The Last Arrow RH3 (9 page)

half so clever when you meet your host. If he takes a dislike to you, we will be using this little toy of yours"—he thumbed the Saracen lancet—"to pluck out your guts and make them into bowstrings."

Robin sighed and touched Griffyn on the arm, indicating he should follow across the bailey. "You will have to excuse Littlejohn's manners. Not much slips past him and, as I said, his blood is high from lack of sport."

"Whereas I think he is a wise and canny fellow," Brenna muttered, loud enough to be overheard. "And better to be rude than dead in his bed of a slit throat."

Griffyn, only two steps ahead of her, stopped so suddenly she ran up his heels and would have stumbled had he not reached out and grasped hold of her upper arms. When she was settled straight again, he released her, but not before she was made shockingly aware of the strength in his hands—hands that felt as if they ached to crush her bones to powder.

"Have no fear, my lady." His voice was so silky it slithered down her spine and pooled in her belly. "As long as I am within these walls, your throat is quite safe from anyone else's touch."

It was to be expected that anyone visiting Chateau d'Amboise would be taken first to the main keep and presented before Lord Randwulf, and Griffyn Renaud was no exception. Will loped ahead to announce their arrival and when Robin and Brenna entered the great hall, the family was assembled at the dining tables, the air rich with the smell of roasted meat and savory victuals. It was a large and cavernous chamber with a high vaulted ceiling supported by stone arches. Lacking any windows below the level of the second story, light was provided by a hundred fat wax candles set in iron stands and cressets around the room. Ventilation for the smoke and smells of the crowded room was through narrow, vertical slits cut high in the stone walls. There was a log blazing in the massive stone fireplace—a relatively new renovation to the room after a century of making do with huge iron braziers. The ten-foot log sent flame and sparks climbing halfway up the new chimney that had been incorporated into the stone and mortar, but even with this new source of venting, there was a diaphanous layer of smoke hovering overhead. Several dozens servants moved like ghostly wraiths to and from the tall woven screens that concealed the exit to the cook house. Any scraps they dropped from their platters caused a mad scramble among the wolfhounds that crouched by the long trestle tables hoping for just such a happy event.

Ornamenting the towering block walls were the multitude of pennants and captured banners, crests, and shields either taken in battle or won in the many tournaments Lord Randwulf and his sons had participated in over the ears.

Crossed swords, iron starbursts, strangely configured suits of heavy armor from such faraway places as Jerusalem and Syria were mounted prominently on the walls alongside lances, crossbows, targes, and large woven tapestries.

Chivalry itself was on display, for the Wolf's reputation in the lists was second only to that of William Marshal, the greatest knight and soldier alive. Lord Randwulfs eldest son, Eduard, in his turn, had come close to matching his father's record of triumphs and might have done so had real battles and wars not kept him away from the fairgrounds. Now there was Robin, undefeated since his twentieth birthday, and his brothers Richard and William Dagobert whose trophies and pennons were beginning to decorate the walls on either side of the fireplace.

An enormous raised dais commanded one end of the vast chamber. This was reserved for the immediate family and guests of honor. In the middle sat Lord Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer and his wife, Lady Servanne. Flanking them in descending order of age and ranking were their sons and daughters along with their respective husbands, the castle seneschal when he was present, and, on this particular evening, the bishop from a nearby abbey. Stretching out from the dais were two long trestle tables covered in white linen and sagging under platters of food for the castle retainers and visiting monks, and, seated below the salt, the villagers and yeomen who had come to the chateau on some errand and were afforded the hospitality of their overlord's table. They would eat and make their beds on any spare part of the floor, for once darkness had fallen, few were encouraged to venture outside the walls of the castle.

It was a crowded and noisy assembly, with a score of conversations taking place at the same time and, to add to the merriment, a pair of jongleurs providing entertainment in exchange for a hearty meal.

Robin, as clean and presentable as a quick detour to his chamber could make him, led the small group down the short flight of stone steps and across the floor to the dais. He lifted a hand in greeting to several knights seated at the trestles and veered briefly over to their table to exchange a few words.

The Wolf, observing from his seat on the dais, leaned back in his chair and signaled to a varlet standing behind him to bring fresh food and wine. Despite almost six decades behind him, he was still a large, strikingly handsome man.

His eyes were the same slate gray that left his enemies trembling in his wake. His hair was a dark, rich chestnut, silvered slightly at the temples but as thick and luxuriant as a youth of twenty. Recent years had seen his body start to betray the massive strength that had earned him a reputation as a fighter and champion. His right arm was useless for anything requiring more dexterity than eating and dressing, but it was a legacy of past injuries that should have killed him, and so he could not complain. His left knee had been soundly crushed in a skirmish some years back, but there too, since he had not only defied the doctor who had wanted to cut it off, but lived to box the lout's ears on the anniversary of the day each year he was supposed to have died of blood putrefaction, he could not complain about that either.

What he could complain about was an errant squire, an absent son, and a daughter who returned from a day in the forest looking more leafy and grimy than a lowly bumpkin.

"We were about to send the castle guard out looking for you," he said when the trio came before him.

Beside him, his wife leaned forward in her chair. Lady Servanne was in her forty-ninth year, but still a rare beauty.

Her hair, beneath the filmy silk wimple, was more silver than blond and there were fine creases on her throat and the corners of her eyes, but her body was slender and willowy as ever. Her long white fingers were beringed and bejeweled with gifts her husband had given her in gratitude for providing him with three strong sons and four beautiful daughters, and they twinkled now as she tapped out her exasperation over the state of her next to youngest daughter's hair and clothing.

"Brenna dear, pray tell me those are not your new boots."

Brenna glanced down and scuffed some of the crusted mud off the toe. "I suppose ... they are not new anymore," she acknowledged. "But they are well and truly comfortable. We foraged nearly to the abbey and back and I have not so much as a burn or blister to show for it." "Surely cause for celebration by anyone's measure," her mother mused. "I warrant the cut on your leg and the Scratch on your neck are also prized accomplishments?" "I won the day. Two clean hits, both against Will. The first, I crept close enough to tap him on the shoulder, and the second, I nearly pinned his nose to a tree. 'Twas a very bad day for Will'um all told, since Robin's two points came at his expense as well, though I will allow he redeemed himself somewhat when we killed a boar. But since our arrows struck as one, it still put me ahead the winning point."

"I gather neither Will nor Robin scored against you?" the Wolf asked, the pride and amusement vying for an equal shine in his eyes.

"They could not have caught me today if I wore a rope around my waist and tied bells to my collar."

"Oh dear," Servanne murmured. "I feel another argument coming on."

"There are no grounds for argument, Mother, nor would there be any in the future if I were allowed to enter the archery contest at Gaillard. Winning the fleche d'or at Gail-lard would settle the matter once and for all."

"Why you would want to stand at the line with a pack of hairy foresters and throw good arrows at a bale of hay is beyond me," said her brother Richard. "And it does no good to keep complaining about it, since women are strictly forbidded to enter anyway."

"You are already the best by my reckoning," Dag said from farther along the table. "And if it is true you won the day, I will gladly share the hundreds marks I won from someone who did not have as much faith."

Richard scowled and belched his opinion of Dag's foresight into the back of his hand. The two were a year apart in age, but with faces so much alike they were sometimes mistaken for twins. Close inspection revealed too many differences to fool anyone not half addled with ale; Dag's eyes were set wider apart and his chin was clean shaven.

Richard's nose had been broken too many times to retain its former clean line, and his own chin bore a deep scar that he preferred to camouflage beneath a neatly trimmed and pointed beard.

"A pox on tournament rules," Brenna said. "They only exist because Lady Gillian kept putting the men of Normandy to shame each year she was declared the master archer—including the last, when she disguised herself as an urchin and won the golden arrow just to spite the judges."

"You will not be disguising yourself as anyone other than Lady Brenna Wardieu," her mother declared sternly. "I expect you to deport yourself with the utmost grace and civility."

"I will be so well behaved Robin will beg me to creates some havoc just to know I am not lost forever to goodness and obedience."

"I doubt that will ever happen," Richard murmured. "But we can always hope."

The Wolf laughed. "Your mother is only concerned because you will be on your own. She cannot attend this year and Lady Ariel has enough to do to keep Eduard chained to his bed. Your sister Eleanor will be with Erek in Poitou, and Rhiannon would need a dozen chaperones of her own just to keep her from creeping into Will's tent at night."

FitzAthelstan's face flamed a wondrous shade of scarlet, but no one took notice.

"Isobel is still thinking of attending," Brenna argued. "She will be a more than adequate defense against my forgetting to wear a cotte and hide my hair beneath a wimple."

"Isobel is seven months with child," Richard said dryly. "I doubt Geoffrey, for all his tolerance, would allow her to attend a corn harvest. And besides, if I am not mistaken, those are her leggings you are wearing now."

Brenna threw her hands up in feigned exasperation. '"Then in truth, there is no hope for me. That will leave only Robin and Will, Richard and Dag, Sparrow and Little-john and a few score of the most fearsome knights and men-at-arms to guard against my accidentally stepping in a dung heap."

"They were no help to you today," observed her sister Eleanor, who crinkled her nose and glanced pointedly at Brenna's boots.

"Fine," Brenna said on a huff of breath. "Fine. I shall go to my chamber now and return in less time than it takes you to discuss all of my other faults behind my back, dressed to the very image of innocence, propriety, and virtue!"

Dag coughed half a mouthful of wine back into his goblet and nodded his thanks as Eleanor thumped him between the shoulders.

"We shall keep that most intriguing thought in mind. However," Richard said dryly, "it is the last tourney of the season. It could also be Bren's last opportunity to shop for a husband before the winter snows set in."

"Is that why you think I want to go? To shop for a husband?"

"None have come looking of their own accord."

"Hah! I would marry the first lout who came through the door if I thought it would save me from your vast wit."

"Quick," Richard said, lifting his hand to an imaginary varlet. "Is that the redoubtable Gerome de Saintonge who comes begging at the door again even as we speak? How many times is it now he has asked and you have refused?"

Her eyes flashed murder and Lady Servanne leaned forward again.

"Brenna ... it is not that I doubt your ability to comport yourself well, it is just that... well... I worry that perhaps this is not the best time to be straying far from home."

"Chateau Gaillard is but a three-day ride from here! Two if we are able to forgo the wagons and litters that are usually required to haul all of Eleanor's change of gowns. One if there is a matter of urgency that shouts for us to fly home with any haste. I am perfectly content on horseback. A blanket by the fire, with the boughs of a tree overhead to keep the stars from falling on us while we sleep, is a far more appealing comfort than any stuffy inn or tavern.

And besides, I simply have to go. You cannot possible expect me to sit here before the hearth weaving stockings or some such nonsense while Robin and the others are walking the same ramparts King Richard helped lay with his bare hands!"

"God in heaven, no," the Wolf murmured. "How could anyone expect such a thing?"

Lady Servanne sighed and turned her cornflower-blue eyes up to her lord husband. "Am I the only one who takes the latest news from England seriously?"

"What news?" Brenna asked. "The news about the king increasing the reward on Robin's head to a thousand gold marks after the sound thrashing his army of Brabancons and misfits received at Roche-au-Moines?"

"If you announce it a little louder," Will murmured, "the men working in the stables might better to be able to hear."

Brenna looked out over the crowded tables but no one was paying any heed. On the way back, her gaze touched on the almost forgotten Griffyn Renaud, who was standing quietly to one side, content to remain in the background and observe the family amenities.

"I fail to see what all the fuss and bother is about," she continued in a more reserved tone. "If there is anyone foolish enough to try their hand at collecting any such reward, we shall simply dig a few more holes in the graveyard and plant them alongside their fellow incompetents."

"Well said," Dag concurred. "And I for one will sleep better at night knowing Bren's canny eyes and bow arm are guarding our backs at Gaillard."