by Mimi Riser
*****
The road ran straight for the last leg of the journey, broadening as the forest gave way to fields. They sighted the Gisbourne stronghold, looming massive into the night sky, the moment they left the trees. They smelled it not long after. High stone walls and towers rising out of the ground, looking like an earthquake couldn’t raze them, the whole complex surrounded by a moat that doubled as the castle’s cesspool, judging by the stench. Overhead hung a fat full moon, bright enough to cast shadows, bathing everything in a cold white glow.
Marian stared down at the stagnant water as they skirted its edge, saw several dead rats bobbing about like corks among other objects she couldn’t identify and didn’t want to. Ewww. “We’re not going to have to swim this, are we?”
“God forbid,” Cymrica said nasally. She held the reins with one hand while pinching her nostrils closed between the thumb and forefinger of the other. “There’s a foot bridge at the back. We’ll present ourselves at the postern gate. The guard there can announce our arrival.”
“I’ll be surprised if we haven’t been announced already. They must have a watch posted.” Marian tilted back her head to study the top of the great bailey wall, thought she saw figures lurking behind the parapets. “Are those sentries?” She pointed.
Cymrica didn’t bother to look. “Most likely. But they’ll do naught. I doubt we appear much of a threat.” She flashed Marian a wry grin.
Marian couldn’t grin back. Her eyes widened in horror at sight of the footbridge, such as it was. A rotting, sagging plank laid haphazardly across the moat, looking ready to topple in at the first stiff breeze. Besides, it was already in use. A family of rats scurried across it.
“Cymrica, we can’t cross this.”
“You’d rather swim?”
A rhetorical question obviously. No need to answer.
Cymrica pulled up the mare, dismounted, and tethered her to a nearby tree, which had possibly been planted for just that purpose. God knew it was a sick looking tree and seemed not much good for anything else, poor thing.
In a dozen fluid strides the girl was across the plank and waving at Marian from the other side. “Wait there, if you like. I’ll meet with Sir Guy alone. If he agrees to our terms, I’ll come back for you.”
“Um…what if he doesn’t agree?”
“Then crossing the moat will be the least of our worries.”
Without another word Cymrica turned and bounded up an incline to the postern gate. She unsheathed a dagger from her belt and rapped its hilt on the wood, a series of sharp staccato taps, echoing in the night.
Slowly, with an eerie creaking of hinges, the heavy gate swung inward. Cymrica poked her head in, then stepped through the portal and disappeared into the darkness beyond. The gate hung open behind her, swinging to and fro, its timbers groaning like a lost soul.
Weird. Why hadn’t the guard shut it? Had there even been a guard? Marian hadn’t heard Cymrica speak to anyone. Yet the gate opened. Very weird. A chill crept down her spine, a sudden sense of being watched. She twisted around in the saddle, stared in all directions. Saw no one, nothing but the empty moonlit field, the dark brooding fortress, and the filthy moat. But still her skin prickled, like bugs crawled over her.
Suddenly, the plank bridge looked pretty good. With a scramble of aching limbs she half slid, half fell off the pony, and tied him to the tree next to the mare the way she’d seen Cymrica do it. Then she darted to the edge of the moat. Setting her jaw she stepped onto the plank and miraculously made it across without falling off or having to yield the right of way to any rodents. Her step slowed as she approached the postern gate; her heart rate quickened. She hesitated before the opening.
And squealed as an arm shot out and hauled her in.
Cymrica clapped a hand over Marian’s mouth. “Hush! They’ll hear you.”
Not likely. They seemed busy with some sport elsewhere, judging by the muffled sounds of merriment Marian now heard. She pulled away from Cymrica, sucked in air and blinked, waiting for her pulse to calm and her eyes to adjust to the gloom. With the high bailey wall blocking much of the moonlight, it was darker inside the castle complex than out. The back part of the yard where she stood lay deep in shadows. She heard Cymrica breathing close by, but could barely see her.
“I thought you were going to wait outside,” the girl’s voice hissed in her ear.
“I changed my mind,” Marian said, without elaborating why. Her skin still crawled with the sense of unseen eyes watching her. “What’s going on here?”
“I wish I knew.” Cymrica drew closer and took hold of her hand. She felt the eyes, too. “There was no guard, nor was the gate locked. It fell open as I knocked.”
“I know, I saw.” And it made no sense. Unless Sir Guy was as slovenly about his fortress’s security as he was his personal hygiene—which she doubted. Cleanliness wasn’t a top priority in these days, but armed defense was. Castles were more military camps than they were residences. Sir Guy might be a pig, but he couldn’t be that stupid. “Something’s not right. The big question is what to do about it.”
“Follow the voices?” Cymrica suggested.
She would.
Marian girded her loins. “All right. But this time I’m coming with you.”
“Why? I only want to look, and I can move faster in this tunic than you can in that gown. I’ll not let anyone see me. They might think I was a spy.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake… “Cymrica, we’ve sneaked in unannounced. At this point, we are spies, so we’ll be safer together. If we separate we double the chances of being discovered.”
Besides, I’m not staying here alone.
Marian peered through the shadows, trying to get her bearings. Hmm, a classic Norman stronghold, built for battle and to withstand siege. She’d studied scores of photos and diagrams of such places. They were all constructed along similar lines. Where she stood had to be the inner ward: a broad stretch of bare ground with the towering donjon, or keep, to her left and a few smaller structures to the right—probably the cookhouses, all quiet and dark. Too quiet. Wherever the activity was, it wasn’t in this half of the fortress.
“They must be in the outer ward.” She pointed to the high wooden wall several dozen yards before them, which ran the width of the yard, cutting the castle’s interior grounds into two portions. “There, on the other side.”
“Obviously,” Cymrica said. “’Tis certain there be no one on this side.”
Marian wasn’t entirely sure of that, and she didn’t think Cymrica was either, but she wasn’t about to argue. She’d just caught a whiff of wood smoke—and it didn’t seem to be coming from the silent cookhouses. Not a good sign.
Hiking her skirt to her knees she sprinted across the yard to investigate, with Cymrica close on her heels. Together they landed in a crouch by the gate in the wooden dividing wall, the smell of smoke stronger and the voices louder, no longer muffled. Marian could understand what they said now. So could Cymrica. But neither of them believed what they heard—sobs and laughter, coughing and hacking, and the sheriff’s smooth tones sounding above it all.
“Gads, such a fuss. You should be thankful we discovered your secret affection before killing him outright. Whether he lives or dies now is in your hands. The longer you refuse Gisbourne, the longer your lover suffers—’tis that simple. Agree to the marriage and I’ll cut him free.”
“No! Hold firm, I beg you!” gasped out another voice, harsh and raspy. “I am happy to die for your honor—” The words broke off in a fit of coughing.
“The swine!” Cymrica said. Before Marian could stop her, she shoved open the gate a crack and peeked through. “I hope he falls in head first and roasts!”
“What? Let me see.” Marian elbowed the girl aside, looked and froze. Her blood turned to ice water on the spot.
At the far end of the outer ward, ringed by torchlight and jeering men, hung Allan upside down, his ankles caught in a noose suspended from a scaffolding, his head sever
al feet above a fire. A small fire, but covered with green branches. Smoke billowed up from it directly into his face. He’d asphyxiate before anyone need worry about him burning. Very nasty. But then she’d expected something nasty. What she hadn’t expected was the woman across the yard.
The woman in a crimson gown, staring in horror from Allan to Sir Guy.
The woman who looked like her.
“All those times at the abbey when I thought he was visiting to see me… It must have been her he was there for, damn him.” Cymrica sounded ready to kill Allan herself if the smoke didn’t get him first. She turned an accusing eye on Marian. “I thought you said Elaine was dead.”
“I thought she was. Apparently she got better.”
Marian pulled back from the gate and collapsed against the wall, her head reeling. Elaine must have only been unconscious—a state she felt dangerously close to herself at the moment. Not that she begrudged the lady for being alive, but there was no way now she could offer that damned dowry in exchange for Allan. Spit.
She rubbed her temples, mentally scrambling for an alternative. Couldn’t find any. Oh hell, it had been a long shot anyway, since the dowry hadn’t been awarded to her yet. But now there was no chance it ever would be. She wondered what Roland would think of that—decided she didn’t care. It served him right for jumping the gun and forcing her to marry him.
Cripes, what a mess. Maybe he could have their marriage annulled now and take Elaine as planned—if Sir Guy didn’t take Elaine first. Of course, if Elaine really was in love with Allan, she wouldn’t want Roland, but the choice probably wasn’t hers. King John would never let his ward marry a penniless would-be knight. And between Sir Guy and Roland, Elaine would have to prefer the latter. Anyone would. “Even me.”
Oh God, what am I thinking?
“‘Even you’ what? Marian, what are you mumbling about?” Cymrica whispered.
Marian swallowed, hard. “I think I’ve figured a way to save them, but I’ll need your help.”
And she told Cymrica the plan.
Cymrica balked. “No. Absolutely not. I shan’t let you do it. They might kill you!”
Duh. “Well, why did we come here then? You were willing to let me risk myself before.”
“I know. And I regret that.” Cymrica’s eyes filled with tears. “I thought wrongly before. I was blinded by…by…”
“Cymrica, don’t start crying. I know you loved Allan—you couldn’t help it. It’s all right. People can’t always help how they feel. Just like Allan can’t help it if he loves Elaine. He shouldn’t have to die for it, don’t you see?”
Cymrica sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Well, neither should you have to die for it.”
“But it’s partly because of me he’s in this mess!”
“Originally, perhaps. But he’s Elaine’s problem now. If she truly loves him, she can save him.”
“How? By marrying Sir Guy?”
“Yes! If I were in her place, I’d do whatever was needed to save the man I loved. If it meant sacrificing my own life, I’d do it.” Cymrica sounded dead certain of that.
So did Elaine. “All right—yes—I’ll marry him!” her voice rang out. “Now, please, please let Allan go.”
She dissolved into sobs as Allan tried to protest between coughs and gasps.
“Bloody hell, she does love him,” Cymrica muttered.
“Not so fast, my lady,” the sheriff said. “We shall release him after the wedding. Summon the priest, someone—quickly. Poor Allan will not last forever.” He chuckled.
Marian seethed. “I really hate that chuckle.”
“Get back!” Cymrica flattened against the wall as the gate flew open and a man hurried through en route to fetch the priest. His eyes focused ahead, he never saw them. But with the gate swinging wide, the sobs and coughs sounded even worse.
Cymrica balled her hands into fists. “If the rest of you can play martyr, so can I. I’ll wed Gisbourne. All he wants is a damn dowry, and mine is nearly as large as Elaine’s.”
Marvy. Roland would adore that. Marian grabbed her as she started through the gate. “No, ‘nearly as large’ might not be large enough, and if you let them know you’re here, we’ll lose our chance to do anything else. Besides, if he would marry you, you’d be stuck with him. If I do it, it won’t hold, because I…I’m already…m-married.”
“You sound not overly sure of that.”
Marian’s mid-section tightened. She wasn’t sure, not of anything. The marriage hadn’t been…gulp…consummated. Was that grounds for an annulment? In this day and age, maybe not, but added to the fact she hadn’t spoken her own vows it might make grounds enough. Certainly Roland would want to let her go now so he could marry Elaine. She couldn’t think of a single reason why he wouldn’t. That was what she wanted, too, wasn’t it? Just so long as he waited till she was free of Sir Guy.
Cymrica’s lips twitched at the corners as though she couldn’t decide on a grin or a frown. “Roland will want you back, have no doubt of it. I saw how he looked at you tonight. Especially how he looked at you when he thought no one watched him. I’ve ne’er seen him look at any other woman that way—not Elaine, not even Tabitha.”
Yes, and we both know what a stellar interpreter of expressions you are, Miss Allan-And-I-Have-Shared-Looks. Marian decided not to mention that. She might be a lousy liar, but she was fairly proficient at suppressing the truth, having had a lot of practice in that area. She’d have to rely on that skill when she pretended to be Elaine. It was the only chance they had.
Just look the part and keep your mouth shut.
She reached out and squeezed Cymrica’s hand. The girl couldn’t help it if she was a starry-eyed romantic.
And I can’t help it if I’m not. Except for in her dreams maybe. But then she was never herself in those dreams; she was “Maid Marian.” That made all the difference.
What a darn shame she wasn’t dreaming now. If it were Maid Marian about to face the Sheriff of Nottingham, they could be sure Robin Hood would save the day. But this wasn’t a dream, she was definitely no maid, and Robin wouldn’t be around to save anything.
In other words, kiddo, you’re on your own with the sheriff this time.
Plain old Marian would have to muddle through as best she could. Heaven help them all.