Fallout - Chapter Five
After Robin leaves, Guy wishes that Richard would sentence him to death and be done with it. He is tired, he is hot, and his injured side, irritated by the harsh chafe of overheated leather, has started to itch and burn. If he is going to spend eternity in hell-and deep down Guy knows he gave up any chance for a different fate long ago-he would prefer to skip the earthbound torture of waiting.
But Richard does not call in his guards or point his finger in condemnation. He only returns to his chair, where he sinks deep into his thoughts and allows Guy time to study the ground beneath him and imagine the myriad ways that he will be put to death. Will the King throw him in with the other prisoners and leave him to starve? Or perhaps he will be executed right here, his body carted off and disposed of before his blood even had time to sink into the dirt, before anyone even had time to discover that there was no one to mourn his loss. In truth, he thinks he would prefer the sudden slice of a sword, or even a surprise dagger to the back. There would be a flash of pain, yes, but it would be followed by a welcome nothingness, a final and blessed absence of feeling. And he would be spared any reflection on the lifetime of sins that have brought him here to this moment, all the petty jealousies and cold-blooded murders done in the name of things that seem utterly ridiculous now.
Guy looks up to find that the King has emerged from his reflections and is now studying him with the curious air of a man watching an upturned insect try to right itself. There is no anger in his gaze, only a detached curiosity that is belied by the way his fingers absently rub at his chin. Finally, he speaks.
“Please, Sir Guy. Sit.” He gestures once again toward the chair.
What is this man’s obsession with sitting? All this civility only makes a mockery of what is to come. Guy refuses to go to his death perched in front of this man like an ignorant guest at a banquet, blissfully unaware that his cup holds poison and his meat hides slivers of metal. And now that there is nothing more to lose, he does not mind saying so.
“I prefer to stand,” he says with what he feels is an impressive amount of dignity for a condemned man. A cool drop of sweat chooses that moment to slip under his collar; it paints an icy trail down his back.
“Sit,” Richard repeats himself, and this time it is a command. “You do not know what I am going to say, Sir Guy, so try not to wrap the noose around your own neck just yet.”
Thrown off balance by that last remark, Guy walks slowly to the chair and takes a seat. He rests his elbows on the heavy wooden arms, lacing his fingers together so his hands remain suspended in front of his chest in a pose that he hopes suggests a casual interest in what is to come. It’s all he can do to keep from clutching its sides like a nun does her rosary.
“That’s better,” Richard says, his light-blue gaze surprisingly clear and open. “I have always thought that there is a certain amount of bravery in admitting all your past misdeeds, especially to those that you have committed them against, don’t you?”
Despite his best intentions, Guy shifts uneasily in his seat. “I have not thought about it,” he says tersely.
Unfazed by Guy’s non-response, Richard carries on. “And I have always believed that we are given opportunities to atone for these sins. Whether or not we choose to take them-or extend them to others-is entirely up to us. There is a reason, after all, that I was granted the chance to serve my country and my God on this Crusade.”
“I do not understand.”
Richard sighs. “I have begun this badly,” he says, leaning forward so that his robes fall forward and obscure his hands. “You are shrewd enough to realize that I have enough evidence to have you executed for treason without qualm or question.”
Guy can only give a sharp nod. “I do. I have only one request, My Lord, and that is that I be allowed to see Lady Marian one last time before I…” Guy is ashamed to find that he cannot continue. He rips his gaze away from Richard’s and stares into the corner.
“You are leaping ahead of yourself. We need not speak of last requests just yet.” Richard sits back, more at ease than an executioner should be. “I am of the camp that believes one indebted to the man that has saved his life. So we are at an impasse.”
Guy wishes that the King would stop talking in ideologies and intangibilities. Although he is almost tempted to ask for a blade and start hacking away at his own head, he restrains himself to a question. “An impasse?”
“Whatever your reasons-and I believe I have a fair inkling of their source-you stopped a plot on my life.” He gestures to the Pact. “But, then again, you have plotted against me as well. You have already admitted to a previous attempt on my life, and I suspect that this trip to the Holy Land was to be another.” He fixes Guy with a stern gaze. “Do not deny that you came here with the intention of killing me.”
“I will not.”
“Good. But you shifted course at the last second, and ended up correcting an error that I would have regretted until the end of my days.”
“My Lord?”
“The unjust sentencing of Robin, Earl of Huntingdon.”
Guy has to bite his tongue in order to hold it. He bites it harder when Richard starts to chuckle.
“There is no love lost between you, is there?” he asks. “Most likely due to that woman. So many things come down to women in the end,” he says, and Guy thinks he can detect a genuine note of bafflement.
“She is not just a woman,” Guy says through gritted teeth. Even though he has been guilty of thinking his love for Marian as a weakness in the past, he is sick and tired of having it brought out and thrust in his face again and again.
Richard is still chuckling. “No, I imagine not. I imagine I have more to thank her for than I know. You can extend my apologies next time you see her; I would rather not do it myself.”
For the first time since this meeting began, Guy allows a small flicker of hope to spring to life in his chest. “Are you pardoning me, My Lord?”
“That depends. How willing are you to swear fealty to me? To forsake any grudges that you bear, or have borne in the past?
Guy swallows. In his life there have been more days than he can count where it has been only his rage against this man that has kept him going, only the idea of flipping his England upside down the same way that he turned Guy’s world was upturned twenty years ago. But he knows that there is no chance of that now; he has killed the man with the power to make that happen. And if he is to be honest, over the past few years that dream has been chipped away by another of embarrassing simplicity. In it, he lives with Marian and she smiles at him all the time.
Richard seems nonplussed by his hesitation. “Would you honestly rather die?”
Guy suddenly realizes what a foolhardy luxury his hesitation was. “No, My Lord.” He swallows his pride. “Your pardon is more than generous than I deserve. I will swear fealty and forsake grudges here and now.”
Richard’s eyes narrow, but his voice is light, appeased. “Good. In time, there may even be some land in it for you. You would have to pay for it, of course. This campaign has been more costly than I ever expected. But we could discuss what you were able to give.”
Guy is taken aback; he expected execution and here he is being offered something he’s pursued with icy ambition. But all he says is, “I have money.”
“Yes. I imagine you do.” Richard smiles, but there is no warmth in it. He picks up the pact and holds it out before him. “I will also need you to tell me everything you know about the men whose signatures are here. They will not be so lucky.”
And so it begins to make sense; he is to be a rat. Guy knew that this was working itself out too easily. “With all honesty, my Lord, I do not know much; Vasey kept most of his dealings close to his chest.”
“I imagine you know more than you think,” he says before his mouth compresses into a thin line. “Do not take what I have just given you lightly. You are not free yet, Sir Guy. You will have a guard at all times. You will stay here in the Holy Land until I am assured that you will perpetrate no further acts against me. Then and only then will you be free to return to England; then and only then will I marry you and Lady Marian.” He pauses. “And do not be surprised if sometime in the future I call on you to perform a few . . . small tasks.”
“I am sure that Hood would be more than delighted to perform any task you set him upon,” Guy remarks with more of an edge than he originally intended. Now that he is starting to believe that he may have a future beyond the next week, Richard’s mention of Marian has rekindled his anxiousness to find her in the wake of Hood’s final taunt.
“These are not things that I would ask of Robin. He is . . . too idealistic.”
So he is to do Richard’s dirty work. Guy doesn’t know why that makes his stomach sink-he is not unfamiliar with the role-but he had hoped…no, he doesn’t know what he had hoped. He gives a curt bow. “At your request, then.”
“Marvelous.” He holds the Pact up in front his face like a map. “Let’s begin with the Sheriff of Winchester…”
They spend the next few hours discussing every name and every scribble etched across that cursed piece of parchment. By the time dusk falls, Guy feels like he has repeated himself a million times over, and yet Richard shows no sign of tiring. He calls out for guards to come light the candles, and they come, accompanied by Carter. Before they leave, Richard crooks a finger and whispers in Carter’s ear. Whatever he says, it causes the blond man’s gaze to fly to Guy with a startled expression. But he nods his head and bows. “I’ll be outside the tent,” he says, “for whenever you are ready.”
Guy would like to ask “Ready for what?” but Richard coughs and draws his attention back to the document. When Guy’s eyelids feel so heavy that he is beginning to think that they have turned into lead, Richard rolls up the Pact and places it in a scarred wooden chest for safekeeping.
“I believe we are done here for today,” he says. “Carter will find you lodgings. I have assigned him to be your personal guard.
Guy’s eyes fly open. “Carter? My Lord, he is not-”
“He is fair,” Richard interrupts. “I will call for you when I next have need. Do not make me regret my decision.”
There is nothing left to say. After a short bow, Guy steps outside into the cool evening air. The sky is dark except for a low-sitting red band that heralds the last rays of the setting sun. It is beautiful, yes, but it reminds Guy of blood, thick and viscous. It reminds him of something he is foolish enough to keep forgetting; once you have chosen blood, there is no escaping it.
The shuffling of feet to his right snaps him from his morose thoughts. Carter steps forward out of the gloom. “I am to be your guard, Sir Guy. Let me show you to your tent,” he says. His voice is flat, but free of ill will. Still, Guy imagines that he can see his distaste for this task in his eyes.
“I would see Lady Marian first.”
“It is late.”
“And I do not care. Take me to her tent.”
Reluctantly, Carter leads the way down the road that cuts through camp. Soldiers are finishing up the evening, tucking away for the night with waves of farewell and grunts of goodnight. The few that remain stare at him warily. Guy would like to believe that it was fear brought on by his imposing stride, but he knows that it is more likely due to the fact that this is a highly regimented world, and they have no idea where he belongs. He meets their curious expressions with glares. Some glare back bravely, others stare at guiltily at their hands.
“There are men who have been put to death for lesser crimes than yours,” Carter says, turning back to frown at him.
“You think that I do not know that?” Guy snarls, but Carter has said what he wanted to say. He does not speak again until they come to a tent manned by two guards who stand hastily when they approach. They hold a small light; but the inside of the tent itself is dark.
“You may leave,” Carter says. “Lady Marian will not require a guard until morning, and then only one.”
Before they can respond, Guy interrupts. “Has Lady Marian had any visitors?” He can hear the suspicion and anxiousness in his own voice.
“No! She is sleeping and wishes not to be disturbed,” the baby-faced one says. “She is . . . unwell.”
Guy feels a wash of relief-Hood has not come. But then it is replaced by alarm. “Unwell?” he asks. “What have you done?”
He gives a nervous chuckle. “Nothing! You know how ladies can be…” He trails off.
Guy would be surprised to learn that this boy had seen two ladies that weren’t his mother in his young life, let alone spoken with them enough to know how they could be. But now is not the time to quibble with infants.
“I will check on her,” he tells them, and then adds a growl of “Alone” for Carter’s benefit.
They step to the side, making way for him to enter the tent. He parts the flaps softly, in case she really is sleeping. He is longing to speak with her, to share these new developments-minus a few choice parts-but he orders himself not to disturb her. It can wait until tomorrow; right now he just wants to assure himself that she is okay, to remind himself why he is here instead of in the Sheriff’s house in Acre, why he has chosen this path instead of the one that he has been walking for over twenty years.
“Marian,” he calls softly, just in case she is lying awake with nerves. There’s no response.
He tries again, squinting into the dim light. A pile of bags lies heaped in the corner, their contents strewn about haphazardly. His eyes fly to the pallet lining the opposite side of the tent, and he breathes a sigh of relief to see the gentle swell of a sleeping body. She is here. Safe.
He walks as quietly as he can to its side and crouches down. But now that he is closer, something seems not quite right. The air is silent-he cannot hear even a whisper of inhalation-and shouldn’t there be some hint of her dark curls peeking out of the top? And her shape should not be that . . . flat.
He rips the cover off in one savage motion, only to reveal a line of wadded clothing. She has abandoned him, he thinks before the shock and anger turns his mind black. She has run off with Hood.
At first he thinks his rage has actually materialized, becoming something so dark and bitter that he can taste it in his mouth, but then he realizes that he has actually bitten his tongue. How could he be so foolish? After all, she had run before, even as he stood at her side in front of three dozen witnesses. Even as he had tried everything to get her to stay-threatening and blackmailing and praying that it would work so he could have time to fix it later-he knew that she would not. She ran away, and he deserved it. He knows this; it’s why he had let her go. It was only when Vasey had taunted him with it day in and day out, reminding him of the public humiliation and shame, that his hatred had turned outward. He had burned her house and he had treated her like a whore, but, in the end, she stood tall as he only sank lower and lower.
But this-this is a true betrayal. In Vasey’s home he had been ready to open his eyes and say goodbye the manipulative little liar he still could not expel from his heart. But she had promised him, promised him, and so he had followed her here to yet another man who would twist and control him for his own ends. No, he thinks with clenched hands, this betrayal is one he does not deserve. And so he is not letting her go.
It does not take long to find Marian’s secret exit, only a swift strike to the canvas and a quick eye. He steps outside and peers around the corner to check on Carter, who has moved several feet away and is now talking to another soldier across the way. It is easy for Guy to slip past him, to disappear into the maze of darkened tents as he sets out to find Hood’s camp. He half expects to find it empty and cleared out. After all, they couldn’t be so foolish as to stay here, to flaunt their happiness in front of him? Still, even if they have left, Guy will jump on a horse and pursue them, the King’s entire guard on his heels.
A soft glow emerges from behind a tent in front of him and grows stronger as he approaches. He hears a burst of laughter, one obviously masculine but the other low and throaty and female. Marian. At this moment, Guy feels capable of anything: of killing, of raving, even of breaking down and crying. He almost stumbles as he rounds the edge of the final tent, has to catch himself to keep from falling.
Thankfully, their backs are to him. By the light of the fire, he sees the big burly shape of the manbeast they call Little John, the long neck of the quiet one, the small-shouldered figure of the Saracen girl, and the covered head of their cook-or, Guy thinks darkly, the Earl of Bonchurch. To the far right is the shaggy head of Hood, bent over and staring at his toes. And to the far left, he realizes with a flash of anger, is Allan’s curly reddish hair. But Marian is missing. Where is Marian?
“I’m not being funny. I had you pinned,” he says as he punches the cook on the shoulder with his free hand. The other holds a leg of roasted meat.
“You most certainly did not!” the other replies in a huff. “It was a fake fight anyway.” He pauses. “A fake fight that I clearly won.”
“You’re a liar. I heard you crying for your mum.”
Bonchurch can only glare, but the glare lessens when he bites into his own meal. “I could get used to this,” he says, and the others make murmuring sounds of assent.
“I think we could all get used to you not cooking,” Hood says with bitterness, effectively breaking the camaraderie.
“Robin,” the Saracen girl begins, “do you want to-“
“For the last time Djaq, no, I do not,” he barks and the circle falls quiet once again.
After a few seconds, Allan stands and yawns. “Well mates, I think I’ve a mind to turn in. My bed smells like a horse’s arse, but I’d bet a coin that I’ll sleep like a babe in it.”
Mates again, are they? Guy thinks darkly, unable to stop from sneering. Inside he begins to seethe afresh. How is it that he is able to feel anger on top of anger, betrayal on top of betrayal?
“Go to bed, Allan,” Hood says, with enough frustration that you would think Allan had just asked him to carry him to bed personally.
“Er, alright then. Night,” Allan says uneasily and turns toward Guy’s hiding spot. Guy ducks into the dark tent, moving toward the back as he listens to his steps come closer. Allan opens a flap and steps inside. He is muttering to himself; Guy catches “Robin” and “ungrateful git” before he springs forward, clamps his hand over the smaller man’s mouth, and drags him to the ground.
“Don’t yell, don’t fight,” Guy warns, “or I will rip out your tongue. Where is Marian?”
Allan’s eyes widen, and Guy feels the muffled vibrations of his response against his hand. Holding a finger to his lips, he slowly removes his hand.
“Look Giz, I’m sorry,” Allan says in a rush. “They were my friends once, you know. I couldn’t just leave them in the barn all set to die. They-”
“I don’t care about your pathetic friendships,” Guy hisses and has to remind himself to keep his own voice down. “Where is Marian?”
“That’s it! Like Marian. Imagine if Marian were trapped in a barn about to go up in smoke…No, wait…Imagine it were five Marians ready to meet their maker. I mean, one has a beard and the other one kind of looks like a bear that’s been driven round the bend a few times, but-”
Guy stops that before it can go any farther, pressing his hand to Allan’s throat. “Allan, I swear I will strangle you if you do not tell me where she is.”
“What do you mean where she is?” Allan rasps. “She’s not here, mate.”
Guy rears back. “Not here?” he echoes dumbly, releasing the pressure on Allan’s windpipe. “But Hood…”
“She told Hood…I mean Robin…to sod off. It’s probably why he’s sitting here-alive, might I add-acting like someone just showed him his own grave and told him to climb in.”
“She saw Hood?” he asks. The rage is back.
Allan gives Guy a look of utter disbelief. “I’m not being funny; I think you’re missing the point. She’s not here. She told Robin it was over.”
“She told him what was over?” he asks.
Allan winces, and for a second he looks nervous. “Oh, nothing. Their friendship. You know, no more sharing outlaw tips on how to help sick babes and blend in with the peasants.”
“Allan-,” Guy growls before he hears a set of footsteps from beside the tent. He does not want to be caught anymore; all he wants to do is find Marian. Worry is slowly replacing his anger, as well as shame at his overreaction. But he will not let Allan see that. “This is not over,” he hisses at his raised eyebrows before slipping back into the night and into the cover of slumbering tents
The stars are now out in full above him. He stares upward as though they might provide an answer. She has not betrayed him; she has not run off with Hood. He does not believe that she would run out into the desert alone. But what if she did not choose to go, a voice whispers as he makes his way back to her tent for lack of a better plan, what if she was taken?
Richard. How could he be so naïve? It should not have been so easy to escape execution, not when the man struck Guy to be pragmatic almost to the point of ruthlessness. What better way to control Guy, to keep him in check for those “small tasks” than to hold the thing he holds must dear for ransom? But there’s one thing Richard hadn’t counted on; if that is the case Guy will have no problem slitting the man’s throat. In an ironic twist, he will complete Vasey’s last wish. He will kill Richard the Lionhearted.
As Guy slips around the final corner, he is trembling with rage. He almost doesn’t see the dark shadow that emerges from the darkness of an alley across the way, the dark shadow that slips into the back of Marian’s tent. Almost.
Thinking that Richard has sent someone to clean up his dirty work, Guy approaches the tent with stealth. Putting his ear to the cloth, he tries to discern his foe’s movements, but he hears nothing. He eases open the increasingly ragged cut as silently as he can and gives his eyes time to adjust. At first he can make out nothing, only blurry shapes that melt in to one another at the edges.
But then he spots the figure of the intruder. He is not hastily scooping up clothing or surveying a job to be done. He is not gathering evidence or arranging a fake scene. Instead he is crouched in the corner with his head between his knees. His shoulders are shaking, and for the first time Guy notices the light, almost indiscernible, heave of soft sobbing.
“Who is here?” he asks as he steps the rest of the way into the tent, confused but still alert.
The figure’s head snaps up. “Guy?” it asks in a voice that wavers slightly at the end before scrambling to its feet.
“Stay back,” he says warily in the split second before the figure launches itself at him, wrapping its arms around his neck, before Guy realizes that the body pressed up against his is soft and warm and undeniably female. A feeling that can only be described as a mixture of shock, relief, and desire shoots through his body
“Marian-,” he starts, voice lightened by happiness. But anything else he would say is smothered by her lips pressing against his in a kiss that is clumsy and ecstatic and wonderful, a kiss that suddenly makes everything seem all right. Everything.
But Richard does not call in his guards or point his finger in condemnation. He only returns to his chair, where he sinks deep into his thoughts and allows Guy time to study the ground beneath him and imagine the myriad ways that he will be put to death. Will the King throw him in with the other prisoners and leave him to starve? Or perhaps he will be executed right here, his body carted off and disposed of before his blood even had time to sink into the dirt, before anyone even had time to discover that there was no one to mourn his loss. In truth, he thinks he would prefer the sudden slice of a sword, or even a surprise dagger to the back. There would be a flash of pain, yes, but it would be followed by a welcome nothingness, a final and blessed absence of feeling. And he would be spared any reflection on the lifetime of sins that have brought him here to this moment, all the petty jealousies and cold-blooded murders done in the name of things that seem utterly ridiculous now.
Guy looks up to find that the King has emerged from his reflections and is now studying him with the curious air of a man watching an upturned insect try to right itself. There is no anger in his gaze, only a detached curiosity that is belied by the way his fingers absently rub at his chin. Finally, he speaks.
“Please, Sir Guy. Sit.” He gestures once again toward the chair.
What is this man’s obsession with sitting? All this civility only makes a mockery of what is to come. Guy refuses to go to his death perched in front of this man like an ignorant guest at a banquet, blissfully unaware that his cup holds poison and his meat hides slivers of metal. And now that there is nothing more to lose, he does not mind saying so.
“I prefer to stand,” he says with what he feels is an impressive amount of dignity for a condemned man. A cool drop of sweat chooses that moment to slip under his collar; it paints an icy trail down his back.
“Sit,” Richard repeats himself, and this time it is a command. “You do not know what I am going to say, Sir Guy, so try not to wrap the noose around your own neck just yet.”
Thrown off balance by that last remark, Guy walks slowly to the chair and takes a seat. He rests his elbows on the heavy wooden arms, lacing his fingers together so his hands remain suspended in front of his chest in a pose that he hopes suggests a casual interest in what is to come. It’s all he can do to keep from clutching its sides like a nun does her rosary.
“That’s better,” Richard says, his light-blue gaze surprisingly clear and open. “I have always thought that there is a certain amount of bravery in admitting all your past misdeeds, especially to those that you have committed them against, don’t you?”
Despite his best intentions, Guy shifts uneasily in his seat. “I have not thought about it,” he says tersely.
Unfazed by Guy’s non-response, Richard carries on. “And I have always believed that we are given opportunities to atone for these sins. Whether or not we choose to take them-or extend them to others-is entirely up to us. There is a reason, after all, that I was granted the chance to serve my country and my God on this Crusade.”
“I do not understand.”
Richard sighs. “I have begun this badly,” he says, leaning forward so that his robes fall forward and obscure his hands. “You are shrewd enough to realize that I have enough evidence to have you executed for treason without qualm or question.”
Guy can only give a sharp nod. “I do. I have only one request, My Lord, and that is that I be allowed to see Lady Marian one last time before I…” Guy is ashamed to find that he cannot continue. He rips his gaze away from Richard’s and stares into the corner.
“You are leaping ahead of yourself. We need not speak of last requests just yet.” Richard sits back, more at ease than an executioner should be. “I am of the camp that believes one indebted to the man that has saved his life. So we are at an impasse.”
Guy wishes that the King would stop talking in ideologies and intangibilities. Although he is almost tempted to ask for a blade and start hacking away at his own head, he restrains himself to a question. “An impasse?”
“Whatever your reasons-and I believe I have a fair inkling of their source-you stopped a plot on my life.” He gestures to the Pact. “But, then again, you have plotted against me as well. You have already admitted to a previous attempt on my life, and I suspect that this trip to the Holy Land was to be another.” He fixes Guy with a stern gaze. “Do not deny that you came here with the intention of killing me.”
“I will not.”
“Good. But you shifted course at the last second, and ended up correcting an error that I would have regretted until the end of my days.”
“My Lord?”
“The unjust sentencing of Robin, Earl of Huntingdon.”
Guy has to bite his tongue in order to hold it. He bites it harder when Richard starts to chuckle.
“There is no love lost between you, is there?” he asks. “Most likely due to that woman. So many things come down to women in the end,” he says, and Guy thinks he can detect a genuine note of bafflement.
“She is not just a woman,” Guy says through gritted teeth. Even though he has been guilty of thinking his love for Marian as a weakness in the past, he is sick and tired of having it brought out and thrust in his face again and again.
Richard is still chuckling. “No, I imagine not. I imagine I have more to thank her for than I know. You can extend my apologies next time you see her; I would rather not do it myself.”
For the first time since this meeting began, Guy allows a small flicker of hope to spring to life in his chest. “Are you pardoning me, My Lord?”
“That depends. How willing are you to swear fealty to me? To forsake any grudges that you bear, or have borne in the past?
Guy swallows. In his life there have been more days than he can count where it has been only his rage against this man that has kept him going, only the idea of flipping his England upside down the same way that he turned Guy’s world was upturned twenty years ago. But he knows that there is no chance of that now; he has killed the man with the power to make that happen. And if he is to be honest, over the past few years that dream has been chipped away by another of embarrassing simplicity. In it, he lives with Marian and she smiles at him all the time.
Richard seems nonplussed by his hesitation. “Would you honestly rather die?”
Guy suddenly realizes what a foolhardy luxury his hesitation was. “No, My Lord.” He swallows his pride. “Your pardon is more than generous than I deserve. I will swear fealty and forsake grudges here and now.”
Richard’s eyes narrow, but his voice is light, appeased. “Good. In time, there may even be some land in it for you. You would have to pay for it, of course. This campaign has been more costly than I ever expected. But we could discuss what you were able to give.”
Guy is taken aback; he expected execution and here he is being offered something he’s pursued with icy ambition. But all he says is, “I have money.”
“Yes. I imagine you do.” Richard smiles, but there is no warmth in it. He picks up the pact and holds it out before him. “I will also need you to tell me everything you know about the men whose signatures are here. They will not be so lucky.”
And so it begins to make sense; he is to be a rat. Guy knew that this was working itself out too easily. “With all honesty, my Lord, I do not know much; Vasey kept most of his dealings close to his chest.”
“I imagine you know more than you think,” he says before his mouth compresses into a thin line. “Do not take what I have just given you lightly. You are not free yet, Sir Guy. You will have a guard at all times. You will stay here in the Holy Land until I am assured that you will perpetrate no further acts against me. Then and only then will you be free to return to England; then and only then will I marry you and Lady Marian.” He pauses. “And do not be surprised if sometime in the future I call on you to perform a few . . . small tasks.”
“I am sure that Hood would be more than delighted to perform any task you set him upon,” Guy remarks with more of an edge than he originally intended. Now that he is starting to believe that he may have a future beyond the next week, Richard’s mention of Marian has rekindled his anxiousness to find her in the wake of Hood’s final taunt.
“These are not things that I would ask of Robin. He is . . . too idealistic.”
So he is to do Richard’s dirty work. Guy doesn’t know why that makes his stomach sink-he is not unfamiliar with the role-but he had hoped…no, he doesn’t know what he had hoped. He gives a curt bow. “At your request, then.”
“Marvelous.” He holds the Pact up in front his face like a map. “Let’s begin with the Sheriff of Winchester…”
They spend the next few hours discussing every name and every scribble etched across that cursed piece of parchment. By the time dusk falls, Guy feels like he has repeated himself a million times over, and yet Richard shows no sign of tiring. He calls out for guards to come light the candles, and they come, accompanied by Carter. Before they leave, Richard crooks a finger and whispers in Carter’s ear. Whatever he says, it causes the blond man’s gaze to fly to Guy with a startled expression. But he nods his head and bows. “I’ll be outside the tent,” he says, “for whenever you are ready.”
Guy would like to ask “Ready for what?” but Richard coughs and draws his attention back to the document. When Guy’s eyelids feel so heavy that he is beginning to think that they have turned into lead, Richard rolls up the Pact and places it in a scarred wooden chest for safekeeping.
“I believe we are done here for today,” he says. “Carter will find you lodgings. I have assigned him to be your personal guard.
Guy’s eyes fly open. “Carter? My Lord, he is not-”
“He is fair,” Richard interrupts. “I will call for you when I next have need. Do not make me regret my decision.”
There is nothing left to say. After a short bow, Guy steps outside into the cool evening air. The sky is dark except for a low-sitting red band that heralds the last rays of the setting sun. It is beautiful, yes, but it reminds Guy of blood, thick and viscous. It reminds him of something he is foolish enough to keep forgetting; once you have chosen blood, there is no escaping it.
The shuffling of feet to his right snaps him from his morose thoughts. Carter steps forward out of the gloom. “I am to be your guard, Sir Guy. Let me show you to your tent,” he says. His voice is flat, but free of ill will. Still, Guy imagines that he can see his distaste for this task in his eyes.
“I would see Lady Marian first.”
“It is late.”
“And I do not care. Take me to her tent.”
Reluctantly, Carter leads the way down the road that cuts through camp. Soldiers are finishing up the evening, tucking away for the night with waves of farewell and grunts of goodnight. The few that remain stare at him warily. Guy would like to believe that it was fear brought on by his imposing stride, but he knows that it is more likely due to the fact that this is a highly regimented world, and they have no idea where he belongs. He meets their curious expressions with glares. Some glare back bravely, others stare at guiltily at their hands.
“There are men who have been put to death for lesser crimes than yours,” Carter says, turning back to frown at him.
“You think that I do not know that?” Guy snarls, but Carter has said what he wanted to say. He does not speak again until they come to a tent manned by two guards who stand hastily when they approach. They hold a small light; but the inside of the tent itself is dark.
“You may leave,” Carter says. “Lady Marian will not require a guard until morning, and then only one.”
Before they can respond, Guy interrupts. “Has Lady Marian had any visitors?” He can hear the suspicion and anxiousness in his own voice.
“No! She is sleeping and wishes not to be disturbed,” the baby-faced one says. “She is . . . unwell.”
Guy feels a wash of relief-Hood has not come. But then it is replaced by alarm. “Unwell?” he asks. “What have you done?”
He gives a nervous chuckle. “Nothing! You know how ladies can be…” He trails off.
Guy would be surprised to learn that this boy had seen two ladies that weren’t his mother in his young life, let alone spoken with them enough to know how they could be. But now is not the time to quibble with infants.
“I will check on her,” he tells them, and then adds a growl of “Alone” for Carter’s benefit.
They step to the side, making way for him to enter the tent. He parts the flaps softly, in case she really is sleeping. He is longing to speak with her, to share these new developments-minus a few choice parts-but he orders himself not to disturb her. It can wait until tomorrow; right now he just wants to assure himself that she is okay, to remind himself why he is here instead of in the Sheriff’s house in Acre, why he has chosen this path instead of the one that he has been walking for over twenty years.
“Marian,” he calls softly, just in case she is lying awake with nerves. There’s no response.
He tries again, squinting into the dim light. A pile of bags lies heaped in the corner, their contents strewn about haphazardly. His eyes fly to the pallet lining the opposite side of the tent, and he breathes a sigh of relief to see the gentle swell of a sleeping body. She is here. Safe.
He walks as quietly as he can to its side and crouches down. But now that he is closer, something seems not quite right. The air is silent-he cannot hear even a whisper of inhalation-and shouldn’t there be some hint of her dark curls peeking out of the top? And her shape should not be that . . . flat.
He rips the cover off in one savage motion, only to reveal a line of wadded clothing. She has abandoned him, he thinks before the shock and anger turns his mind black. She has run off with Hood.
At first he thinks his rage has actually materialized, becoming something so dark and bitter that he can taste it in his mouth, but then he realizes that he has actually bitten his tongue. How could he be so foolish? After all, she had run before, even as he stood at her side in front of three dozen witnesses. Even as he had tried everything to get her to stay-threatening and blackmailing and praying that it would work so he could have time to fix it later-he knew that she would not. She ran away, and he deserved it. He knows this; it’s why he had let her go. It was only when Vasey had taunted him with it day in and day out, reminding him of the public humiliation and shame, that his hatred had turned outward. He had burned her house and he had treated her like a whore, but, in the end, she stood tall as he only sank lower and lower.
But this-this is a true betrayal. In Vasey’s home he had been ready to open his eyes and say goodbye the manipulative little liar he still could not expel from his heart. But she had promised him, promised him, and so he had followed her here to yet another man who would twist and control him for his own ends. No, he thinks with clenched hands, this betrayal is one he does not deserve. And so he is not letting her go.
It does not take long to find Marian’s secret exit, only a swift strike to the canvas and a quick eye. He steps outside and peers around the corner to check on Carter, who has moved several feet away and is now talking to another soldier across the way. It is easy for Guy to slip past him, to disappear into the maze of darkened tents as he sets out to find Hood’s camp. He half expects to find it empty and cleared out. After all, they couldn’t be so foolish as to stay here, to flaunt their happiness in front of him? Still, even if they have left, Guy will jump on a horse and pursue them, the King’s entire guard on his heels.
A soft glow emerges from behind a tent in front of him and grows stronger as he approaches. He hears a burst of laughter, one obviously masculine but the other low and throaty and female. Marian. At this moment, Guy feels capable of anything: of killing, of raving, even of breaking down and crying. He almost stumbles as he rounds the edge of the final tent, has to catch himself to keep from falling.
Thankfully, their backs are to him. By the light of the fire, he sees the big burly shape of the manbeast they call Little John, the long neck of the quiet one, the small-shouldered figure of the Saracen girl, and the covered head of their cook-or, Guy thinks darkly, the Earl of Bonchurch. To the far right is the shaggy head of Hood, bent over and staring at his toes. And to the far left, he realizes with a flash of anger, is Allan’s curly reddish hair. But Marian is missing. Where is Marian?
“I’m not being funny. I had you pinned,” he says as he punches the cook on the shoulder with his free hand. The other holds a leg of roasted meat.
“You most certainly did not!” the other replies in a huff. “It was a fake fight anyway.” He pauses. “A fake fight that I clearly won.”
“You’re a liar. I heard you crying for your mum.”
Bonchurch can only glare, but the glare lessens when he bites into his own meal. “I could get used to this,” he says, and the others make murmuring sounds of assent.
“I think we could all get used to you not cooking,” Hood says with bitterness, effectively breaking the camaraderie.
“Robin,” the Saracen girl begins, “do you want to-“
“For the last time Djaq, no, I do not,” he barks and the circle falls quiet once again.
After a few seconds, Allan stands and yawns. “Well mates, I think I’ve a mind to turn in. My bed smells like a horse’s arse, but I’d bet a coin that I’ll sleep like a babe in it.”
Mates again, are they? Guy thinks darkly, unable to stop from sneering. Inside he begins to seethe afresh. How is it that he is able to feel anger on top of anger, betrayal on top of betrayal?
“Go to bed, Allan,” Hood says, with enough frustration that you would think Allan had just asked him to carry him to bed personally.
“Er, alright then. Night,” Allan says uneasily and turns toward Guy’s hiding spot. Guy ducks into the dark tent, moving toward the back as he listens to his steps come closer. Allan opens a flap and steps inside. He is muttering to himself; Guy catches “Robin” and “ungrateful git” before he springs forward, clamps his hand over the smaller man’s mouth, and drags him to the ground.
“Don’t yell, don’t fight,” Guy warns, “or I will rip out your tongue. Where is Marian?”
Allan’s eyes widen, and Guy feels the muffled vibrations of his response against his hand. Holding a finger to his lips, he slowly removes his hand.
“Look Giz, I’m sorry,” Allan says in a rush. “They were my friends once, you know. I couldn’t just leave them in the barn all set to die. They-”
“I don’t care about your pathetic friendships,” Guy hisses and has to remind himself to keep his own voice down. “Where is Marian?”
“That’s it! Like Marian. Imagine if Marian were trapped in a barn about to go up in smoke…No, wait…Imagine it were five Marians ready to meet their maker. I mean, one has a beard and the other one kind of looks like a bear that’s been driven round the bend a few times, but-”
Guy stops that before it can go any farther, pressing his hand to Allan’s throat. “Allan, I swear I will strangle you if you do not tell me where she is.”
“What do you mean where she is?” Allan rasps. “She’s not here, mate.”
Guy rears back. “Not here?” he echoes dumbly, releasing the pressure on Allan’s windpipe. “But Hood…”
“She told Hood…I mean Robin…to sod off. It’s probably why he’s sitting here-alive, might I add-acting like someone just showed him his own grave and told him to climb in.”
“She saw Hood?” he asks. The rage is back.
Allan gives Guy a look of utter disbelief. “I’m not being funny; I think you’re missing the point. She’s not here. She told Robin it was over.”
“She told him what was over?” he asks.
Allan winces, and for a second he looks nervous. “Oh, nothing. Their friendship. You know, no more sharing outlaw tips on how to help sick babes and blend in with the peasants.”
“Allan-,” Guy growls before he hears a set of footsteps from beside the tent. He does not want to be caught anymore; all he wants to do is find Marian. Worry is slowly replacing his anger, as well as shame at his overreaction. But he will not let Allan see that. “This is not over,” he hisses at his raised eyebrows before slipping back into the night and into the cover of slumbering tents
The stars are now out in full above him. He stares upward as though they might provide an answer. She has not betrayed him; she has not run off with Hood. He does not believe that she would run out into the desert alone. But what if she did not choose to go, a voice whispers as he makes his way back to her tent for lack of a better plan, what if she was taken?
Richard. How could he be so naïve? It should not have been so easy to escape execution, not when the man struck Guy to be pragmatic almost to the point of ruthlessness. What better way to control Guy, to keep him in check for those “small tasks” than to hold the thing he holds must dear for ransom? But there’s one thing Richard hadn’t counted on; if that is the case Guy will have no problem slitting the man’s throat. In an ironic twist, he will complete Vasey’s last wish. He will kill Richard the Lionhearted.
As Guy slips around the final corner, he is trembling with rage. He almost doesn’t see the dark shadow that emerges from the darkness of an alley across the way, the dark shadow that slips into the back of Marian’s tent. Almost.
Thinking that Richard has sent someone to clean up his dirty work, Guy approaches the tent with stealth. Putting his ear to the cloth, he tries to discern his foe’s movements, but he hears nothing. He eases open the increasingly ragged cut as silently as he can and gives his eyes time to adjust. At first he can make out nothing, only blurry shapes that melt in to one another at the edges.
But then he spots the figure of the intruder. He is not hastily scooping up clothing or surveying a job to be done. He is not gathering evidence or arranging a fake scene. Instead he is crouched in the corner with his head between his knees. His shoulders are shaking, and for the first time Guy notices the light, almost indiscernible, heave of soft sobbing.
“Who is here?” he asks as he steps the rest of the way into the tent, confused but still alert.
The figure’s head snaps up. “Guy?” it asks in a voice that wavers slightly at the end before scrambling to its feet.
“Stay back,” he says warily in the split second before the figure launches itself at him, wrapping its arms around his neck, before Guy realizes that the body pressed up against his is soft and warm and undeniably female. A feeling that can only be described as a mixture of shock, relief, and desire shoots through his body
“Marian-,” he starts, voice lightened by happiness. But anything else he would say is smothered by her lips pressing against his in a kiss that is clumsy and ecstatic and wonderful, a kiss that suddenly makes everything seem all right. Everything.