Still remember the story of Marian sitting in the dungeon? I was hoping to finish it about a month ago, but RL has a way of messing things up, and writing anything outside the timeframe of the show poses interesting questions a la what does a medieval archbishop who is also the equivalent of a Prime Minister wear at his office? (you would have to read the following to see my best shot, but suffice it to say, I spent a couple of days becoming intimately familiar with the Catholic Encyclopedia ;) ) Anyway, here is the next instalment, split into two chapters for length. The story has gone from a two-parter into a de facto four-parter, but is 99% complete - I will post the last (4th) part in a couple of days. Honestly.
PS for fellow Guy fans: before you wonder if the (anti)hero is ever going to show up, let me say that the last part is written almost entirely from his PoV. I confess it was a long wait ;)
They climbed the steps from the dungeon into the grey courtyard, eerily quiet in the hour between night and dawn, and Marian was darkly surprised not to see a block and axe anywhere. Or even a gallows for that matter, if they had chosen to subject her to that indignity despite her rank. Instead, there was a cart.
Of course, she realised, John will not want an execution to wake up the guests. They will probably drag me off to the woods and kill me there.
At the jailer's bidding, she climbed in awkwardly, her chained hands making it a challenge, and the guards followed her. The jailer gestured to the cart driver, the men at the archway pulled the huge gates open, the cart trundled out, and Marian looked at the outside world for the first time in more than a month.
It was beautiful. The grass silver with dew, the wisps of mist hovering above the rolling meadows, the dark emerald forest beyond. The sky fading from the night's sapphire to the lapis of early morning, hemmed on the east side by a strip of scarlet. In her twenty-four years she had grown to know the countryside with its sunsets and sunrises and meadows and forests only too well, and it had not really worried her that someday she would be looking at it for the last time. It was still many years away. But that day was here.
She tried to keep her detachment, to see her execution as an instant of pain before life everlasting beckoned to her. She repeated Pater Noster in her mind, though the lines snagged and jumbled as she went through them, and thought of seeing Robin in the hereafter, hopefully many, many years later, yet the idea gave her no comfort. What is wrong with me, she protested mentally, before another image came up in her mind's eye, and she shook her head in disbelief.
It was not Robin that she wanted to greet on the other side.
She barely noticed when they reached the hamlet a mile away from the castle, still and sleepy in the predawn. By then she was vaguely confused about the procession, but kept telling herself that the details did not matter. Then the cart stopped outside a grimy, stocky building that looked like a tavern, and she was ordered to get off and was shoved inside.
Marian stifled a pang of fear; she had hoped, at least, to meet her death in the open, to look at the sky and smell the fresh air in her last living moments. But when she was led into a dimly lit room and motioned to a bench in front of a table, she gave in to utter bewilderment.
A man was sitting at the table opposite her. She vaguely recognised his sharp face – Hugh d'Oyry, one of John's lieutenants she had seen around Windsor. He regarded her in silence before beginning in a dull, toneless voice.
- You were to be beheaded today, my lady, for the crimes of murder and intended theft that you committed. But His Highness in his infinite mercy has decided that your confinement has afforded sufficient punishment to make you repent your wrongdoings, and has deemed it possible to pardon you. I am hereby to return you to your estate of Knighton, and you are to remain there at the peril of losing your life should you be found contemplating crimes again.
At first she was too shocked to respond, or to think clearly. It makes no sense, she kept saying to herself before the full meaning dawned on her. She was not to die that day, after all.
*
They made it to Knighton in just over a week. She was to wear the handcuffs until they reached it, d'Oyry had told her indifferently at the start of the journey, but he unchained her once and let her bathe and change unmolested, and allowed her the use of her personal effects that had been delivered in his wagon – all intact except for a silver hand mirror, a silver jewel box, and the modest jewellery it had contained, which, along with her fancy new carriage, had been confiscated as part of her punishment. To pay for one of John's banquets is more like it, she thought wryly, glad that she had at least left Robin's engagement ring back at Knighton lest John recognise it as his mother's and demand it back. Still, when the giddy euphoria had subsided, she was baffled by her miraculous salvation. It was not like John to show mercy – not unless it was highly entertaining or carried a substantial reward. And her pardon afforded him neither.
All her attempts to start a conversation with d'Oyry had failed, and she was left to her thoughts for most of the journey, her mind churning through the month she had spent in the dungeon. Prince John had visited her the day after her capture, and by then she had mastered her fear and collected her wits enough to have concocted the least damning explanation possible. She had caught Taisson's eye, she had said, glad that the dead man could not contradict her, and when invited to his room earlier that fateful day had noticed him acting furtively around the box, and had assumed that it held valuables. Then, feigning shame, Marian proceeded with a tale of imminent ruin brought about by her reckless spending that had forced her to resort to theft. She had even pawned things belonging to her betrothed, she lied, and owed money in taxes, and desperately needed a way to avoid the debtors' pit and keep her manor. So she had snuck back into Taisson's chamber that night looking for treasure, was disappointed to find the box containing scrolls she allegedly could not read – and was caught by Taisson who had thrown all the scrolls into the fire and had almost strangled her before she stabbed him in panic. If John had had doubts about the veracity of her tale, she could not detect them.
Still, he had left her with little more than an admonition to repent her crime in the face of eternity, and for weeks after that, Marian prepared to die, knowing that John would not bring Taisson's murder before a court for fear of being exposed in his plotting, yet certain that he would want to be rid of her. She did not regret her ill-fated foray so much as the naive idealism that had fuelled her recklessness. She had been championing great causes, fighting injustice as the Nightwatchman, then waging battles against the plotting Sheriff alongside Robin who had convinced her that King Richard's return would put an end to all oppression, certain all along that the ends would justify the means. She had dismissed Guy as too flawed, violent and ambitious and easily influenced by his superior, and had had few scruples in using him for noble reasons. And she had gradually come to believe in the legend of Robin Hood, brave and righteous and invincible and loyal to his king.
Then Richard had returned, and even before he took Robin from her, she caught a glimpse of her beloved as just another ambitious young man eager for his patron's approval, while confronted with the reality of Guy as Sheriff that had compelled her to acknowledge that the man was capable of fairness and restraint. The king left his country drained by his immense ransom and by a new round of taxes, ended up pardoning the treacherous brother who had schemed against him, and went on to wage a war on his onetime best friend and alleged lover. The world was neither simple and straightforward nor easily divided into good and evil. The realities of politics and relationships were much more complex than she had been able, or willing, to fathom. Even her valiant attempt to save King Richard's life by seizing John's letters had likely been in vain. Richard had plenty of enemies, and while John may have suffered a setback with his plot because of her interference, Philippe Auguste would continue fighting him anyway; Marian could hardly stop that war. Faced with imminent death, she could not help regretting her childish illusions.
One night, when the darkness and solitude had become unbearable, she had wept, stifling her sobs so the dungeon guards would not hear her. She had spent her short life chasing after ideals, waiting for a king who cared little for her or for his entire country, loving a man who had twice abandoned her, and scorning another who had been more deserving than she had been able to admit. Guy had been right; her wilfulness would kill her.
Yet by an incomprehensible twist of fate, she had avoided death and was almost free.
The carriage emerged from the gloom of the woods into the stretch of open road lit by the pale autumn sun before stopping in front of the manor house that still looked brand-new. Three months later and a dozen years older, Marian was home again.
*
A letter from Robin was waiting for her. Marian unrolled it eagerly, hoping for something to cheer her up, some warmth to make her feel loved again, maybe even an invitation to France to get her away from Prince John and loneliness and self-recrimination, but as she skipped through the lines she found no such solace. 'My beloved Marian', it began, 'I am writing to you from Dieppe where we have just suffered a painful blow at the hands of the black-hearted Philippe. After we were compelled to retreat from Vaudreuil, the French scourge has pursued us here and used Greek fire to set our ships aflame. Our King swore revenge on the malicious fiend, but our attack on the French rear guard was driven off. It now appears that, having caused us plenty of trouble in Normandy, Philippe is moving his forces into the Berry, and has his greedy sights set on Issoudun that has been captured by our forces. Not to worry; we have our best men and commanders ready to defend it...'
Marian set the letter aside. Earlier, she had replied to Robin right away if the courier would wait, or, if there was no way to send an immediate response, she would start a long letter that she would add to weekly, so that it would grow to three or four sheets of vellum by the time she could send it. Now, she could not think of anything to write. She doubted she ever would.
Before d'Oyry left he had instructed Marian to present herself to the Sheriff within a week, warning her that her failure to do so at regular intervals would lead to the confiscation of her manor. The prospect gave her mixed feelings; in spite of her springtime resolve, she wanted to see Guy again - but dreaded the inevitable mockery. Surely he would have been informed of the misfortune that had befallen her, and would deride her recklessness. Still, three days after she had returned, she ordered her horse saddled and made her way to Nottingham.
Marian approached the castle with an unshakable sense of déjà vu. Just less than a year earlier she had arrived at the Council of Nobles filled with anticipation and nursing a glimmer of hope that was quickly extinguished. She had no such hopes now, but her struggle since that day to forget Guy had ended in defeat. The man had left a void in her life despite his sins and shortcomings, and in her dungeon musings she had gone from being bitter with him for having dismissed her to remembering him with an unexpectedly wistful fondness - to being mortified by the admission that he had sought to amend his past offences while she herself had wronged him repeatedly with her lies and had never acknowledged it. This meeting could afford her a chance to tell Guy that she regretted her deception, if he would listen. He will see it as another attempt to manipulate him, she thought , she needed to apologise to him for her past callousness whether he accepted her apology or not. Whether or not he cared that she needed him.
She rode past the barbican – and stopped her horse so abruptly that her head almost bumped into its neck. For years, she had been used to seeing Vasey's washed-our greyish-blue standards gracing the castle entrance. On her last visit, she had seen them replaced with Guy's garish black-and-yellow ones – she could not understand why he had changed the elegant black-and-gold of his father's crest to the loud pattern, but had never given it much thought.
Now she stared, in incomprehension and creeping dread, at the white-and-green banner before her.
It was wrong.
Her legs and her voice both unsteady, she asked the guards at the entrance to take her to the sheriff, and as one of them led her up the stairs and down the corridor to the familiar study, she kept trying in vain to calm herself. There was probably a mundane explanation, she assured herself desperately. Guy had decided to change his crest. Or he had received a new title, and the colours went with it.
Or he had married and was displaying his bride's family colours in celebration, she countered sadly.
But when she was led into the study, she knew that the reassurances had been in vain.
The man looking at her from behind the desk was a stranger.
William de Ferrers was relatively young for a Sheriff, born a year after Prince John. He was somewhat above average height, though shorter and stockier than Gisborne, his light brown hair tended to curl despite being close-cropped, and he wore a short, neatly trimmed beard. His face was broad and regular; many would consider it handsome.
He could not possibly see what may have warranted the young lady's reaction when she nearly fainted upon seeing him.
After a momentary confusion, after water and wine had been fetched and Marian had been led to a chair and drank some of both, she finally managed, in a small and shaky voice, to ask the lord's name, and whether he was indeed the Sheriff of Nottingham. For a while she said nothing to his affirmative reply, but eventually continued, her voice barely above a whisper:
- What happened to Lord Gisborne?
- He was replaced, - de Ferrers said calmly. He did not know, or care, what exactly had happened to his predecessor that had brought about his appointment. All he knew was that a letter from Hubert Walter, Richard's Chief Justiciar, had reached him two weeks earlier, informing him of his new position and ordering him to take over his duties from Gisborne immediately. He had hurried to Nottingham, pleased to have been given the coveted post, and had received the keys, the treasury, and all the records in good order, though Gisborne himself had apparently left Nottingham a few days before his arrival. He did not have any reasons to dwell on this circumstance, and was slightly embarrassed at his ignorance in the face of Marian's obvious distress.
When she had recovered enough to speak steadily she explained the orders that had brought her to the castle. Lord de Ferrers did not seem overly concerned about Marian's criminal proclivities. So long as she paid her taxes regularly, he said – her one-year allowance was over anyway – and presented herself at Nottingham at least once a month, he was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt as to how she spent her time in between. Marian expressed her gratitude as warmly as her voice would allow, and promptly left.
She hardly remembered how she got back to Knighton, lost between futile guesses about Guy's whereabouts and the reasons for his departure, and an overwhelming abject dread. She could not believe that Guy had mismanaged the shire so badly as to warrant being replaced. She was seized with a terrible apprehension that he was somehow involved in John's plots, but it seemed unlikely given their bitter quarrel and the apparent multitude of potential assassins that were already conveniently in Normandy, some of them right in Richard's camp, if John's claims to Philippe were to be believed. Perhaps Guy had simply had a falling-out with the Chief Justiciar.
Whatever it was, she had to find out.
*
Sarah, who Marian had summoned to her chamber, was startled at her mistress's state. She had ecstatically welcomed Marian back three days earlier, having feared the worst for weeks after being told by fellow maids at Windsor of her lady's imprisonment and being smuggled out of the castle late at night, holding a silver chalice a kind-hearted serving girl had pinched from the kitchen that, broken up into pieces, had paid her way back to Nottingham. Her worry at seeing Marian in acute distress gave way to shock when she found out the reason.
- My lady, please calm yourself! – she entreated. – Surely Gisborne doesn't deserve such grief!
- I was wrong about him, Sarah, - Marian repeated stubbornly. – He is a better man than I allowed myself to think. And I fear that something bad may have befallen him.
- But he served that fiend Vasey, and killed Rowan's father and the poor workmen and burned the manor and –
Marian shook her head in response. Guy had committed crimes, but he had not been beyond redemption.
- I need to know where he is, - she insisted.
- I'll tell Allan to come here, my lady, - Sarah assured her. She had run into Allan in Nottingham the day she had come back and had told him of Marian's terrible fate, but had seen little of him since. – He worked for Gisborne, certainly he'll know what happened and why Sir Guy left.
- Do you know where to find Allan? – Marian pressed. Despite the exhaustion of her earlier trip, she was ready to seek the man out herself.
- I heard... from Simon, our groom, that he's just been hired to run the estate at Clifton.
- Clifton?! – Marian repeated excitedly. – That is Guy's manor, isn't it? – Why have I not thought of going there?
- I heard that Lord de Ferrers has taken it over, - Sarah replied cautiously. Whatever madness had seized her mistress that day, she seemed very distraught at hearing of any apparent misfortunes that had been visited on Gisborne.
Marian sighed.
- Thank you, Sarah, - she managed calmly. – Will you please go and ask Simon to saddle me a fresh horse?
- You won't make it back before dark, my lady, - Sarah implored her. – I beg you to wait till tomorrow!
- I cannot, Sarah dear, - she put her hand on the maid's arm, - I must speak to Allan today or I will lose my mind.
I fear you already have, my lady, Sarah thought as she made her way to the stables.
*
- Maz! –Unlike their previous awkward encounter, Allan was delighted to see Marian in the doorway of the humble home he occupied in Clifton right next to the manor house.
- Allan, - she exhaled after he had released her from the best approximation of a bear hug he could manage. – Am I ever glad to see you!
- Look, you're the one who escaped mortal danger, - he countered. – I was just sitting here!
- And you never came to see me at Knighton, - she chided belatedly, immediately regretting it as she saw Allan squirm. - Anyway, I need to talk to you and it cannot wait.
- Let me guess, - he began slowly, - you have trouble in mind and you want me to take part in it.
- Maybe, - she replied evasively, - maybe not. – After all, the answer depended on what Allan would tell her.
- What is it?
- I need to know where Guy is.
- Look, Marian... – Allan avoided her eyes. – I am not much help here. See, he didn't tell me anything... when he left the first time he told me he was off to take the tax money to London, and that I was in charge until he returned, and the second time he just paid me my wages and said goodbye. I asked him where he was off to and he wouldn't say, just ordered me out. – Allan scratched his head in embarrassment.
- You mean Guy has been gone from here twice this past month?
- Yeah, he was gone about two weeks and came back just before Assumption and left again after a day or two. Packed up all his stuff and rode off like that. – Allan's voice carried a slight note of bitterness. – Wouldn't tell me anything. But he got me this post here, - he went on, - so I shouldn't be badmouthing Giz, really.
- When was that, Allan? I mean, the first time Guy left, when was that?
- Right after St James's day, - Allan's eyes sharpened at the memory. – It was a day after... Shite! – Allan slapped himself on the forehead with such force that he winced, but the grimace was promptly replaced by a smile.
- What?!
- It was the day after Sarah came back and told me about you, - Allan continued sheepishly, but with growing excitement. – And I told Giz right away. I told him I wanted to get John Little and go to Windsor to try and get you out, and he said it was hopeless and stupid and he needed me here, and forbade me. He did not seem to care really, just muttered 'serves her right', you know, and went on about the usual business and I was furious at him and thought he was a heartless bastard. And then the next day he says he's gonna take the taxes to London himself and ah... – he slapped his forehead again, though more carefully this time. – and I believed him! Damn that man!
Marian did not know whether to laugh or cry. Rather, she ended up doing a bit of both.
- Marian? – Allan seemed worried at her reaction. – You mad at me, or what?
- No, - she moaned. I am mad at myself.
Whatever misfortune Guy had run into, she had likely provoked it.
At least there was a chance for her to set things right.
- Allan... – she began.
- What?
- You were right. When you said I'd want you to join me in stirring up trouble, you were right.
- I knew it, - he sighed in mock exasperation, - I just knew it. I was just beginning to enjoy it here in Clifton. The house and all, you know...
- Allan... – Marian's voice took on a warning tone.
- All right, all right, Maz. What do you want me to do?
- I want you to go to Windsor with me.
- What?! – Allan had expected a trip to London, or to France, but Windsor... – you just got out of there, remember? And Prince John's still there, right? And I'd bet he's not going to welcome you back with open arms...
- No, he is not, - Marian agreed.- But he doesn't need to know that I am there. Unless I want him to.
- Why Windsor, anyway? The justiciar's in London, ain't he? And he's the one who makes the appointments in the King's name, right?
- Because I left something at Windsor. And I want it back.
*
They left the next morning. Marian was up long before sunrise to pack the few belongings she had chosen into the saddlebags. A change or two of clothes, a few daggers, a couple of silver dishes she had bought as an indulgence when she moved into Knighton, to sell if they needed money. She put a couple of handfuls of coins into a purse after counting out the money due in taxes – with the harvest just starting, there was not a lot or spare funds – and reaching into a recess in the floorboards of her bedroom, pulled out her engagement ring. She felt a touch of shame at the thought of selling it, but dismissed the scruples. It was merely a piece of jewellery. Love needed no rings to confirm it... she paused at the uncomfortable realisation. Did she and Robin love each other still? She was not ready to admit the final truth even though she knew it.
They made it to Windsor in just under six days, travelling morning till night, trading in horses twice when theirs were too tired, spending a small fortune in the process. With Marian unable to conceal the fact that she was female – Allan had finally convinced her to give up that pretence – she wore a nun's habit as a disguise, and it slowed them down when they rode though villages or spotted approaching riders and carriages, as nuns on galloping horses were absolutely unheard-of. The closer they got the more Marian bickered with Allan trying to persuade him to hurry up, worried that they were too late, but when they finally arrived at the hamlet outside Windsor she was the one to call for a pause to think things over.
- Come on, Maz, we've been through this. – Allan urged.- We buy the cider, borrow a cart, I go in, get to the kitchen, find Beth, come back and then you go in when she tells you to. Easy, ain't it?
Beth was the kitchen girl Sarah had befriended at Windsor who had helped her escape. Marian was now hoping to get her help in gaining entry to the castle, as scaling the curtain walls was out of the question and walking in through the gate unprepared, even in disguise, was too dangerous. They had briefly thought of Marian hiding in the cider cart when Allan drove it in, but dismissed it as too risky in case Allan's unfamiliar face raised suspicions and the cart was searched.
- I am still not sure if you should go in there, Allan, - Marian countered. – Maybe we can just wait for a servant returning to the castle and ask them to find Beth and tell her to meet us here.
- Meet who, Lady Marian of the dungeon? – Allan snorted.
- We can just say Sarah, - her tone was faintly offended.
- And what makes you think she is the only Beth in the kitchen? And that your maid is the only Sarah she knows? And even if she is, why should Beth trust this message and not think it's some sort of trap to catch her as the chalice thief? And how can she walk out of the castle when she pleases and not raise suspicions? And where do we wait for a returning servant? And what if whoever we give the message to forgets about it in a blink? And...
- Very well, I give up, - Marian sighed. – You go.
*
Allan came back just before dusk, and by the look on his face, one would suppose the man had been in heaven.
- What is the matter with you, Allan? – Marian smirked.
- You shoulda seen her, Maz, the girl's an angel! – he breathed.
- Who?
- Beth, that's who. The most beautiful angel I've ever seen!
Marian smirked again. One would not think you have seen too many.
Yet when Marian made it to the castle late in the evening with the laundry cart and saw the girl who had met them, she understood the reason for Allan's excitement and other things besides.
Beth had told Allan to send Marian to the laundry house in the hamlet and ask for her elder sister Judy who was to take the cart back to Windsor along with two other girls. By Prince John's orders the chore was performed by washing women downstream of the castle 'so they would not ruin the view'; fresh laundry, dried in the village, was returned to Windsor every other evening, and dirty laundry was loaded the next morning for the day's wash. The guards at the servants' entrance paid little attention to the comings and goings of the laundry cart except to try and flirt with the prettier girls, and it had hardly occurred to them that a dangerous fugitive could be hidden underneath the bulky sacks of linens.
Once in the courtyard, two girls busied themselves with unloading the laundry while Judy distracted the driver, and Marian, dressed in her best reconstruction of the Nightwatchman outfit minus the hooded cloak, and carrying a sack much smaller than the rest, had just slunk off the cart and was looking for a bolthole when someone took her hand. She started and gathered herself into a fighting stance – and felt rather embarrassed when the menace turned out to be a slight girl in a servant's dress pressing a finger to her lips.
- I am Beth, - she whispered. – Come with me.
They went into a dark passage behind a plain doorway, feeling their way down a flight of stairs before Beth opened another door and Marian stepped into a long, chilly room. An oil lamp illuminated a dim circle at its end while the rest was submerged in darkness. From where she stood, Marian could see rows of pots and jars and the occasional barrel. The air smelled of herbs and dried meat. The pantry. They walked up to the long table where the lamp stood, and Marian finally took a good look at her companion.
Beth was younger than Marian, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, and very pretty, with dark hair and lovely dark grey eyes. Her face seemed set in a sad and worried expression, and as she explained to Marian how she could reach the top of the keep using the servants' passages most of the way, Marian noticed her natural grace and soft voice and felt keenly sorry for the girl. She had wondered about the reasons for Beth's eagerness to help Sarah, and now her, despite the danger; but looking at Beth, she understood. The girl must have been an unwilling plaything of John's – or of one of his friends – and helping his enemies, as Sarah and Marian doubtless appeared to her, to hurt her tormentor was her best chance of revenge. Marian's hands reflexively clenched into fists.
- It is best that you go now, my lady, - Beth finished. – They're still at the banquet and everyone is... merry, - her mouth twisted at the word, - so that you can get to the room before the guests come back. Then when you're done, come back through here and climb back into the cart. I've told Judy to load a few sacks tonight so you can hide under them, and I'll leave a parcel with some food in it at the back of the cart. God bless you, my lady, I pray that you succeed. – She extinguished the lamp and led Marian up the stairs at the other end.
- And bless you, my dear, I shall pray that you... have a happier life, - Marian whispered at the top of the stairs, her hands on Beth's shoulders, before she stole into a narrow passage lost in darkness. That night, she was breaking a promise she had once made. Yet another one. The Nightwatchman is no more, Guy had said, and she had nodded her agreement. And here she was, leather outfit and mask and all. Just this once, Guy. If I get what I need, it will be the last time, I promise.
She had to feel most of her way up. The servants' corridors did not merit wall sconces for torches, and were too low and narrow to allow for those, in any case. During the day, light seeped in from the rooms and corridors these connected to and from an occasional window where the passages were set against an outside wall; at night, the servants used candles to navigate the tricky steps. But Marian could not risk a candle – if anyone saw her, a single scream of terror or loud oath would spell her doom, and it was best that she had a chance to retreat into darkness if she saw anyone approaching. It took longer, but eventually she made it to the top floor – and after darting across the corridor to the final flight of stairs, was standing at the top of the keep. It seems I was just here yesterday, she smiled wistfully. Yesterday, and a lifetime ago. But she quickly shook herself out of the reverie; there was not a moment to lose. Getting her bearings, Marian walked up to the battlements and peered down. If her estimate was right, Taisson's old room had to be directly under that spot two floors below.
Marian did not know if the room was occupied, but had to assume the worst, and climbing through that high window at night with a sleeping guest on the bed – not to mention reaching on top of the canopy – was a recipe for disaster. She was likewise disenchanted with the idea of creeping her way along the ledge; it was not only dangerous but also dangerously slow. Still, the guards were in all likelihood still posted outside the room, and her best chance was to quickly make it in and out of the window before the night's revelries were over. She took the sack off her shoulder, pulled out a long rope ladder, and looked for a sturdy anchor to tie it to.
It was not perfect, but it was the best she could get: an iron ring embedded into the battlements to hang pennants from. Marian pulled on it and was pleased when it did not give. She tied the rope ends with several knots, this time pulling on them with all her strength, too well aware that her life depended on it. She was apprehensive even though the arrangement seemed sound, but there were no more excuses for waiting. She rolled down the ladder and tentatively took a step, then another.
The ladder held.
Carefully, slowly at first but picking up her pace as she descended, Marian climbed down past the top floor, then paused to glance down when she reached the ledge. The window was two or three feet to her right; she could either get on the ledge and crawl over from there, or try to pull herself over along the wall while still holding onto the ladder. The latter option seemed better; at least the ladder afforded her a greater measure of safety. She grabbed the rough stone with her right hand, inching her fingers towards the window while pushing against the wall with her left foot, and finally came close enough to grab the edge of the window before she replaced her left foot on the ladder and swung her right leg to wedge a foot against the side of the window. Moments later, fighting the unsettling memory, she pushed open the horn panes and peered into the familiar room.
It was dark, Marian was pleased to note, meaning either that it was vacant or that the occupant had not returned. Peering closer into the chamber, she noticed a burnt-out fire, one or two coals occasionally winking red. So there is someone supposed to be sleeping here after all, she winced. She listened carefully for a sound of snoring or stirring coming from the bed, but there was none. Crouching on the window sill, she pulled up the ladder behind her and let its loose end drop into the room. In addition to securing her way out – she was now appalled at her earlier stupidity, thinking that she could have made it out of there by climbing back onto the ledge unaided – the ladder gave her a convenient way down and back up to the window inside the chamber.
Marian was surprised at how calm she was. Whether due to Allan's involvement, Beth's help, or her own careful planning, she was neither distracted nor frantic not frightened, all of which she remembered being the last time she was there. Quietly and deliberately, she took off her boots so as not to leave dirty prints, stepped up on top of the bed covers, and reached onto the canopy.
In that instant, and in that instant only, she was terrified. Her hand swept the fabric but encountered nothing but dust. How could the scrolls be gone? Carefully, Marian lifted the heavy fabric from the edge of the four-poster frame and, wincing and shielding her face so as not to cough from the dust, lowered the canopy toward her.
A slight rustling sound greeted her ears, and Marian exhaled in relief. Naturally, the scrolls had lodged themselves in the middle of the canopy where the fabric sagged the most, but in her initial alarm she had not thought of that. She pushed the vellum inside the shirt she was wearing under her jacket and tightened her belt to make sure the shirt would not come loose so the scrolls could fall out. She then rearranged the canopy, stepped down from the bed, brushed the dust off the covers, put on her boots, and climbed back onto the window sill.
Marian fought the temptation to sit there for a while and relish her success. The documents she had recovered were the best bargaining chip she could hope for, she thought – and was shocked at her own conclusion. She had been too intent on getting the letters, and too worried whether she would find them still in the room, to have given much thought to how exactly she would use them. Now that she held the documents, Marian was no longer anxious to have them delivered to Richard, or to bring about Prince John's ruin at all costs. Certainly, she wanted John punished and Richard safe, but now the damning letters held another purpose for her, one that took precedence over politics.
She would use them to get Guy out of whatever trouble he was in.
Spurred on by the thought, she quickly gathered up the ladder from inside the room, closed the window, and started climbing toward the top of the keep.
*
- My lady, wake up!
Marian squinted to see Judy pulling at her sleeve, and then her eyes travelled sideways to see Allan grinning down at her.
- Are we back already? – she drawled sleepily.
Both Allan and Judy laughed.
- You were asleep in the cart when we left the castle at sunrise, - Judy explained, - we're at Windsor hamlet now, my lady.
Marian smiled. When she made it back to the cart she was certain that, in her excitement, she would spend a sleepless night under the sacks of laundry. So much for that.
When the farewells were said and Marian had persuaded a reluctant Judy to accept the two silver coins she had pressed into the girl's hand – I'd do anything for my poor Beth, Judy had said, and she wanted so much to help you – Marian and Allan went back to the inn they were staying at. The same grimy inn, she had realised, where she had heard the incredible news of her salvation.
- What now, Marian? – Allan asked when the excitement had subsided. – You want to take these to Richard?
Marian hesitated. Allan had always struck her as a pragmatic fellow. She hoped that he would not be the one to shame her with appeals to her conscience now that her plan served a purpose slightly different from her lofty ideals.
- I was thinking, Allan... – she began uncertainly, - I want to help put an end to this plot, but I also need these for a more urgent matter.
- Finding Giz? – Allan ventured quietly, but there was no disapproval in his voice.
- Yes. – She could feel the blush spreading on her cheeks. – And dealing with the politics, if I can.
- I'm with you, - Allan said simply, and was surprised to find Marian's arms around him. – what do we do next? – he managed eventually when she had stepped away.
- Next, we go to London. But first, I need some vellum and ink.
*
The guards at the entrance to the sprawling Westminster Palace were incredulous when a young lady in fine attire rode up to the gate and asked to see Chief Justiciar Hubert Walter on an urgent matter. Nonetheless, they summoned a clerk from his staff.
- His Grace does not see visitors without a prior arrangement, my lady, - the mousy-looking man mumbled upon arrival. – Is there a message I may deliver to him?
Marian paused. She had expected this, but her best instrument of getting the Chief Justiciar's attention was also the riskiest. And she was very reluctant to let it out of her hands for more than was inevitable.
- I have a letter for His Grace, my lord, - she ventured. – But I must either have it back when he has read it, or receive his response, and I cannot let it out of my sight except for when it is in His Grace's hands. May I accompany you and wait outside his chambers? I shall not insist on seeing him, you have my word. If Walter reads the letter he will want to see me, she added to herself.
- Very well, my lady, - the clerk said after a moment's hesitation.
They walked the stone-paved floors for quite a while, their steps echoing in the long, spacious halls, before the man stopped outside a massive door leading to the Chief Justiciar's chambers. Despite having a newly constructed archiepiscopal palace at Lambeth just across the river, Hubert Walter dispatched his secular duties as England's de facto ruler from offices set up in the royal palace.
- I would ask you to wait here, my lady, - the clerk turned back to Marian from inside the doorway. – Who shall I say you are?
- Lady Marian of Knighton.
When at last the door opened again it was not the same clerk that had accompanied her but a far more imposing figure. Yet it could not be the Chief Justiciar himself; ceremony aside, Marian knew Hubert Walter to be in his mid-thirties, about Guy's age, and the man before her was clearly much older. Presently the question was answered.
- Are you Lady Marian of Knighton? - the elderly cleric inquired in a French-accented voice.
- Yes, my lord. – She did her best to sound contrite.
- I am Peter of Blois, His Grace's Latin secretary. What is your business with His Grace, my child?
Reluctant as she was to disclose any more than was necessary, Marian suspected that her only way of getting past that door was to tell the secretary about the subject of the letter. She remembered her father remark a couple of years earlier on that same Peter of Blois having become something of a confidant to Queen Eleanor despite having once penned an appeal, at his then-superior's bidding, chastising the wilful Queen for her abandonment of her royal husband. If her father had been right, her mention of a danger to the Queen's favourite son would find a particularly sympathetic ear.
- There is a letter I… came upon, my lord, - she stammered, reluctant to state plainly that she had stolen it, even though there could be no other explanation. – It was written by His Highness Prince John and intimates matters of grave importance to the King. – she decided that accusing John of contemplating treason was too risky a move. - I wished to bring it to His Grace's attention, - Marian produced the scroll and handed it to the secretary, - and to speak to His Grace, if possible.
The distinguished scholar eyed the vellum suspiciously at first, but when his gaze fell on John's seal still attached to it, Marian caught a welcome glint of recognition.
- I shall inform His Grace, child. Wait here, if you please, - the secretary said before gliding away, and Marian breathed a sigh of relief. All that remained was for the Chief Justiciar to read the missive.
Marian was not surprised, but was nonetheless pleased when the original clerk shuffled hurriedly back to the doorway a short while later, looking relieved to see her still waiting.
- My lady, - he exhaled, - His Grace would like to speak with you.
They passed an airy audience chamber and next to it a long vaulted room, its walls lined with shelves full of heavy leather-bound tomes and boxes holding scrolls. The Chief Justiciar's famous archive, she guessed, having heard from her father about the man's grand quest to document affairs of state. Then the clerk opened another door, and Marian found herself in Hubert Walter's study.
It looked like a continuation of the archive, with the same parchment-laden shelves lining its walls, but this room was smaller and better-lit by a wide lattice window, its panes made of glass squares, a luxury she had seldom seen outside of a cathedral. The study was dominated by a vast writing desk in its middle, behind which, in a chair as high as a throne if not as ornate, sat the Chief Justiciar.
She had known him to be relatively young, and had heard him described by some of John's courtiers as handsome, but the sight of this intense, imposing man still surprised her. While her tastes, she had to confess, ran more toward the dark and brooding variety, Hubert Walter, with his sharp grey eyes set in a resolute face framed by wavy ash blond hair, certainly deserved the epithet. He looked tall, as far as she could conjecture from seeing him seated, and his figure was made even more impressive by the splendid purple cope, lined in ermine and with a sumptuous ermine hood spread on his shoulders. Marian knew this to be an accoutrement of the archbishop's office, but it still brought an unmistakable connotation of royalty. One would almost expect the man to be wearing a crown instead of the square woollen cap of the cleric.
However, underneath the ermine-lined finery, his robes were a plain, sombre black, more like the pragmatic tax collector that he had been branded by his critics than the luxury-loving and self-important archbishop that his predecessor in that office had been. Then again, if there was truth in hearsay, Archbishop Hubert, ever more of an administrator than a scholar, devoted the bulk of his time to his secular duties as Chief Justiciar, often at the expense of theological discourse; a pardonable offence, Marian thought, given the daunting task of ruling a country in its king's absence. Richard may have been brave on the battlefields of Normandy and Acre, but the relative stability and order that England had enjoyed in the past year and a half was almost exclusively the Chief Justiciar's accomplishment. Marian was looking, she realised, at the real man behind the legend of Richard the Lionheart, the Good King.
The Chief Justiciar nodded in acknowledgment of her curtsey and turned to the man beside her.
- Thank you, Albert, this is all for now.
The clerk, thus dismissed, backed out of the room and closed the door.
With a slight trepidation, Marian approached the desk to kiss the massive reliquary ring on the man's hand. But when she looked up at him again, the curiosity in his face unexpectedly put her at ease.
He motioned her to sit, and she pulled a stool closer to the desk.
- I have read the letter… my lady. - Walter said as he held up a scroll, addressing her by a secular title, apparently struggling with the idea of calling her "child" as his religious office would dictate. The letter was Prince John's message to Hugh of Lusignan; Marian had thought it prudent to keep the more dangerous and damning one, the one addressed to Philippe Auguste, as a reserve weapon. – And I would like to know how you came to be in possession of it.
- Your Grace, - Marian did her best to keep her voice level. – I stayed at Windsor Castle for a few weeks this past summer, – she chose not to mention that she had spent half of that time in a dungeon, at least not yet, – While there, I heard a conversation that led me to the whereabouts of this document, and was able to retrieve it.
- How were you able to do so without its intended carrier discovering its loss? – Walter knew of homing pigeons, but couriers of the human variety were far more common in his experience.
- Unfortunately, he did discover it, – she cast her eyes down in the best attempt at Christian remorse, – but I killed him.
The consternation on Walter's face was obvious. He made the sign of the cross before addressing her.
– Murder is a serious crime, not to mention a mortal sin.
- I repent it, Your Grace, - Marian said quietly, - but my supreme concern was for King Richard's safety. I was hoping to take this letter and another one that has been... lost – best not to say destroyed in case I need to produce it later – to the king himself or to his allies to warn him of the danger. But I was apprehended and kept in the dungeon at Windsor Castle until three weeks ago.
Appealing to the Chief Justiciar's loyalty to Richard was Marian's best chance to mitigate her crime in the man's eyes. After all, Hubert Walter owed his first significant advancement, the bishopric of Salisbury, to the newly crowned King Richard, and his staunch loyalty to the king ever since had taken him to the Holy Land as the crusaders' chaplain, had made him accept the thankless role of negotiator in the peace talks with Saladin that so many opposed, and had then pushed him to visit Richard in prison and lead the effort to collect the king's enormous ransom even before Richard's recommendation to his mother the regent had elevated him to Archbishop of Canterbury and Chief Justiciar.
As the man's features relaxed, Marian's shoulders slackened in relief. It had worked.
- If the courier's murder was never reported, - Walter mused, the lawman in him bristling at the idea despite his approval of Marian's motives, - how come his disappearance was not questioned?
- He was a Frenchman, Your Grace, - Marian replied. – Raoul Taisson, one of the prince's vassals in his station as Count of Mortain. – He was supposed to leave for France and deliver this letter and the other one addressed to Philippe Auguste.
- Ah. – Walter's keen eyes momentarily unfocused as his mind worked through the facts Marian had supplied.– So it is just as I thought. - He mused aloud undeterred by her presence, connecting the dots as she had once done, except in his case it took much less time. - His Highness is in talks with the French king again, and he no doubt wants to be rid of the young Duke of Brittany so as to be named successor, - he continued as Marian stifled a gasp at his exact guess, - and he will doubtless encourage the rascals at Angouleme and Limoges to attack King Richard himself next. And being here in England keeps him ostensibly away from the fray, and by being far from the king he thinks he can plot with impunity. What an insufferable, self-centred man. – Walter grimaced.- It will take a lot of guidance to turn him into a good ruler, it he is ever suffered to become one, - he finished with a sigh. – But thanks to you, my lady, - he turned his gaze back to Marian, - I now have a chance to rein in his ambitions. His Highness needs a good talking-to. Did you say there was another letter? – his sudden question almost caught Marian unawares.
- There was, Your Grace, I read it before Taisson apprehended me, but I was only able to salvage and conceal this one, - Marian stuck to her story for the time being. – The other one said exactly what you were referring to, it called for a murder of Arthur and named Aymer d'Angouleme as a potential assassin of King Richard... and it also named Renaud de Dammartin as an agent of the prince.
- And the arrogant man thinks he can plot right under my nose and get away with it! – Walter snorted, but Marian could tell that he was stung. In the months between his own return from the crusade and Richard's release from captivity, he had steadfastly opposed the prince's selfish ambition, using all means available to him, from besieging castles to excommunication, to thwart John's plans. Seeing how close the prince had come to outwitting him this time was a bitter pill to swallow for an intelligent and principled man like Walter. – If only I could have that other letter, he would lose his head before he had a chance to beg Queen Eleanor to placate the king again! – he fumed, referring to the dowager queen's well-known involvement in procuring John's pardon. – But I shall make do with what I have. I thank you, my lady, for bringing it to me. I must now take it to Windsor and see to it that the prince learns his lesson. – He started rolling up the documents on his desk, apparently impatient to leave straight away.
- Your Grace, - Marian started forward. – May I ask you something before you go?
- Speak. – His tone was dismissive, and Marian wondered if he was expecting a request for a reward.
- I came here... I had two reasons for coming here, - she fought to sound matter-of-fact. – To bring you this letter and warn you of the treacherous plot it intimates, and... to ask you about the fate of a man whose appointment you recently revoked. – In reality, asking about Guy was her chief reason, but the letter had been the goodwill token and proof of her credentials to get her through the door.
- Who is it? – Walter looked at her intently.
- His name is Sir Guy of Gisborne. – She was puzzled when Walter's face did not seem to register recognition. - Until recently, the Sheriff of Nottingham.
- Ah yes, Gisborne. – it was the justiciar's turn to look puzzled. – I did not dismiss him from office,. – Walter shrugged. – He resigned. But I have no idea of his subsequent fate, or whereabouts.
It took a moment for Marian to collect her thoughts.
- Resigned?! – she could not keep the astonishment from her voice. She had suspected that Guy's departure had come as a result of a confrontation, and least of all thought that it could have been voluntary.
- Indeed. - The justiciar got up from his seat behind the huge desk and walked over to a box of scrolls on a smaller table in a corner. – I have his letter of resignation right here. – he fumbled among the scrolls and, finding the one in question, handed it to Marian.
She read through the short letter incredulously. There it was, in Guy's hand that she remembered from the many passes and orders she had glimpsed during her stay at the castle, a request to be immediately relieved from the duties of the Sheriff of Nottingham and an undertaking to immediately vacate the castle, leaving the armoury in good order and the treasury intact. Then her eyes fell on the date – 22nd day of August – and she froze.
It was Guy's birthday.
It was also the day she had been set free from Windsor.
- Your Grace, - Marian turned to Walter, her eyes pleading, making no attempt to mask her desperation. – May I implore you to... please... let me go to Windsor with you?
- Why?
- There is a question I must ask Prince John... about Lord Gisborne.
*
