The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  “Your men,” Robin declared, looking around him, raising his voice so all could hear, “are the bravest I have ever had the privilege to fight beside. The honor is all mine.”

  Brenna mounted and kept her bow held loose in her hand. She started to pull a cap over her head but it was Griffyn who stopped her this time.

  “Let them have a good look. It may be the last beautiful thing they see.”

  Brenna’s heart soared and she lifted her head proudly. She reached around to tug away the thong that bound the remnants of her braid in place. A few quick strokes of her fingers loosened the golden mane completely so that there could be no doubt, at any distance, the deadliest of the snipers had been a woman.

  Robin spurred Sir Tristan forward, matching the pace of Gisbourne’s advance across the field. The High Sheriff arrived at the midway point before they did and the five guards he brought with him fanned out in a semicircle behind, leaving himself and Bertrand Malagane to observe Robin’s approach in glowering silence. The smile he wore was one of sheer malice, the gleam in his dark eyes as Sir Tristan pranced to a graceful halt less than a dozen feet away was serrated with pure loathing.

  “If I was not seeing this with mine own eyes,” Gisbourne murmured, “I would not believe it. Robert Wardieu. In England again.”

  “Sir Guy. It has been a long time.”

  “Eleven years,” Gisbourne hissed, his cheeks flushing. “Nearing twelve. And not a day has gone by that I have not thought of you.”

  “Fondly, I trust?”

  “Oh … very fondly. I am looking forward to renewing our acquaintance. I have your accommodations prepared and waiting for you already, the chains polished, the knives sharpened, the pincers warmed.”

  “Ah. Yes, well, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have not the time to spare on such pleasantries.”

  Gisbourne smiled and his gaze shifted to Brenna. “God's truth. My men swore there was a grisette raining arrows down upon their heads; I assumed she would look more like a Medusa or a Hippolyta. But hold—do I detect a resemblance?”

  “Lady Brenna Wardieu,” Malagane provided helpfully. “Sister to the cub, daughter to the Black Wolf.”

  Gisbourne’s chest swelled at the thought of such bounty within his grasp. He bowed his head in a mocking imitation of civility while his eyes raked down the front of her leather jerkin and settled lewdly at the crux of her thighs. “Indeed, I have no doubt my men will be most enthusiastic to offer you their hospitality as well, dear lady.”

  “Since I have yet to see any real men in your company, Sir Guy,” she said easily, “I shall not endeavor to hold my breath until one appears.”

  His gaze slid to the third member of their party and reacted visibly to the calm, gray-green stare. Griffyn had not worn his helm and his black hair rested loosely on his shoulders. He had not shaved in three days and the lower half of his jaw was heavily shaded with stubble, making the lines of his face appear more stark, the frost in his eyes more penetrating.

  “Another healthy beast,” Gisbourne murmured. “Do I know you, sirrah? The look of you seems vaguely familiar.”

  “Renaud,” said Malagane. “Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay. A Burgundian whose acquaintance I am looking forward to renewing.”

  “Lord Bertrand.” Griffyn allowed an insolent dip of his head. “I see you managed to find your way without my help.”

  “Oh, but I did have help, my lord. The very best, I assure you. My youngest son: Lothaire. He has been guiding our footsteps all the way from Gaillard.”

  Robin frowned. “We have no one named Lothaire in our company.”

  The blue eyes sparkled like chips of broken glass. “Forgive my presumption. Of course, you knew him better as… Fulgrin.”

  Griffyn’s sharp intake of air widened the smug grin on Malagane’s face. “A rather clever fellow, would you not agree? And so resourceful. We had both seen you in the lists at Gascon, and it was my thought if ever there was a man who might serve a useful purpose one day, it was you. How glorious your rage that day when you were cheated of your victory over Robert Wardieu! And how magnificent that rage became as you worked to transform yourself into the Prince of Darkness.”

  “Your son is a dead man,” Griffyn said quietly. “You may tell him that for me when you see him again.”

  “Why not tell him yourself?” Malagane said generously. “He is just over there.”

  Griffyn looked past the count’s shoulder to where the main body of Gisbourne’s knights had formed a solid line against the trees.

  “When we have concluded our business here,” Gisbourne said on an impatient sigh. “You may deliver messages to the devil, for all I care.”

  “What business?” Robin demanded.

  “You have my prisoner, Henry de Clare.”

  “Lord Henry … is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “You may come and view the body if you wish,” Robin said blithely, mimicking Malagane’s munificent offer. “He is just over there.”

  Gisbourne glanced toward the road and the ominously silent line of foresters. “I am sure that is not necessary. But you do appreciate my predicament. The king is in Lincoln and he expects to see the hanging of an outlaw on the morrow.”

  “You could volunteer your own neck,” Griffyn said quietly. “As High Thief of Nottingham.”

  Gisbourne turned a cold eye to the sarcasm. “I was thinking more of offering him the pleasure of watching Lord Robert Wardieu dance upon the gallows boards. In exchange, I would order my men off the field, grant amnesty to all of your wounded, and, further, issue writs of safe passage to those of your kin who would, naturally, quit England as soon as possible.”

  The generosity of the offer was surprising—too surprising to be believed, and Robin scoffed. “Your writ of safe passage would be as worthless as the integrity of the signature that would bind it.”

  Gisbourne’s nostrils flared at the insolence but his smile remained intact. “Your arrogance is admirable but ill-timed.”

  “And your ‘offer’ is no offer at all.”

  “Shall I present another, then? One more worthy of your precepts of chivalry.” He turned and raised a gloved hand, signaling someone back in the line. “Do you play chess?”

  “Not when lives are at stake.”

  “But you do appreciate the finer points of necessary strategies? The sacrificing of a knight, for example … for a queen?”

  Robin’s gray eyes turned brittle as he saw the solid line of Gisbourne’s men shift apart to allow two figures to pass through. One was a man, tall and burly and gleaming with armour; the other was a woman, a slender, hooded splash of white against the glowering threat of guardsmen.

  “She is the reason you have come all this way, is she not?” Gisbourne asked quietly. “She is the reason you are here, to uphold the family tradition of rescuing the poor, tragic Eleanor from harm? Another admirable quality, to be sure, but again, ill-timed, for as you can plainly see, she is surrounded by harm now, and standing presently in the company of my captain of the guard, Reginald de Braose, who is most eager, I promise you, to avenge his own humiliation suffered at the hands of your brother Eduard all those many years ago.”

  He saw the hard sparkle in Robin’s eyes and added, “I will give you one hour to discuss the proposed exchange amongst yourselves. After that, I will take her to Lincoln instead and make a present of her to her royal uncle.”

  Robin’s jaw clenched and unclenched, his lips turned bloodless as he pressed them into a taut, flat line. “Do the conditions of your original offer still stand? Parole for the wounded and safe passage for the others?”

  “Yours is the only neck I seek this day,” Gisbourne agreed blithely.

  “Then we do not need an hour. We can make the exchange here and now.” Brenna gasped. “Robin!”

  He glanced her way. “There is nothing to discuss.”

  “What do you mean nothing? There is everything to discuss.” She turned to Gisbourne. “Will you allow u
s a few moments of privacy, Lord Sheriff?”

  Gisbourne gave the outline of her breasts another thoughtful glance, then bowed his head with princely generosity. He and Malagane turned their horses around and retreated a short distance, whereupon Brenna turned frantically to confront her brother.

  “You cannot do this thing,” she whispered urgently. “You cannot sacrifice yourself!”

  “We have no choice. He has Princess Eleanor, he will take her to the king, and the king will have her killed.”

  “He will have you killed as well.”

  “Aye. More than likely he will.”

  She glanced helplessly at Griffyn. “There must be something we can do!”

  “There is,” Robin said, reaching out to grasp her hand. “You can tell the others to waste no time in making their retreat. I would sooner trust a promise from a snake as one from Gisbourne, and he will not waste time in debating the ethics of honouring his word.”

  “Robin, please—”

  “Yes.” He squeezed her hand so hard the pain prevented her from interrupting again. “Please tell Marienne that … that I love her beyond life. That … I will have her name on my lips with the last breath I draw.”

  The declaration drew Griffyn’s attention away from the verge of trees, and he looked from Robin to the wide, shiningly desperate gaze that was fastened on him as if he was the last thread of a fraying lifeline. “Do you not think it odd that Gisbourne would make such a trade if he had two valuable prizes within his grasp?”

  Robin frowned. “What are you saying?”

  “I am saying … he just signaled his captain to bring ‘the princess’ forward, but she had already started forth on her own … and stepped carefully around a boulder to do so. Did you not tell me she had been blinded?”

  Robin’s gaze shifted slowly to the trees. “Are you certain?”

  “My eyesight is quite excellent,” he assured them. “For instance … what color hair does she have?”

  “The princess? It … it was pale. The color of moonlight.”

  “Moonlight? Not a blood red moon, by any chance?”

  Robin searched for the answer to the grim smile that spread across Griffyn’s lips and swore softly. “Solange de Sancerre?”

  “Not even the vestal robes of a virgin could conceal the way she walks when she has an audience of lusty men following her every footstep.”

  “What are we going to do?” Brenna asked.

  Griffyn stared thoughtfully at the longbow slung over her shoulder. “Let them know we have changed our minds.”

  He took the bow and drew an arrow from her quiver, careful to keep his actions concealed until the arrow was nocked in the string.

  “Surely you are not going to shoot the woman?” Robin exclaimed in an anxious whisper. Despite who and what she was and the infinite agonies she had caused in her torture chamber, the thought of cutting down a woman in cold blood appalled him.

  But Griffyn’s attention was not focused on Solange de Sancerre. It was on the line of knights behind her, on one figure in particular who was doubtless watching the proceedings with smug satisfaction.

  Brenna read his intent. “You will waste the shot. It is too far. And I only have two arrows left,” she added in an urgent whisper.

  But he did not take his eyes off the target, he only murmured a quiet, “Centaur. Stand.”

  The stallion, who was battle-trained to respond to his master’s every command, lifted his tapered head and seemed to turn to stone. Griffyn raised the bow and eased the fletching back to his chin, then to his ear, adjusting the angle of flight to allow for the distance to the trees. He drew farther still, bending the mighty bow almost beyond its limits before he released and sent the ashwood shaft whooshing across the expansive sweep of grass.

  Both Malagane and Gisbourne heard the distinct twang of the bowstring and whirled around in time to see Griffyn straighten. Their heads swivelled again and they saw, nearly three hundred yards away, Fulgrin jerking up and falling back in his saddle, his hands clutching at the arrow where it had punched through his chest. The knights on either side of him skittered out of the way, men and beasts alike startled by the sound of Fulgrin’s scream—a scream that came echoing back across the field in a thin, watery wail of incredible pain.

  Malagane roared and spurred his horse back across the meadow, thundering past a stunned Solange de Sancerre.

  Gisbourne passed a moment of shared incredulity with Robin and Brenna as all three turned slowly to stare at Griffyn Renaud.

  “Not one man in a thousand could have made that shot,” he gasped.

  Griffyn acknowledged the compliment by calmly knocking another arrow and aiming it between Gisbourne’s eyes. “I can guarantee this one would pose no difficulty either.”

  The sheriff stiffened and called out to the five guards who had accompanied him onto the field. When there was no response, he glanced quickly over his shoulder only to find they were already halfway back to the trees, spurring their horses into a gallop to catch up with some of the others who were making haste to put a thick shield of trees between them and the knight wearing the gold falcon.

  “Robin?” Griffyn’s voice sounded almost casual. “Perhaps you have some new terms you would like to discuss with Sir Guy?”

  A slow, wide grin spread across Robin’s face. “Personally, I couldn’t care less if you shoot the bastard here and now … but I am sure we have some friends who would be most eager to offer the lord sheriff their hospitality while matters of mutual concern are discussed.”

  Gisbourne’s face glowed red. “This is an outrage! I will see you both hang before this day is through!”

  He pulled up on his reins intending to wheel his horse around, but before he could complete the command, the arrow was loosed and sliced hotly past his ear, taking away the fleshy pad of his lobe. He screamed and clapped a gloved hand to his neck, and when he removed it and stared at the blood-smeared leather, he screamed again.

  Brenna was quick to hand her last arrow to Griffyn, who was equally quick to bring it to bear on Gisbourne again. “As I understand it,” he murmured, “you have not many such useless appendages of flesh left to spare, Sir Guy. Would it not be prudent, therefore, to come with us as a whole guest rather than leaving parts of you scattered behind you on the field?”

  “You will not get away with this!”

  “I think we have already. Kindly wave the rest of your men off while they are still of a mind to obey your orders.”

  Gisbourne stared at the blood pooled in his palm, then raised his arm and jerked it once to order his men to remain in the wood. Robin brought Sir Tristan trotting forward and leaned over the sheriff, relieving him of his reins.

  The dark, ferret eyes flicked past his shoulder and scanned the amazed line of foresters who were still murmuring among themselves over Griffyn’s shot and were beginning to suspect something even more amazing was about to happen.

  “I am a noble, an earl, a baron for pity’s sake,” he hissed. “You cannot simply hand me over to those peasants and outlaws!”

  “Whereas I,” Griffyn said evenly, “am Rowen Hode of Locksley, twelfth Earl of Huntington, and those peasants you speak of are my loyal tenants and villeins whom I absolve completely of any charges of outlawry. You would be wise to hold your tongue whilst you are among them, lest you find yourself missing it.”

  “Locksley!” Gisbourne gasped. He looked pointedly at the longbow and something flickered behind his eyes a moment before the dark centers rolled up into the back of his head and he slumped forward in a dead faint over the pommel of his saddle.

  Robin caught him by the sleeve before he slid off into the mud and peered narrowly at Griffyn as the latter smiled the smile of an indulgent Lucifer.

  “Something else you have not told us?” he inquired dryly.

  “A trifling incident from my youth.” Griffyn shrugged. “But if you care to count his fingers, you will see he only has nine.”

  Robin’s grin wa
s cut short by another scream and the sound of pounding hoof beats coming up fast behind them. It was Bertrand Malagane. He had donned a conical steel helm and drawn his sword, and he was streaking back with vengeance on his lips and loathing blazing in his eyes.

  Robin had his hands full keeping Gisbourne upright in the saddle, and it was with no small gleam of pleasure in his own eyes that Griffyn wheeled around. He tossed the longbow to Brenna and spurred Centaur on to meet the ravening Count of Saintonge, drawing his sword as the two destriers closed the distance with deadly purpose. As Griffyn raised his blade, a stray beam of light caught the steel and flared blue-white along its length, causing the burnished metal to glow like a fiery beacon. The blade slashed downward, the arc smooth and graceful, striking Saintonge with explosive force. The count’s sword shattered in two. His wrist snapped in a spray of blood and splintered bone, but even that could not deflect the power of the blow.

  There was a look of utter disbelief in Saintonge’s eyes as he crashed to the ground. Centaur danced around for another pass, but it was not needed. The count rose halfway to his knees, his hands clasped over the bloodied front of his tunic, but the effort cost him his last wailing breath and he collapsed facedown in the grass, his life pulsing into the grass beneath him.

  That left only one screaming threat on the meadow, and Brenna, who was not bound by the same chivalric codes as the men, nocked, drew, and fired the last arrow.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The abbey of Kirklees sat upon the crest of a gentle hill, with meadows and orchards spreading out from the base of its gray stone walls to the verge of trees that marked the boundary of Sherwood. It was not large and had no fortified barbicans to guard against uninvited entry, but it had protected the sanctuary of the meadow for over one hundred fifty years, its inhabitants cloistered against the turmoil of the outside world.

  The small group of knights and foresters was admitted through the low postern gate where the mother abbess, flanked by several sisters of the order, was waiting. Two of the foresters carried the litter bearing a half-conscious Henry de Clare through the ivy-covered arch. He had seemed to be more dead than alive when they had left the meadow, but at the first touch of the mother abbess’s hands, his eyes opened and he managed to whisper something that only the abbess heard and was able to muster a smile over. The beating he had suffered that morning had all but finished what a month in Gisbourne’s donjons could not, and Robin, watching solemnly from the shadows as the abbess ran her hands tenderly over the swollen, bruised, torn, and ravaged parts of his body, spared a moment to give thanks that in this instance, at least, her blindness was a blessing.