Chapter 4

As soon as she awakened Gisla had known she was in an unfamiliar place. The bed hangings were of good quality, as were the linen covered pillows under her head, but nothing like as fine as she was used to. It was also quiet. She could hear the crackling of the fire but no chattering maidservants, bustling kitchen staff or shouts from the courtyard. More than that, despite the ache in her head, she felt strangely at peace. A warm safe feeling, like when she dreamt of being home again, with her father still alive. She lay as still as she could that the spell might not be broken, lulled by whatever magic there was in this place. Her eyes were just closing again when she heard a slight rustle of clothing. Curiosity rippled her languor and she turned her head slightly to see a young man standing in the window recess looking out. He was tall, with thick blond hair that shone in the firelight, and the quality of his long blue tunic marked him out as a nobleman. As she watched, he drew back from the window, turned and paced slowly into the centre of the room. When he drew close enough to observe her he stopped. A stiff half-smile dimpled one cheek but his eyes slid off her.

"You're awake." His voice was precise and resonant, like the lowest string of a harp.

"Where am I?" she started to ask but a strange, stiff soreness in her face stopped her. She raised a hand, weak as a child's, to touch her left cheek and explore the bittersweet tenderness. "What happened to me?"

"You had a fall from your horse. One of the serving lads found you."

"How long have I been here?"

"This is the third day. Sister Bridget said you should stay for two or three weeks. Don't worry. I sent word to Skipton to say that you were here."

Gisla frowned. "My horse, is she all right?" He smiled his halting smile again but with a more direct look this time.

"She is being taken good care of. A very fine animal."

"Thank you." Gisla smiled weakly, her sudden tiredness showing in her face. He was instantly contrite.

"Forgive me, my lady. I have wearied you too much. Let me get the maid-servant for you." He turned towards the door, then paused, his face slightly puzzled. "I had a message from Skipton confirming your identity but no one has come. Is there anyone you would like me to send for?"

"No." She smiled sadly. "No one."

He nodded, his eyes thoughtful, then turned again to go.

"Wait."

He looked back.

"You haven't told me who you are."

Again the awkward smile. "Sir Guy of Gisburne." The blond head dipped in a slight bow and then he was gone from the room.

"So how long have you been living at Skipton?"

"Oh, three or four years, I suppose. I've been a ward of the Crown ever since my father died. I've had several guardians during that time. It's quite lucrative, you see, administering my lands on behalf of the King." Gisla's mouth twisted in a bitter smile. "God knows what sort of state they'll be in when I finally get them back."

She had been at Gisburne for over a week now and was sufficiently recovered to sit up by the fire. She had eagerly accepted Sir Guy's offer to spend the evenings with her. Lacking her music and books, she had felt the days of her convalescence pass very slowly. She still wasn't quite sure what to make of the taciturn young man, with his strong good looks and reluctant smile. He wasn't unfriendly and seemed genuinely pleased she was here but was clearly unpractised in courtly graces. Starved of good company, she found herself prattling on. "I'm surprised the King hasn't married me off already. I suppose he must find the income too useful. Still, sooner or later, someone will make him an offer he can't refuse."

"Don't you mind having no choice in the matter. I always thought young women wanted to marry for love."

Try as she might she was unable to keep the contempt from her voice. "Fairy tales for idle afternoons. Why should I torment myself dreaming of love when it's bribes and the King's favour that'll win my hand? I had the love of my father as a child and count myself fortunate for that, but as for marriage the only attraction it holds for me is the chance to be mistress of my own lands."

He seemed a little taken aback by her vehemence, his forehead frowning in confusion. She smiled somewhat sheepishly. "Sorry. What about you? You can't have been here long or I'm sure I would have seen you before now."

"I'm in service with the Sheriff of Nottingham, and I spend most of my time there. I came here a few days ago to set things in order following the death of my father."

"You lost your father?" She remembered her own father's death, the stifling sick room and the dreadful battle he had fought to try and stay with her. She lifted her eyes to look into his face. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not." His voice was harsh, his face closed. "His death meant nothing to me beyond the inheritance of this place."

"But that's terrible!" She couldn't keep the shocked disapproval from her voice.

His face twisted in a bitter sneer. "Yes, isn't it? The only thing I ever had to thank my father for was his name, and even that was only given to save his own face."

She recoiled from his anger, embarrassment reddening her face as the implication of his words hit home. She looked away from him into the fire. At a loss for words, he abruptly pushed his chair back, stood up and strode towards the door.

"No, wait!" She sprang to her feet, fingers intertwining uncertainly. "I'm sorry. I…" He turned back towards her, and she crossed the room to look up into his face. "I didn't mean to offend you." Desperate to somehow assuage the wound she had unwittingly opened, she continued. "My happy life ended with my father's death. I forget that it's not that way for everyone. But now you have your inheritance, you are free to choose your life. You can forget the past."

The blue eyes riveted hers, the coldness softening a little. "Good night, my lady."

The days passed peacefully, the world still muffled in thick snow. Although rapidly gaining her strength, Gisla still tired easily and spent most of her day resting. Looking out from her window in the keep, surrounded by the silent white forest, it was almost as if some strange spell was at work, as if winter itself were conspiring to hide her, deep in a magical world where time did not pass. She found herself particularly drawn to the window during the late afternoon, when she could watch for a black horse and rider returning from outlying farm or village.

She told herself it was only boredom that made her strain to catch a glimpse of that now familiar blue cloak and gleaming head, that she only imagined the dry mouth and racing heart that accompanied the sound of his step on the stair. Wakening in the darkest part of the night, a time which had always held the greatest fears for her, when she would feel herself slipping away, some essential part of her fading, and she would be driven to some rebellious act of individuality, which would earn her another punishment, she now felt only the strange peace of the place. Lying safe and warm, she would hear the wind tugging at the shutters, the roar of the wind in the chimney, and know that he lay only a wall's thickness away, that a single cry would bring him to her door, and her spirit would quiet and her eyes fill again with sleep.

She had known it could not last forever, though she had pushed thoughts of the future away, refusing to tarnish her silver sanctuary with foreshadowing. So when the day came that the sky cleared and the sun shone out his bright presage of spring, she understood the spell was broken and was prepared for the messenger from Skipton who bore her recall. That afternoon as she watched the road, the snow was already fading from the trees, the white silence subverted by dripping water and wakeful birds. The sight of him cantering easily out from the forest brought the first warning pains. The sound of his firm tread on the stairs and confident knock at her door twisted the knife in her heart, and his blue gaze and half smile told her she was truly lost. So much for her clever words and haughty heart. Here she was, as foolish as any giddy serving girl, betrayed by her spirit, which leapt like a summer swallow calling its fellow to dance.

Something of her confusion must have shown on her face because the sight of it drew him up short. He frowned. "What's the matter?"

Struggling to control her emotions, she turned away to look out the window. Taking a deep breath and steeling her voice to a steady tone she replied, "I had a message from Skipton today. Seeing as I'm recovered and the roads have cleared my return is expected. An escort will be sent for me tomorrow." She turned towards him and, curbing her heart with an iron will, forced herself to speak casually. "I am very grateful for your kind hospitality, my lord. I hope that we will have the pleasure of your company at Skipton before your return to Nottingham. I am sure the earl will be anxious to thank you in person for all your help."

Try as she might, she was unable to keep her eyes from his, and the jagged look of reproach tore at her. She felt her control faltering. "Forgive me, Sir Guy. I am very tired this evening and I should like to retire early." As quick as a snapped bowstring he turned, snatched open the door, and was gone from the room. Gisla clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms, and thrust them against her eyes. "Stop it! Stop it!" she hissed at herself. "Look at you, you stupid girl! Falling for blue eyes and a handsome face like any witless milkmaid on market day. What did you think was going to happen, eh? Look at this place. He can't afford you. There's no use thinking about it and that's that! He won't get you Kirtenfield and your lands back. You've a promise to keep, remember." Furiously she dragged her sleeve over her eyes, crossed to the table and poured out a cup of wine. The sight of the second, unused cup threatened her resolve but she turned her back on it and took a seat at the fire.

That night when she awoke in the dark, there was no unseen comfort, just the ache of unshed tears in her throat and eyes. Unable to bear the dance of memories and echo of unsaid words, she rose and, wrapping herself against the night air, walked to the window and opened the shutters. The night was cold and clear, the sky adorned with a thousand brilliant stars, frost glittering on the trees and buildings. No sound disturbed the motionless silence. She sucked in an icy breath and expelled it, the cold cleansing and waking her. For the first time since coming here, she felt the familiar urge to escape, to do something secret, be somewhere alone. Easing open the chamber door and slipping through it, she was only a few steps to the solid wooden ladder.

At the top the trapdoor to the roof was heavy but well-maintained, opening easily and silently. Another short climb took her to the hoard, a wooden platform running around the inside of the tower wall. She stood for a moment to catch her breath, searing her lungs with mouthfuls of cold air. Above her stretched the vault of stars and, when she walked to the battlements to look down, the hoar-clad forest glistened like an argent sea. Silence, icy as the air, was unbroken. Not an owl's cry or fox's bark disturbed the frozen night. Leaning her head back against the cold stone, she gazed at the sharp sky, unshed tears pressing against her eyes. Sadness surged within her, forcing itself out in an anguished gasp. "Oh, God, I wish…I wish…"

"What?" His voice, strong in the night, shocked her back to silence. Her body pressed back against the wall. Moving easily towards her from the shadows, he spoke again. "What is it you wish?" He was in front of her now, his presence filling the silence, strong hands gripping her arms. His voice, harsh, was very close. His breath, sweet with wine, was warm on her skin. His eyes fastened on her face. "What could it be that a rich young lady like yourself could possibly wish for?"

Unable to speak, pinioned by his gaze, she was unconscious of her welling tears. Her world contracted, filled only by the smell of him and the warmth of his body, her voice reduced to a defiant whisper. "I wish…I could stay here forever." She closed her eyes, allowing a tear or two to escape. "With you." The arms which enfolded her were fierce but the lips on her face and mouth were gentle. She abandoned herself to the embrace, the defences of discipline and self control swept aside by the surge of emotion. His breath was soft in her hair, his rough fingers light on her face, and his voice very quiet.

"Then stay with me. Be my wife and you will never have to leave." For a fleeting, shining moment she imagined it but then duty reasserted itself and she sighed.

"If I marry without the King's permission he will disinherit me. I will lose everything."

"I don't care. I don't care if you come with nothing." His reply was immediate, his voice firm.

"Yes, but I do!" She pushed herself free, shoulders slumped in dejection. "I promised my father, on his deathbed, that I would never let the King take our lands away. He fought tooth and nail to win the rights of those estates from King Henry, supporting him here and in France. All my life has been leading up to the day they will be mine, and I can never give them up…not even for you."

Cursing to himself, Gisbune turned away, his eyes glaring, unseeing out over the forest. Was he never to have anything? God's Blood! How many times did a man have to roll Fortune's dice before he won? It was true. He could never afford the sum required to pay King John for Gisla's hand. He ground his teeth in frustration. There must be another way. He couldn't just let her go. What if he won the King's favour somehow? Of course! It was staring him in the face. A dark smile crept over his features as he turned back to her. "There is a way for you to be mine and still keep your inheritance." She lifted her eyes, bright with hope.

"The wolfshead."

"Robin Hood?"

"Yes!" Sir Guy's voice was charged with action. "Not only is he a notorious outlaw and thief, he has also personally humiliated the King." Not to mention me, he thought grimly. "If I can bring that wolfshead to bay, I'll be able to name my own reward."

Gisla's eyes shone, and a smile of true happiness spread hesitatingly over her face."

"All we have to do is ensure that the King doesn't marry you to someone else in the mean time."

"I can do something about that," she answered animatedly. "My father deposited some money secretly for me, for use in case the King chose someone I really disliked. It's not enough to gain a marriage approval, but sufficient to dissuade him, at least, for a time."

Enfolding her against him once more, Guy felt himself filled not only with love, joy and hope for the future, but also a new sense of purpose.

The next morning the sun shone clear and bright, glinting on the harness and mail of the waiting escort as the horses snuffled and shifted in the cold air.

"My lord." The guard commander bowed to Sir Guy. "My lady." His dark face crinkled in a welcoming smile. "I am pleased to see you recovered."

"Thank you, Gilbert." She smiled in return. "I had the best of care."

"Should be on our way, then," he returned gruffly. "It's not far but the days are still short."

Once mounted, Gisla stretched her hand to Gisburne, who bowed over it in a formal leave-taking, their words of parting had been said earlier, to be cherished and treasured till the future would reunite them again. Under her cloak she brushed her hand over the silver pin he had given her, shamefaced that it had not been gold or jewelled. Touched to her heart, she had pinned it to her gown, promising to wear it always as a sign of their love, knowing she would value it far above any richer piece.

"Move off!" Gilbert's voice was strong, recalling her to the present.

"Goodbye, my lady." Sir Guy's face was a mask of polite felicitation but his eyes were bottomless.

"Goodbye," she whispered, as the horses started forward.