The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  “And Eduard?” Will asked. “Any news from Blois?”

  He was referring to the separate packet of letters usually delivered to Lady Servanne from her daughter-in-law, in which the news was not always as enthusiastic and sanguine as what the son wrote to the father.

  “Only that he makes a poor invalid. Lady Ariel sent a message just yesterday begging our forgiveness in advance if she was driven to dent the side of his head with a cauldron.”

  “She should be thankful he still has a head to dent. Four horses were cut out from beneath him in the battle! And how many sword thrusts did he take? Ten? Twelve? I vow there was hardly any blood left in his veins when we carried him off the field.”

  “She says he is already trying to use his legs, though he has broken more walking sticks than she can keep supplied by his bedside. And he insists on taking his meals in the great hall so that everyone can see he is alive and still in command of his faculties.”

  Will nodded. “It was a concern of your father’s too. Any sign of weakness and the vultures would have flocked instantly to the walls of Blois Castle. He still attracts the greedy eyes of King John’s assassins once or twice a year, and no doubt the price on his head will increase substantially after the role he played in Maine.”

  “You would think Softsword would be too busy these days to remember old grudges,” Brenna sighed. “Father, Eduard, even Robin for pity’s sake.”

  “Once an enemy of the English king, always an enemy of the English king.”

  “Indeed, but he has so many on his own side of the Channel, why does he persist in plaguing us?”

  “Because your father, with but a snap of his fingers, can call up another thousand men to support King Philip should he decide to invade England and drive Lackland into the North Sea. Because Eduard has already proven himself willing to go to any lengths to avenge the death of Arthur of Brittany. And because Robin, firstly, is more than equal to the mantle of all he would inherit should the unthinkable happen to your father, and secondly, because he crippled Lackland’s pet viper and left him but a ruined shell of his former self.”

  “You are speaking of Guy de Gisbourne, of course? The one who thought Robin had such a pretty face, he wanted to splay him on the bed and swive him?”

  Will frowned again. “I might have put it in more delicate terms.”

  “’T was hardly a delicate intention against a thirteen-year-old boy.”

  “Nonetheless, Robin should have aimed the knife higher and killed him instead of just paring away the few inches of excess flesh that offended his tender sensibilities. Especially now that he has been made Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham.”

  Brenna laughed. “Gisbourne will have his hands full enough dealing with Lady Ariel’s outlaw brother.”

  Will came to an abrupt halt and stared at her. “How the devil do you know about … No. Never mind. I should know better than to ask.” He started walking again, his long legs scything through the ferns. Brenna walked dutifully beside him, but in her head she was counting off the paces … five … six … seven …

  “All right.” He stopped again. “How the devil do you know about Lord Henry?”

  “Eight,” she said. “Your restraint is improving.”

  “Your father’s will dissolve completely if he thinks there are too many wagging tongues inside the castle walls.”

  “Only one tongue. And actually … it belonged to him, so he could only rail at himself if he went looking for a culprit to blame.”

  “Your father told you about Lord Henry?”

  “Well … I am sure he did not know he was telling me. He was, in truth, having a conversation with Robin and—”

  “And you just happened to get your ear caught in the door?”

  “No,” she said with an elaborate moue. “I was in the stable and overheard them talking.”

  “Dare I ask exactly what you overheard?”

  “Well, Father was angry. He called Henry de Clare a young fool who had not the sense God gave a goat. He said if it were him living under the king’s nose, he would surely do it quietly and discreetly, he would not join a band of thieves and misfits who go about committing all manner of mischief against the king’s sheriff.”

  Will sighed. “He has not joined them. He has simply learned to live in harmony with them.”

  Brenna shrugged off the distinction. “At any rate, Father is appalled that scion of the noble house of Pembroke—the nephew of William Marshal, for heaven’s sake—would resort to thievery and skulduggery to make his way in the world. More than that, he thinks Lord Henry’s antics could even become … uhh … compromising to a certain progeny of royal blood who mysteriously disappeared about the same time Lord Henry took to wearing the robes of a mendicant monk.”

  Will’s shock was complete, and he came to an abrupt halt. “Do you realize what you have just said could get you killed if you repeated it in the wrong ear?”

  “I have no intentions of repeating it in anyone’s ear. I only want to know if it is true, that Lord Henry remains in England because he is safeguarding the Lost Princess of Brittany.”

  “Brenna—” Will’s hazel eyes were scanning the forest around them. It was dangerous to be speaking of lost princesses and nobles-turned-outlaw, regardless of where they were, and she held up her hand to ward off a well-deserved rebuke. The gesture was halted midway, as was whatever Will had been going to say.

  “Did you hear something?”

  “I thought—”

  “Listen.” He hissed her to silence and pointed into the trees. “It came from over there.”

  Neither one of them moved a muscle. Only their eyes flicked down to the black, spongy earth beneath their feet to isolate the subtle vibrations that could only be caused by thundering hoof beats.

  “Close,” Will whispered. “Not a horse. A boar, perhaps. And a big one.”

  They both heard the distant echo of a voice then, not roaring with the challenge of a hunter but reverberating with the shock of pain.

  “Robin!” Brenna gasped. “It must be.”

  But Will had already broken into a run, plunging through the mist and shadows, his bow unslung and an arrow nocked for action.

  CHAPTER TWO

  At some point Brenna and Will parted, running at divergent angles to form a wide V and thus cover more ground between them. The tearing, thrashing sound of hoof beats grew louder, more distinct, as did the angry grunts and enraged screams of a half-mad boar. Closer still and they could smell the telltale sourness of rot and offal that clung to the filthy beast, and they could hear it panting and snorting in a frenzy of bloodlust.

  The trees and shadows were a hindrance now, not a haven, and as Brenna ran along the tracts of decaying leaves, she called out Robin’s name. Will was making as much noise, if not more, partly to draw Robin’s attention, partly to draw that of the boar. Both Will and Brenna had their bows unslung and arrow nocked, for boars were not known for their slow wits. They were cunning and devious and could charge from the underbrush to impale a man on their tusks before the threat was even identified.

  “Robin! Damn you, answer!”

  “Here!” came a hollow-sounding reply. “I am here!”

  Brenna veered toward the source of the shout and saw Will do the same, converging from opposite sides on a deep, narrow gully. Robin stood at one end, at the other a red-eyed, slavering brute easily eight hundred pounds in weight. Robin had his dagger clutched in his fist, the blade glinting wet and red its full length. He was covered in dirt and leaves, and there was blood running from a gash over his temple, mingling with the sweat to plaster the chestnut waves of his hair to his face and throat. His lips were curled back in a snarl that perfectly mirrored the one on the boar’s face as it lowered its head and gouged its hooves into the ground in preparation for a final lunge. Each scuff of a cloven hoof caused a spray of blood to erupt from a slash in its throat, but the damage was neither painful enough nor debilitating enough to deter it from taking one last
charge at his cornered quarry.

  Almost as one, Will and Brenna raised their bows, took aim, and fired. Both arrows struck simultaneously, dead center on the low, furrowed brow. The impact of the steel arrowheads split the rock-hard bone of the skull and lifted the beast up and back onto its stubby hind legs. It came down hard and stood absolutely still for as long as it took a syrupy pendant of blood to run the length of its snout. It then heeled sideways, the legs buckling beneath it, the bulk of the corpse landing with a resounding thud on the gully floor.

  Robin straightened slowly out of his crouch, a hand cradling his ribs. Brenna was already on her way down the steep side of the embankment, skidding her heels in the crumbling black earth to regulate the haste of her descent. Will nocked another arrow in his bow and skewered it straight through the boar’s heart to insure against any chance of a miraculous recovery.

  “Are you all right?” Brenna asked.

  “Damned cod-sucking swine came at me from nowhere. Tore the bow right out of my hand then picked me up and tossed me into this pit. I managed to get up a tree, but the bastard kept ramming it until he brought it and me down.”

  “There were plenty more you could have climbed.”

  “Did I know where the devil you two were, or how long I might be forced to keep a perch in the boughs?”

  “You could have shouted,” she said. “Or whistled. We would have heard you.”

  “I was perfectly in control.”

  “Yes. We can see that. We can also hear Sparrow now: ‘Addle-wit! Groutnoll! Great hulking lummock! Good St. Cyril and all the martyrs deliver me from fools and nithings!’”

  Robin put a hand to the cut on his temple and scowled at the smear of blood that came away on his fingers. “It is barely a scratch.”

  “And that?” She pointed to a wide slash in his tunic.

  He followed her finger and pulled the gap in the cloth wider to expose the well-muscled rack of ribs. The skin was broken where a tusk had grazed him, and the surrounding flesh was already starting to turn an ugly, mottled blue.

  “Sparrow will, of course, praise you until your ears ring. A sennight before the last and largest tournament of the season and you break your ribs on a boar’s tusk instead of seeking the safety of a high tree limb.”

  Robin glared at the twitching carcass. “The day I fear a boar will be the day I wrap my spurs in flour sacking and give them to my grandchildren to use as trowels. And the ribs are not broken,” he added, wincing as he probed at the discolored flesh. “Only bruised.”

  “Bruised, broken … it makes little difference. You know full well Sparrow will not allow you to participate in the tourney if he suspects you are in less than prime fighting condition.”

  Robin’s glare lost some of its ferocity. He was near the mirror image of their father, a wealth of muscled splendor carried proudly across the chest and shoulders. His hair was cut short and straight across the nape in the French fashion, too thick with waves to hold any true style, but dark enough to give his handsome face the prominence it deserved. He had been an undefeated champion in the lists these past four years, yet the very steel that made his opponents fall by the wayside like so much chaff was itself a puddle of old candle wax under the scowling despotism of the diminutive, recalcitrant seneschal of Château d’Amboise.

  “Sparrow has no say one way or the other on how I choose or choose not to spend my time.”

  “Brave words,” Brenna allowed. “Have you ever said them to his face?”

  Her brother cursed and started brushing the clods of dirt off his sleeves and hose. He flexed his arms as he did so and stretched his torso side to side to test the extent of the tenderness in his ribs. “Prince Louis himself will be at Château Gaillard to host the events. The best knights in France, Normandy, and Gascony will be in attendance, with the winner being declared champion over all. There is even a rumor the Prince of Darkness will make an appearance.”

  Brenna groaned and rolled her eyes as she recited, “The most feared knight in all the Holy Roman Empire, reputed to be half man, half beast, and wholly ungodly.”

  “He has never ventured into Normandy before,” Robin said, objecting to the sarcasm in her voice. “Those who have seen him joust say he comes down the lists like a dark wind from hell, his claws as sharp as those on the falcon emblazoned on his shield.”

  “And you want to fight him?”

  “I intend to fight him, and to send him limping back to perdition with the name of Robert Wardieu d’Amboise emblazoned on his arse forever! I have trained for it, am ready for it, and deserve it by God, and nothing so trivial as a bruised rib or an elfin demagogue will deny me my due.”

  “Be that as it may,” Will said dryly, “I would still advise you to keep your ribs out of Sparrow’s eyesight … at least until you are well along on the road to Rouen.”

  Robin spared a frosty glance for his friend. “And how do you propose I do that? He has eyes in every rafter, ears in every garde robe, and puts himself under my nose with less warning than a cabbage fart.”

  Brenna laughed. “Such was your fate to be the firstborn and charmed as Sparrow seems to insist. ‘Tis why he feels the ever-present need to safeguard you body and soul for whatever momentous destiny he believes awaits you. We common seedlings, on the other hand, could walk through the gates bloodied and bludgeoned and he would only sniff at our carelessness.”

  “Your sympathy warms my heart.”

  “It should warm your cockles, brother dearest, since we are your two best allies at the moment, for if you are not permitted to attend Gaillard, neither of us is likely to be venturing forth either. Moreover, we have had years of experience skulking in and out of the chateau without the weight of all that nobility drawing an eye toward us.” She stood back a pace and examined his ragged appearance. “A clean tunic, fresh hose, and no one should be the wiser for your failure to put Sir Tusker in his place.”

  “I will know,” he said gruffly, the pride chafing in his voice.

  “So will I. So will Will’um. So will the trees and the mist and the smaller beasts of the forest who still tremble and quake at your passage. But unless you spread yourself like a crucifix on the floor and confess the transgression, Sparrow need not know. In the meantime, you will be left in peace to heal and to contemplate the advantages of having some devious bones in your body.”

  “I can be just as devious as any of you,” Robin protested.

  “Faugh! Your cheek twitches like a hare’s nose when you tell a falsehood,” Brenna teased. “And your throat turns a most glorious shade of red. If you had a deceitful hair on your head we would be hard-pressed to find it amid all the honor and nobility.”

  “I will concede I do not enjoy deceiving anyone by word or deed. Nor am I as expert as either of you at evading the truth. At the same time, I am neither as virtuous or as self-righteous as you would make me out to be.”

  Both Will and Brenna arched an eyebrow, their silence an eloquent enough rebuttal.

  “Fine,” he declared. “I shall defer to your superior knowledge of chicanery.”

  “And my superior skills in the forest,” Brenna added.

  Robin looked askance at Will, who shrugged and admitted, “She caught me fair on the last round.”

  “Which makes the two of us even, by my count,” Robin said. “Two wins apiece.”

  “I only see two arrows in Sir Tusker,” she retorted smartly. “Which gives Will and me an extra hit—leaving the two of you tied with a brace of strikes—and me ahead with three.”

  Robin’s steely eyes narrowed. A split second later Will’s did the same as the alignment of loyalties took a noticeable shift.

  “A questionable resolution at best,” he murmured. “Since it was clearly my arrow that felled the beast.”

  “I think not,” she argued. “I distinctly saw mine strike first.”

  Will looked at Robin, who held up his bloodied dagger. “It could well have been my stroke along the jugular, for all the blood h
e was spraying.”

  The three crossed to where the dead boar lay steaming on the crush of leaves. The two arrows that protruded from the skull were seated so closely together they could have been fired from the same bow. The slash in his throat was deep enough to have soaked the ground red beneath him and intoxicate a feasting swarm of black ants.

  “I see nothing for it but to declare a draw,” Robin said, straightening.

  “A pox on your draw, brother dear. We still have a few miles of forest between here and the chateau. First one to reach the gates—with the biggest trophy in hand—wins the day?”

  Robin spit in the palm of his hand and held it out. Brenna did likewise, and Will made it unanimous. A minute later the gully was empty but for the soft layer of mist that poured over the sides to fill the hollow.

  Brenna split off and ran in the direction of the river. She guessed, by the quivering oval patches of pewter gray that broke through the uppermost layer of tree branches, there was perhaps an hour or two of daylight left in the outer world. The inner world of the forest would have far less, but she was not worried. Having seen the gully, she knew where she was, knew the location of the river, knew where to intersect the hidden tract the villagers of Amboise used when they wanted to take their wares to Blois without paying a toll. She also knew of a place on the river where great fat salmon swam into the shallow pools to feed in the quiet water. Robin would doubtless be trying for a deer—which he would not find so late in the day and reeking of sweat. Will would be clever enough to search the area around the gully to see if the boar had a family it was protecting. But if she could skewer a plump, succulent salmon, she knew it would win a resounding round of praise from her father. He particularly loved the fish poached in wine, smothered in onions and thyme, washed down with a flagon of his prized pierrefitte.