Robin Hood Trilogy

by Canham, Marsha

  For this reason, tourneys were condemned by the church. They were said to encourage the seven mortal sins of pride, envy, anger, sloth, avarice, lust, and gluttony … not to mention the sin of homicide, easily committed whether intentional or not.

  For a knight, the chance to demonstrate his skills on the field far outweighed the risk of suffering eternal hellfire. Chivalry itself was put on display, and knights could prove their noble bloodlines as well as their worth as fighting men. Many a landless knight who might otherwise be reduced to begging his lodgings or selling his sword for bread was able to acquire considerable wealth and prestige through victories on the tournament circuit.

  It was, Brenna knew, how her own father had rebuilt his lost fortunes and earned the attention of the dowager queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine. His gratitude, love, and loyalty had endured almost thirty years, up to her death and burial at Fontrevaud. Only his friendship with William Marshal, the Earl of Pembroke, had lasted longer.

  “Lady Brenna?”

  She had allowed her mind to drift as they crossed the middle bailey and now one of the squires had caught hold of her stallion’s bridle waiting for her to dismount. The inner bailey was too small to allow for so many heavy-breasted beasts; the rest of the way would be on foot across another draw, through another gate, past another tall barbican where bull-hide-clad sentries patrolled and observed from the battlements above.

  Brenna dismounted without assistance and walked forward to join her brothers, stretching the stiffness out of her spine and legs as she advanced.

  “She is here, dammit,” Richard was muttering. “I saw her by one of the food stalls, and if she were a hound, her nose would have started twitching.”

  Will grinned and welcomed Brenna into their midst. “You held your seat well back there. Once or twice we thought you were bound for a tumble down the earthworks.”

  “Many thanks for rushing to my aid,” she said dryly.

  “Hah. Had we done so, we would be wearing your boot-print on our rumps for our trouble,” Richard noted, stripping off his gloves.

  “You are looking rather more sour than usual, brother dear. Dare I ask who is here sniffing after your vaunted jewels?”

  “No one,” he grumbled.

  “Lady Alice of Rouen,” Dag obliged cheerfully. “She of the high, pert breasts and long, willowy limbs … er, was that not how you described her the last time you saw her?”

  Richard glared and gave his surcoat a brief yank to smooth the creases. “High, upturned nose and greedy grasping hands, mores the like. I thought I heard the happy news she had fastened her claws into some poor lout in Anjou.”

  “I heard she had her heart set on you,” Dag said. “And it would take naught less than your death to discourage her.”

  “Then I remain alive just to disappoint her.”

  “Tch-tch.” Brenna brushed a gloved finger over Dag’s arm to remove a fleck of dust. “You are both such handsome fellows, how could you expect not to earn the notice of every mewling swan within a league’s distance?”

  It was true. The sons of the Black Wolf were the peacocks strutting in the midst of the chickens and geese. Each wore his finest raiments, with Richard dressed all in black, as was his habit, and Dag in midnight blue. Robin wore a combination of black surcoat over sky-blue hose, the former heavily banded with gold and emblazoned with the Amboise crest. He had a slight advantage in height over his younger brothers, and a deal more fighting strength across the shoulders, but there was no denying they were all handsome, virile, tempting morsels of male flesh, and to judge by the number of ladies who stumbled over their own feet as they passed, their arrival at Gaillard had not gone unnoticed.

  “Lissome little dabchicks,” Dag commented, noting two swanlike creatures whose necks were put to good use craning to see behind them. “Would that I could take them all, one by one, and preen them myself.”

  “Bold words,” came a smooth voice from over his shoulder. “But you might grow bored with the sentiment when you find yourself waking up each morning with your ballocks on fire and nothing to show for it but an empty bed and an emptier purse.”

  Geoffrey LaFer joined them, his mouth curved into a laconic smile. Geoffrey was a full head shorter than any of the Wardieu men, with sand-brown hair and twinkling blue eyes. He was so clearly, absolutely, and eternally in love with their sister Isobel, it humbled even Richard, the randiest cocksman of the troop.

  “Ahh. The voice of our conscience,” said Dag. “I for one welcome a more secular mind into our midst. In fact, I think I shall make my bed in your tent, Brother Geoffrey”—he draped an arm amiably over LaFer’s shoulder—“so you can recount me my sins throughout the night and make a better man of me by morning.”

  “Eat dung,” Geoffrey said, laughing. “You would need the services of a bishop and twenty tonsured prelates to even begin to make you see the error of your ways.” He looked at Robin. “Do we pay our respects to the host first? Or should we register and find out if, by some miracle, the matter scheduled to be resolved by the melee has been deferred by love?”

  Robin pointed to a tent festooned with a riot of colored ribbands and pennons. “We are here now, we might as well attend to business.”

  As he led the way across the crowded bailey, it was difficult not to notice how they had instantly become the center of attention and to hear the strident buzz that rippled through the throng as it parted to make way for the black-and-gold blazons of Amboise. The casual bystanders were suddenly not so casual anymore. Nor were the squires and servants dispatched by their masters to watch the booth and alert them to any new and important entrants. The only ones not completely enthralled to see the new arrivals were the bet-takers and speculators whose task it was to establish opening odds against each new participant. Few in their right senses took any odds at all against Robert Wardieu d’Amboise, or if they did, it was to whether he maimed his opponent or merely humiliated him.

  It was the custom to pay a token fee for the privilege of boasting one’s talents in the lists, as much as twenty marks for an earl, down to two marks for a landless knight. As soon as it was paid, the knight’s shield could be displayed. Those who wished to pose a specific challenge either struck the shield and declared his intent before witnesses, or left an identifiable token bound to the pole on which it hung. These were the single-combat matches where personal as well as professional disputes were settled.

  Knights who bore no grudges or had no particular interest in whom they fought merely drew lots through the day. Those who won the early courses and were satisfied with their successes could withdraw any time without disgrace. Those who chose to risk more were also free to hang their shields again and advance to the next level of challengers. To the winner of each match went the horse and armour of his opponent, although a fee could be paid in lieu of forfeiting the actual beast and an armload of chain mail. To this end, there were convenient moneylenders in attendance who would pay out in coin—at a fraction of the real value—for any animals or equipment not wanted by the victor. Ordinarily these anonymous matches were perfectly suited to Richard and Dag, and to Geoffrey LaFer, for they sought no more than to keep their skills honed and earn a few trophies to hang on their walls. On this occasion, however, they would be settling for the accolades earned at the melee, for with Robin not entering the jousts, they could hardly be expected to show him up.

  Will touched Brenna’s arm. “Stay with your brothers. Do not go wandering off into the crowd or Sparrow will have my teeth hanging around his neck.”

  Brenna made a face and, for all of three seconds, remained exactly where she was. With the fourth came the booming, doom-laden voices of six cowled monks who walked among the crowds droning the potential fate of challengers who defied holy law. They would be forced to wear their armour through all of eternity—armour that was molten hot and nailed to their bodies so it could not be torn away! They would be given evil-smelling, sulphurous baths! And instead of the embraces of wanton young w
omen, they would be obliged to endure the amorous advances of lascivious toads!

  Brenna edged away as unobtrusively as possible. She saw—or rather, smelled—a booth nearby touting an assortment of hot, steaming meat pies. Patting her belt, she assured herself of the snugness of her money pouch as well as her falchion and dagger, then started working her way toward the food stall.

  Her purchase oozed grease over her fingers as she took a large bite and chewed happily on the mix of larded hare, quail, and mashed chestnuts. She was jostled again but this time exchanged a mutually grinned apology with another satisfied patron whose mouth was equally too stuffed to speak. All around her there were pennons and flags flying. Some moved though the crowds on pikes, being carried proudly by pages who walked importantly in front of their lords and ladies. The clash of brightly colored silks was like an eruption of butterflies tainting the air with a hundred shades of vermilion, blue, green, and yellow. Some were banded, some spotted, some boasted three and four colors embroidered overall with gold and silver threads. Brenna smiled the smile of a childhood memory, the first time she had been taken to a fair, perched on the broad seat of her father’s shoulders, trying to touch every streamer of silk that passed as if it was a breath of colored wind.

  She had never quite lost that wide-eyed rush of excitement, nor had she outgrown the taste of sugared dates, that exotic confection first introduced by returning Crusaders. With her cheeks still bulging with meat and pastry, she wove her way through a large party of yeomen and squandered half a copper sou on a canvas pouch filled with the sticky-sweet treats.

  “Hah! When your belly grows bilious and you are forced to purge it with possets of henbane and worm lips to ease the pain, do not harken to me for pity, Mistress Noddypeak!”

  Brenna sighed and looked down. Sparrow was standing beside her, puffed up with indignation, the top of his felt-capped head barely reaching the level of her waist.

  “Attempting to hide from me, or making me run hither and yon to search you out at every turn of the head will only make a stronger argument for tying you hand and foot to the nearest rouncie and hi-ho-ing you off home again! And if you think I merely vent air and bluster through these lips, ask Sir Cyril here if I am not determined to save myself the aggravation of Lady Servanne’s tears.”

  As low as Brenna’s gaze had fallen to meet Sparrow’s, it rose now to Littlejohn’s frowning countenance.

  “You should not have slipped away without us, my lady,” he growled, not happy to be agreeing with Sparrow over anything. “Lord Randwulf gave strict orders—”

  “Yes, yes. That I was not to draw a breath unless it passed by you first,” she finished on an exasperated huff. “Mother of Mercy, I was not trying to hide, I was only trying to avoid the crush surrounding Robin and the others. And indeed, because there is such a crowd, how could anyone work any mischief without it being seen by a hundred others?”

  Littlejohn’s mouth twisted into a smile. “How? Ask the freebooter who filched the elf’s purse from his belt not two steps away from his horse.”

  Sparrow turned and hoofed his toe into the knight’s trunk like shin. “It was hung there deliberately to test the honesty of Lord Malagane’s minions. And see you? We have found them wanting.”

  “My purse is quite safe,” Brenna assured him, patting her belt. “Furthermore, so am I; Will is with me.”

  Sparrow glared at the surrounding sea of knees and limbs. “Where?”

  “I have him in my eye. He is pretending not to be showing any interest in the archery roles.”

  “Faugh! Another hawk of sterling attentiveness! I warrant I could strip his braies to his knees and paint his ballocks blue before he would notice anything amiss. And you, Mistress Munch, are far more valuable than any purse full of coins. Look you there. And there! A rare mort of fomenting villainy!”

  He fondled his harp-shaped arblaster and glared threateningly at a few passers-by until they gave him a wider berth. Brenna merely sucked the crystals of sugar off her fingers and offered the candy to Littlejohn, who greedily accepted the offering, then to Sparrow, who refused it with an imperious snort.

  His declamation on the eating habits of Infidels was drowned out by a loud cheer as two wrestlers, stripped to the waist and oiled like fish, began to circle each other nearby. Brenna watched with only modest interest, for she knew most of their insults and challenges were rehearsed for the benefit of the crowd. She had already started to turn her gaze back to the archery booth when it was stopped again, this time by the face of a man in the outer ring of spectators who had gathered to watch the wrestlers.

  He stood an easy head and shoulders above anyone else in the crowd, a fact she might still have missed had he not been staring directly at her. Not only staring, but studying her through eyes as pale and clear as lake water—eyes that were not only washed of color, but of manners too as he made not the smallest effort to look away or make amends for the discourtesy when he had been caught.

  It was Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay.

  His appearance so soon, and in the midst of hundreds of others, caught her off guard, and she all but swallowed a date whole. She lowered her gaze quickly but it was too late to prevent the dark, intense blaze of heat from flaring in her cheeks as she remembered the occasion of their last meeting. Her thighs actually shivered and the flesh between gave a single moist throb, and when she recovered enough to risk looking over again, he was still staring. If anything, he appeared to have plucked her thoughts out of the air and gave her a smile of such knowing arrogance, she nearly gasped out loud. Worse still, he was starting to circle the crowd and walk toward her. Sparrow’s warnings about villains in their midst echoed inside her head, and for the spate of several wild heartbeats she was half convinced he was coming to gather her up into his arms and carry her off into the confusion, there to finish what he had begun on the archery run.

  She did not want to face him or speak to him or make any attempt at a polite exchange, not while her flesh continued to prickle and her cheeks betrayed the heat of her mortification. Frantic, she turned and pushed her way through a group of strolling jongleurs, stumbling once and almost tripping headlong in her haste to put distance between her and Renaud.

  She ran between two booths and circled around behind another row of stalls, coming soon upon a quieter, less congested area closer to the base of the walls. Here were empty carts and tired ponies, piles of garbage and discarded sacks. Older women bent over smoking fires to cook the pies and pasties they sold up front, and children played in the dust and mud, occasionally throwing a rock or stick at a mangy dog that crept too close to the cook pot.

  Younger women with dull eyes and gaping tunics lounged in the shade resting between customers. There were no proper stews or tents set aside in which to ply their trade, but with the demand came inventiveness. As Brenna passed by a woodpile, she could hear grunting and the unmistakable slap of flesh on flesh coming from behind it.

  Her head lowered, she quickened her steps and took two, three more winding turns around stalls and bothys. She guessed she must have circled half the bailey by now and should be in the approximate area back of the archery booths, but before she could head back into the noise and merriment, a tall black shadow was thrown across her path and she was brought to an abrupt, slamming halt.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Well now, what do we have here?”

  Brenna stumbled back a pace and looked up into the scarred face of a heavy chested, thick-nosed Fleming who wore a greasy brown beard and had a belly the size of a giant toadstool.

  “By all my teeth—’tis a wench, lads, not a pretty-little boy after all.”

  Brenna glanced to either side and saw two more men slinking out of the shadows. She put a hand to the hilt of her falchion and dropped the pouch of sugared figs on the ground.

  “Keep your distance,” she warned. “I want no trouble.”

  The Fleming arched an eyebrow. “She wants no trouble—hear that, lads?”

>   His comrades grinned and nodded and shifted around behind her to cut off her retreat.

  “ ’Tis no trouble we want to give you either. Just a slap and tickle, and mayhap a bit of a scratch to ease the itch on such a fine, festive day.”

  Brenna drew her shortsword and slashed it threateningly at the two men who were now in position to leap forward and grab at her arms. One of them tried and won a cut on his cheek for the effort. The other jumped back as the blade sliced the air across the tops of his thighs, but he was not unarmed himself; he produced a small leather whip that he uncoiled from around his belt.

  “She cut me!” The injured man gasped. He lowered his hand from his cheek and gaped at the blood dripping off his fingers. “The bitch cut me!”

  “Aye, well, mayhap we’ll let you cut her back when we’re finished with her,” said the man with the whip as he sent it snaking out. Brenna anticipated the move and her blade flashed again, this time intercepting the leather tail and jerking it clear out of the villain’s hand. Unfortunately she lost a precious second tossing the whip aside, and a second was more than enough for the Fleming to close in and grab her around the wrist and throat. He twisted her arm back and around, forcing her to release her hold on the falchion; he curled his other hand around her throat in a choke hold, exerting enough pressure to lift her off the ground and cut off her supply of air.