This past summer, word had spread that Lady Marian had taken her own life. Supposedly, she had declared her undying love for Robin Hood, and before dawn the next morning, Guy had found her lying on the bed of her cell…dead by her own hand.
It was widely thought that he’d been driven to madness because of what had happened, and according to those who saw him, he had indeed looked and acted the part. It was clear from seeing him that he teetered on the brink of insanity, disheveled and wild-eyed as he was. There were whispers that he spent most of his free time in a drunken stupor, racked with guilt over Marian’s death. And most residents of Nottingham agreed that living in such misery was just what he deserved. He had sinfully coveted a woman who belonged to another. Her blood had been on his hands, just like the blood of so many others. In their eyes, he had no right to sympathy. Cassia’s own father had even said so. She knew he would not go so far as to let Gisborne die, for such a crime was not in his nature. But he had always made his feelings clear.
“Guy of Gisborne possesses no soul. If he rages like a madman over what he has done, it has naught to do with guilt. His anger stems from being denied the thing he coveted. ‘Twas a crime of possession, not passion. And now he must live forever with his own darkness.”
As she looked upon the man lying before her, she thought of her father’s words…and shook her head in denial. If this man had no soul, no feelings, then why did he writhe in torment the way he did, calling desperately for a woman who was no longer there? Why did he weep for r, as she’d seen him do several times now?
There is goodness in this man. I know there is.
And yet, she was no fool. She knew there was still rage swirling within him. Though she could comfort him now, remain at his side and speak gently to him…though she could look on his rugged face, admiring its masculine beauty, she knew these moments would not last much longer. In a day or so…God willing…his fever would break. He would regain his sense of reality, of time and place. The broken man before her, who needed her and depended on her, would fade away.
The tempest would soon make his return. And when he came back, he was certain to be darker and stormier than ever.
Chapter 3
His eyes opened slowly, taking in the sight of a tiny room dimly lit with candles. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he realized he was waking with a clear head…albeit, a head throbbing with pain. And a foot he would have seen chopped off, if it meant it would stop the torture it was causing him. Why was it hurting so?
Then, he recalled being thrown from his horse, his foot being twisted in the stirrup. And he could still remember the icy water. He gave a shudder at the thought of that frightful darkness. But beyond that, what had happened? Why was he in this shabby little place…this grey, dim little room with barely enough space to contain the bed he lay on? Why was he not at home, or in the castle? Had his men abandoned him here?
Worthless cowards. They will pay dearly for their desertion.
Then, another memory suddenly came to him.
Marian.
Had he really seen her? Was it she who had held his hand through the night, comforting him in his dark hours? Frantically he looked about the room, searching for her.
But the only oher occupant of the room was the one in the corner chair, and she was fast asleep. Her slender, shapely figure…her pale skin…her long dark hair. It was easy to see how he could be mistaken. She certainly seemed a lot like Marian.
But she wasn’t Marian. And the thought tore through him, making him furious in his despair. To have her back for those few precious moments, only to wake up and find it had all been his imagination. It was like losing her all over again. He was alone once more, except for the woman sleeping there in the corner. His lip curled into a sneer as he looked at her. A peasant girl obviously, judging from her plain russet dress and the plain linen cloth binding back her hair. A commoner. Probably one of Robin Hood’s little spies.
Locksley. Thinking of his mortal enemy, his fury boiled over. Picking up the nearest object at hand…a pitcher on the bed table…he launched it at the wall, right near the sleeping girl’s head. At the shattering sound, she jumped and cried out in shock.
“Sir Guy! You are awake!”
Just that simple act, that brief outburst of rage, was enough to drain every ounce of his energy. Falling back against the pillows, he gasped for breath…even as he sneered at the girl.
“You will address me properly, woman. And I demand to know what is happening here. What are you about? Why am I in such a state?”
He started to cough, his mouth plagued with dryness. She came close, moving cautiously as she brought him a cup of water, from which he drank greedily. His thirst slaked for the moment, he turned his eyes to the woman at his side. Between intakes of breath…and he struggled for them…his demands were strong.
“Will you not answer me?”
She put the cup aside and dabbed his mouth with a cloth.
“You had an accident. You fell through the ice of the lake.”
“I know that!” he shouted. “But why am I in a peasant hovel? Why was I not taken back to Nottingham?”
Dunking a rag in a bucket of water, wringing it out, she brought it to his face and gently wiped his skin.
“Snow storms have been raging off and on. It would have been an impossible journey. And even if we had attempted to take you back, it would have been too difficult a task for my father and I alone.”
“What of my men? Were they so incompetent? Did they flee at the very moment I was in need?”
“All were drowned, my lord. You alone survived.”
As he took in her words, a middle-aged man came rushing in. Like the woman, he was dark-haired, except for the silver hair at his temples and the grey in his beard. His eyes were wide with worry, but the girl turned to him calmly.
“All is well, father. It was an accident, ‘tis all. I broke the pitcher. Go now, and sleep.”
The man hesitated a moment. Then he nodded, leaving them.
As he went, Guy suddenly recalled more of what had happened…the sight of his men and their horses, falling through the collapsing ice. But he had lived. And this lowly woman and her father had found him, rescuing him from the jaws of death.
But he could find no joy in being brought back from the brink. What good was it when he was in such pain as he was?
Trying to adjust himself against the pillows, he found that even the smallest movement caused him terrible pain…and he glared at the woman who, in his eyes, was responsible for a good part of his suffering.
“You were a fool to make the effort. Because of your ignorance I must live in this useless condition. Do not be so unwise as to expect my gratitude.” He turned his eyes away from her, wishing her to feel the sting of his displeasure…to be hurt by it.
But she said nothing, quietly bending down to pick up the broken pieces of pottery…and her calmness irritated him. She wasn’t supposed to react this way. She was supposed to cower in fear, to beg his forgiveness for her ineptness. It was what his subordinates had always done. While she silently tended to the mess, he reached up to massage a spot on the back of his head. He could feel the gash there, and the thread keeping it closed. It throbbed with pain and itched like mad. And it was then that he felt his hair, cropped much too close to his scalp. It made him scowl all the more, and he looked to the woman, his demand fierce.
“What have you done to me?”
She glanced up from her place on the floor. “My lord?”
“You have sheared me like a sheep,” he snarled at her. “I lie here subjugated, garbed in this lowly peasant nightdress. What game of degradation do you play at?”
She came to stand near him, shaking her head. “I play at no game. We cropped your hair to tend to your head wounds. Your clothing is too burdensome to tend you in. It is why we have put the nightdress on you. You will be easier to care for.”
He sneered at her noble gesture.
"As I
said, your heroics were a wasted effort. I suffer more because of your folly. And my foot hurts like the blazes. What is wrong with it?”
“It is broken quite badly,” she replied, setting aside the ruined shards of pottery. “You will be without the use of it for some time.” She came to him, adjusting the pillows behind his head, and he grumbled at the way she seemed so intent in caring for him…when he knew very well she had ulterior motives. Just like all women. He turned his head away for a moment, muttering darkly.
“Left alone to die. Hobbled and broken. Why have you wasted your time on me?”
She adjusted the quilt around him, her reply quiet and calm. “It is my duty, my lord. My Christian duty. I will not flinch from it.”
He gave a disgusted snort in reply. Stupid, stubborn little wench, he thought.
As she adjusted the coverlet, he felt a wave of heat from his fever. He pushed away the offending quilt.
“I am on fire. Do not cover me.”
She became silent again, wordlessly reaching for the cup of water. As she handed it to him, he took a moment to examine her. She briefly met his gaze before looking away again, and he noted the darkness of her eyes. Deep brown, almost black. Upon closer inspection of her, it seemed her hair was not as dark as he’d first thought. Chestnut brown, it was…and lustrous in the shine of candlelight. No, she was not quite the same as Marian. Still, she was something to look at. What a disappointment that such beauty was wasted on a lowborn commoner. She was hardly worth a second look. And yet, he knew a few things she was probably good for. He almost found pleasure at the thought of it.
Perhaps when I am recovered, I will use her like any other servant girl. They always serve a purpose…for ten or fifteen minutes.
He wondered if she would shrink in fear if he voiced his thoughts to her. He enjoyed the thrill of making others afraid of him. There was so very little in the world that a man could truly control. There was strength in power, in domination. And she would certainly be a sweet conquest. He opened his mouth to speak, to say what he was thinking and see how she would react.
But suddenly she walked away, leaving him to wonder what she was up to. His thoughts became dark, full of suspicion.
I should not be surprised if she has Hood waiting in the next room, ready to spring forth at any moment. Filthy peasants. Every one of them the same, keeping in league with outlaws and other scum of the earth.
When she returned, he saw she was very much without company. In her hand she carried a cloth bundle, which she brought to the end of the bed. When she reached down to touch his ankle he flinched, scowling darkly at her, his voice almost a growl.
“Do not touch me.”
She shook her head slightly.
“I am sorry my lord, but if I do not apply the compress, the pain will only intensify.” She reached for his foot again, but he would not allow it.
“Can you not hear properly? I said do not touch me!”
But before he finished speaking she pressed the compress to his foot, and he shrieked in pain, cursing her.
“God’s teeth, you little witch! That hurts!”
“It must hurt if it is to heal! You should be grateful to havice at hand!”
The sudden force of her voice…the power in her tone…shocked him for a moment. But then his eyes narrowed dangerously at her.
“How dare you speak to me in that way.”
Her voice softened, but was just as firm. “I am sorry my lord, but if I stand by and do nothing, you will only be in more pain.”
Saying nothing further, concentrating on her work, she secured the cold compress by binding his foot tightly with linen. He clenched his teeth as she tended to him. And after a moment or so, he came to a strange realization.
I cannot feel the pain so intently. The cold affects it. But I will be damned if I let her know she is right.
“I am hungry,” he muttered. “Fetch me something to eat.”
She only stared at him for a moment, as if she were offended by his commanding tone. He half-expected her to raise her voice to him again, and he was prepared this time to make her shrink in fear when she refused.
But he was quite surprised when she turned and walked away, coming back a few moments later with a mug.
“Here is broth. It will restore your energy.”
He balked at the offering. “Broth? I asked for food, woman. Have you no ability to understand?”
She shook her head. “I am sorry, but it would not be wise for you to ingest solid food right away. You have been ill, and your stomach may not hold its contents.”
He wanted to fight with her. He was tempted to reach out and knock the cup from her hands, to see it spilled and broken on the floor. But he was too weary now to act on his angry impulse…and too in need of sustenance to refuse what she offered him. He attempted to take if from her, but his hands shook quite badly. Starving for nourishment, he allowed her to bring the cup to his lips as he drank the warm and salty liquid. For a few moments he allowed her to be near as she fed him. But when the cup was empty, he pushed her hand away.
“Go. Leave me be.”
Obediently she bowed her head. But as she turned away from him, he caught a sharp little gleam in her eye. It was that look of haughtiness…that same one she’d worn just a few moments ago when she’d applied the ice to his foot. She was a troublesome wench, and if it wasn’t for his being so weary, he would have berated her properly.
But that would have to do for another time. A time when he wasn’t falling under the power of sleep, which he soon succumbed to in full.
* * * * *
liquiany days he remained, for the most part, in a state of exhaustion. It seemed to be something he could not help…as if some spell was cast over him to make him always weak and weary. At first, he wondered if the woman…or perhaps her father…were participants of black magic. He’d heard stories that peasants were often found to be doing such works of the devil. Maybe they were slowly poisoning him, weakening him day by day.
But as time went by, he saw no signs of witchcraft. One or both of them was always in the room, seeing to the smallest of his needs. He could not imagine them having time to practice dark arts, not when they were always so occupied.
All of his life he’d had servants around him, but he’d never been so dependent on people as he was forced to be with this woman and her father. He could not get up from the bed on his own, and having to rely on two peasants, even for the smallest of things, was the epitome of degradation.
Their devotion did little to ease his darkness of mind and spirit, even though they saw to even the smallest detail of his needs. They kept the room neat as a pin, always sweeping and cleaning to ease the smells of sickness. They changed the horrible bedding every few days. It was a straw mattress he lay on, and not the soft feathers he was used to. Who knew what manner of vermin he might be lying with if it weren’t for the fact that they kept the bedding fresh.
But it was all of little consolation.
Being so cooped up, so idle, was not something he was accustomed to, and he could not help taking it out on those that tended to him. They had taken this chore upon themselves when they’d found him, and it was his opinion that they should accept his dark moods whether they wanted to or not.
If only the woman could have gotten such a notion into her head.
For the most part she was a quiet creature…always diligent in what she was doing. But now and again he caught those searing glances of hers. They were always slight, as if she were trying to disguise them. But he managed to see them most times…and they were a strange contrast to her usual manner, which was most often calm and kind, no matter how he treated her.
He watched her now, coming into the room. It was evening, and he fully expected to be brought his usual meal of soup. He was tired of liquid meals, and watching her come forward with a bowl in her hands, he snorted with displeasure.
“Do not bring me more soup,” he demanded. “I will not have it.”
/> She shook her head. “No soup, my lord. I think you can now have something more substantial.”
She put the bowl in his hands. He looked down at the contents…and curled his lip in distaste.
“Porridge? You bring me a meal given to children, or the elderly and infirmed?”
A hint of a smile came to her lips, and he suddenly realized what she was thinking. With that sly little look, she was silently reminding him that it was hi> who was infirm. She probably supposed that the meal suited him perfectly, cripple that he was. He had a sudden, furious impulse to dump the offending meal on the floor…or better yet, to throw it at her and see that smug little look wiped from her expression.
But just as he neared action, she spoke in a soft way…and her voice took the sword from his hand.
“I stirred in cinnamon for you. I think you will find the taste quite pleasant.”
For you. There was something in those words that sounded so sincere. But he could not believe she was truly selfless in her actions. No one had ever done anything on his behalf without being coerced or paid. Why did she play at this game of kindness?
He shook his head at his own foolishness. Looking down at the bowl in his hand, he was hesitant to act…but he soon took up the spoon and began to feed. He told himself that he was only eating this undignified meal because he was so very hungry. No matter that it tasted very good…that the spice of the cinnamon was a sharp, delicious taste on his tongue. The wench had been right before…about the ice for his foot. And she was right this time about the taste.
But there was no need to give her more credit than she deserved.
Chapter 4
In the barn, Cassia stood before Guy’s horse, brushing him down. She’d just brought him in from his walk, which she tried to do every day, so long as the weather permitted. She knew that he wasn’t accustomed to being lethargic. The fresh air was good for her as well, and she enjoyed spending time with the horse. He was a calm and quiet animal, and he seemed to enjoy the little attention she was able to give him. On="0">
The Tempest: A Guy of Gisborne Story Page 3