The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  And Brenna …

  She undoubtedly loathed him now with all her heart and soul, and he could not blame her. It was probably just as well, for he was not all that sure what effect it would have on him if he ever came face to face with her again. If she ever looked at him or touched him or spoke to him with the smallest measure of the emotion that had quivered in her voice last night.

  Griffyn’s steps slowed as he approached his campsite. A fire was blazing outside his tent, the cooler currents of air carrying glowing bits of ash up into the night sky. There was another light inside, and as he lifted the flap, it was the first thing he saw: the stout iron lamp on a low table, its cake of beeswax beset by flying moths. The second thing he saw was the enormous platter of cheese, meat, and bread, evidence his squire had not completely abandoned him to his own wiles. Griffyn crossed the tent and stood in the bright halo of light; he cut off a chunk of yellow cheese and had just put it in his mouth when the cool prickle of an inner alarm feathered across the nape of his neck.

  He turned only his head and searched the darkest shadows beside the doorway. She was standing there, still as stone, much like the first time he had seen her, with the light etching the clean, dangerous lines of her bow, glinting off the steel arrowhead aimed between his eyes.

  He crushed the cheese between his teeth and swallowed it in a solid lump. It stuck in his throat and he pointed to the flagon of wine to ease his efforts to cough it free. “May I?”

  Only the tip of the arrow moved, jerking once.

  He poured out a cup full and gulped it to clear his throat. It was strong and sweet, and somewhere in the back of his mind, where all inane things were recorded, he noted it was the fine, clove-spiced claret from Auvergne that Fulgrin managed to lay hands on no matter where they roamed.

  “Will you have a cup?”

  She increased the tension on the bowstring. “I would prefer to kill you first and celebrate after.”

  He nodded. “A more orderly progression of events, I suppose. But no questions first?”

  “Only one. Did you enjoy humiliating us today?”

  His hand tightened on the cup briefly before he set it down. “It was never my intention to humiliate you or to hurt you in any way.”

  “We have already established you are an excellent liar, sirrah,” she hissed. “Do not try my patience by trying to pretend you are human as well.”

  Griffyn’s gaze flicked down to the gleaming length of the bow. Where it had been held rock steady up to then, there was now a slight tremor to warn of the depth of her anger.

  “All right. I confess, I gave it no thought in the beginning.”

  “And now?”

  “Now,” he said honestly, “I have thought of nothing else all day.”

  “Surely you have,” she insisted. “You have been thinking and plotting to find a way to goad my brother into meeting you in the lists.”

  “He challenged me,” he reminded her, though the rebuttal sounded lame, even to his ears.

  “You drove him to it. You left him no choice. It was deliberate and intentional, and I warrant if he had not taken offense at any of the insults you did throw at him, you would have used me to guarantee his participation. Admit that much at least, and I might be able to find some comfort in the fact that you do not think me to be utterly and completely stupid.”

  “I do not think you are stupid at all. I think you are angry—and you have every right to be—and confused, and hurt. And if there was something I could do to spare you any more pain, I would do it gladly.”

  “Refuse to fight tomorrow,” she said flatly. “Send word to Robin that you were caught up in the heat of the moment and cannot, in all good conscience, take advantage of his honor and pride in such a cold, callous manner.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

  “No. Leave here tonight. Go back to the caves of Burgundy where you belong; your own reputation will not suffer for it.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I will shoot.”

  “You would kill me?”

  “I would only have to put this through your elbow or your shoulder and not even your arrogance would see you into a saddle tomorrow.”

  His smile was wry as he took a measured step toward her. “I suppose I should be relieved Centaur is not here to threaten again.”

  “Stop,” she warned. “I will do it.”

  He took another step. And another. Brenna adjusted her aim to the shoulder and pressed herself back into the corner as far as the canvas would take her.

  “Are you so worried I might defeat him?”

  “I am worried his pride might cause him to take foolish risks that he cannot afford to take right now.”

  “Because of his injury?”

  “His injury,” she scoffed. “He has fought with worse than broken ribs before and never so much as flinched.”

  Griffyn stopped and folded his arms across his chest. “Then I confess I am doubly curious to know why he is keeping himself behind the palisades.”

  Her mouth compressed into a thin line. “He has his reasons.”

  “We all have reasons for doing what we do.”

  “I asked you at Amboise if you had come to kill my brother and you said no. Was that also a lie?”

  “Had I wanted to kill him then, it would have been easy enough to do. I could have done it that day on the archery range if I had just altered the aim of my arrow at the last minute. But I wanted more. I wanted the satisfaction, first, of seeing him go down under my lance; it was what I have trained for, fought for, worked toward all these years. Ever since Gascon.”

  “Gascon?” The arrow dropped fractionally on a gust of exasperation. “All of this … because you lost to him at Gascon?” Then her voice dripped with ten shades of contempt as she shook her head in disbelief. “Did you ever consider there might be more important things in life than cockfights and boasting contests?”

  “I did. At one time,” he said quietly.

  “But not since your heart turned to stone and you sold your honor along with your sword.”

  “You may think of me as little better than a common mercenary, irreligious and possessing few scruples, willing to sell my sword to whoever meets my price … and until recently, you might well have been right.”

  “Until recently? Have the heavens opened, then, and showered you with scruples?”

  “I have been more honest with you,” he admitted truthfully, “than I have with anyone else in a good many years.”

  “And that should make me raise my hands and give thanks?”

  “No. But I would hope it would let you believe me when I say your brother is in grave danger whether I fight him or not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean”—he sighed and turned his head away for a moment as if wondering what fine madness was gripping him this time—“if I do not fight Robin tomorrow, there will likely be a brace of assassins waiting outside the tilting grounds for the both of us.”

  Her fingers curled tighter around the shaft of the bow. “What nonsense are you speaking now?”

  “Do the names Engelard Cigogni or Andrew de Chanceas mean anything to you?”

  Brenna’s initial reaction was to dismiss them with an impatient shake of her head … but then she remembered. The two men Will had seen in the bower earlier, the two men who had held his attention even through the exchange of insults and challenges. He had mentioned them later to Robin, and to Sparrow, whose face had blanched even whiter than it had in the bower.

  “The names are familiar?”

  She nodded slowly. “Will told Robin they were here.”

  “They are in the employ of Bertrand Malagane. Killers both, with dead eyes and no thoughts of their own behind them.”

  Brenna shook her head again in confusion. “Why would the Count of Saintonge want my brother dead?”

  “First tell me this: is Robin planning a journey to England in the near future?”

  Her h
eart stumbled over several beats and the strength in her arms faltered, nearly causing her to shoot out of reflex. Griffyn was close enough by then to reach out swiftly and capture the shaft of the arrow, angling it downward and to the side.

  “How do you know this?” she gasped.

  “Then it is true?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Malagane knows. That is why he has his assassins sharpening their knives … and why he has paid me an extraordinary sum of money to insure your brother does not leave Normandy.”

  “He hired you to kill Robin?” Her words were barely above a breath and her eyes, which had only burned with the threat of tears until now, blurred beneath a film of shimmering silver. “But you just told me—”

  “That I had not gone to Amboise to kill your brother. And that was the truth. I only wanted to have a close look at my enemy, at the man I had hated for five years and blamed for the death of my wife.”

  “Your … wife?”

  His smile was bitter. “You say that with such flattering connotations. Is it so hard to imagine?”

  She did not answer, but the look in her eyes was eloquent enough to earn a small laugh of self-derision.

  “Yes, well, the whole idea of being responsible for another life took me by surprise also.” He raked his hand through his hair, not wanting to talk about it now, but finding he had little choice. “We were young. Far too young to take on the world. Adele was frail to begin with … so very frail … and when she found out she was with child … I knew we could not live by traveling from tournament to tournament or survive solely on my winnings. Gascon was the last tourney of the season, and the richest. If I could have won there, we would have had enough to keep us warm and fed over the winter. She was big with child, and terrified, but she insisted I go …”

  Brenna felt dampness on her lashes but steadfastly swallowed the tears that threatened.

  “I wagered everything I had that day, everything I won in the early matches, everything I could ransom from the moneylenders. And I was winning. Right up to the end, when the bold and brash champion from Amboise took to the lists and held off my lance for twenty-three passes. I only had the one horse—Centaur—and the judges decided he had taken enough punishment. They declared the match in Robin’s favor and it was over, just like that. I lost everything, even Centaur—though your brother was generous enough not to take him. When I returned to the inn where I had left Adele, I discovered the innkeeper had turned her out because of the monies owed. I tore the village apart and finally found her in a cow bothy. She had died there giving birth.”

  Brenna blinked and felt the hot splash of a tear on her cheek. “And the child?”

  He shook his head. “Someone remembered hearing a baby cry through the night, someone else remembered seeing a peasant wheeling a cart with a wailing child inside, but I found nothing. I searched, I asked, I went to all the neighboring villages, but I could find no trace.” He stopped and looked into Brenna’s eyes for the first time since beginning his story. “I blamed myself and I blamed the world for Adele’s death. Robin was just convenient to focus upon. Over time, he became the reason why I could not put a solid roof over her head or hot food in her belly. But even if I had won that day in Gascon, I doubt a handful of coins would have helped her. Perhaps … if I had swallowed my pride and taken her home … to England, where she belonged … perhaps she would be with me still.”

  It hit her like a cool spray of water. “England? You are English?”

  He nodded as if it was a distasteful admission. “I have not ventured across the Channel in over seven years, though I have no doubt Malagane would be prepared to swear I disembarked last week if he knew. As it is, he knew only we had fought before and were evenly matched. He also knew if Robin fell to the Prince of Darkness … there would be no fingers pointed in his direction, no reason for your family to suspect he was behind it, therefore no repercussions. He paid me, you see, in good English sterling, probably with the intentions of ‘discovering’ I was in the employ of your father’s enemies.”

  “He does not know you are English?”

  “No. No one else—not even Fulgrin knows.”

  “Why are you telling me?” she asked. “And why should I believe you?”

  “I do not know,” he said quietly. “And God help me, I do not know.”

  He looked at her until her eyes started to water again, then slowly reached up and curved his hand around her neck. He drew her forward and, to her credit, she did manage to deny his efforts to raise her chin and he had to settle for pressing his lips to her brow. That was bad enough, though. Worse when he began to lay a tender path of kisses along her temple and cheek, for it roused every sensation, every feeling, every emotion she had discovered in his arms last night.

  “Bastard,” she cried softly. “Bastard! Why did you ever touch me? I w-was fine until you touched me.”

  “And I was fine until you touched me,” he countered in a whisper.

  “Liar.”

  His lips traveled the curve of her cheek and his hands tried to work their magic against the stiffness in her neck, tried to angle her mouth up so he could capture it.

  “Is this what you want?” Her voice was muffled against his surcoat. “Is this what you want in exchange for my brother’s life?”

  His lips froze and his body went rigid.

  “Is it?” she asked, and pushed out of his arms. “If it is, I will gladly give it to you. Here, look—” She fumbled with the buckle of her belt and let it drop to the floor. She pulled off her surcoat and cast it into the shadows, then lifted the hem of her shirt and started to peel it up and over her head.

  “Brenna—”

  “No. No, if this is what you want, if this is what it will take—” She flung the shirt after the other garment and reached for the waist of her leggings.

  “Brenna!” He grasped her wrists and jerked them around to the small of her back. Her naked breasts gleamed as white as snow in the lamplight, the nipples pink and taut and mocking him for even looking, while the dark violet of her eyes sparkled up at him, shining with desperation.

  “Are you saying you do not want me?”

  “At this precise moment?” His fingers tightened around her waist and the dreadful burden of his self-imposed loneliness was etched suddenly on his face. “I want you more than I have ever wanted anyone or anything in my life.”

  “Then take me,” she gasped. “Take me away from this place. I will go anywhere you want me to go, do anything you want me to do, be anything you want me to be … just … take me away from this place, now. Tonight. We can go to Robin. We can tell him everything. He will know what to do about Malagane and Cigogni and—”

  “I cannot do that,” he whispered.

  “You can. If you want me as much as you say you do.” She pressed against him, her lips seeking his, and it was a testament to his own desperation that he swore and clung to her heat. His tongue filled her mouth, plunging deep in a rough act of possession, and he brought her closer, crushing her against his chest and, for one wild moment, actually considered doing it. He considered leaving, taking her with him, starting afresh, leaving all the lies, the deceit, the treachery behind him.

  But then the initial rush of hot blood passed and he could feel the stiffness in her body. He could feel her heart beating as fast as his own but out of panic, nothing more.

  He straightened and eased her gently back to arm’s length. He bent over and retrieved her shirt, and when she did not take it from his hand, he sighed and pulled it over her head and shoulders, feeding her arms into the sleeves as if he was dressing a child.

  “We can go to Robin,” she said again helplessly.

  He clamped his jaws tight enough to make his teeth ache. Certes, they could go to Robert Wardieu and tell him everything, but what good would it do? It would be his word against the Count of Saintonge’s. It would be the word of a banished Englishman who had lived a less than honest, honorable life these past few yea
rs in the guise of a Burgundian mercenary, against that of an important and influential ally of the King of France. “You should go to Robin and tell him what I have told you. Warn him to watch his back.”

  “You are still going to fight him?”

  “I have no choice.”

  The hope faded from her eyes and she pushed past him, snatching up her bow, her belt and surcoat. At the door of the tent she stopped and looked back, and for just a moment, her face was shadowed with such a sense of betrayal and disappointment, he felt it like a fist closing around his heart.

  It had been so long since he had felt anything at all in that region, he started to take a step after her. “Brenna—”

  But she was gone. The flap swung closed and he was left standing alone in the middle of the musty tent, the halo of tarnished light behind him luring another moth to its flaming death.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  There had been a heavy dew overnight and millions of sunlit pendants were scattered across the ground and on the roofs of the tents, dusting even the ropes and wagons with fine, glittering spickets of moisture. Many in the camp had awakened well before dawn in order to claim the best seats in the tilting field. Some had stayed there all night wrapped in blankets, their breath puffing out between the folds in soft white clouds. Everyone knew the Prince of Darkness and the champion from Amboise were to fight at midday, and while the sun dried the damp earth and the meadows filled with commoners and nobles alike, eager eyes stayed glued to the cloth-draped barriers that marked the entrance to the field.

  Inside the black-and-gold pavilion, Sparrow adjusted the lacings on Robin’s chausses for the third time.

  “The people are in a surly mood,” Richard said, lifting the flap of the door to peer outside. “They smell blood in the air.”

  “Some will want to see Robin unhorsed simply to show it can be done,” Will agreed. “Others will not mourn to see him killed or maimed so badly he would never ride against them again.”