Foolish. Naïve. He should have known from the evil laughter in Gisbourne’s eyes that he was being saved for something special. He should have known, when he refused to answer any of Gisbourne’s endless questions, that there would be some heinous punishment for his stubbornness down the road. He should have known, when they started chaining him hand and foot to the wall, that they did not want him doing harm to himself to cheat them of their final entertainment.
A week ago, Gisbourne had come to the donjons, carried there on a litter like some Roman emperor, bathed in a blaze of torchlight that had blinded Henry for nearly eight hours afterward. He had come to ask one last time where the outlaw stronghold in Sherwood was located and where, in the interest of a merciful death, Eleanor of Brittany had been taken after her rescue from Corfe Castle so many years ago. There were rumors she had died shortly thereafter. Rumors she had been spirited to Wales and had married another outlaw prince, Rhys ap Iowerth. There were rumors also that she had been seen in Scotland holding royal court behind the mud-and-timber bastions of Edinburgh. Was she dead? Was she alive? Had William Marshal been involved in rescuing her? If Henry would only answer his questions and sign a confession … he would die quickly and painlessly under an executioner’s axe, as befitting a knight of the realm.
Henry had remained silent and Gisbourne had laughed. He had not changed much in the decade since their last encounter. He was still thin and ferret-like in appearance, with a long hooked nose and eyes too narrow and too close together to encourage any hope of compassion or sympathy. He dressed as if he ruled the world and not just the outlaw-infested shire of Nottingham. His robes were the finest velvets, heavily crusted with jewels and embroidery. The plaited gold sallet he wore on his head was fashioned like a crown and glittered atop straight dark hair that was oiled and groomed to a perfect roll just below the ear. When he talked, he continually stroked his bejewelled fingers over the manicured point of his beard, and when he laughed, he revealed two crooked front teeth, forked like gleaming white fangs.
Ah, but when he walked—or attempted to—he had to do so with canes, and that was Henry’s one consolation. His rich velvet robes hid the damage well, but his legs were bent and twisted, the knees broken, the bones warped. And higher up, where there had once hung an instrument of perverse pleasure, there were now only two small sacs with naught between but a nub and a scar.
It was this Henry remembered and this he tried to envision in his mind each time Gisbourne’s wine-soaked breath washed over his face. And it was this he was thinking of when Sir Guy announced, almost casually, that he was to be moved to Lincoln the following week’s end that the king might have the pleasure of watching him hung, drawn; and quartered.
Since then, he tried to think only of Eleanor, his love, his life. She had learned to laugh again over the years, and had found peace with her God. Just sitting with her in the garden of the abbey had been his greatest pleasure in these later years, and he hoped she would sit there still and think of him fondly. She would grieve for him and, for that, he was sorry. She had had enough pain in her life and he did not want to be the cause of any more. He remembered what she had suffered at the hands of her cruel, vindictive uncle, how she had been strapped into a chair and had her brilliant blue eyes seared out with hot iron pokers. She said there were still days when she woke up and wondered why she could not open her eyes, or see the birds that sang on her windowsill. And there were nights when Marienne had to hold her and comfort her through the nightmares and pain she relived time and time again.
At least he would not have to suffer that. The unimaginable pain, yes, of being hung until almost dead, then revived enough to appreciate the artistry of some brutish bastard severing through the joints of his arms and legs, then splitting him open down the middle so that when they tied his wrists and ankles to four horses and spurred them into a gallop, his body would tear apart easily. But it would all be over in an hour or so and then he would have peace.
When Gisbourne had announced the method of his execution, Henry had managed to hold onto his bowels, but only just. And only until he had been hauled back to his cell and manacled to the walls. To his shame, he had soiled himself then, and wept like a child, for he had witnessed the barbarous method of execution once in Wales and he knew—he knew he had not a tenth of the courage needed to endure such excruciating agony.
They came for him in a crumping of heavy boots and creaking mail. Six guards, two bearing torches that dragged ribbons of black smoke behind them, came to his cell, unlocked his manacles, and towed his filthy, emaciated body back along the corridor, up a steep corkscrew flight of steps and out into the gray, foggy morning.
His eyes had grown weak from lack of sunlight and even though the sky was cloud-ridden and dull, it took several minutes to blink away the crusted filth and water, and to see what awaited him in the cobbled bailey.
It looked, at first, like an army. A host, to be sure, comprised of ranks upon ranks of knights in full mail mounted on caparisoned warhorses. Many sat with their lances raised and pennons hanging limp in the gray, misty air; a few—a very few—glanced furtively at Henry de Clare, ashamed to be part of such an ignominious escort. Behind these helmed and blank-faced knights were the men-at-arms. Dozens of them. Scores of them. All wearing thick bullhide armour and carrying pikes, crossbows, and shields. Pacing back and forth at their head was the gravel-voiced Reginald de Braose, shouting orders, issuing warnings, threatening any who failed in their duty this day.
Henry heard a familiar, sly cackle of laughter and, though he did not have the strength to stand entirely on his own, he struggled to pull himself upright that he might glare defiantly at the High Sheriff of Nottingham one last time.
Gisbourne was not laughing at him, however. Nor did he even appear to notice the bag of rags and bones that stood wobbling between the arms of two burly guards. He was laughing at something a tall, silver-haired man was saying. Laughing, and at the same time casting a lascivious eye over the buxom figure of the red-haired woman who stood by the nobleman’s side.
“An ambush at the Witch’s Teats, you say? And you have this on good authority?”
“The best,” said Bertrand Malagane. “We have had a man with them since they left Normandy. He managed to slip away during the night and found our own encampment not an hour ago. As you can see, I have come straight here with the warning.”
Gisbourne’s eyes glazed over as he stared out over the crowded bailey. “Robert Wardieu d’Amboise, here in Sherwood. You can have no idea how long I have waited to renew our acquaintance, how desperately I have wanted to offer him the hospitality of my donjons.” He looked back at Malagane. “Where is this man who dares to have done what none of my men have managed to do thus far? He should be rewarded for his ingenuity!”
“He has remained behind with my men. To help plan a little surprise for our mutual friends.”
Gisbourne’s mouth twisted suspiciously. “What is your interest in all of this?”
“Strictly personal,” Malagane lied smoothly. “Wardieu was responsible for the death of my older son.”
“Well.” Gisbourne signaled brusquely for his horse to be brought forth. “If there is anything left of him when I am finished, I gladly bequeath it to you.”
“In that case, perhaps I can offer the services of Lady Solange. She is deliciously adept at leaving just enough left over for one last poignant scream.”
Gisbourne regarded the curvaceous beauty with an eye that recalled, many years ago, another lethal female in the guise of Nicolaa de la Haye. She had been in the employ of the Dragon of Bloodmoor Keep—the half brother to Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer—and later discovered to be the mother of Eduard FitzRandwulf, the Black Wolfs son. The irony was almost too exquisite, and he threw his head back and laughed.
He cuffed a lackey out of the way and limped over to where Henry de Clare was standing. His fine pointed nose wrinkled with displeasure at the odor that clung to the prisoner’s clothes as he th
rust the edge of one cane under Henry’s chin, forcing him to look up.
“Of course you heard your friends are planning to attempt a rescue. What you may not have heard was that a mutual acquaintance of ours has come back to Sherwood after all these years away.” He leaned closer, his eyes almost crossing as he peered into Henry’s face. “What do you suppose we should do? Cringe in fear? Take another road? Delay until another day? Unfortunately the king awaits our arrival in Lincoln and there is no other road suitable for our needs. Alas, we shall simply have to ride out, then, and meet them.” He straightened and laughed again. “But not without a few surprises of our own, eh?”
He laughed even louder as he swung his walking stick across Henry’s shoulders and back. He swung and struck until his arm grew tired, then ordered the bleeding body thrown into the back of a small cart.
“Come along then, my friends,” he said to Malagane and Solange de Sancerre. “Our bait is loaded, our swords are sharpened. Let us see how many wolfheads we can catch in our traps today!”
In the outlaw’s camp, less than five miles away, the foresters were also making last-minute preparations to leave. Runners had already been dispatched to watch the road, but because of the size of the escort and the distance they had to travel before they cleared Sherwood, it was not supposed Gisbourne’s troop would reach the Witch’s Teats before noon. It would give Alan a’ Dale’s archers plenty of time to shake out their nerves, although they had delayed their own departure long enough to avoid giving them too much time to ponder the risks.
Brenna and Will had worked all the previous day with the archers who showed the most skill with the longbows. They would be positioned atop the crests of either hill, while the vast majority of bowmen would be situated halfway down, at a distance that promised devastating results even with their less powerful weapons. Fletchers had worked day and night to make arrows, and there were impressive bundles of steel-tipped shafts waiting to fill the quivers.
The knights from Amboise were fully armoured for battle and moved with quiet intensity among the horses, checking girths and straps for any sign of weakness. They were not overly worried about the foot soldiers; it was the company of knights—forty against seven—that was cause for concern, and they were counting heavily on Will and Brenna and their small team of elite archers to cut the odds to more comfortable numbers.
“Have you seen Griffyn?” Brenna asked, coming up behind Robin.
“Not since last night.” He paused and straightened from tightening the buckles on Sir Tristan’s croupiere. “Was he not with you?”
She supposed she should have had the humility to blush, but there was simply no time for it now and her breath puffed white in the mist as she turned and glanced at the activity taking place around them. “No. And his horse is gone.”
“What do you mean gone?” He twisted around, frowning, and took a quick head and beast count. The outlaws had a dozen or so animals of their own, palfreys mainly, that they had dressed with bits of confiscated barding and accoutrement. The men themselves were wearing pilfered coats of mail, tunics, and carrying knightly arms to make it seem as if their force of mounted fighters were more formidable than it was. Littlejohn and Geoffrey LaFer had worked as hard with them as Brenna and Will had worked with the archers, and Robin saw them moving among their protégés now patting backs and giving words of encouragement for a sword well buckled and a shield impressively painted to resemble real coats of arms. But there was no sign of the big gray destrier caparisoned in hunting green and gold. No sign of his master either.
“I mean … gone,” she said quietly.
The violet eyes were waiting for him when he finished his count and he could see that she was angry. Very angry. On a day when any emotion that might distract her or put a tremor in her hand could jeopardize the entire venture.
“Perhaps … perhaps he rode on ahead with some of the others to check the road.”
“I have asked everyone. No one has seen him since late last night.”
Robin abandoned the girth and turned to face her.
“Perhaps,” she said with quiet intensity, “he realized there was no profit in risking his life for such an ignoble cause. Perhaps he has had all the adventure and recklessness he cared to enjoy.”
“You do not really believe that, do you?”
She looked off into the trees, obviously too hurt to put her emotions into words. “His horse is gone. His squire is gone. The two bulging sacks of coin he so generously donated to the outlaws’ coffers … they are gone as well. What would you have me believe?”
“Bren …”
She shook her head. “No. I should have known better. We all should have known better.”
She turned and went back to where her archers were waiting. They were leaving in groups as soon as their quivers were filled, setting off through the mouth of the ravine at an easy loping gait. Will was there. He saw the mutinous set to her mouth and the flush that sat high on the crest of her cheeks, as if she had already run the distance and back again. Her throat was working frantically to swallow some tightness gathered there and her actions were brusque, all but vicious, as she slung her bow over her shoulder and grabbed up a bundle of arrows.
He looked, as Robin had, to where the horses were being led toward the forest path.
“Where is Griffyn?”
“Gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean gone?”
“How I do grow tired of repeating myself,” she hissed through the grate of her teeth. “I mean gone. Fled. Tucked tail and run. He is probably halfway back to Burgundy by now where the profits are larger and the women”—she had to stop for a catch in her throat—“the women ask nothing of him but the charity of his smile.”
“Bren—”
She glared at him across the top of her saddle. “I do not want your sympathy or your understanding. I was a fool and I paid the price.”
“But are you in the proper frame of mind to do what must needs be done today?” he asked softly.
“I will do what has to be done,” she insisted. “And likely take pleasure in doing it.”
Will watched her snatch up the reins and lead her horse to the mouth of the ravine, and the only sympathy he felt was for the men who would come within range of her arrows this day.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The fog had thickened to rain by the time they arrived at the Witch’s Teats, a cold, cutting drizzle that turned the road to mud and the grass on the meadow into slick, gray-green waves. Robin rode back and forth across the stretch of meadow checking the position of the archers concealed in the long grass that grew down the slopes of both hills. It was an ideal place for an ambush. The mist-shrouded tree-tops of Sherwood were just barely visible low on the southern horizon and the ground was relatively flat from there to the Teats, where the two gently rising mounds of earth forced the road to zig and zag between their bases. There were no trees and few bushes on either slope, and an unobservant eye would skim right across them without contemplating what mischief might lurk in the natural pocks formed by earth and overgrown rubble. There were more woods to the north, in the direction of Lincoln, and to the east, but they were neither as dense nor foreboding as Sherwood. The easterly wood was closest—no more than five hundred yards beyond the hills—and, if things turned sour, offered a handy escape route to take the men back to the safety of Sherwood, while hampering any horses or foot soldiers who tried to follow.
The heavy mist was an annoyance, but better than the strong sun in a midday sky that might reflect off bits of metal to betray their presence. Even so, as a precaution, the men on horseback were positioned behind the hills well out of sight of the road. Lookouts were posted as much as two miles away to give plenty of warning, and it was one of these men who came galloping along the road now, his horse’s hooves kicking up clods of muddy earth.
“Robin! They are nearing the edge of the forest.” He panted. “They are coming.”
“How do they look?”
“Fearsome.” He was bluntly honest. “Too many to count.”
“Knights? In the van or at the rear?”
“Rear, with the wagon.”
Alan a’ Dale came loping toward Robin and the lookout, a bow slung easily over his shoulder. He was dressed, like the others, in the simple brown leather jerkin and green woolen hose that had become their uniform of sorts. A wide, hooded collar sat on his shoulders, the hood raised to keep the dampness from sliding down his neck.
“They are come?”
“We should be able to see their steam in a few minutes,” Robin said casually. “Are the men ready?”
“As ready as ever they will be, with God’s luck.”
Luck, Robin thought grimly, had nothing to do with it. And everything. He glanced at the top of the westerly hill where Brenna was positioned with half the longbow archers, and to the east, where Will waited patiently with the others. Two of their protégés had deserted the camp during the night and taken the longbows with them as mementoes, but there were ten stout weapons with eager hands to draw them, and they would open the first stage of the attack.
“Lady Brenna near took my head off,” Alan said ruefully, “when I reminded her there were no vows, no chains binding these men to our cause. We had hoped for four score, we have nearer a hundred counting those who came in yesterday from the nearby vills and villages. Yet we lost some we had counted on.” He shrugged and spread his hands. “Some have families. Others want them.”
It was the same on any battlefield and most leaders held their breaths on the day of the actual fight hoping to see the same faces behind him that were there the day before. Knights were different, of course, for they carried their honor onto the field. But these were not knights and, as Alan said, not bound by any oath of service. They were farmers and cotters and turnip-growers (the old man was even here, crouched behind a boulder with his scythe in hand) who had never fought an open, pitched battle before. Their hopes lay in speed and surprise, and a goodly part in the slender arms of a woman who had had her heart crushed by a callous, cowardly rogue.
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