“I shall do my best to disappoint them,” Robin said grimly, wincing as he tested his range of motion from the waist up. Sparrow had bound his ribs so tightly he could scarcely take a deep breath.
Brenna sat in a corner of the pavilion, quietly horrified to watch her brother dress for combat. She could have prevented it, she reasoned, if she had simply had the courage to loose her arrow last night. What did it say for her nerve if she could not even do such a simple thing to prevent such a potentially calamitous consequence? What did it say for her common sense if she could strip all but naked before a man and beg him to carry her away instead of just shooting him and ending the matter then and there?
You should go to Robin.
How could she go to him without admitting what a fool she had made of herself?
I was fine until you touched me …
And I was fine until you touched me …
“Liar,” she muttered. “Liar, liar, liar.”
Dag, who sat glumly rubbing a shoulder he had bruised in his match yesterday, looked over and frowned. “Who is lying?”
“The whole wretched world,” she said, pushing to her feet.
“Yes, well.” Richard dropped the flap in place again. “The world will be calling upon us soon. What say you, Rob?”
“I am ready.”
Sparrow darted after another buckle that looked suspiciously like it might allow some movement, and Robin glared down at him. “It was not your fault, Puck. Ease yourself.”
“I will ease myself when you have spitted this arrogant codshead and fed him your dust.” He reached down and scratched savagely at his groin. “Not one moment before.”
Robin signaled Timkin, who was waiting with his gauntlets and helm. Almost as an afterthought, he asked, “Did any of you notice any weakness I might have missed?”
Richard, who was too respectful of his brother’s position and prowess to think of offering any advice unless it was specifically asked for, was the quickest off the mark. “He pulls his horse to the left just as he is about to strike.”
Dag disagreed. “To the right, I thought. And he leans forward, with his elbow flush against the shield.”
“From what I saw,” said the ever-practical Geoffrey LaFer, “he changes his stance to match each challenger. He takes a good long look while they set themselves, and he seems to know just where and when they will strike, and how best to counter it.”
Robin nodded grimly. “I saw the same thing. That was what kept us bashing at each other five years ago. The bastard adjusts. He can lean forward or back, to the left, to the right, or straight on. And if you are lucky enough to get your lance on him, it is like ramming into a mountain.”
Brenna closed her eyes and tried to close her ears, to no effect. The voices were bouncing around inside the belly of the silk tent, impossible to avoid. She felt sick at heart, for she had never had cause to doubt the outcome of a joust or to dread it. Or to harbor a suspicion that some small part of her was hoping Robin’s lance would miss its mark.
A rousing cheer went up, deafening all that had gone before, for the sight of Robert Wardieu d’Amboise riding onto the field of combat drew a roar from every throat. His armour, even his lance was black with gold bands and bordures; his gambeson and the great bat-winged shield glittered menacingly with the snarling figurehead of a prowling wolf atop the three gold bars that distinguished his arms as heir to the legendary Black Wolf. His visor was not yet lowered, and a bevy of faint-hearted damsels squealed with excitement and swooned as his gaze raked the ranks of spectators. Even the faces of the men grew flushed to see that the tip of his lance had been modified during the night, the coronal removed and the point squared.
A thin strip of yellow silk was tied around the hilt, just above the cone-shaped guard. It was old and tattered and had been carried in every joust since he had won his spurs. The envy of every beauty present, it was also the cause of every shaking head and furrowed brow as the question was asked and answered a hundred times. No one knew to whom the token belonged, or who held Wardieu’s heart so tightly. They only knew enough to be jealous of whoever she was, for surely there was no knight more handsome, more honorable, courageous, bold, fearsome, and daring …
A second roar started the penoncels waving and the feet stamping as Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay appeared at the entrance to the field. He had not yet donned his bascinet or helm and the long, flowing waves of his hair gleamed blue-black in the sunlight. As he cast his pale, unearthly gaze around the arena, the dark, brooding beauty of his face prompted a second chorus of shrieks and a second ripple of swooning maidens.
Neither combatant took the customary progress around the enclosure. Both went only as far as the central dais to tip their lances at Prince Louis and the smugly grinning Bertrand Malagane. The dais, like every other stand of seats, was filled to overflowing with noble guests who cheered just as loudly as the common rabble. Some felt the shocking effect of those pale eyes as the Prince of Darkness searched the rows of ladies, bundled in their cloaks of ermine, marten, and vair, but if there was a particular face he was looking for, he did not see it there. Both champions returned to their respective recets and it was Robin, this time, who waited patient and still at the line while Griffyn donned his padded bascinet and clipped his helm and camail in place. He took up his lance and shield and wielded his big gray destrier to the line, the animal stepping high in his eagerness as he awaited his master’s signal.
The heralds raised their trumpets and gave two long blasts. In the absolute dead quiet that followed, the marshal of judges rose to his feet and announced the terms of the single-combat match, namely that it was to take the place of the battle royale and decide the fate of the ill-favored niece of Hugh the Brown. There were a few grumbles from the crowd, for there were those who enjoyed the spectacle of an all out battle between teams of highly skilled knights, but if asked privately which they would rather see—the mêlée or this match between two powerful, undefeated champions—there was no question the match would draw the loudest roar. The marshal’s speech at end, he gave both challengers a long, solemn consideration before hoisting the silk couvre-chef. The crowd held its breath. The two knights raised the points of their lances. Robin hitched his shield a little more to the right while Griffyn sat as if carved from green marble.
The couvre-chef seemed to float in the air a moment after the marshal released it. But then it fell and the ground shook as the two enormous chargers broke eagerly away from their lines and sped down the course. In less time than it took the spectators to exhale their pent-up breaths, the two beasts had converged at the center of the list. The unblunted tips of both lances clashed simultaneously, striking the heart of the opposite shield, the staggering power behind the impact causing both knights to jerk back in their saddles and their screaming mounts to rear up on hind legs.
The two parted in a cloud of dust and pawing hooves and galloped to the far end of the lists, jolted but unscathed. Griffyn’s lance was cracked and he threw it aside for another. As soon as he was set, the chargers were spurred forward again, their silks streaming out behind, their ears flattened, their tails flowing straight back in the wind. There was another tremendous, crashing impact, and this time it was Robin who called for a new weapon, the last one torn from his grip in the violence of the clash. On the third pass, the two shafts scraped together in a shower of cracking, splitting wood slivers, and Robin had no choice but to raise his shield and pull Sir Tristan to the side to avoid a strike square on the slats of his visor. He came away with his shield pocked in the shape of Griffyn’s lance and his rage soaring well beyond what was safe in such a deadly game of skill and nerve.
Three more charges nearly caused the crowd to scream themselves hoarse, for each would have been worth the miles-long trek many had made to see such a spectacle of chivalry and derring-do.
At the end of ten runs, the knights were given a few minutes’ reprieve. Battered and dented shields were replaced, horses were carefully
checked for injuries, and the combatants were given the opportunity to catch their breath. It was then, with his visor raised in order to wipe away the sweat streaming down his face, the Prince of Darkness looked somewhere other than straight down the lists. He turned his head toward the crowded enclosure behind the palisades where an errant beam of hot sunlight had touched upon a long, gleaming gold braid and drawn his gaze like a moth to a flame.
Brenna had not given a moment’s consideration to the invitation to watch the match from the royal bower. Nor had she dressed in the fancy silks or cendals that marked her as a lady of noble birth. It was a deceptively safe feeling of anonymity that allowed Brenna a momentary lapse as she found herself watching Griffyn Renaud prepare himself for the next course. Her heart had been in her throat since the first pass and while it was true her first thoughts, when the dust cleared and the destriers parted, were always for Robin, she could not help but watch Griffyn as he retired to his end of the recet. Nor could she prevent a small clutch in her belly each time she saw him sway or shake an arm to relieve the numbing effects of a freshly earned bruise. Neither man was unhurt. Both had taken devastating blows that would have shattered lesser men. Now, as she watched him fasten his camail in place and signal the judge he was ready, she found herself caught and held by the luminous green eyes. In that fleeting moment, she could have sworn the look he gave her was the same as the one he had given her on the archery range when he had not troubled himself to follow the flight of his arrow.
Griffyn dropped his visor. A split-second later, he spurred Centaur forward and thundered headlong into yet another screaming, tearing, smashing encounter with his opponent. It was a matter of a few seconds only until he saw the looming point of Robin’s lance, and it took a fraction less time, the span of a heartbeat, to adjust the angle of his shield downward, leaving the slimmest of pathways free for a solid strike to the shoulder. He could see little more than an approaching streak of black through the slats of his visor, but he imagined he saw the surprised look in Wardieu’s eyes as he saw the opening and struck for it. He braced himself for the blow, every instinct in his body screaming to defend against it, and at the last possible instant, he did raise his shield, too late to completely blunt the agony of brilliant white pain as the steel-reinforced tip slammed into his shoulder, tearing him sideways and out of the saddle.
To the crowd’s utter horror and delight, the enormous gray stallion emerged from the confrontation riderless. The Prince of Darkness was down! The brazen challenger from the East was unhorsed, the green-and-gold was cartwheeling in the dirt, and Robert Wardieu d’Amboise had stayed upright to emerge the victor, the undisputed champion of the Enterprise of the Dragon’s Mouth!
The crowd went berserk.
Hats, pennons, gloves, and any other loosely guarded garment was thrown high in the air. Men burst through the barricades and swarmed Robin where he cantered into the recet. Richard, Dag, and Will were capering like fools, and Sparrow came flying down out of nowhere to land in the saddle behind his ward, the impact of his sudden, splatted landing nearly managing to do what a dozen thrusts of a lance could not.
Only Brenna, of all the shouting, jubilant Amboise supporters, looked back in horror to the field where Griffyn Renaud was being assisted to his feet. He staggered a moment under the weight of his armour and stood with his hands braced on his knees until Fulgrin could prise his helm off his head and allow the spitting out of a mouthful of foul-tasting dust. But then he shook off the hands that were helping to steady him and stood straight. Centaur had come back when he realized his saddle was empty, and he approached his master with a bowed head and dragging steps as if the humiliation were somehow his fault.
Griffyn swept his hood and bascinet off his head and shook the sweat-soaked waves of his hair free. He did not look in Brenna’s direction again. He did not look anywhere but straight ahead as he took up Centaur’s reins and led him off the field.
The blow he had taken to his shoulder had not broken any bones or ripped apart any muscles, but it had been hard enough to drive the links of his armour through the many layers of padding and into the flesh, leaving several bloodied pocks and a bruise as black as his mood. Fulgrin, wary of his master’s temper, had not uttered so much as a single word. The only sound he made was a clucking of the tongue as he picked the broken and embedded links of iron out of Griffyn’s wound.
He had just finished applying a thick balm and was starting to bind the shoulder in strips of linen when the door of the pavilion was pushed open and Bertrand Malagane strode through, furious enough to kick aside the basin of bloodied water.
“I assume you have an explanation?”
“I offered no guarantees. The bastard is good. Damned good. He gave his best and won the day.”
“I paid you a great deal of money to succeed, not to fail.”
Griffyn’s eyes narrowed. “You paid me a great deal of money to come to Gaillard. You offered more if I should succeed, but unfortunately … I did not succeed.”
There was another brief slash of sunlight from the door and Griffyn glanced over as Solange de Sancerre, flanked by Gerome de Saintonge and two burly men, stepped inside the pavilion. He recognized both men from past encounters; Engelard Cigogni was an Italian, swarthy in countenance with a chest like an oaken barrel and arms as big around as truncheons. His companion, Andrew de Chanceas, was deceptively handsome and soft-spoken, but there was no life in the black eyes, no mercy in his soul, no conscience whatsoever that might deter from his being one of the most dangerous and deadly assassins in Normandy.
“It did not look to me as if you were as determined as you should be,” Malagane said angrily, drawing the pale eyes back.
“From a comfortable seat in the bower, I warrant nothing looks the same as it does on a field of battle. I see you brought your pet dogs with you. Andrew …” He gave the handsome assassin an exaggerated wink. “Still getting down on all fours for your oafish friend there?”
Cigogni took an angry step forward, but de Chanceas stopped him with a smile and a languid wave of his hand. “I am sure I could be persuaded to share if the mood came upon you. And I know Engelard would dearly love to have the virile Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay on his knees before him.”
Griffyn turned to pour himself another cup of wine. “Some day, when we meet in hell, I should be happy to teach both of you some manners. For the time being, however—”
He did not get to finish the sentence. He sensed the movement behind him and barely had time to brace himself before he was struck across the base of his skull with the stout iron hilt of a falchion. He lunged instinctively for his sword, but Andrew de Chanceas was already there, kicking the blade beyond his reach. The assassin launched a hammer-like fist at Griffyn’s jaw, snapping his head sideways with enough force to send him into the waiting arms of Engelard Cigogni, who hauled him upright and braced him for a series of blows that left him slumped in a bloody sprawl across the floor.
When it looked as if the two men would continue beating the unconscious knight, Malagane stepped forward and signaled a halt. He peered down through the shadows, a satisfied smile on his face. “Arrogant bastard. I will show him what happens to men who think to play me for a fool.”
Solange glided eagerly forward, her eyes shining with anticipation. “May I have him now, my loving lord? I can teach him lessons in manners that will have him screaming your praises!”
Malagane petted her cheek for a moment, but his smile, evil and promissory, was not directed at her when he turned his head, but at the corner of the pavilion where Fulgrin was standing, huddled against the side of the tent as if he could make himself small enough to disappear.
“Someone will be screaming soon, my dear,” Malagane allowed silkily. “If I am thwarted again, they will be screaming very loudly indeed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Brenna paced outside the black-and-gold pavilion and chewed savagely on a fingernail. Something had happened out there on the tilting
field. She was not sure exactly what, but something had happened that put her in no mood to celebrate along with the others. As she paced, her bow slung over her shoulder, she glowered at the throng surrounding the Amboise pavilion. Well-wishers for the most part, it was a crowd composed of knights, nobles, and commoners alike, the latter the noisiest and slowest to depart for they kept hoping the champion would make another appearance. It was the custom for the victor to share his triumph by way of distributing largesse, and Robin had already scattered several fistfuls of coin among them. He was inside the tent now, having his bruises and cuts tended, his privacy safeguarded by a ring of Amboise guardsmen who stood shoulder to shoulder in a glowering circle around the pavilion. Will and Sparrow were with him; Geoffrey was making arrangements to break camp, Dag and Richard were standing inside the cleared circle, grinning like jackanapes, accepting the claps on the back and hearty hand-clasps as if they had been the ones who had defeated the Prince of Darkness.
Defeated? Nay. Some dreadful feeling inside told Brenna it was not so much a defeat as it was a sacrifice. It was nothing she had seen, nothing she could put her finger on or swear with any certainty she had read in Griffyn Renaud’s eyes in that one split second before he had lowered his visor. Yet the feeling was there, churning in her belly, chilling her skin, refusing to go away, that he had done something no black-souled, self-serving hireling would ever dream of doing. And if he had done what she suspected he had done, then it must mean he had a soul, he had a heart, he had a conscience. It must also mean that everything else he had told her last night about Bertrand Malagane and the plot to kill Robin must also be true.
If it was, she had to tell Robin. Of course she had to tell him; he had to be warned. But how? How, without confessing her own transgressions? She could almost picture his face before her, hear the disapproval in his voice, see the disappointment in the slate-gray eyes that were so much like their father’s. It would be like confessing her shame to the Wolf himself. Perhaps if he wasn’t so pure and noble himself, it would be easier. Richard and Dag would not have any difficulty understanding what had happened; they were governed by their passions and emotions. But Robin … an avowed celibate, for pity’s sake … would not begin to comprehend how the heat and temptation of the moment might cause an otherwise sane and level-headed person to behave intemperately and irrationally.
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