Robin Hood Trilogy

by Canham, Marsha

  The Wolf stamped into his boots, straightened, and raked his hands through his hair to push it off his face. “What direction are they coming from?”

  “West and north.”

  “Have they sent out any advance patrols?”

  “Robert and Gil have their eyes on a brace of them, half a league from here, but they were told to wait and see what you wanted done before they did it.”

  “I want one of them brought to me. Alive.”

  “So he shall be,” Sparrow nodded. He stole another peep at Servanne and his brow puckered into a frown. “Old Blister was frothing so loudly at the mouth, we had to borrow a stocking from Norwood the Leech to stuff in her throat. Even so, she managed to make enough noise to bring the birds squirting down on us. She wants mischief done to her if a way cannot be found to keep her silent.”

  “I will calm Biddy,” Servanne said. “She will cause you no trouble.”

  “Neither one of you had best cause any trouble,” the Wolf warned. “Hold your tongues and do exactly as you are told, and with luck, my lady, you will see your fondest wish realized and depart our company by nightfall. Sparrow”—he turned away from Servanne’s shocked expression—“Bring her back to the abbey when she is dressed and give her back to Mutter and Stutter for safekeeping.”

  He paused at the mouth of the cavern, his hand on the webbing of ivy. He turned, at an admitted cost to his soldier’s sense of priorities, and met Servanne’s gaze through the wisping drifts of steam. Whatever he wanted to say—if he had wanted to say anything more—was gone with the next footstep that carried him out of the cavern and into the forest.

  Servanne stared at the ivy until the leaves rustled to a standstill. Sparrow made an impatient sound in his throat, and she finished dressing, hardly aware of what her fingers did or how they managed to don stockings and slippers without feeling. Shame began to course hotly through veins that had so recently sung with pleasure. It was plain to see he had already dismissed their lovemaking as being of little consequence; plainer yet to see she had once again become the pawn, the expendable stakes in a game of rivalry and revenge.

  Sir Aubrey de Vere prided himself on his hunter’s instincts. It was not far from the truth to say he could have tracked an ant through a cornfield on a moonless night—he had stalked fleet-footed paynims through the desert in windstorms while on Crusade; no mean feat for a Norman born and bred of noble blood.

  So it was he could not believe his ears when he heard the sigh of an arrow streaking past his mount. His companion, a knight afoot who was bending over, sniffing at the imprint of a boot freshly set into the forest floor, heeled sideways, his steel helm unseated by the thrust of the arrow punching through his skull.

  De Vere whipped around, but too late. His horse jerked forward as a tremendous weight dropped onto his rump, and by the time De Vere identified the bulk of a man, his own helm had been torn off, his head twisted savagely to the side, and stretched back at an angle near the breaking point. A gap in the chain-mail armour where the hood met the hauberk was laid bare beneath his chin, wide enough for the edge of a knife to tender a threat.

  “Not a sound,” a voice rasped in his ear, but De Vere’s instincts, being what they were, had already launched his two elbows back, digging into what felt like a solid wall of stone.

  Robert the Welshman absorbed the paltry affront to his ribs with a grunt of disdain, but the movement caused his hand to slice inward and down with the knife. The steel carved into the strained layers of flesh, parting the sinew and muscle like a blade springing the seams of an overfull gourd. Blood spurted out and over his hand, splattering the front of De Vere’s sky-blue gypon.

  “Now look what ye’ve gone and done,” Robert muttered distastefully.

  De Vere raised his hands, appalled to feel the heated wetness of his own blood soaking down beneath the padding of his surcoat. “I am dead,” he gasped. “God love me, I am dead!”

  “Bah! Naught but a wee cut. Ye’ll hang on a while longer to plague the world, Sir Knight, at least until my lord of Lincoln woods has a word with ye. For now, ye can drop yer sword an’ yer bow, an’ spur this nag off the path a ways.”

  De Vere unbuckled his sword belt and dropped it, along with the starburst and chains that hung from holders on his saddle. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a second outlaw step out of the greenwood and bend over to retrieve the discarded weapons. This second man was tall and lean, and bore a noticeable scar down the left side of his face.

  De Vere felt some of the pressure lifted from his throat and did not need Robert’s gruff advice to clamp a gloved hand over the bleeding wound. The burly giant seated behind him slid nimbly off the horse’s rump and together, he and the red-haired archer led the captured knight deeper into the musty stillness of the forest.

  Nicolaa de la Haye was growing impatient. Wardieu had halted his men less than a league from where the abandoned abbey was purported to be, although what he was waiting for was anyone’s guess.

  The small army of mercenaries had been halted an hour ago by the sight of a blood-smeared shield identified as belonging to Sir Aubrey de Vere. It had been propped deliberately in their path, alongside the body of the knight who had accompanied De Vere into the woods.

  Clearly they had lost the advantage of surprise, so it seemed doubly foolish to simply stand in an open clearing and wait for a hail of arrows to descend upon them.

  “Lucien, for God’s sake, either order the men forward or take them back to Alford.”

  “Nicolaa, my dearest patient one: Are you not the smallest part curious to hear what my brother has to say?”

  “He has already said it,” Nicolaa declared, pointing at the bloody shield. “He has said he intends to kill us all.”

  Wardieu sucked a tiny burst of air through his teeth and looked up, scanning the broken ceiling of greenery in an effort to determine the hour of the day. “If it was his intention to see us all dead, we would be by now. These eyes I feel on the back of my neck would be arrowheads. The voices I hear would belong to saints and angels, although”—he glanced over at Nicolaa and laughed—“in our case, perhaps not so angelic.”

  “Eyes? Voices?” Nicolaa’s slanted black brow arched upward as she followed Wardieu’s gaze back into the surrounding forest. A flare of splintered light glittered over the suit of Damascene chain mail she had had fashioned expressly to mold to the contours of her body. Plates of steel had been sewn together front and back, worn over a quilted surcoat of blood-red samite. Her hair was plaited and wound into a single gleaming coil at the nape of her neck, confined within a woven circlet of gold and readily able to be concealed beneath a bascinet of steel links extending up from the mail hauberk.

  She was well aware of the stares that charted her every move. Some of the knights blatantly disapproved of a woman in armour; others were wary of the cruelty and bloodlust lurking beneath her astonishing beauty, fearing her sultry orders more than those of any ten men. It had come as no surprise that she had ridden out this day at the side of the Dragon Wardieu, the jewelled collar of the Sheriff of Lincoln displayed proudly and boldly around her neck. She had acted the part of sheriff in all but name until now, and with Onfroi de la Haye clinging to life by the merest thread, it required only Wardieu’s nomination and Prince John’s approval to make the appointment official.

  “There,” Wardieu said suddenly, breaking into Nicolaa’s thoughts with a start. “Something is moving.”

  Immediately, from behind, came the sound of conversations cut short and swords rasped out of scabbards. Nicolaa saw nothing through the shifting shades of green and brown, but a flush of macabre excitement tightened the muscles across her belly and thighs, producing an indescribable surge of pleasure as she drew her own shortsword.

  “It appears to be … Sir Aubrey, my lord!” cried Eduard. “He is in difficulty!”

  Several other squires joined Eduard in rushing forward, and, moments later returned to the small clearing bearing the limp, gasping b
ody of Sir Aubrey de Vere. They laid him gently on a cushion of half-rotted leaves, his own squire—a lad by the name of Timken—supporting his head and shoulders.

  “Sweet God in Heaven,” Nicolaa murmured dryly, peering down over Wardieu’s shoulder. “Can he have any blood left in his body?”

  De Vere was breathing badly, with great difficulty. A cloth had been wrapped around his neck to staunch the flow of blood, but the effort of moving him had started the wound leaking again. His tunic looked as if it had been used to mop the floor of a charnel house. His skin was completely colourless and glistened with a sheen of cold, clammy sweat.

  Wardieu lowered himself on one knee and gripped the knight’s arm. “De Vere, what happened?”

  Glazed brown eyes opened tremulously. “My own fault, sire,” he gasped. “I did not see them. They were on us before we felt the wind shift … like ghosts … or devils. This—” He wavered a sodden glove toward his bandaged throat, but the explanation was shivered away on a wave of pain.

  “Eduard—some wine, quickly,” Wardieu commanded.

  De Vere rolled his eyes open again and gritted his teeth against the necessity to speak. “A message, my lord. He … wants to meet with you. Alone. At the abbey. He says … if you are too cowardly to meet him, or … if he sees a single man behind you … he will make use of the altar in the abbey and … and leave the Lady Servanne’s heart as a blood offering to Satan.”

  A few of the knights gathered around recoiled in horror and crossed themselves at the thought of such a profanity. The more hardened veterans raised glowering eyes to the surrounding greensward, their faces grim, their hands touching the symbol of the holy cross they had earned on Crusade.

  Eduard ran up with a wineskin and a ram’s horn cup. A goodly portion of the strong red wine dribbled over De Vere’s chin, but enough found its way down his throat to ease the way for a few more gasped words.

  “He … also sends his pledge that you … you will leave the abbey alive.” The gloved hand reached out and clutched a fistful of Wardieu’s gypon. “I do not trust him, my lord. I believe it is a trap! He would lure you to the abbey alone, and … and—!”

  Sir Aubrey arched against Timkin’s arms and a deep, ragged groan rattled from his chest to his throat. Wine and blood formed a pink froth at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes bulged with the vision of some unknown agony. The spasm passed and his body slumped back. A final hiss of escaping air signaled the end and brought his head lolling forward onto his chest.

  Wardieu studied the face of the dead knight for several long moments before reaching down and gently prying the clawed fingers away from his tunic.

  “Eduard … bring my horse.”

  Nicolaa, absently musing over a memory of the virile Aubrey de Vere groaning in much the same way during a recent visit to her bed, was startled enough by Wardieu’s command to grasp his arm as he stood up.

  “No! You cannot mean to go to the abbey as he asks! You heard Sir Aubrey say it was a trap!”

  The icy blue eyes looked from Nicolaa’s face to the hand she had clasped possessively around his forearm. “And I say again, if he meant to kill us, we would all be dead by now.”

  “What if he has determined just to take you hostage?” she demanded. “Will you feel so confident of your suppositions when he takes a blade to you and begins to peel the flesh from your body strip by strip?”

  “Then we will have discovered his plans, and you will know to be leery of any future invitations.”

  He pulled his arm away and brushed past her. Eduard was waiting beside the huge white destrier, his eyes burning as if he was battling twelve kinds of fear before daring to speak.

  “M-my lord?”

  Wardieu did not spare him a glance.

  “My lord, I would beg leave to accompany you to the abbey. I am no threat to this Black Wolf, and ’tis sure he would not countenance it a breach of faith for you to bring your squire.”

  Wardieu stared hard at the boy. Thirteen years of age and he was only a hand’s width shorter than the master he served. His shoulders and chest promised great strength and breadth; his legs were already long and well-formed with none of the awkward gangliness of too much growth in too short a span. Other signs of encroaching manhood had been brought to his attention by the castle seneschal; one of the kitchen maids—older by some ten years—was regularly seen hobbling out of the stables after energetic trysts with the young squire.

  A son any man would be proud of: his own words.

  “Please … Father,” Eduard whispered tautly, at great cost to his pride. “I would ride to guard your back.”

  “By all means,” Nicolaa drawled, coming up behind them. “Take the bastard with you. Perhaps you can offer him in lieu of the unpaid ransom for your sweet bride.”

  Wardieu’s expression did not change. It did not so much as flicker a warning as he brought his gauntleted hand swinging up and around. The slap would have ripped away half of Nicolaa’s cheek had he not checked his fury at the last possible instant. Nicolaa flinched all the same, the blow delivered as sharply and brutally through the stunning rage in his eyes.

  “You had best watch where you spit your venom, woman,” he said harshly. “I am about at the end of my humour over your petty jealousies.”

  “Petty, my lord?” she snapped, her cheeks flaming and her lips thinned to an ugly slash of red. “My jealousies are indeed petty compared to yours … and your brother’s.”

  A vein pulsed noticeably to life in the Dragon’s temple. The skin across his cheekbones seemed to stretch so taut, the surface became more like wax than living flesh.

  He raised his hand slowly and cupped it beneath Nicolaa’s chin. The fine metal links of the gauntlet depressed the whiteness of her skin, digging deeper and deeper as he increased the pressure to excruciating limits.

  “D’Aeth has often expressed an unrequited interest in you, dear Nicolaa,” he said quietly. “Perhaps an evening or two in his genteel company would cut a few barbs from your clever wit and remind you by whose generosity you continue to enjoy the use of your tongue. Eduard—arrange an escort for Lady De la Haye. She will be returning immediately to Alford Abbey to be by her husband’s bedside.”

  “Aye, my lord,” the squire said quietly, his face still stinging with humiliation. “My lord—?”

  “See to your duties, Eduard; trouble me with no more favours.”

  “Yes … my lord.”

  “And Eduard—?”

  The boy turned, his eyes brightening with a spark of hope. “Never, ever address me as ‘father’ again. Is that understood?”

  The boy looked from one coldly dispassionate face to the other and knotted his hands into fists. “Yes, my lord. Perfectly understood.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Wolf had seen the signal several minutes earlier: a single horseman approaching; all clear behind.

  “Well, well,” he murmured. “So you are still a curious bastard, after all these years.”

  From the shadowy mouth of the gorge, hazed with late afternoon mist where it spilled open onto the common, came distinct, echoing sounds of a horse’s hooves striking the rocks that lined the banks of the narrow creek. The sky was low and sullen, threatening rain, and dusk was a chilly breath away. The scent of wood and pine, of loamy soil and heavy dew accompanied the hour and moodiness of the day, but the Wolf did not notice. His gaze was fixed on the far side of the gently sloping meadow. His fingers were as tight as they could be around the shaft of his longbow without crushing it.

  Flanking him, perched at scattered intervals along the stone wall of the abbey were the silent silhouettes of six of his best archers, including Gil Golden. Friar and Sparrow had led groups of the other men into the forest to guard all approaches against a surprise attack.

  Cold, steely-nerved, the tension in the Wolf’s body was mirrored in the hardness of his eyes. He was so well prepared to see the lone horseman emerge from the shadowy trees, that when he did, the sensation was a
nticlimactic.

  The destrier was reined to an abrupt halt the instant the abbey came into view. Even at a distance, and with the failing light, there could be no mistaking the Dragon of Blood-moor Keep. He sat tall and imposing in the saddle of his fully caparisoned warhorse, man and beast dominating the meadow, reducing it to a small patch of deergrass. He wore a long-skirted hauberk of polished chain mail, as well as chausses of closely fitted iron scales to protect his long, muscular legs. His surcoat was a splash of bright blue against the sombre backdrop of trees; the crest emblazoned on his chestpiece was just a blur so far away, but the Wolf knew every line and filigreed coil of thread as if they were tattooed on his eyes. Nothing of the Dragon’s features could be seen beneath the conical steel helm and trunk-shaped nasal, but a hint of wheat-coloured hair wisped out from beneath the mail bascinet and lay against a ruggedly tanned jaw.

  “I could skewer him like a cherry pip from here,” Gil offered and ran a loving hand along the arch of her longbow.

  “Keep your arrows in your quiver unless I say otherwise,” the Wolf countered evenly. “Any man who disobeys will die by mine own hand.”

  Gil scowled and pulled her felt cap lower over her coppery curls.

  The Black Wolf of Lincoln took a step away from the wall of the abbey—a step matched on the opposite side of the field as the Dragon nudged his horse forward again. The Wolf’s long stride cleaved through the waves of knee-deep grass, his passage leaving a line of downtrodden green in his wake. The Dragon’s destrier waded into the same sea of green, his hooves crushing a much wider path, his saw-toothed body cloth hissing like a thousand snakes as it swept over the grass.

  The two converged on the centre of the field, halting close enough for conversation, far enough to emphasize their mutual wariness.