Robin Hood: Fortune's Wheel - Chapter Nine
Title: Fortune's Wheel - Chapter Nine
Spoilers: through 2x11
Word Count: 6446
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: fisticuffs and naughty language
A/N: My apologies for such a long lull between chapters. Graduate school is a demanding taskmaster. Thanks to my beta, starbuck_a_dale, for her excellent eye for grammar and giving me an excuse to use 'whilst' : ) Part Two picks up exactly where Part One left off (January 7, 1193), but will have a greater focus on political machinations.
PART TWO
For the first time in the whole of his existence, or at least the year or so he’d been in the shire, Allan was glad to be going to Nottingham Castle. Though the early morning was bitterly cold, the day was fine: there wasn’t a cloud in the sky or a hint of a breeze, and the rising sun glinted and glittered off the frost that covered every leaf, stem, and stone. When the glare got too bright he could just close his eyes and enjoy the feel of sunshine on his face.
Guy and Marian rode together ahead, but Allan allowed a little distance between them and himself, content to keep well away from whatever was or wasn’t going on between them. Behind followed Guy’s men, who had begun to trickle back to Locksley after a few days spent with their families in surrounding villages. Allan was ready to chat after a week of awkward silence and tension so thick you could cut it, but most of the men slouched sleepily in their saddles, tugging muffs and hoods close around their faces.
He’d looked forward to the Christmas holiday, when Guy would be in a better mood because he didn’t have to be around the Sheriff-thus saving Allan from a good number of cuffings-when there’d be no one asking him to do anything he felt guilty doing, and there would (hopefully) be no talk of politics or war or dastardly plans. Allan had also managed to get on the bad side of one of the serving girls at the castle and was hoping a week or so away would cool her interest in throwing wooden spoons and rotted vegetables at him any time he showed his face in the kitchen.
He had been imagining long hours in front of the fire with his feet up, with dice games and wenches at the Trip Inn, a proper holiday. Allan had got that, but more because he’d wanted to spend as little time at Locksley as possible rather than simply wanting some pleasurable diversion.
Marian had walked around silent and white-faced as a revenant; Guy was in the worst mood Allan had ever seen him in. Being rather partial to his features in the places God had put them, he’d given Guy a wide berth and spent as much time in town as he could. But after awhile the wine was sour and he just wasn’t in the mood to tease the girls. Allan never used to let anything get under his skin and wondered when-and why-it started to mean something to him. Maybe he’d just been in one place for too long.
Finally, though, it seemed like things were starting to thaw. Perhaps that shouting match was really what they'd needed, though he'd have thought anyone brave enough to say what Marian had said to Guy would've needed balls bigger than his brains. But men were funny around women, and none funnier than Guy.
The pace of the Locksley party seemed to slow as they reached the last bend in the road, after which the walls and towers of Nottingham would be visible. Well, any person in their right mind would be reluctant to head there. Save him, it seemed.
The sun was completely above the horizon by the time they got to the castle. The city bustled as much as it ever did anymore, though it was as if the last remnants of holiday cheer had melted away when the bells had tolled vespers the night before. People kept their heads down, hoods up-a good practice at any time, really-and most of the holiday booths were already gone. Allan had never spent a winter in Nottingham, but even so he could tell it was going to be a long one. People had that look about them.
They paused before the castle gates. Guy and Marian, now riding abreast, exchanged some sort of look. Then Marian nudged her horse forward and they entered the courtyard.
“Hey!” a voice shouted from a window above them, “Sheriff wants to speak to you!”
Guy looked up, searching for the source of the voice. “You do not address me, nor the Lady Marian, in such a way! Learn some respect or I'll have it taught to you in a way you won't forget!”
After a moment, the voice responded, “Sorry, milord. The Sheriff will see you in the hall.”
Allan kept quiet as they dismounted and made their way into the castle, trying to get a better gauge of Guy's mood. Guy’s men broke off to find various occupations, productive or otherwise, until they were needed. The castle wasn't much warmer than the outdoors had been, but if Allan were lucky he might get to enjoy the roaring fires in the kitchen. Guy and Marian walked side by side without speaking, and Marian carefully held her cloak around her. Allan couldn't blame her. The thought of Vaysey often put a shiver in his bones.
Again, there was a pause before the doors of the hall. Another look exchanged, and Marian might have said something Allan couldn’t hear. Guy pushed open the door, and the three of them filed in. Allan wasn't sure he was even supposed to be here, but he'd rather be told to leave than hunted down and clouted for not being where they wanted him. Really, sometimes he thought he ought to be a mind reader to please them.
There was no one in the hall; the huge fireplace was dark. The Sheriff probably wanted to save money after everything he'd done for Prince John’s visit-though Allan was fairly sure he'd get it all back from taxing people, anyway. He leaned against the wall in a patch of sunshine and waited, eyes closed, trying to find pleasant thoughts to immerse himself in until he was jerked back to a less-than-pleasant reality. Marian stood in the center of the room, eyes directed towards the high, narrow windows, and Guy leaned against the long table lost in thought. It was completely silent, and kind of creepy.
All three of them started when the upper door slammed open and Vaysey stomped down the stairs with a scowl on his face. “So Lady Meddlesome has returned! I hope there is a very good reason for this. Has she has suddenly had a political revelation and decided to donate her property to the cause of Prince John? Or perhaps she has seen the error of her ways and come to offer her apologies?”
Allen slid out of the sunlight and tried to find the deepest, darkest shadows he could.
Guy stood straight now, but he did not look at the Sheriff as he spoke. “My lord, it would be unseemly for Lady Marian to remain in the home of a man who is neither her kin nor guardian.”
Vaysey's scowl deepened. And then he laughed. “Christ, Gisborne, if I didn't know any better I would swear you had no balls at all. I practically hand her to you on a platter and you still can't get her to wed you.”
Allan shot a look at Marian; he knew the Sheriff needled her a lot but he was astonished that this didn’t provoke some sort of outburst.
Guy's shoulders were tight, tense, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. Vaysey crossed to Marian. He spoke quietly, but Allen could still make out his words. “No one else will have you, you know.” He blatantly looked her over; Marian lifted her chin defiantly, though her face was white. “Spoiled goods, and all.”
Allan's mouth just about dropped open. There'd been whisperings he'd dismissed-there were always whisperings about Marian and Guy, seeing as they flirted and fought their way through the castle-but what the Sheriff had just said and what the latest rumors had suggested tallied a little too well.
Marian didn't respond, and he couldn't tell if she was being smart-mouth shut, head down-about something for once or if she really didn't have anything to say. He'd learned that after awhile, you get to a place where the words just don't come any more. Vaysey turned away, moving towards his seat at the head of the table.
“Best to have married Gisborne when you had the chance. I doubt you'll find anyone willing to take you who would be so . . . indulgent. But,” he said brightly, clapping his hands together and sitting, “if you're here we'll put you to work. Same deal as last time, though watch the spending. Prince John will be back in a month with extra guests.” The Sheriff looked at Guy consideringly, then turned back to Marian. “Norwegians. An earl, I believe, who will need to be entertained as such.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Though intimidated might be a better word . . .”
Finally, Marian spoke. “So I am to impress and intimidate them, keep Prince John entertained, and save money, all during Lent? How am I to do that?”
Vaysey leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “That's not my problem. Oh, and if there's even a hint of trouble from you, you'll be in the dungeon in a heartbeat. And it is quite unpleasant this time of year.”
“But-”
The Sheriff sat up abruptly, his expression suddenly cold. “You don't get to protest. You’ve betrayed me more than once, you're lucky to be alive. Now shoo.”
Marian stood dumbly a moment, until Vaysey's eyebrows rose in impatience. Then she turned on her heel and hurried from the room. She paused, once, on the threshold, and was gone.
*
Marian seemed to take what little warmth there was in the hall with her when she left. Vaysey had watched her go, and as soon as the door slammed behind her his eyes shifted to Guy. They were the coldest brown eyes Guy had ever seen, looking him over with a mixture of disgust and disbelief. He was used to it, but he had not felt so affected by it since the first time Vaysey had had cause to chastise him, many years ago. This was the real reason he wore his leather-not to intimidate, though it did, or for fashion, in which he had little interest. It was because it was another skin between his own and the world, because its ridges and soft sturdiness reminded him of the boiled leather of a poor man's armor.
“Of any other man,” Vaysey said, slowly pushing his chair back and approaching him, “I would ask whether, having had the girl, he didn't want her any more.” He paused, and Guy could no longer meet his gaze. “But I know that is not the case here. I ought to get rid of her, she's a sickness for you.” He let his words hang in the air. “But I don't need men whose heads can be so easily turned by a woman. So get over it.”
Vaysey’s voice was hard and sharp, and close enough to Guy’s ear that it sent prickles down the back of his neck.
“If you are not man enough to take what you want, that's your business. I don't want to hear about it, I don't want to have any more problems because of it. I don't even want to know she's in the castle. Keep her out of my sight, and out of trouble. Do you understand me?”
Vaysey put a hand under Guy's chin, moving his face in line with his own. Guy nodded.
“Good. Because I will not be so lenient next time.”
Guy stared at the Sheriff. Lenient. Mad, Marian had said. Single-minded, he'd corrected.
Those brown eyes had always seemed assured; if not trustworthy, a steady path to power. Just do as you’re told, and you’ll get whatever you want. Was he right? Did his promises still hold weight after what had happened? So much was at stake, so many things balancing delicately with so much potential to succeed or fail spectacularly. Guy had suffered humiliation, to be sure, but he’d also become possessed of a manor and gained quite a bit of wealth. He held clout in the area. Surely things would be simpler, easier after John was in power and their position was secure, once Richard no longer drained money away from England with his stupid wars. Surely they wouldn’t need to rule with such a heavy hand when there was peace, he thought, remembering Marian’s words from the day before. What they did now was the means to an end.
So he tried to swallow away his misgivings-to forget Marian’s face, terrified in the candlelight, to forget how he’d felt, scared and naked in front of men he hated-and attended to what Vaysey had to say.
*
Marian concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as she walked through the halls of the castle. She did not want to see if the servants, guards, or staff were looking at her, nor did she desire to know if they avoided her gaze. She focused on the quiet taps her leather soles made on the stone floor, the scuffing as she went up the stairs, then tap, tap tap again to her room. She made to pull the key from her purse but then realized that the lock had been removed from the door. With just a light push of her hand, the door swung open. The hinges had been oiled as well.
If her room had been ransacked, there was no trace of it. The invasion of her privacy rankled, but she kept nothing damning here-that could be found, anyway-and any keepsakes or private correspondances she would have wanted to save had been lost in the fire at Knighton. Her room looked just as it had before the guests had descended upon Nottingham: Sarah had put away the guest beds, replaced the furniture, and changed her bedding. She must have known Marian had returned, for there was a basin of water and towels sitting out and a fire burning cheerily in the fireplace. Marian felt a pang of guilt at leaving her for over a week with scarcely a word. She resolved to make it up to her; a trustworthy servant would be difficult to replace.
Marian walked slowly into her room, unclasping her mantle and dropping it onto the bed. It was silent. She was alone. The strangeness of normality rose up around her, sticking in her throat and pressing against her chest. Then there was a knock on the door and Marian was able to swallow back the lump in her throat, to steady her voice enough to call out. She quickly bent over the basin, splashing icy water over her face and hands, then straightened to greet her visitor.
It was Sarah, with a tray in her hands. “Welcome back, my lady,” she said with a slight curtsey. Marian was able to smile a little. She was glad to see her, and the wonderful girl had brought a plate of cheese and rolls and a pitcher of warm mead. The smell of the bread, freshly baked, was comforting, and she suddenly realized how hungry the morning’s ride had made her. Had she eaten breakfast? She couldn’t remember.
“I’m glad you’re back, my lady,” Sarah said, setting out cup and pitcher on Marian’s desk. “Some thought you’d be back as Lady Gisborne, if you came back at all.” Marian felt her cheeks flame.
“I am not even betrothed to Sir Guy,” she said lightly, taking the cup and drinking deeply. The mead was sweet and sharp, heady and strong: exactly what she hadn’t known she wanted.
“Of course not, my lady. Audrey from the kitchens saw you under the mistletoe, that’s all. Hawise is always scolding her for her busy tongue.” Sarah stood and set aside the poker she’d been using to stir up the fire. “I’m . . . glad you still want me in your service. I was afraid I’d angered you when you didn’t send for me.”
Marian set her cup down. “Of course I do. I had . . . many things to attend to. But I missed your help.”
Sarah smiled at her. “I’ll fetch your things, milady.”
As her footsteps echoed down the hall, quickly muffled by the closing door, Marian again grew aware of the room around her and herself within it. Of the fact that she was alone again for the first time in days. That she had seen Vaysey, and hadn’t wept or wilted before him. That today she would unpack her things and then sit and maybe embroider, or spin-one of the hands at Locksley had carved her a little spindle of her own since she’d grown so adept at it-and try to make the hours pass as quickly as she could. She would pass Guy in the hallways and try to avoid the Sheriff; she would try to help Robin when she could again and everything would go back to what it had been before. Except it wouldn’t.
Suddenly Marian felt tired, bone-weary, too much so to even sit upright. She pushed the tray aside and lay her head and arms on the desk. Its surface, pitted from use but smooth with age, was familiar, comforting, and she ran her fingers along its uneven grain. What had happened in the past fortnight was all so much, the tides of emotion so intense that she wished momentarily for a reprieve from feeling.
Marian immediately chastised herself. The thought of that numb, silent week at Locksley sent a chill through her. She was not given to melancholy, and the fact that she'd been unable to escape it made her hands tremble-for she was still so close to the edge of succumbing. As the days in Nottingham went by, sliding one after the other in unremarkable succession, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, she found that she hadn’t quite escaped that grey space.
It slipped over her quietly, when she wasn’t on her guard, stilling her mind and weighing upon her chest. When she didn't give enough thought to her embroidery and let her mind wander; when she sat by the fire, drying from a bath; when she noticed the difference in the way Guy held himself around the Sheriff now (shoulders raised, back tense, always on the defensive).
And she fought it every single day. She worked as hard as she could; she made conversation with as many people she could bring herself to speak to in a day. Hours spent in the stables helped as well. At night she fell into bed, exhausted, but that fight was what made her push the covers back and swing her feet onto the floor in the morning.
Immediately after her return there were curious glances in her direction, the occasional whispers that slithered behind her when she left a room or silenced when she entered it, but they died down after the first few days. Left largely to her own devices as she was, having some time before she needed to work on preparations for the next visit, it was hard to ignore how oppressive the castle felt in the dead of winter. It was drafty and cold and dark; and no matter how high the fire was stoked or how many tapestries lined the walls, it was impossible to completely warm the chill and damp from one’s bones.
Vaysey had little inclination to encourage those cheerful winter diversions that made the long nights not seem so bad. When her father had been sheriff winter was hard but spirits remained high, with games and singing and a generous hand on the tap. Under Vaysey, the very walls seemed to press in, the passages to turn back on themselves. Dusk was the worst part of the day for it presaged night, and shadows pooled early in the corners of the castle. Instead of gathering in front of fires to chat and laugh at the end of the day, people huddled away from each other, keeping their voices low and their steps hurried. Mostly Marian kept to her room, which could be made relatively warm and pleasant, but when the isolation became unnerving she moved to common areas in search of company.
She often found someone to speak to: the daughter of a nobleman or merchant come on business; one of the old pensioners, former castle employees, who always seemed to be sitting by the fireplaces but whom she’d never really noticed before. Though she was no longer locked away in her own world, these conversations hardly made her feel more a part of the real world. It was only those rare moments, when she and Guy would pass in the corridor and meet gazes before they realized what was happening, that she felt consonance with another human being. She hated them, but she craved them, for the hollow look in his eyes reflected her own feelings with unnerving similarity.
*
Nearly a week after Marian’s return to the castle, whilst she was supervising the changing of wall hangings in the Great Hall one afternoon, the Sheriff’s audience hours were interrupted by a man in Vaysey’s own navy-and-azure livery. ‘Interrupted’ was not entirely correct, as people had long ago learned that they rarely got what they wanted from an audience with the Sheriff and sometimes even ended up worse than before, so much of the designated time today was simply Guy and Vasey huddled together discussing something in low tones that Marian wasn’t quite able to make out. The young man must have been new to the guard based on how proudly he wore his uniform.
“Sir, Geoffrey Red sent me to request an escort for his men through Sherwood for the approach to Nottingham.”
There was a pause.
“Your company is not due back for two days. Perhaps you collected your quota with astonishing expediency?”
“We received a message directing us to come back immediately, Lord Sheriff,” the guard responded, his voice a little less confident.
“And did that message have my seal on it?”
“I-I think so.”
Vaysey jumped to his feet. “You think so? You'd better decide quickly, because you've likely just played right into Robin Hood’s hands!”
Marian felt a surge of pity at the expression on the young man’s face, now pale as fine parchment.
“Where are the men now?”
“We left just at dawn, so they're probably three or four miles out now.”
“So they're already in the middle of the forest.”
“But Robin Hood never-”
“Just because Robin Hood has never attacked anyone in that part of the forest doesn't mean he won't start with you. I'll send a detachment back with you and you'd better wish like hell you get there before he does. Guy-”
“I'll go in the opposite direction.” Marian saw them exchange a glance, and she did not like the grim look on Guy’s face, the firm set of his mouth. He strode towards the doors, and as he passed her she could not help calling out to him. “Guy, what are you going to do?”
She cursed her error as he gave her a long, even, look. Then he turned away from her. “My job.”
*
Guy did not like the forest. He liked rolling green hills or the high heaths of his home: landscapes that were open, invigorating, with a long view in every direction. The forest was close and dark, with fingers of branches pulling at clothes and hair or obscuring the view, and nothing distinctive enough to serve as a landmark. One could easily get lost among the repetitious pattern of trees and the dizzying, dappled light. In the winter it was easier to see, but less easy to navigate. Luckily there was still enough snow on the ground that they would leave clear footprints, reducing the chances they would go in circles. But footprints also revealed their trail to other eyes.
The utter silence of the winter forest was eerie. Guy was quite aware of the possibility of being watched even as he looked for signs of outlaws, and he cursed Hood under his breath as his horse picked through the snow and fallen leaves. At least, he supposed, he wasn't in the oppressive atmosphere of the castle: outside, with his horse under him, doing what he'd been doing for the past four years, Guy almost felt his normal self-including that infuriating, unsettled feeling Hood always inspired in him.
His small group of men had spread through the forest in the latest area that they suspected the outlaws’ camp to be. They were out of hearing range, though Guy could still see the slashes of yellow on their sleeves here and there in the distance. Yet he knew all too well how quickly a person could be lost from sight in the forest, and how well Hood knew the ground.
A lone bird called, startling his horse. Silence. Guy peered around, but saw little more than wet tree and dirty ground. Then a twig snapped behind him and before he could turn something heavy knocked into the side of his head. His horse darted forward, and with the spots dancing before his eyes he couldn't hold onto the reins. He fell to the ground a moment after whatever had hit him-a purse, he thought dumbly, seeing silver coins scattered out before him on the forest floor. Guy strugged to clear his head, to catch the breath that had been knocked out of him with his fall. But before up and down had resolved themselves a black shape came over the sky and a fist met his face.
“Jesus fu-”
Another punch landed in his face and he threw his arms up blindly, catching hold of whatever he could of the figure above him and pulling. The figure lost balance and Guy rolled as it fell towards him, pinning his attacker against the ground. He pressed his hands hard on his adversary's arms, leveraging himself up to get a knee into the belly of his attacker, who flailed wildly below him. Finally Guy's head stopped spinning and his vision cleared to reveal none other than Robin Hood pressed below him into the forest floor.
“You fucking bastard,” Hood said, practically spitting such was the rage that infused his voice.
Though he had the upper hand, Guy felt fear shoot through him. The last time he'd seen Hood wear that expression there’d been a red-hot sword tip to Guy’s throat, and he’d been certain he was going to die. His mind raced. What had happened to cause this uncharacteristic personal attack? Then laughter bubbled up through his split lips. “What's the matter, Hood? Heard about King Richard? It'll be a while before he comes back to rescue you from the forest now.” Further taunts were prevented as the outlaw wriggled an arm free and swung it up square into his ribcage. Guy leaned back and punched him in the face, hard. His own head throbbed and he was fairly certain there was blood trickling down his cheek, but seeing the imprint of his fist in brilliant scarlet across the outlaw's face went a long way towards making up for it.
They struggled in the snow, Guy returning every one of Hood's precise, vicious attacks with equal force. He had plenty of pent-up emotions to tap into, plenty anger and fear and frustration he never looked at too closely, but which lent him extra vigor. He rained blows into the other man’s face, his stomach, anywhere he could land a punch or direct his elbows. It was delightfully satisfying, the blood pounding in his ears and the excitement of a fight rushing through his body. Then Hood managed to swing his feet up into Guy's stomach and pushed, and all that Guy saw was mud and branch and sky and suddenly Hood's face again, as he grabbed Guy's coat and pulled his fist back.
A familiar voice broke in at that moment, crying, “Master!” But Hood didn't hold back; he brought his fist down hard into Guy's face. There was a sickening crunch and blood immediately welled up from his nose and over his lips.
“Master, his men are coming!” The outlaw’s guard dropped for just a moment, but it was a long enough moment for Guy to draw his curved dagger from his sleeve and thrust forward. Hood cried out and jerked back. He swung his arm savagely, knocking the blade from Guy's grasp, and brought his elbow down into Guy’s stomach. Then Hood grabbed his coat again and jerked him forward, drawing Guy’s face close to his own angry, bloody countenance. “Know this. I will kill you before the Lord is risen. Make your peace now, you pathetic whoreson.” Then he let Guy fall and darted away through the trees.
By the time Guy got to his feet, red pulsing before his eyes, there was no sign of the outlaws. He barked at his men to follow the outlaw's trail though he doubted it would have much effect. He never had been able to find a good tracker to employ.
The ground immediately around him was a mess of mud and leaves, dotted with blood. Silver coins littered the clearing, some pressed into the mud and snow. Guy bent slowly to pick up the purse and his dagger, blood dripping from his face and staining the snow at his feet brilliant scarlet.
*
Marian hurried through the corridors of the castle, gathering up items for bandages, poultices, tisanes with only half a mind to what she was doing. Her heart beat heavy in her breast. Surely there would be some sign if Robin had been killed. Surely she was worrying needlessly. There were other bands of outlaws in the forest, after all, other people Guy could have encountered to cause him to return to the castle bloody and shouting. She paused outside the door to Guy's room for what could be the last moments of blissful ignorance. But she was not one to let fear direct her actions, so she raised her hand to knock.
Upon hearing a muffled voice, Marian pushed the door open. A cold realization cut across her nervousness: she had only been in this room once before. Then Guy roared, tearing her from her thoughts.
“Get away from me, witch!” he cried, jerking away from the serving girl who sat before him with a towel and a basin of water. She clutched at the basin to keep it steady; even so, its contents sloshed over her hands, pale red. Marian stepped into the room, startled at the extent of Guy’s injuries. She quickly turned her eyes to the girl. “I'll take it from here. Would you heat some water, please?”
Relief spreading across her face, the serving girl curtsied and left the room. Then Marian looked again to Guy. He looked surprised and gratified to see her, but she ignored his expression and instead catalogued his wounds.
It was the left side of his face that was the worst, so Marian dragged her chair to that side, careful to leave a little space between them. She did not like this, did not like being here, but she was desperate for information. And, she had to admit, having seen how his face alone looked, she felt bad for Guy. His face looked truly ghastly, the left side swollen from jaw to hairline and much of it a dull blue-purple that would mean bruises for weeks. His nose was likely broken. He held himself carefully in his chair, which signalled other, hidden wounds.
The serving girl hadn’t gotten far; dried blood still trailed over Guy’s left cheek and chin and down his neck. Marian realized then, following the path of the blood, that Guy wore nothing other than a soft linen shirt. Of course; his outer garments were likely soaked and soiled. Yet that did not serve to ease her.
“How are you?” she asked, wringing out the cloth. It was a stupid question, but the only one that came to mind. It would be folly to ask right out what she wanted to know.
“I’ve been better,” he said drily. Then he drew breath sharply as she swabbed at his swollen cheek. Marian worked as delicately as she could, though she knew any pressure at all on his face was going to hurt.
“Who did this to you?” she asked, concentrating on what she was doing, careful not to meet his eyes.
“Robin Hood,” Guy replied, with some emotion she couldn’t quite decipher. His response stopped her hand in midair and she met his eyes before she could help it.
He was watching her; he’d probably been watching her the whole time. It would have been difficult to avoid it, as she likely filled his field of vision, but what she told herself rarely affected how she felt about things. And then anger surged through her. It confirmed her fears: there was no way that this related to taxes, or chests of silver.
“Robin Hood did this to you?”
Guy nodded and then winced, as if he wished he hadn’t.
Robin had directly gone against her wishes, consciously and knowingly doing exactly what she’d asked him not to do. She pressed a little harder than she ought to have, and Guy hissed. With her resumed concentration on what she was doing the anger subsided a little, allowing fear to nibble at its edges.
“And what did you do to Robin Hood?”
“I gave him as good as I got.” A wolfish smile crossed Guy’s face. “And a bit extra he won’t be forgetting too soon.”
Marian tried very hard not to look alarmed. Robin could be hurt badly, but he wasn’t dead, and she was confident that between Much, and Djaq, and maybe some help from Matilda he would be properly cared for. With a spike of irritation she hoped that whatever it was, it would take a very long time to heal.
They lapsed into silence then. Marian attempted to focus on her work-it helped keep her hands steady-while Guy seemed lost in thought. Yet as the moments ticked on-where was that serving girl?-the awareness of other things crept into Marian’s consciousness: Guy’s labored breaths, the curls of hair that brushed her fingers when she lifted the cloth to his temple, the fact that she was alone in a room, this room, with him. She did not fear him, logically at least, but being so close set her pulse racing and her breathing shallow and quick.
He was hurt. She was good with herbs and poultices. That was all, she told herself firmly, a simple gesture of kindness. Marian exchanged the bowl of water for a mortar and pestle, and searched through her basket for a sack of willow bark.
“I think he’s gone mad,” Guy said softly, startling Marian out of her reverie. He continued looking in the fire, away from her, as he spoke. “He came out of nowhere, just started throwing punches.” Ah. Robin. “The news about the king must have unhinged him. He said he was going to kill me.”
Marian ground the willow bark rather harder than she needed to. “That’s not going to happen,” she said, more sharply than she intended. Guy turned his eyes towards her, and she met his gaze as impassively as she was able.
Then something changed in his expression. Since they had returned to the castle they had barely said two words to each other. There was little to say. Marian had been too wrapped up in her own thoughts, in her own struggles to get through the day, to think about how things had been between them before. In the weeks after Guy had learned she was the Night Watchman and she had agreed to stay at the castle, they had developed a level of comfort with one another, moments where Guy would reveal a dry sense of humor, or where Marian felt safe to speak something close to what she actually thought. It had been, she had to admit to herself, friendship. Very new, it had to be delicately handled, but it was the most honest thing that had passed between them and it had made the castle bearable. Not pleasant, but less dull, less wearing. And she found herself missing that.
But he always had to push too far. Guy reached out a hand; as hers were curled around a mortar and pestle he settled for her wrist. His fingers were cold. “Thank you,” Guy said. “I did not expect such kindness.”
Marian pulled her arm away, repressing the urge to pull her sleeve down over her wrist like a child would. She couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t trite, or a lie, or would make her rejection sting more. So she settled for a smile, as real as she could make it.
She should have gone with flippant words.
His eyes searched hers, and it took everything she had not to throw down the mortar and pestle and flee from the room. He always wanted things from her, and right now there was nothing in her to give, real or false. And, she feared, nothing to hide that.
The knock at the door was a blessed, blessed reprieve.
Guy withdrew abruptly. Marian felt a surge of relief but also, perversely, discomfort at seeing him disengage. What was it, exactly, that she wanted of him? She hid her confusion in her movements, setting down her tools and answering the door. The serving girl bobbed a curtsy and darted a nervous look at Guy over Marian's shoulder. Marian took the kettle and sent the girl away, not without reluctance.
Guy stared into the fire while Marian continued her preparations. Silence stretched and pooled between them, the only sounds in the room the crack of fire and the quiet splash of water as she mixed ground herbs into a cup.
She was lonely, she realized with a start.
“Drink this,” Marian said. Guy took the cup, and drank. “Come and see me tomorrow. You should rest now.”
Then she gathered her things, and left. Loneliness was a vulnerability.
*
The next morning Marian was startled when a sob of relief burst forth unexpectedly from her breast. Long-held tension melted away, leaving her boneless and weak. She had never been so glad to bleed.
Chapter Ten
Spoilers: through 2x11
Word Count: 6446
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: fisticuffs and naughty language
A/N: My apologies for such a long lull between chapters. Graduate school is a demanding taskmaster. Thanks to my beta, starbuck_a_dale, for her excellent eye for grammar and giving me an excuse to use 'whilst' : ) Part Two picks up exactly where Part One left off (January 7, 1193), but will have a greater focus on political machinations.
PART TWO
For the first time in the whole of his existence, or at least the year or so he’d been in the shire, Allan was glad to be going to Nottingham Castle. Though the early morning was bitterly cold, the day was fine: there wasn’t a cloud in the sky or a hint of a breeze, and the rising sun glinted and glittered off the frost that covered every leaf, stem, and stone. When the glare got too bright he could just close his eyes and enjoy the feel of sunshine on his face.
Guy and Marian rode together ahead, but Allan allowed a little distance between them and himself, content to keep well away from whatever was or wasn’t going on between them. Behind followed Guy’s men, who had begun to trickle back to Locksley after a few days spent with their families in surrounding villages. Allan was ready to chat after a week of awkward silence and tension so thick you could cut it, but most of the men slouched sleepily in their saddles, tugging muffs and hoods close around their faces.
He’d looked forward to the Christmas holiday, when Guy would be in a better mood because he didn’t have to be around the Sheriff-thus saving Allan from a good number of cuffings-when there’d be no one asking him to do anything he felt guilty doing, and there would (hopefully) be no talk of politics or war or dastardly plans. Allan had also managed to get on the bad side of one of the serving girls at the castle and was hoping a week or so away would cool her interest in throwing wooden spoons and rotted vegetables at him any time he showed his face in the kitchen.
He had been imagining long hours in front of the fire with his feet up, with dice games and wenches at the Trip Inn, a proper holiday. Allan had got that, but more because he’d wanted to spend as little time at Locksley as possible rather than simply wanting some pleasurable diversion.
Marian had walked around silent and white-faced as a revenant; Guy was in the worst mood Allan had ever seen him in. Being rather partial to his features in the places God had put them, he’d given Guy a wide berth and spent as much time in town as he could. But after awhile the wine was sour and he just wasn’t in the mood to tease the girls. Allan never used to let anything get under his skin and wondered when-and why-it started to mean something to him. Maybe he’d just been in one place for too long.
Finally, though, it seemed like things were starting to thaw. Perhaps that shouting match was really what they'd needed, though he'd have thought anyone brave enough to say what Marian had said to Guy would've needed balls bigger than his brains. But men were funny around women, and none funnier than Guy.
The pace of the Locksley party seemed to slow as they reached the last bend in the road, after which the walls and towers of Nottingham would be visible. Well, any person in their right mind would be reluctant to head there. Save him, it seemed.
The sun was completely above the horizon by the time they got to the castle. The city bustled as much as it ever did anymore, though it was as if the last remnants of holiday cheer had melted away when the bells had tolled vespers the night before. People kept their heads down, hoods up-a good practice at any time, really-and most of the holiday booths were already gone. Allan had never spent a winter in Nottingham, but even so he could tell it was going to be a long one. People had that look about them.
They paused before the castle gates. Guy and Marian, now riding abreast, exchanged some sort of look. Then Marian nudged her horse forward and they entered the courtyard.
“Hey!” a voice shouted from a window above them, “Sheriff wants to speak to you!”
Guy looked up, searching for the source of the voice. “You do not address me, nor the Lady Marian, in such a way! Learn some respect or I'll have it taught to you in a way you won't forget!”
After a moment, the voice responded, “Sorry, milord. The Sheriff will see you in the hall.”
Allan kept quiet as they dismounted and made their way into the castle, trying to get a better gauge of Guy's mood. Guy’s men broke off to find various occupations, productive or otherwise, until they were needed. The castle wasn't much warmer than the outdoors had been, but if Allan were lucky he might get to enjoy the roaring fires in the kitchen. Guy and Marian walked side by side without speaking, and Marian carefully held her cloak around her. Allan couldn't blame her. The thought of Vaysey often put a shiver in his bones.
Again, there was a pause before the doors of the hall. Another look exchanged, and Marian might have said something Allan couldn’t hear. Guy pushed open the door, and the three of them filed in. Allan wasn't sure he was even supposed to be here, but he'd rather be told to leave than hunted down and clouted for not being where they wanted him. Really, sometimes he thought he ought to be a mind reader to please them.
There was no one in the hall; the huge fireplace was dark. The Sheriff probably wanted to save money after everything he'd done for Prince John’s visit-though Allan was fairly sure he'd get it all back from taxing people, anyway. He leaned against the wall in a patch of sunshine and waited, eyes closed, trying to find pleasant thoughts to immerse himself in until he was jerked back to a less-than-pleasant reality. Marian stood in the center of the room, eyes directed towards the high, narrow windows, and Guy leaned against the long table lost in thought. It was completely silent, and kind of creepy.
All three of them started when the upper door slammed open and Vaysey stomped down the stairs with a scowl on his face. “So Lady Meddlesome has returned! I hope there is a very good reason for this. Has she has suddenly had a political revelation and decided to donate her property to the cause of Prince John? Or perhaps she has seen the error of her ways and come to offer her apologies?”
Allen slid out of the sunlight and tried to find the deepest, darkest shadows he could.
Guy stood straight now, but he did not look at the Sheriff as he spoke. “My lord, it would be unseemly for Lady Marian to remain in the home of a man who is neither her kin nor guardian.”
Vaysey's scowl deepened. And then he laughed. “Christ, Gisborne, if I didn't know any better I would swear you had no balls at all. I practically hand her to you on a platter and you still can't get her to wed you.”
Allan shot a look at Marian; he knew the Sheriff needled her a lot but he was astonished that this didn’t provoke some sort of outburst.
Guy's shoulders were tight, tense, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. Vaysey crossed to Marian. He spoke quietly, but Allen could still make out his words. “No one else will have you, you know.” He blatantly looked her over; Marian lifted her chin defiantly, though her face was white. “Spoiled goods, and all.”
Allan's mouth just about dropped open. There'd been whisperings he'd dismissed-there were always whisperings about Marian and Guy, seeing as they flirted and fought their way through the castle-but what the Sheriff had just said and what the latest rumors had suggested tallied a little too well.
Marian didn't respond, and he couldn't tell if she was being smart-mouth shut, head down-about something for once or if she really didn't have anything to say. He'd learned that after awhile, you get to a place where the words just don't come any more. Vaysey turned away, moving towards his seat at the head of the table.
“Best to have married Gisborne when you had the chance. I doubt you'll find anyone willing to take you who would be so . . . indulgent. But,” he said brightly, clapping his hands together and sitting, “if you're here we'll put you to work. Same deal as last time, though watch the spending. Prince John will be back in a month with extra guests.” The Sheriff looked at Guy consideringly, then turned back to Marian. “Norwegians. An earl, I believe, who will need to be entertained as such.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Though intimidated might be a better word . . .”
Finally, Marian spoke. “So I am to impress and intimidate them, keep Prince John entertained, and save money, all during Lent? How am I to do that?”
Vaysey leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “That's not my problem. Oh, and if there's even a hint of trouble from you, you'll be in the dungeon in a heartbeat. And it is quite unpleasant this time of year.”
“But-”
The Sheriff sat up abruptly, his expression suddenly cold. “You don't get to protest. You’ve betrayed me more than once, you're lucky to be alive. Now shoo.”
Marian stood dumbly a moment, until Vaysey's eyebrows rose in impatience. Then she turned on her heel and hurried from the room. She paused, once, on the threshold, and was gone.
*
Marian seemed to take what little warmth there was in the hall with her when she left. Vaysey had watched her go, and as soon as the door slammed behind her his eyes shifted to Guy. They were the coldest brown eyes Guy had ever seen, looking him over with a mixture of disgust and disbelief. He was used to it, but he had not felt so affected by it since the first time Vaysey had had cause to chastise him, many years ago. This was the real reason he wore his leather-not to intimidate, though it did, or for fashion, in which he had little interest. It was because it was another skin between his own and the world, because its ridges and soft sturdiness reminded him of the boiled leather of a poor man's armor.
“Of any other man,” Vaysey said, slowly pushing his chair back and approaching him, “I would ask whether, having had the girl, he didn't want her any more.” He paused, and Guy could no longer meet his gaze. “But I know that is not the case here. I ought to get rid of her, she's a sickness for you.” He let his words hang in the air. “But I don't need men whose heads can be so easily turned by a woman. So get over it.”
Vaysey’s voice was hard and sharp, and close enough to Guy’s ear that it sent prickles down the back of his neck.
“If you are not man enough to take what you want, that's your business. I don't want to hear about it, I don't want to have any more problems because of it. I don't even want to know she's in the castle. Keep her out of my sight, and out of trouble. Do you understand me?”
Vaysey put a hand under Guy's chin, moving his face in line with his own. Guy nodded.
“Good. Because I will not be so lenient next time.”
Guy stared at the Sheriff. Lenient. Mad, Marian had said. Single-minded, he'd corrected.
Those brown eyes had always seemed assured; if not trustworthy, a steady path to power. Just do as you’re told, and you’ll get whatever you want. Was he right? Did his promises still hold weight after what had happened? So much was at stake, so many things balancing delicately with so much potential to succeed or fail spectacularly. Guy had suffered humiliation, to be sure, but he’d also become possessed of a manor and gained quite a bit of wealth. He held clout in the area. Surely things would be simpler, easier after John was in power and their position was secure, once Richard no longer drained money away from England with his stupid wars. Surely they wouldn’t need to rule with such a heavy hand when there was peace, he thought, remembering Marian’s words from the day before. What they did now was the means to an end.
So he tried to swallow away his misgivings-to forget Marian’s face, terrified in the candlelight, to forget how he’d felt, scared and naked in front of men he hated-and attended to what Vaysey had to say.
*
Marian concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as she walked through the halls of the castle. She did not want to see if the servants, guards, or staff were looking at her, nor did she desire to know if they avoided her gaze. She focused on the quiet taps her leather soles made on the stone floor, the scuffing as she went up the stairs, then tap, tap tap again to her room. She made to pull the key from her purse but then realized that the lock had been removed from the door. With just a light push of her hand, the door swung open. The hinges had been oiled as well.
If her room had been ransacked, there was no trace of it. The invasion of her privacy rankled, but she kept nothing damning here-that could be found, anyway-and any keepsakes or private correspondances she would have wanted to save had been lost in the fire at Knighton. Her room looked just as it had before the guests had descended upon Nottingham: Sarah had put away the guest beds, replaced the furniture, and changed her bedding. She must have known Marian had returned, for there was a basin of water and towels sitting out and a fire burning cheerily in the fireplace. Marian felt a pang of guilt at leaving her for over a week with scarcely a word. She resolved to make it up to her; a trustworthy servant would be difficult to replace.
Marian walked slowly into her room, unclasping her mantle and dropping it onto the bed. It was silent. She was alone. The strangeness of normality rose up around her, sticking in her throat and pressing against her chest. Then there was a knock on the door and Marian was able to swallow back the lump in her throat, to steady her voice enough to call out. She quickly bent over the basin, splashing icy water over her face and hands, then straightened to greet her visitor.
It was Sarah, with a tray in her hands. “Welcome back, my lady,” she said with a slight curtsey. Marian was able to smile a little. She was glad to see her, and the wonderful girl had brought a plate of cheese and rolls and a pitcher of warm mead. The smell of the bread, freshly baked, was comforting, and she suddenly realized how hungry the morning’s ride had made her. Had she eaten breakfast? She couldn’t remember.
“I’m glad you’re back, my lady,” Sarah said, setting out cup and pitcher on Marian’s desk. “Some thought you’d be back as Lady Gisborne, if you came back at all.” Marian felt her cheeks flame.
“I am not even betrothed to Sir Guy,” she said lightly, taking the cup and drinking deeply. The mead was sweet and sharp, heady and strong: exactly what she hadn’t known she wanted.
“Of course not, my lady. Audrey from the kitchens saw you under the mistletoe, that’s all. Hawise is always scolding her for her busy tongue.” Sarah stood and set aside the poker she’d been using to stir up the fire. “I’m . . . glad you still want me in your service. I was afraid I’d angered you when you didn’t send for me.”
Marian set her cup down. “Of course I do. I had . . . many things to attend to. But I missed your help.”
Sarah smiled at her. “I’ll fetch your things, milady.”
As her footsteps echoed down the hall, quickly muffled by the closing door, Marian again grew aware of the room around her and herself within it. Of the fact that she was alone again for the first time in days. That she had seen Vaysey, and hadn’t wept or wilted before him. That today she would unpack her things and then sit and maybe embroider, or spin-one of the hands at Locksley had carved her a little spindle of her own since she’d grown so adept at it-and try to make the hours pass as quickly as she could. She would pass Guy in the hallways and try to avoid the Sheriff; she would try to help Robin when she could again and everything would go back to what it had been before. Except it wouldn’t.
Suddenly Marian felt tired, bone-weary, too much so to even sit upright. She pushed the tray aside and lay her head and arms on the desk. Its surface, pitted from use but smooth with age, was familiar, comforting, and she ran her fingers along its uneven grain. What had happened in the past fortnight was all so much, the tides of emotion so intense that she wished momentarily for a reprieve from feeling.
Marian immediately chastised herself. The thought of that numb, silent week at Locksley sent a chill through her. She was not given to melancholy, and the fact that she'd been unable to escape it made her hands tremble-for she was still so close to the edge of succumbing. As the days in Nottingham went by, sliding one after the other in unremarkable succession, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, she found that she hadn’t quite escaped that grey space.
It slipped over her quietly, when she wasn’t on her guard, stilling her mind and weighing upon her chest. When she didn't give enough thought to her embroidery and let her mind wander; when she sat by the fire, drying from a bath; when she noticed the difference in the way Guy held himself around the Sheriff now (shoulders raised, back tense, always on the defensive).
And she fought it every single day. She worked as hard as she could; she made conversation with as many people she could bring herself to speak to in a day. Hours spent in the stables helped as well. At night she fell into bed, exhausted, but that fight was what made her push the covers back and swing her feet onto the floor in the morning.
Immediately after her return there were curious glances in her direction, the occasional whispers that slithered behind her when she left a room or silenced when she entered it, but they died down after the first few days. Left largely to her own devices as she was, having some time before she needed to work on preparations for the next visit, it was hard to ignore how oppressive the castle felt in the dead of winter. It was drafty and cold and dark; and no matter how high the fire was stoked or how many tapestries lined the walls, it was impossible to completely warm the chill and damp from one’s bones.
Vaysey had little inclination to encourage those cheerful winter diversions that made the long nights not seem so bad. When her father had been sheriff winter was hard but spirits remained high, with games and singing and a generous hand on the tap. Under Vaysey, the very walls seemed to press in, the passages to turn back on themselves. Dusk was the worst part of the day for it presaged night, and shadows pooled early in the corners of the castle. Instead of gathering in front of fires to chat and laugh at the end of the day, people huddled away from each other, keeping their voices low and their steps hurried. Mostly Marian kept to her room, which could be made relatively warm and pleasant, but when the isolation became unnerving she moved to common areas in search of company.
She often found someone to speak to: the daughter of a nobleman or merchant come on business; one of the old pensioners, former castle employees, who always seemed to be sitting by the fireplaces but whom she’d never really noticed before. Though she was no longer locked away in her own world, these conversations hardly made her feel more a part of the real world. It was only those rare moments, when she and Guy would pass in the corridor and meet gazes before they realized what was happening, that she felt consonance with another human being. She hated them, but she craved them, for the hollow look in his eyes reflected her own feelings with unnerving similarity.
*
Nearly a week after Marian’s return to the castle, whilst she was supervising the changing of wall hangings in the Great Hall one afternoon, the Sheriff’s audience hours were interrupted by a man in Vaysey’s own navy-and-azure livery. ‘Interrupted’ was not entirely correct, as people had long ago learned that they rarely got what they wanted from an audience with the Sheriff and sometimes even ended up worse than before, so much of the designated time today was simply Guy and Vasey huddled together discussing something in low tones that Marian wasn’t quite able to make out. The young man must have been new to the guard based on how proudly he wore his uniform.
“Sir, Geoffrey Red sent me to request an escort for his men through Sherwood for the approach to Nottingham.”
There was a pause.
“Your company is not due back for two days. Perhaps you collected your quota with astonishing expediency?”
“We received a message directing us to come back immediately, Lord Sheriff,” the guard responded, his voice a little less confident.
“And did that message have my seal on it?”
“I-I think so.”
Vaysey jumped to his feet. “You think so? You'd better decide quickly, because you've likely just played right into Robin Hood’s hands!”
Marian felt a surge of pity at the expression on the young man’s face, now pale as fine parchment.
“Where are the men now?”
“We left just at dawn, so they're probably three or four miles out now.”
“So they're already in the middle of the forest.”
“But Robin Hood never-”
“Just because Robin Hood has never attacked anyone in that part of the forest doesn't mean he won't start with you. I'll send a detachment back with you and you'd better wish like hell you get there before he does. Guy-”
“I'll go in the opposite direction.” Marian saw them exchange a glance, and she did not like the grim look on Guy’s face, the firm set of his mouth. He strode towards the doors, and as he passed her she could not help calling out to him. “Guy, what are you going to do?”
She cursed her error as he gave her a long, even, look. Then he turned away from her. “My job.”
*
Guy did not like the forest. He liked rolling green hills or the high heaths of his home: landscapes that were open, invigorating, with a long view in every direction. The forest was close and dark, with fingers of branches pulling at clothes and hair or obscuring the view, and nothing distinctive enough to serve as a landmark. One could easily get lost among the repetitious pattern of trees and the dizzying, dappled light. In the winter it was easier to see, but less easy to navigate. Luckily there was still enough snow on the ground that they would leave clear footprints, reducing the chances they would go in circles. But footprints also revealed their trail to other eyes.
The utter silence of the winter forest was eerie. Guy was quite aware of the possibility of being watched even as he looked for signs of outlaws, and he cursed Hood under his breath as his horse picked through the snow and fallen leaves. At least, he supposed, he wasn't in the oppressive atmosphere of the castle: outside, with his horse under him, doing what he'd been doing for the past four years, Guy almost felt his normal self-including that infuriating, unsettled feeling Hood always inspired in him.
His small group of men had spread through the forest in the latest area that they suspected the outlaws’ camp to be. They were out of hearing range, though Guy could still see the slashes of yellow on their sleeves here and there in the distance. Yet he knew all too well how quickly a person could be lost from sight in the forest, and how well Hood knew the ground.
A lone bird called, startling his horse. Silence. Guy peered around, but saw little more than wet tree and dirty ground. Then a twig snapped behind him and before he could turn something heavy knocked into the side of his head. His horse darted forward, and with the spots dancing before his eyes he couldn't hold onto the reins. He fell to the ground a moment after whatever had hit him-a purse, he thought dumbly, seeing silver coins scattered out before him on the forest floor. Guy strugged to clear his head, to catch the breath that had been knocked out of him with his fall. But before up and down had resolved themselves a black shape came over the sky and a fist met his face.
“Jesus fu-”
Another punch landed in his face and he threw his arms up blindly, catching hold of whatever he could of the figure above him and pulling. The figure lost balance and Guy rolled as it fell towards him, pinning his attacker against the ground. He pressed his hands hard on his adversary's arms, leveraging himself up to get a knee into the belly of his attacker, who flailed wildly below him. Finally Guy's head stopped spinning and his vision cleared to reveal none other than Robin Hood pressed below him into the forest floor.
“You fucking bastard,” Hood said, practically spitting such was the rage that infused his voice.
Though he had the upper hand, Guy felt fear shoot through him. The last time he'd seen Hood wear that expression there’d been a red-hot sword tip to Guy’s throat, and he’d been certain he was going to die. His mind raced. What had happened to cause this uncharacteristic personal attack? Then laughter bubbled up through his split lips. “What's the matter, Hood? Heard about King Richard? It'll be a while before he comes back to rescue you from the forest now.” Further taunts were prevented as the outlaw wriggled an arm free and swung it up square into his ribcage. Guy leaned back and punched him in the face, hard. His own head throbbed and he was fairly certain there was blood trickling down his cheek, but seeing the imprint of his fist in brilliant scarlet across the outlaw's face went a long way towards making up for it.
They struggled in the snow, Guy returning every one of Hood's precise, vicious attacks with equal force. He had plenty of pent-up emotions to tap into, plenty anger and fear and frustration he never looked at too closely, but which lent him extra vigor. He rained blows into the other man’s face, his stomach, anywhere he could land a punch or direct his elbows. It was delightfully satisfying, the blood pounding in his ears and the excitement of a fight rushing through his body. Then Hood managed to swing his feet up into Guy's stomach and pushed, and all that Guy saw was mud and branch and sky and suddenly Hood's face again, as he grabbed Guy's coat and pulled his fist back.
A familiar voice broke in at that moment, crying, “Master!” But Hood didn't hold back; he brought his fist down hard into Guy's face. There was a sickening crunch and blood immediately welled up from his nose and over his lips.
“Master, his men are coming!” The outlaw’s guard dropped for just a moment, but it was a long enough moment for Guy to draw his curved dagger from his sleeve and thrust forward. Hood cried out and jerked back. He swung his arm savagely, knocking the blade from Guy's grasp, and brought his elbow down into Guy’s stomach. Then Hood grabbed his coat again and jerked him forward, drawing Guy’s face close to his own angry, bloody countenance. “Know this. I will kill you before the Lord is risen. Make your peace now, you pathetic whoreson.” Then he let Guy fall and darted away through the trees.
By the time Guy got to his feet, red pulsing before his eyes, there was no sign of the outlaws. He barked at his men to follow the outlaw's trail though he doubted it would have much effect. He never had been able to find a good tracker to employ.
The ground immediately around him was a mess of mud and leaves, dotted with blood. Silver coins littered the clearing, some pressed into the mud and snow. Guy bent slowly to pick up the purse and his dagger, blood dripping from his face and staining the snow at his feet brilliant scarlet.
*
Marian hurried through the corridors of the castle, gathering up items for bandages, poultices, tisanes with only half a mind to what she was doing. Her heart beat heavy in her breast. Surely there would be some sign if Robin had been killed. Surely she was worrying needlessly. There were other bands of outlaws in the forest, after all, other people Guy could have encountered to cause him to return to the castle bloody and shouting. She paused outside the door to Guy's room for what could be the last moments of blissful ignorance. But she was not one to let fear direct her actions, so she raised her hand to knock.
Upon hearing a muffled voice, Marian pushed the door open. A cold realization cut across her nervousness: she had only been in this room once before. Then Guy roared, tearing her from her thoughts.
“Get away from me, witch!” he cried, jerking away from the serving girl who sat before him with a towel and a basin of water. She clutched at the basin to keep it steady; even so, its contents sloshed over her hands, pale red. Marian stepped into the room, startled at the extent of Guy’s injuries. She quickly turned her eyes to the girl. “I'll take it from here. Would you heat some water, please?”
Relief spreading across her face, the serving girl curtsied and left the room. Then Marian looked again to Guy. He looked surprised and gratified to see her, but she ignored his expression and instead catalogued his wounds.
It was the left side of his face that was the worst, so Marian dragged her chair to that side, careful to leave a little space between them. She did not like this, did not like being here, but she was desperate for information. And, she had to admit, having seen how his face alone looked, she felt bad for Guy. His face looked truly ghastly, the left side swollen from jaw to hairline and much of it a dull blue-purple that would mean bruises for weeks. His nose was likely broken. He held himself carefully in his chair, which signalled other, hidden wounds.
The serving girl hadn’t gotten far; dried blood still trailed over Guy’s left cheek and chin and down his neck. Marian realized then, following the path of the blood, that Guy wore nothing other than a soft linen shirt. Of course; his outer garments were likely soaked and soiled. Yet that did not serve to ease her.
“How are you?” she asked, wringing out the cloth. It was a stupid question, but the only one that came to mind. It would be folly to ask right out what she wanted to know.
“I’ve been better,” he said drily. Then he drew breath sharply as she swabbed at his swollen cheek. Marian worked as delicately as she could, though she knew any pressure at all on his face was going to hurt.
“Who did this to you?” she asked, concentrating on what she was doing, careful not to meet his eyes.
“Robin Hood,” Guy replied, with some emotion she couldn’t quite decipher. His response stopped her hand in midair and she met his eyes before she could help it.
He was watching her; he’d probably been watching her the whole time. It would have been difficult to avoid it, as she likely filled his field of vision, but what she told herself rarely affected how she felt about things. And then anger surged through her. It confirmed her fears: there was no way that this related to taxes, or chests of silver.
“Robin Hood did this to you?”
Guy nodded and then winced, as if he wished he hadn’t.
Robin had directly gone against her wishes, consciously and knowingly doing exactly what she’d asked him not to do. She pressed a little harder than she ought to have, and Guy hissed. With her resumed concentration on what she was doing the anger subsided a little, allowing fear to nibble at its edges.
“And what did you do to Robin Hood?”
“I gave him as good as I got.” A wolfish smile crossed Guy’s face. “And a bit extra he won’t be forgetting too soon.”
Marian tried very hard not to look alarmed. Robin could be hurt badly, but he wasn’t dead, and she was confident that between Much, and Djaq, and maybe some help from Matilda he would be properly cared for. With a spike of irritation she hoped that whatever it was, it would take a very long time to heal.
They lapsed into silence then. Marian attempted to focus on her work-it helped keep her hands steady-while Guy seemed lost in thought. Yet as the moments ticked on-where was that serving girl?-the awareness of other things crept into Marian’s consciousness: Guy’s labored breaths, the curls of hair that brushed her fingers when she lifted the cloth to his temple, the fact that she was alone in a room, this room, with him. She did not fear him, logically at least, but being so close set her pulse racing and her breathing shallow and quick.
He was hurt. She was good with herbs and poultices. That was all, she told herself firmly, a simple gesture of kindness. Marian exchanged the bowl of water for a mortar and pestle, and searched through her basket for a sack of willow bark.
“I think he’s gone mad,” Guy said softly, startling Marian out of her reverie. He continued looking in the fire, away from her, as he spoke. “He came out of nowhere, just started throwing punches.” Ah. Robin. “The news about the king must have unhinged him. He said he was going to kill me.”
Marian ground the willow bark rather harder than she needed to. “That’s not going to happen,” she said, more sharply than she intended. Guy turned his eyes towards her, and she met his gaze as impassively as she was able.
Then something changed in his expression. Since they had returned to the castle they had barely said two words to each other. There was little to say. Marian had been too wrapped up in her own thoughts, in her own struggles to get through the day, to think about how things had been between them before. In the weeks after Guy had learned she was the Night Watchman and she had agreed to stay at the castle, they had developed a level of comfort with one another, moments where Guy would reveal a dry sense of humor, or where Marian felt safe to speak something close to what she actually thought. It had been, she had to admit to herself, friendship. Very new, it had to be delicately handled, but it was the most honest thing that had passed between them and it had made the castle bearable. Not pleasant, but less dull, less wearing. And she found herself missing that.
But he always had to push too far. Guy reached out a hand; as hers were curled around a mortar and pestle he settled for her wrist. His fingers were cold. “Thank you,” Guy said. “I did not expect such kindness.”
Marian pulled her arm away, repressing the urge to pull her sleeve down over her wrist like a child would. She couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t trite, or a lie, or would make her rejection sting more. So she settled for a smile, as real as she could make it.
She should have gone with flippant words.
His eyes searched hers, and it took everything she had not to throw down the mortar and pestle and flee from the room. He always wanted things from her, and right now there was nothing in her to give, real or false. And, she feared, nothing to hide that.
The knock at the door was a blessed, blessed reprieve.
Guy withdrew abruptly. Marian felt a surge of relief but also, perversely, discomfort at seeing him disengage. What was it, exactly, that she wanted of him? She hid her confusion in her movements, setting down her tools and answering the door. The serving girl bobbed a curtsy and darted a nervous look at Guy over Marian's shoulder. Marian took the kettle and sent the girl away, not without reluctance.
Guy stared into the fire while Marian continued her preparations. Silence stretched and pooled between them, the only sounds in the room the crack of fire and the quiet splash of water as she mixed ground herbs into a cup.
She was lonely, she realized with a start.
“Drink this,” Marian said. Guy took the cup, and drank. “Come and see me tomorrow. You should rest now.”
Then she gathered her things, and left. Loneliness was a vulnerability.
*
The next morning Marian was startled when a sob of relief burst forth unexpectedly from her breast. Long-held tension melted away, leaving her boneless and weak. She had never been so glad to bleed.
Chapter Ten