Chapter 6
Despite being cold and stiff from the long ride, Gisla's heart sank as they came in sight of Halstead Priory. The thought of what she had to do, had to say, drove away any comfort to be anticipated in a hot meal or warm bed. Throughout the journey Guy had been animated, talking of the future, of his plans on his return to Nottingham. Her joy at seeing him and being with him was sharpened by her dread of what was to come.
"Here we are - Halstead." Guy turned to her, innocent enthusiasm bright on his face. "I'll ride ahead and warn them."
She nodded silently, and managed to fold her cold lips into a smile, watching with a mixture of love and agony as he spurred his horse up the slope towards the waiting grey walls.
* * * *
"It worked, Robin!" Much capered up the forest path in front of the rest of the band, laughing delightedly. "Now all the villagers will have enough for the winter, won't they?" He stopped for a moment, his face serious.
"Yes, Much." Robin smiled indulgently. "No one will be going hungry this year. Your plan…" he said, arching a conspiratorial eyebrow at the others, "worked brilliantly."
"Yeah," added Scarlet, "I don't think we've ever 'ad a better plan. What do you say, John?"
"Oh, you're definitely right there, Will. It was a prince among plans."
"Really?" Much was grinning so hard his face was nearly as red as his hair.
"No question about it," Tuck enjoined solemnly. "As far as plans go it was inspired."
With a spurt of energy, Much charged off down the path to Wickham, oblivious to the muffled laughter and hearty back-slapping erupting behind him.
"Welcome, Robin." Edward of Wickham was always formal in his greetings. "Will you join us in our meal? After all, it's thanks to you that we've food to offer at all."
"No, Edward, we'd best be back in camp before dark. Too many wolves about."
"Aye, Robin, and that includes one we thought we were rid of."
The outlaws exchanged quick, sharp glances before looking at Edward expectantly.
"The Sheriff." The village headman's mouth twisted. "He's back in Nottingham already and it won't be long before we have to start paying the cost of his ransom."
Scarlet kicked angrily at the nearest fence post. "I told you we should have stolen that money!"
"Don't worry, Will." Robin's voice was bright. "There'll be plenty more money to steal." He turned to Edward. "You know you have no cause to worry. We'll always be here to help you."
"Aye, Robin." Edward smiled. "May Herne protect you for it."
Later that evening, Robin was on watch while the others snored happily about the campfire, bellies full and minds at ease. Leaning back against a mossy trunk and watching the stars through lattice of bare branches, he wasn't surprised when Tuck's ponderous shadow appeared at his side and settled itself down accompanied by creaks and grunts.
"Aaaahh," the friar sighed, as he manoeuvred for a comfortable spot. "That's better."
Robin smiled fondly at him. "It's a good night, Tuck."
"Aye, Robin, and it was a good day."
"It was, Tuck, it was." He nodded agreement.
They sat in silence for a while, periodically lulled by the rhythmic snores of their fellows and alerted by the night calls of animals - both hunting and hunted.
"I went to see my father, Tuck." Robin's voice was quiet but clear in the night air.
The friar looked up but was silent.
"I told him the truth, what Lady Margaret had told me…" He paused, scuffling a heel absent-mindedly in the leaves.
"And…?" Tuck prompted gently.
"I don't know, Tuck. He wasn't exactly pleased at the news. He refused to give me the money and I have absolutely no idea what he plans to do."
Tuck laid a hand on Robin's arm, surprisingly gentle for its great size. "You've done the right thing, Robin. He had a right to know. It lies with him now. You can do no more."
"I know, Tuck," Robin sighed. "You're right. I've done all I can."
"You get some sleep, lad. I'll take the watch."
"You know, I think I'll do that." Robin picked up his cloak and moved towards the fire. "Good night, Tuck."
"Good night, Robin. Sleep well."
* * * *
It being a non-meat day, the food served to the travellers at Halstead priory was less hearty than they might have preferred, although no less plentiful. Having insisted on being served in a private room, Gisburne and Gilbert had made short work of the roast lamprey and eels in red wine sauce. Gisla, on the other hand, had been able to face little more than a few bites of bread and a little wine, and now pushed away her plate of congealing fish with distaste. Her male companions, replete and half way through a second flagon of wine, took little notice as they pursued their conversation on horses and armour. She smiled a little, sadly, and gazed thoughtfully into the fire. Let him enjoy his ignorance. She could bear the burden alone a while longer.
The flames soothed her and sent her mind wandering, remembering the past. Loss was not a new sensation to her, neither was responsibility. Since her mother had died giving birth to a still-born son when she was barely seven years old and her father had vowed not to marry again, she had known and accepted them both, inextricably entwined with each other as the dominant force in her life. The death of her father, terrible and painful as it was, had further tempered this hardness within her. And now it would be tested, to see if she had the strength to carry through with the choice which had had to be made. But it would be hard, the hardest thing yet, for it was not her alone that must bear it.
She was roused from her musing by Gilbert rising to take his leave and check the horses.
"Good night, my lady." He nodded from the doorway. "We'll be leaving at first light tomorrow."
She nodded silently as he went out, the knowledge that the time was upon her drying her mouth and freezing her heart.
The room seemed suddenly stifling, the walls close and the air hot. She stood, snatched up her cloak and turned to Sir Guy. "Do you not think it warm? I should like to take a walk in the gardens."
He looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses, his face crumpled with incomprehension. "But…but…it is pitch dark, and freezing, with six inches of snow underfoot."
"All the more reason for me not to go alone, then!" she snapped, dragging on her cloak and marching out of the room.
Gisburne stood for a few bewildered moments then, shaking his head, picked up his own cloak and hurried to follow her through the corridor and out into the icy courtyard.
"Couldn't we just walk here in the cloisters? At least it's dry underfoot."
She walked back to him, her face hidden in the shadow of her cloak, and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Please, I must speak with you, and it would be better if we are not overheard."
Reluctantly, Guy followed her through the doorway into the nuns' garden, past the beds of carefully tended medicinal plants, to the shelter of a dark yew tree.
God's legs, he scowled to himself as he stamped up to her through the snow. What the devil was wrong with the woman?
His irritation fled on reaching her, however, as her face was chalk white in the shadow, eyes bright with pain. "What is it? What has happened?" he said, his voice gruff, unaccustomed to this concern. "Are you ill?"
She shook her head mutely, lowering her face in an attitude of despair.
"Has someone harmed you?" Unbidden, anger flowed through him at the thought, and he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. "Tell me who it is!"
She raised her head, a sad smile fleeting on her lips. "Ah, Guy, it is no one but myself. I walked the path with my eyes open and, save the pain I must cause you, I would never change a step of the way."
Guy felt his face crease into a frown as the familiar fingers of suspicion laid a cloak across his shoulders. He dropped his hands and took a step back.
"What do you mean?" His eyes were wary.
She appeared to gather herself, a fragile strength pulling her upright, and she took a deep breath. "The money I used to pay your ransom, it was that my father had left me to pay off the King."
"Go on." His voice was guarded.
"It means I can no longer avoid a marriage that he chooses for me."
"And has he chosen one?" Guy felt his voice harden, even as within him something cried out in pain.
"Yes." Her voice was little more than a whisper. "I'm sorry, Guy, there is nothing I can do."
"Who is it?"
"That isn't important."
"It is to me!" he snarled.
"It's Aubrey FitzAllen."
"Yes, I might have guessed!" His voice was scathing and, although a part of him recognised that he was being irrational, he was unable to stem the course of anger. "A rich baron."
"Please, Guy." He could her the desperation breaking in her voice. "It's not as bad as it might have been."
"Not as bad?" He stabbed the air with a short laugh. "How? Pray tell me how it is not as bad?"
"FitzAllen is not a young man, and his health is not good. When he dies I will be free, and have my inheritance besides." Her voice was pitiful with earnestness but his pity was in a deep, locked place to which he had never found the key.
"So, I am to wait for some other man's leavings?" His voice was savage. "Try to go back to my old life and forget I ever met you?" The pain on her face seared into his heart, and yet he could not stop himself. "Better you had left me in that prison to die."
"No, Guy!" Her anguish tore at his guard. "At least this way we have some hope."
"Hope?" he sneered. "I long ago learned to live without any."
Finally her tears spilled over, and although a voice within him cried out in response, yet also within his agony was a sick satisfaction that it should be so. She reached her hands out for him, but he pushed her away as he pushed away the wish to hold her. Then, unable to endure this any longer, he turned and stormed out of the garden.
Unable to speak, to think, or even to feel beyond this desolation, Gisla sank to the ground, and, unheeding of the darkness and the cold, she gave herself up to her grief. Leaving the safety of strength, she plunged into the storm, abandoning herself to the pain. Unaware of the snow-covered grass beneath her or darkness about her, she rode the waves of loss so long held at bay.
"My lady?" A soft touch upon her shoulder roused her, and she looked up to see the gentle face of a young novice, a few auburn curls escaping from her wimple "Are you hurt?" Her voice was solicitous with undertones of anger.
Gisla sat up, hastily gathering herself again, wiping her face on her sleeve. "No, thank you. It is nothing."
"Are you sure?" The nun helped Gisla to her feet. "You can tell me. I know Guy of Gisburne and his ways." Her voice was bitter. "And I know people who can protect you from him."
Gisla smiled a smile as cold as iron, and brushed the snow from her clothes. "It is rather he that should be protected from me, for I have sacrificed his happiness for his life." She drew her cloak about her and walked slowly back towards the courtyard, leaving Marion of Leaford standing alone in the garden, a frown of puzzlement clouding her green eyes.
Gisla had never felt so weary as she pushed open the heavy door to her chamber. The candles had burned down, and only the dim, ruddy light of the fire lit the room. She barred the door slowly and hung up her wet cloak on the peg. Feeling the lack of food and shivering with cold, she spied a flagon of wine on the table. As she reached out for a cup, she felt a soft touch on the back of her hand and looked up to see a familiar shape silhouetted in the firelight.
"You're cold." His voice was soft. "Come, sit here at the fire and get warm."
Numbly, she let him lead her to a chair at the fireside, where she stretched out her cold hands gratefully to the heat.
"Here, drink this." He handed her a cup of wine and she sipped in silence, hugging the goblet with both hands while he sat opposite and watched her intently.
Within a few minutes, the wine and fire had started to take effect, and Gisla began to recover herself. She lowered the cup but did not raise her head.
"I thought you had gone," she whispered, lifting her eyes just enough to see his face.
"Was that what you'd hoped?" he spoke quietly, the earlier anger burned out. "Tell me truly."
"No. Oh, no." She raised her head to look straight at him. "Save that I am bound by duty to honour my father's wishes, I would leave everything to be with you. I am sorry, Guy." Sorrow thickened her voice. "I wish I could have spared you this."
He rose and crossed to her, taking her cup. He placed it aside then knelt down and took her hands in his. "No, it is I who should be sorry. I should not have said what I did. I just couldn't bear the thought of losing you." He tightened his grip on her hands.
"Oh, Guy. I could think of no other way. How could I let you die? At least this way there may be a chance for us."
He nodded silently and smiled grimly.
From the direction of the chapel, the sound of a bell echoed into the quiet room.
"Matins," whispered Gisla.
"Yes," Guy replied standing and gently raising her to her feet. "Now you must to bed. Tomorrow you have a long ride and an early start." He drew her to him, clasping her head to his chest and burying his face in her hair. For a long minute he held her, then, with a great effort of will, stepped back.
"Sleep well." He raised her hands to his lips briefly then made to move towards the door.
"No." She grasped at his hands desperately. "Don't go. Please. Stay with me. Let us have this one time together." Her eyes were shining. "Let me have one night of love before a lifetime of duty."
His eyes were bottomless as she gazed into them for a fleeting moment, then he pulled her close to him again. "Are you sure this is what you want?"
"Yes," she whispered. "More than anything."