and named her, she could not be asleep or dulled by drug. She had to ready herself to flee, and warn her father as well, and tell the men in Sherwood to scatter, and find what Elena had done with Robin’s gear and dispose of it, and think of somewhere to hide, and . . .
She woke in darkness. The fire was little more than a glow at the foot of her bed, and she heard nothing but her own heartbeat. She must have made some sound, however, because a soft voice came from the darkness at her side, gentle and familiar and warm.
“I’m here, my Lady. The guard sleeps. He has not spoken.” A touch smoothed the hair at her temple. “Close your eyes.”
Marian closed her eyes.
Morning dawned gray and cold, a veil of rain muting the world outside the castle windows and drowning out the distant sounds of life in the town. Elena forced Marian to eat a few bites of bland porridge and then vanished for a time, disposing of the dishes and, Marian felt sure, listening for more information.
Marian stood by the window, looking out and seeing little. The fingertips of her right hand were raw, for she’d not been wearing her archer’s glove when she’d used her bow the night before. She toyed with the damaged skin, running her hypersensitive fingers along the cold stone, the rough fabric of her dress, the hot, equally sensitive flesh of her lips.
For all the immediacy of her guilt and grief the night before, she felt as remote and distant as Gisborne himself now. It was as if the woman who had tried to murder a man the night before was someone else altogether. Another identity to add to her collection. The Lady Marian, the outlaw Robin Hood, and the murderer.
Her thoughts were quiet and still, and cold. And Robin’s voice was silent.
Have you left me now? Marian demanded, pressing her forehead to the window’s pane. In the moment I need your counsel most?
She got no answer.
When Elena returned, she didn’t waste a moment in pleasantries. The guard still slept, she reported. Which meant he also still lived. Perhaps her maid sensed she didn’t want company anymore, for she was gone much of the morning, returning only to give Marian news of the guard, which was always the same. He still lives. He still sleeps.
Another servant came to ask if Gisborne could call on her, and she refused. Her father came, and she told him she was ill with monthly humors. Seild tapped at her door and called a hesitant greeting, and when Marian didn’t answer, Seild didn’t come in.
The rain continued to fall, Marian’s heart continued to beat, and the guard still slept.
Sunset brought the day’s first change, and it arrived in the form of a man at her door. Elena was there, and opened the door cautiously. On the other side was an emaciated figure in a rough-spun robe, whose shaven pate told of his calling.
“Good evening, Frère,” Elena greeted him respectfully. She did not, however, stand aside to admit him to the room.
“Good evening, child.” The monk’s eyes moved from Elena to Marian, who sat by the fire, motionless. “I heard the lady was ill and had refused the physician’s care. I have not his skill, but I thought I might see if she would consent to what aid I can offer.”
Elena glanced at Marian, who rose. She was steady on her feet again, and her hands had stopped shaking. She smiled. “Thank you, Frère. I am well. It was a female complaint, and I am better now.”
“In that case,” said the monk gently, starting to withdraw, “please excuse my manners. I should return to Tom.”
Marian lifted her head, brow furrowing. “Tom?”
The brother paused and turned back, explaining, “I’m sure you’ve heard, my Lady. A lad was wounded last night here in the castle. He is now gravely ill.”
“Tom.” Marian echoed the syllable, lips shaping it as if the ordinary, familiar, common name was one she’d never heard before.
“How is he?” Elena asked swiftly.
The monk’s thin features drooped. “He survived the night. The physician has done all he can. Now it only remains to wait, and to pray for God’s mercy. If the wound begins to heal, he may live. If the wound poisons his blood . . . he will go with God.”
Elena closed the door behind him and then looked at Marian, who still hadn’t moved away from her chair. “God’s mercy,” she whispered,