Obeying her brother’s glance, Brenna and Sparrow followed, and while Griffyn waded knee deep into the water, Robin took a seat on a convenient boulder on shore.
“First,” he said, “I would hear what you know about Dafydd ap Iowerth.”
Griffyn sighed and plunged his hands into the cold water. “He is dead.”
“That much I know already.”
Griffyn nodded and related his initial meeting with Malagane and Solange de Sancerre, omitting nothing, including what details he could recall about the sight that had greeted him in the donjons of Château Gaillard. When he recounted his part in the devil’s bargain, Robin’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing until the end.
“So he told you we were bound for England to lay claim to my father’s lands—lands in Lincoln that he wants for himself—and you did not believe him?”
“On the contrary, I do believe him. I believe King Philip has promised him a prominent position in England when and if the barons support the Dauphin as king. I also happen to believe there will be a good many rich tracts free for the taking since Louis has made no secret of the fact he intends to execute, banish, or imprison those same barons when he takes power.”
“Why would he do such a thing?”
“He is convinced any noble who would betray his king once would readily do it again. Malagane, on the other hand, has always fought against John in favor of Philip and stands to become a very wealthy, very powerful individual … providing there is no further obstacle to Louis taking the throne.”
“And he thinks such an obstacle might exist?” Robin asked carefully.
“I think your friend died in great agony trying to keep a secret that has been well guarded for over a decade. I think Malagane has discovered what that secret is and is making his own preparations to insure it does not interfere with his plans.”
“You seem to know a great deal about matters I would not think would have concerned you in Burgundy.”
Griffyn studied his hands a moment, then used them to splash water over his face and throat to rinse away the blood. “I am English by birth. My family has had holdings in Leicester for twelve generations.”
“A purebred Saxon champion?” Robin mused. “A rarity indeed. I should think you would rejoice in seeing the Norman conquerors humbled.”
Griffyn offered up a wry smile. “As rare as true Saxon blood might be, it would be even more difficult to find pure Norman blood in England. The conquest succeeded only because the invaders intermarried, raped, and impregnated the women of Saxon nobility with Norman bastards. Peasants, people in the forests and in the far north, whisper of a time when a Saxon will sit on the throne of England again. They swear they have seen and heard the great king, Arthur Pendragon, leading an army of ghosts through the greenwood in search of a man strong enough to take back the throne. But that is all it is: stories and whispers. The Normans in England do not even regard themselves as being Normans anymore. They call themselves English and look to the French—the ages-old enemies of the Normans—to help them oust their Norman king.”
He stopped, raked his fingers through his hair to squeeze out the excess water, and shook his head. “I dare swear it confuses the hell out of me. I chose to make my home in the mountains of Burgundy because I have no particular affection for the Normans or the French or the Spaniards, all of whom seem bent on conquering each other. I keep to myself and see to my own needs and make a point of avoiding any and all commitments to noble causes.”
Robin matched his wry smile. “Which makes me doubly curious to know why you would have put yourself at such risk to warn us of Malagane’s treachery.”
The gray-green eyes flickered ever so briefly in Brenna’s direction. “As I told Malagane, I dislike being used as a pawn in any man’s game. More so if I am not told all the rules and all the players.”
“You appear to have guessed a few players on your own.”
Griffyn acknowledged the supposition with a tilt of his head. “It was not that difficult to do, especially if you remember being a young, impressionable lad of thirteen who still believed in romance and chivalry and the nobility of men who would risk everything to rescue a princess from the donjons of a cruel king. At the time, of course, there were no names given to any of the rescuers; it was not until Malagane inadvertently mentioned that your brother—Eduard?—was especially close to Arthur of Brittany that I was able to fit the pieces together. I gather the Lost Princess is not as lost as everyone presumes her to be?”
“She is a helpless and innocent pawn,” Robin replied quietly, “who never wanted to be part of any man’s game. Nor does she want to be one now, despite those who would parade her before the world, a blind and vulnerable woman committed only to serving God.”
Griffyn straightened slowly. “Blind?”
“By her uncle’s hand, eleven years ago. It is one of the reasons why he has never troubled himself overmuch to find her; he has known she has posed no threat to his crown.”
“I gather no one else is aware of this … impediment?”
“By no one, you mean Malagane? No, I doubt he knows. I doubt Robert FitzWalter or any of his dissenting barons know either.”
Griffyn lowered his hands and let them drip by his sides. “Then why not simply tell them? Why go to all the risk and bother to rescue someone who would not need to be rescued if the truth came to light?”
“Because it is not Eleanor who needs rescuing,” Robin said softly. “It is her son.”
Both Sparrow and Brenna turned their heads to gape at this, for the existence of a child was news to them as well.
“He will be ten years old this spring,” Robin explained with a sigh. “No one knows about him. Not even Eduard. Only Marienne and a few of the older nuns at the abbey … and the child’s father, of course.”
“Henry de Clare,” Brenna guessed on a breath.
“An unexpected lapse on both their parts. It happened during a storm, when they were caught out in the forest. The storm lasted several days, during which time Henry had no means of lighting a fire to dry their clothes or keep them warm and … one thing led to another.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“Marienne ran out of excuses to give me why she could not come home to Normandy. She finally had to tell me the truth, if only to keep me from crossing the Channel and carrying her away by force. She has claimed the child as her own thus far, and is fairly certain no one suspects his royal lineage, but she says he grows to resemble his great golden uncle Richard more and more each day and they have all began to fear for his safety. I was already making plans to go to England when the dragon ring arrived. I thought … I hoped perhaps Dafydd might have had some other specific message for me.”
“If he did, it died with him,” Griffyn said, coming slowly out of the water. “But who is Henry de Clare? Surely, if the child is common and base-born it can pose no threat either.”
“Henry de Clare’s bloodlines are as pure as you claim your own to be; his ancestors rode at the side of William the Conqueror and, before that, held claim to a vast portion of Gascony. Neither is the child base-born, for they were secretly wed when the results of their indiscretion became known. It has been a marriage in name only these past many years, for Eleanor is committed to the church, but their vows were made before a bishop and no court in the land could declare them false.”
“No court in John’s England?” Griffyn queried sardonically.
“No court that would dare question the word of Stephen Langton.”
Sparrow groaned and struck his head with the flat of his palm. “Do not tell me it was the Archbishop of Canterbury who witnessed the wedding vows. Do not tell me this even in jest.”
“He was not archbishop at the time,” Robin said mildly. “Indeed, he did not even have aspirations of ever becoming Seer. His election came as much of a surprise to him as to anyone else—most especially John Lackland, if you will recall, whose refusal to accept him as the Pope’s choice cau
sed Rome to place England under an interdict for six long years.”
“And now this same Stephen Langton knows of the existence of a legitimate heir to the throne of England?” Griffyn arched an eyebrow. “A boy-child, no less, one whose claim is stronger than either John’s or his weakling babe of a son.”
“Langton vowed, with his lips on a crucifix, the knowledge would die with him, if that was what Eleanor wanted.”
“And is that what she wants?” Brenna asked quietly.
Robin looked at her. “She wants peace. She saw her brother die as a sacrifice to other men’s greed. She saw the ruling barons of England stand by and do nothing while God’s laws of descendance were ignored and another was chosen king in Arthur’s place. And she sees them now, trying to rally the people behind a French king because the corrupt and brutal king they chose over Arthur turned out not to be to their liking. How loyal would they be to her son if they decided he was not to their liking either? She does not want him to be the cause of yet another spree of bloodletting and rebellion, nor does she want him to live out his days under the threat of an assassin’s knife.”
“Does this family ever trouble itself with simple matters?” Sparrow sighed. “Like wars and plagues and famines?”
“It is not a burden I have enjoyed carrying alone all these years,” Robin declared.
“Then why share it now?” Sparrow demanded.
“Because I realized today—in the lists and here in the forest—that it is not the kind of secret that can simply die with me. There are men who would stop at nothing to kill the boy should his existence become known. Still others who would use him—like a pawn,” he added, staring directly into Griffyn’s eyes, “to further their own ambitions.”
“Even so,” Griffyn pointed out, “you have chosen odd company to share it with.”
“Not so odd, I think. Unless I am wrong in guessing the reason why you lowered your shield this afternoon—and why my sister thought you were worth saving.”
Griffyn looked directly at Brenna for the first time. “She did, did she? And you thought you would test her judgment by revealing information to me that could plunge England into a civil war?”
“You said you liked to be apprised of all the players in the game.”
“I also said I avoid any and all commitments to noble causes.”
“How do you feel about reckless adventures?”
Griffyn’s eyes narrowed. “That would depend on how reckless and how adventurous.”
“Reckless enough to have a prince of France and an English king vying to see who can catch us first. Adventurous enough to ride into the heart of middle England and spit up the noses of those who would stop us.”
“It is a tempting offer, I assure you, but”—he paused and peered intently into the slate-gray eyes—“how would you know you could trust me?”
“I would know … because you would give me your oath of honor.”
Sparrow made a choking sound in this throat. “Did you not just hear him say he was an Englishman? A Saxon, no less? You might as well heed an oath from a Celtic bog-fiend!”
Griffyn glared down at the outspoken woodsprite. “As it happens, I was going to say … it might prove a greater risk to you to invite me along rather than let me go on my way. The last time I heard there was a reward of some four thousand marks on my head—and it may be even more by now.”
Robin was as impressed as he was surprised. “What the devil did you do to warrant it?”
“I took offense at the king offering me hospitality in my own donjons and escaped,” he said blithely, “killing a dozen or so of his royal guard and giving his mistress a vigorous serving of Saxon droit du seigneur. It was when I was younger, of course, and went by another name.”
“Another name?”
He shrugged his big shoulders. “It carries little worth now, but I was the Earl of Huntington until the king discovered my Saxon lineage and sought to eradicate it.”
Robin’s handsome face broke out in a slow grin. “An outlawed English earl, a Saxon champion, and a dark prince of Burgundy … by God’s teeth, I would call it an adventure indeed just to travel in such illustrious company! Brenna? Sparrow? What say you both; shall we have him along?”
Brenna was too dumbfounded to say anything. Her brother had been hoping to expose the inherent sense of honor he had recognized in Griffyn Renaud and, instead, had shocked them all by uncovering genuine blooded nobility.
Griffyn had obviously arrived at the same conclusion, and his own smile was tempered with a frown. “I have not yet agreed to come along.”
“You will,” Robin said jovially, “when you realize your only other choice is to go under the leaves with the rest of the corpses and wait for the carrion to sniff you out in the morning.”
Griffyn’s brow arched again and he gave Sparrow’s arblaster—and the itchy fingers that longed to tickle it—a measured look. “Put that way … I suppose it would be churlish to refuse your invitation.”
Robin nodded. “I was hoping you would think so.”
Sparrow shook his head and groaned. “Madness. It runs rampant in this family. I knew it the first time I took up company with your father, and there has been no relief of it since.”
Robin clapped him on the shoulder. “Yes, but are your ballocks still itching?”
The little man cast a frown in the direction of his crotch. “No,” he said, somewhat reluctantly. “In truth, they are not.”
“Then away, Puck, and bring up the horses; we have wasted enough time already. Brenna?”
She looked up and held her breath, for she was half convinced he would have changed his mind by now about taking her along.
“Be sure to retrieve all of your arrows; we may have difficulty replacing them once we cross the Channel.”
She nodded and darted off to comply, and was not quite out of earshot when she heard Griffyn’s startled query.
“She is going to England with you?”
“The island is nine-tenths forest. And in the forest, with or without a bow in her hand, Brenna has few equals. If that is a problem for you … ?”
“The problem,” Griffyn said evenly, “is that the forests of England are like no other forest in the world.”
“Do you speak from experience … or fear?”
“An honest measure of both. Ghostly armies aside, you could hide an entire kingdom inside the greenwood between Lincoln and Nottingham and never know it was there.”
“With God’s help, we will not need to keep a kingdom hidden, only a king.”
Half a mile away, camouflaged by trees and dense bramble, Solange de Sancerre gripped Malagane’s arm tightly as she counted the number of horses and riders that were leaving the gully below. Six of the knights turned back and retraced their route to join up with the entourage returning to Amboise. Nine continued west, on the road to Rouen, including the girl, two squires, and Griffyn Renaud.
They had enjoyed the perfect view. From their vantage they had been able to watch Wardieu’s men approach from the east while two of their number—Solange thought she saw the flash of a long golden braid on one of them—scouted the woods ahead and targeted Gerome’s men. The resultant skirmish had them on their toes some of the time, trying to observe it all. Malagane had cursed almost continually to see how easily the ambush had been foiled, but after all, they were Gerome’s men. Hired thugs, for the most part, and crossbowmen who were always considered expendable.
“Do you think it worked, my darling?” Solange asked in a breathless whisper. “Do you think the ploy was convincing?”
“I lost count of the bodies, but I expect there was enough carnage to persuade Wardieu the ambush was real.”
“A pity about Gerome.”
“Blundering oaf; he as good as killed himself. Could you not have controlled him any better? All of this would have been for naught if he had killed the Burgundian—or worse, damaged him too much to make the journey.”
Solange dismissed his con
cerns with a shrug. “Renaud is a strong beast, he will recover. And I doubt it would have looked quite so believable had he merely suffered a slap on the cheek. Besides which, he has his loving little bitch now to tend his wounds. She will nurse him back to health if only to show her appreciation for the noble sacrifices he made today.”
“Indeed, I want him back in perfect health,” said a low, ominous voice behind them. “I want him healthy so that when I tear his heart from his chest and stuff it down his throat, he will appreciate the true taste of revenge.”
Both Solange and Malagane turned to admire the fury blazing in Andrew de Chanceas’s soulless eyes. His tunic was lavishly stained with the blood of Engelard Cigogni, who had died in his arms not ten minutes after leaving the gully.
“You will have your chance at him,” Malagane promised. “After he has outlived his usefulness. For now, we have arrangements to make.”
“What arrangements?” Solange asked. “The men are ready to leave at a moment’s notice. The ship is waiting in Rouen. And we were told there was no need to risk venturing too close.” The green eyes sought the distant crust of trees again. “He has assured us he will leave signs telling us where they have been and where they are going. All we have to do is follow our happy company of heroes at a discreet distance.”
“Even so, I would have been happier if Wardieu’s interference had been eliminated on the jousting field today.”
“I suspected your anger at our Dark Prince was not entirely feigned. To be sure, poor Gerome was induced to believe he was bait and nothing more. And think how much happier you will be when you are able to tell Prince Louis you not only witnessed the demise of Eleanor of Brittany personally but that you have brought him proof the Black Wolf is a traitor and has been plotting all along with his sons and his English allies to overthrow the French king. Who knows?” She tipped her head up and offered the luscious pout of her mouth for his consideration. “Perhaps he will reward you with Amboise.”
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