There was no indecision, only puzzlement aplenty. Marian cast a glance at Matilda as she nodded. “Of course. Run ahead and tell him we’re coming.”
“Aye, my lady.” The girl turned and hastened off.
“There, now,” Matilda said as she joined Marian in the corridor and pulled the door closed. “You see? We’re not meant to leave so quickly.”
“We’ll go as soon as we’ve seen him.” Alarmed, Marian stared worriedly at the heavy-set woman. “You don’t think he’s in danger of dying, do you?”
“No thanks to the boar,” Matilda muttered, moving in Marian’s wake. “Run ahead, my girl ... I’ll come along in my own time.”
Gisbourne breathed noisily through clenched teeth, clutching wadded bedding in both hands. He was very careful not to move, not to so much as twitch, but the pain was a wise beast and stalked him effortlessly, beating down his defenses until it found his thigh and sank its teeth into his flesh. The virulence of its bite reached up into his hip, and threatened the state of his belly.
He didn’t want to vomit. Vomiting required movement, and movement, regardless of the cause, would bring renewed pain of a magnitude he had no wish to consider, nor most certainly to encounter.
The barber had cut the hose from his left leg and had cleaned and bandaged the angry wound as best he could. But he did so against his wishes; the wound, he explained, would certainly mortify. Gisbourne’s best bet for survival was to have the leg cut off.
Gisbourne refused. Gisbourne declared he would die two-legged, if he were meant to die.
The barber called him a fool. When his patient mentioned concern for the Lady Marian’s safety, the barber spied his chance. All he need do, surely, was take the lady aside and explain the facts to her. Then she could prevail upon the man to accede to greater wisdom and let the leg be amputated.
Gisbourne knew this. He was not and had never been a dull-witted man. For this reason he refused the sleeping draughts the barber pressed upon him. By now he was dehydrated and very thirsty, but no less determined a patient than when the men had brought him in.
Marian. Would she come? He wasn’t sure, and now he wasn’t sure he wanted her to. Part of him had no desire for her to see him like this. Another part of him wanted badly to look on her face again, to reassure himself that the boar had not injured her. His memory of the encounter was blurred by pain and remembered panic; he could not recall what had happened after—even when he tried.
His concentration faltered. He thought back again to the day before, after the hunt, when he had been put into a chamber not meant for housing the sick. Not meant for lovemaking, either, but that had proved no deterrent.
Faintly, Gisbourne smiled. Eleanor deLacey—and a wandering minstrel! How was that for the downfall of a lady?
Attention snapped back at the sound of a lifted latch. The door was opened and Marian admitted, swathed in a dark blue mantle. He recalled it from the day before, blue against the green forest, and the tumbled mass of hair. She wore a white linen coif now and the glorious hair was braided into submission, dangling against her waist. But neither mantle nor head-cloth hid even a whisper of her beauty. Gisbourne, abruptly self-conscious, pulled a coverlet over his legs.
The barber took her aside, speaking quietly and quickly. Gisbourne knew what he said. He prepared to answer her, albeit more politely.
And then she was there at his side, kneeling gracefully, quietly folding the voluminous mantle around skirts. The white skin, so close, was flawless, touched with healthy color. In her black-fringed eyes he saw sincere consternation.
He wondered if perhaps the wound, after all, was worth it, if it made her think of him. Better than being ignored. Better than being forgotten.
“Sir Guy?” The voice was low and smoky. He was not a passionate man, withal, being quiet in his habits, but she sounded like no other woman he had known, in bed or out of it. He could not help himself. He could not suppress the vision of Marian instead of Eleanor, bedding a man here in this room.
His face flamed instantly. He felt sick to his stomach, and cursed himself for his weakness. She was deserving of better.
She smiled tentatively, as if afraid it was inappropriate to smile at a man who might yet die. He understood her discomfort. He had watched two sisters die, and had found it unsettling. Most of all he had disliked not knowing what to say.
He swallowed painfully. His throat was dry, but he dared not quench it. He feared the water might contain something to put him to sleep, and he couldn’t risk that. He might wake up—if he woke up—with a leg missing. “Lady,” he croaked. “How do you fare?”
A true smile flowered; she was, he saw, relieved to hear him make sense. “Much better than you, I think.”
He swallowed again. “I was afraid the boar might have harmed you.”
“Oh, no. He was quite satisfied with you.” Self-consciously she smoothed her hunt-soiled mantle. “There was no danger. Robert killed it before it could hurt anyone else.”
The door opened again, admitting a fat old woman. Her attendant, he knew, so the meeting was circumspect. “Robert—of Locksley?” He thought it odd she would use his given name so intimately, but she appeared not to notice.
“Yes. It was over very quickly.” Marian gestured. “I have never seen a man quite so fast, or so skilled. There was no fear in him, only determination.”
Gisbourne gazed into her face, hearing the undertone of admiration. It rankled; Locksley had accomplished what he, Gisbourne, had not, and with surpassing skill. Hail the conquering hero, returned from the Holy Land... He drew a breath, gritting teeth, and set the thought aside. “I wanted to be certain you were well. To see for myself ...” He gave way, hot of face. He had no skill with words. His gift was with sums, and weights and measures. He could run a household, not kill a boar. Gisbourne knew very well which impressed a woman more.
Marian glanced over a shoulder at the barber, hovering in the background. Her expression was serious when she looked back. “Sir Guy, he says—”
“He says he wants to cut off my leg.” He nodded tightly. “Lady—I can’t allow it.”
Her approach was careful. “He says it could be dangerous, if nothing is done.”
“He thinks I’ll die. He thinks the leg will rot.” Gisbourne shook his head. “I couldn’t bear it, being one-legged. And he hasn’t tried, past poulticing it. There is cautery. Have him burn it closed first. If that doesn’t work ...” Gisbourne’s hand twitched. “Better then that I die. But I’ll die with both legs whole.”
She gazed down at him mutely, weighing his words. He saw the genuine concern in her eyes, the assessment of the validity of his wishes. Then, smiling, she pressed a soft, cool hand against his burning forehead. “Then I will tell him so. It is your leg, after all—your wishes must be followed.” She paused. “May I pour you water?”
“No,” he rasped. “He will drug me, then cut it off.”
She checked the beginnings of an answer and turned to the barber, gathering skirts and mantle as she rose. “Have you spoken to the sheriff? Have you told the sheriff what Sir Guy’s wishes are?”
The barber bobbed quickly. “Lady, he’s sore hurt. If I leave the leg on—”
“You will leave it on. He wishes it so. Have you spoken to the sheriff?”
The barber was unhappy. “He says I am to tend him as best I can.”
“Then do so. Clean the wound and use iron. Tend him carefully, as you are bidden ... do you understand?” Her tone was inflexible. “You will do as this man wishes. You are not to drug him insensible and then cut off the leg. Do you understand?”
“Lady, I do, but—”
“But nothing,” she said firmly. “If it eases your sense of duty, I will go to the sheriff—”
“No need.” It was deLacey himself, entering the chamber. “I am come myself; what would you say to me?”
Gisbourne saw the subtle but instantaneous change in her attitude. The solicitude vanished, replaced with physica
l stiffness and a taut self-control. Yet the words were quiet enough, if still inflexible. “This man insists on cutting off Sir Guy’s leg. It’s not what Sir Guy wishes. I’ve told this man to clean and cauterize the wound. The rest is in God’s hands.”
She doesn’t like him. It was, initially, preposterous. But he was certain of it. She doesn’t like him! Gisbourne twitched as a bolt of pain bit into his thigh, cutting through the startled realization. What has he done to turn her against him?
DeLacey’s expression was momentarily arrested, but he moved quickly enough to counter her quiet hostility. He inclined his head to her. A brief glance in Gisbourne’s direction was meant to convey sincere concern for his steward’s health and condition.
Gisbourne, gritting his teeth against the pain, saw something more. He’s using my condition to sway her opinion.
“Indeed, in God’s hands,” deLacey agreed easily. He looked sternly at the barber. “You will do as the lady orders.”
“Aye, my lord.” The barber bowed.
Gisbourne waited for the sheriff to acknowledge him now, to speak, but beyond the merest flick of a glance in his direction, deLacey looked only at Marian. “I understand you and your woman are to leave.”
“Yes, my lord.” Very stiffly.
“Then may I suggest you travel with my party? I am taking Eleanor back to Nottingham.”
Marian’s tone was icy. “And the minstrel, my lord?”
“Yes, of course. They’re bringing him up now.” DeLacey glanced at Matilda. “You and your woman will be most welcome. It will be company for Eleanor. . .” The tone abruptly went dry. “More proper company, though her reputation is quite beyond repair.”
Marian was undeterred, which also surprised Gisbourne. More often than not people folded beneath deLacey’s desires. “I think not. Matilda and I have already ordered our horses. I tarried only to see how Sir Guy fared.” Her glance at him was kind. “You must conserve your strength, Sir Guy. I will pray for your recovery.”
“Lady—” He wanted to delay her, to make her stay, but she was clearly anxious to be gone from the sheriffs company. “I—” But he couldn’t say it. There was so much he couldn’t say, to a woman such as she. “Thank you, Lady Marian.”
“Marian.” DeLacey, overly free with her Christian name, Gisbourne thought, reached out to halt her even as she moved toward the door. “I insist—” But the rest of his sentence was lost in the noise of the door and the hurried words of a guard.
“Lord Sheriff? My lord—” The liveried guardsman stopped just inside the door and stood stiffly. His face was expressionless. “The man has disappeared.”
DeLacey’s eyes narrowed minutely. “The minstrel?”
Gisbourne, who had seen that expression before, wanted to snicker. As if his doubt could alter the truth!
The guard swallowed visibly. “My lord. Yes.”
DeLacey’s enunciation was most distinct. “Disappeared?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“From the cell?”
“Yes, my lord.”
DeLacey was thunderstruck. “The minstrel has escaped from the earl’s dungeon?”
Marian’s laughter filled the chamber. It was a sound unfeigned and unforced, eloquent in its delight. Astonished, Gisbourne stared at her, then looked at the sheriff, who was infinitely chagrined, and irritated by it.
“My lord.” The guard, however, was grim. “My lord, the earl wishes to speak with you.”
“Yes.” DeLacey’s tone was hard. “I imagine he does.” He glanced briefly at Marian, expression masked, then looked back at the guard. “Escort the lady and her woman to the great hall. She will accompany my party. I would have her needs attended.”
“My lord—no!” She shook her head as a wave of color blossomed in her face. But she regained self-control quickly. More quietly, she said, “We can’t wait any longer.”
“But of course you can.” DeLacey spared a glance for Gisbourne, but it was quickly spent. “Wait in the great hall with the guard, if you please. I think it imperative that Eleanor have better company than I alone can provide.”
“My lord.” The guard inclined his head as the sheriff left the room. Then he looked at Marian. “My lady—if you please?”
Gisbourne was astonished by the venom in her voice. “No, I do not please. But I have no choice, have I?”
The guard looked nonplussed as Marian swept by him. The last Gisbourne saw of the party was the hem of Matilda’s mantle. Then the door thudded closed.
The barber came forward. His smile was insincere. “Cautery, then. As my lord desires.”
Gisbourne forced the words past tightly shut teeth. “Cut it off, and I’ll kill you.”
“No need, Sir Guy. You’ll be dead before you can try.” The barber leaned down and closed his hand around the cup. “Water, Sir Guy?”
Helplessly, Gisbourne cursed him.
The interview with the earl was of brief duration, netting no explanation for the escape. William deLacey bit his tongue on the words he longed to say. One did not say such things, make such accusations, to the Earl of Huntington. One asked what one could, with requisite courtesy, then accepted what one was told. Eventually, one was left with nothing but the thoughts in one’s head.
The earl was no more content, the sheriff knew, if for different reasons. His brand-new castle, of which he was so proud, had proved to have one immense flaw that rendered it useless as a prison: a contingent of guardsmen open to bribery.
It was the only explanation, Huntington had declared at last. Certainly no man could escape a cell reached only by way of trapdoor and ladder, unless he was aided. And since three guardsmen were missing, the answer was obvious. Someone had given them money to release the prisoner.
And which of all his guests, asked the earl pointedly, had the most cause to want him released?
This left deLacey chewing his tongue, marking the implication but saying nothing of it. Instead, he concurred with the earl and took his leave, saying his duties required his immediate return to Nottingham. He would send men out after the minstrel.
The earl seemed not to care particularly what was done about Alan of the Dales. It hadn’t been his daughter, after all, nor was the minstrel of his household. And his implication regarding the source of the bribe pointed yet another finger in deLacey’s direction.
Better simply to leave, before one said too much.
Marian paced in a corner of the great hall, scuffling through scented rushes, kicking clumps out of the way. Matilda sat on a bench, resting sore joints and swollen ankles, from time to time suggesting that Marian sit down, but Marian had resisted. She was too annoyed to sit still, too frustrated by helplessness.
I should just go, she muttered inwardly. Who is he to stop me? He isn’t my father, nor my husband; he has no power over me.
The guard stood near a pillar, hands folded behind his back. He wore the well-cultivated blank expression Marian had seen on the faces of other soldiers given tedious duty they didn’t dare complain about, for fear of censure—or worse—yet nonetheless gave away what they thought of the duty. She didn’t really blame him. Were she a guardsman, she wouldn’t care for it, either.
She spun around on her heel and marched back to the man, stopping directly before him. “You have no right to keep us here.”
Brown eyes flickered. “Lady, the sheriff asked it.”
“Whose man are you? That’s Huntington livery you’re wearing, is it not?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “He is the lord high sheriff of Nottinghamshire—”
“You owe service to the earl, not to William deLacey. And we’re not prisoners, are we? Not like the minstrel was.” Her tone stung him; she saw the grim acknowledgment in his eyes. “You have no right to keep us here.”
“Lady, for your safety—”
“And have you seen the bailey?” she asked. “Even as we speak, tens and twenties of people are riding out of the castle. They’re going home from here. . . what d
anger in it for me? No outlaw would dare to rob us in the midst of so many people.”
The taut facade cracked a little. “Lady, I can’t let you go. After the minstrel’s escape? Three of us are already tainted—do you think the earl would give me no more than a tongue-lashing? Lady, he would discharge me—and I have a wife and three children to feed.”
He was, she thought, but a handful of years older than she was. No doubt a place in the earl’s service was much sought-after among young men as yet unattached, and offered true security for a man with a wife and children.
“Did you know them?” she asked. “The three men who freed the minstrel?”
Brown eyes flickered. “Yes, lady.”
“Were they married?”
“No.”
She nodded briefly, seeing it. “A man with no wife or children might be more willing to take the risk.” He hunched a single shoulder briefly, clearly disconcerted by her questions. Marian smiled, relenting. “Then do your duty, soldier. I have no right to task you for it.” His relief was muted, but apparent. Marian smiled more widely. “If I promised to wait here, to not go without your leave, would you do a service for me?”
“Lady?” He was cautious.
She made a small gesture. “I know. After what I have just said, I don’t blame you for distrust. But I promise to wait right here for the sheriff. I give you my word.”
From the bench, Matilda spoke up. “She’s a headstrong girl, I’ll own, but she’s never broken her word.”
He looked at Matilda, then back at Marian. Mutely he nodded.
“Good.” Relief sparked briefly, then faded away. She felt hideously self-conscious asking such a thing. “Will you take word to Robert of Locksley that I would like to speak with him?”
“Lady, I would . . . but he left the castle this morning.”
The faint hope and newborn determination spilled away, leaving Marian empty. She had not thought of that. “Oh.” She felt tiny, diminished. “I see. Then—never mind.” Hot-faced, she turned and went directly to the bench, where she sat down somewhat stiffly next to Matilda.
Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] Page 16