Though the knight was not so naive as to believe that the Sheriff – or his brother, for that matter - would take kindly to the message he had brought from Sherwood he had not reckoned on de Rainault forcing him to endure hours in the Great Hall. Several times the young man had tried to return to the chamber he had been given here in the castle, but he had not been allowed to. He had even brought himself to ask for permission to dress properly, but that had only made things worse. And probably made him stand in the hall even longer, in full view of everyone.
At first, the two brothers' anger had been directed at the Saxon rabble who had dared to stand up to them. But little by little, the Sheriff focused on the man being in front of him - dressed only in his underwear - and who did not dare to look him in the eye. Finally, he came to the subject that the young knight would have preferred to forget. Although... how could he forget something he did not really remember? Yet Gisburne doubted de Rainault would believe him. The knight could surely assume that the other man would think it was some kind of pretext. Therefore, it was probably best if he said nothing at all.
However, the Sheriff did not even seem to want to give him a chance to speak either, for he was now really picking up the pace.
"What were you thinking, Gisburne?" de Rainault roared, but he did not wait for an answer. "What did you achieve with your ... attack?" The Sheriff rose from his chair, placed both hands on the table in front of him, and leaned toward the younger man.
"Where are the prisoners, Gisburne, the ones you let get away? Where are they?" De Rainault's face took on a shade of dark red, and his eyes seemed almost ready to pop out of their sockets. The man gave the impression that he was about to be struck by a stroke, but that did not stop him from continuing to bellow.
"Are they here in the dungeon, by any chance? Are they?" He paused for a moment, but before Gisburne could find the courage to answer, the shouting resumed. "No! They're not here. They're in Sherwood instead! A band of crazed Saxon cutthroats has taken up residence in the royal forest. And you and your soldiers have made it possible!"
'They're not my soldiers,' it flashed through Gisburne's mind, but he knew better than to voice that very thought.
"And what about the miller?" the Sheriff was further agitated. "Did he say anything to you after you struck him down? No, he didn't say anything more? How astonishing! But pray tell me, Gisburne, will he pay me what is due at Michaelmas? Will he continue to pay the taxes due to the King?" De Rainault sank back in his chair as if he were completely exhausted.
Now was the knight's chance to speak, but he had absolutely no inkling of what to say. Anything he could think of would probably make his situation worse.
But the Sheriff was not done yet. "What were you thinking, Gisburne?" he repeated, a little quieter than before, but still loud enough for everyone in the Great Hall to hear. "Oh yes, I forgot ... Gisburne and thinking are apparently mutually exclusive." He took a deep breath.
"But, My Lord ..." the knight managed to get out nevertheless, but that was as far as he got.
"I don't want to hear your idiotic excuses, Gisburne," the Sheriff snapped at him. "And I can't stand the sight of you either. Get out of here!"
De Rainault had not quite gotten the last word out when the knight took long strides and fled the hall, not caring at that instant what those present might think of him. He just wanted to get away from the Sheriff. He just wanted to be alone for a few hours. He hoped not to be disturbed anymore that very night. He really needed to recover from what had happened to him earlier.
And he wanted to make an attempt to understand what had taken place that day. He wanted to try to remember what was so far hidden behind a kind of fog.
He prayed that he would not have to deal with anyone else that night. Not the Sheriff, not the Abbot, not any of the soldiers, not even any of the servants. Even though the rumbling in his stomach reminded him that the last time he had eaten had been in the morning, he would rather go to bed hungry than try to get something to eat in the kitchen. Everyone in the castle knew by now that the Sheriff had made him stay in the Great Hall for hours on end, just in his underwear. Probably everyone had stopped by during that time to take a look at the humiliation of the knight. And he could also assume that the soldiers had not kept quiet about what had occurred in Sherwood. And in what condition the knight had returned to the castle.
In any case, Gisburne did not want to face the gloating of these people.
But that was not all, for he also did not want to risk running into the Sheriff once again that night. Not if he was still in that state where he would just shout at the knight without giving him a chance to say anything, but also not if the man had managed to calm down. For then he would surely insist that Gisburne explain what had made him kill the miller.
But the young man could not, for he did not know. He could not for the life of him remember what had happened.
Just as he could not remember why he had done what he had done. He did not know what had happened before he drew his sword, nor could he even recall striking at all. Suddenly, the man was lying on the ground in front of him. Not moving. While blood pooled beneath his body, increasing in volume.
Gisburne had been unable to do anything but stare at him.
But now, back in his chamber, he realized that there were actually a few things he could remember.
Gisburne looked around cautiously. He surreptitiously examined the people around him. He passed over the young woman immediately, but the men... the men he could not let out of his sight. He knew very well that he could not trust any of them. Every one of them was out to get him out of the way. They were just waiting for the right moment to strike. But he could not let that happen. He had to be alert. He could not let his guard down or it would be the end of him. Once again, he was surrounded by enemies and if he was not vigilant, they would kill him without a second thought. He could not trust any of them. He would have preferred to get ahead of them, but there were too many of them and they were all armed.
Then they arrived at the mill. He had left Lady Marion and most of the soldiers at some distance and had ridden on with only a few of the men to ask the miller a few questions. That was what the Sheriff had asked him to do, was it not? And the Abbot had said something about it, too. What had his words been? Gisburne tried hard to remember.
The knight looked down at the burly miller, who in turn stared back at him with a hateful glare. The man had only taken one step out of the mill door, and the pitchfork leaning against the wall was still within reach of his huge, strong hands.
The knight knew immediately what was about to happen. This Saxon pig would give him no answers. Instead, he would reach for his weapon and ram it into Gisburne's belly. Like everyone else here, he had nothing else on his mind but to kill the knight. Everyone here wanted him dead. And there must be more of that murderous scum hiding in the mill. He had to get ahead of them. He had to smoke them out.
The knight was unaware that he had signaled one of the soldiers accompanying him, but a burning torch landed on the roof of the building and the straw immediately caught fire. When the miller realized what the Normans were up to, he let out a yell and ran forward. But the knight did not even have to think about what to do. The years he had spent in Normandy, all those years of war, had taught him, and he could react without having to think. The sword slipped from its sheath as if by itself, and Gisburne had struck before the other man even had a chance to thrust his weapon into his belly. That was the way it had to be, he had to get rid of anyone who threatened him.
The young man had only cast a fleeting glance at the motionless body and the burning building. And the pitchfork still leaning against the wall. None of this mattered to him anymore. He had eliminated the threat, and now peace could once again reign. Leaving the miller and the mill behind, he and his men set out to complete the rest of his mission. He still had to take Lady Marion to the convent.
Later, when the escaped poachers ambushed him in the forest, he had felt only anger, not any threat. Only in retrospect did he realize that the odds of being killed in that confrontation had been much greater than it had been earlier. And also only in retrospect did he ask himself why he had behaved so ... strangely. But he had no answer, and so he was relieved that de Rainault had not given him a chance to explain himself. He could only hope that it would stay that way.
It was not until the knight had returned to his chamber that he realized how exhausted he was. He hoped he could get some rest now. He desperately needed it, even though he did not understand why he was so tired. What had he done that day that was so exhausting? It was never a problem for him to spend a whole day in the saddle. Yet he had felt this exhaustion even before he had to cross swords with that insolent Saxon. He felt as if he had been fighting for days without a break. No wonder this... peasant was able to defeat him. He had just waited until the knight was too tired to resist.
He knew this condition from Normandy. Especially during the last months he had spent there, he had felt so exhausted from time to time, as if he had been fighting for days without sleeping in between. But during the war, he had not allowed himself to give in to that exhaustion. However, he had longed to return across the Channel to England, to finally have a chance to recuperate.
And he was not disappointed. Although Gloucester had not given him much time before sending him to Nottinghamshire, service to Abbot Hugo was not too strenuous. There was nothing to keep him awake at night. But ... if he was honest with himself - and if he did not forget it right away - there were times here when he did not quite know what he had done during the day. But that was probably due to the monotony of his new life. He did not want to complain, for he actually enjoyed this boredom. He had had enough excitement in Normandy to last a lifetime. Sufficient for a long life.
But as he lay here on his bed, hoping to finally fall asleep, it occurred to him that even in his new life, there were still nights when he did not sleep well - or at all - but he had managed to forget that, partly because - in his opinion - it had no effect on his work.
Now he also remembered that his men sometimes looked at him in a strange way. But he did not let that bother him any more than the curses the Saxons hurled at him. Of course, none of this was very pleasant, and it forced him to be harsh with the people, but he had gotten used to it by now. It was much more important to him to be taken seriously. Therefore, he did not mind that this new life deprived him of sleep from time to time.
But he could not rest that night either. As soon as he closed his eyes, he had to think again about what to tell the Sheriff if he wanted to know why he had killed Matthew the Miller. But no matter how much he racked his brain, he could not come to a conclusion, for he could only remember everything that had happened at the mill in a blur.
Instead of lying on the hard bed, unable to sleep, the young man got up and paced up and down the tiny chamber. A few steps in one direction, then a turn and a few more in the opposite direction. Countless times, for hours, trying to remember.
But it was to no avail.
He remembered the morning well enough. He had spent the night in the chamber - although he could not be sure if he had slept - that had been made available to him here in the castle in case the Abbot preferred to spend the night in Nottingham. This happened often - including last night - and so the young knight was glad to be able to retire to a chamber of his own. He would have found it very humiliating to be forced to sleep with the servants in the Great Hall. With a shudder, he remembered his first time at St. Mary's when he had not yet been given his own cell. And he hoped that neither the Sheriff nor the Abbot would take that privilege away from him now. He hoped so, even though he had learned time and again that no one cared what he wanted. Or how he felt. He always had the impression of being excluded from other people's society, and no matter what he tried, he could not achieve anything.
Of course, it would be better if he could remember, but even that thought - that worry - did not bring him what he wanted.
The last thing he could remember clearly were the words of Abbot Hugo. First a blessing, but he did not stop there. He added something else. The Abbot's words had referred to the Sheriff's order to stop at the mill, but still the knight had not expected them.
"Take no prisoners!"
Those words were the last thing that had not dissipated in the cursed fog that was his memory. And that fog would not go away, no matter how much he thought about it.
Instead, something else came to mind. He was shocked to remember that this was not the first time something like this had happened to him, but he was also shocked that he was able to put it out of his mind. But he was sure that he had not killed anyone in the other instances. Then it occurred to him that this was not the problem. He did in fact remember killing the miller, just not the reason for it.
It had happened in Normandy, as well, but he had not cared about it there, nor had anyone else, for in wartime everything was different. He was expected to kill. He was also expected to defend himself against his enemies. There had been many of them, and not all of them had been in the ranks of the hostile forces. Again and again, he had discovered people in his own camp who were working for the French. At first, he had pointed out these spies to his comrades, but they had not always reacted with gratitude.
Later, there had only been arguments when everyone had drunk too much. Guy frowned as he remembered that in the end, this had happened almost every day. He knew why he had gotten drunk - he just wanted to forget what had been going on during the day - but it had never occurred to him that it might have been the same for the others. And even now, he quickly pushed the thought away. No one but him had suffered like that, for no one had ever talked about it. But even if they had argued in the evening, the next day they had fought side by side against the enemy. That was simply due to the lack of any other choice.
But now he was no longer part of the war, and what happened today certainly had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. Even if he could not get rid of the impression that he was once again in enemy territory, as he had been in Normandy. But that was no wonder, for the Saxons here were no less his enemies than the French had been. Here, too, he had to expect to be attacked whenever he was among them. He always had to be on his guard, for every one of them was undoubtedly a killer.
That was why the miller had not been able to take him by surprise, for the knight had already expected him to attack. He had simply beaten him to it, as was his right. And the Sheriff had to acknowledge that he had not made a mistake.
But maybe it was just as well that de Rainault had not given him a chance to explain himself, for the knight knew very well that he was not very eloquent. If the Sheriff had misunderstood him, things could have been even worse. The man was already so upset that he would not have listened to him properly.
Knowing that at least now he was sure that he had not made a mistake, the knight closed his eyes. Without being aware of it, he had stopped pacing the room and had settled back down on the hard bed, and now he finally seemed to be able to get some sleep.
Before Gisburne could think of anything else, his exhaustion caught up with him. For the past few nights, his restless mind had not allowed him to rest, but now his body demanded that long delayed sleep. Nothing and no one could wake the knight that night. In fact, he slept like a stone. Dreamless. At least he could not remember a dream the next morning.
All that remained of that night was the certainty that he had not made a mistake, that what he had done was justified.
That was enough for him. Even if the Sheriff would never understand that the miller had caused his own death.
Gisburne knew he had been left with no choice but to fight back.
That was all he needed to know. And the rest of the people needed to know no more.
The knight looked forward to the new day with confidence.