The Last Arrow RH3 (41 page)

Griffyn swept his hood and bascinet off his head and shook the sweat-soaked waves of his hair free. He did not look in Brenna's direction again. He did not look anywhere hut straight ahead as he took up Centaur's reins and led him off the field.

The blow he had taken to his shoulder had not broken any hones or ripped apart any muscles, but it had been hard enough to drive the links of his armor through the many layers of padding and into the flesh, leaving several bloodied pocks and a bruise as black as his mood. Fulgrin, wary of his master's temper, had not uttered so much as a single word. The only sound he made was a clucking of the tongue as he picked the broken and embedded links of iron out of Griffyn's wound.

He had just finished applying a thick balm and was starting to bind the shoulder in strips of linen when the door of the pavilion was pushed open and Bertrand Malagane strode through, furious enough to kick aside the basin of bloodied water.

"I assume you have an explanation?"

"I offered no guarantees. The bastard is good. Damned good. He gave his best and won the day."

"I paid you a great deal of money to succeed, not to fail."

Griffyn's eyes narrowed. "You paid me a great deal of money to come to Gaillard. You offered more if I should succeed, but unfortunately ... I did not succeed."

There was another brief slash of sunlight from the door and Griffyn glanced over as Solange de Sancerre, flanked by Gerome de Saintonge and two burly men, stepped inside the pavilion. He recognized both men from past encounters; Engelard Cigogni was an Italian, swarthy in countenance with a chest like an oaken barrel and arms as big around as truncheons. His companion, Andrew de Chanceas, was deceptively handsome and soft-spoken, but there was no life in the black eyes, no mercy in his soul, no conscience whatsoever that might deter from his being one of the most dangerous and deadly assassins in Normandy.

"It did not look to me as if you were as determined as you should be," Malagane said angrily, drawing the pale eyes back.

"From a comfortable seat in the bower, I warrant nothing looks the same as it does on a field of battle. I see you brought your pet dogs with you. Andrew ..." He gave the handsome assassin an exaggerated wink. "Still getting down on all fours for your oafish friend there?"

Cigogni took an angry step forward, but de Chanceas stopped him with a smile and a languid wave of his hand. "I am sure I could be persuaded to share if the mood came upon you. And I know Engelard would dearly love to have the virile Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay on his knees before him."

Griffyn turned to pour himself another cup of wine. "Some day, when we meet in hell, I should be happy to teach both of you some manners. For the time being, however—"

He did not get to finish the sentence. He sensed the movement behind him and barely had time to brace himself before he was struck across the base of his skull with the stout iron hilt of a falchion. He lunged instinctively for his sword, but Andrew de Chanceas was already there, kicking the blade beyond his reach. The assassin launched a hammerlike fist at Griffyn's jaw, snapping his head sideways with enough force to send him into the waiting arms of Engelard Cigogni, who hauled him upright and braced him for a series of blows that left him slumped in a bloody sprawl across the floor.

When it looked as if the two men would continue beating the unconscious knight, Malagane stepped forward and signaled a halt. He peered down through the shadows, a satisfied smile on his face. "Arrogant bastard. I will show him what happens to men who think to play me for a fool."

Solange glided eagerly forward, her eyes shining with

anticipation. "May I have him now, my loving lord? I can teach him lessons in manners that will have him screaming your praises!"

Malagane petted her cheek for a moment, but his smile, evil and promissory, was not directed at her when he turned his head, but at the corner of the pavilion where Fulgrin was standing, huddled against the side of the tent as if he could make himself small enough to disappear.

"Someone will be screaming soon, my dear," Malagane allowed silkily. "If I am thwarted again, they will be screaming very loudly indeed."

Brenna paced outside the black-and-gold pavilion and chewed savagely on a fingernail. Something had happened out there on the tilting field. She was not sure exactly what, but something had happened that put her in no mood to celebrate along with the others. As she paced, her bow slung over her shoulder, she glowered at the throng surrounding the Amboise pavilion. Well-wishers for the most part, it was a crowd composed of knights, nobles, and commoners alike, the latter the noisiest and slowest to depart for they kept hoping the champion would make another appearance. It was the custom for the victor to share his triumph by way of distributing largesse, and Robin had already scattered several fistfuls of coin among them. He was inside the tent now, having his bruises and cuts tended, his privacy safeguarded by a ring of Amboise guardsmen who stood shoulder to shoulder in a glowering circle around the pavilion. Will and Sparrow were with him; Geoffrey was making arrangements to break camp, Dag and Richard were standing inside the cleared circle, grinning like jackanapes, accepting the claps on the back and hearty hand-clasps as if they had been the ones who had defeated the Prince of Darkness.

Defeated? Nay. Some dreadful feeling inside told Brenna it was not so much a defeat as it was a sacrifice. It was nothing she had seen, nothing she could put her finger on or swear with any certainty she had read in Griffyn Renaud's eyes in that one split second before he had lowered his visor. Yet the feeling was there, churning in her belly, chilling her skin, refusing to go away, that he had done something no black-souled, self-serving hireling would ever dream of doing. And if he had done what she suspected he had done, then it must mean he had a soul, he had a heart, he had a conscience. It must also mean that everything else he had told her last night about Bertrand Malagane and the plot to kill Robin must also be true.

If it was, she had to tell Robin. Of course she had to tell him; he had to be warned. But how? How, without confessing her own transgressions? She could almost picture his face before her, hear the disapproval in his voice, see the disappointment in the slate-gray eyes that were so much like their father's. It would be like confessing her shame to the Wolf himself. Perhaps if he wasn't so pure and noble himself, it would be easier. Richard and Dag would not have any difficulty understanding what had happened; they were governed by their passions and emotions. But Robin ... an avowed celibate, for pity's sake ... would not begin to comprehend how the heat and temptation of the moment might cause an otherwise sane and level-headed person to behave intemperately and irrationally.

Intemperate and irrational. That was exactly how she felt each time her gaze strayed in the general direction of the green silk pavilion. She could just see the domed peak of it on the opposite side of the enclosure and the wind-teased pennon that indicated he was still inside.

Was he hurt? His armor had been torn over the left shoulder, and he had seemed to favor the arm as he walked off the field. Was it broken? Was that beautiful body maimed or twisted in some way? Was he in pain? Was what he said about the assassins true—that if he failed today, they would be going after him as well? She doubted if he would have attracted a crowd around his tent or if he had guards to keep them from intruding on his privacy, yet she knew it would be nigh on impossible for her to go to him or even be seen anywhere in the vicinity of his camp.

In an agony of indecision she paced and scanned the faces in the crowd. Half of them looked surly and unwholesome; most looked as if they would kill their grandmothers for a copper groat. Will claimed to have seen the two assassins yesterday; she had been too preoccupied to notice. She could be staring one of them in the face right now and not even know it.

The thought stopped cold, half formed in her head as she took a second, slow perusal of the faces pressing up against the ring of guardsmen. Something had caught her eye the first time she had scanned them; something that made the hairs across the back of her neck stand on end and her fingers tighten reflexively around the shaft of her bow.

He was staring at her, waiting for her to find him. His one eye was half closed in a squint but the other was black and penetrating, boring into her like a spike with a message nailed on the end. His face was not familiar ... yet it was.

And as she followed the beck of his head and started walking over to where he stood, she remembered where she had seen him.

"Your name is Fulgrin, is it not?"

He nodded curtly, wary of the two guards who stood between them.

Brenna tapped one on the shoulder. "Let him pass."

When the wiry squire was inside the circle he became suddenly shorter, and she realized he must have been standing on his toes for some time trying to catch her eye. He wasted no more now, however, as he plucked at her sleeve and spoke in an urgent, scratchy whisper.

"You know my name so you must know my master."

"Did he send you here?"

Fulgrin gave his head a violent shake. "My lord ... has himself been sent to perdition. Alas, they have beaten him, bound him hand and foot and stuffed him in a cart."

"What?"

He flinched at the sharpness of her outburst and seemed to shrink a little more.

"I barely managed to escape a similar fate myself. Look—" He leaned forward and lifted the greasy wisps of his hair to display a bleeding lump behind his ear. "My master has always said my skull was too thick for aught but a mangonel to damage, and for once I am happy to applaud his judgment. They clouted me and left me for senseless while they made their plans and sent for their cart, and while their backs were turned, I was able to crawl out of the pavilion and lose myself in the safety of the crowds."

"Who are you talking about? Who beat him?"

His face was gleaming wet with sweat and his eyes darted constantly around the crowd as he whispered the name.

"The Count of Saintonge. He came to the tent after the match, him and two hulking brutes who owed my master no favors." The good eye narrowed to as tight a squint as the other as he peered at her. "It seems he gave you a warning yesterday but forgot to heed it himself. Now he is all trussed up like a goose and being hauled into the forest."

"The forest?"

"Beyond Les Andelys, where the road divides. Anyone with a thought to turn west to the coast will have to follow the tract that passes through a narrow gully. Tis the perfect place to set up an ambuscade, which Malagane is planning to do, and to leave a certain body there—indeed, there should have been two but for the thickness of my skull—where it might be made to look as if my master took offense at being defeated today and sought to take his revenge."

"Why have you come to me with this?"

"Why?" He thrust his tongue into his cheek and glared. "Because I knew the minute I clapped eyes on you that you were the one making him act like a cat with his nose rubbed in mustard. Because he was up all blessed night long ...

again ... walking to and fro, to and fro. Not in the five long years I have been with him has he lost a moment's sleep over a woman, but last night he near wore a trough in the ground, he did. And today? How many times have I seen him run the lists and never ... never has he dropped his shield like that!"

Fulgrin was actually trembling, he was so incensed, but Brenna could think of nothing to say; the flood of color in her cheeks was expressive enough. She took him by the arm and started toward the door of the tent.

"You have to tell Robin what you just told me. He will know what to do."

Fulgrin drew back, digging his heels into the earth so that they skidded slightly. "Frankly, I would as soon not meet any more angry champions this day."

She shoved him through the door of the pavilion without further ado. Robin was seated under the dome, his face moist and drawn with pain as Will—with Sparrow hovering and giving orders—rebound his ribs and dressed a multitude of scrapes and bruises. He was naked but for a linen breech clout, and it was the first time in recent memory she saw his shoulders sagged with utter exhaustion.

"Robin? This is Fulgrin. He would beg a word with you."

"By St. Cyril's ghost," Sparrow cried. "Are there not enough beggars outside? Can he not wait his turn with the others?"

Fulgrin, who had been somewhat sagging himself, stiffened his spine with an indignant squawk. "You think me a beggar? Me? Squire to the Prince of Darkness? You insolent little toad, you should beg my pardon before I part your tongue from your mouth!"

"Ho!" Sparrow dropped the roll of bandaging in Robin's lap and stalked around to the front of the stool. "Squire to Prince Doom-and-Gloom, are you? Come to arrange the paying of ransom for your lord's armor and pennons?

Faugh! We want no ransom, lout, not in coin by any rate. We want the pennons, the shield, the armor, even the shiny bits of saddle trappings that carried your vaunted lord onto the field. In truth, were you not skrint-eyed and troll-necked, we would take you as well in payment for the insults delivered against the noble name of Wardieu!"