PART NINE
Gisburne rode towards Nottingham Castle, concentrating on barely any of his surroundings. He was too busy calculating what he would say to the Sheriff when he saw him. Guy had dismissed several plans of action already, including one
that had hinged upon him fleeing north and heading into Scotland. But he refused to run this time.
He was going to face the Sheriff. Fleeing was a coward's resource. Besides, he believed that running was futile. The Sheriff would find him sooner or later. No, he had no choice but to face the Sheriff. However, it would be on his own terms and not de Rainault's.
Guy might have been willing to confront the Sheriff, but he wasn't such a fool as to present himself unarmed, though he was not equipped with a sword this time. His weapons were more sharper and powerful than that. They had to be for the kind of game the Sheriff played, which employed fine wordplay over swordsmanship. Gisburne had learned a great many of the skills dealt with in the Sheriff's craft. He had slowly laboured and toiled under the hard tutelage of his lord and he was now prepared to display all that he had learned.
The knight's confidence slowly began to ebb back again as he planned the eloquent speech he hoped to present to the Sheriff. Then, inspiration struck
and a wonderful idea presented itself. Guy knew how he would beat the Sheriff. If what he had seen in Sherwood was actually real and not some terrible illusion, then the Sheriff would have to listen to his terms. Loxley was an integral part of Gisburne's plan.
Loxley was supposed to be dead. The Sheriff had claimed that Loxley was killed that day on the tor. But what if Loxley wasn't really dead and the Sheriff had been lying all this time to save his own neck. After all, the Sheriff had been under a lot of pressure from King John to kill Robin Hood.
When Gisburne had asked the Sheriff where the body was, de Rainault had replied that the body was unrecognizable and the people would say it was only a trick. Could the Sheriff have been covering his own deceitful tracks with this unforgivable lie? Guy smiled to himself. He would soon find out.
Guy urged his horse to pick up speed when he spotted the castle. He passed through the gates, waiting to see the surprised looks on the guards's
faces. However, their features didn't change and they allowed him to pass without question. Guy was disappointed. Then, his disappointment was replaced by another emotion entirely.
When he reached the stables and handed his horse's reins to the stable boy, he had expected at least a gasp of astonishment from the boy. Instead,
the boy bowed almost reverently and didn't say a word. Guy walked out of the stables, completely puzzled. No one had ever bowed to him. These new stable boys were becoming more and more impudent every day, he thought. But on entering the castle, Gisburne found that this impudence had spread beyond the stables.
He felt wary when more servants bowed to him and no one seemed shocked by his sudden reappearance. He was even more alarmed, though, when he began to think through his plan again. He suddenly realized that there were some very large gaps in his theory about Loxley and the Sheriff. The first one was the fact that de Rainault would have had to bribe the hundred soldiers who were with him that day on the tor to keep silent. Then, there was the fact that Loxley went along with the news of his death when he had no reason to feign his death!
Gisburne started to doubt the marvelous piece of blackmail he was going to employ against the Sheriff. He felt a strong impulse to turn back and escape from the castle while he still could. However, his feet had already carried him to the great hall and a servant had noticed him in the corridor. And this
wasn't just any servant. Guy heard himself gasp audibly. It was Ralph! It was the man who had worked a short time for the Sheriff and had tried to steal Gisburne's own position from right under him. Ralph was the man Guy had worked with to find the Baron de Belleme's hidden jewels. He was the man Gisburne could have sworn he murdered...
God's Throat, was this Ralph's ghost returning to haunt him? Guy felt blood begin to drain away from his face and feared that his legs would buckle under him.
"My lord, are you all right?" asked Ralph, taking Guy's arm to steady him. His fingers...He could feel his fingers, the bones...they seemed so real!
"Ralph? Is it really you?" quavered Guy fearfully.
"You remember me," commented the other cheerfully. "I didn't think you would. It's been a long time."
"Has it?" croaked Gisburne.
"Oh, well, of course it seems like only yesterday."
"It does?" Gisburne trembled.
"My years in that castle were the best years I ever spent. Your father was very kind to me. I looked up to him a great deal. I still do for that matter, of course."
"What?" Gisburne exclaimed. Ralph had to be mistaken about that! Ralph had never known his father. He had to be confusing him with someone else. Edmond of Gisburne had never been kind to anyone.
"And of course, my lord, the Earl is a great and powerful man," added Ralph. Ralph thought his father was an earl? And Ralph used to think he was so clever when he was alive. He was a complete idiot now that he was dead! Suddenly, Guy stopped fearing this spirit.
"I want to see the Sheriff," he told Ralph.
"Of course, my lord. If you would be so good as to follow me..." stated Ralph. Follow a spirit? Gisburne didn't think so!
"No, I know the way perfectly well myself!" Gisburne sidestepped the anxious steward and marched stubbornly into the hall.
"Guy of Huntington," shouted Ralph, trying to announce Gisburne's arrival. The knight stopped dead as the name Ralph cried echoed all around him. What the hell was going on?
"My lord of Huntington!" cried the Sheriff, rushing up to greet him. "It's good to see you again, my lord. I feared for your safety when you disappeared so suddenly last night. I do hope everything is well." Gisburne stared blankly at
de Rainault.
"My lord, you've been wounded!" the Sheriff remarked, observing the blood stain on Guy's tunic.
"It's nothing," Gisburne heard himself say. The Sheriff guided him gently to a chair. Was the Sheriff also mad, wondered Guy, as de Rainault fussed over him like a mother hen.
"Ralph, go fetch the physician immediately!" ordered the Sheriff. "Here, my lord, drink this," he spoke, shoving his own wine cup under Guy's nose. Was this really happening, pondered Gisburne in astonishment.
"My lord, you look exhausted. Might I not conduct you to a chamber where you could rest?" Rest? How could he rest at a time like this? Everyone around him had gone mad! Then, Guy had a terrifying thought. What if he was the one who and gone mad and not those around him? Unfortunately, it seemed to make more sense. Surely the inhabitants of a whole castle, let alone a town, could not all go mad at once. It had to be him.
He had been under a tremendous strain lately with the execution and everything...Maybe, and Guy prayed that this was true, the blow he had received on the head when the outlaws had captured him had been a bit too hard and he had temporarily lost his reason. Yes, that had to be it! But, Guy reminded himself,
would a blow to the head make you see the spirits of three men you thought were dead, or make those around you seem like lunatics?
"My lord, do you wish to rest?" questioned the Sheriff once again to the man who had apparently gone deaf.
"Rest? No! I mean yes...I mean..."
"Perhaps, my lord, it would be best," advised the Sheriff, assisting Gisburne from his chair. Rest, thought Guy. Yes, perhaps he should rest. For some reason he did feel remarkably tired. If he went to sleep, he could wake a few hours later and find that all of this had ended. It was possible that none of this was real. The whole thing might just be one huge nightmare, including his trial and
execution, he hoped. He followed the Sheriff up to his chamber and, for the first time in his life, staked everything on dreams.
"We should go after him. He's not well, my lord," spoke Marion for what seemed, to Robin, to be the hundredth time.
"Not yet," answered Robin, rubbing tired eyes. "I need time to think." They were both sitting in the outlaw camp with some of Loxley's men, Tuck, John
and Nasir.
"He's your brother. You shouldn't need time to think!" argued Marion. Robin said nothing. "Well, if you're not going to do anything about it, then I shall!" she answered stubbornly.
"You'll stay here," commanded Robin firmly. Marion rose and glared down at him angrily.
"Sit down, Marion, or I'll tie you to the nearest tree," retorted Robin, losing his patience with her altogether.
"How dare you speak so...so rudely to a lady?" she raged. "I don't care if you are an earl's son. You have no right to speak to me that way. I'll have one of my servants deal with you if you're not careful!"
"Then I wouldn't think you much of a lady," said Robin quietly, looking grimly at his two friends, who were no longer free but bound by the whips of servitude.
He resented the fact that Marion had taken their friends and made them into her slaves. Furthermore, she was willing to use them as a shield in times of trouble, something his Marion would never have dreamed of. He said as much to
the Baroness, who flushed and moved towards him in a very uncowardly fashion.
"I am not afraid of you! Just because you choose to dishonour your brother by becoming an outlaw and threatening me--"
"I didn't mean to threaten you, Marion," said Robin more gently. "And as for being an outlaw, I'm as much of an outlaw now as you are."
"Then why are you here in Sherwood with-with these cutthroats?" she questioned, turning her gaze to Loxley's men.
"Why are you? Could it be that my brother was right and you are an outlaw too? Oh, Marion, no wonder your beloved Guy took off on you!" replied Robin recklessly. When he saw the look on Marion's face, he wished he had bitten his tongue out first.
Marion moved quickly away from him. She sank dejectedly before the fire, staring sightlessly into its flamy depths. She sensed that Robin was watching her and raised her chin high. Robin believed that he had never seen her look so vulnerable or fragile. He began to wonder if he could possibly make things
any worse.
As if on cue, a series of shouts echoed across the camp, sounding very much like a heated argument. Then, things became too quiet. Robin and the outlaws stood as one body and ran out of the camp. They didn't have to go far. They met Loxley and the remaining outlaws as the group headed back towards the camp.
"What happened?" cried Robin when he saw Much tearfully assist Loxley to the camp. "Are you all right?"
"Yes," answered Loxley, trying not to grimace as a brief twinge of pain went through him. He held a rather shaky hand against his chest and Robin saw a
bit of crimson seep through Loxley's tunic and on to his fingers. Guy of Huntington had been dealt a similar wound and had died from it...
"It's all right," assured Loxley, as he saw the look of concern on Robin's face. "The wound isn't deep."
"Who did this to you?" demanded Robin.
"That damned fool, Scarlet," answered one of the other outlaws. "And if we hadn't of stopped him, he might have killed him too." Robin felt himself
go cold.
"Did you...kill him?" Robin asked warily.
"The coward fled!" spat another one with passion.
"We should have killed him," stated Much, trying to keep his voice from trembling. "I-I will kill him! I'll go now. He can't have gotten far and--"
"No," spoke Loxley.
"But Robin--"
"Killing him will accomplish nothing, Much. Now you know better than that. Didn't I teach you better than that? I taught you all better than that,"
Loxley scolded, addressing all of the outlaws. "Besides," he added, smiling despite the pain of his wound. "I was the one who started it."
They walked on towards the camp and soon met Marion at its threshold. She stood as if she had been waiting for them.
"We need your help. He's been wounded," Robin explained. Much helped Loxley to a place before the fire and Marion carefully examined the outlaw's wound. Although it had been some time since she had administered her nursing on anyone, she still remembered most of the principles of healing and herblore she had been taught. She was usually prepared for such emergencies anyway.
"There should be some herbs in my saddlebag," she told Much. "Could you get them for me?"
"Yes, my lady," he spoke shyly, then he ran like a rabbit to find them.
"How did this happen?" she questioned Loxley, as she ripped up cloth to make a bandage.
"He was fighting, my lady," answered an outlaw, who was a little more bold than Much.
"Why?" she asked Loxley in interest.
"I was speaking to the outlaw known as Will Scarlet. It began as an argument, then turned into a fight."
"What did you argue about?"
"It doesn't matter," he snapped, wincing painfully as Marion delved a little too deeply into his wound.
"I see," she replied quietly, looking away.
Loxley read something he didn't like in her expression and quickly strove to repair any hurt feelings on her part.
"I called him a cutthroat. A common cutthroat," said Loxley, feeling rather awkward.
"You?" Marion tried to hide a smile.
"I am not a cutthroat, my lady."
"Then what would you call yourself?"
"I am an outlaw but not a cutthroat. We are all outlaws and, unlike cutthroats, we don't kill unless we have to. The money we steal is for the poor, not for ourselves. There is a difference."
"Yes. You're fighting against something you can't possibly hope to conquer," Marion responded. "At least this Will Scarlet can see that."
"Can he? We try to fight for what we believe in. Isn't that enough?" Marion met his intent gaze, but gave no answer. "I asked him to join us," he continued, speaking to his friends.
"Why?" questioned Much, entering the camp with Marion's herbs.
"I don't know. It just came out. And then we were fighting."
"No wonder," murmured one of his men.
"He's good with a sword," spoke Loxley, as if hearing the comment. "He's one of the best fighters I've ever seen and I have the wound to prove it."
"He could have killed you," said Much.
"Yes..." mused Loxley. "It's a pity I couldn't convince him." He turned his attention back to Marion, who had just finished her careful administrations to his wound.
"There," she stated. "You are fortunate that the wound isn't deep. It should heal quickly. Probably in a couple of days."
"Thank you," said Loxley, looking straight into her eyes. They locked and, for the first time since Robin had entered this time, Robin saw Marion's eyes soften and she smiled a little. Then, she bowed her head and tried to look away, but Loxley reached a finger under her chin and lifted her sad, shining eyes back to his again.
Robin watched all of this, the same feeling of jealousy returning like a powerful wave to drown him. But this wasn't the same burning hatred he had
felt for Guy of Huntington. He knew now, as perhaps he had known last night, that Marion had no feelings of love towards Guy. The love that she truly felt
was something Robin was witnessing now. No, there was no fury. There was only the sadness she had bequeathed to him the day she had left him and Sherwood.
Robin fled from the camp as Gisburne had fled for Nottingham. Robin went deep into the forest as he had done the day before the Wheel turned. He passed tree after tree, trying to escape from her, trying to escape from every essence and mark she had tenderly pressed into his memory. But it was pointless trying to escape from love and all of the emotions connected with it. Robin soon realized that.
He stopped, letting exhaustion first catch up with him, then overtake him. He sat beneath a large oak, taking shelter in its shadow. He laid his head against the rough, yet nurturing, roots that coiled up from the ground and allowed his body to ease into sleep.
A harsh light forced its way through the shutters and fell across the bed, making its occupant recoil and throw a hand against his eyes. Each finger curled around to form a fist, then straightened, the hand falling on the bed. The
eyes blinked open. The knight sat up, looking around the room in an attempt to gain his bearings. Was it still morning? Afternoon? Had a whole day passed?
But what did that matter when he had more important concerns? Were the events that had just occurred real, or just part of some strange and frightening dream? Had he really been captured by those wolfsheads and, as a result, rescued from his own execution? Worse still, was Robin Hood's outlandish story true? It couldn't be. He refused to believe it. And as for the Sheriff being kind and polite to him, he refused to believe that too. Such an idea was both incredible and impossible!
Gisburne didn't care that there hadn't been one angry word or cruel retort, or that de Rainault hadn't even tried to tease or mock him. It only strengthened his belief that everything he could remember had been pure fantasy.
Everything that had happened after he had entered the courtyard for his execution had to be part of a dream. Maybe the execution itself was a dream, along with that terrible trial he had had to endure, though anything that had been that long and tedious had to have really occurred, decided Gisburne. But if the trial had been real, this might be the morning of the actual execution!
Gisburne threw back the blankets of the bed and pulled on a robe. Then, he went over to the window. He was about to open the shutters and discover the time of day, when a quiet knock intruded upon the door.
"Yes?" questioned Gisburne, cautiously. The door opened and the Sheriff's head popped through.
"Forgive me. Am I disturbing you?"
"No, my lord," replied Gisburne, confused.
The Sheriff was being polite and civil to him. Was something still wrong? "What time of day is it?" asked Guy, waiting for some kind of snide remark from the Sheriff. But the Sheriff only smiled.
"It's a few hours after midday, my lord. You have not slept long."
"I see," spoke Gisburne, who did not see at all. Was this still a part of one very long dream, he wondered...he hoped. A servant soundlessly entered the room and laid an impressive set of clothing across a chair. Gisburne watched in amazement.
"I've taken the liberty of asking a servant to fetch you a new set of clothing, my lord. Your tunic was rather...Well, I hope these prove to be satisfactory, my lord." De Rainault waited expectantly for some sign of assent or disagreement
from Guy, but the knight only stared at the clothes, then at the furnishings around him. Gisburne had just realized that this wasn't his own chamber.
It was the kind of chamber reserved for counts, earls and dukes. Sometimes even royalty. He was only a knight.
Guy felt it again: the wave of panic and the earnest belief that he was going mad, the fear that he was mad already.
"My lord, are you all right?" inquired the Sheriff, watching curiously as the young lord gazed pensively around the chamber. Guy's attention slowly focused itself back to the Sheriff. Then, he gathered up his courage, deciding upon one
true test to ascertain whether the Sheriff really believed he was this Guy of Huntington and that, in fact, he himself was mad. He took a deep breath.
"I'm fine, Robert," he replied, placing rather heavy emphasis on the Sheriff's given name. He watched for the reaction, but de Rainault only smiled again as if it pleased him that Guy should do this.
"I'm glad to hear it, my lord. If it pleases you, I will send a servant to fetch you when supper is prepared. You will stay the night won't you, my lord?" Gisburne nodded silently, struck speechless by everything that was going on around him.
The Sheriff left as quietly as he had entered, gently shutting the door behind him. Gisburne sat down on the edge of the bed.
It had happened. It had actually happened. He had gone mad. He had never thought it would happen to him. Guy had always believed that, if anything, he was the sanest man he knew. He pictured some of the destitute beggars he had witnessed along roadsides, babbling and muttering to themselves about nothing, waving their arms wildly in the air...Gisburne cringed visibly at the thought of it.
How could this be happening to him? He placed a hand across his face and, for a time, lamented his misfortune. But his feelings of self pity didn't last long.
Guy looked up again and studied the elaborate furnishings around him. His troubled gaze became clear and a grin slowly crept across his face. If this was madness, then why was he fighting it? Men were treating him with respect for once and he seemed to have power: real power.
Guy had always thought that madness would be something dark and terrifying, but this was rather pleasant. He rose from the bed feeling like a new man. He was a new man. He was a rich and powerful man named Guy of Huntington. It didn't
matter if he was mad or not. What did he care about madness? He had money and power now and he was damned if anyone was going to stop him from using it!
He lifted his new clothing from the chair and began to get dressed. The sooner he put this madness of his to good use, the better, he decided.
