by Lynn Kurland
“That was a compliment. Tenacity is a fine quality.”
There was a bit of silence. Then Geoffrey apparently gathered the shreds of his innocence about him enough to recover his powers of speech.
“Try something else, my lord.”
“Well,” Robin said slowly, “she has more courage than any bruised and bloodied lout I’ve ever fought with. She’s braved her own demons and come away the victor, time and time again. Aye,” he said, sounding more enthusiastic, “the courage of half a score of the most sliced, bludgeoned, and maimed men I’ve had the pleasure of hoisting a sword with—”
“My lord, you cannot sing of bloody battles and your lady in the same breath.”
“Why not?” Robin demanded. “Bravery’s nothing to scorn, man. I daresay you could think of worse souls to guard your back than my Anne.”
My Anne.
Anne blinked back tears. It was the most unpolished verse she’d ever listened to and she’d even heard a lay or two composed about her own poor self. But it was without doubt the most moving.
“Her eyes, my lord,” Geoffrey pleaded. “Say something about her eyes.”
“Well, she has two—”
“The color!” Geoffrey exclaimed. “Praise the color! Compare it to beryls, seacoasts, rare and exquisite jewels. Use your imagination!”
There was silence for a goodly amount of time—time during which Anne wondered if Robin was reaching for his blade. Then he cleared his throat.
“Her eyes . . .” he began slowly, “well, the color of her eyes is akin to . . . hmmm . . .” He trailed off and there was a bit more silence, then a foot stomped in triumph. “Akin to sage, aye, sage after it’s sat in the sun too long.”
There was a slap and Anne could only assume it was Geoffrey clapping his hand to his own forehead. Aye, that was definitely a groan and it was not coming from her husband.
“I told you,” Robin said defensively, “that I’ve no head for poetry.”
“The lute,” Geoffrey said weakly. “We’ll pursue the lute. You can sing other men’s songs.”
“Are we finished now?” Robin asked hopefully.
“Aye,” Geoffrey said. “I doubt either of us can face any more today.”
Anne heard the door open, followed by Robin’s curse.
“Grandmère, no more today,” he said firmly.
“You’ve lessons in bowing, grandson. Come with me.”
“Nay,” Robin said tightly, “I will not. Bowing will not win my lady.”
“And mucking about in your boots will?” Joanna asked tartly.
“Perhaps not, but being the best damn bloody swordsman in England just might!” Robin returned hotly. “So I go, my lady, to continue to seek after that goal in the lists! With your permission?”
The door slammed shut and Anne could only assume that Robin hadn’t waited for his grandmother to say him aye. She rose, groaned as she did so, and swayed. She caught herself with her hand on the opposite wall. Within a heartbeat, the curtain had been pulled back and Joanna stood there, a worried frown on her face.
“Are you unwell—”
The door burst open and Anne saw nothing but a blur as the curtain was jerked closed.
“Aye?” Joanna said.
“I’ve come to a decision,” Robin announced. “You and my lady will present yourselves in the lists posthaste. I will woo her my way, Grandmère, and that will begin by demonstrating my prowess on the field. Fetch Anne, if you please, and come immediately where you may watch and admire.”
Joanna was silent for a moment or two, then she cleared her throat. “As you will, grandson. I’ll find your lady and bring her.”
The door slammed shut and the curtain began to open. Before Anne could say anything, Joanna had spun around as the door was flung open yet again.
“See that she dresses warmly. And have one of your frilly lads make himself useful by bringing her a blanket or two.”
The door slammed shut again and Anne sighed in relief. Joanna pulled back the curtain. She shook her head at Anne.
“Impossible lad.”
“Of course,” Anne said with a smile. “But I’m fond of him that way.”
“Of course you are, my dear.” Joanna took her hands and smiled. “Can you bear the chill outside, Anne? I daresay heads will roll if we neglect his commands.”
Anne nodded to Geoffrey as she crossed the chamber. He, though, only stared at her in surprise. Anne was momentarily tempted to check her clothes and hair, then forced herself to assume the best, not the worst.
“Aye?” she said.
“You are his lady wife?” Geoffrey asked incredulously.
“Aye,” Anne said.
“And he could find nothing to say but that your eyes were the color of sage?”
“What?” Joanna exclaimed.
“Apparently so,” Anne said cheerfully.
Geoffrey shook his head. “I will compose his verses for him, for I have a great deal to say about your loveliness, my lady. Your lord has little imagination.”
“Minstrelsy is not where his gifts lie,” Anne conceded. “But he does the best he can.”
Joanna snorted. “You’re a besotted goose, Anne, and I pray Robin is someday grateful for it. Now, come and let us have this over with. I don’t fancy an afternoon sitting in the mud, but there you have it. What we won’t do to humor a man.”
Anne walked with Robin’s grandmother down to the great hall, then stopped her before the door.
“Are you disappointed?” she asked.
“Disappointed?” Joanna asked. “In Robin? Nay, he’s cooperated much longer than I thought he would. He must love you greatly to have endured such tortures.”
Anne smiled faintly. “He has submitted very well, for whatever reason. The one thing I’m sorry for, though, is the clothing. It was passing fine and he was handsome in it.”
Joanna snorted. “It grieves me as well, but what use does he have for fine clothes when he ruins them in the rain anyway? I vow, Anne, you’ll never be free of the mud and such he’ll bring in on his boots.”
“I think his manners may have improved,” Anne offered.
“My dear,” Joanna said, putting her arm around Anne and giving her a squeeze, “this was merely to bring him to his senses, for I was certain he would never arrive there on his own. You deserved to be wooed. It is Robin’s right and his duty to woo you, and all the better if he does it as it pleases him. If I have in some small, insignificant way pushed him to do it sooner than his stubbornness might have allowed otherwise, then I am content.”
Anne couldn’t help a small laugh. “You are devious, my lady.”
“From whom do you think Robin inherited that trait, if not me?” Joanna asked, with one eyebrow raised. “Now, come my girl, and let us be away before he comes to fetch us. Whatever other flaws he might have, he is at the very least a powerfully fine swordsman. I wouldn’t want to force him to prove it by prodding us where he wants us.”
Anne nodded and went to fetch her cloak. She made her way as quickly as possible down to the hall. Joanna was waiting for her at the door to the great hall, swathed in furs and followed by several lads carrying fine chairs, blankets, and foodstuffs. Anne was only surprised not to see someone else toting supplies to build a pavilion.
“If we must be there,” Joanna said crisply as Anne approached, “we may as well be comfortable.”
Anne had no intentions of arguing. She walked with Robin’s grandmother out to the lists, doing her best to keep her skirts well out of the mud. Hopefully her father would have some sense and send her the rest of her clothing. It wasn’t all that much, but she possessed another gown or two and that might come in handy if she were required to present herself at the lists for any more admiring.
After all, Robin was wooing her his way.
And if that wasn’t enough to bring a smile to her face, she didn’t know what was.
Robin was tromping about, looking irritated until he saw them arrive. Anne wa
tched him gape at the trappings that accompanied them, then shrugged his shoulders. Anne soon found herself seated in a comfortable chair, her feet propped up on a padded stool, her person covered in blankets and furs, and her elbow near a small table covered with foodstuffs and a cup of warm wine.
And she began to wonder if inviting Joanna north more often might be a very good idea.
“Primitive,” Joanna said with a shake of her head, “but I daresay we’ll survive it for a bit. Comfortable, my dear?”
Anne nodded happily, remembering all the hours she had spent watching Robin in the lists while trying to be inconspicuous. That had generally entailed crouching against the wall or making use of some uncomfortable bench or other. She suspected that with this kind of luxury surrounding her, she could watch Robin all day.
Which was, she suspected, his intention.
She looked at the field and blinked at what she saw. There was Robin on her left, standing by himself, cracking his knuckles and flexing his arms over his head. Facing him was the rest of Artane’s garrison, made up of his own men and his father’s. She frowned. Did he intend to fight them in a bunch?
She realized, an hour later, that he had planned to dispatch them one by one. She also realized, that same hour later, that such a thing was not beyond his reach.
Swords went flying. Men cried peace. Lads who were freshly knighted were humbled with quick strokes. Men who wore their years of experience solidly on their shoulders were eventually forced to concede victory.
And through it all, Anne could scarce take her eyes off her husband. Her wine went undrunk, delicacies went unnibbled, and substantial meals were brushed aside in annoyance.
By the saints, he was beautiful.
She could only shake her head in amazement that such a man was hers, even in name only. Perhaps had she known the true extent of Robin’s prowess, she might have been less free with her tongue at his expense. His strength was unflagging. He fought man after man without so much as a pause. His wits were unmatched, for she watched him never be drawn into any devious scheme to rid him of his blade. And his skill was unequaled, for no man bested him in that very long afternoon.
And when the line of challengers was no more, she watched him throw his sword up into the air and laugh for the sheer sport of it.
She suspected that she might never recover from the sight of that.
He caught his sword, turned, and strode over to them purposefully. He shoved his blade into the mud at his grandmother’s feet and looked at her, his chest heaving.
“That, Grandmère,” he said haughtily, “is what I do best. Can you find fault with it?”
“Of course not, Robin, my love,” his grandmother said, looking at him serenely. “I never could.”
Robin scowled, then turned his attentions to Anne.
“And you, lady? What think you?”
Anne swallowed with difficulty. “I think you, my lord, are . . .”
“Well?” he demanded.
“Magnificent,” she finished, wondering if she looked as lustful as she felt. By the saints, ’twas all she could do not to leap to her feet, throw her arms around his sweaty self, and bid him take her right there.
Robin blinked in surprise, but recovered quickly enough.
“A word I might have chosen myself,” he said. “Now, come, my ladies, and let us sup. You’ll need your strength for the morrow.”
“We will?” Joanna asked hesitantly.
“I’ve plans for you after my business is finished in the morn.”
“Plans?” Anne asked.
“I will see you both in my father’s solar at noon. Do not be late.”
“Will you entertain us with the lute?” Joanna sounded rather hopeful.
“Ha,” Robin said scornfully. “Tales of battle, Grandmère! Bloodshed! Victories!”
Joanna frowned.
“It will be very exciting,” Robin promised.
Anne couldn’t imagine anything more exciting than what she’d just witnessed, but she could be patient and see.
With Robin, one just never knew.
35
Edith stood just inside the outer gates and watched the little party begin to make its way back up to the keep. She could scarce believe the luxury in which Joanna of Segrave wallowed. By the saints, even a visit to the lists necessitated trappings Edith had never enjoyed during the whole of her life.
Perhaps striking at the old woman first would gain Robin’s attention.
Edith wiped her hands on her hose, then looked down and cursed softly. The blood was too stale for wiping; ’twould take a proper washing to remove it and she would have to find water outside. She could not retrieve her clothes from their hiding place in the stable and enter the hall with bloodied hands.
She’d been out hunting.
It honed her considerable skills.
But rabbits were poor sport and not wily enough to truly give her pleasure. Nay, for that, she needed a creature with greater wits. And greater wits meant the use of more of her own for the chase. Not that the chase need be hurried, though. She had no need of haste. She was, after all, a very patient woman.
There would be time enough for all her plans. Maude’s death had been a surprise, but perhaps ’twas nothing the wench hadn’t deserved. Edith had told her to stay far away from the wedding, though she’d suspected Maude would have found it too powerful a lure to resist. She’d disobeyed.
Death had been what she deserved.
But that was behind Edith. Now, her own plans deserved her full attention. Hunting that day had given her new ideas to consider. For was it not all the game of stalking the quarry, flushing it out, then killing swiftly and without hesitation?
She very much suspected it was.
But first, clean hands.
It would throw her prey off the scent.
36
Robin leaped up the steps, then strode down the passageway to his father’s solar. He’d had a fine day so far, what with great success in the lists, nothing broken, stolen, or in an uproar in the keep, and now an afternoon of freedom in which to tell his favorite stories. Life improved with each day that passed.
Anne smiled at him a great deal these days.
Robin suspected it boded well for their marriage.
He burst into his father’s solar and was highly pleased to see both his lady and his errant grandmother sitting before him, apparently prepared and waiting for him to astonish them with tales of his prowess in battle. Robin rubbed his hands together with great energy.
“Where shall we begin?” he asked, slamming the door shut behind him with his foot.
“With a large cup of something strong,” his grandmother answered without hesitation. She blinked at him innocently. “To soothe our delicate constitutions, of course.”
Robin snorted. He’d seen his grandmother flay more than one hapless suitor alive with naught but her sharp tongue. Delicate was not one of the words he would have chosen for her.
But he was in a fine mood, Anne looked happy to see him, and he did have the whole of the afternoon and evening to trot out his favorite battle tales for their inspection and admiration. Filling his grandmother’s goblet now and again was small payment for such pleasure.
So he filled, saw to the fire, and moved a chair or two aside so as to have the most possible room for pacing, for he knew the sheer exhilaration of relating such breathtaking tales would drive him to movement. He looked to make certain his ladies were attending him, then rolled his shoulders, shook out his hands, and stomped his feet a time or two.
“Let’s begin in Spain, shall we?” he asked.
His grandmother sighed.
Anne smiled, though, so Robin took that as encouragement enough. And as he stole another look at her, he remembered telling her what a bloody business it was, and that almost gave him pause. For there was a very dark side to it, and dreams of it troubled his sleep quite often. There was a part of him that would have been glad never to engage in it again.
>
But there was also the glory and the toil and the satisfaction of an enemy routed, a victory won, a wrong righted. He put his shoulders back. ’Twas of that he would speak, for there were those tales aplenty.
“Now,” he said, “I will tell you of a skirmish Nick and I had in a little town just outside Madrid. We likely shouldn’t even have been there, but the weather was fine, the wine excellent, and we heard there was a bit of gold in the deed for us as well.”
It was also where Robin had found the stone for Anne’s ring, but that he would tell her later, when he’d found the proper time to give it to her.
“Did you really need the gold?” Anne asked.
Robin blinked. “Well, aye. Always.”
She looked at him in confusion. “But, Robin, you have lands aplenty.”
“Aye, but this was gold I’d earned. By my own sweat.”
“And you don’t protecting your holdings?”
It was going to be a very long afternoon if this was the kind of response he was going to get. He frowned at her.
“’Tis a different matter entirely. I was just another hired sword, not Artane’s son.”
She looked at him for a moment in silence, then she smiled a bit. “I see.”
And as he watched his grandmother take a hearty draught of her wine, he suspected she did as well.
“Damned foolish, if you ask me,” she said tartly, “but men will be men. Be about your work, grandson. These old ears of mine can only stand so much talk of battle in one day.”
Yet they could stand hours on end of string plucking and screeching, Robin thought with a grumble. He scowled at his grandmother for good measure, then took up his tale again.
“We were in Spain,” he continued.
And once he was finished with that small skirmish, he moved to larger battles. He told his tales with complete accuracy, for there was no need to embellish or augment his part in them. His deeds spoke for themselves and he related them with as much humility as he could manage.
Then he told of humorous things, of arrogant knights shamed, foolish lords humbled, and crafty innkeepers outsmarted.