guard she shot. His amiable features were stern now, set in an expression so ill suited to his genial manner that it broke through Marian’s desperation and her breath caught in a laugh.
Mirth vanished as quickly as it had come, and she moaned again. “Jonquille,” she managed, eyes flooding again. “I heard her scream—she fell—” A distant part of her knew she ought to be asking after her men, after Elena, after her own wounds, but all she could think of in that moment was her horse, her dearest companion, who hadn’t flinched riding into the unfamiliar chaos of battle.
The monk’s grip on her arm relaxed a little, and he patted her soothingly, as one might comfort a babe in arms. “Your horse is in the stables below, being tended by the stableman. She is in far better shape than you, child.”
Much was alive. Marian took a rattling breath and lay still, trying to collect her scattered wits.
“There you are,” murmured the monk.
Marian blinked away the fresh tears, feeling them slide down her temples and into her hair. “Am I dying?”
He patted her arm again and smiled. “I don’t claim to know the will of God.” The words were so familiar, and his eyes were so sad despite his smile, that memory stirred. They were the same words he’d uttered when she asked whether Tom, the guard she’d shot, the dead man, would survive.
Marian closed her eyes. Lying still eased the pain a little, but more soothing than that, or the familiar surroundings of her own room in her own home, or the monk’s presence, was the sudden understanding that she now faced the same fate as the man she’d killed. The relief of it was so profound and abrupt that she almost lost consciousness again, content to let the question of her life be answered by the same power that had decided Tom’s.
A sound caught at her, though, before she could slip into darkness. A footstep, light and careful. A gasp. A thin voice, wavering, saying, “Oh God—is she . . . is she . . .”
Marian opened her eyes. Elena, hovering in the doorway of her bedchamber, dropped the armful of fabric she was carrying, rushed into the room, and shoved the monk aside so abruptly that he nearly toppled back off his stool.
Marian could scarcely understand the torrent of words that spilled from her friend’s lips and concentrated instead on the warmth of her hands, which had seized Marian’s and clung tight. When the flood showed no signs of abating, Marian moved her hand a little and croaked, “Is anyone dead?”
Elena choked on her own words and gulped a breath. She was kneeling at the side of Marian’s bed, dressed once more as her maid, not a single mark or scratch on her face. Eyes full of tears, she shook her head and leaned down. “No, my Lady. No, we’re all alive. John has a few cuts, and Will broke his foot, but we’re all—we’re all still here.”
Marian turned that over, her thoughts rolling like old honey, thick and slow. “Broke his . . . how?”
Elena’s eyebrows lifted, and a tremulous, fleeting smile lit her face. “A horse stepped on him.”
Marian tried to laugh, though it sounded to her ears more like a pained grunt. Her eyes moved until she could see the monk again. He sat, hands clasped across his stomach in the habit of someone who had once had a much more ample belly to rest them on, and watched with bemusement.
“Who—how did . . .” Marian could not remember quite how to ask what she needed to know.
“We couldn’t take you to the physician in Nottingham,” said Elena. “Gisborne would go straight there in search of a wounded Robin Hood. And Frère Tuck was such a comfort when that guard . . .” She bit her lip, and despite her treacle-slow thoughts, Marian knew she’d been about to say “died.” Because he hadn’t simply died; Marian had killed him.
Frère Tuck regarded her evenly, expression still mild.
“He knows who he’s helping?” Marian asked.
“He knows.”
Marian groaned and reluctantly pulled her hand from Elena’s so that she could try to find purchase on the edge of the bed frame.
“What are you doing?” Elena had half risen from her knees in alarm.
“I have to go,” said Marian between clenched teeth.
Frère Tuck, in the background, chuckled. Elena cast him a befuddled look, then put her palm against Marian’s brow—a gentle touch, but Marian found she was so weak that