Fallout - Chapter Nine
King Richard is toying with him. If the staged executions failed to make it clear, the way Richard makes Guy wait for an audience now proves it. When Guy has finally cooled enough from Marian's rejection to present himself outside the royal tent, he is informed that the King has a visitor and will not be able to see him until later this evening.
As he would rather die than fold himself up again into his tiny sleeping area, he is left with nothing to do but prowl the perimeter of the camp with his ignorant little guard clipping along behind. Although Guy finds him too meek and short to be really threatening, his presence is a constant irritation. Not only is he to be watched like a prisoner, Carter has passed him off to an underling. He does not even merit a member of the King's personal guard.
The scenery soon becomes oppressive-the monotony of the dry, colorless sand, the never-ending parade of white Crusader uniforms, the repetitive slouching of tent after tent after tent. When the late afternoon sun becomes too punishing, he finds an upturned crate by the lonely edge of the north perimeter and sits in the shade. He can see Acre in the distance, resting tiny and squat on the flat desert horizon. He thinks of the Sheriff's house, and his mind begins to whir, tossing up the endless what-ifs that have been lurking at the back of his mind since things have failed to live up to what he now recognizes as love-addled, lust-warped dreams. He should have walked out on Marian when she first started spitting lofty ideals at him; her words that seem so easy and seductive in her lips only turn to ash the second they touch the air of the real world. Now he wishes that he would have told the Sheriff of her plotting, distracted him from taking vengeance on her with some petty promise of cruelty, and then figured out what to do with her later. It would have proven his loyalty to Vasey and gained him favor, and he could have used his newfound power and prestige to win over Marian again, once she finally realized just how it felt to be completely alone in the world. He is quickly coming to realize that he will take any version of her; it doesn't matter what is healthy or right.
The sun begins to sink in the West, turning the sky a hazy, wet violet, and Guy stands to go see Richard again, hoping for everyone's sake that he is not turned away again. As he approaches, an unfamiliar man in black desert garb steps out of Richard's makeshift quarters. He nods knowingly to Guy before climbing on his horse and riding away, an inexplicable gesture that sparks a small flame of unease in Guy's gut. It only grows when he turns around to find Carter behind him, looking at him curiously. Before he can say anything, however, Richard steps from his tent and beckons Guy inside after a few idle remarks about fated timing.
His rough, wooden desk is covered with sealed envelopes and assorted correspondence, all burnished orange by the soft light of a dozen lit candles. Richard takes his usual seat, and Guy sits across from him before he can issue the predictable command. Guy watches as Richard waves out the few remaining guards. When they are alone, he laces his fingers together and leans back, giving a hearty sigh as he stares at the multitude of missives spread before him.
"I am being advised to return to England by everyone. By my court, by my mother, and now even by Robin,” he says. “Everyone is plotting against me it seems. If I didn’t know better, I might suspect that someone sent you and your Sheriff here to remind me of my obligations back home.”
He gives Guy an arch smile that is entirely devoid of humor. Guy says nothing. They call this man lionhearted but he is just as viperous as Vasey. Why can no one see it?
“Are your lodgings suitable?” Richard asks, picking up a quill and rolling it between his fingers. His voice is innocent enough, but Guy knows this is a test of exactly how willing he is to please.
“They are perfect,” Guy says and adds a few terse words of gratitude.
“Wonderful.” Richard sets down the quill, and then jumps to the next topic without warning. Guy would gamble that it a calculated maneuver to keep one’s opponent on his toes. “I told you yesterday that I might call upon you to do a few small tasks in the future in return for my pardon.”
“You did, my lord.”
“I think that I may have need of you for one large task.”
Guy only tilts his head in a silent inquiry. He does not want to seem reticent, but the very core of him revolts at seeming to eager to please this man.
Richard studies him, eyebrows raised in something that Guy takes for a faint mix of amusement and admiration. “You know that I have signed a treaty with Saladin that leaves Jerusalem in Muslim hands.”
“I do.”
“Christian pilgrims are to have safe passage in and out of the city, of course. I would not have relinquished it without some small victory.” He rubs his eyes, reaches to the crown he still wears and takes it off. “And yet it would be false of me to say that I am happy with the arrangement. To come so close to attaining redemption for our Faith, only to be pulled back to that accursed country due to treacherous siblings and petty power squabbles-it is infuriating. But if there were a reason to stay . . .” He stops to glance at Guy, who is intentionally keeping his face impassive. “I may have said too much already.”
“My Lord?”
“In the next few days you will leave for Jerusalem as a pilgrim. You will meet with Baldrick, the man who you saw leaving my tent earlier. He is readying things for your arrival. He will have further instructions.”
Guy can barely contain his distaste for this project. “And what am I to do in Jerusalem?”
Richard throws him a sharp look. “As I said, Baldrick will tell you. Do not question me further,” he snaps, but when he sees how rigid Guy is holding himself, he lightens his tone. “You will be rewarded when you return. We can speak of land, then. And marriage to your lady.”
“And how long will that be?” Guy asks darkly.
Richard spreads his hands. “That depends on you.”
“Am I to have men?”
“You may take your own if they are discreet.”
“I have none,” Guy says, mind racing as he tries to divine what kind of mission requires no men.
“Then no.” Richard looks down to shuffle his pieces of parchment, then turns to the locked chest where he last stashed the Pact. For a second Guy fears that he is going to take it out and ask him more questions. But he removes a small folded message and a map instead. “Here is where you are going,” he says handing them over. “You must be gone within the next three days.”
Guy knows that he should not ask any more questions-the memories of the decapitated heads hitting the sand this morning should be incentive enough-but he cannot resist a little bit of useless bravado as he stands to leave. “What is to happen to Nottingham? And Vasey’s lands?”
“They will return to the crown until I can find someone worthy of their bestowal.” Richard looks over, feigns surprise at Guy’s dark look. “You want them?”
“I believe that it would make sense,” Guy says tightly, “considering I am already familiar with their day-to-day running.”
“We will see,” Richard says with a small, patronizing smile. “Although I am nervous about entering into another such mercenary agreement for such a large portion. Your Sheriff bought the post from me, and we have seen how that ended. There is something to be said, perhaps, for nepotism.”
At first Guy doesn’t comprehend Richard’s meaning. “Vasey bought his position?”
“Yes. A mistake, obviously.”
Guy struggles to speak over the rage that is swiftly pooling in his stomach. “My Lord, I can assure you that I would not-,”
“You may go. We will discuss it when you return,” Richard says, looking down at the papers below his nose, a blatant signal that the conversation is over.
With nothing left to say, Guy gives a terse bow and backs out of the tent, seething all the way. The night air is beginning to cool, and Guy can see the smoke of several campfires rising up in long columns that twist and snake every time there is a gentle breeze. Raucous shouts swim up from his left, where a cluster of men huddle around a game placing wagers. His guard is among them, waving a coin in the air and then tossing it to the center.
Guy stalks away from the fire, nearly shaking with the indignation of being ordered to Jerusalem without any idea of the plan, like he is some sort of illiterate peasant, some sort of dog. And even though it shouldn’t, considering his ultimate betrayal, it goads him that Vasey-who delighted in telling his schemes to any person unfortunate enough to have one working ear-had still never trusted Guy with the information that his position had been bought. But at least with everything else he had given him some idea of the why, some idea of the final goal.
With the weight of the day crushing down upon him, the need for flight begins to call, loud and insistent. When he passes a row of dozing horses, he stops. If he rides out and comes back, no one will know. He just needs to escape this claustrophobia for one hour-then he can come back and prepare for this final mission, prepare to be free of all of this. Finding a blanket, he throws it over the nearest sleeping horse, which happens to be the one Marian was making eyes at earlier. He gets a spiteful thrill out of how it whinnies in protest.
He is bending over to check that everything is well with its hooves when he hears keening zing whistle by his ear, hears the soft thud of metal digging into wood. An arrow quivers by his cheek, embedded in the horse’s hitching post. Before he can turn or seek cover, one hits the dirt, inches from his toe. Then another. Then another.
“I would not make any sudden movements if I were you,” Hood says from behind him. “It would be unfortunate if you accidentally took an arrow to the gut. Turn around.”
Guy grasps the arrow lodged beside him, pulls it free, then snaps it in two. “I do not have time for your games,” he says over his shoulder and then starts to mount his horse. Another arrow swishes past his head, cutting through the crowd of skittish horses before disappearing into the night.
“Too busy running away?” Hood asks.
The fact that Hood-Hood-is accusing him of fleeing ignites the tiny scrap of composure that he has left. He draws his sword and whirls around. “I do not run from my problems like a coward.”
Guy cannot make out his expression, but he imagines that he is grinning. At least until he speaks.
“You should be dead,” Hood seethes. “There is no reason for you to live. Tell me why I should not put an arrow in you right now. Tell me who would care.”
No one, Guy thinks. No one would care.
“Why so silent, Gisborne?”
“Marian,” he says with false bravado. “Marian would care when I am not in her bed.”
Hood chuckles, lowers his bow. “You are a fool if you think that she feels anything more for you than pity and misguided gratitude.” He steps forward, with a hint of the old jauntiness. “Have you ever wondered why a woman must be twisted into an impossible situation before she will stoop to marry you?”
“You know nothing!” Guy roars.
Hood tosses his bow to the side, reaches behind his back, and draws out a curved blade. “I know a bit,” he says, tilting the blade back and forth so that it picks up stray glints of firelight. “I know that she does not love you.”
“And how do you know that?”
There is a flash of teeth. “Intuition.”
Guy has no retort that is not a lie, no retort that has any chance of drawing blood. But then Hood steps forward, holding his sword in front of him while spouting something righteous about fixing the King’s oversight, and Guy knows what to say. Guy knows exactly what to say.
“King Richard would care if you killed me.”
“He only spared you because you were of such little consequence. A worm is still a worm, even if you decide not to step on it,” he scoffs, but Guy spots the slight hesitation in his step, the slight waver of the weapon.
He smirks. “You do not send men of little consequence on personal missions.”
“You lie!”
“I leave for Jerusalem tomorrow.”
Hood shakes his head. “He would send for me.”
“Would he? He does not even want to speak to you. He wants to speak to the man who saved him. I have had three audiences in the last day. How many have you had? How many words of gratitude?”
“He would send for me,” Hood stubbornly insists.
“We can go ask him if you would like. I can say that you are with me so he will see you,” Guy says, his body tense as he waits to see how his taunt will land.
Hood darts forward, and Guy brings his sword up. The impact of jarring metal vibrates up his arm as their weapons clash. Hood has the downward momentum, and even though Guy’s muscles strain to fight against it, he feels himself weakening. But then Hood does something unexpected. Lunging forward, he barrels into Guy’s chest, and then they are falling, falling until Guy’s head slams into the dirt. His sword falls from his weakened grip as Hood’s hands wrap around his neck.
“Richard would not be taken in by your lies,” Hood spits into his face from above. “Not for one second.”
Guy snorts even as he scrabbles to tear the palms away from his throat. He is losing air, but for the first time since he arrived in the Holy Land, he feels triumphant. “You are a fool,” he rasps, “if you think he cares what you have been doing for your precious peasants of Nottingham.”
The pressure on his throat releases, and the air that rushes into his lungs feels glorious until it is knocked back out of him by the punch Hood lands on his mouth. He feels his lip split.
“Be quiet!” Hood roars, grabbing the front of his jacket. “I have been protecting his people-protecting them from monsters like you and Vasey.”
And then Guy laughs, laughs because he knows how sharp and lethal his next sentence is. He leans upward. “Your King sold Nottingham to Vasey,” he tells him. “He gave Nottingham to Vasey. He didn’t care what happened there as long as it showered him in coins for this idiotic war.”
Hood rears back. “No! That is not--,” he begins, but Guy slams his fist into his nose before he can finish. He falls backward as Guy scrambles to his feet. He leans over and grabs the smaller man’s shirtfront, hauls him up and throws him into the post so hard he can hear the wind as it’s knocked out of him. Guy reaches inside his jacket and removes the small blade he always keeps close to his heart. He should use his sword, but this . . . this is personal. He presses it against Hood’s neck.
“How does that feel?” Guy asks. “Now that your game has no point. Now that all you’ve done has no point. Now that your heroics impress no one.”
“They impress Marian,” Robin spits before his eyes widen as though he’s surprised himself. Guy is surprised as well; Hood never responds to any of his taunts or questions about Marian, let alone offers any.
“You do not talk about her,” Guy threatens, pointing a finger in his face.
“I have more right than you.”
“What does that mean?”
Hood tries to break the gaze. “I mean nothing.”
Guy presses the claw deeper against the soft flesh of Hood’s throat, presses until a bead of blood appears, but he still refuses to speak. Enraged, he backhands him across the face, but overshoots, leaving himself open for the punch in the gut that causes him to stumble backward. Hood runs toward him, but Guy dodges at the last second, reaching out to grab at his waist with the intention of hurling him back to the ground. But he only succeeds in grabbing the leather pouch that dangles at the outlaw’s waist. It tears off into his hands.
There is space between them again, space that neither one of them seems intent on closing. They watch each other warily. Hood braces himself against a post as though suddenly dizzy, heaving and wiping at his lip. Guy’s chest feels tight and sore. But this is not over.
“No wonder you are so loyal to Richard,” he taunts to break the silence, holding his hand up in a pantomime of weighing the pouch. “You are both thieves.
He begins to pluck out the pouch’s contents and toss them in the dirt between them. Truth be told, there are not enough coins to adequately prove his point. Cursing under his breath, Guy digs to the bottom, searching until his fingers alight on something jagged and round. He pulls it out and stares down at it. Even in the dim light, he can see that it is a ring. An emerald ring.
“Wearing jewelry now, Hood?” he sneers, checking Hood’s reaction. But instead of acting sufficiently emasculated, he straightens up and acts as though he is about to stride forward and reclaim it.
“Give that back,” he orders. There is a note of worry beneath the command.
He is missing something. “Whose is it?”
Guy can see Hood strategizing. “Your mother gave it to me,” he says lightly, back to his irritating self in the space of a flash. “I am supposed to return it when I see her tonight.” He begins to saunter back and forth, and Guy realizes that the other man is desperate to distract him from something, to protect something, to protect a woman.
Marian.
And suddenly it all comes together, like a spider furiously spinning her web from scraps of memory. How stupid he’s been. All those times he walked into Marian’s room to catch her looking at something she quickly stashed before she would touch his arm and smile until he forgot; Allan’s slips of tongue; Marian’s refusal to marry him even as the soldiers were storming Nottingham.
The humiliation of his proposals spreads, thick and heavy, in his stomach. She had agreed to marry Hood without any tricks, or manipulations, or ultimatums, or killings-agreed to marry an outlaw who had nothing other than an abandoned title and the adoration of the lowest classes all while rejecting his gifts, his money, his position, his protection, his love. He had imagined woodland trysts but never a secret engagement, if only because he thought that Hood could give her nothing as a husband. And now he finds that the only things she wanted were things that he could never have-or never wanted to have.
His fist closes over the ring, squeezes until he can feel the stones bite into his palm. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hood bend over, pick up a sword and creep forward. And then a surge of rage comes that is so strong that he blacks out. Or he thinks that he has blacked out, for the next thing he knows, there is red all over the ring and he’s bending over Hood’s unconscious figure and touching the stream of blood that flows down from the jagged gash over his eye.
It would be so easy to finish him now, to jab a sword straight through his heart, watch him bleed out into the sand. Guy has never killed anyone for reasons other than politics, but now the desire is so strong that he trembles with it, trembles like he did the first time Vasey thrust a knife into his hand and told him to take care of that pesky messenger who had delivered the wrong message and ruined his plans for the evening. When he had hesitated, Vasey had arched an eyebrow. “If makes you so green at the gills, Guy, you may go,” he had said. “Ambitious lads sprout like weeds around here. Spend your life fighting for scraps; it does not matter to me.” And he had done it, and he had done it again, and then the twinge had disappeared. He had convinced himself that anyone who dabbled in politics was fair game. If the wolf ended up at his door one day, he would accept it as natural. But until it did, he would live as though he didn’t care.
But this is a different kind of killing-Guy recognizes that-that will bring different kinds of consequences. Marian will hate him, he thinks, but then cuts himself off; he no longer cares what she thinks. Oh, he will still marry her. He knows that a good man would step aside in this situation, not stand in front of a happy couple, but he gave up any pretense of being good long ago. He will be her penance, but he will make her into his bauble, and she will hate it. They can drag each other down, but at least he will have his lady. He will not give her the satisfaction of letting go.
A raucous shout from somewhere in the camp reminds him of where he is, where they are. He cannot kill Hood. King Richard would care about his death, and the only way Guy will get out of this alive to claim his prize, is by staying in the sliver of the King’s favor.
Grabbing the man’s arms, he drags him toward the outlaws’ camp, leaving a trail of blood as he goes. He drops him behind their tent, which is silent and dark. They will find him-he imagines that if this man were gone for more than a day, he would have a country’s worth of people looking for him. His future wife included.
The walk back to his bed is a battle between the part of him that wants to tear Marian from her from her bed and the part that wants to prove how much he does not care. He will wait until the morning, he tells himself, when it is more difficult for her to hide in the harsh light of day. Cold, he thinks when he is back in his tent undressing. That is what he will be. That is what he is.
As he would rather die than fold himself up again into his tiny sleeping area, he is left with nothing to do but prowl the perimeter of the camp with his ignorant little guard clipping along behind. Although Guy finds him too meek and short to be really threatening, his presence is a constant irritation. Not only is he to be watched like a prisoner, Carter has passed him off to an underling. He does not even merit a member of the King's personal guard.
The scenery soon becomes oppressive-the monotony of the dry, colorless sand, the never-ending parade of white Crusader uniforms, the repetitive slouching of tent after tent after tent. When the late afternoon sun becomes too punishing, he finds an upturned crate by the lonely edge of the north perimeter and sits in the shade. He can see Acre in the distance, resting tiny and squat on the flat desert horizon. He thinks of the Sheriff's house, and his mind begins to whir, tossing up the endless what-ifs that have been lurking at the back of his mind since things have failed to live up to what he now recognizes as love-addled, lust-warped dreams. He should have walked out on Marian when she first started spitting lofty ideals at him; her words that seem so easy and seductive in her lips only turn to ash the second they touch the air of the real world. Now he wishes that he would have told the Sheriff of her plotting, distracted him from taking vengeance on her with some petty promise of cruelty, and then figured out what to do with her later. It would have proven his loyalty to Vasey and gained him favor, and he could have used his newfound power and prestige to win over Marian again, once she finally realized just how it felt to be completely alone in the world. He is quickly coming to realize that he will take any version of her; it doesn't matter what is healthy or right.
The sun begins to sink in the West, turning the sky a hazy, wet violet, and Guy stands to go see Richard again, hoping for everyone's sake that he is not turned away again. As he approaches, an unfamiliar man in black desert garb steps out of Richard's makeshift quarters. He nods knowingly to Guy before climbing on his horse and riding away, an inexplicable gesture that sparks a small flame of unease in Guy's gut. It only grows when he turns around to find Carter behind him, looking at him curiously. Before he can say anything, however, Richard steps from his tent and beckons Guy inside after a few idle remarks about fated timing.
His rough, wooden desk is covered with sealed envelopes and assorted correspondence, all burnished orange by the soft light of a dozen lit candles. Richard takes his usual seat, and Guy sits across from him before he can issue the predictable command. Guy watches as Richard waves out the few remaining guards. When they are alone, he laces his fingers together and leans back, giving a hearty sigh as he stares at the multitude of missives spread before him.
"I am being advised to return to England by everyone. By my court, by my mother, and now even by Robin,” he says. “Everyone is plotting against me it seems. If I didn’t know better, I might suspect that someone sent you and your Sheriff here to remind me of my obligations back home.”
He gives Guy an arch smile that is entirely devoid of humor. Guy says nothing. They call this man lionhearted but he is just as viperous as Vasey. Why can no one see it?
“Are your lodgings suitable?” Richard asks, picking up a quill and rolling it between his fingers. His voice is innocent enough, but Guy knows this is a test of exactly how willing he is to please.
“They are perfect,” Guy says and adds a few terse words of gratitude.
“Wonderful.” Richard sets down the quill, and then jumps to the next topic without warning. Guy would gamble that it a calculated maneuver to keep one’s opponent on his toes. “I told you yesterday that I might call upon you to do a few small tasks in the future in return for my pardon.”
“You did, my lord.”
“I think that I may have need of you for one large task.”
Guy only tilts his head in a silent inquiry. He does not want to seem reticent, but the very core of him revolts at seeming to eager to please this man.
Richard studies him, eyebrows raised in something that Guy takes for a faint mix of amusement and admiration. “You know that I have signed a treaty with Saladin that leaves Jerusalem in Muslim hands.”
“I do.”
“Christian pilgrims are to have safe passage in and out of the city, of course. I would not have relinquished it without some small victory.” He rubs his eyes, reaches to the crown he still wears and takes it off. “And yet it would be false of me to say that I am happy with the arrangement. To come so close to attaining redemption for our Faith, only to be pulled back to that accursed country due to treacherous siblings and petty power squabbles-it is infuriating. But if there were a reason to stay . . .” He stops to glance at Guy, who is intentionally keeping his face impassive. “I may have said too much already.”
“My Lord?”
“In the next few days you will leave for Jerusalem as a pilgrim. You will meet with Baldrick, the man who you saw leaving my tent earlier. He is readying things for your arrival. He will have further instructions.”
Guy can barely contain his distaste for this project. “And what am I to do in Jerusalem?”
Richard throws him a sharp look. “As I said, Baldrick will tell you. Do not question me further,” he snaps, but when he sees how rigid Guy is holding himself, he lightens his tone. “You will be rewarded when you return. We can speak of land, then. And marriage to your lady.”
“And how long will that be?” Guy asks darkly.
Richard spreads his hands. “That depends on you.”
“Am I to have men?”
“You may take your own if they are discreet.”
“I have none,” Guy says, mind racing as he tries to divine what kind of mission requires no men.
“Then no.” Richard looks down to shuffle his pieces of parchment, then turns to the locked chest where he last stashed the Pact. For a second Guy fears that he is going to take it out and ask him more questions. But he removes a small folded message and a map instead. “Here is where you are going,” he says handing them over. “You must be gone within the next three days.”
Guy knows that he should not ask any more questions-the memories of the decapitated heads hitting the sand this morning should be incentive enough-but he cannot resist a little bit of useless bravado as he stands to leave. “What is to happen to Nottingham? And Vasey’s lands?”
“They will return to the crown until I can find someone worthy of their bestowal.” Richard looks over, feigns surprise at Guy’s dark look. “You want them?”
“I believe that it would make sense,” Guy says tightly, “considering I am already familiar with their day-to-day running.”
“We will see,” Richard says with a small, patronizing smile. “Although I am nervous about entering into another such mercenary agreement for such a large portion. Your Sheriff bought the post from me, and we have seen how that ended. There is something to be said, perhaps, for nepotism.”
At first Guy doesn’t comprehend Richard’s meaning. “Vasey bought his position?”
“Yes. A mistake, obviously.”
Guy struggles to speak over the rage that is swiftly pooling in his stomach. “My Lord, I can assure you that I would not-,”
“You may go. We will discuss it when you return,” Richard says, looking down at the papers below his nose, a blatant signal that the conversation is over.
With nothing left to say, Guy gives a terse bow and backs out of the tent, seething all the way. The night air is beginning to cool, and Guy can see the smoke of several campfires rising up in long columns that twist and snake every time there is a gentle breeze. Raucous shouts swim up from his left, where a cluster of men huddle around a game placing wagers. His guard is among them, waving a coin in the air and then tossing it to the center.
Guy stalks away from the fire, nearly shaking with the indignation of being ordered to Jerusalem without any idea of the plan, like he is some sort of illiterate peasant, some sort of dog. And even though it shouldn’t, considering his ultimate betrayal, it goads him that Vasey-who delighted in telling his schemes to any person unfortunate enough to have one working ear-had still never trusted Guy with the information that his position had been bought. But at least with everything else he had given him some idea of the why, some idea of the final goal.
With the weight of the day crushing down upon him, the need for flight begins to call, loud and insistent. When he passes a row of dozing horses, he stops. If he rides out and comes back, no one will know. He just needs to escape this claustrophobia for one hour-then he can come back and prepare for this final mission, prepare to be free of all of this. Finding a blanket, he throws it over the nearest sleeping horse, which happens to be the one Marian was making eyes at earlier. He gets a spiteful thrill out of how it whinnies in protest.
He is bending over to check that everything is well with its hooves when he hears keening zing whistle by his ear, hears the soft thud of metal digging into wood. An arrow quivers by his cheek, embedded in the horse’s hitching post. Before he can turn or seek cover, one hits the dirt, inches from his toe. Then another. Then another.
“I would not make any sudden movements if I were you,” Hood says from behind him. “It would be unfortunate if you accidentally took an arrow to the gut. Turn around.”
Guy grasps the arrow lodged beside him, pulls it free, then snaps it in two. “I do not have time for your games,” he says over his shoulder and then starts to mount his horse. Another arrow swishes past his head, cutting through the crowd of skittish horses before disappearing into the night.
“Too busy running away?” Hood asks.
The fact that Hood-Hood-is accusing him of fleeing ignites the tiny scrap of composure that he has left. He draws his sword and whirls around. “I do not run from my problems like a coward.”
Guy cannot make out his expression, but he imagines that he is grinning. At least until he speaks.
“You should be dead,” Hood seethes. “There is no reason for you to live. Tell me why I should not put an arrow in you right now. Tell me who would care.”
No one, Guy thinks. No one would care.
“Why so silent, Gisborne?”
“Marian,” he says with false bravado. “Marian would care when I am not in her bed.”
Hood chuckles, lowers his bow. “You are a fool if you think that she feels anything more for you than pity and misguided gratitude.” He steps forward, with a hint of the old jauntiness. “Have you ever wondered why a woman must be twisted into an impossible situation before she will stoop to marry you?”
“You know nothing!” Guy roars.
Hood tosses his bow to the side, reaches behind his back, and draws out a curved blade. “I know a bit,” he says, tilting the blade back and forth so that it picks up stray glints of firelight. “I know that she does not love you.”
“And how do you know that?”
There is a flash of teeth. “Intuition.”
Guy has no retort that is not a lie, no retort that has any chance of drawing blood. But then Hood steps forward, holding his sword in front of him while spouting something righteous about fixing the King’s oversight, and Guy knows what to say. Guy knows exactly what to say.
“King Richard would care if you killed me.”
“He only spared you because you were of such little consequence. A worm is still a worm, even if you decide not to step on it,” he scoffs, but Guy spots the slight hesitation in his step, the slight waver of the weapon.
He smirks. “You do not send men of little consequence on personal missions.”
“You lie!”
“I leave for Jerusalem tomorrow.”
Hood shakes his head. “He would send for me.”
“Would he? He does not even want to speak to you. He wants to speak to the man who saved him. I have had three audiences in the last day. How many have you had? How many words of gratitude?”
“He would send for me,” Hood stubbornly insists.
“We can go ask him if you would like. I can say that you are with me so he will see you,” Guy says, his body tense as he waits to see how his taunt will land.
Hood darts forward, and Guy brings his sword up. The impact of jarring metal vibrates up his arm as their weapons clash. Hood has the downward momentum, and even though Guy’s muscles strain to fight against it, he feels himself weakening. But then Hood does something unexpected. Lunging forward, he barrels into Guy’s chest, and then they are falling, falling until Guy’s head slams into the dirt. His sword falls from his weakened grip as Hood’s hands wrap around his neck.
“Richard would not be taken in by your lies,” Hood spits into his face from above. “Not for one second.”
Guy snorts even as he scrabbles to tear the palms away from his throat. He is losing air, but for the first time since he arrived in the Holy Land, he feels triumphant. “You are a fool,” he rasps, “if you think he cares what you have been doing for your precious peasants of Nottingham.”
The pressure on his throat releases, and the air that rushes into his lungs feels glorious until it is knocked back out of him by the punch Hood lands on his mouth. He feels his lip split.
“Be quiet!” Hood roars, grabbing the front of his jacket. “I have been protecting his people-protecting them from monsters like you and Vasey.”
And then Guy laughs, laughs because he knows how sharp and lethal his next sentence is. He leans upward. “Your King sold Nottingham to Vasey,” he tells him. “He gave Nottingham to Vasey. He didn’t care what happened there as long as it showered him in coins for this idiotic war.”
Hood rears back. “No! That is not--,” he begins, but Guy slams his fist into his nose before he can finish. He falls backward as Guy scrambles to his feet. He leans over and grabs the smaller man’s shirtfront, hauls him up and throws him into the post so hard he can hear the wind as it’s knocked out of him. Guy reaches inside his jacket and removes the small blade he always keeps close to his heart. He should use his sword, but this . . . this is personal. He presses it against Hood’s neck.
“How does that feel?” Guy asks. “Now that your game has no point. Now that all you’ve done has no point. Now that your heroics impress no one.”
“They impress Marian,” Robin spits before his eyes widen as though he’s surprised himself. Guy is surprised as well; Hood never responds to any of his taunts or questions about Marian, let alone offers any.
“You do not talk about her,” Guy threatens, pointing a finger in his face.
“I have more right than you.”
“What does that mean?”
Hood tries to break the gaze. “I mean nothing.”
Guy presses the claw deeper against the soft flesh of Hood’s throat, presses until a bead of blood appears, but he still refuses to speak. Enraged, he backhands him across the face, but overshoots, leaving himself open for the punch in the gut that causes him to stumble backward. Hood runs toward him, but Guy dodges at the last second, reaching out to grab at his waist with the intention of hurling him back to the ground. But he only succeeds in grabbing the leather pouch that dangles at the outlaw’s waist. It tears off into his hands.
There is space between them again, space that neither one of them seems intent on closing. They watch each other warily. Hood braces himself against a post as though suddenly dizzy, heaving and wiping at his lip. Guy’s chest feels tight and sore. But this is not over.
“No wonder you are so loyal to Richard,” he taunts to break the silence, holding his hand up in a pantomime of weighing the pouch. “You are both thieves.
He begins to pluck out the pouch’s contents and toss them in the dirt between them. Truth be told, there are not enough coins to adequately prove his point. Cursing under his breath, Guy digs to the bottom, searching until his fingers alight on something jagged and round. He pulls it out and stares down at it. Even in the dim light, he can see that it is a ring. An emerald ring.
“Wearing jewelry now, Hood?” he sneers, checking Hood’s reaction. But instead of acting sufficiently emasculated, he straightens up and acts as though he is about to stride forward and reclaim it.
“Give that back,” he orders. There is a note of worry beneath the command.
He is missing something. “Whose is it?”
Guy can see Hood strategizing. “Your mother gave it to me,” he says lightly, back to his irritating self in the space of a flash. “I am supposed to return it when I see her tonight.” He begins to saunter back and forth, and Guy realizes that the other man is desperate to distract him from something, to protect something, to protect a woman.
Marian.
And suddenly it all comes together, like a spider furiously spinning her web from scraps of memory. How stupid he’s been. All those times he walked into Marian’s room to catch her looking at something she quickly stashed before she would touch his arm and smile until he forgot; Allan’s slips of tongue; Marian’s refusal to marry him even as the soldiers were storming Nottingham.
The humiliation of his proposals spreads, thick and heavy, in his stomach. She had agreed to marry Hood without any tricks, or manipulations, or ultimatums, or killings-agreed to marry an outlaw who had nothing other than an abandoned title and the adoration of the lowest classes all while rejecting his gifts, his money, his position, his protection, his love. He had imagined woodland trysts but never a secret engagement, if only because he thought that Hood could give her nothing as a husband. And now he finds that the only things she wanted were things that he could never have-or never wanted to have.
His fist closes over the ring, squeezes until he can feel the stones bite into his palm. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hood bend over, pick up a sword and creep forward. And then a surge of rage comes that is so strong that he blacks out. Or he thinks that he has blacked out, for the next thing he knows, there is red all over the ring and he’s bending over Hood’s unconscious figure and touching the stream of blood that flows down from the jagged gash over his eye.
It would be so easy to finish him now, to jab a sword straight through his heart, watch him bleed out into the sand. Guy has never killed anyone for reasons other than politics, but now the desire is so strong that he trembles with it, trembles like he did the first time Vasey thrust a knife into his hand and told him to take care of that pesky messenger who had delivered the wrong message and ruined his plans for the evening. When he had hesitated, Vasey had arched an eyebrow. “If makes you so green at the gills, Guy, you may go,” he had said. “Ambitious lads sprout like weeds around here. Spend your life fighting for scraps; it does not matter to me.” And he had done it, and he had done it again, and then the twinge had disappeared. He had convinced himself that anyone who dabbled in politics was fair game. If the wolf ended up at his door one day, he would accept it as natural. But until it did, he would live as though he didn’t care.
But this is a different kind of killing-Guy recognizes that-that will bring different kinds of consequences. Marian will hate him, he thinks, but then cuts himself off; he no longer cares what she thinks. Oh, he will still marry her. He knows that a good man would step aside in this situation, not stand in front of a happy couple, but he gave up any pretense of being good long ago. He will be her penance, but he will make her into his bauble, and she will hate it. They can drag each other down, but at least he will have his lady. He will not give her the satisfaction of letting go.
A raucous shout from somewhere in the camp reminds him of where he is, where they are. He cannot kill Hood. King Richard would care about his death, and the only way Guy will get out of this alive to claim his prize, is by staying in the sliver of the King’s favor.
Grabbing the man’s arms, he drags him toward the outlaws’ camp, leaving a trail of blood as he goes. He drops him behind their tent, which is silent and dark. They will find him-he imagines that if this man were gone for more than a day, he would have a country’s worth of people looking for him. His future wife included.
The walk back to his bed is a battle between the part of him that wants to tear Marian from her from her bed and the part that wants to prove how much he does not care. He will wait until the morning, he tells himself, when it is more difficult for her to hide in the harsh light of day. Cold, he thinks when he is back in his tent undressing. That is what he will be. That is what he is.