Chapter Twenty
Guilt's Embrace

The servants and the soldiers gathered in the hall looked up in expectancy when they heard Gisborne's heavy step at the stairs, but their expectancy quickly turned to surprise at the image before them. The blackguard had shed his leathery shell and donned the habit of a nobleman, rather than a soldier. If not for the perpetual scowl etched across his strong features, he would even have looked handsome. Even Gwyn sat up at the smell of lavender, plush velvet, and clean linen: scents that belonged to the mistress, but now intermingled with the smell of leather and lye, the smells of the master.

Gisborne came down the stairs like a man who should be on horseback. He was one of the tallest men in the shire and his careless descent, less pronounced in any other man, always seemed a little heavier given his frame. He did not wear a nobleman's habit as well as a jerkin and broadsword. In fact, he seemed a more than a little naked without it. He was like a man who had spent many days carrying a heavy burden and who now had to learn how to stand and walk without the weight upon his shoulders.

He stood in front of Gwyn and crossed his arms over his chest, keeping his eyes down. His jaw was terse as though the words that waited on his tongue were heavy. The servants, who had expected to be confronted with the full store of his malice, were amazed at his silence and composure. He seemed like a different man.

At last, he looked up and scanned the faces of the men gathered in the hall until the fell upon their target. He was difficult to miss: unlike the other guards who stood in livery, he was wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket and looked more than a little weak-at-the-knees when he was met with the master's steely eyes.

"You are the witness, then," Guy stated. "What is your name?"

The guard turned pale. "Orrick Wyatt, sir," he bit out. He knew, he just knew, the master would place all the blame on his shoulders.

"Where are your clothes, Wyatt?" Guy demanded.

Orrick began to stammer. "Ye see, sir, it were like this… A' was walkin' to the -well to the refuse pit, sir- and A' felt this tappin' on me shoulder, turned 'round… And the next thing A' knew, it were rainin' and A' was…"

Guy rolled his eyes. Robin Hood. It was no great surprise that the outlaw should manage to sniff out the wink link in the company's chain. Guy could only remember this Wyatt as being the man underfoot in Rosalie's sick room the previous night. He could not help but wonder: if Rosalie had died last night, which would trouble him more? Losing her, or losing Hood? He breathed deeply and was instantly assaulted with the scent of lavender. -Losing Hood.

He cocked his head, staring calmly at Orrick.

"It's true, then," he said, "that when you took the prisoner to the kitchen to prepare medicine for Lady Gisborne, Cook dropped something by the hearth. The prisoner went to help her and handed ingredients to her. You, naturally, thought nothing of it because he, hitherto, had behaved like a perfect priest and a man of God."

Orrick's eyes went wide as saucers and he opened his mouth to protest, but Guy's look went hard as stone and fierce as hot iron.

"It's true, Wyatt?" Guy did not ask.

The poor mercenary remembered well his master's promises from the night before. A part of him was terrified of whatever trap Gisborne was setting up for him, but more afraid of what would befall him instead should he not walk into it when ordered.

"Aye, sir," his voice seemed clear enough, with only the slightest tremor, despite the frightened look in his insipid eyes. "That's true."

Guy took a heavy sigh from Prince John's repertoire and made it a little more masculine, better suited to his own idiom, and turned to Gwyn.

"I should think the conclusion is clear enough," he stated to the company. "This woman has been my cook since I came to Locksley and is known for her virtue. Clearly that wolf in priest's clothing found away to drug the stew whilst she was unaware." Guy gritted his teeth at his next statement, but he knew he would never win this round if he swallowed it. "I am only sorry that I allowed him in my house, but my need was great. I am sorry for the trouble this has caused you, Gwyn. I hope you will forgive us: when tensions rise, confusion ensues."

The old woman tried to stand, but the chair had no arms and she had only her own knees to steady her feeble bones. On instinct, Guy reached to help her and silently cursed Rosalie when he realized what he had done. When Gwyn's blank eyes looked up at him, and her aged faced crinkled with smile, a tiny part of him forgave Rosalie as well.

"Lady Gisborne is an angel." Gwyn spoke softly, only for Guy's ears, but it came as a promise, not a statement. "She is going to save you."

Save him? Why did she not say, "Lady Gisborne has saved me?" After all, this was Rosalie's doing, Rosalie's battle. -But Guy felt it: somewhere inside him, deep within the emptiness, there was a warmth. It was small and distant; a fledgling ember he expected to die before sunrise, but it was there all the same.

Guy did not even bother to return to the bedchamber that night. When the household retired, he took off his doublet and draped it over the back of the chair while he paced the room in the fading light from the hearth fire. His body was exhausted and worn from the drugs the priest had given him and the subsequent day on horseback, in the rain. His joints were happy to inform him that he was no longer as young as he once was, but the ache within his chest was even happier to remind him of what happened in Acre.

The cook's statement found its way through Marian's voice, adding to pangs that came with the shattered hope her words had once given him. Blue eyes swam in his vision: accusing him, disappointed in him, as though she had believed he would drop his sword and become the decent man she thought he was. As usual, Marian was wrong.

"It's over, Guy…."

"My lord."

Guy turned quickly, his reflexes prepared to strike, though his sword had been left upstairs. Years of looking over one's shoulder creates a habit that can never quite be shaken.

He was surprised to find Rosalie standing there, a shawl drawn about her shoulders to fend off the chill and protect her modesty. Linen shifts were more revealing than one expected at first glance.

"What do you want?" he growled, drawing near so that his height and size might intimidate her into surrender.

Rosalie was afraid of this Guy of Gisborne: the Guy of Gisborne who had spent the night drinking and fuming about a past he could not change. He belonged to Marian in these hours and she scarcely knew how to reach him when he was sober and more concerned with the present than the past.

"Will you not come to bed?" Her voice sounded clear, to her own surprise.

Guy snarled.

"I told you that you might enjoy it," he sneered.

Rosalie's face went white and her mouth twitched, though she tried to school her features. Her effort was in vain: even in his addled state, Guy saw the motion and read it clearly. She did not enjoy it, but he never expected her to. He hated it just as much as she.

"My lord, I cannot-"

"I am not a beast," he snapped, "I know well enough to let you alone until you are recovered. What must you think of me, I wonder?"

Rosalie's ire was roused at that statement. It was a challenge to her character and the Angevin in her would not let him cheapen her.

"I did not expect a man to know," she replied. "Women keep our… bodies, our needs a secret from you. We know well enough that you find them repugnant."

"Then what are you doing down here?" Guy demanded.

"I came for you," Rosalie answered, unshed tears in her eyes. "Come to bed, Guy, come sleep."

The look in his eyes betrayed his own brokenness, his own sorrow, that he had fought so long to hide from her, from the world.

"You do not know what waits for me in sleep." He had never spoken of it, and he never would.

"I know what keeps you company here," she said. "I know who waits at your shoulder while you pace this room. She follows you through the night and the day. I see her ghost within your eyes. How can sleep be worse than the waking hell in which you live?"

Guy was silent. A thousand reasons waited on the tip of his tongue, growing heavy there and falling silent again. He could not utter them; it was bad enough that they lived in his mind, in his heart. He could not tell Rosalie that when he dreamt, Marian was alive and he had a chance at redemption, but when he awoke she was gone and he was damned.

"You need rest, Guy," Rosalie said softly. "You will go mad otherwise and if you do, they will destroy you."

Guy stared long and hard at Rosalie: the living proof that whatever the state of his soul, Hood and Vasey could not touch him, not while he had her, not while he had his wits. The primal need to survive took hold of him and pushed him forward, and the need for comfort wrapped itself around him.

Rosalie was too weak to climb the stairs, but he could not endure to have her in his arms; so, he gave her one strong arm and patiently propelled her up each step, lending his strength and weight as they went. She tried to hide her own weakness, to ignore the pain within her empty womb or the dizziness in her head, but even a man as selfish as he could see that she needed help though she dared not ask.

When they reached the chamber, she instantly retreated to the comfort of the bed and looked away while he stripped took off his shirt and leggings. He had slept in his braies for as long as he could remember, regardless of who shared his bed.

Finally, he took his place beneath the sheets and blankets, keeping his back to her and trying to make this act as perfunctory as their coupling, but he could not deny this was different. He had never spent the night with a woman: no man in his right mind would waste money to sleep beside a whore and he always found an excuse to send Annie away when he was done with her. Tonight, he had not even touched Rosalie; he did not think he could bear to touch her again.

Guy heard the rustle of bedclothes and felt her turn, felt her draw closer to him. He knew she was cold from the way she huddled under the blankets and had kept the shawl so close downstairs, and thought perhaps she was seeking his body heat for comfort. He could grant that: she had almost died because of him. Then he felt her arms gently slip around his back as she pressed against him.

Rosalie was holding him, sweetly, almost like a child, and her touch made his heart quake. He reached for her hands, to pry them away, to break away from her and leave the room, but a quiet tremor passed through his body -the tremor that often preceded tears, but tears never came.

"Sleep, Guy," she whispered gently.

Rosalie held him fast and he knew she would not let go.