The Last Arrow RH3 (10 page)

"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 Wolf's 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 not 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, all 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 Hash 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 hawklike 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 Wolf's 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.

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 have 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 midbrushstroke. "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.