Fallout - Chapter Fifteen
Guy had mastered the rules of working for Vasey by the time he was fifteen. One: Vasey was less likely to hit you if you stood on his right side. Two: Vasey hated fish, so hope that you were already standing on his right side if the kitchen was stupid enough to serve it to him. And three: the wise man feared Vasey’s boredom, for it was far more dangerous than any temporary rage.
It was Vasey who had started calling Guy “Gisbourne,” resurrecting it one day in a fit of restlessness and then encouraging the guards to use it. Guy protested at first, but by that time he had learned what battles were worth fighting. He had grown used to the endless needling, the never-ending tests of loyalty. Not many around him realized it, but Vasey was always playing games. He turned stable boys against each other and sent dishes back at banquets, desperate to see how far he could push his hosts. As he accumulated power, the game grew wider and more ambitious-stable boys turned into guards, hosts turned into lords-but one thing remained constant: he never tired of tormenting Guy. All of Guy’s largest mistakes were made when he forgot that simple fact.
They had been in Nottingham for over a month before Guy saw Marian. Edward would accept Vasey’s belittling invitations to dinners; anyone could see that he was tired of fighting, tired of resisting. Guy had heard that he had a daughter, heard that she was comely and that the people loved her. Edward would make excuses for her absence, claiming illness or a consuming project, until one night he could find no more. And then Marian arrived, changing the world.
She rarely spoke at these gatherings, and she only gave smiles to the servants. And yet unlike most of the women he had met here, whose presences were so wispy and inconsequential that you barely remembered meeting them, she drew attention. He wasted an entire course staring at the shadows the firelight set dancing along her collarbone. He would have wasted another if Vasey hadn’t snapped his fingers in front of Guy’s eyes.
“Pay attention, Gisborne,” he said, rattling his plate for good measure before following his Master of Arms’s gaze with a curled lip. “I see you’ve been enchanted by a leper. I was beginning to think you liked things in breeches.”
You like things in breeches, Guy thought, but he only muttered something about her being pretty.
For a second, Vasey’s eyes clouded with anger-and perhaps jealousy-but it was soon covered by a chuckle and a smile that showed his incisors. “Normally I would say that you’ve pointed your arrow too high, but they are struggling and she’s withering on the bough. You might have a chance,” he finished, sounding unexpectedly generous. He nodded in Edward’s direction. “You should speak to her father. Go on.”
“Not now,” Guy growled, gripping his cup so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
Vasey smiled knowingly. “Come, come. You’ll never fit in with the nobility if you hide from them.”
Guy made no response, just drained his drink and called for another. He wished that she would look toward him, give him some encouragement, but that only happened once and her face and posture were inscrutable. When Guy caught her eye, she turned to whisper something in her father’s ear with a worried brow. Vasey watched the proceedings with what could only be called demented glee.
Now Guy wonders if this whole mess was a casualty of Vasey’s boredom, another small game that expanded and expanded and then went horribly awry. Guy wonders a lot of things in the endless days when Baldrick refuses to return to Jerusalem, when the clay walls grow closer together and the pale desert light creeps from one end of the room to the other at a snail’s pace. The running of Nottingham had rarely left Guy a moment to breathe or think, and he liked it that way. Now he has handfuls of time, baskets of it, oceans.
He cannot avoid thoughts of Marian, imagining her waiting in Richard’s camp. He is not foolish enough to think that she is scanning the horizon for his return, and yet he can’t help but feel pleased that she listened to him enough not to follow, that for once they have come to an agreement without any threats or tricks. He is less worried about Hood than he expected; while the workings of Marian’s mind are still as decipherable to him as ancient Greek, he believes that she will be loyal to her word, if nothing else.
At first he ventures outside for distraction, grudgingly keeping to this forgotten quarter so as not to sabotage his “mission.” The dry heat is difficult to get used to, as is the stark, bleached white of the surrounding homes. Every so often he sees the crest of a dome glittering on the hazy horizon, and he feels the remnants of his freedom. But he never stays out long; the foreign eyes and sounds soon penetrate his flimsy defenses, driving him back to what is quickly coming to feel like a cell. They fear him, and he fears them. It is difficult to tell whose fear is greater.
And so Guy relies on Ahmad to bring him things, to be his link to the outside world. The boy is a puzzle. He likes animals even when they do not like him, bringing treats for the lazy hound which has chosen to sleep away its master’s growing absence. He also brings food to Guy, who is starting to feel like another pet.
More than a month has passed since Baldrick headed to Jaffa. Guy waits for Ahmad to signal that their money and supplies have run out, but he never does. One morning, when the boy has brought yet another trencher filled with various fruits and the meat that Guy has never wanted to identify, he stops him from leaving by stepping in front of the door.
“How do you buy this?” Guy asks, holding an orange in front of the boy’s chin. He has never responded to Guy’s questions, preferring instead to keep his head bowed and his gaze averted.
“This,” he repeats. “Where does it come from?”
Disuse and frustration have sharpened his voice, and Ahmad backs away, making sure to put the table between them. His eyes follow Guy’s hands with a wariness that Guy recognizes as that of someone who is often on the end of stray slaps.
“It was not my intention to scare you,” Guy says, trying to keep his voice even and reassuring. “I only want to know if we will need other means to eat.”
The boy stares across the surface of the table, uncomprehending. Guy searches for a coin and then holds it up next to the fruit. He mimes trading it for the orange, repeating the movement when the first time fails to earn a reaction. After the fourth time, Ahmad’s brow creases in concentration.
Encouraged, Guy holds up the coin. “How many?” he asks and then holds up two fingers. “Two?” he asks, and then adds another. “Three?”
Ahmad’s eyes light up. He wiggles his own fingers rapidly.
“No, it’s not a game. How many?” Guy repeats and gets an enthusiastic nod for his trouble.
With a muttered curse, Guy yanks out a chair and throws himself into it, burying his head in his hands. This is pointless. Who knows when Baldrick will return? It occurs to him that he should be planning what to do if Baldrick never reappears. Does he return to Acre against Richard’s orders and hope to find pardon and a reward anyway? There is no clear solution. There never is any more.
Lost in his thoughts, at first Guy does not notice the tiny taps on his shoulder. When he finally looks up, Ahmad is wearing an expectant expression. Smiling, he points to the ceiling and then walks to the base of the stairway.
“What?” Guy asks.
Ahmad makes a gesture urging Guy to come with him. Curious, Guy follows him up the narrow stone steps and through the stooped hall that leads to the tiny bed chambers. Ahmad stops at Baldrick’s door and hesitantly cracks it open, just wide enough to allow his small form.
In all of his time here, Guy has not once entered Baldrick’s chamber. The less he knows about the man, the easier it will be to forget this place once the task is done. But now he pushes the door open and steps inside.
The smell hits him first. It is musty from neglect, yes, but beneath that are older scents- incense, oil, spice-that grow stronger the closer he gets to Baldrick’s bed and the small wooden table that must be a desk. A light cooing trills from a far corner, and Guy follows it to find two crates filled with pigeons. Ahmad stands before them, mimicking their cries as he slips his fingers between the uneven wooden bars. It is obvious that Baldrick left in haste; satchels lie haphazardly at the foot of the bed, and there are still items laid out on the small desk-a broken quill, a half-finished carving, and ten tiny pouches of stained cloth. Guy idly pulls open one of the pouches, revealing a shaft of bone. A relic, most likely a finger. He does not check the others.
“What is it that you wanted to show me?” Guy asks gruffly. He does not like this room or the way it wears its zealotry on its sleeve. The room downstairs is bad enough.
Ahmad leaves the birds, but not before he gives a speckled one a final pet on the head. Moving lightly across the room, he goes to the side of the high bed and crouches down. Guy hears a heavy scrape as the boy strains to pull something from beneath it. By the time he has walked over to help, the trunk is free from its hiding spot.
It is black and made of old wood. There are crude marks on the top, words that Guy has no time to decipher before Ahmad wrestles the lid from the base. Inside are coins of all kinds and creeds. Every so often their expanse is broken by various bits of jewelry, a few golden crosses, and a dagger with a decorated hilt. They are not all Christian, and some are not even anything Guy has seen before in the Holy Land.
Ahmad catches Guy’s attention and then points to the contents proudly, delighted at having deciphered this strange man’s ridiculous attempts to communicate. As Guy watches, he skims two coins from the top of the chest and drops them in a small pouch hidden beneath the hem of his ragged beige shirt. Then, closing the trunk, he pushes it back beneath the bed. He jumps to his feet, dusts off his hands, and turns on his way back to the jumble of the streets.
“You have left this here?” Guy says when he recovers from his shock. “For a month?”
Ahmad only blinks his dark eyes. They are back to the land of miscommunication
“You should have taken it and escaped,” Guy says, not understanding the boy’s devotion to a man who is obviously insane and who has no need of him beyond an animal keeper. He could have easily swiped the treasure weeks ago and left Guy to fend for himself.
The boy does not respond, only backs away with an uneasy expression. Guy does not know why it bothers him so much, this strange loyalty, or why Ahmad stares at him with more fear than he ever showed Baldrick. The boy’s fists are clenched so tightly that the veins on the back of his hands stand out in stark relief.
“Go,” Guy says, resigned, and then waves him away when Ahmad fails to move.
“Leave,” he snaps again, and then wonders why he feels disappointed that, this time, the boy obeys.
The dream begins as it always does. Guy staggers through a forest of trees that turn into tents and tents that turn into trees, blood staining his hands and arms. Wiping them on his shirt only turns them a deeper red. Entering the tent-trees does not help; some lead to nothing and others transport him to versions of NottinghamCastle or Locksley, versions that are dead and empty, stripped of their people.
This time, however, Marian is waiting for him in a version of Locksley. She is in white-always white-but the walls are maroon, as are the tables, the chairs, and the bed, which is next to the fire and not upstairs where it belongs. Her back is turned-always turned-but when he touches her arm, he only leaves a gruesome handprint. Wordlessly, they stare at the bloodstain together.
Guy wakes up sweating. He wipes a hand over his face and rubs his eyes as though it will expel the images. The night is warm but stuffy, and no matter how hard he breathes, he cannot seem to gain enough air. Leaping out of bed, he pulls on his clothes and then stumbles into the alleyway outside of this prison, not caring that his eyes have not yet adjusted to the silver of the moon.
When they do, he finds that the narrow dirt road is-thankfully-deserted. Leaning against a wall, he gulps in the fresh air until his lungs are satisfied and his mind has shown itself willing to work with him to forget the imagery of his nightmare. And yet even after several minutes, his body rebels at the idea of going back inside, rebels at the very idea of four walls and a ceiling.
He needs to walk, and he does, although he hesitates at every new corner. He passes the small stable where Ahmad is keeping his horse, and-from the looks of it-sleeping by his horse. He passes the small well that will be surrounded by a cluster of inhabitants come early morning and a rare camel, sleeping with its long neck bowed like a lowered drawbridge. It does not occur to him that he has made a lap around the quarter until he is back at the mouth of his alleyway. He starts forward, feeling calmed enough to reattempt sleep, but then stops. Two dark figures huddle before his door, one holding a rope that leads to the shadowy bulk of a horse.
Baldrick, Guy thinks, cursing himself for being out when the man finally returned. He starts forward, excuses on his tongue, but the voices soon make him stutter to a halt. It is not Baldrick, and he has no weapon. Pressing close to the wall, he listens.
“I don’t like it, I’m telling you,” says a male voice. “I told you what my cousin said about them and the babies.”
“And where is your cousin now?” responds a second, and it is light, female.
“Last I heard he was arrested for lying to a Sheriff’s guard.”
“Then I rest my case,” she says. “And besides, we have other things to occupy our worry than your cousin’s superstition. I do not know where to go from here.”
“What?” the man says in a whispered hiss. “I thought you knew where we were going. And do you know why I thought that? I thought this because two days ago you said, ‘Allan, I know where we are going.’”
“I do know! Mostly.”
“Marian, I swear-,”
“Oh you swear what?” she huffs. “We will find him.”
“How, Marian? How.”
“We will wait here until morning, and then I will ask someone if they have seen a large man dressed all in black scowling at people. That’s how.”
“That is the worst plan that I have ever-no, you know what? I’m not even going to try anymore. You-,”
Marian cuts him off with a sharp hiss to be quiet. “There is someone over there,” she says. “By the wall.”
And with that Guy’s mind, which has been reeling for the past minute debating whether or not this is an extension of his dream, realizes that they are speaking of him. He also realizes that this is real, and that Marian, who he had thought was safe and ignorant in Acre, is now here in Jerusalem. With Allan. Against all of his wishes.
He strides forward, and Marian orders Allan to grab his weapon.
“I don’t have a weapon,” Allan says. “They took it before we were let into the city.”
“Then grab something,” she says through gritted teeth. She steps forward to meet him, and this final foolhardy gesture only angers him more. Beneath that, however, runs the keening fear that now she will know-know-what he is here to do. He has no idea what he will do or say when he reaches her-perhaps shake her until all of the defiance comes tumbling out. Or perhaps he will just look to the skies and declare his surrender.
But she does not give him the chance to choose his first move. When he is less than a man’s length away, she cries out with relief.
“Guy! Allan, we’ve found him,” she says and then moves toward him, pulling off the hood that had been covering her hair. She is close enough that he can make out her face, pale in the moonlight.
The familiarity of it-the wide blue eyes, the stubborn chin, the bow of her mouth-knocks away his remaining composure. He has not had company for over a month, and here is the one person that he would choose to see above all others. It is more than his beleaguered brain can take. She says his name again, this time as a question.
“I am glad that you are . . . I hope that you . . . It is nice to . . . here,” she finishes lamely, her surprise and confusion rendering her less eloquent than he has ever heard her be. Her hand flutters forward as though she might touch his shoulder, but she pulls it back at the last moment. “You look well.”
“Marian,” he begins, but then does not know what he wants to say. He looks to where Allan hovers by the horse, watching them with interest, and it helps to break the spell of emotion. “Come inside,” he orders, pushing open the door. “Tie the horse there. A boy will take care of it in the morning.”
He keeps busy by building a fire in the hearth, counseling himself not to say anything until he’s worked out what they are doing here now, after all of this time. But the questions come faster than he can rein them in. It is unlikely that she managed to extricate herself from the camp with Richard’s permission. This will tangle things even further, and he is tired. Frustration gathers in his muscles. He throws wood on the small blaze that has started, and continues to throw it even when the fire has grown to a roar. A spark singes the back of his hand, and he curses.
“You are angry,” Marian says from behind him in a voice that is meant to be consoling. “I understand that. But know that I kept my promise until I had information that prevented me from doing so.”
Guy freezes. He would rather have heard that she was restless and bored than that she has found information.
“Guy,” she urges, “say something.”
“It is still a broken promise,” he snaps, finally allowing himself to face her.
She is silent. He studies her in the firelight, which is is bringing out the red tones that lie buried in her hair. She is dressed in men’s clothing again, this time a large white shirt and brown trousers that are disconcertingly tight at her hips. Her face is solemn, concerned even, but her cheeks are flushed. With pride, Guy imagines, pride at having disobeyed him once again.
“Whose clothing is that?” he asks and then, without waiting for an answer, looks to where Allan stands. “Whose clothes are those?”
Allan’s eyes widen. He holds up his hands and makes to speak, but Marian cuts him off.
“That is your first question?” she asks, incredulous. “How about asking why we are here? I told you, there is a good reason.”
“I doubt that.”
“You have been gone for a month! Without even a message!”
“That is your reason?” he asks, a part of him wanting to believe that she missed him. But this is Marian-he knows otherwise. “I am sorry but I do not believe you.”
Her mouth tightens, but she does not deny it. “You could have sent a message,” she insists.
“I have a nine-year-old boy and a dog at my disposal. Which one would you have preferred carry it?”
“A dog? How domestic of you. I can see now why you did not want to hurry back.”
“It is not mine!”
Marian opens her mouth to yell something, but Allan interrupts.
“I like dogs,” he says from beside them, breaking the mounting tension. When they both look at him he shrugs. “I mean as long as we’re on the subject. Where is it?”
Guy points to the mound of hound in the corner and then watches as Allan shuffles over to see it. When he returns his gaze to Marian, she appears calmer.
“Will you not even listen to what I have to say?” she asks. “I have come a long way to find you.”
Her voice is full of sincerity. When he doesn’t respond, she moves closer, until they are only a hand’s breadth apart. She smells like the sun. He feels his resolve waver and fights the impulse to put a hand on her waist and pull her forward.
"That depends,” he says after a long pause, frowning down at her upturned face. “Under what circumstances did you leave the camp? Richard was adamant that you stay.”
Her face falls. She says, “I convinced him otherwise" while looking down at her hands. Now all he can see is her profile. He wonders how he had ever been taken in by such an apparent liar.
“You convinced the King of England to change his mind?” he asks with a derisive snort.
“I told him that the desert was making me ill and that I needed to return to England. To the convent as you first suggested.”
“You are lying,” he says and turns to where Allan is rubbing the hound’s ears despite its muted growls. “Allan?” Guy says, waiting for confirmation.
Allan looks up, his eyes flickering from Guy to Marian and back. “Marian has been ill. A lot. Yesterday-,”
“The point is that we are here for a reason,” she says hastily, throwing Allan a dirty look before turning back to entreat him. “Guy, there is something strange about what you have been sent here to do. The man you were to meet, Baldrick, was in Richard’s camp just a week ago.” She reaches into a sack that Allan had dumped on the table and pulls out a bundle of scrap parchment. “And we have these. Read them. You will see why I was concerned.”
She thrusts the letters into his hand, and then leaves hers there longer than necessary, looking at him with a slight but hopeful smile.
Guy has never seen her so eager to work with him. Despite his better judgment, he sets the bundle on the table and unfolds the one on top . . . and then closes it when his eye immediately spots the words “Abbess” and “Chelle.”
“This?” he says while holding it in front of her face. “This is nothing. Tomorrow you will start your journey back to Nottingham, taking a ship from Jaffa. Allan will accompany you. And then you will wait for me at Ripley.”
She rips her hands away, horrified. “I will not!”
“Yes!”
“No! I am not sitting at a convent when there is something requiring my attention here.”
“For once in your life, woman, keep your nose out of it!”
Suddenly, her eyes narrow. Wrapping her fingers around the back of a chair, she peers at him suspiciously. “What do you know?”
A fraught silence falls, one that’s filled only by the pop of shifting logs.
“Nothing,” he says finally, his heart pounding as he balls up the letter in his hand and throws it into the fire. “And neither do you.”
Guy prepares for her anger, but she has reverted to Marian the Impenetrable, Marian the Stone-faced as she watches the letter burn. He looks to Allan for distraction but he is no longer with the dog, having escaped unnoticed sometime during their conversation.
“I only want to protect you, Marian” he says after a long pause, trying to ease his voice back to a normal volume. “This will soon be over. And then we will have Nottingham.”
Her head snaps toward him. “We will not have Nottingham.”
“Richard has suggested-”
“Richard has made Robin the new Sheriff of Nottingham and restored Locksley. That is one of the reasons that I have come to find you,” she says. “That is one of the reasons that I was worried. I do not know what you think that you are here for, Guy, but it is not for Nottingham.”
The feelings of betrayal overwhelm him-not just by Richard, but by God and destiny and justice. They are so great that Guy does not know what to say, or even where to look, He can only watch Marian as Marian watches him, her chest heaving after her outburst. Her eyes glitter with anger, yes, but also something less definable. As the seconds pass, the anger dims. She looks pained.
“That is not how I meant to tell you,” she says softly. “But you understand now why I came here. You have to tell me what you know.”
At that moment her sympathy grates on his nerves. She is speaking to him as though he were a disappointed child.
"Are you happy that it has gone to him?” he blurts out.
“What?”
“Are you happy?” he repeats.
Her struggle to find an answer is obvious. “I am sorry that you cannot have something that means so much to you.”
That is a yes. “How political,” he says darkly.
“Guy,” she starts, but he does not want to hear anymore.
“There is food on the table and a bed upstairs. You should rest before you leave tomorrow,” he says with as little emotion as possible, striding past her on his way to the door. He never imagined that this room could feel more claustrophobic.
“Leave?” she cries and then calls out for him to wait. But he is already shutting the door behind him and stalking into the night.
It was Vasey who had started calling Guy “Gisbourne,” resurrecting it one day in a fit of restlessness and then encouraging the guards to use it. Guy protested at first, but by that time he had learned what battles were worth fighting. He had grown used to the endless needling, the never-ending tests of loyalty. Not many around him realized it, but Vasey was always playing games. He turned stable boys against each other and sent dishes back at banquets, desperate to see how far he could push his hosts. As he accumulated power, the game grew wider and more ambitious-stable boys turned into guards, hosts turned into lords-but one thing remained constant: he never tired of tormenting Guy. All of Guy’s largest mistakes were made when he forgot that simple fact.
They had been in Nottingham for over a month before Guy saw Marian. Edward would accept Vasey’s belittling invitations to dinners; anyone could see that he was tired of fighting, tired of resisting. Guy had heard that he had a daughter, heard that she was comely and that the people loved her. Edward would make excuses for her absence, claiming illness or a consuming project, until one night he could find no more. And then Marian arrived, changing the world.
She rarely spoke at these gatherings, and she only gave smiles to the servants. And yet unlike most of the women he had met here, whose presences were so wispy and inconsequential that you barely remembered meeting them, she drew attention. He wasted an entire course staring at the shadows the firelight set dancing along her collarbone. He would have wasted another if Vasey hadn’t snapped his fingers in front of Guy’s eyes.
“Pay attention, Gisborne,” he said, rattling his plate for good measure before following his Master of Arms’s gaze with a curled lip. “I see you’ve been enchanted by a leper. I was beginning to think you liked things in breeches.”
You like things in breeches, Guy thought, but he only muttered something about her being pretty.
For a second, Vasey’s eyes clouded with anger-and perhaps jealousy-but it was soon covered by a chuckle and a smile that showed his incisors. “Normally I would say that you’ve pointed your arrow too high, but they are struggling and she’s withering on the bough. You might have a chance,” he finished, sounding unexpectedly generous. He nodded in Edward’s direction. “You should speak to her father. Go on.”
“Not now,” Guy growled, gripping his cup so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
Vasey smiled knowingly. “Come, come. You’ll never fit in with the nobility if you hide from them.”
Guy made no response, just drained his drink and called for another. He wished that she would look toward him, give him some encouragement, but that only happened once and her face and posture were inscrutable. When Guy caught her eye, she turned to whisper something in her father’s ear with a worried brow. Vasey watched the proceedings with what could only be called demented glee.
Now Guy wonders if this whole mess was a casualty of Vasey’s boredom, another small game that expanded and expanded and then went horribly awry. Guy wonders a lot of things in the endless days when Baldrick refuses to return to Jerusalem, when the clay walls grow closer together and the pale desert light creeps from one end of the room to the other at a snail’s pace. The running of Nottingham had rarely left Guy a moment to breathe or think, and he liked it that way. Now he has handfuls of time, baskets of it, oceans.
He cannot avoid thoughts of Marian, imagining her waiting in Richard’s camp. He is not foolish enough to think that she is scanning the horizon for his return, and yet he can’t help but feel pleased that she listened to him enough not to follow, that for once they have come to an agreement without any threats or tricks. He is less worried about Hood than he expected; while the workings of Marian’s mind are still as decipherable to him as ancient Greek, he believes that she will be loyal to her word, if nothing else.
At first he ventures outside for distraction, grudgingly keeping to this forgotten quarter so as not to sabotage his “mission.” The dry heat is difficult to get used to, as is the stark, bleached white of the surrounding homes. Every so often he sees the crest of a dome glittering on the hazy horizon, and he feels the remnants of his freedom. But he never stays out long; the foreign eyes and sounds soon penetrate his flimsy defenses, driving him back to what is quickly coming to feel like a cell. They fear him, and he fears them. It is difficult to tell whose fear is greater.
And so Guy relies on Ahmad to bring him things, to be his link to the outside world. The boy is a puzzle. He likes animals even when they do not like him, bringing treats for the lazy hound which has chosen to sleep away its master’s growing absence. He also brings food to Guy, who is starting to feel like another pet.
More than a month has passed since Baldrick headed to Jaffa. Guy waits for Ahmad to signal that their money and supplies have run out, but he never does. One morning, when the boy has brought yet another trencher filled with various fruits and the meat that Guy has never wanted to identify, he stops him from leaving by stepping in front of the door.
“How do you buy this?” Guy asks, holding an orange in front of the boy’s chin. He has never responded to Guy’s questions, preferring instead to keep his head bowed and his gaze averted.
“This,” he repeats. “Where does it come from?”
Disuse and frustration have sharpened his voice, and Ahmad backs away, making sure to put the table between them. His eyes follow Guy’s hands with a wariness that Guy recognizes as that of someone who is often on the end of stray slaps.
“It was not my intention to scare you,” Guy says, trying to keep his voice even and reassuring. “I only want to know if we will need other means to eat.”
The boy stares across the surface of the table, uncomprehending. Guy searches for a coin and then holds it up next to the fruit. He mimes trading it for the orange, repeating the movement when the first time fails to earn a reaction. After the fourth time, Ahmad’s brow creases in concentration.
Encouraged, Guy holds up the coin. “How many?” he asks and then holds up two fingers. “Two?” he asks, and then adds another. “Three?”
Ahmad’s eyes light up. He wiggles his own fingers rapidly.
“No, it’s not a game. How many?” Guy repeats and gets an enthusiastic nod for his trouble.
With a muttered curse, Guy yanks out a chair and throws himself into it, burying his head in his hands. This is pointless. Who knows when Baldrick will return? It occurs to him that he should be planning what to do if Baldrick never reappears. Does he return to Acre against Richard’s orders and hope to find pardon and a reward anyway? There is no clear solution. There never is any more.
Lost in his thoughts, at first Guy does not notice the tiny taps on his shoulder. When he finally looks up, Ahmad is wearing an expectant expression. Smiling, he points to the ceiling and then walks to the base of the stairway.
“What?” Guy asks.
Ahmad makes a gesture urging Guy to come with him. Curious, Guy follows him up the narrow stone steps and through the stooped hall that leads to the tiny bed chambers. Ahmad stops at Baldrick’s door and hesitantly cracks it open, just wide enough to allow his small form.
In all of his time here, Guy has not once entered Baldrick’s chamber. The less he knows about the man, the easier it will be to forget this place once the task is done. But now he pushes the door open and steps inside.
The smell hits him first. It is musty from neglect, yes, but beneath that are older scents- incense, oil, spice-that grow stronger the closer he gets to Baldrick’s bed and the small wooden table that must be a desk. A light cooing trills from a far corner, and Guy follows it to find two crates filled with pigeons. Ahmad stands before them, mimicking their cries as he slips his fingers between the uneven wooden bars. It is obvious that Baldrick left in haste; satchels lie haphazardly at the foot of the bed, and there are still items laid out on the small desk-a broken quill, a half-finished carving, and ten tiny pouches of stained cloth. Guy idly pulls open one of the pouches, revealing a shaft of bone. A relic, most likely a finger. He does not check the others.
“What is it that you wanted to show me?” Guy asks gruffly. He does not like this room or the way it wears its zealotry on its sleeve. The room downstairs is bad enough.
Ahmad leaves the birds, but not before he gives a speckled one a final pet on the head. Moving lightly across the room, he goes to the side of the high bed and crouches down. Guy hears a heavy scrape as the boy strains to pull something from beneath it. By the time he has walked over to help, the trunk is free from its hiding spot.
It is black and made of old wood. There are crude marks on the top, words that Guy has no time to decipher before Ahmad wrestles the lid from the base. Inside are coins of all kinds and creeds. Every so often their expanse is broken by various bits of jewelry, a few golden crosses, and a dagger with a decorated hilt. They are not all Christian, and some are not even anything Guy has seen before in the Holy Land.
Ahmad catches Guy’s attention and then points to the contents proudly, delighted at having deciphered this strange man’s ridiculous attempts to communicate. As Guy watches, he skims two coins from the top of the chest and drops them in a small pouch hidden beneath the hem of his ragged beige shirt. Then, closing the trunk, he pushes it back beneath the bed. He jumps to his feet, dusts off his hands, and turns on his way back to the jumble of the streets.
“You have left this here?” Guy says when he recovers from his shock. “For a month?”
Ahmad only blinks his dark eyes. They are back to the land of miscommunication
“You should have taken it and escaped,” Guy says, not understanding the boy’s devotion to a man who is obviously insane and who has no need of him beyond an animal keeper. He could have easily swiped the treasure weeks ago and left Guy to fend for himself.
The boy does not respond, only backs away with an uneasy expression. Guy does not know why it bothers him so much, this strange loyalty, or why Ahmad stares at him with more fear than he ever showed Baldrick. The boy’s fists are clenched so tightly that the veins on the back of his hands stand out in stark relief.
“Go,” Guy says, resigned, and then waves him away when Ahmad fails to move.
“Leave,” he snaps again, and then wonders why he feels disappointed that, this time, the boy obeys.
The dream begins as it always does. Guy staggers through a forest of trees that turn into tents and tents that turn into trees, blood staining his hands and arms. Wiping them on his shirt only turns them a deeper red. Entering the tent-trees does not help; some lead to nothing and others transport him to versions of NottinghamCastle or Locksley, versions that are dead and empty, stripped of their people.
This time, however, Marian is waiting for him in a version of Locksley. She is in white-always white-but the walls are maroon, as are the tables, the chairs, and the bed, which is next to the fire and not upstairs where it belongs. Her back is turned-always turned-but when he touches her arm, he only leaves a gruesome handprint. Wordlessly, they stare at the bloodstain together.
Guy wakes up sweating. He wipes a hand over his face and rubs his eyes as though it will expel the images. The night is warm but stuffy, and no matter how hard he breathes, he cannot seem to gain enough air. Leaping out of bed, he pulls on his clothes and then stumbles into the alleyway outside of this prison, not caring that his eyes have not yet adjusted to the silver of the moon.
When they do, he finds that the narrow dirt road is-thankfully-deserted. Leaning against a wall, he gulps in the fresh air until his lungs are satisfied and his mind has shown itself willing to work with him to forget the imagery of his nightmare. And yet even after several minutes, his body rebels at the idea of going back inside, rebels at the very idea of four walls and a ceiling.
He needs to walk, and he does, although he hesitates at every new corner. He passes the small stable where Ahmad is keeping his horse, and-from the looks of it-sleeping by his horse. He passes the small well that will be surrounded by a cluster of inhabitants come early morning and a rare camel, sleeping with its long neck bowed like a lowered drawbridge. It does not occur to him that he has made a lap around the quarter until he is back at the mouth of his alleyway. He starts forward, feeling calmed enough to reattempt sleep, but then stops. Two dark figures huddle before his door, one holding a rope that leads to the shadowy bulk of a horse.
Baldrick, Guy thinks, cursing himself for being out when the man finally returned. He starts forward, excuses on his tongue, but the voices soon make him stutter to a halt. It is not Baldrick, and he has no weapon. Pressing close to the wall, he listens.
“I don’t like it, I’m telling you,” says a male voice. “I told you what my cousin said about them and the babies.”
“And where is your cousin now?” responds a second, and it is light, female.
“Last I heard he was arrested for lying to a Sheriff’s guard.”
“Then I rest my case,” she says. “And besides, we have other things to occupy our worry than your cousin’s superstition. I do not know where to go from here.”
“What?” the man says in a whispered hiss. “I thought you knew where we were going. And do you know why I thought that? I thought this because two days ago you said, ‘Allan, I know where we are going.’”
“I do know! Mostly.”
“Marian, I swear-,”
“Oh you swear what?” she huffs. “We will find him.”
“How, Marian? How.”
“We will wait here until morning, and then I will ask someone if they have seen a large man dressed all in black scowling at people. That’s how.”
“That is the worst plan that I have ever-no, you know what? I’m not even going to try anymore. You-,”
Marian cuts him off with a sharp hiss to be quiet. “There is someone over there,” she says. “By the wall.”
And with that Guy’s mind, which has been reeling for the past minute debating whether or not this is an extension of his dream, realizes that they are speaking of him. He also realizes that this is real, and that Marian, who he had thought was safe and ignorant in Acre, is now here in Jerusalem. With Allan. Against all of his wishes.
He strides forward, and Marian orders Allan to grab his weapon.
“I don’t have a weapon,” Allan says. “They took it before we were let into the city.”
“Then grab something,” she says through gritted teeth. She steps forward to meet him, and this final foolhardy gesture only angers him more. Beneath that, however, runs the keening fear that now she will know-know-what he is here to do. He has no idea what he will do or say when he reaches her-perhaps shake her until all of the defiance comes tumbling out. Or perhaps he will just look to the skies and declare his surrender.
But she does not give him the chance to choose his first move. When he is less than a man’s length away, she cries out with relief.
“Guy! Allan, we’ve found him,” she says and then moves toward him, pulling off the hood that had been covering her hair. She is close enough that he can make out her face, pale in the moonlight.
The familiarity of it-the wide blue eyes, the stubborn chin, the bow of her mouth-knocks away his remaining composure. He has not had company for over a month, and here is the one person that he would choose to see above all others. It is more than his beleaguered brain can take. She says his name again, this time as a question.
“I am glad that you are . . . I hope that you . . . It is nice to . . . here,” she finishes lamely, her surprise and confusion rendering her less eloquent than he has ever heard her be. Her hand flutters forward as though she might touch his shoulder, but she pulls it back at the last moment. “You look well.”
“Marian,” he begins, but then does not know what he wants to say. He looks to where Allan hovers by the horse, watching them with interest, and it helps to break the spell of emotion. “Come inside,” he orders, pushing open the door. “Tie the horse there. A boy will take care of it in the morning.”
He keeps busy by building a fire in the hearth, counseling himself not to say anything until he’s worked out what they are doing here now, after all of this time. But the questions come faster than he can rein them in. It is unlikely that she managed to extricate herself from the camp with Richard’s permission. This will tangle things even further, and he is tired. Frustration gathers in his muscles. He throws wood on the small blaze that has started, and continues to throw it even when the fire has grown to a roar. A spark singes the back of his hand, and he curses.
“You are angry,” Marian says from behind him in a voice that is meant to be consoling. “I understand that. But know that I kept my promise until I had information that prevented me from doing so.”
Guy freezes. He would rather have heard that she was restless and bored than that she has found information.
“Guy,” she urges, “say something.”
“It is still a broken promise,” he snaps, finally allowing himself to face her.
She is silent. He studies her in the firelight, which is is bringing out the red tones that lie buried in her hair. She is dressed in men’s clothing again, this time a large white shirt and brown trousers that are disconcertingly tight at her hips. Her face is solemn, concerned even, but her cheeks are flushed. With pride, Guy imagines, pride at having disobeyed him once again.
“Whose clothing is that?” he asks and then, without waiting for an answer, looks to where Allan stands. “Whose clothes are those?”
Allan’s eyes widen. He holds up his hands and makes to speak, but Marian cuts him off.
“That is your first question?” she asks, incredulous. “How about asking why we are here? I told you, there is a good reason.”
“I doubt that.”
“You have been gone for a month! Without even a message!”
“That is your reason?” he asks, a part of him wanting to believe that she missed him. But this is Marian-he knows otherwise. “I am sorry but I do not believe you.”
Her mouth tightens, but she does not deny it. “You could have sent a message,” she insists.
“I have a nine-year-old boy and a dog at my disposal. Which one would you have preferred carry it?”
“A dog? How domestic of you. I can see now why you did not want to hurry back.”
“It is not mine!”
Marian opens her mouth to yell something, but Allan interrupts.
“I like dogs,” he says from beside them, breaking the mounting tension. When they both look at him he shrugs. “I mean as long as we’re on the subject. Where is it?”
Guy points to the mound of hound in the corner and then watches as Allan shuffles over to see it. When he returns his gaze to Marian, she appears calmer.
“Will you not even listen to what I have to say?” she asks. “I have come a long way to find you.”
Her voice is full of sincerity. When he doesn’t respond, she moves closer, until they are only a hand’s breadth apart. She smells like the sun. He feels his resolve waver and fights the impulse to put a hand on her waist and pull her forward.
"That depends,” he says after a long pause, frowning down at her upturned face. “Under what circumstances did you leave the camp? Richard was adamant that you stay.”
Her face falls. She says, “I convinced him otherwise" while looking down at her hands. Now all he can see is her profile. He wonders how he had ever been taken in by such an apparent liar.
“You convinced the King of England to change his mind?” he asks with a derisive snort.
“I told him that the desert was making me ill and that I needed to return to England. To the convent as you first suggested.”
“You are lying,” he says and turns to where Allan is rubbing the hound’s ears despite its muted growls. “Allan?” Guy says, waiting for confirmation.
Allan looks up, his eyes flickering from Guy to Marian and back. “Marian has been ill. A lot. Yesterday-,”
“The point is that we are here for a reason,” she says hastily, throwing Allan a dirty look before turning back to entreat him. “Guy, there is something strange about what you have been sent here to do. The man you were to meet, Baldrick, was in Richard’s camp just a week ago.” She reaches into a sack that Allan had dumped on the table and pulls out a bundle of scrap parchment. “And we have these. Read them. You will see why I was concerned.”
She thrusts the letters into his hand, and then leaves hers there longer than necessary, looking at him with a slight but hopeful smile.
Guy has never seen her so eager to work with him. Despite his better judgment, he sets the bundle on the table and unfolds the one on top . . . and then closes it when his eye immediately spots the words “Abbess” and “Chelle.”
“This?” he says while holding it in front of her face. “This is nothing. Tomorrow you will start your journey back to Nottingham, taking a ship from Jaffa. Allan will accompany you. And then you will wait for me at Ripley.”
She rips her hands away, horrified. “I will not!”
“Yes!”
“No! I am not sitting at a convent when there is something requiring my attention here.”
“For once in your life, woman, keep your nose out of it!”
Suddenly, her eyes narrow. Wrapping her fingers around the back of a chair, she peers at him suspiciously. “What do you know?”
A fraught silence falls, one that’s filled only by the pop of shifting logs.
“Nothing,” he says finally, his heart pounding as he balls up the letter in his hand and throws it into the fire. “And neither do you.”
Guy prepares for her anger, but she has reverted to Marian the Impenetrable, Marian the Stone-faced as she watches the letter burn. He looks to Allan for distraction but he is no longer with the dog, having escaped unnoticed sometime during their conversation.
“I only want to protect you, Marian” he says after a long pause, trying to ease his voice back to a normal volume. “This will soon be over. And then we will have Nottingham.”
Her head snaps toward him. “We will not have Nottingham.”
“Richard has suggested-”
“Richard has made Robin the new Sheriff of Nottingham and restored Locksley. That is one of the reasons that I have come to find you,” she says. “That is one of the reasons that I was worried. I do not know what you think that you are here for, Guy, but it is not for Nottingham.”
The feelings of betrayal overwhelm him-not just by Richard, but by God and destiny and justice. They are so great that Guy does not know what to say, or even where to look, He can only watch Marian as Marian watches him, her chest heaving after her outburst. Her eyes glitter with anger, yes, but also something less definable. As the seconds pass, the anger dims. She looks pained.
“That is not how I meant to tell you,” she says softly. “But you understand now why I came here. You have to tell me what you know.”
At that moment her sympathy grates on his nerves. She is speaking to him as though he were a disappointed child.
"Are you happy that it has gone to him?” he blurts out.
“What?”
“Are you happy?” he repeats.
Her struggle to find an answer is obvious. “I am sorry that you cannot have something that means so much to you.”
That is a yes. “How political,” he says darkly.
“Guy,” she starts, but he does not want to hear anymore.
“There is food on the table and a bed upstairs. You should rest before you leave tomorrow,” he says with as little emotion as possible, striding past her on his way to the door. He never imagined that this room could feel more claustrophobic.
“Leave?” she cries and then calls out for him to wait. But he is already shutting the door behind him and stalking into the night.