The marshal had found logic in what he said; difficult to argue.
A final trump was played when the letter Lady Isabella had written was presented. It confirmed the loathsome prospects of the king’s proposed groom, the deplorable audacity of a sovereign who would abuse their loyalty in such a callous manner, and the unavoidable necessity of enlisting the service of renegades to protect their home and family in his, the lord marshal’s, continuing absence. Whether or not it was this veiled accusation, laying at least some of the blame on his own broad shoulders, that finally blew the tempest out of the marshal’s sails, none of the others could say for certain. Somewhat mollified, however, he had announced he would sleep on the matter but for none of them to be surprised to waken and find themselves turned back on the road to Fecamp.
That ominous announcement had been made over a week ago, and now here they all were, standing in the majestic great hall of Amboise Castle, with minstrels settling into the upper gallery and servants rushing to and fro. Lights glittered everywhere, but on the dais, at the table reserved for the lord and lady of the chateau and their guests of honour, the candles were backed by circlets of silver so that the flames glowed like small sunbursts.
Ariel had heard a great deal about the famed Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer, and was not disappointed in meeting the living flesh. He was equally as tall as her uncle, with a darkly savage handsomeness that had deservingly earned him the name Black Wolf. To his right was Alaric FitzAthelstan, another legendary knight of brave deeds and keen intelligence. She admired and respected him instantly for the open, unabashed love he had for his wife—a woman whose predilection for manly skills would have turned most men away in disdain … or jealousy.
Lady Ariel had heard the stories, many and widespread throughout England, of how the Black Wolf had taken a select troop of knights into the forests of Lincolnwoods disguised as outlaws. Poets and troubadours in as remote a region as the Welsh Marches sang chansons de geste boasting of the great tournament at Bloodmoor Keep where the Wolf had slain the Dragon lord and rescued his beautiful demoiselle from certain death. They sang of the feats of Gil Golden, the best archer in all of Christendom (though none ever specified she was a woman) and of Sparrow, the magical wood sprite who could sprout wings and fly.
Here they all were, in the flesh and blood, as normal as normal could be, greeting her, welcoming her as if she were already an equal.
“… and my son, Eduard,” the Wolf was saying, extending the introductions to a figure who had been standing a little behind and to the side of his father, keeping well cloaked in shadows.
Ariel’s smile froze.
It was him. It was the scarred beast from the cellars. In place of the linsey-woolsey shirt and coarse hosen, he wore a quilted surcoat of the finest black samite, banded in stripes of velvet and studded at each junction with knots of heavy gold thread. He had given his jaw a close shave, scraping off the dark stubble that had blunted his features earlier, but the clean, square lines only emphasized the extent of the damage wrought to the flesh of his left cheek, and drew attention to the arrogant jut of his chin. His hair, while still looking as unruly as if he had just ravished a dozen maidens in a row, had been washed free of dulling dust and glowed the same rich chestnut as his father’s … but there could be no mistake. It was him: The lout. The brute. The voyeur. And he was stepping boldly forward to take up her hand in a formal greeting.
“Lady Ariel,” he murmured, bowing his head respectfully. “God grant you health, honour, and joy.”
“Peace and good health to you as well, milord,” she answered by rote, cracking her words like nuts. She had also heard the heart-warming tale of the Wolf’s long-lost son rescued from the donjons of Bloodmoor; the troubadours had sung of his many subsequent feats in the lists and she had been admittedly curious to meet this icon of chivalrous deeds and derring-do.
Met him she had, and at his scurrilous best. Sneaking about like a thief, spying through peepholes, terrorizing helpless women … forcing himself upon them at his merest whim, swelled by his own self-importance. She supposed she should be thankful he had not pilloried her on the floor of the armoury that afternoon. Had she not had the shield of her uncle’s name to bring to her defense, she might well have found herself used as a brief diversion by the bold, ugly brute.
On the other hand (and here she almost groaned aloud with the mortification), what a sight she must have made in her pelisson and hose, capering about the armoury engaged in mortal combat with an imaginary foe. How swiftly would the story spread throughout the castle and how comical would the embellishments grow with each retelling? Were there hands being raised even now to conceal the whispering and sniggering? Were heads and necks craning to have a closer look at the addle-witted niece of the Earl of Pembroke?
As if to confirm her suspicions and deepen her discomfort, the level of noise rose markedly in the great hall. Knights and castle retainers had begun to fill the seats along the trestle tables that stretched down either side of the chamber, and the savoury odours from the cooking braziers were causing a general restlessness.
“Come, my lord,” Lady Servanne directed, patting her husband’s arm lightly as he grappled with the cumbersome crutches. “Best we seat ourselves before the rabble begins to chew on the linens. My Lord Marshal, will you honour my husband’s right? Eduard … you will partner the Lady Ariel, of course, and Lord Henry, you may take your sister’s left, unless you would care to have the trouble of sitting next to Sparrow.”
Henry weighed the dark look he saw on Ariel’s face against the brief introduction he’d had to Sparrow earlier, and chose the least damaging threat to his digestion.
“I am advised Sparrow has vast knowledge on many subjects.”
“Advice which came from his own beak, no doubt,” Alaric said dryly. He slipped his hand beneath the crook of Gil’s elbow and started to lead her toward the dais. “Trust that you will rue the day you ask him to expound on any of it.”
Laughter prompted the others to walk away from the alcove, leaving only Ariel and Eduard to share a terse silence.
After a long moment, he cleared his throat and offered his arm. “Shall we, my lady?”
She glared at his arm, then followed the black samite of his sleeve up to his shoulder, finally braving the cool slate gray of his eyes. The wry amusement she saw reflected there did nothing to temper her resentment, and she drew on the only defense she had—her anger.
“I am but a mere breath away from scarring the other side of your face, my lord. You would be wise not to challenge my patience … or my silence.”
Eduard glanced around, then lowered his voice to match hers. “My own lips have been sealed fast these past few hours, but a challenge, alas, is a challenge, and we have here a good hundred pair of ears and eyes to judge who was in the right and who in the wrong.”
Ariel’s eyes sparkled a moment before darkening around her retort. “You are known as Fitz Randwulf d’Amboise, are you not?”
“I am,” he admitted after a wary pause.
“Then I should think these hundred ears and eyes already know you to be the bastard you are. They require no further proof from me.”
Her eyes swept his broad frame with a final look of derision before she turned and walked, unescorted, to the dais.
In spite of the earlier pandemonium that had ruled the great hall, a creditable feast was set out in honour of William the Marshal. A steady stream of varlets flowed from the kitchens with cauldrons of soups and stews, platters mounded high with roast mutton, boar, capon. There were chines of pork and whole peacocks stuffed, roasted, and presented in fully restored plumage. Jellied eel and grilled trout came smothered in garlic and leeks, lavished with spices, swimming in thick sauces. Consumption of it all took several dedicated hours; a challenge met with undisguised glee.
The men ate and belched to make the walls tremble. The women chatted and laughed and tried to make themselves heard over the rumble of countless conversations.
Dogs begged and rooted noisily for scraps tossed into the fresh-strewn rushes. Minstrels strummed the lute, viol, and guitten from the balustraded gallery that protruded overhead.
When the many courses of hot and hearty fare had given way to frumenty custard and wafers, tumblers took to the floor to display their talents, dancing and juggling and performing feats of acrobatic skill. Two wrestlers, stripped to the waist and oiled like carp, fought a heated match amidst howls of encouragement and heavy wagering.
Ariel was conscious of everything but able to concentrate on nothing in particular. Her every sense was held hostage by the broad-shouldered knight who sat so mockingly attentive by her side. Since it was the custom for couples to share a goblet and trencher at formal dinners, she had no choice but to suffer his company. Despite the fact she suffered it with a coldness that should have left ice crystals forming on the food, he was the model of solicitousness. He wiped, with exaggerated care, the gold rim of the goblet each time he offered it into her hands. He selected only the choicest tidbits of meat, fish, fruit, and legumes to adorn her half of the trencher, and if it seemed her appetite was waning, he called for sweeter, richer, more elaborate delicacies with an air that was patronizing enough to draw the concern of the host and hostess if she refused. If he spoke to her directly, which he often did purely to irritate her, she experienced such a heated rush of conflicting emotions, she more often than not returned his stare blankly, forcing him to repeat his initial question slowly and carefully, as if querying a dolt.
Fortunately for her patience, Alaric FitzAthelstan was seated on her right and proved to be an interesting conversationalist. In contrast to the startled responses she garnered in mixed company on the other side of the Channel, discussing politics or warfare at Amboise’s table, with men and women sharing an equal voice, appeared to be the normal state of affairs. Doubtless it was due to the mettle of the women who occupied the prominent seats on the dais. Lady Servanne showed no hesitation in confronting her husband on a point of order, nor did he attempt to exclude her from any subject under discussion. Lady Gillian, despite being in the very delicate state of pregnancy, argued the most efficient use of siege weaponry as if she had just walked off a battlefield. More than once, Ariel thought she could envision her aunt Isabella’s flustered, even shocked reactions to such talk coming over a course of poached salmon, and it was all she could do not to smile.
She forgot herself once and was rewarded by the sensation of a thousand tiny hairs across the nape of her neck standing on end.
“Do you always stare at your guests so intently?” she asked, turning slowly to confront the source of her discomfort.
Eduard FitzRandwulf grinned through an overbearingly white slash of unchipped teeth. “Only when I see something so totally out of keeping, it astonishes me.”
“What, prithee, could have caused such an upheaval?”
The bold, smoky eyes descended languidly to rest on her mouth. “You smiled. And nothing cracked or broke when you did so.”
Ariel’s gaze narrowed. Why, the arrogant, self-serving beefwit. Was he about to try flattery now?
She was not to know, for her uncle chose that moment to thump his goblet on the table and call for silence from the gathered throng.
“A toast, my lords and ladies, to our gracious host and hostess. God grant I still have the strength in my legs to carry me off to my chambers after partaking of such a feast as has been set before us tonight. A king could expect no better fare at his table, nor better company at his side. A l’Amboise!”
Benches scraped and booted feet shuffled to attention.
“A l’Amboise!” echoed a chorus of voices.
Cups and tankards were raised, swords drawn and held high in a salute to the lord of the manor and his exalted guest. Many remained standing, including those on the dais, for the varlets had begun clearing away the remnants of the meal. Ariel kept to her feet as well, pointedly turning her slender back on Eduard FitzRandwulf. She had borne enough of his sarcasm and mockery, and had no intentions of lingering to watch the foolish games of strength and dexterity with which the knights would amuse themselves while they drank their way into a drunken stupor.
A pair of boasting combatants were taking to the centre of the floor even as she watched, their swords drawn, their challenges earning shouted wagers from the laughing onlookers.
“A pity women are not invited to participate,” a voice murmured close to her ear. “With what fancy footwork as I witnessed this afternoon, a canny opportunist could make a handsome profit over the course of a bout or two.”
Meant as a compliment to the skills she had displayed in the armoury, Eduard’s words were, naturally, misconstrued as being anything but complimentary.
Ariel turned her head and found her gaze level with the top of his shoulder. He was standing infuriatingly close— enough for her to mark the individual stubbles of hair that grew on his chin and neck, and to see the pale line of white flesh where a second scar slashed through the arch of his eyebrow. Had that been the only mark on his face, she would have had to admit to a distinctly unnerving handsomeness. His body was certainly adequate. There were few, if any, knights who could have the term lean applied to their builds; fewer still who were not muscled like plowhorses simply from the weight of the armour they wore and the rigorous training they endured to become champions. Exchanging iron link mail and bullhide gambesons for studded and embossed velvet surcoats softened the effect somewhat, but there was no possibility of completely camouflaging massive shoulders, chests, and thighs. Partially camouflaging it was an art. Done with careless charm and sensual indolence, it was a breathtaking achievement.
Eduard FitzRandwulf d’Amboise was a breathtaking achievement in raw masculine power. He was a beast in his prime. His arrogance, scorn, and cynicism, however, reduced him to the level of a brawny oaf.
Eduard was easily able to translate each of the Lady Ariel’s fomenting opinions of him in the hot green sparkle of her eyes, but in truth, he was enjoying the backwash effects of baiting her. Each highly charged emotion she communicated by word, glance, or flush met with a strange reaction in the way his blood flowed through his veins. He could not fathom why, for his dislike for women of high self-regard was thorough and unchangeable, and the Lady Ariel de Glare undoubtedly held herself in the highest regard possible. Perhaps it was the image burned into his mind’s eye of her spinning and jousting half-naked in the torchlight of the armoury. The demure wimple could not erase the memory of flame-red hair swirling around her shoulders in a fiery cloud. Nor could the modest, almost drab tunic blunt the recollection of firm, upthrust breasts and coltishly long legs hidden beneath.
Eduard arched a brow and Ariel frowned.
The way he was looking at her … why … it was almost as if he could see clear through the brown cendon of her tunic, through the sheer linen of her blanchet to her bare flesh.
Their eyes met without warning and in the taut, vibrating silence that followed, a fresh welter of heat flushed through Ariel’s veins, prickling pink and warm into her cheeks.
“You have a bold manner, sirrah,” she said in a furious underbreath. “And a tongue that wants disciplining when in the company of your betters.”
“My … betters?” The smoky gray eyes scanned the room and his grin widened. “You mean, of course, that I should be seated below the salt with the other bastards in the hall?”
“Such arrangements are not unheard of,” she replied primly.
“Whereas the practice of seating petulant children on the dais … is little unusual.”
Ariel drew a deep breath. This was too much. He was pushing too far. Something—the loud snap of a bone clenched between the jaws of a nearby wolfhound—cracked the last shreds of her composure, but her hand had no sooner started on its upward intent to slash the grin off FitzRandwulf’s face, when it was caught and held in an ironlike grip.
“You tried that once and failed miserably, my lady,” he warned quietly. “I would no
t recommend you attempt it again … not unless you crave the thorough embarrassment of finding yourself flat on your backside.”
Two bright, hot spots of colour appeared high on her cheeks. “Do you dare threaten to strike me? Have you no shame whatsoever?”
“Not when it comes to dealing with women who pout and taunt and repeatedly disdain sincere attempts to apologize,” he said evenly. “A simple misunderstanding occurred this afternoon. You were found somewhere you should not have been, touching things you should not have touched. Even so, I made certain assumptions I should not have made and reacted in a manner which obviously caused offence. Thus, I would say we were both in error to some extent.”
“And do you now expect me to apologize to you?”
Eduard’s penetrating gaze held hers for several moments longer before sliding down to where his fingers were slowly relaxing from around her wrist. “Wringing an apology from you was not my intention, demoiselle. I regret you did not enjoy your meal or the company with whom you shared it. With luck, however, the experience will not have to be repeated … for either of us.”
He offered a curt, mocking bow and walked away to join an animated conversation Lord Henry was having with Sparrow. The heat ebbed and flowed in Ariel’s cheeks and she massaged her wrist with a hand that trembled visibly. Lout. Buffoon. Bastard! How dare he speak to her like that. How dare he presume to lecture her on the rules of polite behavior.
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 55