Chapter 10
Elsewhere in the castle, five figures hurried along a darkened corridor.
"Are you sure you won't get in trouble for helping us, Sarah?" John asked, not for the first time.
"Not unless I'm caught with you," she assured him. "Good food and wine going to waste, there's no rule that says we can't give it to the guards. Mind you, the other girls thought I was mad wanting to send it down there when half of us have got hungry kids at home. Now they think I'm sweet on one of 'em..."
Not flipping likely, she thought Nasty pieces of work, the lot of them. That big one, Micah, he was the worst. As she'd taken the keys from his belt, she'd accidentally trodden on his sweaty great hand. Maybe that would teach him to keep it to himself.
"Anyway," she told the man who now wore his uniform but was his polar opposite in so many ways, "if they want to get soused on the job, that's their lookout."
"But how did they get so drunk so quickly?" Much demanded. "There can't have been that much wine – Gisborne is only one man, even if he is an utter swine!"
"Ah, it was the sleeping draught Djaq gave me for Jess when she had the whooping cough last winter," Sarah explained. "I was worried there wouldn't be enough left, but..."
"But mixed with the alcohol, it would be stronger," Djaq cut in brusquely. Even through the satisfaction that she always derived from solving a puzzle, the pain was evident in her voice as she dragged herself along, hunching protectively over her bruised midsection. Her companions exchanged glances over her head.
"Djaq, will you just let John-" Worry made Will's voice harsher than he intended, but she seemed not to notice.
"I am fine. And that would be sure to look suspicious if anyone saw us."
"It would be a lot faster, though," Much said reasonably, then wanted to kick himself, as instead of changing Djaq's mind his words simply caused her to increase her pace, a purposeful grimace on her dark face.
"We can't let them see you anyway," Will pointed out. The attempt to disguise Djaq had been abandoned, the weight of the chain-mail unbearable against her injuries. If they were intercepted, they would have to either hide her, bluff or fight their way out. But it was beginning to seem that that would not be necessary: even for this time of night, the castle was quieter than they had ever seen it. With every empty corridor they passed, a tiny weight lifted from Will's shoulders as they came one step closer to escaping – and was swiftly replaced by an even heavier burden, as he realised why it was all so easy, and what that meant for Robin and Marian.
"Will you be all right from here? I should be getting back to the kitchen, there's washing up to be done," Sarah said apologetically.
"Yes, go before you're missed," Will told her. "Sarah – thank you. Really, we -"
"No more of that, Will Scarlett. What's one less meal for the kiddies? You lot are a good investment!"
He wasn't thanking her for the sacrifice of food, but for the risk she had taken, and he suspected she knew that. More than anything, he was grateful for the chance she had given him to make right what he had done.
"Say hello to Jess," John said quietly, and she replied, "I'll do that," before vanishing into the grey-walled darkness.
Just in time, as the sound of boots on stone warned them that someone was approaching. John gestured towards an archway that was not big enough to hide them all, and Will shepherded Djaq into its shadow as a guard sergeant rounded the corner.
"Where are you two off to?" he barked.
"Just coming off duty in the dungeons, sir," Much replied, clearing his throat as if trying to inject an uncharacteristic machismo into his voice.
"Well, get around to the east wall. There's been trouble – one man out cold and t'other slit like a pig, poor sod. Take the watch until I can find someone else to cover." Much opened his mouth but the sergeant cut him off, "No arguments. We're short tonight as it is, what with Gisbourne haring off with half the force."
Half the force. In his hiding place, pressed up against Djaq in the darkness, Will was assaulted by images of every fight or scam or narrow escape in the gang's history, every castle guard they'd ever fought or tricked or outrun. His head felt as if it would burst from the sheer weight of the faceless horde assembling within it, as even men he had seen die, men that he himself had killed, arose from their graves to join the army that he had sent after his friend and leader.
Neither he nor Djaq dared breathe as the sergeant passed, and turned the next corner, out of sight. The other two doubled back to meet them, and they reached the stables without further incident and saddled the horses that were about to be requisitioned to the cause.
John had fallen into the role of leader without any protest from Much. "They've a good start on us, but it's a long ride, so we've a hope of catching up. Will, you get Djaq back to camp-"
"No. I'm coming to help Robin."
The younger man's voice was quiet, but there was no arguing with the set of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, or his eyes, flashing with something between determination and desperation. John understood. Will needed to try and rescue Robin from the danger for which he blamed himself. He grunted his assent. "Fine. You're with me. Much, you're with-"
"But Robin!" Much protested.
"Djaq," the big woodsman growled, recalling everyone's attention to their injured comrade, now swaying slightly on her feet.
Resolution wavering, Will opened his mouth, but then closed it abruptly with a tiny shake of his head, as a sobered Much nodded and agreed. "Yes. Yes, of course."
Three horses left Nottingham in the dead of night; one heading into the forest, and two galloping south as though the devil were after them, although it might have been fairer to say they were after the devil.
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"All right. This is how it goes..."
For the second time that night, Djaq wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her. It was late; the ride back to camp had been tiring, and then there had been the drawn-out business of tending to her wounds. Much had followed her instructions to prepare the ointments and pastes for burns and bruises, and helped her apply them to the places she could not reach herself, his relief all too evident when she told him she could manage the parts underneath her shirt. Surely, after all the exhaustion of that endless day and night, he could not be proposing another hijack rehearsal now?
It turned out he wasn't. "This is how it goes," he repeated. "You do not move from that spot. If you are hungry, you tell me. If you are thirsty, you tell me. If you are cold, you tell me. If you are too warm, you tell me. If..." he paused, trying to think of more items to add to his list. "Well, if you need anything, you tell me and you stay put. And before you start," he went on belligerently, "this has nothing to do with you being a woman!"
"I know, Much." She smiled. Nobody who had seen him fussing over Robin could think that Much's protectiveness was motivated by gender. She knew, too, that at least half of this was really about Robin, as Much channelled his nervous energy into taking care of her.
"Thank you," she added as he took a loaf of bread from the camp kitchen and began toasting it over the fire he had lit, muttering under his breath about whatever idiot had left a ruddy great rock hidden under a blanket for him to stub his toe against. She said thank you, but mostly she meant, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you are stuck here with me instead of going to save him. It was hard enough for her to sit around the camp while Robin and Marian, Will and John were all in such danger, or riding towards it, but she knew she would be no use in her current state. How much worse must it be for Much, who was fit and well?
"It's for the best," he sighed, and she wondered whether she had understood her, or if his own thoughts merely echoed hers. "They're more useful in a rescue. I mean, John is stronger than me, and Will is cleverer." His tone was a quiet, sad contrast to his usual garrulous bluster.
"Nobody is braver or more loyal to Robin," she said gently. A bashful smile appeared on his face. It was nice to have somebody notice. They sat in companionable silence as the stale bread slowly crispened and browned.
"There are limits," Much remarked after a long pause. "I couldn't have done it either. Let Gisborne take your eyes," he explained, finally naming the price that had been too high for Will to pay. He added hurriedly, "At least, not if I had to watch, I mean..."
For most people, in most places, in most times throughout history, it would go without saying that you did not let your friends be blinded if you could prevent it, but on this night, in this forest, it meant a great deal.
"Hey!" Much protested as his culinary activities were suddenly hampered by the delicate hug of two sore, bandaged arms. "I said no moving!"
"Yes, Much," she said meekly, the corners of her mouth curling upwards as she settled back into her seat. They ate quietly, both their thoughts many miles to the south.
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Supper at Headingley Manor had been equally quiet, but rather less friendly. The uncomfortable silence of the ride home had deepened as the evening drew out without an appearance from Marian. Robin could not understand how Sir Martin, who had seemed so agitated about her safety, could be so calm now.
He laid his fork on the table, somehow managing to make the silent gesture reverberate through the dining room.
"I'm going to look for her."
"I tell you there is no need," Sir Martin replied coolly. "I am sure she simply lost track of the time, and now she has probably decided to spend the night at Otton." He hoped so; hoped that his daughter had accomplished the task his brief note had set her.
My dear,
I apologise for failing you today, but as you see I send an old friend in my stead, whose company I trust will please you more than yet another visit from your dull old Father.
Daughter, Marian is in trouble, although she in her innocence does not know it. I hope to help her, and I know that you will be anxious to do anything you can to assist in your friend's deliverance. I ask only that you keep her at Otton as long as you can; press her to stay overnight, if at all possible.
By the time she returns to Headingley, the snares that now threaten her will be cleared from her path if this can be achieved through any labour of
Your affectionate Papa.
"You don't know that!" Robin argued. "The carriage could have had an accident. Anything could have happened! I am going to make sure she is all right."
"Young man, by the time you reach Otton it will be after midnight. You cannot disturb them at this hour!"
Robin struggled to calm himself. Marian loved this overbearing old windbag, and so he needed to resist antagonising him further. "I will not disturb anyone," he promised. "I will ride to Otton. If your carriage is still there, I will turn around and come straight back. But I have to know she is safe."
Young eyes met old, and Robin thought he finally glimpsed a flash of understanding, of recognition, before Sir Martin's gaze fell to the table.
"I cannot stop you," he said finally. "Try not to wake my servants when you return."
As Robin prepared to leave, his host sat in silent reflection, Locksley's apparent devotion to Marian's welfare raising doubts that had thus far skulked in the shadows of his mind. It was not too late. He could make him leave, order him from the house. Tell him that if he went now, he was not welcome to return. By dawn, he would be far away and safe.
But he would take her with him.
Sir Martin shook his head. He had offered the boy a chance to do the decent thing, and he had refused. Robin would not willingly relinquish Marian; and after all, what was he really doing now, but riding to her in the middle of the night against all the dictates of decorum and propriety? As the sound of hoofbeats receded, the old man raised the goblet in front of him and took a deep sip of the rich red wine.
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Robin really had intended to keep his word: ride to Otton, check the carriage, ride straight back. But now, his longing to be assured of Marian's safety assuaged, another very different yearning took its place. He would let fate choose, he told himself. What harm in climbing that tempting apple tree, and seeing whose chamber lay behind its branches?
Marian woke to a gentle tapping on her window. As she crossed the room to open it, her hair tumbling over the shoulders of her borrowed nightshift, Robin knew why he had been unable to resist waking her: she looked beautiful at rest, but even more so when she had just woken up, a fact that her residence in the forest was giving him more and more chances to appreciate. Much had commented just the other day on the recent changes in his master's sleeping habits. Usually something of a slugabed on days when there was no pressing reason to get up, Robin had lately taken to assisting Will with his early-morning task of building up the fire. Those fleeting moments of tousled hair, sleepy eyes and husky voice were too precious to risk sleeping through.
"Robin, why -"
"God's will, my love," he whispered through a cheeky smile. "If He didn't want me to visit you, He wouldn't always plant trees outside your bedroom windows."
Unsatisfied by this explanation, she wriggled away from his embrace, her tone urgent and worried. "I mean, why are you here at all? Is something wrong?"
"No, no," he reassured her. "I was just worried when you didn't come back."
"I'm sorry." Her face softened, and Robin reached out to pull her back towards him. "Susan begged me to stay, and I didn't know how to refuse. It has been... a rather emotional day." She was about to relate the tragic story, but checked herself. A pampered young woman's grief and guilt – what was that to a man like Robin, who lived life on a larger scale, fighting the poverty that stalked the poor and the treachery that threatened the Kingdom? Instead, she asked about his day's work.
"The boy agreed," he said. "Not even a second thought. Which pleased Sir Martin no end, because it gave him more time to read me a sermon about you."
"He's serious about this, isn't he?" She gave a sigh that Robin knew well – fond but exasperated.
He thought how strange it was to hear it applied to someone other than himself.
"I'd say so. He tried to convince me to ride off and leave you here where you'd be safe."
Marian stiffened with indignation. "What? Does he really think I am incapable of saddling a horse and finding my own way back to Sherwood?"
"I don't know if he doubts your ability, so much as your inclination. He thinks if I were out of the picture you'd be happy to sit by the fire and sew." He grinned, shifting his hand from her cheek to the nape of her neck. "He doesn't know you like I do."
"I should hope not," Marian replied with a raise of her eyebrow as Robin's touch moved forward and down across her shoulder, inching ever closer to the nightgown's lace neckline. She moved her own hand up to intercept him, interlacing her fingers with his. "I will not let him keep me here," she said, quietly but firmly, her words at once a declaration of war and a plea for alliance.
"And nor will I." Robin answered her unspoken doubts. "I have left you behind once before, and I will not make that mistake again." Now, he thought. Now is the perfect time to say it, to ask her. But once again, he could not form those few serious words that would end forever all fears of separation.
He wished he had, at least, some token or trinket to give her; Sir Martin's interference had given him a sudden need for some tangible sign that she was his. But his pocket was empty save for a tightly rolled piece of parchment.
A sudden thought struck him, and he withdrew his hands from hers.
"Here," he said, proffering the traitors' charter. "Take this."
"What? What are you-"
"We both know how important this is. It is the key to saving Richard's throne; it is the proof of the Black Knights' treachery. I need it. So you take it. That way we both know that whatever happens, I am not leaving you, and you are not leaving me." His voice was almost angry, and Marian didn't understand why, but she sensed how important this strange gesture was to him. She took the Pact, crossed the room and tucked it into the pocket of her cloak, then shook its folds around her shoulders and tied the strings.
"I will keep it close," she promised.
"And I will keep you close," he answered. It was still wrong, back to front somehow; it was like swearing his love for her on his devotion to the King, when in fact the one far surpassed the other. But for now, it was the best he could do.
"See you tomorrow," he said, kissing her softly as he took his leave and swung himself down the apple tree.
He felt lighter, more at ease as he rode back to Headingley. It had not been enough, but it had been something; he had managed to speak serious words in a serious tone. Look on it as a rehearsal, he told himself. Lost in the warm glow of a triumph that grew more significant in his own mind with every mile, he forgot Sir Martin's request for quiet, and was still whistling jauntily as he let himself into the house.