CHAPTER SIX

 

Brenna hastened along the narrow stone corridor, plucking at the laces of her jerkin as she ran. Four circular half towers had been abutted to the four corners of the main keep, one of which housed her parents’ private apartments. Her brothers occupied the northeast tower, with its view of the valley and the village of Amboise. She and her sisters faced the northwest and overlooked a perilous drop down the cliffs to the river below. When Eleanor and Isobel had married two years ago, they had taken over the fourth tower, leaving the rooms they had formerly occupied to be divided between Brenna and Rhiannon, with Brenna staking claim to all of the second story and its spiral access to the upper solar and roof.

Her chamber was large, but sparsely furnished with a bed, a few chests that held her clothing, a writing table, and two chairs. Because it was above the practical line of defenses, it also boasted two long, deeply set windows with wooden benches built into the stone embrasures. Her personal serving woman, Helvise, had anticipated her arrival and already prepared a welcome. A small tub of hot water was waiting and a fire had been built in the hearth—another renovation, so recently completed the surrounding stonework of the fireplace was not uniformly blackened by smoke and heat. The walls of the chamber had been whitewashed after the masons finished, and colorful renditions of roses and fleurs-de-lis had been painted on each square to signify a feminine presence. For all that Brenna noticed or cared, they might have been target circles and put to far more practical use.

She quickly finished undressing and stepped into the steaming tub of hot water. Helvise was waiting with cloths and brushes to help scrub away the muck that had seeped through her clothes. As the layers of grime and sweat were soaped away, the perfumed contents of several more buckets were poured over her charge’s head to run slick and shiny down her body. Coarse, thirsty towels of hemp were wrapped around her hair and more used to blot the water off her skin, accompanied by the occasional cluck of despair when a fresh scratch or recent bruise was discovered.

Helvise had been with the household since Brenna was a babe and had trained for her duties under the iron discipline of Goodwife Biddy. While she was forced to defend her lady’s sometimes wild behavior to the other servants, in the privacy of the tower rooms she despaired over her mistress’s refusal to acknowledge the natural beauty that could have had so often left men gaping after her like drooling pups. It was a rare occasion when her lady even took note of the mirror that hung on the wall.

“Do you think I look like a peasant?” Brenna asked, peering at her reflection now, trying to see herself through a pair of cool gray-green eyes.

“My lady?”

“He said I looked like a common peasant. Do I?”

“Who dared say such a thing, my lady? And surely not in front of anyone who would have cut his tongue out for the insult!”

“In truth … it was said in front of Robin and Will, who offered no argument at all—probably because they say it often enough themselves.”

“Oh, no, my lady—”

“Or at least think it.” Brenna dropped the towel she was holding under her arms and moved closer to the oval sheet of polished metal that hung beside the fireplace. Her shoulders were straight and square to be sure, not rounded by a life of humility. Her chin was held level and proud, her complexion—apart from the tanning and freckles—was clear of pocks and scars; her teeth were small and even and white from scrubbing faithfully with salt and fennel. She did not believe she could ever be called beautiful in the sense that her mother and sisters were beautiful, but neither did she think she was so ugly as to frighten small children into hiding. The rest of her body was … just a body, so far as she could determine. Full, firm breasts, a trim waist, hips and legs honed too taut to be truly feminine, but long and lithe and capable of a certain grace in movement.

Her hair was an entirely different matter. Graceless, wild-flown, and unruly, it was long and thick and, when not confined to braids, tended to scatter across her shoulders in an irrepressible mass of tawny curls. Between Helvise’s efforts with the towels and the heat from the fire, it was drying rapidly into a golden halo around her head and spreading out like burnished angel wings down her back.

“How sharp are the scissors tonight?” she murmured, fingering the end of a rebellious curl.

“Not nearly sharp enough to combat the heat of your mother’s wrath.”

“Ah, but one day when you are not here to guard over me … snip, snip, snip they will go.”

Helvise ignored the threat as she did almost every night and continued working with the brush and towel.

Brenna glanced at the bed. A plain white chainse and brown holland overtunic were waiting on the coverlet. Another slight twist of her head found the crisp linen wimple and boxlike coronet she loathed more than anything a free soul ought to be forced to endure.

“I think … I would prefer to wear something else tonight. Something … Eleanor would wear.”

Helvise’s arm stopped mid-brushstroke. “My lady?”

“The wine silk bliaud, methinks, if it can be found on the instant. With the blue chainse beneath. And toss that wretched wimple out the window! Fetch me something that does not feel so much like a pair of hands constantly throttling me.”

“My lady?”

“Exactly. They want a lady tonight, they shall see a lady. Quick!” She waved her hand. “Before I change my mind and descend the stairs dressed as I am.”

Helvise made a small sound in her throat and hastened to the row of wooden chests that contained all of Brenna’s clothes. She passed by the first two, knowing them to be full of shirts, leggings, tunics, and hose, and went to the smallest, the one tucked farthest in the corner with its leather straps so unworn they looked new. She found the tunic and the chainse. Both had been worn but once and then carefully folded and wrapped and laid to rest alongside the other garments of silk, samite, and lustrous cendal that found as much favor in their mistress’s eyes.

While Helvise shook out the creases and draped both garments across the bed, she kept glancing at Brenna, wary of being the victim of a prank. But no. She stood perfectly docile as the chainse of blue linen floated down over her head and settled like a cloud around her body. She even exhibited rare patience while Helvise took up her needle and thread and threw in a line of hidden stitches to fit the long sleeves fashionably tight to her wrists and forearms. The silk of the overtunic, so deep and rich a red as to be almost black, was designed to snugly mold the shape of her upper body, which it did with exceeding boldness. From the waist it widened gracefully in full, soft pleats so that when she walked, the hems of the both the bliaud and undertunic dragged several feet behind.

The sleeves of the burgundy silk were deliberately elongated and flared, requiring more fussing, first to tack them artfully into a cuff that would reveal the seafoam blue beneath, then to knot the trailing points into rose-shaped clusters to prevent them from trailing on the floor. An elaborately embroidered girdle of gold samite was passed around her waist, further emphasizing her decidedly feminine shape, and after crossing in back, the ends were draped forward over the hips and pinned to form a deep V over her belly.

On Brenna’s impatient orders, the damp abundance of her hair was wrestled back into a long braid and wound into a coil at the nape of her neck. A delicate silk wimple was fitted loosely over her head and draped in airy folds beneath her chin. It was capped by a rose-colored veil and the whole held in place by a jeweled circlet of gold.

Helvise was holding her breath as she stepped back. The entire transformation from grimy ruffian to perfumed lady had taken just over an hour, a miracle by any church standards. To be sure there were more refinements that could have been added—jewels, brooches, rings—but the maid was not wont to press her luck by making any suggestions. She was happy just to nod her approval as Brenna fingered the hanging ends of the girdle and spun once, letting the silk lift and cream around her ankles again.

“Think you I am safe joining the rest of the household for supper now?”

“You could probably join the Dauphin of France and he would not find fault.”

Brenna laughed and put on the slippers Helvise had set out. They were stiff from lack of use and pinched her toes terribly, but she donned them without complaint and hurried down the tower stairs to the lower level. Just before bursting out onto the landing of the great hall, she slowed and folded her hands demurely in front, then peeked around the corner of the block wall. There was still food on the tables, for the evening meal often lasted upward of several hours, though some of the formalities lapsed after the main courses were served. Eleanor was standing behind her mother’s chair showing off some bit of embroidery on her sleeve. Richard and Dag had joined a table of knights below and were discussing the morrow’s training events over full tankards of ale. Rhiannon had moved closer to the middle of the dais and was staring longingly at Will with wide puppy eyes, trying to get his attention; Will, meanwhile was studiously avoiding the temptation and stood behind the Wolfs chair in anticipation of his lord wanting to retire for the evening.

Sparrow was still seated beside Griffyn Renaud, although the major part of his attention was fixed on the pile of bones he was picking clean in front of him. Renaud’s appetite had apparently not suffered either from the close quarters. There was a large quantity of bowls and boards in front of him, most of them empty but for crumbs, and as Brenna watched, he was tearing up the last few squares of his trencher and enjoying every last gravy-soaked hunk he put in his mouth. Beside him, Robin was refilling both their goblets and laughing as he pointed to another full slice of bread in the basket.

Renaud declined, however, and leaned back in his chair. He was rubbing his hands over his belly and offering up a complimentary belch of satisfaction as Brenna came down the stairs and swept past. She saw him glance over … then glance over again when she stopped in front of Lord Randwulf and Lady Servanne and favored them with a perfectly executed curtsy.

“My lord father, my lady mother; I trust this meets your approval?”

The Wolf stared so long and so hard—as did the rest of the gathered assembly whose silence spread like a slow wave down the length of the great hall—two pale rosettes of color bloomed on Brenna’s cheeks.

“I keep forgetting how beautiful you can be when you put your mind to it,” her father said finally.

“A kind thing to say, but unnecessary. I only wore this to remind you that I am perfectly capable of representing the noble house of Amboise.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Neither your mother nor I would argue your capabilities, daughter. We are only leaning toward caution. These are not normal times. With all the political unrest, the plottings and intrigues of both the French and English kings … the tournament will draw the worst of men as well as the best. The chateau itself is not safe. It has too many dark niches and high ramparts, too many shadowy corners for trouble to hide.”

“Trouble?” Sparrow snorted and reached across Renaud to stab the point of his eating knife into a delectable morsel of poultry left on a board. “Infested and overrun, mores the like. With scullions and fools, trulls and trollops, throat-slitters and sin-eaters who would do more for the promise of a coin than you or I could do for want of imagining. All this as well as blood sport, drunkenness, debauchery …”

Brenna set her jaw. “I have seen—and drawn—blood before. I have also witnessed drunkenness and debauchery right here within the walls of our own castle. A full week of it, as I recall, following the victory at Roche-au-Moines.”

“Ah yes,” Richard commented from behind. “But the men of Amboise know and respect your skill with a dagger and shortsword.”

“The men of Château Gaillard will know it too if they press me too close.”

“There will be other tournaments.”

“Indeed there will,” she said, glaring at him. “For you as well. There is no portentous need for you to throw yourself down a jousting run at Gaillard. Not with your head cracked and both eyes blackened.”

“There is nothing wrong with my head or my eyes.”

“Not at the moment there isn’t,” she said succinctly.

Lord Randwulf tried to take control again, but it was difficult to do with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was Lady Servanne who offered up a sigh as she slipped her hand into his. “You really should try to hold your pride a little closer to your chest, my love.”

He raised her hand, kissed it, and pressed it over his heart. “It already is as close as I can possibly hold it.”

Brenna wrinkled her nose in Richard’s direction and walked around to take her place at the table, which happened to be only two seats away from Griffyn Renaud. She was aware of the pale jade eyes following her, but when she glanced over to challenge his impudence, he had already wisely turned away.

He had to look away. It was either that or leave the table, which would only offer up more reason for her to be suspicious and hostile. In the forest, staring down the shaft of an arrow, all he had seen were those huge violet eyes, dark and sparkling with the desire to run him through. He had not doubted for a minute that she was fully capable of doing it, and the knowledge had tempered his anger, changed it to curiosity more than anything else.

He could have overpowered her at any time, of course—at least, he told himself he could—though the demonstration with the longbow had certainly prompted him to err on the side of caution. He had called for only a small effort on Centaur’s part to unseat her, and the fact she not only remained on the stallion’s back but seemed damned accustomed to being there had kept him playing the game if only to find out who she was, where she had come from, how she had come by the skill and nerve needed to sneak up on him and disarm him like a petty thief.

Discovering her to be the sister of Robert Wardieu and the daughter of La Seyne Sur Mer had explained a great deal.

Discovering there was more to see beneath the forest grime than just suspicions and surly accusations had caught him off guard a second time, and he had found himself gawping at her like a fool. Her skin was smooth, flawless, and when her mouth was not flattened in a scowl it was proportioned lushly enough to evoke unhealthy thoughts in a man who had not sampled such earthly pleasures in an overly long time. He had only gained an impression of breasts beneath the mannish leather jerkin, but he could see now they were large enough and shapely enough to push impudently against the confining layers of silk. A small waist and narrow hips recalled the long, slender legs that had enough strength in them to hold the temper of a warhorse.

What could they do with a man between them?

He shifted uncomfortably on his seat. He had eaten a quantity of good, rich food and consumed far more wine than he normally permitted himself. He had to move, get away from all this stifling family camaraderie before it clogged his throat. Talk at the table had turned to the upcoming haslitude, and he knew he was expected to contribute to the enthusiasm and excitement, but frankly, he was not going to Gaillard to play any more games. And talk was just that: talk. The proof came when two men stared at each other through the slats of their visors and waited for the marshal to signal the joust to begin.

“The only things in life which can be truly counted upon,” Robin was saying, “are one’s faith in God, in the lady you wed, and obedience to the laws of knighthood. The only truly great pleasure is to measure your strength in honorable combat with one of equal rank and birth. And I dare swear,” he added, raising his cup for a toast, “there is no sunset as lovely as the sharp, cutting edge of a sword.”

“Aye!”

“Hear, hear!”

A chorus of similar sentiments gave the men an excuse to drain and refill their cups. It also signaled the end of a relatively long dinner hour, and the Wolf pushed painfully to his feet, amiably passing his hosting duties on to his sons. But instead of sitting back down when the lord and his lady wife had gone, Griffyn stretched his arms wide and feigned a hearty yawn.

Robin noticed. “You have had a tiring day.”

“My legs are unaccustomed to forced marches.”

“Ahh yes, you mentioned the need earlier for a hot bath and a pair of helping hands.”

“I am not pressed. It can wait until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Robin said, grinning, “I plan to see what stuff you are made of. You will need a run or two to warm your blood before Gaillard. And I am curious to know if you are as good as I remember.”

Griffyn smiled. “I would be more than happy to ease your curiosity, my lord, but I would fear the repercussions if I was too successful.”

Robin followed his gaze to where Brenna was watching them both over the rim of her wine goblet. “You will have to excuse my sister. She is suspicious of all men by nature and even more so of strangers.”

“The reward on your head?”

“Partly because of that.” He nodded. “Assassins and spies have been sprouting up throughout the countryside like mushrooms, many of them well paid just to survive a night in the village.”

Griffyn looked around, noting again the not altogether casual placement of guards at either end of the dais. “And she thinks I might be one or the other?”

Robin spread his hands in a gesture of complaisance. “My father carries a reward of nearly ten thousand marks on his head, dead or alive. My stepbrother Eduard and I are not so valuable dead, but there are warrants and charges of treason that would pay a great deal to someone canny enough to bring us before the King of England to stand trial.”

Renaud kept his face carefully blank as he looked over at Brenna. “Has your opinion of me changed at all, my lady?”

“Once an opinion is formed,” she said evenly, “it requires a good deal of persuasion to change it.”

“Should I take that as a personal challenge?”

She shrugged. “Take it however you wish, sirrah. We have all survived quite well without your friendship thus far; it would serve no purpose to grovel for it now.”

“Your lack of faith wounds me, demoiselle.”

“I have no doubt you will endure without it.”

Sandwiched between them, Sparrow chortled through a mouthful of sugared figs. “If you think to win a war of words with a woman, you have indeed been in the wilds of Burgundy overlong.”

“In this, we concur,” Griffyn murmured, and turned to Robin again. “If I give my oath not to kill anyone or spy through any keyholes, could one of your men show me where I might put my head down for the night?”

Robin laughed and beckoned to his squire, the fourteen-year-old son of a neighboring lord who had been fostered into his care to train for knighthood. “Timkin here will take you first to the bath house and see that you are provided with everything you need to ease the sting of my sister’s tongue. We have an excellent herb woman— Margery—with knuckles like small hammers and unguents that can burn away the most persistent aches. I myself will probably call upon her services later tonight.”

“Why?” Sparrow demanded. “You seem hardy enough aside from the glowing egg on your head. How did it come to be there anyway? You were unmarked when you left my care this morning.”

Robin touched the scabbed gash on his forehead. “ ’Tis nothing. A small clumsiness.”

“Hah! A tree, no doubt, caught you looking the other way?”

“Something like that.” Robin’s cheek gave another small twitch. “At any rate—”

“At any rate you could have found better things to do a sennight before a tourney than running out your legs and cracking trees with your head. For that, you will belong to me on the morrow. I do not like the way you have been waving the lance thither and yon at the quintain; you missed the mark three times this week!”

“Out of forty passes!”

“Do you think you will have an easier time at Gaillard? Every clanking booby with a sword to rattle will be thrumping the challenge shield to have at you! One miss there will put your arse over the palisade and your teeth through your tongue before you can clap a hand to your face and decry the forty good passes that went before!”

Robin cursed under his breath and shrugged at Griffyn. “You see what I must endure? Escape while you have the chance and enjoy your solitude. Timkin, certes, has never been known to talk an ear off.”

Verdelay offered no protest. He took his leave and followed the boy out of the great hall, half expecting the dwarf and a dozen guards to accompany them. As they stepped into the crisp night air, he looked about him with a fresh eye toward the castle’s defenses. There were sentries armed with swords and crossbows positioned every twenty paces or so along the wall-walks, and a fire blazing in the bailey, bright enough to wash out any shadows in front of the only way in and out of the keep. There was no need to keep him under heavy escort. His every move would be watched and noted by a score of anonymous faces above.

Ten thousand marks was a lot of money. He was surprised he had made it this far without having to kill someone.