“Looking for you? Looking for you?” Sparrow gave an indignant squawk as he leaned too far forward on the wall and nearly lost his balance.
Eduard emerged from the shadow of the archway into the setting sunlight again and, as if by magic, Sparrow was there to greet him, his arms squared on his hips, his stubby legs planted firmly in the path.
“Look you to my heels, Groutnoll, and you will see them worn to the bone from hunting and searching. Your father has torn block from mortar with his bare hands this past hour waiting on your tardy appearance.”
Eduard glanced sharply up at the main keep. “An hour? Why the devil did you not fetch me at once?”
Sparrow’s eyebrows took a belligerent leap toward his hairline. “Both Robin and I have turned the castle grounds upside, hither, and yon! Why the devil were you not where you were supposed to be? After scouring the first hundred or so trysting nests, these old bones of mine began to aggrieve me.”
“I should aggrieve you with the back of a broom,” Eduard scowled, starting briskly toward the keep.
“Eduard! There you are!”
FitzRandwulf stopped again, too suddenly for Sparrow, who had taken up the chase with malicious intent. The wood sprite stumbled into the back of the knight’s thighs with enough of an impact to send his cap slewing sideways over his ear.
“I see Sparrow found you,” said Alaric FitzAthelstan. “Has he told you the news?”
“News?” Eduard frowned and glared down at the seneschal. “What news?”
“The Marshal of England is half a day’s ride from Amboise,” Alaric announced. “He has begged leave to rest here on his way back from his meetings with the French king.”
Eduard was surprised. “I had heard that Lackland had sent him to negotiate terms of peace, but not that the earl marshal would be passing this way on his return to Rouen. For that matter, are we not a considerable distance south and east of where he wants to go?”
“Considerable,” Alaric agreed. “And no doubt the news of his imminent arrival has caused a small flurry of excitement for the Wolf and his lady.” He paused and gazed thoughtfully up at the keep. “I warrant the entire household will have been turned turvy by now and set to cleaning, scrubbing, airing, and cooking. We would be wise, perhaps, to tarry a while longer before we answer our summons lest we find buckets and brooms thrust into our hands.”
“Father sent for you as well?”
Alaric was not only Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer’s closest friend and ally, but he had been deeded adjoining lands. Tall and lean, deceptively mild-mannered and scholarly in appearance, Alaric was never far from the Wolf’s side in any battle, and was, to Eduard’s knowledge, the only man he had ever seen best his father with a sword. He had, admittedly, been jealous of their closeness in the beginning, but it was exceeding hard not to like Alaric FitzAthelstan; harder still not to like a man whose logic and level- headedness could defuse many explosive situations before the skill of his sword arm was put to the test.
“Actually, the more urgent plea came from the Lady Servanne. She knows your father’s temper when it comes to any dealings with King John, and I gather she does not trust him to keep from speaking his mind. Not that the Earl of Pembroke is any great believer in John’s ability to keep the English banners flying over Normandy, but the earl has the advantage of his age and wisdom, and the respect owed him as advisor to three kings. As for this mission to see Philip …” Alaric shook his head in disgust. “It was a useless venture, designed to humiliate the earl and nothing more. Philip wants all of Normandy and both sides know John does not have the resources or the strength to fight for it.”
“Do you think he will fight?”
Alaric opened his mouth to respond, but a raucous volley of shouts and jeers drew his frowning attention to a window high on the tower wall. “What in God’s name …?”
A flurry of waving arms accompanied the noise, all directed at a red-faced Robert d’Amboise, who was trying without much success to ignore them and to keep as solemn an expression as was warranted for a man newly promoted from page to squire.
Eduard turned and regarded him with an arched brow.
“I … I am sorry, my lord,” Robert said, fidgeting. “They are still children and think I have nothing more important to do with my time than play at winks and binks with them.”
Eduard nodded solemnly. “Have you seen to my armour?”
“Aye, my lord. I had the links repaired and the lot rolled in hot oiled sand until the iron gleamed like silver. I groomed Lucifer and fed him a double rasher of oats, then had your sword sharpened and the hilt of your lance repaired.”
“You have been busy.”
“Busier than most, I warrant,” Sparrow muttered under his breath.
Eduard ignored the comment and dismissed Robert with a tilt of his head. “Go along then. Pull your brothers’ noses for me and give each of your sisters a pinch.”
“I will, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”
The young squire scampered off at a run, shouting a warning that effectively ended the hooting and waving on squeals of mock alarm.
“Well,” Sparrow harrumphed, clearly distempered, “I suppose you arrange for a teat for him to suck before he accompanies you onto a battlefield?”
“Robin is a fine squire, and Eduard a tyrant of a taskmaster,” Alaric allowed. “No thanks to your own tutelage in their early years, Puck. In fact, one can only hope you do as well with Randwulf’s other sons.”
Sparrow frowned, torn between a boast to acknowledge the flattery and a desire to expound on the detriments of a weak master. He knew full well how strict Eduard was when it came to training or discipline on the field, but there was still a natural tendency to spare a younger brother the bite of a whip if he showed a lack of proper respect between master and squire—respect that was necessary to learn the ways of a noble young man rising through the ranks of service. While Sparrow loved all the Wolf’s children with equal fervour, Robert—little Robin—had been just a tad more special than the others. Charmed somehow. Destined for some great future his diminutive mentor did not intend to see squandered for want of common sense.
“’Tis better to be harder on the boy than softer.” Sparrow scowled at Alaric, not wanting the comments to pass completely unnoticed. “Your own young William shows a sad lacking in discipline, mooning about the castle like a lovesick calf, weeping so hard in his pallet at night, we have taken to calling him Will-of-the-Scarlet-Eyes.”
“William is only six years old and fostered into Lady Servanne’s care less than two months,” Eduard said defensively. “I vow you wept and mooned and calved aplenty when you were that age. You still do, for that matter, as well as carp and wheedle and complain and aggravate beyond endurance.”
Sparrow spluttered and Alaric laughed, clapping a hand on Eduard’s shoulder to steer him toward the main keep. “I can see this past week has been a long one for you.”
“And growing longer each hour that passes.”
“Aye, well, you should marry and see how much you miss these lengthy solitudes.”
Eduard grinned. “No, thank you. I will never be in that much pain. How is Lady Gillian, or dare I ask?”
“Oh—” Alaric drew a deep breath and released it in a gust. “Cross at everyone. Complaining her belly is too big and gets in the way of her bowstring. Blaming me, of course.”
“Of course. The babe is due this month, is it not?”
“Sooner, I pray, than later.”
“Another lout with more brawn than brain,” Sparrow griped. “If the men of this shire paid as much heed to sowing their fields as they do their wives, there would be enough crops to feed all of Christendom.”
Alaric passed a wry glance over his shoulder. “Whereas, if a certain thimble-sized codpiece were loosened now and then, I have no doubt its owner would have less cause to see only doom and gloom lurking beneath a woman’s kirtle. What was the name of that pug-nosed little vixen who had her eye on you the last
time we were home? Bettina? Lettina?”
“Letticia,” Eduard provided helpfully.
“Letticia!” Alaric snapped his fingers. “Aye, that was it. Round and pink-cheeked, and determined to steal a peek up his tunic each chance she came by.”
Sparrow skidded to an indignant halt on the drawbridge. He gaped at the two men as if they had suddenly grown horns and breathed fire. “That troll-necked shrew? Sooner would I bed a foul-breathed sin-eater than let that drudge clamp a thigh around me. Saints assoil me! A walking mort, she is. Schooled by Old Blister herself.”
“Ahh, yes. Mistress Bidwell.” Alaric winked broadly as Eduard smothered another grin. “Now there is a well-kept secret if ever I heard one.”
“Secret?” Sparrow gawped. “What secret?”
“Nay, nay. You need not act the innocent with us, Puck. ’Tis a well-known fact: the harder a man protests against the virtues of a fine woman, the better … and more intimately he knows her.”
They had arrived at the stone pentice—the covered stairwell that gave access to the great keep’s living quarters. Alaric bowed Eduard on ahead, the stairwell being comfortably wide enough for only one large man at a time, while pointedly ignoring Sparrow’s outraged denials.
The stairs climbed in a gradual spiral to the second storey of the keep. Archers’ meurtriers were carved into the wall every few paces and admitted air and filtered light, but at the top, the landing was shrouded in a thick gloom, relieved only dimly by the light emitted by the entrance to the great hall. From where they stood, they could see down into the cavernous interior of the keep’s vast audience chamber. As Alaric had predicted, there were servants everywhere laying new rushes, spreading clean linens on the trestle tables that had been set up along both flanks of the room. The flames of a hundred candles twinkled through the haze of disturbed dust. The curling smoke from the torches blazing along the walls traced upward to the arched window embrasures, where the only outside light that gained entry was webbed and patterned by the huge crossbeams that supported the ceiling. The fires in the long cooking trench were shooting flames ten feet high in the air casting sparks in all directions as the cooks stirred the coals and prepared the hot beds for the spitted haunches of meat that stood waiting. Out of sight, behind the tall woven screens that concealed the entrance to the main kitchens and cook houses, there would be more frenzied activities as food was prepared and decorated, pastries baked and sweetened to the point of pain, soups, stews, sauces, and jellies boiled and set aside to complement each of the ten or more courses that would comprise the evening feast.
In the midst of all the confusion, a towering, broad-shouldered knight stood in his black velvet finery, his fists clutched around the necks of a pair of throttled, featherless capons.
Sensing the arrival of his son and his neighbour, the Wolf’s piercing gray eyes cut through the gloom and found the entryway.
“By Christ’s pricking thorns, it is high time the pair of you turned up!”
Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer’s voice boomed out over the shouting of servants and the squabbling of dogs, momentarily distracting a few sweaty faces from their tasks. One other face, oval and lovely despite the harried frown, looked longer and harder than the rest before murmuring something to a varlet and dispatching him on an errand.
“I should have known,” declared Servanne d’Amboise, chatelaine of the castle. “I should have guessed the two of you would remain out of sight until most of the work was done. Eduard—cease your grinning and get you down to the cellars to help choose the wine and ale. Alaric—where is Gil? Surely you have not allowed her to sit a horse in her condition!”
“I had to steal all of the animals out of my own pens to prevent her doing just so, but nay. She follows in a litter, an hour or so behind. I would have ridden with her, but with a dozen knights already at her beck and call, I did not think she would notice my absence. Besides,” he added with a faint smile that encompassed the limp capons, “the message I received warned of dire consequences should I not put my feet on the road at once. When is the marshal expected? I was told half a day or thereabouts.”
“That was half a day ago,” Servanne declared curtly. “The Earl of Pembroke and his entourage have been inside the castle walls for several hours now. Thankfully, he was weary from a long sojourn in the saddle and begged leave to wash the dust from his feet and rest his eyes until we supped. Eduard! Why do you stand there still? Wine! Ale! The best tuns you can possibly find. Alaric—dearest Friar—can you not find it in your heart to take my husband and sit him somewhere with a tankard of mead? I have tripped over his feet so many times my toes are blue.”
“I was only trying to help, my love,” the Wolf said, thrusting the capons at a passing servant. “But if I am not needed—”
“You are not needed,” she assured him, snatching the capons from the one churl and handing them to another who had been waiting to skewer them. At the sight of her husband’s scowl, she sighed and smiled, and reached up a delicate white hand to press against his cheek. “Wanted … yea, a thousand times over, my lusty and handsome wolf’s head, but at the moment, definitely not needed. Sparrow!” The chatelaine’s sharp blue eyes flicked past the Wolf’s shoulder as she caught sight of another movement in the shadows. “Sparrow, where have you been! Biddy has been scouring the rafters for you.”
“Well, I am found now, am I not?” he groused sullenly. “And I should like to see the day Old Blister scours anything for anyone.”
“Is that so?”
Sparrow felt, rather than saw, the knuckled fist swing out at him from the gloom of the landing.
“Forsooth, I should scour the ears from your head after I box them free, you rancid little puffin of a man!”
Biddy had crept up on him with the stealth of a cat, and if not for lightning reflexes and elfin speed, Sparrow might well have taken an unexpected flight headlong down the steep span of stairs. As it was, he ducked and pivoted on a heel, then took intentional flight upward with a hop and a skip, landing on a ledge carved halfway up the wall.
Biddy’s grasping fist was mere inches behind, and, with an “Aaawk!” of genuine consternation, Sparrow leaped again, seeming to climb by finger and toeholds to an even safer sanctuary. Reaching a window embrasure, he plumped himself on the stone casement and glared down at his nemesis.
“Scour me now, Troll,” he snorted, his arms folded in smug defiance over his chest. “Would you had not eaten half a harvest at noontide, you might have succeeded.”
Biddy countered the insult with narrowed eyes. “Would that you had eaten half a harvest at noontide you would be able to remain on your perch through the smells of the coming feast. As it is, however, your belly will send you down long before I grow tired of waiting.”
Everyone within earshot snickered. Rare was the day that passed when the two were not exchanging verbal or physical blows. Sparrow had been the Wolf’s man for nearly three decades, while Biddy—well past her sixtieth year and still full of spit and vinegar—had been nurse and maid to Servanne’s mother before becoming the fiercely protective guardian to the daughter. Over the years, Sparrow had managed to maintain the youthful appearance and agility of a wood sprite, but Biddy had grown as round and plump as a larded dumpling. What she had lost in speed, however, she had gained in perseverance, and their positions as stalked and stalker reversed on a regular basis.
This day, their minor drama was eclipsed by the arriving hail of tiny booted feet. Three dark-haired boys and two squealing girls raced full tilt out of the darkness of the upper landing and tumbled down the stairs into the great hall. They ran toward their parents, converging from five points of attack to grasp a leg or an arm or a folded pleat of skirting. Robert followed at a more sedate pace, the sixth and youngest bundle of energy squirming in his arms and wailing to be set free to join the general melee.
“Sweet Mother Mary,” Servanne said with a helpless laugh. “Why do I even think I can run this household as a normal dwelling? I
should simply throw the gates wide and invite Chaos to move in amongst us.”
The Wolf glanced down at his beautiful wife and his look of adoration encompassed the seven handsome children she had given him. “Chaos is already here, my love, and in truth, I would not have had it any other way.”
“Liar,” she muttered, but tilted her mouth up to his for a kiss that left both their eyes shining.
The Wolf felt the clutch of a tiny fist on his sleeve and turned to answer the wail of his youngest babe, but a sudden stab of pain in his hip and thigh transformed the movement into a dizzying moment of instability.
“There,” Servanne said smartly. “Did I not tell you you were trying to do too much too soon! Children—leave go of your father. Robin, give Rhiannon to Biddy and fetch your father’s walking sticks.”
“Robert—stand fast,” the Wolf commanded. “I neither want nor need any blasted walking sticks. The wound is a nuisance, nothing more. And a good deal less than what I have endured in the past.”
“In the past, you were a good deal younger,” Servanne reminded him. “Robin, the sticks, if you please.”
“Robert …” The warning in the Wolf’s voice was as silkily deceptive as the faint tug of a smile that curved his lips. “You may indeed fetch the sticks. Fetch them directly into the fire.”
Robert looked from his mother to his father. He handed the babe into Biddy’s pendulous arms then picked up the two carved and polished oak staffs the castle carpenter had fashioned into crutches. One after the other, he tucked the sticks under the crooks of his father’s arms, securing them with a look of icy blue challenge in his eyes.
“After so many similar battles,” he said with a pragmatism far beyond his years, “do you still think you can win an argument with Mother?”
The Wolf stared at his son for a long moment—a moment poised between violence and grudging respect—and because he could not help but see his wife in the boy’s eyes, he tilted his head back and broke the tension with a deep, husky laugh.
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 52