She was running. Crashing through the leaves, the brush. Nearly falling as her foot caught an exposed tree root. She was breathless, her lungs tight with need. Her ribs seized and stung.
There was something following her, snatching through the darkness. She couldn't see it, didn't dare turn around. But it was close. She felt the warmth of its breath, its savage jaws. It seemed to pulse, red and hungry, in the night air.
In a few short moments, it would be upon her.
Time seemed to slow. Her feet faltered, her legs moved as if made of stone. She closed her eyes, and waited for the inevitable end.
Gasping, she sat up, her eyes now searching through the dim fabric of the space.
She felt overheated and damp; something in the room was glowing. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, feeling the solidness under her feet. Moving towards the door and the chilly early morning air beyond, she realized their indoor fire had been left burning. The door she left open slightly, in the hope that it might help cool the air inside.
She got back into bed, taking a moment to look at him: his face was softened and relaxed as it only was when he was asleep. He looked younger, almost boyish. She noted the flowering bruise on his jaw, which had settled into a yellow-ringed purple stain.
She nudged him with her foot.
"Mmmmm?"
"Robin?"
"Mmmmm?"
"You did say you would properly bank the fire before we went to sleep…"
"Mmmmm. I did say… I was going to… But then we started… I forgot."
"Lucky we didn't burn to death in our bed."
He threw his arms around her, his eyes still shut tight.
"I would have saved you. Carried you from the raging flames."
"Not if you refuse to wake. Come, the sun's almost up."
His eyes opened, fluttering with sleep, but his arms drew tighter around her. She threw him a look, one he was beginning to know well.
"What kind of wife are you, to refuse my marital embraces?" he growled in mock outrage.
"A better one than you know, I think," she replied, kissing him.
"Undoubtedly."
He grinned, finding a lovely spot to rest his lips, right between her earlobe and jawline.
After a moment, however, his attentiveness was interrupted. He stopped, cocking his ear towards the open door.
"We did put all the horses up for the night, didn't we? I can't remember."
"I watched some of the boys do it, right before we went to bed."
She looked at him with concern, though his thoughts were clearly elsewhere.
"What is it?"
Now she could hear something, but the sound was rough and unclear.
He got to his feet and threw his shirt on, tossing her shift over to where she sat.
"Marion, I need you to get dressed. And then I need you to go into the forest, as far away from this camp as possible. Can you do that?"
"Why?"
The moment she asked, she realized she didn't need an answer. Horses' hooves, dozens of them, were thundering somewhere nearby. She could even hear the metal scrapings of armor.
Hastily putting on his boots and then his sword belt, he turned towards her.
"I know you never listen to a word I say, so could you at least do it for the women and children you're going to find and bring into the forest with you?"
He kissed her, roughly and all too briefly, and then he was gone.
She could feel the panic begin to rise up in her chest, growing with the strength of the sounds of the army of men coming closer towards them. She pushed it away and gathered herself.
Outside, the chaos was forming. Confused and sleepy faces poked out of doors while others milled around the central space, unsure of what to do or where to go.
"Men to arms!" she could hear Robin bellow from the other side of the camp. "Men to arms!"
"Women and children with me!" she echoed, her voice clear and high over the breaking daylight.
It took several more cries before the groups had properly formed: the men hastily armed, now finding defensive positions around the camp; the women and children, some barely dressed, moving like a frightened herd into the safety of the trees.
But the soldiers had come, stirring like metal insects through the tree line.
They caught the tail end of the line of women, striking with their swords, not even glancing behind them as they rode on. One of the women fell, her hands raised high above her head as she went to earth, looking, or so it seemed to Marion, like a graceful dancer moving to unheard music. She heard a scream, off to her right, and saw that it came from Joanna.
Quickly, the fallen woman was gathered up and brought further into the woods, now a relative place of safety. Marion could now see that it was Joanna's mother, as the girl went to her side, grasping her hand, trying to assess what was wrong.
Blood welled from the woman's side, seeping into her clothes, and from the corner of her mouth. Her breath was ragged. There was little they could do. Marion put both her hands on the girl's shoulders as she shuddered with tears and screams.
Hearing the tumult of combat back towards the camp, she raised her head. Her only thought was of him.
She left the women behind and raced back to the melee, hoping to find a discarded weapon with which to arm herself. Quickly perching herself behind an overturned table, she surveyed the disorder before her.
Many of the riders had dismounted, and now were in the process of fending off attackers, though the riders, she could see, were clearly better armed. Will and Alan were fighting back to back, making sure their opponents couldn't tell where to strike next. Finally, her eyes found him, watching as he took on three of the Sheriff's men, feeling the panic in her heart begin to solidify.
And then, in an instant, it was over. One of the men had disarmed him, sending his sword flailing to the ground. But they didn't move to attack. His hands were held behind him – she saw him struggle in their grasp – but then they stood still, waiting.
She didn't know what to do. He didn't seem to be in immediate danger – otherwise she would have gone to his aid, despite the risk to herself – but it seemed cowardly to simply wait, hidden and protected, to see what they might do to him. She had just made up her mind to move, when she felt a hand go around her wrist.
"Don't ye be doing anything foolish, Lady."
It was John, crouched next to her, whose broad hand now easily encircled hers.
"But they have him prisoner…" she quietly sputtered.
"Then rushing in is suicide, not a rescue. Let us wait and see what happens."
One of the armored riders now approached the circle of men holding Robin. He removed his helmet, and Marion realized with an intake of breath that it was the Sheriff. He paced in front of Robin, not looking at him, not saying a word.
"Is it the manner of the Sheriff of Nottingham to have his men do his fighting for him?" Robin asked scornfully.
The Sheriff nodded his head towards one of the men, who struck Robin powerfully in the side. Robin bellowed in pain, but did not fall.
"I see that it is," he added, through gritted teeth.
"Quiet!" the Sheriff hissed, finally acknowledging Robin. He sidled towards him and, with a gloved fist, hit him in the cheek.
His head now hanging towards the ground, Robin looked up at the Sheriff, and began to laugh.
"You'll have to do better than that."
Even from this distance, Marion could see the unbridled fury in the Sheriff's features. She heard the shriek of metal as he pulled his sword out into the open and her heartbeat seemed to slow when she realized what was about to happen.
But the Sheriff did not point the blade at Robin. Instead he pointed it downwards, holding it by the grip, and struck Robin neatly across the top of the head with the pommel. Robin collapsed, now being held up only by the soldiers grasping his arms.
"Finally, some quiet," the Sheriff muttered. "Get him tied up and ready to go, will you?"
He looked around him, at the camp buildings and structures they had spent so long constructing.
"Burn it all down."
Marion saw a quick scampering out of the corner of her eye. She recognized the face and figure and the threadbare clothes of the young man who had been the leader of the village boys. It had been several months, though, and if it was possible, he looked even gaunter. He held a torch in his hand and Marion felt a chill sweep over her heart. It was as if he had simply been waiting for the order.
The Sheriff's men were binding Robin, trying to get him atop a horse. They seemed little interested in the strange tableau that was being created before them.
The young man – David, she corrected herself, remembering his name – began to sing, rather incomprehensibly. He pivoted upon each foot, creating a jerking dance that matched the rhythms of his song. And as he moved around the camp, he put each of the dwellings to the torch.
It was his eyes, though, that caught her. Nothing could peer into them and equally nothing saw out. In them she recognized the haze of madness.
The Sheriff's men were now leaving. Even the ones occupied with other opponents had simply gone back to their horses and departed with the others. The only one left in their midst was David, who was laughing to himself as the flames rose higher and higher into the morning sky.
She heard a striking sound and watched as his face turned to incomprehension. He looked down at the arrow protruding from his chest. He smiled joyfully, like a child, and then fell to the ground. The torch sputtered impotently by his side.
Will and Alan emerged from the far side of the camp. Will still had his bow out and Alan was grasping at a wound on his upper arm.
"I don't understand," she cried, emerging from her hiding spot. "What were they doing?"
"That was a raiding party, Marion," Will replied. "Not an army. They didn't have orders to kill."
"So how are we going to get him back?" Her voice broke with emotion.
They were silent.
"We need to get to Nottingham before something happens!"
"They're not going to Nottingham," answered Alan.
"And how do you know that? Do you read men's thoughts now, Alan A'Dale?"
He touched her arm, but she angrily shook him off. He sighed.
"If 'twere just for the Sheriff, he would have killed Robin here. But there must be something else, something bigger planned. My guess? They're taking him to London."