by Lynn Kurland
Robin wondered if it would be a mark against him to lock his grandmother in one of the guard tower upper chambers, far away from the keep proper, of course, where he could not hear her foul cursing of him. He could leave her there only so long as necessary—say until she tired of her current schemes and vowed to return home quietly.
“Dancing,” Joanna stated firmly.
Robin shook his head. “I will not—”
“Aye, you will.”
“Grandmère, I’ve business to attend to that cannot be entrusted to one of your frilly fools!”
She looked at him. Robin could see her thoughts whirling in her head and it gave him a bit of an unsettled stomach.
By the saints, she was a dangerous woman.
She nodded briefly. “Very well, then. Finish it by matins.”
“Impossible. This afternoon, at the earliest.”
“Noon, and not a moment longer, lest I be forced to drag you in by your ear.”
Robin had several very vivid memories of his elegant grandmother doing just that in his youth, so he rubbed his ear protectively and glared at her. “I cannot possibly—”
“Learn to dance? Of course you can. Even your grandsire, God rest his soul and his cloddish feet, could sketch out a few steps after some instruction.”
Robin paused. “How much instruction?”
His grandmother ignored the question and that convinced him that he was facing another day of complete misery.
“Noon,” she said, rising. “Do not be late.”
Robin watched her leave the chamber and as he looked at the door, another thought occurred to him.
He was almost certain he’d bolted it behind him the night before.
He scowled. Either he had slept like the dead because he’d been overwhelmed by his own perfumed stench, or his grandmother knew things she shouldn’t and possessed skills no woman of her age should.
He didn’t want to speculate on which it was, for either alternative was unpalatable.
He rose. Best use his time wisely whilst he had command of his fate.
He finished training at noon. He’d toyed with the idea of remaining out in the lists for yet awhile, just to see if his grandmother would actually make good on her threats. The other reason he’d been tempted was that Baldwin of Sedgwick had not deigned to grace them with his presence that morn and such had pleased Robin enormously. He had learned from one of his father’s men that Baldwin had departed for points unknown the night before, which likely should have given him pause. But Baldwin was like unto cesspit odor, ever present and only disappearing long enough to catch a body unawares when it returned in its full glory. Robin suspected his cousin would blow back into the keep soon enough. For now, Robin was merely enjoying the respite.
Unfortunately his respite from his grandmother’s torture was now over. There was no point in avoiding what she wanted him to do. He trudged back to the keep grimly, wondering just how well he would fare with her lessons in dancing. He’d danced a time or two over the course of his score-and-four years, but it had never been a pleasant event—either for him or the ladies so cursed to have him partner them.
Perhaps he had inherited his grandfather’s cloddish feet.
Joanna was standing at the top of the steps leading up to the great hall, tapping her foot impatiently.
“I am not late,” Robin growled at her.
She bestowed a smile upon him. “Indeed you are not. I was just preparing my feet for a vigorous lesson today.”
“My feet would be much happier to find themselves propped up on a table where they could enjoy the music without having to participate.”
Joanna took his arm and drew him into the hall. “Never fear, grandson. They’ll find this much to their liking. First, though, we must put them in something more suited to dancing. Booted feet never a happy maid made.”
He scowled at her. Had she invented that fiendish statement on her own, or was it something handed down from generation to generation of women bent on torturing their men with such frivolous behaviors? Even he, though, could see the logic of it. Better to step on Anne’s feet in something besides his boots.
Robin found himself led over to the hearth where he was pushed into a chair, his boots removed and flimsy slippers placed up on his feet.
“Dancing slippers,” one of his grandmother’s peacocks sighed rapturously.
“Perfect,” Robin muttered under his breath. Indeed, he muttered several things as his grandmother’s little group of minstrels tuned their instruments and did whatever minstrels did to prepare themselves for a hearty round of torture. Robin had no musical gifts, nor much of an ear for it, so it all sounded like screeching to him.
He looked about the great hall and was somewhat relieved to find it empty. Well, save his grandmother’s entourage. But there were no servants, no men-at-arms to see his humiliation. He lifted an eyebrow. Perhaps he had given his grandmother too little credit. She might have been bent on humiliating him privately, but at least she had made some little effort to save his pride publicly.
And then his grandmother cleared her throat.
The musicians ceased and all eyes turned to her. Robin looked at her as well. He knew she would likely pull his ear if he didn’t.
She gestured expansively toward a cluster of souls near the middle of the floor in the great hall.
“Behold your dancing master,” she said. “Wulfgar.”
The gaggle parted. Robin felt his jaw go slack. He could scarce believe what he was seeing.
The man standing there cracking his knuckles enthusiastically was taller than Robin by no doubt half a head, and perhaps even broader through the chest and arms. He looked more suited to lifting mailed knights over his head and heaving them great distances than he did capering about to music.
“He will, of course, expect your full cooperation,” Joanna said happily.
Robin rose with a sigh. He could take the man, of course, for he had no doubts of his own skill. But it would be a messy business and there would be a great deal to clean up off the hall floor afterwards. Besides, if a lout this size could learn to dance, perhaps Robin would find himself not unable as well.
He found himself relieved of his weapons suddenly and he submitted. Then he crossed the great hall, folded his arms across his chest, and gave his dancing master his most formidable glare.
“Get on with it,” he commanded.
The man made him a bow. “As you will, my lord. And as you can see, if I am able to move about so gracefully, so should you be likewise able.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Think of it as a battle, my lord,” Wulfgar continued in a gravelly voice that sounded more accustomed to bellowing orders than gently instructing prancing steps, “and think of your body as your troops.”
Robin stroked his chin. War? Aye, this was something he could understand.
“Your goal, my lord, is to negotiate the battlefield as delicately as possible, guard your lady as you go, and reach your goal.”
“Which would be the finish of the song?” Robin asked darkly.
Wulfgar laughed, a hearty laugh that made Robin think of tankards of ale shared in wayside inns after a successful siege. He felt immediately warm and comfortable and even managed a smile.
“Aye, my lord,” Wulfgar said. “There is that as well. Now, let us begin.”
Well, at least he wasn’t required to clasp hands with the man as if they’d been lovers. Wulfgar maintained a perfect warriorly distance as he showed Robin what he needed to do.
Even so, Robin suspected it would be a very long afternoon.
But he was no coward. And if Wulfgar the Large could do the like, so could he.
Though he had to admit, once a small rest was called for, that this dancing business was much more difficult to do correctly than he had dared believe before. He stood there, panting, his head spinning with dancing strategies, patterns, and tactics.
By the saints, ’twas enough to give a ma
n pains in his head.
Not to mention his feet.
Robin walked gingerly to the high table only to see a sight that simultaneously brought a flush to his face and a chill to his veins.
Anne was sitting on the bottom step, her elbows on her knees, her chin on her fists, watching him.
Robin came to a dead halt. How bloody long had she been observing him? He wasn’t sure if he should shout at her or ask her if she thought him skilled. He shut his mouth with a snap and scowled.
And then another thought occurred to him. Would Anne be able to do any of these steps with her leg? He’d learned many intricate caperings that morning. Would she be equal to them?
But before he could decide anything, he caught sight of his grandmother hastening to Anne’s side.
“He learned well, didn’t he?” she asked.
Anne smiled. “Aye, Lady Joanna. He’s very skilled.”
Robin paused and considered. Kind words from his lady. There was something in that.
“Come, my dear,” Joanna said, raising Anne to her feet. “Come try a turn or two with him.”
Robin wanted to bid his grandmother be silent, but perhaps she knew better than he what Anne could do where this dancing was concerned.
He found himself suddenly with his lady’s hand in his and his mind completely free of all the things he’d recently learned.
Damnation.
When it was clear to everyone including Anne that he was hopelessly lost, Joanna bid the screechers of song and pluckers of lute strings cease. Wulfgar was summoned again to the center of the hall. Robin took Anne’s right side and Wulfgar took her left and Robin watched his dancing master as they rehearsed their steps again. And as they did, Robin realized how ingenious his grandmother had been in her choice of things for him to learn. He did a great deal of foolish prancing about, but Anne was required to do little but walk a bit and look lovely. The dancing steps she took were graceful and she seemed to enjoy them, but he suspected they wouldn’t tax her overmuch.
And when he was finally released from his tortures and allowed to take his place at high table, he escorted his lady there and sat with a happy sigh. He was vastly relieved to be off his feet.
Until, that was, his grandmother approached purposefully.
“We’ll dance again tonight,” she announced. “That Robin might trot out his hard-won skills.”
Robin scowled, but realized he had no recourse. Besides, a sliding glance Anne’s way revealed that she didn’t look opposed to the idea.
Dancing.
He only hoped it was the last of the tortures his grandmother had in mind for him.
34
Anne sat in the alcove of Gwen’s solar and enjoyed a bit of peace and quiet. She’d pulled the curtain across to give herself privacy, something she rarely did lest she offend everyone else in the chamber. But Artane’s ladies had been dispatched to various locations unknown, Joanna was off marshalling her last reserves of patience by indulging in a nap, and the saints only knew where Robin was. She’d seen Jason earlier and he told her, as he headed toward the kitchens where any sensible boy of ten-and-six went when given leave, that he was enjoying a day of liberty and had no idea where his master was.
Anne could only hope Robin wasn’t in the village, bedding as many willing wenches as possible.
Now, with her precious privacy, she could give herself over freely to the contemplation of her situation. She stared out the window and smiled to herself. Who would have thought that Robin of Artane, of all people, would have put himself through such travails just to please her? Her father would certainly have been surprised by it, Amanda appalled, and Nicholas—well, Nicholas would have laughed himself to death, and that would have sparked several battles between the two so perhaps ’twas best Robin had made his forays into fine-lorddom by himself.
The curtain moved suddenly as if set to flapping by a stiff breeze. Anne jumped in spite of herself. Then she heard the voices in the chamber and relaxed. Her attacker was dead and her husband was on the other side of the cloth. She was safe.
“Very well,” Robin said heavily. “Let us have this over with.”
“My lord,” said a voice whose beauty just in speaking made Anne catch her breath, “skill with the lute cannot be acquired if ‘having it over with’ is all you are willing to dedicate to its mastery.”
“And how could skill with the lute possibly serve me?” Robin demanded. “It certainly won’t save my neck—or my lady’s if that romantic notion suits you better, ah, you, um, Master Lutenist.”
“Geoffrey, my lord.”
“Ah,” Robin groaned, “not another one.”
Anne smiled. There was no mystery regarding Robin’s feelings for her sire. She settled back to listen, wondering greatly how it would all play out. She sincerely hoped Robin wouldn’t decapitate the minstrel. He had a beautiful voice and for that alone he should be forgiven his part in Lady Joanna’s scheme.
“Two lutes?” Robin complained. “By the saints, man, have you no mercy? There’ll be no rest for me at all if you’ve two of those bloody things.”
“One for me,” Geoffrey said smoothly, “and one for you, my lord. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to take the instrument. Hold it thusly, there you have it. Well done, my lord!”
“Leave off, will you?” Robin said crossly. “Even I can manage to hold it. ’Tis the playing of it that I’ll never manage.”
“If you can wield a sword, you can play the lute,” Geoffrey promised.
“Hrmph,” Robin grunted. “Is that what you say to all the half-wits who find themselves in your vile clutches?”
Geoffrey laughed and it sounded more like a waterfall than a man’s voice. Anne was half tempted to peek around the curtain and make certain her husband wasn’t about to be enspelled by a faery or sprite from the woods. Surely no mortal man possessed such a beautiful voice. Joanna had very fine taste indeed.
“We will learn a ballad first, my lord,” Geoffrey said. “But two chords and easy ones at that. Here, watch you my fingers and place yours precisely so on your strings.”
Anne heard one strum of the lute and assumed, perhaps a little unkindly, that it hadn’t been Robin to produce that sound. His next words confirmed it.
“Bloody hell, man, how do you expect me to fit my lumps of fingers on these spiderwebs!”
“Perseverance and patience, my lord. Perseverance and patience.”
Neither of which, Anne learned as the morning wore on, Robin possessed in much of an abundance. Robin’s cursing drowned out any hope of hearing anything else Geoffrey might have had to say.
“Take a deep breath, my lord,” Geoffrey said, loudly enough to be heard over Robin’s slander.
Robin, blessedly, was silent.
“One more time,” Geoffrey cajoled. “For your lady, my lord.”
Robin heaved a huge sigh of what sounded like immense frustration, then produced what might have been construed as a chord. There was an accompanying twang of a string struck improperly and, of course, the ever-present curse to follow, but at least it was an improvement.
“Well done, my lord!” Geoffrey exclaimed.
Robin was silent. Then he strummed again. It was quite a bit better that time; Anne wished desperately she could have seen his face.
“That wasn’t completely hopeless, was it?” Robin asked, with something akin to surprise in his voice.
“You’ve made great strides, my lord. You will make a fine lutenist if you’ve the mind to try.”
Robin snorted. “Nay, my brother plays much better than I ever could. There is no point.”
“Ah, but who would your lady prefer to hear? Your brother, my lord, or you?”
There was a goodly bit of silence. Then Robin spoke.
“Another chord or two, if you please, Geoffrey. I’m certain a handful of minutes at this each day could only improve my swordplay.”
“No doubt, my lord.”
Anne leaned back against the wall and listened
raptly to Robin’s efforts to master something that was completely beyond his normal experience. She was almost sorry when Geoffrey told him he thought that perhaps they should cease with their lute lessons, lest Robin learn too much in the first day and overwhelm his lady with his skill.
“Then I’ll be off,” Robin said, sounding rather relieved.
“Ah, but what of verse?” Geoffrey said quickly. “Surely you don’t want to neglect that.”
“Don’t I?”
“You don’t, my lord.”
There was a very heavy sigh and a thump, as if Robin had resumed his seat with extreme reluctance. “Very well. May as well plunge the dagger into the hilt while you’ve already begun your work.”
“Well done, my lord,” Geoffrey said. “I daresay you’ll find this quite easy as well.”
“If you say so,” Robin said doubtfully. “What first?”
“First you decide upon a subject for your verse. I daresay you would likely have the most to say about your lady, aye?”
“Aye,” Robin said.
And Anne could have sworn she heard a bit of wistfulness in that aye. Then again she could have been imagining it. With Robin, one just never knew. It could have been indigestion from all that dancing after last night’s supper. She hadn’t seen him about that morn. Either he had found the guard tower to be a fine place to hide, or his feet were still smarting from all their hard work learning the task his dancing master had set before him and he’d been abed recovering. Anne had to smile over that. Poor Robin. He couldn’t help but be relieved when his grandmother turned her attentions to some other of Rhys and Gwen’s offspring.
“Now, if you were to say something about your lady, what would it be?”
“She is the most profoundly stubborn woman I’ve ever met.”
Geoffrey’s little gasp of astonishment only told Anne that he hadn’t spent all that much time with Robin yet. She pursed her lips. She could scarce bear the waiting until Robin truly found his tongue where she was concerned.
“But, my lord,” Geoffrey said, sounding rather aghast, “you must say something complimentary about her.”