WORD OF THE DEATH of Robin Hood spread across the land like enveloping twilight. The people of Nottingham huddled together against the shadow of hopes dashed, darkness leaching away the strength they’d found in defending their champion. Still, here and there, pockets of light flared up against grief; a lantern lit when a poacher saw a flash of green among the bare trees of Sherwood Forest. A torch guttered to life when a rumor began to spread that the coffin buried beneath the unmarked gravestone was empty, that all they’d ever found of him was his cloak, tattered and faded by the river currents. The soft glow of candlelight swelled each time someone whispered, “Robin lives.”
The Sheriff had lost his hold over his land. There was little he could do, for the strength of a people united had far outstripped the meager power of unjust law. And yet little would change, for the Prince would send a replacement eventually, and that replacement would be tasked with the same assignment, and coin would continue to bleed out of England on its way to fund the King’s war. The new Sheriff would not be so different from the old. The people would continue to suffer.
And the King never would return from his crusade.
But something had shifted that day, when the land rose up in defense of Robin Hood. The people had seen it, and their lords, too. War would come, and war would go, and barons would rise and fall. Eventually, amid the struggle and blood and rebellion, a great charter would take shape and alter forever the unlimited power of kings.
And the story of Robin Hood would rise. No one would ever tell the tale exactly right, for no one person knew the whole truth even before the details began to slide away into the shadows of memory.
But some things about the story would never change. Robin Hood was always quick and fearless, and devoted to his people. He could shoot faster and truer than any man, and was clever enough to outwit his enemies at every turn. He lived and breathed in Sherwood Forest, and made the woods his home, and if ever he was captured, he would always escape.
And his heart, always, belonged to Marian.
The water had hit her like stone, driving out every scrap of thought and self. She wasn’t afraid, for the impact had stripped that from her too, and by the time tatters of conscious thought began to form, there was already a certainty in place that held far more power than fear.
Her leap had not been despair, or arrogance. She could not swim, but he could. He had not thought to escape that way, but she had. He would follow her.
Something caught at her throat and pulled her down and into the river’s current. She struggled, clawing at the thick wool cutting into her neck until the cloak’s clasp finally broke. Free, drifting, she opened her eyes and peered through the depths in time to see a vague, ghostly cloaked form floating just out of reach. It seemed to hover there against the current for an instant before vanishing into the murky water beyond.
Then an arm caught hold of her trailing skirts, dragged her up, and pulled her into its grasp.
Gisborne dumped her unceremoniously into the mud on the river’s bank and collapsed beside her, facedown, chest heaving in great audible gasps. Breathing was agony, and Marian concentrated on persuading her lungs to work again. Eventually a hand touched her arm, and she rolled onto her side, and the hand grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close.
She could not open her eyes, exhaustion weighting her lids. She could only lie there against his shoulder, her icy lips resting at his equally frigid throat. As if the effort of pulling her close had used up the last of his strength, Gisborne’s arm lay across her hip like a wet log long after their breathing began to calm.
Cold caught up to Marian before her strength did, and she curled herself more tightly against Gisborne, shivering. His arms finally moved, tightening around her. His body was little warmer than hers, but when he tilted his head and rested his cheek against her brow, she felt a flicker of life.
“You should run.” Marian’s voice had been reduced to a cracked whisper.
Gisborne said nothing, gave not even a twitch of his body to show he’d heard her.
“The Sheriff might think me innocent now, but he’ll want