The Last Arrow RH3 (31 page)

"Have you seen where Amboise is camped?"

"On the far side of the meadow, nearer the road than the river. Four-, five-score tents at least. Shall I hang your pennon, sire?"

Griffyn smiled grimly at the sudden note of respect that had crept into Fulgrin's voice. It was, indeed, as if he stepped into the guise of another man whenever the falcon's wings were unfurled. A man who had no conscience, no loyalties, no qualms about destroying everything that lay in his path.

"Why not?" he said. "It is only a courtesy to let them now death is in their midst."

The word spread quickly, carried on the smoke that drifted up from the cookfires. It came to Brenna's ears just as the sun was slipping down behind the silhouette of Gaillard's battlements, forming a coronet of red and pink spikes behind the stark black outline of towers and ramparts. The temperature had dropped noticeably and she had donned a heavier quilted surcoat to ward off the chill and dampness.

Robin, Richard, Dag, and Geoffrey LaFer were in their own tents changing into their finery for the evening feasts.

The chateau's great hall held seating for a thousand and more, and it was likely all the long trestle tables would be filled to overflowing with knights, nobles, and visiting dignitaries. Brenna had declined Robin's invitation to join them for the spectacle. Her throat ached and her pride was still bruised. Since the occasion was specifically intended to welcome all to the tournament, she suspected Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay would be in attendance, and she was simply not in the mood to cater to his misguided sense of humor, or to even see him again for that matter.

Sparrow had been clinging to her like paint all afternoon. He meant well and she knew he would defend her with his life if need be—despite threats to give her to the first marriageable man who passed by—but occasions like this brought out the most aggravating characteristics in him: the pacing, the strutting, the flashing of knives if some poor lout did happen to stray too near the boundaries of the Amboise encampment to pay his respects. He would naturally be accompanying Robin and the others to see that they stayed out of trouble and did not addle their wits on too much wine, and she was looking forward to an evening of peace and quiet.

Littlejohn had left camp. He had a hard night's ride ahead of him to reach the coast, where he would arrange passage to England on his cousin's smuggling ship. He had insisted he would be back at Gaillard in time for the melee, but Robin had done his best to dissuade him. Even giants had to rest sometime, and Littlejohn's strength would be far more vital to them in the uncertain days ahead.

Will was helping Timkin polish armor. All four suits of mail had been rolled in barrels of oiled sand before they left Amboise, but the iron hauberks and chausses would be polished and oiled again before the brothers took to the field, as would every blade and sword, helm and shield. Those who were not attending the feast or bending over last-minute preparations for the morrow's events were wandering between enclaves of tents, hailing familiar faces and catching up on gossip. Fires blazed everywhere, and as the sunset faded to a dull pewter, torches were lit and stuck into the ground to form wide circles wherein goliards and minstrels put on impromptu shows for their dinner and a sup of wine.

There was activity outside the torchlit boundaries as well. The men-at-arms who were left behind to guard the pavilions and equipment were quick to find the whores and camp followers who did the most in the shortest span of time for the least amount of coin. There were always more men than willing women and business was brisk, with lines of cheering, jeering customers forming in front of the more popular wagons. Occasionally they could not wait and tried to push ahead, which led to fights and brawling and the odd broken head.

Brenna sat with her eyes closed, using only her ears to pinpoint and identify the different sounds that were so completely different from the odd hooting of an owl heard over the battlements of Amboise. The hundreds of ribald conversations blended together and sounded like flocks of geese. The fires snapped and crackled. The river swept by in a rush in the background, and women's laughter was everywhere. From somewhere high on the crenellated walls, a bell was rung to signify the hour of vespers and she crossed herself instinctively. She murmured a quick prayer and wondered if it would be a moonless night tonight, if she could catch a glimpse of the Lionheart's ghost stalking the Walls.

Or a glimpse of the devil stalking through camp.

"—by the river, did you hear? Everyone moved their tents back as soon as they saw his pennons go up."

Brenna opened her eyes in time to see a group of yeomen walking by the rear of her tent, their footsteps crunching on the pebbled ground.

"But did you see him? Did you actually see the Prince of Darkness?"

"No, but I heard he is as tall as an oak, with brown hair—"

"Gold hair," one stout fellow objected. "And yellow eyes, like a mad dog."

"Green. His eyes are green and glow red in the dark."

Another laughed. "And he has writhing snakes for hair, no doubt."

"I heard he had a scar on his face—thus—and speaks in a foreign tongue."

"Is he a Saracen, do you suppose?"

"Why else do you think he never lifts his visor on the field or shows his face? He is either ugly as the devil, or he is the devil."

Their voices passed out of earshot and Brenna fed another stick onto her fire. It was the fourth... or fifth?... such conversation she had overheard, and she felt she was getting to know this dark prince rather well. He was young, old, tall, short, stout, solid, blue-eyed, green-eyed, brown-eyed, one-eyed, with long hair, short hair, curly hair, dark hair, light hair ... hair with snakes! He had black skin, white skin, yellow skin with hideous tattoos, scars, and various disfigurements. One creative fellow even swore he had six fingers on each hand and cloven feet.

"Bren?"

She saw Robin approaching and stood up to greet him. "We are going now. Are you certain you do not want to come with us?"

"I am quite content leaving the civilities up to you," she said, smoothing a crease in his rich royal-blue velvet tunic.

"And besides, Will has promised to ply me with wine and dice away my clothes. Perhaps even sell me into the camp wagons for the night. I shall not be bored."

He regarded her closely for a moment, then tucked his hand beneath her chin, tilting it upward. "Take nothing less than a zechin for your services. No halves or cut coppers."

She laughed, "I shall probably be fast asleep before you reach the top of the road."

He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the forehead. "There are men every ten feet. If so much as a worm disturbs you, call out."

"I will. You have not had any word of Dafydd yet?"

His expression hardened in the glare of the firelight. "No. Nothing. Someone said they think they remember seeing him the day before last ... or it may just be they saw someone who looked like him, but..." He shrugged. "If he is here, we will find him. It is the only reason I am willing to endure all the pomp and ceremony tonight."

She returned the favor and pointed a stern finger under his nose. "Do not let yourself be talked into anything foolhardy. The melee and nothing more. If you feel yourself wavering, just think of Marienne waiting for you in Nottingham. She has waited a long time, and I am sure she would like to see you all in one piece."

Robin chucked her under the chin and rejoined Richard and Dag, who were impatient to depart. Sparrow was waiting farther up the slope, haranguing Geoffrey LaFer at length about some finer point of combat strategy, and Brenna tried not to look too cheerful as she waved to her brother-in-law and silently wished him luck. Geoffrey was a patient man—almost saintly compared to the quick, hot temperament of the Wardieu brothers—but Brenna suspected nine-tenths of the time Sparrow found himself hung on a peg or turned upside down in a bink of onions, Geoffrey's large hands had played a part in it. Isobel was truly a

lucky woman to have found someone so genial, so compassionate, so brave, so thoughtful. And so passionate. He had wept openly and unashamedly when she had given birth to their first child, and attended on them hand and foot until Isobel herself had finally scolded him back to more warlike matters.

A sudden picture of Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay popped into Brenna's mind and the comparison was not favorable.

Arrogance and constant mockery could hardly be considered genial. Compassion? He probably kicked small dogs and frightened children half to death if they crossed his path. Thoughtful? To his own ends, perhaps. Brave? Well, she had only the one incident this afternoon to liken his behavior to and that had been against three ruffians with nary more than a couple of dull blades between them. Animal lust was not passion. A well-executed kiss was not a sign of devotion, and bathing a bruised throat with cool water was no proof of enduring tenderness. As for sainthood

... he was probably dicing over some blowsy wench right now, or lying naked on a bed of furs urging some silly girl to rub lower ...

Brenna returned to sit by the fire, but her cheeks were warm enough and she kept walking, nodding at a group of Amboise guardsmen who looked up from their conversations as she drew near. Two of the burliest accompanied her to the riverbank and guarded her privacy while she washed and tended herself, and when they escorted her back to her tent, she yawned and bade them good night, then doused the lantern and crawled onto her pallet of soft furs. Another yawn sent her snuggling deeper but her eyes remained wide open. She lay there in the semidarkness listening to the voices, the laughter, the singing, the clink of tankards and ever-present grinding of whetstones ... and felt more wide awake than she had all day.

Blaming the cold river water for revitalizing her, she curled herself into an even tighter ball and forced her eyes to close, determined there would be at least one fully refreshed, clear head in camp come daylight. Moreover, it would likely be one of the last chances for a good night's sleep before they departed for England.

"Ivo is boasting he will snap this Prince of Darkness in two like a dried twig."

Brenna groaned into the furs as more eager speculators passed by the tent.

"More than that, he says he will do it on the first pass and spit this golden falcon on his lance like a trussed capon."

"Hah! I have two deniers to wager—think you I would squander them on the boastings of a fat dolt?"

"Boastings? Did you hear that women have been forming lines outside his tent, some of them just to see the size of his cod?"

"Whose ... Ivo's or the Prince's?"

The sound of a fist clouting a shoulder drifted through the canvas. "The Prince of Darkness, of course. He is taking on all comers now, in the lists and out."

Brenna sighed and sat up. Lines of women, indeed. Snakes for hair. Eyes that flashed fire. What in God's name did they say about Robin behind his back?

She drew her boots on again and went to the door. No one was showing any interest in her darkened tent, and she felt suddenly rebellious enough to take advantage. She wound the braid of her hair tight to her scalp and stuffed it under a felt cap pulled low over her forehead. Then she slipped out and moved quickly to the rear of the tent where the firelight would not betray her. She had her dagger and her shortsword, as well as a small blade in her boot, and as she made her way toward the river again, she kept her head down and her shoulders squared to give the impression of more manly bulk.

Once away from the Amboise encampment, she followed the curving bank of the river. There were lights and tents and people everywhere so she was not overly worried about a repeat of what had happened earlier in the day. There was nothing about her appearance to tempt anyone into taking a second glance anyway. If anything she looked like a squire or a page out running an errand for his master.

She had no clear destination in mind and was not even aware of where her footsteps had carried her until the brightest sector of camp came to an abrupt and noticeable break. There could be no mistaking which tents belonged to the Prince of Darkness, for there were only two— somewhat innocuous-looking, she thought as she stared at them—set well apart from the others on a narrow spit of land. There were no lines of women waiting their turn for a tumble, nor any brave souls waiting to catch a glimpse of the devil's disciple. There was a small fire to mark the camp, but otherwise, no signs of life or movement at all. Only the soft rustle of silk pennon waving in the breeze, vert with a gold falcon, its outstretched talons warning the curious to stay their distance.

Brenna did not know whether to be disappointed or annoyed. She stood there in the shadows with the long grass tangled around her ankles, aware only of the water rushing by beside her and the bright pinpoints of light twinkling on the walls of the chateau high in the background. She did not hear the approach of another set of footsteps along the riverbank. Nor did she mark the presence of anyone behind her until she felt an ominous stillness at her back, blocking the breeze that had been blowing steady since she left the encampment.