"Saying you who are her maidens
Go loosen up her gown . . ." –"Annachie Gordon," Child Ballad 239
"No one else will be accompanying you, Lady Marian?"
The question was so unexpected as to give her pause. She was attired in one of her most practical raiments, moss-green riding skirts with a hastily-fashioned hood of white silk. The fact that she had dressed with more than usual care would probably not have escaped Guy of Gisborne who, surprisingly for a man of his occupation and temperament, seemed to notice such things, at least as far as she was concerned. The searching expression of his, with brows drawn forward, a hunted look, always seemed more dramatic than the situation warranted. Perhaps it was because she was used to seeing it contorted in rage or pain when she was his unknown adversary, the Night Watchman.
She was taking too long to respond. "Lady Marian?"
Irritated to be caught in a reverie, Marian flounced past Guy. He and his troop of men had arrived at Knighton Hall stables with a saddled mount for her, Guy's habitual stallion, and a nag burdened with baskets and bottles tucked into its saddle. One of the Hall's kitchen maids had left Marian's offerings at her feet with a hasty curtsey and fled. "As you see, Sir Guy," Marian said, taking the proffered horse's reins. As she lowered her gaze combatively, she fought back an urge to straighten her hair, recently shorn in public humiliation, even though it was covered by her hood. "As I am more than capable of handling any dangers that might befall us on a simple ride into the country, I thought it unnecessary to tear others away from their duties." She flicked her eyes with mocked disdain. "I am surprised you think otherwise."
Guy shifted weight from one booted foot to the other, studying her. "Dangers that might befall you? Outlaws, perhaps?" His voice deepened and acquired a rough edge. "Robin of Locksley, perhaps?"
This was exactly the tack Marian did not wish to take. She hid an unbidden flush by suddenly becoming deeply interested in her horse's bridle. "Or the Night Watchman?" she suggested hopefully.
Guy crossed his arms and scoffed. "What threat could he possibly pose to you?" His glaring askance at her through his surprisingly dark lashes underlined the wholly absurd irony that totally escaped him.
Eager to change the subject, Marian took an honest interest in the girth of the saddle. "It is pointless arguing, Sir Guy. Shall we go?" With slightly more genuine warmth of feeling, she added, "It i is /ia beautiful day."
Guy nodded at her, standing to attention. "Though I wouldn't put a storm completely outside the realm of possibility."
Marian frowned; iwhat nonsense. /i
Guy turned to his retinue of men, the Sheriff's men in black uniform who had been sitting, mounted, a few discreet paces away, expressions inscrutable under their armor, but probably bored out of their wits. They were mercenaries, most of them, and an unwonted calm task like shepherding their master-at-arms on a picnic with a lady wasn't their idea of a good time. "Leave us," Guy barked. "Return to the castle and be ready for tomorrow's expedition."
Wordlessly, the men spurred their horses and were already nearly out of calling distance when Marian managed to splutter, "Your men?"
"As you said," he replied with a tight smile, "an entourage hardly seems necessary under the circumstances." That smile had a tendency to become wolfish, the exact emotion Marian was hoping to avoid in Guy. She watched the retreating men with some concern; were there things Guy would dare to do without an audience? She immediately tilted her gaze back up to meet his upon that thought; surely she must be more fearful, if fearful was the right word, of a clan of brutish, ungallant men, barely controlled by Guy let alone anyone else, than just Guy on his own? After all, the Night Watchman had proven more than capable against the master-at-arms. Marian thought of the knife she always wore concealed upon her person, her insurance against violence that she had little hesitation about using in self-defense. Guy, no matter how little he actually knew about her, could not fail to believe her capable enough, if her virtue alone was not a deterrent. There were those who said people in danger took on extraordinary strength in moments of need, yet she did not think she could ever convince anyone that Lady Marian of Knighton could fight off the Sheriff's guard as a singular bit of desperate heroics.
"Tomorrow's expedition?" she asked brightly, more than feigning curiosity. She reached down and tied the basket and sacks left by the maidservant to the horse's saddle.
"Nothing that concerns you," he said in a low voice; Marian, sensing she had struck a nerve, duly backed off while retaining the information for later use. She grasped the pommel of the saddle and swung herself expertly up, eluding Guy's no doubt well-meaning attempts to assist her. With an imperious glance over her shoulder, she gently prompted the palfrey.
"You ride well," Guy observed as he swung up beside her on his own mount, tucking the reins of the nag into his saddle to lead the animal on. "I am surprised you do not keep your own mount in the Knighton stables. Or perhaps there is not room for the palfreys of your women . . .?" Guy faltered as Marian urged her horse on; he tried to match her speed and ease on his own enormous destrier.
She did not wish to explain to him she had no palfreys as she had no attendants to ride them; she did not keep her own riding horse but secretly and for illicit activities, so it would not be recognized as hers. Let him believe it was poverty that prevented her from maintaining the style and dignity of a lady of her background, if this touched some well-hidden reserve of compassion and pity. Marian hadn't wanted to admit to herself that perhaps Guy without the Sheriff, without Robin, without servants to lord over and minions to impress, might be his own person, a less blustering, dominating bully who parroted the Sheriff's sadistic demands. Particularly if he believed he was courting her, he might have a different side . . .
"I learned to ride at a young age," she explained, as they followed the winding road. They had left the Hall, then Knighton, then the nearby fields, behind, lengthening the distance from Sherwood. She had to speak loudly in order for her hood not to muffle her speech. "I've had many years of practice."
Guy drew closer. "Your father approved of tutoring you in men's pursuits? Did he wish for a son?"
Marian flinched. The tell-tale sneer was missing from Guy's face, and she concluded he had merely been blundering along a sincere if unchivalrous train of thought. "My father taught me to be educated, to be independent, and did not prevent me from instruction of hard riding, along with relatives—pages—of my own age, along with . . ."
She pretended to untangle her boot from her stirrup, remembering that she and Robin had learned riding and hunting in the same courtyards when they were very young; how they had snuck off so he could show her how to hold a sword, a bow, an axe, how to use her weight and speed in a fight, long after everyone else believed she had given up activities that did not befit her sex; long after that everyone believed she would be married before the age of eighteen . . .
"Reading and writing, these things women in cloisters know," said Guy. "Combined with the arts of the hunt . . . You are singular," he said.
"You don't approve," Marian snapped, thinking i not that I care what you think. /i
"On the contrary," said Guy, though he did not elaborate. He cleared his throat. "The kitchens were able to prepare a meal for this outing, at short notice."
"I had no fear that they wouldn't be up to the task," replied Marian, nonplussed.
Guy pulled up even closer to her. She found it difficult to stare into his face, near hers with alarming proximity, his eyes particularly brilliant and yet strangely pleading, almost conciliatory. "Why did you ask me on this ride of yours, Marian?"
She could not very well reveal the real reason, which had been to lure him away from Knighton, where a man hunted by the Sheriff in Clun was being secretly reunited with his family, now that the quarantine had finally been raised, before they would all slip quietly from the shire for safer parts of the country. Marian almost envied them. Robin had very loudly suggested that a forest reunion would be unlikely to attract attention, but Marian knew to bring the man's family into the forest would be inconvenient and would be more promptly sniffed out by the likes of Gisborne. On the other hand, she reasoned, if Robin drew the Sheriff's attention (and now Guy's men, it seemed) with some staged mischief, Marian could distract Nottingham's most persistent bully.
Robin had not seemed happy at that; nor had Guy, to be fair. She had convinced him that it would be a special favour to her, a St Bridget's Day diversion, to leave her noblewoman's duties behind and enjoy the sunshine. Whether he fully believed these innocent intentions, she was not sure; was Guy of Gisborne the kind of man to wax bawdy in his cups, to boast he had taken Edward of Knighton's daughter to an open field in lusty May? Marian suspected Guy's personality was more prone to silent satisfaction; he had, after all, remained silent during her public disgrace on the scaffold . . .
"I had to prove that I was not afraid," Marian said levelly, in reply to his question. "The kitchen girls—Justine and Hester and Mary—they told me that some of the villagers, not in Nottingham, not in Knighton, but as far away as Sheffield, have heard of me and say I escaped worse punishment than was done to me. They say, the Sheriff would not have punished me were I not a scold. Or a witch." Marian tossed her head defiantly.
"They do not know the Sheriff," Guy mumbled, turning away from her as if having said too much.
"So I could not hide my head in my father's house," she went on. "That would mean that they were right and that I was ashamed of my conduct as well as my hair." She narrowed her eyes. "But I am not ashamed." She lashed out at him, voice brittle as she tried to restrain her rage. "You took instruction from the spectacle, no doubt."
His voice was raw, perhaps prompted by real emotion, Marian thought, insofar as he had real emotions. "No! Marian, I . . . some things must be endured."
"The Sheriff, you mean? Or suffering, cruelty?" At this, she could no longer curb her fury and frustration with the hypocrisy that daily infected her life. Guy was guilty, and so was she, for failing to do more. She spurred her horse's flank, shooting off in a gallop toward the horizon—she hardly knew where. The speed, the rush of wind, took her by surprise; she let it take the hood from her head, she let Guy, shouting incoherently after her, fall further and further behind.
By the time her rage was spent and she considered the consequences of such a headlong action, she had guided her palfrey far past the appointed meadow she and Guy had previously agreed to. They were beyond the lay cottages of Kirklees Abbey, out of reach of Sherwood and a place where neither was known, except perhaps by whispered reputation alone. The pounding of hooves behind her told her Guy had caught up with her. She could not bear the thought of his rounding on her and stealing the reins out of her grasp to chastise her like a child. She knew, despite everything, in horsemanship he could best her. She slowed her horse to a walk, abruptly turning as Guy nearly barrelled into her horse's flank.
His horse reared in surprise, and he had just time and skill to avoid the collision. He mastered the horse with a firm tug of the reins as it continued to bridle. "Marian!" he shouted, the one word standing for surprise and anger.
With dignity, she replaced the hood and smoothed down her clothes, checking the ties that held her contribution to the picnic in place. She saw that the flight, or the rearing, had lost Guy the nag and most of the baskets and bags. "I am sorry," she said coldly.
"What were you thinking?" he roared. "No ladies-in-waiting could have kept up with that. It's no wonder that you do not choose to keep any!" He had by now calmed the horse sufficiently to walk alongside where hers was nervously twitching its tail in a cowed attitude.
"I have a temper, as you can see," she said shortly, eyes lowered.
"Well, have you recovered yourself?" He panted before he went on, "Marian, you ride like the Devil! I have not seen riding like that since . . ."
iPalestine? /i she wondered, covertly studying him who Robin swore blind had been in the Holy Land. Well, if he had his secrets she must have her own. Ever since she had been a little girl, she had learned to look after herself. Her father would not be a lord without servants to attend to their liege, but from the age of twelve she had disdained all maid servants who came near her, who presumed—on the instructions of her father, or her other relatives—using her temper then to disappear, elude, blackmail, and intimidate all those who would not leave her privy to her own thoughts, to her own counsel, judgements, whims and solace. She answered only to her father.
In the day she would not waste time in the solar; she could have learned Greek and Occitan and of courtly love and music, with other female relatives at looms, at needlework. But she had gained her education outdoors and at Sunday from the Abbey, where she learned reading and writing, and slept alone. This was fortunate, she told herself, as no one had to be bribed into silence when she left at night as the Night Watchman, no one paced her chamber door, no husband nor nursemaid. She had done as she pleased for so long, worrying only about her father's opinion and God's.
"I believe there is a clearing," she said. "We could stop there."
Guy had spread his coat on the grass under the alder tree, despite Marian's stiff protests. She, in turn, had laid out a coarse, clean cloth and a loaf of heavy manchet bread. To her relief, Guy had produced his own knife and had cut them each a rough hunk. She had set to eating it gratefully, as she did not have to speak as long as she was eating. She hoped that all this was worthwhile; speaking to Guy was infuriating. She unwrapped a soft, mild cheese which they ate in slippery, half-cut, half-torn pieces. She offered a flagon of wine from her father's stores; a petty kind of sack, and though she was thirsty, she did not partake of it once it had passed Guy's lips.
They ate in silence, too, the thick, crusty, heavy pies given her by the cook, pork, venison, and hare. She was careful as she ate, aware that too much food would dull her wits and make her sleepy. Her guard was down when she was sleepy. Though she supposed Guy was too angry with her now to have amorous intentions . . .
"Here," he said, his voice curiously devoid of emotion. "This is all that survived." His eyes glittered beneath his dark brows, but that was his only reference to the costly food that had been wasted when he tore after her flight. Marian could not feel guilty as she hd convinced herself that the food would be found by someone who needed it more than she or Guy did. He had produced a burlap sack which he spilled onto the white cloth at their feet. Red apples, glinting brightly in the sunlight. Marian picked one up as he reached for one. Marian hesitated as she watched Guy peel his apple slowly with his knife, creating a red ribbon that spiralled from his hand.
Marian shrugged thoughtfully and brought the apple to her lips. She bit the skin and had not tasted the succulent flesh when a foul taste made her, completely involuntarily, turn away, spit out the skin, and cough violently. She threw the apple down and was about to turn back to Guy to warn him not to eat the apples, when she found she could not stop coughing.
She was dimly aware of falling awkwardly to one side on her shoulder, throwing her head back and attempting to cough as if her life depended on it. She hacked, gulping down shuddering breaths. Her mouth was dry—then on fire—then as if needles were piercing her. "Help," she tried to say. Guy looked at her in horror. Dropped his knife. On his knees beside her. Such honest concern written upon his appalled features.
Clutching her shoulders. Calling her name. Hands . . . her hands moving involuntarily . . . if only she could get the apple out of her throat . . . his fingers following hers . . .
Poisoned, she thought, eyes rolling from Guy upward. Propped awkwardly in his arms. His bare hands helplessly at her throat; each cough fire. i I'm dying in Gisborne's arms, /i she thought faintly. She felt herself sliding into darkness; she could feel the dewy grass of the clearing seeping into her gown. i If only I . . . had maidens now . . . to loosen my gown . . . to breathe . . . /i
A splash of liquid gushed past her lips. An object, the size and shape of a stone, pounded into her back. She sprang into light. She gagged, a torrent escaping her aching throat. Her eyes opened. Her gown was wet. Guy's face was above hers. The hard stone was wedged between her shoulder blades. The stone slammed her back again, rhythmically now. She coughed the water, unconcerned that it doused Guy's shoulder and her own bodice.
She became aware that the stone was in fact Guy's clenched fist. Where he had hit her now seared with pain, but at least she could breathe. She breathed deeply, staring up into Guy's eyes mutely. She felt helplessly attracted to their clear, brilliant color; she could focus on this and not the fact she was in his arms, his breath and scent surrounding her.
"Speak to me. Marian . . ." His voice held a desperation that clouded Marian's brain. Why was it again that she hated him so much? Confused, she let him continue pounding on her back. She found she could not even croak words in response. He turned away breathlessly, before bringing to her lips again the flagon of water. She determined he must have gone to the stream and filled the vessel; she had to admit she would be dead if he hadn't . iPoison! /i
"Oh God, Marian . . ." She took another gulp of water; he helped her to spit it out over her shoulder. She nodded at him, and he gave her another hard slap to her back. This process was repeated until she could sit up on her own; Guy relinquished his grip from her shoulders and back and fell to his knees beside her. Dazed, she looked at the remains of their picnic: the white cloth trampled, the red apples scattered across the grass . . . Guy tore at the cloth, then shook out his coat and placed it on her shoulders. "Marian, give me a sign that you are well." Marian nodded and held up her hand. His coat was heavy and cold from the ground.
Guy ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "What will I tell your father?" Marian managed a small smile and reached for the water. Guy handed it to her, and then put his gloves on. He gathered the apples and tied them in a tight bundle within the white cloth and slipped them into his saddlebags. "Hypocritical coward!" he spat. He kicked at the grass in the clearing, scattering soil. Marian looked up at him. "Robin Hood and his selfless band."
Marian shook her head, unsure whether laughing would make her burning, throbbing throat unbearable. "Think rationally, Guy," she whispered. "Why would Robin Hood want to poison you—or me? It's—" i not his style at all, /i she mouthed, unable to go on.
"I must take you to the castle," he persisted. "You must see a physician." Marian shook her head. "At least let me bring you to your father." Marian did not wish to return to Knighton too soon; the fleeing villagers might still be there. Neither did she wish the horrible Sheriff to see her in such a weak state. But she was unwell. She had to rely on Guy. It stung. And yet . . .
Misinterpreting her hesitation for assent, he scooped her up around the calves and shoulders and placed her upon her palfrey. "Guy, no! I'm . . ." she hung her head. "I cannot ride on my own."
She had blushed crimson, and she knew it. Guy looked away, studying her horse's stirrups. "I will carry you," he said. She tried to protest, but he swung her over the front of his saddle, legs modestly cast to one side. He quickly twisted the reins of the gelding around his saddle and leapt up behind her in the saddle, supporting her against his chest. In normal circumstances, Marian would be fuming. She would have threatened any man who dared do such a thing—even Robin—with her knife. She could have knocked any man—especially Guy, who was utterly vulnerable in his unashamed concern—unconscious for less. Yet she found herself somewhat grateful for his obvious physical strength as he bore the burden of her as well as skilfully led the horses into a trot.
"No," she whispered, using all her strength to remain upright and not thud her drooping head against Guy's chest. "We'll have to go slowly. I'm sorry. I can't bear it."
She had never imagined she would show such weakness—to anyone. She was amazed that this brutal man in the Sheriff's employ held aloof, treating her with all the courtesy of the knights spoken of in troubadours' song. She found this very hard to reconcile with the tyrant she knew. He obeyed her, slowing to a walk. They paced on in silence. "You do know where we're going?" she asked. He had a steadying hand on her hip to keep her from sliding off the saddle.
"If it wasn't Locksley, who was it?" She was startled by the direct question; it piqued her from the stunned slumber the horse's gait was intensifying. Marian thought she felt him tremble. "The Sheriff?"
Marian tried to turn around to look at him, but her posture prevented it. "You fear the Sheriff?" she asked. Without an answer, she felt the assent was clear enough. Why would he reveal something like this to her? What kind of subterfuge might the master-at-arms be up to?
"Who then?" he snapped.
"Who had access to your kitchens?" Marian whispered.
"No one—servants."
Without a village in sight, the heavens opened up, and the rain Guy had been predicting fell gently on them. Guy continued his urgent, steady pace, encouraging Marian to draw his coat over her and pull up her hood. Nevertheless, water coursed over them, and they were soaked in a matter of minutes.
"Who are the kitchen servants? Do you know their names?"
Guy was grim, his jaw set. "They will die for this."
"Don't be ridiculous," Marian rasped. "Perhaps it was an accident."
"You were in my protection. I should never—"
"Don't you know your servants? Can't they be trusted?" Marian couldn't help a wry, twisting smile. "If they will not serve you for love and respect, do you not pay them enough?"
" I know of one who might wish me harm," he said coldly, eyes fixed on the horizon. iOnly one? /i thought Marian. "A sister of a woman . . ." Marian sensed his whole body tense as he hesitated.
"A woman who what?"
"A serving wench who . . . she had a child." His extreme reluctance to continue helped Marian begin to understand.
"A child? Out of wedlock? In the castle? And she was dismissed for this?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It does. Guy, I demand that you tell me."
Marian realized she was in no position to demand anything; she was wholly dependent on Guy as she had not been on anyone since she'd been a child.
"I had given my word. I did not lie to her," he muttered. "I set out for the Abbey. You must believe me. I had the child. I even had money for its upkeep." Marian was highly confused. Guy's shame was palpable, his defensiveness as hot as iron even in the chill of the rain. Instinctively she clung to him for warmth even though she feared he had done something monstrous.
"I had not at first intended to raise her hopes. She assured me . . . she told me there would be no child. I . . . it was not supposed to happen. You must not . . . You are not worldly. You do not know what men think and feel in the absence of a home, of a place of belonging . . ."
Marian was still overwhelmed by this untidy, rather self-pitying confession. "Was this your child, Guy?" she asked. "This . . . woman had a child, she gave it to you for protection, and . . .?" Marian gasped. The boy Seth. The woman Annie. She had held that baby in her arms. Robin had said it had been abandoned by its father in the forest; he had said Annie had a right to her child, though the reunion had cost Robin a sore wound. Marian wouldn't forget that night under thatched roof any time soon. Annie had borne Guy's child? Had Robin known? Why hadn't he told her? She bit her lip; she could say nothing—she could not make him aware that she knew of the child's existence. iShe had held Guy's child in her arms! /i
"All men father bastards, is that what you're saying?" she whispered savagely, trembling with sheer effort, trying not to slip on the sodden saddle. "They haven't any fatherly duty to them?"
"Marian, don't interfere in things you do not understand!"
"I thought you could do no worse than when you stood by and let the Sheriff humiliate me in front of all of Nottingham—but I was wrong." It was difficult to fathom that all men must be like this: Robin must have had his harlots in the Holy Land, too, and perhaps scattered sons of Locksley across Tyre and Acre . . . The thought hit her violently.
"You must believe me," he repeated. "I did not leave that baby to die."
"How can I believe you?"
"Can you not think me capable of better? Why must the world be in absolutes, Marian? Whatever black picture you would have painted of me . . . or had you rather I was dead now?" He leaned over her for the saddlebag and grasped one of the apples which looked even more brilliant in the gloom. "Would it please you an I ate every apple in this bag?"
"Of course not," Marian defied.
He threw the apple as hard as he could. It disappeared into the soggy fields. "You are impossible. It is an impossible task to be worthy of you."
He had saved her life. "Why do you try, then?"
He ignored her. It was obvious: he cared for her. In his completely inept way, he cared for her. Perhaps he had even cared for Annie. Perhaps he was right and Robin was wrong about the baby. "How could you give him up?" Knighton Hall was on the horizon. "If he was your son."
"Your life of education and privilege," he murmured very softly. "That baby could have had those things in the Abbey. Not with me. Not with his mother. Do you think the Sheriff would have let my issue live, if he'd known?"
Marian felt bewildered. Her world had been turned upside down more times than she could count. The arrival of Vasey, the return of Robin, her own trials and humiliations, and the changeable, myriad moods of Gisborne. She was feeling faint again; could she hold out until they got to Knighton Hall?
"Marian, I cannot condone an attempt on my life, no matter how justified it may seem to you." She felt him shift uncomfortably in the saddle. "Annie's sister would have access to the castle kitchen, and no doubt knows some village wise woman who had poison. I will have her quietly dismissed, with no retribution, no punishment." He swallowed. "I know that is what you would wish." Marian started. She was not expecting this at all. "On the condition that we never speak of this again. Do not judge me by this action. Forget and deny that I have saved your life, if you must."
Marian was quiet and thoughtful. She could hear Guy's heart beating in his chest behind her; his rein-hand encircled her and kept her from plummeting to the ground. "As you wish," she murmured.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur. Marian was taken up to her bedchamber by her father who sent for the leech and took Guy aside for an explanation. Marian was uncertain how much was said; for her part, she never spoke of this incident. She half-hoped Guy would try to pass the apples on to the Sheriff, though his employment of an official taster made this unlikely.
Exhausted but deemed stable by the castle leech—Marian normally attended to her own complaints—she fell into an awkward sleep. She dreamt that an apple tree grew from her back and red roses sprouted from her mouth. The scent of the apple blossoms was sweet, but their roots gave her great pain. When she woke, she found the source of the pain was true enough: a bruised and tender spot between her shoulder blades where a desperate Guy had pressed to save her life.