Chapter 3

The grille was set high in the heavy wooden door and Robert de Rainault, Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham, had to stand on tiptoe to see in. The room was similar to the one he had been occupying until just a few hours ago; sparsely furnished, a table, a couple of chairs, and a cot in one corner. Light from a narrow loophole and warmth from a glowing brazier rendered it almost comfortable and a plate of food and jug of wine sat on the table. One of the chairs was occupied by a tall, broad-shouldered man, his feet listlessly propped on the other. Beneath the blond forelock a pair of startling blue eyes stared at a perfectly innocuous spot on the floor and a sensuous mouth sneered contempt at the world.

"Still the same, then?" de Rainault addressed the guard beside him.

"Yes, my lord, although he has been eating a little."

"Hrrmph. Well, at least he's changed out of those disgusting furs."

"Come on, brother! I can't understand what you're so concerned about Gisburne for anyway." This last was from a sharp-featured man luxuriously dressed in the purple of an Abbot of the Church. "You've done nothing but complain about him for years."

The Sheriff turned and glared at his brother, his weasel-like features twisting with annoyance. "That doesn't mean I'll be happy to see him under the axe. Subconsciously he rubbed his own neck. "After all he does have certain...qualities that'll be hard to replace."

"Well, you'll just have to replace them because it's been tough enough scraping together the money for you, never mind finding another 1000 marks. Now, for God's sake can we go. Anyone would have thought you'd be glad to get out of this place."

The Sheriff cast a last glance at the door of Guy's cell then, scowling, hurried after his brother. He would have found it difficult to explain just why he felt bad about leaving his steward in this situation. After all, only a few weeks ago he had been ready to offer up Gisburne's head to save his own. Something had happened in the smoke-filled madhouse that had been Grimston Abbey. Standing on the blood-smeared altar steps, Gulnar's crazed Fenris worshippers howling for the sacrifice, Sir Guy had held the Sheriff's life balanced on his blade – and had chosen to spare it. In that single moment of time, when their eyes had met, it was as though a strange bond had been acknowledged. Now, having practically beggared himself to raise his own ransom, he was leaving Gisburne to die, and he didn't feel at all good about it.

In the cell, Sir Guy of Gisburne was oblivious to the brothers' altercation. On the table the food was almost untouched as, uncharacteristically, was the wine. He was reliving the events of the past weeks, trying to make sense of it all. Beneath the long tunic his left shoulder bore the livid scars of his Fenris initiation. He was sure the claws that had made them had been drugged: the days that had followed were a haze of wild emotions, anger, hate and blood-lust, truly as if the beast within him had been released. He remembered the bright blade, the knife Grendal had offered him to take de Rainault's life and bind himself to Fenris forever. He had had a thousand reasons to kill the Sheriff but he hadn't. Perhaps the drug had been wearing off, perhaps he had remembered when de Rainault had taken him back after the fiasco with Philip Mark, perhaps it was because Nottingham was the nearest place he had to a home, or perhaps it was simply that the enemy of his enemy must be his friend? He had been so close, so sure that this time he had won, that the body in the cart was that of Robin Hood, that he would at last win the King's favour and maybe…..He pushed the thoughts away, the taste of defeat bitter in his mouth. There was no use thinking of it. He had lost. Lost the fight, lost the King's favour, lost any chance of her, and, to all intents and purposes, lost his life.

It had been a bad winter, that year his father had died or, rather, the man the rest of the world considered to be his father had died. It had been over ten years since he had last been home, but riding out from the trees, anticipation twisting in him like a live thing, the stone tower and bailey wall, of which his father had been so proud, seemed unchanged. The heavy gate stood open, but the rutted, frozen courtyard was deserted. Reining in his horse, he pushed back his mail hood and sat for a few minutes, looking round at the familiar timber buildings and up at the dark walls. A thousand memories and emotions whirled through him as he contemplated the place he had left as a child and to which he now returned as man and master. A sound from the stables caught his ear and he turned to see an elderly man hobbling towards him.

"May I help 'ee, sir?" He limped closer, peering with rheumy eyes. Eyes which widened with pleased recognition. "Master Guy!" The mouth stretched in a toothless grin. "After all these years, it's Master Guy! Or rather I should say 'my lord'. Welcome home, welcome home."

Gisburne smiled somewhat self-consciously and swung down from his horse. "Hello, Eadric."

"Here let me get your horse. BRET!" A lanky, snot-faced lad of about nine emerged from the stable. "Quickly, lad, take my Lord of Gisburne's horse into the stables. Come on in, my lord. No point hanging about here getting cold." He lurched off up the wooden stairs to the first-floor entrance to the tower, Gisburne following, and pushed open the solid wooden door. "Mother Godrun! Mother Godrun! Wait till ye see who's here!"

Gisburne entered the hall, the top of his head brushing the stone lintel of the doorway. It wasn't a large hall, poorly lit but warm. Everything seemed smaller but was otherwise unchanged. The same faded wall hangings and wooden furnishings, the same smells of bread and floor rushes overlaying damp stone, and the same ample figure bustling out from the kitchen.

"Is that you, Eadric? What do you want now…? Oh!" She raised a startled hand to her mouth, over which a slowly-forming smile started to beam. "Lord a'mercy, look who it is! All grown up into such a fine, strong man! Look at ye: a proper knight, with spurs and everything!" She dabbed at her eyes with a grubby sleeve.

"Hush now, Mother, and get some wine. Sir Guy's had a long ride and it's right cold out."

"Aye, aye, of course. What am I thinking of? Sit yourself down, and I'll be right back!" She disappeared into the kitchen and could be heard clattering and yelling at some unfortunate underling. Guy crossed to the hearth and stood for a moment contemplating the heavy carved chair beside it, the chair that had been his father's. Taking a deep breath he sat down, running his hands forward along the arm rests and clasping the ends. He exhaled slowly, relaxing into the seat, stretched out his legs and allowed himself a rare smile. This was his place now. He was master here, and the old fears and memories just dust to be swept away.

The next morning he had risen early, having slept in the smaller of the two upper rooms. The other, more comfortable and with its own fireplace, had been his mother's. It had been prepared for him but when, late the previous night, he had opened that familiar door and stepped in, the forest of memories had pressed him too closely and he had retreated to the colder comfort of the lesser chamber. Looking out from the window, he could see the snow falling over the forest, whiting the roofs of the buildings below. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the cold air. It was going to be a good day.

Later that afternoon, just as he was finishing checking the winter feed, Bret had come hurrying in through the gate. He was leading a fine palfrey, expensively caparisoned, evidently a lady's mount.

"Quick! Come quick!" he gabbled. "She's fallen. There's blood. Oh dear, I think maybe she's dead."

Eadric hastened up. "Wassat, lad? Speak slowly now. What's happened?"

Bret took a deep breath. "I were in the forest with Derman, getting wood, and we sees this horse, just hanging about like. And we thinks, that's odd. Where's its rider? And we went an' looked and there she were just lying there in the snow. She got blood on her and I dunno maybe she's dead."

"Whereabouts was this?" demanded Sir Guy.

"About two or three miles up the Skipton road. Derman be still there."

"Bret, get a bridle on my horse. Eadric, get a cart and some blankets, and send someone to St. Morvans for the infirmary sister!" Snatching up his cloak from the granary, he had mounted and set off at a gallop along the track towards Skipton. It was Derman he saw first, standing like a half-wit in the middle of the road. Then, as he pulled to a stop, he saw her lying under the trees. Dismounting in a flash, he knelt down. There was indeed blood, sticky in the dark hair and staining the frosted leaves, but scalp wounds always bled freely. He gingerly felt the skull: a contusion on the left side but no fracture. Good. He gently lifted a hand, cold. He bent his head to listen. She breathed, a faint sighing, barely brushing his cheek. He pulled off his cloak and wrapped the soft, warm folds around her, lifting her off the cold ground and supporting her against his shoulder.

"Be she dead then?" Derman came diffidently up behind him.

"No, she's alive but she won't be for long if that blasted wagon doesn't hurry up. Go and make sure they find us!" he barked.

"Aye, my lord!" Derman scurried away along the road, shouting and hallooing.

As the sound retreated, the forest became very still. His horse snuffled and stamped in the icy air. The sound of the woman's breath filled his ears, interweaving with his own. He reached up a hand to smooth the damp hair from her face, the left side of which was swollen, the red-black bruising already forming. She looked about nineteen, and her clothes were of the finest quality although she was not dressed for travelling. Skipton Castle was nine or ten miles away so it seemed most likely she had come from there, but what was she doing out alone in the forest? The light was fading, gloom creeping in from the forest and snow falling thickly on the track. His arm was aching and he was really starting to notice the lack of his cloak by the time Eadric and the others arrived.

Sister Bridget was easily the tallest woman Gisburne had ever seen. Her face, lean and lined, her eyes, grey and perceptive, only a few inches lower than his own. After overseeing his carrying the injured woman into his mother's chamber, she had cleared the room and closed the door before even Mother Godrun could protest. For the next hour only the novice who had accompanied her had been permitted entrance, scurrying in and out with hot water and fresh linen. Now she stood sternly before him, arms folded formidably, eyes fixed firmly on his face.

"So you have absolutely no idea who she is?"

"None at all. One of the lads came across her while he was fetching wood. I've sent word to Skipton Castle, however, as it seems likely she's come from there."

"Hrrmph." Sister Bridget looked disapproving. "You're sure you've never seen her before today?"

"Quite sure." Guy frowned. "Why does it matter?"

After scrutinising him closely for another minute or two, she seemed satisfied. "Come with me." He followed her into the other chamber. The fire was blazing warmth and the high, curtained bed now occupied by the still, unmoving patient.

"She has sustained a blow to the skull, most likely caused by the fall from the horse. The unconsciousness is not unusual and I expect it to pass in a few days. The bruising to the face should also heal quickly. Fortunately you found her before she suffered too much from the cold." The nun pursed her lips, looking down at her charge. Then she eyed Sir Guy thoughtfully. "These are not her only injuries."

He looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

By way of reply, she reached down and carefully drew back the blankets from the patient's upper body. Half-rolling her to expose the back, she gently eased the loose linen shift, baring the area around the shoulder blade. Guy did not need her to tell him that the revealed scarlet fretwork, with its attendant wreathing of black and yellow, was the result of a beating. Involuntarily he reached out a hand but drew it back without touching her.

"How long ago?" His voice was uncharacteristically quiet.

"No more than two days, and probably a week or two before that as well."

His face hardened, blue eyes like ice, as he felt the touch of a ghost's passing, like a whisper, on his heart.

Sister Bridget busied herself settling her charge. "She is not to be moved for at least two weeks, preferably three. I have given instructions for the preparation of medicines but rest and quiet are what is really needed. I will stay here tonight and, providing she hasn't worsened, return to St. Morvens in the morning." She bustled out.

Silently he stood looking down at the sleeping form. The damaged side of her face was in shadow, her skin pale and the dark hair iridescent in the firelight. He found himself wondering what colour her eyes were.