Robin’s instincts started to send him to his feet, but a warning flash from Marienne’s eye caught the gesture and bade him keep his seat. She had her arm draped in a motherly fashion over the boy’s shoulders and, by the look of it, had to use it to encourage him to cross the last twenty or so paces.
“Robin … I wanted you to meet my son Eduard. Eduard”—her breath and courage almost failed her as she placed both hands on the boy’s shoulders—“this is the man I told you about,” she whispered. “This … is your father.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“You might have warned me,” Robin said later that night. “I dare swear a bird could have flown into my mouth it fell open so wide.”
“It was not something I could tell you in a letter. And in truth, when my lady first begged me to claim the child as mine, we gave no thought as to naming the father.”
It was well after dark and the forest was silent save for the constant burp and burble of the stream. Robin and Sparrow had returned hours ago from scouting the Witch’s Teats and pronounced it more than adequate for their needs. Since then, the outlaw band had laid out a fine banquet of roast venison served with stews and steaming platters of carrots, turnips, and onions to honor their guests. There had even been entertainment to break the solemnity and tension—a man who boasted some talent on the gittern had strummed chords while another soft-voiced lad had filled the cavernous glade with the lyrics of several ballads he had begun composing that afternoon. He sang of Robin, Marienne’s long-lost love, and of how this boldest of champions had come to them, willing and eager to don the outlaw hood and lead them in a valiant battle against the villainous Sheriff of Nottingham. He sang also of the giant Littlejohn and the bowman Will Scarlet, and of the fierce, long-limbed beauty who had fired her arrows into the sky and brought a faery tumbling to earth.
Richard and Dag had been quite put out not to be included in any of the chansons, but they were promised mention in the next composition should they accomplish something more heroic than relieving the outlaws of their hard-won pennies.
After the feast, when the fires had died down to beds of glowing red coals and the men had talked themselves sleepy, Robin and Marienne had slipped away hand in hand for a walk in the moonlight.
“Maids are … often victims of such anonymous carelessness,” she said, stopping beside the bright ribbon of the river. “It was Tuck … Lord Henry … who loves the child better than his own life to be sure, who suggested—nay, insisted—the boy not have any scar of bastardy sitting on his shoulders for the rest of his life. He could not claim the child himself and it just seemed natural, somehow, when young Eduard started asking questions, that I name the bravest, boldest champion I knew as his father. Even Tuck agreed I would never be able to speak of any other man with as much love or conviction, and … and it would give the boy something to be proud of, knowing he was the son of Robert Wardieu d’Amboise, grandson of the Black Wolf of Lincoln. I”—she bowed her head and showed a trace of shame as she admitted—“I told him we had exchanged our vows before the eyes of God, and that you had returned to Normandy without knowing he was in my womb. I told him also that it was too dangerous for you to come back just yet, but that when you did, you would … you would take him back to Amboise with you.”
“What about the princess? How does she feel about all of this? He is her son. He is the rightful King of England. Would it not be more fitting for him to think of himself as the heir to Richard the Lionheart?”
Marienne shook her head. “She does not want to think of him as a future king; she only thinks of him as a small, helpless boy who would have his throat cut if his uncle John knew of his existence.”
“But once John is gone? I have heard he has grown so fat and bilious, he reeks of putrefaction. And the doctors, when they listen for his heartbeat, hear only wheezing and bubbling eructations.”
She sighed. “If the king died tomorrow, what would happen? His son is seven years old—too young to have learned the thieving ways of his father, yet young enough to be molded into a king the barons could control and govern. Robert FitzWalter would likely be named to the king’s council until he reached the age of majority, a responsibility that would be shared by my own father, William Marshal. It could, conceivably, mean peace for the first time since John Lackland murdered Arthur of Brittany and snatched the throne.
“But what would happen to this tentative peace,” she continued, “if the existence of another heir became known? The Marshal and FitzWalter are not without enemies. There would be more strife, more war, more political intrigues. Eduard’s heritage would come into question, as would his legitimacy, even though my lady and Lord Henry are legally wed.
“And then there is my lord’s outlawry. Granted, he is born of a noble family, but there are those who would condemn him for turning his back on his own kind and debasing himself for the sake of helping simple people survive the tyranny that has reigned over their simple lives.”
“What, then, do Henry and Eleanor want for their son?”
“They want him to live a free man, unencumbered by the past. They want him to learn that courage and honor go hand in hand with kindness and mercy. They want him to grow old and live in peace. To marry a woman he loves and have a dozen children who carry the Lionheart’s noble blood in their veins, but not the violence of his ambitions in his heart.”
Robin looked down at his hands and was surprised to see they were shaking. “It is a weighty responsibility to place on one man’s shoulders.”
Marienne smiled and drew close. She ran her hands up the front of his surcoat and across the solid breadth of his shoulders, resting them finally on the stubble-roughened planes of his jaw. “They suspect you will be more than adequate to the task, my lord. As do I.”
His hands circled her waist and urged her comfortably closer. “He would need brothers and sisters, of course, to achieve this … normalcy you advocate so strongly.”
“The sooner the better,” she agreed on a breath, leaning forward to touch her forehead on his chin.
The tremors spread up his arms as he skimmed his hands higher up her back, beneath the dark, glossy mane of her hair.
“Sooner, indeed,” he murmured tautly, “if there was but a priest nearby. Do these heathen outlaws not believe in the benefit of keeping a confessor in their midst to safeguard their souls?”
Marienne’s lips found his throat. “The nearest one is at Edwinstow; he visits once a week, thereabouts, to carry away their sins.”
His long fingers stroked the soft hairs at her nape. “How long before the next visit?”
“He was just here.”
“How far to Edwinstow?”
She rose up on tiptoes. “How fast are your horses?”
“Not nearly fast enough, I fear.”
The warm pressure of his lips made the breath catch in her throat. A shudder of expectation opened her willingly to his tender explorations, but in the next instant, he grasped her by the shoulders and eased her away, holding her out at arm’s length, as if any further contact would scorch them both to cinders.
“I confess … I do not trust myself, Marienne. In truth,” he blurted, “I came overly close to ravishing you this morning on the green, and”—he cast around, almost in panic—“you should not have allowed us to stray so far from the camp alone.”
“But I did not allow it, my lord,” she said calmly. “I did it deliberately.”
He looked stricken. “Deliberately? Surely, you were aware how much I… how badly I… how desperately I…”
She placed her hands over his and gently pried them away from her shoulders. With a soft wash of moonlight filtering through the trees and the pinpoint reflections of light refracting off the surface of the river beside them, she unfastened the thong binding her tunic and let it slip down her arms, past her waist, her hips, her thighs …
Underneath, she wore nothing but a small gold crucifix suspended between her breasts.
“Marienne—”
“Robin … you have always had possession of my heart and my soul, but my body has been virgin far too long.”
His breath choked him again as his eyes devoured the pale, moon-washed splendor of her body. Her breasts were high and firm, her waist small enough to form the shape of an hourglass, her legs were slim, smooth as ivory with an enticingly dark thatch of curls at the juncture.
His hand came slowly up from his side, slicing through a beam of moonlight to touch with unholy reverence the tautly gathered crown of her breast.
“Such bold words I spoke,” he murmured. “Yet I stand before you with hardly more courage than a fool.”
She smiled and moved forward so that his hand was invited to engulf her whole breast.
“Only love me like a man,” she whispered. “And all will be forgiven.”
She came into his arms and their sighs blended together in a rush of unchecked passion. Several broad paces away, a shadow moved, melting back from whence it had come, having heard all he needed to hear.
Brenna shifted on her mattress of husks and pine boughs, alerted by the soft crush of leaves outside her door, followed by the sound of the canvas being lifted to one side.
“Where have you been?” she asked sleepily. “It must be well past midnight.”
“I wanted to check on Centaur,” Griffyn said. “And I thought I should at least wait until the others had retired into their blankets before I came creeping into yours. Littlejohn sleeps with one eye open, I swear it.”
She purred and stretched out full on the bedding, her body naked beneath the single layer of wool. She could not see anything in the utter blackness, but she could hear the leathery scrape of his belt being loosened, the rustle of his surcoat and tunic being lifted over his head, the soft snapping of points as he unfastened his hose. And then he was beside her and the blanket had been tossed aside. His hands were sliding up the length of her body, cool company next to the heat of her skin. His palm cupped her breast and lifted it into the hungry wetness of his mouth and she sighed, her head tipping to one side as his tongue rolled languidly over and around the nipple.
“You could at least spare a moment for conversation.”
“I have been talking all blessed night long.”
“Not to me.”
His mouth released her flesh with a moist sucking sound and he turned onto his back, breaking all contact as quickly as he had initiated it. “Very well, my lady. What would you care to talk about?”
She pushed herself up onto her elbows. “You. But I know that to be a prickly subject.”
He was so quiet, she swore she could hear his lashes blinking. “What would you like to know?”
“Everything. Anything you would care to tell me.”
“Repent my many sins?”
“Good heavens, no. That would likely take all night. And besides, Sparrow says the deathbed is the place for repentance. Before reaching it one should endeavor to commit enough sins to make the grovelling worthwhile.”
Griffyn laughed. “A wise man, Sparrow. I could grow to like him.”
“I could grow to like that sound.”
“What sound?”
“You. Laughing. You do not do it very often.”
“I have not had much to laugh about the past few years.”
She felt through the darkness for his eyebrows, which were, not surprisingly, pleated together in a frown. “Even the bard noticed: ‘a face as black as thunder / a mood as dark as rage’…”
“He had a vivid imagination.”
“ ‘Eyes with a thousand ghosts inside / such fearsome, frightening pride.’”
His frown shifted under her fingertips. “I do not recall those lines.”
“I just made them up.”
“In that case, pray do not trade your bow for a lute.”
He was lying with his arms folded beneath his neck as a pillow, and it made for a temptingly warm bulge of muscle on which to lay her head. Her hair was unbound and spread teasingly over his flesh; her body was smooth and soft and molded easily to the harder angles of his hip and thigh as she pressed against him. She could hear his heart beating deep within the chamber of his chest and she could feel his flesh shiver ever so slightly as she danced her fingers over the ridge of his breastbone and down the muscle-clad rack of ribs.
“Do you think this attack will succeed?”
“A politic change of subject,” he noted.
“Since my singing talents were called into question, I thought I might as well return to more familiar ground.”
“Did you make any new archers today?”
“A few took to the weight and balance of the bow easily enough, though I warrant the sack of acorns would have proved too much of a challenge just yet. But they are keen and we still have tomorrow.”
“They have good teachers, you will succeed. Who are your two best, do you suppose?”
She traced a circle around the velvety disc of his nipple and pondered the question a moment. “A rather stout, jovial Welshman named Derwint,” she decided. “He has actually had some experience with the longbow before. And … Eldred of Farnham. He shows promise. But you did not answer my question.”
“You have distracted me. I forgot it.”
“Do you think the attack will succeed?”
“I think … your brother has raised their hopes.”
“Without justification?”
“Possibly without thinking there are those who actually go into battle being less than certain of absolute victory at the end. It is the curse,” he added, softening his words with a kiss on her brow, “of most men who cannot see the darker side of chivalry, honor, nobility, and justice.”
“Whereas you do?”
“I have seen it up close,” he admitted quietly. “I have lived in its shadow too long not to know it is out there somewhere waiting like a living, breathing thing for something too recklessly good and valiant to ride into its maw.”
“You say that as if you are expecting something terrible to happen.”
“I do not expect it. I assume it. That is how I have kept one step ahead of the devil all these years.”
“I believe I know something of the devil myself,” she murmured, “since coming upon him in the forest one day.”
He drew a measured breath as her hand skimmed lower onto his belly. “And what have you learned about him?”
“Oh …” She leaned over and pinched his nipple between her teeth. “That he is unpredictable. Dangerous. Without a conscience or care. Difficult to understand. Impossible to satisfy.” She sighed, letting her lips rove lower. “As for trusting him, or loving him …”
She heard his quick intake of air and felt his big body stiffen out of its casual nonchalance as her mouth trailed her hand onto the flat board of his belly.
“… it is probably not safe to do either …”
“Christ Jesus,” he muttered, freeing his arms and reaching down to bury his hands in her hair. She shook off his attempts to restrain her and continued to chide him through caressing mouthfuls.
“This, regardless if he is merely a rogue or an outlawed earl…”
“Brenna!”
“… or a prince of darkness …”
He groaned around a silent oath and arched his head back into the rushes.
“… or a Saxon greatheart of undiluted bloodlines.”
She straightened suddenly and a groan shivered the length of his body. But she was so still and so quiet, he pushed himself upright and groped in the darkness for his dagger.
“What is it? What is wrong? Brenna?”
“You seem quite proud of your pure bloodlines,” she said solemnly, “yet I do not have the smallest drop of Saxon in my veins.”
“What?”
“My ancestors. They were some of those same rapine conquerors you so disdained.”
He released a gust of breath and shook his head. “It was not a personal dislike.” He threw aside the dagger and caught her up around the waist,
pulling her down onto the mattress beneath him. “As for you not having a drop of Saxon in you, my lady, it will be my happy pleasure to remedy that. Again and again. As many times as it takes to fill you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Henry de Clare was a mass of bruises, cuts, and raw festering weals. He had discovered, over the past weeks of his incarceration, that if he did not move, the pain would sometimes relent and turn into a sort of dull throb. There was nothing he could do about the stench, however. It filled his nostrils with every breath, coated his throat, soured his belly—not that there was anything in his stomach to rebel. A crust of moldy black bread and a small cup of scummed water were thrust into his cell now and then when the guards remembered him. Even so, sometimes they did not push it far enough inside the door and his chains would not permit him to reach it.
The cell was tiny, six feet by six feet, if that. No window, of course, for it was far beneath the main keep of Nottingham Castle, and thus below the level of the moat surrounding it. Water constantly seeped through the roughly mortared walls, turning to slime long before it collected on the floor and mixed with the decay and rat droppings. Screams echoed throughout the honeycomb of corridors day and night, along with the moans and whimpers and weeping of grown men. Rats clicked and squealed as they moved from unfortunate to unfortunate, gnawing on old wounds, opening new ones.
The only relief in the absolute darkness was the dim bloom cast off by a torch somewhere well down the corridor and around a stone corner. The only reprieve from the agony was sleep, which he seemed to be doing more and more as he grew weaker—often too weak to fight off the rodents for his crust of bread.
He had begun to pray this past week that he would simply not wake up again. Until a week ago, he had wondered why they had even kept him alive this long and he had had the naïveté to be grateful for small mercies, for they had not tortured him. Beaten, yes; flayed with spiny ropes, yes; whipped with chains and scorched with hot rocks on the soles of his feet and hands, aye. But he had not been dismembered piece by piece or peeled in strips like some poor screaming bastards. Foolishly, he had thought perhaps it was because he was, despite everything, a member of the nobility. He was Henry de Clare, nephew to William Marshal, heir to one of the most prominent names in the Welsh Marcher country.
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