CHAPTER TWO
"Exciting time you picked to visit Nottingham, young sir." The merchant quaffed from his tankard and wiped his large beard. "You know Prince John is in town?"
"No," Marian said quietly, sipping her own ale. "I didn't know."
By now, she was used to being called "young sir" or "master" or "lad," and no longer felt the impulse to look around and see who was being addressed; just as dropping her voice to a deeper, lower pitch had become a habit. In her first days on the ship, it had taken more than one punch-up to convince the sailors that it was a very bad idea to mock her voice and her slight frame. It was best to avoid that sort of thing in Nottingham, where Squire Rallston's likeness to Lady Marian would surely not go unremarked by Vaisey if she were dragged before the Sheriff for upsetting the peace.
"Been here ten days," said the merchant who sat across the table from her in the crowded, murky dining room at the Bell Inn, its stale air heavy with the smells of food and smoke. "And there have been some strange goings-on, that's for sure. It was just after he came Sheriff Vaisey was killed."
Marian stared in shock. She would have asked about Prince John's threat to level Nottingham in retaliation, but it was hardly wise to show too much knowledge of local matters. All she said was, "By whom?"
"Robin Hood, they said. But nobody knows for sure," the merchant added, lowering his voice.
His younger, round-faced wife craned her neck forward and whispered, "Some say 'twas done on the orders of the Prince himself."
"Woman!" the merchant hissed. "You and your long tongue will get us in trouble yet."
The woman huffed and took a sip from her cup of watered wine.
Vaisey dead. Marian wanted to be glad, knew she should be; yet a part of her mind refused to comprehend this—a part that, perhaps, felt he would always be there, like sickness and evil.
"So who's the Sheriff now?" she asked.
"No one, that's the thing," the merchant said. "Sir Guy of Gisborne got the job at first. You would've heard of him if you've been to this town before; used to be Vaisey's right-hand man."
"I have," she said steadily. Guy was alive, then. Did it anger her?
"Well, he was Sheriff for less than a day." The merchant chuckled. "He's an outlaw now, with a bounty on his head."
Marian couldn't suppress a startled "What?" Pleased by the effect, the man nodded and explained, "Went mad, they say, and tried to kill the prince."
"'e's been mad since last winter, Gisborne has," said the serving wench who had come over with the hot dishes. "Ever since he and the Sheriff went away for nearly 'alf a year." She put the wooden trays on the table and continued in hushed tones, dipping her head, "What I hear is, they traveled among the infidels and Gisborne came back possessed."
"Always had a bit of the devil in him, that one," the merchant stated authoritatively.
"I'm tellin' ya, 'e's possessed," said the wench; "me own sister works at the castle, and she's got tales as will curdle your blood."
"Gossiping women," grunted the merchant, slicing off a chunk of roast pork.
Marian stared at her piece of the roast, grateful for the half-darkness. Hungry though she'd been after hours on the road, she could barely force herself to eat. Vaisey dead, Guy an outlaw... In the skin of the squire Edward Rallston, she tried to think about these things and found she didn't know how.
"'Twas around the same time Lady Marian went missing," the wench went on. The merchant and his wife gave her questioning looks. "Y'know, the daughter of the old Sheriff, Sir Edward—"
"Now there was a good man," the merchant said. "This town hasn't been the same since—you all right, young sir?"
Marian nodded, coughing furiously and grabbing her tankard of ale to take a gulp, pointing to her throat to indicate choking. Her eyes were stinging with tears. It was dangerous, talking to people; she had to be careful not to give herself away. Yet there was another question she was burning to ask, and that one might be the most dangerous of all considering what she had just been told. Robin. The need to see him crept up on her unawares as it often did, its grip so quick and strong it nearly made her frantic. Marian breathed deeply, letting it pass.
After the serving wench had walked away and Marian had managed to compose herself, she asked, making it sound almost casual, "Robin Hood is still around, then?"
"That he is," said the merchant.
His wife leaned forward again, her eyes glittering as she said in an excited whisper, "They said he robbed the guests at the Prince's own feast at the castle!"
The husband shook his head and grumbled something else about women and gossip, his words slurred by chewing.
After that, they ate in silence. Marian could not help thinking of Vaisey's demise and wondering—with a twinge of vicious satisfaction at last—if the failure of his mission in the Holy Land had cost him Prince John's favor. Then she pushed the matter out of her mind: she knew nothing of what had happened, except for tavern rumors. It was best to wait until she saw Robin and got the story from him.
So she was back in England, in Nottingham, a day after landing in Hull, a small but busy port a world apart from Acre's gleaming white walls and brightly dressed crowds. Having briefly considered hiring a carriage, she had instead bought a horse from a local trader. It had cost her a good chunk of the money she had left from selling the ring, but it was worth it: a beautiful animal, strong and sleek though not showy, and a chance to ride again after so long. The first chance she got, she brought the mare to a gallop, and it had felt like flying. She named her Starling. Riding at a comfortable trot along the dusty roads, Marian had gazed at the woods and the hills and the occasional distant hamlet with smoke curling upward from the roofs, and waited to feel that she was home.
She had stayed the night at a country inn where people talked of nothing but the heat —barely noticeable to her after the Holy Land—and gotten back on the road early in the morning, poorly rested after sharing a small stuffy room with another traveler. Finally she had spotted the Nottingham city walls and the castle, looming in the distance and getting closer: a place that was both home and prison.
It was odd, to see familiar faces—a guard at the gate, a vendor at a market stall, a servant from the castle scurrying along the street with a basket—and know that none of them could see her in this disguise. There was both loneliness and freedom in being a stranger. For now it was safest to stay that way, to let Lady Marian stay dead, except to Robin and his friends.
Robin. She imagined the way he would look at her, the shock in his eyes turning to incredulous joy, his face breaking out into the tender boyish smile she knew so well, the way he would say, Marian! and enfold her in the warmth of his arms. They would talk about what had happened in Acre and they would both understand everything and make it all right…
A commotion by the door, surging above the common din of the tavern, intruded on Marian's reverie. Startled, she looked up to see people rising from the tables; there were exclamations of disbelief and dismay, and finally a shrill shout from the mistress of the inn: "Lord 'ave mercy! King Richard is dead!"
In the castle square, artisans, shopkeepers, common laborers, servants, and rich traders all thronged together, the grieving and the curious alike. Buffeted by a human tide that overwhelmed her with the pungent smell of sweat, the loud voices, the faces too close to her own, Marian pushed her way forward until she was nearly at the front of the crowd. By then the noise had begun to subside, settling to murmurs and then to a collective sigh. Six helmeted knights in crusader robes had just lowered a coffin with the crusader flag, red cross on white, onto the cobblestones in front of the castle steps. Next to them stood a solidly built ageing man in rich dark garb.
A low rumble—Prince John, Prince John—rolled over the square, and all eyes turned to the man slowly coming down the castle steps. Marian sucked in a sharp breath: So this was Prince John. She realized that until now she had thought of him less as an actual person than some sinister fleshless spirit guiding the Black Knights. Yet here he was now, a tall, slender, rather good-looking man, his brocaded coat just this side of foppishness like the rest of him; she would have expected to be repulsed by him as she had been by Vaisey, but he was far from repulsive, despite a hint of something unpleasantly catlike in his face and movements. Behind him were several guards with the Prince's insignia on their armor and a slim, graceful lady in a dark blue dress, her look one of somber sympathy.
At the bottom of the steps, he flung himself on the coffin sobbing, and it was then that Marian's gorge rose. Could anyone fail to see the falseness of this display, even if they didn't know what she knew about Prince John's plots against his brother? Suddenly, she was struck by the awful thought that perhaps Richard had been murdered after all, that the conspiracy had found its way even aboard the ship carrying him home. After everything she and Robin had done, had sacrificed for the King's return… No, he must have succumbed to illness at sea; maybe that was fate's final, cruel twist.
The other man stepped forward and raised his voice.
"Good people of Nottingham! I am Lord Sheridan, keeper of the royal crown of England. It is to your sadness—but also to your great honor—"
Now there was complete quiet, except for Prince John still whimpering, draped around the coffin.
"—that you are the first to know of the death of King Richard. The Lionheart has met his glorious end—in battle with the infidel!"
A rush of sobs and gasps swept the square, but Marian could hear only the sudden thudding in her ears. He's lying. He's lying. She knew for a fact that Richard had left the Holy Land alive and there had been no battles between the crusaders and the Saracens in the month before his departure.
Her mind was awhirl. So this was it then; it was murder, and this Lord Sheridan was helping cover it up—for Prince John, no doubt. Or maybe Richard wasn't dead at all … yet there was a coffin, and presumably a body. Whatever the truth might be, there was mischief afoot, and Prince John was definitely behind it. She had picked an exciting time to come to Nottingham.
The Prince, now on his feet and leaning on Sheridan's arm, was saying something about the Archbishop of Canterbury coming to bless the body … and to conduct John's own coronation, to be held as quickly as possible for the sake of peace and order in the land.
"The King is dead—long live the King!" boomed Sheridan. A disjointed echo of his words rose up from the square, and the human tide moved and swayed again as the people sank to their knees. Marian too knelt and mouthed the ritual phrase, but her mind was elsewhere. Lies. Lies. She had to do something. It was the same urgent, panicky feeling that had driven her on the fateful day when she learned that Vaisey and Guy were leaving on a long trip and quickly deduced that they were plotting regicide. Of course, she wasn't about to make another stupid mistake and try to kill Prince John. Find Robin. Tell Robin. Surely Robin would already know that Prince John was up to no good; his gut would tell him something wasn't right about the story of Richard's death. Together, they'd devise a plan … once he got over the shock of seeing her alive, that is; she had almost forgotten that part.
Preoccupied, Marian barely paid attention when the knights carried the coffin away and Prince John retired inside the castle, followed by Sheridan and the mystery lady. Almost immediately the crowd began to thin, and Marian walked slowly across the square, pondering whether she should go to the outlaw camp now or wait until morning; the sun already stood low, and perhaps after all this time she would have some trouble finding the way.
Then she saw Robin. He was perhaps fifty feet away, lurking in the gateway of a building in the back of the square, in the hooded cloak he usually wore on his forays into Nottingham. Marian stopped, her breath frozen in her throat. He looked different, harder and older and with a darker frown than she ever remembered seeing on his face—and yet still Robin and so dear and hers that she could barely keep from crying out to him. There was Much standing by his side, and Little John and some others she couldn't see. She found that her hands were shaking and her legs felt weak, and her shirt was sticky with sweat.
Now was her chance. She couldn't run to him without drawing attention, and she certainly couldn't call out, but she could still catch up with them. Marian forced herself to walk, sped up her pace until Robin was less than twenty feet away. He turned his head, scanning the square, and then his eyes were on her face and she was certain that he had seen her, recognized her. She felt dizzy, each thump of her heart sharp and painful, her mouth so dry that she couldn't have spoken if she tried. In the next moment he shifted his gaze and it was over. A large group of adolescent boys, tradesmen's apprentices, ambled past and blocked Marian's view of Robin and his group; then, distracted in her anxiety, she nearly bumped into an old woman who hissed a curse at her, and when the way was clear again she saw only the backs of Robin, Much and Little John, disappearing into a side street. She walked faster, almost running now. By the time she rounded the corner of the building, they were gone without a trace.
After a night of fitful sleep at the Bell, Marian picked up her horse at the stable and headed into the forest. Riding under the soft rich canopy of the trees, through the dusk broken by shards of misty sunlight, would have truly felt like home if she didn't have other things on her mind. She easily found the way to the outlaw camp—or at least to where the camp had been, because it was gone. There were only some charred remnants of the wooden structure that had stood by the hillside once, and no signs of life but for a squirrel scooting down a tree.
Marian dismounted and wandered around aimlessly, as if hoping to find some clue to what happened here, or where Robin and the others had set up camp. Thank God she had seen them alive and well the previous day, or her imagination would have run wild with all manner of calamities.
She leaned her hand on a tree trunk and cursed under her breath, trying to think of what to do next.
If there was no other way, Marian decided, she would step forward at the coronation and tell the truth for all to hear. Just as—years ago, it seemed—Much had stormed into the Locksley church when she was marrying Guy of Gisborne and shouted that the King's homecoming was a hoax. Still, it was best to avoid such drastic action if she could: she was very likely to get recognized as the missing Lady Marian, and she wasn't ready to deal with that. Not by far.
So, for now, all she could do was pray that the original plan would work.
"I would like to speak to the Archbishop."
The red-bearded monk standing before her in a vaulted corridor at Kirklees Abbey gave an uncharitable snort. "And I would like to speak to Saint Jerome; that doesn't mean he's going to answer. Run along, my boy; the archbishop has a king to crown in a few hours."
"But that's why I'm here!" Marian protested.
"Really? I can't imagine how the coronation would require your help."
"Are you mocking me, Brother?" Marian shot back. The monk scowled, and she worried that she might have overplayed her role as a cocky young squire; it was hard to know exactly where to draw the line, after years of having to curb her directness as an unmarried woman.
"Listen to me," she said, "I've just returned from the Holy Land. There is something I must tell His Grace, about—about King Richard's death. It's urgent."
The monk examined her with such wilting skepticism that she was suddenly afraid he might be suspicious of her sex. But he said only, "You look a little green for important missions, lad. Besides, this is Prince John's coronation, not King Richard's funeral."
"It is important. And it has to do with the coronation, I can't tell you exactly how but it does. Come on, Brother—just a few minutes with His Grace. Please?"
"Out of the question," he snapped.
She clenched her jaw, refusing to give up. "I could make a donation to the abbey." The monk's stare turned appraising and she added, "A generous donation."
"And just how generous would that be, my son?"
Before Marian could answer, she spotted a tall gray-haired man in purple robes coming toward them, several attendants in tow; despite his age, his stride was brisk and his posture stately. It had to be him, and she had to act now.
"My Lord Archbishop!" she called out as the Archbishop and his entourage were about to turn into a side corridor.
He stopped and looked at her. "Yes, my son?"
Ignoring the monk's frustrated grunt, Marian took a few steps toward the Archbishop. There was a certain harshness in his craggy face, but also intelligence and kindness.
"Begging Your Excellency's pardon, I'm here to see you about a most urgent matter. I am just back from the Holy Land—where my lord fought at King Richard's side and fell in battle." It occurred to her that she was trying to expose a lie by telling one of her own, and to an archbishop no less; but she truly had no choice.
The Archbishop frowned. "This matter cannot wait until after the coronation?"
"No, it can't!" Marian blurted out, then added a sheepish "my lord" and got down on one knee. "It is of the highest importance that you hear this before—"
"Pardon this rude intrusion, Your Excellency." The monk grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet as she yelped in outrage. "I will show the lad out."
"My lord!"
After a brief tense pause, the Archbishop gestured toward her. "No need. I will talk to him." Marian let out a long breath as he continued, "Come here, my son."
The monk released her with a grudging huff. Ignoring the nervous flutter in her stomach, she came up to the Archbishop.
"If it pleases Your Excellency … could we speak in private?"
"Very well," the Archbishop said brusquely. "This way."
She followed him to a heavy oak-wood door and into a small room, austerely furnished with a cabinet and a chair. Neither of them sat down.
"Go on," said the Archbishop. As quickly and simply as she could, Marian explained why she knew Sheridan's claim that Richard had been killed in battle in the Holy Land to be false; and something in the old man's expression as he listened told her that he already had his suspicions about this whole matter.
"I don't know if this means that Richard died at sea, or that he lives," she concluded, "but surely this warrants further investigation!"
"Yes, I do believe it does." The Archbishop fixed a thoughtful gaze on Marian's face. "Are you willing to speak of this publicly?"
Marian swallowed. "If I must. I … my lord Archbishop, if I should stop the coronation, I—" She trailed off and lowered her eyes, as if in embarrassment.
"You fear reprisals from Prince John," the old man said gently.
She jerked her head slightly to indicate assent, then sighed and looked up. "I will speak if there is no other way."
The Archbishop nodded. "Very well. Richard's body must be examined again. The coffin only departed for London this morning; God willing, my messenger will have time to catch up with the train, and we will get to the bottom of this. But stay here until the end of the ceremony, in the event that I have need of you. I'll tell the brothers to let you dine at the Abbey kitchen."
"Thank you, Your Excellency." Marian genuflected again and kissed the Archbishop's hand with genuine feeling.
"No, my son," the Archbishop said, raising her up. "Thank you."
The cathedral of Kirklees Abbey was now overflowing with people amassed on both sides of the nave. Marian stood near the front of the crowd, willing herself to keep calm though her insides were in knots. Had the Archbishop's messenger returned yet, and with what news? Was Robin going to be here? Would he stop this if she could not? So far, she knew she was safe in her disguise; some of the people around her had seen Lady Marian of Knighton many times, at the Council of Nobles and on other occasions, and none of them seemed to see anything familiar about the young squire. Yet if she had to speak in public… Perhaps it wouldn't come to that, she told herself; there was still time.
Marian saw Lord Sheridan arrive, holding by the arm the lady she had seen earlier outside the castle—his wife, evidently—now attired in a rich scarlet gown but looking haggard and bitter. They took their place at the front of the nave, near the altar.
A noise swelled outside the open doors of the abbey and then spilled inside, meeting the rising wave of organ music and choir singing that filled the air with its lush sweetness. Prince John made his entrance, preceded by two altar boys scattering rose petals in his path, glowing as he waved to the adoring crowd. Marian thought of all the blood that had been shed to keep this man's usurping hands off the crown of England, and of all the sweat that had paid for these roses, and felt her face flush with anger.
The prince walked up the altar steps, stopped in front of a chair covered with luxuriously embroidered cloth, and turned to face the crowd. The Archbishop emerged from one of the chapels in the back, clad in white and gold vestments with a miter on his head, and approached the altar, his gait so slow that Marian wondered if it was due to the solemnity of the occasion or a desire to stall for time. Two attendants removed Prince John's brocade coat, and he sat down on the chair, his hands joined in front of him. Sheridan came over to stand by his side.
The Archbishop turned, and his keen eyes scanned the hall—probably looking for her, Marian thought, willing her knees not to shake. The choir fell silent, and the organ music subsided to a low hum as the Archbishop intoned, "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…"
The recitation of the prayer was followed by a lengthy pause, during which Prince John fidgeted slightly in the chair and cocked an irritated eye at the Archbishop.
"Sirs and Ladies!" the Archbishop announced. "I present unto you your undoubted King." He particularly stressed the word "undoubted," and Marian thought she heard a wry note in his voice. "All of you who have come here on this day, are you willing to do your homage and service to your sovereign?"
"Aye!" responded the crowd.
The Archbishop turned to Prince John. "Prince John, Earl of Cornwall and Gloucester. Do you solemnly promise and swear to govern and protect the people of England as their King, preserving all their rights and privileges accorded by the law and custom of this realm?"
"I do."
"Will you to the utmost of your power cause law and justice, in the spirit of mercy, to be executed in all your judgments?"
"I most solemnly swear it," Prince John affirmed in a sing-song, his eyes half-closed, tilting up his chin as if to offer his neck for sacrifice should he ever break this vow.
"Will you, to the utmost of your power—uphold the laws of God and man…" The Archbishop halted for a moment, drawing an impatient glance from John; Sheridan, now holding in his hands the royal scepter and mantle, squirmed slightly, his small eyes looking from the Archbishop to the Prince and back.
"… and preserve and respect the privileges and powers of our Holy Mother Church and its sacred teachings…"
Prince John's "I will!" cut into the pause before the Archbishop could resume. Ignoring the cleric's glare, John rattled off, "All this I solemnly swear to do as I have said," and then stopped for a dramatic breath and concluded, voice dripping with fervor, "So help me God."
The Archbishop, who had obviously planned to drag out the oath a little longer, pursed his lips. Marian steeled herself. The time was almost up, and still no sign of any messenger.
She watched as a priest stepped forward, handing the Archbishop a small bowl into which he dipped his fingers. "As kings, priests and prophets were anointed, and as Solomon was anointed King by Zadok the priest, so you be anointed now." His fingers brushed John's forehead and chest as the Prince's eyelids closed in what looked like unfeigned ecstasy. "Receive you hereby the sovereign scepter to do justice and stop the growth of iniquity…"
Lord Sheridan placed the scepter in John's hands and draped the ermine-trimmed, gold-embroidered mantle around his shoulders. Reverently, he took from an attendant a small cushion with a bejeweled metal circlet resting on it. The Crown of England.
It was now or never. She pushed closer to the front of the crowd.
There were hurried footsteps on the porch outside the open doors, and a breathless shout, "Your Excellency!"
The Archbishop snapped his head toward the voice; Prince John's eyes flew open, his expression now wary and hard, while Sheridan was darting shifty glances every which way. As puzzled murmurs bubbled up, a young monk rushed in and sprinted up the nave, panting and holding up the hem of his robe in a rather undignified manner for a servant of God.
"Your Excellency! It was empty!"
The murmurs grew louder as people exchanged bewildered looks. The Archbishop's expression was grave but unsurprised—while Prince John's eyes glittered with such cold cruel fury that in one instant, Marian knew how terrifying this man truly was.
"What is the meaning of this?" he snapped.
The Archbishop stared down at the still-seated Prince. "I could ask you the same question, Prince John." As John scrambled to his feet, the old man continued amidst complete silence, "This morning, I was informed that Richard may not have fallen in battle in the Holy Land as has been claimed." He directed a penetrating gaze at Sheridan, who looked like he badly wanted to shrink to the size of a dwarf and slink away. "I sent Brother Anselm here to catch up with the men taking the coffin to London for the funeral. Now it seems that we have a missing body."
This announcement was met with scattered gasps and groans. Prince John gaped mutely at the Archbishop, rage, despair and disbelief playing across his features.
"They weren't even going to London, Your Grace," panted the monk. "They had stopped and were about to burn the coffin by the side of—"
"Nonsense!" Prince John had finally regained the gift of speech. "I will be king!"
"Not today," the Archbishop said calmly. "This reeks of treason."
The crowd stirred and rumbled; propelled by curiosity, some of the people who had been forced to wait outside were now pushing their way in past the shaken, confused guards in the doorway.
"Your Grace!" shrieked Sheridan, crumpling to his knees before the Archbishop, and then dissolved into blubbering in which Marian could make out the words "Prince John," "waxwork," "king," and "sorry." The Archbishop motioned to the attendant to take away the crown, restraining the Prince who nearly lunged after it. Amidst the din in the abbey, there was a smattering of laughter, and Marian's heart thudded with savage joy.
"This is ridiculous!" the Prince shouted, looking very much like a child denied a toy and about to have a tantrum. "I demand my coronation!"
"Do you," said a voice that made Marian's spine prickle even before she realized who had spoken. In the deadly hush that fell after that, she turned her head along with everyone else, and saw Guy of Gisborne.
"How about a state funeral?"
He stepped in front of the crowd on the other side of the nave, less than four feet away from her. A chill crept over Marian's skin and settled deep in her bones.
She felt, overwhelmingly, that she would have recognized him anywhere; yet there was the equally overpowering feeling that she might not have known him at all, with those long hanks of messy hair hanging down to his shoulders and those hollow, haunted eyes. Unthinkingly, she shoved her way forward, elbowing aside the pressing, jostling crowd, afraid to lose sight of him in the commotion.
Then, Guy was aiming a crossbow at Prince John, and Lady Sheridan—if that was who she was—had run to stand between him and the cowering prince, and Guy was yelling at her that he would shoot her too; and all Marian could see was the desert sun gleaming on Guy's blade and the shaking desperation in his stance as he came towards her, and the horror in his broken face as she fell backwards into the dark.
There was another voice. "Gisborne? Don't do it."
Robin. Marian wasn't sure if he had just come in, or had been inside the abbey all along, but there he was, standing a few feet behind Guy. Murmurs of Robin Hood, it's Robin Hood! rippled through the church, drowning out what Robin was saying—something about England being torn apart with no leader at home; her mind registered with faint shock that he was speaking to Guy as one would to a reluctant ally, not a mortal enemy.
Guy snarled something back, took a step to the side and steadied his crossbow. He turned his head a fraction—and in that very instant he was looking directly at Marian and their eyes met.
She couldn't move.
She saw him blink, and blink again, as he stared at her slack-jawed. He shook his head, like a man trying to force himself awake, his gaze flickering down and then back to hers, his hand with the crossbow now dangling at his side. She was vaguely aware of a female voice shouting, "Seize him!", but Guy made no movement; he was still staring at her, his eyes no longer hollow but filled with wild hope and confusion and other unnamable things. A moment later he flinched and closed his grip around the crossbow—and, just then, several guards who had pushed through the throng were upon him, wrestling him to the floor as he struggled and bellowed in futile rage. The crowd surged and she could no longer see him.
Pulling herself out of the haze, Marian whirled around to look for Robin; but he was gone, of course. The place was now in complete chaos. She heard Prince John's voice rise shrilly above the uproar—"Get Hood!"—and saw guards with the prince's insignia trying to make their way down the nave; the Archbishop was shouting too, perhaps trying to stop them, and then other guards hustled the Prince away through a side door.
It was over.
Once she was outside, Marian rushed to the abbey stables to get her horse; Starling snorted happily at her approach, and she quickly and absently patted the brown mare's sleek neck. Now that her work was done, she was consumed by the drumbeat of one thought: Find Robin. He might still be close by, close enough for her to catch up with him. He would have likely run to the grove near the abbey for cover, then taken the path to the forest.
Riding out of the stables, Marian looked around to make sure she could get away without attracting much notice—and saw a dozen of Prince John's guards nearby, already in the saddle and riding off. To her annoyance, they headed for the grove; Robin would slip away from them, of course, but she couldn't very well follow them. It was best to take the path on the other side of the abbey; for all she knew, Robin and the others would have taken it too as the best way to evade pursuit.
Soon enough Marian was in the dusky safety of the forest, riding as fast as one could without getting waylaid by gnarled tree roots and low-hanging branches. After a while the whole exercise started to feel pointless and ridiculous. Once, she heard voices and her heart beat faster—but then she spotted the guards through the trees and moved back quickly, staying hidden in the thicket.
Frustrated, hungry and tired, she rode to the old campsite in the stubborn hope of finding some clues; there were none. Squinting at the orange sun through the black lacework of the leaves, Marian realized that daylight would soon start fading. Unless she wanted to sleep in the woods, she'd have to give up and return to town. And then what? Come back in the morning and ride around until she got the outlaws' attention and they went after her for one-tenth of her money?
Then, in a flash, she knew what to do. Robin and his gang still made their regular drops at the villages, no doubt. She'd go to Locksley and leave a letter, and he would come to the inn. It was so simple—why hadn't this occurred to her before?—and much better than shocking him out of his wits with her sudden appearance at camp, back from the dead and from the Holy Land. Soon, very soon, my love, she thought, turning toward Nottingham.
It was nearly dark when Marian came back to the Bell. After a hurried meal, she got parchment, quill and ink from the innkeeper and went to her room. She lit the candles and knelt on the rough floor, using as her desk the wooden chest that was the room's only concession to furniture besides the bed and the candle-stand.
She had already composed and repeated the letter in her head while riding back from the forest, but the first words stumped her for a moment. My dearest … husband? Robin? My dearest love, you will find this impossible to believe but I am alive, and have just arrived in Nottingham. Djaq was able to work another miracle of healing, but I was near death for many days and she was afraid to give you false hope. Thus circumstances kept me from getting a message to you before you left the Holy Land. Thanks be to God, I know that you are alive and well, for I saw you today at Kirklees and it made my heart beat faster with joy. I am staying at the Bell; every day at vespers I will wait for you in the main hall. I do not know what else to say, except that I cannot wait for the moment when we are together at last.
Marian stopped and re-read the note. Something about it felt wrong, cold—words with no heart—but she knew she would only make it worse if she tried to rewrite it. She'd have plenty of time to get it right when they met. She imagined Robin's arms around her, his warm breath on her face, his mouth soft and tender on her lips; her breath hitched, and her hand was shaky when she picked up the quill again. Yours as always, with all my love, Marian.
She rolled up the parchment and slipped it inside her jerkin. Then, exhaustion finally catching up with her, she kicked off her boots, collapsed on the bed without undressing and fell asleep.
The trip to Locksley in the gray sunless morning was not as easy as she had expected. There was too much past in this place, a past that was everywhere she looked. Years ago, when they were just two children in love, she and Robin used to sit on a hilltop just over there, looking down at the village and the manor and imagining their future life. She had almost married Guy here, in the church that now shocked her with the sight of a grim burnt-out hulk.
Chasing away the memories, Marian dismounted, tied Starling to a fencepost and strode purposefully toward a cottage where an old man sat on the porch. To her question about Robin Hood, he stared, shook his head and looked away with a toothless grumble. No one answered at the next house; then, a female voice behind her said, "Looking for someone, sir? They're all at the barn for the sheep-shearing." She turned to see two young women carrying buckets of water, one with a sleeping baby strapped to her back. When Marian explained that she had a message for Robin Hood—from the Holy Land, she added on impulse—the young mother beamed proudly and said that her baby was named after Robin and she'd be glad to deliver the letter.
Back in Nottingham, Marian stabled her horse at the inn and went out for a walk. Once, she would have given a great deal for such freedom; now, she was too anxious to enjoy it. She strolled around the marketplace, eating roasted chestnuts and listening to the whispers and murmurs about the shocking events at Kirklees Abbey. As usual, the story was much embellished in the retelling: some claimed that when the Archbishop would not proceed with the coronation Prince John had tried to crown himself, and that Robin Hood had shot the crown out of his hands. The most bizarre part of this chatter was that the woman Marian had taken for Lady Sheridan was said to be Guy's sister, Isabella, either a widow or a runaway wife. At first, Marian scoffed at this preposterous idea; when she heard it again and again, repeated as a general assumption, it was no longer laughable but unsettling. Was it just another wild rumor? Had Guy lied about having no family? Was she in some bewitched world where everything looked the same but wasn't?
While she pondered all this and absently finished the last of the chestnuts, there was a flurry of shouts about Prince John and something happening at the castle; Marian quickly joined the flow of people headed that way. The castle square was too densely packed for her to get too far ahead; people said that the Prince was leaving and that his carriage was out in front, ready to go.
After a brief wait, two pages from the Prince's retinue appeared in the doorway and blew their trumpets, silencing the hubbub in the square. Then, Prince John emerged and advanced slowly down the castle steps, with Isabella just behind him in austere dark blue. He stopped midway down, paused for a moment, and opened his arms as if wanting to envelop everyone in a hug.
"My good people! It breaks my heart to tell you that my visit to Nottingham has come to an end." He sighed and pressed a hand to his chest. "I thank you for your hospitality, your devotion—and your love. I cannot tell you how deeply aggrieved I am by the events that have marred my stay. Along with all of you, I have been a victim of the abominable hoax perpetrated by Lord Sheridan." Here, he gestured upward, and Marian saw two guards leading a chained and humbled Sheridan down the stairs. This would be a story to tell Robin later—if he wasn't here.
The tense silence that greeted Prince John's assertion was thick with skepticism. Undeterred, he continued, "I am most grateful that this dastardly scheme has been exposed; and I promise you that the villain will be duly punished." John glared at the aforementioned villain, who was just then being dragged past him on the way down to the carriage. The glint in the Prince's eye left no doubt that this was no idle threat, though of course the hapless Sheridan would be paying for his ill-timed confession, not the crime.
"And finally, before I take my leave, allow me to present the next Sheriff of Nottingham"—he gestured with a flourish toward the woman who stepped forward to stand at his side—"Lady Isabella Thornton."
Here, the crowd erupted in gasps and low mutterings. A man behind Marian scoffed, "A woman?", and she could not resist the temptation to step back and stomp on his foot, eliciting a pained grunt and a mumbled oath.
"I know, I know"—the Prince grinned smugly, enjoying the effect—"it is an unusual choice. But when a lady has demonstrated such courage and strength of mind—unlike some men, I might add—the weakness of her sex is no obstacle. Besides, difficult times require bold decisions. I know that my loyal friend Lady Isabella will be a fine Sheriff. And I know you will receive her well, because I have confidence in her and you love me."
After a splash of dutiful cheers, he nodded to Isabella. In spite of herself—this woman was Prince John's lackey, after all—Marian was intrigued.
"People of Nottingham!" Isabella's clear voice rang like steel. "I know you have reasons to distrust me. I have the misfortune of being related by blood to a man who not only tried to murder the Prince, but for years has inflicted his wanton cruelty—"
Related by blood. It was true, then? Over the thrumming in her ears, Marian was only half-aware of what Isabella was saying now: family sentiment … compassion … affect my judgment … She made an effort to focus.
"… my brother, Guy of Gisborne, will soon pay the ultimate price for his crimes!"
This time, the cheers were loud and unforced and boisterous. Dizzily, Marian struggled to make sense of the thoughts swarming her head. So Guy did have a sister, and she hated him, with an icy hatred palpable in the way she had spat out his name. Guy was about to die in disgrace and not one person in the whole shire, in the whole world, would be sorry for him. This was justice, she told herself; people had been put to death for far less than he had done. And yet—and yet… Emotion surged to her throat, and the human mass in which she was trapped felt unbearably oppressive.
Marian breathed deeply, steadying herself, and tried to listen to Isabella—who, she realized with a start, was now speaking of Robin. "… beguiled into believing that Hood fights for a noble cause. It is nothing but lies. With me as your Sheriff, no innocent man, woman or child will need to look to an outlaw for protection." Isabella turned to Prince John and gave him a suave, chilly smile. "Trust me, Sire, by the time you return to Nottingham, Robin Hood will have faced the same justice as Guy of Gisborne."
Several hours later, Marian sat in a corner of the main hall at the Bell, a half-emptied tankard of strong dark ale in front of her. It was at least half an hour past vespers, and there was no sign of Robin; of course, it was too much to hope that he'd have picked up her letter at Locksley the very same day. She scanned the crowded, noisy hall one more time and took a long sip of ale.
She imagined looking up to see Robin standing before her, his eyes tender and grave and slowly lighting up with the twinkle of a smile. Then she saw Guy's haunted stare, his face when he looked at her at the abbey; she closed her eyes, trying to push the vision out of her mind.
Whether it's hate or pity that binds you to this man, you have to let it go. That was what Djaq had told her in Acre, and she had agreed. Think of him as a dead man; he will be, soon enough. Once again, Marian reminded herself that it was nothing he didn't deserve. He had tried to kill the King, twice, for God's sake.
He had almost killed her.
And now, there would never be any reckoning for that, and she had a right to it, didn't she? Her chest was tight with anger, unreasonable anger that nonetheless refused to go away.
She picked up the tankard and downed the rest of the bitter ale.