Will Scarlet, coming in from the stable, changed his course when he saw her. “What have you done?”
Marian, who believed it obvious, paused in the courtyard and turned her palm toward him.
His brows shot up. He stepped close and took her hand into his own, noting the bloodstained skirts. “Christ, were you gutting a stirk?”
Dryly, she said, “Cutting roses.”
He glanced up sharply from her hand, judging her expression. She knew he suspected she was attempting to blame him by mentioning the roses. She wasn’t, but it hurt nothing to let Will think so. Or at least to debate the issue inside his thick skull.
He scowled and swore beneath his breath; unlike Little John, who swore and then apologized if she were present, Scarlet was indifferent to her maidenly sensibilities.
Marian smiled wryly. Except I am no maiden.
“You’re bleeding all over the cobbles,” he accused, having some governance over the manor’s appearance; Scarlet was the closest thing to a steward Ravenskeep had. “You’d best come inside where this can be tended.”
“Yes,” she agreed mildly, closing the hand up tight. “I was bound for the hall.”
“Well, come on, then.” He took the knife from her other hand and gave it to Much. “Here. Be useful, boy.” He clamped thick fingers around her wrist.
She gasped and stiffened. “That hurts, Will!”
“ ’Tis supposed to,” he retorted, unrepentant. “Best to keep the blood in your body, aye? Come along.”
“There is no need to drag me . . .” And indeed he did drag, leading her swiftly to the hall as Much followed along behind in possession of the knife that had done the deed.
“It might want stitching,” Scarlet declared.
“But you won’t do it!” Marian blurted in alarm.
He cast her a sulfurous, sidelong look. “D’ye think I can’t?”
“Oh, I think you can . . . but do I want you to?”
He grunted. “Better than bleeding to death.”
“When was the last time you stitched a sherte? Or hemmed a chemise? —ouch! Or embroidered cambric? Or—”
“Never mind all that,” he said brusquely, interrupting. “ ’Tis different stitching flesh.”
“Yes,” she agreed breathlessly as he practically hurled her up the steps toward the open door. “That was my point.”
“But if you’re set against my stitching, I could just slap a red-hot knife blade against it. Cautery’ll work.”
Marian winced as she caught a toe crossing the threshold and nearly tripped. “I am not certain one is preferable to the other.”
“Spider webs,” he announced. “Mud, grass, spider webs, all mixed together. ’Tis good for wounds.”
“Will, could you loosen your grip—”
“And let you bleed more?”
“—a little?” she finished. But she reflected he was right; the bleeding had stopped. Then again, her hand felt so numb from the pressure of his fingers she wasn’t certain she would notice if it hadn’t.
“Joan!” Scarlet bellowed. Marian winced. “Kitchens,” he said succinctly, and dragged her there down the length of the hall. He cast her a quick, sidelong glance. “Or maybe the barn.”
“Don’t you dare liken me to a cow, Will Scarlet!”
“Pig,” he countered. “You were bleeding like one.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then realized he meant none of the crude tone. Once, he might have; once he would have left her to bleed. They had met under less than ideal circumstances: Will Scathlock, called Scarlet, had kidnapped her from the Nottingham Fair and hauled her away like a side of beef into Sherwood Forest. He had, by doing so, single-handedly ruined her reputation. But he had also set into motion events that led to a rescue by Sir Robert of Locksley.
Marian supposed one day she should thank Will for that.
“Joan!” he shouted again, as Cook and her helpers gathered around to express varying degrees of shock, concern, and dramatic suggestions as to how to stop the bleeding, save her hand, save her arm, and save her life.
“I’m not going to die,” she snapped.
“Might,” Scarlet said, and turned to mutter at Much as Joan arrived to inspect the wounded hand.
“Oh, lady!” she cried. “How did you do this?”
Marian shot a pointed glance at Will. “Practicing castration.”
He bared his teeth at her, but the flesh at his eyes tautened enough for her to know the blow had landed. Then he was muttering at Much again, but she lost interest in that as she attempted to pry his fingers from her wrist.
He let go. Blood gushed anew from her palm.
Cook exclaimed about the resultant state of her floors, then clapped both hands over her mouth as she realized Marian might not appreciate such tactlessness; Marian herself, meanwhile, was somewhat astonished by the amount of blood running through her fingers.
Joan promptly tore off her apron and wrapped cloth around the hand. Scarlet wore a look of triumph.
“Very well,” Marian muttered.
“Oh, best to let it bleed now,” he said lightly, nearly snickering. “Wash the choler from your spirits. ’Tis a bit tainted by bad temper.”
She scowled at him. He grinned back.
“Spider webs,” Joan said succintly, then jerked her head toward one of the spit-boys. “Take Tom to the barn and look.”To one of the girls, she said, “Go and fetch my sewing basket. I’l need a needle and the strongest thread we have.”
Marian said, “Stool—?”
“Oh, good Christ.” Will heaved a sigh. “You’ll not swoon on us, will you?”
“Of course not,” she shot back. “No more than you would if I used you for embroidery practice!”
Joan was horrified. “You’ll not have him do it!”
Scarlet was instantly affronted. “I know how!”
“And you might know how to hem a sherte as well,” Joan said, undeterred by his glowering expression, “but that doesn’t mean the hem will be straight when ’tis finished!”
Much inspected Marian’s hand, marking the line of the deep cut where it sliced crosswise athwart her lifeline. “Crooked anyhow.”
Marian wobbled.
“Stool!” Scarlet bellowed. “Sweet Jesus, but it’s a swooner!”
“I am no such thing. It is merely that all of you are standing so close—” But the stool arrived, the spider webs arrived, and Joan’s sewing basket, and no one paid the least attention to her protest. Will simply shoved her down on the stool, then held up a belaying hand to the others as he bent over the wounded palm. The bleeding had slowed again, but only because his other hand remained clamped around her wrist.
He peered at her hand, then nodded at Joan as if to indicate she should set about stitching. “Much,” he said lightly, “—now.”
Joan shrieked as Much, one hand wrapped in a thick wad of borrowed apron, pressed the red-hot blade of the knife against Marian’s palm.
She shot to her feet so fast the stool fell over entirely. But its services were no longer required; Scarlet had his revenge.
“See?” he announced, as the world grayed out around her. “Women always swoon.”
William deLacey offered the royal messenger—Gerard, he said—courteous welcome, apologized for his steward’s misunderstanding, invited him to drink good wine, invited him to be seated. But Gerard declined wine and chair and simply said, with no little urgency: “Lord Sheriff, it is my duty to give you the news that the king has died in France.”
There it was. Confirmation.
Coeur de Lion. Dead.
DeLacey promptly expressed the expected shock by thrusting himself from his chair even as he cried out a stricken denial. Gerard assured him the news was true. After a moment, when he judged it time to recover his powers of speech, the sheriff collapsed into his chair and slumped there, murmuring a prayer for the soul of Richard’s poor widowed queen, Berengaria, and also for England as well, now sadly lacking her warrior-king
.
Such sentiments addressed, deLacey next applied himself to conjuring an appropriate tone of loss and bewilderment. “But what shall we do? How shall the realm continue?” He paused sharply, as if he had only just now realized there was more to learn. “But the king has no son!”
Gerard’s mouth tightened fractionally. “No, Lord Sheriff.”
“Forgive my indelicacy . . .” He waited for indication he might continue; when it came, he asked, “Was the king alert enough before he died to name an heir?”
And so Gerard explained matters, such as he knew them. By the time he had finished, deLacey had no better idea of what faced him than he had before. But he conveyed nothing of his irritation to the messenger, merely thanked him for his sad news and gave him good wishes for his continued journey.
Whereupon Gerard, hesitating, spoke of outlaws.
“Outlaws!” DeLacey was genuinely surprised; royal messengers had always been sacrosanct. “They attacked you?”
“They did not precisely attack,” Gerard explained, at pains to be precise. “Rather, they detained me.”
“Detained you?”
“Then sent me on my way.” The messenger’s expression was troubled. “It struck me as a jest, Lord Sheriff.”
“A jest.”
“Or perhaps a game.”
“But they did rob you.”
“No, my lord. Not of my purse, my ring, or my horse. Only—of time.”
“This is preposterous,” deLacey murmured. “Why should they stop a royal messenger to begin with, and then, when they do, why merely detain him?” He looked piercingly at the man. “Did you tell them the message you carry?”
Gerard, plainly offended, replied sharply. “My duty does not lie in discussing such things with outlaws.” He paused, then went on with a diffidence deLacey suspected was false. “Perhaps you might learn why they detained me once you have caught them.”
DeLacey scowled at the subtle suggestion as to how he should tend his duty. “Indeed.” He rose, indicated the door. “As you have already eaten, I’ll not keep you any longer.”
Gerard took the hint and bowed himself out.
“Huntington.” DeLacey tapped fingers against the chair arm as he sank down again. “You”ll be bound to the earl next, I’ll warrant . . . and in the meantime, I think I shall make it my duty to hold the tax money here until we know just who shall be king in Richard’s place.”
But there was another duty, also, a puzzle to be solved. He pondered it, sorting out possibilities. A particularly astonishing one presented itself to him, but he dismissed it instantly as wholly ridiculous.
Until it presented itself again.
DeLacey swore. It was indeed possible. They had done worse before.
But why? Why now? Why detain a royal messenger who carried word of the king’s death?
DeLacey swore again, with more vehemence. He lacked information, and he knew of only one way to gain it. Only one way to dependably gain it, where highborn accent and manners might otherwise obfuscate, and a woman would apply her beauty to intentionally mislead. Other men might fall prey; other men had, including Sir Guy of Gisbourne. William deLacey would not.
The sheriff departed the chair, the chamber, even the hall, and went out to have his horse fetched up from the stable.
Eleven
Marian came to awareness in a haze of pain so intense her body was soaked with sweat.
“When she wakens,” someone was saying, “give her the poppy syrup. She’ll want it.”
“Salve,”someone else said. “ ’Twill help the hand heal.”
“Privacy!” That was Joan. “Let her be, will you? I’ll have the tending of her.”
Marian opened her eyes and found them all gathered around the bed she shared with Robin in the room under the eaves. The bed was empty, save for herself. But the room was filled with men.
“My poor lady . . .” Joan sat on the edge of the bed and wiped her brow with a cool, damp cloth.
Marian felt all her muscles knot themselves one upon another. Her hand was afire beneath bandaging. “Will . . .” she croaked.
“Had to,” he said before she could even ask him. “ ’Twould take months to heal with stitches, because you’d always be using your hand even when you meant not to.”
“Then why—?”It took too much effort to finish, though he seemed to understand the incomplete question well enough.
“Distraction,” he told her. “You’d be thinking about Joan and her needle and her thread. So Much could get the knife blade on you before you knew.”
“Whoreson,” she said.
Brother Tuck and Joan drew in simultaneous gasps of shock. Little John was equally astonished, though less noisy about it; Will Scarlet grinned, and Alan began to laugh.
“Why are all of you here?” she asked, still sweating.
“You screamed,” Tuck answered.
“Screamed?”
“I heard you clear out in the sheep meadow,” Little John said.
Marian was appalled. “Out there?”
“Well, I was coming in,” he explained. “ ’Twasn’t so far as all that.”
Alan’s eyes were bright. “I see they have perverted you, Lady Marian. Such fine speech for a knight’s daughter!”
She squeezed her eyes tightly closed. “Hurts—”
“Poppy syrup,” Scarlet said sharply.
“Much went for it,” Little John said. “And a spoon.”
She opened her eyes again. “Did I swoon?”
“Screamed, swore, and swooned,” Scarlet confirmed. “Alan’s right. You’re no more the fine lady.”
“I wasn’t that,” she managed, “the moment after you stole me from the fair.”
Little John smiled, but it faded quickly. “Should we send for Robin?”
“No,” Marian answered at once. “His father is truly ill. This is . . .” She gazed upon the bandaged hand. “This is inconvenience.”
The giant did not look convinced. “He’d want to know.”
“He will know, John—when he’s back of his own time.”
Joan pressed the cool cloth against her damp brow. “Lady, no need to spend your strength on talk.”
Marian intended to answer, but she held her tongue as she and everyone else heard the pounding on the stairs. Much burst into the little room, stoppered vial in one hand and spoon clutched in the other. But he had no time for that. “Sheriff!”
Alan swore with considerable inventiveness in French and English.
“How far?” Little John asked sharply.
“Soldiers with him?” Scarlet demanded.
“Manor road,” Much answered. “Alone.”
The red-bearded giant bobbed his head. “That’s something.”
“But I shall fetch my lute and go regardless,” Alan said, turning hastily to the door. “He may be after parts of me I’d rather be keeping.”
Marian frowned, working it out despite the nagging pain. The sheriff was coming alone. He was not there to arrest any of them. The pardon yet stood.
“All of you save Alan,” Marian croaked. “All of you return to what you were doing. Let him see you industrious.”
“But there’s you,” Little John protested.
She smiled briefly “He is hardly coming to arrest me.”
Scarlet lifted brows. “How do you know that?”
“The pardon was for stealing the tax shipment,” she said. “But the sheriff wants Alan for something entirely different, and it is unrelated to the theft or the pardon.”
“So we are safe,” Little John declared, though there was a note of doubt in his tone.
“For now,” she agreed. “He doesn’t know we know the king is dead. He is here to talk, not arrest. Give him no reason to doubt your intent.”
Alan was gone, but no one else moved.
Marian sat up, cradled the injured hand against her breasts, and moved to swing her legs over the edge of the bed, provoking an alarmed remonstration from Joan. Tuck s
aid something as well, but she could sort out none of it through the grayness in her head. From very far away she heard a pinched voice. “Must I shoo you from my room like a stubborn cat?”
“I’m staying,” Tuck declared. “What better duty would I have than seeing to your welfare?”
Scarlet, muttering, slipped out. Little John, catching hold of Much’s tunic, dragged the boy from the room and aimed him down the stairs, but not before she saw the pallor of Much’s face and the worry in the giant’s eyes.
Marian collapsed against the pillows. “What does deLacey want?”
Tuck produced the vial and spoon Much had brought. “You’ll not be seeing him to find out, Lady Marian. We’ll send him away.”
But Marian knew better. William deLacey was not a man to be sent away from anywhere he wished to be. “If the pardon is revoked—”
“Then the others will be safe at Locksley,” Tuck soothed. “ ’Tis why Robin suggested it, aye, lady? But if the sheriff were bent on capture, he’d have brought soldiers.”
If she thought about deLacey and the safety of the others, she diverted some of the pain. “I don’t trust him,” she said tightly. “Not him.”
Tuck unstoppered the vial, tipped it to pour a spoonful of its contents, handed the vial to Joan. “Lady, take a swallow of this. You need to rest. The hand will heal more quickly.”
The sweat was drying now, but she felt as if a coal had taken up residence in her palm. She focused on the sheriff so as to distract herself. “I should speak with him.”
Tuck insisted, and at last she allowed him to pour the syrup into her mouth. It tasted sickly sweet, and had a sharp pungency. Marian swallowed, then asked for water to wash it down. Tuck provided it.
She plucked at the bandaging shielding her hand, trying to peel away the wrappings. When Joan questioned her, Marian answered, “I want to see it.”
“ ’Tis whole,” Joan assured her. “I’ll not forgive him for burning you that way with no warning, but I swear, lady, the hand is whole. There’ll be a scar across your palm, but you’ll have the use of it.”
“Later,” Tuck suggested, urging the invasive fingers away from the cloth. ”Sleep, Lady Marian. We’ll keep the wolf of Nottingham from our door.“
Lady of Sherwood Page 11
