The Last Arrow RH3 (23 page)

Across the second moat and drawbridge was the middle bailey, crowded near to bursting with booths and stalls where every conceivable necessity or fancy was on display for sale. The huge common had been turned into a marketplace with vendors and peddlers hawking everything from ribbons and baubles to boiled eels threaded through the gills and sold by the stickful. Tinkers' wares were hung on hooks and piled on tables. The din was overwhelming as every price was scoffed at and haggled over, every knight, lord, and lady vied for the sweetest pastries, the stoutest mug of ale, the brightest bit of tinsel. At one end were the low buildings that housed the barracks where the soldiers and men-at-arms were garrisoned. At the other were the pens where fat cows and sheep waited to be slaughtered and roasted for the coming feasts, where peacocks strutted in the supposed impunity of their green-and-blue finery before they, like the flocks of hapless chickens and geese, were caught and carried squawking to the kitchens inside.

The sights, the sounds, the colors, the enthusiasm were contagious, and Brenna found herself smiling despite the grim looks on her brothers' faces. She dearly loved her life at Amboise, but there were times when she missed the bustle and confusion of big cities and towns. She even missed—though she would carve her own tongue out of her head before she would admit it to anyone else—the openly admiring glances from swarthy-faced knights and handsome chevaliers, earls and counts, even a prince or two, identifiable by the crests emblazoned on their tunics and pennons. Gathered here were the elite of Norman knighthood. They were all fighting men come to show off their skills and prowess, all come to train and practice for war in the closest thing to actual mortal combat they could devise. Their swords would be blunted and their lances fitted with coronals—crown-shaped caps with three curved points to deflect the force of a blow. But this was not to say the lists were safe or that deaths were uncommon. Far from it. Tournaments were often used to settle personal grievances between rivals. A match could be declared a outrance if both opponents agreed to unblunted weapons. Even a plaisance, a lance could splinter and skewer a man, or a blow from a dulled sword could hack wild enough force to find a vulnerable weakness in armor.

For this reason, tourneys were condemned by the church. They were said to encourage the seven mortal sins of pride, envy, anger, sloth, avarice, lust and gluttony ... not to

mention the sin of homicide, easily committed whether intentional or not. For a knight, the chance to demonstrate his skills on the field far outweighed the risk of suffering eternal hellfire. Chivalry itself was put on display, and knights could prove their noble bloodlines as well as their worth as fighting men. Many a landless knight who might otherwise be reduced to begging his lodgings or selling his sword for bread was able to acquire considerable wealth and prestige through victories on the tournament circuit.

It was, Brenna knew, how her own father had rebuilt his lost fortunes and earned the attention of the dowager queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine. His gratitude, love, and loyalty had endured almost thirty years, up to her death and burial at Fontrevaud. Only his friendship with William Marshal, the Earl of Pembroke, had lasted longer. "Lady Brenna?"

She had allowed her mind to drift as they crossed the middle bailey and now one of the squires had caught hold of her stallion's bridle waiting for her to dismount. The inner bailey was too small to allow for so many heavy-breasted beasts; the rest of the way would be on foot across another draw, through another gate, past another tall barbican where bull-hide-clad sentries patrolled and observed from the battlements above.

Brenna dismounted without assistance and walked forward to join her brothers, stretching the stiffness out of her spine and legs as she advanced.

"She is here, dammit," Richard was muttering. "I saw her by one of the food stalls, and if she were a hound, her nose would have started twitching."

Will grinned and welcomed Brenna into their midst. "You held your seat well back there. Once or twice we thought you were bound for a tumble down the earthworks."

"Many thanks for rushing to my aid," she said dryly.

"Hah. Had we done so, we would be wearing your boot-print on our rumps for our trouble," Richard noted, stripping off his gloves.

"You are looking rather more sour than usual, brother dear. Dare I ask who is here sniffing after your vaunted jewels?"

"No one," he grumbled.

"Lady Alice of Rouen," Dag obliged cheerfully. "She of the high, pert breasts and long, willowy limbs ... er, was that not how you described her the last time you saw her?"

Richard glared and gave his surcoat a brief yank to smooth the creases. "High, upturned nose and greedy grasping hands, mores the like. I thought I heard the happy news she had fastened her claws into some poor lout in Anjou."

"I heard she had her heart set on you," Dag said. "And it would take naught less than your death to discourage her."

"Then I remain alive just to disappoint her."

"Tch-tch." Brenna brushed a gloved finger over Dag's arm to remove a fleck of dust. "You are both such handsome fellows, how could you expect not to earn the notice of every mewling swan within a league's distance?"

It was true. The sons of the Black Wolf were the peacocks strutting in the midst of the chickens and geese. Each wore his finest raiments, with Richard dressed all in black, as was his habit, and Dag in midnight blue. Robin wore a combination of black surcoat over sky-blue hose, the former heavily banded with gold and emblazoned with the Amboise crest. He had a slight advantage in height over his younger brothers, and a deal more fighting strength across the shoulders, but there was no denying they were all handsome, virile, tempting morsels of male flesh, and to judge by the number of ladies who stumbled over their own feet as they passed, their arrival at Gaillard had not gone unnoticed.

"Lissome little dabchicks," Dag commented, noting two swanlike creatures whose necks were put to good use craning to see behind them. "Would that I could take them all, one by one, and preen them myself."

"Bold words," came a smooth voice from over his shoulder. "But you might grow bored with the sentiment when you find yourself waking up each morning with your ballocks on fire and nothing to show for it but an empty bed and an emptier purse."

Geoffrey LaFer joined them, his mouth curved into a laconic smile. Geoffrey was a full head shorter than any of the Wardieu men, with sand-brown hair and twinkling blue eyes. He was so clearly, absolutely, and eternally in love with their sister Isobel, it humbled even Richard, the randiest cocksman of the troop.

"Ahh. The voice of our conscience," said Dag. "I for one welcome a more secular mind into our midst. In fact, I think I shall make my bed in your tent, Brother Geofrey"—he draped an arm amiably over LaFer's shoulder— so you can recount me my sins throughout the night and make a better man of me by morning." "Eat dung," Geoffrey said, laughing. "You would need the services of a bishop and twenty tonsured prelates to even begin to make you see the error of your ways." He looked at Robin. "Do we pay our respects to the host first? Or should we register and find out if, by some miracle, the matter scheduled to be resolved by the melee has been deferred by love?"

Robin pointed to a tent festooned with a riot of colored ribbands and pennons. "We are here now, we might as well attend to business."

As he led the way across the crowded bailey, it was difficult not to notice how they had instantly become the center of attention and to hear the strident buzz that rippled through the throng as it parted to make way for the black-and-gold blazons of Amboise. The casual bystanders were suddenly not so casual anymore. Nor were the squires and servants dispatched by their masters to watch the booth and alert them to any new and important entrants. The only ones not completely enthralled to see the new arrivals were the bet-takers and speculators whose task it was to establish opening odds against each new participant. Few in their right senses took any odds at all against Robert Wardieu d'Amboise, or if they did, it was to whether he maimed his opponent or merely humiliated him.

It was the custom to pay a token fee for the privilege of boasting one's talents in the lists, as much as twenty marks for an earl, down to two marks for a landless knight. As soon as it was paid, the knight's shield could be displayed.

Those who wished to pose a specific challenge either struck the shield and declared his intent before witnesses, or left an identifiable token bound to the pole on which it hung. These were the single-combat matches where personal as well as professional disputes were settled.

Knights who bore no grudges or had no particular interest in whom they fought merely drew lots through the day.

Those who won the early courses and were satisfied with their successes could withdraw any time without disgrace.

Those who chose to risk more were also free to hang their shields again and advance to the next level of challengers.

To the winner of each match went the horse and armor of his opponent, although a fee could be paid in lieu of forfeiting the actual beast and an armload of chain mail. To this end, there were convenient moneylenders in attendance who would pay out in coin—at a fraction of the real value—for any animals or equipment not wanted by the victor. Ordinarily these anonymous matches were perfectly suited to Richard and Dag, and to Geoffrey LaFer, for they sought no more than to keep their skills honed and earn a few trophies to hang on their walls. On this occasion, however, they would be settling for the accolades earned at the melee, for with Robin not entering the jousts, they could hardly be expected to show him up.

Will touched Brenna's arm. "Stay with your brothers. Do not go wandering off into the crowd or Sparrow will have my teeth hanging around his neck."

Brenna made a face and, for all of three seconds, remained exactly where she was. With the fourth came the booming, doom laden voices of six cowled monks who walked among the crowds droning the potential fate of challengers who defied holy law. They would be forced to wear their armor through all of eternity—armor that was molten hot and nailed to their bodies so it could not be torn away! They would be given evil-smelling, sulphurous baths! And instead of the embraces of wanton young women, they would be obliged to endure the amorous advances of lascivious toads!

Brenna edged away as unobtrusively as possible. She saw—or rather, smelled—a booth nearby touting an assortment of hot, steaming meat pies. Patting her belt, she assured herself of the snugness of her money pouch as well as her falchion and dagger, then started working her way toward the food stall.

Her purchase oozed grease over her fingers as she took a large bite and chewed happily on the mix of larded hare, quail, and mashed chestnuts. She was jostled again but this time exchanged a mutually grinned apology with another satisfied patron whose mouth was equally too stuffed to speak. All around her there were pennons and flags flying.

Some moved though the crowds on pikes, being carried proudly by pages who walked importantly in front of their lords and ladies. The clash of brightly colored silks was like an eruption of butterflies tainting the air with a hundred shades of vermilion, blue, green, and yellow. Some were banded, some spotted, some boasted three and four colors embroidered overall with gold and silver threads. Brenna smiled the smile of a childhood memory, the first time she had been taken to a fair, perched on the broad seat of her father's shoulders, trying to touch every streamer of silk that passed as if it was a breath of colored wind.

She had never quite lost that wide-eyed rush of excitement, nor had she outgrown the taste of sugared dates, that exotic confection first introduced by returning Crusaders. With her cheeks still bulging with meat and pastry, she wove her way through a large party of yeomen and squandered half a copper sou on a canvas pouch filled with the sticky-sweet treats.

"Hah! When your belly grows bilious and you are forced to purge it with possets of henbane and worm lips to ease the pain, do not harken to me for pity, Mistress Noddypeak!"

Brenna sighed and looked down. Sparrow was standing beside her, puffed up with indignation, the top of his felt-capped head barely reaching the level of her waist.

"Attempting to hide from me, or making me run hither and yon to search you out at every turn of the head will only make a stronger argument for tying you hand and foot to the nearest rouncy and hi-hoing you off home again! And if you think I merely vent air and bluster through these lips, ask Sir Cyril here if I am not determined to save myself the aggravation of Lady Servanne's tears."

As low as Brenna's gaze had fallen to meet Sparrow's, it rose now to Littlejohn's frowning countenance.

"You should not have slipped away without us, my lady," he growled, not happy to be agreeing with Sparrow over anything. "Lord Randwulf gave strict orders—"

"Yes, yes. That I was not to draw a breath unless it passed by you first," she finished on an exasperated huff.

"Mother of Mercy, I was not trying to hide, I was only trying to avoid the crush surrounding Robin and the others.

And indeed, because there is such a crowd, how could anyone work any mischief without it being seen by a hundred others?"

Littlejohn's mouth twisted into a smile. "How? Ask the freebooter who filched the elf's purse from his belt not two steps away from his horse."

Sparrow turned and hoofed his toe into the knight's trunklike shin. "It was hung there deliberately to test the honesty of Lord Malagane's minions. And see you? We have found them wanting."

"My purse is quite safe," Brenna assured him, patting her belt. "Furthermore, so am I; Will is with me."

Sparrow glared at the surrounding sea of knees and limbs. "Where?"

"I have him in my eye. He is pretending not to be showing any interest in the archery roles."

"Faugh! Another hawk of sterling attentiveness! I warrant I could strip his braies to his knees and paint his ballocks blue before he would notice anything amiss. And you, Mistress Munch, are far more valuable than any purseful of Coins. Look you there. And there! A rare mort of fomenting villainy!"