The Last Arrow RH3 (25 page)

She swatted his hand aside. "If you had a shred of decency in you, you would not ever speak of either occurrence again!"

"And? If I can boast of no such shreds? If I can boast only of extremely pleasurable memories and lingering thoughts of what might have happened had we not been interrupted?"

"Nothing," she gasped. "Nothing would have happened! And if that is all you can recall, then you are indeed an ill-mannered rogue and I see no reason to ever speak to you again!"

She whirled and stormed into the thickening crowd but got no farther than the mouth of alleyway before she came to another abrupt halt and spun around again, voluntarily seeking to press herself against the shield of Griffyn's chest.

"God love me," she moaned. "Not now!"

Finding himself suddenly with an armful of cursing

womanhood, he frowned and tipped his head down in an attempt to see her face. "My lady? Something else is amiss?" "It is him. It is the oaf. Of all the wretched times and places ..." She grasped two fistfuls of Renaud's surcoat and physically wheeled him around so that his back was to the crowd and she could peek out from behind the safety of his broad shoulder. "I cannot possibly bear it now. I simply cannot!"

"What... or should I say who can you not bear?" "Him! The big yellow-haired brute in the gold tunic. Gerome de Saintonge."

"Ahh." The sparks of amusement that had unwittingly flared in the pale green eyes lingered for as long as it took him to spot the designated oaf. "Not a friend of yours, I take it?"

"A friend? A fiend is more like it. A brute. A beast. A lecher with unclean habits and hands that never relent in seeking to go where they are not wanted."

The luminous eyes narrowed and he glanced back over his shoulder. Saintonge was broad-boned and thickly muscled, with a flat round face pitted with too small eyes and a wide sloppy mouth that resembled two slices of uncooked liver. A surplus of copper freckles and body hair ran down his arms and wrists, flowing onto the backs of his fingers, one of which was missing, bitten off at the knuckle. "He looks to be a lusty enough fellow."

"Lusty? He is more than lusty, he is perverse. And too thick-headed to take no for an answer despite the number of times I have shouted it in his face." "He has designs on marrying you?" She glared up again. "You say that as if it would be the last step before taking poison or falling on your own sword!"

"I assure you, that was not..." He stopped and frowned, but his mouth was quivering to let loose with another grin. "I gather you have refused his petition?"

"Refused him? I showed him my sword the last time he

came keening at the gates of Amboise. Good Christ, he is coming this way!"

She tried to push out of his arms and dart back into the alley but Griffyn caught her and led her off to one side instead. "He is not coming this way, he has not even seen you. FitzAthelstan, on the other hand, has. Here—" He took her by the arm and steered her gently toward a booth filled with colored ribbands and scarves. "Try to look as engrossed in the frippery as these other women do. This one, I think," he said, and held up a length of gossamer-sheer silk shaded the exact violet hue of her eyes.

She opened her mouth to tell him precisely where he could stuff the length of silk when she saw Will poke Robin's arm and point in their direction. Her half-formed retort curved into a less than sincere smile and she was forced to endure Renaud's company until her brother joined them.

He glared at Brenna, then held out his hand and offered Griffyn a half-relieved, half-puzzled greeting. "I see you managed to make your way to Gaillard without further incident. I see you found my sister as well."

"Found her? I did not know she had been lost. In fact, we have been wandering from booth to booth for some time with me trying unsuccessfully to convince her to accept some small token of my thanks for your family's hospitality."

Robin looked from Griffyn to Brenna to the soft lavender silk scarf. "You would have better luck visiting the armorer's row and offering to buy her arrowheads or goose feathers."

"I will keep that in mind lor the next time."

Brenna clenched her fist around the scarf, mentally adding deafness to his list of character deficiencies, for had she nor just finished telling him there would be no next time? There should not even have been a this time but for her own foolish behavior. It was bad enough just to be indebted to such a man as Griffyn Renaud lor rescuing her.

She stole a sidelong glance at the dark knight as he and Robin were conversing. The breeze was plucking at fine strands of jet-black hair and curling them forward over his cheeks. The sun was lighting his face like an artist bran-dishing some divine creation, and she could not deny he was by far and away the most dangerously handsome rogue under the wide blue sky. If she needed any further proof, it was in the eyes of the men and women who passed by.

Women stared openly, first at his face, then at the fit of his hose and the bulge of muscles across his chest and thighs. Men marked him with a keen eye to the powerful set of his body, doubtless wondering if he intended to offer himself in the lists and what it might take in strength and skill to unhorse him.

Ill mannered, unprincipled, and untrustworthy perhaps ... but he was a superb presentation of confidence and raw sensuality. She imagined most women would have her dragged off to Bedlam for shunning him.

"Lord Robert!"

The name was shrieked not a foot from Brenna's ear, causing her to jump half out of her skin.

"Lord Robert Wardieu d'Amboise! You scoundrel! You are come at last!" A short, round, violently effeminate man capered his way past several tittering ladies and bowed over a gracefully pointed toe as he presented himself before Robin. "Indeed, how we were hoping you would grace us with your presence and look you now ... my heart is simply squeezed with pleasure!"

Brenna's eyes widened to the size of medallions as she beheld the extraordinary little man, for he was easily as expansive around the girth as he was tall. Far from being shy about it, he wore his prodigiousness like a gaudy boast; his hose were bright yellow, his tunic an outrageous blue-and-orange mottle with full slashed sleeves in stripes of red and purple. A feathered cap was perched jauntily on the large, doughy ball of his head, while a collar trimmed flamboyantly in silk tassels circled the multiple levels of chins.

A bulbous nose twitched constantly as if sniffing for food, while two bright eyes flirted outrageously with every well-shaped pair of buttocks that passed, regardless if those buttocks were male or female.

They were glittering delightedly now as they flitted between Robin and Griffyn, the latter looking suddenly like an eight-point buck cornered by a line of archers.

"Rollo, you hoary rogue," Robin said, laughing. "Is business so good it brings you all the way from Tuscany?"

"My dearest friend, it is so good, it would bring me from the walls of Jerusalem, were I there on my knees praying for salvation. Your father did not come? A ravaging shame. Nor the lusty Eduard? How cruel." His hands fluttered in small ecstasies under his chins. "And yet I see we have a bold new face with us—a face with which, in God's truth, I am appalled to admit I am unfamiliar."

Robin pursed his lips to conceal his smile. "Rollo d'Albini ... Lord Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay. If he is unfamiliar, it is because he has been buried in the mountains of Burgundy these past few years." While the rotund little man flourished another bow Robin explained, "Rollo is acting Master of the Tournament. His presence is deemed a necessity at any event worthy of note, for he is generally acknowledged to organize the most exciting and extravagant pas d'armes in all of Europe."

"You are so kind." D'Albini tittered modestly. "I merely share my knowledge of what I know best: good food, good wine, good entertainment. My jongleurs perform for kings and queens, and my pastrymakers"—he stopped and rolled his eyes in an expression of utter heart-stopping bliss— "have no equal anywhere, as I can adequately attend.

But this, I feel"—he waved a bejeweled hand to encompass the teeming bailey—"will be my finest hour yet.

L'Emprise de la Gueule de Dragon ... is that not simply delicious? Does the name alone not just bring the thrill of terror to your soul?"

"I quaked when I heard it," Robin agreed.

"Fully half a hundred knights thus far have entered for single-combat matches," he effused. "Including"—he paused for dramatic effect—"the Prince of Darkness himself."

Robin's smile hardened instantly. "He is here? You have seen him?"

"With mine own eyes! And oh! What a sight he was too! There—" He pointed a finger crusted with rubies toward the rows of pennons flying over the registration booth. "The falcon, gold on vert. He signed the role yesterday and, in a most extraordinary manner, declared he would entertain only three challenges. Three of his choosing, mind!

Can you imagine it? The moneylenders are in an absolute frenzy, wondering which three he will accept. Ivo has smote for him already, as has that big brute, Draco the Hun, along with four or five other reckless souls who have no real wish to fight him but strike his shield anyway, knowing he will not waste his chaff on them, but they can still boast their willingness." He paused and screwed his eyes to slits as he peered myopically at Griffyn again.

"Burgundy, did you say? Would I be erred in surmising you might have some additional knowledge of this princely rogue seeing as you both hail from the eastern provinces?"

"I have never watched him fight," Griffyn said.

"Nor fought him yourself?"

"No. No, I have never fought him myself."

"Mmm. No doubt you had your reasons." The tone of dismissal was not exactly flattering to a knight's character, but if Griffyn took it as an insult, he gave no sign.

"And yet, all is not lost," Rollo continued, switching his focus back to Robin, "for surely you intend to take affront at the very notion of such a knavish lout dictating whom he will fight and whom he will not? Surely you intend to give his shield the mightiest clout of all!"

"I am come only to enter the melee," Robin said slowly.

"The melee! It is but a trite bashing of swords to settle the differences of the lovelorn!"

"A month ago, when you begged us to resolve it this way, you did not consider it trifling."

"A month ago, a battle royale between the houses of

Hugh the Brown and the Black Wolf of Amboise was needed to draw attendance. Who could have predicted the Prince of Darkness would venture so far from his empire just to challenge you for the title of champion! We could cancel every other bout and hold only the one, and no one would ride away disappointed!"

"I am afraid they will have to wait until the next time. I ... injured a rib not long ago and—"

"He cracked the ribs like kindling," declared an imperious voice behind them. "And it was only on the avowal of best behavior I am permitting him to attend at all."

Rollo's expression crumpled like an old parchment as he sighed and rolled his eyes downward. "Sparrow. I should have known the day was going too well. Has no one clipped your wings yet or pinned your nose to a pine knot?"

"Many have tried. None have succeeded."

"A pity. You would make an amusing trophy skewered on someone's gates."

Sparrow snorted and planted his hands on his hips. "Not half so amusing as you, Lubbergut, stuffed and larded and spitted over a cookfire."

"Such wit," Rollo said dryly. "And yet you add insult by threatening to ruin the entire haslitude!"

"Lord Robert will not be offering his shield," Sparrow reiterated. "And I care not if it ruins your entire life, sorry thing though it may be already. I will not allow a fool's vanity to ruin his."

Griffyn gave Robin a curious look. "You injured yourself? When?"

"Hunting boar," Robin admitted tautly. "It was a fool's mistake that caused it, but—-" He shrugged.

"Better a live fool," Sparrow insisted, "than a dead lummock. And if anyone doubts the gravity of the wound, we will be happy to parade him about the palisades naked in all his blue-and-black glory."

"Naked?" Rollo's eyebrows lifted. "Indeed, there are some who might be appeased by such a sight."

"Anyone who cannot be appeased by our word," Richard said tersely, coming up behind them, "we will happily satisfy with our swords."

Rollo fluttered and took a prudent step back. "Totally unnecessary, I am sure. It will be a disappointment, of course, but we shall survive it to look forward to the next time. Well—" He clapped his hands. "I must not tarry any longer.

I am to judge some bovines—the winner has the honor of gracing Lord Malagane's table for tomorrow night's feast.

And I warrant I should warn both Ivo the Crippler and Draco the Hun to sharpen their lances to a quicker point. I am told the Prince of Darkness fights only a outrance. Adieu then, one and all. I am certain we shall see each other soon, at the feasting if not the festivities."

Robin's face remained hard and his eyes a brittle gray long after the garish tournament master had waddled away.

Within the hour it would be known throughout Gaillard that the champion from Amboise was not offering his shield, that he was pleading some paltry injury (for surely he looked strong enough to compete, did he not?), and that he was not willing to risk the loss of his title to some black-helmed paladin from Rome.