“Well said,” Dag concurred. “And I for one will sleep better at night knowing Bren’s canny eyes and bow arm are guarding our backs at Gaillard.”
“This would not be your nose for profit speaking, would it?” the Wolf asked casually, since it was well known that there would be contests aplenty between tournament goers who shared his daughter’s contempt for the official rules.
“Absolutely not,” Dag protested. “Although … the wagering in any challenges answered outside the tourney grounds should be exceptionally heated indeed. Not like the abysmal thrift displayed by the gamblers when Robin takes to the field.”
“Yes, well.” Robin cleared his throat and stepped forward. “That may yet change. And before we lose claim to all of our manners, may I introduce into this bedlam Lord Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay. He fell into our hands quite by accident this afternoon and I have invited him to partake of our hospitality.” He held out a hand to beckon their guest forward. “Griffyn Renaud, my father, Lord Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer.”
“God grant you good ease, my lord,” Renaud said, offering a respectful bow. “Though I warrant it to be a difficult task in such lively company as I see before me.”
“I thought of giving one or two away at birth,” the Wolf agreed, “but my wife insisted they would bring comfort to me in my old age.” He paused and looked closer at the bold, dark face. “Verdelay. The tournament in Gascon. Are you not the rogue who gave us cause to tear our hair out by the roots then and for several months thereafter while Robin splintered a hundred lances or more trying to duplicate the way you ran against him?”
“I know nothing of what happened afterward, but I do plead guilty to the day of the event.”
“Where, in God’s name, did he manage to find you?”
“Actually, my lord, it was your daughter who found me. I am afraid she took umbrage to the fact I was helping myself to some of your fish.”
The Wolfs grin broadened. “Then you stand before me a lucky man indeed.”
“So I am beginning to believe.”
“And still hungry, no doubt?”
Verdelay’s eyes drifted involuntarily to the boards of shredded meat, capon, pies, and pasties. “I confess my belly is rubbing on my backbone.”
“Then join us, by all means, without further delay. Isobel and Geoffrey are nor with us tonight and their places are vacant. Brenna—you mentioned something about virtue and propriety? Would that come in the guise of a fresh tunic and clean boots?”
She curled her fingers back from the tender morsel of roast hare she was about to pilfer off the board. “Yes, Father. At once.”
“And Robin … there was mention of a boar?”
“A great hulking brute, aye.” His cheek twitched as he glanced at Brenna. “But it gave us no trouble. Come, Griffyn, the table waits.”
Renaud turned and was about to follow Robin around to an open seat on the dais, but something barrel-chested and low to the ground blocked his way.
“Littlejohn tells me you are fond of knives.”
Renaud looked down and his eyes widened. The man—elf—who stood glowering before him came no higher than his waist and bore the face of a debauched cherub with large agate eyes and froth of curly brown hair. He had planted himself firmly in the knight’s path, having just come from a whispered conversation with the ruddy-faced captain of the guard.
Seeing the startled look on Renaud’s face, Brenna chuckled as she passed airily by. “This is Sparrow. And if you truly want to give thanks for your luck, it should be because it was Littlejohn and not Sparrow who searched you.”
“Knives,” declared the seneschal. “Hidden hither and thither up a sleeve and down a collar, I am told.”
Renaud looked at the little man, then at the faces on the dais, ail of which showed polite disapproval of Sparrow’s brusqueness in confronting a guest, but not so much so they were not interested in hearing his answer.
“They were hidden only because your man did not find them,” he explained carefully. “And when I travel alone across lands I am not familiar with, I am loath to carry all of my defenses in plain sight.”
“A wise practice,” Robin agreed. “Now, may we eat?”
Renaud took a step to the right and Sparrow followed suit, forcing him to stop and look down again.
“I am fond of knives myself.” To prove it, he withdrew two small, viciously serrated blades from beneath the folds of his tunic. He angled them into the candlelight so that an admiring eye might heed the sparkled warning, then, with a flash of carnivorous delight, he wielded them expertly into their sheaths again and crossed his arms over his chest. “Enjoy your meal. The fowl improves with salt.”
Renaud followed Robin to a vacant seat on the dais and Sparrow was right behind, glaring Dag out of his chair to create three vacancies where there were only two. Thick trenchers of bread were placed before the trio at once and from behind, a varlet appeared with a basin of hot water and towels.
Brenna, paused at the top of the steps to watch, saw Renaud wash and dry his hands under the hawk like scrutiny of one of her father’s most loyal and respected men. To some, Sparrow may have looked like a freak and a curiosity, but they never made the mistake of underestimating him twice. He had been in the Wolfs service for over thirty years and credited the wealth of health and happiness within the walls of Amboise to his ability to sniff out trouble before it happened. He trusted no one and aggravated everyone with his interference, but this was one time Brenna was stirred to bend down and hug him.
If the mysterious Renaud de Verdelay had something to hide or some nefarious purpose for coming here, Sparrow would ferret it out.
CHAPTER SIX
Brenna hastened along the narrow stone corridor, plucking at the laces of her jerkin as she ran. Four circular half towers had been abutted to the four corners of the main keep, one of which housed her parents’ private apartments. Her brothers occupied the northeast tower, with its view of the valley and the village of Amboise. She and her sisters faced the northwest and overlooked a perilous drop down the cliffs to the river below. When Eleanor and Isobel had married two years ago, they had taken over the fourth tower, leaving the rooms they had formerly occupied to be divided between Brenna and Rhiannon, with Brenna staking claim to all of the second story and its spiral access to the upper solar and roof.
Her chamber was large, but sparsely furnished with a bed, a few chests that held her clothing, a writing table, and two chairs. Because it was above the practical line of defenses, it also boasted two long, deeply set windows with wooden benches built into the stone embrasures. Her personal serving woman, Helvise, had anticipated her arrival and already prepared a welcome. A small tub of hot water was waiting and a fire had been built in the hearth—another renovation, so recently completed the surrounding stonework of the fireplace was not uniformly blackened by smoke and heat. The walls of the chamber had been whitewashed after the masons finished, and colorful renditions of roses and fleurs-de-lis had been painted on each square to signify a feminine presence. For all that Brenna noticed or cared, they might have been target circles and put to far more practical use.
She quickly finished undressing and stepped into the steaming tub of hot water. Helvise was waiting with cloths and brushes to help scrub away the muck that had seeped through her clothes. As the layers of grime and sweat were soaped away, the perfumed contents of several more buckets were poured over her charge’s head to run slick and shiny down her body. Coarse, thirsty towels of hemp were wrapped around her hair and more used to blot the water off her skin, accompanied by the occasional cluck of despair when a fresh scratch or recent bruise was discovered.
Helvise had been with the household since Brenna was a babe and had trained for her duties under the iron discipline of Goodwife Biddy. While she was forced to defend her lady’s sometimes wild behavior to the other servants, in the privacy of the tower rooms she despaired over her mistress’s refusal to acknowledge the natural beauty that could h
ave had so often left men gaping after her like drooling pups. It was a rare occasion when her lady even took note of the mirror that hung on the wall.
“Do you think I look like a peasant?” Brenna asked, peering at her reflection now, trying to see herself through a pair of cool gray-green eyes.
“My lady?”
“He said I looked like a common peasant. Do I?”
“Who dared say such a thing, my lady? And surely not in front of anyone who would have cut his tongue out for the insult!”
“In truth … it was said in front of Robin and Will, who offered no argument at all—probably because they say it often enough themselves.”
“Oh, no, my lady—”
“Or at least think it.” Brenna dropped the towel she was holding under her arms and moved closer to the oval sheet of polished metal that hung beside the fireplace. Her shoulders were straight and square to be sure, not rounded by a life of humility. Her chin was held level and proud, her complexion—apart from the tanning and freckles—was clear of pocks and scars; her teeth were small and even and white from scrubbing faithfully with salt and fennel. She did not believe she could ever be called beautiful in the sense that her mother and sisters were beautiful, but neither did she think she was so ugly as to frighten small children into hiding. The rest of her body was … just a body, so far as she could determine. Full, firm breasts, a trim waist, hips and legs honed too taut to be truly feminine, but long and lithe and capable of a certain grace in movement.
Her hair was an entirely different matter. Graceless, wild-flown, and unruly, it was long and thick and, when not confined to braids, tended to scatter across her shoulders in an irrepressible mass of tawny curls. Between Helvise’s efforts with the towels and the heat from the fire, it was drying rapidly into a golden halo around her head and spreading out like burnished angel wings down her back.
“How sharp are the scissors tonight?” she murmured, fingering the end of a rebellious curl.
“Not nearly sharp enough to combat the heat of your mother’s wrath.”
“Ah, but one day when you are not here to guard over me … snip, snip, snip they will go.”
Helvise ignored the threat as she did almost every night and continued working with the brush and towel.
Brenna glanced at the bed. A plain white chainse and brown holland overtunic were waiting on the coverlet. Another slight twist of her head found the crisp linen wimple and boxlike coronet she loathed more than anything a free soul ought to be forced to endure.
“I think … I would prefer to wear something else tonight. Something … Eleanor would wear.”
Helvise’s arm stopped mid-brushstroke. “My lady?”
“The wine silk bliaud, methinks, if it can be found on the instant. With the blue chainse beneath. And toss that wretched wimple out the window! Fetch me something that does not feel so much like a pair of hands constantly throttling me.”
“My lady?”
“Exactly. They want a lady tonight, they shall see a lady. Quick!” She waved her hand. “Before I change my mind and descend the stairs dressed as I am.”
Helvise made a small sound in her throat and hastened to the row of wooden chests that contained all of Brenna’s clothes. She passed by the first two, knowing them to be full of shirts, leggings, tunics, and hose, and went to the smallest, the one tucked farthest in the corner with its leather straps so unworn they looked new. She found the tunic and the chainse. Both had been worn but once and then carefully folded and wrapped and laid to rest alongside the other garments of silk, samite, and lustrous cendal that found as much favor in their mistress’s eyes.
While Helvise shook out the creases and draped both garments across the bed, she kept glancing at Brenna, wary of being the victim of a prank. But no. She stood perfectly docile as the chainse of blue linen floated down over her head and settled like a cloud around her body. She even exhibited rare patience while Helvise took up her needle and thread and threw in a line of hidden stitches to fit the long sleeves fashionably tight to her wrists and forearms. The silk of the overtunic, so deep and rich a red as to be almost black, was designed to snugly mold the shape of her upper body, which it did with exceeding boldness. From the waist it widened gracefully in full, soft pleats so that when she walked, the hems of the both the bliaud and undertunic dragged several feet behind.
The sleeves of the burgundy silk were deliberately elongated and flared, requiring more fussing, first to tack them artfully into a cuff that would reveal the seafoam blue beneath, then to knot the trailing points into rose-shaped clusters to prevent them from trailing on the floor. An elaborately embroidered girdle of gold samite was passed around her waist, further emphasizing her decidedly feminine shape, and after crossing in back, the ends were draped forward over the hips and pinned to form a deep V over her belly.
On Brenna’s impatient orders, the damp abundance of her hair was wrestled back into a long braid and wound into a coil at the nape of her neck. A delicate silk wimple was fitted loosely over her head and draped in airy folds beneath her chin. It was capped by a rose-colored veil and the whole held in place by a jeweled circlet of gold.
Helvise was holding her breath as she stepped back. The entire transformation from grimy ruffian to perfumed lady had taken just over an hour, a miracle by any church standards. To be sure there were more refinements that could have been added—jewels, brooches, rings—but the maid was not wont to press her luck by making any suggestions. She was happy just to nod her approval as Brenna fingered the hanging ends of the girdle and spun once, letting the silk lift and cream around her ankles again.
“Think you I am safe joining the rest of the household for supper now?”
“You could probably join the Dauphin of France and he would not find fault.”
Brenna laughed and put on the slippers Helvise had set out. They were stiff from lack of use and pinched her toes terribly, but she donned them without complaint and hurried down the tower stairs to the lower level. Just before bursting out onto the landing of the great hall, she slowed and folded her hands demurely in front, then peeked around the corner of the block wall. There was still food on the tables, for the evening meal often lasted upward of several hours, though some of the formalities lapsed after the main courses were served. Eleanor was standing behind her mother’s chair showing off some bit of embroidery on her sleeve. Richard and Dag had joined a table of knights below and were discussing the morrow’s training events over full tankards of ale. Rhiannon had moved closer to the middle of the dais and was staring longingly at Will with wide puppy eyes, trying to get his attention; Will, meanwhile was studiously avoiding the temptation and stood behind the Wolfs chair in anticipation of his lord wanting to retire for the evening.
Sparrow was still seated beside Griffyn Renaud, although the major part of his attention was fixed on the pile of bones he was picking clean in front of him. Renaud’s appetite had apparently not suffered either from the close quarters. There was a large quantity of bowls and boards in front of him, most of them empty but for crumbs, and as Brenna watched, he was tearing up the last few squares of his trencher and enjoying every last gravy-soaked hunk he put in his mouth. Beside him, Robin was refilling both their goblets and laughing as he pointed to another full slice of bread in the basket.
Renaud declined, however, and leaned back in his chair. He was rubbing his hands over his belly and offering up a complimentary belch of satisfaction as Brenna came down the stairs and swept past. She saw him glance over … then glance over again when she stopped in front of Lord Randwulf and Lady Servanne and favored them with a perfectly executed curtsy.
“My lord father, my lady mother; I trust this meets your approval?”
The Wolf stared so long and so hard—as did the rest of the gathered assembly whose silence spread like a slow wave down the length of the great hall—two pale rosettes of color bloomed on Brenna’s cheeks.
“I keep forgetting how beautiful you can be when you put
your mind to it,” her father said finally.
“A kind thing to say, but unnecessary. I only wore this to remind you that I am perfectly capable of representing the noble house of Amboise.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Neither your mother nor I would argue your capabilities, daughter. We are only leaning toward caution. These are not normal times. With all the political unrest, the plottings and intrigues of both the French and English kings … the tournament will draw the worst of men as well as the best. The chateau itself is not safe. It has too many dark niches and high ramparts, too many shadowy corners for trouble to hide.”
“Trouble?” Sparrow snorted and reached across Renaud to stab the point of his eating knife into a delectable morsel of poultry left on a board. “Infested and overrun, mores the like. With scullions and fools, trulls and trollops, throat-slitters and sin-eaters who would do more for the promise of a coin than you or I could do for want of imagining. All this as well as blood sport, drunkenness, debauchery …”
Brenna set her jaw. “I have seen—and drawn—blood before. I have also witnessed drunkenness and debauchery right here within the walls of our own castle. A full week of it, as I recall, following the victory at Roche-au-Moines.”
“Ah yes,” Richard commented from behind. “But the men of Amboise know and respect your skill with a dagger and shortsword.”
“The men of Château Gaillard will know it too if they press me too close.”
“There will be other tournaments.”
“Indeed there will,” she said, glaring at him. “For you as well. There is no portentous need for you to throw yourself down a jousting run at Gaillard. Not with your head cracked and both eyes blackened.”
“There is nothing wrong with my head or my eyes.”
“Not at the moment there isn’t,” she said succinctly.
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 94