The Last Arrow RH3 (12 page)

Brenna watched the dark knight leave the great hall and she was more convinced than ever that his smile was too shallow, his pale eyes too full of secrets. She was glad, in a way, that Robin had let him know of her suspicions; he would know also that she would be keeping a close watch over him even if no one else did.

She finished her meal and her wine and snatched a last morsel of meat off a platter before it was taken away. Robin and Sparrow were squabbling over the details of the training practice in the morning, Eleanor had given her husband Erek a moon-eyed signal that had him begging his leave of the other knights and following her up the stairs to their chamber. Richard and Dag were engrossed in conversation, likely to do with the rosy-cheeked serving wench who kept casting long, inviting looks in their direction. The evening was winding down and as soon as the tables were emptied, pallets would be made by the fire and the sound of contented snoring would echo up to the rafters.

Brenna glanced again at the landing. The bath house was located in a cluster of outbuildings next to the kitchens and laundry. The baths themselves were huge metal tubs set into the floor, lined with wood and heated by fires fed from below. It was late enough that Renaud probably had the place to himself, was probably sinking into the hot, waist-deep water now and leaning back to savor the rolling clouds of oak-scented steam. It was the custom in some noble houses for the hostess to formally bathe an important guest, and she wondered absently what Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay would do if she appeared beside the tub, lye soap and scrub brush in hand.

Smiling at the thought of scouring away some of that bold arrogance, she made her excuses and started back toward her tower rooms. She was more tired than she cared to admit, and the notion of sinking into a soft feather mattress was too appealing to exchange for the brief pleasure it Would give her to plague the Burgundian. There was one small task she did have to do first, however, and that was to see if the castle bowyer had finished the new longbow he had promised to have ready for her tonight. The one she had used today had fine balance and tremendous power in the seasoned yew, but he had been laboring for two weeks over a weapon he vowed would outstrip any thus far.

She exited the keep through the narrow stone pentice— the covered stairwell that gave access to the living quarters—and shielded her eyes against the bright glare of the bonfire blazing across the draw. She could see no lights beyond in the armory, no hunched silhouette bending over the worktable. She would see no bow either if she ventured inside, but that did not surprise her. Old Perigord was as sly and secretive as a fox, and she would not catch the smallest glimpse of it until it was finished and ready to fit to her hand.

Some of the kitchen workers were taking a few minutes of ease after their long workday, and as Brenna walked across the draw, she veered toward the shadows, not wanting to intrude. The keen eye of one of the hostlers spied the white blur of her wimple and insisted she join them in sharing a cup a mead. This was not the usual behavior of most castle residents to their lords or their families. It was more the rule for humblies and common workers to fall fearfully silent and lower their eyes whenever their betters passed among them. The Wolf was harsh with his discipline and expected nothing less than a full day of honest work from his retainers, but there were no children dressed in rags in his demesne, no hollow-eyed peasants missing ears or hands or tongues. He was a fair and generous overlord, as were his sons and daughters in turn; he knew every man and woman by their name and would not have refused to share a tup, regardless if it was thin and sour as vinegar.

Brenna accepted the warmed mead and complimented the brewer on its sweetness. Someone took up a lute and another started to sing, and before long there were dancers circling the fire, spinning and flirting and giving thanks for the day past. The fire was hot and sent columns of flame and glowing cinders up into the night sky. Brenna watched it for a time, watched the dancers with their bare feet and loose tunics, then reached up with impatient fingers to remove her veil and wimple. She shook out the long braid of her hair and, on a further impulse, pried her poor pinched feet out of the silk slippers. Feeling considerably less constricted, she slipped away into the shadows and circled around behind the clustered row of outbuildings. Waving to one of the sentries, she climbed up to the wall-walk and leaned between two cold stone teeth of the battlements to look out over the sleeping countryside.

Sometimes, on a very clear night when there was no moon and the stars were smeared like crushed fireflies across the heavens, a faint glow could be seen in the direction of Eduard's castle at Blois, less than thirty miles to the north and east.

There was no moon this night, but there were clouds scudding low and fast across the tops of the trees. She could taste the faint metallic dampness on the breeze, which meant there was rain heading their way, and, as if to confirm her prediction, a strong, moist gust snatched her wimple off the stone where she had rested it and sent it in a ghostly flight over the wall.

"Oh dear," she murmured. "A dreadful shame."

She would have sent her veil and slippers flying after it, but she could feel eyes on her and knew the sentries would be frowning, wondering what pagan madness was in her blood tonight. Sighing, she turned and let the wind ruffle her hair as she took a last overview of the keep, the bailey,

the night sky above. She descended the steep stairs again and, with half an eye searching out the only lighted building in the yard, started walking back to the keep.

The enormous, muscular bulk of Margery, the castle herb woman, cut across the shadows in front of her. She was caring her basket of oils and unguents and was clearly not in an amiable frame of mind. Her craggy features were grooved to a scowl and her ample bosoms heaved with the effort it took to climb the shallow incline toward the bath house. Brenna's footsteps veered of their own accord and she followed like a silent, silk-clad wraith in the woman's wake, she heard voices inside the bath house and recognized Timkin's even before he emerged, hiding a wide grin behind his hand. She crept closer and saw that the tubs were empty. She heard a gruff voice protesting and another, equally gruff but far more militant, voice insisting that she had not been roused out of a warm bed for naught.

Brenna tiptoed right up to the open door. Griffyn Renaud was lying facedown on a wide table, naked but for a trip of toweling draped across his buttocks. Margery's large, gnarled hands were slapping pungent-smelling oil on his shoulders and back, prodding him when he attempted to move, pushing his head down on the padding of thick furs when he tried to tell her her services were not necessary.

Brenna folded her arms across her chest and leaned on the door jamb, enjoying the knight's discomfort. He was big, but Margery was bigger, with arms like truncheons and body shaped like a sturdy pavilion. She had been tending the aches and bruises of the Wardieu men longer than Brenna could remember and was proud of her work. No black-haired devil was about to order her away, not when she had received specific orders from Lord Robert!

Brenna was no stranger to the magic of oils and massages. Nor was she particularly shy or modest when it came to viewing a man's naked body. Many a time she had joined Robin and her brothers—even Will—after a long day in the practice fields and helped them off with their armor, or listened to their boasting and bickering while they bathed. Many a time as well they had been laid out on the tables like oiled fish while she, under Margery's eagle eyes, had pounded, pummeled, and rubbed the tightness out of their bruised muscles. And if Griffyn Renaud was anything like her brothers, the manipulations would relax him almost into a state of semiconsciousness where questions were asked and answered without the faintest attempt at evasion.

Something, a stray lock of hair lifted by the wind, caused the herb woman to glance at the door, but Brenna was quick to press her finger over her mouth and shake her head. Some other wicked impulse bade her move on silent feet across the floor and wave a dismissing hand in Margery's direction. She ignored the scowl on the woman's face and hitched her oversleeves up to sit high on her shoulders. She twisted her hair into a loose tail at the nape of her neck and bound it with the folded length of her veil, then poured a dollop of oil in her hands and rubbed them together to warm it.

Margery, meanwhile, had worked most of the muscles across his shoulders and upper arms, and his protestations had faded into muffled groans of appreciation. Pacing herself to Margery's rhythm, Brenna nodded the older woman away and smoothly took over the massage. His face was turned to the wall, half buried in the furs, and the one eye she could just glimpse was closed, the lashes laying on his cheek like fallen wings.

She need not have worried about warming the oil in her hands first; his flesh gave off enough heat to liquefy lard.

Her hands slid across the broad slabs of muscle, working the oil across the ridge of his shoulders and into the crook of his neck. She used her thumbs to push against the knots and tightness she found there, then stroked, kneaded, and manipulated each knuckle of his spine to pull out the adjoining tension. He had a terrific number of scars, she noted absently. They rippled by beneath her fingers like raised seams on a sheet of silk. Some were new, some old. Some were deep and long, and she lightened her touch as she traced their course; others were shallow and faded, crisscrossing behind the ribs as if ... as if he had been lushed at some time in his youth.

"Forgive me for barking at you, Goodwife," he murmured thickly. "I shall be in your debt forever after this night."

Brenna lowered her chin and gave what she hoped was an admirably husky imitation of Margery's voice. "A coin or two is thanks enough, my lord. If you think it is well earned."

"Well earned?" He groaned again and curled his fingers into the fur. "You can have no idea how wonderful this feels."

Brenna felt a flush warm her cheeks and invade her brow, and blamed it on the steam rising from the huge vats.

"You ... do not come from these parts, my lord?"

"Mmm? No. No, I do not."

"Ahh. South, is it? I thought I heard a bit of the Gascon you."

"I have spent time in Castile and Aragon," he conceded. But I make my home in Burgundy."

"Burgundy? A heathen place, to be sure. Have you family there, then?"

He drew a deep breath, swelling and expanding the muscles across his back. "No. No family."

"And you earn your keep by fighting in tourneys?"

"I run a course now and then to keep my eye sharp and my lance steady."

"You plan to fight Lord Robert, do you? Four years undefeated is he. You will have to know your business if you expect to meet him. And no faults either. No weaknesses." She said this as she was inspecting the extensive scarring on his left hand and forearm. She had seen a similar injury once before, in a test of truth before a church tribunal when a man had been forced to plunge his hand into a tub of boiling oil to retrieve a crucifix from the bottom. If the hand was scalded or the crucifix was not recovered, he had obviously lied; if the hand emerged unblemished, he told the truth. Either way, the flesh of the arm was usually cooked through and turned as hard as the bone before eventually rotting and cracking off.

Renaud's arm, by comparison, still looked strong enough beneath the smooth tightness of the skin, but it carried less bulk than the right, a detriment Robin might be able to use to his advantage if they met in the lists at Gaillard.

"Your arm, sir, does it cause you much trouble?"

"Women do not usually look at my arms when I am lying naked before them."

The blush in her cheeks grew hot enough to dry her lips, and she worked the heels of her hands into the grooves beneath his shoulder blades as a reward for his impudence. There was no give to the muscles, no corresponding grunt of pain, and she realized she would be hard-pressed to say who carried more power in their upper body—

Robin or Renaud—for his back was like solid plate armor and she had not found an excess pinch of flesh anywhere.

"Lower, if you please."

"My lord?"

"Send your magic fingers lower, if you please. My arse feels like a blister and my legs like two firesticks."

Brenna looked down. She was at his waist now, kneading her thumbs into the dimples at the small of his back. He gave a low, throaty growl of approval as she set aside the narrow strip of toweling, and she was thankful his face was still turned away, his eyes closed against the welter of heat ebbing and flowing in her cheeks. The towel had somehow preserved a modicum of modesty on both their behalf, but without it, he was a gleaming, magnificently naked beast sprawled on a bed of fur, and she was a witless fool who had gone too far to back away.

She spread more oil and molded her hands to the shape of his buttocks. She stroked and kneaded and manipulated the marble-hard flesh until there was a fine sheen of moisture rising across her own brow, then ran her fingers lower again, sliding over the seemingly endless iron thews of his thighs and calves. When she worked her thumbs into the arches of his feet, he groaned like a dying man and shifted on the bed of furs as if it were a sexual encounter. When she started up the second leg, she saw his hands flex and curl into fists while he swore, then laughed softly and swore again.

"You will prove the end of me yet, Goodwife," he murmured. "Is there a price I could pay to lure you away from this place?"

"Lord Randwulf is as fine a master as ever there is, sir. No price on earth could lure me away."

"And the sons? They look an arrogant lot."

She dug her thumbs into a pocket of nerves and was happy to hear him suck in a sharp breath. "No more arrogant than those who would mock them, my lord."

His head, cloaked by the glossy black waves of hair, turned slightly on the furs. "Your loyalty is commendable, but what excuse do you give the daughter?"

"The daughter?"