Bewildered, she set the wineskin aside and pulled the neck of her dress down.
There was only a single bandage there now, fixed in place by a strap around her shoulder. But when she lifted its edge, the wound underneath was small, clean, edges puckered with new skin.
Distant, fragmented memories hovered just out of reach. What she’d believed to be dreams suddenly took on new clarity, like shapes emerging out of a fog.
See to her wound, a voice demanded. Use whatever resources you have, all of them. Try to make her drink.
But my Lord, another faltered, if she is bound for the gallows, then—
Do as I say. Keep her here as long as you can. Drug her if you must, but keep her here. And see to her wound.
Marian had been in captivity for far longer than she’d realized. No wonder she was so ravenous.
A raucous clang and the screech of hinges echoed through the caves, followed by footsteps approaching. Marian crawled to the grille blocking off her cell, curling her fingers through it and trying to press her face close enough to see.
Some part of her must have been expecting Gisborne, for her shoulders sagged when an ordinary guardsman came into view. He glanced into her cell without stopping at first, but then saw her at the grille and halted.
“You’re awake.” He peered through the gloom, sounding surprised.
“Is my father here?”
The guardsman shrugged and, without another glance, turned back the way he’d come.
“Wait!” Marian tried to reach out to him, but her sleeve got tangled in the grille. “Wait—is he a prisoner also? How long have I been in this cell? What of Gisborne, is he here? Tell him I want to speak to him. Tell me—tell me something, anything, I beg you.”
The guard paused. When he glanced back at her, the hardness of his features had cracked a little to reveal a hint of sympathy lurking beneath. “Eat well and drink, Lady, and pray to God if you will,” he said finally. “The gallows is nearly finished.”
A different guard came to fetch her, hours later, though how many, Marian did not know. He had not the sympathy of the other man, and shoved her roughly across the threshold into the courtyard.
Stiff from captivity and blinded by the sudden light, Marian lost her balance. Her hands were bound, and she could not catch herself, so she went sprawling onto the stones with a jarring thump that sent pain through her shoulder.
Her ears were ringing, roaring, disorientingly loud. She managed to lift her head and focus her eyes, and saw that unfamiliar faces surrounded her, bodies jostling for position, expressions twisted and mouths open. The roaring sharpened, and she realized the sound came not from her own ears but from the crowd.
The guard hauled her back onto her feet, and Marian saw peasants and nobles alike stretched from the castle doors to the distant gates, packed so tightly their shifting forms were like a boiling sea. And at the center of that sea, a ship—a wooden frame, the only constant in the turbulent press of bodies—a floating lifeline with a single rope dangling from its beams.
Hands reached for her as she passed, some grazing face and hips, others grabbing an arm or her hair with painful force. Numb, Marian walked on, propelled by the guard at her back whenever she faltered.
More guards held the crowds at bay, parting them to reveal a set of rudimentary steps up to the wooden platform. Marian climbed them with relief, too eager to find escape from the teeming mass of hands and jeering faces to think beyond those stairs. She reached the top and fell heavily against part of the frame, letting it take her weight.
A voice bellowed for silence, but the din only lessened a little. That same voice began to speak, but Marian was scanning the crowd. Everywhere she looked there were strangers, and her vision blurred with tears as she searched for any familiar face to steady her. She could not see her father. There were as many women in the crowd as men, but none of them wore Elena’s face. When she lifted her head to the balcony that overlooked the castle courtyard, she saw the Sheriff standing there, addressing the crowd, but the other men standing behind him were strangers to her. Gisborne was not there.
The Sheriff’s voice was listing her crimes for those who could hear him over the din. Marian could have made out his words if she