The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  His face was pouring sweat by the time he handed up the padded bascinet for the head and the mail hood with its descending gorget of pennyplate, the links strong enough to shield the throat but flexible enough to raise or lower as required. The final layer was the gambeson—the surcoat of rich hunting green silk emblazoned with the gold falcon in full wingspread.

  “And when he is dead,” he finally demanded. “What then? Do we wait for them to come to us?

  “Either that, or we go to them.” Griffyn held his arms out while Fulgrin strapped his sword belt around his waist and fetched the great serpentine weapon from the chest. He ran his fingers lightly along the warning etched on the surface before he sheathed it, then, with a final adjustment to settle his gear, strode out of the pavilion and into the bright sunlight.

  At almost the same instant, Brenna was blinking the sunlight out of her eyes as she crossed the common and approached the entrance to the bowers. Robin was on one side, Richard and Geoffrey LaFer on the other. Will and Sparrow were with Dag, helping him prepare for his match with Anjou; they would join them in the royal dais in short order, hopefully in time to see Dagobert’s ceremonial progress around the field.

  Brenna had felt clumsy and all thumbs as she had dressed for the spectacle. She was thankful she had not brought Helvise with her, for the maid’s sharp eyes would surely have seen the tender pink patches of skin everywhere on her body—conspicuous reminders of rough beard stubble and greedy lips. As it was, her bliaud was altogether too form-fitting and silky over flesh that was too tender to want constant reminders of the equally silky, tender hands that had stroked over her body all night long. Her overtunic was a rich, rusty gold velvet that molded her breasts and emphasized the trimness of her waist, and while she knew the gown was flattering, she would have preferred a plain holland tunic that would not have drawn quite so much attention to her sex.

  Convention required her to cover her hair, and at least the plain white wimple and veil looked innocuous enough, held in place by the thin circlet of unadorned gold. The day was warm and brilliant under a clear blue sky, but her flesh felt unaccountably chilled and her hands clammy as she waited, first with Richard, then with Geoffrey LaFer, as Dag dressed for his match. Under normal circumstances, she supposed she would have been just as excited and full of merriment, just as eager to watch the opening procession of drummers, trumpeters, lords and knights and ladies. She would have been honoured to sit in the same bower as Prince Louis and flattered that their host, Bertrand Malagane, kissed her hand and complimented her on her fair countenance. She would have gasped in awe with the rest of the crowd to see the burly champions arriving at their pavilions, surrounded by squires and handlers sagging under the weight of weapons and armour. She would have shivered deliciously to hear the names of the most ferocious contestants who had come together to compete in the pageantry of the Enterprise of the Dragon’s Mouth; names like Mauger the Murderer, Eustace the Widow-Maker, Ferrau the Pitiless, Blondel the Damned, as well as the legendary assassin Loupescaire (whose legend had lost some of its lustre when a forewarned victim had arranged to have both his feet chopped off).

  Into this company had also come the fearsome Prince of Darkness, the self-proclaimed Devil Incarnate, and while Robin was showing remarkable restraint thus far, there was a tautness around his mouth that suggested Sparrow might have to keep his knife unsheathed. He was amiable enough to the Dauphin and answered questions on tactics and strategies with a patient enough demeanor, but there was the underlying impression that he wanted desperately to be on the field, not watching from a wooden bench.

  This business with Dag and Roald of Anjou proved none of them was really safe from the recklessness of his own honor.

  Tossed into this cauldron of simmering tension was now the spectre of Griffyn Renaud. As Will had pointed out, he had not come all this way to sit and watch the pageantry; he had come to fight, to prove his mettle, possibly to try to win the prize of six hundred marks. Before last night, of course, she would not have cared if he threw himself against Lucifer and all the demons of hell. Before last night she could not have cared less who he fought or what the outcome. Now, however, she found herself chilling at the thought he might well end up broken and bleeding under the hooves of some paladin’s charger. On the way to their seats in the bower, she had found herself looking anxiously at each pavilion they passed—she did not even know his colors, for pity’s sake—hoping to see, hoping not to see his broad shoulders clad in mail, waiting for his call to arms.

  It was also the custom for a knight to beg the favor of carrying a lady’s token—a sleeve or scarf—into the lists and to fight in her honor. This was usually done during the ceremonial progress around the field when the knight stopped and dipped his lance before the lady whose affection he sought. If she accepted, she fastened the token to the weapon and promptly melted, beyond capability of speech and breath, into the waiting arms of envious companions. Brenna did not even want to think what would happen, how she would respond, what Robin or the others would do if Griffyn Renaud chose to single her out in this fashion. She would indeed melt—into a nerveless, senseless puddle on the floorboards where she would remain, fixed by shame and guilt in utter disgrace.

  She groaned softly to herself and tried valiantly to concentrate on the jousting.

  Dag was to meet his opponent in the west half of the enclosure. The field had been divided in two by a barrier decorated with cloth hangings, and each of these in turn had a low, single-hung wooden tilt to define the course and insure the riders remained in their own lane. Bowers for the spectators flanked the field, blazing with colors and waving pennons. At either end of the huge rectangle were recets, designated areas of refuge where knights could catch their breath between runs and rearm. Many more pennons flew there, for lances were leaned upright against the palisades, some painted in the colors of their lords, some banded, some spotted, all hung with a flag bearing the arms of the champion.

  The jousts themselves were staggered so as not to detract one from the other, also to provide continuous entertainment and thrills while the one list was being cleared of debris. Each time two challengers took to the field, they rode a ceremonial progress around the outer ring of the entire field to salute the judges and give homage to the Dauphin. Brenna peered anxiously at each contestant as he entered the enclosure and began his progress, but in full armour, with pot-shaped helms obscuring all but a narrow strip of their faces, they were mostly anonymous, identifiable only by the devices emblazoned on their gambeson and shield. There was a herald reading names at the outset of each match, and Brenna listened closely each time he stood and consulted his scroll of parchment, but did not hear the name she sought in the first three contests, and then it was Dag’s turn and she temporarily traded one set of fears for another.

  “Can you see him?” she asked, craning her neck to see around Richard’s broad shoulders.

  “There.” He pointed to the entrance of the enclosure. “By God, he makes a fine cut of a fellow, I must admit, no thanks to my tutoring.”

  Sparrow, his attention divided ungraciously among the other burly men-at-arms whose duty it was to stand guard over their masters, heard the comment and leaned forward to glare.

  “Your tutoring, you great heaving peewit? Your tutoring has thrust him into this peril despite all common good sense. Your tutoring may earn him a dented head and cracked bones.”

  His lecture was cut short as Robin hissed him into silence. They were seated two rows back from the Dauphin and the Count of Saintonge, and at the sound of Sparrow’s voice, Malagane’s silver head turned and he glanced back.

  “Lord Robert! You must be proud of your younger brother. He does indeed cut a fine figure. We can only hope it will be as fine at the end of the joust,” Malagane added, inviting the Dauphin to share a good-natured laugh, “since he is the only one representing the black-and-gold this day.”

  Robin and Richard both stiffened and Brenna put a hand on each arm. She fe
lt like a fawn caught between two lions, although she was not entirely unsympathetic to their plight. The Dauphin was narrow-nosed and spent a good deal of time looking down it, while Bertrand Malagane resembled a cobra she had seen once at a fair: sleek and smooth and quick to strike with a venomous tongue. Seated on his right was Solange de Sancerre, and behind was his son, Gerome de Saintonge, whose head swivelled to note the slightest move Brenna made. She caught him staring openly and outright at least a score of times, always with a leering, lopsided grin that made her feel as if she were naked from throat to waist.

  Brenna forced herself to ignore them all as Dag approached the dais. He did make a splendid sight. He rode a gleaming black destrier fully caparisoned in an ebony silk saddle cloth trimmed in gold bands and tinsel, the saw-toothed hem falling almost to the beast’s knees. The warhorse was a knight’s most valuable weapon in battle, and beneath all the rich finery they carried nearly as much body armour as the rider. A croupiere molded of cuir bouilli fit the shape of the hindquarters and a fan-shaped poitrail guarded the breast and shoulders from a misplaced—or deliberate—strike from a lance. The noble head was covered in a leather chanfrein that exposed only the eyes and kept the animal focused straight forward.

  Dag’s own helm was flat-topped, painted in black with gilding along the seams and joints. It consisted of metal plates bolted and screwed together to surround the head and neck, offering limited visibility through a hinged visor that could be lifted when on parade, or was lowered to signal readiness at the start of a charge. His visor was up now as he rode around the enclosure and caused his beast to dance a caracole in front of the royal dais. Prince Louis nodded to acknowledge the salute, as did Bertrand Malagane, and Dag cantered on toward the Bower of Beauty where a dozen or more hopefuls leaned forward in their seats and drew a collective breath.

  The same dozen melted back in obvious disappointment as the youngest—and some may have thought the handsomest—Wardieu rode past, not stopping until he reached the far end of the enclosure, where Timkin was waiting with his shield and lance. Roald of Anjou, meanwhile, had also completed his progress and was waiting, like a large mound of crimson dough, for a cinch to be tightened on his saddle.

  In short time, the two challengers signaled the judges they were ready. Visors were dropped and gauntlets adjusted to insure a firm grip on the hilt of the lance. Squires handed up shields and reins were gathered tight. There was a flourish of trumpets as the marshal raised the small linen couvre-chef and glanced one last time at each champion before dropping it.

  Dag’s charger was first off the mark, its powerful hooves carving up the soft turf, raising great clods of dirt and hurling it back as he quickly built to full speed. From the opposite end of the list, Roald of Anjou bolted forward, the point of his lance stretched out across his steed’s neck, his massive bulk leaning into the wind to seek the perfect balance.

  It was a sight to inspire awe in every breast, regardless of the combatants, for horse and rider moved as one, straining forward with silks and tassels flowing, lances aimed straight and true, bodies moving to the rhythm of power and fury and steel-edged nerve. The ranks shuddered on both sides of the field as the two mighty beasts converged. The tips of the lances passed, the shafts seemed a moment to stream together as one, then the clash, the screech of metal on metal, the flying sparks and screams of the horses as the impact staggered both and sent them rearing up on hind legs.

  Dag had missed his mark and, as the two horses churned apart, Brenna could hear Richard bemoaning a lost opportunity and Sparrow cursing all fools to perdition.

  The two challengers rode to the end of the tilt and wheeled their horses around, waiting until each was set before they launched themselves down the course again, black-and-gold rushing at breakneck speed toward the streaking blur of vermilion. It was a matter of seconds only until they met at the halfway mark, and this time Dag’s lance struck squarely on Roald’s left shoulder, wrenching him back with such force the stem of the lance split and shattered. Despite the heightened and reinforced trousse-quin on his saddle, the bulbous lord from Anjou found himself reeling sideways off the leather. His horse spun, further upsetting his balance, and the weight of his upper body armour did the rest, dragging him out of the saddle, spilling him on the ground in a cloud of dust and thrashing hooves. There he stayed, his arms and legs flailing like an overturned bug, and there he remained until the attendants raced out and helped hoist him to his feet.

  There was laughter in the crowds and much snapping of fingers as Dag’s charger pranced back to his end of the enclosure. It was a clean win and almost anticlimactic to see all the flags in the judges’ hands go up to confirm the victory. Roald, in a fury over the humiliation, struck one of the attendants across the face and pushed another to the ground in his haste to clear the field.

  “I never doubted it for a moment.” Richard chuckled.

  “I should have tried for five hundred!” Geoffrey laughed in agreement.

  Brenna turned to respond but was caught by the sudden deep hush that had fallen over the crowd. It was so quiet, where there should have been applause and cheering, she could hear the rustle of the silk pennons stirring overhead in the breeze. Searching for the cause, she had only to look at the sea of faces around her and to follow their rapt gazes to where the second of two new contestants were entering the enclosure.

  No one needed to ask who he was. Both the dark knight and his destrier were clad in green silks and black leathers, with shield, pennons, and gambeson blazoned with the gold falcon identifying him as the Prince of Darkness.

  “So,” Robin murmured. “We see the devil in the flesh at last.”

  “A great hulking bustard,” Sparrow agreed in solemn tones.

  Unlike Roald of Anjou, whose weight was centered around his girth, the dark knight’s power was concentrated across his shoulders and chest, the latter aggrandized further by the bulk of armour and the fearsome gold falcon in full wingspread. He sat straight and tall in the saddle, looking neither to the left nor the right as he took to the field.

  “Now,” announced Bertrand Malagane in a voice loud enough for those in the back row of seats to overhear, “we shall begin to see some true fighting skills. You have heard, of course, that he has chosen not to restrict himself to three challenges, but has offered his shield to all comers? It should make for an interesting afternoon.”

  “Interesting and bloody,” Richard muttered out of the side of his mouth.

  “Who is he fighting first?” Robin asked, straining forward to see around an offending banner that temporarily blocked his view.

  “Savaric de Mauleon,” Geoffrey LaFer provided from his slightly higher vantage point in the row behind.

  Robin nodded approvingly. He liked Savaric, had spent a good portion of the previous evening in the company of the spirited young champion from Gascon, and was generous with his praise for the other man’s considerable talents. “He is not afraid to meet a lance head-on and straps himself into his saddle to insure he does not leave it any too soon.”

  “He might want to reconsider the buckles this time,” Richard said quietly. “Have you seen the other’s lance?”

  A similar awestruck observation was already beginning to ripple through the ranks of spectators, for the weapon was not blunted by the conventional coronal. Instead, the metal cap tapered to a single point, the only concession to civility being that the tip was squared.

  “He is not come to play at games,” Sparrow remarked.

  Robin’s face had hardened into a mask and he said nothing, but the more practical eye of Geoffrey LaFer noted other ominous refinements in the paladin’s armour. “His mail, if mine eyes do not deceive me, is double-linked! And the helm is most unusual—I do not think I have seen its like before.”

  “Nor have I,” remarked the Count of Saintonge, proving his hearing was excellent despite the surrounding buzz of conversations. “But I understand it is a style gaining favor in Germany and Flanders, for the p
lates are almost completely smooth, and the rounded top offers no seams or ornamentation to catch the point of a lance. What do you think of it, Lord Robert?”

  “It looks practical,” Robin admitted, his teeth clipping every word.

  All eyes in the crowd were on the Prince of Darkness as he rode to the royal dais and tipped his lance in a salute to his host and Prince Louis. Up close, he made an even more formidable impression, for the visor had but one slit running left to right, and because he had already hooked it in place, there was only a slash of darkness where his eyes should be. The double linking of his armour made his arms look as if they were encased in solid sheets of steel, heavy enough to daunt all but the strongest of men, thick enough to deflect all but the mightiest of blows.

  He seemed to wait until he was certain everyone in the bower had satisfied their curiosity, then turned and rode directly back to his recet, forgoing the customary progress around the rest of the field. It was a blatant discourtesy to the rest of the gathering, who began to hoot and hiss and shout their disapproval. By contrast, Savaric de Mauleon, who was good-looking and dashing and everyone’s favorite, won rousing applause and cheers of enthusiasm from each bench as he circled the entire field. Nearly every maiden in the Bower of Beauty offered tokens without waiting to be asked, and by the time he had completed his progress, his lance fluttered with every color of the rainbow.

  The two knights took their positions. The crowd stilled and waited for the judges, who were still debating furiously among themselves over the legality of the square-tipped lance. The marshal hastened over to the dais and expressed his concerns to the Count of Saintonge, who in turn gave his ruling that the lance was acceptable, but if Savaric de Mauleon chose to decline to fight, it would be perfectly understandable.