His fingers twitched; a tiny dance of life on the dusty floor. He listened. All was quiet for the moment. What was the saying? Silent as the grave?

"Not my grave," Sir Guy of Gisborne thought grimly. "They shall not have that satisfaction." He had not lied when he whispered his 'dying' speech, he would die and soon. He snorted softly remembering the overwrought nobility of his final words. He had known that honorable idiot Robin would insist on wasting precious time dragging him from the tunnel. His lie had ensured that Robin and Archer would at least have a chance to free themselves and perhaps turn the tide of the battle raging above his head. He was free, indeed, and proud; of his acting skills if nothing else. The saints knew there was precious little else to be proud of.

"And free to seek the location of my own death, at least, if not the manner," he thought, trying to drag himself to a sitting position and failing. He would be damned if he would allow himself to die here beneath Nottingham Castle, as much his prison over the last years as any dungeon cell. If death was inevitable, and judging from the searing pain of his wounds it must be, at least let it be beneath the sky. "Let me at least look upon heaven, though I will never reach it."

Inch by agonizing inch, he rolled onto his side, then to his belly. And began to crawl…

###

The Widow Afton Cooper pulled the latchstring and walked into her tiny cottage, inhaling deeply of the herb-scented air. Setting her basket aside on the trestle table, she took up the poker and stirred the dormant fire to life, adding a short log to feed the warming flames. The early autumn morning was cool, though her weather sense told her the day would be fair and hot once the sun rose fully. She cast a longing glance at her bed, tidily made in the corner. "The night was long. Perhaps I should lie down, just for a moment," she said to herself, taking a step towards it.

Her good-sister's lying-in had been a hard one; as hard a birth as could be endured and leave mother and child alive at the end. Footling breech and a mother whose body was all too slight to birth such a lusty boy child. In the small, dark hours before dawn, when the mother's cries were reduced to pitiful moans and the village biddies had begun clucking about other births gone horribly wrong, even Afton's natural confidence had begun to wane. But when dawn broke, alive they both were, and would remain so under Afton's watchful eye. She would visit later and check to make sure the child was feeding well and the mother not bleeding excessively.

Afton took another tentative step towards the bed, then turned decisively and went back to where her basket sat on the table. She opened it, carefully unpacked her medicines and laid aside a pile of bloody bandages for laundering. She had already buried the afterbirth in a place that would remain secret only to her and the mother, whom she would tell of its location when she visited. No matter what the priests might teach, it was a form of sacred earth magic every bit as protective as the baptismal rite.

She scowled, remembering how Friar William had arrived to perform that rite as she was leaving. She did not like the man, if man he could be called with his big belly and shiny, tonsured skull. But Afton was not stupid. Should the crops fail, the cows colic, or goddess forbid fever break out, she knew quite well who the Friar would blame and what the consequences of that blame would be. So, though she found the Friar's pious prattle about sin and damnation hypocritical and ridiculous, she went to mass faithfully every week. She bowed her head, knelt, stood and prayed like the rest of the villagers in Clipstone and only she knew it was a total mockery. Already marked by her profession, she did not need to give him any other reason to single her out.

She took a deep, cleansing breath, reminding herself of her mother's teachings that all faiths were worthy of respect; all goddesses were one goddess, all gods but one god. Her mother had been sincerely devout, serenely comfortable with worshipping the Christian God and the Goddess side by side. "They are but different sides of the same divine power, daughter."

Afton remembered railing back at her mother once. "How can you say that? The Friar would have us believe that we are evil and unclean, merely because we are women."

"The Friar is a man, love. As were those who wrote the Christian holy book. What can you expect them to understand of women's mysteries?" Afton was unsatisfied with that explanation, but let the matter drop. By then, her mother had been very ill and Afton did not want to disturb her with contention.

The sun peeked over the window ledge of her east-facing cottage, kissing her brow with its morning rays. If she wanted to gather the herbs and plants she needed while they were still wet with the morning dew, she needed to hurry. Her supplies of willow bark and clover were running low and there were certain other plants coming to the end of their bountiful summer season. There was time enough for a bath and bed later. Slinging the empty basket over her arm, Afton left the cottage through the back door which led directly into the vast eastern reaches of Sherwood Forest.

###

The graveyard was a madhouse. A haze of smoke obscured the faint dawn and people rushed to and fro, hurrying to safety dragging or carrying the wounded and dying with them. By a supreme effort of will, Guy hoisted himself from the open grave that led to the tunnel, biting down savagely on his lip to quell the scream of pain that threatened to burst forth. He tasted blood and at the same time, felt a fresh spurt from the wound in his belly as he heaved himself upright, leaning on a gravestone. "Just a little longer," he prayed to no one in particular. Surely God had no interest in helping one such as him.

Or perhaps He did because just then, a boy emerged from the haze, leading an old cart horse. "You there. Boy!" Guy thought his voice sounded weak and frail, lacking the crack of authority he'd learned to wield as effectively as any whip. But seemingly, it still held a semblance of command because the boy stopped, looking at him quizzically. "I need that horse. I need to…" his mind automatically searched for a lie. "There are people who haven't been…" he looked around him at the chaos and saw people heading for the forest. "I need to warn more people. Tell them where to go…to be safe." The boy hesitated. "NOW!" There. That was more like it. Shrugging, the boy tossed him the reins and scampered off into the woods. The horse probably had not belonged to him in the first place.

Guy watched the boy's retreating figure, looked at the horse, bridled but unsaddled, felt the blood trickling down almost to his boot-top and began to swear quietly and creatively. All he wanted was to find a peaceful, quiet place to lie down and die; not the dirty castle basement and god forbid not a graveyard. But no. He had to figure out a way to mount and ride an unsaddled horse with an open, poisoned wound that was probably going to kill him at any moment whether he willed it or not. Was nothing simple? Ever?

Jaw set stubbornly, he staggered as he led the sway-backed nag to an uprooted tree which had fallen near the edge of the graveyard. After a moment surveying the logistics, he clamped the reins between his teeth and levered himself up on its weathered trunk. Using the reins, then the horse's mane as a sort of rope, he hauled himself across its back, finally shifting his leg so that he was clumsily astride. He kicked the mare's sides weakly and it moved in an ambling walk. "Not that way." He hauled on the reins and pulled the horse's head around until it faced approximately northeast. "Now go. Go!" He took the reins and looped them about his wrists, hoping that would keep his mount moving if he passed out.

Which he promptly did. The horse, a docile creature trained to pull a plow, obediently plodded north oblivious to the dead weight on its back.

###

Afton yawned, placed the last of the willow bark into her basket and took out a tiny, sparkling stone. Murmuring under her breath, she planted the stone at the base of the giant willow and placed her hand lovingly on its broad trunk. "Thank you, old friend." Her eyes watered with exhaustion as she glanced at the sun's position, close to the horizon. With the Equinox just past, she knew there was just enough light to get home, write up her notes on the birth and go to bed. It was as well she had checked in on Edwina and the babe earlier in the afternoon.

When she stopped by the simple, thatched-roof cottage just after the noon meal, Edwina had been awake nursing her child. After a few questions and a thorough examination of the baby, Afton perched for a moment on her friend's bed and rested. "He's a fine, big boy," she complimented.

Her good-sister looked at her closely. "He is that. Like to have worn us both out, he did. You look half-dead, Afton. You should go home and rest yourself."

Afton shrugged, "I am little tired, perhaps. I'll go home soon, after I finish my harvesting." She patted the handle of the basket sitting at her feet.

Edwina's fair brows drew together in concern. "Afton…" she started. Sighing, she squared her thin shoulders and continued firmly, "You can't keep going on like this. You need help. You need a husband to help you around your place. You need a family. A daughter to train. Marry again, Afton."

It was an old argument between them. Afton smiled, "You're just saying that because you have a new babe at the breast. It's only natural to want all your friends to have one as well."

"'Tis not the reason, and you know it. We are grateful for the work you do. God knows, there's many in this village who wouldn't be living if you didn't do it. But you're killing yourself. There are at least a half dozen men who'd marry you at the snap of your fingers. One of them could work your land, do the chores, keep you fed and cared after."

Afton stood abruptly. "No. Thank you, Edwina, for your estimation of my charms but you flatter me. There are many women in the village, younger and much prettier than I and maidens besides. I will never marry again. Edward was husband enough for a lifetime."

Edwina gazed down at her son, sleeping beside her in the rushes. "Afton, my brother wouldn't have wanted…"

Afton grabbed her basket, clutching the handle until her knuckles were white. "Edwina," she interrupted, "I really must be about my work. I'll check on you again in a few days. You know what to do. Send for me if you need anything." With that, she slipped out the door, leaving her friend open-mouthed and shaking her head.

Afton resolutely tried to put the conversation out of her mind and she considered her route home. She contemplated taking the short, quarter-mile deer path through the orchard, but decided in her current state perhaps the longer road through the village would present fewer obstacles for her to trip over. She started in that direction and was only feet from the road when she heard the sound of hooves on the packed dirt. Instantly, she crouched in the tall grass by the side of the road. Had she been on the east side of the village, she'd have thought nothing of a traveler on the road near dark. But she was on the west side, only yards from the vast forest of Sherwood. Between the Sherriff's men and the outlaws, nothing good ever came from Sherwood.

Except Robin Hood, she reminded herself. But he and his gang mostly troubled themselves with the area closer to Locksley and Nottingham Castle, to the southwest. In her village he was all but legend, a masked figure who sometimes slipped by in the night leaving the odd sack of coin with the village elders to be used for seed corn, extra food or whatever else might be needful. Afton had never seen him and despite his benign reputation, she had no wish to encounter him alone on a twilit road. She knew well that widows often paid for their independence and power with their personal security.

Afton could hear the horse drawing nearer. She peered out of her hiding place in the grass and saw a nondescript gray horse, walking lazily down the road. She settled back to wait for it to pass.

Later, she would swear it all had happened in the space of a few breaths. How the horse had shied at something, real or imagined. How the man had slid helplessly from its back and had not even tried to break his fall. How the horse had pulled him several feet before the reins came untangled and then shot off down the road as though the hounds of hell pursued it. How the man gave a howl of agony so heart wrenching that she was on her feet running towards him, her fear totally subsumed by healer's instinct.

She skidded to a stop, flinging herself down in the dirt beside his inert body. He lay on his back on the road, a pool of crimson slowly seeping from beneath brown leather and muddying the dust. His face and hands were deathly white beneath dirt and blood. Desperately, she felt for the pulse in his neck. It fluttered there like a trapped bird, uneven beneath her questing fingers. His eyes were open, shadowed gray in the fading light, and his mouth worked helplessly trying to form words. "Don't try to talk," she pleaded. "Goddess, I've got to think what to do!"

His pale hand shot out and clamped around her slender neck, strong enough despite the blood loss to make her cough and choke. He pulled her close, bringing her ear to his lips.

"Nothing. You…will…do…nothing."