The man was standing awkwardly in the center of the room. I realized belatedly there was nowhere for him to sit, but at least he was fully dressed. He had even made some attempt, I think, at styling his hair – at least it was swept back from his face, with fresh comb-tracks marking it. I halted at the threshold. "Hmm," I said. "This won't do." I settled the tray on the ground, and returned in a moment, dragging a keg that used to hold salt pork.
He reached forward to help and almost toppled over. "Hold on!" I said, catching him by one shoulder and propping him up while he recovered from his dizziness. He was bent over me and luckily showed no signs of really falling, for he'd probably squash me flat. Finally his eyes refocused. He realized he was looking almost straight down my gown and went red. I thought it was rather sweet. Not that there was anything to see – I was dressed for winter travel, and underneath my gown I had a thick long-sleeved shift and two pairs of hose, but it was still sweet.
I helped him get settled on the empty keg and sat cross-legged beside it. "Can you feed yourself?" I asked, and he gave me a look that was part scornful and part funny. "Don't get uppity!" I cautioned him, and placed the tray on his lap, rescuing my own beaker first.
I sipped my mead while he ate, at first cautiously and then ravenously. He hesitated before breaking open the brown bread. "Eat," I urged him. "It's just simple food, but there's plenty of it."
He tore it piece off and the steam wafted out. He paused for a moment, breathing deep, and resumed eating, now more methodically, like a soldier, using the bread to clean the remains of the stew from his bowl.
I returned with a fresh bowl of stew and sat again. He approached this one more slowly. Finally, he asked, "Where did you say this was?"
"Brock Manor, near Hilcote. In Bolsover."
"And what is the name of my host?"
"Oh the master's away." I rolled my eyes. "These two months at least. Nothing would do but to go to France for the winter, and at the drop of the hat! Half the staff went with him and the rest stayed here, looking after the house and lands. But I suppose it would be Fenwick. He's the steward and he said you could stay. Just the night, he said, but we'll work him round." It did not escape my notice that the stranger ate steadily throughout my speech. It's been some time since he had his last three squares, I thought. "You're not fit to travel yet. And anyway the county's snowed under!"
This gave him pause. "And how far are we from Nottingham?"
"Oh, these 15 miles north at least! And anyway, you don't want to go to Nottingham – they have a cow for a sheriff!"
He nearly choked on his stew. "It's true! They say Prince John was visiting, and for a lark, he hired a cow. Mind you," I rambled, "The one before that tried to kill him, I've heard told. Not that I'd blame him. Such a face that Prince has! Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. We're looked after here, but there's some who'd starve so he could have his latest trinket. And King Richard, always travelling somewhere exotic, going to catch a fever as like as not or get scuppered by an infidel, and his puny brother's all we'll have left! I don't think much of the Royal Family," I finished. "I'm sorry, I do go on. What's your name?"
He chewed his bread for longer than strictly necessary. "It's…Guy."
"Are you sure?" He looked a little ashamed, maybe because he couldn't come up with one better. I propped my chin on my fists. "Nevermind, it's your business," I said. "You chose a hard road. You must have had your reasons."
He downed his mead glass before answering. "Yes," he said at last. Then suddenly, some animus seeming to have reentered his body with the hearty meal, he kneeled beside me. He took my hands and I was surprised at the strength in his grip. "Michaela," he said earnestly. "Do you believe people can be saved?"
I made a moue at him. "No, I brought you here because I had nothing better to do on my day off."
He was already shaking his head. "No, I mean – their souls. Do you believe people can be redeemed? And at what cost? How many have to die?" he asked, quietly, almost to himself.
"I believe everybody can be redeemed," I said. Truthfully I hadn't thought about it much, and his face – yes, Alys, it was handsome, and his eyes were a pale blue that was quite striking – was close to mine, his gaze fixed on me. It didn't lead easily to rational thought. His voice, too, was deep and stirring. It had a noble quality, despite being rough with lack of use. Even in homespun garments there was something lordly in his bearing. I was beginning to suspect I knew our guest's identity. "God has seen so many sins. I think it's hubris, to believe we could surprise Him with ours. And he's forgiven everyone who's asked for it. People do bad things for good reasons sometimes – or good things for bad reasons – but we're all just striving to live. And if we can do that, and find happiness without hurting others, we've achieved heaven on earth. And if we can't, we can always try tomorrow."
It was not the best thought-out philosophy, but he seemed to devour it as he had the stew. And then he leaned forward – surprisingly timidly – and kissed me.
I wouldn't think a strange man kissing me on the storeroom floor would have been so nice, but his strong arms felt as safe as houses, and he seemed to find comfort and pleasure in our embrace. I quite liked it, now he was clean. His breath was honeyed from the mead. I was looking for more when he broke away.
He placed his hands on the side of my face. "Thank you," he growled, a sincere light in his eyes. My stomach fair tied itself into knots. He rose and drew me to my feet. "I must leave. I'm a danger to you here."
"Noo," I said, sounding like a disappointed child. "Stay the night, at least." Ooh, my heart thumped when I said it. Was I being too bold?
He smiled at me softly, and a little bit sadly. "I can't," he said.
"At least take a cloak, and some gloves – we'll find you some. You'll freeze out there. And what about your clothes? They're still wet –"
"Burn them," he said firmly. "Leave no evidence I was here." He caressed my face and sunk his fingers in my hair. "You, at least, I can keep safe from harm."
I discreetly didn't mention the lack of any danger, because I quite liked the way this felt. He kissed me burningly once again, and I melted in his arms. I trailed after him through the front storeroom and the stillroom, where he snatched kisses on each threshold, and then through the kitchen. Alys fetched him a cloak and a scarf from the laundry and he kissed her hand gravely in thanks. He did the same to Cook when she handed him a bundle of supplies, warm to the hand with the fresh bread it contained.
He paused at the door to the outside. "My thanks to all of you," he said burningly. "You have given me a chance to save myself, and hopefully – others as well." He bowed deeply, and then casting an eye at the setting sun, oriented himself facing south. I stepped outdoors after him.
He gathered me into his arms, under the cloak, and in our own little world, we kissed again. His told me everything – his gratitude, his reluctance to go, his rekindled hope. He was an awfully good kisser. Finally I went indoors to the less-exciting warmth of the kitchen, and he strode away, hunching his shoulders against the wind and not looking back. I watched long after his figure disappeared, until even his footsteps blew away.
Soon Roger and Wulf tramped into the kitchen, shedding coats and rubbing their hands together. "Brr!" Wulf said. "We got the bloody sheep back, at least. What's for dinner? And where's the stranger, then?"
Alys chirped, "He's Michaela's sweetheart!"Cook just shook her head and smiled.
"He's gone," I said dreamily. "I don't think he's coming back." I smiled to myself, thinking of the lock of hair I had saved.
"Who was he then?"
"I don't know," I murmured, sinking to my seat at the table in a reverie.
"You better not be like this all the time from now on," Cook said grumpily.
"You never did get to go to Hilcote!" Alys exclaimed. Roger shook his head.
Wulf poured himself some hot mead. "Ah, she can go to Hilcote anytime. It's not every day you can save a fellow. Though a fine way he has of saying thank you, just walking off! Well, Fenwick will be pleased," he added, a little disgusted.
I just let it all wash over me, a smile that I hoped looked tender and mysterious and not moon-struck and gawpish lingering on my lips. I could still taste his kiss, and I felt the curl of hair in my pocket, where I had fastened it with a small pin. His clothes smoldered on the storeroom fire, turning to ash. These were the only remembrances that he had ever been to Brock Manor. I didn't speak.
Who would ever believe that I met Robin Hood?