In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,68
could be found. She looked and felt the part of a red-nosed dullard, and there were areas of her body that already itched so abominably she dared not let herself wonder from whose lice-infested wardrobe he had commandeered the rags.
In another way she welcomed the misery for it would be a constant reminder of his warped sense of self-importance and would make it that much easier to ignore him whenever he was in her presence—the latter not a difficult challenge, since it seemed he had made the same resolve. Her best efforts at frosty disdain were wasted on the broad expanse of his back.
The sixth member of their group had caused the most debate. Were Robert d’Amboise any other than Eduard’s own half brother and La Seyne Sur Mer’s legitimate heir, a second thought would not have been given to a squire accompanying his lord. But he was Eduard’s brother, and he was the Wolf’s heir, the child conceived in the magical waters of the Silent Pool, and the one Sparrow claimed was destined for great things in the future. The Wolf himself had paled somewhat when Eduard had quietly alerted him to the dilemma. To leave him behind would show a lack of confidence that would humiliate him to the core. To take him along could put any future at dire risk—a risk FitzRandwulf was not altogether certain he was willing to take.
Robert’s strongest ally, oddly enough, had been his mother, Lady Servanne, who had reminded them all, with her heart in her throat, that a battlefield was no less dangerous than a trek through England and Wales, and that neither her husband nor Eduard had objected to Robert’s presence at Blois. Moreover, the blood of the two most courageous men Robert knew flowed through his veins and he looked upon the plight of Ariel de Clare as a chivalric adventure of the highest order. Safeguarding her from the king’s clutches, delivering her to her one true love—a royal prince of Wales, forsooth—was a quest clad in shining armour and he would not be deterred by anything less than sheer brute force.
Thus, Robert d’Amboise stood in the cold and dampness of the morning light, his shoulders padded under layers of wool and leather, his throat muffled by a scarf woven by Biddy and bound to him with a tearful vengeance, laced with many warnings, emphasized with an emotional vigor that had come close to bruising him.
Lastly, there was Sparrow. His lithe, wood sprite’s body was clad in forest colours of green and brown, his only armour a modified vest made of stitched plates of stiffened bullhide. He stalked around and between the horses’ legs, poking here, adjusting there, muttering to himself at each turn, and in louder tones whenever anyone was foolish enough to lend an ear. The young Welshman was targeted twice; once when he was supervising the loading of a small mahogany writing box onto the back of the packhorse—a waste of space they could ill afford, Sparrow declared—and again when he had declined to bow his head for the priest’s blessing—an act that surely identified him as a Celtic devil-worshiper, drinker of blood, purveyor of doom …
“Sparrow,” Eduard interrupted with a sigh, “is all in readiness?”
The little man planted his booted feet wide apart and glared up. “The boysters are loaded, the firmacula are firm. Freebooters are well on the roads by now, laying in their ambuscades waiting for purses to filch and throats to cut. If we delay much longer, we might as well announce our departure with trumpets and tumblers.”
Eduard turned to his father. “If God and luck be with us, we should be well beyond Tours by noon.”
“I would feel better if a troop guarded your back at least as far as the border of our lands.”
“At the first sight of black and gold on the road west, the rumours would start to fly. Ten men would be reported as a hundred, then a thousand.”
“Aye,” Sparrow snorted. “And from there the buzzing would grow and swell until it foretold an army on the move, striking blood and thunder in its path. The king would change his hose at every toll of the bells; each town and port would be put on its guard and our fine, noble cockerel would be clapped in irons the instant he shewed his pretty face anywhere near St. Malo.”
“It was only a suggestion,” the Wolf said dryly. “But you are probably right. The spies are as thick as