The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  Half asleep, wholly focussed on the swelling spear of turgid flesh within her, she roused herself with sinewy, catlike stretches, waiting until his blooded fullness was as thick and deep as she could coax it before she lifted her head and purred.

  “You were not thinking of leaving me just yet were you, my lord?”

  The husky, throaty sound of her voice washed over him, and his hands moved of their own accord to fill themselves with the incredibly ripe, round globes of her breasts. “I confess … I did not want to trouble you further.”

  She looked down to where the dark red discs of her nipples had stiffened against his fingers, forming two jutting peaks, hard as berries, tempting as sin.

  “When I want you to stop troubling me, my lord, I will tell you plainly enough. Listen—” she whispered, leaning over to nip the lobe of his ear between her teeth, “and tell me what you hear.”

  Eduard sucked at a breath and his hands grasped hold of her hips as she began to move over him. Diamond-shaped flecks of blue altered the pewter gray of his eyes, the blue becoming darker and deeper with each stroke of sliding heat that engulfed him. The strong, supple limbs gripped his thighs like a vise and as the greedy fist of her womanhood became more and more insistent, his hips began to surge upward, answering the determined tug and pull of her flesh.

  Gabrielle was blissfully aware of the mighty tremors building and gathering in the rock-hard flesh beneath her and she braced her hands on his chest, letting each thrust carry her to a new peak of sensation. He was by far her most virile lover, although his visits came so infrequently she wondered how he could survive with all this pressure stored up inside him. She would never dare ask, but she often wondered why he came to her when there were so many other, younger, prettier maids within the castle walls who would have spun rainbows to please the son of La Seyne Sur Mer. There was only one possible reason she could think of, for she did not flatter herself that her lovemaking skills were any more or less astounding, given the prowess of the man who sought them. Rather, she suspected it had something to do with the fact she was barren, and, being a bastard himself, he had no desire to father another into the world.

  Whatever the reason, she was only glad to know that when he did feel the need to release himself, he did so with her.

  And did it so splendidly.

  A groan shivered in Gabrielle’s throat and she urged her body through a blurred frenzy of ecstasy, not slowing or stopping until the last drop, the last shudder had been wrung from his flesh. Only then, limp and laughing from sheer exhilaration, she collapsed in a weak, trembling heap in his arms.

  Eduard held her that way until his own senses were restored, then chuckled softly as he tilted her face up to his. “Why are you always determined to see me hauled back to the castle in a trundle cart?”

  Gabrielle smiled so deeply a dimple appeared in each cheek. “It is always a challenge to see if I can keep you here an hour more.”

  “An hour more and they will be searching the baileys and bothys for my sapless corpse.”

  “Nonsense. A man finds his strength in a woman’s womb. And you, my lord, have never run short of sap yet.”

  As she spoke, Gabrielle ran her hand across his chest, combing her fingers through the luxuriant mat of crisp chestnut curls. Her fingers snagged briefly on the gold ring he wore suspended from a leathern thong around his neck, but she passed it by without a thought, continuing to trace lacy patterns down onto the lean, flat plane of his belly, then lower still to the coarse, dark nest of hair at his groin.

  They both smiled at the immediate response she won when her hand curled around the thick shaft of his flesh, and, with a sigh, she set her lips and tongue to following the same meandering path her hand had taken downward.

  “Will I see you again before you return to Blois?”

  “I cannot say for certain,” he admitted honestly. “We have been gone from camp a week; too long for a troop of restless knights to remain calmly on their own side of the river.”

  “Have your father’s wounds healed?”

  “My father is made of iron, in flesh and in will. His leg began to heal the instant Lady Servanne set her hands to it.”

  “Mmmm … You have been gone from Amboise three months? I warrant it was not the laying on of milady’s hands that wrought such miracles.”

  Eduard closed his eyes and pressed his head back into the rush-filled mattress. He could not argue with Gabrielle’s theory; his father and stepmother were as much in love now as they had been when they had married fourteen summers ago. The slightest look or most innocent touch could still send them hurrying behind closed doors—where they had, in truth, spent most of the past seven days and nights.

  Eduard himself had managed to resist such fleshly pursuits until today, until the sights and sounds and smells of a lusty autumn day had sent him wandering across the draw and down into the village of Amboise, to the tiny mud and wattle cottage where he knew he would be welcomed without any questions, without any demands of any kind.

  Well, hardly any demands.

  He drew as much air as his lungs could hold and tried to steady himself, tried to ignore the lapping, wet heat that was determined to show no mercy this day. He heard a muffled laugh and he cursed, knowing he had gone too long without a woman to count on any measure of control now.

  The taste of success made Gabrielle’s mouth bolder and the shock sent his hands down, sent his fingers curling into the black waves of her hair. Her zeal was genuine, her energy boundless. Gabrielle had been widowed three times in nine years by men who, it was generally agreed, had wasted away from sheer exhaustion—all with deliriously wide grins on their faces. She was four years older than Eduard, looked ten years younger, and made no secret of what she considered to be the fountain of youth.

  It was well over an hour later when Eduard ducked beneath the low-slung lintel of the door and stepped out into a cool rush of shaded air. The sun had already dipped below the tops of the trees, casting long, slender shadows across the surface of the nearby river. The village, nestled securely in an elbow of the Loire, was all but completely swallowed by the silhouette of the castle that dominated the high ridge above. When viewed against a hazed, blood-red sunset, Amboise’s ramparts, towers, and spires were magnificent and magical; seen emerging from the vaporous morning mists, it was a cold and menacing display of Norman military efficiency.

  As Eduard walked up the steep and narrow approach to the enormous barbican towers that guarded the entry to the castle grounds, he grinned at the lingering weakness in his limbs. It was not the first time he had cursed the height of the earthworks surrounding the outer walls, nor the first time he paused at the drawbridge to catch his breath and glance back down at the thatched roof of the widow’s cottage. In fairness, he should not have strayed today, not after leaving his men strict orders to work themselves and their horses through their paces. The past seven days and nights of inactivity had left him restless, and while the others had made good use of their wives and whores the first few days of their arrival home, Eduard had raised a sweat with sword and lance, practising from dawn until dusk.

  As much as he had missed the peace and serenity of Amboise, lengthy periods of inactivity were a curse he found increasingly difficult to bear, especially when he knew the French were pressing hard to advance into the province of Touraine. In the past month alone, he had led two skirmishes that had driven Philip’s army back across the Loire; he had won a resounding victory in a third when French knights had attempted an ill-planned assault on their encampment. Eduard and his father had returned to Amboise a sennight ago, neither in the keenest of spirits to do so, but Lord Randwulf had been sorely wounded in the ambush and it had taken all of his son’s considerable powers of persuasion, plus his armed insistence, to convince the mighty Black Wolf of Amboise he would heal faster at home.

  Home, Eduard mused, gazing up at the formidable battlements.

  Amboise Castle was designed like most Norman strongholds,
with the original inner keep being the central structure around which the other buildings and wards had been added and built up over the generations. The main keep rose sixty feet from its widened base, buttressed by earthworks and protected by a draw that had rarely been raised over the past century, but which could, if necessary, seal off all access to the massive stone tower. The surrounding moat no longer held water except in times of heavy rains, and clusters of buildings had sprung up around the earthworks to house the barracks, stables, armoury, psalteries, cook houses, smithy, and weavers cottages—all comprising a small community contained within the inner curtain wall, a block and mortar barrier fifteen feet high, guarded by double-leaf iron doors and flanked by tall, square watchtowers.

  This was the heart of Amboise, and to reach the heart, one had to successfully breach a well-defended outer bailey, which contained among other things, the practice fields and tilting grounds, also the pens and stables that housed the livestock.

  A second wall enclosed this outer bailey and was the castle’s first defense. Built strong enough to withstand attack by catapult, battering ram, or trebuchet, the fortified battlements were forty feet high and eight feet thick, faced with rough-cut limestone blocks mortared around a core of rock rubble. Entrance was gained through the huge iron portcullis gate, which required the combined efforts of ten men on winches to raise and lower. The jagged iron teeth were suspended no higher than the measure of a man on horseback, the spikes held so tautly on their chains as to hum ominously in any breath of wind.

  The flanking barbican towers were, in turn, built like small fortresses, the walls thick enough to house passageways for archers, and slotted with chutes for pouring boiling oil and pitch on the heads of would-be attackers. No one passing through the main gates was not well and truly aware of the strength of the garrison patrolling the crenellated battlements, or doubted that the other towers constructed at hundred-foot intervals along the span of the wall were equally prepared to discourage unwelcome visitors. Day and night the walls were manned by sentries whose armour, swords, and helms reflected jabbing needles of light to observers from the village below. Each boldly displayed the black and gold device of Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer, bearing the menacing depiction of a prowling wolf, the head full-faced and snarling.

  The Wolf’s pennants had not always flown over Amboise. The castle and its vast adjoining demesnes had been deeded to La Seyne Sur Mer as a reward for his many years of faithful service to Eleanor of Aquitaine. He had taken up residence fourteen years ago, the same summer he had wed Lady Servanne de Briscourt; the same summer he had fought a Dragon and outwitted a future king.

  Up until then, the Wolf had been content to roam the tournament circuits of Europe as the dowager’s champion, known to all who dreaded his appearance in the lists as the Scourge of Mirebeau. Under the black armour and black silk mask that had been his trademark was another identity he had preferred to put behind him for over a decade—that of Lucien Wardieu, Baron de Gournay, rightful heir to rich estates in Lincolnshire that had been won by his great-grandfather when the Normans had first wrested England from the Saxons.

  Lucien had had a brother, bastard-born and weaned on jealousy and malice. As close alike as twins, Etienne had followed Lucien Wardieu on crusade to Palestine where, under cover of a bloody battle for the Holy City, he had ambushed the De Gournay heir and left him to die under the hot desert sun. Returning to England in triumph, Etienne had then assumed the guise of his dead brother, and for the next thirteen years had ruled Lincolnshire as Lucien Wardieu, Dragon Lord of Bloodmoor Keep.

  Unbeknownst to the Dragon, his brother had not died. Through a dark mist of treachery and deceit, the Wolf had survived, had worked to heal his ravaged mind and body, and, by dint of loyal service to the dowager queen, transformed himself into Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer, one of the most feared and respected knights in all of Europe.

  When Lord Randwulf, on a mission for the queen, had returned to Bloodmoor Keep to reclaim his name and honour, he had not known he would also be reclaiming a son, born a few scant months after he had left on crusade. The mother, a woman of incredible beauty and spine-chilling evil, had played mistress to both brothers and used the bastard child to further her own corrupt ambitions. Eduard’s early years had been years of cruelty and abuse, loathed by a dam who thrived on giving pain, tormented by a man who saw everything that had been noble and valiant in his dead brother growing to manhood before his hate-filled eyes. It was a wonder Eduard had maintained a grip on his sanity. An even greater wonder he had maintained a grip on his life when the Dragon and the Wolf had clashed in their final bloody confrontation.

  The death of Etienne Wardieu had set Eduard free. The Wolf had accepted his son proudly and without reservations, but, realizing it was only a matter of time before the prince regent avenged the death of his pet dragon, Lucien had brought his family home to Touraine. There, because he preferred to be known only as La Seyne Sur Mer, Eduard had also, eagerly, severed all ties with the Wardieu and De Gournay names.

  The Wolf and his beautiful bride had done everything in their power to erase the effects of those lost and lonely years, and indeed, Eduard had matured into a powerful man, an undefeated champion in the lists, a master with sword and lance whose courage and fighting skills were a source of bowel-clenching terror to enemies who saw him sally forth onto a battlefield or tournament ground. Moreover, he was content, despite Lady Servanne’s best efforts to turn him into a country noble, to continue serving his father to the utmost of his ability, to ride by his side and proudly bear the black and gold standard of La Seyne Sur Mer.

  This uncompromising loyalty from the Wolf’s son as well as from his vassals and liegemen was one of the main reasons why the long and sinister fingers of King John had never been able to reach this deeply into the Aquitaine. As prince regent, John had allied himself with the Dragon of Bloodmoor Keep, and had been humiliated at the Wolf’s hand when forced to expose Etienne Wardieu as a usurper. Barely a month after the Wolf’s return to Touraine, John had declared the De Gournay estates in Lincolnshire forfeit due to unpaid scutage. On the Continent, however, he was forced to tolerate the Wolf’s presence at Amboise, both because of the size of Lord Randwulf’s private army, and because of his defensive proximity to the French border. Nevertheless, he rarely missed an opportunity to besmirch the Wolf’s name or remind his numerous admirers that the Baron d’Amboise had slain his own brother and stolen the dead man’s bride.

  Another reason for John’s reluctance to do more than verbally assault the renowned knight was that La Seyne Sur Mer was still in the queen’s favour. It was Eleanor of Aquitaine who kept the Black Wolf leashed when he would have risen in support of Prince Arthur as successor to the Lionheart. Instead, it had been the black and gold pennants of Amboise that Arthur had encountered first upon his foolhardy attempt to lay siege to his grandmother’s castle at Mirebeau. It had also been to a black and gold war pavilion that the hapless prince had been taken upon his capture, for despite the Wolf’s disdain for King John and his genuine liking for the Duke of Brittany, he was first and foremost loyal to Queen Eleanor.

  And so, by blood and sword, was Eduard FitzRandwulf d’Amboise. Though his heart had been with the young prince, he had ridden with his father to relieve the siege on Mirebeau, and, although the English king’s power was being eroded in Normandy, Brittany, and the Aquitaine, as long as Eleanor commanded the Wolf’s allegiance, the black and gold would continue to defend her borders.

  Eduard was anxious to return to that defense. His temper was short and his patience lacking. He had practised with such zeal in the yards the previous day, there had been no un-bruised or undaunted men lining up to challenge him this morning. After a few lacklustre rounds of archery—again with no wagers placed against him—it was the surplus of raw, unfocussed energy that had sent him prowling through the bailey and down into the village.

  And kept him there, he thought with chagrin, far longer than he had intended. T
he castle could have come under siege and he would not have known it. Pestilence and peril could have descended and he would not have noticed.

  What he did notice now, as he crossed the outer bailey and headed toward the arched gates of the inner curtain wall, was a marked lack of activity in the yards. It was not so late that the quintains should have been put away and the knights all retired to their barracks.

  “Sweet St. Cyril, rot my teeth!”

  Eduard stopped, startled out of his musings.

  “Nay, he should take my teeth, my toes, and all my fingers if I could but once lay a hand to the scruff of my lord Cockerel’s neck at the first call to do so.”

  FitzRandwulf squinted upward, tracing the source of the familiar plea for dismemberment. Above, seated between the crenellated teeth of the flying arch, was the diminutive figure of the castle seneschal, Sparrow. Dwarf-like in stature, with a round elfin face and a mouth puckered tight with self-importance, Sparrow had found a perch overlooking the main entry to the inner bailey and had settled there with the patience of Job, waiting for his quarry to come into sight. Seated beside him, obviously relieved to have won a reprieve from Sparrow’s company, was Robert d’Amboise, firstborn son to the Wolf and Lady Servanne.

  “Rest an eye on yon fine specimen of knighthood,” Sparrow lectured sardonically. “Take heed, young Robin, of what can befall a man who heaves over to debauchery at the merest wink of a comely eye.”

  Eduard followed Sparrow’s gaze down to where his shirt was rumpled and loosely caught about his waist; to his hose, haphazardly rebound to only half the required leather points and bagging sadly around the knees.

  Seeing that the black eyes were dancing at the prospect of creating some mischief, Eduard feigned innocence and kept walking under the flying arch. “You have been looking for me?”