s invitations to attend, even though the last had come from Prince Louis and had been phrased as more of a demand than a request. Even Fulgrin, who was used to his temper and broody nature, removed himself from Griffyn’s presence with all haste, declaring that he preferred the company of the horses.

  The reason for his coming to Gaillard, the reason for his entering the tournament in the first place was to fight Robert Wardieu, yet now that the match was set, he was angry at himself for provoking it. He should have heeded Fulgrin’s warnings back in Orleans and come straight to Gaillard. He should never have veered off the main road, never have catered to his own vanity and arrogance by venturing inside the walls of Amboise. Sheer witless self-conceit had prompted him to go, like a fox amongst the chickens, to see his enemy up close. Complete unbridled stupidity had governed his actions thereafter, for he had enjoyed the evening of drinking and gaming with the brothers, he had enjoyed exchanging war stories with Robin Wardieu.