Yonder Comes a Courteous Knight- Wounded
ii. Wounded
(set between “Tattoo? What Tattoo?” and “A Thing Or Two About Loyalty”)
A/N: Guy/Marian alert! Once upon a time there was a fabulous writer of Phantom of the Opera fan fiction (phan phiction?) named Nicola who wrote some beautiful stories she called Leroux Fill-Ins, which basically filled in scenes between Erik and Christine that Leroux did not include in the book. Consider this is a fill-in.
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It was moments like these in which Marian could lose herself. She could forget for a brief time her position, the complicated games she was playing, whose forfeiture, should she lose, was her life. Did her horse know of any of the complexities of life? No, common wisdom would tell her it was just a dumb beast. But she did derive such pleasure from using the brush to comb the long strands of mane and tail, letting her mind trail away into a realm where thought was easy and leisurely, not fraught with confusion and worry.
As usual, reality intruded. She heard her father’s step coming toward her from the house long before he cleared his throat. “Yes, Father?”
“Marian, you do know about Gisborne?”
Marian turned and set down the brush. It was going to be one of those conversations. “What about him?”
Her father would often alter his looks depending on the gravity of the situation, usually in inverse proportions. Were it a grave matter he would be listless, fidgety; were it something small, he would stare at her fiercely. Arguments were often won on her recognizing this pattern. She was concerned that he did not meet her gaze. “You know that when he was taken into the forest by Robin, he was beaten.”
Marian shrugged and turned back to the horse, pressing a cheek against its velvety neck. It nickered; she felt the smooth coursing of the veins just underneath its pelt and skin. “I did not know you took such an interest in . . .”
“Your betrothed’s well-being?” There was the sarcasm in his voice that she recognized too often in her own. She looked at him fully. The lines of worry on his face were growing ever deeper. “You agreed to the marriage, it is merely in keeping up appearances that I draw your attention-”
“I should be expected to worry, is that what you mean?” she sighed. She knew full well what kind of a state Robin had left Gisborne in. She’d been there, seen him tied up and gagged against a tree. Ignominious, and something warned here it had been wrong, however much he might have deserved the beating. As she understood it from Much, of course, they’d both been equally bloodied in the attempt-that was men for you. But she did have to pretend that she had no idea.
“You might offer to help clean him up.”
Marian snorted, about to say something cutting, but she could tell from the tone of her father’s voice that he was finding this as difficult to say as she found it irksome to hear. “Surely there are others to . . .”
“It would look well, that’s all,” he said at last, with effort. He had folded his arms across his chest. As they both knew, the only reason she’d agreed to marriage was to preserve the life and liberty of herself and her father-so that she could continue to do what she could for the poor. Clearly in this case her father better understood the nuances of courtly behavior.
She bowed her head and removed her leather gloves. “Fine. I understand what you mean to say, and I will go to Nottingham.” She hazarded a look, seeing distress and relief mingled in her father’s features, and she half-smiled. “Don’t-I know you’re only thinking of me.” She moved past him into the house; now she had to decide what was appropriate to wear.
“Marian.” She was always surprised at how pleased he seemed to see her. She couldn’t understand it, and it always ended up galling her. “What are you--?”
“My father,” she said dryly, “said you’d been injured, and now I see for myself that’s true.”
His brows drew together. “Just a few scratches.” Unconsciously, she imagined, he licked where his lip had been split. She couldn’t help the sardonic raising of one of her brows. His face was bruised and cut, and she’d caught him walking with a limp and favoring his left arm. His gaze was piercing, though, and confused, so she quickly looked down into the basket she’d been carrying on one arm.
“Oh. I see. I brought some medicines, but if a physician has already-”
“No, wait,” he said, and the urgency in his voice made her want to laugh-and yet she felt a stab of pity. He moved quickly to bridge the gap of a few paces that separated them. “If you’ve gone to the trouble of bringing your medicines-”
“It is nothing,” she said, irritated at his bald enthusiasm. “Common rue, ointments mixed with almond milk, ground ivy in a salve . . . nothing you would not find in the castle leech’s book.” But looking up, she saw it was useless arguing with him. She’d made him think that she cared, and now . . .
“Come here,” he said softly. “Sit with me a moment-I’d be very glad of your time.” She nodded curtly and followed him to a small passage and an even smaller staircase and balustrade. There was a stool in it, and he moved quickly to indicate it to her. He leaned on the balustrade and looked at her expectantly. She muttered under her breath and took out her salves and bandages. Taking care not to touch him any more than was necessary, she leaned over and began to rub the rue ointment onto the gash on his forehead.
“How did you come by these injuries?” she asked coldly.
“Fighting with outlaws,” he said. His observation of her was total; he made every effort to stare into her face and not wince at the potential pain. With Robin, she could get away with wounding as part and parcel of healing. She didn’t dare try it with Guy.
“They got the upper hand.”
“I wouldn’t call it a fair fight,” he said sourly, rubbing his tongue along his split lip again. She waited for him to elaborate, to say something on the nature of being tied up. She wondered if there was any truth, after all, to Robin’s allegations on Guy’s treachery. “But I got your ring back.”
She sighed. “Yes.” She’d finished with his face and was looking at him anxiously. He used his teeth to pull off his gloves and presented his hands to her, flexing them with a grunt of pain. He held them out to her, slightly sheepish. His knuckles were bruised and scabbed over, no doubt from punching, Marian thought furiously. She took one fist and rubbed in the ointment as savagely as she could.
“You are a woman of many talents,” he said, squeezing her hand slightly.
She rolled her eyes. “Growing a few herbs, mixing a few potions?” She tsked, inspecting his fingernails, all bitten to the quick.
“That, and many other things besides.”
She frowned over his hand. “Your hands are rough.”
He smiled, looking down. “As rough as yours are soft . . . Marian.” He pulled her closer, turning over her right hand in his, caressing along the lines of her palm. Despite herself, she flushed and tried to pull away.
“Guy, I’m trying to-”
“But all these cuts.” He flipped her hand over, gazing in mock disapproval at the many half-healed scars on the back of her hand-results of being none-too-careful in her night rides. “You should be more cautious.”
“You,” she said furiously, “are one to talk!” She reached over and yanked at his right sleeve, revealing a sodden bandage wrapped around his wrist. He pulled back, unable to suppress a hiss of pain. “What is that?” she snapped.
“Nothing,” he said, pulling his sleeve back over it.
“Let me see,” she insisted, pulling back the bandage. She knew exactly what it was. Robin had told her about the tattoo and how the Sheriff had cleverly gotten rid of all evidence. In removing the bandage she could see no indication that a tattoo had ever existed; she saw only a mass of inflamed skin. “Did the physician see to this?” she asked pointedly.
“Marian, don’t.”
“It’s healing badly,” she said, without a shred of dissimulation. She whipped off the bandage as he looked at her, annoyed at her discovery but unwilling to prevent her from tending to it. She glared at him, wrapping clean cloth and vinegar-treated alder bark mixture from the depths of her basket around it. Why, why, why, she thought. Why am I doing this? If it suppurated and killed him, I wouldn’t have to marry him, would I? “Did you get that fighting outlaws, too?”
“No,” he said icily, blue-grey gaze fixed on her. “The Sheriff gave me that.” Her own eyes flicked over his briefly; he’d told the truth. She tied the knot off securely, dropping his hand. But he seized both of hers. “Thank you . . . for this,” he said, awkwardly holding her hands in his. She was sure he wanted to bring them to his lips. His lower lip was still bloodied, and she’d studiously avoided it, as if it wasn’t there. She wasn’t going to give him an excuse to . . .
“Might I hope that this interest betrays some affection for me?”
“Take from it what you will,” she said briskly, but she hadn’t yet managed to dislodge her hands from his. His palms were rough as she’d said, but warm. He did certainly manage to hold the reins with a great deal of dexterity and to handle a sword- She shook her head, remembering he’d used those hands to kill. She let her wrists go limp in his grasp.
“They are so soft,” he murmured again, taking one and brushing the back of it against his cheek, almost unconsciously. She tried to react with the shock she felt. Yet some rebellious part of her had to wait, to see how far he would take this liberty. There was such pleasure he was deriving just out of touching her hands. Her skin prickled with the feel of his stubble; she tensed.
“Gisborne,” snapped the Sheriff from somewhere behind them. “If you’re finished holding hands with Lady Marian I have something that might be of interest to you.” Marian dropped her hands at the same moment Guy pulled back from her, both of them looking down guiltily. Marian didn’t stay to see the look of annoyance and frustration that crossed her fiancé’s face; she picked up her basket and fled with a curt nod in his direction.