“This is your companion?” Brenna asked.
“The only one I have needed thus far on my journey, although”—his gaze fell once again to rove speculatively over the soft thrust of her breasts—“it looks to be a cold night ahead and I imagine I could be persuaded to share my blanket.”
Brenna’s fingers tightened longingly on the bowstring. “You may find yourself in a hot place sooner than you expect, M’sieur Renaud. Do you still refuse to tell me your business here in these woods?”
“You have no need to know it,” he said lightly, using her own words to add insult.
“Then you leave me no choice but to take you to my father—the man whose land you happen to be trespassing upon and whose fish you happen to be poaching. He has every right to know, especially if your business concerns him in any way.”
“Is he as likely to show the same hospitality to a lost and weary traveler as his daughter?”
“He is likely to disembowel you and toss your liver to the dogs if you give any false—or insolent—answers to his questions.”
Renaud gave the horse’s muzzle another scratch and stared calmly back at her. His face was handsome beyond decency, no small part of her could deny it, yet for all the warmth he exuded and friendliness he inspired, it might well have been carved from the same block of marble that shaped the rest of him. The smile that came and went so effortlessly was no more than a practiced arrangement of muscles, heart-stopping to some no doubt, but to Brenna it suggested he was dangerous and deceitful, and probably could not be trusted beyond the blink of an eye.
Even as she debated his credibility, he was studying the faint tremors that were causing the laces of her jerkin to shiver with each rise and fall of her breasts. Her arm was tiring, the muscles beginning to cramp from the strain. His mouth curved up at the corner and he started to lower his hands, but Brenna’s voice cut short whatever his intentions might have been.
“If you touch your sword or your knife, or reach for a weapon of any kind, I will shoot your horse first. Then you.”
The pale eyes shot back to hers and she felt their heat, their power, their fury cut clean through her flesh and scrape on her bones.
His voice, when it came to her through the gloom, was a soft snarl. “I think it would give me great pleasure to teach you some manners, demoiselle.”
“It would be difficult to teach something you so obviously lack yourself,” she retorted smartly. “Now dress yourself, sirrah. We have a long walk ahead of us.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The first challenge of manners came before they had cleared the campsite. They had not yet shaken the wet earth from the riverbank off their boots when Brenna announced her intention to ride the stallion home while he walked a suitable distance ahead.
A knight, armoured or not, was a formidable opponent on horseback. Destriers were trained to charge, lunge, rear, pivot, and trample, all through subtle commands delivered by the rider’s thighs, calves, feet. Man and beast learned to fight as one unit, and a single knight, mounted, could easily lay waste to a dozen men on foot. Stripped of his horse and weapons, however, and forced to use his feet for something other than swinging a stirrup, a knight was reduced to a mere man. And a mere man was no match for Brenna Wardieu, regardless how much she admired the breadth of his shoulders or the long, fluid strides that swallowed the miles beneath him.
Clearly, the thought of her riding while he walked was as ludicrous as the notion of her being able to control the highly strung temperament of a blooded warhorse. Just as clearly, he had expected to see her clutch at the reins and tumble out of the saddle the first time he gave his destrier a softly trilled signal. But Brenna had been anticipating his deviousness and was ready. She weathered the high, rearing lurches and kept her seat expertly through the violent twists and leaps meant to spill her on her rump. Moreover, when she proved she could still nock and fire an arrow from the back of a rampaging charger, another quiet whistle ended the confrontation.
Renaud had said nothing as he extracted the arrow from the soft earth an inch in front of his toe, but he had promised her the world through his eyes as he held the shaft in both hands and snapped it in two.
Full darkness had settled over them like a thick sable blanket by the time the man and rider made their way through the forest and emerged at the small village of Amboise. There was a single fire blazing in the square; the only other signs of life came from the glowing red halo that surrounded the open doors of the smithy. Most of the cottages had been shuttered and barred for the night and would remain steadfastly so until morning. The villagers were a superstitious lot and believed the devil roamed abroad in human guise at night, searching for souls to steal.
The gray stone fortifications of the castle dominated the high ridge above the village. Seen in daylight the tall, crenellated battlements were a comfort to those who lived and toiled in its protective shadows. At night, with its darkened ramparts, towers, and spires etched against the sky, it became the lair of its legendary master, the Black Wolf of Amboise, and none who valued the seamless contours of their throats would dare venture near the fiery maw of its gates without invitation. Two pitch-soaked torches blazed in iron cressets on either side of the barbican towers, the only lights visible from outside the forty-foot walls. There was only one entrance and only one approach. The crusader who had built the original keep over a century ago had kept the swift-running river at its back and dug a deep, wide trench to protect the remaining three sides. He had stopped short of cutting into the river to flood it, but in the past few years, with the political strife constant between England and France, and loyalties changing every day, Lord Randwulf’s men had completed the work. The moat was now a vein of the River Loire, black and turbulent, with a draw that could be suspended to seal off the entrance if needed.
The outer battlement walls were twelve feet thick, faced with rough-cut limestone blocks mortared around a core of rock rubble. The encircling sentry walks were nearly a mile in length and were patrolled day and night by guards in full armour, each boldly wearing the device of Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer: a sinister depiction of a prowling wolf, the gold head full-faced and snarling against an ebony field.
The barbican towers that flanked the entrance were in themselves small fortresses, the walls hollowed to house passageways for archers, the roof fitted with chutes for pouring boiling oil and pitch on the heads of unwanted guests. Once inside, the castle held true to the design of most Norman strongholds, with the inner stone keep being the central structure around which other buildings and wards had been added over the generations. The keep itself was the tallest and best-fortified structure, as it would be the site of the final defense should the castle come under attack. The massive stone tower rose sixty feet from its widened base, buttressed by earthworks and protected by a second draw and moat. Crouched around the outer ring of the moat were the barracks, stables, armoury, psaltery, cook house, bath house, smithy, and weavers’ cottages—all comprising a small community contained within the inner curtain wall. This second wall was no easily breachable defense either, but a block-and-mortar barrier fifteen feet high and twelve feet thick, guarded by double-leaf iron doors hinged between tall, square watchtowers.
Between the outer wall and the inner was a bailey that contained, among other things, the practice yards and tilting grounds, orchards and gardens, also the pens and stables that housed the livestock. Sealed off from the outer world, the chateau was completely self-sufficient and had been designed to withstand a siege lasting many months.
To outsiders, the chateau was a menacing display of military efficiency.
To Brenna, it was simply home.
“Hold up,” she called softly as she eased the destrier to a halt just before the drawbridge. She had seen movement beneath the portcullis and guessed Robin and Will were there waiting for her, wanting to see her prize and gloat over their own paltry hares and piglets. A belligerent knight and a prime warhorse should be more than adequate to
claim victory, however, and she was smiling even before she saw the shadows walking hesitantly into the glare of the torchlights.
“Brenna? Is that you?”
“Indeed it is, brother dear. And see what manner of prize I have brought for you to admire? A poacher, a trespasser, a churl who refused to even give his name until I tickled him with my bow.”
Robin and Will both emerged from the shadowy maw of the arched entrance. They had swords strapped to their hips and were followed by a dozen men from the castle guard who fanned out behind them, crossbows in hand, poised to defend against any intruders lurking in the darkness beyond.
“A hale and hearty evening all around,” Robin murmured.
“Bright enough to chase fireflies,” she said, giving the proper, specific reply to assure the Amboise men she was not being coerced into bringing a hostile inside the walls. Had she answered any other way, Griffyn Renaud would be dead.
Instead, Robin walked forward, his boots echoing on the wood planks. His gaze barely touched on the stranger as he watched Brenna swing her leg over the front of the saddle and slide nimbly to the ground.
“You certainly do take a challenge to heart,” he said, admiring the huge gray stallion. “Dare I ask where you found the unlucky fellow?”
“By the river. He was poaching Father’s best fishing hole.”
“I was attempting to ease the rumbling in my belly,” Renaud said on a sigh. “I was not aware I was trespassing, or that a single fish—and a rather small one as it happened—would have me stretched out on a rack.”
“We all tend toward caution these days,” Robin allowed. “Did she hurt you?”
The question was asked as if it was a normal occurrence, and Renaud’s jaw flexed once before he answered. “Only my pride.”
Robin laughed. “Then you have fared better than most, my friend. My sister sharpens her teeth on poachers.”
“He gave his name as Renaud,” Brenna offered lightly. “But because he would part with no other information, I thought it best to bring him here and give him, perhaps, to Littlejohn, who would be more than happy to loosen his tongue.”
“That may well be,” her brother said slowly, “for he has not cracked any heads lately and his blood is running a little high. Renaud?” He was studying the knight’s face, and in this he had the benefit of the torches blazing behind him, throwing hot yellow light on the sharply defined features. “The name feels as if it should mean something to me.”
The stranger, his elf-shot eyes revealing nothing, crossed his arms over his chest and smiled. “Robert Wardieu d’Amboise, as I live and breathe.”
Robin’s frown deepened. “I fear you still have the advantage, sirrah.”
“Five years ago, the haslitude at Gascon. A single-combat match between two nineteen-year-old striplings who had just earned their spurs.”
Robin drew in a deep, startled breath. “Renaud! Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay! Christ Jesus on the cross! What black pit in hell has spit you back up onto the earth?”
“The deepest, naturally.”
“Naturally!” Robin reached out and clasped Renaud’s forearm, laughing like a fool as he called to Will. “Come and see the prize Brenna has brought us! God’s good grace, I can scarcely believe my eyes! Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay!”
He pulled the grinning knight forward into a hearty embrace and clapped him several times on the back and shoulder before releasing him.
Brenna stared at her brother as if he had gone mad, and when Will joined them, he fared no better for he could only answer her questioning gaze with a frown and a shrug.
“Griffyn Renaud … William FitzAthelstan, my very good friend. Will! We have here the only man in Christendom who caused me to visit an armourer after the joust to have my helm bashed back into a recognizable enough shape to pry it off my head. The only man whose ram-pager”—he stopped and peered again at the gray—“good God, can it be the same wily beast? The one who gave Sir Tristan as good a thumping as he got in twenty … or was it twenty-one?… runs!”
“Actually, it was twenty-three,” Griffyn said easily. “A record that stands to this day, the last I heard. And it would have been twenty-four if the judges had not stopped it and declared it too cruel for the horses to carry on.”
“They gave me the win on points,” Robin said, sobering briefly.“ ’Twas the only time I was discomfited being declared champion of the tourney.”
“Not too discomfited to refuse your winnings,” Renaud reminded him.
“I refused your horse and armour,” came the retort. “And came looking for you afterward to give you half of what I earned … but you were already gone. Vanished without a trace.”
“I had … commitments.”
Robin grinned again and shook his head in happy disbelief. “And here you stand now, sprung from nowhere, as alive and fit as ever I have judged a dead man to be. You know, of course, that you are. Dead, I mean. Split in two by … Ivo the Crippler, so we heard.”
“Ivo? That larded pullet? He is taking credit for my demise? The last time we met on the field, Centaur refused to run, knowing it to be a waste of energy. A trot was all that was needed to put enough force behind the lance to roll him out of the saddle and bounce him on the ground.”
Robin threw his head back and laughed. Will obviously believed the story could be true and would have laughed too if Brenna’s heel had not found his toe.
“It does not change the fact he was surly and rude and trespassing,” she insisted. “And too secretive even to tell me where he had been or where he was going.”
Renaud’s smile did not quite affect both sides of his mouth equally as he glanced her way. “If you will recall, I did mention I had been following the river from Orléans. And I would not have been alone had Fulgrin elected to remain with me instead of striking out on his own.”
“Fulgrin?”
“My … man. I am loath to call him squire, for he rarely listens to a word I say and, more often than not, follows his own whim when it disagrees with mine. In this case, he insisted on keeping to the main road, even though I argued the route was twice as long.”
“You argue with your squire then allow him to go his own way?” Brenna’s eyebrow quirked at the notion of a knight tolerating such insolence.
“Allow?” His soft laugh sent a trickle of sensation down her spine. “Believe me, my lady, I have sent him on his way with the help of my boot more times than I can recount. He keeps finding me again, however, despite my attempts to be hanged as a poacher. We agreed to meet in Rouen by week’s end, and I have no doubt he will be there waiting, as surly and bellicose as ever.”
“Rouen?” It was Robin, looking surprised yet again. “To the tournament, of course?”
Renaud nodded. “L’Emprise de la Gueule de Dragon. There have been postings at every crossroad between here and Paris.”
“We ourselves leave in three days’ time,” Robin announced, his grin genuine and infectious. “Indeed, who could resist a haslitude with such grand designs as ‘The Enterprise of the Dragon’s Mouth’?”
“Who indeed?” Renaud mused.
The instincts of the two men took brief priority and caused them to study each other with sharp new eyes. They were breathtakingly well matched in size and height, both in their prime as fighting men, and the irony was not lost on either one as they assessed the advantages and disadvantages of playing host and guest to someone they would likely be meeting as an opponent in the lists.
“Perhaps,” Renaud mused, “you should simply point the way to the road.”
“And perhaps,” Robin replied with equal graveness, “you should come inside that we might ply you with good, stout ale and have you confess all of your weaknesses.”
“But I have none. Not unless you count a pressing need for a soft bed, a hot bath, and a strong herb woman who can ease my body of”—his gaze flicked past Robin’s shoulder and caught Brenna staring—“the multitude of unfamiliar aches I have earned this night, being
forced to walk halfway across the country.”
“Your tongue should have been as loose then as it is now,” she retorted smartly. “Certes, you would have been left to your own company.”
“Perhaps I would have been more forthcoming, my lady, had you not addressed me first with your bow. How was I to know you were not a thief or a poacher? You put your arrow in the tree without the slightest hesitation and suggested you were only too willing to do the same to me. You were dressed like a common peasant, giving no clue to your gentle breeding, and since you showed no willingness to impart your name either, how was I to know you were not there to maim or murder me?”
Brenna’s mouth dropped open. He had managed to mock, insult, and reprimand her in the same breath he used to put himself forward as the poor, hapless victim!
“Murder,” she said, clenching her teeth again, “was a closer possibility than your arrogance lets you realize, Sir Knight.”
“I rather doubt that, my lady, although there were other temptations that might have proved interesting to pursue.”
Two hot red spots flared in her cheeks and she was thankful for the shielding darkness. Nothing hid the look in his eyes or the path they took downward to the front of her jerkin. She had laced the halves closed again to keep out the chill on the ride home, but she might as well have been naked for all the protection the linen and leather afforded. She could feel his eyes probing through the layers, mocking her femininity even as he challenged it.
“Come now.” Robin stepped between them. “It was a misunderstanding, nothing more. No one is murdered and you have, indeed, brought a most valuable prize home. I, for one, concede defeat. A brace of pheasants is naught compared to the resurrected Renaud de Verdelay.” And to the vaunted Verdelay he added, “You will naturally do us the honor of accepting our hospitality.”
“If I can offer Centaur a day’s rest, gladly.” The ice-washed eyes rose again to Brenna’s face. “But only if I can be assured it is no inconvenience.”
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 92