Choices - Part III
Spoilers: references to S1, 2 and 3.
PG for romantic scenes
PG -13 for violent scenes
“Well, if it isn’t the pigeon turd’s partner in crime.”
Matilda stands with her hands on her hips at Marian’s doorway. Mud is on the leather slippers that serve as her shoes, a few splatters more dot the mish-mash of browns, greens and oranges of her baggy skirt, shirt, and vest. Her unkempt light brown curls are banded by a reddish-brown scarf tied around her head. Her face is red and damp from the frantic rush to get here as quickly as she could.
Guy scowls. What is she doing here? As irritating as ever, too. Last time he’d seen her, he’d been enjoying her death by dunking with a tinge of guilt - until she’d mysteriously vanished. If he were in her position, he’d refuse to help; the payback would be so satisfying. He should not trust her. He should order the guards to take her away.
But if she does not attend to Marian, then who? He casts a furtive glance at Marian. The swelling is worsening, and fast. Enough time has been wasted fetching this quack. Crossing his arms in front of his chest Guy decides he’ll hold his tongue, but his eyes are wary as he watches Matilda roll up her sleeves and approach Marian on her bed.
Matilda waits and holds his stare measure for measure. Precious seconds pass. Exasperated, Matilda says, “Well, you still have newt warts for brains.” While the entire male population readily adheres to proper etiquette during these delicate situations, this one needs directions, “Get out.”
Stunned by her sheer audacity Guy moves to leave. But at the doorway he pauses. Rounding on her, he says in a voice that would so vividly conjure a normal woman’s terror of death that her life would begin to flash before her eyes in preparation, “If you don’t help her, you will drown as you should have before.” He sniffs his insolent disregard. “I’ll hold you underwater myself. For as long as it takes.”
Matilda takes three strides to stand tall before him. This is new; Guy is accustomed to cowering submissiveness in his lessers.
Placing her hand on his chest, she closes her eyes as she prepares to receive some imminent, sweet joy. When she opens them, they flash a defiance so powerful, Guy is taken aback. When next she shoves Sir Guy of Gisborne out the door, he has no choice but to walk backwards lest he fall flat on his back.
Satisfied Sir Guy is where he belongs, she slaps her palms together as though to rid them of filth, and slams the door. Matilda goes to her patient with her true demeanor now evident. She has that inexplicable deep caring that binds the healer to the patient in an instant. Empathetic, gentle, and clear-headed. “Let’s see what I can do to set things right, shall we love?”
Marian does not answer. She is unaware that Matilda is even there.
A blood-chilling scream vibrates within Guy’s chest. His heart stops. Marian. Booming like thunder, “What’s going -!“ he bursts back into the room, half stumbling in his haste. Mistrust had compelled Guy to listen at the door. Turning her head to the sound of his voice, Marian’s unseeing eyes are dazed as though she has been suddenly thrust to where she lies from a better place far away. The tension missing from Marian’s flushed face stops him midsentence. Her pain must be significantly eased.
“Well?” Matilda asks with a lack of interest. “You demanded something?”
Guy sees Marian’s hand is turned as it should be. Of course Marian would cry out. Matilda had been resetting Marian’s broken bones. He’d heard worse from seasoned men wounded in battle come to think of it. But that horrendous scream has spurned a yearning to be by her side to whisper comfort and strength into her ear as she suffers through this ordeal. “Is there anything I can do?”
Leaning over Marian with her hands pressed in a firm grip on Marian’s arm to hold it in position, Matilda answers, “Kicking a bucket would do wonders,” dismissing Guy with a nod at the open doorway.
Reluctant, Guy begins a slow retreat. “Wait!” With resentful hope, Guy pauses to look back at her over his shoulder, his hand on the doorframe. “Send in Bess. If you haven’t skewered her for breathing in your direction, you arrogant, hairy behind of a donkey.”
“Tell me she is dead.” The Sheriff is ready for bed in his black silk pajamas. A fire blazing in his bedchamber’s fireplace is crackling the fragrant scent of pine. A bit of overheated sap explodes out of the fire and lands on the Sheriff’s bare foot burning a small circle into his skin. Cursing, he kicks at the air then hops in a little circle cradling his smarting foot in his hands.
“TELL ME!”
“She is not.”
The Sheriff drops his foot and grabs his visitor by his shirt, yanking the man’s face close to his own. His eyes flutter almost as a lover, his whisper is a seduction, “This better be good.”
“The wire was too low. It cut off the horse’s head instead.”
“I WILL NOT ACCEPT INCOMPETENCE!”
“But you will want to hear this.”
“WHAT!”
“Today, she was alone. For the first time. She went straight to Robin Hood.”
Uncontrolled fury reddens the Sheriff’s face until the blood pouring into it threatens to force his bulging eyes to pop right out of his head.
“HE HAS FAILED AGAIN! I want you to teach Sir Guy a lesson! One he won’t forget for as LONG AS HE LIVES!”
One week after their arrival, the Black Knights and their wives are enjoying a feast with entertainment at the Sheriff’s invitation. This afternoon at Nottingham Castle has been a relief from the doom and gloom of Locksley. Shame Sir Guy of Gisborne had to come along. Otherwise, the day would have been perfect.
Gisborne walks alone down the grey stoned corridor having tended to a small matter involving a worthless jailer and an even more worthless prisoner in the dungeons below. His spurs mark his slow stride with a monotone two-beat jingle. Laughter and lutes beckon on the air from behind a set of double doors a distance ahead. Unenthused, Gisborne wishes all this gaiety would just hurry up and be over with so he can go back to popping his head into her bedchamber to see if she needs anything, to feel if she has a fever or not in open defiance of that pit bull, Matilda. To repeat this ritual every few minutes. To see her blush.
Damn the Sheriff.
Something sharp digs into his back as a tight hold whips around to clench his throat. Into his ear comes a chortle, “You’re losing your tan, Gisborne.” The voice raises the hairs on the back of his neck. He’s been caught off guard too easily. Damn Hood.
Cheerful in his dislike for Gisborne, Hood continues, “I’ll get straight to the point.” The weapon turns. Gisborne closes his eyes but only long enough to rise above the pain. “Someone’s trying to kill my fiancé.”
“You mean my wife,” Gisborne growls.
“That’s not what I hear,” grins Hood, relishing the chance to taunt.
Gisborne’s voice oozes a lecherous threat, “Oh, she will be - after I cut your throat.” Two can play at this game. The tip of whatever it is digs deeper forcing Gisborne to arch himself like a bow to avoid impalement.
But it’s Hood who feels the fear. With him gone, Marian will have no choice but to become Gisborne’s wife in every sense of the word.
No, she would rather die.
Or, would she? Unable to contain his fear for her, or his jealousy, Hood sneers, “She’ll be dead before you can figure out how to cut your toenails. You do try to cut your toenails, don’t you Gisborne?”
With a roar, Gisborne heaves his great power against his captor’s grip and throws Hood off. Hood sees Gisborne’s eyes flash with more menace than the broadsword he pulls from its sheath, its ominous ring magnified by walls too close for comfort.
In the second it takes to aim his sword at Hood’s heart, Gisborne assesses the situation. A curved, Turkish sword and one escape. Several yards behind Hood are the stairs up to the bailey - or down to dungeons impossible to escape. On the bailey, Gisborne could hoist Hood over the wall into Hell. Gisborne gives a one-sided grin. There’s no escape at all.
“Let her go,” Hood warns with a tap of his sword against Gisborne’s.
Gisborne flies at his enemy, his eyes and mouth contorted into a terror - a ghoul - that craves to watch when Hood’s blood follows the grooves in the floor. Hood is all that stands between him and the life he deserves. “She can leave whenever she wants.”
With lethal lashes Hood fights back, “That’s the problem. She won’t.” Their bodies wrestle each other’s swords with such speed, twists, and turns the men are blurred into a heavy demon on the loose, crashing itself into the corridor walls, unstoppable in its intent to kill its other half. Hood yells, “I have to protect her!”
“You don’t have the stomach to do what’s necessary!” The fight is dangerous in such tight quarters. Either opponent could lose this moment to an unlucky, deadly position. “I do!” To prove it, Gisborne stabs swiftly at Hood’s chest. He slashes a series of crisscrossing attacks. Just missing Hood’s chest has spurred more sweaty determination to pound Hood to death.
“If I start killing, people will stop listening.”
Hood is tiring, Gisborne can tell. “To what? Your dreams of justice?” The left edge of his blade slashes next to Hood’s neck. “Face it, Hood, the world is as it is.” Gisborne pants for air, “Unjust.” He lifts his sword with both hands and swings it hard.
Hood ducks as a wind hits his cheek. No time to ponder the torch now burning from the floor. Gisborne’s heavy sword is swinging again. With his foot, Hood shoves Gisborne in the stomach and as Gisborne staggers to regain his feet with a shout of anger, Hood turns and runs to gain wider ground on the landing below the turret stairs. Facing Gisborne with teeth bared, a low rumble in his throat says he’s ready for more.
Gisborne comes at him with a war cry that ends when Hood’s blood sprays into the air from the inside of his sword arm. Gisborne lowers his bloodied sword, but only long enough to gloat, “That must have hurt.”
Hood shifts his feet closer to the stairs ignoring the air searing his flesh beneath his skin and the rapid weakening of his throbbing hand’s grip on the hilt of his sword. His enemy is on the prowl. A few drops of blood fall to the floor beneath Hood’s feet - some from his sleeve, some from the sword Gisborne has whipped back into position. Gisborne’s wide grin and quiet, breathy laugh tell Hood to start praying for his life.
His eyes darkened with pleasure, Gisborne shakes his head in mock self-deprecation, “I missed. Let me try again.” He thrusts his sword at the white of Hood’s right eye.
With a deft deflection and over Gisborne’s shout of violent impatience, Hood yells, “Where was this protection when she fell off her horse?” At that, Gisborne’s confidence falters. Hood can smell it as he matches Gisborne’s unrelenting strikes with his own until the turn of a badly done thrust locks both swords and wrists together. Shoving with elbows and forearms, their bodies close, one-handed punches take over the fight, gouging guts, cutting faces, whiplashing necks. Throats elude grasps and clutches.
The attack smashes Gisborne against a wall who cries out the bruising impact, then freezes. Hood’s body is still close even as he holds his sword a hair’s breadth from Gisborne’s throat. His blue eyes glitter with a naked lust for what Gisborne knows all too well. Revenge denied - until now.
Hood spits out, “My men were there. They found proof it wasn’t an accident. They say it was you.”
Gisborne snorts with disrespect, discarding the idiotic accusation, “You’re the one everyone wants dead. Someone was probably trying to do us all a favour and Marian got hurt by mistake.” Quick, spry, light on his feet, the confidence that his battle is just, the light of life in his eyes. Gisborne feels like a clumsy brute in comparison. “I can’t wait to kill you.” He digs his gloved hand into Hood’s wound.
Hood bellows the agony that shoots down and up to his hand and neck giving Gisborne the distraction he needs. He knocks Hood’s sword clear, and before Hood can stop him Gisborne steps away from the wall and into the fight. The two men circle each other as predators scheming to claim the same prey. The power beneath each muscle flex and ripple is unpredictable. Deadly.
Hood wonders how to make this stupid oaf listen. “I’m not so certain it’s you. Someone is watching Locksley. I’ve seen him.”
“I keep her safe. She is never alone.” As though in a conversation at a dinner party, Gisborne adds, “But you must know that.”
“She was very much alone the day someone tried to kill her. The day she came to see me.”
With a bellow, Gisborne throws himself at Hood with jealous rage. Hood’s sword whips a quick caress around Gisborne’s, wrenching it out of his hand. Clattering loudly, it tumbles hilt over point into a corner. A knot tightens in Gisborne’s stomach. For the second time within a few minutes time, Hood has Gisborne trapped, unarmed.
Hood always did plan for immediate results. He smiles with glee. Victory over Gisborne is always sweet. To the victor go the spoils.
Gisborne dares Hood, “Go on. Make Marian my widow.”
“I’ve got better things to do,” Hood declines with a bow of his head to one side. Nightmares that do not wake. Food that has no taste. Love undeserved. Hood never will go back to that soulless existence. And if that means Gisborne lives today, so be it.
“Let me guess. Saving England,” scoffs Gisborne. “You’re so pointless, Hood.”
Gisborne always manages to enrage Hood. He’s arrogant. He’s sadistic in his inhumane quest for power. But Hood keeps his head, “Let her go, Gisborne. Or I swear the Sheriff will hear of your disloyalty. Marian’s got the proof. My letter.”
The moment Hood disappears round the first steps of the turret stairs, Gisborne grabs his sword off the floor to chase after him.
Striding the entire length of the bailey’s sunny walk then back again, Gisborne finds no one. Impossible. Hood has apparently evaporated into thin air.
The danger over for now, Gisborne feels for the first time the dampness that has been dribbling down his back for a while. He stops to reach back and finds on his glove a mixture of sweat and blood. Gisborne reflects in silence. The message is loud and clear. Hood could have killed him before the fight had even begun and didn’t - because of some ineffective objection he has to killing now, Gisborne smirks.
“She won’t.” Hood must have tried to persuade her to leave the day they met. Now he’s trying to persuade Gisborne. No chance of that. Guy’s heart is filling with new hope.
“Someone is watching Locksley.” Hood’s been to Locksley. Gisborne laughs at what must have greeted Hood then. Guards at every entrance - by order of its lord.
The Sheriff is in his element surrounded by long tables laden with smells of mouth-watering roast pig and potatoes, and richly dressed guests who are happy debasing themselves with overindulgence. Good wine is aplenty going by the two drunks who have cornered a performing juggler. One’s got the juggler’s hat. With wobbly snatches for the balls they are making fools of themselves. No one can refuse the source of all things carnal. Behold the false god Baal.
“Gisborne! Glad you could make it.”
Sir Guy of Gisborne’s acknowledgment is a steady gaze as he takes the steps down into the room filled with lively conversations and shouts of laughter. The Great Hall’s dark wood paneling shines with the mid-afternoon sun that streams in through the arched windows. Even the dreary blue and grey banners look cheerful in this light. Gisborne reaches the bottom of the stairs. There is purity in the sunlight at least. And the lute players’ melody.
The Sheriff smirks, “Looks like today’s prisoner had a bit of fun, mmm?” He follows his wicked imagination’s foray into the belly of the castle. Guy interrogating the prisoner. Guy beating the prisoner with fists to the kidneys and kicks to the face. Guy granting the prisoner a near death experience. “Oh, I like that,” he chuckles.
Stopping at the Sheriff’s side Gisborne gives the shortest bow he can get away with, “M’Lord.” There’s no point explaining the truth behind the bruise he must have on his face.
“Have you met Sir Simon?” asks their gracious host. When Gisborne is quiet, things are not as they seem. Hopefully this doesn’t mean they have another escaped convict running around outside the castle.
“I’ve not had the pleasure,” smiles Gisborne at the Sheriff’s companion - a man with a hungry frame and limp brown hair. Gisborne gets a thoughtless nod. Sir Simon’s bulging eyes are busy darting around the room.
“He’s been staying at Locksley,” adds the Sheriff.
Gisborne catches the accusation, “I apologize, Sir Simon, for not recognizing you. You must know how preoccupied I have been.”
“I regret the reason. How is the Lady Gisborne?”
So he is listening. “Well, last I saw her.” That was yesterday morning. Then the Sheriff’s summons came. To anyone watching Sir Guy, he is a nobleman enjoying entitled pleasures as he accepts his goblet of wine from a waifish serving girl. God, I beg You. Let her -
The Sheriff Vasey waits for the servant to leave with her quick curtsey. “What Sir Simon tells me makes me fairly certain he’s found Hood’s camp.”
Doubtful, Gisborne looks at Sir Simon. “Really.”
Simon savours a sip of wine, and then another. His attention is on a pretty one in the cluster of revelers closest to the juggler and his tormentors.
“Well, Sir Simon. Tell Gisborne,” prods the Sheriff.
“Oh. Yes. On my way to Locksely, I passed by what looked to be a hidden -“ Raucous laughter and a deafening crash drown out Simon’s last word, “ - camp.”
The Sheriff and Gisborne turn in the direction of the commotion. One of the drunks is covered in today’s elaborate menu as he sits on the floor with his back against a side-turned table and his legs sprawled wide across the floor. He must have fallen and knocked the table over in the process. In fits and spurts, he tries to kick the lute off his foot with no success. More shrieks of laughter. Bemused, the Sheriff waves a wordless command to the guard standing at attention by a wall.
Irked by the knight’s unseemly behaviour, Gisborne turns back to Simon. “Well, if it was hidden, how could you see it?”
A collective gasp of shock. More crashing. “Come, come, Gisborne, don’t be rude,” the Sheriff shouts over the din. If any of the guests hear they are too preoccupied to care. The party is intent on steering clear of the drunk now shirtless and throwing punches at any object he can reach in spite of his escort’s efforts to restrain him. His flailing has found a tray of food going by the sudden clatter that hurts everyone’s ears.
A door slams. Then silence. Giggles from a few of the ladies cut short the soothing peace. They are soon joined by the music and the relaxed banter of before as the servants whisk away every scrap of the disturbance, putting to rights the overturned benches and tables in the process. Simon can see over the Sheriff’s head the other drunk pulling himself up the stairs by the railing. Perhaps he is out to find his drinking mate. The object of Simon’s attention moves to sit at a table untouched by the fracas and hides her beet red face in her hands. Another puts her arm around her shoulder. The woman - presumably the fool drunk’s wife - bursts into tears. Whatever the friend whispered, it didn’t help. Her husband should be sleeping it off by now. How cooperative.
Gisborne persists with calm, “And how is it you were alone when the rest of you arrived together?”
“I came the day after. Business.”
The Sheriff lashes out, “If you had been a proper host instead of a colossal waste of time with that leper wife of yours, Gisborne, we’d have known this a week ago.”
“Anyway,” Simon sighs. The tension between these two is so taxing. “A man came out of it. Tall. Hairy. Carried a staff sort of walking stick. Our Sheriff seems to think he’s - ”
“- one of Hood’s men!” cries the Sheriff, squeezing Gisborne’s arm as though to sweep him along, his badgering replaced by rapture. “The one they call Little John, I believe,” his brown eyes glazed. Here comes a feeding frenzy. Not a boring one like the one here, too, for it will have blood over the meat. He wets his throat with a swig from the goblet in his other hand.
Gisborne’s voice is silk. “Can you lead us to this camp?” He wants to see proof.
“Gisborne has a thing for Hood. Wants to kill him. But then, so do I.” the Sheriff laughs. He drops Gisborne’s arm to swipe a large drumstick off a serving platter passing by, and digs into it with a bite that rips much of the meat away. His lips fidget around the dangling strings of meat, drawing them into his mouth.
Vasey’s greasy chin below a wet grin minus one tooth finishes the revolting display that has brought Simon’s wandering eye back to their little circle. “I can.”
“Good. Shall we ready the guards, M’Lord?” If Sir Simon is right, Gisborne cannot wait to kill Hood. All Hood can offer Marian is a price on her head.
Sir Simon holds up a hand gnarled from badly healed battle wounds most likely, “Wait. The noise would carry right into the camp, I’m positive. It’s in a gully, you see.”
“Then let’s keep this small,” whispers the Sheriff. “Yes, we’ll keep this just between ourselves. I want you, Gisborne, to go with Sir Simon to scope things out, lay the plans and so on.” He heats his whisper to a harsh order, “Then do it.” Pasting a beam on his face, Vasey ends the conversation by turning to mingle. He beats Simon to the vacant chair next to the distraction. Brushing his knuckles against her skin, he lifts her necklace to his mouth and begins to suck on it as he pans the room until - ahh.
Simon’s stare of irritation is answered with a glance of cold nonchalance.
Guy leaves the barn to the sound of contented munching having just unsaddled, cooled, and fed his horse. His feet crunch across the frost on the grass. Guy couldn’t wait for the knights and their wives. He had left Nottingham before dawn. But the front door is flung wide before he can grasp the handle. Thornton is standing in the doorway, blocking his entry into Locksley Manor.
“M’Lord, a terrible thing has happened!”
“What.” A command, not a question.
“It’s Lady Mar- Gisborne. She fell down the stairs yesterday.”
A chill that has nothing to do with the spring wind takes hold. “Is she - ?” He cannot contemplate the rest. The chill worsens when he tries.
“Matilda says Lady Gisborne’s well enough to join you for supper tonight.”
Exhaling his relief, his temper rises just as quickly as he steps past Thornton into the front hall. “Who let her out of bed?” Consequences will be paid by the person responsible. Severe consequences.
“That’s exactly what Matilda said. Berated Lady Gisborne she did with ‘What were you thinking wandering the manor alone when you -‘”
“- Alone? I told you.” Guy bites out, “I ordered you. My wife is never to be alone.” Gisborne pelts his gloves at Thornton one at a time.
Thornton tries to explain while he catches the gloves, “Lady Gisborne thought since you were away, it would be all right -”
Sir Gisborne chucks his fur cape at the old man’s head.
Thornton gathers it to hold it neatly in his arms, “ - just this once.”
“”She’s told you.” Gisborne is glowering. He had told the servants the reason Marian could never be alone was to make sure she behaved. Pretty convenient the Sheriff had made that exact request in front of a witness - a page - their first meeting after their return from the Holy Land.
“Yes, M’Lord.”
Now that the servants know the intimate details of their marriage, or rather the reason for the lack of them, Guy feels exposed. Will the servants question his authority now they know how lenient he is with his own wife? That he’s willing to do all this so she can leave him if she wants? “When.”
“The day she arrived from the Holy Land, though it took us a while to believe her.”
Gisborne closes his eyes in exasperation. Jesu, a man must have nerves of steel to live with this woman. Getting a grip on his temper which is dangerously close to holding the bearer of bad news by the throat, he opens his eyes. “Tell me what happened.”
Thankful Gisborne has chosen not run him through on the spot, Thornton hurries to tell Sir Guy the details, “She says she grabbed the base of the railing so she didn’t fall very far but we were all quite scared for her sake just the same. The thing of it is, Sir Guy, she swears she was pushed.”
“Pushed?”
“Yes, but since Matilda had left to fetch more medicines - for pain she said - Bess and I went to market and Friar Tuck went to clean the church once Lady Gisborne thought all of us might enjoy the afternoon off, so she could -” at this, Gisborne raises an eyebrow. Thornton decides a long story short might be in his best interest. “No one was here to push her, m’Lord.”
“Where is she?”
Thornton, old enough to have seen every evil under the sun, quakes in his shoes before this armed lord about to explode with rage. He would give anything not to answer. “In her bedchamber.”
Gisborne goes and mounts the stairs two at a time.
Thornton calls after him, “Matilda’s got Bess with her so she doesn’t overdo herself again.”
Gisborne is striding across the upper landing.
“M’Lord! Please don’t hurt her!”
“Come in.”
Guy does, and finds Marian and Bess with the glow of early sunlight blessing their hair, their heads bent over some mending as they sit together near a crackling, cozy fire that’s replaced the chilly morning air with blissful heat. He is arrested by the sweetness of the scene, recognizing it for the heaven he remembers his family had had once until his eyes fall on a reminder of that night of intolerable hell. The splint. He’d never left her door, waiting in the hallway for the slow to come signs that she was indeed recovering.
Marian glances up at him. “How was Nottingham?”
“Same as always.” Noting a flicker of disapproval, Guy changes the subject, “I hear you are well enough to join us for supper tonight?”
“Yes, and I will.” Her attention is on her needlework, a frown of frustration crosses her forehead over a buttonhole made difficult by the fact her left thumb is bound under secure bandages.
“It can wait.” He begins a slow approach.
“What?”
He’s got her attention now. She’s trying to read a reason into what he hopes is his most stern expression. He takes the last two steps to be by her side. “The buttonhole on my shirt.”
After making her wonder if she’d ever leave this room again, he’s got nerve. He’s teasing her and chuckling about it, too. “Just like a brother,” she chides, as she looks to her mending to hide a smile of her own.
More like a husband glad to see his wife alive. He doesn’t correct her.
“Matilda says it’s good for the healing to exercise my hand a little, but I’d rather be riding a horse or - “ she catches herself before it’s too late.
“Or what?” He will never stop wanting to know her better.
Her hands have stopped sewing but her entire manner is restless. “Anything outside this room.” She adds with a little impatience, “But Matilda’s been pretty strict.”
His grin softens as he recalls how Matilda had been the morning after Marian’s riding accident. Relaxing against the wall and to all appearances bored to death, Guy had listened to Matilda along with the rest of them as she had stood with her arms akimbo before all the manor’s inhabitants he’d assembled in the front hall on her request.
There would be no disturbances, no drinking, no debauchery. No talking in the front hall nor the upstairs hall. Matilda was ordering strict bed rest for the Lady Marian in perfect quiet. Did they, the ugly toads foaming uncontrollably due to their brain-melting rabies comprehend all that, or did they need to see the instructions in pictures?
The rabid toads had looked askance. Next, they had rested their eyes on Guy as one, waiting for him to put Matilda in her place that instant. Preferably with lasting scars if their insulted expressions had been any indication.
Guy had pointed to Matilda with his chin whereupon the guests had hushed themselves, clutching each other’s forearms in gleeful anticipation. Sir Guy’s brutality was well known. He gave the quiet command. “You heard her.”
Then, he had left to tend to matters of the estate. He remembers how his guests’ open-mouthed stares had burned into his back. What he did not know was that Matilda had grinned broadly while she had watched him walk out of the manor. Or that his words had earned him a promotion from hairy donkey’s behind to mere buffoon. Human status at last.
Finally with Marian after days of interminable festive and administrative delays, Guy ends their playful conversation with a serious gaze and a meaningful nod at Bess. He wants to speak with her in private.
Marian reaches out and touches Bess on her forearm to get her attention, but before she can speak, Bess points to herself and then to her temple.
“I know.” It took Bess less time to understand Sir Guy's need to speak with his wife than it took Marian. Being deaf, a person learns other ways of hearing. For instance, the time Sir Guy watched Marian leave the dinner table the first afternoon they had supped together, it was as plain as his eyes sparkling - as bright as the kitchen fire they were - that Sir Guy was in love with his wife. When a servant was chatting to Marian about how Sir Guy likes his feet rubbed, suggesting Marian try it, Bessie knew exactly what Marian had meant by firing the servant and then scowling at a perplexed Sir Guy for the next two days. Lady Marian has a touch of possessiveness when it comes to Sir Guy. Bess puts her nose to her sewing and turns away in her seat just a bit. She is helping the two of them work it out.
“The day of your riding accident, I was told Tuck was with you. I’ve since heard he was not. Tuck has been derelict in his duty and he shall be dealt with, but you - you went riding alone anyway. Why?”
“Please don’t be hard on him. It wasn’t his fault. I needed some time to myself. You were at Nottingham that day so there was no need to be accompanied by Friar Tuck. I thought -”
“- Marian.” Guy turns his head to one side, his heated eyes warning hers. He’s heard enough. She’s lying about the solitude. “This is why it is impossible for me to protect you. It’s time to end our little arrangement. Today.”
“No.” Marian is in shock. And if she’s honest, resentful. She cannot wait to end this sham of a marriage to the wrong man, but she should be the one who decides where and when. Not him.
Ignoring her objection, Guy continues, “We will say we are unwilling to - ”
“But the Sheriff will renew my death sentence.”
"You might be killed if you stay!” Guy hadn’t believed Robin, but he believes Marian. If she says she was pushed, she was pushed. Going down on one knee beside her, he lowers his voice. “Think about it. You’ve been alone twice since we’ve been married, and both times you’ve had ‘accidents.’ Someone is trying to kill you, and whoever it is got to you here at Locksley. I thought you’d be safe married to me, but I was wrong." If only Marian could be trusted to stay in someone’s company whenever he goes away. He dare not bring her wherever he goes. Matilda had said no long, bone jarring trips for eight weeks. Marian has to go somewhere closer. Safer. As soon as possible.
Marian doesn’t have to think about it. Whatever made her fall off her horse could have been intended for Robin, or any one of the outlaws. The disembodied hand at her back, however, had been personal. But now she’s on her guard. She’s not afraid to stay at Locksley. She’s a fighter. And currently a well-placed spy. “I need more time to recover,” Marian stalls, her mind racing. Hopefully, tonight’s supper will bring news Robin can use.
“This is not a discussion!” Matilda has worked wonders in his absence since Marian’s intelligent eyes, her feistiness, her willfulness are all back. She’s arguing with him not to go. If she weren’t in so much danger, he’d be pleased, relieved. No, he’d be elated. Rushing home, he’d thought of one thing until Thornton’s news had changed everything. That perhaps she’d come to feel something for him since she’d refused Robin urgings to leave Locksley. Perhaps the time he’d been waiting for has finally come. Guy gathers his courage. “We could remain married, if you want. We could say you had to go on a pilgrimage to obtain healing.” There. He’s dared his indomitable secret hope to come true.
As his voice swirls suggestions into her thoughts that are too good to be true his eyes look as though they would be wiling to lay her cold and bare in their search for an answer.
Guy sees Marian stab a stitch after her trembling fingers make a skillful one impossible. He reaches out to still her unhurt hand. “Marian. Do you wish us to remain married?”
His being so near is filling her with the warmth his eyes would dash were it not for what his hand is doing now. Just as it did that day when she and Guy passed each other on some turret stairs designed for single file in Nottingham Castle before Robin’s return from the Crusades. As she had stepped to pass, he had taken her hand to guide her to the side with better footing. Then he had let go to explore the back of her hand, between her fingers, over her palm with the feather-light strokes of his fingertips. Angry with him - with herself - she’d fled up the stairs hoping he hadn’t noticed her breathing had paced itself to match his - this henchman of the Sheriff who had stolen her father’s position.
Fine. Sir Guy will have his answer. “If your life is safe from the Sheriff, if the Sheriff will not wonder why you don’t turn me over to him as soon as you end our marriage, then I suppose there’s no reason to - " her voice trails off.
“To what?” His lips give an imperceptible quiver in one up-curved corner from the need. She cares whether he lives or dies.
“To keep pretending,” she finishes with disgust.
He stands up and steps back, dropping her hand as though it had just stung him. A prickling sensation runs over his skin and into his heart with a vengeance. He wipes his hand over his face until it comes to rest over his mouth as he turns away from her to think. Her meaning is clear. She knows. Of course, Hood must have told her. If only he could pull her into his arms to give his touch a chance to explain. But she wouldn’t listen, would she. Hood and her girlish ideas of love and justice are all she’ll ever listen to or care about. “I look forward to having you beside me at supper tonight. But you are to rest here until then. We will finish this later.”
Without looking back he is gone with a tender order. Marian squirms to shake off the trembling attraction and repulsion his presence had caused. He had lied to her about saving Robin in the Holy Land, and she had paid him back in kind. By omission. Robin had been there as she’d caught the railing yesterday, and he had chased down the scrambling noises above them but with no luck. Guy would be out hunting down Robin right now if he knew.
Robin. The best kind of man there is. He fights for justice. He fears only for others. For himself, he is fearless. And he has the most amazing ability to appear out of thin air and disappear into light, she smiles.
Whereas aside from those few glittering moments of gentle kindness between them, Guy always oppresses her in the end. No, Robin is the only one. Robin sets her free with his love. Guy would imprison her with his - his cage built out of protective, tender orders.
With a prick of guilt she remembers this dark evil has just given her today and tonight, perhaps even longer. Hardly an inescapable cage. And as a good knight should his passion was bridled just now. Marian shudders. She’s terrified of Guy’s passion. It suggests a love so overwhelming that if she were to give into it, it could seduce her into a soulless slavery. But what if he should choose the good she knows is within him? Would she be as resilient against his passion then? “Ouch!”
Bess asks “What is it?” with her expressive hazel eyes.
“Needle got my finger.”
Bess pats Marian’s arm, then goes back to her sewing.
Marian gives her sore finger an unsympathetic shake before resuming the buttonhole on Guy’s shirt.