Fallout - Chapter Three
As they ride through the noisy streets of Acre, Marian sees Robin everywhere. He is in every shadowed face, every walk, every flashing grin. Color of skin, style of gait, cut of clothing . . . none of it matters. A peddler tries to capture her attention with the bright bright glow of summer fruit, and it is Robin. A turbaned figure raises his head as she trots past, and it is Robin. A hearty shout swims up from behind her, and even though the language is guttural and foreign, it is Robin. The road is a trickster, and she falls for it again and again.
Each illusion brings the same pitiless arc of emotion. It begins with a relief so strong and pure that Marian fears she will light up like a torch for all the world to see. He is alive, alive! Guy has said that he lives, but she will not be satisfied until he is standing before her to see and feel and touch.
After relief comes fear. How does she begin to explain her decision? Speeches have been running through her head since she and Guy mounted the horse that would take them to the King. Robin, I have something to tell you. Robin, I thought you were dead. Robin, remember how much you love England? Robin, I’m not being funny, but… Nothing will sound right, and nothing will make it any easier. But she knows that he is noble, she knows that he will understand that it is all due to circumstances beyond their control. Fate had larger plans for them, that’s all. They will both move on. They will remember what was between them, and keep it in their heart like they would wrap a keepsake in silk and place it in a secret box beneath the bed.
Marian wishes that the feelings would stop there. But if she is being honest, there are other emotions nipping at fear’s heels: guilt and shame. Guilt for not enduring Guy’s touch the way a woman in love with someone else should, for responding to it. Shame that, in the brief seconds before Guy’s hand startled her by trespassing on new territory, she forgot that she was doing what was right instead of what she wanted.
Now, she must hold on to him or risk falling off the horse into the dirt-otherwise she would put as much distance between them as possible. She is thankful that she only has to face the broad black expanse of his back. It gives her time to remind herself of what she knows about him without finding herself under observation as well. He is greedy, she tells herself. He is treacherous and mistreats those without the power to boost him to power and position. He kills without remorse.
If she is being honest, her heart is not in this last one. She never understood his relationship with Vasey, although she had always assumed it to be rooted in cold ambition. Vasey was his path to wealth, and so he followed him. But just as his flashes of unwavering devotion have surprised her before, so does his reaction to killing a man who she would have killed a thousand times over again without a single flinch from her conscience. There are so many things about him that she does not understand, so many things that she does not even know if she wants to. It’s like opening a locked chest only to find a million more metal chests winking up at you from inside.
It still confounds her that he had refused to reenter the room where the body lay, had become severely distressed at the idea of leaving him where he fell. She, on the other hand, would have liked to drag the body out in the sun so it would rot faster. But then her feelings had shifted; she had found herself wanting to comfort Guy more than continue a belated revenge on Vasey. Even now, she fights the urge to squeeze his shoulder in reassurance. To run her fingers through the small curls at his neck that she has been forced to stare at this entire ride. That is not comforting, Marian, her body whispers. She tells it to be quiet.
They near the edge of the city; the buildings surrounding them shrink to single square boxes, and the cerulean sky above grows larger piece by piece. Marian peers over Guy’s shoulder. The white tents of the King’s camp are small yet bright in the distance. Men hum around the perimeter, the red crosses on their breast like tiny drops of blood against a vast white sheet.
It will take less than three minutes to reach at full gallop, but Guy’s horse slows instead of picking up speed. He has been silent their entire ride.
“Guy? Are you ready?” Marian repeats for what she feels must be the thousandth time today. When he doesn’t answer immediately, she leans forward and places her hand on his shoulder and squeezes it lightly. His head turns at her touch. She stares at the sharp line of his jaw, the strong, almost hawkish, profile.
“I hate that man,” Guy says. For such a loaded statement, his voice is strangely resigned.
“King Richard?” He twists around to face her as much as he is able, which causes the horse to shift irritably beneath them. His thoughts about the stupidity of her question are plain on his face. “Well, you don’t have to marry him,” she says peevishly. “We are here to sing songs of your bravery in saving his life.”
Guy lets out an undignified snort, but leaves it at that. He spurs the horse forward with a sharp command and kick of his heels. Marian holds on as the wind catches tendrils of hair; earlier, she tried to pull it into something more respectable to no avail. She is nervous; Robin’s admiration for the man has her halfway expecting to meet God himself.
They begin to slow as they near the camp, the clouds of sand at their feet diminishing to tiny puffs. It is difficult to see anything over Guy’s shoulders, but she notices that a few of the King’s men have drawn their weapons upon their approach and are now on their guard. Guy lifts his elbows and shows his palms in a sign of surrender.
“I am Sir Guy of Gisborne, and this is Lady Marian of Knighton. We are here to see King Richard.”
The guards share an uneasy look before one of them, young and blond with only a wisp of a beard upon his chin, speaks up. “The King has had several visitors today. What is your purpose?” His voice is thin and high-he is barely more than a boy.
“Sir Guy has averted an attempt on the King’s life,” Marian says, ignoring Guy’s sharp look. “But there is still danger. We would beg an audience with him immediately.”
A ripple of surprise runs through the men. Is the plot so surprising, or is it just that they haven’t seen a woman for a long time, much less one that uses words every now and then?
A swarthy, pock-marked man steps forward. “Another one?”
At first Marian thinks the heat is playing tricks with her mind; she is in one of her heaviest gowns, after all, and she feels as though she is sitting directly over a campfire. “What do they mean?” she asks Guy.
Guy holds up a hand, bidding her to hold her tongue. When he opens her mouth to speak again, he yells over her to the men, ignoring the sharp jab she gives to his uninjured side. “This was a plot of Vasey, Sheriff of Nottingham. He planned to impersonate Saladin and execute the King at their upcoming meeting.”
Guy’s words send them back to their huddle for a good minute before they come to a decision. As one disappears into the maze of the camp, presumably to announce their presence, the previous spokesman walks over to their mount. “This way,” he says, motioning them forward.
They walk slowly through the camp, and Marian can’t resist the small thrill that comes from the opportunity to observe the workings of this exclusively male world. Soldiers linger in the shadowy maws of tents; they talk in twos beside horses and tables covered in fractured armor and broken weapons. For the most part, they are also very dirty, hair mussed with dust, streaks of grime traveling from cheek to neck to collar. She can’t quell petty part of her that asks: This? This is the world that Robin left her for? It does not seem all that exciting.
She ponders this for the rest of the ride, frowning until they stop before a large tent decorated with various banners and ornamentation. A soldier with bright blond hair and the familiar red cross across his heart ducks out to greet them, hand on his sword. When he raises his face, Marian can’t stop a gasp. In front of her, Guy stiffens.
“Sir Guy,” Carter says. “Lady Marian.” His eyes flick back and forth between them like a man with two keys and no lock in sight. The last time he saw Guy, there was no doubting that he was the Sheriff’s man through and through. And the last time he saw her . . . well, she was living in the forest with Robin. He turns to Guy. She holds her breath.
“I need to take your weapon,” he says. He does not accuse them of anything, or even think to ask Marian if she has any to hand over. He just waits as they dismount before saying, “The King will see you inside.”
Guy walks in first; she and Carter follow. Sunlight sneaks through the open flap and illuminates the tent’s contents-the tapestries at their feet in the reds and blues and purples of summer berries, the central wooden pole covered with glinting shields and armory, the trio of men who stand silently before them. The one in the center moves forward. Stocky and square-jawed, he does not wear a red cross, only a flowing white robe that is pristine compared to the dusty garments of the surrounding men.
Marian realizes with a start that she is standing face to face with King Richard, ruler of England. She curtsies. Beside her, Guy dips into a low bow with a murmured greeting, the very picture of a loyal servant. Marian doesn’t know why she worried about him; Guy has never had a problem being obsequious.
“My men tell me that you claim to have foiled a plot,” King Richard says, bidding them to rise. It sounds good-natured enough, but Marian can hear the well of suspicion beneath his words. She tries not to be annoyed that he addresses himself to Guy. And only Guy.
Guy clears his throat, and Marian’s nerves stand at attention as she watches the corner of his jaw twitch. But when he speaks, he sounds clear and confident. “My Lord, I recently learned that the man I had served for many years-Vasey, Sheriff of Nottingham-was conspiring with your brother John. He recently arrived in the Holy Land with the intention of killing you.” Guy meets the King’s cool blue gaze with his own. “The only way to stop him was to kill him instead. You will find his body in an upstairs room in the town of Acre, along with two of his conspirators.”
“Where in Acre?” Richard asks, and Guy directs him to the place where Vasey’s body lay. The King turns and whispers to one of his personal guards, causing the man to bow and leave. “I hope you do not take offense,” he says once the man is gone, “but we need to confirm your story. I cannot be too careful these days; there are many who wish to thwart our current peace with Saladin. Several of my most loyal friends have turned against me. One is from your own village, I believe.”
Guy nods sharply, still tense, but in the corner of her eye, Marian sees Carter shift uncomfortably. When he speaks, his deferential words are barely able to contain his frustration.
“I beg your forgiveness for repeating my earlier thoughts, My Lord, but I sincerely doubt that Robin of Locksley and his men have plotted against you. I beg you to reconsider your previous sentence.”
Marian speaks before she can think better of it. “What sentence?” she asks, her emotions rising when the King stares at her with what she can only quantify as surprised disdain. “My Lord, Robin of Locksley is perhaps your most loyal follower. He and his men have done nothing but protect the people of England in your name. He has worked against Vasey every single day in the year since he returned to Nottingham, forfeiting his own lands and wealth in order to better serve the country, the country of your people,” she finishes in a rush. She turns to inspect Carter’s face for a clue-anything-to tell her what has befallen him. Her voice cracks on the last question. “Is he here?”
But it is not Carter who speaks next. “And who might this lady be?” King Richard asks after a tense pause.
Guy’s voice is frigid. “Lady Marian of Knighton, my Lord.”
“And what is her relation to these matters?”
“I am his betrothed,” Marian says, determined to end this discussion of her as if she were a lost item of clothing in need of claiming.
“Who’s betrothed?”
The question hangs in the air, and Marian realizes that she has made a grievous miscalculation. Carter and the King watch her, waiting for an answer. Guy, however, refuses to meet her eyes. His teeth are clenched, his arms stiff at his sides. “Sir Guy’s, my Lord,” she says quietly.
King Richard turns to his last remaining guard. “Please find a free tent for Lady Marian and escort her there.”
“My Lord, I apologize for speaking so hastily,” she tries, wanting to atone for her previous outburst as she sidesteps the guard who tries to take her arm. “But I do feel that-“
“Do not worry yourself, Lady Marian. Please let the guard know if you need anything. We are a camp full of men, but we should be able to manage a few feminine comforts.”
He smiles at her as though she is simpleminded, and she feels the clamp of the guard’s hand around elbow. She to Guy in the hope that he will speak up and recommend that she stay, but he might as well have turned to stone for all the emotion that creeps through his icy façade. He doesn’t turn around, not even when she murmurs his name, not even when she is forced to follow the guard through the tent and out into the bright sun.
It takes less than a minute for Guy to regret Marian’s absence. Her presence beside him-cool and calming even when she is angry and spitting-made it easier to adopt the role of heroic servant to the crown. At least, that is, until she started singing Robin’s praises and mentioning their betrothal as though it were an afterthought.
Then again, perhaps it is a good thing that she is gone; his fists are still clenched from his battle with the raw feelings that welled up when he saw her worry for Hood, heard the way her voice wavered. He cannot deal with those emotions now, or the humiliation that inevitably follows every time his insane love for Marian is trotted out for the public to see.
Guy forces himself to relax, to place all of his attentions toward not giving himself up, at not letting his hate for this man overwhelm his instincts of preservation. It would help if the blonde man-Carter-did not stare at him as though he though Guy might leap forward at any second and attempt to strangle the King with his bare hands. At least his attention is currently diverted by the question of Robin’s loyalty. Guy had completely forgotten about the Sheriff’s plan to cast suspicion on the outlaws until the guards loitering at the camp’s edges had mentioned multiple plots. Obviously, Vasey’s final stratagem had worked. He would be lying if he said that he didn’t feel a slight thrill at the prospect of seeing Robin rid from this world forever. Then he could make Marian forget him and he would no longer hang over their lives like a specter.
“My Lord,” Carter says from beside him. “Lady Marian is impetuous, but she speaks the truth.”
The King does not respond, but Guy sees a hint of uncertainty flit across his stony mien before he faces the back of the tent, as though wishing to shield his thoughts from prying gazes. When he turns back, it is not to face Carter, but Guy. “Sir Guy, you are acquainted with the Earl of Huntington, are you not? What say you to these claims?”
Guy can’t help but admire the man’s shrewdness. He would have to be very sure of his accusation to boldly set his word against that of one of the King’s closest guards, especially one who knew him as Vasey’s man. Lying now would be imprudent and ignorant, but that does not mean he isn’t tempted. But Marian . . . Marian would hate him forever. If he has learned one thing in the course of their relationship, it’s that his lies always out themselves eventually.
And thus, with that knowledge burning in his gut, Guy is forced to say something he never would have predicted. “I believe Robin of Locksley to be innocent of treachery,” he says, struggling not to choke on bitterness. “He has been your loyal follower, even when it has put him directly against the law.”
King Richard looks at him curiously, and then turns to Carter. “I have acted rashly. Bring Robin and his men here. We will sort this out.”
Carter’s relief is plain to see. “Thank you, My Lord,” he says quickly and exits, but not before giving a sharp nod to Guy. Two soldiers from outside enter immediately to keep watch. If Guy were ever foolish enough to believe that he had evaded suspicion, this would be proof enough to end such naïve trust.
“Will you sit, Sir Guy?” Richard says, and gestures to a high-backed wooden chair to Guy’s right. “My men should return with news of what they found in Acre soon.”
Guy takes a seat, but does not make it further back than the edge. The King pulls his own chair from the back of the tent and faces it across from him. The light from outside illuminates his knees and chest, but fails to reach his face. Guy would feel more comfortable if he could make out the man’s expression.
“Lady Marian is quite pretty,” he says. Coming from another man, those words would put Guy on edge, but the King’s remark is absent of masculine interest, almost as if he were admiring a particularly intricate piece of metalwork. “How long have you been betrothed?”
“A little over a year,” he lies. It sounds better than “three hours,” and would be true if you didn’t count the aborted wedding attempt.
“I see. Robin used to speak of a Marian when he was here serving me. I can’t imagine that there are that many running around Nottingham.”
Guy shifts uneasily. “They were once betrothed. But that is in the past,” he says fiercely, as though he could make it true with force of will alone. This talk of Marian is making him uncomfortable. There is no reason for these questions, and he wants them to stop.
Thankfully, the King seems to abandon the subject. “Gisborne,” he says suddenly, apropos of nothing. “Why does that name sound familiar? Where are your lands located?”
“The lands were located in Sussex.”
“Were?”
“My family was stripped of their lands and titles over twenty years ago.”
“Why?”
“Treachery.”
“Toward whom?”
“Your father,” Guy says, close to snapping, and then corrections himself. “I mean King Henry.” He closes his eyes and attempting to regain composure. After all, this is all in the past. “My family supported you and your brothers when you attempted to usurp his power. When they were found out, they were discredited and punished.”
Guy half expects to be rebuked for such an insolent history lesson, but Richard only tilts his head. “I am sorry,” he says, although his voice never slips into anything other than empty, kingly compassion. “Many of our people were reestablished once we came to power. Why were your parents not among them?”
If he were not the King, Guy would stand up, kick over the chair, and storm out without answering. But instead he must sit here and be stripped of his life story bit by bit. “My father died five years before your coronation, my mother three,” he says. “The lands were resold to raise money for this Crusade. At the time I did not have enough to regain them for the family.”
“And yet you are here, quite possibly having saved my life,” he says. The words hold no hint of gratitude, only thinly veiled inquiry.
“You are the King, I am your subject,” Guy says, falling back on simple, dumb loyalty. It is, after all, the hardest to question.
Guy hears the tent open behind him. Relieved that this might bring a reprieve to the questions, he turns to find two guards. One has a smear of blood across the front of his tunic.
“It is as he said, My Lord. We found the Sheriff upstairs, dead, and two others tied and shackled in the corner. One of them is Nasim.”
“And so the circle completes itself,” Richard says, sounding satisfied. “That explains why he showed up yesterday shouting of Robin’s treason. I should have known. Question the prisoners, report back to me tomorrow.”
After the men leave, King Richard turns to Guy. “This could have been bad. Very bad indeed. But as it seems that your story has withstood further inquiry, you may settle yourself while we wait for Carter to return. I will send for you if I need to ask more questions.” He starts to wave him away, and then pauses. “Rest assured that I will not forget your service.”
Guy stands, bows, and makes to leave, more eager to exit this tent than he has ever been to part from something in his life. Could have been bad? This is bad. The King has made no mention of reward; he has not been able to cast off the mantle of suspicion. And what’s more, Guy himself has just assured that the man he despises more than anything else-the true owner of his home and lands, the hero of peasants-will have the King’s ear. And Marian. The fact that he will be near Marian again is eating through all the hope that has been slowly growing in Guy’s chest since she kissed him of her own free will.
He steps outside, hitting the flap of the tent with a force that startles the curious men who have been lingering around hoping to pick up a stray word. He yells at them, indulging the rage that he has kept so tightly wound since the moment he first stepped into the camp. He is about to do it again when he hears the thunder of hoof beats. Two horses charge toward him. Even with the glare of the late afternoon sun in his eyes, Guy can make out who they are.
One is Carter, his face shining with relief even from this distance. The other is Robin Hood, his face full of the righteousness he wears around like a mask. In his hand is a piece of parchment that Guy recognizes immediately.
It is the pact. Vasey’s Pact of Nottingham
Each illusion brings the same pitiless arc of emotion. It begins with a relief so strong and pure that Marian fears she will light up like a torch for all the world to see. He is alive, alive! Guy has said that he lives, but she will not be satisfied until he is standing before her to see and feel and touch.
After relief comes fear. How does she begin to explain her decision? Speeches have been running through her head since she and Guy mounted the horse that would take them to the King. Robin, I have something to tell you. Robin, I thought you were dead. Robin, remember how much you love England? Robin, I’m not being funny, but… Nothing will sound right, and nothing will make it any easier. But she knows that he is noble, she knows that he will understand that it is all due to circumstances beyond their control. Fate had larger plans for them, that’s all. They will both move on. They will remember what was between them, and keep it in their heart like they would wrap a keepsake in silk and place it in a secret box beneath the bed.
Marian wishes that the feelings would stop there. But if she is being honest, there are other emotions nipping at fear’s heels: guilt and shame. Guilt for not enduring Guy’s touch the way a woman in love with someone else should, for responding to it. Shame that, in the brief seconds before Guy’s hand startled her by trespassing on new territory, she forgot that she was doing what was right instead of what she wanted.
Now, she must hold on to him or risk falling off the horse into the dirt-otherwise she would put as much distance between them as possible. She is thankful that she only has to face the broad black expanse of his back. It gives her time to remind herself of what she knows about him without finding herself under observation as well. He is greedy, she tells herself. He is treacherous and mistreats those without the power to boost him to power and position. He kills without remorse.
If she is being honest, her heart is not in this last one. She never understood his relationship with Vasey, although she had always assumed it to be rooted in cold ambition. Vasey was his path to wealth, and so he followed him. But just as his flashes of unwavering devotion have surprised her before, so does his reaction to killing a man who she would have killed a thousand times over again without a single flinch from her conscience. There are so many things about him that she does not understand, so many things that she does not even know if she wants to. It’s like opening a locked chest only to find a million more metal chests winking up at you from inside.
It still confounds her that he had refused to reenter the room where the body lay, had become severely distressed at the idea of leaving him where he fell. She, on the other hand, would have liked to drag the body out in the sun so it would rot faster. But then her feelings had shifted; she had found herself wanting to comfort Guy more than continue a belated revenge on Vasey. Even now, she fights the urge to squeeze his shoulder in reassurance. To run her fingers through the small curls at his neck that she has been forced to stare at this entire ride. That is not comforting, Marian, her body whispers. She tells it to be quiet.
They near the edge of the city; the buildings surrounding them shrink to single square boxes, and the cerulean sky above grows larger piece by piece. Marian peers over Guy’s shoulder. The white tents of the King’s camp are small yet bright in the distance. Men hum around the perimeter, the red crosses on their breast like tiny drops of blood against a vast white sheet.
It will take less than three minutes to reach at full gallop, but Guy’s horse slows instead of picking up speed. He has been silent their entire ride.
“Guy? Are you ready?” Marian repeats for what she feels must be the thousandth time today. When he doesn’t answer immediately, she leans forward and places her hand on his shoulder and squeezes it lightly. His head turns at her touch. She stares at the sharp line of his jaw, the strong, almost hawkish, profile.
“I hate that man,” Guy says. For such a loaded statement, his voice is strangely resigned.
“King Richard?” He twists around to face her as much as he is able, which causes the horse to shift irritably beneath them. His thoughts about the stupidity of her question are plain on his face. “Well, you don’t have to marry him,” she says peevishly. “We are here to sing songs of your bravery in saving his life.”
Guy lets out an undignified snort, but leaves it at that. He spurs the horse forward with a sharp command and kick of his heels. Marian holds on as the wind catches tendrils of hair; earlier, she tried to pull it into something more respectable to no avail. She is nervous; Robin’s admiration for the man has her halfway expecting to meet God himself.
They begin to slow as they near the camp, the clouds of sand at their feet diminishing to tiny puffs. It is difficult to see anything over Guy’s shoulders, but she notices that a few of the King’s men have drawn their weapons upon their approach and are now on their guard. Guy lifts his elbows and shows his palms in a sign of surrender.
“I am Sir Guy of Gisborne, and this is Lady Marian of Knighton. We are here to see King Richard.”
The guards share an uneasy look before one of them, young and blond with only a wisp of a beard upon his chin, speaks up. “The King has had several visitors today. What is your purpose?” His voice is thin and high-he is barely more than a boy.
“Sir Guy has averted an attempt on the King’s life,” Marian says, ignoring Guy’s sharp look. “But there is still danger. We would beg an audience with him immediately.”
A ripple of surprise runs through the men. Is the plot so surprising, or is it just that they haven’t seen a woman for a long time, much less one that uses words every now and then?
A swarthy, pock-marked man steps forward. “Another one?”
At first Marian thinks the heat is playing tricks with her mind; she is in one of her heaviest gowns, after all, and she feels as though she is sitting directly over a campfire. “What do they mean?” she asks Guy.
Guy holds up a hand, bidding her to hold her tongue. When he opens her mouth to speak again, he yells over her to the men, ignoring the sharp jab she gives to his uninjured side. “This was a plot of Vasey, Sheriff of Nottingham. He planned to impersonate Saladin and execute the King at their upcoming meeting.”
Guy’s words send them back to their huddle for a good minute before they come to a decision. As one disappears into the maze of the camp, presumably to announce their presence, the previous spokesman walks over to their mount. “This way,” he says, motioning them forward.
They walk slowly through the camp, and Marian can’t resist the small thrill that comes from the opportunity to observe the workings of this exclusively male world. Soldiers linger in the shadowy maws of tents; they talk in twos beside horses and tables covered in fractured armor and broken weapons. For the most part, they are also very dirty, hair mussed with dust, streaks of grime traveling from cheek to neck to collar. She can’t quell petty part of her that asks: This? This is the world that Robin left her for? It does not seem all that exciting.
She ponders this for the rest of the ride, frowning until they stop before a large tent decorated with various banners and ornamentation. A soldier with bright blond hair and the familiar red cross across his heart ducks out to greet them, hand on his sword. When he raises his face, Marian can’t stop a gasp. In front of her, Guy stiffens.
“Sir Guy,” Carter says. “Lady Marian.” His eyes flick back and forth between them like a man with two keys and no lock in sight. The last time he saw Guy, there was no doubting that he was the Sheriff’s man through and through. And the last time he saw her . . . well, she was living in the forest with Robin. He turns to Guy. She holds her breath.
“I need to take your weapon,” he says. He does not accuse them of anything, or even think to ask Marian if she has any to hand over. He just waits as they dismount before saying, “The King will see you inside.”
Guy walks in first; she and Carter follow. Sunlight sneaks through the open flap and illuminates the tent’s contents-the tapestries at their feet in the reds and blues and purples of summer berries, the central wooden pole covered with glinting shields and armory, the trio of men who stand silently before them. The one in the center moves forward. Stocky and square-jawed, he does not wear a red cross, only a flowing white robe that is pristine compared to the dusty garments of the surrounding men.
Marian realizes with a start that she is standing face to face with King Richard, ruler of England. She curtsies. Beside her, Guy dips into a low bow with a murmured greeting, the very picture of a loyal servant. Marian doesn’t know why she worried about him; Guy has never had a problem being obsequious.
“My men tell me that you claim to have foiled a plot,” King Richard says, bidding them to rise. It sounds good-natured enough, but Marian can hear the well of suspicion beneath his words. She tries not to be annoyed that he addresses himself to Guy. And only Guy.
Guy clears his throat, and Marian’s nerves stand at attention as she watches the corner of his jaw twitch. But when he speaks, he sounds clear and confident. “My Lord, I recently learned that the man I had served for many years-Vasey, Sheriff of Nottingham-was conspiring with your brother John. He recently arrived in the Holy Land with the intention of killing you.” Guy meets the King’s cool blue gaze with his own. “The only way to stop him was to kill him instead. You will find his body in an upstairs room in the town of Acre, along with two of his conspirators.”
“Where in Acre?” Richard asks, and Guy directs him to the place where Vasey’s body lay. The King turns and whispers to one of his personal guards, causing the man to bow and leave. “I hope you do not take offense,” he says once the man is gone, “but we need to confirm your story. I cannot be too careful these days; there are many who wish to thwart our current peace with Saladin. Several of my most loyal friends have turned against me. One is from your own village, I believe.”
Guy nods sharply, still tense, but in the corner of her eye, Marian sees Carter shift uncomfortably. When he speaks, his deferential words are barely able to contain his frustration.
“I beg your forgiveness for repeating my earlier thoughts, My Lord, but I sincerely doubt that Robin of Locksley and his men have plotted against you. I beg you to reconsider your previous sentence.”
Marian speaks before she can think better of it. “What sentence?” she asks, her emotions rising when the King stares at her with what she can only quantify as surprised disdain. “My Lord, Robin of Locksley is perhaps your most loyal follower. He and his men have done nothing but protect the people of England in your name. He has worked against Vasey every single day in the year since he returned to Nottingham, forfeiting his own lands and wealth in order to better serve the country, the country of your people,” she finishes in a rush. She turns to inspect Carter’s face for a clue-anything-to tell her what has befallen him. Her voice cracks on the last question. “Is he here?”
But it is not Carter who speaks next. “And who might this lady be?” King Richard asks after a tense pause.
Guy’s voice is frigid. “Lady Marian of Knighton, my Lord.”
“And what is her relation to these matters?”
“I am his betrothed,” Marian says, determined to end this discussion of her as if she were a lost item of clothing in need of claiming.
“Who’s betrothed?”
The question hangs in the air, and Marian realizes that she has made a grievous miscalculation. Carter and the King watch her, waiting for an answer. Guy, however, refuses to meet her eyes. His teeth are clenched, his arms stiff at his sides. “Sir Guy’s, my Lord,” she says quietly.
King Richard turns to his last remaining guard. “Please find a free tent for Lady Marian and escort her there.”
“My Lord, I apologize for speaking so hastily,” she tries, wanting to atone for her previous outburst as she sidesteps the guard who tries to take her arm. “But I do feel that-“
“Do not worry yourself, Lady Marian. Please let the guard know if you need anything. We are a camp full of men, but we should be able to manage a few feminine comforts.”
He smiles at her as though she is simpleminded, and she feels the clamp of the guard’s hand around elbow. She to Guy in the hope that he will speak up and recommend that she stay, but he might as well have turned to stone for all the emotion that creeps through his icy façade. He doesn’t turn around, not even when she murmurs his name, not even when she is forced to follow the guard through the tent and out into the bright sun.
It takes less than a minute for Guy to regret Marian’s absence. Her presence beside him-cool and calming even when she is angry and spitting-made it easier to adopt the role of heroic servant to the crown. At least, that is, until she started singing Robin’s praises and mentioning their betrothal as though it were an afterthought.
Then again, perhaps it is a good thing that she is gone; his fists are still clenched from his battle with the raw feelings that welled up when he saw her worry for Hood, heard the way her voice wavered. He cannot deal with those emotions now, or the humiliation that inevitably follows every time his insane love for Marian is trotted out for the public to see.
Guy forces himself to relax, to place all of his attentions toward not giving himself up, at not letting his hate for this man overwhelm his instincts of preservation. It would help if the blonde man-Carter-did not stare at him as though he though Guy might leap forward at any second and attempt to strangle the King with his bare hands. At least his attention is currently diverted by the question of Robin’s loyalty. Guy had completely forgotten about the Sheriff’s plan to cast suspicion on the outlaws until the guards loitering at the camp’s edges had mentioned multiple plots. Obviously, Vasey’s final stratagem had worked. He would be lying if he said that he didn’t feel a slight thrill at the prospect of seeing Robin rid from this world forever. Then he could make Marian forget him and he would no longer hang over their lives like a specter.
“My Lord,” Carter says from beside him. “Lady Marian is impetuous, but she speaks the truth.”
The King does not respond, but Guy sees a hint of uncertainty flit across his stony mien before he faces the back of the tent, as though wishing to shield his thoughts from prying gazes. When he turns back, it is not to face Carter, but Guy. “Sir Guy, you are acquainted with the Earl of Huntington, are you not? What say you to these claims?”
Guy can’t help but admire the man’s shrewdness. He would have to be very sure of his accusation to boldly set his word against that of one of the King’s closest guards, especially one who knew him as Vasey’s man. Lying now would be imprudent and ignorant, but that does not mean he isn’t tempted. But Marian . . . Marian would hate him forever. If he has learned one thing in the course of their relationship, it’s that his lies always out themselves eventually.
And thus, with that knowledge burning in his gut, Guy is forced to say something he never would have predicted. “I believe Robin of Locksley to be innocent of treachery,” he says, struggling not to choke on bitterness. “He has been your loyal follower, even when it has put him directly against the law.”
King Richard looks at him curiously, and then turns to Carter. “I have acted rashly. Bring Robin and his men here. We will sort this out.”
Carter’s relief is plain to see. “Thank you, My Lord,” he says quickly and exits, but not before giving a sharp nod to Guy. Two soldiers from outside enter immediately to keep watch. If Guy were ever foolish enough to believe that he had evaded suspicion, this would be proof enough to end such naïve trust.
“Will you sit, Sir Guy?” Richard says, and gestures to a high-backed wooden chair to Guy’s right. “My men should return with news of what they found in Acre soon.”
Guy takes a seat, but does not make it further back than the edge. The King pulls his own chair from the back of the tent and faces it across from him. The light from outside illuminates his knees and chest, but fails to reach his face. Guy would feel more comfortable if he could make out the man’s expression.
“Lady Marian is quite pretty,” he says. Coming from another man, those words would put Guy on edge, but the King’s remark is absent of masculine interest, almost as if he were admiring a particularly intricate piece of metalwork. “How long have you been betrothed?”
“A little over a year,” he lies. It sounds better than “three hours,” and would be true if you didn’t count the aborted wedding attempt.
“I see. Robin used to speak of a Marian when he was here serving me. I can’t imagine that there are that many running around Nottingham.”
Guy shifts uneasily. “They were once betrothed. But that is in the past,” he says fiercely, as though he could make it true with force of will alone. This talk of Marian is making him uncomfortable. There is no reason for these questions, and he wants them to stop.
Thankfully, the King seems to abandon the subject. “Gisborne,” he says suddenly, apropos of nothing. “Why does that name sound familiar? Where are your lands located?”
“The lands were located in Sussex.”
“Were?”
“My family was stripped of their lands and titles over twenty years ago.”
“Why?”
“Treachery.”
“Toward whom?”
“Your father,” Guy says, close to snapping, and then corrections himself. “I mean King Henry.” He closes his eyes and attempting to regain composure. After all, this is all in the past. “My family supported you and your brothers when you attempted to usurp his power. When they were found out, they were discredited and punished.”
Guy half expects to be rebuked for such an insolent history lesson, but Richard only tilts his head. “I am sorry,” he says, although his voice never slips into anything other than empty, kingly compassion. “Many of our people were reestablished once we came to power. Why were your parents not among them?”
If he were not the King, Guy would stand up, kick over the chair, and storm out without answering. But instead he must sit here and be stripped of his life story bit by bit. “My father died five years before your coronation, my mother three,” he says. “The lands were resold to raise money for this Crusade. At the time I did not have enough to regain them for the family.”
“And yet you are here, quite possibly having saved my life,” he says. The words hold no hint of gratitude, only thinly veiled inquiry.
“You are the King, I am your subject,” Guy says, falling back on simple, dumb loyalty. It is, after all, the hardest to question.
Guy hears the tent open behind him. Relieved that this might bring a reprieve to the questions, he turns to find two guards. One has a smear of blood across the front of his tunic.
“It is as he said, My Lord. We found the Sheriff upstairs, dead, and two others tied and shackled in the corner. One of them is Nasim.”
“And so the circle completes itself,” Richard says, sounding satisfied. “That explains why he showed up yesterday shouting of Robin’s treason. I should have known. Question the prisoners, report back to me tomorrow.”
After the men leave, King Richard turns to Guy. “This could have been bad. Very bad indeed. But as it seems that your story has withstood further inquiry, you may settle yourself while we wait for Carter to return. I will send for you if I need to ask more questions.” He starts to wave him away, and then pauses. “Rest assured that I will not forget your service.”
Guy stands, bows, and makes to leave, more eager to exit this tent than he has ever been to part from something in his life. Could have been bad? This is bad. The King has made no mention of reward; he has not been able to cast off the mantle of suspicion. And what’s more, Guy himself has just assured that the man he despises more than anything else-the true owner of his home and lands, the hero of peasants-will have the King’s ear. And Marian. The fact that he will be near Marian again is eating through all the hope that has been slowly growing in Guy’s chest since she kissed him of her own free will.
He steps outside, hitting the flap of the tent with a force that startles the curious men who have been lingering around hoping to pick up a stray word. He yells at them, indulging the rage that he has kept so tightly wound since the moment he first stepped into the camp. He is about to do it again when he hears the thunder of hoof beats. Two horses charge toward him. Even with the glare of the late afternoon sun in his eyes, Guy can make out who they are.
One is Carter, his face shining with relief even from this distance. The other is Robin Hood, his face full of the righteousness he wears around like a mask. In his hand is a piece of parchment that Guy recognizes immediately.
It is the pact. Vasey’s Pact of Nottingham