The Last Arrow RH3 (3 page)

"The sword was a gift. I carry it for defense against those selfsame robbers you accuse me of knowing."

"That is good," the knight mused. "Very good." He leaned forward with a soft creak of leather and crossed his arm over the frontispiece of his saddle. "And if I believed you, Priest, it would be even better."

"What would it take to convince you?" Tuck asked tautly.

"More than you have to offer. Although if you persist in wasting my time"—the knight's eyes slid over to rest on Marienne—"we may be pressed to seek some form of compensation."

Tuck delayed another fraction of a moment, then lowered the tip of his sword.

The dark eyes returned. "Ahh. You concede the point."

"Before I concede anything, I would call upon your honor as a knight to let the maid pass unharmed. She is but a simple child of God and carries medicines for the nuns at her convent."

The knight weighed Tuck's words against the pale, stricken look on Marienne's face and agreed with a curt nod of his head.

"Let her pass," he said to his men. "We can always find her again if we need her."

Marienne, her skin the color of old wax, was conscious of Tuck drawing her down to retrieve the contents of one parcel that had split open.

"Do not spare a single breath getting back to the abbey." His voice was raw with urgency, the words barely loud enough for her to understand. They came through bloodless, unmoving lips and frightened her more than any threat of rape or ravishment. "Lock and bar the gates. Let no one inside. No one, do you understand!"

Her eyes were as wide and dark as those of a doe facing a hunter's arrow and Tuck knew what she was thinking. He was thinking it too. If they took him to Guy de Gisbourne and if the sheriff recognized his face ...

He groaned and bowed his head. "If you do not hear from me in two days' time," he said tersely, wondering if he could even last that long under torture, "get word to Amboise. Tell them the Pearl may be in grave danger and needs their help."

Lady Brenna Wardieu raised her head ever so slowly lifting her two startlingly clear violet eyes and the tip of her nose barely above the lush sweep of ferns. Her hair was braided in a thick rope that hung almost to her waist Golden wisps had sprung free to surround her face in a soft halo of straggled curls, and she had lost her peaked felt cap somewhere in the chase, snagged by a low-lying branch as she had darted through the tangled underbrush. Her heart was still slamming against her ribs with the urgency of her flight, and she knew her adversary was out there somewhere, camouflaged by the same sea of green that protected her.

She sank back down into the cocoon of foliage that skirted the base of the oak tree. This part of the forest was dense, the shadows kinder to the prey than the hunter darkest in the gullies and culverts that offered sanctuary from searching eyes, yet each whisper of the leaves was sinister, each scratch of a squirrel's claw a potential threat.

She had lost all sense of time and knew only that it must be growing late in the afternoon. There was already a fine layer of mist curling around the tree trunks, swirling filmy fingers into small pockets of open air. The branches were so tightly woven overhead the sky was only a distant impression of pale blue. Brenna could not even be certain of the direction she had been running, for she had concentrated on keeping her head down and her ears trained for sound of pursuit. She was not overly worried about getting lost She had grown up in these woods and would have had to run without a break for two days and two nights before entering unfamiliar tracts of forest. But she held no advantage there over her pursuer. He had been hunting deer and boar and hare in these vast tracts since he was a child. Moreover, because he hunted her now, his senses would be at their peak, his instincts honed for blood, his determination a rival only for her own.

The ground underfoot was soft and loamy, scenting the air with the rich decay of several centuries' worth of fallen leaves. Her skin was damp and cool. She had been running almost steadily for over an hour trying to keep ahead, trying to keep from being caught out in the open. She would have liked to strip off the doeskin jerkin she wore, for it was holding the sweat next to her skin. Her shirt was plastered uncomfortably across her back and breasts despite the brisk nip in the autumn air. Her leggings and tall kidskin boots were crusted with mud where she had splashed through a stream—her toes still squeaked with water when she rubbed them together—and one knee was split where she had ripped it on a thorn.

She fingered aside the torn edges of chamois and cursed at the deep scratch in her flesh. It had stopped bleeding but it still stung like the devil, and she struggled to calm her heartbeat, to think, as she flicked out the bits of dirt that clung to the drying blood.

Somewhere very close-by a twig snapped.

It was only a faint sound, easily attributed to a rodent burrowing in a rotted tree trunk ... if one did not imagine the silently mouthed curse that instantly followed.

Brenna parted her lips, drawing breath as quietly as possible. The sound had come from behind her, and luckily, she had the bulk of the ancient oak to shield any soft ripple of movement she might make. Inch by inch she maneuvered her bow off her shoulder—not an easy feat to accomplish in a cramped position. The weapon was nearly five feet in length, made of seasoned yew, and could fire an arrow with enough power to pierce through chain mail and with such swift, deadly accuracy a graceful fwoosh was usually the last sound its victim heard.

She plucked a slender ashwood arrow out of her quiver and, keeping her back against the tree, slid herself upward until she stood waist deep in the ferns. He was there, all right. The narrowest sliver of a violet eye peeked around the gnarled bark and marked the shock of bright red hair visible through the labyrinth of tangled saplings. Fool. It was the only splash of color in an otherwise green world, and he thought to trip her up on errors.

The initial sound had seemed deceptively close, distorted by the almost liquid silence of the forest. In reality her quarry stood more than fifty yards away, frozen himself against his own clumsiness, his golden hawk's eyes searching the surrounding woods even as Brenna slowly ran her tongue along the arrow's fletching, dampening the vanes to ensure there were no gaps or breaks in the feathers. The shaft itself was three feet long, tipped with a twice-tempered iron head that could, at this distance, penetrate clothing, flesh, bone, and muscle from shoulder to shoulder and pin him fast to the tree. The shot had to be perfect. Precise. She would not have a second chance.

Brenna nocked the arrow, blew out a final breath, then wasted no time in setting herself. She stepped out from behind the tree, her bow arm already raised and straight, her feet planted solidly apart for balance. She drew the fletching back to her cheek, took a split second to aim, then snapped her fingers away from the string and sped the shaft clean and true to the target.

Habit sent her fingers to her quiver for another arrow, but she knew she did not need it. She knew from the yelp of surprise and the stunned look on William FitzAthelstan's handsome face as the bolt streaked past his nose, close enough for a lick of hot air to tickle his skin. The resounding f-f'bungg left the arrow buried nearly six inches in the wood and the shaft humming with lingering, resonant vibrations.

"Christ Jesus God, and all the Saints!" He whirled in time to see Brenna give a small whoop of victory as she held up their scores on her fingers—two clean wins for her, only one for him.

"You could have cut off my nose!" he shouted.

"You should be more careful where you put it," she countered, wading through the ferns toward him. The smile was wide and fixed on her face. It was the first time she had outfoxed him two straight strikes in a row.

His complexion stayed as red as his hair for the full minute it took for her to weave her way through the saplings to join him. The dark copper brows remained crushed together in a frown, the normally placid set to his mouth was distorted by a scowl.

"Cheer up, Will'um," she said over a laugh. "We all have our bad days."

He bent his head forward by a breath and tapped his forehead lightly on the shaft of the arrow. "Good shot, Bren. A damned good shot. All of them today have been damned good."

"I know." She slung her bow over her shoulder and laughed again—it was difficult not to, seeing the abject look on Will's face. "And you, Sir Archer, are a far better sport than I would have been were our positions reversed. Ooooh

..." She reached out a slender finger and touched the end of his nose. "Is that a feather burn I see?"

"You could have put out my eye if you had missed," he said sourly.

"How could I miss such a fine, bold target?"

"It has been known to happen."

"Not since I grew breasts and improved my balance."

He looked up from under his brows and could not help responding to her teasing smile. A moment later, he sighed and shouldered his bow. "I suppose we should start back. Dag and Richard likely gave the game up long ago, but Robin seemed in a particularly stubborn mood this day. Do you recall where we lost him?"

Brenna shook her head as she glanced back at the deepening shadows. It was true her brothers Richard and Dagobert would have long ago lost interest in chasing elusive targets through the woods. No doubt they were back at the chateau quaffing mead and bickering over comely milk maids. Robin, on the other hand, could be anywhere. He had also tallied two hits this day, but not solely due to his own skill. He was a keen enough archer to be sure, but both Will and Brenna tended to cheat a little in his favor if he had gone too long without a win. He was far more comfortable on the back of his enormous warhorse, Sir Tristan, leading a company of knights into battle. Only this past July he had, with his brothers and the men of Amboise, joined forces with Philip of France to offer the mercenary army of King John a crushing defeat at Roche-au-Moine.

"Dearest Robin. On a battlefield or in a jousting run, he is undefeatable. Put him in lincoln green and fit a bow to his hand and ... well..."

"Some men are suited to wear shining armor and do battle with demons and dragons. Others possess more human qualities, like a tendency to bleed, quake at the heels, and recognize their own limitations."

"Then as long as he has you at his back, he has no need to fear such mortal failings," Brenna added with an affectionate smile.

Will's face mirrored her wry expression, but she knew he was thinking the same thing. He had been squire to her father, Lord Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer, since the age of ten, but it was Robin with whom he had developed a close, fast friendship. At four and twenty, Robin was six years his senior, yet there were times the younger man's wisdom and patience far exceeded that of the passionate, impulsive heir to Amboise. In that much, it was said, they resembled their respective fathers, for Alaric FitzAthelstan had always been content to stand in the shadow of Lord Randwulf, letting the legendary Black Wolf establish himself as the champion and slayer of dragons while he himself sought only the position of friend, ally, and closest advisor. It was a role that suited Will as much as it suited Lord Alaric, for although he had trained as hard as any of the sons to earn his spurs and showed as much ability and courage to wade wholeheartedly into battle, his quick mind, instincts, and powers of perception had proved far more lethal. He was a brilliant strategist. He could look at a problem and see three solutions where others were left scratching their heads in search of one. Lord Randwulf had had no qualms sending him to Maine with the rest of the men from Amboise. It had been Will's-quiet advice and Robin's genuine respect for it that had, as much as the brazen courage of the thousand knights who fought under the pennons of the Black Wolf, won the day at Roche-au-Moines.

With only eighteen years to his credit, however, he had not been among those knighted on the field by King Philip as a reward for their services. It had been a bitter disappointment, but as Brenna had been quick to point out upon his return to Amboise: "Your time will come. Even Robin was nineteen before the king took notice of him, though I am not sure he would not have ridden Sir Tristan straight into the royal bedchamber if all else had failed. Why are men in such a hurry to have their brains bashed out anyway?"

"You would not understand."

"Indeed, I admit that quite freely. I most certainly do not understand. Richard and Dag have no brains to speak of, therefore they would hardly feel the loss. But you—you have the best bow arm ... with one obvious exception of course ... in all of Normandy, Brittany, Poitou, and Touraine, yet you fever with eagerness to clamber up on a horse, burden yourself under a few hundredweight of armor, then hurl yourself down a course knowing there is a good likelihood of breaking every bone in your body."

Will had scowled. "Your confidence in my ability is touching."

"It is not my goal to encourage you. Nor is it my father's, I warrant. And before you puff up like a weed pod, I am not saying he is less than proud to bursting that you came this close"—she had pressed her thumb and forefinger together by way of emphasis—"to wearing your spurs home from Maine, but he has four sons who would sleep in their armor if they could find a way to do so without making eunuchs of themselves. What he needs and what they need is a cool, level head to guide them."

"Now you think too much of my abilities."

"Your modesty is commendable, truly it is. But who else in this or any other demesne within a ten-day ride can speak six languages fluently and quote great boring passages of Sophocles when it is least expected?"

“‘It is not the powerful arm, but the soft enchanting tongue that governs all,' " he mused.

"There. You see? Even he agrees and he has been dead for a few hundred years."

Will had only laughed and shaken his head at her unaffected lack of reverence.

Less than four months separated them in age and they were as close as they could possibly be without becoming intimate. She suspected both sets of parents had always harbored the secret hope that a lifetime spent in each other's company would naturally have progressed into something more. There was no denying Will was painless on the eyes. He was long-limbed and well muscled, handsome enough to draw second glances from women of all ages and situations. From his father he had inherited his scholarly mind and an easygoing nature that hid a devilish humor and deep sense of honor. From his mother, Lady Gillian, had come the shock of red hair and the gilt-colored eyes, the keen sight and rock-steady nerve that had made her one of the best and most feared archers in all of Christendom.