Well people, we have now reached 200 reviews for this story! It is also now the longest fic I have written, so we break record after record ;)
For the people who have commented on my spelling, I just want to point out that I am writing in my second language. You may point out mistakes if you wish to, but you can't expect me to get everything right. Most of this chapter is betad, but there may still be mistakes.
I exhausted from work so I will cut this A/N short and go aon and post the chapter. Thank for all the reviews!
xxxTrixxx
Chapter 24: Three of Hearts
-In which Allan is a man of many insights
"You look good," Allan-a-Dale stated as he found himself faced with Lady Marian in the king's chamber. "Death becomes you."
"Is that your idea of a compliment, Allan?" Marian responded, her eyebrow raised into a crumpled arch in her forehead.
The chamber was crowded with new acquaintances and old friends, nobles and commoners side by side, who all studied the exchange. Count Friedrich and Ritter Otto were seated on the bed, knees bumping awkwardly into King Richard's who had left the only chair to Lady Blanche and sat uncomfortably on a small stool. It was age before status, which the queen's lady in waiting had accepted without any fuss. As she was quick to point out, she had known 'Little Ricky' since he was naught but a child his swaddling clothes.
On the other side of the room the commoners lounged. Luke Scarlett had grown quite a bit since Marian last saw him, while Allan, bless him, remained exactly as she remembered. However blunt it was, his comment didn't truly upset Marian as it would have done in a different time. There was a certain homeliness about it all, an annoyance which came across as rather warm compared to the ordeals she had been through the last couple of months. You could always trust Allan to be Allan (which was a good enough reason not to trust him too much). By his side stood the woman who had presented herself as Griet de Sael, as if that was the proudest name in Europe.
To Duke Leopold and the emperor, Queen Aliénor had presented Allan as a man from the British gentry, Griet as his half-sister and Luke as his manservant, although no one currently in this room could have been fooled into thinking that Allan was in any way noble. The queen had no intention to have the emperor think that she was travelling around the countryside with a group of common rascals, and thus Allan and his friends had been dressed up in a flowery French fashion. Griet carried it splendidly while Allan looked like a rogue whatever he was wearing, his hair ruffled and his posture as slack as ever. As for poor Luke, he just seemed lost in the puffy pink shirt and matching hat which Lady Blanche had picked out for him.
"Wha', I said you look good, like, didn't I?" Allan smirked. "Nothing wrong with that."
"Nothing wrong!" Luke Scarlett burst out and Marian turned to the young man with mild amusement. His face was blushing in a colour which matched his name, and she could see a shadow of Will's righteous anger budding in his handsome features. "It's so tasteless!"
"Not quite as tasteless as your shirt, mind you." Allan responded and grinned frivolously. "Good to see you tough, Lady M."
Marian nodded indulgingly and thus the first rendezvous between the not so late lady and a rather travel-sick Allan-a-Dale ended. Once everyone's eyes darted away from the trickster, Griet's gaze lingered on his usually relaxed apparition. She saw the smile on his face falter and his posture become unsteady as if the ground had melted beneath his feet. He licked his lips and his eyes kept finding their way back to Marian in disbelief. Griet had become so used to Allan's gaze being firmly planted upon herself that she found the lack of his attention slightly unsettling. It wasn't jealously as much as a nagging absence, and in the same heartbeat she realized that the constricted sensation in her chest was cursed by concern rather than the musty air in the room. Even as Allan tried to shake off the shock, mouthing to himself to get a grip, he appeared distressed.
Cautiously Griet took a step towards Allan, planting a hand gingerly below his elbow. He flinched and stared in wonder as her delicate fingers travelled down his arm, braiding into his while the hair on his skin rose in response to her touch. Finally she planted her other hand firmly upon the two entangled ones, her pale complexion against his tanner one, and cradled it tenderly. She had half-expected him to crack some crude joke, but instead he gave her a swift smile, crooked and shy as it melted his frown away. She thought perhaps his eyes seemed a bit wet in the flickering light from the fireplace. For a couple of tense moments Allan's fingers were matted with hers like vines and his body-weight rested on the side which was facing her as if he was about to pull her closer. Then he relaxed, squeezed her hand tighter and broke the gaze, leaving Griet's heart to thud wildly against her own wishes. Her eyes trailed along the distinct profile of this man who was so small yet suddenly took up so much of her world, and briefly considered the mystery of attraction. In all her years of travel there had never been a place that left her more lost and bewildered than her own heart did during these flashes of intimacy.
In the opposite part of the room another woman's thoughts vaguely echoed Griet's. Marian ogled at the French woman's hand as it moved to cradle Allan's and smiled knowingly to herself. There was no doubt in her mind that their hearts were drawing them towards each other, calling and coaxing as it tugged them away from everything they knew. Love didn't compromise and it refused to be ignored, Marian knew that as well as anyone. She suppressed another smile and looked away. It was sweet. They would no doubt be terrible for each other, enhance the worst of their respective flaws, but it was sweet all the same. Unfortunately it was also unbearable, since it opened Marian to the gaping chasm in her own heart - the lack of that long lost love which continued to call her from across the nations.
The door creaked open and Queen Aliénor entered the room, causing the hushed chattering to instantly fall silent. The crowd watched her in anticipation as she walked slowly across the floor and let her eyes dart around the small space, turning to raise an eyebrow at her councillor Marcel Bizou who was constantly half a step behind her. The lanky man caught her gaze and quickly started to snap at the guards, who scrambled into a hurried salute before they darted off down the corridor. They returned to the room with an overly ornamented chair and a velvet cushion, placing the heavy furniture next to Lady Blanche under harangues of muted curses. The queen planted her bottom upon it with regal nonchalance and waved the guards away. Marcel remained standing behind her left shoulder, his constantly bobbing head hovering over her as he rubbed the gnarled fingers like he was washing them clean after a day out in the fields. Marian found herself staring at them almost hypnotically, the pale joints twisting and turning like snakes in a nest, and forced herself to look away. Everyone except Allan and Griet, who found etiquette to be rather tedious in the long run, had stood up and bowed down in respect when the queen entered, and they now returned to their previous positions.
"So," Griet finally broke the silence in perfect Occitan. She let go of Allan's hand as she took a step into the centre of the room, unconsciously clutching it tightly around a handful of emerald wool from her skirt instead. "How did it fare?"
"In English if you will, my sweet," the queen responded in an overly sugary voice, letting the inappropriate familiarity of Griet's manners towards her slip. It had been left to the queen to meet with Duke Leopold and the German emperor, negotiating her son's ransom for three exhausting hours, and now this congregation was waiting for her to reveal the result. She couldn't work miracles, yet there were not many people in this room that expected any less from her. Griet was one of the few who didn't seem to care much either way.
"How did it fare?" the French girl repeated in English, a sweet smile on her full lips.
"It fared, it fared-- Marcel?" the queen sighed wearily, waving at her councillor. "These people wish to know how it fared. Will you be a sweetheart and do me the honours?"
Marcel cleared his throat. "Indeed my Queen, I am, as always, your humble, most devoted subject. The ransom," he began in a nasal voice, then stopped and coughed. A roll of parchment was lifted from his belt and he unfolded it slowly. "The ransom-- has been determined, in negotiations between the Queen Aliénor of England and Duke Leopold V of Austria, under the supervision of his Excellency the Holy German-Roman emperor Henry VI, to be set to 30 000--"
"30 000! 30 000 shilling?!" Luke exclaimed as a collective gasp went through the room.
"Pounds of course," Marcel sneered, annoyed at the interruption, "600 000 shilling, or indeed 7 200 000 pence. I'm afraid I cannot count it in eggs or whatever peasants use. His Majesty," he continued slowly, seemingly unconcerned with the shock his words had caused, "will be moved to Trifles Castle to be held in confinement there, during which he will be receiving all the comforts suitable for his status, until such time the debt is considered repaid by His Lordship Duke Leopold—"
"That is quite enough Marcel," the queen snapped.
"Of course, your Excellency." The parchment was rolled into a tight cylinder anew and tucked back into its leather container with disturbing meticulousness.
"30 000!" King Richard burst out indignantly as Marcel returned to his usual stern silence. "Mother! I thought you planned to negotiate my release, not my ruin!"
"Oh really, my dear, what did you expect? That is your price – the price of England. You should be pleased that it is so high." King Richard murmured an oath beneath his breath. "Come now," the queen continued coaxing, "you wouldn't like to be bought cheap, would you my darling? Indeed, anything below 20- 25 000 pounds would have been nothing less than an insolence."
"An insult I could have lived with, mother," King Richard murmured.
"But where will we get 30—30 000!" Luke suddenly asked in disbelief, turning to no one in particular. He was usually quiet faced with the high and mighty, but the shock had won precedence over his coyness. "That is—so much! So much money!"
"It is roughly what my son's Holy war has cost already," the queen stated in bitter acceptance. "I am sorry my sweet," she turned to Richard with a sympathetic look, "mummy did her best, but God knows good intentions are not always quite enough. I have myself been imprisoned for periods of my life, as you well know, and it may feel like death, yet it is not. This trial can, and will, be overcome. We will have to stay strong and raise the money somehow."
Marian had gone pale as she listened to the news. She could almost feel the colours escaping her cheeks as her eyes were fixed on the queen in dread. Her jaw had fallen open into a loose 'o' which remained as she managed to breathe out "Take the money from where?".
"England my dear, where else?" the queen responded as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"But—surely there is no room for more taxes!? The people are already staving!"
"The lords will have to pay as well, this is no class matter," King Richard interposed. "It is a matter of England. We are England, is that not what your handsome Robin Hood claims? England must be saved!"
Marian's stomach ached. She felt woozy and faint as her eyes were drawn towards Griet and Allan's hands again, the longing in her chest growing into a torrent of titanium white panic. Their hands hung in solitude as the brush of open tenderness had passed, but in Marian's mind they still had each other while she stood alone. Now it seemed that the return to England wasn't even something she could expect any time soon. It would take ages to drain 30 000 from England's strained resources, time that would break the country and leave it easy pray to men like Prince John and Sheriff Vaysey. Time when she would be left imprisoned with the king, tossed from one castle to another with no power over her life. She still had no power at all!
"This will kill England!" she hissed in sheer desperation, trying to get her point of view across to the aloof high nobility. Her hands were clutched into two small fists, her knuckles whitening and the long nails digging into her palms.
"Well, in my mother's words, what did you expect, Lady Marian?" King Richard frowned. "The country needs me and I need the money! There must be taxes. There must be money."
"So, basically," Allan interrupted the budding argument, "if we raise the money then England will fall, and if we don't raise the money then England will fall?" Marian gave him a tired nod across the room. "Oh brilliant," he mumbled grudgingly. "I'm definitely moving to France."
"Allan!" Griet burst out. "Such sacrifice!"
The joke got a swift smile from the trickster, but his attention was once again set on Marian. The fallen noblewoman looked so small and vulnerable with her shoulders slumped in dejection and her skin dangerously pale, that she seemed bereft of all her usual poise. Allan had that look, Griet pondered while she watched him watching the noblewoman. That very special look he had when he was finding a shortcut, any backdoor to get out of a sticky situation. His life was one of fast escapes. He would try to persuade iron chains to yield to the slickness of his tongue rather than admit that he was stuck. Right now he was getting his mind around these new facts and saw the despair they ignited in Marian's eyes. He wouldn't have been Allan if he had simply accepted such a drawn out, tedious and uncomfortable solution. There simply had to be a better one, and with better he meant easier and faster. Then his eyes lit up, glanced over at Count Friedrich who was shuffling a deck of cards, and a triumphant smile won over the frown in his face. In that moment Griet knew with perfect clarity that Allan-A-Dale had a plan.
He could simply leave. That thought had passed through Allan's mind time and again since he came to Dürnstein castle, puzzling him because he didn't know why he hadn't. There were many things in this life that were mysterious to Allan, and it had always been his philosophy to let them remain that way. You didn't go digging through muck just because you didn't know what lay beneath it - chances were you would only find more muck anyway. He knew what he was, and he was not a man who ran around saving people. At least that was who he had always been, or hadn't been for that matter. Lately he wasn't so sure. He seemed to spend an awful lot of energy doing things that seemed completely pointless out of a traditional Allan perspective. For example he didn't really gain anything from randomly gallivanting between the heavy walls of an Austrian castle, in a vain attempt to save England. Long, looming shadows and round-faced servant maids passed him with the same nonchalance as he made his way down another corridor, his body hunched and shivering beneath the blue cloak. He could simply leave, but instead he was digging himself in deeper.
With a sigh Allan stopped in front of a narrow door and lifted his fist to knock on it before he pushed it open. It was a good plan, and he was here now. He might as well execute it, even if it made little sense to go through such efforts for a king that he didn't truly care about.
The count and the duke were already in the room as he entered. It was a small space, the ceiling low and the walls hung with miscoloured tapestries of old-fashioned hunting scenes. Because it was small it was also easy to heat up, and the comfortable interior made Allan think that the duke used this room rather a lot for small, private gatherings.
"Ah, Allan, willkommen," Friedrich burst out. "You know of course, Duke Leopold," he nodded at the fat man who sat pressed down between the round table and a predominantly rust red tapestry. "The final gentleman is the emperor's trusted friend, Landgraf Stephan."
Allan watched Stephan sceptically, nodding a greeting to the tall man who reminded vaguely of an old horse. His hair was a grizzled black mane that draped down on both sides of a long and narrow face, his sagging skin melting his features into a constant air of tragedy.
The door creaked open and Allan felt something stroke against his back, a warm breath brushing by his neck in a muffled 'hello'. His heart pounded in his ears as Griet continued into the room, her hips swaying seductively and her soft face split by a brilliant smile. She threw out her hands and gave the assembled men a flamboyant curtsey. Not for the first time Allan cursed that the queen had insisted on presenting Griet as his damned sister. He may not be a moral man, but he didn't particularly like the caste gossip having his relation to Griet suspected to be somewhat incestuous.
"Well, gentlemen," Griet exclaimed. "It seems we are all assembled. Who, I wonder, of you fine men need a good luck charm for this harmless game of cards? How about the duke? It is my experience that status and money often win, in life as well as games, and I would like to be on the winning team." Allan felt his stomach jolt when Griet caught Duke Leopold's eyes and moved over to plant herself by his side, his leering gaze walking hungrily over her curves and her smile as unconcerned as ever. He washed the discontent of his face and forced a smile, taking the chair opposite the duke. This was all according to plan. Griet was just playing her role.
The vague idea - which Allan proudly called his 'plan' - had its foundation in two separate facts. The first was Count Friedrich's fondness for gambling, a vice which he shared with Duke Leo. A gambler as refined as the count would know all there is to know about games, knew what won them and what lost them, and more importantly how bad or good luck you could have without being overly suspicious. The other fact was Allan's own profession, as well as Griet's. They were essentially con artists. What could a gambler and two swindlers achieve, when they put their minds at work, if not a scheme so waterproof that the duke wouldn't know what had hit him? As plans go it had more holes than a Swiss cheese, but that was a general rule which applied to most of Allan's plans.
Count Friedrich shuffled the cards and caught Allan's eyes with a faint nod. He had been surprisingly easy to persuade, but apart from him Allan had kept his dubious scheme to himself. Even Griet had been left out to begin with, but the young woman was practically impossible to hide anything from.
Allan realized that he was staring at her again and shook his head to disperse the thoughts. The game was on around the polished table. He had more important things to think about than—well—sex. He would still not use the dreaded l-word. 'Love' had always appeared to Allan to be much worse than most curses, and twice as deadly as any insult.
The count had dealt the cards and Griet was already pouring wine into the duke's cup, filling it up after every sip he took. She had pressed her chest against him and glanced at the cards, distracting the fat man so that he hardly watched the game.
The count won the first round, hardly surprising since Allan didn't quite know the rules in a fair round, Landsgraf Stephan was a fool and the duke wasn't paying much attention at all. It would be easier once the duke felt secure, Allan mused - that was the importance of these early rounds. They needed to set up the right mood around the table, making the duke keep playing as the stakes rose. He sighed and shuffled the cards, dealing out round two with a warning glance at Count Friedrich who lighted up with triumph when he saw his hand. With a miserable grunt the count folded and turned down his two of dames in order to let Duke Leopold win. You could almost see his hands tremble in reluctance.
After that the duke's luck improved. He won a couple of rounds until the table before him was swimming with copper coins. It was no great fortune but the winnings, in addition to Griet's attention and the vast amounts of wine, made him increasingly cocky. Dusk had fallen when the stakes were raised to more abstract sums of money, that is - they were too high to be carried around.
By midnight Allan had lost at least five times as much cash as he had owned in his entire life as well as an inexistent summer lodge in Herefordshire. Landsgraf Stephan and the duke, who wasn't part of the plan, had won some moderate amounts, but once the duke's initial 'luck' levelled out, the greatest success had gone to the count. Of course it wasn't talent as much as luck, in addition to Allan and Griet's occasional swindling, which won and lost the rounds. In the midst of night the crop, or rather the essence of Allan's plan, was finally ripe enough to be plucked.
Griet was not known to be coy or proper. Her attentions towards the duke were thus rather overplayed, or at least Allan considered them so. The duke's hands had been moving up and down her curves and during the evening her ankle long skirt had somehow been lifted up above her knee. It revealed a decidedly improper cleft of white skin between her stocking and the hem of her dress. Allan was staring at it almost hypnotically, thinking of little less than how much he wanted to trail a finger along the curve of her knee, when Griet suddenly moved a hand to tug the cloth. The dress draped down and Allan lifted his eyes with the look of a chastised dog, knowing he had done something wrong but not truly regretting it. She cocked her eyebrow at him and he grinned in response, reluctantly turning his attention back to the game.
"Ah," Count Friedrich yawned as another round ended with some more coins shuffled his way. "It has been a—nice game. But now I will put down my cards I think."
"End it!?" Griet exclaimed, widening her round eyes. The duke gave her a drunken look, his eyes out of focus and his grin sheepish. The man was well and truly marinated. "But we have hardly started yet!Why do we even play, if the winnings are of little or no consequence to the players? Shouldn't a true game give true winnings? Doesn't a risk need to hurt to be a risk at all? I may be wrong, but shouldn't we raise the stakes?"
"Wha' do you mean 'no consequence'?" Allan burst out indignantly. "I'm nearly ruined 'ere!" Griet suppressed a smile, amused by the thought of Allan being ruined after betting a house he didn't even own, and the count gave her a warning look. "My sis' right though," Allan continued. "We can't stop now, I need my house back!"
"You have nothing left to bet, Mister Allan," Count Fredrick scoffed.
"Bu' I do! I 'ave-- I 'ave my main house, right? I can bet that! Yeah, tis in Rochsdale. Lovely place, innit, Griet?"
"Lovely," Griet agreed. Of course Allan didn't have any house in Rochdale, but there was a place called Rochdale and it had houses in it. For a con artist that was quite enough.
"Huh. A place in Rochdale. Hm," Count Fredrick pretended to ponder the bet. "In England, yes? It is a crude place, a dark corner of the world. Still, I am a generous man. I suppose—I suppose I could consider it. At least if the duke is willing to bet something that I truly want."
"I will not bet Dürnstein castle! It has been in my family for generations," Duke Leopold called out in a slurry voice, although his interest was notably sparked. He was a greedy man after all, and the stakes were already very high.
"Not Dürnstein!" the count snorted.
"What then?" Duke Leopold was notably suspicious now. His grip around Griet had become looser, as if his mind was drifting from her, and his concentration was focused on the count.
"Well, the king, of course," Fredrick responded nonchalantly. "His release for everything I have won today, and," he took a deep sigh, mentally strengthening himself for the next part, "and-- and as a special treat, I will throw in the administrative region of Niederbayern. You have been sniffing around that border like a dog, duke. This is your chance, and may I add, it is the only chance you will ever have to get your hands on it."
It was a bait too big, too juicy, too tempting to ignore. Niederbayern was a big region, a significant bet. Yet then again, so was the king. The playful atmosphere around the table had changed within a heartbeat, turned wary and threatening. Duke Leopold was drunk on greed, wine and Griet's female charms, yet the politician in him was feeling cornered. He did no like where this was going, yet it kept calling him.
"Sweet," Allan's murmur broke the silence, and the duke turned to him.
"Sweet for you," he sneered in open contempt. "Too sweet! Count Fredrick, do you expect me to put a bet like this when Mister Allan has betted nothing but some petty British shed?! This is the king of England we are talking about!"
"Then Allan is out," the count stated with a shrug.
"Wha'!? No!" Allan exclaimed before he remembered that the entire game was a scam, and that the count was on his team. He didn't actually have a chance of winning anything at all, least of all a big chunk of Bavaria.
"Actually I agree," Duke Leopold said thoughtfully. "It is not enough. This is just land, and if Allan withdraws from the game my potential winnings are even smaller. What you ask of me is something else. It is politics. It cannot be measured in wealth. The winnings must be bigger. Allan needs to bet something—interesting, something—unique! Or there will be no game."
Count Fredrick glanced at Allan who shrugged uneasily. They had not expected this. Like a ship floats off course and finds itself on uncharted waters, Allan's best laid plans were suddenly utterly useless. Had the count known Allan better, he would have expected something like this to happen. Allan did not have a talent for forward planning. His usual approach was to take the first step and hope things worked themselves out as he went along, not caring much about unwanted consequences. In his mind his plans were always straight, and thus he did not waste time to ponder potential turns or bumps before he literally stumbled right over them. They had imagined a drunk and overly confident duke to be pretty easily convinced, but it seemed that he was more cautious than they had expected.
"Then bet me!"
The four men turned to Griet with different expressions of surprise. The count seemed shocked but impressed while Allan had an oddly tortured expression as he tried to ignore the strange feeling in his stomach. He glanced over at Landsgraf Stephan and realized that the horse-like man looked sceptical, to say the least, but the duke didn't seem to have any such considerations. His interest was notably sparked, his suspicions suddenly weak faced with this possibility of imminent pleasure.
"What do you mean 'bet' you?" the duke asked fascinated.
"Yeah!" Allan exclaimed. "Wha' do you mean bet you! Not being funny but you're not mine to bet!"
"Do not be such a fool, brother mine," Griet smiled and met Allan's uncomfortable gaze in infinite innocence. "You always say you have no money to pay my dowry, and now you have nothing at all. You may consider yourself British, but I grew up in France. Where I come from it is perfectly accepted for rich men to have—shall we call it a legal maîtresse. A concubine if you wish. Oh, do not look so shocked gentlemen! It is in the line of finest French customs, by many of my peers considered considerably less barbaric than marriage. Less—stifling."
"A maîtresse?" the duke slurred, looking eagerly at Allan. "Now, I do think this is a French custom that I could get used to! Well? Will you bet your sister?"
"Yeah, well," Allan murmured. "If that is what Griet wants…"
"I do want it."
"A'right then," Allan swallowed and tried to avoid Griet's eyes. There was a twinkle in them that he didn't quite like, an air of triumph which made him think that he had lost some ground in the silent war between them. She would think that he cared for her now. Of course, in a way he did care for her, but he didn't want her to know that. His pride would suffer terribly if she saw how much he hated this turn of events. It didn't even matter that he knew that they would win, and thus not really risk losing her to the duke at all. Just the thought of her being—on the table, so to speak, like some—some prize! He shuddered and tried to get a grip, fighting the violent discomfort he sensed, and forced a smile. "I guess I could," he continued drawling. "Mind you, you will 'ave to make your bet official, duke. Not being funny or anything, but I don't bloody trust you, mate."
Duke Leopold flinched, suddenly remembering how high the stakes really were. Then Griet's warm weight against his body and the wine clouding his head won over reason. He waved at a servant who came back with ink and a piece of parchment and scrambled down a rather sloppy document, stating the king's release. Finally he sealed it, had Stephan officially sign and validate it, and tossed it to the middle of the round table. This had been the only reason as to why they had invited Stephan in the first place, a nice touch which could be attributed to the count. They needed someone here whose word the emperor trusted.
"There. The king's release, black on white. Deal the cards Griet." The duke planted a kiss on Griet's neck, grabbing her possessively around the waist, as she leaned forward and started to set up another round. Her eyes locked into Allan and she smiled triumphantly and, he thought, a bit flirtatiously when he lifted his hand. It was a bad one so he quickly flipped the cards, changing them for the extras he had hidden under his blue cloak. It was almost funny that he would win back the king with a simple tavern trickery.
Less than an hour later, as they ran through the corridors under muffled laughter, Allan could hardly believe how easy that it had been. The parchment with the king's release was hugged tightly in Count Friedrich's hand and Allan's own fingers were closed around Griet's wrist, pulling her with him. He could feel her pulse fluttering faintly against his fingers and found it very hard to focus on much else.
As they closed in on Marian and the king's chamber Griet suddenly stopped, leaving the count to continue dashing ahead without them. She backed into a dark corner by a door which must lead to one of the empty guest chambers, tugging Allan towards her so hard that he lost balance and almost stumbled ungracefully into the wall. She was winded and blushing, her back against the door and her blue eyes wide in euphoria. Slowly she sneaked her hands around Allan's neck an ached her back slightly, a teasing twinkle in her gaze, and Allan's mouth went dry.
"That was amazing!" she breathed, her chest heaving in fast breaths, a wide smile splitting the round face. "It was, wasn't it? We played him like a fiddle!"
Allan nodded dumbly, trying to regain his senses, but the tongue felt swollen in his mouth and everything was spinning. He put his palms on Griet's back, feeling her heat through the cloth, and swallowed. "Amazing," Allan murmured. "Though," he swallowed again, "though you didn't need to, y'know-- fawn all o'er 'im like that, like."
Griet's full lips curled into a smile, a vibration echoing through her body as Allan's slurry words reached her ears. It was all she needed, as much of an admission as she could ever hope for. He is jealous. Her smile widened as the surge of excitement tugged her features. Allan may fear intimacy but Griet never shied away from a challenge.
Allan's world moved in slow-motion as Griet laughed hoarsely and drew his face to hers, her lips crashing against his in a kiss as deep as the elongated shadows of the corridor. Allan knew that the castle must be cold still, colder even than it had been before, but somehow the cloak's heat felt superfluous and the weight on his shoulder's merely a nuisance. Then as the kiss lingered on, as he pulled her closer and she sighed contently, as her hair fell out of its braided bud and tickled his neck, as his heart beat so fast that he thought it may stop all together, then Allan suddenly knew. It was not the insight that he loved her that revealed itself to him, because in a way he had known that from the start and still wasn't prepared to admit it. Instead he thought about Marian, who he wished to protect and help when the king's ransom shattered her world like glass. He thought about Luke who somehow managed to drag Allan across Europe in a stupid fit of sentimentality, and about Will and Djaq, who he really quite-- missed. Not that he had gone soft or anything, you just got used to having people around, that's all. All these thoughts wandered though Allan's mind while he fought against the dangerous magic that Griet's presence held over him. Somehow, in the world between her soft lips which pulled him in and the rogue's self-preservation which screamed at him to run away, Allan suddenly realized that he knew perfectly well why he had done all these things.
I never wanted to leave because I actually care, he thought beneath the enchantment on the French kiss. Blimey, you didn't see that one coming Allan-A-Dale, you daft old fool.
Then Allan moved to plant a kiss on his beloved's neck, a shy touch of lips upon sensitive skin which Griet responded to with a light shiver. She laughed out loud as his stubble tickled her, and in that moment Allan decided that it didn't matter why he kept acting against his natural instincts. A conscience is a sticky thing, he mused, once woken it refused to be ignored in spite of his very best efforts to do so. Yet a conscience seemed a small price to pay for the woman in his arms and the fact that returning to England suddenly felt like coming back home. It was nice to have people to miss – like longing was a sensation far less lonely than not having something to long for. Perhaps you couldn't truly win unless the stakes were high and you dared to risk something of substance.
As these thoughts wandered through Allan's increasingly intoxicated mind, the door to the king's chamber creaked open down the corridor, and a crumpled parchment changed hands. King Richard's surprise echoed from wall to wall and stirred Marian in her bed, causing the noblewoman to make her way to the king's chamber with a frown on her face. As she read through the scratchy document she threw her arms around Count Friedrich's shoulders in joy and wept. Finally every sorrow broke through Marian's dam of self-control and was pored onto the count's velvet vest in jerky sobs of sheer relief.
Lady Marian smiled and smiled though the tears when it occurred to her that she wasn't merely going home. She was rising from the dead, and she didn't dare to consider the possibility that Robin had moved on. That was not the way fairy tales went. Darkness was defeated, lovers reunited in a kiss. It was the way it was supposed to happen. In the damp night of a slowly budding Austrian spring, as the first yellow flowers broke through the snow like beaming suns, Marian believed. She believed that even the winter of her own life was coming to an end, and the sensation was so strong that she felt herself wake up, as if she had been hibernating ever since the shipwreck. She believed and she trusted in the love and the friendship that the bitterness of her youth had made her so guarded against. Stronger and more mature she didn't care if her tears seemed vulnerable and her chest lay wide open. What did she care if her heart was on display when it finally appeared to be beating again?
Three hearts pounded between Dürnstein castle walls as they let go of the shackles that held them and turned their faces north. Griet de Sael was venturing into the country of her childhood, side by side with a man who always used to walk alone or run away, and - even though it had been said before - Lady Marian Fitzwalter was finally coming home.
NEXT: It has been speculated that Robin gets a bit of a surprise.