had recovered his breath a little and kept up with her, limping and swearing. They burst free of the crowd, which had condensed around the gallows like a swarm of flies around honey, leaving a gap between them and the edge of the square.
She could not afford to stop, but her steps slowed with uncertainty. They could not outrun the guards forever—as soon as one of them spotted the two figures outside the crowd, they’d be in pursuit. And Gisborne was bleeding heavily, and her muscles were beginning to shake.
“Domina,” Gisborne gasped, panting and leaning on Marian’s good shoulder.
She was in better shape than he, but not by much. In confusion, she thought for a wild moment that he was praying. “What?”
“My horse, woman, my horse—he’s by the gate. He won’t have strayed.”
“Your—but Domina means ‘Lady.’”
Gisborne glared at her, one eye starting to swell shut. “I named him when I was six,” he retorted. “Would you rather stand here and discuss the issue or finish rescuing me?”
Marian’s strength nearly gave out as a quick, astonished ring of laughter burst from her lips. “You named your stallion Lady?”
Gisborne’s scowl flickered and shifted as he raised his hand to swipe the rain from his face. His eyes glinted, and the thin lips relaxed into the tiniest of curves. He took her arm, and together they put on a fresh burst of speed.
The people of Nottingham spilled out of the square after them, cascading down the streets and into the alleyways. The riot shifted as they ran, violence giving way to mad triumph and spontaneous abandon, though swords still clanged in the distance and a few wild arrows flew into the thatch of the houses on either side of them.
Domina was waiting, whinnying nervously and sidestepping with agitation. Gisborne didn’t break stride, putting a foot into the stirrup and using his momentum to launch himself into the saddle. He reached down, and Marian clasped his arm in hers and let him pull her up behind him. The stallion needed no prompting, but Gisborne let out a shout of encouragement anyway as the horse jolted into a gallop.
Wind tore Marian’s hood back and whipped at her hair, soaked from the downpour. Holding on to Gisborne with her good arm, she tilted her head to get a look at the wound on his neck. It had sliced through the scarred flesh, but either the skin there was thicker for its scarring or he had more luck than she’d ever known, for it was shallow and clean. Bloody, but not a mortal wound.
Marian leaned forward, lips close to Gisborne’s ear, about to shout at him to make for Sherwood Forest, when something shrieked past them and vanished into the field beyond. Marian turned, her hair tangled all about her face, and made out the shapes of half a dozen men on horseback in pursuit. Another crossbow bolt whistled but went high.
Gisborne wasted no more time, leaning hard and pulling Domina left, into the forest. Bare branches whipped past them, and Marian ducked her head down behind Gisborne’s shoulder with only the tiniest flicker of guilt at using him as a shield.
Most of the trees had shed their leaves in preparation for winter, and the thickets and briars had withered to skeletal tangles. Sherwood Forest had transformed itself from a realm of lush shadow and hidden places to an empty, barren landscape that offered no hope of losing their pursuers. Beneath them Domina had broken into a lather, head down and snorting hard for breath. Gisborne must have ridden him hard already that day to reach Nottingham—where he had been, or how he had known to come, she did not know.
She dragged her hood back up and glanced again over her shoulder. The guardsmen were gaining on them. Domina was bigger than Jonquille, but exhausted, and carrying two—the horses behind them were fresh, and carrying only one man each. Marian searched her mind, unfurling her mental map of Sherwood Forest, trying to ignore the jolting, shuddering gait long enough to focus.
“North,” she shouted, and without hesitation, Gisborne urged Domina in a wide curve to the right.
They galloped on, until abruptly the stallion gave a squeal of protest, faltered, and fell.
Gisborne and Marian were thrown ahead into the leaves, and Marian hit a knobby root that winded her. Gisborne scrambled toward the stallion, who was already staggering back to his feet in the patch of mud that had caused his fall. He stood unsteadily, sides heaving, nostrils flared.