The Last Arrow RH3 (57 page)

"Aye, Sparrow. Aye, we have won it. Gisbourne has crawled back under his rock where he belongs."

"And your brethren?"

"All are well."

"Littlejohn? Will? Lady Gillian?"

Robin saw death beginning to cloud the dark eyes and let the error go unchecked. "Everyone has come through it."

"Good. That is good." His eyes drifted shut and Robin thought he was gone, but a moment later, they opened a squint. "I would ask you grant me but one boon, my lord."

"Anything, Sparrow. Anything."

And the voice came out surprisingly insistent. "I do not want English worms growing fat on my flesh. I would sooner sweeten the orchards at Amboise."

Robin clasped his hand. "It shall be done."

"And ... tell my Lord Randwulf... tell him I loved him well. Tell him ..."

Robin squeezed the pudgy hand tighter, as if by sheer strength of will, he could keep the elfin soul earthbound a little longer. He had never passed a day of his life without Sparrow's wit and wisdom by his side, nor had it ever occurred to him he might one day lose him. It had just never occurred to him.

"Cyril save me," came the merest gasp of breath. "I see her there, waiting for me."

"Who?" Robin asked, leaning his ear closer. "Who do you see?"

His lungs deflated on a sigh of resignation. "Old Blister. I should have known ... she would not even let me rest in peace ..."

The black wings of his lashes fluttered closed a final time and Robin shook his head. He squeezed the cold hand harder and when there was no response, he took the tiny body into his arms, rearing back with a cry filled with such rage and sorrow, it echoed across the field and shivered up into the sky.

Richard and Dag bowed their heads and balled their hands into fists. Littlejohn's face remained hard as granite, but his eyes grew round and wet and turned slowly to stare menacingly across the meadow. Brenna stood behind Robin, feeling helpless and useless and ashamed for every harsh word or thought she had ever had for the fiercely loyal villein who had always been there and never would be again.

"Robin! Look!" Alan a' Dale hurried over. "The white flag. Gisbourne seeks a parlay!"

Robin lay Sparrow gently on the grass. He wiped his eyes and stood, then stared hard at the small group of riders who were venturing forth from the trees. Gisbourne rode in front, strutting his finery and arrogance. By his side was another man with silver hair, and behind were five guards, one of whom carried a lance with a white flag.

"Has he come to offer his surrender, do you suppose?" Richard asked grimly.

Someone handed Robin a cloth to clean his face of blood. Brenna held out his helm, but when she started to move back to rejoin her brothers, he stopped her.

"No. I want you with me. And bring your bow; they may have some treachery in mind. Besides"—he gave his mouth a wry twist—"it should warm the cockles of their brave hearts to know a woman has wreaked so much havoc."

"Will it not only anger them more?"

"I sincerely hope so," he said brusquely, and called for his' horse. "Angry men make stupid mistakes."

Griffyn nudged Centaur forward and produced a scrap of bloodied silk emblazoned with the device bearing four red lioncels. "I thought perhaps I was affected by the heat of battle when I saw de Chances. But he was here, and so is Bertrand Malagane."

Robin nodded, recognizing the silver-haired noble who rode by Gisbourne's side. "He wasted no time ... but how did he know where to come?"

Griffyn returned his steady gaze and smiled tightly. "Permit me to ride out with you and we can ask him."

Robin delayed his answer long enough to give his brow a final swipe with the cloth. The bleeding had stopped, but the pain was setting in and he hoped the fiery stinging would keep his senses sharp. He put on his helm and fastened the linked camail beneath his chin.

"All right. The three of us then." He kept his eyes fastened on Griffyn, but turned his head slightly to address Alan.

"Have your men take Lord Henry ... Tuck ... to Kirklees. If aught happens to separate us ... we will meet there." He paused and glanced down. "And if you will see to Sparrow as well? I would be in your debt."

"Any debt you owe me could not amount to a tenth of what we owe you," Alan said gravely.

"Your men," Robin declared, looking around him, raising his voice so all could hear, "are the bravest I have ever had the privilege to fight beside. The honor is all mine."

Brenna mounted and kept her bow held loose in her hand. She started to pull a cap over her head but it was Griffyn who stopped her this time.

"Let them have a good look. It may be the last beautiful thing they see."

Brenna's heart soared and she lifted her head proudly. She reached around to tug away the thong that bound the remnants of her braid in place. A few quick strokes of her fingers loosened the golden mane completely so that there could be no doubt, at any distance, the deadliest of the snipers had been a woman.

Robin spurred Sir Tristan forward, matching the pace of Gisbourne's advance across the field. The High Sheriff arrived at the midway point before they did and the five guards he brought with him fanned out in a semicircle behind, leaving himself and Bertrand Malagane to observe Robin's approach in glowering silence. The smile he wore was one of sheer malice, the gleam in his dark eyes as Sir Tristan pranced to a graceful halt less than a dozen feet away was serrated with pure loathing.

"If I was not seeing this with mine own eyes," Gisbourne murmured, "I would not believe it. Robert Wardieu. In England again."

"Sir Guy. It has been a long time."

"Eleven years," Gisbourne hissed, his cheeks flushing. "Nearing twelve. And not a day has gone by that I have not thought of you."

"Fondly, I trust?"

"Oh ... very fondly. I am looking forward to renewing our acquaintance. I have your accommodations prepared and waiting for you already, the chains polished, the knives sharpened, the pincers warmed."

"Ah. Yes, well, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have not the time to spare on such pleasantries."

Gisbourne smiled and his gaze shifted to Brenna. "God-strewth. My men swore there was a grisette raining arrows down upon their heads; I assumed she would look more like a Medusa or a Hippolyta. But hold—do I detect a resemblance?"

"Lady Brenna Wardieu," Malagane provided helpfully. "Sister to the cub, daughter to the Black Wolf."

Gisbourne's chest swelled at the thought of such bounty within his grasp. He bowed his head in a mocking imitation of civility while his eyes raked down the front of her leather jerkin and settled lewdly at the crux of her thighs.

"Indeed, I have no doubt my men will be most enthusiastic to offer you their hospitality as well, dear lady."

"Since I have yet to see any real men in your company, Sir Guy," she said easily, "I shall not endeavor to hold my breath until one appears."

His gaze slid to the third member of their party and reacted visibly to the calm, gray-green stare. Griffyn had not worn his helm and his black hair rested loosely on his shoulders. He had not shaved in three days and the lower half of his jaw was heavily shaded with stubble, making the lines of his face appear more stark, the frost in his eyes more penetrating.

"Another healthy beast," Gisbourne murmured. "Do I know you, sirrah? The look of you seems vaguely familiar."

"Renaud," said Malagane. "Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay. A Burgundian whose acquaintance I am looking forward to renewing."

"Lord Bertrand." Griffyn allowed an insolent dip of his head. "I see you managed to find your way without my help."

"Oh, but I did have help, my lord. The very best, I assure you. My youngest son: Lothaire. He has been guiding our footsteps all the way from Gaillard."

Robin frowned. "We have no one named Lothaire in our company."

The blue eyes sparkled like chips of broken glass. "Forgive my presumption. Of course, you knew him better as ...

Fulgrin."

Griffyn's sharp intake of air widened the smug grin on Malagane's face. "A rather clever fellow, would you not agree? And so resourceful. We had both seen you in the lists at Gascon, and it was my thought if ever there was a man who might serve a useful purpose one day, it was you. How glorious your rage that day when you were cheated of your victory over Robert Wardieu! And how magnificent that rage became as you worked to transform yourself into the Prince of Darkness."

"Your son is a dead man," Griffyn said quietly. "You may tell him that for me when you see him again."

"Why not tell him yourself?" Malagane said generously. "He is just over there."

Griffyn looked past the count's shoulder to where the main body of Gisbourne's knights had formed a solid line against the trees.

"When we have concluded our business here," Gisbourne said on an impatient sigh. "You may deliver messages to the devil, for all I care."

"What business?" Robin demanded.

"You have my prisoner, Henry de Clare."

"Lord Henry ... is dead."

"Dead?"

"You may come and view the body if you wish," Robin said blithely, mimicking Malagane's munificent offer. "He is just over there."

Gisbourne glanced toward the road and the ominously silent line of foresters. "I am sure that is not necessary. But you do appreciate my predicament. The king is in Lincoln and he expects to see the hanging of an outlaw on the morrow."

"You could volunteer your own neck," Griffyn said quietly. "As High Thief of Nottingham."

Gisbourne turned a cold eye to the sarcasm. "I was thinking more of offering him the pleasure of watching Lord Robert Wardieu dance upon the gallows boards. In exchange, I would order my men off the field, grant amnesty to all of your wounded, and, further, issue writs of safe passage to those of your kin who would, naturally, quit England as soon as possible."

The generosity of the offer was surprising—too surprising to be believed, and Robin scoffed. "Your writ of safe passage would be as worthless as the integrity of the signature that would bind it."

Gisbourne's nostrils flared at the insolence but his smile remained intact. "Your arrogance is admirable but ill-timed."

"And your 'offer' is no offer at all."

"Shall I present another, then? One more worthy of your precepts of chivalry." He turned and raised a gloved hand, signaling someone back in the line. "Do you play chess?"

"Not when lives are at stake."

"But you do appreciate the finer points of necessary strategies? The sacrificing of a knight, for example ... for a queen?"

Robin's gray eyes turned brittle as he saw the solid line of Gisbourne's men shift apart to allow two figures to pass through. One was a man, tall and burly and gleaming with armor; the other was a woman, a slender, hooded splash of white against the glowering threat of guardsmen.

"She is the reason you have come all this way, is she not?" Gisbourne asked quietly. "She is the reason you are here, to uphold the family tradition of rescuing the poor, tragic Eleanor from harm? Another admirable quality, to be sure, but again, ill-timed, for as you can plainly see, she is surrounded by harm now, and standing presently in the company of my captain of the guard, Reginald de Braose, who is most eager, I promise you, to avenge his own humiliation suffered at the hands of your brother Eduard all those many years ago."

He saw the hard sparkle in Robin's eyes and added, "I will give you one hour to discuss the proposed exchange amongst yourselves. After that, I will take her to Lincoln instead and make a present of her to her royal uncle."

Robin's jaw clenched and unclenched, his lips turned bloodless as he pressed them into a taut, flat line. "Do the conditions of your original offer still stand? Parole for the wounded and safe passage for the others?"

"Yours is the only neck I seek this day," Gisbourne agreed blithely.

"Then we do not need an hour. We can make the exchange here and now." Brenna gasped. "Robin!"

He glanced her way. "There is nothing to discuss." "What do you mean nothing? There is everything to discuss."

She turned to Gisbourne. "Will you allow us a few moments of privacy, Lord Sheriff?"

Gisbourne gave the outline of her breasts another thoughtful glance, then bowed his head with princely generosity.

He and Malagane turned their horses around and retreated a short distance, whereupon Brenna turned frantically to confront her brother.

"You cannot do this thing," she whispered urgently. "You cannot sacrifice yourself!"

"We have no choice. He has Princess Eleanor, he will take her to the king, and the king will have her killed."

"He will have you killed as well."

"Aye. More than likely he will."

She glanced helplessly at Griffyn. "There must be something we can do!"

"There is," Robin said, reaching out to grasp her hand. "You can tell the others to waste no time in making their retreat. I would sooner trust a promise from a snake as one from Gisbourne, and he will not waste time in debating the ethics of honoring his word."

"Robin, please—"

"Yes." He squeezed her hand so hard the pain prevented her from interrupting again. "Please tell Marienne that ...

that I love her beyond life. That ... I will have her name on my lips with the last breath I draw."

The declaration drew Griffyn's attention away from the verge of trees, and he looked from Robin to the wide, shiningly desperate gaze that was fastened on him as if he was the last thread of a fraying lifeline. "Do you not think it odd that Gisbourne would make such a trade if he had two valuable prizes within his grasp?"

Robin frowned. "What are you saying?" "I am saying ... he just signaled his captain to bring 'the princess' forward, but she had already started forth on her own ... and stepped carefully around a boulder to do so. Did you not tell me she had been blinded?"

Robin's gaze shifted slowly to the trees. "Are you certain?"

"My eyesight is quite excellent," he assured them. "For instance ... what color hair does she have?"

"The princess? It ... it was pale. The color of moonlight."