He cradled her a moment longer before leaning over the side of a bed and settling her down as carefully as he could. She was deathly pale except for the growing blue patch on her forehead … and the blood. There was a wide, smeared streak of it running from the cracked egg on her scalp to the collar of her tunic. It was matted in her hair and staining her hands; a small red rosette of it blotched the front of his gypon, just above the Crusader’s cross stitched on the gray wool.
Her skin was so white, her eyes so green and deep … capable of drowning a man’s best intentions. Eduard reached up to unlace her hands from around his neck, but she resisted, and her fingers were so cold, he took them no further than the caressing warmth of his lips.
“You … will not abandon us again?” she implored.
He cupped her hands in his and kissed the soft hollow of each palm. “No, my lady, I will not abandon you again.”
“I … would have your most solemn oath on that, sirrah,” she whispered, her gaze fastened on his mouth.
In the sudden stillness, Eduard was acutely aware of the beating of his heart and of the soft, shallow breaths that parted her lips. He knew she was half in a daze and not fully responsible for what she said or did, but somewhere between a sigh and a whisper, he bowed his head closer to hers.
“You have my most solemn oath,” he murmured. “I will not abandon you.”
“Seal it,” she said on a rush.
“My lady …?”
She untangled her hands from his and laced them around his neck again, drawing his mouth down to within a warm breath of hers.
“Seal it, damn you, before I—”
Eduard’s mouth came down lightly, obligingly over hers, smothering her words, changing them into soft, throaty sighs. That was all he intended it to be—a means of silencing her— and all it would have been if a second sigh had not parted her lips beneath his, and if his own had not betrayed him by giving her what she wanted, taking what he himself wanted.
It was madness. He knew it was madness, yet he could not stop once the taste of her flooded his senses. Ever since she had challenged him to kiss her on the ramparts, the memory had haunted him. It had taunted him in the mists by the riverbank and it had intruded again in the abbey last night. He had not set out alone in the chill and fog because of a need to scout the road ahead; he had set out alone because he was not altogether certain it was only the heat of his temper being aroused by Ariel de Clare. He feared a heat of a different, dangerous kind was beginning to disrupt his instincts, erode his judgement, but if he had been hoping to prove himself wrong, he had failed miserably in his quest. All through the day he had caught himself thinking about her. Wondering. Worrying. Then in the tavern, when he had seen the blood, and felt her reach out to him …
Eduard ignored instinct and judgement now as his lips became almost bruising in their need to atone. Ariel shivered once, violently, and he broke abruptly away, fearing he had hurt her, but her eyes were wide and dark and trusting, and he kissed her again, groaning as he shared the exquisite, shuddering crests of pleasure that quivered through her body.
Ariel’s hands went slack around his neck and the breath fluttered from her lungs on a long, blissful sigh. Her lashes fought a moment longer before they drifted closed and Eduard caught her hands, holding them a few seconds more than was necessary, releasing them only when he heard the squeak of a floorboard behind him.
Thinking it was the matron arrived with water and bandages, Eduard was startled when he turned and found Henry de Clare’s hazel eyes waiting for him.
Eduard had not heard the knight follow him up the stairs, nor had he any idea how long De Clare had been standing in the doorway, although, to judge by the warmth of his complexion, it was safe to assume he had not just arrived.
Henry looked as if he had just come from a battlefield, not a tavern brawl. His jaw bore a long gash that had bled profusely down the front of his tunic; his face was bruised, his lip cut and swollen. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, but they stared at FitzRandwulf with a hard, cold clarity of purpose.
“I trust she is not hurt too badly?” he asked evenly.
“She will be fine,” Eduard said, rising up off his bended knee. “The cut is clean and not too deep.”
“I am glad to hear it. The Welsh are a primitive breed, and I rather doubt Rhys ap Iorwerth would take too kindly to having his bride delivered in less than pristine condition.”
Eduard’s jaw clenched and he started across the room. He did not get fully past Lord De Clare when a hand reached out and grasped his arm.
He stared into the narrowed hazel eyes for a moment, then glared down at the restraining hand.
Henry relaxed his grip and smiled tightly. “Consider it a friendly warning … this time.”
His face set, Eduard walked past him and had to step neatly around the plump, red-faced matron as she panted up the last two steps, her arms filled with cloths, a collection of various medicinals and herbs for poultice-making, as well as a large, sloshing basin of water. She huffed a greeting and managed a polite bow before hurrying past Eduard and Henry to see to her patient.
Eduard watched a moment, then turned and walked sharply down the steps. As he descended, he unfastened one of the buckles that kept his hauberk strapped snugly over his shoulders. The flap of heavy mail fell forward over his gypon, straining the seams of the garment almost as much as his temper was strained at the sight of the motley group gathered in the taproom.
Sedrick was sitting on a bench by the hearth, his hands poking and prodding at bruised muscles. He had sustained several stout blows to the head and shoulders, but his armour, like Henry’s, had protected him from the worst of it, though his neck bled from a gridwork of cut marks left by the iron links.
Robin was seated alongside, occasionally giving his head a shake as if to uncross his eyes.
By far the worst off was Dafydd ap lorwerth. Eduard’s shouts upon their arrival had brought the innkeeper and his wife bustling out of the back rooms to take immediate charge of the young Welshman. They had managed to divest him of his gypon and armour before the pain had rendered him unconscious—an easier path to take, all things considered, than to remain awake and aware of the injured arm being jostled free of the rest of the clothing. The break was midway between the wrist and elbow, and the master of the inn, M’sieur Gabinet, was in the process of pulling and fitting the grating ends of bone back together again.
The blood that had soaked the young lord’s sleeve and tunic came not from the shattered edges of bone tearing through the flesh, as Eduard had feared, but from a large sliver of wood that had been driven into the arm when the bench had smashed. Fully the length of a man’s hand, the splinter had already been removed and lay red and glistening on the table as M’sieur Gabinet worked on the arm.
“Comment va-t-il? How is he?” Eduard asked,
“Bah! He is young and strong,” said M’sieur Gabinet. “The break is clean, the wound ugly but … pftph! … it will earn him much sympathy from the women, no? He will be uncomfortable, but he will not die from it.”
Eduard nodded his thanks and the innkeeper carried on, packing the wound with cobwebs before wrapping it tightly in strips of lyngel. A young boy, his son to judge by the similarity of face and shape, was issued brisk orders to cut strips of wood to use as splints, then to see to hot food and drink for their guests.
Eduard requested a small change to the order of priorities, and two brimming flagons of ale arrived at the table the same time as Henry returned from his sister’s room. He joined the others, barely glancing in Eduard’s direction as he helped himself to a tankard of ale.
“I suppose you expect me to take the blame for this,” he said, wiping a foam moustache from his upper lip. “But how was I expected to know there were two accursed taverns in this hellhole with cocks hanging over the door? You might have at least mentioned the one had crossed swords as well.”
“It was an oversight we remedied just in time, it s
eems. I assumed you knew the difference between fighting cocks and a pair of prancing fowls. Did you honestly think I would dispatch you to such a pestilent hole?”
Henry pushed back his mail hood and raked his fingers through the flattened, sweat-dampened locks of tawny hair, discovering a lump the size of a toadstool cap behind his ear.
“In truth,” he muttered, “I was of the opinion you were possessed of an odd sense of humour, therefore it was more than possible you would send us to a brothel. I must say, however, this is far more to my liking.”
The taproom was large, well lit, furnished with sturdy tables that looked scrubbed clean daily. Fresh rushes covered the floor. A fire crackled in the hearth, warming the air as well as whatever savoury concoction bubbled and burped in an enormous black cauldron suspended over the flames. They were the only occupants; a thick wooden bar had been dropped across the door after their arrival to ensure against unwanted interruptions.
As Henry’s gaze roved around the room, it settled on Sparrow’s belligerent features. The elfin seneschal was perched on the lip of a table, his legs swinging over the side, quite content to see two prime specimens of Norman knighthood lick and suck at their wounds.
“Lucky for you we came along when we did, my Bold Blades,” he chuckled. “Other else, you might have found your arses swived on the end of some lumpkin’s pike.”
“Our thanks for your sympathies.” Henry grimaced. “How did you happen along when you did?”
“Happens we were waiting and watching, to-ing and fro-ing when our gracious host”—Sparrow paused and flourished a hand in M’sieur Gabinet’s direction, who in turn paused in his bandaging and took a small bow of acknowledgement—“made mention of another scurrilous inn on the ot side of town where a man could have his brains addled for the price of a sop of ale. It seemed an odd place to go a-looking for lost souls, but a-looking we went, and hey-ho, there you go. Fists flying, tables crashing … and nary a sword unsheathed. Aye,” he added with a much-put-upon sigh, “lucky we came along when we did.”
Sedrick scowled and in no uncertain terms advised Sparrow where he could thrust his luck, with or without the aid of a lumpkin’s pike.
“Tsk tsk, Sir Borkel. Save such hasty wishings for another time. Where we are going, we will need all the luck we can gather about us.”
Henry glanced quickly over at Eduard. “You have had word from my uncle?”
Eduard shook his head. “No, but M’sieur Gabinet has his own sources. Hopefully the marshal will be able to confirm it by the time we reach St. Malo, but for the moment, our destination appears to be … Purbeck.”
Henry suffered a twist in his gut that had nothing to do with the beating he had sustained. He had prayed sincerely to hear the princess was being held at Bristol … or even the London tower … if only for the added physical comforts that were available for a prisoner of such noble delicacy. But Purbeck … It was on the Dorset coast and, looming over it like a satyr’s eye, was Corfe Castle, a bleak and hellish place, seeming always to stand gray and ugly under a wind-blown, evil sky. Many prisoners disappeared inside the walls of Corfe Castle. Few were ever seen or heard from again. None, to Henry’s knowledge, had ever escaped.
“Well then,” he said. It was all he said, all he could think to say before he turned away and took several more deep swallows of ale.
Sparrow looked from one solemn face to another and supposed it was up to him to suggest a word or two in their favour. Unfortunately for his good intentions, one of the logs in the fire chose that same moment to send a shower of sparks bursting out over the hearth. When he glanced at the grate to see what had caused the minor eruption, he saw that the small body of a bird had fallen out of the chimney and lay outlined against the glowing bed of embers. It was a sparrow and it was only there for a blink or two before the heat curled the wings and the tiny body caught on fire.
Sparrow felt an uncomfortable scratching at the base of his spine and he looked up to see if anyone else had noticed.
No one had, and when he looked back, the body of the bird was gone, leaving only the acrid scent of death behind.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
William the Marshal’s confirmation came by way of a monk, who carried the message consisting of a single word Purbeck—from the earl’s temporary lodgings at Falaise Castle. FitzRandwulf’s party had already been in St. Malo a full day and had met with the captain of a small ship that same evening to arrange passage across the Channel.
It had taken two days to travel from Rennes to St. Malo, days of riding with aches and bruises, with broken bones and dark moods. Robin and Ariel were kept busy watching Dafydd ap Iorwerth, for he was not as much of a floppy puppy as his appearance had suggested. He had been fully prepared to leave Rennes the morning after their ignoble arrival, broken arm or not, and left little doubt he intended to keep to his saddle if he had to tie himself on.
Ariel had wakened with a blistering headache and no clear memory of anything that had happened after being clouted on the head. She might have remained blithely ignorant had she not had an early visit from her brother.
He had strode into her chamber unannounced, his one cheek and eye a massive purpling bruise, his nose swollen and decidedly to the left of straight.
“You should not cast stones before you see yourself in a glass,” he had remarked.
“I have no need to see myself. I can feel it ugly enough.” Henry had spared a glance for the blue and yellow goose egg she wore on her forehead, then helped himself to a chunk of cheese off the tray Robin had brought her earlier.
“You have heard, I gather, that the Cub has decided to rest here the day.”
“Because of Lord Dafydd’s arm?”
“Among other reasons,” Henry agreed. “I hope I was not one of those ‘other’ reasons. It was my head that was cracked not my rump—I am perfectly able to sit a horse.”
“He predicted you might say that,” Henry mused. “But alas, he was more concerned with the horses than he was with your head.”
“The horses?”
“The packhorses, to be precise. He must needs replace them. It seems the threat of plucking out eyes and hearts carries little weight in Rennes. The destriers would have been too difficult to conceal or dispose of, but the rouncies must have been stripped down and sold to harness before the tavern door swung fully shut.”
“They were stolen? With all of our supplies?”
“We were hardly expecting to walk into a nest of vipers.”
“Or the wrong nest, for that matter.”
“An easy mistake. Anyone could have made it.”
“But it was not anyone, dear brother, it was you. You who pride yourself on your cunning and quick wit. You who claim to be able to travel from one end of the realm to the other with only your shield and merciless eye for protection.”
His scowl returned. “I could have carved the lot to shreds easily—”
“Had you not been distracted. Indeed, your merciless eye was lodged so far down the wench’s bosom, it was a wonder it was not torn from the socket when you were attacked.”
Henry leaned over. “If you would care to exchange insults, sweet Ariel, harken back to where you were when the truncheons flew and the blood spattered. Under a table? In a corner? The darkest you could find? Here, I would have expected to see you in the thick of the fray, for all your practising and boasting.”
Ariel started to return his scowl, but the effort faltered. “In truth, I can remember very little of what happened inside the tavern … and nothing at all of this place,” she added, indicating the clean, tidy room.
“Nothing at all?” he repeated sceptically.
“Fragments only. Robin had to tell me most of what occurred at the first tavern, else I would have thought we came here by magic.”
“Magic,” he murmured. “I suppose some damosels would regard such a bold rescue as being magical—enough so to bind themselves in the rogue’s arms for a romantic ride to safety.”
“I would hardly call a wild dash through the streets romantic,” she said dryly. “Nor was I bound in his arms. I was in a faint.”
“And so you sought the strength of his lips to hold you up?” He saw her gather herself for a denial and wagged a finger. “Before you splutter needlessly, be advised I was standing right there”—he pointed—“in the doorway. I warrant it may be just as well I was, for neither one of you looked in too much of a hurry to take leave of the other.”
Ariel’s mouth dropped open. “I … was obviously not in my proper senses.”
“You will hear no argument from me. You will hear a warning, however. He is fire, Ariel, and if you dally with him, you will be burned.”
“Dally with him!” she exclaimed. “I have no intentions of dallying with him!”
“I am glad to hear it, for I would remind you the bloodlines of the De Glares are purer than some who would aspire to be kings and queens. FitzRandwulf may wear the black and gold of La Seyne Sur Mer, but he is a bastard and as such would only breed more bastards on whoever he takes to his bed.”
Ariel was dumfounded. Almost speechless. “How … dare you even take it upon yourself to say such a thing!”
“I dare because we only have each other to watch out for, Ariel. I dare because I am the head of the De Clare family and, frankly, I would dare a great deal more to see our pennon flying over the ramparts of Cardigan Castle again.”
“Do you doubt I want the same thing? Have I not agreed to marry the very man who has the power to restore our family name to its proper place?”
“Indeed you have,” Henry agreed with quiet intensity. “And indeed you will, even if I have to gird you in an iron belt and tie you to my side every step of the way.”
Ariel’s response had been to heave the entire tray and its contents at his head, forcing him to duck back out the door.
And while Henry had not exactly girded her or tied her to his side, he had all but transformed himself into a hawk for the close and predatory watch he kept on her after that. He took precautions never to leave her alone with FitzRandwulf He even limited the time she spent in Robin’s company lest the lad boast of too many more of the Bastard’s accomplishments.
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 68