In the Shadow of Midnight (48 page)

Gisbourne’s hand sprang open and he dropped his sword with a metallic clang that bounced a time or two off the stone walls before fading to a dull ring.

“How
dare
you raise a knife to me,
boy.
Move it now. At once. And perhaps I will let you live.”

Robin nudged the steel tip higher. His face took on a terrible maturity; his eyes burned with blue flames, contempt and revulsion aged him swiftly and savagely beyond his fourteen years. Having looked death in the face and knowing there was nothing to fear there, he could look a paltry creature like Guy of Gisbourne in the eye and scorn him. He could hate him too, not just for what he’d almost done to him, but for the delight he took in doing it to others.

Eduard was not unaware of the changes that had come
over his young brother. If anything, he saw himself standing there, his thigh opened to the bone by the Dragon’s blade, and he knew Robin was angry enough, sickened enough, to kill Gisbourne just as he could have killed Etienne Wardieu. He also knew that killing Gisbourne would make the loss of Robin’s youth irretrievable, and for that reason alone, Eduard reached out a hand and laid it on his brother’s arm.

“See if you can drag yon hub of womanly beauty into the bedchamber while I settle a few matters with Sir Guy.”

Robin swallowed, brought the tremors in his arm under control, and nodded stiffly, lowering the knife by slow degrees as if it was the most difficult thing he had ever forced himself to do.

Gisbourne waited until the knife was safely lowered to the boy’s side before he straightened and glared fiercely at Eduard —a difficult thing to do stark naked and grayer than the cobwebs that floated overhead.

“Enjoy this moment while you can,” he spat, “for you are both dead men.”

“But still able to walk and talk,” Eduard said with narrowed eyes. “Which is somewhat more than you will be able to do with”—he glanced askance at Robin—“what was it Little-john said?”

Robin looked startled a moment, then quoted, “Not with two broken legs and a cracked skull.”

“Ahh. So it was. And so it shall be,” he added softly.

Gisbourne saw FitzRandwulf lift his sword and watched in horror as the mighty shoulders put their all into a swooping swing. An instant later, Gisbourne’s senses exploded in a starburst of pain as the flat of the heavy blade smashed across both bleeding kneecaps. Robin had adroitly stepped aside to avoid the blur of steel, but as Gisbourne’s arms flailed and his body began to pitch forward, it did so in Robin’s direction. A reflex action brought the lad’s hands upward to fend off the possibility of catching Gisbourne and saving him from an unchecked fall. The dagger he clutched came up at the same time, and as Sir Guy plunged forward, the well-honed edge slithered between his thighs, met a limp protrusion of unresisting
flesh, and sliced it off without undue strain on Robin’s wrist or … after the fact … his conscience.

Sir Guy’s scream was bloodcurdling enough to prompt a curse from Eduard’s lips as he swung his sword again, this time bringing the blunted end of the hilt smashing against Gisbourne’s temple, with enough force to send the black eyes rolling up beneath the lids, vouchsafing his inability to sound any alarms for the rest of the day.

The two brothers stood side by side, staring down at the broken sprawl of Gisbourne’s body, both of them wincing at the damage wrought by Robin’s dagger.

“Killing him
would
have sufficed, little brother,” Eduard mused.

Robin drew a shaky breath and flung the bloodied knife onto the floor. “At least he will have something to remember me by.”

“Remember you? I would hasten to suggest you never cross his path again. I would also suggest we waste no more time in pleasantries. Hopefully, by the time we hide these two and return to our own chambers, Eleanor and Marienne will be there, waiting for us.”

Robin nodded, managing to hold down his gorge while they dragged Gisbourne and the whore into the bedchamber and arranged them under blankets and furs to look as if they slept in blissful exhaustion. There was a deal of blood on the floor of the anteroom, but it could not be helped. A last glance and Eduard pulled the door shut behind them, clapping his arm around Robin’s shoulders as they headed swiftly for the stairs.

A
fter Henry, Eduard, and Brevant had left her, Ariel made a quick search for spare clothing and came up with what she supposed would have to do for two complete outfits. She took Eduard’s only extra shirt back to her chambers with the rest of the bundled clothing, and for some inexplicable reason, felt better for wearing it in place of her own long linen bluet. She did not have much in the way of spare belongings herself, only the velvet gown and silken undertunic she had ruined in the rain last night. Both had been torn by haste and rough treatment and, rather than simply leave them by the hearth or pack them to have to explain their condition at a later date, she rolled them in a tight ball and thrust them into the fire. A few sticks of kindling and a spill of candlewax supplemented the curling heat from the bed of coals, and she finished dressing in the bright blaze of the burning garments.

Her hair required the perseverance and vocabulary of a Flemish foot soldier to unsnarl and tame into a manageable braid. The heat of sheer frustration was still fuming in her cheeks when the outer chamber echoed with the sound of hurried footsteps. Henry was back to collect their equipment and, barely a minute later, Captain Brevant arrived, striding into her bedchamber with two slender, clinging shapes in his shadow.

“My lady; I see you have responded well to the need for haste. As you can see, I have accomplished the first half of my task. My lord”—he looked to Henry—“you have seen to the horses?”

Henry nodded. “Sedrick has it well in hand. I came back to see if I could be of further use.”

“You can,” Brevant grunted. “You can guard our charges until the final preparations are made. My lady—were you able to find suitable clothing?”

Ariel moistened her lips and glanced at the bed, where she had deposited her scavenged findings.

“Good,” Brevant nodded. “I will leave you to it then. As soon as all is ready below, I will return to fetch you. Remain here until I do so.”

Marienne, hailed from a troubled, anxious sleep, flinched aside as Captain Brevant exited the room as abruptly as he had entered. She looked even younger, paler than she had the first time Ariel had seen her, and the folds of her worn, patched night tunic trembled visibly against her body.

The second figure could not flinch from what she could not see, but she shook with equal vigor, her fear the result of being roused from her tower and led she knew not where for a purpose which had not yet been explained. She knew it had been Jean de Brevant coaxing her to haste and silence, and she knew Marienne was blatantly terrified. Part of the reason for their terror and uncertainty was that they had not made their way to this place without incident. Twice they had been cautioned to press into a corner of the passageway while Brevant’s sword had made short work of queries by other guards as to where they were going at such an ungodly hour.

Eleanor could also smell the rank odour of scorched velvet, mingled with the vague, distinctly feminine scent of rose-water.

“May I presume … I am in the company of Lady Ariel de Clare?” she asked tremulously.

Ariel’s first response was to nod, since her tongue had decided to remain stubbornly clamped between her teeth. It was difficult to find the words to say, having at last come face to face with the woman she had regarded as her strongest competition for Eduard’s affections … the woman widely acclaimed to be the most beautiful creature in the realm.

She could see why. Regal, noble features bespoke the bloodlines of kings and queens. All of mankind would have had to be blinded not to recognize the golden-haired niece of Richard the Lionheart, granddaughter of Henry Secund and Eleanor of Aquitaine, last of the true Angevin princesses, and, through no misfault of her own, the rightful queen of England. Despite her eyes being so hideously sealed shut, Eleanor radiated delicacy and grace. A man would have to have been a fool
not to love her and a king equally foolish not to envy and fear her.

Even Henry, who was handsome enough to rarely find himself wanting for the company of a beautiful woman, stood mute in the shadows, awed by the light that seemed to emanate from within the slender form of Eleanor of Brittany.

“Your Highness,” Ariel murmured, forcing her legs to carry her forward. She started to drop down onto her knees, but Eleanor was quick to halt her.

“Please. There is no longer any need to kneel before me. I am a charity ward of mine uncle’s now, due nothing more than a common greeting.”

Ariel glanced at Marienne, who was bravely trying to hold back the watershed of tears brimming along her lashes. The task was rendered impossible as Robin came bounding through the door with the impact of a gust of wind, sweeping the young maid off her feet and spinning her so high, her legs were bared to the thighs. He was out of breath from running up the stairs, but as he brought Marienne to ground and held her close against his body, he beamed a wide smile over the top of her head.

“Highness … Lady Ariel … Eduard and I met Captain Littlejohn on the stairs.”

“You are both … all right?” Ariel gasped.

“Aye, my lady. Right and ready.”

“Ready for what?” Eleanor pleaded. “What is happening? Why was I brought here?”

“Your Grace,” Robin explained, “we are taking you away from this hellish place. Eduard tells me Lord Sedrick is in the yards now, saddling horses. Lord Dafydd is purloining foodstuffs, and—”

“What do you mean you are taking me away?” Eleanor recoiled with surprise, stumbling back until she met abruptly with the wall. “And who are these lords you mention? I am familiar with none of them.”

Henry was bestirred to step forward. “If I may, Highness … my name is Henry de Glare, and I am brother to Lady Ariel. Lord Sedrick of Grantham is a loyal vassal of our uncle,
William the Marshal, and Lord Dafydd ap Iorwerth is … is a Welshman, come with us from Pembroke to Paris and now to here. We are all here in the marshal’s service and with Lord Eduard FitzRandwulf’s guidance.”

The princess raised a trembling hand to her temple. “But … I told Eduard … I wanted no part of a rescue. The king—”

“The king is docking his ship even as we dither and dally, Your Highness,” Robin said. “And when have you ever known my lord brother to do aught he was told, especially if he was told it was impossible?”

“But …” Eleanor’s hand fell from her temple and gripped the crucifix that hung around her neck. “I have accepted my fate. Marienne, yes, take her and leave if it is at all possible, but I must stay here. The king will never let me go free.”

“We are not asking his permission,” Henry said evenly. “And as the captain has said, we do not take one without the other. We all go together, or none of us go at all.”

“Captain Brevant is helping in this madness?” Eleanor whispered.

“Willingly, my lady,” Marienne said, her fear beginning to give way to excitement. “He is a good man, and as such, has surely had his fill of this place, as have we all.”

“He has sworn to see you safely away,” Robin added. “And to lend his sword as far as Nottingham if need be.”

“Nottingham?” Eleanor’s lovely face showed more confusion than ever. “Why on earth—?”

“It was Eduard’s idea,” Robin said proudly. “For the time being, at any rate, he reasons the safest place to hide you is right under the king’s nose. Certes, the Channel will be watched and all ships searched that are bound for Brittany. Brittany itself will be scoured from border to border. It was originally planned to take you to Wales—”

“Wales!”

“Powys, Your Highness, but Eduard has reconsidered in light of your … your reluctance to test the king’s mettle. His …
our
father, Lord Randwulf, held lands north and east
of Nottingham. In Lincolnshire. He still has many friends thereabout, loyal to our grandfather, and among them is a certain prioress who owes a large favour to the House of Wardieu.”

“My head,” the princess gasped. “It begins to spin, Robin. Can you not speak in plainer terms?”

“Plainly said,” bespoke a deep, familiar baritone from the doorway, “if you will allow us, Eleanor, we will fulfill your brother’s promise to you.”

“Eduard?” A slender white hand trembled over empty air for a moment until it was caught and held firm by the stronger, bolder grasp of Eduard FitzRandwulf d’Amboise.

“The priory is called Kirklees, and the abbess will welcome you to its cloisters without a qualm, I can promise you. Safely there, the king cannot touch you, even if he manages, by some wild mischance of fate, to determine your whereabouts. And though it galls me to say it, he will have no more need to fear you once he knows you have taken your vows to heart.”

“A priory?” Eleanor whispered, raising the fingers of her other hand to her lips. “Can it be true?”

“It can,” Eduard promised. “And it will, I swear it on my soul, providing you offer no more arguments.”