Robin Hood Trilogy

by Canham, Marsha

  A friar was waiting at the edge of the village to escort her back to the abbey, but de Braose was not concerned; most of the graycloaks flew away like startled moths at the first glint of a sword blade. His men were another matter, for none of the soldiers in Nottingham liked to venture too deep into Sherwood. The trees seemed taller here, thicker, denser than anywhere else in England. It was said they were filled with ghostly sentries who whispered alarms and brought forth demons to slit the throats and spill the entrails of all those who came uninvited into the greenwood.

  De Braose did not believe in ghosts or demons. He believed the woods were filled with outlaws and misfits, and he believed strongly in the reward of a thousand marks Gisbourne was offering for the capture of their leader. No one had ever seen him without the trademark hood that concealed his features, nor, in truth, could they tell one outlaw from another, for they all moved like silent, shapeless shadows through the trees. They dressed in drab greens and browns to blend with the undergrowth, their soft leather jerkins and linsey woolsey making them seem to be apparitions, moving from one glade to another like mist. The only warning of their presence was the faint hiss that came before their arrows struck.

  Still, it was a warm day and the thought of sinking himself into such a tender morsel as this dark-haired novitiate was too sweet to resist. He pushed away from the airless patch of shade that had harbored him, signaling his men to follow.

  “You seem distracted today, Friar,” Marienne remarked as she adjusted the weight of the package under her arm.

  The monk turned and held her eyes a moment before responding with a self-conscious smile. “You were longer in the market than you should have been.”

  “I had a difficult time finding everything on the abbess’s list,” she said, indicating the two bulky parcels he was carrying for her. “The sisters were short of many things—needles, spices, seed and such. And the tailor haggled longer than usual over the price he was willing to pay for the linens.”

  “Everyone is suffering for the king’s greed these days. Coins are scarce, generosity a thing of the past. Did you get the herbs you needed for Sister Bertal?”

  She nodded. “Thankfully, yes.”

  He cast another veiled glance over his shoulder, and this time Marienne joined him in looking back at the tree-lined road. She could see nothing but the quiet stillness of the greenwood, the majesty of the tall oaks that stretched their leafy boughs high into the blue vault of the sky. So thick were the branches overhead that not much of the blue could be seen. Here and there, mottled patches allowed bright streamers of sunlight to slash through the latticework of branches and leaves, but by the time it reached the earth so far below, the light was diffused to a soft, blurry haze. And there were so many shades of green! The apple of young saplings, the emerald of ferns, the staunch vert of the firs, the varying jades, mosses, and olives of the towering oaks, ash, and yew. The air itself seemed shaded, lush with dew, shimmering like a jewel where the light touched upon it.

  So many feared the unearthly silence, the cool shadows, the pungent scent of isolation, but Marienne loved it. She loved the long walk to Nottingham from Kirklees, and she had hoped this day, like many others, her companion might be cajoled into veering off the road and taking her deeper into the living heart of Sherwood.

  One look at the worried frown on his face that morning had dispelled her hopes. He had tried his best to talk her out of going to Nottingham at all, claiming the sheriffs spies were everywhere, thick as fleas in an old man’s beard. Any other time the abbess might have agreed with his prudence, but several of the sisters had broken out in a high fever and painful rash, and their limited supplies of medicine had run perilously low.

  The friar had capitulated, but not gracefully, for his feet had moved so quickly on the road Marienne’s shorter strides had been hard pressed to keep his pace. She looked over at him and once more marvelled to herself how unlike a friar he appeared. Over the past decade he had never once dropped his guard or taken any manner of precaution for granted. Nor had he allowed any of his knightly skills to wane. He was lean and hard, his limbs were like iron from living off the land. Where he might have missed the power of a destrier beneath him, he more than made up for the lack in sheer strength and stamina. He could run for miles without taking a heavy breath. He could and did practice for hours with sword, mace, and stave with hardly a trace of sweat on his brow to show for it.

  Like Marienne, he had taken no formal vows with the church, nor was he inclined to offer a prayer in lieu of a cut from his sword should his back come against a wall. He was one of the deadliest swordsmen in Sherwood and had his monk’s robes specially fashioned to afford access to the weapon he always wore strapped to his waist. He had earned the familiar name Tuck because of the assortment of knives, daggers, and blades he kept hidden in various folds and pockets of his garments, and this was just as well, because his real name, should it ever slip from an unguarded tongue, would have brought the wrath of the crown down on all their heads.

  With the forest filling with outlaws, and those outlaws becoming bolder in their actions against the sheriff and his henchmen, it was becoming more difficult to remain anonymous. Luckily they all had secrets to keep, and the quickest way to earn a blade across the throat was to ask too many questions or offer up too much unwanted information. The outlaws of Sherwood were successful because no one man knew too much about another. Their leader insisted on keeping it that way, preferring to use nicknames rather than proper surnames, or names that identified them by skill, like Derwint the Fletcher or Edgar the Cobbler. They neither made nor passed judgment on any member of the band, and strangely enough, because loyalty and trust were not demanded, they were given freely and fiercely, even unto death.

  “Why do you keep looking over your shoulder?” Marienne asked, huffing a bit as they started up an incline. “Is there someone following us?”

  “I think there may be an excess of vermin in the woods today, aye. You will, of course, oblige me by running whither I send you if I deem their presence to become too annoying?”

  “I would sooner not have to run anywhere at all today.” She sighed, then added shyly, “I would rather find a soft glade and a cool stream and practice the lessons you were teaching me.”

  Haste had made the short hairs at her temple curl damply against her skin and put a rosy blush in her cheeks. She was at the far end of three and twenty but looked much younger, and her simple wool tunic could not completely conceal the ripe curves of the body beneath. On several occasions, Tuck had caught himself looking longer and harder than he should, most recently when he had taken the foolish notion into his head to teach her how to swim. It had happened all very innocently, for she had fallen off a cracked log and surprised him by panicking in water that was scarcely over her shoulders. He had taught her then and there how to make a few strokes and hold herself up by kicking and paddling, but the sheer act of supporting her wet and shapely body had left: his own aching in ways that made him flush with hot guilt every time he thought of it. To repeat the exercise any time soon would have tested the fortitude of a real monk.

  Avoiding her gaze, he frowned over his shoulder again, unable to rid himself of the feeling he should have been more insistent that morning with the abbess.

  “I am as quick on my feet as you are, good friar,” she said, not knowing where his thoughts had drifted, but drawing his eyes back. “And if you have another sword tucked beneath your cassock, I will prove I can be just as good at ridding the forest of vermin.”

  “I know full well your skill with blade and bow,” he said grimly. “And those were lessons I should never have been extorted into teaching you.”

  “They have come in handy on more than one occasion,” she reminded him, “when you were not there to watch over the abbey like a tarnished archangel.”

  Tuck’s tawny hair caught a glint of sunlight and for a moment resembled threads of pure gold. His skin was weathered a healthy bronze, and, not fo
r the first time, Marienne found herself smiling at the comparison.

  “You should never have strayed outside the abbey walls,” he grumbled, “regardless how many of the sisters went with you, how sunny a day it was, or how ripe the berries were for picking. You were lucky it was just two errant knights looking to do a little mischief in the grass.”

  “Well, they spent the rest of the day looking for the arrowheads I buried in their hides.”

  Tuck started to give his head a rueful shake but froze when he detected a faint stirring in the sea of ferns that grew alongside the road. They had crested the hill and started on their way down and for the moment, the view of the road behind them was blocked from sight.

  His footsteps slowed measurably.

  Twenty feet ahead, the road took a sharp turn to the left, the gully too thick with evergreens to see what lay beyond. It was, he realized at once, the perfect spot for an ambush, with blind spots ahead and behind. He was at a further disadvantage, having a canvas-wrapped parcel cradled under each arm. As casually as he could, he transferred the one to free his sword arm.

  “Marienne—”

  The whisper barely left his lips when the impatient nicker of a horse justified the scratching on his neck. The unmistakable clank of armour followed close by, and with sudden certainty he knew they had been caught in a trap. He did not have to see the row of gleaming steel helmets that rose above the crest of underbrush, nor did he have to hear the muffled command and subsequent pounding of hoof beats on the beaten earth ahead. A dozen or more horsemen had been waiting around the bend in the road, the same number of foot soldiers, armed with crossbows, had been secreted in the bushes waiting to cut off their escape. Even as he whirled around, dropping his packages to the road, the two lines of soldiers closed in behind them like a pincer.

  Marienne’s hand went to her waist and found the hilt of the dagger she wore sheathed in her belt. Beside her, Tuck had his sword in his hand and was turning in a slow, shocked circle, his teeth bared over a steady stream of curses.

  The mounted knights drew to a halt behind the ring of foot soldiers. They wore plain gray tunics devoid of any crests or blazons. They carried no pennons, no shields embossed with identifiable markings. Their mail was made of the finest Damascene steel, polished to a professional gleam. The horses were huge, well fed, well blooded, and, to judge by the utter lack of movement, exceptionally well trained.

  They had the hardened look of mercenaries about them, and Tuck’s grip tightened on his sword, raising the point to chest level, wondering if this was Gisbourne’s work … or the king’s.

  Before he could divine any answer, one of them nudged his warhorse forward a few paces, his way of announcing himself as the leader. For all of two full minutes he said nothing. Dark, keen eyes glittered out from behind the steel nasal of his helm, giving Marienne but a cursory inspection before settling intently upon Tuck.

  “Of all the remarkable sights we have encountered of late”—his voice was a low, sinister rasp—“that of a monk wielding a fine Toledo blade must needs rank as one of the oddest.”

  “Try your hand at taking it from me,” Tuck said bluntly, “and you might rethink the ranking.”

  “Boastful words, Friar,” the knight hissed. “And ones that will likely require testing some time in the near future. For the moment, however, you might want to simply set the weapon aside instead.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because, as you can plainly see, I have twenty men with twenty fingers itchy to pull the trigger on twenty crossbows.”

  Tuck’s sword wavered not an inch. “Who the devil are you?”

  “Of more pressing interest, friend, is the question: Who the devil are you?”

  “Obviously not who you think I am.”

  “You deny you are a member of the band of outlaws who populate the forests of Sherwood?”

  Tuck’s jaw clenched. “I am but a humble mendicant going about God’s business.”

  The knight eyed the finely honed sword again. “Not so humble, I think, and judging by the number of robberies in these woods, not as much God’s business as that of the King of Sherwood.”

  “The sword was a gift. I carry it for defense against those selfsame robbers you accuse me of knowing.”

  “That is good,” the knight mused. “Very good.” He leaned forward with a soft creak of leather and crossed his arm over the frontispiece of his saddle. “And if I believed you, Priest, it would be even better.”

  “What would it take to convince you?” Tuck asked tautly.

  “More than you have to offer. Although if you persist in wasting my time”—the knight’s eyes slid over to rest on Marienne—“we may be pressed to seek some form of compensation.”

  Tuck delayed another fraction of a moment, then lowered the tip of his sword.

  The dark eyes returned. “Ahh. You concede the point.”

  “Before I concede anything, I would call upon your honor as a knight to let the maid pass unharmed. She is but a simple child of God and carries medicines for the nuns at her convent.”

  The knight weighed Tuck’s words against the pale, stricken look on Marienne’s face and agreed with a curt nod of his head.

  “Let her pass,” he said to his men. “We can always find her again if we need her.”

  Marienne, her skin the color of old wax, was conscious of Tuck drawing her down to retrieve the contents of one parcel that had split open.

  “Do not spare a single breath getting back to the abbey.” His voice was raw with urgency, the words barely loud enough for her to understand. They came through bloodless, unmoving lips and frightened her more than any threat of rape or ravishment. “Lock and bar the gates. Let no one inside. No one, do you understand!”

  Her eyes were as wide and dark as those of a doe facing a hunter’s arrow and Tuck knew what she was thinking. He was thinking it too. If they took him to Guy de Gisbourne and if the sheriff recognized his face …

  He groaned and bowed his head. “If you do not hear from me in two days’ time,” he said tersely, wondering if he could even last that long under torture, “get word to Amboise. Tell them the Pearl may be in grave danger and needs their help.”

  PART ONE

  Château d’Amboise

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lady Brenna Wardieu raised her head ever so slowly, lifting her two startlingly clear violet eyes and the tip of her nose barely above the lush sweep of ferns. Her hair was braided in a thick rope that hung almost to her waist. Golden wisps had sprung free to surround her face in a soft halo of straggled curls, and she had lost her peaked felt cap somewhere in the chase, snagged by a low-lying branch as she had darted through the tangled underbrush. Her heart was still slamming against her ribs with the urgency of her flight, and she knew her adversary was out there somewhere, camouflaged by the same sea of green that protected her.

  She sank back down into the cocoon of foliage that skirted the base of the oak tree. This part of the forest was dense, the shadows kinder to the prey than the hunter, darkest in the gullies and culverts that offered sanctuary from searching eyes, yet each whisper of the leaves was sinister, each scratch of a squirrel’s claw a potential threat.

  She had lost all sense of time and knew only that it must be growing late in the afternoon. There was already a fine layer of mist curling around the tree trunks, swirling filmy fingers into small pockets of open air. The branches were so tightly woven overhead the sky was only a distant impression of pale blue. Brenna could not even be certain of the direction she had been running, for she had concentrated on keeping her head down and her ears trained for sounds of pursuit. She was not overly worried about getting lost. She had grown up in these woods and would have had to run without a break for two days and two nights before entering unfamiliar tracts of forest. But she held no advantage there over her pursuer. He had been hunting deer and boar and hare in these vast tracts since he was a child. Moreover, because he hunted her now, his sense
s would be at their peak, his instincts honed for blood, his determination a rival only for her own.

  The ground underfoot was soft and loamy, scenting the air with the rich decay of several centuries’ worth of fallen leaves. Her skin was damp and cool. She had been running almost steadily for over an hour trying to keep ahead, trying to keep from being caught out in the open. She would have liked to strip off the doeskin jerkin she wore, for it was holding the sweat next to her skin. Her shirt was plastered uncomfortably across her back and breasts despite the brisk nip in the autumn air. Her leggings and tall kidskin boots were crusted with mud where she had splashed through a stream—her toes still squeaked with water when she rubbed them together—and one knee was split where she had ripped it on a thorn.

  She fingered aside the torn edges of chamois and cursed at the deep scratch in her flesh. It had stopped bleeding but it still stung like the devil, and she struggled to calm her heartbeat, to think, as she flicked out the bits of dirt that clung to the drying blood.

  Somewhere very close-by a twig snapped.

  It was only a faint sound, easily attributed to a rodent burrowing in a rotted tree trunk … if one did not imagine the silently mouthed curse that instantly followed.

  Brenna parted her lips, drawing breath as quietly as possible. The sound had come from behind her, and luckily, she had the bulk of the ancient oak to shield any soft ripple of movement she might make. Inch by inch she maneuvered her bow off her shoulder—not an easy feat to accomplish in a cramped position. The weapon was nearly five feet in length, made of seasoned yew, and could fire an arrow with enough power to pierce through chain mail and with such swift, deadly accuracy a graceful fwoosh was usually the last sound its victim heard.

  She plucked a slender ashwood arrow out of her quiver and, keeping her back against the tree, slid herself upward until she stood waist deep in the ferns. He was there, all right. The narrowest sliver of a violet eye peeked around the gnarled bark and marked the shock of bright red hair visible through the labyrinth of tangled saplings. Fool. It was the only splash of color in an otherwise green world, and he thought to trip her up on errors.