Gisborne’s features grew colder, a shade of stone she’d never seen on any man’s face. “Speak, man. Your crimes are still few—impersonating a nobleman is a forgivable offense. But disdain the authority of Nottingham and you will hang.”
Hang.
He stood between Marian and her route back to her room—not that she could go there now, with Gisborne on her heels. She could not match his swordsmanship, but she was lighter on her feet. Marian straightened a little, moving slowly—Gisborne’s eyes tracked her every shift, the point of his sword following.
“If you run,” Gisborne said softly, “know that I will find you. I will not let any man make a mockery of the law, or my claim—I am Locksley now.”
Marian’s anger flickered, low and deep, constant beneath her fear. You will never be Lord of Locksley—and in the moment those words seared themselves in her mind, she could not tell whether it was Robin’s voice or her own. Her sword arm ached with the need to strike.
You won’t win. Not like this. Robin’s voice was tight and urgent, impossible to ignore. You have to choose your battlefield.
Marian turned before pride could change her mind and fled, ignoring Gisborne’s shout and the clamor of his boots as he took off after her. She narrowed her focus, not bothering to look for a path yet, thinking only of speed. She turned right and left and burst through doors—she ran up against one that was locked and whirled around, and made it to the next corridor before Gisborne appeared at the end of it. Her hood slipped back, and she tugged it down into place again as she sprinted through a group of servants pushing a barrow of linens out to be washed.
Marian ignored their shrieks of alarm and confusion—she counted, instead, how long it took them to cry out again when Gisborne passed through.
She was moving faster than he.
She slid to a halt as she passed one of the storerooms, and ducked inside. She shut the door and went still, ear pressed to the wood—in the distance she could still hear one of the servants chattering, but in a moment the clatter of running boots drowned it out. More than one set, by the sound. Gisborne kept running, his breath heaving, and Marian tightened her grip on her sword. He moved on past. More boots followed seconds later, guards drawn to the commotion or else summoned by Gisborne as he ran.
Marian waited, trying to silence her own aching lungs, letting the door take some of her weight. She kept still until she could no longer hear boots, then straightened and passed her sword to her other hand so she could shake out the arm that had been carrying it.
A small sound behind her had Marian whirling, passing the sword back and lifting it, all her tension snapping back into place.
“No, please!” The words were gasped—the gloom revealed no one at first glance, only a few tables and bulging burlap sacks in piles about the room. Marian heard the scrape of cloth on stone and saw a flicker in the shadows beneath one of the tables.
Marian hesitated. She was free to leave now, but she had no idea where she was in the castle—she’d as easily find a castle guard as a stair back to the upper floors. She sucked in a few more breaths, trying to imagine her father’s voice, Robin’s voice, even Gisborne’s cold sneer. “Come out,” she whispered, voice harsh in her throat, making it ache. “Slowly.”
The shadows under the table moaned, but a few seconds later a worn-looking man crawled out. He clambered to his feet, both hands raised to show they were empty. “Please, gent, I’ve got nothing to steal. I’m a tally man. I won’t tell no one I saw you, gent.”
Tally man. Marian glanced around the room again. “What is all this?” She swung the sword down and dug its tip into one of the burlap bags—when she withdrew it, a pale gold stream came pouring out to pool on the stone. “Grain?”
“Yes, gent.”
“But this is enough to feed every man in the castle for a season.”
“It’s not for us, gent—it’s for port, for trade.”
Marian pulled her eyes from the little pile of wheat, her body still alive from the brief clash of swords and the flight through the castle. She tried to focus on the tally man, but all she could see were the scattered crowds of people outside Nottingham, like herds of empty-eyed