Robin Hood Trilogy

by Canham, Marsha

  “Are you mad?” She gasped. “Or simply too full of yourself to see past your own arrogance?”

  “I am full of something,” he agreed blithely. “And am only too eager to share it with you.”

  “I am not eager to share it with you,” she insisted, pushing against him. “Of course, you could rape me and take what you want. But then you would simply be proving my opinion of you was the right one all along. You would be proving yourself to be a man of little conscience and no honor; one who would force yourself on an unwilling woman, on the daughter of your host, on the sister of the man who took you in as a friend when others of more discriminating judgment would have shown more caution.”

  He stood in the swirling rolls of steam, his body gleaming from the moisture and the oil, his hair damp and clinging to his throat and shoulders in dark streaks. The veins in his arms stood out like thin blue snakes on top of muscles that bulged and quivered with menacing fury. His erection was rampant and throbbing and nearly brought her to her knees with the first genuinely pure shiver of fear she had experienced in his presence, for she doubted a charge of rape would cause so much as a flicker of concern in the smoldering gray-green eyes. She doubted it because, even as the thought sent her cringing back against the wall, she saw his eyes narrow and his mouth curve into a hard, cynical smile.

  “Go then,” he rasped. “Get out. Get out before you tempt me to show you exactly how little the words conscience and honor mean to me.”

  She kept her back pressed to the wall as she started inching toward the door, only a pace or two away. Her hand fumbled blindly for the rope latch, fully expecting him to intercept her long before she found it and groped her way to freedom. But he did not. He moved with her, to be sure, and the promise was there in his eyes that if she faltered or showed the slightest hesitation, there would be no second chance.

  Her hand touched the coarse jute and her fingers curled around it. With a choked cry, she jerked it open and fled into the cold night air, her bare feet flying over the rough earth, her skirt whipping up around her ankles in a froth of churning silk. A moment later she heard his laughter, deep and throaty, following her across the draw and into the covered entrance to the keep. It followed her much longer than that, even though she could no longer hear it, and kept the flames of mortification burning hot in her cheeks until she was safely inside her own bedchamber with the door firmly shut behind her.

  Panting, her hands clasped over her breasts, she was relieved beyond measure to see she was alone. Helvise had been and gone, knowing her mistress rarely wanted or needed help to ready herself for bed at night. A second shocked glance found her own reflection in the mirror. The elegant, regal lady who had exited the room with such confidence and conviction was gone, and in her place stood a harridan, her hair a tangle of steamed curls, her tunic damp over one breast and ripped at the hem, as soiled along the bottom edge as the soles of her bare feet.

  “Good sweet Jesu!”

  Anxious hands tore off the burgundy silk and flung it to the floor. She had forgotten Helvise’s work with needle and thread to stitch the cuffs of the chainse snug to her wrists and forearms, and only managed to get the offending garment over her head and partially off her arms before she had to find the scissors and snip away the bindings. It was awkward work and she dropped the scissors twice before she ended up simply slashing the linen and ripping it over her hands. She balled the ruined garment and, feeling no sadness over the loss, tossed it onto the logs blazing in the hearth.

  Naked, standing in a golden cocoon of her own hair, she watched it smolder and char on the hot coals until the edges caught and flared into blue flames. On a further thought, she snatched up the burgundy silk and tossed it into the cloud of rising cinders and black, acrid smoke as well. Helvise would probably have spitting fits come morning to find out what she had done, but Brenna did not care; she would never have worn either garment again.

  In eighteen years, not one single man in the entire demesne could boast of having touched her so intimately. Griffyn Renaud had been in her life less than half a day and he had not only kissed her witless and senseless, but he had sent her fleeing to her room to burn the evidence of her own shame.

  She could not dispose of him so easily, however, and, it occurred to her on a groan, he might have no qualms whatsoever in relating his version of the amusing incident in the bath house. Imagine his surprise, he would say, halfway through a most relaxing massage, when he discovered that the wickedly proficient hands ministering to his aches and bruises belonged not to Margery, the castle drab, but to one of the bold-intentioned daughters of the household!

  Such extreme measures of hospitality were not unheard of where there were too many unwed daughters in a family and not enough available suitors of noble blood. Not that Brenna believed for an instant there could be a drop of anything noble or honorable flowing through the veins of Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay! From his clothes—as carefully nondescript and devoid of any crests or devices as the trappings of his horse—to his manners, from the way he had cleverly avoided answering too many questions about where he had been or what he had been doing these past years when he was supposed to have been dead … she no longer doubted he was anything better than a common mercenary. A man whose sword and soul were for simple hire. There could be no other explanation, no other reason why a knight would travel alone, without markings, without a squire, without the comfort of an open road in front of him. The fact he was bound for Château Gaillard only confirmed her suspicions. Where better for a fighting man to display his prowess and skill than at the largest, most prestigious tournament in Normandy? Where better to find a rich employer? What better boast to add to his name than an acquaintance with the son of the Black Wolf of Amboise?

  Or a tawdry liaison with the daughter?

  She groaned again and threw herself across the bed. That was why he had not raped her. Rape would not have curried anything but slow castration and death, whereas if she had allowed him to seduce her, he could have claimed afterward that she had flaunted herself and deliberately aroused him beyond reason, making it more of an insult to refuse her advances than to accept them.

  She balled her fists and struck them on the bed, wanting to scream. The flame of her night candle flickered and went out, and she cursed as she found a taper and relit it. Staring at it, she wondered if she ought to light a second one. If the first was meant to keep the devil from slipping into the room to steal her soul while she slept, perhaps a second would keep her from dwelling on the black-haired, green-eyed demon who had already stolen her peace of mind.

  Curled beneath her covers and furs, she stared unblinking at the remnants of her clothing smoldering in the fire. She did not expect to sleep a wink all night worrying about what the morning would bring, how quickly the scandal would reach Helvise’s ears, and how early the maid would come into the chamber bearing the news that her father was demanding to see her.

  If only she hadn’t followed Margery into the bath house. If only she hadn’t gone to the river, hadn’t gone into the forest at all today! If only … if only … if only … !

  The if onlys kept her awake until just before the first pearly streaks of dawn showed through the cracks in her shutters. And at the same moment the flame on her candle spluttered below the last hour mark, Brenna dreamed of a tall, naked knight with black hair bowing his mouth to her breast, sending a warm shiver of ecstasy rippling through her body.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When Brenna opened her eyes again, there was still a dark face filling them. Not the one she had been dreaming about, but equally ominous and just as unlikely to be put off without answers.

  “Are you ill?”

  Brenna blinked several times and looked around. The shutters were open, admitting bright sunlight. A small platter of bread and cheese sat on the table, and the ashes around the hearth had been swept and tidied.

  “Your mother was concerned when you did not come down to chapel.”

  “He
lvise?”

  “Nor was it like you to miss the morning meal or linger in your bed like an ale-soaked trull—although, to judge by the bedsheets, you had no easy time of it.”

  Brenna propped herself up on one elbow and cast a surly eye over the shambles she had made of her bed coverings. A bare arm reached down and drew a second layer of blankets over the first and pulled them both over her shoulders, then her face. “I am cold. Is there a fire?”

  “It was freshened three hours ago when I came the first time, then again two hours ago, and see? I have a splinter in my finger from adding another log just now. Are you ill?” she asked again. “Is it your flux?”

  “No.” Brenna sighed, causing a small hillock to blow up under the sheets. “And no. Can I not spend an extra hour in bed without the castle guard being alerted?”

  Helvise straightened and puffed out her chest. “The guard, as it happens, was alerted, but not for you. It seems most of the castle was kept awake last night by your brothers and that bold-faced knight you found in the forest yesterday. Drinking and dicing and hoisting skirts they were, loud enough to waken the dead. Lord Dagobert is still puking. And someone hung Sparrow up on a peg on the wall, where he slept until your father found him there this morning and plucked him down.”

  Brenna peeled the sheet down from her face and eyed Helvise warily as the serving woman gathered up the lengths of bed curtain and tied them to the posters. “He is still here then?”

  “Your knight? Indeed he is.” Helvise chuckled. “Although if castle gossip is to be believed, his company will be sorely missed when he does go on his way.”

  Brenna suffered through a sudden loss of blood in her face and throat and waited for the bony, accusing finger to be thrust under her nose.

  “What do you mean?” she croaked. “What have you heard?”

  “Now, my lady, you know full well I do not like to listen to all the prattle that goes on between the laundry and cook house.”

  Only every scrap of every word, Brenna thought miserably. It had always amazed her that a servant in the main keep knew of an incident in the village practically the moment after it happened. Helvise, despite her air of disdain, had a special knack for sniffing out the lowest detail of the most insignificant event and embellishing it beyond belief in the retelling. Margery would have been at the trough long before cock’s crow and unless, by some miracle of providence, she had fallen head first down the well or poisoned herself with one of her own enemata, she would have had one of the choicest contributions for the gossip mill.

  “Well, at any rate, it seems the rogue drank nearly a barrel of ale by himself and got into a dicing game with Lord Richard over Tansy. It seems he won the throw and Tansy, and when he finished with her”—she lowered her voice and glanced at the door as if the ears of a thousand priests were pressed to the keyhole—“she could hardly walk. She fainted three times, she said. A rare swordsman, she said, not selfish like most men either. That was what she said. like most men.’ I can only think Lord Richard did not take kindly to the comparison, because he was all pricked up like a hedgehog this morning, turning ever so funny a shade of red whenever anyone chanced to smile in his direction.”

  Brenna stared. “Is that all? My brother’s cocksman’s feathers were ruffled?”

  “Well.” Helvise shrugged and straightened. “I have not heard tell of any maid fainting of pleasure in his arms. Not that I would give Tansy’s story that much credence now, for she is a slut and would claim just about anything to win attention. Margery did say the rogue was a big brute, but she also said that after you finished prodding and pounding him, he would have been good for very little.”

  “Margery said that?”

  “Indeed. And she thought it a fine joke too.”

  Brenna watched, visibly taken aback, as Helvise fetched a clean shirt and leggings from her wardrobe chest. Was that it then? Was there to be no feverish gossip? No pointed fingers or sly smirks? Was her reputation with men so deeply set in stone it never even occurred to anyone to think she would succumb to the lusty charms of a handsome stranger?

  “I will not even waste my spittle trying to persuade you to wear a cotte today, my lady.” Helvise was sighing. “Perigord has been asking for you, so I must assume that means the new bow is ready and you will be out in the fields again all day today.”

  “Yes. Yes, likely all day.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and walked naked into the spill of sunlight pouring through the open window.

  A fine joke? And that was all there was to it? She had agonized and squirmed with torment the whole blessed night long … and he had been enjoying himself in the arms of a twopenny wench who boasted—boasted of having fainted three times beneath him?

  Three times?

  Faugh! If he had given the trull a penny more, she likely would have bragged a dozen!

  Brenna was still fuming when she reached the practice yards. She had seen Perigord and been given the new bow—a stout length of sun-hardened Spanish yew as tall as she was, with a grip that fit her hand like a polished extension of bone and muscle. She had loosed a couple of arrows outside the armoury, frightening half a dozen chickens and a brace of roosters going about their business, but the old bowyer knew her so well there was nothing that needed altering, not by so much as a thumb-shave. She carried the new bow and two others down to the outer bailey along with two full quivers of arrows, needing open space to fully test the balance and resilience.

  Long before she crossed the draw, she heard the sounds of swords clashing and horses’ hooves tearing up the earth in the practice yards. Richard and Dag were not preparing themselves so much for the single-combat matches as they were for the melee, usually the final event of the tournament wherein a pitched fight between two teams of knights took place. It was fought to settle a point of law, a case that had found no solution in the courts and had been agreed by both disputing parties to be decided by means of trial by combat. It was a common practice, though more for the spectacle than the legal satisfaction, and often limited to the very rich, since hiring champions to fight for a cause could cost a good deal more than what was paid out for bribes and lawyers.

  The three Wardieu brothers along with their brother-in-law Geoffrey LaFer would be teaming up to resolve one such case in Château Gaillard. They had not been approached to do so, nor would they collect a penny for their efforts win or lose. The dispute, in fact, was not even to do with the law, it was to do with a matter of the heart. A peasant lad, son of a woodcutter, had perforce caused the niece of Hugh Luisignan—a close friend and ally to Sir Randwulf—to fall violently in love with him. Since it was inconceivable to her father that she would even want to marry herself to a mere woodcutter’s son, the two were expressly forbidden to meet, the lad even threatened with maiming—or worse—should he dare see his love again. Heartbroken, the girl had run and taken sanctuary at a convent, vowing to remain there forever if she could not marry the man she loved.

  Robin, whose heart was pudding when it came to ill-fated lovers, had heard of her plight and had tried to appeal to both the father and the uncle on the girl’s behalf. Sir Hugh, more sympathetic than his brother might have preferred him to be, had arranged a meeting with Lord Randwulf wherein it was decided, over much ale and good-natured wagering, that the only convenient way to save the pride of all parties involved was through a battle-royale at Gaillard. If the Wardieu team triumphed, the girl would win her woodcutter. If Hugh the Brown’s team was declared victorious, the girl would return home and marry a man of her father’s choosing.

  It was a ridiculous dispute to have to settle by means of combat, but since most of the senior parties involved were more stubborn than angry from the outset, and since smaller excuses than this had been found to stage a melee, it was deemed a worthy enough cause to stage a sporting challenge. Not that it would be a light or amiable affair. Hugh’s men had fought shoulder to shoulder with the Amboise men at Roche-au-Moines and were equally fierce and fearsome in b
attle. Moreover, there were no rules in the melee, and the outcome was always uncertain and dangerous. After the first shock of running at each other, skill with a lance counted for very little and it became a perilous business of fighting in close quarters, swords bashing against swords, and, if unhorsed, sometimes fist to fist. While the weapons were limited to lance, sword, and poniard, there was no restriction put on their use. No swing was illegal, no weapon was blunted. Fighting continued until surrender was offered or, in the opinion of the tournament judges, one side was clearly defeated.

  Thus, as Brenna crossed the draw and made for the practice yards, the metallic clashing of swords rang clear in the air. Dag and Richard were putting themselves through rigorous, mock battles with volunteer knights, while Jean de Brevant paced around the two pairs shouting at a sloppy foot here or a missed opening there.

  Robin was in full armour and sat astride his destrier Sir Tristan. His face was bathed in sweat and his hair plastered tight to his head beneath the leather bascinet, a fitted cap worn under the helm for cushioning. His shoulders and chest were exaggerated by the bulk of a thickly padded aketon worn under a full-length mail hauberk and an outer shell of cuir bouilli—leather boiled and hardened in wax—to prevent against any mishaps. He wore no surcoat or tunic over his practice armour, and the lance Timkin was waiting to hand up was much battered and scarred from striking and scraping the quintain.

  Judging by the amount of sweat shining on his face and the ruddy color in his cheeks, he had already made several runs at the small swinging target and was grabbing at an opportunity to nurse his bruised ribs while he waited for Sparrow to finish buckling Will into his aketon, a vest-like garment of thick cotton quilting, designed to absorb and deflect all but the most mortal of blows. This was just practice, and the only blow would come if he fell out of the saddle or rode headlong into the quintain. But learning to ride and balance in heavy gear was as important as any stroke with the lance, and full armour was worn until it became second nature to maneuver carrying almost two hundred pounds of added weight.