Chapter 7



The bell for morning prayers woke Marion from a troubled sleep. She could remember nothing specific, but a dark sense of uneasiness, of some wrongness, filled her, and even the normally comforting morning service did little to shake it off. After breaking her fast, she wrapped herself in a warm cloak and slipped out to the garden for a walk. The day was bright, with the snow starting to fade from the paths, making dark ribbons through the white. The orchard was filled with the noise of squabbling birds, and through the gateway to the courtyard came the brisk sounds of a party making ready to depart: horses stamping and snorting, harnesses jingling and the cheery shouts of men. Lost in thought, Marion found herself instinctively avoiding the open ground and walking in the shelter of the wall. She smiled softly to herself when she noticed – old habits die hard. Pacing slowly, her feet silent in the soft snow, she let her thoughts drift, her troubled mind soothed by the unhurried presence of nature about her.

As she passed into the cover of the old yew tree, she was roused from her reverie by the sound of voices. Recognising that of Sir Guy of Gisburne, she instinctively pulled her hood close about her face. He was talking animatedly to the young woman she had seen the night before, the one who had so rudely rejected her offer of help. Well, whatever plot it was that Gisburne was planning for her, Marion wasn't going to get involved again. She knew when she was not wanted. Still, she did find herself a little curious, and crept closer to observe without being seen.

Gisburne was trying to keep his voice low to prevent those in the courtyard from overhearing, but it was still charged with emotion.

"I can't do it!" he growled, striding up and down. "I can't just let you go like this."

Gisla's voice was frayed but still strong. "You must. For both our sakes, and for us to have any chance at a future together."

"No!" He pounded a fist into his palm. "No." He was almost pleading now.

"Please, Guy." She touched a hand to her temple. "This is already so hard."

He stopped in front of her and looked mournfully at the ground, beaten. "How will you bear it?"

"Because I must." She sighed. "Before I met you I had longed for this time. It meant freedom for me, but now…"

"A lifetime of duty," he supplied sullenly. "It's not fair. We've had so little time."

She smiled softly. "I know, my love, but short though it was, our time together was strong enough to sustain me. And it won't be forever."

"You won't forget me?"

"No!" she cried. "How could I? You showed me that I could love, I, who never believed in it. How hollow my life would have been had I not met you. You are safe now, and I can face anything because of that."

Once more he embraced her fiercely, knowing it would be the last time, drinking in the scent of her hair, the touch of her skin and warm presence of her in his arms. Trying to get enough of her to sustain him into his cold future. But all too soon the quiet voice of Gilbert was telling them it was time to leave, and then she was mounting to ride away - maybe forever - and it seemed to him that she was taking everything good with her. She looked back only one time, just before they entered the trees and, although she was too far for him to make out her face, he could see her reach up to touch the silver pin and, for a brief moment, it was as if he could feel her touch him too.



 *    *    *    *

The scene from the window of Huntingdon castle was bleak. This was the weather the Earl hated most - wet and cold. Every tree was dripping, the sky gray and low, and everywhere that accursed damp air that seemed to seep into his very bones and seize them up. There was no doubt about it: he was getting old. Certainly too old to deal with the kind of problem Robert had dropped in his lap.

He shook his head wearily. He still wasn't sure whether he had done the right thing, still couldn't find any real peace within himself. And, yet, he just could not do it, could not allow this man who was his son, unknown, unacknowledged and even now, unwanted, but still his son, his and Margaret's, to be put to death. Oh, Margaret, how could a love as sweet and good as ours have produced such a warped image? And yet he knew it was only later that the boy was warped: that had been Edmund's contribution.

But how could he acknowledge him, this man of greed and callous violence and the sworn enemy of his son, Robert? Welcome him into his home? But acknowledge him he must. Guy had the right to know who his father was, and if God had seen fit to send him this, then he must accept it and do what he knew to be right, however hard it might be.

Outside the window, the light was beginning to fade and he knew that it wouldn't be long now. Tancred would be returning from Newark, having been dispatched the day before with the money for the fine, and he would bring with him the man he would now have to learn to call his son, whatever the future might bring.

The knock at the door, however expected, was still sudden and he felt the dread rising in him, bringing a dark taste into his mouth and a knot to his belly. Still, he managed to draw himself upright and stand straight as the door opened and Tancred entered – alone – closing the door behind him and placing his heavy bag on the table.

"Well, man," the Earl barked, "where is he?"

"He wasn't there, my lord."

"Wasn't there? What do you mean?"

"The money was already paid. He was freed last week."

"Paid? By whom?"

"I don't know, my lord. No one seemed to be sure. He is back in Nottingham, however, so it could have been de Rainault."

"What, that grasper pay a thousand marks for his steward?" For my son, he thought angrily, finding he did not like the idea at all. What price would that ransom cost Sir Guy? How many more years of service in that godless household, the Sheriff putting the finishing touches to what Edmond had started all those years ago? No. It must end here. The hour was late, but maybe not too late. Perhaps his son might yet be saved.

Looking up he saw that Tancred was waiting quietly, those patient eyes seeming to read his very mind, and he smiled suddenly. "Well, Tancred, it looks like a trip to Nottingham is called for."

"Yes, my lord."

"Hmm…" Huntingdon ran a hand through his thick hair absentmindedly. "Probably better to wait till that fox de Rainault is out of the way. See what you can find out, will you?"

* * * * *

"Gisburne!" The Sheriff charged into the hall. A grin of utter delight was on his face and he was animatedly waving a letter. He climbed the dais in a single bound and spread the missive excitedly on the table, leaning forward eagerly. "Wait till you hear this. It's priceless."

Guy looked up half-heartedly from his wine cup.

"You remember the grain that was collected for the King?"

"You mean the grain Robin Hood stole, which landed us both in gaol with a death sentence?" retorted Gisburne bitterly. "How could I forget?"

"No, no. I mean the rest of it, man."

"The stuff Brewer is guarding at Newark?"

"Was guarding, Gisburne. Was guarding!" The Sheriff looked like he was about to explode with laugher. "Robin Hood, he stole it! And now…and now…" At this point de Rainault was unable to remain standing and collapsed in his chair, laughing uproariously.

"Now what?"

The Sheriff could hardly speak through his mirth. "And now Brewer is the one in gaol with a death sentence…and the King is sending me…me...to oversee his imprisonment!" He continued to laugh. "I never thought anything good could come of that Wolfshead, but right now I could kiss him!"

For a minute Gisburne looked disgustedly at his master, then went back to drinking his wine disinterestedly.

"Right, Gisburne, have you got that?" The Sheriff was busy at his desk, almost hidden behind the stacks of documents.

"Yes, my lord," his steward replied in a lacklustre voice.

"Are you sure?" De Rainault's voice was insistent. "You're clear on everything we've gone over?"

"Yes," Gisburne sighed, looking absently out the window.

"Well, you'd better be." A smirk played across de Rainault's sharp face. "I don't want to come back and find you in the dungeon, or us up to our eyes in distressed Jewish maidens."

No response from the tall silhouette.

"God's teeth, man! What the devil's the matter with you these days? Are you sick or something. I mean, just a couple of weeks ago you were awaiting death in the custody of that vile stoat, Brewer, and now here you are about to be acting sheriff for as long as the King's whim lasts!"

Sir Guy turned back from the window, his face sour, the usual spark of anger missing from his eyes. "Is that everything, my lord?"

"Yes, yes," snapped the Sheriff irritably, waving the young knight out the door. God's blood, what was wrong with the man? He'd been like this ever since getting back from Newark. At first de Rainault had put it down to sulking because he hadn't paid the ransom, but surely any man who had had such a narrow escape would be glad to be alive. Anger he would have expected. In fact, that was what made the man so useful, but this, this depression, this moping around, it wasn't right. Even the prospect of being left in charge in the Sheriff's absence, a task Gisburne usually took to with relish, too much relish sometimes, was doing nothing to lift the man's spirits. Ah well, a good fight with the outlaws would soon sort him out.

The morning light crept slowly over Sherwood Forest and the sleeping town of Nottingham, waking peasants and artisans alike to another day of toil. High on the castle battlements Gisburne looked out, unmoved by the daily miracle unfolding before his eyes, an empty wine cup cradled in one hand. The coming of the dawn held no joy for him, for this was the day Gisla would be wed to another man and lost to him – maybe forever. He had known it would come, but had watched all night, hoping that maybe some twist of fortune might turn it away at the last minute. He lifted his goblet to his lips but it was empty. Well, that was one thing he could take care of, he thought grimly, and headed for the stairs.

Come mid-morning, he had consumed several more cups of wine but it had made little difference. He was no closer to sleep, no closer to forgetting. All the world seemed gray and flat. Only in his thoughts of her was there any colour, any texture, but even there the brightness was overshadowed by the darkness of loss. If only he could forget, just for today.

"My lord?" The servant's voice was diffident. Despite Sir Guy's recent quietness, no one in the household wanted to risk waking his temper.

"Oh, not now." He waved the man away with a heavy arm.

The servant looked hesitantly around him, but no help was forthcoming. "Please, my lord. A guest has arrived. You must greet them."

"A guest? What guest?" Guy's voice sharpened with annoyance. " I'm not expecting anyone."

"It's the Earl of Huntingdon, my lord."

"Oh, all right, all right. Show him in."

He'd barely had time to drag on a clean tunic and order a fresh cloth laid on the dais, and was just rubbing his unshaven chin regretfully when the Earl entered, walking stiffly towards him. He's aged, thought Gisburne. Well, it was only to be expected with an outlaw for a son and a tyrant for a king.

"Welcome, my lord." He bowed slightly and gestured to the dais. "Please be seated. I'm afraid the Sheriff isn't here."

"I know," answered the Earl as they settled themselves at the board. "It's you I've come to see."

"Me?" Guy was puzzled but intrigued despite himself.

A servant appeared with wine and inquisitive ears. Gisburne took the jug and goblets and motioned the man away. "Go on, you lot! Out of here!" he barked. And the servants fled, leaving only the men-at-arms at the far end of the hall – well out of earshot.

"Wine, my lord?"

"What? Yes, I suppose so." The Earl was studying him closely, scrutinising him, in fact, and it made him feel really rather uncomfortable.

"You were in prison?"

"Yes, my lord, at Newark."

"You look different, older."

That wasn't the gaol, thought Guy bitterly, that was losing the woman I love.

"I sent my man to Newark for you, but you had already been freed."

The Earl's words took a few moments to strike home. What on earth was the man talking about? "You sent your man to Newark for me?" Guy's voice was querulous, his face twisted with a frown. "What on earth do you mean?"

"I meant to pay the ransom for you."

"You meant to what?" Gisburne's face was even more confused as he tried to sort through the implications of this. What was the man saying? That he would have paid the ransom money for him? Then Gisla…

"I had to…Guy. You see…" The Earl's voice sounded half-strangled, but Gisburne cut across him.

"You mean you would have paid my ransom? To the King? The one thousand marks?" His voice was strong now, and urgent.

"Yes…I…"

"But why?" Gisburne's face was puzzled yet a light had come back into it. "No! Never mind!" He leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair, his voice animated. "That's not important now. Would you pay it still?"

"Yes, of course…I…"

"Then follow me. There might just be time!" he shouted, leaving the hall at a run, calling for his horse.