The Last Arrow RH3 (24 page)

He fondled his harp-shaped arblaster and glared threateningly at a few passersby until they gave him a wider berth.

Brenna merely sucked the crystals of sugar off her fingers land offered the candy to Littlejohn, who greedily accepted the offering, then to Sparrow, who refused it with an imperious snort.

His declamation on the eating habits of Infidels was drowned out by a loud cheer as two wrestlers, stripped to the waist and oiled like fish, began to circle each other nearby. Brenna watched with only modest interest, for she knew most of their insults and challenges were rehearsed for the benefit of the crowd. She had already started to turn her gaze back to the archery booth when it was stopped again, this time by the face of a man in the outer ring of spectators who had gathered to watch the wrestlers.

He stood an easy head and shoulders above anyone else in the crowd, a fact she might still have missed had he not been staring directly at her. Not only staring, but studying her through eyes as pale and clear as lake water—eyes that were not only washed of color, but of manners too as he made not the smallest effort to look away or make amends for the discourtesy when he had been caught. It was Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay. His appearance so soon, and in the midst of hundreds of others, caught her off guard, and she all but swallowed a date whole. She lowered her gaze quickly but it was too late to prevent the dark, intense blaze of heat from flaring in her cheeks as she remembered the occasion of their last meeting. Her thighs actually shivered and the flesh between gave a single moist throb, and when she recovered enough to risk looking over again, he was still staring. If anything, he appeared to have plucked her thoughts out of the air and gave her a smile of such knowing arrogance, she nearly gasped out loud. Worse still, he was starting to circle the

crowd and walk toward her. Sparrow's warnings about villains in their midst echoed inside her head, and for the spate of several wild heartbeats she was half convinced he was coming to gather her up into his arms and carry her off into the confusion, there to finish what he had begun on the archery run.

She did not want to face him or speak to him or make any attempt at a polite exchange, not while her flesh continued to prickle and her cheeks betrayed the heat of her mortification. Frantic, she turned and pushed her way through a group of strolling jongleurs, stumbling once and almost tripping headlong in her haste to put distance between her and Renaud.

She ran between two booths and circled around behind another row of stalls, coming soon upon a quieter, less con-gested area closer to the base of the walls. Here were empty carts and tired ponies, piles of garbage and discarded sacks. Older women bent over smoking fires to cook the pies and pasties they sold up front, and children played in the dust and mud, occasionally throwing a rock or stick at a mangy dog that crept too close to the cook pot.

Younger women with dull eyes and gaping tunics lounged in the shade resting between customers. There were no proper stews or tents set aside in which to ply their trade, but with the demand came inventiveness. As Brenna passed by a woodpile, she could hear grunting and the unmistakable slap of flesh on flesh coming from behind it.

Her head lowered, she quickened her steps and took two, three more winding turns around stalls and bothys. She guessed she must have circled half the bailey by now and should be in the approximate area back of the archery booths, but before she could head back into the noise and merriment, a tall black shadow was thrown across her path and she was brought to an abrupt, slamming halt.

"Well now, what do we have here?" Brenna stumbled back a pace and looked up into the scarred face of a heavy chested, thick-nosed Fleming who wore a greasy brown beard and had a belly the size of a giant toadstool.

"By all my teeth—'tis a wench, lads, not a pretty little boy after all."

Brenna glanced to either side and saw two more men slinking out of the shadows. She put a hand to the hilt of her falchion and dropped the pouch of sugared figs on the ground.

"Keep your distance," she warned. "I want no trouble."

The Fleming arched an eyebrow. "She wants no trouble—hear that, lads?"

His comrades grinned and nodded and shifted around behind her to cut off her retreat.

"'Tis no trouble we want to give you either. Just a slap and tickle, and mayhap a bit of a scratch to ease the itch on such a fine, festive day."

Brenna drew her shortsword and slashed it threateningly at the two men who were now in position to leap forward and grab at her arms. One of them tried and won a cut on his cheek for the effort. The other jumped back as the blade sliced the air across the tops of his thighs, but he was not unarmed himself; he produced a small leather whip that he uncoiled from around his belt.

"She cut me!" The injured man gasped. He lowered his hand from his cheek and gaped at the blood dripping off his fingers. "The bitch cut me!"

"Aye, well, mayhap we'll let you cut her back when we're finished with her," said the man with the whip as he sent it snaking out. Brenna anticipated the move and her blade flashed again, this time intercepting the leather tail and jerking it clear out of the villain's hand. Unfortunately she lost a precious second tossing the whip aside, and a second was more than enough for the Fleming to close in and grab her around the wrist and throat. He twisted her arm back and around, forcing her to release her hold on the falchion; he curled his other hand around her throat in a choke hold, exerting enough pressure to lift her off the ground and cut off her supply of air.

Brenna clawed and scratched and kicked out with the heels of her boots, but the Fleming only laughed. She tried to reach her dagger but the second man had already snatched it out of her belt along with her money purse. There was a brief scuffle while the injured freebooter rushed forward to try to take the purse from his comrade, but Brenna could not use the distraction to her advantage. She was too busy trying to breathe. Her throat was being crushed and her arm nearly ripped out of the socket. She could neither scream nor loosen the Fleming's grip even though her nails gouged his flesh and tore bloody strips into his hands and forearms.

"Aye." He grunted. "Fight as much as you like, lass. I like my cats to bite and scratch so long as they know they will receive like treatment in return."

His breath was hot and fetid where it rasped against her cheek, and his tongue left her chin coated with slime where he dragged it over her skin, trying to steal a kiss. Her lungs were burning and her vision was clouding over with huge black splotches. She was numbly aware of someone taking hold of her ankles and prying them apart as they carried her into the deeper shadows.

Something bright and silvery flashed in front of her dimming eyes and she heard the Fleming scream in her ear. The pressure around her neck relented enough for her to gasp at a breach but before she could fully fill her lungs, she was flung forward onto a heap of old rags and rotted food scraps.

Choking, sobbing for air, she scrambled onto her knees and turned in time to see the looming silhouette of a man step into the circle of sunlight. His sword flashed again and one of the villains reeled sideways, his hands clutched over his belly to catch his entrails before they spilled out onto the ground. The second man was stopped by a hammerlike fist that shattered his nose and sent splinters of bone back into his brain.

The Fleming, seeing his friends fall, snarled and lunged. He managed to get a hand around a fistful of Griffyn Renaud's surcoat before it was hacked free, whereupon blood gouted in a hot stream from the severed wrist and the thief screamed again. The sound was cut brutally short, finishing with a bloody gurgle as he crashed onto the ground, his neck split open from ear to ear.

The entire encounter had taken less than a minute, not even long enough for Brenna to catch her breath and restore her senses. Griffyn cast around until he found her sword, dagger, and money purse, then scooped her up into his arms and carried her away from the scene of carnage. With tears of pain streaming down her cheeks, she buried her face in the crook of his throat and held fast to his broad shoulders until he found a place free of two and four-legged vermin and set her down on an overturned crate. Even then she was reluctant to let go. He let her cling to him a little longer before carefully easing her arms down from around his neck.

He looked into her eyes, at the colors and patterns that formed a nimbus around the dark centers, the vibrant blue shot through with deeper violet arrowheads. He brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek and because he could think of nothing else to do to stop her lips from trembling, he kissed them.

The caress was ravishingly gentle and she made no move to avoid it. It was such a shocking contrast to the explosive violence she had just witnessed, she very nearly encouraged it to continue long past what might have been explained away as a brief lapse of judgment. But she recovered and pulled away. And he sat back on his heels, seeming to need a moment himself to remember where they were.

"I thought you said you knew how to take care of yourself," he chided, not unkindly.

"I do. They just... caught me by surprise."

"Offal like that are not usually known for issuing polite challenges beforehand."

She looked up at him, regarding him solemnly through huge, swimming eyes. "You might have been killed."

"I am not that easy to kill," he assured her, and because his hands were aching to draw her back against his body, he removed the temptation by standing and fetching a dipper of water from a nearby bucket. He held it to her lips and bade her drink a few sips, then took up a scrap of linen and gently bathed the red marks glowering down the length of her throat.

"My sword?"

"I have it."

"My money?"

"Right here."

She bowed her head and sighed, and Griffyn gave her a few more minutes. He need a few himself, for he could not have said what made him follow her. He had seen her turn and dart away into the crowd and his first instinct had been to let her go; he did not need to pursue trouble when it so obviously wanted to avoid him. But he was also all too familiar with the types of men who moved among the shadows and waited for those who wandered too far from the crowds. So he had cursed aside his own better judgment and tracked her, and for wont of not listening to those damned warning bells that were clanging in his head like broken armor, there were three dead men in the lee of the wall and here he was, a breath away from kissing her again and opening himself up to all manner of unwanted complications.

"I suppose you expect me to thank you," she said in a whispery voice.

"A simple pledge of undying gratitude—along with the soul of your firstborn child—should do nicely." She looked up and scowled at the magnificence of is grin.

"Thank you," she muttered. "I am ever your humble servant, my lady," he responded, bowing.

She stood up—not entirely unassisted—and resheathed her sword and dagger, and tied her money purse to her belt, tucking it back beneath the leather. She gave her throat a final, tender massage to insure it was working properly, then squared her shoulders and smoothed back the flown wisps of her hair.

"Sparrow and Littlejohn are undoubtedly laying waste to the bailey by now. They have already lectured me once for straying out of their sight."

"They are wise men, you should heed their advice. This is not the place to wander off alone. But perhaps ... if you return in my company, they will not take as much exception to your sudden disappearance."

"I rather think they would take more."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself, but it would seem a better strategy to be able to chide them for losing sight of you instead of them discovering you emerging alone from an alley frequented by whores and sodomites."

Brenna flinched forward as if the crate she had been siting on was crawling with contagion. "This way, I believe," he said casually, indicating a arrow alley with his hand.

She went ahead, for the gap was not wide enough for two to walk abreast. She could feel the mocking heat of his elf-shot eyes between her shoulder blades and she was suddenly self-conscious about the tightness of her leggings and the shortness of her tunic. The taste of his mouth was still warm on hers and the memory of how it chanced to be so caused her to stop and turn without warning.

"Despite what has just happened, sirrah, I have absolutely no wish to renew our acquaintance. I find your character unappealing, your manner unnerving, and ... and your profession unworthy. What happened at Amboise ..." She stopped and started again. "What happened at Amboise was an unconscionable lapse on my part—"

"On which occasion?" he interrupted politely. "When I was naked in the bath house or you were very nearly so on the common?"

The breath rushed out of her lungs around an exasperated oath. "There! You see? I cannot even attempt a civil conversation without you reminding me when you were naked and I was naked and—"

"Almost naked."

"What?"

"You were almost naked," he murmured, lifting a finger to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. "To my profound regret, I might add."